#bloody murder is what would happen mate

[klausysworld]

So I want to say something before I request what I want to request I just want to say that I love all of your storys and it's okay to have writer's block which is what it seems you have what helps me when I have writer's block is playing the music I like than thinking about it and kinda playing it out in my head it helps me a lot

Okay now for the request can you do an alpha Klaus Mikaelson where he mate who is an omega who rejects him because she is scared he will hurt her because of all the lies Elena,Damon, and Stefan tell her so she keeps on rejecting him even though it's hurting her and Klaus but one day she goes into heat (if your okay with writing that) and Klaus knows she is in heat because he can feel it so he rushes to her wanting to help her through her heat but Stefan and Damon try to keep him away from her which made him go feral wanting his mate maybe ending in smut? Only if you want to!

Need

Klaus’ senses were significantly heightened once he broke his curse. It was as though the world were brighter, everything was stronger. Including his urges, whether it be his blood lust, his sexual desire or his new found instincts for his wolf side.

His wolf seemed to mess with his head more than he’d like, it was difficult to be a hybrid, many advantages yes but his vampire and werewolf sides didn’t exactly get along.

His wolf side had all sorts of wants and needs, never happy and Klaus didn’t understand why.

When he and Stefan were on their little wolf hunt trip, he felt like he was going mad being surrounded by all the wolves. His hormones were through the roof and it felt like his wolf was searching for something, someone.

But he couldn’t find anything that fulfilled him so they moved on.

And things were going…well not great. He couldn’t find why his blood wasn’t turning the wolves and then he finds out Stefan has betrayed him.

Though maybe it was all meant to happen because his wolf found exactly what it had been looking for.

———————————————————————

Klaus came to halt, Elena knocking into his as he gripped her arm tightly. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, nostrils flaring as he breathed in a delightful scent. His eyes darted around the gym room for the source of this sensation and he was pleasantly surprised to find a petite girl hiding by the bleachers.

“Rebekah keep her alive for a moment” he mumbled while shoving the doppelgänger aside. Rebekah raised her rows and followed his sightline in confusion only to gain a small smirk as she grabbed ahold of Elena.

Klaus made a cautious approach to the meek girl who brought her knees to her chest as she eyed him nervously. He knelt down before her, listening to the quickening patter of her heart as it nearly left out of her chest. His hand rose to her face, his thumb brushing along her cheekbone making her breath hitch and his wolf growl pleasantly in his mind.

Omega

The simple one word spun through his head, his wolf finally calming. The urge for everything else was gone, he just wanted her. Touch her, taste her, scent her, hear her sweet voice and watch her submit to him. He could tell instantly how sweet and innocent she was, the perfect little submissive he knew it.

Her face automatically nuzzled into his hands as he cupped her cheeks. His eyes practically sparkled as his tongue darted out to wet his lips and he leaned a little closer to feel her breath on his face.

“Would you get away from her!?” Caroline yelled, storming over and snatching the girl from his grasp. The omega let out a squeak as she latched onto Caroline tightly allowing her to carry her away from the hybrid.

Klaus was pissed but he decided to brush it off for the moment, instead carrying on with his plans and figuring out his hybrid situation.

A mistake apparently because the second he left her, she was fed an incredible amount of horror stories of him and the next time he saw her she was reaching to scream bloody murder.

———————————————————————

Klaus approached the trio in the grill. Damon, Elena and Y/n as he now knew her to be called. He was looking for where Stefan had his family, he also hoped that Y/n might be a little less terrified than when he came to see her at his fathers wake. Poor thing took off faster than light when he appeared in front of her.

But looking at her, he knew she was still haunted by the things she was told.

And Damon knew exactly what he was doing as he pulled her into his side, arm around her shoulders and a kiss pressed to the top of her head as he called her a good girl.

Klaus should’ve torn his head off right there. But that would only ruin his chances even further.

Threatening them all probably didn’t help either but he couldn’t help himself.

He got to see her again at the Salvatore’s when Elena bargained for Jeremy’s life with Rebekah’s.

She was just in the living room curled up in her blankets while she watched her show. He smiled at the scene, the floor resembling a sort of nest as she remained completely oblivious to anyone else’s presence and munched on her Pringles.

He made a very slow approach to her, disregarding his sister and instead focusing on his omega who hesitantly turned her head to face him.

She looked back to the tv and he took that as an okay for him to slip in beside her, his arm moving around her waist and pulling her to his chest. He could smell the fear rolling off her but at the same time she leaned back into him.

He stayed with her until the end of her episode by which time she seemed to have fallen asleep and Damon had gotten home, standing with his arms crossed and a disgusted expression on his face as he silently demanded Klaus get out of his house.

He saw her around, often making sure to brush against her to get his scent on her, anything to get her attention. And more often than not she gave it to him and he could tell she was warming to the idea of his wolf being her alpha but he also saw the Salvatores feeding her more lies and keeping her away from him.

But he wasn’t one to back off.

Especially not when she needed him.

———————————————————————

The strong wave of her heat smacked him right in the face the second he woke up. All his hybrids were on edge and he felt like he was going to lose his mind.

She needed him and he knew it.

Klaus rushed straight there, shoes barely on his feed as he kicked the Salvatore’s door in only to be dragged back out by both brothers.

His deadly teeth snapped at them as they tried to keep him out, ignoring the whimpers and cries of the little wolf upstairs.

Damon took to launching any sharp pieces of possible wood at him while Stefan went to try calm Y/n down only to make her jump at him in need. Klaus could hear her soft moans as she felt the skin on skin touch with Stefan and that pushed him over the edge.

Damon was impaled through the stomach, the end digging into the wall to keep him in place as Klaus sped his way upstairs.

Stefan was swiftly removed from his omega and he had her straight in his lap. Door locked and curtains drawn as he shed his shirt and pulled her right up against him. She was already only in her underwear and an instant moan left her lips as his skin pressed to hers.

“Daddy” she whimpered and he growled softly, his hands rubbed along her arms, down her back and her legs.

“That’s it sweet omega, daddy has you now” he murmured while laying her down onto her back amongst the blankets she had layered up. “Such a beautiful nest my love” he praised and she mewed in reply.

His eyes dragged down her body, her beautiful neck all ready for him to mark, her black bra barely containing her breasts with how eager she had been to throw herself at him, her abdomen soft as he trailed his hand down to her lower belly. His fingers fiddled with the laced band of her panties, glancing up to see her eyes eagerly watching his hand.

“Tell me little wolf, how many heats have you had?�� He questioned with a slight tilt of his head

“Three” she whispered and he hummed

“And how did you calm yourself down…I can’t imagine the gang let you go feral all by yourself?” He wondered while slowly pulling her underwear down her legs much to her excitement

“Had to do it myself” she whimpered and his brows rose, a smirk tugging at his lips while her legs opened to reveal her glistening core. The scent of her slick immediately overwhelmed his senses in the most delicious of ways and it had his wolf ready to devour her.

“Oh did you my pet? How so?” He pressed watched her blush a little but ultimately her wolf was too desperate to delay her chance at having her true alpha inside her during her heat.

“My fingers…but it doesn’t ever work no matter..how much” she grows quieter with each word and he strokes her inner thighs with a hum.

“Omega, love, do you know what your heat is?” He asked while inching her fingers closer and closer to her soaked cunt.

“Need touch” she whispered and he chuckled

“Where do you need it love?” He murmured and she whined in frustration as he traced her labia.

“Inside” she whimpered. He leaned down and pressed soft kisses to her torso, loving how her body arched to meet his mouth.

“And your little fingers just don’t fill you up so they sweetheart? How about we try mine for now” he mumbled while rubbing both his hands just lightly over her soft pussy.

She whispers a quiet “yes please” making him smile and kiss her stomach a few times as he rubbed his fingers through her wetness. Soft sounds left her lips as he let his thumb roll over the hood of her clit.

“You know after this you don’t get to run away any more, no more hiding behind Damon hm?”

She nodded enthusiastically and raised her hands to hold onto her knees as she pulled them to stay against her breasts.

“You have to promise little one” he pressed while his index finger slowly began to sink into her.

She squirmed under him, her pussy pulsing as she kept nodding “I promise, no running, all yours I promise”

“Good girl” he mumbled while leisurely pumping his finger inside her. A soft light left her as she relaxed against the pillows and quilts. Her walls very quickly fit to his fingers once he brought his middle one inside as well.

“Alpha more” she whined and his eyes shut, her begging was driving him to insanity. He shuffled backward a little and brought his face over her needy cunt, his lips firmly pressing to her clit making her moan out.

He let his tongue glide over it slowly at first, then quickly. Both his mouth and fingers moved fast to have her crying and writhing in pleasure beneath him. A third finger filled her, her legs moved to wrap around his head making klaus chuckle which caused a wave of vibrations travel through her. Her thighs held his head close as she whined loudly and clenched around his fingers.

He let his teeth lightly brush over the hood of her clit, loving how her body thrust up to his mouth as he used his supernatural abilities to move his fingers inside her at an impossible speed. Klaus relished in the loud moans that echoed through the house as her hands clutched the sheets below her.

She felt her alpha suck at her clit harshly, his mouth hot and wet against her as her eyes squeezed shut and a string of sounds spilled past her lips. Her foot rubbed up and down his back as she panted desperately, quite literally like a dog in heat.

A long cry left her throat as his finger curved inside her, finding that pleasant spot that had her tightening significantly and calling his name like a needy little slut

And he obliged eagerly, relishing in every reaction she had. How her body rolled to find his touch and how her vocal cords never gave up as she yelled for him over and over. A blur of “daddy” “alpha” and the occasional “klaus” as she chased that euphoric feeling.

He lightly bit down against her clit, forcing her orgasm to explode through her and all over his hand and her legs dropping making his grin to himself as his tongue licked her clean. His fingers slipped out of her before he brought them up for her lips to wrap around. She sucked them greedily and glanced up at him through her dark doe eyes.

Klaus pulled his hand away from her mouth before pressing his own lips to hers, groaning into her mouth as she wrapped both her arms and legs around him and pulled him right down into the nest, clawing at the blankets to get them over him.

He pulled away briefly only for her to forcefully drag him back, her lips desperate for his and she ground her pussy to his trousers. She moaned into him at the feel of his hard cock beneath his pants, her hands began to tug at his hair as she grew hungrier for his touch after receiving a taste of what he could give her.

“Omega-“ he grunted but she wouldn’t let him get another word out.

“Fill me alpha, want babies” she whimpered, her nails growing to claws and scratching marks into his back that soon healed. He felt his body become heavier at her words and a breathy “oh god” left him at the mere though of her carrying his pups.

“Y/n-“ he muttered

“Please Daddy, please give it to me” she moved her head to suck at his neck, licking along his scent gland before nipping it lightly.

“Bloody hell sweetheart, wasn’t expecting such eagerness from you my love” he whispered, his head tilting slightly for her to gain better access. He groaned as she gripped his curls especially hard and bit down enough to pierce his skin. He could feel his cock straining his clothes as she rubbed along it and her teeth in him was making it hard not to finish in his pants.

She pulled away to look at her mark, happy that even though it healed, two slits scarred into his neck. At the same time he looked down between them to see his trousers soaked through with her desire.

Klaus had to forcefully pin her to the bed so she wouldn’t be able to latch onto him and keep him down with her.

He leaned back on his knees, pushing her legs down despite her protests and borderline groping at him which made him chuckle as he pressed down on her chest.

“Hush sweetheart, your alpha is going to make you feel a little less needy but unfortunately my love, daddy won’t be giving you any babies today” he whispered to her making her whimper and try weasel her hands into his pants. “No no omega, not this time. You get that once you let me take you out properly” he murmured much to both her disappointment and excitement. “Just lay back and enjoy what my hands and mouth can do for you okay? Perhaps I should bring you to my house and I’ll get you some toys out hm?” He hummed and her eyes darkened further as she nodded innocently.

#alpha and omega #omegaverse #omega!reader #alpha klaus #yandere alpha #alpha daddy #klaus mikaelson #the originals #the vampire diaries #klaus mikaelson x reader #klaus mikaelson one shot #klaus mikealson fanfiction #klaus mikaleson imagine #niklaus imagines #rebekah mikaelson #klaus m #klaus michaelson #the vampire diares imagine #elijah mikaelson #klaus mikaelson x y/n #kol mikaelson #tvd klaus #niklaus mikaelson #tvd universe #hope mikaelson #klaus mikaelson headcanon #klaus mikaelson fluff #klaus mikaelson yandere #klaus mikealson smut #klaus mikaelson x yn

[usiel21]

The Trauma of Enid Sinclair.

After her fight with the Hyde, Enid can't forget that night, seeing Wednesday covered in blood, the knife wound that was going to kill Wednesday haunts her dreams. Every night. Her dreams filled with an image of Wednesday dead, slumped over, knife sticking out of her gut.

It fills Enid with a ruthless determination.

Every morning at home she wakes up and does 100 push ups. No exceptions and then goes for a run.

The six full moons over the two month period should be ones of joy, but she spends each one, alone, away from the pack, hunting. Honing her instincts. Each one culminating in a kill so bloody and so savage that even her mother can't bring herself to criticize it, the deers and a singular bear have been mauled beyond the point of reason. She leaves the carcasses on the back porch with the other kills.

Her brothers begin to fear the savagery that their little sister is now capable of.

The return to Nevermore is a quiet one, her heart sings in elation at seeing Wednesday again. Seeing that she is alive but still recovering.

But Wednesday is far from stupid, she notices the changes in Enid immediately but doesn't comment on it, she finds herself silently counting every push-up and every sit-up. The colour of her roommate is still there albeit jaded.

Enid takes an almost obsessive interest in the investigation revolving around her stalker. Enid studies outcast bestiary encyclopaedias. Making notes and annotations to them. Specifically notes on where the arteries run, where vital organs are located and how far she would have to cut in order to reach them.

Enid wakes up in the night, pads over to Wednesdays bed and carefully presses her fingers to her pulse and hovering her hand by her mouth, feeling the slow outtake of air. She would heave a sigh of relief before going back to sleep.

Thing tells Wednesday everything, the notes, the checking to see if she's still alive. But still she make no comment on it.

The first boy that tries to ask Wednesday out doesn't even get a chance to speak to her, Enid is already there.

"She's not interested, back off" the last two words come out as a growl as her fangs descend and her claws elongate. Once the boy runs away terrified she sheepishly turns to look at Wednesday who only gives her a curt nod in return, it makes Enid preen all the same.

People soon learn that Wednesday is off limits. Well almost all of them that is.

Xavier fucking Thorpe.

It happens on the third botany lesson of the year, with the new teacher, Miss Reeves. Enid watches with intensity and a boiling, bubbling anger as Xavier attempts to flirt with Wednesday, who shows no interest in return.

Yoko notices it first, the extended claws, the yellow eyes but has no time to stop it as Xavier makes a play to hold Wednesdays hand. The other girl flinches away, disgust evident on her face. And Enid sees red, every emotion, every bit of fear, every piece of anger coming to the forefront.

Xavier has no time to react as Enid bolts over her table and tackles Xavier to the floor. The boy screams 'What the fuck?!" as he hits the floor.

the half-transformed wolf snarls and growls above him.

"DO NOT TOUCH HER!" She screams down at him. "Miss Sinclair!" Miss Reeves roars but gulps and takes a step back as the wolf's eyes round on her, a genuine murderous intent gleam there. But Enid backs off but doesn't back down instead she turns until Wednesday is behind her, keeping the her precious raven safe, all eyes are trained on her, all of them now threats to Wednesday.

And all that runs through her head is a singular, terrifying thought.

Protect Mate

Until she feel's Wednesday's hand tentatively come up to brush her fingers.

"Enid, I'm okay, it is okay." Wednesday's soft whisper comes from behind. She whines and whimpers as Wednesday's touch is like a spark upon her skin, so gentle and so soft. Yet Enid doesn't back down, it just gives her an even more greater reason to protect and defend.

Wednesday's whisper is barely audible but regardless everyone hears it.

"My sweet and savage wolf" Wednesday whispers, taking her hand. "Stop...please." the last word is almost pleading. And it shakes Enid out of her kill rage, the claws retract and her face returns to that once sweet girl that everyone would describe as being like sunshine. She ducks her head away, ashamed and mortified. But their eyes meet conveying everything she can't say.

Wednesday's sharp eyes turn to Miss Reeves.

"Inform the rest of the teachers that Enid and I are returning to our room. I will handle this in what way I deem fit." She pauses "If the new principal does not approve then inform him that anyone that messes with Enid will incur the wrath of the Addams clan."

Wednesday pauses to look down at Xavier.

"Touch me again and I won't stop her next time."

Xavier incredulously looks at the girls joined hands and at Enid who is now clinging to Wednesday's arm like a koala bear. But wisely says nothing.

"Come, mi sol" Wednesday gently says, leading Enid from the room.

Miss Reeves rounded on Xavier "You foolish, idiotic boy!" Xavier nearly choked on the words that died in his throat in protest "You know better than to touch a werewolf's mate!"

The walk back to the dorm is a quick and silent one. Until Wednesday locks the door behind them as Enid retreats further into the room.

"You must hate me so much right now, Wends" Enid mutters tearfully.

Wednesday steps forward.

"Why would you think such a ridiculous notion Enid?" Wednesday questions.

"Because of what just happened, Because I'm a shitty friend... because i'm a failure." Enid says, all but breaking down. The tears come thick and fast, every bit of despair, every fear finally letting itself explode.

"If i could have wolfed out you wouldn't have been stabbed!" Enid wails. Wednesday can't say nothing other than watch Enid rip herself to pieces with guilt that isn't just.

"If I had beaten the Hyde faster, if I had been better!" Enid laments "If I had known Thornhill had taken you if I wasn't too busy sucking face with Ajax! I could have stopped it!"

Wednesday moved towards Enid until she was right in front of her, their eyes met.

"If you died I would have died with you." Enid confesses softly.

And Wednesday had never been told something so terrifying. Enid turned away and continued to sob. Wednesday moved until she was right in Enid's personal space.

"But i didn't die, I'm right here Enid. Look at me." Wednesday said. Shimmering Blue eyes met hers and Wednesday held out her hands. Enid's shook as she placed them into the ravens.

"Do you think i care for you so little that if you died against the Hyde i wouldn't have met him in battle knowing that i would come to you even in death?"

Enid's lip quivered at Wednesday's words. Wednesday stepped closer.

"Do you think i could ever hate you? Even when we first met I found I simply couldn't as much as i wanted to."

Enid whimpered.

"Do you think I love you so little..." Enid's eyes widen at the proclamation. "...that even death would have been able to keep me from you?"

"Wends..." Enid can't help but utter, hearing the most loving and romantic thing anyone has ever said to her.

"Your not the only one that lost a part of themselves that night Enid, I lost a part of myself to you and I never want it back"

"That is literally the most loving thing anyone has ever said to me..." Enid whined, bringing their clasped hands to her chest.

"This is not the way I wished to tell you..." Wednesday said, casting her eyes to the floor.

"It was perfect Wends." Enid said stepping closer as Wednesday looks at her again "I..." Enid begins, her words hitching in her throat. "...I..." Wednesday steps closer, they're both so close now that they can feel each other's breath.

"Yes Enid?" Wednesday prompts softly. Enid composes herself enough for the briefest of moments. "...I... I love you!"

And Wednesday is the one that takes the final leap of faith by pushing forwards, their hands clasped tightly together between them at chest level, capturing Enid's lips blissfully with her own, the spiderweb window directly behind them.

Enid cries during their first kiss. The wolf, exhausted half drags Wednesday to her bed, before collapsing upon it with Wednesday in tow, their bodies entwined. Her final thoughts as she drifts off a comfort as she tucks her face into the seers neck.

Mate safe.

Mate in nest.

Mate warm.

Mate happy.

Mate alive.

#wenclair #they're so gay #these are just meant to be small drabbles that somehow end up being 1500 words long Lmao

[rookthorne]

⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐓𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐆𝐨𝐥𝐝

The Soldat’s captain was ruthless and never showed any quarter to his enemies. When an armada appeared on the horizon like a beast from the ocean, you knew the battle would be bloody and victory would be sweet, and the treasure would be worth more than silver and gold.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ✗ Pirate!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 ✗ 1.5k

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ✗ Fluff, descriptions of battle (blood and gore), praise kink

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 ✗ As a woman obsessed with POTC, I got to use my hoarde of knowledge on pirates for this.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒔 ✗ The Kraken by Hans Zimmer ✗ Angelica by Hans Zimmer, Rodrigo y Gabriela

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕 ✗ @the-slumberparty Week 1 Fic Challenge ჻჻჻ 𝑷𝑰𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑬 ჻჻჻ 𝑫𝑰𝑨𝑴𝑶𝑵𝑫 𝑵𝑬𝑪𝑲𝑳𝑨𝑪𝑬 — Masterlist

𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐒𝐞𝐚𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Canon fire peppered the air while smoke billowed from the muzzles of the guns lining the deck of The Soldat’s ship, its captain bellowing orders and commands in quick succession, the volume of his voice rivalling the constant explosions of gunpowder. 

Crewmen were yelling, screaming threats and making good on their promises to maim and murder the King’s men. It was a gruesome sight with bodies strewn over the deck and hanging off the hull rail with swords and bayonets rooted deep in their backs and stomachs; enough to turn the churning sea red below the belly of your ship. 

“No quarter!” A voice boomed by your ear and you spun ‘round to see your captain, sprayed with blood with a maniacal grin on his normally stoic face. “Send ‘em down to Davy Jones’ locker, lads!”

Roars of ascension echoed and the battle grew in intensity around you - men were turning savage with bloodlust, gutting their opponents with the order of no mercy. The once pristine Man’O’War you called home had carved a path through the blockade with its wide berth that was now painted a deep crimson from the loss of life.

“If you can put as many men down as me, lass, I’ll see to you it that you get a bit of the bounty,” your captain said, his grinning face now focus on you. “C’mon, I know you want it as bad as the rest of these idiots.”

You smirked. “You know me, sir-” A loud yell came from your right and you turned on your heel, blade at the ready and before the decorated King’s soldier knew what had happened, he was impaled on your sword. You turned back to your captain, your smirk now a wild grin. “I can never turn down a challenge.”

Sailors and King’s soldiers clashed and fought around you whilst you faced two brutes, their weight an advantage, though your nimbleness won the battle; your cutlass in one’s back, your dagger in the other’s neck. 

Battle cries from your crew mates carried you on - a force to be reckoned with, slashing and hacking and impaling your sword against any foe that crossed your path. An armada of King’s men had been slaughtered by the time The Soldat’s crew had slowed, the bloodlust now a low simmer in their ale full bellies.  

