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obitohno · 1 year

Text

hanah(aki)

hayakawa aki x reader

synopsis ⤸

aki is literally willing to die for you.

themes ⤸

gn! reader, 18+, hanahaki disease, pining, unrequited love, angst, mentions of blood, lots of angst, major character death, sad ending, even more angst

word count ⤸

2.3k (unedited)

a/n ⤸

i rarely post anything that isn’t smut related, so this is a nice change,, but maybe not so nice bc it’s actually a sad one, n i really hurt my own feelings whilst writing this, oops. still, pls let me know what you think!

reblogs are appreciated ~

it is the dawn of spring when the very first petal flutters from between aki’s lips, its velvet-like texture tickling at his nerves as it gently settles into the palm of his right hand.

surprise renders him motionless, the dark hue of his ocean-coloured irises boring into the rosey toned flesh of what appears to be some sort of shrub-like flower, the petal flat and round. he stares, an ache gnawing at the centre of his chest—caused by the heavy bout of coughing that had stolen his breath just a few moments before—and stares some more.

aki winces.

he isn’t stupid. in the last month, he’s lost count of how often his breath has been choked from out of his lungs, left wheezing as his ribs rapidly expanded in a desperate attempt to just fucking breathe.

his throat has suffered, strained raw with the efforts of a continuous cough that has only worsened, and now, his palm bares the evidence that he can no longer feign indifference to. again, he isn’t stupid; he’s heard the rumours, tales of people who have had the misfortune of contracting the very disease that cannot be cured. curiosity had had him studying the statistics long before his own symptoms had appeared (the irony, he thinks, bitterly), and so, he’s not oblivious enough to pretend that his chances of survival are high.

he scoffs—a mistake, for yet another cough is torn from the back of his throat—and exhales a sigh that rattles his rib cage. he continues to stare at the palm of his hand, and as he does so, the face that he then imagines is your own. only, doing so hurts, and another short breath trembles from out of his mouth. a forced laugh follows, and his spare hand comes to massage at the dull throb that pulses at his breastbone.

gods. if only you could see him now.

it’s been some weeks since he’d last heard from you—you’ve been busy with work, as your texts had read, but unbeknownst to you, it was denji who had blurted the news that you’d actually gotten yourself a new boyfriend. aki still remembers how the truth of your absence had hurt more than he had been willing to admit, and it was around then that his cough had began to worsen.

he allows himself to recall that he’s yet to reply to your last message—sent well over a week ago, now—but when his eyes dart over to where his mobile phone has been discarded on the coffee table, hesitation twists knots into the depths of his stomach. aki is no fool. in the arms of another man, he knows that you’re happier without him, even if the acknowledgment tastes bitter on the flat of his tongue. the fingers of his right hand curl, and he listens to the satisfying crunch! that follows as his fist squeezes tight.

the crumpled remains of the petal are carelessly thrown into the bin, and along with it, disappears any temptation of contacting you.

๑

somehow, aki manages an entire week without coughing. it’s the easiest that he’s breathed in over a month, but just as he’s starting to suspect that maybe his symptoms had been a fluke after all, one evening, his mobile phone alights with a notification, and it is your name that flashes across the screen. immediately, his spine is curling in on itself, and his chest heaves so horribly that it feels as if his ribs will burst with the effort. the attack lasts for just under a minute, and when it’s over, there is a metallic aftertaste, unpleasant as it clings to the roof of his mouth. this time, there are two petals, one perfectly formed, and the other, a tad rough around the edges, translucent enough that he can make out the wispy trails of its veins.

with trembling fingers, he traces over the surface, dampened by the warmth of his own saliva, and he bites into the plush of his bottom lip as he stares and stares and stares.

he isn’t sure how long he sits there, the dip and rise of his breathing now broken once more, and when he feels the vibration of his mobile springing to life from where it has landed by his feet, he kicks it under the coffee table, frustration forcing a dry sob from out of his mouth. again, his chest hurts, yet this time, the press of his fingers does little to ease the ache. the roar of his blood thundering in his eardrums is deafening, and the thud, thud, thud of his pulse beats a desperate tune at the base of his throat. this time hurts worse than the last, and it takes longer for him to catch his breath. eventually, he is able to ease himself upright once more, but a sudden bout of dizziness has him squinting, temples throbbing as he rasps a curse word from under his breath.

half an hour ticks by before he forces himself to his feet, and when he does, the two petals are disposed of in the same manner as the first. his mobile phone lays, ignored, under the coffee table.

๑

he looks like shit.

his mouth tastes like shit.

and he feels even worse than shit.

the attacks are becoming more frequent now, and it’s starting to become harder to hide. talking has become a task in itself, and every other word has discomfort clenching at his abdominal muscles. thus, he starts to avoid denji’s calls. only, the blonde is insistent, and when the ugly pang of guilt leaves him sneering down at the little red circle that reads thirty-seven missed calls, he decides to power off the device and lock it away in the bottom drawer of his bedside table. not long after, his employer kindly allows him to take an extended leave of absence from work.

the days are lonely, wallowing in his own misery within the solitude of the empty walls of his apartment. he kids himself into thinking that maybe isolation is the cure to this torment, and with no one to talk to, surely there is no way that he can be reminded of you.

only, with no job to distract him, with no denji to bother him, he is now powerless to the dreams of you that begin to plague his slumber. more often than not, he wakes with the curve of his cheek pillowed by a nest of freshly spewed petals that have now morphed into buds that are expelled within varying stages of bloom. the change is one that leaves him haunted by how easily he accepts it, long defeated by the time he wakes in the middle of a particularly horrid attack that has him panicking upon the realisation that he can’t breathe, can’t breathe, c-can’t fucking breathe—he chokes, suffocating, and just when his vision swims, he finally heaves, vomiting a bloodied concoction of crimson-stained buds all over the sheets. in the middle of his lap, snow-tinted petals now glued together with the thickened red of his own blood, lies the very first perfectly formed flower.

the peony is small in size, tiny enough to sit in the palm of his hand, and with a wet, rattling laugh, aki blacks out.

when he comes to, some hours have passed, and that single flower has been joined by several others. dazed, he can do little more than blink up at the ceiling, a single track of salted liquid trickling down the stretch of his temple before it melds into the unkempt tresses of his hair.

another hour passes before he musters the energy to tear the sheets from the mattress, stumbling as he drags them toward the kitchen. only, he doesn’t make it that far. another assault has him collapsing to his knees, barely catching his balance on the dresser before his forehead collides with it. on his hands and knees, he retches, spittle splattering a mess all over his fingers, and with a sickening squelch, it is a small cluster of leaves that are spat out onto the lino flooring.

the hues of green are mottled with red.

his grip on the dresser slips, and there is a rough crack! that renders him unconscious once more.

๑

just a day later, hunger coaxes him from the safety of his apartment. the cupboards are empty, the lining of his stomach as equally bare, and despite the fact that his left eye is now marred an ugly shade of mauve, he has no choice but to venture into the town centre.

it’s a mistake that’ll soon prove fatal.

the familiarity of summer’s humidity licks at the surface of his skin, and it’s a struggle to repeatedly blink away the static that swarms at his peripheral vision as he trudges his way through the crowds. still, he manages to make it to the convenience store, pointedly ignoring the cashier’s open gawking at the state of his face as he throws down the required amount of cash onto the counter and making his exit as swiftly as he’s able.

he’s barely crossed the threshold when an all-too familiar voice sings the syllables of his name.

it’s instinct, how quickly he turns to seek the owner, and then he spots you, rushing towards him at a pace that would’ve worried him if not for the fact that just a single intake of air makes him realise that he can breathe.

he’s forgotten just long it’s been since he saw you last, and yet, the relief is instant.

the weight of your embrace collides with his chest so roughly that he is forced to gasp a laugh into the scent of your hair, your arms coiling tight around his waist. you’re rambling something into the crook of his collarbone, but he can’t process a single word that you’re saying, deafened by the overwhelming ease of which air is sucked into the cocoon that forms the shape of both of his lungs.

he can’t even focus on the smell of you, his fingertips trembling as he presses them to your shoulder blades, tugging you just that little bit closer. the heat of you should’ve been stifling, especially in this weather, and yet, the longer the two of you stand there, the easier it is to inhale. but, all too soon, something akin to fire burns at the back of his throat, and before he can stop it, his eyes are leaking tear tracks down the curves of his cheeks, and a dry sob is choked over your shoulder. he feels you stiffen, a question exhaled into the fabric of his shirt, and there, he knows that you can hear the jump of his pulse, the tempo rapid, uneven, tainted by the rattle that haunts his every breath.

‘aki?’

the very moment you murmur his name, a second voice calls yours from somewhere behind you, and when aki’s eyes snap upwards, his gaze zeros in on the very man whom you’d chosen instead of him.

ice freezes his veins and there’s a lump wedging itself in the back of his throat.

shit.

a hand slapped over his mouth, he’s extracting himself from the tangle of your arms, and it takes several attempts for him to forcibly swallow down the leaves that scratch at his tonsils. his throat constricts, and he knows that if he looks at your face once more, he’ll have no choice but to empty the contents of his stomach by your feet.

and he can’t do that to you.

a bitter, twisted part of him wishes to know if you’d feel remorse for rendering him to such an empty shell of who he once was, knowing that his demise will be your fault because you’d been too blind to see what you could have had with him, instead.

as soon as the thought comes, it is quashed by the nauseating guilt that swells in his veins. he cannot blame you for his own inability to muster the courage to confess the extent of his feelings. nor is it your crime that has left him in such a state—the blame can only be placed upon himself.

it is no fault of yours that you’ll never comprehend what it’s like to literally adore someone to death.

and he hopes, truly, that you’ll never have to.

he thinks that he manages to whisper your name one last time, but he isn’t too sure, the low baritone of his voice now warped around the shape of yet another cluster of petals that threaten to spew from the cavern of his mouth. lash-line shimmering with unshed tears, he allows himself the luxury of drinking in the features of your face for a final time—because gods, you’re so fucking beautiful—before he tears himself away from the reach of your outstretched fingers. you’re following, bewilderment pinching a frown between your brows, and as much as he wishes to smooth it out with the pad of his thumb, he forces a wobbly smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and then he’s disappearing out of your line of sight, dropping his carrier bag in his rush to escape.

he can hear the screech of his name that haunts him all the way back to the safety of his apartment, and just as he’s kicking the door shut behind him, he’s collapsing to his knees yet again. he’s retching, yet again, suffocating on the extent of his own affections, yet again. his vision is darkening, and he’s sobbing a wet, bloodied mess all over the floor, yet again.

yet again, yet again. yet again.

his fingers are buried within the sopping heap that splatters to the floor, and his spine curves as he heaves, heaves, heaves. finally, something gives under the pressure, and there’s a sickening snap! that has a garbled howl of pain bubbling around a mournful pitch of your name, and with a heavy thud, he slumps to the ground.

and doesn’t rise again.

a week later, when his corpse is discovered, it is a singular peony that now resides in the space of which his heart once sung;

in full bloom.

#♡ jordy is writing ♡#csm #csm x reader #csm x you #aki x reader #aki x you #aki hayakawa x reader #aki hayakawa x you #csm aki #aki angst #csm angst

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achaotichuman · 6 months

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TW: Gore, delirium, and mind-breaking (read for your own discretion)

Forest Monster Tamlin AU (Although he doesn't make an experience all the events in the AU were done by monster Tamlin)

I have like a small story in my head where like a group of autumn court males were sent by Beron to scout out the spring court for weaknesses, mapping strategic points, note any threats or big resistances that would oppose autumn inevitable take over of spring.

And it all went to shit because the moment they entered the more dense forest of the spring court everything started to act strange, the land itself kept changing and shifting, time was almost nonexistent, They felt like they were being watched and followed every single time they kept trying to find their way out of the spring court.

And slowly and slowly they start getting mad, hearing stuff, little giggles a distance away, a small shadow dashing at the court of their vision. Delirious dreams and haunting memories when they sleep somehow came to life.

And then one of them got lost.

They search high and low and they found him by an old willow tree laying there, with mosess covering him. A variety of fungi and mushrooms blooming out of his eyes and ripping through his rib cage. Thick vines root him to the ground while beautiful flowers blossom out of his right eye socket, tearing a hole through his cheek. His stomach was on full display as his intestines were covered in spores and ferns.

Panicking and in distress the group made the decision to move forward, but it seems they simply get deeper into the spring court and slowly the madness, the fear, and the terror slowly gets to them. They started turning on each other, accusing them, ugly secrets come to light.

And after that night by night their number dwindles and dwindles and dwindles, the bodies of their lost comrades found always a few yards away hidden and covered in plants and flora like an infectious disease. A fleshy vessel and banquet for the starving undergrowth to consume and grow upon.

And then it was only the leader, his face horrified and full of pain as he realized his dreams of his men screaming, begging for mercy was him killing them at night. Gnawing at their flesh, ripping them open, only for him to vomit out spores and spores to feast upon the flesh.

The leader couldn't do anything but scream as he ran, and ran, and ran until suddenly he found himself at the autumn court. Maddened, grief-struck, he clawed his face, his neck, his chest until he could feel his veins severing, the pain flaring around his body. And slowly mosses covered his body accompanied by bursting of mushrooms and flowers piercing through his body, thorned fines slithering around his rib cages and digging deep into his lungs, the thick foliage of the plants blocking his throat before it expanded and out of his mouth was a blooming golden rose.

A bright, beautiful golden rose of spring.

A gift of a highlord

This is so sadistically beautiful. For a while I've been fascinated by the idea of Tamlin being able to destroy someone from the inside out using plant growth. You captured this beautifully.

Faeries are known for their sick twisted ways of delivering suffering. I was very disappointed in the acotar series as it did not deliver that. I love the way you think about Tamlin, and your ideas for the Spring Court. The way you wrote Spring as a kind of labyrinth that kept turning and twisting as the Autumn Court males went deeper into it gave me a chill.

I fully believe that the Spring Court should be captured as a far darker place than what it is like in the actual series, and you gave it that. Thank you so much for sharing this with me!

#acotar #tamlin #pro tamlin #dark spring court #dark spring #monster tamlin #acotar au #acotar fanfiction #acotar headcanons

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seijorhi · 3 years

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Finders Keepers

the long awaited (sorry!) zombie au. hope y’all enjoy

Seijoh 4 x female reader & Miya twins x female reader

TW Blood, gore, angst, um... toxic relationships?

“Let me see.”

It’s little more than a murmur, but in the quiet stillness of the night your voice carries. It hardly matters; Oikawa has you close, tucked under his arm with his injured leg stretched out between the two of you. He could stop you if he really wanted, but he only watches, those tired, wary eyes fixed on your face as you reach for his pants.

“It’s fine,” he grunts out, yet he can barely get the words out before he’s hissing through his teeth – a knee jerk reaction to the scrape of rough fabric against his wound. His fingers are digging painfully into your arm, and it doesn’t make a difference how gentle you try to be, how many stammered apologies fall from your lips, your fingers are stiff and clumsy and his pants are caked with dried blood and grime, hindering the process.

Pursing your lips, you glance up. “This would go easier if you took these off, you know.”

He cracks a smile at that, strained and tense, but your chest still flutters at the sight of it. “If you wanna get my pants off so badly, cutie, all you had to do was ask.”

“Tooru,” you begin, but he sighs heavily and that brief flicker of mirth glimmering in his eyes fades. Reaching over he picks up his hunting knife, pressing the handle into your palm and letting his fingers slowly curl around yours. The weight of it feels unwieldy and foreign in your hand, and you can’t quite say for sure if the way your breath picks up and hitches is due to your nerves or the way Oikawa’s watching you, his warm hand still wrapped around yours.

“Cut it, then.”

The knife helps, shearing through his pants like butter, but the wound itself is messy – torn threads plastered to congealed blood and dirt – and blunt fingernails sink into your skin and Oikawa grits out a curse when you try to gently ease them free.

It’s worse than you’d thought. A lot worse. Raked over his right knee, five gouges, jagged and gruesome, raw flesh and muscle exposed beneath. Your stomach roils at the sight of it, bile creeping up your throat, and for a moment you’re astounded by how calm he is, sitting there beside you.

If it were you, you’re fairly sure you’d be rolling on the ground howling by now, but the only hint of pain Oikawa’s face betrays is the tightness of his jaw, teeth clenched even as he looses a shuddering breath.

“I-I’ll go see if I can find something to…” to what? Clean the wound? Stitch it? You’re not an idiot, unless this little cottage has an incredibly well stocked first aid kit, you know you’re in trouble. And even if it does, beyond the very basics of clean, disinfect and bandage, you don’t know how the hell you’re supposed to fix this.

Iwaizumi was always the one to stitch up their wounds, muttering obscenities under his breath and glaring at them the whole time. It was their own idiot faults for putting themselves in a position where they could get hurt in the first place, he’d say, they could deal with a little pain while he fixed them up. But as you stare at the grisly mess of Oikawa’s knee, there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach that this might be beyond even Iwa’s level of expertise.

It doesn’t matter anyway, because Iwa isn’t here.

Makki and Mattsun aren’t either.

And strangely enough, it’s not the fear of the creatures lurking in the woods that’s gnawing at your gut. It’s Oikawa’s injury, the blood and mangled mess that you can’t even begin to fix, the thought of the trap that’s awaiting the others back at the sanctuary. It’s that feeling of helplessness that’s tightening around your neck like a noose.

“Hey,” Oikawa calls, snagging at your wrist when you try to pull away. “They’ll find us, have a little faith.”

Swallowing down the lump in your throat, you nod. “I know.”

You don’t have the guts to tell him that that’s only half the problem.

Making do with vodka and some old bandages you’d scrounged up from a first aid kit under the sink, you do what you can for Tooru’s knee. Working by the light of a few flickering candles, your hands shaking like a leaf, it's a job easier said than done, and you can’t help but wince at every pained hiss and grunt that escapes him.

It’s a hack job, a bandaid over a gaping wound, but he thanks you for it anyway, pressing an affectionate kiss to your temple as he drags you closer once more. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” he murmurs, and the words hang heavy over the both of you; a promise and a sobering reminder in one.

Tucked up in his embrace, you shut your eyes and will yourself to fall asleep.

Yet the moment you do, you’re right back there again: the hallway doors bursting open and the undead pouring through. Rotting and snarling, the sound of panicked shrieks tearing through the sanctuary in their wake.

Tooru’s hand in yours, yanking you along as he ran. Your heartbeat, pounding in your ears as you gasped for breath, your chest burning. And the fear, the horror that threatened to choke you as the others fell behind, their frantic pleas turning into agonised screams.

Everybody else first. The words spoken before any one of them left the safety of the sanctuary; you’d always assumed it was a grim kind of joke between the boys, a good luck charm. How many times had you heard Mattsun laugh it, clapping Iwa on the shoulder, or Makki for that matter, or Oikawa?

‘Come home safe’, you’d thought it meant, not ‘rip the guns out of other survivors’ hands and throw them back into the path of the oncoming undead’.

And then you’d stumbled, tripping over your own two feet. You remember Oikawa cursing, the pain that radiated up your knees and the palms of your hands as you hit the floor hard, and the absolute, bone chilling terror that surged through you when you looked up and saw one of the undead creatures lunge for you; jaw hanging loose, more ripped flesh and gristle than an actual mouth–

Oikawa was too far away, too slow, and even if he wasn’t, you’d just witnessed the lengths he’d go to for self preservation. You’d screamed for him anyway, squeezing your eyes shut and praying you’d go quickly when those fingers and yellowing teeth dug into your flesh and ripped you apart.

And in the space of a single petrified heartbeat, three shots had rung through the air, a warm wetness splattering against your cheek. Tooru was there, kicking the rotting corpse away from you and hauling you back to your feet, back safely against his side.

But the next one was quicker, leaping over the husk of its fallen friend, snarling and bloody and savage, and then it was Tooru who was screaming, undead fingers sinking into the flesh of his leg, ripping as it tried to claw him back.

Heart pounding viciously, your eyes shoot open in the darkness.

Even with the reassurance of Oikawa’s frame pressed up behind you, his breath warm against your skin, sleep doesn’t come easy, and the dawn brings little reprieve.

Stupidly, you’d hoped – prayed – that somehow through the night he might’ve gotten better. It was early in the morning when you’d felt him start to shiver against you. You’d tried to roll away, to give him space so you wouldn’t accidentally knock his leg, but Tooru was having none of it, burrowing in closer, his grip tightening.

And when you’d felt him start to sweat, his arms becoming sticky and clammy, his shirt dampening at your back, that slow, cloying sense of dread took root inside of your stomach.

Under the first rays of morning light, the true extent of Oikawa’s condition is unignorable. Without the luxury of being able to properly close the wound, blood’s seeped through the bandages overnight, leaving them a mottled, macabre red. His face is pale, a thin sheen of sweat dotting at his brow and with every shallow, rattling breath he takes, his body trembles.

It’s more than just simple blood loss.

You think for a moment that he’s unconscious, long lashes fanned out over flushed cheekbones, but the moment you reach for the bandages, his eyes snap open. “Don’t,” he rasps.

You frown, “Tooru–”

“No,” he says. “It’s fine. Leave it alone.”

Between him and Iwaizumi, and to a certain extent, Makki and Mattsun, you’ve never had much of a say in how things are run. You’ve never questioned that they’re the ones in charge, Oikawa most of all. They’re the ones who’ve kept you safe, kept you alive all this time, and all they’ve ever asked of you is that you do what they say.

And you have. Always. Because without them, you’d be dead. You don’t have to pick up a gun and fight, because they do it for you. You don’t have to go on supply runs because they take care of it, they take care of you. And it’s never mattered whether it’s just been the five of you out there alone, or if you were banding together with other survivors; that’s never changed – no matter how many dirty looks it earned you from the others.

You are their responsibility, but in return, you do what they tell you without question.

But this–

This isn’t like that. This isn’t you begging Iwaizumi to take you with him on perimeter patrol because you’ve been cooped up for what feels like weeks, or pouting because they’re deliberately keeping things from you again.

And maybe they have kept you in the dark, but you’re not blind and you’re not stupid. The reality of this situation hasn’t escaped you.

The sanctuary’s overrun, and if – when – Iwa, Makki and Mattsun make it back, they’ll be walking into an ambush. Even if by some miracle they do manage to all make it out unscathed and somehow figure out a way to pick up your trail, there’s no telling how long it’ll take for them to find their way back to you.

(You can’t bear to think about the possibility of them not coming home; you won’t.)

Right now, it’s just you and Oikawa, stuck in some abandoned cottage in the middle of nowhere with nothing but a rifle and a baseball bat between you. You have no food, no supplies and he’s getting weaker by the minute.

You’re terrified.

And you don’t have the luxury of sitting back and letting somebody else take care of you anymore. You don’t stand a chance of survival without Oikawa, and right now he doesn’t stand a chance without you.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you shake your head. “Okay, I won’t touch it, but I’m not just going to sit here and watch you get worse.” Smoothing your palms over your lap, you take a deep breath in through your nose. “There’s a prison–”

“No.”

“Tooru–”

“I said no,” he snaps.

Biting back a sigh, you try again, “Tooru, there might be supplies there,” you plead. “Painkillers, antibiotics, something that might help–”

“I don’t need antibiotics and you’re not leaving. We need to stay here where it’s safe until the others find us,” he grits out, eyes narrowing dangerously.

Normally, this would be the point that you’d back off, running off to lick your wounds before he decided to get mean, but even as some part of you cowers at the mere thought of upsetting him, this time you don’t back down.

He watches warily as you lean over, pressing a kiss to his cheek, gently smoothing damp brown locks back from his sweat slicked forehead. “I don’t know when Iwa’s coming back,” you murmur. “But until he does, the prison’s our best chance, if I can just–”

“No!” he snarls, cutting you off once again.

His eyes are manic now, blown wide and glazed over, he’s shivering, his breath a faint rattle – but his grip is iron, long fingers clutching at you desperately when you jerk back with a gasp.

“You don’t leave me.”

You don’t want to.

It’d be easy not to, to sit and stay with him and pretend that your world isn’t falling apart and he isn’t dying. You’ve never been a fighter, always too soft, too weak, too naive to survive out there on your own. The thought of setting one foot outside of that door without him by your side fills you with absolute terror, but what other options do you have?

He might not like it, but you’re out of time – this decision isn’t his to make anymore.

“Tooru, I-I have to, you know–”

“No!” he snaps, dragging you closer. “You’re not leaving me, I won’t fucking let you!”

Your hand trembles when you reach up to take his, easing it from your shirt and bringing it to your lips. Tears spill from your lashes, falling in heavy droplets against the back of his hand as Oikawa makes a pained sound.

“Please don’t go.”

You both know he can’t stop you.

“Keep the gun,” you tell him, mustering up a tight, watery smile. “Anything but Iwa and our boys comes through that door, shoot it.”

—

It seems a cruel, twisted joke that you find a perfectly good truck sitting a little ways up the driveway, just begging to be used – with no way of getting it started.

Mattsun always made hot wiring look so easy, tossing you a wink when the engine rumbled to life, as if it was a neat little party trick he’d pulled out just to impress you. He did it so quickly, so smoothly, ripping the wires out and sparking them like it was second nature, but he’d never bothered to actually explain what he was doing to you.

And why would he? Between the four of them, there’d always be somebody else to take care of it for you. It’s the same reason they never taught you how to shoot, never taught you how to fight beyond the very basics of self defence.

Now, trudging along the side of the barren road with nothing but your baseball bat and a canteen of water slung over your hip, you find yourself wishing you’d paid a little more attention. Ten miles hadn’t seemed that far on paper – it was less than the trek back into town and you’d figured a safer bet, but walking around in broad daylight without any kind of real protection feels like you’re begging to be preyed upon. Yet by some stroke of luck (and despite that persistent nagging sense that you’re being watched) you manage to make it to the perimeter gates without coming across another soul, dead or alive.

The towering brick walls topped with spirals of barbed wire that line the prison complex are as imposing as they are unbreachable, and for a moment, standing there staring up at them, you feel a crushing sense of disappointment. You’ve walked over two hours, left Tooru in pain and alone for nothing. There’s no way in hell you’re gonna be able to scale those walls, and without any kind of bolt cutters or firepower, you’re not sure how you’re supposed to get past the front gates.

Iwa would’ve known that. Iwa would’ve been better prepared.

But as you draw closer to the guardhouse, you’re pleasantly surprised to find that it’s not a problem. The heavy wrought iron gate’s already unlocked and open, creaking in the breeze. And really, that should have been the first warning sign, but you’re too busy thanking your lucky stars as you slide on through to pay attention to things like that.

The courtyard is just as deserted. The crunch of gravel underfoot echoes too loud, setting your nerves on edge as you make your way towards the imposing structure. It’s quiet, eerily so – even the birds seem to have disappeared. Is this how all raids feel, you wonder as you climb the steps towards the door. This sense of foreboding dread that settles in your stomach, the goosebumps that prickle down your arms?

Your grip tightens around the handle of your bat and you press gingerly against the door – just like the guardhouse gate, it gives under your touch, swinging open wide. It’s dark inside; you hadn’t thought to bring a torch and with the absence of any windows lining the corridor it’s near pitch black. Your heart hammers inside your chest, every cell in your body screaming at you to turn around and run back to Tooru, but you’ve come this far already.

The undead flock to fresh, living meat. It’s been months since the outbreak began; anyone unfortunate enough to have found themselves trapped inside when it happened is probably long dead, and any of the undead likely long gone.

It’s just a little darkness.

Steeling your nerves you creep through the black, clutching tightly at your bat, toeing your way down the corridor waiting for your eyes to adjust to the dim. Every breath you draw in feels too loud, every step too obnoxious. Deserted or not, the sooner you can find the med-bay, get what you need for Oikawa and get out, the better.

The layout’s simple enough – five looming multi-storied wings breaking off like fingers from the central watch-tower, but you don’t have a clue which one holds what you’re seeking. Your only option is to search them one by one and hope for the best.

You’d expected steel bars and heavy locks, but the prison reminds you strangely of a school instead; long hallways lined with doors, each with a tiny window to peek through. They’re all open now of course, whatever locking mechanism keeping them shut having failed when the generators ran out. The first few are empty, barren and stripped of everything but soiled mattresses – it should be a relief.

There’s nothing waiting for you in the darkness but empty halls and emptier rooms. If the others were here, they’d be teasing you for sure. Or Makki and Mattsun would, at least. You always were such a scared little baby – their scared little baby – you’d jump at your own shadow if you didn’t have them around.

And it’s easier to keep going imagining them there by your side, the jokes they’d crack, the warmth of Iwa’s hand in yours, or Makki’s arm slung over your shoulder. You’d feel safe with them. You wouldn’t need to feel afraid.

But no amount of pretend comfort is enough to allay the heavy sense of dread that’s sitting in your stomach, growing harder and harder to ignore with every passing minute. And the problem, you realise, with the prison being so deadly quiet is that every noise, no matter how quiet, echoes.

Climbing the stairs in the dark, you don’t notice the slickness on the walls either side of you, the red handprints smeared messily over white paint. You don’t see the broken, bloody fingernails littering the steps beneath you.

You hear it though, when you reach the landing. It’s soft. A quiet, wet squelching, ripping–

There’s no screams accompanying it like there were back when the sanctuary was overrun, but it’s not a sound you’re gonna be able to forget any time soon. In the dark you freeze, not daring to so much as breathe as you peer down the endless corridor, trying to pinpoint which of the cells it’s coming from.

In the end, you decide that it doesn’t matter.

They’re quicker when they’ve fed, stronger too, and there’s not a chance in hell that you’re going to be able to fumble past in the dark without drawing that thing’s attention. The wooden bat in your hands feels heavy, your palms already slick with sweat. You weren’t quick enough back at the sanctuary; without Tooru, that thing would’ve eaten you. And suddenly it seems laughable that you came out here, that you genuinely thought you could handle this – fight one of them off if it came down to it.

Tooru needs those meds, you know that, and you might be useless and weak and absolutely paralysed with fear, but you’re not stupid. You can’t help him at all if you’re torn apart by one of those creatures.

Your pulse racing, a potent mix of adrenaline and sheer, unrelenting terror coursing through your veins, you draw in a quiet breath, slowly lifting your foot to back away. It hasn’t heard you yet, and so long as it’s distracted–

“Oi, hurry up! I know what I saw, she came in this way.”

“Jesus, just shut up for a sec, wouldja! Ya don’t need to keep yellin’ at me, I’m comin’!”

Through the grate at your feet, you see two beams of light break through the darkness, the sound of loud, heavy footsteps echoing down the wing. Icy claws tighten like a vice around your heart and you still once more, squeezing your eyes shut as you listen, praying…

The squelching’s stopped.

Grip tight around the handle of your bat, your entire body quaking with fear, you watch with wide, stricken eyes as one of the doors halfway down the block slowly creaks outwards.

