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scribbles97 · 3 months ago

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The Nightmare Come True - Part 2

Part One Looks like @loopstagirl and I are tag-teaming this! Part One of their fic is what started this whole thing, and Part Two links directly to this part also!

Jeff hated himself.

Hated that he hadn’t found a way to do more.

Hated that he hadn’t been there when it had mattered.

Hated that he had hurt his son in so many ways.

When Scott hadn’t responded to his calls along the hallway of cells, his heart had dropped straight through his stomach. There was already blood on his hands, but he was prepared to add to it if his eldest wasn’t to be found within the compound that they had broken into. For all Jeff was concerned, he would burn the entire world if it meant he got Scott home safe and alive.

With every call of the kid’s name, alive had felt less and less likely.

Until Kyrano had heard the voice that Jeff had longed to hear for months and pulled open one of the heavy metal doors further along the hallway.

It was only the voice the Jeff recognised when he had stepped into the cell..

Under scraps of fabric that could hardly be described as clothes, the man was skin and bone, any muscle that there had been was wasted away to nothing in favor of survival. He was small in the corner of the cell, curled up to make himself look like nothing.

It had sent Jeff’s blood boiling, half of him ready to turn back and bring each of the bodies he had left on the ground back to life just so he could kill them all over again. Scott Tracy was not nothing, he was everything, and whoever had done this to him deserved nothing less than the very pits of Hell.

His son had needed him.

It had taken a tortuous few minutes for there to be any kind of response when Jeff had spoken to him, and he hadn’t been sure if reaching out to touch him had been the right thing to do.

Scott hadn’t been hearing him though, instead undoubtedly expecting his tormentors to have returned for more.

So he had placed his hand in the overgrown hair, that Scott in his right mind would have hated, and murmured softly to his boy in a way he hadn’t done since he had been little.

When Scott had finally looked up, even the blue of his eyes had been barely recognisable behind a haze that Jeff had seen in others but had hoped his son would never have to experience.

“We need to move.” Kyrano had warned from the doorway all too soon, “Hugh says we’ve been made.”

Jeff had hated to ask anything of his son in that moment, but he was going to get them out of there, and for that he knew he would need Scott’s cooperation.

“Can you walk, son?”

Scott had been slow to swallow and then gave the smallest of nods, “Yes, Sir.”

Jeff had helped him to his feet, had held onto him as he had stumbled and shifted the weight completely off of his left leg. He hadn’t asked if he was alright, it was obvious that he wasn’t, but he had waited, watching again for the subtlest of nods before they had moved.

Together, they had made it as far as the edge of the compound before Scott had given out, his body trembling and each breath heaving with the exertion. Jeff had paused, hoping that a moment of rest would have been enough for him to make it back as far as the car.

Hugh had evidently had other ideas.

“Captain Tracy!” The Brit had ordered, “Move.”

“Hugh.” Jeff had bitten in return, as Scott had sobbed once more that he had tried.

“He needs to move, Jeff.” Hugh had growled, “Else we’ll all end up back in there.”

Scott was still trembling against him, but Jeff could hear the shouts on the horizon and knew Hugh made a valid point.

“Sorry, kid.” He uttered before hoisting Scott up and over his shoulder, his body no heavier than a sack of grain he had once carted about on the farm in Kansas.

From there they had run the rest of the distance to the car.

Scott had drifted in and out as Hugh had driven, barely there to recognise just what was happening or where they were going. Jeff had simply held on to him and watched the uneven rise and fall of his chest, had felt the racing pulse at his wrist, and prayed that they weren’t too late.

None of them had spoken on the short journey to the base, not even when they had been escorted directly to the medical building. Hugh and Kyrano had wordlessly stood guard as Jeff had followed his son to a cot, blocking the crowd that had swarmed them as news had gotten around the camp. The medics had worked fast and efficient, stripping away cloths that barely counted as clothes and taking Jeff’s breath with them.

He had felt sick at the sight of the marks that had littered Scott’s body.

Sickness had turned to anger as a pair of Colonel’s had stepped into the room.

“Jeff Tracy, I thought you were retired.”

It had been automatic to stand to attention, to narrow his eyes at the pair that had seemed far too young to hold a title equal to his own.

“Once a Colonel, always a Colonel.” He had countered, “Colonels are meant to make decisions for their Airmen, and I didn’t see anyone doing anything to pull out your remaining prisoners.”

Both had straightened at his accusation, one that they all had known ran far deeper than face value.

They had done nothing, and so they had contributed to the mess of Scott’s body behind him.

“Sir,” One of the medics had interrupted, “Captain Tracy needs a hospital.”

“We’ll take him to London once he’s stable.”

“Whilst under the care of the US Air Force, Captain Tracy will be sent to our hospital in Paris.”

Jeff had had enough of other people making decisions for his family. All it had gotten him was a son that had been missing for six months, on the brink of death itself, holding on through sheer grit and determination to get home.

Paris was foreign.

Whilst Scott was semi-fluent in the language, Jeff hadn’t doubted that he would hardly be in the mindset to try and translate anything when he woke up. He had wanted somewhere familiar for them both, somewhere that conversations wouldn’t have to go through any kind of filter to be understood.

After everything, Scott deserved to have everything as easy as Jeff could make it for him.

“I pulled him out.” He stated, keeping his voice low and firm, knowing that the medic would send them all away if he dared to shout, “I decide what happens next. You all lost the right the minute you left him behind.”

There hadn’t been any argument after that.

The medic had chased the other two Colonels out.

Jeff had sat at the side of his son’s cot and looked at him, cataloging him from head to toe.

The hair and beard were about the only things he had been able to do anything about. Scott hated not being clean shaven, had always insisted upon it from the minute he had hit puberty. Jeff had remembered love and laughter as he had taught him to shave standing in the en-suite of the master bedroom in Kansas. Lucy had been there, had laughed with the pair and taken a photo when the lesson had ended in a shaving foam war.

He had asked for a razor and set himself to work.

It was really too little, too late. Why hadn’t he fought harder, sooner? He could have prevented it all, he could have saved his son from another trauma to add to the pile.

Instead, he had left him.

Jeff was no better than the big-wigs that had left him behind in that prison, he wouldn’t have blamed Scott if he never forgave him.

He wasn’t sure he would ever forgive himself.

“Don’t.” Hugh had stated as Kyrano had checked out the jet that would fly them to London, “I know that look in your eye, Jeff.”

He had shaken his head as they had watched the medics roll Scott across the tarmac.

“I still remember your call that day.” Hugh had continued, “Jeff Tracy is not a man that takes no for an answer.”

Jeff still hadn’t felt like it had been enough, not when he finally had Scott in front of him.

“What else would you have done, Jeff?”

Even three weeks later, he hadn’t found an answer to Hugh’s question.

Three weeks of surgeries and tests, of sitting vigil and thinking through what-ifs, of answering questions from General’s he had long since stopped reporting to. Three weeks of assuring his family that, yes, Scott was alive but that there was always little else to tell whilst he was still in a coma. Three weeks of wanting to hold all five of his boys close and never let them go again.

It must have been a cruel trick from the universe that Scott had woken right when Jeff had felt at his weakest. It had taken everything in him to be the calm and reassuring voice he had known his son needed to hear as he had fought against the tube in his throat. It had been all that he could say, that everything would be okay.

It was only when Jeff had woken to Scott’s eyes on him, finally gaining some of the clarity that should have been in their blue depths despite the cocktail of drugs, that he himself had finally started to believe that things would be alright. Scott would go home to his brothers, would get to live a life far away from the horrors he had faced.

He had thought that he would have waited for questions, but it was a testament to his son’s strength that he had asked so soon for a timeframe.

Jeff had felt nothing but shame as he had told him.

It was all he could do to apologize, to be honest with the kid and tell him how he had tried. When Scott had broken down in front of him, Jeff knew it hadn’t been enough. Even as he had tried to comfort and calm him, he had known deep down that whilst Scott had fought every single day to live, he hadn’t fought hard enough to bring him home.

Jeff had sworn years ago that he was going to do better, that he would let Scott be the kid that he had deserved to be, and he had let him down again. So, he had held him close and kissed his hair, and prayed that his son would find a way to forgive him and let him have another chance to be the father that his boys deserved to have.

He had held on to him at every chance Scott had given, letting the man be the boy that needed his father, letting him cry and assuring him that he was enough and that Jeff was proud of him.

He had held the Colonel’s and General’s at bay, refusing to let them near his son’s room until Scott was good and ready to talk to them. It had been luck that Kyrano had been with him at the time, his friend’s quiet but broad stature enough to help in intimidating the unwanted away.

It was harder to keep the boys away.

John had barely returned to American soil after spending the British summer with Hugh’s daughter, and had been plenty vocal about wanting to see his brother. The younger three had happily followed his lead and joined in begging to be allowed to see or speak to Scott.

For all Jeff wanted them all together, he didn’t want them to overhear the same conversations that he had in the hospital hallways. He could still protect them from that part of the world, keep them far away from the kind of people that used other men as pawns in a game of chess that spanned entire continents.

It was a relief that Scott seemed to share such a sentiment.

Relief had only lasted for the briefest of moments, until Scott had next woken either unable or unwilling to speak.

Jeff hadn’t been sure what he must have done wrong for his son to go silent, but there must have been something. They had been talking! Scott had given him a ghost of a smile as they had talked about his brothers. It hadn’t been much, but Jeff had been sure it had been small steps towards recovery from the mental scars.

He had hovered outside the door when the doctors had asked him to leave, for all he had wanted to argue, he had known that they needed to assess Scott without him present to influence anything. He hadn’t been expecting Val’s call, but had been all the more grateful for it.

“How is he?” The kid’s Godmother had asked straight off the bat.

Jeff had scuffed his toe against the linoleum of the hallway and sighed heavily, feeling every one of the last six months heavy on his shoulders.

“He woke up just before and Val… He-- I don’t-- He won’t, can’t, talk.”

Her voice had raised an octave as she had questioned him for the details, concern of new injuries making themselves know that perhaps the doctors had missed. He had been quick to assure her that it was more likely a trauma response, that had been what one nurse had mentioned as Jeff had left the room.

“What if I caused it, Val? What if I told him too much too soon? We were talking about the boys, if he wanted to see them and now he just won’t--”

“Jeff.” Vall had sighed, “This isn’t on you. His brain and his body are probably out of synch with everything that’s happened. Give him time.”

He had promised that he would. He would sit and talk to his son about anything he could, if only to let him know that he was there and ready to listen whenever Scott was ready to talk. Jeff was going to do everything in his power for him, he wasn’t going to fail him.

When the Colonel’s had come and Scott still hadn’t been talking, he had blocked them at the doorway and refused them entrance. If Scott wasn’t talking to Doctors or Nurses, there had been no doubt in Jeff’s mind that he hadn’t been ready to answer any sharp toned questions from the very men that had sent him to that hell hole.

“You cannot delay this conversation inevitably, Colonel.”

“I don’t wish to.” He had answered, fully aware of the importance of a debrief, “But I learned from my own men that they answer better when they’re in the right frame of mind. Right now my son is not and I will not have you hurt him further.”

He had left them at that, having heard Scott stirring in the room behind him he knew where his presence had been needed more.

“They’re not coming to talk to you until you’re good and ready.” Jeff had told him when bleary blues had stared at the doorway for a moment too long, “You take as long as you need, son.”

He still hadn’t reached out to Jeff since he had woken up silent and withdrawn into himself, and Jeff didn’t try and reach out to him. It hurt to not be able to comfort him, but he understood. His captors and his squad had been the only people that had been near him for months, and both of their touches would have been entirely different from those that Jeff had been able to offer.

“May we come in?” Val’s voice had been soft as she had opened the door a crack, Scott’s eyes instantly latching on to the sudden intruder.

Jeff had looked to his son for his approval before waving Val into the room. A second figure had followed her, dressed in loose fitting pajamas, and hobbling in the same way Scott had when Jeff had pulled him out of the prison.

“Jenny.” He had stood immediately when he had identified her, offering her his seat as Scott had watched her with wide eyes.

She had moved slowly, eyes equally as locked on Scott as Val had helped her over to the chair. It had been like watching children who hadn’t seen each other in years, both equally unsure if what they were seeing had been truly real.

Jenny had turned to Jeff suddenly, hands shaking as she reached out to him from the chair.

“Thank you.” She had whispered, “For...” She had trailed off as she looked to Scott, reaching out to take his splinted hand, having no such qualms in the way Jeff had.

He had understood her meaning though.