Bodies littered The Soldat’s deck, and with the battle now over, you glanced down at yourself to search for injuries you did not feel with the roar of adrenaline in your blood, but found none. 

“Captain,” a sailor to your left started, his voice louder than the shouts of victory. Your captain looked towards the call before briefly glancing at you, a slight smirk on his pretty lips. “What’re we gonna do with the last of the armada–they might send more men.”

“Burn it all, douse them with oil and burn it all down.”

A shiver crawled up your spine at your captain’s words and the men murmured excitedly before rushing off to the lower deck for the barrels kept exactly for this reason.

“First mate,” the captain called, and you looked up sharply, a brow raised. “My quarters, if you please.” He jumped down from the railing and sauntered over, the belts and leather coat swaying with his gait and it was all you could do to keep your attention focused on his icy gaze. “We have many things to discuss for the next course,” he trailed off once he was right in front of you, though the men around were far too busy and excited at their orders to wreak pure destruction on the fallen. “And I have my word to make good on, lass.”

“Yessir,” you said, saluting proudly and he laughed heartily - a sound that warmed you to your core. 

The captain’s cabin was luxurious in furnishings - for what a pirate could get his thieving hands on, this you knew, but the majesty of the room never ceased to amaze with the dark stained wood of the walls and floor while pops of red and silver accented the room. Your boot falls were muted on the many rugs strewn over the floor, and you sat down on the edge of his bed with a weary sigh. 

Battle was exhausting. Though, you never grew weary or tired of unsheathing your blade and fighting alongside the crew.

The sun had fallen below the horizon by the time your captain finally strode into his cabin, the door shutting with a loud click and rattle of the ornate glass. “You look exhausted, my love,” he started, shucking his coat off and hanging it on a hook by the door. “Are you injured?”

“‘M fine, handsome,” you sighed, smiling up at him as he slowly walked over to stand between your knees. While waiting for him, you had stripped from the bloodiest of your clothes and thrown one of his blouses, a poet shirt he had taken after a bloody wager. “Though I am tired and ready to sleep for eternity.”

“I will join you then,” Bucky smiled, his calloused hand cupping your jaw before he moved away to strip away the black leather adorning his muscled chest and thighs. 

You hummed and shuffled on his bed until your back rested against the headboard. “Don’t you have something for me, captain?”

“You know we are safe here, my love. It’s Bucky, unless you want to call me sir, I don’t mind,” Bucky purred. The slight clink of his swords being hung on the wall echoed loudly in the charged silence, but you smiled. You knew this game. 

“I know you have something for me, sir,” you breathed, and Bucky looked over his shoulder at you with a brow raised. “You promised, and I did win that wager… didn’t I?”

Bucky turned to face you, though he kept a hand behind his back and you narrowed your eyes in suspicion. “You did, my love, the deadliest lass I’ve ever seen.” He stepped closer to his bed and lifted his hand, beckoning you closer. “C’mere.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so,” Bucky replied, the authority unmistakeable in his tone. “Come here.”

You rolled your eyes in defiance and Bucky stared through you, straight into your soul it felt. The darkening of his normally ocean grey eyes made you pause, what was he going to do? “Fine,” you muttered and you scooted forward so your legs dangled off the side of his bed, resting them either side of his. 

“Good girl.” Bucky’s hand ran through your hair and moved it so it fell down your shoulder. “Now, I promised you something from this bounty and the coffers–of course, I had to get my girl the best,” he said, drawing his hand out from behind his back. “And the best just happened to be this.”

You looked towards his hand and your mouth fell open in a silent gasp of shock. Diamonds and jewels glinted in the warm candle light; the red of the rubies casted a red reflection onto Bucky’s palm while the silver of the diamonds shimmered like the rays of the sun on high tide. 

“Oh, my-” Was all you managed before Bucky bent at the hip and kissed you hard, distracting you from the heavy weight of the necklace while he clasped it around your neck. “Bucky!” 

“What?” Bucky smirked. “You don’t want me to be sweet on you? Don’t want me to love on you, is that it?”

“No! No, no it’s not,” you began, trying to process the weight of the jewels and diamonds around your neck and resting against your chest. “I-I do want that,” you murmured. Bucky’s hand cupped your chin and forced your gaze up so he could stare into your eyes. “I just- thank you, it’s beautiful.”

Bucky smiled softly and bent to kiss your forehead. “Not as beautiful as you, my love.” He stepped away and toed off his bloodied boots, kicking them to the corner before tossing off his undershirt. “Nothing on God's green earth will ever come close to your beauty, nothing.”

The statement made butterflies bloom in your stomach and you smiled shyly. 

“Now, let's sleep for eternity, hmm?” Bucky gestured for you to move. “Get comfortable, my love. I want to join you.”

Soft cotton sheets rustled while you moved and settled on to Bucky’s bed, your head coming to rest on his pillow. You sighed happily when the bed shifted under Bucky’s weight as he settled behind you, your back flush against his bare, toned chest. “You did so well today, my love,” Bucky murmured and you smiled. “Did your captain proud.”

“Thank you, sir,” you whispered and Bucky tensed behind you.

“None of that, you little minx,” Bucky said and you giggled, shuffling back against the warmth of his muscled body. His arm rested over your waist and moved to cradle you, a possessive move that he knew you adored - it made you feel loved, protected. “Sleep now, my love.”

The last thing you remembered before sleep pulled you under its swell was the weight of the diamonds and jewels on your neck, and how it remarkably felt like your captain would now always be with you. 

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑  ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

#bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky x f!reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #pirate au #pirate bucky #navy and roo's sleepover #rookthorne's works #Treasure

[danikamariewrites]

Trapped

Lucien x reader

A/n: part 2 to Fox Hunter! I was so happy so many people liked this fic and I hope you like part 2. I love Elain so breaking her heart killed me but it had to happen sadly.

Warnings: dark!reader, manipulation, angst

Three months. It took three months for my brother to mess things up. It’s my own fault, really. I did not take into account the amount of time he had spent with Gwyn. When the bond snapped for them Azriel left Elain. It’s been weeks now. Azriel and Gwyn have been in the cabin in the mountains since. Elain wont even come out of her room.

Today Feyre had had enough. A loud knock sounded on the front door, I open it to find a disheveled Feyre. She has bags under her eyes, her hair pulled up in a ponytail to hide the knots forming in her sandy locks. Her shoulders are slumped in defeat as she shuffles inside. I felt bad for her. She shouldn’t have to be dealing with Elain’s mess of a life, she had already done so much for her sisters.

I hold my arms out to pull her into a comforting hug. Feyre slumps against me as a sob shakes her body. “I can’t take it y/n. I know she’s hurting but this is irrational.” I rub her back slowly, my eyes fluttering shut as I prepare myself for what Feyre is about to ask me. “Elain won’t speak to me or Nesta anymore. Nesta tried today but she asked for you. Will you please talk to her?”

Resting my hands on her shoulders I pull away from Feyre. “Yes, anything to help Elain. She’s my friend and I hate seeing her in pain like this.”

When I arrive at the River House later that day I spot Lucien and Cassian speaking in hushed tones by the staircase. As I pass them I send Lucien a wink and a small smile that he returns. Making my way up the stairs I can smell the salt of Elain’s tears. Taking a deep breath I mentally prepare myself to step into the role of friend.

I knock on the door and enter without her permission. “Elain,” my voice comes out sweet and caring. I just want the girl to stop crying. She sniffled and stood from her bed. Elain pulled herself up to her full height, holding her chin up high. A scowl graces her lips as she stares daggers at me. “Elain?” I ask tentatively.

“I asked for Lucien. I wanted to take it all back but then Nesta told me he was with you. Your scents were mixed.” Elain was trembling at this point. “You did this. You wanted Lucien and you made me break the bond with him!” She was screaming at this point. I knew my look of shock was genuine by Elain’s dark laugh. “Oh. My. Gods. I knew it! You did this to me on purpose!”

“I told you to follow your heart! Never once did I tell you to break the bond.” Elain started screaming bloody murder. She started pacing like a mad woman, gripping at the roots of her hair. Thundering footsteps rush up the stairs. Before I could say anything to claim my innocence Rhys, Feyre, Cassian, and Nesta burst through the door. “What’s going on?” Rhys yells.

Elain stops her pacing pointing a threatening finger at me. “Y/n did this to me! She took Lucien from me! Made me break the bond!” I turn to my family with a worried gaze. “I didn’t…I told her to do what was right I never meant for this.” Nesta rushed past me into Elain’s bathroom. Elain continues rambling until Nesta comes back with a small vile. Uncorking it, she forces the liquid down Elain’s throat.

The girl went limp in her sister’s arms. Slurring her words until her eyes flutter shut and she’s completely unconscious. Cassian takes Elain from Nesta to lay her on the bed. Rhys takes my hands, giving me a sympathetic smile. “I didn’t know this would happen,” I whisper out. Again, forcing tears to line my eyes. “Elain is my friend I’d never do this.”

“I know sister. Mating bonds are fragile things. The breaking of it with Lucien and Azriel leaving with Gwyn must be taking its toll on her emotionally.” Rhys said somberly. “I think it’s best we stay away for a while.” Rhys agreed and granted Lucien and I a leave of absence.

I rush back downstairs, a new spring in my step at the thought of spending time alone with Lucien away from the Night Court. As I stepped into the sitting room Lucien stood from the couch. “How is she?” Concern etched on his beautiful face. I hold his face in my hands slowly rubbing circles with my thumbs on his cheeks. I give my love a sympathetic frown. “Not well. I think everything is finally taking its toll on her, poor thing. It hurts to see her like this.” Lucien pulls me into a warm embrace. I rest my head against his strong chest, his steady heartbeat soothing my anxiety about this whole situation.

At least none of them believe Elain. Why would my brothers question me after five hundred years of love and loyalty. And they truly believe the poor girl is psychotic. Helping me evade doubt.

“Rhysand is letting us take a leave of absence. We could use a break for a while.” I lean away from Luc to gage his reaction. He flashes me that dazzling smile that makes my knees go weak. “I’d love that.” I pull him down to meet my lips in a sweet kiss. Breaking apart he rests his forehead against mine. “How about we go to Day for a while? My father asked me to visit, now is the perfect time.”

I smile at the thought of us in Day Court fashion. Walking around the palace, visiting the many libraries, and relaxing by the beaches. Peace. We’d have peace in Day, a chance to get lost in each other. “That sounds perfect.”

Lucien gives me one last kiss before heading to his office to write to Helion. I returned to the Town House to pack our bags as I daydream about a life for us in Day.

tagging: @thelov3lybookworm

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar reader fic #acotar reader imagine #acotar imagine #lucien vandaddy #lucien x you #lucien x reader #lucien acotar #lucien vanserra #lucien vanserra x reader #lucien vanserra x you #Lucien vanserra acotar #lucien fic #Lucien fanfic

[zablife]

As Long As I Live (Part 4)

Tommy Shelby & Amelia Holland (OC) x Bonnie Gold

Summary: When things go wrong at Lizzie's party, Tommy proposes a solution Amelia finds difficult to accept.

Author's Note: Requested by the lovely @kpopgirlbtssvt. This will be the final part to the series and the longest at 4K words!

Warnings: drinking, language, mention of assault and blood, mention of pregnancy, minor character death

Masterlist

“How long is a fucking ballet anyway?” Arthur asked, fumbling inside his coat pocket for his flask of whisky. Finn only shrugged in reply, barely watching the performance himself in favor of staring at his pocket watch. He ducked his head to study the time, only to find the minutes passing more slowly than before. He gave a tired exhale of breath as a hand clamped over his shoulder.

“Finn, we need to get Tommy,” Isaiah said out of breath and uncharacteristically rattled by something. 

“Thought you were supposed to be with Amelia,” Finn noted. “Tommy’ll have your balls if something happens to her.”

Isaiah’s face turned grim as he confided, “Something’s already happened, mate. She’s probably with Frances by now, but Tommy should come to the garden straight away,” he urged.

“Y-yeah, ok,” Finn stammered as he moved into action, glancing at Arthur who didn't look like he'd be much help in his state of inebriation. 

Quickly shuffling between seats, Finn found Tommy and whispered to him. Watching Tommy excuse himself from the front row, Lizzie pressed her fingertips to her temples, willing away a throbbing headache, unaware the night was about to get worse.

As Tommy rounded the corner of the garden he found Bonnie throttling another man, arm pulled back to deliver a punch. “Oi! Get the fuck up!” he yelled, pulling Bonnie off with all his strength and struggling to contain him.

“What’s going on?” he demanded to know, squinting in the dim light to make out the bruised and bleeding figure on the ground. The man rose to a sitting position, holding his ribs and heaving for breath as he searched for a handkerchief to dab at his bloody nose. A sliver of light cut across the garden path illuminating his face and Tommy’s eyebrows raised at the sight of Sir Oswald Mosley.

“One of your thugs attacked me,” Mosley accused, pushing himself up from the ground with great effort. 

Tommy looked to Bonnie for an explanation and Bonnie turned away as he stuttered, “He-he had Amelia. If I hadn’t come-” Tommy held up his hand, his mouth suddenly too dry to speak. He understood Bonnie’s meaning immediately as Mosley’s ghastly reputation preceded him. It wasn’t hard to believe, though he did wonder why Isaiah hadn’t kept her away from the party like he asked. It was no time for that, however, as he attempted to handle the matter at hand.

“I want to know what you’re going to do about this, Shelby,” Mosley demanded, stalking toward Tommy angrily. “This animal belongs in jail for attempted murder,” he seethed, pointing at Bonnie. 

“Nevertheless, you attacked one of my guests first,” Tommy replied, attempting to restrain the venom seeping into his voice. 

Mosley scoffed at Tommy’s comment, taking the handkerchief from his face as he sneered, “One of the whores you employed for the evening?” He waited for Tommy to take the bait, revealing the true nature of the relationship. However, Tommy held firm, swallowing harshly to hold down the bile that threatened to rise in his throat. Seeing no other option, he realized he would have to acquiesce to Mosley’s demands or give that illusion until he could formulate a plan.  

“Alright,” Tommy reluctantly agreed. “If you’ll step inside I’ll make the necessary calls and see that you receive proper medical attention,” he said with lips pursed tight, otherwise expressionless to hide the fear of how he might find Amelia. Tommy exchanged one last concerned look with Bonnie before escorting Mosley inside, his mind preoccupied with his daughter’s well-being before he could begin to think of a solution to this catastrophe. 

———————————-

The next morning blinders guarding the front entrance of Arrow House could hear the shouting from Tommy's office. It reverberated off the paneled walls and down the corridor. The men exchanged nervous glances as pieces of the conversation drifted out toward them. For the better part of an hour Tommy attempted to persuade Amelia to flee without providing details of his treacherous ties to Sir Oswald Mosley. However, his proposal of having her return to a life of travel with Bonnie Gold was not something she was prepared to entertain. 

“How could you do this? Cast me off like some cursed soul?”Amelia yelled. She realized she was being dramatic, but that’s how she felt. 

“Amelia, please, I’m trying to see that you’re taken care of and...,” Tommy trailed off, words failing him suddenly. Was he doing what was right? He’d only just gotten her back. Could he relinquish her so easily? He wasn’t so sure of his decision now that he was saying it out loud, but this was the best plan he could think of on short notice. 

“You’d never do this to Charlie or Ruby!” she shouted, turning to face him with tears stinging her eyes. At a time when she had finally come to believe her father loved his children equally, this was irrefutable proof he saw them very differently. Although she had been attacked in the garden, she felt she was being blamed for it. Her father's insistence on her protection felt more like banishment so he could continue living a life of respectability amongst the toffs he claimed to despise. 

Tommy halted, taking a deep breath as he thought about what he was asking of his eldest daughter. Amelia took his silence as complacency and it infuriated her more. When he finally began to speak she wouldn’t allow more than a few words. He began, “Amelia, I wish you’d consider…” before she interrupted.

“I don’t want to hear about Bonnie Gold again as long as I live!” she said defiantly.

Tommy removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose as he exhaled loudly. She was stubborn and headstrong, qualities he loved about her normally. However, faced with the sickening fingerprint shaped bruises on her neck, he was desperate to get her to safety. “What if Aberama and Polly go with ya?” he pleaded. He clenched his fists to hold back the feelings of helplessness he’d experienced when Izzy disappeared all those years ago, willing this time to be different. 

Amelia looked at Tommy with fiery determination wanting to object, but knowing it was useless because her father was also relentless when he wanted something. It was a battle she would surely loose, a humiliating defeat with only her heart at stake. Finally she gave in with a slow nod of agreement.

Tommy’s posture instantly relaxed knowing he’d found a compromise. “Thank you, Amelia. It’s for the best,” he assured her.

“For me or your fucking career?” she bit back.

“That’s not why I’m doing this,” Tommy urged, holding her gaze in hopes she would recognize the sincerity of his words. 

"It doesn't change the fact that you're giving up on me. Because that's what you do when things are too difficult for you to handle, isn't it? You abandon people... like you did with mum," she confronted him, voice constricting in her throat. 

Tommy felt an uncomfortable weight settle in his chest at her accusation. “I wanted you here, Amelia. It just couldn’t be,” he murmured. He wished to express how much she meant to him, but his words fell away as he noticed the look of disillusionment spreading over her like a disease. 

Amelia’s stare remained harsh as she waited for something more. An apology would have been a start, though she knew her father was unaccustomed to issuing them under any circumstances. 

"You should pack," Tommy finally told her, in a resigned voice.

Amelia shook her head in disgust and turned on her heel, slamming the door behind her as she went. Passing Lizzie in the hallway, she ran to her room.

As Lizzie entered, she found Tommy slumped forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, contemplating what Amelia had said.

“Tommy, what’s happened?” Lizzie asked, pulling her dressing gown closed against the chill.

Tommy exhaled slowly, reaching for a cigarette. He took his time lighting one for his wife and himself before answering, “I’ve fucked it all up, Lizzie, and now she’ll never forgive me.”

“What did you say?” Lizzie asked hesitantly and Tommy told her plainly what was to come. He explained how Moss would arrange Bonnie’s transport early the next morning with just enough time for his men to intercept at a crossroads. Then Aberama and Polly were  to whisk him away deep into the mountains. He held his breath before admitting Amelia would be with them.

“Oh, Tommy, no,” she sighed, abandoning her cigarette in the ashtray and collapsing into a chair. “You promised me she’d be taken care of after everything…” she said, lowering her head into her hands.

“And she will,” Tommy said, coming to stand next to his wife’s side.

Lizzie looked up at him with a shake of her head. “I don’t understand you sometimes. What is this good that you will become?” she demanded to know. “When you turn away your own family. Is this work with bloody fascists so important you’d lose everyone you care about?” 

“Lizzie, please, I need you to understand,” he said, reaching for her hand, but she stood suddenly to avoid his touch. Walking to the door without a backward glance, she left him alone with his thoughts and his regrets.

————————

There was something comforting about being in nature again after nearly a year on Tommy's estate. Now that she was back on the road, it was as though she’d never left. The circling of the crows overheard and the welcoming softness of the velvety moss under her feet were all she needed to feel at home again. Despite the desperate ache she felt leaving her younger siblings behind, she soon found routine in her chores and conversations with Polly, who helped her understand the person her father became in order to survive after the war.  Amelia listened to the stories out of curiosity, but disregarded the silent plea for forgiveness. That wasn’t something she was prepared to give just yet.

Sometimes she contemplated what her life might have been if she’d disobeyed her father and stayed near Small Heath, but those were only fleeting thoughts. She wouldn’t stay where she wasn’t wanted. It was a thought that crept up on her, chilling her even in the warmth of the campfire. Amelia shivered as she stared into the abyss of the flickering light, too lost in the past to notice Aberama approaching. She startled at the feeling of his large palm on her shoulder when he softly asked, "May I sit with you, child?”

She immediately nodded in agreement, gladly accepting his company as she had changed her opinion of him during their travels. He’d proven himself to be generous with her, ensuring her comfort by providing plenty of fresh meat and repairing the old vardo where she slept. She’d also witnessed his fair and honest dealings when trading and felt ashamed at her earlier accusations. 

Taking up a place on a log beside her, Aberama stoked the fire before rubbing his hands together to feel the warmth radiating from the flames. If there was a moment to say what he'd been holding back, now was the time. "You know, I traveled with the Hollands many years ago," he said with a small smile playing on his lips at the memory.

Amelia's head shot up at the mention of her mum’s family, fingers clasping the gem at her throat nervously. "You did?" she asked hesitantly.

"Aye, and I knew your mother," he recalled. "You'd not find anyone better with horses," he mused, eyes drifting upward with the curls of smoke twisting in the night air. Then he added sadly, "She was a rare gem and she would have made a fine wife."

Amelia swallowed a lump in her throat as she asked, “I don’t understand. Were you in love with her, Mr. Gold?”

His head dropped as he huffed out a little laugh, “I think everyone loved Isidora, but we all knew her heart belonged to Tommy Shelby,” he said, reaching for a piece of kindling and his small pocket knife to distract himself with a bit of carving. He was growing nervous at the thought of revealing secrets long buried and looked to his work instead of the girl at his side as he continued. “Amelia. I didn't think it was my place to say anything before, but now perhaps you should know something," he ventured. 

However, Amelia soon grew uncomfortable and attempted to push away the topic that caused a deep chasm to open within her chest. "It's alright, I know my father abandoned her when she was pregnant," she said dismissively, rubbing her thumb over the sapphire in silent apology to her mum. 

Aberama's hands dropped to his sides as he stopped to look at Amelia with a look of confusion, mixed with pain. "No, child, he loved that woman."

Amelia scoffed, "You must have him mistaken for someone else. He never wanted her...or me," she noted bitterly.

"That's where you're wrong," Aberama corrected. “Your parents were very much in love, but your grandfather kept them apart because of a feud.”

“Dad never mentioned that last part,” Amelia said, knitting her brows. 

Aberama considered the piece of wood he held in his hand as he said, “I doubt he knew his father’s deceitfulness caused him to lose Izzy.” He glanced up at Amelia with a mournful look, wishing he weren’t the one to tell her this.

“Your grandfathers were friends. Well, they gambled quite a lot together,” he corrected himself. “Izzy’s father owed money to Tommy's father and in 1914 they began to quarrel," he explained. Amelia leaned forward unsure if she wanted to hear more. Aberama took a deep breath before continuing. "Soon after Izzy fell pregnant and her father came to believe it was some kind of retribution. He was outraged that the Shelbys would collect a debt in such a manner so he sent her away. Said he’d be damned if she married a man with no honor. Of course, your father went to war and by the time he returned, you and your mother were long gone.”

Amelia's eyes were wide with shock and disbelief, wondering if this misunderstanding could be the cause of so much pain. Furrowing her brow she asked the question still lingering in her mind. “But…that doesn't explain why my father never looked for her," she said accusingly.