For a heartbeat, there’s nothing, and you try and convince yourself it’s just the wind, that you’re imagining things and your mind is playing mean tricks on you–

A feral snarl rips through the air, and before you can so much as scream it’s crashing through the open doorway, head swivelling as it searches for the source of the disturbance. In the dark you can’t make out much, only that it’s huge, half its flesh torn and decaying, smeared with blood and filth – but you see it when those white, cloudy eyes fix on you, its rotting mouth bared and salivating.

And this time you do scream. You scream for Oikawa, for Iwa, for Makki and Mattsun and the faceless strangers on the floor below as you cast your bat aside and run. You don’t dare look over your shoulder as you take the stairs two, three at a time, slipping and slamming into the stairwell wall, a sharp burst of pain radiating down your shoulder – you can hear it giving chase, the rabid growls and snarls too close for comfort.

Tears flood your eyes, your chest heaving with every desperate breath as your feet hit solid ground once more and you take off.

“Please!” you sob as you run, blinded by the brightness of the torch beam as it’s shone in your direction. “PLEASE HELP ME!”

You can’t outrun it forever. Even now, you hear it gaining on you, its hot, foul breath puffing against your back – it’s just like back at the sanctuary. It’s gonna catch you, rip into you and feast while you choke to death on your own blood and screams, and this time you won’t have Oikawa here to save you. You’re going to die in agony, torn apart and devoured, and it’s all your own stupid fault.

Your throat tightens, more tears springing free. You can’t see anything beyond those two blinding lights, moving now, dancing across the field of your vision. “PLEASE!” you shriek, desperate and hoarse as the undead creature behind you readies itself to pounce.

Please don’t leave me here to die.

And for one heart wrenching second, you think back to your boys, and the words they’d said before kissing you goodbye. Everybody else first. Maybe this is some kind of divine retribution, you think. Maybe when the world went to hell people became cold and selfish and you deserve this for sitting back and letting others die in your place.

“Get down!” the voice yells, and you don’t even stop to think before you drop, sliding across the floor. There’s another blinding flash, a shot fired into the dark and all you can do is squeeze your eyes shut and hug your knees to your chest as the creature snarls in anger and jerks backwards, a gruesome spurt of blood spraying over you.

“Ya fucking missed! How could ya fucking miss?!”

The gun cocks and reloads, another deafening shot ringing out above you and you flinch, your nails biting into the soft skin of your palm–

But this time the bullet hits its mark. The creature crashes to the floor with a loud thump and doesn’t move again.

You don’t waste a second scrambling to your feet, launching yourself into the arms of your saviour. You don’t care that you’re crying, that you’re covered in blood and filth and god knows what else, you cling to him like he’s a lifeline, sobbing into his shoulder. And instead of pushing you away like he probably should, he lets out a short huff that sounds almost like a laugh, his arm curling around your waist.

“I’m the one who shot the damn thing,” the other mutters sourly.

The man holding you snorts, “Nah, yer the idiot who missed.” Belatedly, you realise that he’s still gripping his gun, the brightness you’d assumed to have come from a torch actually from a light mounted to the barrel. He slings the rifle carelessly over his shoulder, drawing back slightly to appraise you. “Now, wanna tell me what a sweet thing like you’s doin’ all alone in a place like this?”

With your eyes now adjusting to the light, you can see that the two of them can’t be much older than you. They’re both tall, broad shouldered and handsome, the same jawline, the same slope to their nose, nearly identical hooded eyes – brothers you decide, maybe even twins. And they’re both smirking at you, not with the relief of just barely escaping a brush with a particularly gruesome death, but with an odd sort of lackadaisical amusement, as if this – skulking through dark, abandoned places, killing the undead – is nothing out of the ordinary for them.

And from the ease with which they carry their weapons, maybe it isn’t.

Oikawa warned you about men like them. Men in general, really. Even the ones who smiled at you back at the sanctuary, the ones who offered to help you move heavy supplies when they saw you struggling – at least, until Iwa or one of the others stepped in with a poisonous glare. Anyone who wasn’t them was dangerous, a threat, just waiting in the wings to take advantage of a pretty, dumb little thing like you.

And maybe he’s right, but when the one holding you instead drags you closer, wraps an arm around your shoulders and begins to lead you back towards the guard tower as his brother falls into step on your other side, you don’t shrug him off.

Oikawa isn’t here, and they have just saved your life. That has to count for something, right?

“I-I thought it’d be safe,” you confess breathlessly, trying not to focus on the thumb sweeping over the curve of your shoulder. “Well, empty at least. I didn’t have a choice.” And they listen, sharing glances in the dark as you tell them about what’d happened at the sanctuary, about Oikawa and the desperation that’d led you to leave him and walk miles alone to try and find some kind of medicine–

Until a snicker interrupts you. “Sorry,” the blonde mutters, though he doesn’t look all that sincere when your eyes flash to his. “It’s just…”

“Anythin’ worth taking woulda been snatched up months ago,” the darker haired one interjects.

“There ain’t nothin’ here but the occasional idiot tryna set up camp an’… Well, ya saw how well that turned out.”

It hits you like a gut punch, forcing the air from your lungs in a harsh, gasping breath. There was never anything here, everything… all of it was a waste. You came all this way, left him feverish and screaming himself hoarse for you, risked your life, almost died and–

It was all for nothing.

Fresh tears sting at your eyes, they’re still talking but it’s just white noise washing over you. You don’t even realise they’re leading you back outside until you’re walking through the doors, the sudden burst of sunlight making you flinch. But it doesn’t matter. None of it matters anymore.

You’re an idiot.

A naive, dumb little girl who was stupid enough to think this half cocked plan was gonna work. That you would make it back to Tooru in one piece, medicine in hand to save the day and prove you weren’t the helpless damsel they’d pegged you for.

You’ve wasted so much time, for nothing.

There’s no drugs, no food, nothing that’s gonna help either one of you make it through the next few days and suddenly you’re drowning under a wave of hopelessness and bitter disappointment. You fall to your knees in the dirt, taking both your saviours by surprise, and let out a painful, heart wrenching sob. And once you start, you can’t seem to stop. It’s overwhelming, every emotion you’ve bottled up and shoved aside over the last two days suddenly forced into the light. You cry for yourself, for Tooru – for Iwa and Makki and Mattsun. You cry until it feels like you can’t breathe anymore, and then there’s rough calloused fingers brushing your tears away.

You look up through wet lashes to find the dark-haired man crouching before you, his expression sober. “Ya don’t need to cry, sweetheart, we’re not monsters y’know.”

His brother chuckles behind you, “We’re not about to leave some pretty little thing all alone out here to starve to death.” His hand’s resting atop your head now, smoothing down the hair at your crown. It’s soft and soothing, and you’re so attuned to seeking comfort that you can’t help but lean into it, eyes momentarily fluttering shut. “We’ve got some friends nearby, a nice little hideaway stocked full of all kinds of shit. Everything ya could possibly need.”

“Y-you mean it?” you ask, wide eyes flickering to the dark haired one, who smiles at last. “You’ll share them with me?”

“‘Course we do. Meds, food, weapons. Whatever ya want, it’s yours.”

You take the hand he offers to help you stand, your limbs trembling once more – but this time it’s not from fear or exhaustion, but the overwhelming rush of sheer relief. You could kiss him, kiss them both, but you don’t.

Instead you settle for throwing your arms around them once more, breathless thanks falling from your lips faster than they can catch as you hug them tight. They don’t seem to mind though, sharing almost identical smirks as the three of you head out to an old, beat up camaro parked out by the entrance to the prison. While the blonde slides in the driver’s seat and his brother takes the passenger’s side, you climb up into the back seat.

“Is it far?” you ask as he kicks the car into gear and peels out onto the deserted road. Hopefully it’s not, the sooner you can get back to help Tooru the better.

“Nah, not too far. We’ll be home before ya know it.”

Of course, they’re driving you to their friends, but they haven’t promised anything about driving you back to the cottage and Oikawa–

Which is perfectly fine! You’re not going to push your luck, they’re already doing plenty for you. More than they really have to. You don’t even need that much – just some medicine for Tooru and enough food for the two of you to get through the next few days, and you’ll be fine. Whatever you can carry, which, admittedly isn’t much. There’s still a few hours of daylight left, if you’re lucky you’ll be able to make it back to him before nightfall.

Things are gonna be fine. You’ll bring the medicine and once he’s better, the two you can head out to find the others. Everything’s gonna be okay. You’ll be better when you’re all back together, the way things were meant to be.

You need them, if anything this little venture’s proven that much at least.

They’d promised that it wasn’t far, and maybe it’s just the exhaustion of the last few days creeping in, or the gentle hum of the engine as the car drives along the long, narrow stretch of road, but your eyelids start to droop, your breath evening out as sleep beckons.

And you’re just dancing on the edge of consciousness when a hushed voice breaks through the comfortable silence, dark eyes flickering up to watch your slumbering form in the rearview mirror. “Ya think Kita’ll be pissed?”

There’s a snort, “Nah. He’s always had a soft spot for strays, ‘specially the pretty ones.” He’s quiet for a moment, almost contemplative before he opens his mouth to add, “‘Sides, we’re gonna take real good care of her, ain’t we, Samu?”

The only reply he gives is a soft grunt of acknowledgement.

#yandere haikyuu #yandere oikawa x reader #yandere atsumu x reader #yandere osamu x reader #yandere iwaizumi x reader #yandere matsukawa x reader #yandere hanamaki x reader #tw blood #tw gore #angst #toxic relationships #i honestly do not know how to tag this #at this point it's practically sfw #if you ignore all the blood and injuries and zombie stuff

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angstyaches · 3 years

Text

Go To Him

For the love of god will someone just take care of this boy -

CW: nightmare with body horror elements, anxiety, nausea, confusion and muddled thoughts, fever, the babe is generally ✨unwell✨, reference to grief for a parent, angst

___

Shayne had dreamt of his voice since the first time Charlie had ever tried to comfort him. Ever since he learned that his name could be said with something other than disgust or reluctance, he’d heard himself being called from all corners of the earth as he slept. Ever since he learned that hands could be used for holding, not just for pinning down and hurting, he’d reached for them under the sheets, often failing to find them.

Ever since he started to consider that there was more to life than what he’d been raised for, his dreams had been in colour. This dream was green.

The grass was dark and glistening with fallen rain as clouds gathered and promised that more would fall. The freezing cold jar lay emptily in his hands, its weight boring into his skin and searing its meaning into him. This is what you are. His jaw ached from being unhinged, and it snapped sharply as he tried to stretch it out. The jar fell from his hands as he clutched at it, terrified that his whole head might fall apart under the force of the pain.

He wanted to call out for Charlie. He was scared and confused and hurting, and Charlie always seemed to ease those feelings.

But when his jaw clicked into place, he opened his mouth and he said his own name instead. Or rather, something said his name through his mouth, but it wasn’t his voice.

“Shayne,” it said softly, and he clutched at his own throat as something else grabbed at it from the inside. “Let me out.”

///

He woke like he’d been stunned, lying rigid at the edge of the bed as his eyes stared widely across the room. For a moment – a nice one, in retrospect – he couldn’t remember why he’d woken, but when he did, it hit hard.

He stumbled into the bathroom, hands shaking and shoulder colliding with the doorframe on the way. One hand was pressed to his stomach and he was already doubled over before he reached the toilet.

Get it out, get it out, get it out of me, he almost cried, forcing out sobs and dry heaves that jerked him further forward across the toilet seat. He realised that the it in his plea had almost been a him, he’d almost called the demon a him, a familiar him, a beloved him –

And then he remembered that it was a dream.

“Fuck,” he gasped, closing his eyes in relief. The tension left him so quickly he swore he felt every one of his joints pop. It was a dream, it was a dream; there was nothing in his stomach that had the ability to talk back to him, and it was certainly not Charlie Two. It’d been days since he’d even devoured a demon.

When he was able to stand, he leaned over the sink and sipped some running water, hoping it would calm his stomach rather than agitate it. In the mirror, he looked more washed-out than he usually did between devouring. His ears were ringing, and his chest hurt, probably from waking up with such intense anxiety. It was as though the nightmare had carved something out of him, left him longing in a way he wasn’t used to, and the first thing he found when he followed that thread of emotion was Mum, I want my mum. A sharp pain rose in his throat at the thought and he quickly smothered it, and the next one was of Charlie.

Charlie. Something might have happened to him. Right? It made perfect sense in the moment, while his body was shaking, and his head felt like a swamp. Maybe the dream was supposed to be a sign or a warning or a –

And the next thought was so crazy and obvious that he shook his head at it, refused to meet his own gaze in the mirror, fearing he would all too easily talk himself out of it.

Go to him.

___

Shayne was used to pain and general unpleasantness in his body. He was never surprised when a demon tried to claw its way out of him, turning his stomach and burning his throat with bile and making him throw up all kinds of crap as its essence broke up inside of him.

But he wasn’t familiar with this different sort of ache that was crawling up his chest and throat. Instead of something that rushed like a waterfall, this was more like a glacier, sending chills through his organs and making him shudder involuntarily. He missed his bed and his hot water bottle. Hell, he would have accepted a burning-hot hug from Elliott if he’d been there. And he absolutely wished he’d worn something more than just a t-shirt and his leather jacket.

No doubt he was isolated on the train because people were taking one glance and deciding that he had some kind of plague. Not that he was complaining about that. What he could have complained about, however, was the swirling nausea in his belly that he couldn’t find any relief from, the pressure in his head that made his ears ring, the grating agony in his lungs and throat. When he looked out the window at the dark countryside passing by, the undersides of his eyes were black in his reflection.

Finally, finally, he heard the name of a familiar stop. His legs were next to useless as he attempted to get to the door of the train, resting his head against a wall as he waited for it to stop, for the doors to open, and he damn-near almost fell asleep on his feet.

___

He’d forgotten his phone, he realised as he stood in the entranceway of the train station. Then again, he couldn’t forget something he’d never intended to bring in the first place. The thought just hadn’t occurred to him, not even while he’d been scribbling down a quick explanation for Felix and Elliott so that they’d know where he’d gone.

He remembered the way to the Waters’ new house from the station, even though he had been in a car last time he’d come; but it was bucketing down rain and he didn’t have so much as a hood to pull up.

He wondered if he’d have called Charlie at that point, if he could, and asked him to come and get him. Probably not. That would mean putting him out even more than he was already planning to.

The rain made itself part of his clothes so quickly he might as well have gone swimming in them.

___

Evening was closing in on the housing estate when he got there, after what felt like hours but was probably only one in reality. The curtains were drawn in the front room, leaving a faint glow around the edges to indicate life inside. Shayne’s breath stuck in his throat as he stepped onto the porch, finally out of the downpour.

He couldn’t believe how uncomfortable his eyes felt in his head, how high the pain had risen in his throat, how shaky his limbs were. He was starting to wonder if this whole day had been an extension of that messed-up dream. Charlie would know. Charlie would tell him why he was feeling like this…

Charlie would make it better...

The doorbell faded in and out of his vision, and the first time he reached for it, his palm touched the glass pane of the door instead. Shit. If his throat and mouth and chest hadn’t felt so unbearably dry, he’d have thought he was about to throw up. It was stupid, actually, how dry and hot he felt inside while his outsides were drenched.

Shayne tried for the doorbell again, succeeding in ringing it this time. Doubt crept up his spine as droplets of rain fell from his hair and down his face. He was suddenly nervous on top of everything else, the sensation gnawing at his gut. He hadn’t thought about what he was going to say; thinking usually felt like taking steps through his thoughts, but right now it was like trying to tread water with weights tied to his feet.

He folded his arms tightly around himself, grimacing against the urge to just curl up on the doorstep and cry until someone came to get him.

The door clicked as it unlocked.

“Shayne!” Trevor exclaimed as he opened it. Shayne couldn’t tell if it was a question or not. “What are – what are you doing here?”

Ingrid came to the door too, when she heard her husband’s voice rise. Her eyes were wide and so was her mouth, as she pulled the front of her dressing gown more firmly around herself with folded arms.

“Sweetie, it’s lashing rain!” she exclaimed, peering out past the doorstep as though checking the driveway and sidewalk for a car. “Did you walk here from the station?”

“I-I – yeah, I heard – I heard from Charlie… kind of, not really, and… and… well, it was a dream, but he was – I h-hurt him, or it - it was a demon, I just don’t… I-I mean, I think it was just – just a nightmare, but they’re – the demons, my foster parents, everything’s – maybe…”

Shayne heard it, he heard how awful his voice sounded through his battered throat, and how little sense he was making, but he couldn’t seem to stop talking.

“And… and I had to see him, I’m – I know it’s late and it’s n-not okay to just show up uninvited, but I was s-so fucking worried about – sorry. Shit, I-I didn’t m-mean to swear just now, I…”

Both their faces fell as he stopped talking, and his stomach did too.

“Shayne, sweetie,” Ingrid said. “Charlie doesn’t live here.”

It took the words a moment to penetrate the fog in Shayne’s head and click into place. The way the two of them were standing in the doorway suddenly made sense, their shoulders tensed and their bodies forming a barrier he couldn’t cross. He wasn’t a guy coming to see his friend, he was a guy trying to get into their home on a random, rainy night.

“He…” Shayne blinked and felt himself start to sway.

“He didn’t tell you?” Trevor demanded incredulously, the rise in his voice making Shayne flinch. “He went back to Mulberry after the holidays. He’s finishing school there.”

“I… no, he’s…” Shayne’s skin tingled with hot-and-cold panic, his ears rang with in trouble, in trouble, you’re in trouble. He lowered his gaze, looking at how the rain lay in patches on the painted floorboards in the porch, carried there by the wind, or by him. “No, I’m – I’m s-sorry, I didn’t...”

He felt Charlie’s parents stare at him for a few moments longer before the embarrassment settled firmly in the pit of his stomach. And when it did, it made every hair on his body bristle, made the tears finally spring to his eyes, made his shoulders lift stiffly towards his ears.

“S-sorry,” he choked out, stepping back from the door. “I – I’ll just…”

“Sweetie,” Ingrid sighed, reaching into the rain to pull him back onto the porch. “At least come inside and get dry. One of us will drive you back to the station.”

Shayne whimpered at the hand gripping his upper arm, fear crawling into the space where anger usually flared whenever he was grabbed. He was too exhausted to fight or struggle, and he didn’t want to fight Ingrid anyway.

“Oh, my god.” Ingrid lifted her hand, and Shayne flinched, the fog in his brain making him think that he was going to be slapped. Instead, she brushed back some dripping-wet hair, and rested a cool palm on his forehead. “Trev? I think he’s got a temperature.”

Trevor said something in response, but Shayne closed his eyes to all of it, unable to think about anything but the blissfully cool hand that was taken away again. If tears fell from his eyes, they were undistinguishable from the rainwater. The cold and the wet were seeping into his bones, his body getting ready to give up.

“Do you have a phone number for the people he’s staying with?” Trevor asked gently.

“No, but I can look up the number for his foster parents –”

“N-no,” he gasped, putting a hand to the wall again as his vision started to go black. “N-no, no, no, no, you ca-can’t call Madelyn, don’t call Madelyn, don’t tell her where I am, she’ll hu– I-I can’t let her find you, I can’t… can’t let her hurt Charlie…”

“Alright, come on, son. Come on, no – no, no, don’t collapse just yet. There you go, come on…”

There were hands on him again, but there wasn’t anything left for him to care with. All he knew was that those hands weren’t Charlie’s, they weren’t his mum’s, and that second thought stuck in the back of his throat like a shard of glass.

He was vaguely aware of being led through the house, remembered noticing when the sound of the rain faded softly into the background instead of pelting down all around him. He was handed a towel and pyjamas and shown to the bathroom, all of it tinged in warm pink tones and cold shivers. He remembered saying yes when they asked if he would be okay by himself; he was always okay by himself. He was used to being okay by himself. He wouldn’t ask for anything more, because asking led to –

“I’ll be right outside the door if you need anything.” Ingrid’s hand on his shoulder, her face slowly coming into focus for all of a few seconds. “Okay?”

“’Kay,” he whispered, the shard tightening in his throat as she left him alone in the bathroom and shut the door. His clothes were dripping, and sank heavily as he put them on the floor. The shower was already running for him, not hot enough to produce a lot of steam. Still hotter than what got at either of his vampire-run homes.

Shayne lost his breath for a moment, feeling so dizzy he thought he might pass out. He could only manage to stand under the water long enough to be sure the rainwater was washed off. The pyjama pants and hoodie that he’d been given smelled just like Charlie, which he couldn’t decide was better or worse than nothing at all. They felt crisp against his skin, he instantly knew they’d been tumble-dried.

“Are you okay?” Ingrid called through the door not long after he’d shut the water off.

“Fine,” he tried to say, but the word caught in the back of his throat and he coughed, wondering for a second if he was about to be sick. He turned towards the sink, hands shaking as he held onto it, but the clenching in his chest had nothing to do with his stomach, and everything to do with his lungs, which felt like they had a mixture of feathers and pins thrashing inside of them.

“Sweetie?” Ingrid pushed the door open a few inches. “Are you dressed? Can I come in?”

“Yeah, I-I’m…” Shayne tried to clear his throat, though he only succeeded in making his voice even more gravelly. “I’m fine, sorry.”

Ingrid put out an arm for him to hold onto as he eased himself away from the sink. He head felt like it was being balanced on a toothpick.

“Let’s get you settled in Charlie’s bed,” she said, and it took a moment for Shayne to remember that Charlie wouldn’t actually be there. “You can sleep here tonight, but we have to contact someone and let them know where you are. Won’t your aunts be worried about you?”

“I left –” Shayne winced and swallowed back the urge to cough again, not wanting to unleash whatever he was carrying so close to Ingrid. “Left a m-message for… my cousin.”

“Alright,” Ingrid said, though she sounded dubious. “If you’re feeling better tomorrow, I’ll drive you back to the train station.”

Shayne wondered what was going to happen if he didn’t feel better in the morning, because right then it felt like his brain was never going to go back to the way it had been before it had become a dense, foggy wasteland for his thoughts. He had no idea how he got up the stairs, or which of Charlie’s parents had brought him a cup of hot lemon for his throat, or at what point the tears started again, because all of a sudden he was in the middle of crying softly into a pillow that was quickly losing its pleasantly cool temperature, and he wanted his mum.

“Shayne.” Trevor’s weight dipped the side of the mattress slightly. Once again, hearing his name in a stern voice made Shayne’s anxiety spike right up, skewering everything else he was feeling.

He jumped when Trevor touched his shoulder from outside the duvet, a nervous whimper scraping at his throat.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Trevor assured him, holding a mobile phone out towards him. “Here. It’s Charlie.”

“Charlie?” Shayne’s vision blurred a little as he tried to focus on the phone. “Can… Can I talk to him?”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m giving you the phone, son.”

Shayne’s hands were shaking as he untangled an arm from the duvet. He took the phone and held it to his ear, watching as Trevor smiled and got to up leave. He held his breath for a moment, silence tickling his nerves, before some part of his fog-addled brain remembered that the person picking up the phone had to say something to let the other person know they were there.

“Hello,” he said in a tiny voice that still managed to strain his vocal cords.

“Shayne!” Charlie gasped on the other end of the phone. “Lovely, I can’t – I can’t believe you went to my parents’ place. Holy shit, are – are you okay?”

“N-no…” Shayne’s chest ached with something beyond sickness, the shivering starting up again at the sound of Charlie’s voice, probably intensified by nerves and adrenaline. “I n-needed… I thought you’d be h-here.”

“I know,” Charlie whispered, sounding like he was almost in tears himself. “I know, I know, lovely. I’m so, so sorry. I’m going to drive up first-thing tomorrow. Okay?”

“Mmm.” Shayne’s eyes closed of their own accord at the mention of sleep, his bones and his head aching to just be allowed to relax without trying to think or react to anyone. Meanwhile, his heart was clenched tight with the need to have Charlie there, to have Charlie now, and he gritted his teeth in frustration at himself. “Sorry I’m so… selfish, and childish, I-I – I don’t know what I was… thinking…”

“Selfish?”

“I want you,” Shayne breathed, burying his head lower on the pillow, blocking his own view of the room. “A-and my mum, I want my mum, Charlie…”

Charlie’s breath hitched on the phone, and he took a moment longer than usual to reply. Shayne fought back a sob, knowing that it was going to be a big one if it ever saw the light of day. He couldn’t be sure, but he couldn’t remember ever voicing those words before.

“Shayne, that’s – that’s not selfish. Okay? I promise. I – I love you so much, and I’m so fucking sorry I’m not there… I shouldn’t have lied to you about moving.”

Shayne tried to hold in the sob a little longer, but couldn’t stop his breath from hitching as coughs wracked his lungs and his frame too.

Charlie gave a quiet whimper at the sounds. “Are you okay?”

“Sorry,” Shayne choked out, brushing his cheek against the top sheet to dry off some of the tears. The phone was starting to feel clammy between his hand and his cheek. “I just really… don’t feel good.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

As he got his breathing under control, the sharpness of the chest pains faded back into a dull, scratchy ache. Shayne focused on the crisp white duvet that swallowed him almost all the way to the top of his head, on the glow from the touch-activated lamp on the bedside locker, which turned the magnolia walls a soft orange. There was a strange sort of quiet, the kind that lingered after a door was closed and voices hushed. A deliberate, crafted quiet.

“God,” Charlie whispered down the phone. “I wish I was there. I wish I could hold your hand right now.”

“Mmm,” Shayne agreed, though he reckoned his fingers wouldn’t have had the strength to stay furled around Charlie’s. What he really wanted was Charlie’s body curled around his back, and his arms holding onto him until the shaking stopped. Just the idea of it, and the presence of his voice - that voice - was like an extra layer of warmth between his skin and the bedsheets.

“I’m in bed, too... I’m going to stay on the phone until you drift off.” Charlie’s voice was falling into softer and softer whispers by the second. “And if you go for a nice, long sleep, I’ll be there when you wake up.”

Part Two: Charlie

#sickfic #fever fic #angst fic #OC sickfic #my OCs #sick boys #fever #nausea #headache #rain whump #caught in the rain trope #grief mention #hurt and comfort #hurt comfort #hurt comfort fic #sick Shayne #long post #long fic

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toomuchofabastard · 3 years

Text

O Unhappy Dagger

Fandom: Good Omens (TV)

Rating: T for violence and language

Warnings: Major Character Death, tragedy, violence, mind control, implied suicide, bonus happy ending available in linked post

Word count: 3,711 (+ 760)

Fic Summary: Crowley should have known they’d find some other way to punish him. He’d hoped – naïvely, it seemed – that they didn’t have the creativity, the almost-uniquely human sadism, to think up something like this. To realise the one vulnerability that he’d kept nestled in his heart, hidden from view.

This is my fic for @darkomenszine Vol 1! Vol 2 will be available soon if Good Omens darkfic is your thing 😈

READ ON AO3

___

The sign on the door of the bookshop read ‘closed’, but that didn’t stop Crowley.

Of course, it wouldn’t under normal circumstances, but this time was different. Rather than sauntering up to the threshold with a subtle spring in his step and a ready grin for his angel, Crowley’s heart pounded with terror as he approached the entrance to A. Z. Fell & Co. He felt as though some phantom hand had a grip around his throat, applying a pressure so crushing that he couldn’t speak and could barely breathe. What breaths he could draw were rapid with panic. His footsteps rang out against the flagstones as he strode forward – except that they weren’t his footsteps. Oh, it was his body, drawing closer and closer to the familiar doorway. But Hell’s footsteps. Hell’s oppressive malice invading every corner of his mind, and Hell making him grip the object behind his back so tightly that his knuckles hurt.

He should have known they’d find some other way to punish him. He’d hoped – naïvely, it seemed – that they didn’t have the creativity, the almost-uniquely human sadism, to think up something like this. To realise the one vulnerability that he’d kept nestled in his heart, hidden from view.

Tucked behind him, the flames continued to burn. Gripped in his hand back there was a dagger, a dark, cruel-looking thing, not just viciously sharp on its own, but also wreathed in infernal flame. The billows were gnawing away at his back, leaving his rather expensive jacket charred and ragged – not that Hell would give a blessèd fuck about that. In this moment, he didn’t either. There was only a single, dreadful thought clawing at his brain.

Infernal flame could be meant for only one thing. Aziraphale. The only thing that could kill an angel.

Crowley shuddered inwardly with revulsion at the thought. He could actually feel Hell’s evil intent coursing through him, as he ascended the steps and watched his own hand reach for the door handle. Hell’s control had overtaken him so suddenly that he hadn’t even had a chance to fight back. He kept trying to, struggling with every fibre of his being, but to no avail. He could hardly even feel his own corporation, let alone exert control, and seeing it moving against his will was intensely disturbing – violating, even. It was Hell’s way of proving that they could take whatever they wanted from him, just use him as their puppet and then discard him. It made him want to scream, but he couldn’t even do that. He felt himself push the door handle down.

Crowley stepped through the threshold and into the quiet of the bookshop. It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the cosy dimness, but then the mountains and spires of books and papers revealed themselves.

Aziraphale stood in the hollow underneath the eastern archway, facing away from Crowley. He looked completely in his element, humming distractedly to himself as he leafed through some old volume. He turned as he heard Crowley shutting the door behind himself.

“Crowley!”

The angel beamed at him, and suddenly the whole room seemed lit up from within, like the sun itself had appeared in their midst. For a brief second, the panic and revulsion in Crowley’s chest was forgotten as the luminosity of Aziraphale’s smile dazzled him. That smile – especially when meant for him – never failed to take his breath away.

Aziraphale’s gaze drifted downwards as he noticed Crowley’s hand tucked behind his back, and the angel’s eyes twinkled, creases forming at their corners as his smile grew even wider. Crowley’s heart lurched again, and the panic returned. He guessed Aziraphale was probably anticipating another box of chocolates, or a nice bottle of wine for them both to share – the sort of surprise Crowley might often reveal with a sly smile, to be met by a paroxysm of delighted wiggles. He was painfully aware of how unlikely it was that Aziraphale would ever even suspect that what was really hidden there was not a doting treat, but a weapon of evil, meant specifically for him.

At his back, the flames had scorched their way through both layers of his jacket and shirt, and were beginning to lick painlessly against the bare skin along his spine. They didn’t leave any marks. Infernal flame could glance off of his corporation just like beads of water off a duck’s back – the perks of being demonic in nature – but Crowley knew it would be devastating to angelic flesh. That knowledge terrified him.

He felt his body start to slink loosely across the room towards the angel, the disobedient muscles and sinews of his legs dragging him involuntarily closer and closer. Run, angel! He tried to scream at Aziraphale, but the words choked in his throat, only echoing emptily inside his mind. His heart was clenched so tight with dread as he approached that he could swear it was no longer beating. Not that Hell needed it to be. Apparently they could twist and use his unwilling body however they liked now, whether it was still functioning or not.

Aziraphale’s eyebrows creased into a puzzled frown as Crowley moved nearer, the smile freezing slightly on his face. The real Crowley would have said something by now, or revealed the gift, or at least returned a crooked grin, rather than the blank expression he could feel was fixed on his face. He was almost surprised the angel couldn’t smell the burning coming from his clothes, but it seemed Aziraphale had eyes only for him.