“There was never any doubt, Jen,” He nodded to his son, “And I wouldn’t have stopped looking until we had him home safe.”

Scott had looked up to him at that, something small flickering in his eyes before he had looked back to Jen’s hand over his own.

“We’ll leave you two for a while.” Val had offered softly, “We’ll be right outside if you need anything.”

Jeff had paused, unsure about leaving when Scott had begged and he had promised that he would be there.

After a long moment, the kid had nodded though, and Val had pulled him out the door to the uncomfortable plastic seats in the corridor.

He had pressed his hands to his face, sucked in a slow shaky breath that he hadn’t realized he had been holding onto, and tried to blink away the tears that threatened to fall. It wouldn’t do for him to break, not when his boy needed him to be strong, needed him to support him in ways that Jeff wasn’t quite sure how to do.

Everyone had said to just be there for him, to wait and listen and eventually things would work themselves out.

Jeff had never been one for sitting idle.

“He’s strong, Jeff.” Val had murmured, her own eyes fixed on the door to Scott’s room, “Jenny told me a few things on our way over here. Scott saved them all.”

“At what cost?” He had found himself asking, understanding the implications of what Scott must have gone through as Captain in order to try and protect the others.

Val would never give him details, such things were said in confidence and he hoped Scott would tell him right when he was good and ready. It hadn’t changed his want to know though, even if he knew the very picture that would be painted would turn his stomach and perhaps break him too.

“He’s strong.” Val had repeated, “You remember what it used to be like when you went home after a deployment, shifting from Colonel to Dad.”

Jeff did remember, it had been hard some days, when the kids had been screaming and squealing in delight, when there had been shouting and running footsteps echoing across floorboards. There had always been a day or two when he had felt more on edge, ready for a disaster to strike and felt a need to be ready to act.

Scott had been on defense for six months, had been constantly processing every waking moment as a Captain trying to protect his squad from hell.

Six months of building up walls to protect both his men and himself, of being the one that couldn’t break for fear of what it would implicate to those he had been there with.

Such walls never came down easily, Jeff knew from experience.

Jeff also knew his son, and knew the sledgehammer he would have likely taken to those walls.

It had been why he had asked so immediately about how long he’d been gone, about his crew, and had started to tell Jeff exactly what had happened.

He’d broken down the walls quickly and efficiently with no way to protect himself from the flood they would release.

Doing the same thing had led Jeff to throw himself into his work and drink after his wife’s death.

He couldn’t, and wouldn’t, see Scott go the same way.

“Just be with him, Jeff.” Val had sighed, “Stick with him and you’ll see him come right.”

He had looked across to her, tired, and feeling the weight of his whole world heavy on his shoulders, “How do you know?”

She had smiled softly as she had reached across and clasped his shoulder, “Because I know you Tracy’s, and you’re fighters, but you all have a hell of a lot of love in you.”

He had only chuckled at her answer, knowing her point had been perfectly valid.

Looking down, he had pulled out his phone, “I should talk to the boys.”

Val had leveled him with a look before assuring him that the pair in Scott’s room would likely be a while. She had been quick to chase him away with comments about needing a shower and a shave. It was only that she had offered to stand guard at the room which had finally convinced him to slip away.

It had felt all kinds of wrong to leave the hospital, for fear of what could happen whilst he was gone. Val had promised though if there was the slightest thing that she would call. Hugh’s estate was only fifteen minutes away, less if Parker drove him.

So he had stepped out and called his boys back home, assuring them all that Scott was as well as could be expected but not quite fit enough to speak to them all. He had listened as Alan had talked about school and his new class, had taken the time to ask how he liked his teachers and if he had finished his homework. Then came how Gordon had done at training that morning, a new personal best in a different stroke, and how his coach had started talking about the next olympics. Finally, Virgil and John had put their heads together with a plan to get across the pond to see their big brother, a plot that Jeff had waited to discourage until the younger pair had been far enough out of ear shot.

“He misses you all,” He had assured the pair, knowing it was fact even if Scott hadn’t actually been able to tell him as such, “but right now, he’s still… processing.”

It had been enough to convince them, just for a while longer, that they were best keeping their distance and sending their support quietly through the filter of Jeff. He had known they would ignore him eventually, that it would likely be his own mother that would betray him and bring them halfway around the world to see Scott.

As he had picked up the dog tags off of the dresser in his room, Jeff could only hope that by the time his brothers arrived, Scott would be in a better state of mind.

#thunderbirds are go #scott tracy #thunderbirds 2015 #scribbles writes #jeff tracy #thunderbirds #Tw: POW #tw: torture #tw: mental illness

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hoiststowline · 3 days ago

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here's a spinister x reader drabble that i scrapped a bit ago, it kinda ends abruptly i apologize !!

While internally mildly entertained, outwardly, one could only assume you’re miserable, chin in your hand as your so-called savior hauls you through unknown territory, paranoia the culprit to such an outlandish reaction.

Spinister meant well, but proudly heading in the opposite direction than the rest of the crew was likely a horrible idea, one you've wasted too much breath repeating. Separating was generally a death wish, the lot of you splitting off in groups of two and three to try and make it back to the ship before whatever was chasing caught up.

Though, Spin had no idea where the ship was. He also had no inkling nor sense of where he was going, just storming into a vast wilderness with nothing but monotonous wildlife enveloping the environment.

It was a ridiculous image, the massive mech hauling ass, yourself sprawled over his shoulder as one of his servos cradles you there, unrelenting in his grip. Spinister doesn’t hold you down, more so in a cautionary way, but you felt more like a sack of potatoes than anything.

“Spin,” You clear your throat, eyes trained on the terrain he leaves behind as he carries onward with heavy footfalls. “I think you’re good, bud,”

His helm turns only to see your back, slowing his gait considerably but keeping his stride purposeful. “Are you sure?”

Nothing had made any attempt to attack the two of you, and there was no sound of anything trying to catch up to him, not that you had seen anything in the first place. “Positive.”

“I should have known this was going to happen.” One digit raises, then drops back against your skin, a gentle nudge that causes you to wriggle just slightly.

“How were you supposed to know?” Attempting to reassure, you try to address him, but it proves difficult in your current position. “It’s not your fault,”

The purple mech blinks twice before he speaks. ”How was I supposed to know what?” He finally asks, moving his gaze back straight ahead.

“That this was going to happen.” You reply easily, giving up as you collapse limply over his shoulder and continue with a hint of frustration. “You can’t know everything, Spin.”

”I certainly don't." He rumbles, ex-venting shortly after. "But everything seems to be going wrong lately.” His realization proves true, but you compare it to just the luck shared between them all.

Bad news seemed to always follow the Scavengers, but for some unforeseen reason, a string of good luck also weaved through it, ending all unfortunate situations with a stroke of silver.

”I think Misfire overreacted. I don’t believe anything was there, and even if there was, it’s long gone.” The memory is still fresh, hearing Misfire yelp not far off as he rejoins the group, face-plate flushed as his digit points over his shoulder frantically.

“Something not friendly!” He had whisper-shouted, to which Krok didn’t believe him, almost rightfully so. A few words exchanged are unheard as you try taking in the sounds of the forest when the noise similar to a twig snapping sends the group running off in different directions, not a single voice of reason present at the moment.

Spinister, who had been standing over you, wasted no time in scooping you up amongst your protests, gun in the servo not holding your body as he booked it as far as possible from the clearing. “Better safe than sorry,” He muses, now mindlessly thrumming two digits against your side.

You give his reply an easy once-over before agreeing. "Yeah, you're right."

From said perch, you watch as his gun, which is easily twice your size, slots over his back, sliding into the mechanism he has there to hold it in place. In the same motion, you are gently lifted off your stomach, brought to his front now being held in two of his hands.

Under his stare, you raise a brow, confused at his intensity. Just as your mouth opens to question it, you realize he's searching for injuries, gaze flitting from the top of your head down to your dirty shoes.

"I'm fine," You try, vying to push his thumbs away from your midsection, but he doesn't budge. "Nothing had any chance to touch me,"

"Gotta be sure." He murmurs, crimson optics narrowing at your vain second endeavor to escape his grasp. "y/n, stop."

A squeak of protest leaves you as he hoists you higher, turning his helm as he presses your chest to where you assume his audials would be. The entirety of your face pales, going entirely still as a redness twinges cold cheeks, heart so loud you can hear it in your ears.

"Your spark's rhythm is pretty fast," Spinister huffs, scoffing as one of your palms comes to land on his face-shield with a soundless smack. It's not that you wanted to get away from him, more so to escape his medical examination that was only adding fuel to an unsteady flame.

He tsks, moving you back so you sit on his shoulder, this time, to your decision. "And what about you?" You counter, trying to get the rosiness to disappear before the others find you. "Are you okay?"

"Nothing had any chance to touch me," He copies your insistence, servo splaying across his chassis as if to protect his spark, then moving to pat your knees carefully.

You hum, not quite in acknowledgment, more in happiness that he was unhurt. "Good. Is your coms working?"

"Why?" Now, fully addressing you, your fingers subconsciously seep a little deeper into the plating on his shoulder, an action that is entirely noticed by the resident bot.

"To see if anyone is nearby," You answer softly, patience never waning, especially with him. "Not that we have an exact location, but y'know."

"I have our coordinates," Just as he says so, a familiar voice appears from behind the both of you.

"I'm going to offline Misfire," Krok groans, pulling off fistfuls of greenery that twisted and roped onto his outer plating. Spinister whips around, digits itching to whip the weapon off his back, but relents when he realizes who is speaking.

"Hi Krok." You chirp, noticing how Spinister's shoulders tense greatly before relaxing.

#sul tf writes #transformers #maccadam #transformers idw #mtmte #spinister #spinister x reader #the scavengers

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cowboygenesis · 9 months ago

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2: sign from the skies | geralt x reader

part 2 of the "wild woman" series: masterlist.

pairing: geralt x reader

chapter warnings: none.

word count: 4.4k

series summary: geralt begrudgingly accepts a monster contract issued to him by a strange girl, thinking it to be an opportunity for some quick coin. nothing goes as planned.

notes: here we go, chapter two! finally some more geralt/reader interactions... we're getting there, guys. enjoy x

The air was dewy and cold that morning. Geralt had woken up at dawn to the scent of musk, grass, and a sleek layer of moisture on his skin, cool and sensitive to the soft breeze nipping at his ears and cheeks. As promised, he had taken camp at the edge of the nearby woods; far enough to drown out the buzz of Posada’s rich nightlife, yet close enough to watch the churchbells swing rhythmically once the sun began to rise over the horizon.

“No trouble sleeping last night, Roach?” the man nodded towards his steed, earning a soft neigh. “Last night was peaceful. No sign of that creature the barmaid spoke of, or of anything else for that matter,”

Geralt’s eyebrows raised in agreement, stretching his torso against the rough bark of an oak tree. “Perhaps it only awakens for the foragers after all.”

He crouched down next to the remains of a crude, makeshift campfire. The heavy, weathered stones encircled a blackened pile of ash that housed a tiny, dying flame. The man hummed lowly, reaching his arms into a canvas sack as his fingers poked around the flailing mound of cloth, testing the textures and mounds of the treasures inside. Shining gold, glass potion vials, scraps of leather, and unread letters… finally, his index brushed against a smooth, waxy surface.

“Ah, so we’re not yet doomed.” he smiled coyly, picking out a small, luscious apple and bringing it up to the sunlight. The red skin glistened deliciously, and Geralt could almost feel the tart juices on his tongue.

Roach whined, hooves stomping precociously on the soft grass below. Her beady little eyes were bright, pleading, and Geralt chuckled softly at her reaction to such a delightful treat. With a flick, he tossed the apple towards her and watched as it rolled on the grass, finally making contact with her slender front leg.

“I know you’ll appreciate this more than I would,” he remarked with a nod, legs flexing to stand up once again. He grunted, metal clinging and slashing against his pauldrons while he swiftly fastened his gear. He adjusted the steel and silver swords in their holsters and finally fingered at his chest piece until a metallic wolf revealed its head from under his blouse.

“We can resupply in town, but if there is any truth to the talks of this beastie I might as well see what it’s about. Perhaps I’ll be in luck to find a rabbit or two while I’m at it.” Geralt mumbled, and his mare snorted in reply. Her snout lapped at the red apple in curiosity, tongue slowly flicking against the short stem before she made her first bite.