"He did. For years he asked my family for help, but we never found her,” he said in a voice close to a whisper. Amelia could see the look of regret etched on his face and didn’t ask anything more, choosing to sit in pensive silence. She knew there was little else he could have done to help, time ticking away the years her mother had left before fever claimed her life. She knew from Polly’s stories that in those years Tommy became a hardened criminal and any suspicion the family had about him was cemented in his deeds with the Peaky Blinders.

Amelia’s fingertips lingered over her necklace as she thought of the promise it contained and she realized her father had told the truth when he said he was coming back for his true love after France. She sat back against a log, taking in a deep breath as she closed her eyes and imagined her parents together. It healed her fractured heart to know that they had been happy for a brief time and in a way, their love remained through her.

With the fire crackling between them, Aberama studied Amelia and watched a look of contentment settle over her face. He placed his knife in his pocket with a nod, standing and brushing himself off before leaving the campfire. As she listened to his footsteps, Amelia’s eyes opened and she called out, “thank you.”

Aberama turned back and tipped his head toward her in acknowledgment before joining Polly in their vardo.

———————————

Amelia didn’t spend much time with Bonnie when they first set off into the mountains. He reminded her of the awful night at Arrow House that drove them all away. Sometimes when she looked at him she blamed his jealousy, and the temper Aberama claimed he inherited from his mother, for what happened. However, as time passed, she found it hard to hold a grudge. As her own mood improved she became curious to know Bonnie, though occasions were now rare seeing that he often kept his distance from her.

Sitting by the riverbank, Amelia watched Bonnie cross a log, his feet swift and sure, never faltering, and it reminded her of the day in the boxing ring when he'd shown such promise. Suddenly she found herself thinking of everything he’d given up that night in the garden after she dared to spit in Mosley's face, provoking his animalistic impulses. 

Unable to contain the question as it came to her she blurted out, “Do you hate me?”

Bonnie wobbled on the log for the first time, looking over at her in surprise. He'd waited for the moment Amelia might speak to him again. He feared she might never trust him after the beating he gave Mosley. Thoughts echoed in his mind about the brutality she’d witnessed from him, even after she yelled for him to stop, protesting how she could have managed on her own. But the image of Mosley's hand against her throat as he ripped Amelia's dress replayed on a loop nearly every night and he knew he’d do it all again if necessary to keep her from harm.

Without a hint of hesitation, he replied to her question, “Course I don’t hate ya.” He made his way to the end of the log and jumped down, joining her on the soft grass. “What makes you say that?”

“You’ll never get to live your dream now. Don’t you remember the day in the gym when you told me you wanted to be a champion?” Amelia asked sadly, turning her face away from Bonnie and hiding in her shoulder. 

“I didn’t say that, dove. You did,” Bonnie reminded her gently, looking out over the river.

“What?” she asked in confusion.

“I said I didn’t want to waste my life and I’m not so long as I’m with you,” he replied.

Amelia peeked out from her hiding place, to glance at Bonnie. He laid back against the grass looking up at the passing clouds as he continued, “The day I met you in the stables, I knew you weren’t like anyone I’d ever met. You've got a wild spirit that makes ya fearless. Hell, sometimes I watch you just to see what you'll do next!" An easy laugh escaped his lips and he rolled over to lean on his elbow looking at Amelia as he turned serious. "If I never went back to boxing again, that’d be alright.”

“You’re lying,” Amelia sniffed, though she felt the truth behind the sentiment in the gentle way he spoke, without rushing his words.

Bonnie's heart caught in his chest as she began to cry. He moved toward her slowly, coming to kneel beside her. “M not. Even if you said you hated me, I’d stay.”

“Why?” she asked. “After all this..” she wondered aloud, wiping a tear away with the back of her hand.

Bonnie shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. “Stubborn, I reckon,” he said with a grin, ducking to catch her gaze.

“That’s it?” she giggled in spite of herself.

“No," he said with a soft shake of his head, hand brushing over the luscious grass as he plucked a daisy from the ground. "I’d like to get to know you better cos there’s something else I think I’d like to ask you one day,” he said, offering her the flower and the whole world all at once.

———————

Eight months later…

Arrow House was quiet with the children at school and Lizzie attending a meeting for one of her charities. Only Cyril was left to keep Tommy company on this cold winter’s day, but he didn’t mind. He was soaking in the last moments of tranquil solitude before the entire family would be reunited at last. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so at ease. With Mosley's assassination, his plans for the party could go forward and Bonnie and Amelia were now safe to return home.

A fortnight ago he sent Johnny Dogs to deliver a handwritten message, asking her home to talk and offering an apology for the way they parted. He finally found the words he’d been unable to speak months ago. Though the letter had unburdened his soul, he hadn't slept until he received word she would see him. He also promised Lizzie not to interfere with Amelia's plans after the visit, allowing her to choose her own path now that she was eighteen. 

As luck would have it, she and Bonnie arrived two days before Christmas looking well and much more agreeable than when they left. Tommy wondered what transpired in their time in the mountains, ushering them into his office for a chat. The pair beamed as they requested an audience with both Tommy and Lizzie, smiling from ear to ear. 

As drinks were poured and everyone found a seat in Tommy’s large study, Lizzie held her breath, noticing the obvious sparks between the young couple. Amelia was the first to speak, a glow about her as she excitedly announced her engagement to Bonnie Gold.

“And what, might I ask, happened to “not as long as I live?” Tommy asked incredulously from his place beside his wife.

“Shhh, Tommy,” Lizzie hushed him. Whispering in his ear, she reminded him of his promise to concentrate on Amelia’s happiness from now on. He waved her off, saying, “Alright, alright, Lizzie.”

“Of course, you have my blessing,” he said, standing and extending a hand toward Bonnie.

“Thank you, Mr. Shelby, sir,” Bonnie replied with a wide grin. He pumped Tommy’s hand with a bit too much vigor, excitement and adrenaline coursing through him. 

Lizzie rose from her seat to offer her congratulations to Bonnie and Amelia faced Tommy. She  clutched his letter she’d kept in her pocket since she’d received it. “I’m sorry too, Dad,” she whispered as he held her in a long embrace.

Tommy pulled away to study her dewy eyes asking, “What do you have to be sorry for, eh?”

“I said the worst things before I left. I was hurt, but I didn’t realize you were in pain too,” she managed in a shaky voice, stopping to look deeply into his eyes. “I’m sorry you lost mum, but you won’t lose me again,” she promised.

The breath left Tommy’s lungs as he listened to Amelia’s heartfelt declaration, leaving him speechless and happier than he’d felt all year. As Lizzie looked to them with a tilt of her head, she decided not to pry into their private moment. Instead, she asked the group, “Shall we ask Frances to open a bottle of champagne? We should celebrate properly!”

“We should,” Tommy agreed with a wide grin. “Me daughter’s home and she’s getting married. It’s a good day,” Tommy declared, staring back at Amelia with a look of pride. 

Lizzie looped her arm in his and they set out toward the dining room, peppering Bonnie with questions about his adventures, his easy laugh filling the corridor. 

Amelia watched them happily as she placed a hand over her necklace, feeling the presence of her mother beside her. She hadn’t experienced this kind of inner peace for a long time. The circumstances of her short life had taught her to be wary of this feeling as it was ever changing and tended to shift beneath her feet whenever she found herself on stable ground. However, when she married Bonnie Gold the following spring she knew it was everlasting. As she stood before him in a flowing white dress and a crown of daisies adorning her thick mane of dark curls, she was comforted by the quiet promise in his voice when he proclaimed, “I will love, honor and cherish you for as long as I live.”

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@evita-shelby

@shelbydelrey

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#Peaky Blinders fanfic #Peaky Blinders imagine #Tommy Shelby fanfic #Tommy Shelby imagine #Bonnie Gold fanfic #Bonnie Gold imagine #Bonnie Gold x OC

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

↮ for the sake of having you near [two]

[ part one ] [ part two ] [ part three ]

captain john price x f!veteran!reader (no use of ‘y/n’) 5.7k words

cw: descriptions of gun violence & gunshot injuries, suicide, murder, minor character death, reader is an amputee & the same age as price, foul language, mentions of terminal cancer, extremely divorced-but-still-in-love behavior from two people that consider one another soulmates (some of these aren’t out-and-out cw’s, but points that deserve noting) ↮ Twenty years you had known John, and for seventeen of them you were married. After a career-ruining injury in the field, you were forced out of the service, and the marriage did not survive your survival. But: when John goes on leave, he always finds his way home to you. (another shoutout to @alittleposhtoad who has been nothing but an on-going cheerleader and inspiration for this project, for whom this entire work is for. it wouldn't exist as well it does without her, and i owe her the hell out of my gratitude.)

The first bookend holds in place a cold, but dry for-now day in November 2003, where you shriek awake in bed beside John. You do this because he pole vaults out of bed, shouting, “We fuckin’ overslept!”

“Are you fucking kidding?! We’re going to miss the bus. What happened to the fucking alarms?” You lurch up like you’ve been electrocuted, legs tangled insanely in the bed sheet. 

“I don’t bloody know!” he grunts, bare-assed and running around the room, trying to get his clothes back on. You jump up and run as well, and take the clothes he throws your way—his shirt, your flannel sleep pants, one sock of his and one of yours, but your bra is simply gone. Perhaps it’s gone to heaven. Perhaps it’s stuck to the headboard and neither of you’ve simply looked. Altogether too busy rushing.

You both tear through the hotel room, and you’re almost out the door when he turns sharply, busting your nose with his chin, leaving you both hissing and confused. “Dress—your dress, on the loo door,” he starts, squeezing back past you as you swear and straighten. Almost forgot the damned dress!

On any other day forgetting the dress or missing the bus might not be as big a problem—it would be a total nothing, because you and John have scored a fat two weeks of leave together, and you’re going to go to Iceland at the end of the week for four days. 

The issue is, if you forget the dress, and miss the bus, you can still go to Iceland at the end of the week for four days, but it won’t be a honeymoon. You’re getting married today, in John’s mate Grisham’s back garden in Sussex. 

He bombs back with the £60 clearance wedding dress over his shoulder in a garment bag, clapping you on the ass, “Go, go-go-go-go!” in a jittering singsong. His Jordan’s aren’t even tied. 

Between checkout and the wild, harebrained sprint down the empty lane, you almost don’t make it. It takes you pounding on the side of the bus as the engine growls as it starts to pull away to get it to stop. You rush aboard, dumping your fare in spare change, telling the driver between gulps for air, “Thank you. So much. Jesus. We’re getting married.”

“Mhm! Lovely!” the driver looks like she wishes you’d not talk to her. John scoops up your hand when you’re sat, giving you a bright-eyed grin. It doesn’t bother you at all that you’ve only known one another for three weeks. Felt like you were finding him after a lifetime of looking. 

You make it to Grisham’s in time for the clouds to darken and brood angrily as a hen waiting on eggs. Grisham, a battle hardened Staff Sergeant in John’s unit, is in the midst of a shave when he answers the door. He grabs John’s shoulder, grumbling, “Need to shave, piss-ant, to the water closet with you,” causing John to laugh and bully his way from the grip. To you, Grisham says, “Mornin’, sweetheart, Jezza’s got the bedroom sorted for you,” giving you a squeezing half hug. 

You look back on the day with bittersweet fondness. So many there and gone memories, places once full that now were left empty in the halls of your life. 

John had pulled his squad mate, Darian, to the side, and only sounded joking when he said, “Skeeter, mate, I respect your fashion choices. You know this, yeah?” slinging an arm around his neck. “If you wear that fuckin’ footie jersey to my ceremony, I will beat the fuckin’ piss out of you.” Darian put his hands up in surrender and changed, grinning so beautifully and widely it showed his perfect molars. A gorgeous man, always laughing. 

He’d been court-martialed and found unfit to stand trial for murdering his fiancé during a psychotic episode in 2010. He was adamant that he was saving her from being kidnapped by the sex traffickers his unit had been dealing with for years in Thailand. The episode never ended. Last you’d heard, he was still being held custody in a mental facility. He’d just…cracked.

The rain broke open as you read your vows off a sheet of printer paper, and it ate away at the words you worked so hard to put together. John gave you a look that asked in challenge if you could hack it, and you’d just stuffed the paper down your bodice and freestyled your vows off the cuff. Soaking wet, intoxicated to the point of shaming each and every lotus-eater on the man in front of you, you grab the lapels of his dress uniform and haul yourself up to his ear. 

You don’t know why this quote comes to you, other than you know his love of crushingly sad Russian novels, all thick enough to act as door-stoppers. Other than the fact that the exact moment you fell in love with him was the moment he’d restarted Doctor Zhivago for you, to read to you as your fucked-out bodies cooled against one another in his bunk, reaching behind your head for the faded paperback on the window sill just beyond his bed. 

“You and I, it's as though we have been taught to kiss in heaven and sent down to earth together, to see if we know what we were taught.” You were panting at the end of the passage, unsure entirely how badly you’d mangled it, and John sat tight and straight under your hands, rain soaking his hair almost black. 

You push through. You are nothing if not deadset on seeing a job done, and he’d thrown a challenge down at your feet. Picking up another quote that had burned into your mind endlessly, you finish, “I love you wildly, insanely, infinitely,” pressing a kiss to his neck before dropping back on your feet, heart slamming against your ribs as if it were borne of a wrecking-ball instead of a mother.

John’s heartbeat slams like war drums in his chest, and you can see his pulse jumping in his neck. Everything. Everything. Everything. That’s what the look in his pale blue eyes calls you, reading loud and clear that you were the reason his soul had made landfall on terra firma, and not a planet circling a different celestial body.  

Grisham swears, starting to gather up food, running it back indoors. It wasn’t supposed to rain for another two hours, enough time for a small reception, enough time to send the two of you trotting off to another friend’s house to borrow their loft space until you were to leave. He tells most to sit still, to finish watching the ceremony, and his fiance, Jezza, helps him in the mad rush. 

But they both stop to watch John snap his arms around your waist, pulling you in tight, kissing you to close out the ceremony. Then they jumped and yelled like football hooligans, cheering for the both of you. And so did the rest of the gathered.

Grisham met his end at the barrel of his own sidearm, watching the sunset through the window of he and Jezza’s bedroom. It was a soft, temperate afternoon in late March of 2014. He had simply seen too much, his heart had always been gentle, he had loved and cared deeply for nearly all he met. When he accidentally killed a child who’d bolted in front of his scope at the last moment, running for his mother, it had broken the last thing tethering him to this place. He’d imagined the face of his youngest son as the bullet cut through the boy’s chest. A barrel to his temple, a quiet afternoon, and Jezza found his brains painted across their bedspread moments after the muffled pop that sounded throughout the whole home.

There are faces in the small crowd, one after another after another, that you recognize from military portraits displayed at their funerals, but, then, at that moment, with freezing rain soaking your hair, and pouring down your back, you couldn’t imagine a single death occurring in the next seventeen years.

It feels selfish, really, to count your marriage among them, when so many of your mutual friends had faded into the dark and gotten lost.

+

After you’d been forced out of the service, you’d come back to an old hobby. Your entire life, you’d sculpted. Often, just small, silly things–an ashtray here, a little horse head there–but the decades had put practice into your hands, and rendered you past the expert level. Not bad for someone who spent their college-aged years humping two and a half stone rucksacks across all the different environs of hell.

The largest shed just beyond the car park shed–which John simply does not park his Jeep in, for reasons still mysterious to you in the three days he has returned to the rectory–is your sculpting studio. 

It’s a utilitarian space, plenty roomy, with pedestals for larger projects. There is a much more comfortable bench running along one wall under a beautiful window looking out onto the rectory, roomy and the perfect height for a barstool. 

Tools are scattered about the entire area, the definition of organized chaos, and you keep yourself occupied by occasionally looking out the window, watching your ex-husband work on a project he has suddenly decided is of utmost importance: a ramp for a neighbor’s elderly dog to get in and out of their bed with. He’s been busy designing all morning, and now he builds in his carpentry shed, leaving the doors wide open to catch the breeze and vent the sawdust.

You think he is, perhaps, distracting himself. It is the second anniversary of his father’s death. The way that you understand the man you had married, you know he has not processed it. He’s endured too much death, and the ability to grieve has been cut out of him, or atrophied. He stays, always, vacillating between denial and depression.

Under your hands is a specimen of your specialty. A living death mask. It is something that had become your signature in the years since your honorable discharge. 

Your busts were built of the faces of the deceased, right at the moment of their last breath. What had started as a grim coping mechanism, starting with your own face all those years ago–now hanging on your studio’s wall, face frozen forever in an expression of wide-eyed confusion, mouth peeled back from your teeth in a gasp–had become prize winning art.

You sculpt the face of an alternative model, who had died of an overdose. It was commissioned by her agent, her own mother, wanting to cast it in bronze, to later reproduce as jewelry. You’d initially thought it had been a reprehensible request, but the cheque was too large to turn down. Your parents’ medical bills are mounting as they grow older and live off a fixed income, and you would not dare ask John for the help.

Not because he wouldn’t give, nor that he would hold it over your head in a power play, no. Because he would open his wallet without thought and tell you to drain him dry, and he’d do it humbly and hopefully.

You look back to the face under your hands–a clay rendering of sloppily-cracked eyes, a mouth sloping open in fogged mid-death, brows knotted in confusion. You brush your thumb over a scar hugging the left nostril. Pressure mounts in your chest, and you have to move, or you will crack. Because the bust will crack if you leave it bare, you pack a damp cheesecloth around it before you leave, stepping out of your studio, stretching your back.

Your steps take you to John’s workshop, waiting at one side of the doorway for him to stop running the table saw. He wouldn’t cut a finger off, but, still, you worry and practice good judgment.

He does turn it off after it screams through a plank of white oak–something a little too fancy for an overweight dachshund, but, it’s his wood and projects, he can choose his materials. It will be a nice piece for the owners, at any rate.

“Everything alright, Prem?” he asks, pushing his safety glasses onto his scalp. You shrug and nod, pushing down on the hip over your amputation, feeling tight and locked up. 

“Just fine. Wanted to make sure that we were still on for dad’s dinner tonight,” you say, trying to choose your words like picking pearls. You do not want him spooked, and you do not want him feeling like his father’s birthday is easily discarded. It is a fine line to walk. “My head’s everywhere today, and I don’t want to head out on errands without confirming.”

He snorts, raising a brow, throwing you one of his signature, closed-mouth grins. “You? Forget anything? Cold day in hell before that happens,” he chuckles, putting the cut planks beside the table. He rubs a dusty hand over his beard, clearing his mind. It’s a quick process, but one you know he has to prime himself for. “Yeah, dad’s dinner. We’re still on. Still going to the fish and chip shop he liked, yeah?”

You snort, crossing your arms and nodding. “Tully’s. Of course. Tried my damnedest, but Terry liked what Terry liked. Whitefish and chips with mayo and malt vin. Good old Scouse boy’s heart never got off the boardwalk.”

“Can take the boy out of Liverpool, but…” he starts, smile pulling into a smirk. “Yeah, it’s a da–it’s a plan.”

Your smile twitches, but you don’t call his slip. Another oldie, confirming plans by it’s a date when it comes to you. Though it’s only the connotation, it’s enough to warrant a slowly changing lexicon. 

+

The yearly dinners on Terry’s birthday to his favorite joint are the only form of mourning John seems to be able to cope with. It was your idea, as so many things were when it came to caring for the man’s heart, and it was something that seemed to help. As you had done last year, on a complete whim, dragging his ass off the couch and saying that you always took Terry down to the shops for this very birthday dinner, he would simply have to suffice, because you quite liked the tradition.

In all honesty, you could not stand the vacant look in his eyes as he stared and thought, and thought, and thought. Your John was a shark. The moment he stopped moving, he began to fall prey to death. If you had to put on a show and almost literally sweep him from the house, you would. If only to maintain the cracks in your heart that were barely sticking together.

You pull on something casual, because you are going to a chippy, and not to the fucking Bar Vendôme at the Hôtel Ritz Paris. Had gone there, once, though, gathering intel. That glass roof haunts you to this day, and never had you seen anything quite like it again.

John has the audacity to be waiting downstairs for you in the tightest black t-shirt known to man, hugging his thick, sturdy waist, and his full pecs. It seems to strain around his biceps, and you have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from telling him to wait a moment as he pulls his bomber back on.

It is almost a nuisance, how quickly your body recognizes this man, how quickly it responds. You think if he were ever to offer you both blood and body in the form of bread and wine, you might not be able to turn him down. Even that is a lie. You would eat straight from his hand, you would drink from his collarbones and his mouth. 

“You look good, Prem,” he says, trying hard not to do an up-and-down over your body. It makes your throat dry, the way his head bows a bit, as if he is deferring to you, as if he is bowing. He has always treated you well. Better than you deserve, you think. 

“Ta,” is all you can manage around your cracking-dry throat, trying hard not to swallow in front of him. “I could say that you cleaned up well, too, but you always keep yourself put together.”

This time he is the one to snort and shake his head. “You say that, but I know that you remember Albania.”

You laugh, but your mind says, You would be the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, even covered in mud, blood, or shit. What you say is, “Come on, then. Your car or mine?”

+

Tully’s is easy territory. It is paper boats, loads of steak cut chips fresh out of boiling animal lard, and white fish that flakes as if transferred straight from water to batter to fryer. And the pints of lager that go with it are crisp and cold, with a dense, creamy head an inch deep, bubbling ambery-gold and sweating in the glass.

The post-storm air is charged, buzzing, carrying a cleansing breeze that pushes through both of your jackets. The inside is small and intimate, dimly lit, with a footie match on the ancient CRT telly hung over the modest bar. Manchester United v. Arsenal. But neither of you are paying attention.

Instead, it starts as it had the year before, twinned reminiscing spinning together in a double-strand thread, your hands each pulling slowly at the wool of memory, working together to find your way back into history warm and safe.

It starts simply, his memories from childhood. His mother, who’d never wanted to be a mother, slipping out on a hot summer afternoon, never to return, but there was his father in the evening, covered in sawdust and smelling of wood chips and hot saw blades. Terry Price had always stood strong for his son.

It moved into the future, now a far past, and you draw stories out of John as you both sink down pint after pint. 

His first school, his first dance, his first drive. “He’d had this awful Beetle, no interior, all metal. Christ, that thing should’ve never been on the road, it didn’t even have seatbelts.” 

His first kiss, his first formal, his first heartbreak.”Hah. I’ve already told you plenty of times about Dana Rowbotham. But, ah. No, dad poured me a few shots at the kitchen table, and we watched the Liverpool match. He. Well. He was a man of discretion, you know how he was. Didn’t say a word while I did that pinched, angry crying the whole time.”