“What’s wrong, dear boy?” Aziraphale asked as Crowley drew near to him, a light note of concern in his voice.

Angel, it’s not me, Crowley responded desperately inside his head. He felt himself step close. Please run. Please get away from me. Aziraphale stayed where he was. Why wouldn’t he? His trust in Crowley had always been complete, whether Crowley felt he deserved that or not.

Behind his back, Crowley’s fingers flexed on the grip of the dagger and began to draw it out from its hiding place. No no no, Crowley thought. Don’t make me do this. He fought again to regain control of his own arm, but could only watch as it rose menacingly of its own accord.

“Crowley–?” Aziraphale began, sounding shocked, and he was suddenly cut off as Crowley slashed the blade forwards towards his neck.

The chorus of screams in Crowley’s head crescendoed. No!

Aziraphale stumbled backwards out of range – thank Satan – but Crowley found himself quickly attacking again, this time trying for a low, plunging blow to the angel’s stomach. Aziraphale managed to squirm out of the way and the knife sliced instead through the back of his coat, only missing his skin by a hair’s breadth. The acrid stench of burning filled Crowley’s nose again.

“Crowley! What are you doing?” Aziraphale’s voice was aghast as he tried to retreat from Crowley’s oncoming assault. Panic and confusion contorted his face, and he held his hands up in front of him, as if in surrender. “S–Stop!”

Crowley wanted nothing more, but apparently the powers controlling him weren’t going to take that for an answer. The awful marionette of his body continued its relentless advance, numb to his attempts to reassert control, as he pursued the angel speechlessly around the bookshop. He could barely sense anything except for the throbbing echo of his heart as it hammered inside him, and the all-encompassing reek of fire and burning and smoke. That smell sent him almost blind with fear as his worst associations with it invaded his mind. Burning, burning; everything burning. The bookshop was burning, and Aziraphale was lost forever. The world was ending, the ground shaking itself apart, flames spilling up from the cracks. Plummeting downwards through wings of fire. Visions of what infernal flame could do to flesh, the screaming and the sizzling… His own screams reverberated inside his skull.

Aziraphale continued to back away from him, dodging or shrinking from each attack, but Crowley knew – and Aziraphale must also – that he couldn’t evade forever.

He’d never seen Aziraphale look so afraid of him. It was horrific. Just as much as with terror, the angel’s gleaming eyes were wide with disbelief, desperately searching Crowley’s for understanding as he was backed into a corner, clearly unable to conceive that Crowley could do this to him. Even if he could have got them out, Crowley didn’t have the words to reassure him.

The blade in his hand swung up again and speared downwards towards Aziraphale’s face. This time, Aziraphale was able to grab Crowley’s wrist and stop its path, though the point hovered fearfully close to his tearful eyes. Crowley felt the angel’s considerable strength pushing back against him, but the determination he was being filled with was enough to match him. They grappled for a moment.

“Crowley, stop!” Aziraphale begged, his voice cracking with a sob. “Please, I–I don’t want to hurt you!”

Oh fuck, hurt me, angel, Crowley thought, do whatever, just don’t let me–!

His pleas were interrupted as his traitorous body shoved Aziraphale roughly away, freeing himself from the angel’s grip. Aziraphale staggered backwards, and then tripped on the corner of a stack of books and fell down heavily onto his backside. Crowley advanced. Aziraphale still held his hands up in front of him, the heels of his oxfords scraping vainly against the floorboards as he kept trying to shuffle away. Tears were running like dewdrops down his cheeks.

Crowley lunged down onto him and thrust the knife at his breast. Aziraphale caught it again and they struggled against each other, Crowley pressing his whole weight down as the tip hovered perilously above the angel’s chest. The flames from the blade flowed up Crowley’s straining arms until he could feel them licking monstrously at the edges of his cheekbones. His teeth were gritted together. Then, underneath the flicker of the flames, he began to feel a hum vibrating up through him from where Aziraphale’s hands gripped his wrists. His heart pounded harder as he recognised the feeling of divine power – the angel’s – flowing out from the place where they were connected and fusing into him. It stung, but it wasn’t enough yet to smite him – although if Aziraphale kept pressing, he knew it would be.

“Please,” Aziraphale whispered at him. He stared up, distraught, into Crowley’s eyes. Crowley could feel him holding back the full surge of what he was capable of.

Do it, angel!, he tried to yell. Goddammit, just do it!

I’d rather be dead than spill a drop of your blood anyway.

The knife-point inched dangerously closer to the angel’s chest. Aziraphale let out another sob, but his grip on Crowley’s wrists tightened, and then his watery blue irises slowly vanished as brilliant light began to pour out of his eyes.

Crowley felt the light build inside him; scorching hot and bitingly cold at the same time, blinding white. It hurt – fuck, it hurt – but the immense feeling of relief overwhelmed the pain. Hell’s power was ebbing away, banished back into the darkness and out of his body as the light invaded. It was going to be ok. Well, he was going to die now, or whatever the equivalent process was for demons, but that was ok. Dying at Aziraphale’s hands – and in order to protect him, even if from himself – wasn’t such a bad way to go.

Suddenly, an inhuman snarl cut through his thoughts. It took Crowley a moment to realise that it had come from somewhere inside of him. Aziraphale jolted with surprise at the sound and the light wavered for an instant. It was all Hell needed.

With fiery fury, Hell’s control rushed back into Crowley, throwing him almost into a spasm as it gripped his body again. His blood seemed to ignite as it ripped through him. As his mouth opened in a silent scream, the blade in his hands dropped downwards and pierced through the angel’s breast.

No.

A gurgled cry slipped from Aziraphale’s throat, and his eyes widened in shock, his grip on Crowley’s arm clenching.

No.

As quickly as Hell’s power had overtaken Crowley, it vanished, leaving him empty. Crowley thought he could hear a triumphant laugh echo in his head as it fled.

No.

The blinding light faded away from Aziraphale’s eyes, revealing again his blue irises; full of pain, the only light in them now the glimmer of his tears and the reflection of the cursed flames burning in his chest.

For a few moments, Crowley, petrified with shock, could only return his stare. Then suddenly, his senses rushed back to him and he noticed his hands still gripping the fiery blade which was buried in his angel’s body. He hastily ripped it out – causing Aziraphale to let out another strangled cry – and flung it aside.

“Oh shit,” he gasped, scrambling over to cradle Aziraphale in his arms. The angel jerked away as Crowley lifted him into his lap, though whether from the pain of the movement or from fear of him, Crowley didn’t know. He pulled Aziraphale close and cradled his head to him, one hand in the back of his blonde curls. Aziraphale gazed up at him, his expression heartbroken and disbelieving, as he tried to gasp for breath.

“Angel!” Crowley began, finally able to use his voice again. “Angel, I–I didn’t mean to– it–it wasn’t me, I didn’t–… oh, fuck.” His free hand fumbled aimlessly around the wound in Aziraphale’s chest, as if trying to close it up. Golden blood quickly coated his palm and smeared messily across Aziraphale’s waistcoat, but worse was the infernal glow that smouldered at the edges of the wound, slowly infecting its way into the angel’s being. Deep down, Crowley knew that the damage was already done. God, how could he have done this?

“I’m sorry,” he gasped at Aziraphale. “I’m so sorry. It–it wasn’t me!” He didn’t know how else to explain it. “Hell, they– I– … I’m so sorry, angel.”

Slowly, a flush of understanding dawned in Aziraphale’s eyes, and the horror faded, but then they quickly scrunched closed, his face twisting as another spasm of pain convulsed through him. Crowley could only hold him close until it had passed.

Aziraphale coughed weakly and his eyes opened again. “It–it’s alright,” he stuttered, and then reached a trembling hand up to caress the side of Crowley’s face. Crowley’s heart flipped as the angel’s fingertips brushed lightly against his cheek. “Crowley…” Aziraphale murmured. His voice was already growing distant, the light in his eyes beginning to dim.

“No, sshsssh, don’t… don’t try to talk,” Crowley gulped, absently stroking the angel’s forehead. He clasped Aziraphale’s hand in his and squeezed it tight. “It’s ok. It’s gonna be ok, just– just hold on, yeah?”

Would it? His heart pounding in his chest knew otherwise, and Aziraphale didn’t look fooled either.

The angel was suddenly seized with another fit of agony, and this time a few tiny shining flecks of blood appeared on his lips as he coughed and spluttered. A poorly-stifled groan left his mouth between the wheezing breaths.

Crowley cast his eyes around the room desperately as Aziraphale writhed in his arms, distractedly pressing the angel’s knuckles to his lips and rubbing his fingers with his thumb, as if that would do anything to ease his pain. There was a hole ripped in his chest, burning him up from the inside. Shitshitshit. There had to be something he could do. He could fix this. Somehow. He had to. Come on! He couldn’t lose him like this.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale’s voice drifted weakly up to him again. Crowley looked down and met his watery gaze. Despite the pain, a look of peace seemed to settle on the angel’s face. A slight smile lifted the corners of his mouth and his eyes, fixed on Crowley, shone with affection, even as they dimmed further.

“I love you,” Aziraphale whispered tenderly up at him.

“No, angel, don’t say that,” Crowley hissed back. He didn’t like how final that sounded. “H–hold on, come on, you have to stay with me.” He shifted and clutched the angel closer.

Aziraphale blinked up at him like he hadn’t even heard. Then his face darkened as if in thought, his brow creasing briefly into a frown and his concerned gaze scanning Crowley’s face, before he spoke again.

“I forgive you.”

His voice, though shaky, was earnest and meaningful, full of empathy. A single tear overflowed from his eyes and slid down his still-smiling cheek.

Crowley could only shake his head, mouthing wordless no’s at the angel. He faintly felt matching tears streaming down his own face. Damn him. Dying in his arms, and he was still the one trying to offer comfort. Blessed, perceptive bastard. He knows I’ll always blame myself for this.

Even as Aziraphale’s eyes remained fixed on him, Crowley could see the focus in them wavering, dwindling away. The interval between each gasped breath the angel tried to draw in was growing longer. A precious few seconds seemed to pass like an entire lifetime, and then the gasps stopped altogether, and the light inside him finally faded away into nothing. Aziraphale went still.

“No, please,” Crowley begged. “Stay with me, angel.” Aziraphale didn’t respond.

“Come on! Aziraphale!” Crowley yelled, and shook him angrily, panting with the desperation for a response. Aziraphale’s body lolled limply. Crowley stared at the angel’s sightless eyes and something within him seemed to collapse, the anger fleeing as a wave of grief came crashing, tearing through him.

“Don’t go,” he whimpered, clasping at the side of Aziraphale’s face. His voice shook and he felt his lower lip begin to tremble uncontrollably. “Please don’t go.”

It’s too late. Crowley’s face screwed up with pain as the thought broke upon him, and he found himself crumpling, pressing his forehead close to the angel’s as choked sobs began to wrack his body. “Don’t leave me,” he snivelled quietly into him. No.

“Please!” He suddenly jolted upright and screamed up at the sky in anguish. “Don’t–…” He choked again, staring at the ceiling. Then he looked back down at Aziraphale’s body, slumped loosely in his arms, and his voice became terribly small, almost child-like. “Please don’t take him from me.”

Whatever reply he had been hoping for, none came. The bookshop was almost eerily silent around him, no sound but his own breaths echoing throughout the now empty and cold-seeming space. No one was listening to his calls, as ever. He was abandoned, cast out. There was only one person who had ever truly cared for him, and now… They’d made him kill the only person he’d ever… ever…

His eyes ran compulsively up and down the angel’s body and face again. He felt himself trembling and starting to hyperventilate, and a grief like something inside him was shattering, as he finally collapsed into Aziraphale, burying his face in his chest, and howled. He clutched brokenly at him, rocking himself through the pain, and squeezing so tight it was like he was trying to merge the angel into his own being. Wrenching, wretched sobs forced their way out of him, muffled by the angel’s breast, his whole body convulsing with the strain, and along with the cries came whimpered fragments of words; pleases and no’s and angels that tumbled feebly out of him. He had no other words left to say. He just wept – pressing his body against Aziraphale’s, with his hands gripping him close and his face burrowed into the side of his neck – until he could cry no more. And then he stayed that way for a long time.

◥|⧗|◤

Some weeks later, a dove managed to find its way into the bookshop – probably through an open window left forgotten – and flitted about in the upstairs rafters.

The fluttering of wings was enough to stir Crowley from his stupor. His closed eyelids slid sluggishly open, revealing serpentine irises dull with pain. He lay, unmoving, for several minutes on top of Aziraphale’s body. In his mind, he was trying to muster up something to think, but the grief was so crushing that it was as though all conscious thought had just been bled out of him into the dirt. He was nothing but pain.

Eventually, he slowly lifted his head and looked once more at Aziraphale’s face. In the time they’d lain there, a fine layer of dust had settled across the room, coating the angel’s body as well as his own. Aziraphale’s glazed eyes were shrouded underneath its grey film, staring up at the ceiling. It hurt to see.

It was just the husk, Crowley told himself. Only his Earthly corporation. Everything that had been his angel was long gone.

It still hurt.

Achingly, Crowley peeled himself off of Aziraphale and lurched to his knees. Looking down, he noticed the smears of golden blood – now dried to peeling flakes – all across his necktie, jacket and sleeves, mirroring the angel’s chest. His hands itched with it too. There wouldn’t be enough water in the world to wipe the feeling away.

He still had some holy water somewhere.

The thought registered suddenly, without prompting, and without emotion. Oh. Yeah. His ‘exit solution’. A way out… and maybe a way back to him.

Crowley considered that. It could be that there was no life after death for their kind, only emptiness and nothingness, but he realised that he didn’t much care either way anymore. He had a penance to pay. And he was ready to join Aziraphale, in whatever lay beyond. He nodded to himself. Yes. He’d made him wait long enough already.

Still feeling empty inside, he bent down close over Aziraphale.

“I’m coming, angel,” he whispered to him, his voice hoarse. “Wherever you are… I’m coming to you.”

He placed one final, soft-lipped, lingering kiss on Aziraphale’s forehead. He paused against him for one final moment, eyes closed, taking shaky but even breaths. Then he straightened, and rose, and then turned and headed off, in search of a tartan thermos.

◥|⧗|◤

Need a happy ending? No prob, check out the bonus one here [tumblr link]. 💙

#my fanfiction #good omens #major character death #suicide tw #whump #aziraphale!whump #crowley!whump #angst #dark omens #long post

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outlier-rookie · 3 years

Text

Of Blood And Greatness - Chapter 3

Chapter 3/?? - Settling In With Some Concerns

AO3 Link

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26305741/chapters/71331201

***

The next few chapters might be a bit slow pace wise because I want to build up a few more interactions between Reader and the Gang members. Don’t worry, we’ll get to the action soon enough.

TRIGGER WARNING: Anxiety/Panic Attack

***

“Wow (Y/N)! You’re as strong as Uncle Arthur!” (Y/N) paused long enough to shoot Jack a cheeky grin as they continued their path towards the horses, slowly carrying the last hay bale. The tall skittish fella, Kieran, had tried to offer to take the bales instead but (Y/N) was insistent that it wasn’t that heavy and they were no stranger to hard work and heavy lifting. Miss Karen had also had a good laugh with the other girls about the teen putting the likes of Bill and Sean to shame with how much heavy lifting they did around camp. Mrs. Grimshaw, as scary as she was at times, was also quick to praise (Y/N)’s hard work and help with the camp chores.

It had been a few days since everything that happened up near Cattail Pond and as the teen feared, Dutch was less than pleased with the total sum brought back to camp. But like Arthur had promised he was also understanding and despite (Y/N) feeling like they hadn’t delivered on their promise, Dutch welcomed them into the ragtag family of outlaws with a speech and fanciful words of things only getting better from here.

Still, the teen spent their days mulling over their failure with a hollow feeling sitting in the pit of their stomach. Mr. Hosea had sat next to them by the campfire one night with stew in hand and talked about nothing in particular. He started telling short stories from the gang's past and it didn’t click until the teen was falling asleep that night but the stories all had similar feelings to their blunder with the money. (Y/N) fell asleep smiling at the stars that night, putting the memory of Dutch’s ill-concealed disappointment behind them.

***

“Arthur! Welcome back son.” Dutch was sat by his tent smoking a cigar as Arthur led (Y/N) over to him. “So!” he started, standing with his arms extended; whether it was meant in a divine or welcoming manner, (Y/N) wasn’t entirely sure. “How’d your little excursion go?”

“’Fraid we ain’t getting to Tahiti or Australia with what we recovered.” The grizzled outlaw started. “Seems that someone else got to the stash before young (Y/N) here and took most of what we had.” Something in the teen's stomach dropped as the light in Dutch’s eyes seemed to dim slightly. The dark-haired man hummed and folded one arm across his chest, the other bringing his cigar back to his lips. He paused for a moment breathing slowly, the smoke flowing past his lips before being taken by the breeze.

“How much did you get then?” He finally asked

“Would have had ‘bout one third.”

“’Would have’?” (Y/N) shifted nervously and refused to meet Dutch’s eyes, ashamed that they had disappointed this man.

“O’Drisscols.” Arthur replied. “Weren’t the kids' fault. They ambushed us as we were crossing Cumberland Falls. Some of the money went over the falls. Didn’t want to risk staying around in case the law came snooping around. Was a pretty big scene.”

“I see.”

(Y/N) timidly raised their head to find Dutch’s piercing eyes once again focused on them. An old but familiar feeling of helplessness gnawed at their insides, causing their stomach to twist. As their instincts yelled at them to hide, Arthur stepped forward slightly and half placed himself between them and Dutch.

“It wasn’t their fault Dutch.”

“And you can be absolutely sure about that Arthur?”

“As a matter of fact, I can. If they was working with the O’Driscolls to set a trap, then they would have shot me and not three of Colm’s boys.”

Dutch actually seemed surprised by this.

“Sounds like they weren’t embellishing their skills with a gun.” Hosea’s smoother voice was like a cool balm on (Y/N)’s nearly fried nerves.

“Damn right. Them idiots didn’t know what hit em. Kid put them all down with one bullet each.” Arthur replied, stepping back some. An unexpected swift and heavy pat on the back sent the teen stumbling slightly and (Y/N) swore they saw a slight grin on Arthur’s face.

***

“You ok there?” (Y/N nearly dropped the horse brush they were using, as Charles’ deep voice startled them out of their thoughts.

“Y-Yeah! Sorry, was just thinking. Did you uh, need something Mr. Charles?” Charles smiled and the minor change in his breathing suggested silent laughter.

“You can just call me Charles you know.” (Y/N) scrunched their face-up made a noise that was a mix between disagreement and something a bit lighter than disgust which drew another silent laugh from Charles before he continued. “Pearson was complaining that the camps getting low on meat so I offered to go hunting for him. You’ve got a good eye and steady hands so I figured I’d ask if you’d like to come.”

“Really?” Excitement bubbled up inside at the thought of being able to do more than just chores around the camp. (Y/N) could only lug so much water and carry so many sacks before it got repetitive and boring. They weren’t strong enough to properly chop firewood and Mrs. Grimshaw and practically chased them away from laundry and sewing after the first hour. “When you leaving?”

“As soon as possible. I’ll ready the horses while you grab your gun.”

“R-Right! Just give me five. I need to check my satchel.”

With a soft ‘Alright’ from Charles, (Y/N) dropped the horse brush by the hitching post and jogged across the camp towards the medicine wagon. A ratty lean-to was set up next to it and under it an old bedroll. It wasn’t a whole lot but it was more than they had before joining the gang. The well-used bedroll wasn’t nearly as soft as their bed back at Estelle’s home. A small framed photograph of the woman peeked out from under the corner of the bedroll. The faint reminder of the woman who could be sweet as honey one moment and mean enough to give an angry Mrs. Grimshaw a run for her money brought a familiar pang of guilt to the teen. Bitterly they pushed the feelings and memories away and turned the picture over, hiding away from the loving eyes of a woman hundreds or thousands of miles away.

(Y/N) blindly stuffed a few items in their satchel and reached for their gun. Their fingers had barely grazed the sun-warmed metal before they jerked their hand back as if it had burnt. Glassy blue eyes stared blankly at the gun laying on the ground, seemingly mocking them from its pathetic position.

Stupid child.

What were you expecting?

These people were outlaws.

They were no stranger to killing other people.

If you want to survive in their world, it's either shoot first or get dead.

It was hard to breathe as (Y/N) felt their chest tighten like a red hot metal vice had been wrapped around their chest. An old familiar panic started settling into their whole being, starting in their stomach before it wrapped its tendrils around their bones before boring its way into their throat and brain. The air itself caught in their throat and their vision was starting to blur slightly when a hot and heavy pressure made its presence known when it landed solidly on the teen's shoulder.

“Woah there! ‘Sokay! ‘Sokay kid, you’re alright ya hear?” The voice was deep and familiar and most importantly grounding. Still, it took a second for the pressure on their chest to dissipate enough and allow a cool, fresh breath to fill their burning lungs. Blinking, (Y/N) realised that some tears had gathered in their eyes and quickly moved to brush them away, sniffling as they did. Finally, they were able to look up as see Arthur crouching next to them, his brows furrowed gently as he watched them.

“Everything alright Arthur?” (Y/N)’s eyes flicked up to the approaching figure of Hosea.

“We’re fine Hosea. I just startled them is all.” Arthur replied easily. Hosea stood by for a moment before slowly approaching the teen, not too dissimilar to how one would approach a scared animal.

“You alright?” His soft, aged voice reminded the teen of Estelle once more.

“Y-Yeah.” They mumbled. “’M sorry. Dunno what came over me.” They looked away from the two men, eyes once again landing on their repeater as once again a wave of hot white anger flowed through their veins. A weight in their dominant hand drew their attention and (Y/N) suddenly understood why Arthur and Hosea were acting so cautious towards them.

In their hand was their trusty knife, the bronze metal gleaming dangerously in the sunlight. It quickly dawned on the teen that they had pulled it on reflex when Arthur had startled them. A hot flush of shame and embarrassment flooded through them as they frantically shoved the knife back into its sheath.

“Those are some damn fine reflexes you got kid.” Arthur said. The words may have formed a compliment but the tone was wrong and questioning. (Y/N) didn’t want to answer. They just groaned out a vague noise of agreement and pointedly avoided looking at the two men and finished packing their satchel. Slinging the strap over their shoulder the teen all but bolted past Arthur and Hosea making their way back to the horses where Charles stood waiting, making some final adjustments to Taima’s saddle. His movements held some extra tension and (Y/N) just knew that he had seen their little incident and the heat returned to their chest.

“Ain’t we going to go? Mr. Pearson needs meat, doesn’t he?” They snapped.

“You don’t have to come if you-”

“I’m fine!” They cut him off. “Come on.” They huffed, barely resisting the urge to stamp their foot. They were fifteen and basically a grown-up and grown-ups didn’t stomp their feet like toddlers when they were angry. A heavy hand was placed on their shoulder once more.

“Alright then kid.” Arthur said. His gruff voice was uncharacteristically soft. “Mount up. And let’s get goin’.” Gently, Arthur nudged them towards Fortuna who nickered and shoved her nose into (Y/N)’s chest. The mare huffed as the teen half-heartedly scratched her cheeks before silently climbing on. Fortuna shook her mane out and turned as much as she could, keeping an eye on her rider. She let loose another whine as she tried to nose (Y/N) again.

“I’m alright girl.” The whispered, pulling a carrot from one of the many pockets in their satchel and offering it to the worrisome mare. Fortuna took the carrot without protest and calmed as (Y/N) stroked her neck. Tugging on the reins, (Y/N) directed the mare’s head towards the path out of camp. Charles and Arthur were on the backs of Taima and Admiral. Not obviously watching them but also doing exactly that with incredible obviousness for two seasoned outlaws. Huffing, the teen kicked and urged Fortuna forward

***

I started hitting a wall with this chapter towards the end so the ending may feel somewhat abrupt. I didn’t have the energy to beta read this or whatever so all mistakes are mine.

I have a better plan for what will happen in the next chapter or two

#rdr2 x reader #rdr2 x male reader #rdr2 x gn reader #rdr2 x female reader #rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 x reader #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #of blood and greatness

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write-it-good-imagines · 4 years

Text

85% - Lim Jaebum (M)

@iwanttobejaebeomsslut asked and I provided! Hello everyone! This came as a request from our lovely aforementioned blog and I’m telling you, this was one helluva ride tho. Enough rambling, enjoy~

Synopsis: You have to give a full percentage of yourself in a relationship to make it work. Jaebum learns the hard way that any number below that is a certain cause of destruction.

Warnings: angst, smut, unprotected sex

~4.5k words

“Breaking up with someone is…yeah.”

You had just closed the door of the apartment, only to be welcomed by a small commotion coming from the kitchen. The lively sound of vegetables being diced and some indistinctive ingredients being boiled served for a false distraction from the fatigue starting to kick in. Although you had a refreshing night with your girl-friends, you had long forgotten how taxing it was to spend a full night out in the middle of the week. You kicked off your shoes and threw your backpack on the floor. An ominous feeling started nurturing in your chest.

“I don’t know. She’s probably out late with the girls… Yeah, no, I didn’t know.”

You distinguished Jaebum’s voice among the variety of little sounds mixing together. It seemed like he was talking on the phone with someone, his back turned to the kitchen door as he divided his attention between cooking and carrying the conversation. You paused your movements and leaned against the outer wall, listening in. It looked like he was talking about you.

“Distant? Yeah…no, I didn’t get the chance to tell her.”

Tell you? Tell you what? You pursed your lips. What was Jaebum hiding from you?

“Jinyoung-ah, how can you find a nice way to tell your girlfriend something like that? It’s…It’s never that easy.”

You let out a hollow chuckle and folded your arms over your chest. You felt anger swirling up in your veins. You were getting a pretty clear idea of how that scenario would eventually play out.

“Of course I will. The longer it drags, the harder it will be. Catch you later, Jinyoung-ah. I don’t want to burn the recipe…yeah, thanks.”

You peeled yourself off the wall and dug a hand in the pocket of your jeans. You threw the keys of the apartment on the kitchen table with a loud noise and it successfully captured Jaebum’s attention. The little smile he had on his lips irked you. “Is this what you have been doing lately, Jaebum?”

His eyebrows knitted together. He looked like he had no idea you overheard his previous conversation. “Doing what, exactly? I want to test out those cooking classes—“

“Let me rephrase.” You clicked your tongue. “Is this what you were busy doing while actively ignoring and neglecting me? Planning a nice and easy way to throw the break-up text in my face?”

Jaebum hissed and returned to chopping the vegetables. “It’s not like you bother paying too much attention to me either, Y/n.”

You could not believe your ears.

“Go fuck yourself.”

Jaebum slammed his knife down and shifted his body to face you. “What did you say?”

“Oh, so now you are interested in what I have to say” you laughed bleakly and shrugged your shoulders. “Should I say it again?”

“What’s with this attitude? Huh? Lately, there’s always something you don’t like, something you complain about. What the hell is it that you want?”

Every ounce of patience you had left was wearing thin. You analyzed Jaebum’s face and found nothing but outright irritation and displeasure. It satisfied you beyond measure. It was only natural he should get a taste of his own medicine. You took a step closer to him, holding your ground. “You don’t get to blame this on me. You have no right.”

Jaebum scoffed at your words and raked his hair with his fingers in an evident annoyed manner. “Of course, it’s my fault only. I am the only one in this world who doesn’t understand you.”

“You are a hypocrite.”

You stormed out of the kitchen, your breathing ragged from all the failed attempts to compose yourself. The unidentified feeling that invaded your chest as soon as you entered your shared apartment bloomed into a hurricane, sweeping all your entire being. Rather than feeling sadness, you felt a sinister rage boiling in your lungs that you knew you wouldn’t be able to tame.

You couldn’t remember the last time you enjoyed some time in Jaebum’s company without constantly feeling pressured about something. Nothing you did for him seemed to be enough anymore. You tried visiting him at his company or call him randomly when you missed him but it didn’t appear to have much of an effect on him as it did in the early stage of your relationship. You two did not talk much about yourselves, either; Jaebum was always closed off. Your last resort was giving him the space he needed to put everything in order. You should have given up altogether had you known everything was just a cheap show of pretense.

Jaebum’s heavy steps trailed after you and you had to jerk forward to avoid his touch. “Why are you always leaving in the middle of an argument?”

That was the last straw. “You want me to tell you why I am always leaving, Jaebum?” your voice was raised, probably in a desperate attempt to get everything off your chest without any hesitation.

“I am done with this cat and mouse game! I am done with you always retreating in your little perfect bubble, I am done with you always denying my calls, I am done trying to make you communicate with me, Jaebum. Even when you actually come home, it feels like there’s a ghost in my bed. I am done wondering why I am not enough for you.”

Jaebum unconsciously took two steps back, his frame shaking slightly. You shook your head softly and let your hands fall to your sides helplessly. “You’re putting your fucking guard up again.”

All he could do was look away. Jaebum couldn’t bear to listen, much less look you in the eyes. It was stupefying to hear about all of his insecurities shoved in his face. He should have figured out they would come haunting him.

“Y/n…” he began as you threw your coat over your shoulders and dug your feet into your boots. He remained silent, repeatedly trying to find something to say. And you waited, a sliver of hope still hanging on against all odds.

“You see, Jaebum,” you broke the oppressive silence instead, your tone trembling. “You cannot give someone only 85% of yourself and expect it to be enough.”

“It was hard for me, too.” He blurted out, his fist clenching. You turned away too, fearing that seeing him struggle would make you go back to square one.

After you had left what was your shared apartment in a frenzied rush, you drove mindlessly into the night, winter streets of Seoul, the fingers gripping the wheel in a futile attempt to suppress the amalgam of emotion in your ribcage. A couple of hours passed until you finally parked the car in a lot on the outskirts of the capital and crawled out of your seat. You rose your head to the sky when big snowflakes started waltzing in the air. You felt your phone buzz in the pocket of your coat and you lazily took it out. The text glowing on your screen made you break down in tears.

‘Let’s break up.’

The months that followed were undeniably hard on you. You sent your closest friend the following week to pick up your things from your old home because you didn’t have it in you to face Jaebum. The lack of messages and calls was impressive, even for the two of you. There were numerous times when your fingers ghosted over the ‘send’ button to forward a paragraph to him but you knew better than that. There was no need to tear yourself apart anymore.

It became hard to adapt to your new routine. Waking up in an unfamiliar bed and spending your time in a different house was strange. Even after winter ended and the warmth of the sun began enveloping the world, there still was an overwhelming coldness residing. It took you some time to grow accustomed to it. You loved Jaebum and you knew there were a lot of things left unsaid between the two of you but you missed feeling whole more than anything. Feeling unhappy was the last thing you wanted to remember about him and ending it, alas abruptly, was your way of keeping your fond memories intact.