Geralt moved his gaze away from Posada’s rooftops and instead directed it at the lush forest behind. The treeline was thick, twisting and turning in the soft, white light of the morning sun. Considering their current location, these woods could span for dozens of kilometers with no habitable settlements in between, making the witcher’s next hunt more complex, or, at the very least, very time-consuming. He huffed at the thought, but with a full suit of armor now on, persevered ahead.

Geralt strolled in, boots squelching and creaking against the plush, moss-covered ground below his boots. As he made his way deeper into the pits of nature, the birdsong became sporadic. It dulled down to an occasional tweet, drowned out by the echoing volume of a cool wind weaving through the green and yellow leaves above. This breeze would grow in strength ever so often, tugging at thinner branches and whistling an eery melody into the morning dew.

When Geralt looked up again, the tree crowns had thickened to such a degree that the natural light struggled to pass through. Only singular, thin batches of light made their way through the thicket, beaming down on the earth below and illuminating the surface of a small stream. The clear waters had carved a small grove amongst the trees, allowing for a steady flow of life through the otherwise tranquil, idle surroundings.

There was a snap from behind. The man’s arm quickly tugged at the padded handle of his sword, half-unsheathed as his eyes narrowed. He scanned around, focused and unmoving while he confronted the perpetrator of chaos head-on.

Up ahead, just by a thick, decaying oak stump, stood an animal. Her tawny coat shone with a matted kind of luminance, a thick bristle dotted with milky spots and lines that trailed down her slender limbs. She raised her head, beady eyes looking into Geralt’s through a fan of black lashes. She chewed peacefully on a patch of green moss, nose glistening with a healthy sheen of moisture and no apparent desire to escape her pursuer.

Geralt readied his weapon, slowly letting it slide out of its protective casing as his right foot stepped up. The steel swished against leather, now gripped with two hands: mightily, purposefully. “Better than a rabbit,” he muttered under his heaving breaths.

The man advanced slowly, watching as the doe made peace with her fate. Her head stood still, jaw clenching and unclenching with the chew of her final meal.

Suddenly, another snap, from up ahead. The animal’s ears perked up, large head darting behind, then back forward. She looked at Geralt with glazed eyes and a wet nose. His legs tensed up. Then, she galloped away.

Her speed was unthinkable, furry body darting through the thicket while the witcher sprinted after her. The doe’s nubby tail twirled, hooves stomping on moss and soil before she made a final jump ahead, disappearing into a tall honeysuckle bush.

Geralt’s feet stuck in place, halting rapidly with a quickened breath as he examined the greenery. The blood in his ears was deafening, the birds and wind abruptly silenced. He readjusted his grip on the sword, sweat trickling down his forehead as steel slashed at the twigs ahead. With the self-made opening, he squeezed his body through the branches, feeling a sting as they tugged at his exposed skin. His eyes squinted at the sunlight pooling onto his face, stepping ahead cautiously with his blade leading the way.

He was in a small clearing. The glade was filled with an array of wildflowers and poppies, lined with sparse, decaying fencing and housing a small, swampy pond at the right-most edge of the valley, speckled with rounded stones and water reeds.

Ahead, down a decline, stood a wooden hut, its roof angled awkwardly, holding the four walls together in a matter of unbelievable asymmetry and heedlessness. The small, rectangular window perched on one of the sides had been covered with a decrepit plank, rotten and mossy from the test of harsh elements and time. Walking closer, Geralt realized the shack was completely uninhabited, and perhaps for a while at that.

Seeking an entrance, he strutted alongside the wall, gloved palms feeling the roughened, brittle surface of the wood. A small porch could be visible from just beyond another honeysuckle, this time easily traversable by foot.

He slumped down through the thicket, eyes squinting as he made it to the other side. The air felt stagnant. Geralt’s eyes trailed towards the porch, down the betrodden path, and towards the blinding red below.

The doe was dead. Her soft, white underbelly rested against the soil, tufts of fur stained a brilliant crimson that speckled her snout, ears, and backside. Her eyes looked the same as when she was alive, beady and lifeless. Geralt’s eyes trailed to the liquid pooling at her wound, eyes following her flank. Four deep gashes were carved into the tan bristle, cutting skin and muscle with apt precision. Geralt’s grip tightened.

He stepped away, circling the body cautiously. The porch fencing was tangled up in a mess of twine and ivy, and nestled within a cracked open entrance; an inconspicuous, wooden doorway with no knob or handle. Kicking away at stray vines, the witcher positioned himself against the entryway, shoulder-angled and tense. He breathed in, and out, and with a quick bodyslam, the door slung wide open.

The stench within was indescribable. Sour, earthy, and musky, with hints of myrrh and lavender, heavily lacing the atmosphere within. Singular streams of sunlight flooded into the hut through boarded-up windows, revealing constellations of dust particles dancing and swiveling through the air like stars.

The ceiling was adorned with bundles of dried herbs hanging by a thin twine, so dried up they had begun to flake off onto the floor in little piles.

Along the first wall stood a kitchen drawer, hanging out of its hinges and exposing the void within; the second wall was occupied by a bed, covered in hay and a small, child-sized quilt. Despite its visibly decrepit state, the textile was able to retain traces of handiwork: small, colorful stitches connected individual pieces of cloth, some of which bore tiny floral designs and some kind of animal iconography.

Geralt furrowed his eyebrows with a hum. He took another general glance around the room, licked his chapped lips, and adjusted his gaze to the flickering glimmer at the corner of his vision. He sheathed his sword and cautiously approached, eyes squinting at the object. He dropped his right knee, fingers reaching out to grab a crooked floorboard. As he pulled, the blackened wood crumbled between his fingers, the stench of mold unraveling under his nostrils.

The glimmer of light faded as his figure obscured the sunlight, the small compartment below the deck emanating with darkness. Geralt reached his hand down, feeling around the moist soil and cobwebs before his knuckles brushed against a hard spine.

A book, bound in a weathered skin of tan fur and leather. The cover was simple, unsigned, yet bearing a sizeable silver plate. The metal dipped into a shallow grove in the center, worn with scratches where the valley was deepest. His fingers sunk under the side of the cover, flipping through a few pages until the book lay flat on the ground.

The pages were yellowed, stained with dirt, grease, and herbal residue, but otherwise blank. Geralt flipped a few pages in bulk, but the paper held no writing. A few more, and still, nothing. Raising his arm, he bit at the loose fabric of his glove and with a grunt, removed it entirely. His hand hovered over the crease binding the book together, eyes closing. The exposed skin of his fingers reverberated, gently caressed by an unseeable force emanating from the paper.

“Magic,” he muttered, his hoarse voice cutting the silence of the cabin like a dulled knife. “Unreadable, perhaps purposefully locked away.”

His legs tensed against the dusty floor, smacking the book shut before he rose to his full height. A hum escaped his throat, echoing through his head as his eyes scanned the leather cover of this newly discovered artifact. If there was a sorcerer in town, he could try and decipher the pages. Hells, perhaps an alchemist could aid him.

With a cautious turn, Geralt turned towards the doorway. The outside light was beginning to fade, the cool tones of dawn melting into a soft warmth. He pushed at the rotted wood and walked out with two short strides, shutting the door behind him. The hinges creaked with the impact.

The air felt fresh. A gentle breeze carried through the small valley, kissing his eyelids as his gaze wandered to a splash of red—the dead doe.

He inhaled, circling a patch of moss until the tips of his boots grazed the animal’s fur. The pool of blood had spread since he last examined her, forming a shallow lake around his feet and sinking into the porous material. With a sharp exhale, he propped his arms under her stained belly. The exposed skin of his left hand dipped in the crimson liquid, letting it lap at his creased palm and sinking under the fingernails. Once his grip felt secure, he lifted with a soft grunt. The deer’s head sunk, lolling lifelessly in the air as Geralt threw the body over his shoulder. The doe felt light, so fragile she could break at any moment if his movements were to become brazen.

The witcher took one last look behind, the insides of the hut greeting him once again with a dark void. He hummed, turning away at the sensation brewing in his gut. His feet stomped across the soil, grunts filling the air as he adjusted to the extra weight on his side. The doe lay perfectly still upon his collarbone, her white tuft of a tail now motionless next to Geralt’s cheek.

Thick clouds had emerged on the azure backdrop above once the witcher had finally returned to his campsite. The sky pulsed in shades of blue and white, clusters of grey hanging with a suspicion of rain, perhaps a thunderstorm if his luck was really down that day.

Geralt had thrown the fresh carcass onto a flattened boulder, letting it sit a while as he re-sparked a fresh batch of coals for a campfire. The sleek, steel blade slid against his flint in jots of white and gold, the sound of slashing metal harmonizing with the sudden onset of distant grumbling. The sky began to darken, the distant clouds fat and ashen with moisture. Geralt hummed, striking the flint once more. Volatile sparks flew into the mound of dried lavender and sage piled amidst black coals.

Another roar in the atmosphere sent Roach into a manic spree, her hooves kicking spastically into the air, cries of fear filling the cool air.

“Easy, girl,” Geralt commanded, yet a gentleness laced his grave tone as a hand raised in the air, reaching towards the mare’s snout. Her snorts calmed, eyes scanning the man’s pale face in search of something familiar and comforting. He smiled. “Just a thunderstorm,” he reassured, “judging from the wind, it might be headed away from us.”

The warm glow of the growing flame lapped at Geralt’s knees, giving the two companions a tiny bubble of comforting illumination. He hummed, gripping the slender blade in his rough palm, and swiftly crawled towards the deer. Her body looked flaccid, restful almost, as she continued her eternal rest against the jagged surface of the flattened boulder.

His eyes shifted towards the horizon, hovering over the betrodden path and along the navy overskirt of a woman heading his direction. His eyebrows furrowed, the firm grip on his blade loosening as she approached with a bright smile plastered across her tired face.

“Geralt?” the girl called out, breaking into a fiddly sprint. Her movement was jagged and awkward, possibly inhibited by the size of her hand-me-down boots that croaked loudly, even at a distance.

“Geralt!” she affirmed, giddiness laced into her breathy voice as she placed a protective hand over the sizeable item in her other arm- a woven basket. She approached the man with a half-jog, eyes wide and bright.

“I… I looked around… everywhere for you,” she heaved, struggling to catch her breath. Her face was reddened and moist with sweat. “I remembered… I’m so glad you decided to stay!” she exclaimed with a kind smile, dusting off her apron. The material was off-white and stained with ale, but came alive with the addition of small beading and sewn decals at the seams. The colors were mismatched and varied, yet somehow brought the girl’s features out in just the right way.

“I took your job offer,” Geralt reminded her with a nod, hand hovering over the deer’s thick bristle. The girl’s eyes dropped at the gesture, her smile fading into a frown; not fearful or disgusted, simply upset.

“Poor girl,” she said quietly, kneeling with the basket perched upon her hip. She placed a nimble hand on the animal’s back, slowly trailing towards her belly. Her pinky grazed gently against Geralt’s, making her withdraw shakily. “Such beautiful animals.”

Geralt remained silent, watching the woman’s eyelashes brush her blushed cheeks as she studied the carcass with a profound fascination.

“I hope she didn’t suffer,” she added with a sharp inhale, hesitantly dragging her gaze away from the doe’s white belly. Geralt hummed with an acknowledging nod, deciding to stay silent. He didn’t know whether the doe suffered or not, and bringing that up to the woman felt fruitless at the moment.

“When I was little, I would try and count the spots on baby deer, the little white freckles. My mother told me every one of them meant a past lifetime. I think it was some sort of tradition she picked up from her own mother,” the woman continued, that same soft smile returning to her lips. Geralt maintained his composure, hands placed firmly against his knees as he watched the woman fidget nervously. Her nailbeds pressed into the coarse material of her apron, and Geralt scanned along the place where it met her corset. This one looked looser, clinging onto her waist a lot more comfortably than her tavern attire. She must have been taking a day off.

“Anyway, I’m sure you don’t want to deal with my chattering this early in the morning. I hope you’re hungry, I brought you something as a ‘thank you’,” she chuckled dryly, giving him a grin as her hands reached into the basket. She dug around for a moment, one eye closed in concentration before she finally withdrew a large loaf of bread. Her other hand unraveled a checkered napkin, which she opted to spread by the campfire. She placed the bread on top, then dug out a small paper parcel and leather decanter. She passed the latter into Geralt’s hands, and he grabbed it haphazardly. “For helping us out,”

The tanned leather felt cool against his fingertips, rough around the seams and adorning a crimson-stained cork at the top.

“The deer was dead when I found it,” he muttered, twisting the flask open. The cork squealed at the pressure, revealing a strong aroma of tart cherries and foreign spices. He tilted the bottle and looked inside, catching a glimpse of the bright-red concoction that swirled in the soft light.