He polishes off his fish, scrubbing off his fingers over the boat, licking his lip to rid his mustache of foam, huffing a bit of a laugh. “This one I know I haven’t told you before. I just have no bleedin’ idea if he told you while he was living at the house.”

You hold up a finger, knocking back the last of your third pint, and turn your head to belch over your shoulder, shaking a laugh out of him. 

“Christ, woman.”

“A moment,” you grunt, before doing it again.

“I hope you know people are staring. Judging. You’ll be run out by the town council any moment now.”

“Let ‘em fuckin’ try.” You hold position, waiting on whether another will come, and when you are certain you’ve run out of so-called ammunition, you turn back to him. “So what’s this story you’ve never told me? I want to compare notes.”

His amused expression dulls, softens. It morphs into something a bit sorrowful, tinged with either remorse, or longing. And it is incredible how closely linked those two emotions are, twins separated at birth, saints left starcrossed and adrift after the death of Christ. Left standing listless, unmoored witness outside of Christ’s sepulcher with empty hands and no direction, staring at impossibly heavy stone sealing the Garden Tomb.

“The first thing he said to me after the wedding–and the last thing he said to me about you.”

Your amusement slips off your face, as if it was a mask you had always worn, and you aren’t sure what to call your expression as you peer into John’s averted eyes. Is it vulnerability? A weak shade of shock or surprise? Is it simple, strange weakness? Maybe it is a combination of all and one, an unsteadying concoction that makes you way as John shows you a few of the cards he’s kept close to his chest for years or decades.

“Oh,” it’s all you can say, shifting in your seat.

You remember his father’s last words, as clearly as if you were playing them on a tape in front of you, or sitting in his room on the ground floor of the rectory, watching it happen all over again. It was a cold, bright afternoon in February, and John sat next to his father’s bedside, listening to his labored, watery breathing as he read aloud from The Brothers Karamazov. You’d only come in to drop off some tea with lemon for John. His voice had been starting to become hoarse as he read. 

You were at the foot of the bed, leaving the room, when Terry’s rheumy eyes slipped open, and he’d made a sound. You’d stopped and turned, hands resting on the footboard. You’d known he was going to pass that day, it’s why you’d called John home at all, for the first time in your careers, and why you’d been giving as much privacy as you could.

A smile, dulled by painkillers and impending death into something almost childlike with wonder, slid onto the elder Price’s mouth, nestled in his gray beard. John sat forward and picked up his hands. “Hey, dad,” he’d croaked.

“John-John. There you are, pal,” his father had managed, too weak to even squeeze his son’s hands back. “I’ve been lookin’ all over for you.”

“Sorry. I.” John stopped to swallow, collecting himself, pulling on the act. His voice steadier, he’d said, “I just got in, ran a bit late.” Four hundred pages into the Russian door-stopper novel, ten hours of bedside, death-watch vigil. 

John’s father’s last words came out, fading by syllables, “That’s alright, lad of mine. Always a good lad,” and he’d slipped into a deep sleep. Another five hours of sitting sentry, and John had knocked on your door. You knew his dad was gone, and you’d let John strangle down his weeping on your bed attempting to begin executing funeral tasks, as dusk dug deeper into the frigid dark of night.

In the present, in Tully’s, he nods, pushing his tongue around his mouth, and, it’s bizarre, you wonder if he is feeling the same things as you are. And you don’t at all know for certain, caught in a moment where you can’t read him as simply as a book. 

Or, no…this is one of his motifs. It has become difficult to pick from the prose, because it has been so long since you’ve poured through his pages with such intimate attention.

He rolls his shoulders, and pushes himself into the back of his chair, as if trying to stretch or pop his back. His biceps and triceps strain the material of his sleeves as he puts his hands behind his head, pulling the cotton tight across his chest and shoulders. You have to fight the urge to squeeze your eyes shut against the image. He is not preening, he is uncomfortable, trying to ease himself.

“The first one isn’t so great, but you were there,” he snorts, finally something like a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, puts crinkles into the crows feet at the corner of his eyes. It’s dour and wry, but it’s there. 

“Oh, I remember,” you laugh with him, against your better judgment resting on your elbows on the tabletop. You hold onto your empty pint glass, tilting it back and forth on the varnished wood, soft rocking clunk-clunks beating out like a slow metronome. “I think we were the only ones pleased with the two of us, eh?”

He nods. “Yeah. Heh.” He pushes his chair back onto two feet, pulling a mild balancing act that reminds you of him when you’d first met. He always sat like that, and it made his CO so furiously angry. The man thought it was disrespectful. John smirked as he was getting dressed down at a paint-peeling volume. Had fire as a boy. Still held it within his chest as a man, and the like inside of him sought out like. 

Continuing, he says, “I’d met up with him once, after the wedding, before things cooled off. I brought some of those Kodak prints Grisham had developed for us. Didn’t even take them out of the envelope before then, I was scared as shit they’d somehow get ruined before we had a place to hang them.” His laugh is warm and fond, and you feel yourself rising to meet the temperature, chest filling softly with emotion. “And he looked at them. 

“Had this tired look on his face. You know the one, where he looked like he’d just worked eighteen hours straight and was told there was no dinner waiting for him at home. I don’t think dad was ever disappointed in me, but that look came close. Thought I’d die from being under it, honestly,” he laughs, shaking his head. 

“I bet. Dad was just so…gentle,” you say, thinking back on your father-in-law, who’d become one of your dearest friends in those last years. “Must’ve felt like shit.”

“That, my dear, is barely scraping the surface of how it felt,” he says in agreement, and the pet name slides right by the two of you, too comfortable now to comment on, lest the moment shatter. “He was just pushing the prints around on his table, and he looked up at me and said, ‘Lad. I don’t think you’ll be able to afford the alimony for her.’”

It takes a second for that to sink in, but sink in it does, and you burst out laughing, turning your head and covering your mouth with the back of your wrist. “Good lord. He didn’t need to skin you alive to compliment me, but I commend him for it,” you laugh, looking at John and his pleased grin from the corner of your eye. 

“Speak softly and carry a big verbal stick, I suppose,” he agrees. “He knew you were big ticket, even then. And he just.” He tucks his lips between his teeth, wetting them, before he releases them with a soft sigh. “Dad just loved you to bits, Prem.”

“I know,” you tell him, your voice hushing, overcome with a layered ache. “I loved him, too. One of the best men I’ve ever met.”

The absolute best man you’ve ever met sits before you, and you so badly want to tell him that in the moment, but the words fall to ash on your tongue. There it is, again, the bitter gulf. Could you make it across if you ran and leapt? If you really tried?

Your throat pinches, and for one of the few times in your life—a biography that could harrow the very worst of humankind, weathered like a lighthouse on a violent, black sea—you cannot speak. You cannot find a single word to press past your teeth. 

All you can do is look at the man whose last name you couldn’t bear to give up in the divorce.

You fought him on nothing—neither of you fought at all during the division—and he didn’t fight you on that.

“Prem?” he says, checking, reading, thrown. And he says your real name. “You good?”

“Ah, fine,” you lie seamlessly. But John knows the pattern of your embroideries too well. He can scent your stories as a hound could. But he will not bay and call it out. You look down at your paper boat, the few scattered chips in the bottom, the mostly empty cup of malt vinegar. 

You look at his left hand, and you know his wedding band lines in your jewelry box alongside yours. They were made together, a gift on your fifth anniversary, and together they would stay.

“I think I let myself get overtired, quite honestly. And the greasy food didn’t help,” you say, with a lifted shoulder. “What was the other thing? The last thing?”

John’s hand is in the table, you’ve kept it in your periphery. Watching it as one watches something shy, something they want desperately to approach. And that large, harsh hand—capable of dazzling, deathly violence—creeps a centimeter your way. His swallow is audible, even with the humming chuckle he releases afterward to cover it. 

“He said, ‘John-John, that girl—that woman is the best thing that’s ever happened to us. I hope she knows that.’”

+

It’s 31 July, 2020. The hottest day of the year in Somerset. That’s when it happens, where the final bookend takes its place. 

Grisham is long dead, Jezza has married up. Darius stays confined in the facility, visions of villains painting the inner walls of his skull. Grover, and MacNally—Terrance, and Windham—Park and Montgomery—they’re all dead. 

You sit outside of your studio, waiting on a call, smoking one of your husband’s cigars, and the sky is flat, and gray, and unforgiving. There is not a drop of beauty at your home today. 

Covid-19, a modern plague for a modern populace, keeps your husband from coming home on leave. It doesn’t pay to spend two weeks quarantining, not when he’ll only have to turn it around and make a month of it when he leaves. He can’t afford the risk of catching it. If he catches it, it will spread to you. Once it’s spread to you, it will spread to your parents or his father. It’s too great a risk.

Your phone rings, your shiny new Samsung. You think about the girl you were in 2003, who did not ever imagine owning a computer, let alone carrying around one in your pocket. It’s an unknown number, and you know that on the other end is your husband, breaking in a fresh burner, somewhere out in the great, wide world you no longer travel. 

Pressing the phone to your ear, you greet him automatically, “Hello, darling. How very dare you call when my husband is away.”

It was an effort to make the sting of separation lesser. John chuckles at it, trying to play into the bit as well. “Hey, love. What can I say? I couldn’t resist.”

There is small talk, pleasant and aching. If you close your eyes, you can imagine a place you’ve been a million years before—catching each other mid-leave, calling from some far flung airport, alerting the other to an impending homecoming. 

But, oh, isn’t that a pain that does not quiet. A daydream that only deepens the hurt, instead of soothing it. 

Minutes drip by and by, filled with empty talk, dancing around topics that neither of you could open to one another ever again. He cannot tell you where in the world his boots have fallen, and you cannot ask him what foul thing is crawling from the dark this time. 

A panic begins to fill your chest, crushing you, as your conversation begins to run out. What’s next? What comes next in this horrible, cruel life? What can you provide any longer that he can’t find in a one night stand? 

He would never think of you as a warm, wet hole. He would never think of you as a bed warmer. God forbid even entertaining the idea of him considering you a housekeeper, a maid, a cook, an accountant for his home. He would never—but you do. What could you possibly be for him, now that you cannot be his equal?

Everything breaks after a minute of dead silence. You break. 

“You have to ask me for one, John,” you say, your voice so much more shockingly steady than you were prepared for. “You need to do that for us, because I cannot take ruining another thing between us.”

His response is immediate, almost fearful, “Don’t. Prem, don’t make me do that. For fuck’s sake, and don’t ask me to do it over the phone either.”

“It’s dead, John. Jesus fucking Christ,” your panic spirals and deepens, tearing you into ribbons beneath your sternum, “it died in Beirut—”

“Nothing died in Beirut!” he argues, a harsh cut edging into his voice, his fear manifesting in the blade-cusp tone.

“I died in Beirut. Your wife died in Beirut.”

“I’m hanging up. I’m not fucking doing this. You’re not listening to sense. We’ve been married twenty years, Prem. My wife did not fucking die in Beirut, I am on the goddamned phone with her!”

“Stop bassing out your fucking voice to me,” you warn him, a snarl. “You’re not going to growl me down from this. It’s dead, John. We have to cut it off before it kills us, too.”

“What? Our marriage?” he spits, as if throwing out the name of it will put a harsh light of reality into the conversation.

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“No, not ‘yeah’. Name it. Name the fucking thing you want to put down so badly.”

“I want you to end our fucking marriage, John.”

Silence, screaming down the line. “Why? Prem, there’s—we…”

“Because I don’t want to hate you. I don’t want you to hate me. I…I love you. But. Good Christ, John. It’s turning into poison. I don’t want us to hate each other.”

More silence. 

He says your real name, beseeches you with it, and tries to find you through the ether with a simple, pleading, “Love, no.”

“Please, John. This. This is the only way we can keep each other. I know you’ve felt it, too.”

Another eternity of silence sits like a fresh corpse between you. And why shouldn’t it. The corpse is seventeen years old, the corpse is what is left of a love story.

“I—okay. Okay, Prem. It’s.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“No, don’t—just. Don’t. I have to go. There’s…I’ve got to handle something. I—I love you.”

“…I love you, too.”

+++

tag list: @smoggyfogbottom @parttimepr0phet @dotcie @kastlequill @pssytrux <3

#john price #captain price #captain john price #captain price x reader #price x reader #john price x reader #call of duty #call of duty mw2 #cod mw2 #mw2 #my work #work has now been extended to three parts despite my hardest efforts lmao #hope your enjoy!

[yaut-jaknowit]

Your mxm idea generator is back at it. hear me out, what if the reader was a homocide detective and all the overworking on a case and having to keep it to himself just gets to him, how would his mate react to finding him like that?😭 (zamn this is so specific i’m sorry💀) and as always love you and your works keep up the amazing work🫶

Long Nights

Pairing: Wolf x Reader

Word Count: 2175

Summary: This is your job, your livelihood. How else could you live your life without death and murder? This is all you pretty much know. So when you're beat tired from a long, long day, you head straight to bed. Wolf was gone. Somewhere in the universe. You were left to sleep countless nights in an empty, cold bed. But this was life. Nothing else would stop you from getting into that bed.

Author Note: Never apologize for these great ideas you send my way! I love all of them. This one was fun to write. Sort of gives me ideas to write an actually story about it. Do I have the time or energy? Probably not unfortunately.

Masterlist

Ao3

The first few days of a case are the most important. It’s crucial to collect all and any data possible to further along a case. As a homicide detective, you know this. Through and through. Yeah, you’ll still complain in the solitude of your office or back home. Nothing a cup of coffee or a can of Red Bull can’t fix to keep you up another few hours or so.

A yawn interrupted your thoughts and progress. Your head shook to clear any leftover of exhaustion still in your system. A heady can of Red Bull has helped you for the last hour, yet it seems to be wearing off so soon. Maybe, you needed another one. There was still a lot to do until you could go home and collapse for a couple of hours. Your eyes shifted over to the mini refrigerator in your office.

Or was this your sign? The countless hours, sweat, blood, and tears poured to find the murderer have worn you down. It was far beyond rubbed you raw and bloody at this point. You take a gander at the clock to find out what time it was. Big hand over the two while the small hand rested on top of the seven. Shit. It was morning. Not much light peeked through your closed blinds.

The streetlamps nearby didn’t have enough energy to fight its way into your office. Morning. How long have you been here? Had to be… at least… fourteen hours at the office alone? That didn’t account for the time you took to head over to the crime scene once more.

Yeah, there’s pictures of the night it happened. There’s something different about being there in person. Get a feel for the area, the surroundings. See what the murderer saw. Get an idea on how it was done. What he done to kill two average people in cold blood.

Take a moment. You leaned back in your uncomfortable office chair and filled your lungs with air. It was held on for a few seconds before it was released. Twenty-five days and counting. There has been little on revealing the killer. It was clearly planned well and executed down to the minute details. Not a trace of him has been found. Just the fact there were two bodies and stab wounds that littered them. It was clear it had been personal.

The killer had taken his time, was comfortable with his area, to kill these two people. Similar to the well known case of ‘The Nightstalker’. This murderer had sat down for a bite to eat at the dinning room table. It wasn’t a cantaloupe. Instead, a watermelon. Still, no fingerprints of sorts. You hoped to any one who would listen this wouldn’t become a serial killer case. You didn’t need another one of those. Not after Wolf had found you buried in your work.

Kind of like right now.

Wolf. Your heart panged at the thought of him. Away. Somewhere in the universe. Without you at his side. Someday though. You might grow the balls to join him out in there. Where it probably wasn’t safe for you. But not today. Or tomorrow

Twenty-six days. That’s when you last saw him. The day before this whole shit-show hit the fan. You woke up to find your phone buzzing off the night-stand with your commander’s name on the screen. Off you were. To work. More death and blood spilt. You groaned and leaked back in your chair. It bounced with the movement. Your brain screamed to finally get home, to go home and sleep till six o’clock. Wake up and come back here.

Without Wolf. Again. Fuck, you can’t do that. Not when you’re in this kind of state. You were going to cry yourself to sleep once more. Why did he have to leave without you? Go on to save the universe one infestation at a time. You didn’t even know if he was alive. There was no real way of knowing. He can’t give any true day of return. Somedays, it could be an overnight trip. Others, weeks.

This one is becoming weeks. Again. Without him to warm your side. Or wherever you pass out on top of him. You sighed, head leaned against the back of your chair. He’ll come back. He always does. Then, he can give you the support to continue this dreadful case.

Horrifying. A father and daughter erased from earth. Gone with just a bullet to each other their heads. But this killer had to make it fun. Like any other one. You rolled your neck, popping the joints that lined it. Another day in this messed up city. You should really leave with Wolf. Make off with him and live out the rest of your life out there. Together.

Your knees cracked as you put weight on them. A cringe passed over your features at the sound. Either you’re getting old, or that was a sign to move around more than a couple of bathroom breaks. None of matter though. You made the decision to find go home. Despite the fact you’ll be alone another night. You knew your body needed the sleep to continue this day. Sleep it was.

Everything from closing out of tabs, locking your room, and making your way out of the building was all a blur. There wasn’t a coherent thought between your eyes. Which lead you to make the horrible decision to drive home in this condition. Thankfully, the drive home wasn’t long. Just enough to make you complain along the way.

.

A cool breeze washed over his hot scales as he stepped into the dark apartment. Dark, cold, and quiet. All the things he didn’t want to find. Worst of all, your scent – one he’s been craving since he left – was distant. You hadn’t been here in almost the cycle of your planet’s sun. Where have you gone? Where are you? Why have you been gone for so long?

It was unnatural to feel this way for his kind. That didn’t stop his heart from twisting in its cage. His hands didn’t shake like yours did though. Instead, his breath grew a hair shaky. One you had to listen for to know it was happening. He didn’t let it best him. He took more steps into the main living space and took note of the area.

Disarray. Blankets not folded. Plates of old food sitting on the table. A few clothes strewn across the place. It didn’t smell clean or well-orderly. What has happened to cause this?

Wolf, himself, wasn’t perfect by any means. But he understood what a clean station and living space meant for himself. A pristine work space offered him a greater outcome of his job. If everything was put back to where it needs to be, he can find it faster. He stared at the main living area with furrowed brows.

His hands twitched at his sides. A whispered calling ordered him to pick up. Something nice for you until you came back. You would come back to a clean home. Then he question what has occurred while he was gone to remedy it.

As the Yautja reached for the first unfolded item to clean, a jungle of keys had him stopping. From the many times he’s been here, at your apartment, he’s learned the cues, the sounds of the apartment. Most of the people here have a set schedule of work. Not you though. He’s been awoken to your phone ringing to either an alarm or work calling you in the middle of night.

First that happened, he smashed the device. It had disturbed both of your sleep. When you start to yell at him out of frustration and exhaustion from only three hours of sleep, he learned not to do that. You needed that device to function at your job. Like his own weapons to kill.

He perked his head up, tresses swaying as he listened. Heavy, uncoordinated footsteps slugged their way over to your door. It didn’t sound like you. He activated his cloak and waited in the middle of your living room.

The keys smacked against the metal doorknob. The one key you needed to get into the hole wasn’t working. Each try, it scrapped against the golden doorknob. Without fail, it didn’t go in. You made a soft, frustrated cry and rested your forehead heavily against the front door. All you wanted was you bed. Though, lonely, it would be better than that damn chair at work. How anyone thinks those are comfortable… Fucking crazy.

That sound. Then, your smell waft into the room. Fresh but… something was wrong.

Immediately, Wolf dropped his cloak and marched over to the door. Within two long strides, the door finally opened to reveal… you? Similar to the state of your apartment, yourself wasn’t well kept up. Hair, greasy and a mess in the low light coming from the hallway. Your clothes were wrinkly and smelled heavily of you. Like you wore them to bed and rolled out looking like that.

You trudged inside, lanyard tossed haphazardly to side. They crashed loudly on the counter, momentarily hurting his hearing. Wolf flinched before shaking his head. He waited, slightly to the side for you to react. He had been gone for longer than he wished.

Nothing. Your feet dragged across the hardwood floor. Each slide created a horrible squeaking noise that usually would have you scrunching your nose. Except, your face was blank. Eyes vacant. Dark patches of skin hung below them. He’s seen this before on you. It was rare, thankfully. But he knew what was happening.

He softly trilled at you, as not to startle you. Yet, you kept moving. Slowly but surely enough, you make it past the threshold of your bedroom. The apartment door left wide open. First, he closed it and locked it. Then, Wolf followed quietly behind you, calling your name.

Each time you didn’t react, he said it louder and louder and louder. To the point, your neighbors could hear him. You finally stopped and blinked slowly. Those lifeless eyes of yours met his. He watched a drop of recognition rolled through you. It wasn’t heavy or thorough by the looks of it. You just smacked your lips together and made a popping noise with them. “Huh. Oh, hey,” you greeted, voice gravelly and dry.

For the first time, Wolf didn’t know what to do. All he could do was watch as you collapse face first into the bed. The heavy, long sigh that escaped your body had him moving towards you. His own sigh breathed into the air as well.

In the dark of your room, the Yautja slowly flipped you onto your back. You would be thanking him later. Next, the thick boots that covered your feet were pulled off. They were gently placed next to the bedroom door. After that, came your dirty clothing. Those were tugged off of your body and thrown into your hamper. He took note of how full it was becoming. A project he’ll take on later when he knows you’re taken care of.

In one of your jean pockets, Wolf pulled out your phone. The bright light hurt his eyes in the dark room. He was quick to turn it off before it come make any noise. Wolf could survive you yelling at him for turning it off the next time you woke. For now, he’ll ensure you get sometime to yourself, away from that job of yours.

Don’t get him wrong. He’s highly proud of you and what you do among your kind. Slightly similar to what he does for the Yautjas. Yet, when he sees what it does to you. It pushes you past the limits of the ooman body. It doesn’t even seem like you care that it does either. A good hunter knows his limits, what he can and can’t do. That’s why his last hunt took a bit longer to complete. Or else he wouldn’t be here right now.  

Some days, he truly wanted to pick you up from this damn planet and take you far away; show you what the universe has to offer for even a ooman like yourself. Then, maybe you’ll join him at his side. He would give you anything you wanted to have you stay.

Wolf scooped you up from the bed and crawled on top of sheets. With a skill that only a Yautja could harness, he used his foot to scoot underneath the blankets. Your body was carefully placed upon his torso, chest to chest with him. Your face buried into the crook of his neck, as if hiding away from something. Wolf let an arm drape over your back, fully securing you to him.

You melted into his body, lax and malleable. A gentle, rumbling purr began in his chest, vibrating across your skin. He was more than relieved to be back with you. More than you’ll ever know.