Jaebum was a good lover to you. And having back the life you had was an impossible matter.

It hurt to let go because you tried your hardest to hold on and it only seemed like it wanted to get further away from you. Blaming yourself for having felt, for having wanted, it was gnawing at you. It confused you because you thought your feelings were the wrong ones all along, that you let them go and they were not reciprocated. You felt like a deplorable criminal and it was mirrored all over your existence.

Distractions were everything keeping you from succumbing to your suffering. Keeping yourself busy was the only way you’d stop your mind from wondering about Jaebum and about your own mistakes. Gradually, it grew a little easier to breathe and wake up in the morning. You started pushing the curtains apart to let the sun come through and you were slowly and steadily eating more and more. Dealing with a broken heart was a complex and tough process. You knew it was also not an unbeatable one. Once you convinced yourself of it, you managed to gather the shattered pieces of your heart from the floor. You were not ready to move on just yet but you were not wailing either.

Of course, meeting and dating Jaebum exposed you to his other idol friends with whom you grew closer. One thing you appreciated about his circle was that they were totally impartial when it came to your former relationship. Just like that, knowing someone resulted in introducing you to someone new. You liked to think people did not despise you.

In a late august morning, the ringing of your phone awoke you from your sweet slumber. You brought it to your ear, trying your best to make sense of the words spoken to you. You were asked to help organize a private pool party for one of your closest friends.

The idea in itself made you beam with excitement. Your summer was sprinkled with events here and there, mostly dedicated to you. Your circle put in a lot of effort to drag you out of the pit and you couldn’t love them more for it. It felt good to help do something nice in exchange and a pool party was the one thing you didn’t know you needed. So you were in charge of reserving the location and the mobile bar. And because you loved being a tad extra, you reserved one of the largest skybar areas which had all the requirements.

“You really invited a lot of people!” you giggled as you finished dressing with the one-shoulder bikini top. Your friend nudged you with her elbow, wiggling her eyebrows at you.

“He has a lot of friends, all right! We all needed this to celebrate the end of the summer before we go back to work. But you really went extra with this red two-piece.”

“You said it yourself, didn’t you?” you smirked and exited the changing rooms, grabbing a cocktail on your way out. “We’re celebrating!”

“That’s my girl.”

There were a lot of guests coming in, most of the people you had already met before. The crowd was thickening by the second but it was one of the few times you actually enjoyed it. You wanted to lose yourself among them so you could finally wash off the regret lingering in your heart. It didn’t take long for your group to gather and it took but a glance to agree on opening the party. All of you jumped in the pool, accompanied by roaring cheers. Others followed in after you, filling the water rapidly. The DJ didn’t hesitate to switch the music up, fueling the otherwise great atmosphere. You gathered quickly to the pool bar to down a shot and joined your girl-friends in a game of water volleyball.

“Hey, girls! I am going out to dry myself a little, I think I might turn into a siren if I stay any longer!” You announced cheerfully and got out of the pool to grab a towel. You wrapped the soft linen around your body and a group of people gathering to the entrance captured your attention. You felt as if the weight of the whole world came crashing down on you.

Jaebum and his members were coming in.

You quickly turned your back to the entrance, your features wilting. You had to grab onto the metal railing to sustain your balance. Why were they there? Why was he there?

That was an unforeseeable situation. Leaving the party would be inconsiderately rude to your friend and avoiding all of them was beyond impossible. You were at a loss for words. All the months spent moving on from the murderous pain went down the drain in mere moments. You knew you couldn’t afford to reopen such a fresh wound.

You rushed to the barman to mix you another drink. Your index trailed along the rim before you gulped it down. Alcohol wouldn’t serve as a savior but it would at least keep your adrenaline contained. People were getting out too to enjoy the snacks, the drinks or to dance to the endearing music. You put the towel on a nearby surface and meddled with them in an attempt to restrain your thoughts. The alcohol in your veins made it easier for you to lose yourself to the rhythm, along with your friends who hyped you up.

However, the stares Jaebum kept sending your way were excruciating. As soon as he laid his eyes on you, subtlety flew out the window. He was at a considerable distance from you, surrounded by countless other girls who tried catching his group’s attention, yet you caught him glancing at you so many times you lost count. It vexed you. You wondered if he had always been that shameless. It was only getting worse as one of your girls attached herself to your back to start grinding against you. The glances turned to intent stares, burning through your skin. Your eyes connected once and you recognized that singular vulgar glint in his eyes. You could only guess how many scenarios ran through his mind. Unfortunately, you weren’t one to back out from a challenge.

You hated his guts and you absolutely despised his presence there when it was meant to be a perfect summer’s end for you and your friends. You recalled the way you felt that night you left his house and all the pent-up frustration burst forth. If he was staring at you, might as well offer him something worth staring at.

For the rest of the night, you welcomed any inappropriate or daring moves initiated by your friends. At a certain point, you even started enjoying it; you forgot how much you adored having fun. It served for good distraction as Jaebum managed to slip off your mind for a while. You didn’t realize when time passed so fast and guests started retreating to their respective homes. You lost sight of Jaebum and the rest of his members, too. There were hardly any people left and you needed to cool down your body of all the intensity, so you dived into the pool to execute a lap or two.

You pulled yourself to the surface and ran your hands over your face to wipe off the water. An indistinctive sound of water splashing echoed in the distance but you paid it no mind as you swam to the edge of the pool, leaning your back against the cold surface.

“Nice party, huh?”

You felt your body tensing up at the painfully familiar voice. You opened your eyes to see Jaebum in front of you, momentarily keeping his distance. Were you wrong earlier?

“Thanks, I reserved the place.”

Jaebum laughed and it tore open a piece of your heart. The sound was so beautiful. “Figures you did.”

You nodded your head and looked away. You wanted to escape that situation.

“We weren’t supposed to come, our schedule was packed.” Jaebum started as he ran a hand through his damp hair. “I am glad we did, though.”

You chuckled. “You would have missed a great party otherwise.”

Jaebum took a step closer to you, prompting his hands on either side of your body. You tilted your head to him, your eyes lifting up to his. You clicked your tongue at his gesture.

“You know I am not talking about that.”

“God knows what you are talking about, Jaebum.” You dared. “Don’t push this. We began as friends, let’s end as friends.”

“Friends are not supposed to look at each other the way I look at you.”

You pursed your lips, your breathing coming to a halt. So you were not wrong about your deductions. You inched your face closer to his, maintaining eye contact. “You look at me like any other male would look at a female he wants to fuck. That’s not something special.”

Jaebum’s reaction was entirely different from what you were expecting. Instead of scoffing and walking away as he used to, his eyes softened, unlocking the gate to his soul you never managed to pass through. “That’s not true, Y/n. I never took you for a stress reliever. Even though having sex with you pushed me over the edge every time.”

You felt his hands lowering to your hips to pull you toward him. The tips of his fingers sent scorching sensations through your body. You kept your distance, fighting a savage battle to keep yourself contained. “Sex is the only thing we did well, Jaebum.”

Jaebum leaned over, attaching his lips flawlessly to a sweet spot in your neck that always set you off. Your fingers clenched around the edge of the pool. Giving in started to feel like a plausible solution to your problem.

“It wasn’t the only thing we did well, Y/n. Waking up to you was the most joyous part of the morning.” Jaebum placed a chaste kiss behind your ear. “Writing songs with you was when I’d get the most inspiration.” Another kiss to your jaw. “Having you by my side was the only thing I could boast about shamelessly.”

Jaebum pulled away from you altogether, saving you from eliciting a moan. He looked both sincere and sad. “Loving you was the only thing I couldn’t do right.”

“I suffered, Jaebum.” You cleared your throat. “I suffered terribly even while being with you. Do you have any idea how it is to feel alone in a relationship? I’ve loved you all alone, Jaebum. It destroyed me.”

“You didn’t love alone, Y/n.” He pleaded. “I was a coward and I was so wrong. I knew I had to work on myself first and that was one thing I had to do alone.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Then let me explain myself properly.”

Jaebum crashed his lips against yours and his hands took a steady grip of your hips again. He pushed his body atop of yours and you could feel his hardening bulge rubbing against your lower abdomen. A sultry moan evaded your lungs against your wish. Jaebum took the opportunity to slide his tongue in your mouth, engaging yours in a carnal dance. An unexpected amount of adrenaline was surging up inside you as his tongue worked on yours ardently.

“If this is the only way to make you listen to me, so be it.” Jaebum pulled back and did not give you any time to catch your breath. He pushed his knee in between your legs, the sudden friction making you bite back another moan. “Firstly, I need you and I love you, that’s unquestionable.”

Jaebum lowered a hand to grab your ass harshly, his fingers sliding inside your bikini for a better grip. You threw your head back in ecstasy. “Secondly, I am terribly sorry for breaking up with you through text but I knew that if I saw you again, I’d break and I wouldn’t work on my issues if I had you running by my side to pamper me.”

Jaebum pulled out his other hand from the water to pull your chin tenderly to him. The vicious glint in his eyes turned you on. “And thirdly, I swear to explain everything to you so you can decide if you give me another chance or not. What do you want me to do?”

You brought a hand to his hair, running your nails on his scalp then down to his nape. You smirked at the low growl escaping his lips. “I swear to God Lim Jaebum, if you don’t fuck my brains out right now, I won’t even consider listening to you.”

You saw a dangerous smirk growing on Jaebum’s lips. His knee pushed your legs further apart and his hand traveled to your core, two fingers pushing inside of you without any prior warning. A resonant moan vibrated in the air at the desired feeling of his fingers stretching you out and Jaebum leaned over to whisper in your ear. “You never told me you were into public sex.”

“I thought you weren’t.”

Jaebum circled his tongue around one of the prominent veins in your neck, a predator steadying himself to mark its prey. “I prefer shielding you from curious eyes but I have to obey my princess’s wish of fucking her outright.”

Instead of attacking the skin of your neck, Jaebum lowered his head to your breasts, pulling the fabric of your top for access. Your nails dug into the blade of his shoulder when his lips started sucking on your breast ever so passionate. You had to steady yourself as his fingers began curling in and out of your core, the avalanche of moans coming out of your mouth filling the air.

“Jaebum…oh, right there”

Jaebum glanced up at you before admiring the beautiful colored spot on your breast. He licked his lips and attached them to yours in a fiery kiss. Your eagerness hinted at your first orgasm much faster than you anticipated. Jaebum allowed you to take the lead of the kiss so he could focus on the movements of his fingers getting faster.

You moaned into his mouth and threw your head back, holding onto Jaebum’s shoulder to grind against his magical digits. Jaebum let out a groan of his own; watching you surrender to the pleasure he was granting you, the way your lips parted with every airy sigh echoing in the air and the way your body reacted to every little gesture arose him greatly. He placed his other hand on your inner thigh to keep them parted as your warm walls clenched around his fingers. “Come on, Y/n. Cum on my fingers, beautiful.”

It didn’t take long to satisfy Jaebum’s wish; a high-pitched moan signaled your orgasm washing over you and Jaebum helped you ride it off eagerly. You barely had any time to inhale that Jaebum flipped your body so that your back was facing him. “I believe we’re not done just yet.”

Jaebum lowered his head to press a trail of butterfly kisses along the upper part of your spine that made you arch your back. He traced a finger over the scarce piece of material and you detected disapproval in his tone.

“This is very much in my way, gorgeous.”

“You’ll leave me naked if I take it off.”

Jaebum chuckled and prompted you to raise your arms so he could remove it. He draped an arm over your breasts, grabbing one of them in his hand to play with. A yelp emerged out of your chest. “Problem solved.”

He resumed his previous actions, peppering kisses over your spine that caused goosebumps to appear. He truly knew your body inside out.

“You like that?”

You hummed in approval, throwing your arm around his neck as he pressed his chest to your back. “Very much.”

“It means you will just love this.”

You bit your bottom lip in anticipation. Jaebum pulled down his shorts and guided his erection inside your wet cavern. He moaned into your shoulder, grazing his teeth over the sensitive skin at the contact he longed for. His length filled up every inch of you and you leaned forward to adjust to his size. He had always stretched you out to your limits and you could never get enough of the euphoric sensation.

Jaebum’s thrusts started at a fast and rough tempo that found an excellent angle every single time. Before you knew it, you began chanting his name like a mantra. His hand cupping your breast was only adding to the infinite bliss whirling uncontrollably through your veins. Your body reminded you how dependent you were of his touch and how he was the only one who could make you reach absolute nirvana. There was no use denying yourself anymore.

“Fuck it, Y/n, I missed you so much. I could never live without you.”

Through the rapid pacing of your breathing and the mixture of moans coming from both of you, you heard his words loud and clear. You brought his face to you to pull him into a desirous kiss in response. Jaebum added his middle finger to your clit, rubbing against it masterfully, and you had to take a grip of the edge of the pool. Your vision was getting blurry and you could no longer form coherent words because of the ecstasy exploding inside you.

“Oh, Jaebum…”

“I know, love.”

Jaebum was panting but that didn’t stop him from picking up the pace and hitting your sweet spot with every sharp movement. A well-known sensation built up rapidly in your stomach, igniting your core almost devilishly. You couldn’t hold out any longer. Your walls clenched around his thick length and Jaebum sensed it, pulling himself completely out of you before coming back in to offer you deeper thrusts. You placed your hand over his, guiding his fingers to rub your clit just the way you desperately needed.

Your second orgasm hit you violently and Jaebum had to sustain your body as you came. You screamed out his name in euphoric pleasure and the overwhelming warmth of your juices ensured Jaebum would follow closely behind. It took a couple more angled thrusts for him to release himself inside of you and an airy sigh approved of the nice feeling.

“I am sorry for that, I couldn’t hold back.” Jaebum whispered as he gently turned you to him and placed his forehead against yours.

“If there’s anything you should apologize for is me not being able to walk tomorrow morning.”

He chuckled and you circled your arms around his neck, holding on to his broad back. Your breasts were pressed against his chest, trying to cover yourself. Jaebum pulled up his shorts and guided your legs around his waist before wrapping his own arms around you. You were so comfortable with the familiar warmth his body provided. It was an abrupt turn your life took and there would be much to do to make it work but you could feel it wouldn’t be a scarce 85% again.

“Let’s get out of here.”

#got7 #got7 imagine #got7 imagines #got7 jaebum #got7 im jaebum #got7 smut #got7 angst #lim jaebum #im jaebum #kpop au #idol au #request #got7 request #so yeah get me a fan #that was painful even for me #jaebum x reader #im jaebum x reader

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gerbiloftriumph · 3 years

Photo

The Silence Between Snowflakes

(also on ao3)

His name was Gwydion–but that wasn’t his name. He lived in Llewdor–but that wasn’t his home.

Alexander escapes Manannan’s grasp and flees to Daventry, hoping he might find a place that he might call home after years of loss and loneliness. While Daventry embraces him, loves him, shows him all the stories it has within it, the country is also suffering under the worst winter in memory. But it might not just be a hard season: there might be something out there, something chasing the lost prince. Something malevolent, intent on destroying the kingdom snowflake by snowflake, spreading a curse across the lands and infecting its king.

~*~*~

8/8

(1: Found Family)(2: Footprints)(3: The Stories that Really Matter)(4: A Rose Among Thorns)(5: Snowbound)(6: Fractals)(7: The Ice Queen)(8: Belonging)

~*~*~

The fixit fic didn’t include the ch4 prologue, because I didn’t see the point in writing it word for word. But just in case, maybe you might want a refresher on [Graham’s Lullaby.]

Seriously, again, special thanks to @captmickey and @theicemancometh for being my betas in part or in full. It wouldn’t have worked at all without you.

~*~*~

Each room in the tower was shrouded in ice. They looked like ordinary rooms, but with their contents replaced by strange facsimiles. He glimpsed a frozen table, frozen curtains, a frozen bed. The furnishings were all as one might expect, but they were cold. Cheerless and unwelcoming and flat and hard, and now he was paying attention, hauntingly familiar.

This was the tower, he knew without a shred of doubt, that had carried him, Valanice, and Valanice together through the clouds. Vee and Neese, his friends. Then, it had been cursed in a way that ensured its inhabitants could never leave. Now, it was cursed with ice, and it spread its curse boundlessly. It had taken on additional buildings and courtyards and walls as it had traveled. Whole huge rooms for its labyrinth. He wondered whose castle walls these had been. Whose courtyard had been stolen. That stable, those barracks, that lamppost. What had been lost to this traveling curse?

He thought of the sculptures of people, in their dizzying array of clothes and styles and features, frozen in the labyrinth, and he amended: who had been lost to this traveling curse?

Valanice...Icebella. Icebella had been lost to it.

Daventry was losing more to it by the moment. It was going to take his family next.

The guards pushed them into a small room and left them alone. The door locked behind them, a cold sound that reminded Graham nauseatingly of the prison he’d been locked in as a brand-new king, shivering and alone and afraid of the dark.

This room wasn’t a proper cell, at least. It was possibly a workroom of some sort, full of tables and chairs of a utilitarian nature. He tried to remember, twenty years ago, what this room would have been, but nothing came to mind. It was now filled with more of those frozen people-sculptures. People like Graham, people from other countries this castle had visited, cursed and frozen and dead.

Manny, recent addition to Icebella’s court, apparently hadn’t known about the ice curse itself spreading to people. Or, at least, hadn’t known the particulars, hadn’t seen an example of it in action. He had been surprised by Graham’s slow conversion. But it definitely wasn’t a secret now. He knew about the power of this place and he could do so much with it. Could freeze anything, anyone, who stood in his way. Steal the pieces of their countries he wanted, grafted onto the original tower like mashing clay toys together.

Did Icebella know how this curse worked? Could she stop it if she wanted, or had all these people frozen beneath her helpless hands? Had she acted maliciously or accidentally, or had she anything to do with this at all? Had it been something Hagatha had done, corrupting everything while Graham and Valanice just barely escaped?

Icebella....

He shivered, pacing to keep warm, the chattering of his teeth setting a rhythm. “We spent that whole spring together. She was Valanice’s best friend. She was at my wedding, Valanice’s maid of honor. She danced with us all through the night, laughed with the royal guards, loved us wholly.” The memories were warm, hazy, bathed in a golden glow of nostalgia and joy. But for the first time in years, he let himself really think about the time after that spring in Hagatha’s tower, this tower.

Somehow, he realized, the wedding was the last time they really spent time together as a trio. And even earlier than that, during the courtship of his soon-to-be-wife, she had stayed distant, less willing to spend time with them. She broke herself away from them, and they didn’t reach out to her as frequently or as hard as they ought to have.

“She wore gloves,” he muttered. “Even in fine weather. At the wedding. I never saw her hands after we left the tower. And I didn’t think. I didn’t ask. I should have thought. I should have noticed.” He stared at his own icy hand, locked up and clear and blue, and it hurt, a cold ache that gnawed his bones. And he wondered. Had he seen her shivering in the sunshine, had he dismissed it as a trick of the light?

“I should have known.”

And, in her fear of being alone, she had carved her own guards with her newfound ice magic in mimicry of Royal Guard Number One’s uniform, had kept a piece of Daventry close by her side, to protect her, even as she sank deeper and deeper into a curse, even as she forgot where the designs had come from, why they had ever mattered to her at all.

“I should have known.”

He paced, and paced, and his steps were slower, and slower, and his breathing grew laborious. The white clouds of condensation from breathing in cold weather were heavier, almost like dark little clouds full of snow. Like the curse was spreading through his chest, crystals spiderwebbing across his lungs.

He realized in his distraction he didn’t know where his son was. The room was small, but the young man was good at finding little nooks and crannies and burying himself in them. Graham found him curled in a corner behind a table, surrounded by reaching ice sculptures, clutching his head in his hands.

“Alexander?”

“Gwydion,” he whispered. “I’m Gwydion. That’s all I’ve ever been. All I’ll ever be. This is my fault. I knew I shouldn’t have come here. Everyone is going to die because of me.”

Lost. So lost. Alone and lost.

Graham knelt stiffly. “My son, my dear Alexander, please, don’t. This is not your fault. You have done nothing wrong. You deserve the world and the chance to make what you want in it. I’m sorry for everything that’s happened. Alexander, none of this is your fault.”

“Manannan wouldn’t have come here if I hadn’t cursed him.”

“You couldn’t have escaped him if you hadn’t. And we never would have been blessed to meet you.”

His son said nothing. He curled deeper into himself, shaking with fear and cold, sure he had brought all this on the sunny kingdom of Daventry, sure he had brought its destruction.

Graham leaned against the leg of a statue, clutching his arm. In a voice laced with frost, he whispered the words to an old lullaby, not sure if he was speaking to his son or himself at this point. An old memory stirring up from the dust as he remembered his friends and his hope. He didn’t sing. He didn’t feel like he could get enough air in his chest to sing. But he could speak, and he repeated the words to a song that he hadn’t thought of in almost eighteen years.

I may be king but you are my prince. If life gets too puzzling, I’ll give you the hints. Your quest has begun, my kingdom you’ll run, I’ll love you forever, my son.

They sat in silence. Graham just tried to breathe. Thinking about cats and curses. Staring off into the cold shadows of the room, the chill seeping into his heart.

After a while, Gwydion said, softly, hesitatingly, “You never finished the story.”

“I didn’t? What story is that?”

“About the goblins. How you escaped. That July. I want…I want to hear the rest of it.”

Graham told the rest of his story, then. It was abbreviated. It lost all of the usual polish and storylike qualities it had earned over the years. He told it haltingly, painfully. Without the fairy tale sparkle, he started remembering the fear more. The fear that his friends were going to die while he watched helplessly from the other side of a locked door. All the smoothness was worn away by the ice in his throat, revealing an uneasy ripple that he couldn’t hide. He couldn’t tell it any other way, with his son watching and the cold strangling him.

Manny had tried to kill him, and he would have succeeded if it hadn’t been for Graham’s refusal to give up, for his reliance on his friends. It ended with hope, but the road had been hard.

And then, Gwydion told his own story. For the first time, from start to finish, willingly. He couldn’t remember all of it. There were eighteen years of it, and much of it was the same: menial tasks for a wizard who was quick to punish if Gwydion didn’t work as fast or precisely as expected. But parts of it were memorable. The manor house itself, for instance. It was just him, and Manannan, and Mordack.

Mordack would watch him with cold pity, and that was almost worse than Manannan’s cruel anger. It meant Mordack didn’t necessarily agree with any of this—but wouldn’t do anything to help. So Gwydion worked, and hid, and scrimped, and survived, but he had a growing fear that something was reaching an end. Something about turning eighteen frightened him, like something major was going to change in the manor and that something wasn’t going to be good for him.

Deciding to escape had been relatively easy. Actually escaping was another matter all together.

The fear of not knowing when the wizard would catch him, where he should hide the tools of magic he stole, if he would be discovered. The challenge of the magic itself, the near misses and tight scrapes. Triple checking every step, every line, again and again, mouth dry with the thought of failure, or worse, being found. Practicing the wrist movements, chanting the ingredients needed, reading the books, sneaking down to the hidden cellar with stolen wand clamped in his shaking fist, afraid of breaking it or marking it in some noticeable way. Finally building his confidence to craft the one spell, the curse, that would save him, to break the cat cookie in Manannan’s breakfast and to try not to give the whole game away too early. To wait for the magic to take. And the difficult decision of what to do next.

“I ruined it by coming here. I should have gone far away, where there wasn’t anyone for him to hurt.”

Graham reached out and touched his son on the shoulder. His Alexander. His brave Alexander. Not Gwydion, never again. “You deserve a place to call your own as much as anyone, and you can carve your place out anywhere. But you came here, Alexander. If you’ll have us, we want you. In Daventry. That’s all we ever wanted. To have you with us, to have you call this place with everyone—Amaya, Whisper, the Feys, Acorn, everyone. To let you, Alexander, call this place home. You shouldn’t allow someone like Manannan decide where you go, who you are. You shouldn’t even let us decide for you. That’s your freedom.”

Alexander, nervously, leaned into Graham’s hand, and then into him, his shoulder pressed against Graham’s chest. He was shivering, but his warmth helped ease Graham’s pain. The king felt like he could breathe again, like the ice in his lungs was melting.

Gingerly, he embraced Alexander, and for once, he didn’t flinch away. His dear son, full of magic, of fire and heat and fear, stifled by the cold but powerful nevertheless. He’d escaped. He’d used Manny’s own tools against the wizard, and he had chosen to come here. He was stronger than he’d ever know. Graham smiled, resting his cheek against his son’s wavy hair, thoughts drifting like icebergs. If only he could somehow convince his son to see that. But it would take more than Graham’s words. It would take a heartfelt conviction. A fiery intensity and determination to change.

Heat. Warmth.

…wait a second.

Warmth. My fiery son.

But the guards burst in, and pulled the two up by their arms (Graham bit back another yelp, wishing people would stop yanking on his aching arm) and it was time for their audience with Queen Icebella.

~*~*~*~*

Valanice was dizzy. She didn’t feel like she could stand for more than a moment, and her boots couldn’t seem to keep traction on the slippery floor. The queen of the castle had linked arms with her and they were proceeding down the castle halls in silence. Despite the normally friendly sort of gesture of walking arm in arm, the queen was haughty and detached, ramrod straight with her cold gaze fixed firmly down the hall, unwavering and unblinking. Valanice walked beside her, feeling slovenly and slumpy and hazy and unfocused. Her vision kept blurring in and out.

She had the strangest sense that she had done this, had walked like this, arm in arm, with this queen before, giggly and full of joy. But that was silly—the queen, Icebella, was frosty and blue and distant, and they had never met.

At least, she thought so. It was so hard to focus. But no one was actually blue. Probably. Maybe. Maybe fairies. Maybe she was with a fairy.

Her head hurt.

“Come, Valanice,” the queen said, and there was a slight echo to the words, like she was speaking from the back of a snowy cavern. “I have asked for a chair for you, by my throne. I am sorry to wake you when you are so exhausted, but I want you to meet this amusing visitor to my castle. He claims he is a king, and his bright red cloak is most grand.”

Bright red cloak. Sounded familiar, somehow. Valanice nodded blearily, not trusting herself to speak and walk at the same time.

The throne room was remarkably bright despite the late hour. Valanice had to squint against the white reflective ice, and she dizzily sank into the chair offered her, only realizing after a few moments that it, too, was made of ice, like everything in this place. She started shivering. Or maybe she’d never stopped shivering.

The cat sitting on the throne beside her seemed to smile at her, pawing its ear. As though cats could smile. She would have given it a friendly pet had she been able to lift her hand, but that seemed too complicated and wearying a thing to do.

Ice guards lined the walls of the room, hands on swords sharp as icicles. She supposed they were meant to protect her and the queen from whoever their visitor was about to be. She wondered if this audience would be safe. But with so many guards, surely she need not feel concerned. She was grateful to them and their grim silence.

It was a lovely red cloak, she decided, as the supposed king stumbled in, propelled along by one of the ice guards. That was about all she could say for it. It didn’t seem to be keeping him very warm. His lips were turning blue. How interesting. Maybe he was a fairy too. A fairy king.

Wait.

~*~*~*~

Gwydion.

Alexander...?

Gwydion. He stood in front of his former master, and Gwydion was all that he could be. He didn’t have a choice. He was clumsy, and he was foolish, and his attempt to escape, to take a different name, had failed. He was before Manannan, as before, as always.

Not entirely alone this time. Gwydion could feel the cold radiating from the king despite standing several paces away. The king’s teeth wouldn’t stop chattering. He tried wrapping his cloak tighter, but there wasn’t any warmth to hold in. And that was Gwydion’s fault, too, for not stopping him from touching the roses, Gwydion’s fault for leading the ice castle here, Gwydion’s fault for believing, even for an instant, that he could be this man’s son.

From the dais, a voice called, “Graham!” The lady of Daventry half stood from her chair, but a wave of dizziness seemed to overwhelm her, and she sank back down helplessly, clutching the chair arms as though that was the only thing keeping her upright. Powerless to do anything but speak.

“V-Valanice,” Graham managed. But he wasn’t looking at her. His gaze was fixed on Icebella.

“Do you refer to me? I did command you to stop calling me so,” Icebella said. She stood straight before her throne, her gaze haughty. Frustration made her icy cheeks turn white. “I wished to begin differently, sir, but you try my patience immediately. Perhaps Cat was right, and you are too foolish for my attention. My name is Icebella. It was given to me. My special name.”

“How was it g-given?” Graham shivered.

“Cat is sweet, and Cat said the name suited me, and Cat gifted it to me when I had no other name.”

From the throne, Manny stretched long and luxuriously, tail flicking. He yawned, showing off a fierce row of sharp little white teeth, and smiled, sitting straight. “Names do matter, don’t they, Gwydion? They indicate so much. They tell others who you are, where you belong. Speaking of names, Graham, I’m wondering what name we should carve under your ice sculpture in a few hours. I can’t decide. Maybe we should workshop it. You should pick a pose now, I think.”

Graham ignored this. “Icebella,” he said, stepping forward and bowing to her stiffly, icy arm locked into place at his side. “I apologize for my rudeness and b-beg your forgiveness.”

“I may grant it,” she said. “I have questions for you as a supposed king, after all, and I would regret not being able to ask you about your kingdom if I ordered you thrown out a window for impertinence.”

“Of c-course. But. May I ask you a question f-first, in earnest?”

She hesitated, probably knowing where this was going, and then said, reluctantly, “You may. It does seem only fair, from queen to king.”

“With the full respect owed, and you may ch-choose not to answer me: how long have you been Icebella?”

She frowned, and for a moment she looked like she wanted to lash out again. “I suppose not long,” she finally admitted, after deep consideration. “A few months, at best. Before then, I was no one, I fear.”

“You weren’t no one,” Graham said. “You were special, Valanice.”

“Icebella,” Manny interrupted smoothly. “You are only a person now that you’ve been named. Your name is ice, your name is beauty. Before, you were no one, as you say. You were dark and sad and alone, and I named you, and I saved you, and you are Icebella.”

“Stop calling her that,” Valanice said. “Her name was Valanice. She loved adventures. She loved sunshine. She was competitive and sharp and creative and energetic, and she was all those things as Valanice, and I would bet she is still all those things.”

“You wouldn’t know,” the cat hissed. “You didn’t reach out to her, find her. You didn’t let her know she was still Valanice. She was lost, and I found her, and I named her, and I saved her, and she is mine.”

Gwydion felt the chill, then, in a way he hadn’t before.

Names.

Ownership.

Names are crucial. Names matter.

And I’m not the only one Manannan hurt.

Someone else here had lost her name, and someone else was using her powers to lash out, guided by a monster who only wanted her to do his bidding. Who only wanted to own her and use her.

I was that person too, a slave to a wizard. Lost name. Lost self.

But...he had run away, hadn’t he? Gwydion. Alexander. The power of a name. And...maybe...?