“What is this?” Geralt questioned with a sniff.

The girl’s eyebrows seemed to relax at the notion that the doe didn’t suffer at his own hands, despite that conclusion being far-fetched and faulty. Sparing her the details of the strange occurrence in the woods seemed like the wisest course of action, regardless.

“Black cherry wine,” she declared with a smile, “A traveling merchant was selling these in bulk at the market this morning, for real cheap too. I hope you like it, though the spices might not be to everyone’s taste, I find.”

Geralt placed the nozzle to his lips, taking a modest sip and letting the tangy liquid slosh along his palate. The initial sweetness of the cherry transformed into a mild burn of cinnamon and cloves, filling the witcher’s chest with a comforting warmth that radiated down the stomach and limbs.

“It’s good,” he commented ingeniously, earning a satisfied nod from the girl.

“Right? It’s not so bad,” she chuckled, hands hovering over the fat loaf of bread warming against the fire. Her fingertips pressed into the crisp skin, as she eyed the witcher’s blade. “I don’t drink so much anymore, but these fruity wines from Skellige are always worth the trouble. ‘Lush’, I think they call them, traditionally. Something about the method of preparation. May I?” she trailed, pointing at the man’s knife with a mingy finger.

Geralt paused, taking another drink from the leather decanter. The supposed infamy of Skellige’s wines had never come to his mind. He cleared his throat, tossing the knife upwards to reposition his grip. His hands gently clasped onto the blade, handle aimed at the woman in front. She took it carefully, anxiously, letting the hilt land in her elfin hands, analyzing it meticulously and toying with the base. She let the flat of the knife slide against her palm, securing it in her grip.

“You don’t have to eat that doe anymore, you know?” she declared quietly, her voice laced with uncertainty. She didn’t look up, instead continuing to stab into the soft flesh of bread with a certain might and precision. The knife sliced into it smoothly, producing three slices of perfectly thick wedges that looked soft and delectable in the harsh light of the campfire.

“It’s a waste of meat if I don’t,” he replied, hand extending as the girl handed him two of the three slices in her possession. They felt moist against his skin, rough around the edges where the skin had baked into a thin crust.

“How about you sell it at the town’s market? The butcher could pay you handsomely for such a prime doe,” the woman suggested, peeling back the paper parcel to reveal a white goat’s cheese. She used the knife to slice it, placing the soft rectangles onto Geralt’s bread, then did the same with her own. “Venison spoils quickly, and you won’t make good use of the animal nearly fast enough.”

Geralt hummed, sinking his teeth into the morsel. The cheese was fresh and soft, spilling buttermilk on his tongue as he savored the delicate flesh of the bread below. Perhaps a fat pouch of coin would prove more beneficial than spoiled deer, indeed.

“Would you lead me to this market, then?” he questioned, quaffing the cherry liquor in intermissions. The girl’s eyes lit up, cheeks bunching with a smile. Her teeth sunk into her meal, chewing quickly and negligently. The bread disappeared quickly amongst her teeth.

“Let’s set out after our meal, in that case. The clouds have been brewing all morning, haven’t they?” she pointed at the horizon, thick gusts of silver nipping at the rooftops. “We wouldn’t want to get caught in that squall. Posada is infamous for these storms.”

The refreshments were gone quickly, replaced by a lulling comfort in their guts as Geralt stood up to prepare them for travel. He doused the campfire with water from his carafe, kicking at the remaining flames with his boot. He then unloaded his gear onto Roach. The deer hung off the steed’s backside, accompanied by the witcher’s travel pack and his visitor’s hand trailing gently along the mare’s muzzle.

“Hi, girl,” she spoke with a smile, rubbing her hand alongside the horse’s cheek. Roach whinnied, leaning into her touch. “Oh, just how precious you are! What’s your name?”

“Roach,” Geralt grumbled out, securing the leather saddle onto the horse’s back.

“Roach,” the woman repeated, scratching behind the mare’s ear. “Why Roach?”

“I name all my horses the same,” Geralt huffed, hands snaking down the thick bristle until his fingers tangled into the reigns. The woman chuckled at his explanation, and he raised an eyebrow in response. Her laughter was warm, hearty, and completely uninhibited by her company, it seemed. “There’s only space for one with the deer in the back. Get on.”

The woman’s face turned to face the witcher, lips pursed as she eyed the leather saddle under her palm. She approached slowly, neck craning as she maintained eye contact with the flaxen-haired man. Her cheeks flushed with a soft pink, dusting her nose and temples as she exhaled. She looked at her companion pleadingly.

Geralt hummed with an acknowledging nod, circling behind her back. His arms extended, hands hovering over the dip in her waist. He took note of the woman’s moss-green blouse, sitting loosely against her shoulder blades and exposing a fragment of the soft skin beneath.

She looked down, locks of mussed hair caressing her neck as her breath quickened, heavy in her chest whilst her breast expanded with every sharp inhale.

“May I?” Geralt questioned, his right hand gently resting atop her hip as he awaited confirmation. With the indication of a quick, subtle nod from the woman, he positioned his grip firmly against her waist and lifted. She gasped softly at the touch, her blue overskirt swept in a gentle breeze as her buttocks landed firmly against the saddle.

“Thanks,” she breathed out shakily, fingers wrapping firmly around the cantle. Her lips curled into a coy smile, watching as Geralt tightened his grip around the leather reigns and tugged, bold gaze relentlessly conversing with hers. He exhaled sharply, letting Roach trail ahead while he placed a free hand on the mare’s neck, nearing the girl’s hip.

“You’re strong,” she declared candidly, followed by a suppressed chuckle.

“Does it come as a surprise?” he questioned, head turned safely away from the woman’s curious gaze as he let a cheeky smile creep onto his lips. She laughed heartily in return.

As they led Roach down down the glade, she let her gaze trail along the stormy horizon, watching as the clouds approached in proximity to the red rooftops of Posada hovering solemnly in the distance.

She shuffled in the saddle, legs crossed as she let her eyes meet with the witcher’s long, flaxen hair, watching it trail down his heavy-set shoulders and toned back. He must have been robust under all that armor, certainly, after years of fighting monsters by hand and sword.

He strode down the beaten path with an air of inexplicable confidence and a certain, palpable grit that was made apparent through the fluidity of his movement. The woman gazed through half-lidded eyes, bottom lip caught between her teeth.

“There’s another reason I wanted to speak to you,” she declared, stroking down Roach’s mane. Geralt kept his steady walking rhythm, allowing the girl to continue with his comfortable silence. “I know you spoke to Sylvanus in his room last night.” she trailed.

“And?” Geralt surmised, eyes glued towards the sky. The woman’s foot fiddled with a stirrup, eyebrows furrowed.

“I spotted him in the market square this morning, while I was resupplying ale for the tavern. He had just left the alchemist’s shop with a hefty purchase, and it very much appeared to me that he didn’t want to be seen or questioned about it, by anyone,” she confided, tone laced with slighted apprehension at the memory.

Geralt hummed in acknowledgment, fingers tightening around the leather reigns in his palm. He recalled the strange man’s declaration last night, his gravelly voice echoing in the witcher’s mind as they trotted down a patch of grass.

“Show me to that alchemist once we’re in town,” he commanded, a loud, crackling rumble filling the atmosphere suddenly. The woman gasped softly, eyes gazing into the darkened skies as the ozonic air entered her lungs, flushed skin met with the soft droplets of the first autumn rain.

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corruption-special-au · 4 months ago

Text

Masked 🗝️ Prologue

While this is an au I would like to start as a small webcomic at one point, I would like to start it out with just some simple fanfic writing to kind of get into the groove I guess. It's been a whole hot second so like give it a second. But since the beginnings of this story are going to be mainly told from Crystal and Golds perspective, I thought I'd start out with a prologue from Silver's perspective

Early morning dew drops made the grass of this small town glisten like small stars in the night sky. And the forest here was rather healthy and overgrown, similar to that of Ilex. Though the thought of entering those woods only seemed to stir an uneasy feeling of spite and fear within Silver. He knew all too well of what lurked within those trees. Some being of great power, the mysterious guardian of Ilex. A creature whom he had never seen, nor knew the name of. But served as his teacher's life goal to capture and use its power for their own gain.

This was something he could never quite understand given all the assets the family had gathered over the course of their reign. Strong, powerful and capable pokemon that could crush any trainer who dared to threaten them. What could it be that this mysterious being had that intrigued his teacher so much? A stab into his bottom foot tore him from his thoughts, as he faltered backwards in surprise. Damn twigs… Perhaps it was time he wrapped his feet again, the rugged cloth he had been using showed clear signs of wear and tear from his journey here.

“Sisi, you still have that bag I gave you?” From the bramble behind him, a long feathered ear poked through the foliage. His trusted companion, a partner who stayed by his side for as long as he could recall. While small, Sisi still proved to be a reliable pokemon. From its back, a sack slung over its shoulder filled with berries, herbal remedies and various scraps of cloth. “Thanks girl." He huffed as he plopped down beside a nearby stump. If the others had heard him speak to his pokemon in such a manner they would have talked down to him like a weakling. He scoffed at the thought as he ripped away the muddy and useless wrap around his feet. Yet despite Karen and Will's constant persecution of his skill as a trainer meant nothing now. After all, he had been sent here to obtain this supposed package for their teacher; not them. The scornful sight of their envious faces when he was given this task still brought him a tinge of pride that burned deep in his chest.

They'd change their tune after this. Yanking at the last of the cloth, he set it to the side and began replacing it with fresher wrappings. Sisi sniffed at his scratched up and bruised skin with concern. “It's ok, no pain no game right?” A small reassuring smile and a pat on the head seem to put her at ease. Perhaps while he was allowed access to the outside during this mission, he could manage to snag himself some real shoes from a local mart. Then again, that could be too risky and bring about some unwanted attention to himself. It was crucial to handle this quietly, this was important. Once he was sure the bandages were well tied around each foot and the knot was sturdy, Silver rose from his spot on the ground. They couldn't be too terribly far from the lab by this point. Of course it would have been faster and easier to travel through the town and get directions from the locals, but then he would have a potential witness on his hands.

Briefly he unconsciously ran his finger tips down the side of the wood mask that hung from his face. At Least he would always have his real face covered to keep him safe. Leafs from the oak above sprinkled down onto his hair, shuffling from the branch above. “Murr, you up there?" Cawing from above, his second pokemon swooped downwards to land on his outstretched arm. “Have you found the place yet?" All he was provided was a general location and a photograph of the lab stationed here. He would have to rely on his Murkrow to lead them there through the outskirts of New Bark. The pokemon flapped its wings in response, and took off towards the east. Good. Without question, both him and Sneasel followed behind on foot. Just over a mossy hillside, there it was. The Research Lab.

Now all he needed to do was find a way in, and locate that envelope. What his teacher needed these notes for was beyond his knowledge nor was it his concern; but it was his responsibility to recover them without fail. Silver scanned the area from higher ground, ducked behind the bramble out of site. From what he could see, it was pretty similar to that of most other houses he passed by in this area. Larger than most. Two employees inside, moving what looked to be large trays full of pokeballs into a storage container. As well as two doors. A front and a balcony on the upper level, glass and easy enough to pick open. There. That was his ticket in.

“Right." He whispered as his two partners gave him their undivided attention, ready to act on his orders. “What we'll be looking for will likely be addressed from Azalea. Sisi, you'll come with me. Grab anything that has that address. Murr; you will draw those two out, and we'll lock that front door shut behind them. It'll buy us some time to look through the place. Ready?”

And with that Murr took off down hill, and began scraping at the window glass with its talons. Causing a rather irritating screech that seemed to do the trick, as a scrawny man with glasses in a coat came outside to shoo the pest away. Only to be attacked by the angered bird, he immediately threw his arms over his head in fright. Not long after came the second researcher, frantically trying to drive the furious feathered bully away with a straw broom and failing. Now. There was no time to hesitate, Silver and Sisi quickly dashed towards the balcony. Doing their best to go unnoticed as the two men flailed about, trying to avoid the brutal pecks from their tormentor. With two well timed jumps, Silver managed to crawl up and through the railing. Dropping down on one knee and pulling an old rusty lock pick from his pocket. Within seconds the door was open, and the two slipped in undetected. Once inside Sisi made her way down the stairwell, blowing a gust of frosty wind towards the front door. Slamming it shut, and covering it with a strong and thick layer of ice.