#yautja x you #yautja #predator x human #predator x you #x reader #yautja x human #yautja x reader #predator x reader #alien vs predator #predator #Wolf

[thebibutterflyao3]

Day Sixteen - Prompt: Binge @rosekiller-microfic

March Daily Series - 731 words

<<<Previous Part OR Start Here

Barty ignored Frank’s good-natured prattling with this bloke with the in-progress dragon tattoo and focused on the door that he’d heard slam closed after Evan walked by. He was fairly certain that it was the one that led out to the smoking area. The urge to chase after him was strong, but he knew better than to act on it.

His hands flexed against the sides of the table when he heard the faintest rumble of Evan’s voice. A phone call, maybe. Barty hoped it wasn’t with another bloke. Murder would be a shit way to start this week.

“Yeah, it can be rough the first time,” Frank said, leaning forward to squeeze Barty’s shoulder. “When you’re an old pro like Barty here, it’s nothing. How many times have you fallen asleep on my table, mate?”

Barty cleared his throat, but his voice still came out strained. “No idea. A lot.”

He wasn’t sure if Frank was trying to relax him or warn him. Either way, the message was received. Barty hated how perceptive his flatmate was.

“You fell asleep? Really? How?” dragon tattoo said.

“The vibrations are relaxing.”

Frank lifted the back of his own shirt and pointed. “Happens more often than you’d think. See this one, on my back? Passed out for a full four hour session. Best sleep I’ve ever had.”

Dragon tattoo gaped at him, shaking his head. Frank grinned and swivelled back around. He loved to show off for the newbies.

“I can’t imagine that!” Dragon tattoo said, eyes wide. “I’m just trying not to tear up in there.”

“Rosier can be a little heavy-handed, but he’s bloody good too. You definitely want him for a piece like that. He’s patient.”

Barty nodded in agreement as he glanced back at the bloke Evan was working on. Dragon tattoo had introduced himself when he wandered over, but Barty wasn’t paying attention and hadn’t caught his name. What he did catch was Evan storming out after Barty’s comment about him being brilliant.

He is brilliant though. It wasn’t a lie.

“Good to know! This is my kid’s artwork, so I wanted to do it justice.”

Kid? I was right then. He’s probably straight.

That was more comforting than it probably should have been. Evan was a professional. It cost Barty an obscene amount of money and multiple weeks to convince him to break his “no clients” rule. Now that he’d broken it though…Evan could do it again.

Frank's loud, booming laugh interrupted his thoughts. “Yes! I prefer to wait until all the episodes are out and binge that whole season!”

“Same, but I have no self-control,” dragon tattoo replied. “I can’t help myself!”

Barty twisted at the waist to meet the bloke’s gaze. “Better fucking try.”

“What?”

Frank tensed his grip on Barty’s leg. That was definitely a warning. He knew he was acting irrationally, but he didn’t care.

“Control yourself,” Barty said, glaring pointedly at the bloke. “Around him.”

Dragon tattoo stared at him incredulously, then blinked very slowly. “Him who?”

“Ignore him. He’s obsessed with Rosier.” Frank shoved Barty back down onto the table roughly. “Calm your tits, arsehole.”

“The tattoo artist? Why would I—”

“Don’t worry about it, mate,” Frank said, waving a hand dismissively. “He’s a bit dramatic, that’s all.”

Dragon tattoo made a hasty exit from the conversation as soon as the door slammed again, announcing Evan’s return. Barty tried to peer over his shoulder, but Frank still had his hand pressed in the middle of his back.

Look at me, Evan. Come on. Say something. Anything.

“Alright, Rosier?” Frank called cheerfully.

“Fine.”

Barty forced his muscles to relax and pressed his cheek against the cold black leather. A strong scent of antiseptic leached out of the fabric. The familiarity of it grounded him a little.

Even if he couldn’t see, speak to, or approach Evan, Barty needed to be near him. He couldn’t stay away. Hearing his voice was comforting. It was only a one-word answer forced out with half-growl, but it was something.

Frank leaned forward and flicked the back of his ear hard. “Don’t be an arsehole or I’ll kick you out. Not everyone wants to have their guts rearranged by your ex.”

“Then they’re idiots.”

“His dick is that good, huh?” Frank teased. “Are you addicted to it?”

“Love is a serious mental disease,” Barty deadpanned.

“Prat. Which one was that?”

“Plato.”

Next Part>>>

#barty crouch jr x evan rosier #evan x barty #barty x evan #barty crouch junior #barty crouch jr #barty jr #evan rosier #frank longbottom #ted tonks #rosekiller #rosekiller microfic #slytherin skittles #marauders era

[fallenclan]

// death is a pretty big theme in this fic, so yeah.

// part 2 of my first silverbelly fic and i would super appreciate if u could link the first one because i can't for some reason LOLL

"Here," Silverbelly says, holding out a few blue berries on her paw. "There were extra."

"What do I do with them?" Flypaw stares at her, round eyes wide.

"I don't mind," she replies. Then, she walks off to go congratulate Wormshade.

The next day, she wakes up, checks on her kids, and Flypaw has the berries tucked right behind his ear. She has no doubts that Mudpaw was the one who helped him put it there.

She goes about her day as normal. Rearranges her herbs, shares a rabbit with Applebranch and Maplethorn (who is exhausted of constantly third wheeling them), and shows Stormkit the herbs.

She cleared out Sunwish's nest the day after her vigil. Cleared out the scatteredly organized herbs, and tried not to stare at Scorchstar too much.

Scorchstar didn't share tongues with Sunwish before her death, and she didn't bring her body back to camp. It's not like they were close in the way Honeygleam and Dawnshine were, where their scents tended to rub off on eachother. In fact, she's fairly sure that she's only seen Scorchstar and Sunwish speaking a total of seven times in as many moons.

Scorchstar being in her pelt made no sense.

It was a mystery in the same way that Ivyleaf and Otterslip look uncannily alike. Neither of them ever addressed this, but it was obvious they were somehow related to eachother.

She recalls the vision, of the line of blood trailing from one rock to the next. The glinting of amber eyes and blood trapped between claws.

--

She's digging through the snow, desparate. Damp leaves stick on her paws.

"Where is he?" Wormshade wails.

"We'll find him," Honeygleam says. "He can't have gone far."

Avalanches were one of the dangers lying in wait. With the changing seasons came fluctuating warmth, resulting in the toppling snow and rock that came hurtling down the mountain moments ago.

She stares at where Goldenflare is attempting to comfort a shocked patrol. Curly and Oaktuft look shellshocked, eyes blown wide.

"What's going on?"

"The avalanche- it-" Curly's breath hitches. "We got lucky. We- we're fine. But- stars, Nick."

Wormshade stares at her. "What happened to him?"

"Oh, Wormshade," Curly breathes. "He got trapped. The snow caught him before we could get him out of the way."

Oaktuft and Curly lead the four to a ledge, where there is a pile of snow and one snow covered, gray limb sticking out of the pile. Wormshade stops breathing next to her.

--

Scarcely a week later, tragedy strikes again. They're still trying to go back to normal, and then Scorchstar doesn't return from her walks.

Goldenflare turns to her. "She's been so distant lately. I don't know where she is or what she might be doing."

"Send a patrol out to find her," Silverbelly says. "I have to meet Lakelily at the border, we're trading some juniper for thyme. I'll keep a look out for her there."

"Thank you," Goldenflare says.

And when she returns, a small group of cats are huddled around a bloodied brown body in the clearing, and Silverbelly knows what's just happened.

--

"Are you ready?" She asks.

Goldenflare stiffly nods. His tail nervously lashes from the sides.

"You'll do fine," she says.

"I'm not ready," he whispers. "I keep getting cats hurt."

"Is this about Morningbloom?"

He falls silent, and she has her answer.

"I couldn't protect Nettlestem, or Sunwish, or Scorchstar. I couldn't even protect my mate. How am I meant to protect a whole clan's worth of cats?"

"None of those events were your fault," Silverbelly briskly says. "You know exactly how they all died. Nettlestem was ambushed by a rogue on a peaceful walk. Sunwish was murdered. Scorchstar was mauled by dogs. Stop blaming yourself for things that are out of your control."

He stares at her. "When did you get so smart?"

"I think parenthood had something to do with it," she snorts. "Dip your muzzle in the water and sleep will come. You'll wake up in Silverpelt."

"How do I know they'll accept me?"

"You won't."

--

Morningbloom is the first. (Stars, make him a mess for the rest of the ceremony, why don't you?)

"With this life, I give you sympathy," Morningbloom chokes out. Her eyes are round with longing and grief. "Use it to understand, from the strongest warrior to the youngest kit to the oldest elder."

Goldenflare stares at her, eyes glossy with unshed tears.

"It's not your fault," she whispers. "It's never been your fault."

Silverbelly feels like she's intruding on such a moment.

She steps back into the crowd, and Goldenflare takes one step after her then stops, staring at the star speckled ground. His eyes clench shut as the next cat walks to him.

Other cats walk up to him. Nettlestem, Wildfang, Nick. Tawnyash and Rum Tum Tugger are a surprising addition. Breezeshadow approaches, her starlit eyes as kind as ever.

Finally, Scorchstar steps forward. "I've had many regrets in my leadership. Making you my deputy was not one of them."

Goldenflare stares at her, murmurs something Silverbelly can't quite make out. Scorchstar nods once, a tiny movement she would have missed if she wasn't looking closely.

"With this life, I give you leadership during the darkest times. Persist, even when tragedy strikes. Never falter, never give up. You have a duty to these cats."

Goldenstar jolts as her muzzle rests on his head.

"Your old life is no more," Scorchstar says. "It's your duty to guard Fallenclan, now. Use your new power wisely."

Morningbloom breaks the careful silence with a yowl. "Goldenstar! Goldenstar!"

The rest of the star speckled cats chime in, and Silverbelly awakes in the glow cave.

--

"Silverbelly?"

She turns at the noise. Stormkit is staring at her, with his giant copper eyes.

"Yes?" She sets down her pile of poppy seeds on a leaf. "Can I help you?"

"I don't wanna be a warrior. Is that bad?"

She's taken aback by his wavering tone. "No, honey, of course not."

"It's just that-" he stiffly stops in the middle of his sentence. "Hailkit and Goosekit and Moonkit all wannna be warriors but I like plants and fixing scrapes and cuts. I like learning about the cool stuff you do. I don't wanna hurt cats, I want to help them!"

She listens sympathetically. She had her own doubts at his age. All anyone her age talked about were fighting moves or catching cool birds, and she just liked the clovers that grew in the leader's den.

"You could be my apprentice," she says. "I could teach you everything I know about herbs and plants and the stars."

"Really?" Stormkit's eyes grow round.

"Really," she purrs. "You'd be great at it, you're already such a big help."

Privately, there's another reason she goes to Goldenstar and tells him she's chosen Stormkit to be her first apprentice.

--

Since Stormpaw has become her apprentice, the brief flashes of the future that the stars bless her with have become more vivid. More real.

She wants to think it's a good thing, that she's becoming more in tune with her ancestors and the mystifying words they give her. In reality, she feels like she's hardly sleeping.

When she wakes up, there is moss scattered over her den. Her first instinct is to find Stormpaw, and he's one nest over, nestled under the rock that she puts lungwort on.

He's taken to his apprenticeship like eagles to the sky. He loves the herbs, the smells don't bother him, and Toro frequently has to groom leaves out of his pelt. He retains everything she tells him, and always makes sure the herbs are organized in just the way she likes them.

One day, this den will be his. He can organize the herbs however he'd like, and he can sleep under the lichen instead of under a mossy rock.

She tucks her head over her paws and drifts back to sleep.

--

"This is Holly," Ivyleaf says. "Her twoleg was so awful to her, and she's had a bad fright. She's flinchy, and doesn't react well to sudden noise."

Silverbelly nods. "Alright. Stormpaw, I have a job for you."

Stormpaw perks up, a little piece of mallow tumbling from his fur. "Yeah?"

"Go tell your siblings to play quietly. Holly's new and the loud noise scares her."

Stormpaw dutifully nods. "Do you want me to bring her thyme?"

"If you'd like," Silverbelly says. "Just not too much."

Stormpaw scoops up a stalk of thyme and scrambles away.

"He's so gentle," Ivyleaf muses. "You chose your apprentice well."

"I would hope so," Silverbelly laughs. "I can't quite have a reckless medicine cat. Could you imagine Flypaw in here?"

Ivyleaf shivers. "No thank you. Thanks, Silverbelly."

Silverbelly watches her leave.

--

"This is Moxie," Hailpaw proclaims. "Moxie, this is Oaktuft. She used to be a house cat but now she's a warrior and she's way better at running than you are."

Oaktuft scoffs. "Yeah, we'll see. Race me later?"

Moxie hums. "Sure."

(Moxie, without doubt, kicks his ass. Silverbelly watches as Oaktuft gracelessly falls in love with Moxie from that alone.)

--

"And, that should do it," Stormpaw says. "Tell me or Silverbelly if it starts feeling hot. We'll change out the poultice twice a day, at sunrise then sunset. Okay?"

Celia blinks at him. "Uh, okay."

Stormpaw, unfortunately, has a habit of speaking too fast for anyone to catch up with. And tends to run into tangents about this plant or the other.

When he runs off to go check on Robinkit, Silverbelly turns back to Celia. "Sorry about him. He gets excited."

"No, it's fine," he laughs. "Finch used to be like that too. Runs off into tangents about this interesting berry she found, or a shiny rock from a garden. I heard the important parts. Tell you if it's hot, change it twice a day."

"Bingo," she says.

--

"Lichenstripe, meet Silverbelly. Silverbelly, meet Lichenstripe."

"I remember you," Silverbelly says, to the apparent shock of Oaktuft. "You're the medicine cat of Shallowclan. Is everything alright?"

"Eh," Lichenstripe hums. "Long story short, I'm out of a home and I'm staying here now. If that's okay with you," he hastily adds.

"Yeah, sure," she hums. "Make yourself comfortable."

(Later, she learns that Lichenstripe had a vision of one of the newly born kits, Violetkit. She doesn't ask much about it, but it's clear from the twitching of his tail and the way his claws anxiously work at the moss of his nest that it wasn't a very good one.)

--

"Feels good," Celia hums. "Anyway, you're smart, Silverbelly. What are the chances Goldenstar would agree to a one on one patrol with me?"

Silverbelly gawks. Stormpaw gracelessly trips over a rock. Holly snorts.

"Um," she says. "Next to nothing."

"That's still something!" Celia turns from the den and struts into the clearing. He makes a beeline for Goldenstar, and Silverbelly watches in shock as he walks out of camp with him.

"I give up," she quietly says. "You see that, Stormpaw? Don't do that. If you ever decide you want a mate, don't do what Celia just did."

"But it worked?"

--

Silverbelly casually observes Oaktuft's crush.

Applebranch and Honeygleam are suffocating from laughter next to her. Dawnshine is trying, and failing, to not snort.

"He's hopeless," Maplethorn mutters. "Give up while you can, Oaktuft. She's too good for you."

--

Silverbelly has taken Stormpaw out collecting herbs.

"Did you find those daisies yet?" Silverbelly calls.

"Yeah, they're right over here," Stormpaw replies. And then, he goes shudderingly still.

Smells of the stars waft over Silverbelly, but she doesn't interrupt Stormpaw. He could be recieving an important vision.

She carefully plucks away the daisies, and he seems to bounce back.

"Woah," he says. "Is this what getting high on catmint feels like?"

"Not really," Silverbelly winces. Why did she just tell her apprentice that she knew what getting high on catmint felt like.

"It was weird. It was like I was falling."

--

"Mudsplash! Flyspots!"

Flyspots rushes down to them. Mudsplash is close behind, but she stumbles and her brother pulls ahead.

"Oh, you're warriors, I'm so proud," she whispers, and makes the selective choice to embarass her kits. She dives forward to lick Flyspots' head, and he topples backwards.

"Mom, mom please!"

"Resistance is futile," Applebranch snorts. "Great job, kid."

"I'm not a kid anymore," Flyspots declares. "I'm a warrior."

"You'll always be a kid to me," Applebranch laughs.

"Yeah, because you're old," Mudsplash quips.

Silverbelly jolts, and moves to stand next to Applebranch, who is mock sniffling. "How could you?"

Flyspots looks at them, eyes wide. "No, mama, I didn't mean it. You're not old."

"Yeah, great job, Flyspots," Mudsplash mockingly scowls. "You made her cry."

"You're not old, mama, I swear."

"Swear on a moon of dawn patrols?" Applebranch slyly peeks up.

"On a moon of dawn patrols, you're not old," he says. Then he pauses, seemingly realizing what he's just said. "Fuck."

--

"I'm expecting, again," Applebranch says. Then she blinks. "Lichenstripe said so, at least."

Stormpaw, who was watching, promptly squeals. "Silverbelly! Silverbelly! Can I help?"

"I don't see why not," she hums. "Lichenstripe will probably deliver the kits, since my nerves got so bad last time. Sunwish had to physically send me out of the den."

"You can be my personal assistant," Applebranch says. "You can shove raspberries and borage down my throat, like this one did last time." She places a paw on Silverbelly's shoulder

She sighs. "I do it to all the queens."

"Mostly me," Applebranch replies.

(When Applebranch tells Flyspots the news, he screams into his nest, and then turns around like nothing just happened and says, "That's great mom!")

--

"Ivyleaf's gone," Oaktuft mumbles.

"What?" Otterslip stares. "She can't be gone. She's not gone."

"There was an eagle," Moxie tries. "Nothing could have been done."

Otterslip falls silent, then whips around and runs off. Silverbelly feels a pang of pity in her heart.

So maybe that's why she doesn't stop him, when they finally find her body and bring it back to camp. Maybe that's why she doesn't stop him as he sobs over her body, even though she really needs to prepare it for burial.

--

Moxie and Oaktuft are mates. Dawnshine begrudgingly takes his moon of dawn patrols and complains to Robinpaw, who complains to Stormpaw, who complains to her. And that's how she finds out.

"Maybe he shouldn't place bets he can't win," Stormpaw thoughtfully says.

"He's never been a good better," Silverbelly snorts. "Maybe this one will finally teach him his lesson."

--

"Thanks, Lichenstripe, I really appreciate it," she says. "Send a patrol for us if we're needed."

Lichenstripe nods, and waves them off. He's not coming for two reasons. One, because Shallowclan would probably get pissed if they knew he was still with the clans, and two, there was something Silverbelly wanted to do tonight.

She meets up with Lakelily, who smiles and asks how she's been. Then, they intersect with Sandcrash and Pearlnose, and finally bump into Sunpetal and Stonepaw, who falls into easy conversation with Stormpaw, like they always do.

"So," Sunpetal glances towards their chatting apprentices. "Stormpaw's getting his name today, right?"

Silverbelly nods. "I'm not sure what I'll name him quite yet. Perhaps Sunwish will offer her guidance?"

Sunpetal hums. "Maybe."

Sunpetal was young. 36 moons, and was already the senior medicine cat of her clan.

"We're having a bit of trouble in the clan," she says. "Thornstar is extremely ill and Snowviper is no better. I fear we'll be leaderless in a moon."

"So, you want Dancingfrost to give you some guidance?" Sandcrash asks. "Thornstar's been sick for moons, hasn't he?"

Sunpetal blearily nods. "Snowviper was fine before, but it came out of nowhere and it hit her hard. She can hardly get out of her nest. Her mate died last evening, that hasn't been helping."

"I'm sorry," Pearlnose says. "I lost an elder to greencough last week. She was old, but it didn't hurt any less."

Sandcrash nods. "I lost Billowkit to kittencough."

The patrol murmurs their apologies.

"How's the rest of the litter?" Pearlnose asks.

"They're alright," Sandcrash murmurs. "Firekit and Poppykit were too young to understand. Swansplash was really upset, but she knew nothing could be done."

Sandcrash had a mate and kits. Not every medicine cat took a mate, but he did. Swansplash was lovely, a long furred molly with bright purple eyes. Pearlnose also had a mate, a cat named Rosebriar. Despite her name, she was widely known as the best fighter in the clans.

Lakelily was 72 moons, but it didn't look like he'd ever take a mate. Sunpetal had offhandedly mentioned a cat named Autumn.

"And Sunpetal," Pearlnose says. "Thornstar is old. He's been leader since before most of us were born. It's probably his time."

"But Snowviper..." Sunpetal trails off. "She's getting worse by the day. I'm afraid she'll be gone soon."

Silverbelly hums. "Wasn't there a situation like that in ArchClan before?"

Sandcrash hums. "Yes, I think so. Starclan sent Whisperingleaf a sign that time, I'd have to ask him."

Before Silverbelly knows it, they're at the mouth of the cave. Stonepaw and Stormpaw's chatter abruptly stops.

"Stormpaw," she calls. "Step forward."

Stormpaw's copper eyes shine bright.

"Dip your nose in the water, and Starclan will call you," she instructs. She glances back at Lakelily to make sure she's doing this right, and he nods.

She settles down, and drifts awake, into a starry hill. Her breath leaves her when she sees Sunwish standing before her.

"Welcome, Stormpaw," she kindly says. "Silverbelly's trained you well."

She sees Wildfang and Breezeshadow standing, watching closely but not interfering.

"I do wish I could have met you," Sunwish sighs. "Maybe in another life. Now, step forward."

Stormpaw carefully steps forward.

"Stormpaw, do you promise to heal and protect your clan?"

"I do," he says. "I promise."

"Then, by the power vested in me, I name you Stormsight. We honor your vigilance and enthusiasm."

Sunwish steps away, and Silverbelly shouts, "Stormsight!"

The other medicine cats join her. Stormsight stares at her, grinning brightly, and Silverbelly grins back.

Stormsight suddenly stops. The sky, previously alight with stars, goes black.

The other medicine cats are deathly still. Stormsight himself isn't moving. Like time has stopped.

Silverbelly looks around herself, shaking as she peers into the pool of water.

A rock drops into it, knocking some water away from the rocks and onto the shore. It shines red as it lands on her paws.

She looks behind her, willing someone who is better at this to help her. Lakelily, Sandcrash, Pearlnose?

They aren't there.

Shaking, she turns back around, and jumps. Stormsight has vanished.

Those fucking rocks.

It's the same dream, of the rocks. The blood trails from one to the next in a single line, and then it abruptly stops.

She stares at the rock. One is brown, the next is a lighter shade. The final rock could barely constitue for brown, it's more orange than anything.

A scream travels behind her, followed closely by a shattering crack. She wants to turn around, but it's like her paws are frozen in place.

Silverbelly screams.

And then she wakes up.