“Icebella,” Graham said. “Valanice. You loved books, and music. You loved puzzles, and you loved art, and you loved stories, and you loved games, and you shone like the sun, not ice. You could d-dance and—” his voice broke off with a crack like snapping an icicle, and he coughed hard, little puffs like snow clouds floating around him, shivering so violently it looked like he was going to splinter into shards of ice.

“And you could sing,” Valanice, the queen, picked up where the king could not, “And you knew all the names of all the constellations. And you could embroider, but you thought it was boring. And you could beat all of us at chess every single time, and you knew every fairy tale, even the rare ones. And you loved us. You were so full of love and life and compassion and care. You weren’t no one, Valanice, even in the darkness. You were Valanice, and you could do so much. And we’re sorry, so sorry, we left you.”

Icebella hesitated, hovering over her throne, looking at Valanice with something unreadable in her expression—perhaps sorrow? But then she glanced toward Manny, and her eyes hardened again. “If what you say bears even a shred of truth,” she said sharply to the Daventry family, “then you have done me a disservice. You spoke not to me when I was...that other person, and I was lost, and I may blame my years of darkness and wandering upon you. Cat came out of the darkness, and Cat saved me, then, and I am Icebella, and shall remain so.”

The smug grin on the cat’s face made Gwydion bristle, made him angry. Alexander had once been angry enough once to teach himself magic, to take his fate back into his own hands, to turn his fear into determination, and to escape.

And he would do it again.

“Your castle moves,” he said. Both Graham and Valanice turned and stared at him, and he stammered nervously, but he had to speak. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say, if he could help or hurt, and none of this was considered, but he had to speak.

“Your castle moves,” he repeated, “but do you ever feel like you have a home? Or do you always feel lost, even now, as Icebella?”

Icebella’s gaze was haughty and angry and he cowered beneath her authority. But he rose again, feeling the heat of the magic he’d taken for himself in his chest. “I always feel lost,” he told her. “I lost my name, too. I lost my identity and my purpose, and I was given another one, one that I didn’t want by someone who didn’t love me, and I walked away from it, and I’ve been wandering, looking for a place that could be mine, a name that I could have.”

“You do not understand loss,” Icebella said, and her voice was colder than the deepest ice cave.

“I lost my home,” Alexander countered. “I lost my family. I lost everything. I wasn’t anyone. But here, in Daventry, I’ve seen people who know where they belong. The bakers, the blacksmith, the knights, the guards, everyone. They live here, and they build stories here, and this is their home. They know their names, and who they are, and they’ve all been trying to help me learn a name I could take for myself. They look frightened when they remember I was once Gwydion, and they want to call me Prince Alexander. But I think I’m just Alexander. I think that’s my name. And I think I’ve found a place where I could overwrite my loss. A place that welcomes travelers, that tells stories, that is sunny and warm even when it’s snowy and cold.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Manannan said. “Shut up, Gwydion, the adults are talking.”

“No, I won’t. I’m Alexander, and this is my home, and I don’t want it to be cold and heartless like you’d want it to be. This kingdom is full of life, and I will protect it in any way I can.”

He looked at his father. “I learned something,” he said, and he was worried and quiet again, like he was taking something from Graham that he didn’t feel he’d earned. “It didn’t help me at first, because I didn’t really understand the point of it, even with all the stories. But it’s a salute that you can do to center yourself, to feel brave when you don’t want to be, to be compassionate when you’re upset, to be wise when you feel confused.” He gave an Achaka salute, thumping his fist into his open palm. “It’s to remind you that you aren’t alone,” he said. “That there are people who will always support you and care for you if you look. People who will tell stories with you and help you belong.”

“This is drivel,” Manannan said. “This whole family is a waste of air.”

“But you admit that he’s part of our family,” Graham said, his voice almost as hollow as Icebella’s now, crackling out. “This kingdom has opened its arms to him and taught him our stories and let him become part of us. If he wants.”

“And I think I do want that,” Alexander said, and he stood tall. “I think that’s what’s important to me. The stories they tell here always show what matters to them. What’s important to them. What’s important to you, Icebella? What was stolen from you? Was it a name? Was it a home? Was it a family? What do you want back? And did Manannan—that cat—give it to you? Has he ever even given you a choice?”

She didn’t have an answer to that.

“This is all very sweet,” Manny said, his tail thumping on the throne, voice oozing disinterest. “But I just don’t see the point of any of this. I’ve still won this game. I’ve captured the entire Daventry family”—he spat the word with disgust—”from the king and queen to the lowly castle guards, and I can dispose of them whenever I see fit.

“Gwydion, you claim this place as your home, fine. It won’t matter, because it’s going to belong to me now, since the king is in-deposed. But first I’m going to ask very politely, very pointedly, for you to lift this curse, and we can be as pointed as we must for as long as we must until I get what I want.” His tail thumped again in emphasis. “I’ve won, and all of this is pointless, pandering, meandering tripe. I have ice guards. I have goblins. I have the queen herself. I always get what I want.”

“I wouldn’t be sure of that at all,” said Rosella.

~*~*~*~

Graham’s neck was starting to lock up now too, but he managed to turn just in time to see his daughter standing inside the throne room exchanging...yes, exchanging a high five with Royal Guard Number One. “An excellent riposte, Princess Rosella,” No1 told her.

Royal Guards Two, Three, Four, Kyle, and Larry were standing in a loose semicircle at their sides, swords drawn. And, crammed into every inch of space between the guards, vibrating with barely suppressed excitement, were rock goblins. The goblins were all colorfully decked out in every color of Acorn’s winter stock, scarves and hats and socks, and they were all bristly with picks and shovels. One or two of them had even managed to recover their regular spears. They were all, to a goblin, glaring at the ice guards. Except for that old familiar forward curl goblin—it graciously tipped its snowcap at Graham.

The room hummed with anticipation, both sides carefully observing the other. Number One especially seemed to be running calculations and expectations: his head never stopped moving, checking every angle while he stood otherwise perfectly poised. There was a breathless pause, and in that pause, Icebella stood, furious about this unexpected intrusion to her audience.

“Guards!” Icebella said, flinging her hand out in command, “to the dais! Protect my royal self and my guest Valanice from these ruffians!”

But the ice guards hesitated for a fraction of an instant, looking to the cat for true instruction, and that was plenty of time for Manny to smoothly intervene. “That seems like an unnecessary waste of resources. I have a better idea. I have no need for this charade anymore, no need for you, my dear—everything I want is right here and I will take it. Guards! Kill Icebella, and take Graham and Gwydion alive. Kill the rest, and the goblins. I won’t need them anymore, not once I’m free of this curse. My magic will be enough.”

Icebella whirled, skirts twisting around her, to stare at the cat sitting in her throne, but ice guards stepped between them, protecting the smug wizard, and she stumbled backward, hands raised not in command but imploringly now, startled and afraid of her own creations. Of her once-upon-a-time friend.

“Goblins,” No1 snapped, drawing his own sword, “defend the royal family!”

“Including the ice queen!” Alexander yelled.

“Really? Very well. Including the ice queen,” No1 amended. He raised his arm, and the goblins streamed around him, whooping and laughing.

The ice guards lining the walls had drawn their own swords. Some took defensive stances, but many of them sprinted forward to fill Manny’s order. They were immediately driven back: there were too many goblins and a crew of very annoyed and very determined royal guards. The ice guard standing near Graham did grab its opportunity. Specifically, it grabbed the king and yanked him off balance, drawing him close and pinning his arms behind his back. His stiff shoulder bent awkwardly. Graham yelped, sure his ice arm was probably going to snap in half considering how many people kept pulling on it.

But forward curl goblin knocked the ice guard out by the knees, swinging its shovel hard enough for the ice to splinter. Graham staggered forward as the ice shattered around him, pieces glittering like dust motes. The goblin gave him some sort of complicated gesture that was probably meant to be reassuring but instead looked rather menacing before scampering off to take down someone else. No1 stepped up beside Graham in its place, sword raised to defend, giving his king a determined nod. Graham returned the nod, clutching his aching ice arm with his good hand.

Around them, chaos reigned, goblins wailing and gleefully attacking their hated bosses, royal guards hacking left and right, ice cracking beneath their swords. The ice guards were fighting back, their icicle blades scraping and tearing winter wear but unable to penetrate rock goblin armor or Crimson Colada platemail, making the fight a series of quickly timed events in favor of the Daventry team. When the Daventry team wasn’t caught unawares or desperately outnumbered, they were quite good at their jobs.

One enterprising goblin managed to tug a frozen tapestry from the wall and went sailing through the air, clutching it like it was a vine and warbling a war cry, its little stocking’d feet slamming into an ice guard. Another pair had gone for the Kyle and Larry route, one charging in with another on its shoulders, both deadly at short range, while the real Kyle and Larry did the exact same thing a few feet away. Still others just went for the general bashing and tackling and pouncing methods. Graham remembered being on the wrong end of those pounces and winced in sympathy.

Near the dais, Icebella drove her attackers back as best she could with her ice magic, but the sheer number of guards that had been close when the fighting began would have overwhelmed her in moments had she been alone. But she wasn’t alone, not now. No2 and a pack of goblins leapt to her side, shouting and slashing and kicking and, at least in the case of one or two goblins, biting. No2 didn’t bite anyone, though he may have considered it. Nearby, Numbers Three and Four and their own small group of goblins stood guard over Valanice. The Queen of Daventry was still dizzy, and she clung to her chair watching everything unfold in silence. Her gaze never left Graham, not once, not even when No3 desperately struck with her sword and took off the arm of an ice guard reaching for Valanice.

The outcry and laughter and mayhem echoed around the throne room, but all told, the fight lasted not much longer than a few minutes. The scuffle had kicked up frost motes, which settled after a moment, revealing goblins sitting on, lounging against, and generally mocking the ice guards, all of which were broken or helpless under their new captors’ hands. On the dais, Icebella, safely ringed in by a handful of determined goblins, stood glaring at one very guilty looking black cat. Manny’s ears and tail drooped, and he seemed very small, all his plans quite suddenly cracked like shallow ice.

“Cat,” Icebella said, sharp and cold. “I do not wish you to be part of my court any longer. Get out.”

“I think that might be for the best,” Manny agreed. He jumped out of the throne and started sheepishly creeping away, until one of the goblins, who had clearly been in this room before and seen this sort of thing happen already, pushed aside a curtain, grabbed a lever, yanked, and opened the floor up beneath the cat’s paws.

“Oh, zards.” And Manny disappeared down the slide. It slammed back into place behind him, silencing his startled cry.

Valanice stumbled off the dais, pushing aside her goblin guard, and ran to Graham. She was still off kilter from whatever they had done to her earlier, and she stumbled, and she fell into him, hugging him tightly. He tried to lift his arm to hug her back properly, but it was completely dead now. Everything was locking up. His vision was blurring, and everything was so cold. Her breath on his icy cheek was warm and nice, but it did not melt anything. She tearfully kissed him, like that could break the curse, like a story would have it, but nothing happened, and Graham’s body was simply giving up. Rosella and Alexander and his guards stood around him, and Valanice flung an imploring look back toward Icebella.

“Please,” she begged. “He’s freezing to death. Please, can’t you help?”

The ice queen stood alone, in front of her ostentatious throne and her frozen tapestries and her snowy carpet and her broken ice guards, and her imperious stance seemed to be diminished. She looked anxious, and confused, and she was shivering. “I don’t know how, Valanice,” she said, and her voice was softer, gentle and sorrowful. “I’ve never known how. If I could have lifted my own curse, I would have. But I couldn’t. I can’t help. I’m sorry.”

“But I...I might be able to help,” Alexander said.

Valanice stepped back. Graham could feel her absence, could feel the cold rushing over him without her, could barely breathe now. He realized his heart had been slowing down, choked by ice, and the lethargy was almost overwhelming, but his knees had locked into place so at least falling wasn’t a concern.

Alexander continued, “This is a curse. It’s greasy, and sticky, and dark. You don’t stop a curse. You break it. Icebella isn’t the origin of the curse. It’s the castle. It moves, it never settles, it’s always looking for a place to belong, right? It’s stealing everything it can to make itself strong. All the buildings in the courtyard, all the people in the labyrinth, and you, Dad. It’s always traveling, always searching, and always taking, and it’s never satisfied. But, Dad, you know exactly where you belong. You belong here, in Daventry. And I think that’s the answer to this, what will break it.

“I’m new at magic,” Alexander admitted. “And it seems to work best if I can use something extra to give it strength. Either my own emotions, or…or I think music might focus it, if it has meaning. And this one…I think it means a lot to you, and to me, and it might be a way to show the curse belonging. I hope.”

Alexander started humming a familiar song. An old lullaby. A song Graham once sang over a cradle minutes before Manannan burst in, stole his son, ruined their lives.

Graham would have stumbled backward in surprise if he could. “You remember your lullaby,” he said, and his voice was as hollow as an ice cave.

“I didn’t remember the words,” Alexander said. “When you spoke them, earlier, they were just words. They didn’t mean anything to me. But...but they fit the melody I remembered. Something soft, this old song that I could rely on when I...when I was upset. I used to hum it at night, when my chores were done. When I felt lost. But I remember them together now. The music and the words together.”

His voice was quavery, and small, and it didn’t seem to have any power to it, but he willingly hugged his father for the first time, and he sang the words gently, and Graham sang with him, stuttering and broken, his voice locking up with ice and fading away, until Valanice let her voice join theirs, and Rosella joined the embrace, and they were warm and gentle and strong together. And Alexander had a warmth to him, some deep spell he was drawing on, some magic he had stolen and turned to his own purposes, the same way he’d melted a hole in the tunnel, a power of his own devising. It was almost too hot, this brilliant shimmering intellect and care and ability, and he channeled it with the music, focused it, and….

Graham’s knees melted, buckled beneath him and he went down in a heap, and his whole family reached out and caught him, and everything was different and everything had changed, and the cold had left him, and he grabbed hold of his son, keeping him squeezed tight in the embrace, and Alexander let him without any complaint, and Graham breathed freely again, and he stared at his hand over his son’s shoulder, flexing his fingers in wonder.

And they stayed like that for a long time, royal guards standing by watching and waiting and protecting, until Graham could finally stand again, smiling.

At least he was smiling until he realized he was also being hugged around the leg by two goblins. They tilted their heads to look up at him, apparently grinning beneath their helmets. The rest of the goblins were staring, too, long fingers flexing on their picks and shovels.

“Rosella, Number One, what did you do?”

“Funny story,” Rosella said brightly. “So, like, under the castle, there were these goblins, and they were building the snow storm, and I didn’t want that, and I...” she frowned, and looked to No2. “I’m telling this badly again,” she complained.

“I think I know a better way to tell the story,” No2 agreed. “Who wants to do a reenactment play!” he called over the goblins, and every single one of them raised their hands eagerly.

No1 groaned. “I will not,” he said.

“Then I’ll play you, that sounds neat, and...that charming looking goblin right over there can be me. Rosella, do you want to be yourself, or maybe an ice guard?”

“Definitely an ice guard.”

“Okay, then I need someone to play Rosella. Hands up again, who wants to be a princess?”

The story, as it worked out, was like this:

One lone goblin, after being abused by the ice guards one too many times, was having a very hard time, hiding behind an ice cart used as a component to generate the perpetual blizzard that powered the castle, helped it move, gave it fuel, gave it strength. Rosella called out to the goblin, tempting it, by whispering, “Once upon a time, there was a very brave little goblin.”

The little fellow had jammed its helmet back on and followed the story like a trail of bread crumbs, until it found itself surrounded by Daventry Royal Guards and its princess a good distance up the tunnel from its companions. It shrieked, and it would have turned and fled, but Kyle and Larry had jumped it and held it, and Rosella said, “Don’t you want to be a brave goblin like the one in the story?”

And that had made it pause, just for a second, just long enough for Rosella to tell another story about a little goblin who was sick of doing everyone else’s chores, and who got all his friends together, and when they were together, they were very strong indeed, and could throw off their tormenters and make the terrible people do all the chores instead. Which the goblin liked very much, it being both rather violent and promising that it wouldn’t have to do any more chores. And also, the story ended with the goblin getting to go home and enjoy the warmth of a dark, damp cave, surrounded by its glowing mushrooms, content and happy.

The goblin had slipped back into the mines, with Rosella and the royal guards watching anxiously after it in case it decided to betray them after all and turn them into the ice guards for the promise of some time off. But it did as they’d suggested, sneaking up goblin by goblin, whispering the plan, and then those two goblins spread out from there, whispering to another two, until suddenly the whole mining operation was giving the ice guards shifty glances and the little goblin gave Rosella a sly thumbs up, and Royal Guard Number One had pulled out his sword and they’d all gone charging in. The ice guards had spun around, ready to fight the royal guards…but they hadn’t been expecting to have to fight their goblin charges, too.

It had been quick work from there on, whispers of Rosella’s story passing from goblin to goblin to goblin, until all the ice furnaces grew still, and all the ice guards were dispatched, and the new and improved team of Daventry could move on and help their king.

The story was told with rather extravagant and overblown gestures, goblins pouncing and leaping and taking each other down to replicate the tale No2 was narrating, having an especially good time telling about the attack, and at the end they all took a ragged bow, out of breath and tired and very, very happy for the first time in what must have been ages.

Graham, Valanice, and Alexander applauded. And then a fourth person started clapping, too.

Icebella had retaken her throne and was watching the story with rapt delight on her normally stern features. She was smiling, her teeth like little ice chips. “That was delightful,” she told the goblins. “I did not know I had such talented people working in my castle. You must have come with Cat, yes? You are much better company.”

“Ice…Vala…” Valanice bit her lip, unsure what to say.

“You may remember me as Valanice,” the ice queen said, and her face wasn’t nearly so dark now, “but I’m afraid I still do not. Your stories of who I was are kind, but I prefer Icebella. Even if it was a gift from Cat given in possessiveness, it was still a gift, and one I have become accustomed to. I should like Icebella, please.”

“Icebella,” Valanice repeated. “Icebella, I’m sorry. I can make every excuse I want, but in the end, you’ve still been hurt by us. We never reached out to you as friends should have, and I’m sorry. Perhaps we can do something for you now? My son…”

But Alexander was shaking his head. “Mom, I can’t. It’s a stable curse. I don’t know how to lift it now it’s been in place for so long. I think only the person who cast it can lift it at this point. I don’t even know who that would be.”

“Hagatha,” Graham said. “I think it was Hagatha. I don’t think she meant to hurt you, Icebella, but. I think her curse spread from this tower to you. I’m sorry, but we don’t know where she is, or if she’s even still alive.”

“I do not mind,” Icebella said, though there was a hollowness to her voice that betrayed her sorrow. She twirled her fingers, and a rose, clear as glass, formed from ice in her hand. “There are many things I can do this way, and I have been Icebella for longer than I can remember being anyone else. But…your story,” she said, looking at No2. “You indicated that my home is hurting yours. And so, I should depart this place, and quickly, so that your home may recover without me.”

Valanice looked stricken. “You can’t go,” she said. “Please, we’ve lost you for so long. Don’t leave us again. Don’t wander lost. You said you didn’t know yourself, before Icebella, and that darkness sounds frightening and lonely. Please. Don’t let that happen again.”

Icebella looked at her ice rose, and crumpled it in her hand. “You cast me away before,” she said, though she bore no hatred in her voice now.

“We were young and silly and in love and these are pointless excuses,” Valanice insisted. “You can’t leave, not when we’ve found you again.”

No1 muttered, in a stage whisper that nevertheless carried around the room, “But the castle needs to leave.”

Valanice nodded sharply. “Then, let’s take the castle away, and return to Daventry after it is safely hidden somewhere, up high in the mountains where it can’t hurt anyone anymore. It is as my Alexander said: this kingdom is a place of stories, where we welcome travelers. It doesn’t have to be your home, unless you want it to be, but you won’t know unless you try it. Daventry castle is enormous. We have a place for you even temporarily. If you don’t have a destination, at least stop with us for a little while to decide. I’ll stay with you into the mountains, and we’ll travel back together.”

“Valanice,” Graham said, warningly.

“No, shush, Graham. It’s a girls’ night and you’re not invited.”

Graham stepped toward her, wobbled on his freshly healed leg, and almost fell over. She caught him and they leaned against each other, and he whispered in her ear, “She did try to kill us. She doesn’t remember her past. Is this fully thought through?”

“It’s Valanice, and you know it, and this has all been Manannan’s fault, as per usual,” she said back. “Trust me. I know what I’m doing. This isn’t some plan for martyrdom, this isn’t some silly rescue that only I can do. But I’m not going to let anyone, especially not a friend we’ve already lost once, go wandering alone in the world with no one she can call on. Not again.”

Graham considered, then nodded. There was relief there, a keen desire to see his dear friend content and happy again. “Okay. But you’ve got to take some royal guards with you.”

“I’ll take Number Three with us, if she agrees.” And she pulled the guard’s arm.

“Agrees to?” No3 asked, warily.

“Girls’ night,” Valanice grinned. “Or, rather, girls’ couple weeks while we take this castle up to the snowy mountains and leave it there and come back.” She looked up at Icebella. “Of course. This is all if you want to do so, Icebella,” she said. “I’m sorry that Manny thought he could own you. I won’t do that to you. If you do want to leave, we shall step aside and let you. In the end, every choice should be yours.”

Icebella looked at her broken rose, at the stem splintered in half and the shards glittering in the light.

“I am a queen,” she said, “of nothing. Of one tower. Of some ice guards. And that’s all. I think in my travels I have hurt people. Stolen people. Even though I don’t think I meant to do it, the curse on this tower absorbs and encompasses and consumes everything. It all seems fuzzy without Cat telling me what to do. But I think…I think I would like to rest, for at least a short time, and your young man’s tale of Daventry makes it seem…like a warm place to do that. May I please rest with you?”

“For as long as you want, my dear friend.”

~*~*~*~

The sun was shining both outside and inside Daventry castle.

Outside: that was perfectly normal. It was the beginning of spring. The snow was melting away, and if you knew where to look, little green sprouts were resolutely starting to poke out of the earth.

Inside: well, that was perfectly normal, too. With the warmer weather came the opening of the tapestries, the huge windows letting sparkling sunlight pour into the castle, making dust motes glitter. But, now, the place shimmered in a way it hadn’t before. It helped that Icebella had created a large number of small ice diamonds, stringing them in every window—their unmelting magic caught the sunlight as it passed through them, splintering each beam into dozens of flickering rainbows.

But it was more than just the passing of the season.

The whole castle felt the change. It was brighter and warmer here, the King and Queen no longer lost and afraid and lonely. The royal guards had more of a bounce in their step, less wary of what might be around the next corner. The townsfolk felt it, too, energized to create more and share more as they realized how curious and excited for life the two newest, recently rescued, members of the castle were.

Graham and Valanice walked through the courtyard, hand in hand, feeling the warmth of the sun. Rosella sat on the balcony above them, glaring at the Duel of Wits board game spread out on the table in front of her and wondering how she’d lost to Alexander yet again. Maybe if she tried moving her pieces like this she wouldn’t lose as often. She couldn’t wait for him to get back so she could try it out.

Alexander had taken Icebella on a stroll through the forest, like his father had done for him. He had so many things he wanted to show her, and now that the snow was disappearing, he wanted to take her to the little overlook that showed off the entire valley, so they both could see what it looked like in the new season. And they could return the next season after that and see the changes in their home. Because it was their home, their place, that had welcomed them. They might both move on, someday, as was their right and ability, but for now, they had both found a place they belonged. And that was all they needed.

For now.

~*~*~*~

The sun had set, but the lanterns had been lit. Little pools of glowing warmth dotted the garden, and night insects chirped. Gart was sitting in the garden on a bench, knees drawn up to his chest, looking very young in the torchlight. His arms were wrapped tight around his legs, and he was staring at the floor. There was a crumpled letter next to him, pinned into place by a rock so it couldn’t blow away.

Gwendolyn took a deep breath. She thought of the stories, of how brave everyone had been, how they had learned so much about identity and home, and she walked into the garden. As she walked, the grass broke beneath her feet, and the warm sweet scent of life surrounded her. The bushes were in bloom, too, filling the air with soft fragrance. Even this late at night, she thought she could hear the distant sound of some passing minstrel with a lute strumming his way along the forest paths, reveling in the safety of the country.

She loved it here. She loved Daventry. It wasn’t her home, not like Green Isles were, but she still had a right to share it with Gart, even for a little while.

But when he looked up at her approach, she saw he’d been crying, and she saw the letter at his side was tearstained, and it looked like he’d crumpled it and opened it and crumpled it and opened it again, smearing the handwritten note that, even from here, Gwendolyn could tell was Grandpa’s handwriting, his signature. Some official looking addendum, with his signet ring’s crest stamped into the wax near the bottom of the page.

“Gwendolyn,” Gart said, his voice thick, “I’ve been a beast, and I’m sorry. I know I’ve been a perfect brute to you lately. It wasn’t fair. You’re still just a child, after all.”

“You’re just a kid too, y’know,” Gwendolyn said, and she tried to smile at him, to make him smile with her like Grandpa would with her, but his gaze dropped to the ground again. “What’s going on? Is it because of…what you said? It…it wasn’t nice.”

“And I’m sorry,” Gart said, and buried his face in his arms. Muffled: “I shouldn’t have said those things. I knew they were wrong. They weren’t what a king should say.”

“First off, I forgive you, honest. Second off, you aren’t a king yet,” Gwendolyn said. “You don’t have to get things right all the time. At least, not right away.”

“I might never be a king,” he said. “Not…not with you here.”

“Gart, you just apologized. Don’t start it again.”

“It’s not that.” He nodded toward the paper, without looking at her or unfolding himself.

Gwendolyn reached down, picked up the letter, and scanned. “This is an addendum about…” she paused, struggling with the level of official legalese the council expected addendums to have. “Oh. This…this says…that the crown of Daventry’s tradition should be reinstated like Edward had it, allowing the crown to pass to any person the king chooses, not just the first male heir in the existing line. Does…that means that I could…?” A sudden image of Grandpa’s crown on her head as she stood in front of the magic mirror flashed before her eyes, and she almost staggered.

“It’s not that,” Gart said, sniffling. “I mean, that’s why I said those things to you, why I wanted you to leave. I was scared of it. But. Read the rest, too.”

And she did. And she dropped the letter, and she sank next to her cousin, and the two turned into each other and pulled each close, because King Graham had written of his illness, what was keeping him bedridden, and his rapid decline, and his imminent death, and the changes that he foresaw coming to Daventry.

But that story was yet to happen.

#this is silly long i'm sorry there wasn't a good place to break it #back to our regularly scheduled art posts again now next week ahahaaa sorry if fic hasn't been your thing #King's Quest #kings quest #King Graham #alexander (king's quest)#rosella (king's quest)#icebella #Manannan #vee #neese #this post is protected by the royal guards #goblin appreciation blog #ch4 #fic'ing

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holdmekhh · 4 years

Text

Maybe

Artist: Lee Donghyuck/Lee Haechan

Group/Crew: NCT(127 & Dream)

Genre: Slight Angst, Smut, Fluff(if you squint)

Word Count: 4.6K

Warning- Use of Cannabis is mentioned, Panic Attacks, Swearing, Explicit language, Unprotected Sex, Oral Sex, Stoner!Haechan

A/N: Sorry for the long wait, not that I think many people were even waiting for this...if you do find this, I hope you enjoy it!

-Admin Nani.

_______________________________________________________________

Her eyes were swollen, fly away pieces of hair sticking to her forehead and the sides of her face. Tears soaked her reddened cheeks, chapped lips parted as she panted. She was inhaling shakily but nothing would go into her lungs, exhales coming out loud and raspy. Her body was stiff, yet limp. She couldn’t move it herself, her brain panicking and crumbling in on itself as she struggled to get oxygen to the organ. Her cries and whimpers were sporadic, coming out every few breaths, and at different volumes.

She felt like she was dying, her body finally deciding that things were too much to handle and began to fall apart. Her vision was going spotty, body starting to convulse as she continued to panic.

She was oblivious to all her surroundings, yet she was aware of every little thing. The feel of the rough carpet against her skin, the soft pitter-patter of rain against her window, the quiet buzz of the fan above her, even the dryness of her mouth. Her lungs burned, from lack of air. Reality was starting to become hazy. Time started to slow and she blinked, tears falling from her wet lashes and down the side of her face, and she thought the same thing as every other time. “Ah, yes. This is it....”

The exhale was smooth, smoke flowing from between her glossed lips and dispersing throughout the barely lit room. Her eyes were low, head leaned against the wall that she sat against. Music was filling the house that she was in, bass bumping so hard that you could feel it even from outside. Not that she could tell, her mind too smoke filled to hear everything normally. “Hey!” She heard from next to her, making her head kind of fall to the side in curiosity to who it was. Her heart fluttering faintly in her chest when she made eye contact with the person. “Dongchan!” She laughed out the nickname, placing the fat wrap of cannabis between her lips and she stood to wrap her arms around the taller male.

She hadn’t seen him the semester had ended, almost a month ago, and she’d missed him. Honestly. He was one of her very few friends, not to mention her fellow stoner. She also may have had a tiny crush on him, starting when he found her in the midst of a breakdown and calmly helped her through it. “Hey, shortstack. You been okay? What you smoking there?” He asked in her ear, arm wrapping securely around her back to hold gently at her waist to hold her close to his side. She merely shrugged before leaning up telling him the strands that filled in her joint. “Wanna share?” He nodded before starting to gently guide her through the crowd, looking back to make sure that she was actually okay with going with him. She was, of course.

Leading her to one of the bathrooms all the one way in the back of the third floor of the house, he ushered her in before following and locking the door behind them. Moving to sit in the tub, she struggled to take off her boots after handing him the joint and her lighter. When she finally had them off, she looked to him expectantly. “What?” He rasped as he pulled the wrap from his lips. “Come sit with me, Dongchan.” She asked softly, smiling when he simply shook his head with a laugh and toed off his Vans. “This is so weird, shortstack.” He chuckled, sitting across from her. Handing her back the joint after another hit, he leaned back and let his eyes flutter shut. “Sorry I haven’t been ‘round much…had to handle things back home.” He stated simply, making her nod slowly. “Here home, or…” He shook his head, “There.” She nodded, taking a drag and not prying into his business. It wasn’t her place to ask anything, he would talk about it if he wanted to.

“Have you been okay? Be honest, please, shortstack.” He muttered, head still leaned back and eyes shut. “Meaning? Because, no, I never am. Don’t think I ever will be.” She stated, taking another drag. At that, he lifted his head slowly and let his eyes open slightly, and eyebrows furrowing. Leaning forward, she brushed her thumb across the slit in his brow. “You actually did it?” Her lips pulled in a lopsided grin, pouting when he reached up to gently grab her hand. “Y/N...did any happen when I was away?” She stared into his eyes, looking back and forth between the deep brown pools of emotion, her teeth gnawing at her bottom lip as she gave a slight nod. “Bad?” Again, a slight nod and she looked away, moving back to her spot. “I had one earlier…was so bad, thought I was dying…” She muttered in a soft voice, a tear falling to her cheek but she ignored it, sniffling and taking another inhale of smoke. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here…” He breathed, standing to pull her up and into a hug. She merely shrugged, “It’s okay, don’t worry about it…” “Know what triggered?” He muttered into her hair, thumbs stroking her sides. “Was watching a movie...reminded me of my childhood...and my dad.” He muttered, immediately understanding. “We don’t have to talk about it anymore, but I feel like this isn’t the healthiest environment for you to be in.” He pulled away slightly, a pout surfacing on his lips when he noticed the tears rolling down her makeup covered cheeks, leaving streaks in their wake. Wiping at the tears, he leans in to peck her forehead before muttering, “Let’s get outta here,” against her skin as she nods.