Good, now they could start. Heart racing, Silver hopped down to the first floor and began scavenging each shelf and desk drawer in search of anything that remotely looked like a package. Nothing, nothing, nothing! This is all junk! Panic rises his throat as he began clawing at the large stacks of various scribbled notes and booklets. Until there! Finally! In his hands he held a hefty envelope, opened at the top and addressed from Azalea Town to a Professor Oak. Inside this was critical information about the mysterious myth of the Ilex forest guardian. A pokemon whom his teacher has hunted for as long as he could remember. Curious, he stuck his hand down into the folder and pulled what felt like a stack of photos tied together with a rubber band from the middle. Poor quality… Why even keep them? Wait, there. In the corner of the third one, he spotted a vaguely small and green shape that seemed to give off a glow of some sort. Could this be?

He stared at the image in wonderment as well as confusion. With such great power, surely he thought this great powerful beast would have been much larger in size? But it looked to be no bigger than a Pidgey. Why would he want something that looked so feeble? Consumed in his thoughts, he hadn't even heard the muffled sounds of a battle taking place just outside the door. Shit! They must have had some Pokemon on them! Tucking the photos back into the envelope and into his satchel, he raced back towards the stairwell. “Sisi, time to go!" Just as he turned to escape, on the other side of the glass door he came face to face with a stranger. A boy who looked to be no older than himself, holding a pool cue in one hand and an aipom perched on his shoulder.

“Thief!"

Where the hell? Silver leaped back, startled. And just as the other boy swung open the door, the ice from the front door started to break. In came crashing the two men from before, accompanied by yet another kid with a blue hat. You've got to be kidding me! A hand grabbed at his jacket collar, “Give me back my bag freak!” Luckily his reflexes kicked in just in time, as he swiftly hopped to the left, out of the boy's reach. In his panic, he turned tail and dashed towards the stairwell. What happened? He had this in the bag! Who the hell was this bastard? Behind him he could hear his footsteps catching up close, and in front of him stood the scrawny researcher. He had to do something quick before they got a good look at him. “Sisi!" Without flinching, the sneasel skidded in front of him and once more let out a gust of ice, freezing the slick tiled floor under their feet. “You-"

The trio of people down below started to slide about, struggling to keep their balance and eventually toppled backwards. "Ack!” The crack of the researcher's skull against the unforgiving iced stone floor even made Silver's neck prickle with pain. But at least they were out of commission for now. Now just- To his shock, Sisi was suddenly thrown back against the wall. A direct punch from the aipom’s tail had sent her flying. Sisi! He skidded to a halt, unsure of what to do next. Think of something, fast! Out of the corner of his eye, three pokeballs lay on a table beside him. All filled with different Pokemon. This one then! Snatching the strongest looking of the three he clicked the capsules button and released the small blue creature from inside. Hopefully it'll listen. Blinking, the small reptile shook itself awake, and glanced back at Silver with curiosity. Unsure of what to say, he simply gave the pokemon an encouraging nod towards the opposing aipom.

Thankfully, the croc turned and bared its tiny pin needle fangs at its opponent. “Oh you cheater! You can't just use other people's pokemon!" How immature. Though he just met this new Pokemon, he was certain to wipe the floor with this buffoon. “Attack!" At his command the croc raced forward, barreling into the astonished aipom who was brushed away easily. No battle prowess… this must be his pet, not a fighter. Sneering, he took the opportunity to dash over to sneasels side. Helping her up from the wall where she was flung into. That was probably that fool's only pokemon, and now that he was alone there was nothing stopping Silver from bum rushing the door. Yet despite his expectations that this kid would run away after he was left with no defense like any sensible trainer, he was baffled to find the reckless brat wrestling with the croc. Even as it started to bite down onto his arm and rip through the reddish hoodie he was wearing. But still he continued to struggle. “No one hurts my friend!”

What an idiot.

Swiftly leaping over the two, Silver once more clicked the capsules button to return the pokemon. Leaving the scuffed up nuitence scrambling to stand-up. Nothing but disdain in his eyes. To the boy’s side, he spotted the very same table Silver had snatched his pokemon from. “Fine, if we're fighting dirty." And with that he hastily took one of the pokeballs from its spot, and tossed it out to release another creature, just as small as the other. Its eyes appeared to be shut, relying on its pointed nose to guide its way. Yet Silver could still feel its worried gaze fall upon the pokeball in his hand.

“Listen, this scumbag is trying to steal your friend away!” It turned its attention to the boy behind it covered in scratches and bite marks. “Let's get him back!" And as if in agreement, bright and powerful flames exploded from its back. Fire type huh? The pokemon he just received looked to be a water type. Which meant he still had the upper hand. Irritated, he once again released the croc from its capsule. “You'll be sorry you dragged this out as long as you did." He hissed under his breath as the two glared at each other from opposite sides of the stairwell. Their two pokemon rather hesitant to strike first. Silver simply held his gaze with the croc as it looked to him as if to question the situation. “You can either stay here in this lab and live out a dull life, or you can fight by my side and grow stronger!" His words seemed to have struck a chord, as his new found companion once more turned towards his opponent. With one sharp inhale, it spat a gush of water into the other Pokemon. Knocking it back in shock. It had made its choice. “Again!"

Before its opponent could gather its bearings, another gush of water slammed into the small creature. But before the final blow could be struck, the other boy flung himself between the two. “Take it easy! That's your friend, remember!" It was time to end this little charade. “Sisi!" As the croc inhaled once more, sneasel gust a chilling breeze upon the last surge of water. The block of ice sent both the boy and the other Pokemon sailing backwards into the wall with a crash. Defeated. “Warned you." Silver returned the croc to its pokeball and quickly made a break for the side door. Out into the woods, he let out a loud whistle using his fingers. Relief washed over him as his Murkrow returned. Sneasel carrying the satchel with her teeth as they made their escape into the forest.

Gold wheezed, his ribcage where that slab of ice had struck throbbed in pain. But… at least… He looked to the side, to see that yes. The small Pokemon, soaked and weakened, took no extra damage from that blow. “Good." He croaked, the slightest taste of iron lapped at the back of his mouth. Yup, that's probably bruised. Cool, nice. “Aibo… you there?” From up above, dropped the boy's aipom. In its paws, a thick yellow envelope it struggled to carry upright. "Ah.. haha… prick. Got your stupid stinking folder." Now to return this back to its owner, and after that track down that guy and get his bag back!

#i have not written anything in a whole second but here you go #pokespe #pksp #pokespe au #pokemon special #pokemon special au #maskedspe #maskedspe au #pokespe fanfic #masked au #pokespe silver #pokespe gold #pksp silver #pksp gold #rival silver

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ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff · 1 year ago

Text

Star-crossed in the Crosshairs (John Price x Reader)

Chapter 7: The Lengths That I Will Go

Fic Summary: This mission is the pinnacle of your efforts for the past three years. Your whole team and yourself have worked countless hours, slaughtered hundreds, risked life and limb for scraps of intel, and now it all boiled down to pairing up with another taskforce to get this job done and dusted. An unexpected spanner in the works comes in the shape of your former best friend, now also a Captain and somehow resurrected from his KIA status, John Price.

You can’t afford to let feelings - old and new - get in the way of your purpose. No matter how much you’ve missed, wished for, loved him, and no matter how much he might feel the same.

Chapter 6 // Masterlist // Gif Credit // AO3 Version // Chapter 8

Left eye swollen shut, you spat out the blood that had seeped into your crooked mouth and tried not to think about how your dentist was gonna look at you if you needed another tooth replacing. Your captor took time away from your face to exploit your ribs, which you were certain had transitioned from bruised to broken thanks to the knuckleduster he had slipped on just minutes ago. You’d been counting them for the sake of passing the time. All that torture training resurfaced for the first time in a eight months, and you resolved yourself to the pain – your only ally besides the inside of the hood that allowed splinters of light through the minute gaps in the woven fabric.

First rule: never give your captor anything.

Second rule: give into insanity.

It didn’t matter how many of your team survived right now. Because if you imagined hope for a fraction of a second, imagined that they were coming for you, you had something to be broken by and you would not be broken by this. Right now, you didn’t know how many of your team had made it. You could afford to lose yourself. Therapy would bring you back-

No, stop it. No therapy, no hope, this is it.

And you knew why it was harder to compartmentalise this time than last year. You’d let your emotions slip out before you were out of the storm, let yourself get so damn sentimental over Price and your history together. Now, instead of having a good cry about it in your office or sleeping off the stress on a flight home, you were stuck here with a fucking bag on your head and injuries that would only aid your captor’s attempts to chip away at your resolve.

Your eyes had dried about two hours in, no room for instinct amidst the flourishing bruises and ringing ears. Tears had dried up with the blood staining your skin and soaked the hood; every punch no doubt cracked the blood into flakes.

Mercifully you were lifted under the armpits and dragged across the floor. You counted two doors opening and closing and an elevator in between, the concrete cutting off to mosaic tiles that trapped and tripped the toes of your boots that grazed over them. Only when the dragging stopped and you were forced stand up was the hood removed from you. At last you got a look at your captor – incredibly unremarkable compared to the man you both shared a room with.

Čiernik was laughably attempting to position a webcam atop an ancient laptop in the corner. As you were forced to stand in the centre of the room, he moved aside and you stared down at the monitor where someone was depicted staring with their gormless face smeared in blood.

Oh. That was you.

Your zip ties snapped off your wrists, but you didn’t start swinging because another prisoner was being shoved in front of you and you could tell from the uniform who it would be.

A similar state of affairs, Price had his hands in zip-ties, his shirt already removed and the sack on his head taken off shortly after. His absent boonie bared his face beneath the low hanging light bulbs. A stream of blood ran from his temple to his bushy jaw. Somewhere inside of you, there was a discordant pang. You ignored it and slow blinked at the corner of the room above his head where a few strands of spider web swayed in the air-conditioning’s flow.

“You will fight,” Čiernik stated.

Sluggishly, you looked at him. He was pointing, rather comically, at the laptop where he’d switched to another tab. Bronze was depicted upon it, breathing to your relief but it looked to be a massive effort on his part. Head slumped over, he was held under the armpits by two gruff looking bastards. He’d been stripped to his under shirt, more brown than white around the tear where he’d been shot.

“You will fight,” repeated Čiernik as Price’s zip-ties came off.

As you returned your stare to your would-be opponent, Price mouthed something at you and he put up his hands, gesturing for you to come at him. You didn’t catch what he was trying to tell you. Instead your head, with its defences lowered, filled itself with memories of easier times, how Price always beat you in sparring. Closest you ever came was drawing, both of you pinned in a position of pain and neither of you tapping out until your commanding officer at the time demanded you both let go. He was the best. Best of the best.

Your left eye, stinging and sealed off, was throwing off your depth perception as you swayed on the spot, fists up. Čiernik’s crooked glee

Hit first and hit hard.

You landed a solid blow to the side of Price’s head, sending him stumbling. Bloody saliva fell from his lips, splattering onto the ground as you threw another punch and crushed his fingers beneath your boot. If he didn’t have a concussion from before, he definitely did now. Something stirred gleefully in your stomach at that.

Finally, he met your attacks with defence, locking you into a grappled and hunched over stance. You shook it off, trying to keep up the charade of fighting your friend. He wasn’t going easy but neither were you, smashing your skull heard into twice before he swung you around and onto the floor. Your feet skidded on the concrete like you were on ice.

“What the hell is this?” The authoritative American accent from across the room came through glitching as it emitted from shitty laptop speakers. Čiernik spun round to face the laptop.

“You bomb my men and think you can get away with it?” His sneering face moved close to the webcam’s lens, “You want them? You come and get them yourself.”

Then he muted the caller. But you’d already pieced together who it was and why Čiernik was Zoom-ing your forced fisticuff.

Two menforced you and Price to face one another, an inch apart like you were pitbulls in a ring, growling and snapping teeth, their hands tugging back your heads like leashes.

When you heard John on the radio, the day that he died, you knew how Orpheus felt in that split second of distrust and relief at seeing Eurydice there, just a fragment of time as he shouted down the radio then let out a cry and was cut off from you, sealing you apart with Price in the Underworld and you cursed to remain on the mortal coil forever. Now you were stuck in Purgatory together without a obol between you to get you out of here.

“I only need one Captain to make a deal with. Keep going.”

On Čiernik’s command, you were both released to continue the brawl. A high-pitched whine shot through your head as Price slammed his fist to your chin. His turn for “hit first and hit hard”, it would seem. Your trousers started sliding down your hips and you grasped at your arm where a rag replaced your makeshift tourniquet. Hiking the trousers back up, you launched yourself at him and swiped at his legs to knock him off his feet.