-🍭 (society if tumblr would stop eating my asks)

(first part here)

HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT?????? LOLLIPOP MY JAW FUCKING DROPPED I AM CRYING REAL LIFE TEARS. your writing is absolutely INSANE. so vivid and i LOVE your worldbuilding and the little hints to other stuff going on??????? AHHHH THIS IS SO GOOD IM LOSING MY MIND

Lichenstripe having a vision of Violetkit holy shit. the MOXIEOAK. Silverbelly's vision. holy fuck i am losing my mind. correct me if im wrong but. the rocks. Scorchstar and Otterslip. but who is the third rock i am chewing and biting auhghghhgh

#fallenasks #fallenfic #lollipop anon #RAHHHHHHHHHH

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Connection for eternity

Vampire Wojchek x fem!reader

warning : blood, romantic, kisses, implied murder, body worship

Summary : Had it been days, weeks months, years or even decades since the boat had come ashore since he had bitten them both. They hardly knew it anymore, but what they did know was that their love remained as it was that night and for all eternity.

Info : Wow another work for our dear sailor I had this idea and wanted to realize it because I think he can be a pretty romantic guy…if he wants to ;) So have fun reading

gif by me (I started trying to make my covers myself it's something)

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

Broken wood, fog and a dark night with a bloody full moon. The howling of wolves, rats prowling around and bats following you around, looking at you with their dark blood-hungry eyes. It was a night in 1893 in London, one of the cities in the world where the devil set foot on land and would spill death and blood in the coming nights…together or rather with his descendants.

He had driven his fangs into the necks and veins of the crew, killing and tearing them all apart, mixing the blood with the rain and recoloring the wood. It was a night when Dracula went off the ship and in the fog of the night, unnoticed by the onlookers and policemen, the first mate and a female passenger went off the ship.

In the reports they were "lost" on board but what had happened…what had happened over the years? Too much it seemed because when her eyes opened again she understood what had happened, she understood what was true and she also understood that in this nightmare of infinity the new century had opened, decades seemed to have passed.

He had called it ,,The century of the first world war" and she could still feel his warm hand on hers where he had touched her after they met.

But now, as her milky white eyes turned to the full moon, she felt the bite on her neck again where he had bitten her decades ago. ,,It seems he's not the only one back," she remarked as she heard the footsteps, the flapping of the mists and the howling of the wolves.

There were two monsters out that night, one who had been preying on the population, longing for the new world since his time was long gone.

But the other "vampire" he was here had come to the present had finally come back to her had returned to his heart to his only warm spot in this cold world.

The mighty wooden door opened and she only had to turn around to see her darling already standing in the doorway, a soft smile on his pale lips under which his fangs were hidden.

The pale skin, the veins and arteries and above all the wings hidden under the aristocratic clothing that now looked old and no longer modern.

,,You're back, my love," she stated the obvious firmly, suppressed the quick movement and walked towards him normally, trying to show him in "everyday life" that they were still mortal, that they still had a chance for forgiveness…even if they were already in the middle of hell. Wojchek nodded and put the basket on the table where she had already placed the tea service.

White old porcelain, considered valuable only by the old ones, was a beautiful reminder for the two of them of the day they had breakfast together on the Demeter on a reasonably sunny morning as a secret without the crew knowing.

,,Was it nice outside? Easy to get?" she asked, moving to the wooden chair, which was suddenly pulled back slightly as the black-haired man eased her into her seat, for which she gave him a stern look.

Her pale eyes met his once dark and vivid ones before he pulled several bottles, vials and jugs from the basket made of glass containing the dark viscous liquid she could feel the warmth behind the glass. As if the animal, the human and the poor half-volunteers were still alive and here.

Dark only the moon it's easy…but there seems to be caution in the air" he replied after a moment of wondering if he should give his love the care as he reached for the jug and took her cup pouring the blood slowly into it and his wife swallowed involuntarily as her throat felt raw, dry and hungry.

The need flashed in her eyes and she wanted to sink her fangs into a piece of meat before she suddenly felt his warm hand on hers. ,,Together as always, my heart," he reminded her, a hint of a smile on his usually full face, which she waved away with an embarrassed smile and nervously yet dnakably placed the cup on the plate, waiting for him to pour himself a cup before lifting it.

,,Enjoy it, my hunter," she teased him and heard the amused grin before the cups clinked lightly together and they both took a sip each.

The warm blood first stained her lips, then her tongue and finally her throat warm, full of life and better, tastier than anything they had ever tasted in their dead existence.

A moment of pleasure in which they closed their eyes, a light color returned to their skin, their lips no longer bloodless, their cheeks no longer pale and slightly sunken.

They both became the image of life again. ,,You've never looked more beautiful," he commented suddenly, setting his cup down before placing his hand on her cheek, she nestled against him, putting her own cup down and they both enjoyed the moment that had opened up for them.

,,And you've never hunted better," she winked slightly and now heard the laughter as he told her all the things he'd seen at night and when he'd met, the moon accompanying him even if it was her he was thinking of, the one who accompanied him as a field mouse from time to time and her warm embrace, her warm body was the reward he needed for the infinite time when he came back.

After a moment of looking at him, she rose to the great feast and went out to look at the moon, the sleepy city, the feeling of him and the past. A blink later she felt him behind her, warm hands on her like his lips kissing her fingers one by one she knew he needed it she needed it as a point that he hadn't completely died yet.

,,My beauty, my wondrous woman of infinity," he murmured between kisses as he kissed his way up her arms, playing with the strands of her hair gently, almost reverently, over the bite mark, her trembling disappearing with kisses and gestures before her own hands came to rest on his body.

Warm hands running over his body the bite wound that seemed so much more gruesome than hers, "Such a brave man" she commented feeling him relax as she remembered her letting go of him and he relaxed she placed her hands on his cheeks and pulled him into a grateful kiss.

A kiss drenched in blood and love under the moon that shone on her through the window, Wojchek pulled her closer holding her close in this resilient and yet fragile body….unaware that the beastly old bat had never let them both out of his sight, that the rapier was just waiting to strike at the right moment and extinguish the love he was never meant to have.

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

@deliri-yum22 , @oceansrose2002 , @thecrossbowkillerr , @minilev , @mask-knife-is-buggys-girl

#the last voyage of the demeter #tlvotd #the last voyage of the demeter wojchek #wojchek x reader #david dastmalchian

[whumpacabra]

Mouse

Panic attack, claustrophobic environment, self deprecating thoughts, begging, anticipated violence, exhaustion, firearm mention, broken glass mention, referenced murder, implied past failed suicide attempt, implied past conditioning and trauma

[Directly follows Cat]

He couldn’t breathe - he couldn’t breathe - fuck, he couldn’t fucking breathe -

What had he done? What had he done?

Why? Why would he do that?

How had he done that?

(Who was his handler now? )

The Wolf couldn’t breathe - couldn’t think - not with the sound and the light and the exposure of being seen -

The Box. He needed the Box. He had made a mistake - he disobeyed, indirectly - he needed to be put away for a bit until he could think himself to death and figure out what the hell he just did.

This ancient supply closet would do, filled with long expired chemicals and cobwebs. Small. Cramped. Dark. Door closed. Alone.

Think, you dumb mutt.

Breathing was getting easier, thinking wasn’t. His mind was filled with frozen molasses, the last few moments playing back like a rewound VHS.

He ran from the enemy. (Coward.) He collapsed from pain after vaulting over the fence. (Weak.) He threw away the gun, he hadn’t spared one of his handlers three bullets for himself. (Idiot.)

But before that - what had happened? He was tired, still bloody and exhausted from his earlier punishment. And with exhaustion came resentment - dangerous, volatile.

Something that could simmer low, unchecked by a brain too focused on mere survival. Something that would wait until his handler peered around a corner, groping for his pistol that the Wolf had lifted from its holster with steady hands. Something that curled in satisfaction at the fear in his handler’s eyes, anger burned away by acceptance as the first bullet cut into a tender, unprotected throat.

And now, having unfurled in all its glory, that resentment withered to sickly regret.

What was the Wolf without his handler? Certainly not whatever he had been Before. Now, he was a coward, weak and stupid and crying in a broom closet like a frightened child.

Boots disturbed broken glass, uneven footsteps intending to slip past less sensitive hearing. But the Wolf knew who was there, creeping down the hallway. He had been listening to those boots for days now. The airport. The hotel hallway. On the roof across the street.

(His handler didn’t ask what the Wolf heard or knew, so he hadn’t shared their tail with him.)

(Now it felt like a betrayal worthy of every second of agony he had endured over the last few days. Worthy of whatever hell lay ahead of him.)

The Wolf didn’t flinch as the door opened, but he hadn’t expected to be found so easily. (There was dust everywhere here - an observant tail would clearly see what door handles were recently used.) (Idiot.)

“You…alright there, mate?” The Wolf was so, so tired. Was he supposed to respond? Did it matter? “Hey, you hearing me? Look at me.”

The Wolf blinked, the ingrained desire to follow orders as soon as they were given turning his eyes from the floor between his knees to the face at the doorway. For all he had heard their tail these last few days, he had hardly seen the enigmatic man.

He was currently soaked, the Wolf suddenly realizing the drone in his ears wasn’t panic but the rain outside. But besides the rainwater beading down the stranger’s face, there was a pair of steely grey eyes looking down at the Wolf with an expression he couldn’t make sense of. Was he angry? Sad? Frustrated? Annoyed?

Whatever it was, it wasn’t pleasant.

The stranger dropped to a crouch in the doorway, the Wolf tensing in anticipation of a blow. Of unwanted hands. He tucked his head under his arms with a strangled sob, waiting waiting - just get it over with already -

“Easy, love, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m Agent Jackson. What’s your name?” His name. The script. The Wolf uncurled a fraction, head still ducked but looking vaguely in the agent’s direction.

“I am Wolf.” His own voice felt clunky in his sore throat, iron on his tongue as he swallowed back the pain. The agent nodded, gentle grey eyes beckoning the Wolf relax against his better judgement.

“You’re a freelancer, right?” The Wolf didn’t know what that meant, but his empty stare was taken as confirmation. “Did Agent Smith hire you?”

“No one hired me. I work alone.” The Wolf bit his tongue until he tasted fresh blood. He had gotten ahead of himself, and now the agent was making that face again -

“You were with Agent Smith earlier, right?” He have a stiff nod. Lying would hurt more in the long run. He just needed to stick to the script.

“Why did you kill him?”

The Wolf’s breathing shuddered. He had, hadn’t he? He killed his handler. He was no different than the rabid dogs he had seen the project put down. A broken bastard that bit the hand that fed.

“I didn’t - it was a - please - please, it won’t - sir, please I can’t - ” Begging never helped, sometimes it hurt, but it was the only thing he could force between hollow gasps. But he couldn’t - he couldn’t survive another punishment. Not now. Not with wounds so fresh and a body so broken. “I can’t.”

Somehow, the agent seemed to understand. Somehow, the agent was generous enough to grant the Wolf a temporary reprieve.

“Shush, shh, it’s - it’s alright love, you’re not…I’m not fishing for a confession.” The agent swallowed, uncertainty in his eyes as he glanced down the hallway. The Wolf could hear approaching tires in the distance. “Agent Smith had something that I’m looking for. An asset he stole; do you know what I’m talking about?”

The Wolf stared into those soft grey eyes. Wasn’t he the asset? But the Wolf wasn’t stolen - he was transferred, for a disciplinary interim. That’s what his handler told him. Did this agent not know that? Was this agent unaffiliated with the project?

“Nevermind - let’s - let’s get you out of here, alright?” There was a shuffle of fabric, and the Wolf flinched, folding in on himself. But no hands grabbed hold of his arms and dragged him to his feet. All that followed was a soft sigh and whispered words. “C’mon mate, get up; let’s get going.”

The Wolf glanced between strands of his own tangled hair, the stranger standing still. Waiting. Patient. Soft. Everything his handler never was. Everything a weapon like him wasn’t allowed. His breathing shuddered again as he gulped down a lungful of air.

Get up. An order. Lesson number one. Do as you are told, without hesitation.

His legs strained, shaking under him as the Wolf stumbled to stand in the cramped broom closet. He could feel himself trembling as he looked to the agent for approval. Those grey eyes flicked down the hall, expression gentle as he nodded and started walking.

“Follow me.”

One foot in front of the other.

Endure.

Again and again and again. Just to see another day of pain. Just to maybe see the sun once more.

Again and again and again.

[Directly before Bad Dog]

(Part of my Freelancers: Changing Tides series)

#whump #panic attack #claustrophobic environment #self deprecation #begging #anticipated violence #exhaustion #firearms #broken glass #referenced murder #failed suicide attempt #past suicide attempt #past conditioning #past trauma #freelancers #the lad is havin a bad time smh smh #directly before tomorrow's prompt so *eyes* enjoy the wolf struggle bus :]

[griffin-girl-r]

Chapter 2: Denial

Masterlist

Chapter 1

—

June 22, 1996

The sunlight filtered through the hospital's windows, casting long shadows on the walls as hushed whispers echoed inside the room.

"Do you think she'll wake up soon?" said a voice.

"I hope so," replied another. "She's taking quite some time in doing so, mate."

"Madam Pomfrey said that she should have been awake by now," a calm, high-pitched voice added.

Hermione groaned weakly as she started to emerge from the darkness that had enveloped her.

Her eyelids fluttered open for a brief moment, but her eyes struggled to adjust to the light that seemed so harsh now.

Her head was throbbing, and her ribs felt as if they had been broken into a million pieces.

Everyone in the room held their breath as Hermione slowly regained awareness.

Hope filled their hearts as the brunette girl finally opened her eyes fully, her clouded gaze flickering around the room before settling on the face to her right.

Ron's face broke into a wide smile as he saw Hermione's eyes open and full of life again, despite the lingering pain within them.

"Hermione!" breathed Ron, relieved. "You're awake!"

"How are you feeling?" Harry asked, appearing into her line of view. "You gave us all quite the scare."

"I can agree with Harry on that one," Neville mumbled from his chair.

"I feel like..." Hermione choked out. "Like I've been run over by a train."

Ginny, who was laying on the bed on Hermione's left, looked at her brother and his friend concerned.

"Harry, I think you should go and call someone here to check on Hermione," Ginny worriedly stated.

"I'll call someone," Luna chimed in, jumping down from the edge of Ginny's bed where she was seated.

"Hey..." Hermione tried to sit up but winced, the pain in her ribs intensifying tenfold. "Ouch... I was just joking. It's a Muggle joke."

"Still... You need to be checked," smiled Luna before leaving the room.

Hermione turned towards her best friends, her vision returning to normal as she could now see her friends clearly.

"What happened?" Hermione questioned curiously, trying to piece together the fragments of her memories.

"During the battle, one of the Death Eaters threw a wordless curse at you," Harry explained, a hint of guilt flashing in his eyes.

"It was Antonin Dolohov," Ron furiously added, knowing that the name would ring a bell for Hermione. "Bloody murderer!" He exclaimed, revolted. "If Harry hadn't petrified him, we could have lost you there."

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut as her brain struggled to process the information she had just heard.

She almost died.

She could have been dead by now.

She could have been dead, and for what? For a war that wasn't even hers?

But that didn't matter.

The only people who would have missed her were her parents.

Maybe even Harry and Ron.

But she thought that Harry would have been a little too busy to allow himself to grieve for her.

So only Ron would remain.

But to the rest of the Wizarding World, she would have been just another casualty. A young witch who fell protecting her friends fiercely.

"For how long have I been asleep?" The brown-haired girl asked, in a poor attempt to distract herself from her thoughts that threatened to overwhelm her.

"For almost four days," answered Ginny.

Hermione turned around to look at the ginger girl, taking a moment to have a good look at her.

Ginny's ankle was bandaged, but judging by the position of her foot, her ankle had long been fixed.

"It was that bad?" asked Hermione, surprise present in her voice.

"It did quite enough damage to be going on with," Madam Pomfrey's voice boomed as she walked inside with Luna behind her. "Yes, the curse was less effective than it would have been if cast aloud, but you still need a lot of potions and bed rest to fully heal."

The woman walked towards Hermione's bed and started checking the girl.

Hermione made no move, but she could feel everyone's eyes on her, which made her feel uncomfortable.

She tried to think about other things that were more positive, like the fact that if she had been unconscious for the past four days, it meant that she was just one week away from the end of the school year. That also meant she was one week away from returning home to see her parents.

She was so lost in her own head that she hadn't even noticed when Madam Pomfrey stopped checking her. But she did get startled when Ron grabbed her hand shyly, giving it a gentle squeeze before letting go.

Her head snapped in his direction, but before she could say anything, Harry beat her to it.

"You should rest, Hermione," said Harry quietly. "I promise that we will explain everything to you in the morning. But for now, you need to sleep and recover."

Hermione wanted to protest. No one tells her what to do. But the heaviness in her eyelids was too hard to ignore and, with a long sigh, she nodded.

Maybe a nap didn't sound that bad after all.

—

The distant sound of birds chirping filled Hermione's ears as she woke up with a start. She had somehow managed to sleep through the entire evening and night.

As she opened her eyes now, the soft morning light blinded her vision before she adjusted to its intensity.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," a voice greeted her, and she instantly recognized Ron's voice. "We were wondering if you would join us for breakfast this morning."

Hermione chuckled weakly, her head turning to look at one of her two best friends, noticing that she, Ron, and Ginny were now alone.

"What my idiot brother is trying to say is that Mom will bring us some homemade food this morning," Ginny sternly explained. "He hasn't been able to sleep all night thinking about it."

Hermione smirked 'Classic Ron,' she thought, 'Always thinking about food.'

"Right," chuckled Hermione once again with a nod.

Hermione gathered the strength she had to slowly push herself into a sitting position as her muscles begged for relief. But just as she relaxed, she caught sight of something she hadn't noticed the prior day.

"Merlin's beard!" she cried, getting startled.

"Oh, that?" Ron chuckled. "Yeah, she's been like this for the past few days."

There, in a far away corner of the room, Professor Umbridge was lying still on the bed, her eyes wide open but staring into the void.

She looked relatively unscathed, if you didn't count her hair in.

Hermione couldn't help but feel a slight pang of guilt in her heart for the state Umbridge was in. She knew that Dolores Umbridge deserved it, but still...

"How did she end up here?" questioned Hermione hesitantly.

"Dumbledore rescued her from the forest," Ginny said as she stretched her arms before sitting up on the edge of her bed. "How he managed that, I have no idea," she shrugged.

"Bloody mental, that old man is," said Ron loudly, his eyebrows reflexively darting upwards. "I'm telling you!"

Hermione nodded absentmindedly at Ron's remarks, making a mental note to investigate what happened later, when she would be allowed to leave the boring hospital room.

"What more should I know?" asked Hermione, looking between the two siblings, her arms crossed over her chest.

—

"And then Bellatrix killed Sirius," Ron finished his story, his tone grave and filled with sadness.

"Sirius is dead?!" Hermione yelled, her eyebrows shooting into her hairline.

"Yes," Ginny confirmed in a somewhat unbothered tone. "Then Harry wanted revenge on Bellatrix, used the Cruciatus Curse on her, You-Know-Who showed up out of nowhere, Dumbledore saved Harry and after everything, Fudge officially declared that we are now at war." She finished, passing the Sunday Prophet to Hermione.

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named Returns," Hermione read the big bolded title on the front page.

She swallowed the lump that formed in her throat, realization hitting her like a tidal wave.

"Poor Harry!" breathed Hermione, lowering the newspaper into her lap.

She could feel tears stinging her eyes but she refused to let them fall.

She felt pity for her friend. He lost the man who was his only family and now they were thrown into an unwanted war.

It simply wasn't fair.

"You know," started Hermione revolted. "Us Muggles have our own kind of wand that I would love to use on Bellatrix for killing Sirius."

"You do?" Questioned Ginny surprised

"Yeah!" Nodded Hermione "It's called a gun and it's more efficient than a wand."

"Hermione, no!" Ron shouted

"I'm just saying." Hermione rolled her eyes

"Anyways, Dumbledore was reinstalled as the headmaster," Ron shrugged awkwardly, trying to offer Hermione at least one piece of good news.

"Thank you, Ronald. What would I do without your good news?" Hermione offered him a small nod, the room falling into an uncomfortable silence.

Thankfully, it did not last long as Mrs. Weasley walked inside the room, her face lighting up at the sight of Hermione awake and alert.

"Hermione, dear!" cried Mrs. Weasley happily, spreading her arms open to engulf Hermione in a tight hug. "I'm so happy to see you awake! You gave me such a scare."

Hermione's body protested against the hug, yet she couldn't deny the fact that she quite enjoyed the motherly hug she was receiving.

"Thank you, Mrs. Weasley," Hermione smiled, pulling away from the embrace, trying to hide her pain. "It's good to see you as well."

"My girl..." Mrs. Weasley smiled widely, pinching Hermione's cheeks.

"It's good to see you, Mother," Ginny and Ron chanted simultaneously, attempting to catch their mother's attention.

—

"Albus Dumbledore, newly reinstated headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, reinstated member of the International Confederation of Wizards, and reinstated Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, was unavailable for comment last night. He has insisted for a year that You-Know-Who was not dead, as was widely hoped and believed, but recruiting followers once more for a fresh attempt to seize power. Meanwhile, the Boy Who Lived..." Hermione stopped reading and lifted her head. "There you are, Harry, I knew they'd drag you into it somehow," said Hermione, in a sarcastic tone of surprise, looking over the top of the paper at her friend.

Harry sat on Ron's bed, a frown etched on his face as he appeared to be lost in thought.

After Hermione, Ron, and Ginny had eaten the breakfast brought by Mrs. Weasley, they were joined by Harry, Luna, and Neville to discuss what had been wrote in the Sunday Prophet.

"He's 'the Boy Who Lived' again now, though, isn't he?" Ron said darkly, a sneer on his face as he reached for some Chocolate Frogs from the pile on his bedside cabinet. "Not such a show-off maniac anymore, eh?"

Hermione watched as he threw some to Neville, Harry, and Ginny before ripping the wrapper with his teeth instead of his hands, causing Hermione to roll her eyes annoied.

"Yes, they're very complimentary about you now, Harry," Hermione nodded, now scanning down the article, that was making her frown. "I notice they don't mention the fact that it was them doing all the ridiculing and slandering, though."

Hums of agreement were heard as Hermione kept scanning the article with her eyes quickly.

"Well," Hermione folded up the newspaper and threw it aside, too fed up with it to keep reading. "It's certainly given them lots to write about. And that interview with Harry isn't exclusive, it's the one that was in The Quibbler months ago..." She pointed out.

"Daddy sold it to them," Luna mumbled distractedly, while turning a page of The Quibbler that she was reading upside down. "He got a very good price for it too, so we're going to go on an expedition to Sweden this summer and see if we can catch a Crumple-Horned Snorkack."