He had easily slipped his shoes back on, fingers working quickly to tie his shoelaces. She, on the other hand, was fried out of her mind and was struggling to get her feet into the thick leather that was her boots. So, like the amazing guy that he is, he dropped to his knees and to help her slip them on. “We can go get something to eat...nothing too heavy, unless that’s what you want…” He muttered the end, tying off her second boot and standing.

He got back in the car, handing her the pharmacy bag, before putting his seatbelt on. “Thanks, Don-Haechan...really…” He merely waved her off with a chuckle before he started up his car and left the store parking lot, heading to his place.

When they got to his house, in his little community, he easily parked the car and shut it off. Getting out, they made their way to his door, as he unlocked it and pushed it open, the sight of his dog running up was the only thing to actually take in. It was a cute, hyperactive husky pup with his soft barks. “You got a dog?!” She squealed, a grin stretching onto her bare face. He merely hums, smiling as he watches her scoop up the puppy and walk in. He follows, locking the door up completely and toeing off his shoes. “Come sit, so I can take off those traps you call boots.” She laughs but listens, moving to sit on his couch. “What’s its name?” She coos, rubbing at it fur and smiling as it excitedly tries to lick at her face, which she avoids.

“Be right back...gonna grab the stuff.” He muttered, making her nod as she continued to to pet the dog. He stood and walked out the room only for a couple of minutes before he re-emerged again, except now he held a large bong and a bag of grinded weed. Sitting down next to her, he silently opened the bag and started filling the bongs bowl. “Can you grab a bottle of water from the fridge? I forgot to grab it.” He stated softly, glancing at her as she nodded and stood up to go to the fridge. She came back not even a minute later with a liter bottle of water, handing it to him before gently sitting back down. He filled up the bong, before setting the bottle on the table and handing it to her. “Lady’s first.” He smiles, his thumb hitting the mini torches button and burning the herb as she inhaled, the smoke a thick milky color. As he pulled the piece from its hole, the smoke was sucked into her and filled her lungs making her push the large glass away from her and coughed harshly. Her hand grabbed the bottle and took a few gulps before setting it back down.

She was staring at him, not even a full 15 minutes later, with glazed over eyes as he droned on about his home country. “Like, it was the first time I saw the kid in...years-literally years, and he-he just...has grown so much. His voice is deeper than mine! And he’s taller than me, too! Like...I really missed that kid.” “And you said his name was...Jisung? What about your other friends? Did you take pictures with them while you were there?” He merely nodded and moved to her side, phone in hand as he swiped away at the screen. Letting smoke blow from his lips he hands her the bong and she takes another hit before sitting it back on the table. “These are who I consider family...away from family…” He smiled as he stared at the pictures from his screen. Pointing them out, naming them, and even telling a few stories of how they’d met. “They’re cute...and you look really fucking happy in those pictures. “I’ve never really seen you like that.” He laughed softly, running a hand through his hair lazily, he let his head fall back. “With them, I’m my true self. I’m not worried about anything...I don’t get anxious...it’s always a good time...I miss them already.” “They should come live with you.” She states, resting her head on his shoulder and looking up at him with low eyelids. The laugh he let out was hearty, eyes shutting and hand resting on his stomach. “You just wanna meet my attractive friends.” “You’re the most attractive out of the seven of you.” She states simply, shrugging and looking away when he looks at her. “What was that?” He muttered, smirking slightly as he looked at her. She shook her head vigorously, starting to move away to the end of the couch, “You know what I said.” His arm moved to her shoulders and pulled her close to her, his nose brushing against her cheek softly as he hummed in agreement. “And I know it's true, but I wanna hear you say it again.” He smiled, moving to bury his nose in her hair. “Out of your friends...you’re the one I’d fuck.” She looked to him, catching his gaze easily. He smirked, teeth catching his bottom lip. “You’d fuck? You must mean get fucked, right, princess?” He grinned as her breathing hitched for a second. “You like that idea? Me fucking you?” He raised his slit eyebrow, watching her nod before continuing. “I could, right here, on the couch. Then, on the dining table, on the countertop, against the wall, then in my bed all night long.” He leaned in, bumping his nose against hers and brushing their lips together. She leaned into him, only for him to pull away. “I’m gonna roll really quick,” he pulls his arm from her shoulders and stands, grabbing the bong before walking to his room. Her mouth was in an ‘o’, because...what the fuck. She doesn’t really know what happened, but her pussy was soaked and her mouth was salivating at the mere thought of his dick. He was gone for a bit, making her pout and stand from her spot on the couch. Making her way down the hall to his room.

His door was wide open as he sat on his bed, rolling a fat blunt. She stopped as he looked up, making eye contact, before she started walking again as she stripped. Her cropped tank top came off first, leaving her torso naked. Her nipple piercings glinted slightly at the light, catching his attention. At the sight of the metal through the pert buds, he felt his pants get tighter. She smirked when he gulped and pressed a hand to his bulge for a moment, her hand moving to unzip her jeans to show her black lace panties. When she finally got to his doorway, she leaned against the frame and looked at him with low eyes. “Can we smoke in here?” She purred, head tilting to the side as she watched him nod slowly. She pushes off and makes her way to his bed as he finishes rolling. Pushing her pants down, leaving her panties on, she sits right next to him and rests her chin on his shoulder. “What’s got you like this, hm?” He asked, placing the blunt against his lips and taking a drag as he lit it. “You talking to me like that before.” She pouted, pressing her bare chest against his arm. “Mmm...you mean when I talked about fucking you all over my apartment. Did it make you wet, baby?” She whined and nodded, taking the blunt from his passing fingers to set it between her lips. One of his hands pressed to the inside of her thigh, thumb rubbing at the soft skin. “C’mere,” he muttered, squeezing the flesh before moving to her hips to move her to his lap. A soft moan left his lips as she rested on his bulge, his forehead pressing to her shoulder, tongue reaching out to swipe at her skin. “You’re so hard…” She chuckled, taking another drag before handing it back to him. “Grind that pretty pussy on me.” She whined at his words and started grinding against his bulge. “Shit...fuck, that feels good,” she moaned softly, hands resting on his shoulders. He gently wrapped a hand around her throat, forcing her to look at him as he took another drag. Her eyes were low, body twitching slightly at the orgasm that was quickly building in her core. Maybe it was the weed, his fucking face, or the fact that she’d wanted this for a while. Maybe, it was all three. She didn’t know anything besides the fact that he was gonna make her cum and soak her panties completely, and hadn’t even touched her yet. “M’gonna cum.” She whined, her hips speeding up and her fingers moving to wrap around his wrist, to push more pressure on her throat, and the other moving to rest on his clothed chest. “Cum for me, baby. Make a mess on me.” He smiled, squeezing her throat a little. Her eyes rolled back with a soft drawn out moan, orgasm hitting her like a train. “Fuck, you look so sexy when you cum for me, princess. You sound so cute…mm- I can’t wait to fuck you.” He moves his hand from her throat to caress her cheek, watching as she comes down from her high.

Within minutes, she was dropped on her knees in front of the male. His pants were down and his cock was down her throat, his hand tangled in her hair as he watched her bob on his length. “Yeah, just like that.” He mutters softly, blowing out smoke. Pulling back and wrapping her lips around his tip, she looked up at him through her lashes. “Shit, you look so good, baby.” He groans, eyes fluttering shut as she sinks back down. Soft moans started to fall from his lips, hips starting to buck upwards. Just as his breathing started picking up, his lips parting as his head fell back, his phone started ringing loudly-startling the two. “Who the fuck is call-” He groaned, reaching for his phone as she starts to pull away, his hand tightens in her hair to hold her still while he answered the phone. “Hello,” he said into the phone, starting to slowly thrust into her mouth with parted lips. She looked up with wide, teary eyes, holding eye contact with him as he nodded to her. Her jaw relaxed completely, her hands resting on his thighs as he continued thrusting against his warm muscle. Continuing his phone call with a series of hums and nods to the other on the phone, his hips speeding up. “Yeah...uh, I’m gonna call you guys later-” A smile broke out on his face as he chuckled, “Kinda have something to finish…” He nodded with another sigh-like chuckle before ending the call, yanking his shirt off, and pulling her off his length. “Come sit on my dick, baby.” He mutters softly, gripping her clothed hips to pull her on his lap again. Pushing the fabric to the side, he lined his tip to her entrance before dragging her down on his cock with a soft gasp. “Oh my god, you feel so good.” He whispers, forehead resting against her chest as she starts to slowly bounce on him. “You’re so big...filling me so well.” She moaned out, making him nod and start to kiss at her breasts, even taking a nipple between his lips. His tongue flicked against the pert, pierced bud as his hands moved to bounce her faster.

High pitched moans left her lips as he bounced her, his lips moving to kiss and suck at her neck. “You like that, baby?” He growled, sucking at her soft spot as he started to buck up into her. “You like my dick, princess? Taking it all so well, like a good girl.” She cries out, hands moving to grip his hair. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” she stated breathlessly. “Me too, baby.” He whispered against her skin, hands moving to grip at her thighs. “Don’t hold back…please, Daddy.” She moaned, a soft pout pushing her lips out as he stopped all of their movements. “What’s wrong?” She asked softly, cupping his face and making him look at her. “What’d you say?” She raised an eyebrow at his question before realization filled her face, making her smirk and lean down to his ear to whisper, “Don’t hold back, Daddy.” He smirked, kicking off his pants and wrapping his arms around her waist to move them onto the bed fully before laying back on the bed, propping his feet on the bed. Without giving her time to prepare, he started thrusting up into her at a fast, harsh pace. Her mouth fell open, soft squeaks of moans leaving her every time he pushed all the way into her dripping center. Her eyes had rolled back, hands grabbing at his biceps. “Oh, right there, daddy, fuck!” She cried out when he hit her g-spot, nails digging into his skin. He grunted, flipping them over and pulling out of her. “These panties are starting to get on my nerves.” He mutters breathlessly, voice a couple octaves deeper than usual, as he pulls off her underwear and tosses them somewhere in his room before slipping back into her slowly. Her mouth fell open, head falling back as he filled her up. Once he was fully in her, he didn’t give any time to readjust and started back to an even faster pace. Her legs wrapped around his waist as he leaned down to suck a nipple into his mouth, fingers tangling into his hair. “Oh-shit! Right there, right there!” She cried out,eyes fluttering shut and mouth falling open. Pulling back slightly, he grabbed her legs and crossed them at the ankle before pushing them to her chest as he sped up his hips. “Oh my god, oh my god, I’m gonna c-” She moaned, her body crashing into an orgasm as she came on his dick. He never stopped thrusting, pushing her through the euphoric high, even assisting by rubbing at her clit with his thumb. As soon as his thumb touched the hardened bundle of nerves, she clenched around his length and her back arched off the bed. “Fuck, you feel so good around me.” He muttered softly, feeling his balls getting heavier.

Heavy breaths left his lips, hips crashing into hers harshly. “Imma cum...” He rasped, thumb rubbing lazily at her clit as she came another time, her juices covering his cock and lower stomach as she squirted over him again. “Yeah...you like my dick, baby?” He breathed, voice deeper than usual. She nodded, shaky moans leaving her lips at the intense overstimulation taking place on her sensitive core. “Words.” He smacked her inner thigh before going back to rubbing her clit, tone low and slightly slurred. “Y-yeah! I love your cock, Daddy.” “Shit...tell me how much you love it, baby.” “I love your cock so much, Daddy-fuck! Fucks me so fucking good, goddamn!” She cried out, clenching tighter around him as she felt him twitch inside her. “Who’ this pretty pussy belong to, baby?” He mutters, slowing down to hit deep and hard. “You!” She cried, hands moving between her legs to press against his abdomen. “Nah, move your hands. Stop trying to push me away, feel me, princess. Feel. Every. Inch.” He accentuated each word with a deep, harsh thrust to make her back arch. “Yeah, take my dick, baby.” He breathed, moaning as she grabbed his hips. “Cum in me. Fill me up, Daddy!” She moaned, making his cock twitch and his head fall back. “Imma cum, baby.” He moaned softly. “Yeah, you gon’ cum, Daddy?” She slurred and he nodded, head falling forward as he pulled her legs over his shoulders as he continued fucking into her. “Gimme your cum, Daddy.” She moaned, squirting all over him again making him finally cum. Thick ropes of white painting her insides as he fucks his cum deeper, some dripping out. His moans were loud, and slightly higher pitched. His hands gripped her hips at a bruising strength, not that she minded.

“Damn...that was the best sex I’ve ever had.” He breathed, both letting out breathless chuckles as he continued to lay on her, dick still filling her up and her legs over his shoulders. Looking down at her, he leaned in to kiss her lips. His tongue flicked against hers, moving his lips down her neck to her chest. “Wanna taste you…” He said as he pulled away from her, lowering his body until he came face-to-face with her leaking pussy. A mixture of their cums dripping from her entrance onto the bed, making him lick his lips.

The first lick was gentle, and slow, up her slit to make her gasp softly. At her reaction he did it again, tongue adding more pressure with his lick. Reaching a hand up, using two fingers to spread her lips open. “So pretty…” He breathed against her core before sucking her clit between his lips, making her cry out. “Oh, fuck! Donghyuck, just like that, Daddy!” She moaned, hands burying in his thick, soft hair. Pulling away harshly, letting the nub snap from his mouth with a soft ‘pop’. He looked up at her as he pushed her legs up to her chest, positioning his body to the side slightly, to help hold her in place, as one hand rested on her ass and the other on her thigh as he pressed his weight on them to keep her down. Leaning down, he spread her lips again and started flicking at the bundle of nerves quickly with his tongue as he lifted his other hand to slip two fingers into her. “Oh my god!” She cried, hands gripping at everything she could- her calves, his hair, reaching down to his forearm, and even dragging her nails down his back. His fingers curled slightly as he sped up his hand, pulling his lips from her to watch as she squirted around his fingers with loud moans, covering her thighs and his hand. “Yeah, come on, baby.” He muttered, easing another orgasm out of her quickly, making her squirt all over the place.

Pulling his fingers from her, he landed a gentle smack to her clit sending her into another, rather small, orgasm. “Shit!” She cried, his eyes were focused on her soaked center and a smile on his lips as he leaned down and gave a short kiss to her clit to make her shiver before sitting up and letting her legs fall down on the bed. When he looked at her, a loud laugh was ripped from his chest. She looked completely fucked out- hair messy and stuck to the sides of her face and forehead, her eyes were slightly wet and nearly shut, and her lips were parted and covered in drool. “I fucked you good, huh, shortstack?” He laughed again when she groaned and weakly attempted to hit him. Leaning down to her, he placed a soft kiss to her lips before excusing himself to go to the bathroom.

It felt like he was gone for hours to her, but had only been around 5 minutes in reality. He reemerged with a wet towel and a bottle of water, before sitting on the bed next to her and gently pulling her legs open again. He gently hushed her when she started to whine in protest, “Gotta clean you up, princess.” He stated softly, leaning down to kiss her thigh as he gently brushed the towel over her sensitive center. “Drink this baby, then I’ll carry you to the bathroom to pee.” He handed her the bottle of water before helping her sit up a little, feeling his chest swell just a little when she whimpered in discomfort.

The next morning when she woke up, she found her head on his bare chest and one of his arms around her naked back to hold her close, and the stench of cigarette smoke. Moving her head up to look at him, she found him scrolling through his phone with a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. “I thought you quit…” She muttered, making him set his phone down and pull the toxic stick from his lips. “I did...kinda started back up when I went home though…” She nodded, watching as he reached to his bedside table to put it out. “I’m working on quitting again. For good this time.” She nodded again, leaning up and pecking his cheek. “Instead of smoking that, why don’t we smoke some bud together?” She raised an eyebrow, making him laugh and nod before slipping from her side to roll another joint.

They were a joint, two blunts, and half of a bowl later, sprawled out on his bed. They had slow morning sex, a nice few orgasms, before watching a movie- and it was only 11 in the morning. “So…is this gonna be a one time thing? A casual thing? Or what?” She stated simply, bluntly worded as she glanced at him. “Well...I’ve liked you for a bit, so it would be great if this could be the start of something great. But, honestly, it’s whatever you want baby.” He states, looking at her and watching as she moves to straddle his hips. “I guess you got a new boo thang now, baby.” She smirked, leaning down and licking a strip up his neck. “And you call tell all those girls to leave you alone and to slide right back outta them DM’s.” She states next his ear, making him laugh and land a harsh smack to the swell of her ass. “You got it, princess.” He muttered, reaching up to move her face to his and connect their lips.

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jewelserket · 3 years

Text

So I decided to write a bit about my D&d character’s backstory. I’m pretty proud of it so I thought I’d pop it onto here. I will say that the intended audience was my fellow players and not tumblr, however I’m a busy student and don’t have a ton of time to edit it. So, without further ado, I present to you:

Dreams of Doran, P1/?

TW: Depictions of murder, child murder, gore, fire, loose depiction of PTSD and vomit.

Doran shifted awkwardly in the poorly padded seat. His father’s desk chairs were always frustratingly uncomfortable and hardly fit Doran’s hulking frame. Silence stretched over the room as he awaited his father’s arrival into the study. His gaze danced upwards to the three massive paints along the wall. They depicted the three generations of his family, each man’s stone gaze boring into Doran’s flesh. Silence shattered with the sound of the door swinging open. Doran peered back at the man who entered, his father. He watched the man stride over to the opposite side of the desk. Once his father was situated in front of him, Doran spoke up, “Hello, Lord Reaver. Glad to see you didn’t die on the way here.”

Reaver narrowed his eyes at his son, “Glad to see you're actually early for once.”

“Oh, I’m always on time.” Doran suppressed a roll of his eyes.

A low growl slid out of Reaver. One that made Doran stiffen and drop his gaze. His father meant business. Reaver ended his growl with a snarl, “If you’re done being an ass, I have a mission for you.”

Doran nodded. The weight of his father’s gaze crushed the air from his lungs. He could feel his father’s snarl relax into a satisfied smirk. Before Doran could force out a response, Reaver continued, “Good. Pull out the map.”

The son did as told. He tugged an old, yellowing map of the region from a small basket near by and rolled it out along the desk. Then he sat back in the uncomfortable chair, and watched his father pull out small, wooden figurines. He placed one on the mountain city they resided in, then several others out on enemy fields. Doran stared at them, a frown crossing his face. Reaver inspected his own work for a moment, then continued, “These are enemy encampments. You are to gather troops and go burn them down.”

Doran was silent for a moment. Then, without meeting his father’s eye, he glared down at the table, “What you’re suggesting is—“

“Is important to keeping this land safe. If we drive them out, they’ll be weaker.”

“It’s also incredibly wrong and dishonorable.”

Reaver shot to his feet, towering over his son, “You want to talk dishonorable? Their men have already destroyed our homes, murdered our families. They’ve slaughtered more than we have by the hundreds. What you’re doing is protecting our god damn people. Unless you really are too much of a worthless little worm to do even that.”

Doran’s words dried up on his tongue. Whatever fight was in him had been dashed away by his father. He nodded, small and heavy. Reaver smirked. An air of satisfaction floated about him as he continued, “I’ve already gathered your Generals. You will leave at nightfall. Do not let any of their scouts escape, or you’ll lose your surprise advantage. You’ll take them out starting closest to the mountains, and end with this camp here. Any further in is too well established in their territory. It would be a suicide mission.”

Doran nodded, then rose to his feet, “You are always the bearer of bad news, aren’t you, father.”

“Consider it an honor to be assisting our country in this way. Now get out of my sight. I have shit to do and you’re very distracting.”

Doran could only respond with a curt nod. He strode to the door, pausing for a second with his hand on the handle. His gaze shot back to his father. Reaver was staring down at the battle map, ignoring his son. Doran’s grip tightened on the handle for a moment, then he swung the door open and slipped out. The door slammed shut behind him, but Doran found himself frozen in place just outside. A shaking sigh escaped his throat. His father was right. He was doing what was needed for those in the mountains and beyond. That didn’t fix the wrong feeling that gnawed at his stomach. He did his best to push the squirming discomfort away. He had preparations to take care of, and the first step was checking on Zulius.

Smoke clogged Doran’s nose and stained his body with its scent. The heat of flame roared in front of him, but his gaze was on the night sky. They still had several hours before the sun rose, which gave Doran some uneasy relief. Under him, Zulius shifted with discomfort. He snorted and shook out his striped mane. Doran sighed, sliding an armored hand up and down the Zebra’s neck. He hated to admit that it was for his own comfort as well as the zebra’s. Around him, his men were gathering up the few survivors to prevent them from running. Doran bit his lip and led his steed over to the small crowd of soldiers.

One of his men looked up at him, “There weren’t as many in this camp, General.”

Doran rolled his shoulders back. His face was dark, intimidating, as he growled out, “I told you this twice now and I’ll tell you again. We cannot risk them escaping. Kill them.”

The man nodded and moved back to the group. Doran turned away from them, not wanting to see what he was causing. That did not stop the screams of pain from reaching his ears. The smell of blood quickly overpowered that of the smoke. A sickness rolled in his stomach that he had to force down. He trotted Zulius over to the one commander not surrounding the enemy, his marshal, and growled out, “How close is the next camp? We have only a few hours till day break.”

The marshal was curt, “One hour, Captain, give or take.”

“Then we best head out. The more ground we cover, the better. There is only one camp left, correct?”

The marshal nodded. Doran narrowed his eyes, silent for a moment. Then he spun Zulius around. He watched as his men approached him. Blood had stained up their weapons and splattered across their faces. Doran boomed his next command out to them, “Gather the soldiers. We head out now.”

Before any of them could respond, Doran marched Zulius off in the direction of their next destination. His marshal stuck close behind and, a moment later, the rest of the warriors were in tow. There was a silence about them that was only broken by the shifting of armor. Doran lifted his head a bit higher. The gaze of his subordinates dug into his back, looking for his leadership. Doran could feel the weight of their nerves and the bloodied sin of their actions. He took a deep breath and rose himself a tad bit higher. He could not afford to be weak, for their sake if not for his.

Yet, as the cold of the night time forest surrounded him, Doran felt a sickening feeling in his stomach. The urge to vomit chewed at the back of his mind. He wrote the feeling off as the weight from his actions, but something deep down whispered that something was going to go wrong.

“Fire!!”

The roar of flame coated arrows filled the air. Doran stared out at the camp which was now thoroughly surrounded by his officers. His marshal stood nearby, watching as the archers nocked their arrows. Doran’s eyes were locked on the camp itself as the first light of fire licked at the buildings. That word was what bothered Doran: Buildings. Not one or two, as would be custom for a large camp. Many house-like buildings. Flame spread across their thatch roofs at lightning speed.

“Fire!!”

Doran jumped at his marshal’s voice beside him. The lieutenant was too focused on the second volley of arrows to notice Doran’s reaction. Archers prepared their next volley as the surrounding soldiers prepared to stop any escapees. As the second volley landed, the first screams erupted into the air. Something about them was wrong. They were too high pitched, too young. Doran’s eyes widened.

“Fire!!”

From the houses poured out soldiers, yes, but more notably was the unarmored others. His eyes locked onto a mother, scorch marks crawling up her face. In her arms was a howling baby that clutched at her shirt. The mother screamed, running towards the trees. Her line of escape was stopped with a spray of blood, a sword through her chest. Others followed her, creating a panicked circle at the center of the camp. A child clung to his mother’s skirt, his legs scorched. Blood ran down the face of someone who was perhaps only thirteen, but her focus was only on that of the two children at her side. Surrounding the bubbling mass of screaming children were what few soldiers were there to protect the camp.

“Fire!!”

Doran opened his mouth to stop his marshal but he was far too late. Screams erupted into the air. Fire lit up among the crowd. Bodies dropped to the ground, dead from the first hit. Those that survived screeched in pain. The sounds rung in Doran’s ears as he watched one of the children be consumed with flame. By the end of that volley, few were left moving. The marshal opened his mouth to start the final volley, but Doran grabbed his shoulder, “No.”

The marshal looked back at him, “There’s still—“

“I’m aware. We go in and… and pick them off.”

The lieutenant rolled his eyes but called off the volley. He moved to bark an order again, but Doran stopped him again, “I’ll do it. Make sure the soldiers pick off any runners.”

The marshal started to talk back but Doran cut him off with a growl. Doran’s dark gaze forced the man to look down. Zulius let out a frustrated winnie as Doran led him towards the flames. He skirted the edges of the crumbling settlement, watching the flames lick away at the remains. His eyes caught on a particular house, where a burnt corpse had never made it out of the door before it had collapsed. They couldn’t have been older than fifteen before the wooden frame had impaled them. The look of horrified pain that stretched across the corpse’s face burned itself into the back of Doran’s mind. His hands started to shake but he forced a deep breath down his throat. The smell of burnt human flesh slithered its way up his nose, one that he was painfully accustomed to.

He continued his trot around, pausing as the fire died down enough to pass into the remains of the camp. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a runner. Their sprint was abruptly ended at the edge of the camp. An axe cleaved clean through their body. Doran suppressed a grimace. His steely gaze stayed locked on the center of the camp. Finally, he came to a stop. The smell of burnt skin clung to his senses. Bile rose up in his chest. Before him was what could only be described as a pile of flesh and bones. There were some faces in the mass, varying in age and race. Their empty eye sockets burned the image into his brain. For a moment, Doran stared. All was stillness, silence. Whatever flames remained seemed almost frozen in time. They roared louder than the pounding of his heart and burned more than the tears that threatened to break through his steeled gaze. Something moved in the pile that caught his gaze. Out pushed a kid covered in burnt viscera. He could not have been older than nine. The kid was relatively unharmed, though he was shaking. Tears cut lines through the viscera on his face. There was a grunt as a larger figure pushed out behind him. Doran’s stomach sank.

The one who pushed out behind him was a member of the opposing army. He was young, maybe sixteen, and went by the name of Riot. He was well known for going on a frenzy and slicing like a maniac through Doran’s family’s armies. Yet, in this moment was a crushing hopelessness that the kid failed to hide behind the rage in his eyes. He glared up at Doran. Doran had seen him fight in the past, watched him slice through his men. Yet, in that moment, he seemed so… small. Doran’s grip tightened around his lance.

“I thought you were taking care of it, General,” The hiss of his marshal made Doran jump.

He looked down at the marshal who stared up at him with crossed arms. There was a smirk on that bastard’s face. Doran growled, “I am. Go back to the men.”

“I’d rather watch this. Wouldn’t want to have to report a failure to your father.”

Doran’s fists turned white under his gauntlet from the strength of his grip, “So be it.”

His gaze turned back to the children before him. He lifted his lance, though sickness filled his stomach. Riot marched towards him, dragging a great sword behind him. Doran led Zulius back a few steps, then took a deep breath. He kicked Zulius into a charge, aiming his weapon. He felt it plunge into flesh far easier than it should have. Doran’s heart froze as Zulius took several steps before he slowed to a stop. His gaze slid to the end of his lance. There was the boy, the child who had crawled out of the meat pile. Doran’s hand began to shake as he tilted the lance down. Some part of him begged for the boy to breath, to not be bleeding out through his stomach. His face was set into a frozen, dark eyed gaze. Below him, the child was still, his eyes glazed over.

Doran slid his gaze back to Riot, who stared in shock. He had been pushed away by the kid. Doran instinctively lifted his lance as Riot sprinted towards him. Before the General could react, though, Riot had pushed past him. He fell to his knees beside the child, shaking him, “W-Wait! Wait no! Wake up!”

Doran led Zulius a step backwards, then turned to his lieutenant. The marshal smirked up at him, a gesture which Doran returned as a glare. He growled, “That’s enough. We’ve done enough.”

“What about-“

Doran pointed his lance at the marshal, “No. Call off the troops. We’re going back.”

The marshal snarled but turned around and stormed away. Doran’s lance grip loosened as the sick feeling welled up in his stomach. He turned back to Riot, who sat frozen over the body. For a moment, he just stared at the boy. Then he wrenched Zulius around and led him out of the camp. As he exited the camp, he felt vomit rise up and…

Doran lurched upwards. His eyes were wide and sweat slicked his brow. He half dragged, half stumbled himself over to the edge of the water. His entire body shook violent as vomit poured out of him and into the water. The smell of burnt flesh clung to his nose as he stared down at his reflection. The ink that stained his face seemed almost to be blood. Tears streaked down his face, mixing with the sweat. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the only image in his mind was the face of the child on his lance.

“Deep breath..” he whispered to himself, pushing against the rising panic in his chest. His breath was cut off as another bubble of puke tumbled out of him.

Doran sucked as deep a breath as he could. His gaze shot around the cove. Around him was the tents of Antione and Anawe. Out at the entrance of the cove was Mirka, staring out at the ocean. He clung to the edge of the rock, grateful that Mirka had not heard him awake. Another deep breath brought him enough strength to wipe the sweat from his face. He pulled his hand away, wincing at the sight of the ink. Given the darkness, it still appeared to be blood. Doran shook his head, then reached down to the water. Some part of him was thankful for its icy cold. He splashed it across his face, which helped reduce his shaking. Again, he splashed himself. Then a third time, causing his upper body to be thoroughly soaked.

He stumbled to his feet, gazing back at the sleeping form of Zulius. He sighed. There was no way in all the hells that he was going back to sleep. Doran forced himself to take one last deep breath. A smile plastered its way onto his face. He slid over to Mirka, hands hidden behind him due to their shaking. The massive man stopped beside Mirka, smiling, “H-Hey.”

Doran winced as his voice broke. He coughed a bit, then whispered again, “Hey. I’ll take watch now.”

Mirka gazed over, “Oh hey, thanks.”

The two exchanged a smile and Mirka tiptoed back inside. Doran watched them go back inside, then leaned on the wall. He slid down to sit, leaning his head back. His gaze stared up into the sky, watching the stars. It would be daylight within three or so hours, it seemed. The starlight seemed almost sickeningly familiar. He sighed and rubbed his face. It was going to be a long night.

#dungeons and dragons #d&d story #D&d #writing #fiction #murder #author #backstory #dreams of Doran #fun write

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theolddarkmachine · 3 years

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Imaginary - Chapter Sixteen

Midoriya Izuku’s life was turned upside by fate.

Eri’s life was turned upside down by circumstance.

And Bakugou Katsuki is about to learn that even imaginary friends need to grow up.