You should be biting his ear off or digging his eyes out, reshaping his face like it was made of clay beyond a few punches. Your teeth were gritted in your jaw in an attempt to satiate your sudden bloodlust. A burning desire to strike him over and over was stoked strong inside of you. But somehow you were holding back, and so was Price. Even as he got you in a headlock, breathing hard against your ear, spit splashing on your lobe, he could’ve done so much worse than the knee to the chest you received. Could’ve used his boots for a start or aimed for something more juicy, like where the sledgehammer had gotten you. It still hurt like a son of a bitch yet it could’ve been a direct hit. He was holding out hope, making you do the same, and it was putting you both in more danger.

Heard over a painful cry, the sound of the door flung open snatched your attention. A spewing smoke canister bounced off your bullet wound and onto the floor as you seized Price around the middle – away from a lunging Čiernik.

Unceremoniously, you were both hauled away from the smoke and into a blinding light.Your blurred vision pieced together Gaz and Crash barricading the door behind you. Bullets began denting the metal hull of the doorframe. You swung your head around to find Ghost, his hand just now removing itself from your shoulder – sore from how he’d yanked you in his rescue.

“Good to see you,” He said casually.

Crash pushed a pistol into your hands, “It’s not just the villa. It’s every villa. They’ve taken the whole town.”

Brain barely blunted by the shortest capture you’d ever faced, you recalled those papers with postcodes and house numbers, the ones you’d walked past without a single indication that you were already within the trap.

No wonder your team only just managed to catch onto Čiernik; Shepherd clocked him first, made him more obvious by soaking up his spread of occupation on the border of Russia.

“Can you shoot?”

“Sky’s still blue, right?” You tucked in the earpiece Crash handed you next, “They’ve got Bronze. Ghost, you and Gaz will clear the way for us. We’ll scout ahead for where she could be. She lost a lot of blood back at Shepherd’s villa. Price, you and Crash will cover our backs. Have we got an exit plan in place?”

“Laswell’s sending reinforcements. New exfil is twenty klicks south-south-west of the original.”

You didn’t ask why Soap was absent, or if Chance had made it out. No time.Reinforcements were swarming on your location.

First two rooms were left vacant but recently let if the bloodstains dragged across the stonework were anything to go by. All following rooms required a spray of bullets before checking it, your wound stinging more and more. But the shackles on the walls and the array of weapons on call told you this was a torture floor, and you had to find Bronze-

“I’ve got Bronze!”

You lurched around at where Ghost had called from. He already had Bronze over his shoulder. Time to bounce.

Crash took over on the lead, continuing onwards rather than backtracking. More of Čiernik’s arseholes were thrown at you from the staircase above so you had no choice but to spill out into the streets. All hopes that civilians wouldn’t be caught in any crossfire died back when Crash had revealed the expanse of Čiernik’s real estate reach. Your only hope was the row of parked car outside the back door. You pressed against the front tire, scanning in the rear-view mirror (ripped off from the vehicle for convenience) for a potential way out. You had two seconds to view the street before the mirror sparked out of your hand, shattered by a high calibre bullet just as Price finished the barricade, giving you a minute to get out of dodge.

“Manhole,” You told Gaz with a nod of your head to the right.

Gaz nodded back, “Cover me; I’ll get it open.”

Brave bastard, you were tempted to steal him from Price as he dodged hellfire to crowbar open the manhole cover. Ghost, Price, and Crash covered him well enough whilst Bronze slumped up beside you

He slurred out, “Cap?”

“Keep going, Bronze. We’re nearly out.”

“Huh,” He leant his head on your shoulder, making you wince internally, “Feel like we’ve been nearly out for hours.”

One by one, your colleagues funnelled down the hole while you covered him.Even with your left eye out of action, you managed to nail the bastards hunting you down, even with Ghost’s hulking figure drawing attention as he lowered Bronze down, until it was time to drag over the manhole behind you.

Through the sewer system, surprisingly amazing brickwork curving overhead. It wasn’t worth a damn fragment of your attention, even if half the team weren’t dragging barely conscious through a miles of shite. The static around your arm spread up your neck at the stench surrounding your team.

“Bronze?” You called out ahead without coughing on the stench.

“Still hear, Cap.” It came out faintly but he was still conscious, thank fuck.

“Crash?”

“Still goin’.”

“Gaz?”

“Alright here.”

“Ghost?”

“Not broken.”

“Price?”

“Still standing.”

Within the hour, you were overground once more in the arse-end of Nemšiná, having added an extra two klicks onto the journey if your calculations were right.

So it was a respite you welcomed when a hijacked van skidded over to your team with a grinning Scotsman in the left-hand driver’s side. Still, no Second Lieutenant in the passenger seat.

Your team loaded on quick and got out of the town quicker. Soap swerved around and looped back on himself three times whilst you and Crash administered first aid on Bronze, sewing him up to the best of your abilities against a rocky road. Then you arrived at the new exfil point with a Chinook ready to take your Sergeant to the nearest hospital. A bag of A Positive and a needle welcomed him aboard and you bade farewell for now.

A phone was stuffed into your grasp by a soldier in uniform you took a second to recognise – Odristan Special Forces. Thankfully you recognised the caller ID faster and addressed General Fernandez the second your voice reached the received.

“You broken, Captain?” He asked.

“Fit for duty, sir.”

“Your black box did its job perfectly.”

“Any news on Chance?”

“She’s been getting the rest of Sierra team ready for the final push.”

“Any other updates I should be aware of? Or can I check in with the team?”

“You’re free to go. This is still your op; they’ll follow your command.”

Fresh from capture and still calling the shots, you felt quite pleased with yourself for that. However there was little time for that kind of thing before the so-called final stretch. There was however time for a power nap and an energy bar before you started planning anything.

The rest of Sierra were bundled into a large camo green tent nearby, cleaning their weapons, arm wrestling, talking in hushed voices. The second you entered one of their sightlines, they rippled in a wave of standing to attention, their feet stomping like falling dominoes – including Chance who stood out by the hand she held over her abdominal.

“At ease,” You said firmly, “Carry on. Chance, a word.”

She almost trotted over to you with a drone under her arm, her voice low beneath the chatter of your team behind you. “Captain. You look like shit.”

Ignoring her comment, you asked, “How’s the gut?”

“In pieces, but I’ll live. You still good to finish this?”

“If you’re my eye in the sky,” You gestured to the drone then to her stomach, “I’m glad you’re safe.”

“You too. Medical’s set up over there if you want to get yourself checked.”

You followed her suggestion. The last thing you needed was to charge into an assault then slipping on your own vomit, spinning in your nausea. And of course, the universe placed you in the bunk besides Price who was icing his jaw and his left knee.

He waited until you covered your left eye with an ice pack to speak: “You hit hard.”

“You hit like you’re riddled with arthritis.”

“Well, you did stand on my hand,” and Price held up his hand, wiggling his fingers to display the lack of tape and gauze. You hadn’t broken a thing.

That angered you more than anything that transpired in Čiernik’s basement. You channelled those sudden bubbles into a restrained reply:

“I’ll stamp harder next time.”

“And I’ll kick harder,” Price chuckled, leaning back into his ice pack. Against the plastic, you could see a faint purple amidst the red on his cheek.

How easily you were forgiven, it was almost insulting. Why couldn’t you do the same despite saying the contrary? Perhaps you could unpack that to your new therapist, that and your apparent fury that was just below the sealed surface that was still pushing up towards your throat. You swallowed hard as you fumbled in your pack for your spare watch. This was the final stretch. You just had to get through it then you could figure this out. Releasing the ice pack from your eye and laying back to balance it against your ribs, you rubbed at your wrist then slapped it with a sigh. Čiernik had stolen your watch.

_____________

AN: Thank you again for your patience with this! I'm writing during half term so this is nearly finished and I can't wait to share it.

In other news, I saw "Boys from the Blackstuff" on Thursday and it was brilliant! I love live theatre so to see such a stunning production was a real privilege. Bonus points were seeing Barry perform (I was shaking with how good he was). Not only did I paint him as Yosser, but I met him at stage door and got to give that painting to him! He was very kind to my starstruck ass. I'll never shut up about it lmaoo

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Tag-list: @mockerycrow and @entertain-my-lvst

#john price x reader #john price #captain john price x reader #john price fanfic #cod fanfic #mw2 fanfic #cod #mw2 #cod x reader #my writing #r: gn #wc: >2k

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toxicanonymity · 2 years ago

Text

The Dark Path (Rock bottom Ch 4)

6k | Corey x Michael, Michael x Reader. NSFW

Something for everyone! Pt. 1: Beefcake Corey pumps iron. Pt. 2: Corey & Michael kill Mulaney. Michael on Corey. Pt. 3: Michael fucks (Y/N). Corey can't contain himself.

Rock Bottom Index - All Chapters

If you don't want gifs, you might wanna read on AO3. Throw me kudos for being a slut while you're at it & subscribe to get the next chapter a lil early.

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Ch 4 Part 1

Outside (Y/N)’s house, Corey walks around to the backyard. He bends down to pick up his heavy wrench from the dying grass. The cold metal slides and clinks into place as he moves. He imagines what it would have been like to kill the sad sack if Michael hadn't gotten to him first.

He goes to collect his backpack and sees a shape in the woods. His heart skips a beat. It feels like Michael is close. The shape walks in the opposite direction.

Corey gets on his motorcycle. His huge hands make it look like a toy bike from certain angles. He cranks the gas with a twist of his thick wrist. It’s a cold ride, and his large knuckles turn red and white.

Instead of going home, he rides to the Allen family’s abandoned mansion. He keeps some things hidden there for whenever he needs to get away from Joan. He puts on clean underclothes and takes a nap before work.

His day goes by in a haze of want. His clothes are clean, but he can still feel the essence of Michael and (Y/N) enrobing his cock.

At work, he's distracted and lets the hood of a Buick slam on his masculine hand. It doesn’t hurt, but the shock of it makes him yell. Ronald is worried about him - he's barely been coming home lately.

Corey is assigned scrap duty for the rest of the day. He heads behind the shop to their secondary scrapyard with a clipboard. He trudges through a sea of cars, most of them with no tires, parked on white granite rocks that gleam and blind him and crunch under his boots. Hoods are open, doors are off. A lot of models are from the 90s or 00s but some are older. He updates the part inventory as he walks. It’s boring.

Corey prefers challenging manual labor to tedious paperwork. Being a mechanic lets him use his engineering knowledge and curiosity while getting to touch and explore and fix things. He’s very good with his hands, and his hands are made for the job.

Doing inventory is mind-numbing. He has too much pent up energy and has to pass the time. At the back of the scrapyard, there's a bumper leaning against a 90s Saturn. He puts his clipboard down on the seat of a picnic table in the shade and takes his sleeves off, tying them around his waist. His nipples say it's too cold for this, but he doesn't feel it.

He hauls the bumper on his sculpted shoulder with one massive hand bracing it. He mounts the table, ass-first and his thighs and groin press up into the fabric of his jumpsuit as he scoots back and stretches out into place. He lays back and rests the car part on his sturdy chest. He spreads his thick fingers to get a good grip, then bench presses it.

His stamina is impressive and it takes a minute to even feel the burn. It starts in his hard pecs and spreads to his thick arms. As the bumper grows heavier, he breathes harder, winces, and his feet start to move. His white undershirt rides up and he can feel the air on his lower abs and V. He pauses at the top to steady his arms and breathe, his cheeks puffing out with air. He does a few more reps and discards the bumper.

His biceps bulge out of his white sleeves. The sleeves have ridden up to show his paler skin. He takes a rest then grabs a tire. The veins in his hands pump.

He firmly plants his feet in the gravel and sticks his glutes out for proper form. He holds the tire in front, bracing it with his large hands on each side, his hard triceps flexing. His empty jumpsuit sleeves loosen around his hips as he squats, but the pants are held up by his ass. His quads burn as he digs his boots into ground for leverage and continues squatting.

From the shop, he hears, "Corey! Lunch is here!" He sets down the tire with a thud and lets it roll away. It comes to rest against a Ford Bronco.

Corey pulls on his sleeves and goes to the office. He devours a footlong meatball sub, holding it with both hands, bracing his elbows on the break room table, his forearms flexing, mouth full, jaw and Adam's Apple moving with each bite.

He spends the rest of his break in the garage. He sits with his big legs spread, an elbow braced against his knee and curls a heavy tool box with just three fingers because the handle isn't big enough. He squints with every bulge of his bicep as he pumps, until he realizes his glasses are fogged and his armpits are damp all the way down the sides of his jumpsuit.