Hermione frowned as her mind tried to come up with anything to say about Luna's plans, trying to find something non-offensive to say. "That sounds lovely." She squinted her eyes with a nod of her head. "So anyway," she tried to sit up a little straighter but winced, her ribs protesting once again. "What's going on in school?"

She wanted to know everything that happened in the time she was unconscious.

"Well, Flitwick's got rid of Fred and George's swamp," Ginny was the first to speak. "He did it in about three seconds. But he left a tiny patch under the window and he's roped it off..."

"Why?" Hermione questioned, almost flinching at the news.

"Oh, he just says it was a really good bit of magic," explained Ginny, shrugging unbothered.

"I think he left it as a monument to Fred and George," Ron spoke with his mouth full of chocolate. "They sent me all these, you know," he looked at Harry before pointing at the small mountain of Frogs beside him. "Must be doing all right out of that joke shop, eh?"

Hermione shook her head disapprovingly as she forced herself to not make any remark at Ron's antics. "So has all the trouble stopped now Dumbledore's back?"

"Yes," Neville said, speaking for the first time since he entered the room. "Everything's settled right back down again."

"I s'pose Filch is happy, is he?" asked Ron, propping a Chocolate Frog card against his water jug.

Hermione looked at the card and saw it was featuring Dumbledore on it before turning to look at Ginny.

"Not at all," said Ginny, catching Hermione's attention. "He's really, really miserable, actually..." She lowered her voice to a whisper, afraid someone might hear their conversation and get them in trouble. "He keeps saying Umbridge was the best thing that ever happened to Hogwarts."

Hermione said nothing as she looked around the room, her gaze settling on Umbridge who was wide awake but didn't show any signs of awareness.

She knew that it most probably wasn't anything serious. Right?

Madam Pomfrey had said it herself that Professor Umbridge was just in shock, although Ron had discovered that she did react to certain sounds.

Horse galloping sounds, to be more specific.

Yet, Hermione barely muffled her laughter as Ron showed them once again his discovery, making Madam Pomfrey, who was just then passing by their room, ask Umbridge if everything was okay.

"Speaking of centaurs,'' Hermione asked once she was able to control her laughter, "Who's the Divination teacher now? Is Firenze staying?"

Now that was information she not only wanted to know but needed to know.

"He's got to," Harry supposed, shaking his head. "The other centaurs won't take him back, will they?"

"It looks like he and Trelawney are both going to teach," Ginny added.

"Bet Dumbledore wishes he could've gotten rid of Trelawney for good," Ron said, munching on another Frog. Hermione lost count of how many he had eaten at this point. "Mind you, the whole subject's useless if you ask me. Firenze isn't a lot better."

"How can you say that?" Hermione gasped demandingly. "After we've just found out that there are real prophecies?" From the corner of her eye, she noticed Harry shifting in his seat nervously. "It is a pity it broke," she quietly continued, shaking her head in disappointment.

"Yeah, it is," Ron said. "Still, at least You-Know-Who never found out what was in it either. Where are you going?" he added, as Harry stood up.

"Er - Hagrid's," said Harry, nervously. "You know, he just got back and I promised I'd go down and see him and tell him how you two are..."

Hermione had a feeling that Harry was lying, trying to find an excuse, but she brushed it off as a mere thought.

"Oh, all right then," Ron replied grumpily, disappointed that his best friend was leaving so soon. "Wish we could come..."

Harry started speedwalking towards the exit, leaving his friends behind in a state of confusion and curiosity.

"Say hello to him for us!" called Hermione. "And ask him what's happening about..." She quickly tried to find the right word to use. "About his little friend!"

She didn't receive an answer as Harry was already gone.

Hermione sighed sadly, reaching for one of the potions that were on her bedside cabinet. She scrunched her nose in disgust, opening the cap of the small bottle of the potion.

"Is that the fifth one?" questioned Ginny.

"The sixth," said Hermione, quickly drinking the potion to get it over with as quickly as possible. "Just four more to go."

"Four more?!" said Neville, surprised.

"Madam Pomfrey said I have to take 10 different potions a day for the entire summer," Hermione nodded sadly. "Not the most pleasant way to spend your vacation, but she says I need it."

"Which you strongly disagree," added Ron, shoving another Chocolate Frog in his mouth.

"Stop eating, Ron," Hermione ordered. "You're going to have a chocolate rush."

"Who says that?" Ron mumbled.

—

It felt like an eternity for Hermione until she was finally deemed completely recovered to be allowed to leave the hospital.

It has been five long days and she couldn't have been more bored, despite having time to read as many books as she wanted. Being the last one to be discharged didn't help with the boredom either.

But on the bright side, there were only three more days left until the end of the term, and the girl couldn't be happier.

She had already started packing her things, eager to have a respite from the brewing war and fights.

She was now in her room, her clothes scattered around on her bed as she preppared her luggage just in case.

She groaned, bending down to pick up one of her shirts that she had accidentally dropped while folding. The soreness was too stubborn to leave her alone too soon it seems.

"What kind of curse had he used?" Cried Hermione loudly, taking advantage of the fact that she was alone in the room.

She scoffed.

"Hex you, Dolohov," she added through gritted teeth.

She continued folding her clothes, but her mind was worrying about Harry.

Hermione had tried to bring up the matter of Sirius' death on various occasions, yet Harry tried to avoid the topic, with Ron not being much help as the ginger boy made hushing noises each time she tried to say Sirius' name.

She knew that Harry was in a state of denial. He tried to block out the fact that Sirius wasn't coming back, lying to himself that his godfather would return in one way or another.

Harry refused to hear any mention of the Department of Mysteries or of Sirius being dead, and Hermione wasn't blaming him, but denial wasn't going to help him face the loss.

Nonetheless, he would have to accept the truth sooner or later.

She couldn't deny that Sirius' departure brought a sense of sadness to her as well. She had grown to like Sirius over time and he offered her a feeling that she had known him long before they actually met. Yet, he was nothing to her.

Shaking her head, she abandoned what she was doing, deciding that a walk near the lake would do her good, helping her clear her mind.

She left the dormitory and made her way outside, only to find Harry and Ron already sitting by the lake.

"Don't worry, mate," she heard Ron say, patting Harry's back, "we'll find a way."

"Oh, how lovely to see you two having such an intellectual and engaging conversation without me. I'm sure your discussion about Quidditch tactics is absolutely riveting," she stepped closer to the two boys, her tone half filled with sarcasm, half with mischief.

"Ya wish!" chuckled Ron, turning to face her.

"It's good to see you walking around these grounds again," Harry said, trying to offer Hermione a smile.

"So what's the plan now that the Ministry has finally acknowledged that You-Know-Who is back?" asked Hermione.

"We're not sure just yet," said Harry, looking down at the ground.

"Hey..." breathed Hermione, placing her hands on Harry's arms, "We're a team, okay? We'll get through this just like we have done before." She took a deep breath before adding, "Together."

"Always," Ron smiled.

"Always," Harry nodded.

"There you three were," a voice called, making the trio turn their heads only to see Professor McGonagall speed walking in their direction. "I've been searching for you everywhere."

"Something wrong, Professor?" Harry asked, concerned that something might be wrong.

"I swear, we didn't do anything this time! We were just discharged from the hospital, barely even got out!" Ron's voice shook with fear. "I thought we were going to rot in there if they kept us one more day locked up."

"Mr. Weasley," Minerva McGonagall began, disappointed. "I am asking you to stop being dramatic. Luckily, you three haven't caused any mischief this time."

"Then what is the matter, Professor?" Hermione raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "What do you need us for?"

"Dumbledore is requesting your presence in his office," said McGonagall. "He said there is something more he wants to privately talk to you about before you leave."

"What more could he want to tell us?" Harry said quietly.

McGonagall fixed Hermione with her eyes, a mix of sadness and apprehension shining in them.

"I'm afraid I cannot answer that question, Mr. Potter," the woman said. "But I heard it is something that concerns Miss Granger."

"Me?!" shouted Hermione, but before she could say anything else, she was interrupted.

"Come on now," McGonagall said, turning around to walk back to the castle. "Everything will be revealed in its own time."

Hermione, Harry, and Ron shared a concerned look.

They were scared of what secrets would be revealed this time.

The afternoon sun reflected its colors on the surface of the lake as the three friends walked side by side towards Dumbledore's office, ready to face whatever was coming as a united team.

—

@theunchosenonee

#harry potter au #hermione is bellatrix's daughter #pureblood hermione #hermione granger

[residents-of-the-darkforest]

Dark Forest Resident: Cliffprance

Aliases / Nicknames: Cliff, Clifffoot

Gender: tom

Sexuality: grey-pansexual, demiromantic

Family: Pebble (mother), Flail (father), Shellsmoke (mate), Redpoppy, Icykit (daughters), Croakpaw, Junipercloud (sons), Roachfreckle (mate, formerly)

Other Relations: Bluemouse (mentor), Dappledlight (wet nurse)

Clan: ThunderClan (formerly), WindClan (formerly)

Rank: rogue (at death)

Characteristics: curious, easily amused, likes telling stories (formerly), cold, emotionless, prefers silence, likes being left alone (currently), bossy, has constant joint pain

Murder Motive: vengeance

Number of Victims: 23

Number of Murders: 19

Murder Method: leading into wars, tricking into wars, have other cats fight for him

Known Victims: Dappledlight, Galepaw (accidently), Agavepaw, Roachfreckle, Flail (indirectly), unnamed foster sister, unnamed warriors, unnamed kits, unnamed apprentices, unnamed elders

Victim Profile: Clan cats [WindClan, ThunderClan], rogues

Cause of Death: redcough

Cautionary Tale: The kit rejected by the Clan will be the one to burn it down.

Story: 

It is a long told saying, passed from mother to kit, father to brother, or mentor to apprentice. As generations passed, it became unclear of its origins. Did it start with Cliffprance? Or had his story simply been a result of the cats in his life neglecting to heed its warning:

The kit rejected by the Clan will be the one to burn it down.

Anyone who had met the tom when he was just a kit had been horrified to see the monster he had became, and anyone who had suffered in his reign of terror would refuse to believe that even he had once been an innocent, sweet kit.

In fact, many point to his very first murder, committed when he was only six moons old.

Cliffkit and his father, Flail, were welcomed into the Clan after he had just been born. His mother died while kitting, and between being unable to take care of him on his own and the rising aggression in the other loners, Flail had no other choice but to seek help.

The Clan was strongly against outsiders, but turning them away would go against the code. Flail was determined to prove himself and his son, which meant that he spent most of his time out of the camp to hunt, patrol, or gather supplies. Cliffkit, meanwhile, spent most of his time with Dappledlight, the queen that reluctantly and begrudgingly nursed him.

She was not his true mother, blood or adoptive or anything else, and she was keen to make sure he remembered that. She would growl and push him away if she thought that he was drinking too much milk so that her own kits would have enough, and she would make him sleep in another nest because she didn't want his loner-sickness spreading to her litter, only allowing him to sleep beside them when the nights were especially cold, though that was only because she got in trouble for neglecting his health when he caught whitecough.

Cliffkit was able to make friends in spite of this, and, surprisingly, his days in the nursery were the best he would experience in his entire life. Maybe if things had gone differently, if he hadn't made that one mistake that would lead him to a dark and bloody path, everything would have been better.

Perhaps it would have been better if it was his blood that spilled.

Cliffpaw didn't mean to do it. He and Galepaw were best friends! They had been excited to train together....but then Cliffpaw's muscles began to spasm. He knew what was happening, but he couldn't control it. His legged kicked out--

Cliffpaw only had a moment to stare in shock, horror, and dispair before Galepaw's mentor, Harefern, tackled him to the ground, hissing angrily in his face words that Cliffpaw's mind was racing too fast to understand, clawing at his pelt before Cliffpaw's own mentor finally bothered to pull him off.

He was shunned after that.

Cliffpaw's nest was pushed closest to the entrance, far from the others. Bluemouse, his mentor and Dappledlight's mate, hardly allowed him to train with the others following the incident, and on the rare chance that he did train with another apprentice, his once-friends would call him a murderer, and state that they didn't want to be killed as well.

Had they ever loved him?

Was his kithood filled with lies?

They now treated him the same way as the warriors did, if not worse. They spit awful words in his ears and poked fun at his lack of Clan heritage. Cliffpaw couldn't stop himself from wondering if they had always held these thoughts toward him...if they only bothered to be nice because Galepaw was nice to him. Now Galepaw was dead, because of him....

He tried to explain to them, to his mentor, the leader, anyone, that it had been an accident, that his muscles shake sometimes and he couldn't control it. But they pointed out that Bluemouse and Harefern would never had allowed the battle training to continue if that were the case, and neither mentor stepped in to corroborate his story, two worried for their own backs, because yes, of course they would have stopped the fight.

Bluemouse's lessons grew more violent. He had been assigned as Cliffpaw's mentor because of his strong prejudice towards outsiders. Duskstar had said that it was because Bluemouse would push him the hardest. Cliffpaw would later believe that that was just an excuse to allow one of his warriors to beat up the useless loner-blood.

The worst was when Cliffpaw began to spasm again. Whether they lasted seconds or longer, Bluemouse would kick at him with his claws unsheathed, demanding he cut it out.

Cliffpaw would beg Flail several times to leave. Though Flail loved his son and tried to protect him, he said that since they joined the Clan, rogues had entered the territories around the Clan, and that it was safer here than anywhere else.

Shortly after their conversation, Agavepaw offered Cliffpaw extra lessons. Cliffpaw happily agreed, all too eager for a friend. But when the two were alone, Agavepaw accused Cliffpaw of being part of the rogue gang, being sent here as a spy.

Cliffpaw was startled, and nothing he said could reason with her, not when her grief for her father--killed recently by the rogues--blinded her to his innocence. She leaped, bit and clawed--he had no choice. He was only defending himself.

Their words rang in his head.

Murderer!

Rogue scum!

Monster!

Killer!

Were they right? He was a killer...he killed two cats....he was a murderer.

But there was another voice, a burning flame that turned his tears to ashes.

They deserved it.

He dragged the body back to camp, explaining that they were attacked by one of the rogues. More than a few cats were skeptical, but it made enough sense for them to believe his story.

That didn't make things any easier for him. The apprentices hated him now more than ever. They refused to speak to him, to so much as eat near him.

The first was an accident.

The second was in defense.

But the third would be when his murderous deeds became fully and utterly intentional.

Bluemouse took him on a solo border patrol. There was nothing out of the ordinary about that, Bluemouse rarely allowed him to patrol or train with others, stating that he didn't want his foul stench to stain anyone.

They spotted a squirrel in a thin, flimsy tree. Bluemouse ordered Cliffpaw to go after it. Cliffpaw didn't protest--he had learned by now that it only lead to him being cuffed around the ear, or worse. His body weight caused the branches to bend dangerously, and his heart had raced--but when a yowl split the air, he realized he was lucky to be in the leaves.

He watched as three rogues attacked Bluemouse, pulling at him and slicing at his fur. They were clearly having fun as they bit, jumped away to avoid Bluemouse's swinging paw, and jumped back to bite him again.

Cliffpaw's alarm melted into dark pleasure. His heart was still racing, but differently now. It pounded in a way he never wanted to end, the thrill at seeing Bluemouse's pelt be torn to shreds bit by bit, the satisfaction as his angry growls became painful whimpers...Cliffpaw wished the show would never end.

When the rogues were long gone, he left the tree, gazed happily at Bluemouse's corpse, and trotted back to camp. His story this time was that Bluemouse got tired with him and sent him back to camp early. Since that already happened many times in the past moons, no one batted an eye.

Cliffpaw's apprenticeship had already been extended two moons for Galepaw's death, and now with his mentor dead, Duskstar saw no point to letting it go on any further. He named Cliffpaw Clifffoot. Of course he did. Even with Bluemouse gone, Cliffpaw couldn't forget.

The cheers of the crowd were low and half-hearted, all but Flail's, who shouted it to the Stars.

Clifffoot tried not to care. He didn't need them. They were too weak for him. But though the darkness had gripped its ugly claws in his heart, it still ached to belong, to be loved, to just have one friend that wasn't his father.

After his vigil, he spent the day curled alone in his nest and crying into his paws.

Whenever his emotions were especially getting to him, he would send silent prayers to his mother. He had never been able to meet Pebble, but Flail had talked about her often enough for Clifffoot to picture her perfectly in his mind. From there, his imagination built her more and more, as he pretended she was curled around him or watching him play so that he had someone other than his father to talk to.

That day was no different. Alone in the den, his shaking voice called to her, begging for her forgiveness as he cried that he didn't want to be a monster. He begged her to take him from this place, something he had begged of her many times in his kithood, when he pretended that someone was curled around him in the nursery. But like all the times before, there was nothing but silence.

He was dumbfounded when Shellsmoke, a pretty she-cat, confessed her feelings for him. He had thought that everyone in the Clan either hated him or tolerated him, so he met Shellsmoke's words with skepticism.

But the more time they spent together, the more open he became. It took a moon, but finally Clifffoot was able to realize and accept that he loved someone and someone loved him.

Someone loved him!

Curse StarClan for taking that away.

Moments before a rainstorm broke, a patrol returned with her bloodied body, stating that rogues had attacked and killed her.

Dappledlight spoke up first, voicing her doubts of Flail's innocence--who had been on the patrol. After all, everything had been fine until 'those two' arrived, then suddenly cats were dying like flies and rogues were getting bolder.

Her words were quickly joined by her remaining kits, Clifffoot's once-friends who now demanded he be exiled into the unknown.

With so many warriors against them, Duskstar listened and sent the father and son into exile.

Flail was determined to keep his spirits high. He told Clifffoot not to blame the Clan, that they were scared and needed someone to blame. Clifffoot didn't listen, too bitter to. He didn't even get a chance to grieve for his mate before he was kicked out just because of his origin.

Flail began to say something else dull and supposedly encouraging again when the pair were jumped. They hissed and clawed at the rogues, and when they were shoved to the ground, the weights were lifted and they found themselves facing Clan cats. Different Clan cats.

Flail thanked them, and right when he was about to introduce them, Clifffoot stepped in and announced them both as kind loners--Flail and Cliff--looking for shelter from the rogues.

Flail privately questioned him after they were welcomed, but Cliff figured that they wouldn't have as high a chance if they told them the truth. How would they explain why they were exiled, and how could they prove their innocence?

It was only luck that Duskstar decided to keep the loners a secret from the other Clans, and that the rain had washed most of the Clan-scent from their fur.

All was peaceful, at least on the surface.

Cliff's Clanmates were warmer, though still wary due to the rogue attacks. They were still willing to share prey and a den, and when they patrolled with him, they were more than happy to engage in small talk. One of the cats, Roachfreckle, even asked him to be her mate! He agreed, only to keep up the appearance of a trusted Clanmate. One of them.

But he wasn't. He spent too many seasons having that lesson beaten into him.

It could have been a second chance for Cliff to finally live happily.

But it all came too late.

He was denied a mother that loved him.

He was denied a mentor that didn't take every opportunity to beat him.

He was denied littermates, blood or otherwise, that cared for him.

He was denied friends.

Even before he was born, he was denied health.

And when he finally found love, it was struck down from him and he was kicked out of his and his father's home.

Cliff couldn't easily forget.

He couldn't easily forgive.

All his life, he was pushed and pushed and pushed, each shove adding a sliver of ice to his heart. There was no longer warmth, no longer affection, and there was not a single trace of the gentle kit he had once been. It was all frozen, forgotten and buried, and there was nothing left but bitter resentment--resentment for his old Clanmates, resentment for the rogues that first caused their distrust, even resentment for the Clanmates he had now, and for his father that hadn't even noticed how much pain his son had suffered. They were all worthless, and they all deserved to die.

It was the only logical next step, wasn't it? After all, he was already a murderer in seemingly everyone's eyes.

He didn't care if he was killed, and that kept fear at bay. It was why he could take some extra prey from the pile late at night, when he was the only one awake--sitting guard.

With no terror against the rogues and what they could do, he walked through the moors unbothered until he came across a scent trail. He followed it, growing larger and larger until cats sprang out and demanded what he was doing so close to their home.

Cliffprance spat what he carried to the ground and offered them the food.

While they eagerly ate, Cliffprance noticed how skinny they were. Bones with a veil named 'cat.' It was no wonder they were crossing over the borders. They must have been starving!

Cliffprance tried not to show his delight at seeing their suffering. He hated the rogues just as much as the Clan cats.

The leader of the small group introduced himself as Domino, and questioned Cliffprance's reasoning for helping them. Cliffprance told them the truth, part of it at least. He told them that his parents had been starving just as they were, and that he, too, suffered by the Clans' cruelty.

The more they talked, the more he learned.

As far as these rogues--'loners' they called themselves--knew, they only tried to hunt, but anywhere there was plentiful food, there were Clan cats who chased them away. Of course, some of the loners became aggressive. Wouldn't anyone who was desperate to eat? And with more cats becoming aggressive, less Clan cats were tolerant of the remaining loners.

Cliffprance offered them help.

He would be their 'saviour.'

He snuck out food to them once a day, whenever he could sneak out. With that, he gained their trust. More and more cats heard about the generous Clan cat offering meals, and more and more cats trusted him with their lives.

He spent moons feeding them, talking to them like they were buddies, and soon enough, training them to fight. You know, in case those Clan cats give them trouble.

Slowly, he planted the seeds.

First it was just a thought, a joke, a random thing. "I wonder why Clan cats think they're so much better than everyone else. Can't they see others are starving?"

Then it was feeding their resentment. "I can't believe anyone would turn their backs on those that need help! How cruel can they be?"

Then it was hypothetical. "What would you do if you could say something to a Clan cat, other than me?" "What would you do if you could take vengeance?"

Then it became planning.

But while the gears were still turning, voices became doubtful. Domino was the most loud of them all.

Cliffprance had to show them that harming the Clan cats was the only way, while squashing all doubt.

He acted distressed when he returned to them one day with food and they told him that Domino had been killed by the Clan! They had found him with his throat slit, a mouse in his jaws. He only wanted to feed them--there weren't even any signs of a fight! They just jumped him without warning him or chasing him off! They wanted him dead!

Things became incredibly easier after that. Moons of being chased away from good food that they desperately needing, of being torn into for 'trespassing,' and now for being killed, all for being different than a precious Clan cat made all of the loners, rogues, whatever, willing to follow whatever Cliffprance said that they needed to do in order to serve justice.

He didn't want to attack all at once. Instead, he lead the occasional patrol in a certain direction, and would return home panting and distressed that the rogues! The rogues had attacked them!

Of course, he wasn't stupid enough to lead all of the patrols that died. Sometimes, he happened to be out at the same time and told them of this great place for hunting he found the other day.