Chapter 16 of 19

Also on AO3

A/N: This one is a bit shorter. I consider it a little bit more like an interlude or sorts. ANYWAY, we’re steamrolling into the finale and only have 3 more chapters left, so I hope y’all like! We only have like a small bit of sad before we finally get our happy ending so LESGO.

***************************

Days went by, and Izuku told himself it was just a work thing, like last time.

Those days turned to a week, and Izuku swallowed down the bitter, jagged edge of his anger as he finally gave in and tried to call.

The week turned to weeks, and each and every one of Izuku’s calls went unanswered by anything more than the mechanical voice of Bakugou’s voicemail.

Those weeks finally culminated into a month before Izuku finally snapped. It was a Friday when his fury finally overran him, filling him with an almost blinding heat as he’d led Eri up the path to her daycare. She’d looked up at him, question bright in her eyes. He wondered what his offered smile must have looked like when she made a face in return.

“I love you, Daddy Izuku,” Eri had said, giving his hand a small squeeze.

“I love you too, Eri,” he had said, returning the squeeze before she’d pulled her hand from his grasp and pushed the door open. Izuku had stood there for a moment, watching as the door swung shut behind her before he’d turned to the woman standing at the start of the path and herding kids toward the entrance.

“Good morning,” he’d said as politely as he could manage around the searing bubbles that had pushed their way angrily up his throat. It’d fizzed and popped at the back of his tongue, like a noxious version of popping candy. Izuku swallowed it down with a wince as the teacher turned toward him.

She was very pretty, he had thought distantly, as the sunshine had twisted in her hair. It wasn’t the same kind of blonde as Bakugou’s, erring closer to a mellowed tan as opposed to his bright almost white.

“Hello, how can I help you,” She’d asked, pausing expectantly.

“Midoriya Izuku,” he’d offered, earning a small nod and an equally small smile.

“Mr. Midoriya,” she’d concluded, gesturing for him to answer.

“I was wondering if you could help me with getting in touch with one of the other teachers here?” He’d asked, immediately noting the way her eyes shuttered at the question. Her expression dimmed, thick with a layer of suspicion as she’d looked him over as if in assessment of his threat level.

Quickly, he’d raised his hands in a show of surrender.

“I mean, if it isn’t allowed, that’s okay too,” he’d added, tongue tripping over itself to get that words out as fast as possible. “I’m just worried. I haven’t heard form him in awhile, and I just want to make sure he isn’t sick or something.”

Her defense had dissolved into confusion at that, her brow arcing up pointedly.

“I’m sorry—” she’d started, only to be cut off.

“Bakugou Katsuki,” Izuku blurted then, as heat had spread across his cheeks at the desperation that colored the edges of his words. “I just need to know if he’s alright.”

Confusion had given way to sadness as the teacher had kept her gaze fixed on his face, as if in search of something.

“Please?” He’d said, hating himself for pleading. There had only been a moment of hesitation, but it had felt like an eternity before the woman finally shook her head. It had been a small thing, but it had felt like a killing strike as the defeat had run cold in his veins.

“I’m sorry,” she’d repeated, lips turning down further as he’d deflated before her. “I’d really like to help you, but there aren’t any male teachers working here currently.”

Everything had screeched to a halt suddenly, violently, and it had left him reeling as the teacher continued to watch him and speak.

“I think it’s been a couple years, now, actually. But he moved. As far as I know, there has never been a teacher here by that name.”

Her continued words had almost been lost on him as they’d settled into a dull hum as his mind raced over their first meeting. A frozen shard had pierced the center of his chest as he’d remembered what Eri had said that day.

“Kacchan is my friend! We met at daycare!”

She hadn’t said he was a teacher, he’d only assumed. And Bakugou had gone with it.

The memory had been chased away by another, equally distant and seemingly unimportant. A brief moment in time after Izuku had held a crying Eri close following a close call with her, the roof, and a bedsheet parachute.

“I had her,” a phantom voice had said. Fleeting and almost lost to the wind, but there. At the time, he’d chalked it up to his mental faculties finally slipping after the sudden appearance of Eri’s imaginary friend.

Her imaginary friend who had seemingly disappeared with the appearance of Bakugou.

A choked sound had worked itself free of his throat, earning him an apologetic look from the woman before him.

“I’m really sorry, Mr. Midoriya,” she’d offered lowly, unaware that the sentiment was washed out by the sharp snap of something deep within his chest.

“Thank you, anyway,” Izuku had replied, breathless as his lungs had tried to work around the debris that filled the walls of his ribcage.

She’d slowly nodded, worrying pinching her brows together as he’d turned away, mechanically moving back to his car. It felt like an infinite walk before he’d finally wrenched the door open and dropped himself into the driver’s seat. A small throb of pain had lanced across his forehead as he’d hit it against the steering wheel, ignoring the gnawing sense that he was going to be late, and the blare of the horn urging him to leave the parking spot.

It had all seemed inconsequential in the face of the sudden truth he had faced.

Bakugou was gone.

And Izuku wasn’t sure if he had ever actually been there at all.

***

It’s a Saturday, and Izuku is tired.

Having missed out on most of last night’s sleep in favor of turning his thoughts over and over in search of an answer to the impossible question that was Bakugou Katsuki, he couldn’t even bring himself to be excited for the free weekend he was facing. His mother had offered to take Eri for a couple days, having noticed the sudden change in his demeanor.

She hadn’t asked what had been the cause, but he was certain that the lacking mention of ‘Kacchan’ would have been enough of a hint for her.

He knows that she’ll break her silence on the topic eventually, but he prays it isn’t anytime soon.

Sighly loudly, Izuku drops down onto Eri’s bed as she starts to go through her clothes to find what she wants to take with her to her grandmother’s. Rubbing a hand over his eyes, he loses himself to the white pops of light that spark along his eyelids from the pressure.

After several seconds, he finally resurfaces, vision fuzzy as he settles it straight ahead of him. It’s then that his gaze catches on the frame that sits on her nightstand, the brightly colored trio trapped within its confines looking up at him. They almost look mocking now, with their smiles filled with a knowing that he didn’t seem to have. A sudden rush of anger jolts through him, dancing along his nerves as he continues to stare down the drawing, as if it might hold some kind of answers.

It doesn’t, he knows that, but it almost helps as he continues to glare at the frame.

Tracking his eyes across the steady lines of Bakugou’s drawing, he almost scoffs at the drawn version of himself. His smile was wide, drawn on by the blonde on the other side of Eri, and what had it gotten him.

He resists the urge to roll his eyes when his mind supplies a hushed answer— a broken heart— and continues his inspection of the drawing until he finds himself drawn to the words that sit at the corner of the frame.

From your best friend, Katsuki, it says in bold strokes. The sureness of the words bite at Izuku’s thoughts, ripping and tearing until they turn into another memory from that night.

Inhaling sharply, Izuku turns to look at Eri.

Her voice is light and childish as she sings a small, nonsensical tune to herself. It’s a happy little soundtrack as she shoves her hands deeper into her dresser in search, effectively ruining all the folding he’d done. It hits him then, as his mind spins wild as a tempest around the memory of her birthday party, and whispers that hadn’t been meant for him.

“Eri?” Izuku hears himself say before he even realizes his decision to speak. It causes her to look up from the task at hand, her eyes bright with curiosity.

“Yeah, Daddy Izuku?” She asks, her hand fisted around bright yellow fabric.

“What did Kacchan tell you?” He asks cautiously, watching her closely. “When he gave you your birthday present?”

The hush that fills the room fills him with instant regret over the question, his thoughts desperately searching for a way to take it back as he remembers the look of sorrow that had painted her features that night. A lump, thick and heavy, forms at the base of his throat. It chokes him as he tries to swallow it down and tell her to forget about it.

Izuku’s throat aches as he tries to say anything else at all when Eri comes to sit next to him on the bed. Folding her hands in her lap, her head hangs as she stares down at them. She kicks her legs, one at a time, letting her heels hit the boxspring in a rhythmic cadence before she finely speaks.

“He said that his work here was done, and that he had to go help another kid be happy,” Eri says, her voice almost a whisper. There’s another heavy pause before she turns her face upward, a small smile curving her lips.

“He said I’d always be his favorite though.”

Her words feel like a sudden punch, one that would have knocked the breath from his lungs if he hadn’t already been struggling to breathe. Before him, Eri looks solemn, but also happy. Its a bittersweet thing, and that almost hurts more than anything else, and for just a moment, he thinks he hates Bakugou.

If his job had been to make Eri happy, than what had that left him as? Collateral damage?

The thought is gone almost as soon as it had come, brushed away with the lingering whisper of I love you.

“I wish I understood what that means,” he whispers, more to himself than anything.

“He was my imaginary friend,” Eri replies anyway, shrugging as it it wasn’t an absurd thing to say. As if it wasn’t something magical, and impossible.

“Now he’s someone else’s.”

It’s the final confirmation, and it knocks loose the remaining shrapnel that had filled his chest the day before. A small choking sound heaves itself from his lips as he pulls Eri into his arms, hugging her close.

Nothing about what she had said should have made sense, yet something told him it was true. For all the impossibility, he couldn’t doubt that Bakugou had come into their lives and made Eri happier.

Had made him happier.

And if that much had been true, how could he deny anything else.

Bakugou had been Eri’s imaginary friend. But he had been real. Real enough to feel, real enough to love, real enough to piece their small family together into something whole. Before him, Izuku had been floundering, lost in to the vast expanse of parenthood and unsure of how to do right by the girl in his arms.

He may have been imaginary, but he’d left a very real mark, and he loved him all the more for it.

And that hurt.

Eri’s arms squeezed tighter at his shoulders.

“I love you,” she whispers into his shoulder.

“I love you too, Eri,” Izuku returns, turning his face into her hair and giving her crown a kiss. “So, so much.”

Giving her another squeeze, he finally manages to swallow down the last of the burning ember in his throat, pushing it down to the center of his chest to smolder. Gently, he pulls back, looking down at his daughter with a small smile.

“I think we need a change of plans,” he says conspiratorially. Eri tilts her head in silent question as he gently lifts her off his lap and sets her on her feet before him.

“You put on your most favorite dress, and we’re going to go out. Just the two of us,” Izuku says, the ache in his chest growing mute in the face of her growing smile. “And I’ll let your grandma know we’ll see her later.”

Her eyes shine with her excitement as she nods, turning back to her dresser as she says, “okay, Daddy Izuku!”

Watching just long enough to see her pull the bright yellow dress fully from the drawer, Izuku pushes himself off the bed. With a small stretch that pops a couple of vertebrae in his back, he makes his way out of the room to find his phone, doing his best to ignore the residual ache clinging to his sternum.

***********************

#bkdk #bakudeku #bakugou katsuki #midoriya izuku #catch me counting down to the happy as if im not the only thing standing between us and said happy ending XD

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la-fille-en-aiguilles · 4 years

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Bjorn Ironside x Female Reader: Skjaldmær

A/N : This is what I get for watching the Vikings before bed. A story based off a dream that I had a couple of nights ago, featuring Bjorn and a badass!female reader. Part 2 may be in cards for this one if anyone’s interested? Let me know. Also I have like a million messages to respond to, I promise I’ll get there. Please, bear with me? WARNINGS: Gore, violence, blood - the whole package.

This wonderful GIF ain’t mine. “This is a suicide mission”.

Your brother, Jonas, finally spoke, ever the optimist. With your eyes fixed firmly on the vast expanse of the open sea, you embraced the feeling of the salty wind brushing through your hair and caressing your cheeks. Your horse, Morning Star, grumbled impatiently underneath you, showing his excitement at what was to come. Animals, they simply sensed this kind of stuff - that, and well, he probably smelled dried blood and fire smoke, even from afar, that unmistakable odour of the others.

Your people called them the Vikings, the Norsemen, the Pagans - depending more on who was telling the story, than on the narrative in itself. Their reputation preceded them - half of your father’s counsel, or whatever was left of it, now that he went to war with the French, told you to leave everything behind, and move further into the country. That being said, none of them really believed that you’d be able to outrun these animals - it was written all over their faces, even if they refused to voice their thoughts - but you had to give it to them, their advice actually made sense.

It all started out a week ago, when a little farm boy called Jimmy ventured all the way to the sea front, trying to push the stubborn cattle back to the open fields. Something caught his eye as he tried to shoo one of his goats, who must have felt especially adventurous, from the edge of the cliff and back to safety. A series of little black dotes littered the horizon, growing bigger and bigger with each passing second. Jimmy might have been a very terrestrial creature, he knew a ship when he saw one. He told as much to his father - and from there, the word had traveled fast.

When you were still a little girl, you father had made a point out of teaching you to reserve any kind of judgement based upon the words of others - but now, right at this moment, looking at the long, sleek ships cutting through the veins of the deep blue sea like razor blades, you could easily believe all those stories of bloodshed, violence and rape, surrounding the Vikings. The boats - maybe fifty in total - looked menacing under the dark grey sky, heavy clouds pregnant with unshed tears for those who would perish at the hands of the Pagans.

“You should have left with the others”, Jonas spoke again, licking his dry lips as he, too, stared at the horizon. “You’re King Ipswich’s only daughter. Can’t imagine what those animals would do to you if they learn”.

“Now, now, they’d have to get their hands on me first”, a ghost of a smile lit up your features for a fleeting moment. “And if they do, I’ll be dead long before they touch as much as a hair on my head. And God be my witness, I will not go alone. If I go down -“

“You’ll go down swinging,” Jonas finished for you, a warm smile gracing his features for the first time since he learned about the Pagans coming.

You watched him, unblinking, basking in the glow of his smile, making sure to take a mental picture of every little detail - the curve of his lips, small crinkles in the corners of his eyes…

For you weren’t sure you’d ever get to see that smile again.

***

One calculated swing of your elegant curved sword was all it took for a giant Viking to collapse on his knees, choking on his blood. You watched him grasp his neck with both hands, his eyes wide and surprised as he stared at you, unblinking.

Even with your armour on, all leather and metal, you knew you looked far less menacing than their women - sporting long braids soaked in blood, and black elaborate designs inked into their scarred skin. Yet, if anything, you considered this prejudice an immense advantage - your face stinging from the hot Viking blood spilled all over it just went to show that your skills had taken them by surprise.

Sitting on the throne alongside your father for the last couple of years, you’d proven yourself to be a just yet merciful soon-to-be ruler; on the battlefield you were ruthless, baring your pearl teeth as you sliced another Viking’s head off.

What was an hour ago your people’s elaborate, beautiful lacquered houses was now a pile of burning wood, spitting black smoke into the air, thick with the odour of blood. Your eyes stung, tears forming in their corners, as you looked around, searching for your brother. You’ve been separated a while ago (minutes? hours? you’d lost count) by a group of Vikings with tattooed faces. You’ve killed three of them in a brutal fight - the last one managed to cut a side of your face, splitting your eyebrow - blood rolled down your cheek freely, but you refused to pay mind to the injury. Jonas was nowhere to be found, and with a clenching heart, you prayed to God he managed to get away...

An agonizing cry resonated over the noises of the battle - the sound pinned you to the ground, making blood freeze in your veins. Panic hit you like a hurricane as you recognized your brother’s voice, cursing the Vikings’ entire race to eternal damnation.

It all happened so fast - and yet too slow - for the love of God, you felt too much, and nothing at all at once!…

A deafening gasp left your bloodied lips as you turned your head in Jonas’ direction, the world around you coming to a screeching halt. You could feel your messy and bloodied strands of hair hit your cheek as your lips fell open, a terrified scream burning the back of your throat.

It lasted less than a second, yet still long enough to haunt you forever.

Two Vikings, tall and proud, their faces scarlet with blood, towered over Jonas. Your brother - your everything - stood, vanquished, on his knees by their side. Your heart nearly giving out at the sight, you lurched forward, yelling your brother’s name at the top of your lungs.

All it took was a caress of a blade.

A slight, almost lazy flick of a Viking’s wrist.

Your brother stared at you wide-eyed, blood pulsing through the neat cut on his neck, streaming down his chest in a red waterfall. Choking and gurgling, he pressed one of his hands to his throat, as if trying to keep the flow in, just to say one last word.

“Sister...” he managed, reaching out to you with his other hand, broken, bloody and bruised.

He fell down on his face there and then, his eyes glassy, his bloody mouth giving up the ghost of that radiating smile of his - it was now gone, gone for eternity.

You were screaming like a wounded animal as your feet took you to these barbarians. An hour before, you were a force to be reckoned with. Now you were deadly. Unstoppable. You couldn’t care less if you lived or died anymore. All you had now, all that made sense, was the fire in your chest, burning your heart to ashes, and a place you needed to reach.

Your features distorted by a mask of rage, you charged at the two Vikings, your sword held high and ripping through the wall of smoke. The cry you let out sounded like it tore your throat on the inside. Swishing your blade, you made both men recoil in surprise; your movements fast and precise, you cut one of the Vikings across his chest, glad to see him bleed. Growling, he stumbled back. Swinging the sword with a circular movement of your wrist, you gave him a twisted smile, all bloody teeth... right before you dug your fingers into the cut on his shoulder, pulling him in. Your sword pierced his chest squarely in the middle, as you pushed him onto it, his blood splashing all over your front and cheeks. Gripping the handle of your weapon tighter, you twisted it around, your eyes never quitting the Viking’s face - not until you saw the light go out in his watering eyes. Sliding your sword out of his hollow chest with one sharp move, you let his body drop to the ground as you looked around, your eyes searching for the deadman’s accomplice.

A bitter laugh pushed its way through your lips as you saw the man stumble back at the sight of you - could you blame him? You probably looked insane, pain of loss and hunger for revenge taking over every fiber of your body. You cocked your head to a side as you took a step towards him, studying his face. He was young - maybe even younger than you. Among the usual attributes of those other men - long braided hair, strong jaw - you saw fear flash in those turquoise eyes of his. That elicited another smile out of you - and it was enough for the man to go into the attack stance, his sword aimed at your chest.

“Hvitserk, no!”

Intricate sounds of the foreign dialect tingled through your body. Their echo gnawed at your earlobes, scratched your neck and caressed your shoulders, pulling you in.

As your eyes searched for the man who’d spoken, you wondered whether it was the dialect or the man himself - you’ve heard the Norse before but it had never sounded so rich and tantalizing. Every minor change in the atmosphere, every breath, every clash of the swords on the battlefield - your body seemed to vibrate with terrible energy, adrenaline still pumping through your veins. That voice - that raw and guttural arrangement of notes - shook you to the core, leaving a pulsating sensation behind.

The man standing before you - Hvitserk, you presumed - hadn’t moved. He stared at you unblinking, from the looks of it paying no mind to the powerful tenor. Your wicked smile grew wider as your gazes locked again; when suddenly, a torrid movement caught your eye behind Hvitserk’s back.

The owner of that voice looked like the very definition of a Viking; he moved like one, too. Tall, ramroad straight, broad-shouldered and rock-jawed, he slid his sword out of a man’s chest, and squeezed its blade lightly between his arm and his ribs, wiping the blood on his clothes. Bear-like, his neck muscles drumhead tight, he sank his cerulean eyes into your frame, a content smirk playing upon his thin lips. Your breath caught in your throat as the man yelled something to Hvitserk again, something you didn’t make out; your heart clenched in your chest - much to your surprise - when the stranger bared his teeth like an animal - like a starved bear - as he headed towards you, ground trembling beneath your feet.

“Her Majesty is mine, brother!” he roared, wild and uncontrollable, quickly closing the distance between you.

He knew.

Realization struck you like thunder, your brother’s face flashing before your eyes.

...You’re King Ipswich’s only daughter. Can’t imagine what those animals would do to you if they learn...

You growled until the sound grew into an angry holler - with your heart crushing hard against your ribcage, you squeezed the handle of your sword...

And started to run - to meet the bear-like Viking halfway. *** The desperate crunching of snow beneath your feet barely registered, as you zigzagged between the bare trunks of trees, now more than ever looking like old bones. Your ragged breaths almost blocked the ringing in your ears, the mocking whooping from behind you urging you to run faster. There was no point in hiding, you knew it all too well - the Vikings were the perfect hunters, probably capable of smelling their prey. Gritting your teeth, you jumped over a trap at the very last moment, nearly stepping into it.

Because that’s what you were now - their prey. The Vikings were hunting you, not for the fun of it, no. They were in it for a kill.

A nasty sort of satisfaction flashed through your feverish mind as you heard the trap close on someone’s leg close by behind you, the man crying bloody murder. You allowed yourself to look back, if only for a moment, - and instantly regretted it.

Your stomach flipped at the sight of the bear-like Viking - the one with the cerulean blue eyes and a long blond braid - the one you’ve almost slaughtered during the fight. He was now mere meters away from you, so you swore a blue streak, forcing your legs to move faster. Your eyes also caught a growing crowd of the Vikings behind his back, all shouting in a wicked kind of anticipation, their faces smeared with blood.

If you were honest with yourself, this was indeed a very unfortunate situation as it was. Your chances to get out alive diminished by half, however, when you saw the archer in a chariot pulled by a strong white horse, rush in your direction. That sight alone would have been enough for you to singlehandedly impale yourself on your sword, had you not lost it in the fight...

...When you and the bear-like Viking collided back on the battlefield, your swords connected with such a force, sparks shot out in every direction, and you found yourself thrown back from the impact. Instead of rushing back in, you quickly assessed the situation: you could never win this fight, not by facing the man head-on. He would use his brutal force, his powerful body, to his advantage. One punch or a swing of his sword would be enough for you to go down in history as yet another ruler fallen at the hands of the Barbarians.

This simply wouldn’t do.

You were faster. Lighter. And certainly less rigid than this mountain of a man. You just had to find a way to use these differences to your advantage.

And so you did.

A rowdy crowd of Vikings gathered around the two of you, encircling you completely, urging the bear-like man - their commander in chief with eyes bluer than the skies on the sunny day - to kill you. Your breathing deep and calculated, you blocked them out. Balancing your body weight onto your toes, you jumped back and forth, throwing your sword forward at different angles, trying to get the Viking to follow your motions, to lose his focus. When you saw an opening, you dashed under his arm like a dancer, slicing a deep cut into his ribs. The Viking howled, surprised rather than hurt, even though the gash in his side looked deep and bled profusely. He barely even blinked - stoic as they come, he spinned around to face you, his sword narrowly missing your neck. You dived down just in time, using your position and your blade to slash his thighs open.

The roar that escaped his lips was raw, angrier this time. Still on his feet - how, in God’s name, did he manage to stay upright after that?! - he bolted in your direction, his sword clattering to the ground. His massive shoulders crashed into your chest, knocking the breath out of your lungs. Both of you fell back, the Viking’s body pressed tightly to yours, pinning you to the ground. It took you a while to gather your spirits - you hit your head hard enough against the frozen ground to see stars. When your eyes were able to focus again, you zeroed in on your enemy’s face as he hovered over you, shifting his weight to his hands, pressed into the ground on each side of your head. Bare inches separating your faces now, you stared into his cerulean eyes, watching you with... amusement?

You frowned, wincing at the throbbing in the back of your head, and when you looked back up at him again, you found that the Viking on top of you hadn’t moved, mirroring your expression.

If you didn’t know better, you’d think...

Was he concerned about you now?!

You must have hit your head harder than you thought.

Biting your lip so hard it hurt, you chucked your head forward, your forehead landing on the Viking’s nose. He hissed in pain, rolling off you - the weight of him gone, you suddenly felt naked, his warmth leaving nothing behind.

Scrambling back on your feet as fast as you could manage, you picked up a sword from the ground - too hefty and too long for your liking, engraved with the Norse symbols. Realizing you’ve picked up his sword and not finding the strength to care anymore, you searched for the bear-like man with cerulean eyes, knowing you had to finish the job. Knowing it was either you or him.

He didn’t go far. He stood right there, weaponless, that amused look back on his face, topped by a growing smile on his thin lips as he gazed at you.

This was your chance.

Using both hands to hold his heavy sword above your head, you could already see its blade bury itself in his shoulder, cut through his chest... When suddenly a sharp pain shot through you, forcing you to cry out.

The handle of the sword slipped from your grip as you stared wide-eyed at the arrowhead, sticking out your chest just below your right collarbone.

Dark droplets dripped from the tip and onto the ground, warmth spreading across your torso, as your clothes slowly soaked up the blood. Your vision blurred as you threw a lost glance over your shoulder, noticing a Viking in a chariot still holding his bow.

Silence fell upon the battlefield - thick and leaden, save for the sound of your blood falling onto the ground; there was a certain rhythm to it that felt like a countdown.

The loud and lonely cheer that reached your ears from behind had an almost ceremonial quality to it. You didn’t have to turn around this time to know it came from the archer. A hushed and indecisive murmur rolled over the crowd, when your eyes flicked back to your enemy, the bear-like Viking you’d almost killed.

His cerulean eyes sparkled in the light of the dying fires, his expression serious.

“Run,” he urged you, his voice barely a whisper.

Your eyes growing wide, you pressed your fingers around the arrow piercing your body. Blood trickled down your hand now, leaving a burning trail in its wake, your legs already taking you away.

The countdown over, the chase began...

...Just when you thought you could run no more, the sight of the archer in the chariot gave you just enough of a scare to go on. Your survival instincts must have kicked back in - you ran faster now, your hectic heartbeat echoing in your ears.

You knew where you were headed. Just like you knew there was no chance in hell you were getting out alive. Still, you reserved the right to choose the way you’d go down.

Swinging, your brother’s voice resonated in your head, a frantic sob raking your body.

If you were to die tonight, you were sure going to take with you as many of them as you could.

Frozen lake’s surface shimmered in the stark red rays of the sun, setting on the horizon. Speeding down the hill towards thin ice, you nearly laughed in joy, relief washing over you like a final blessing. The end had never been so close before, yet you had never felt so alive.

“Ivar!” the familiar deep voice filled the air around you, the bear-like Viking’s anger reverberating in between the trees. “No!”

You refused to look back, your eyes set on the lakeshore, so close...

And yet so far.

Before you knew what happened, your legs gave out, pain pouring out of your throat into a hopeless scream. With your hands stretched out, you collapsed onto the ground, your blood painting the snow red.

Biting on your lips, you squeezed your eyes shut, feeling every inch of the arrow that tore through your thigh.

Swallowing hard, you propped your maimed body on your elbows, half-conscious, pain slowly dragging you into the darkness. The sound of the victorious hollers and general commotion slowly faded away, while your mind struggled to find something - anything - to hold on to.

“Sleep it off, skjaldmær. And then we’ll face each other in a battle again.”

Feeling your body being lifted from the ground, you let out a moan, the end of it muffled by the armour protecting your enemy’s chest.

Bjorn, your mind provided helpfully. The bear. The bear-like Viking.

The thought of fighting him was not as tempting as reuniting with your brother, yet somehow…

Somehow his promise turned out to be enough for you to live to see another day.

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sirensignal · 4 years

Text

part i.

Backstories always start with children. Before there are heroes or villains or captains or chroniclers, there are children with eyes so shallow and silent they’ll reflect tiny pinpricks of light. Eyes still waiting for a dyeing in ink, in memory, in blemish and bruise colours. Children with red mouths and red cheeks and red hearts where red doesn’t yet mean blood — it’s only a portrait of strawberries in summertime, only a delineation of roses plucked ripe and thornless. Putrefaction far-flung, so distant, so patient to wait.

This is the backstory, so let’s say they are children. Two children who do not know what that word means.

Let’s say they are friends. Let them clasp hands, palm to palm, let them hide in engine rooms and lamp-lit cabins and sit cross-legged for hours to talk about every stupid thing, conjure a house out of the words they build. A house with a door only they can find. Let’s say there is love. Let’s say love is enough.

—

It isn’t, of course.

—

But set the scene, the scene for the first time they meet: it’s some lilac layered sunset, a swollen sun that’s melted gold over the deck. There’s a moon under the horizon, restless to take back her sea and she sighs everything soft and silent, lays mist in the air that demands you quieten your steps. So Nour pads up to the only other person on the deck, a boy skulking on a barrel. They peer at the knob of wood in his hand, examine the concentration with which he holds a pocket knife and makes countless pale shavings on the deck.

Close up, the boy seems younger than they are. At least, he seems shorter. Nour grins, breaks the heady fog of twilight. “What are you doing?”

Dark eyes flick up. A mouth twists in a precipitous scowl. “What.”

“Are you carving something? I want you to teach me.”

A pause. “I’m busy.” Politeness is physically dragged as a stone through his mouth. A serrated one.

“No you’re not.”

“Yes I am.”

“Teach me.”

“Why should I.”

—

It carries on in this vein for a long time. Minutes drag to hours to days to weeks. You wouldn’t notice the shift in tone until it slammed you in the face with a kiss. But this is that kind of genre, so maybe you can guess.

But hold it in the back of your mind: this is just the backstory for a woman who grows up vicious, grows into serrated edges that score wounds with each honed word. That won’t hesitate to leave shards in you. In this place, a backstory is a tragedy waiting to happen.

They could have chosen something else, of course. But how could they know what they were choosing?

So call it predestined, call it invariable. By invariable: see two points, two white dots fixed together on a map. Things so close get pulled into orbit. Take how neutron stars collide again and again and again. How gravitational radiation spirals celestial bodies inward. Inward. There are two ways it will end: one of them is not worth mentioning.

But for now, call them friends.

—

“We are not friends, and I hate this.”

“Well I don’t. Hurry up before they find us.”

“I hate this.”

—

Does it hurt to say? Does it render the breath thin and sour in the lungs? They’ll always yearn. This journey. This memory. Even when they forget. Forgotten but the chisel they took to their heart carved that organ into a separate shape. Carved it to hold a love that will slumber for decades.

They’ll lose the hatch to this place, soon enough. Clench their eyes and let the key take a straight drop, pitch into a mammoth and monstrous ocean. Drowned for a blue marlin to swallow. That marlin swallowed by a sea lion. That sea lion swallowed by an orca. It’ll lose form, unshape itself in the belly of mammoth beasts. But not now. Not for now.

—

"You have that many siblings?"

“Mhm.”

“Am I distracting you?”

“Yeah.”

“I want to hear about your brothers.”

A sigh with all the exasperation taken out of it. An acquiescing. “Fine.”

—

“You’re eating more than usual.” Their father has noticed it. For the past few weeks now, Nour’s plate scoured clean of seconds every night.

Their stomach groans in protest, scratches up a voice that writhes in the back of the throat — I’m still hungry, I’m so hungry. The hunger rendered immeasurable, become a growling noise of need. But their father’s brow is ill at ease, his mouth creased to murmur some unknown sentence. Finally, he shakes his head.

“I suppose you’re still growing. I knew I should have asked them to pack you more clothes.”

Nour nods. Keeps silent. Keeps their hunger quiet.

“And how are your studies going.” Dry-voiced. Already acceptant of defeat. “Or are you spending all your time with that cabin boy.”