After lunch, at the back of the scrapyard, he does lunges, holding a tire. He lunge-walks down a row of cars, turns the corner and comes back through another row. His jumpsuit strains at the seat each time he comes down. He keeps going until he feels his lower back sticking to his jumpsuit with cold sweat, potentially drawing attention to his prominent glutes.

His face is hot. His curls are damp and matted to his forehead. A bead of sweat rolls down his thick, tan neck. He catches his breath and picks up the clipboard again.

After work, Corey goes home and instantly regrets it. A few days ago when he didn't come home, Joan was beside herself. This time, she's unhinged. Her northern accent intensifies into a monologue that doesn't end until Corey leaves.

"Who's been taking advantage of my baby boy?! Who?! I can smell her on you, Corey. She doesn't love you! You know none of them care about you, Corey. You're handsome. You're sensitive. They should be so lucky. Your mother loves you, Corey! Come home to your mother! What's happening to my baby boy?!"

His deep, gruff voice interrupts her painful whine. "I'M FINE, MA," is all he says.

"OH MY GOD, COREY, YOUR NECK!"

Corey opens the fridge.

"OH, COREY, I'm so sorry. Let me go buy you some chocolate milk! I’ll be right back, you stay right here." She grabs her wallet and nods to herself like that’s going to fix everything. Then she remembers, "Oh, you know what? Do you want some custard? There's some custard in the fridge!" She puts her arms on his hulking back and arms.

So now boys who keep secrets get custard. Too little too late. “No thanks, Ma.” She grabs her keys off the wall, distressed.

Corey goes upstairs to wash. He plugs the drain and turns on the water. He looks in the mirror as the bath fills. His jumpsuit hugs his broad shoulders and chest. He peels it off, followed by his soaked undershirt. His muscles are still pumped up. His neck is still red from Michael choking him.

His large fingers graze the marks on his neck. It turns him on, but he's saving himself, and he can't relax with Joan like this. (Y/N) hadn't even mentioned his neck. She must have known. His eyes well up as her essence fades away in the bath. Being inside her felt like being sucked by an angel. They’ve barely explored each other. The things they could do.

When Corey pulls the plug to drain the bath, Joan yells right outside the door, "COREY?! Are you alright?!"

“I’M FINE, MA,” he says again. He changes into jeans and a button-up shirt. The stairs rumble as he lets his weight carry him down.

"I've gotta go, Ma." Joan grabs him and forcefully kisses him on the lips as he leaves. It's like she's afraid it's the last time she'll see him. Maybe it will be, he thinks.

Corey picks Allyson up on his motorcycle. Her small arms wrap around his ample torso. Part of him would rather feel Michael’s bulky arms, just to know what it’s like to feel small.

Corey didn’t have a dad growing up. By the time Joan met Ronald, Corey was becoming a man. It was all handshakes and pats on the back, an occasional brief hug if he needed one. He’s never known the true embrace of a man’s strong arms.

Being close to Allyson reminds Corey of what he likes so much about her. She has the energy of someone who has lived through hell. She's experienced Michael Myers in spree killer mode. It's clear she came away changed in some way. She must have a dark streak, Corey knows it. He just has to tease it out. The tinder is there. He just needs to light the match.

Allyson's arms feel good around him. He wants to have her as his own, but he also wants to feel understood. It’s not possible for Allyson to understand him the way (Y/N) does. The way he thinks Michael might. If Corey can tempt Allyson onto the dark path, she’ll understand. Then he can have it both ways - someone of his own, and someone who understands.

He longs to bring Allyson over, but the notion also feels dangerous for Michael, and therefore Corey, thanks to Laurie Strode. Laurie is Michael's most dangerous predator.

At the diner, Corey pretends to study the menu, but he always gets a cheeseburger and a chocolate milkshake. What he's really doing is weighing his options with Allyson.

Aside from the threat of Laurie, monogamy is Corey's other point of hesitation. He assumes Allyson would expect it. A few days ago, he would have expected it. He would have embraced it, loved it. It was his natural inclination. But now, he doesn't know if he can help himself.

It's not just Michael that he wants to stay open to. The idea of not being with (Y/N) again is physically painful. He's thinking about her more than he expected. Corey still wants Michael to own him – if that's what it takes. But Corey loves pussy, too. Why can't he have it all?

Corey wasn’t like this before, or if he was, he didn’t realize it. He certainly didn’t act on it. This uninhibited appetite all started with Michael's hands around his neck.

When Corey first met (Y/N) in 2019, that was almost a year after the botched transfer from Smith’s Grove, so she already knew Michael. Michael already knew her. For all Corey knows, she was a choir girl before Michael let her survive.

Corey decides he'll give Allyson a tour of the dark path, and whether she stays on it is up to her. He starts by baring his soul as they eat. He shares enough of his darkness to intrigue her and be truly vulnerable. His dark eyes fill with genuine tears.

He devours his burger, grease dripping down both of his strong, sculpted hands. He listens to Allyson, and she seems to feel the same. He sinks his teeth into the despair that underpins her story. Haddonfield has chewed them up and spit them out. As he slurps the last of his chocolate milkshake, things seem to be coming together.

They each have their own reasons, but it seems like he and Allyson want the same thing, in principle: to burn it all down. Destroy the town that destroyed them. She may not realize what this looks like to Corey, but it’ll come with time. He’ll make a bad girl out of her.

When Doug Mulaney tries to start some shit at the diner, Corey knows what he has to do, but he’s tempted to take him on man-to-man right there.

Corey’s always been equipped to handle himself, but there was a terrible irony. Before the accident, he never really needed to defend himself. Afterwards, he did, but he couldn’t risk appearing aggressive or even capable of harm.

Post-accident, he would cower all the time, and when he got bullied or roughed up, he’d take it like a punching bag. He was afraid of hurting anyone. It would feel bad and also be the talk of the town. Things would get even worse for him.

Physically though, he was always more than capable. God gave him a sturdy frame, and on top of that, he works out.

For as long as he can remember, he's been starting his morning with push-ups just to feel the burn in his pecs, then he flips over and brings his fingers to his curly hair and does crunches.

He has a pull-up bar on his bedroom door. He can watch an entire episode of the Regular Show while doing pull-ups and chin-ups. He doesn’t even keep count.

He likes to feel his shoulders and triceps harden; his biceps and forearms bulge. He bends his knees and crosses his ankles behind himself to fit in the door frame. Then, for a different burn in his ample thighs, he brings his legs in front.

He spends his downtime working out, and sometimes he doesn't even realize he's doing it. It feels good and it's an escape.

Doug Mulaney, on the other hand, looks like he probably sits in his patrol car all day. While Mulaney is eating donuts and writing tickets, Corey spends his work day lifting heavy objects and using industrial sized tools. His hands and arms are so powerful that he can lift a tire overhand, palm-down, like a tote bag. Doug needs a gun to protect himself. Pussy.

Corey could absolutely take Doug Mulaney one-on-one, but he has to resist. He’s been looking for prey to bring Michael, and he found it.

He drops Allyson off at home. They share a steamy kiss that makes Corey hard. She’s obviously keen to get him into bed, but Corey is too focused. Another dose of the warm and fuzzy hormones will help bring her over where she needs to be, but not right now.

Ch 4 Part 2

Mulaney makes it too easy by tailing Corey on his way home. It will take no effort at all to bait him into the lair. At the very least, Corey will get to watch Michael even closer. If Corey is really lucky, maybe he'll get the (Y/N) treatment - pinned to the wall by Michael's most precious weapon.

Corey is still trying to wrap his head around Michael as a sexual entity. If the kill is what turns him on, Corey needs to be the closest person in vicinity when he kills. He parks his bike under the overpass.

Corey baits Mulaney through the encampment and toward the drain and visualizes what the kill will be like. He reflects on Michael’s last kill - the one he witnessed - and realizes Michael never even stabbed the guy. It was boss the way he strangled him with the floor lamp, but when he finished him off from arm’s length with a single slash, Michael almost looked bored.

Watching Michael kill was exhilarating, but watching him really come to life and stab someone, blood splattering on Corey’s neck – the thought of it hardens him more. With Corey bringing the prey, surely Michael will let him participate in the kill.

Mulaney follows Corey through the sewer, into the cavern, searching with his flashlight and taunting Corey out loud. The bright light lands on devious Corey.

Michael emerges from the shadows but doesn’t pounce. He looks feeble, almost confused, like Corey is interrupting his nap. Or maybe, he's letting Corey take the lead.

Corey has never felt so alive as he prepares to slash with Michael. He weakens and disorients Mulaney, incurring only a bloody nose and mouth in the process. He’s tempted to go all-in, but it's Michael’s turn. Michael moves slowly. Corey can’t wait to see him work.

Michael’s shrunken posture makes Corey look even larger. He urges, "Get up, get up, GET UP!" Michael pulls a rusted knife from the wall and Corey's body tingles with anticipation from his nipples to his groin. "Show me how," he says. "I need you to show me!" There are so many things he wants Michael to show him.

Michael swings. Mulaney stumbles back against Corey's broad chest. They fall to the ground, Mulaney’s weight spread across Corey’s sturdy body. Michael lunges toward them. Corey curls his big arms under Mulaney's, which are thin in comparison. He braces for impact, breathing heavily as he watches the Shape’s every move.

Michael wields the old rusted knife like a dagger. He raises the blade then plunges it into Mulaney's chest. Corey feels the tense body relax into dead weight in his arms. Corey breathes heavily and rapidly, spellbound. He doesn't take his eyes off Michael as the blood drains from their prey. Michael yanks out the knife, splattering blood across Corey's face. His arousal swells.

Something comes over Michael. He tenses and adjusts his grip on the knife. The black holes of the mask seem to look into Corey like the first time they met. Corey understands.

He braces Mulaney against his chest, and Michael thrusts the blade into him again. And again. Corey's eyes follow the blade. He savors the vantage point of Michael shafting into him. It has the same energy as Michael’s final thrusts into (Y/N). Every time Michael plunges the blade into Mulaney, Corey's solar plexus shoots rays of pleasure into his whole body. He could not imagine a more erotic experience.

Michael takes one step back and slowly stands up straight. Corey lets go of Mulaney and the dead weight slumps to the ground. Corey's jeans tighten with desire. His ass tingles. His chest heaves and he wipes saliva and blood from the corners of his mouth as he watches Michael. Corey's cock is throbbing.

Michael rolls his shoulders back and seems to reach an even darker frequency. Corey's eyes gravitate to Michael's crotch, which appears to bulge, just as Corey expected. It's not just his crotch, though. His muscles appear to pump, too.

Michael's arms and shoulders flex and he begins to quiver with energy. The tired old man from moments ago is a distant memory. Corey takes in Michael's entire form. His sculpted arms are visible through his sleeves. The stabbing has reanimated his truest self.

Corey aches to be filled. There's a space deep in his core that can only be filled by Michael. He flattens his massive hand against his clothed erection and winces while he waits for Michael's next move. The base of his shaft contracts and a wave of pleasure blooms deep in his core. He's afraid he might come in his pants, but he's not ready.

The last time Corey was in the sewer, the mask penetrated his eyes. Michael injected something intangible and indescribable into him that day. Corey, who was on the verge of disappearing, was transformed instead. Now he’s dying for Michael to penetrate him deeper. Turn him darker, freer. He can almost feel it happening.

Michael turns his head slightly. The fingers of his free hand twitch. Corey tries not to take his eyes off Michael as he begins to unfasten his own belt, thrusting into his own wide wrist as he does it. He's so hard.

Michael steps closer. His breath is loud behind the mask. He raises the knife. Corey reflexively scrambles to his feet and backs away until his back is flat against the wall. His unbuttoned jeans are held up only by the excruciating swell in his briefs. Michael raises the knife to Corey's sculpted throat and closes the distance between them.

Michael presses the side of the cold metal blade against Corey's thick neck, from his Adam's Apple to his jaw. It’s angled upward, with Michael’s large, leathered hand near Corey’s ear. The blade follows the hickey-like bruises from Michael's fingers. Michael takes a final step, and his foot is between Corey's feet.

Michael's sturdy thigh presses into Corey’s rock-hard, pulsating arousal. Corey can't help but thrust against him. Michael presses the knife harder against Corey’s throat, making him cough.