It was only after two and a half--the final patrol was just two cats--were killed that Featherstar declared that no cat should leave the camp unless accompanied by four of their Clanmates. Cliffprance figured that that was a good enough time to strike.

He lead the rogues under cover of darkness, their scent hidden by the lavender fields they rolled in.

Cliffprance took out the guard before she could raise the alarm, his identity as a fellow Clanmate allowing him to get close enough before she realized something was wrong.

Every den was attacked. The warriors, the elders, the medicine cat, the queens and even their kits were thrown into the fight.

If there was one thing that Cliffprance had convinced the rogues of, it was this:

the Clans had to be culled.

Flail had looked at his son with such horror, begging, asking why he was doing this.

Cliffprance only stared at him coldly, maintaining unblinking eye-contact as Flail was jumped.

Then, when he was satisfied with the damage--he yowled into the air. "ThunderClan! Retreat!"

The trick had worked.

After they had rolled in lavender, the rogues caked themselves completely in mud. Their scent had been disguised and so too their appearance. Cliffprance had given them the names of his old Clanmates to use during the attack. "Duskstar, over here!" one cat would say to another.

WindClan had believed that Cliffprance--and possibly Flail--were traitors all along, sent by ThunderClan to infiltrate them. The irony. That's just what ThunderClan used to think of them.

Cliffprance only had to sit back and watch gleefully as WindClan and ThunderClan tore each other apart.

He returned to the ThunderClan camp one day, while most of the warriors were away in one of the many battles. Any remaining cats that tried to force him away were easily beaten by the five rogues that accompanied him.

Cliffprance followed Dappledlight's scent and found her, amazingly, in the nursery. But she wasn't the one that had had kits. No, the vile she-cat was an elder now and merely visiting her daughter, one of Cliffprance's foster-littermates-turned bully.

Cliffprance didn't do the killing himself just yet. No, he sat back, wanting to watch the carnage as well as the horror on both she-cats faces as the rogues did what had to be done to their kits. Only after bathing in the cries of their anguish did Cliffprance rise to silence them.

Now both Clans knew of Cliffprance's horrid actions. Both knew he was a monster--not the kind they imagined him to be. No, he was much, much worse.

But the battles would continue a while longer before either Clan figured the connection and realized that they had been tricked. Knowing now that they had a common enemy, they joined forced against the rogues.

But by then Cliffprance had already left.

He knew what was going to happen--he had known since the beginning, and he smiled as he walked as yowls rang out in the distant air.

All it took was a little bit of manipulation and he had started a war. Two, in fact, depending on how long the rogues lasted.

It was the fault of those filthy rogues that had ThunderClan distrust Cliffprance so much, and it was ThunderClan that had treated him like filth most of his life.

He only had to be friendly with one before he he got them to kill each other.

He knew that ThunderClan would live on, and so would WindClan--though with much smaller numbers. The rogues were more of a mystery, but he guessed one or two may live.

There was one thing that was certain:

they would not forget him anytime soon.

Additional Information: 

--Cliffprance was a cat collectively created by many of us! Together, we designed him in Clangen and gave him his conditions, and decided via poll the range of his victim number. I decided to specify his story using some ideas from things that happened in Clangen.

These things include his father's name, becoming mates with the two named, and dying as Clifffoot (and me reviving him as Cliffprance and writing it as him being exiled and finding a new name that way).

You can see who did what here

--Base: Full Reference Cat FTU Base by Naxolite on DeviantArt

Yes I realized I messed up his foot placement on the refs.

--It doesn't show too much on these refs but he is a longhair!

--It didn't make it into the story because I couldn't find a spot that flowed right, but Cliffprance lost his paw in a training accident by a twoleg trap. Bluemouse likely left him there.

--I might explain it in a more detailed post, but basically some loners became more aggressive as they became more desperate. One accidently killed a Clan cat, causing many ThunderClan cats to hate them and become more violent when they chased them off, in turn causing the rogues to become more violent against them.

I might also make a thing where the ThunderClan cat was actually murdered and it was pinned on the rogues?

--While ThunderClan did majorly suck in not noticing Cliff's pain and not stepping in, many of them did not hate Cliffprance as much as he believed they did. But who could blame him for thinking what he did?

--Roachfreckle either died in the ambush or in one of the battles against ThunderClan.

#long post #long long post #super long post #cliffprance #wc loners #wc rogues #thunderclan #windclan #abuse tw #abuse mention #othering #child murder #kit death #wc #warriors oc #warrior cats oc #warriors #warrior cats #warriors horror #kinda? #dark forest profile #dark forest resident #dark forest oc #dark forest character #dark forest warrior #place of no stars #place of no stars oc #thunderclan oc #windclan oc #clangen

[go-to-the-mirror]

look, hear me out, hot jon ri- [EXTENDED SOUNDS OF BRUTAL PIPE MURDER]

@a-mag-a-day

One thing you should know about me is that i will defend jonathan sims head archivist of the magnus institute london to my dying bloody breath. Another thing you should know about me is that i can do nuance, i just don't want to a lot of the time.

But. I will, put my... love... for the Jarchivist... to one side. sort of. a little bit. Look, you can't be unbiased, an attempt is all you're gonna get, mate.

But like, let it be known that I have talked extensively about scrutiny on my story, and most of it wasn't "but i love him, so, <3" actually most of it was "headinhands, jon, why"

Like, yk? Why didn't we see this coming, he's an Avatar, he's a monster, it's not making what he's doing better -- obviously -- but like, I feel like it's like... it's like... yk? we knew it in a theoretical way, and then we're like, oh, yeah, he doesn't get protagonist privileges.

I'm just rambling at this point, so, let's get onto the relisten, I guess, and I'll freak out there

ARCHIVIST The tape recorder. [SUDDEN INHALATION FROM BASIRA] BASIRA Get ready. Any idea what’s coming?

i think it's neat that they're realising that tape recorder on = (rqg pessimistic train driver voice) DOOOOOOM!

ARCHIVIST No, I… I think… [Calling out] Excuse me?

Jonathan "I don't think it's me doing it" Sims when he literally calls the guy back, fuck Jon, that's not okay!

SHIPHAND I don’t know you. ARCHIVIST [Archly] But I know you.

[ID: Marina and the Diamonds Smirk Meme /End ID]

look, hear me out-

LIKE OK HRHNR ITS COOL OKAY! IT'S COOL! IT'S AWFUL, BUT IT'S COOL!!

BASIRA Jon, I’m not sure about this. ARCHIVIST I am. Tell me what happened.

(tim voice) don't do it.

like, jon, jon, no, fuck? what the fuck, jon headinhands, headinfuckinghands

this is the theme of this ramble, okay? just headinhands but also his voice tho-

ARCHIVIST Whenever you’re ready.

it's so creepy, he's so creepy! that's just like- "whenever you're ready" SPOOOKY!!!! im kicking my legs i just think it's NEAT oKAY

The thing that was grabbing him, trying to reach down his throat and pull him apart… it was a pattern. Diamonds and swirls and colours that seemed to imprint itself upon his skin even as it pushed itself messily into his nose and mouth.

THAT'S SO COOL! I mean, uh, sucks to be him, but that's hnnrhrhnrnh <3333 it's so spooky and weird and I love it.

I followed slowly, unsteadily, but got there just in time to see Salesa throw both him and what looked like a blank rug over the side and into the ocean.

So, the pattern comes from the rug and then... attaches itself to people and/or things? That's neat!

He was drunk for the next two days, and we kept sailing on towards Cape Town.

:D I was so happy when I heard this on my first listen :3 like yay! South Africa is mentioned :3 I'm South African :3

Come to think of it, Floyd might have an Afrikaans accent. Don't quote me on that, I'm not sure, but I think so.

There was a storm over the island. I don’t know where it came from, it can’t have been more than a minute since I’d last looked at it, an-and the skies were completely clear. But now it was covered in lightning, the rolling clouds above it dark and angry.

So, the camera was keeping the island not sinking.

So I jumped ship the next chance I got. And I have tried ever since then to leave those memories behind me.

Would be lovely if someone *cough cough* Jon *cough cough* would let him. He's going to have nightmares about this till Jon dies. Like, poor him. That sucks, like even with Jess, she was leaving it behind, she was getting better and he took that from her. The bastard, christ Jon, you can't just do this to people, you can't just ruin their bloody lives because you're feeling peckish.

ARCHIVIST [Soothingly] You can go. FLOYD Erm… I, I don’t… ARCHIVIST Thank you Floyd. You’ve been… very helpful. FLOYD C— ARCHIVIST It’s alright, Floyd. You just… need a break.

I just like the way he says it, when Jon's being all monster-y, in this episode, sometimes when he's talking to Helen, I think, in MAG 187, and of course in the Crew Retrospective (speaking of, if you have stuff about the crew retrospective, please tag me, I want to see it), it's so suave, and for what. Charisma of 1, unless he's being... evil. I love him, I love that, it's so bloody suave, and charismatic, and smooth. He knows exactly what he's doing, he's in his element. Oh god, he's in his element.

Look, he may be slightly evil, but he's doing it with style, damn.

Like "It's alright, Floyd. You just... need a break" and it's like!!! HMNnn!!! No, Jon! You shouldn't be doing this to people, but also like hnhrhfhhnh so fucking cool!

ARCHIVIST Yes, Basira, he is. And I am sorry about that. But we needed it. Anyway you’re the one who wants to be like Gertrude. You think she’d give a damn about a few bad dreams? BASIRA No. ARCHIVIST No. She got the job done, and didn’t care about the cost. BASIRA But I thought you did. ARCHIVIST … I had to know, Basira. BASIRA It wasn’t right. ARCHIVIST You could have stopped me.…But you wanted to know as well, didn’t you?

Mr. Jarchivist Sims, your flimsy rationalizations are visible from space, you didn't want to be like Gertrude, you don't want to be like Gertrude, good lord, man, just... good lord.

I don't know what to say, I'm shaking this episode vigorously /pos

Ramble over! See y'all tomorrow where I'll be once again setting aside my flimsy belief (not even a belief) that Jonathan Sims did NOTHING WRONG if you ignore everything he did wrong.

End recording.

#tma #the magnus archives #a mag a day #mag 141 #jonathan sims #landscaping-your-mind-chapter-one #hot jon rights tho

[transingthoseformers]

I read this amazing tarn/ultra magnus fic where they get arranged married and they end up going back to just minimus and damus. I don't think either of them would want any children in that AU but i thought about minimus and damus having sparklings anyways.

When they got married, Damus and minimus expected to have no children. Damus thought his spark to be unable to kindle or spark due to empurata, and minimus thought that his spark to be too weak from wearing the magnus armour nonstop for millions of years to kindle or spark too. But after minimus goes into a mating cycle and damus helps relieve his symptoms, damus ends up sparked. He finds out after a checkup with nickel, who is just as shocked as he is.

Damus tries to act like he isn't scared. He tries to be brave, and tell minimus. But he always ends up hesitating at the last minute, and then backing down. Damus finally tells minimus after minimus offers him his favorite wine, and damus has to decline. After damus tells minimus the news, they both end up panicking. Damus calls megatron (who ignores his calls), and then calls nickel. Minimus tries to bottle it up and ends up having a panic attack at a meeting in front of optimus, jazz, and prowl.

After a panicked phone call with nickel, who tells him that it's up to damus on what happens to the newspark, Damus decides he wants to keep the newspark because of the irony of a mass murderer bringing a new life into the world with his bloodied hands is too good to pass up, and because he loves minimus so much that it can't be that bad to bring another piece of him into the world. Minimus agrees with him because he loves damus and trusts him to make the right choice.

I know exactly which fic you mean, and you're right that both it probably wouldn't happen in the fic but also it'd be an interesting thing in the situation regardless

Of course of course the whole "well we thought that we couldn't conceive!" thingamabob, leading to well a newspark

ohh aww Damus is worried

Naturally they panic yes, and also makes perfect sense Megs would set Damus's number on ignore considering Damus

That sense of irony is exactly on point yes yes

aww yes mins wants what's best for Damus ^w^

#maccadam #transformers #rare pair #mtmte minimus ambus #mtmte tarn #TarnMags #based on a fic #mtmte megatron #mtmte nickel #idw optimus prime #idw prowl #idw jazz #all three had to have been so shocked/confused by Minimus's panic attack

[january-summers]

Dear Brain, I hate you with the force of ten thousand suns. Stop making things worse, stop making things horrible, stop hurting Agent Washington. No love, January.

So, this post right? Feral Wash Awol Murder Rampage through Covie Forces Au?

My brain went: but what if we made things suck even more for poor David? Like, a lot?

Cause I was thinking, right, how would I tell that story if I wrote it? Well, I mean there was five other thoughts happening simultaneously, but the end result was:

Warnings for below the cut: injury, murder, semi-graphic descriptions of injury and death, brief mentions of suicidal thoughts, events which might be considered self harm, aspects of unreality, excessive use of 'David' instead of 'Wash(ington)'

no beta, I die like all the freelancers who aren't Wash or Carolina (Or California.)

this implies a somewhat slightly less feral Wash/David than the previous, and got a bit rambling and somewhat very dark, and I really need to stop hurting Wash/David, and spend time in much happier AUs, like a soft PFL AU where things are nice and the worst thing to happen to Wash is that during an undercover op, out-of-armour Wash is outed as a former rockstar by a fan.

Anywho:

-

We start with David in the psych ward, a therapist is with him while he tells them he doesn't remember, he doesn't stop asking he can't remember!!! The base was attacked, and they were fighting and now he's here, everything was just a blur between all that, stop asking for details, he doesn't have them!

But the therapist asks him to try, to start at the beginning, what's his name, his rank, his serial number, tell them about his team mates, no you can't see them right now, please answer the questions.

So David answers as best as he can, (and at this point I would like to take a small hilarity break to suggest his last name is actually something very normal, like Cooper, or Campbell, or Church, or anything that makes his initials D.C.) and slowly starts recounting the story, with prompting from the therapist when he falters.

He talks about the base, how they (he and his team) would hang out and train and prepare for the covie forces to arrive, and how they arrived without warning, swept over the base and would have killed everyone inside if David hadn't disobeyed his Sargent's orders. But he'd survived, he falters as he tries to get through the attack, tries to put into words the fear he'd felt at losing sight of each of his team mates, and lets the therapist slowly wheedle him into telling how he'd found each and every member, banged up but alive, how they'd fought and run and fought some more and blown up so many of the damn covie bastards until there was silence at last.

How they'd walked through what remained of the base looking for any survivors and finding only the Sargent. Hiding.

David stops here, again, and the therapist tells him that it's okay, they already know, there was camera footage recovered, they know what David did, but they want to hear it in his own words.

So David confesses. He'd dragged his Sargent through the blood and scorch marks, made him look at the dead, and then he'd beaten his Sargent's face bloody, hadn't stopped until his face didn't look like a face anymore, and then he'd let the Sargent crawl away just far enough to think he had a chance before putting a single bullet through the back of his head.

The therapist thanks him, and tells him he did really well, and that David should rest now. Outside David's room, the therapist talks to others, arguing that their work isn't done, not only was David found so many miles away from that base that he should have been able to walk it in the month he was missing, there were all those destroyed covenant bases, he might have information! Plus, his confession wasn't accurate, several key details were wrong. (what they don't exactly say, by they mention the footage, talk about whether or not David knows he was lying.)

The therapist gets an allowance, they have until the court date of David's court-martial to get anything they can out of him, but he's confessed enough to the crime he's being charged for, everything else is just filler.

Over the next week or two, the therapist gets the story out of David in bits and bites, of how he and his team had discovered their comms were fried beyond repair, then made the decision to try and hoof it to the next base after salvaging whatever they could from theirs. Covie and UNSC weapons alike.

The discovery of the next base being wiped out. No comms. Low supplies. Plenty of tracks to follow.

They'd decided to take revenge against the covies, hadn't expected to walk out, but they had. First one covie away team, then two, then scout and small teams, then finally a base.

Always waiting for each fight to be the one that kills them.

David talks slowly and with morbid humour about how he'd used the weapons he'd stolen to kill the covies in increasingly creative ways.

Sitting by a river trying to wipe dark blueish-purply blood off of his... everything.

"I have some very important notes on the minimum safe distance to reach after shoving grenades down a gator's throat, by the way."

How one base had been in a large indent in the rock, not really deep enough to call it a cave, to tall and exposed at the front, but he really didn't know what else to call it. David stops to laugh as he recalls the conversation right before he'd begun the plan for that base.

"This is the worst life choice I have made. Ever. Of all time," David had complained, tightening the rope's knot to make sure his makeshift harness was secure. "Your worst life choice ever, of all time, so far!" His team mate had corrected him before David had jumped off the cliff, running along the rock face to swing out across the opening, so high up no one would have expected it, shooting out the bases shield generators despite being upside down and swinging very fast and not having very long to locate and terminate before they were adjusted to cover his surprising angle. The clamber up the far side of the opening, back onto the small outcropping to load the makeshift bomb (a lot of grenades duct-taped together) in his hastily abandoned harness so he can throw it over the edge. One of his team mates frantically praying as David judged the swing to cut the rope so the bomb would release right into the center of camp. The explosion and the realisation the ridge wouldn't hold as the cave collapsed, his team racing ahead and calling back for him. Getting caught in the rock slide and coming to with one arm pinned beneath stone. Stuck there in the sweltering sun until his team had found a stick to lever it off of him.

The therapist takes several breaks over the course of the interview/interrogation, to talk to their own team, who've been watching via live camera feeds.

"You really believe this kid and his team did all that?" one of the therapist's team asks. "Some of what he said contradicts, you had to have noticed. And where's this team of his? I thought he was the only one they picked up?" "You haven't noticed?" another asks the first, amused, and perhaps a little condescending like they're waiting for the first to catch up. "That David seems to be the star of it all, the big hero making all the plans and taking all the action? His team is a supporting cast of two-dimensional characters? No alarm bells ringing for you?" "So he's making himself out to be the hero?" "He knows he's lying," the therapist says, staring into the ether, replaying David's words and actions as he'd retold the events. "He knows exactly when he's lying." "So what, he never did any of it? His team carried him? or none of it happened? How'd the covies die then? Rogue Spartan?" "Hahahaha," the second team mate laughs like they can't believe the first can be so stupid. "No, but seriously, how did you get a job here, was it nepotism? Go back and watch the footage, look at his body language, his body keeps telling the truth even when his mouth is lying to us."

The therapist perseveres, helping David tell the story in his own time, how tired the team had gotten, how hard it had been to sleep, how they'd discovered that one type of covie ration was edible for humans but it was also, for humans, a space weed brownie, how they'd accidentally discovered certain types of polarized lenses could... not entirely reveal active camo, but would show more obvious signs of it than looking straight on.

"It's not something you can use all the time," David says, holding his hands up like he's using two pairs of something (sunglasses) to act like a active camo radar. "You're better off waiting until you have reason to believe they're there... even if they show up unexpectedly it's not, it's just not feasible to use them all the time, and besides, the real trick is making the shot, you've either gotta turn away from the reflection at shoot where you think they should be, or make the shot using the reflection to target." He extends his right arm up and behind him, keeping his eyes on his left hand as he mimes a gunshot.

The first of the therapist's team mates comes to a conclusion. "Okay, I understand, he got his team mates killed along the way, that's why they weren't picked up with him, they didn't survive his insane theatrics in the field!"

"Ooohhh, partial points," the second tells them. "Right track, but you got off at the wrong destination, you're a little early... or late in this case."

Finally, two days before the hearing/trial/court-martial, they reach the end of the story. And the therapist asks:

What happened on the first day, what happened during the attack on the base?

"I told you." David says, "I already told you, stop asking. I told you what happened."

"Where is your team?"

"No, no I don't want to. Don't make me look." David hides his face in his hands, body curling in on itself. "If I look it's real. I'm not ready yet, it can't be real yet."

"David please, tell us what happened to them, tell me what happened during the attack on the base?"

And David looks up, looks at the therapist, looks at his team standing behind them. They smile, give him encouragement, and for a moment he hates them for it.

So David starts again, retells the beginning, the base, the quiet before, the surprise attack, the fear as he loses sight of his team one by one, and then finds them.

Riddled with crystal needles, burned, crushed, one of them torn in half at the waist (David had thought for a moment that one was fine until he'd moved far enough to see...), and one of them he almost hadn't found. Wouldn't have found, if it hadn't been for the sight of their lucky rubber duck half fallen from the torn pocket of a headless corpse.

He retells the desperation of the battle, determined to take as many of the covie bastards with him as he could before he joined his team mates.

The absolute rage he'd felt at being denied when the last covie had fallen but David had remained.

And the cold, burning beyond fury when he'd found the Sargent, how he'd broken the man's knee and dragged him through the base, through ash and blood to each and every member of David's team, to make him look at them, how he'd beaten his Sargent's face, demanding he apologise, until the man finally agreed.

"I'm Sorry! I'm Sorry, Please, stop, I'm sorry!" "No," David had said, "Not to me." He'd stood, given his Sargent enough room to turn over to see where David was pointing. To the team's youngest, staring wide eyed and unseeing, looking almost untouched... above the waist where there was still a body to see. "You apologise, to them." And the Sargent had, crawling and begging for forgiveness. David had sighed. "No." He'd denied the Sargent's pleas for forgiveness and put a bullet through his brain. "We don't get to be forgiven for this."

David is sent away, off to face military justice, and left behind in the psych ward, the psych team unwinds.

"I don't get it, did you read it in a file, about the team already being dead?" The first team mate asks. The second team mate lets out a long, drawn out sigh of annoyance. "Go back and watch the footage, watch the way he moved his body. For the most part, he's contained, small movements, fury, fear, frustration, all held in check. When he made big movements it was in two types of situation. First, when he was demonstrating something-" second mimics David's illustration of reflective lenses and shooting behind themselves "- and second, when he talked about the team having active roles in events, like when he was pinned under the rock? Or when he found each of them "alive". go watch, imagine the story without the team, his body will show you what happened." And the team mate does watch, piecing together events with the story and how David moves. How his shoulder had twisted and his leg had stretched like he wanted to pull something closer with it. How his arm had turned and legs had gone uneven in a way that hadn't made sense... until first team mate puts themselves in David's position, pinned under a rock by one arm and desperate, desperate enough to use his own legs as a fulcrum to leverage the rock off his arm.

They won't see David again. In several months they won't particularly remember him, not with the number of patients who come through their doors, cycling through as the war drags on and on and on.

#red vs blue #rvb #agent washington #tw gore #tw injury #tw unreality #this is really kinda sorta fucked up and I'm probably sorry for that? #I love Washington I swear I just also want him to cry... #I'm a monster