Nour’s mouth splits in a grin. Toothy, before they remember to hide it. “Please don’t discredit him so, Father — our time together is wholly, entirely, unquestionably productive to my education. I swear. I’m teaching him more words.”

Their father sighs. “Alright. If he’s so helpful, you can take your history books and study with him.”

—

“So in the sixteenth century, Charles the fifth became king of Spain and was elected Holy Roman Emperor —”

“He was elected emperor?”

“Yes, it was an elective monarchy. The electoral college was, uh — wait, are you actually interested in this?”

“Why not.”

“Darling, you’re so terribly dull.”

“You sound like an old woman.”

“That’s deplorable.”

“You don’t even know what that word means.”

“So what.”

—

The hunger enlarges like a gnawing thing, clawing at their stomach lining in reckless torment. When Nour mentions it offhand, their friend frowns. Gives them his share of bread. Bread is ashen in Nour’s mouth, they’ll stomach it but it’s never filled their gut, never sated them but they don’t have the heart to refuse.

It sates them for the first time in months. In months. They stare at their empty hands and their belly quavers with the slaking of such a terrible, enduring emptiness. And oh, for the first time in weeks they feel full. They push the meat on their plate and shake their head when asked if they want more. They go to sleep with no ache in their bones.

But hunger comes back. It doesn’t come back for days, but when it does. When it does. They take bread from their father’s plate and it tastes like nothing. In the night they gnaw their knuckles and starvation empties them like a sieve. Worse that they experienced fullness before it.

But they can still live with it. Still walk with it. Still bear it.

So they bear it.

—

Maybe Nour becomes attached too strongly, too quickly.

Surely it can’t be helped. They’ve never been permitted a friend for as long a period as this. All their companions, all their life: clockwork replacements like freshly minted dolls with mechanical parts and chubby, round cheeks, pre-painted smiles in delicate colours. Here and gone, gone in a month, in two. Never more than three. Gone before Nour’s strange aging could become apparent. Could attract attention.

Their growth spurts are rarer now. Smaller. Easier to pass off.

The point is: this is the first time. Their first time.

—

“Tell me about anything.”

“Anything?”

“Tell me about your family again. Tell me about your home.”

He talks and Nour’s blood sings with the sound of it. Lights every vein electric. Enough but only for that moment. Only for those few hours.

That night they eat three steaks, served at the dinner table nearly raw but they’re so ravenous it’s not enough. Their appetite so ferocious it will not be glutted by —

By.

They do not think about it. Nour puts down their fork. They smile at their father and say they are full.

—

You should know: tragedy has always written history. Anything in between is just interlude. Just white noise in an ocean of black; congealing blood, ink splatter, a tower of coaled ash conquerors climb to reach the heavens. To find immortality in the glittering constellations.

This is not anything so grand. But it is an end to everything good. To the interlude that was their happiness. The two of them are fixed points on a map. A map of non-linear time. You might call it fate. Two things hurtling towards a predestined end.

All things end. They end faster when you’re content. There are truths to be learned from this, but none of them are parables.

—

Two days before they land, the boy takes a deep breath and it’s a hazy blur of words or it’s a clean-cut confession, it’s any number of things that burn up a flush on his ears before he dips forward and kisses Nour on the cheek. It barely connects, more like an awkward bump of skin that tingles. Still a child’s kiss and he pulls away with crimson on his cheeks, fists balled like he’s been mettling up all week to do it and still there’s something anxious, some uncertainty that quavers in his eyes when he opens them.

And they —

—

See, a series of realizations knock into Nour at this point.

One is the rising blush on their cheeks, the startlement. Another is the surge of a bottomless sea in them. The flood of it. Seizing their breath. Seizing their pulse, lashing it to stillness. To utter silence, no echo to be gleaned in their skull.

For a moment they think it is love. For a moment they think it is a fierce, terrible love, for a best friend, for the first friend in their life. For a friend they want to spend every day with for as long as forever.

For a moment, they think it is love.

Is it?

This sea of them. This drowning. A tidal crash, a wave, a thousand simmering things teeming at their skin. The yawning heart of them, unfurling their chest, their ribcage. This love, these countless rows of teeth sprouting in their belly.

Oh, Nour realizes, dazed. So that’s it. So that’s what this feeling was. So that’s what they wanted all along.

They’re holding him. His frail body. His warm throat. The richness of blood filling their mouth. The give of skin and muscle, warm flesh running rivulets of blood down their throat.

Oh, they should have done this from the start. It’s everything they’ve dreamt of without knowing they dreamt it. He tastes better than anything Nour has ever had, better than sugar candy, better than steak, better than fresh cuts with still-warm blood. They’ll be sated for a thousand years just from this taste. Their heart so full with him they’ll never crave again. Forever, he’ll be with them forever.

Mine, they think. I like you too I like you so stay with me always with me always always —

They can’t stop laughing. The laughter spilling bloody from their teeth. They laugh until they’re sick with it, until vomit fills their mouth and they hold their mouth shut, swallow it back because it’s him, because they won’t reject him even if their body wants to. Because their body won’t reject him even if they want it to. Look at them, this sorry creature pretending to be a child — palms on the floor, an animal with teeth and tongue and they’re on all fours, gorging blood from drenched planks. Sucking all the red from it until there’s no red left. Licking all the wet from their face but it never dries, their face is sea-strewn, their face is breaking. They’re laughing and laughing and laughing.

—

But that isn’t what happens.

It could. It could have. A what-if. A ghost story. The ghost of a boy who never died. No, no. The probability will haunt for a lifetime, an imagined sin they can never wash off but it is not what happens.

No. What happens is —

They’re holding him too tight, fingerprints that will stain like a rupture of blueberries, of grapes, of peach tones spilling across his skin. Their nose is at his throat and his throat is so warm. All those veins, why do they run so clear, why are they mapped so well if they are not meant to be opened. In Nour’s ears, the thump of a rabbit pulse. So loud their heart quickens to synchronize with that strong beat.

They want. They want, they need —

Two hands shove him away, two hands with brutish strength. Nails digging laceration into his arm. He’s on the ground and in the flickering of the world there’s a vision of richness so heady, so sweet and so near, so mouthwatering they can still taste it. It didn’t happen. It didn’t happen.

“Mal.” His name is a prayer to famine, is terrified worship on their tongue and stupid that’s so stupid worshippers have always eaten their gods always crushed them between white teeth and ground them to meat and viscous liquid in the gut and named it transubstantiation. And Nour never realized until now. In the air his name is a dry heave or a wail or a quiet, stricken thing. The length of it unspooling on the ground. The length and span of them. That thin red thread. “Malachy.”

#writing #wahahahaha #gore tw

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fortune-fool02 · 4 years

Text

Innocence and Purity

Gyro Zeppeli x unicorn reader

Requested by: @ atlantianchronicle

Warnings: slight angst, fluff

The unicorn in this is like the one from The Last Unicorn, just so you all know. Please enjoy.

Not many people believed in unicorns and it was understandable as to why. No one had seen one nor was there any evidence to proved they did even exist. But there was a reason for this. The unicorn species had been wiped out to near extinction because of humans and their greed for the power that unicorns held.

And those very few that did remain alive vanished into the unknown, using whatever magic they had to avoid humans at any cost. Some went off to the deepest parts of forests where humans rarely ventured, other simply disappeared altogether. Sad as it was, humans’ knowledge of these majestic creatures faded away, disregarding them as nothing but stories and fairy-tales.

Though, there were a very few who still believed in those creatures and still hunted them down for their magic. Whether it be to sell or for selfish reasons. And those selfish reasons was what intertwined the paths of a human and a unicorn.

***

“C’mon! Boss wants this thing in his place ASAP!” One of the humans shouted, watching as four of the other humans shoved the creature into the small cart. Beautiful alabaster skin ruined by ugly bruising and cuts from their weapons from when she tried to defend herself. Legs bound by gripping rope that gnawed at her joints, locking them in place to keep her still and a sheath forced onto her horn in an attempt to contain it and stop her from striking at them. Which she had done a good handful of times.

[Name] was no dumb animal as the humans believed. She was intelligent enough understand the language of humans as well as speak some herself. That was one factor many humans had forgotten about her kind. The forest around her was cut off by a sheet thrown over the carriage, blocking off the sunlight and encasing the unicorn in darkness. Lowering her head, the waves of sorrow washed over her body. She had been captured and now was destined to suffer the same horrific fate that others of her kind shared.

Well, that would have been the case if, part way through the journey, something happened. Shouting and yelling awoke the unicorn from her dreamless sleep, setting her nerves on edge at the familiar sounds of violence clashing around the carriage though she was blind to it by the sheet.

But, despite this, she was not blind to the power she could sense. An unmistakable power that was beyond anything humans could hope to understand. A lightness that matched that of the sun’s and the moon’s. Beautiful, incredible. Holy. Before anything could be done, a pale blue light engulfed the unicorn’s body as if the moon itself was trapped inside of the carriage with her, demanding to be freed.

***

Gyro gave a sigh of relief, dusting himself off and returning his Steel Ball to its holster. Bodies surrounded the area, the terrorists proving to be less than a challenge armed with nothing but guns. No Stand users. His attention shifted to the carriage with the large sheet draping over it, a clear sign that they were transporting something they didn’t want others to see and that made Gyro want to see it.

As he and Johnny approached it, Johnny stopped and snapped his attention to his arm. A bright glow radiated from the Corpse part within his arm, shocking both males at this sudden reaction. A similar glow radiated from within the carriage as well, casting the silhouette of a horse that shifted somewhat before the glow from both Johnny’s arm and the carriage faded as quickly as they appeared.

“What the Hell was that?” Gyro asked, throwing a look at Johnny who just stared at his arm confused.

“I-I don’t know.” he admitted, “I think... there might be something in that carriage that triggered it, maybe?” Both men turned their attention back to the carriage, unsure of what to expect that could be hiding under that sheet. Well, one way to find out. Gyro approached the carriage, one hand grabbing the sheet whilst the other reached for his Steel Ball again -just in case he needed it- and removed the sheet.

“What the fuck...?” Gyro’s words trailed off as shock painted his face a little. There inside the carriage, bound like an animal, was a woman unlike any woman he has seen before. Alabaster skin that should have been flawless was bruised from the weapons and raw from the rope that dug into her delicate skin. Silky [Hair colour] locks spilled past her shoulders and over her bare body, acting like a curtain to shield herself from his eyes.

Throwing a glance over at Johnny, Gyro gave him an uncertain look. He was expecting a horse or something from that silhouette they saw, not a naked woman. “Uh, Johnny,” the Italian called, giving the woman another glance “Do you have a blanket or a jacket or something on you?” After a moment of rooting through his supplies, Johnny tossed him a spare jacket he had and Gyro caught it before entering the carriage.

“Hey, you alright?” he asked the [Hair colour] woman, gently shaking her shoulder then laying the jacket over her; the jacket was just big enough to cover everything that needed covering but she would need clothes or she will freeze. As Gyro started to cut away at her bindings, she shifted a little, rousing from her unconscious state.

“Don’t fidget or I’ll end up cutting you by mista-” He was cut off when he saw her face. Her features were nothing short of stunning with her doe-like [Eye colour] orbs that sparkled in a way that no human’s could; glowing with an innocence and purity that he had never seen before. Smooth skin that would put fine pottery to shame but the feature that mostly caught his attention was the odd scar on her forehead. It mimicked a star in shape and pinkish, a clearly fresh scar. As he gazed at her, the Corpse part in his eye flickered, casting a light over the woman and what Gyro saw made the breath from his lungs be snatched away.

Where the woman sat, he could see the translucent image of a horse that bared a form of resemblance to the woman sitting before him. Same eyes. Same skin colour. Same delicate appearance. Hell, even the same hair colour. But where the woman’s scar was sat a horn.

This... this wasn’t possible. Was it? This woman was... a unicorn? They actually exist? That would explain the covered carriage and all but why did she look human instead of- It clicked in Gyro’s head. Johnny’s Corpse part must have reacted with the unicorn as he was closer to the carriage when it happened, and that somehow transformed her into a human.

Her eyes drifted down to her hands, looking at them as if she had never seen them before. Confusion painted her features as she examined her new body, Gyro only kneeled there, not quite sure what to do.

“W-What did do you?” her voice was soft and fragile, thin sorrow stitched into her words that made Gyro’s chest clench with a cold guilt of sorts. He slipped the knife back into his pocket,

“We...” he threw another glance at Johnny who was watching all of this from outside the carriage, the steel bars allowing him to have front row seats to this, and he was just as shocked and unsure of what to do as Gyro. “Um, we saved you from those terrorists.” the Italian forced out, hoping that the answer was something that she would be happy to hear though the lost expression on her face told him otherwise.

She looked lost and confused, scared even. Her beautiful [Eye colour] eyes examined him then her own body again, her hands resting against the floor as she pushed herself to stand. Her legs weak and strange as she had never used her back legs in such a way before, resulting in her stumbling and falling if Gyro hadn’t caught her.

“Hey, hey careful. Don’t push yourself like that.” his tone was coated in a softness that even he didn’t know he could hold. This creature -this majestic, stunning creature- was lost in the new world she was cruelly thrown into and now, trapped in a body that wasn’t even hers, because of the Corpse part, he couldn’t deny the twisting feeling that knotted his stomach.

“C’mon, let’s get you outta here.” he said, gently helping her to her feet and taking slow steps for her to adjust to her new body. His eyes glanced up at the sky, they had a few hours of sunlight left, it that, and they needed some place to camp for the night. Somewhere safe.

“What’s your name? I’m Gyro and this is Johnny.” The [Hair colour] woman looked between the two men and Johnny could feel a similar sense of nipping guilt that Gyro did. This was what the Corpse part was capable of? But, most importantly, why did Valentine want a unicorn? It was obvious that those people belonged to the Government and therefore Valentine, but why did he want this creature so badly?

“My name is [Name].” Even her name sounded wonderful and suited her perfectly. Slowly, they helped her onto the back of Slow Dancer and she rested her head against Johnny’s back, exhausted from the recent events.

***

Finding a spot to camp wasn’t that difficult, thankfully, and soon enough, Gyro had gotten a fire going. [Name] sat in front of the fire, watching it dance and twirl, displaying its golden colours proudly - because it had every reason to be proud, it was in its form, free, unlike herself.

No words had been shared between them since they found her hours ago, they had no idea what to say to her. No idea how to help her but they knew they couldn’t leave her. Gyro looked over at her as he poured some of the coffee in a cup for her. He didn’t even know if she would drink it but the least he could do was offer. He approached her and held the cup for her,

“Here you go. It’s coffee.” She hesitantly took the cup from him and looked at it, sniffing it a little then took a small sip.

“Thank you.” Gyro smiled at that, plopping down beside her. A silence hung between them, broken only by the whispers of nature and the crackling of the fire. “Why did you help me? Why didn’t you take me like the other humans did?” [Name] asked him, her [Eye colour] orbs sparkling with wonder that pressed against that thin veil of sorrow.

Gyro gave her a look as if she asked him a weird question, “Isn't it obvious? You’re a unicorn, you don’t deserve to be captured.” Surprise flashed across her face at his answer, there was no hidden deception or lies under his words. He was genuine. Despite her new form, [Name] still retained some of her former senses, such as knowing when something meant harm. This human and his friend, they were no threat to her.

That, itself, put her worry at ease for a bit. However, if she remained in this form, she was cut off from the world she knew. Her magic locked away behind a wall that she couldn’t break down no matter how hard she tried. She felt hollow and empty.

“Thank you for saving me then, Gyro and Johnny.” Normally, [Name] would never thank a human for what they had done to her species but these two had saved her from an awful fate and they deserved her gratitude for that. She felt a hand on her shoulder and she turned to see Gyro giving her a warm smile that outmatched the flame’s warmth.

There was a light in his emerald coloured eyes that was unlike anything she had seen before, something strong and determined but was not twisted by need or corruption like she saw in the eyes of so many humans she has crossed. Was this the human spirit she was seeing? If so, then it was... beautiful.

Slowly, she leaned her head against his shoulder, feeling Gyro’s body tense slightly before relaxing. “Don’t worry, [Name]. We’ll find a way to turn you back.” It was clear by the tone that was branded into his voice that that was a promise.

Ironic. She had spent so long fearing humans and now here she was trusting humans to help her return to her true form. Perhaps not all humans were the twisted, greed-driven monsters she believed?

#gyro #gyro zeppeli #jojo bizarre adventure #gyro x reader #gyro zeppeli x reader #jojo bizzare adventure x reader #jojo #jojo x reader #gyro steel ball run #steel ball run x reader #steel ball run #unicorn au #unicorn reader

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dracoqueen22 · 4 years

Text

[CR] Little Do I Know

Universe: Critical Role, Campaign Two Characters: The Mighty Nein, Fjord/Caduceus Rated: K+ Enticements: First Kiss Description: Chaos is what the Mighty Nein does, but Fjord desperately needs a moment to breathe and ask himself the hard questions, and maybe, ask Caduceus a question, too.

It’s been non-stop.

Fjord feels like he can’t breathe. The Mighty Nein races from one chaotic moment to the next. They leap through portals and ride horses and riskily teleport and face down Obann only to suffer defeat.

Fjord knows he’s breathing. He’s pulling air into his lungs. His thoughts are spinning anyway. His chest feels tight, like there isnt any room for his lungs, and he gulps down air, but it’s just not enough. It’s so much.

He’s jittery and anxious. He can’t find peace.

At least, not at all times.

Calm only comes to him in the morning. When he and Caduceus are the first to rise with the sun, and Caduceus brews his morning tea, and Fjord joins him. They sit around the fire, sipping some special brew, and they meditate. Or Deuces meditates, and Fjord tries, but his focus lasts as long as a few heartbeats before he watches Caduceus instead.

He always feels better around Caduceus.

At first, Fjord thinks it a fluke. He chalks it up to his need to be free of Uk’otoa and believing Caduceus has the path to do just that. He looks to Caduceus for guidance and comfort, and when he receives both, Fjord thinks that’s all it must be.

That’s all it has to be.

Fjord doesn’t know who he is.

He doesn’t know what he is.

There’s an angry sea god haunting his sleep and stealing his magic, and an angrier pirate queen who still slips into his dreams to rightly blame him for her death. Sometimes, he swears he can still taste her. It had taken far too long for the marks she left on him to heal, and he doesn’t only mean the physical ones.

The mental scars have a tendency to linger. They are, in the end, the worst.

It’s no mystery why he goes to Caduceus the night Uk’otoa refuses to rise to his bluff.

Fjord panics, and all he can think about is comfort and security and calm. He thinks about tea and a deep, rumbling bass, and the feel of Caduceus’ magic rushing through him like a warm, tingling blanket. He goes to Caduceus without pretense and a mask, and it isn’t until later that he realizes how tired he is.

Tired of lying. Tired of pretending. Tired of trying so hard to be something he’s not.

Caduceus doesn’t judge.

There’s a lot of things Deuces does judge. Their tendency to lie for one, but this, this Caduceus doesn’t judge. It’s like he recognizes the need for personal secrets, personal discomforts, personal pains. He doesn’t blink when Fjord speaks to him in a new accent, and reacts in a way only Caduceus could react when Fjord comes to him bleeding from the gut and desperate.

Fjord stops himself from falling into Caduceus’ arms, but only just. The firbolg radiates comfort and calm, and Fjord has to remind himself of something he doesn’t think anyone gets just yet.

Fjord doesn’t know who he is.

He can’t do anything, be anything with anyone, until he can answer that. Until he knows who he is and what he wants.

It hadn’t been Sabian.

It definitely hadn’t been Avantika.

And Jester...

Fjord adores her, he really does. But he doesn’t think what she wants and what he wants are the same thing. She fills him with light, but Caduceus fills him with ‘home’ and anyway.

It doesn’t matter.

Because Fjord doesn’t know who he is, and until he does, he can’t fall for anyone.

Caduceus heals him, and they talk, and Fjord starts to get an inkling. He goes to sleep, and She comes to him, and She offers and opens Her arms and Her heart and Her Being, and it doesn’t feel tainted. It’s an offer where the terms are expressed, and there’s nothing She wants from him but him.

He takes Her hands and wakes up a new person all over again. Or maybe not new. Maybe this is who he’s been all along, beneath the pretense. He kind of likes who he is now. And it seems the rest of the Nein do, too.

The hole Vandren left in him starts to heal and scab. Sabien is a distant memory. Avantika is a wound he can’t mend, same as the dark of Uk’otoa sitting like a lump behind his ribs, but he thinks -- I’m not alone. I don’t have to fight them alone.

And Caduceus.

Caduceus is there. Always there.

Fjord thinks he loves him a little more each day.

Love is unfamiliar to him.

Fjord thinks he knows what it is, but the Mighty Nein love him far more fiercely and genuinely than Vandren ever did. They protect him, and care for him, and encourage him, and sometimes, Fjord can hardly believe how lucky he is. He worries he doesn’t deserve it, but they keep reminding him, over and over, that he does.

Fjord thinks, if he knows anything of love, it has to be this warmth, this feeling when he looks at Caduceus. The slow creep of a smile. The way he goes weak and strong all over, how Caduceus can calm him with a look, a word, a touch to the shoulder.

He starts to lay his bedroll out next to Caduceus’, not that there’s really a next in the confines of Caleb’s tiny hut, but it’s as close as he can get. He can breathe in Caduceus’ distinct scent -- tea and dirt -- and it soothes him right to sleep. It can’t be anything more than this, not until he’s sure.

So he waits.

Back to Rosohna. Through chasing Obann. To Nicodranas and Zadash and back again. Chasing Obann and the Laughing Hand and Yasha through the Lotusden Greenwood and returning to Rosohna defeated and lost, and Fjord remembers.

It had been so close.

He’d tried to charm the Laughing Hand as a last resort, looking into the face of a monster which could kill him in a few blows. Jester and Caduceus were out of spells. They might not be able to bring him back. This might be his end, and the end of the Mighty Nein, and he’d cast the spell with every bit of desperation in his marrow.

And it had worked! They’d survived! A short-lived triumph in the end.

The sourness of their defeat lingers. The evidence of mortality makes his hands shake, and his heart thud, and he’s no better as himself than he was before, and he stumbles around, lost in the wake of it.

He doesn’t know what else to do but to go to the only source of solace he knows.

Fjord goes to Caduceus, who’s sitting at the base of the tree he grew for their home, incense sending curls of smoke up into the leaves, a cup of tea in his hands, still steaming, giving off a lightly floral fragrance. Fjord wonders who it is this time, and wonders when that stopped being so weird, or if it is still weird and he’s just used to it by now.

Fjord sits in front of Caduceus, legs curled lotus, and he waits. He doesn’t want to interrupt if Caduceus is meditating or communing. This is too important to rush. He can’t wait until the next close call, but he can wait right here and now.

"Hey, Fjord," Caduceus says with that slow and careful drawl, his mouth curving into a gentle smile. "You looking to commune? I think she's got her ears on."

A very small laugh escapes Fjord on an exhale. "No, I, uh, was wanting to talk to you. Actually. If you're not too busy."

Caduceus takes a long sip of his tea before he opens his eyes. "Not busy at all." Then, he blinks and startles. "Oh. Where are my manners? Do you want some tea?" He sets his cup down and pats around, in search of his bag. "I know the other cups are here somewhere."

Fjord curves a hand around Caduceus' wrist and then looks down in surprise at himself. He doesn't remember making the conscious decision to do this. But it's too late now.

Caduceus looks up at him, ears flicking. "Is that a no?"

"Maybe in a second," Fjord says, and his mouth goes dry, his tongue fumbling.

"This must be important." Caduceus settles back into himself, gives Fjord his full attention, but he doesn't shake off Fjord's hand, and strangely, Fjord doesn't seem to be in a big hurry to let go either.

His pulse pounds in his ears. He's hot all over, flushed. What in the Nine Hells does he think he's doing? Something stupid and reckless. Something a lot like pressing a shiny red button he ought not to have pushed.

He tries to speak, but his tongue ties itself in knots, and his hands shake.

"Fjord?" Caduceus' concern washes over him, and Fjord's chest aches with an emotion he doesn't have the right words for. He thinks it's probably because he's never felt it before, and therefore, doesn't know what to call it.

"We lost Yasha. Again," Fjord blurts out. "I don't know, it seems like we're losing. All we're doing is losing. And the strange thing is, you know, I don't remember when we started fighting. We were trying to get away from the war, last I checked, and now..."

Caduceus rests his hand over Fjord's, his fingers warm and soft. "Now it seems we're only getting closer to it."

"Yes. No." Fjord shakes his head, frustration gnawing at him. "I mean, yes, that's a problem, but no, that's not what I wanted to say."

"It's okay. Take your time."

Fjord exhales noisily and clasps Caduceus' hand between his, considering it a good sign when Caduceus doesn't pull away. "We lost Yasha," he says. "Again. If not for Jester, we'd have lost you. And we did lose Molly. He's not coming back." His voice cracks, and Fjord clears his throat to clean it. Some wounds heal a lot slower than others, no matter how much magic you pump into yourself. "I gotta do this before I lose anyone else."

"Yasha is only misplaced. We'll get her back," Caduceus says, and for once, his calm aura does nothing to quiet the frantic beat of Fjord's heart, or the sweat dampening his palms, or how tight his armor feels across his chest.

"That's not the point, Deuces," Fjord says. "The point is... I gotta stop being a coward before it's too late."

"You're many things, but a coward isn't one of them."

Fjord snorts. "I'm a mess is what I am. You helped put me back together, but that's not -- I don't want you to have to keep doing that. I want... I want more."

Caduceus tilts his head. "I don't follow."

Fjord hangs his head, and his fingers shake around Caduceus’. “No, I don’t guess you would,” he says, because Caduceus knows many things, but there’s a lot he can’t have learned, stuck alone in that graveyard with only his family and the dead for company.

Even traveling with them as long as he has, there are some things that can’t be taught. They have to be experienced.

Fjord swallows thickly and untangles his fingers from Caduceus’, hope buoying when he thinks he catches a flicker of disappointment on Caduceus’ face.

“I, uh, don’t want to just be a project,” Fjord says as he reaches for Caduceus, and cups the firbolg’s face oh so gently when Caduceus doesn’t rear back. His cheeks are soft under the stroke of Fjord’s thumb, and Caduceus’ eyes are so wide and bright.

But not afraid. Curious, definitely. Maybe a little confused.

“I want to be more,” Fjord says, and he licks his lips. He doesn’t want to be a coward anymore. He doesn’t want to lose anyone else. At least, not without trying first.

“Oh,” Caduceus says, and it’s quiet and wondrous, like he’s had a revelation. “Do you want to kiss me, Fjord?”

Gods.

Fjord swears steam whistles out of his ears, so quickly does his face flush with heat. “Could I?” he asks, and he’s already moving forward, tilted toward the curve of Caduceus’ mouth.

His thumbs sweep Caduceus’ cheek, and his mouth presses to Caduceus’ the moment he hears permission.

It’s not the fumbling, awkward, rough kiss he’d shared in the dark with Sabian. Neither is it Avantika’s biting claim. Or the desperate breath of life he’d given Jester in the temple.

It’s soft and gentle, a press of mouths, and the warmth of Caduceus’ lips. It’s a shiver over Fjord’s skin, gooseflesh rising beneath his armor and clothes, and the whisper of the night breeze as it sweeps over the roof of the Xhorhouse.

“Mm,” Caduceus says as they part, and a slow smile takes his lips. “I think I follow you now.”

“I mean, I don’t know if I could be any more obvious,” Fjord says with a laugh. His hands drop to Caduceus’ shoulders, and he tilts forward, his forehead pressed to Caduceus’ clavicle, the scent of tea and dirt floating up to his nose.

“I apologize.”

Fjord blinks and lifts his head. “For what?”

A long finger traces the scar on his face, and a shiver nips up Fjord’s spine. “For making you think you were only a project to me.”

“I’m not?” Fjord asks.

“Maybe at first,” Caduceus admits, and he ducks his head, looks a bit embarrassed and ashamed possibly. It’s hard to tell. Fjord doesn’t think he’s ever seen Caduceus be either. “You deserve better than that.”

“Well. I was a bit of a mess,” Fjord says. “Still kind of am.” He sits back, his hands slip from Caduceus’ shoulders, but they don’t go far, because Caduceus captures them. He tangles their fingers together, their palms pressed tight.

“You saved yourself. You did all the work,” Caduceus says, and he squeezes Fjord’s fingers. He sounds so earnest, Fjord can’t help but believe him. “You’re amazing.”

Fjord wonders if he’s ever going to stop blushing ferociously around Caduceus.

“Um, thanks,” he says, and gnaws on his bottom lip for a second, feeling the harsh pressure of his stubby tusks. “Not that I’m not appreciative of the support, it’s just…” How does he put this into words? How can he explain what he wants when it’s still so new to himself?

“You’d rather I were a little less religious leader and a little more… boyfriend? Partner? Lover? I’m sorry, I don’t know the term you’re looking for,” Caduceus says, in that frank way he has, which Fjord simultaneously adores and hates a little.

Fjord coughs and stares hard over Caduceus’ shoulder, looking for something solid in this suddenly stormy sea where he’s been set adrift. “Any of those would work if you were interested.”

“I could be. Maybe.” Caduceus tilts his head back and looks up at his tree stretching over them, the magical lights twinkling brightly. “I’m gonna be honest with you, Mr. Fjord, I don’t really know what I’m interested in.”

“Could you just call me Fjord? For starters?”

Caduceus breathes out a little laugh. “I can do that. Sure. Fjord.”

Gods.

Fjord swallows over a lump in his throat, and then he has to hide behind his hand, because hearing his name on Caduceus’ lips shouldn’t send a bolt of lightning straight down to his groin, but it does.

“Thanks,” he says, and sucks in a deep breath, trying to calm the frantic flutter of his heart. “Anyway, you don’t have to say yes right now. Or no. If you want to think about it, I mean, I did kind of confess out of nowhere, and it’s really not the time.”

“The way things are going right now, it’ll never be the time.” Caduceus squeezes Fjord’s hand and gets that distant look he gets when he’s thinking about something.

“Now is good,” Caduceus says after a moment. “Now is the time.” He traces a finger around the curve of Fjord’s face, and there’s something so tender in it, Fjord melts a little more. “Let’s give it a try, shall we?”

“Are you sure?” Fjord’s heart pounds a mile a minute, and his skin flushes, and a quiet hope nestles deep in his belly.

Caduceus smiles and leans in, and he kisses Fjord by way of answer. It’s a bit unpracticed, slow and unsure, but he gains confidence quickly enough, and Fjord eagerly kisses back.

Calm washes through Fjord.

Everything else might be chaos, but at least he has this, for whatever it becomes.

****

a/n: Feedback is absolutely welcome and appreciated. Feel free to scream in the tags, in a reblog, in my inbox, whatever. I’d love to hear from the readers! <3

#caduceus clay #fjord #critical role fanfic #fjorclay #teahaw #caduceus clay/fjord #sfw fics #draco writes critical role #draco writes fanfic #critical role campaign 2

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