Corey feels something move against the bottom right edge of his abs. He's overcome with arousal to realize it’s Michael's cock, straining the leg of his jumpsuit, spanning from Corey’s lower abs to his thigh. It's thick and hard, like a warm lead pipe. Corey thrusts his aching bulge into Michael's thigh and Michael further presses the blade.

Corey feels a sharp pang of pleasure in his taint. He dares to grind his hip into Michael's engorged length, but Michael presses his own hip swiftly and firmly against Corey so he can no longer move. Corey is aching for relief. If he hadn't come so much in the past day or so, he's certain the sight of Michael's bulging jumpsuit would have made him come already.

Michael shows no signs of wanting his own release. Maybe it’s true what she said, that Michael loves pussy, but that doesn’t mean anything, because so does Corey. And what’s more, here’s Michael pressing an enormous erection into Corey’s body.

Corey tries again to press his body into Michael’s arousal. He wants to feel its warmth, feel it move. Michael’s hardness grows and his body stiffens further. Corey tilts his pelvis in a few small pulses to create friction and stimulate himself. His pre-cum soaks through Michael's jumpsuit.

A car horn blares outside. Michael looks down and away then relaxes the knife slightly, but keeps it against Corey’s skin. With the knife relaxed, Corey gasps and catches his breath.

Michael steps back, separating his jumpsuit from Corey's jeans and observes the wet spots on both of them. Then Michael looks away slightly. Something is distracting him. He sniffs the air.

Dread sets in. What was Corey thinking? Michael let him live and was letting him get close. He trusted Corey, and Corey betrayed him. He must know it. Michael growls almost imperceptibly, as though in agreement, and steps back into him.

Corey feels the blade of the knife rotate and dig in beneath his jaw. Michael could kill him with the flick of his wrist, but he holds it steady. Then, the sharp blade begins to drag slowly, very slowly, but lightly, along Corey's jaw. Corey feels a hot, thin line of blood separate into multiple narrow streams and stream down his neck. This is real.

Corey pleads "no, no, no, not yet" and grinds into Michael’s hard-on as though to show what he can offer. He wants to become one with Michael before he dies.

Michael pauses.

A knock on the drain pipe echoes through the cavern. Michael jerks the blade, slicing Corey's neck as he flings the knife across the cave. Blood oozes out of the slit. It's more than a trickle but doesn't gush. It missed the jugular.

(Y/N)’s voice echoes through the drain pipe. “Are you in there?”

Michael releases him. Without looking back, Michael walks with a purposeful, upright stride to the drainage pipe, then drops to his knees and gets in. It’s the first time he’s seen Michael on his knees, which does something to him. Michael’s lumberjack body fills the drain more than Corey’s, despite Corey’s broad, muscular stature.

Corey suddenly feels cold and unclothed without Michael against him. He listens to the echo of huge, heavy knees on the metal as Michael exits the drain.

Ch 4 Part 3

Rather than follow Michael out of the drain, Corey quickly fastens his belt and tiptoes across the cavern. He hides in a crevasse. Water plinks down from the ceiling. His hard-on is still raging. He’s so high on the kill that he wonders if he’s dead. He can’t believe how well this night has gone, even with blood running down his neck.

Corey killed with Michael. He awakened a higher energy in Michael. It’s nothing compared to the transformation Michael gave Corey, but returning the favor to some small degree makes Corey feel even closer to Michael. Michael not only choked him tonight, but sliced him. Then, astoundingly, pressed his warm, lethal cock against his body.

Corey was lucky. Michael may not have sensed his betrayal after all. The sense of relief dissuades him from pressing his luck any further tonight. He shouldn’t have gotten greedy. He can always see if things escalate next time. Before things go south, he needs to leave.

Corey can’t exit through the main pipe or he might run into them. He doesn’t know what (Y/N) would do or say. He’s almost more afraid of her reaction than Michael’s. If she can’t play it cool, Michael will know.

Corey surveys the dark cave for any sign of another exit and makes his way down the main hall, pressing his wrist against his zipper against his aching want. He considers stopping to jerk off but doesn’t.

He walks quietly but briskly to the end of the cave. He approaches the area with Mulaney on the ground. It looks like a dead end, but once he’s all the way at the wall, a very faint, dusty beam of light catches his eye to the right. He goes through the crevasse with the soft blue light, and sees that it’s a grate up above, not an exit.

Moonlight shines down through the squares above, illuminating a round room. There’s a fire pit and a huge, iron spit in the middle. Bones are stacked up around the edge of the room. It’s like a catacomb. Many of them look old, almost dry, but a few look fresh with bits of tendon clinging onto them. Corey walks around the perimeter. There’s a bone saw against the rock wall and a tin of matchbooks.

He approaches the middle of the room. The fire pit is round and made of smooth, pale stones. The spit has scraps of burned meat stuck to it. Corey steps closer. It smells like barbecue. He looks down into the fire pit. Those aren’t rocks, they’re human skulls. The blood drains from Corey’s face. His heart races and he stumbles backwards but catches himself. This is Michael’s Ossuary and Grill.

Thumping and dragging noises begin to echo from the drain pipe. The thumps are irregular. A faint light begins to bounce around the cave. Corey scrambles to find somewhere to hide as the thumps get louder. He finds a nook between the ossuary and another room in the cavern. He can still see into the ossuary. He hopes the ossuary can’t see into him. The echoing thumps stop.

The artificial light brightens. Footsteps start, and the light moves in rhythm with the steps. There are two sets of footsteps. She asks, “Should I call it in?” Silence. Footsteps. Her voice is getting closer. “Okay. Hey, it’s okay. I just wish I knew who killed Nelson.” The vagabond, Corey realizes. He’s lying dead with a flashlight right outside the tent. That was part of his trap for Mulaney.

The lighter footsteps stop. “Wait, there’s already someone here,” she says. Corey’s heart races and he holds his breath. He can’t see them. He doesn’t know how she knows. Maybe she heard him breathing. Shoes scuff the ground and there’s a rustling sound.

“DOUG MULANEY? Jesus Christ, Michael.” Michael never stops walking. “I don’t even know what to say.” Corey exhales. The lighter footsteps quicken to catch up. "Did he find you?" They're very close.

Corey can see two shapes enter the ossuary, the huge one carrying another figure over its shoulder. Michael's breath is audible. There's a rustling and a loud thump. Duct tape rips off loudly, echoing through the cavern. Corey tries not to look, lest their light catch the reflection of his eyes. The light turns off.

He hears the snap of a match and the wind of a flame. A whoosh followed by crackling. The ossuary is gradually illuminated with a warm, flickering, orange light. It’s quiet for a minute. Too quiet for Corey to move. The warmth of the fire barely reaches Corey but is welcome. The room starts to smell like barbecue.

***

(Y/N) is sitting on the ground against the wall, catching her breath. Out of view, there’s a drag of metal on rock, probably the bone saw. She groans in disgust. "Yeah, think you’ve got this,” she says. “I should get going.”

The saw clatters to the ground. Heavy footsteps cross the room. Michael bends down and grabs her by the throat, then drops to his knees in front of her. He still towers over her, even with his knees spread over her legs. He doesn’t pick her up. Instead, he uses his other hand to jerk her toward him. With the hand around her throat, he forces her back onto the ground.

She chokes as he drags her closer, by the throat. Her torso comes to a stop between Michael’s knees. She manages to sit up on her elbows. She reaches out hesitantly, like she’s trying to catch a wild animal. Michael lets her touch his chest. His grip loosens and she gasps for air.

He sits back on his gargantuan haunches, which puts his clothed erection against her yoga pants. She gasps and looks straight ahead. The blood drains from her face. She reaches for his crotch as if her eyes deceive her. She runs her hand down the fabric, feeling his entire length. It must be the size of her forearm.

“Holy shit,” she says. Corey wonders if he's responsible for Michael's enhanced arousal. Blood rushes to his groin.

Michael cages her to the ground and yanks down her yoga pants. She looks apprehensive. She reaches for Michael’s chest. His hand snatches hers and brings it just below his upturned collar.

He slowly pulls down his zipper with her little hand. Corey's heart races. She tries to stop it but is no match for his strength. He grabs the sides of his upturned collar and thrusts his massive chest forward. The collar and jumpsuit fall back and a more precise silhouette of his back and arms emerge. He lets the long sleeves hang to his sides.

The firelight isn’t great, and the angle isn’t perfect, but from what Corey can see, Michael wears a dark, almost too-small t-shirt. His muscles are utterly unreasonable. His arms are the size of her thighs.

Corey looks around frantically but doesn’t find a better view. He desperately wants to see everything, but this is also his best chance to escape.

Michael's expansive back and empty sleeves obstruct the view of his crotch, but his back in itself is a vision, even under the dark t-shirt. He yanks the rest of her pants off and nudges her legs open with a giant knee, making space for himself.

Finally, Corey catches a glimpse of that monster cock. It’s commanding. Michael lowers himself over her before he can see it in more detail. She moans at the feeling of his naked girth hard against her. She rolls her hips. She must be so wet. But as Michael begins to position himself for entry, she begs, “please," she squirms, "it’s too much.”

Corey reaches for his pants and palms himself desperately with his massive hand. He shifts slightly toward the exit of his nook just in time to see her back arch as Michael shoves himself into her. She groans loudly and his enormous hand grabs her throat. His hulking muscles move gracefully under his shirt as he begins to fuck her. Corey can’t pull himself away.

Michael pushes slowly at first, like he’s letting her accommodate his even larger-than-usual size. She cries and paws at his chest. Every thrust is so powerful. Her legs are spread wide with her knees up. Michael never takes off his mask.

Her face hotly twists in pain. He persists. With time, her cries turn into soft moans and occasional gasps. She reaches up to his chest as she stares into the mask holes. His large hand swallows hers. They’re both sweating by the fireside as Michael's hips powerfully meet hers again and again.

Corey tries to ground himself. If he has any hope of moving things forward, he must make it out of this cave tonight. He backs away slowly. His arousal aches terribly, but he can’t indulge it, not right now. He needs his wits about him.

Michael just barely grunts, and it stops Corey in his tracks. It’s the hottest sound he never thought he’d hear. He steps back to where he was. He has to watch, come what may. He makes himself a deal. He can stay a few minutes if he doesn’t touch himself. Corey wants Michael, but he also wants to be Michael inside of her.

Michael grabs her hips and pulls her into him harder. Her feet come into the air and wrap loosely around him. Her legs are so small against Michael’s body. His rhythm quickens and he leans down closer.

Michael’s arms glisten and bulge out of his short sleeves. His strong forearms slide under her. With an emphatic thrust, he pulls her against him and scoops her up. He sits back on his haunches and holds her tight against himself. He grips her by the waist with her legs draped over his hips and continues to pound into her cunt.

He moves her rhythmically against his lap, jamming her down around his cock every time he thrusts. Her feet stick out behind him and bounce in the air each time she comes down on his shaft. She gasps throatily. Michael’s hands dwarf her. She looks like a doll getting bounced around. Michael breathes heavily and wraps his arms tighter.

Corey wants to fuck her like that. He also wants Michael to wrap his arms around him like that. He feels pre-cum seeping into his jeans. His cock twitches desperately.

Michael moves his hands to her ass and she hangs on around his broad neck, her arms grazing the bottom of his mask. He pulls back his speed, fucking her slower but with just as much power and pipe. After a minute, he slides his hands up her sides to her armpits. His thumbs cross her nipples, palms engulfing her breasts. He brings her down hard on his cock and Michael Myers audibly moans.

It’s too much for Corey. He brings his wrist down to his pants, unsure if he’s trying to stop it or get it over with. At the slightest friction, his cock empties itself in dramatic pulses. It feels like it happens in slow motion. A small gasp escapes his mouth.

She looks in Corey’s direction and her eyes widen just as he steps out of view. Michael keeps fucking her, unaware. Corey's heart pounds. His briefs feel full and warm.

It’s a challenge for Corey to move quietly. He's a big, burly guy. Every step he takes is heavy. He tries his best to silently slink toward the drain pipe. Sounds of animalistic fucking echoing through the cavern, masking his footsteps.

He hears breathing. Groaning. Rubber soles squeaking against wet rock. Fabric scraping the ground. She wails, he grunts.

Corey reaches the pipe and gently crawls into it. He goes very slowly, one big knee at a time, his large, filthy hands spread out in front of him. His knuckles are white. Moonlight is visible ahead. In the distance, behind him, he hears a whine, a choke, a slap, and a scream.

Then, he hears traffic from the overpass and feels cool, fresh air against his face. Just a little further and he steps out of the tunnel and collects himself. He uses his massive palms to brush off his knees. He jogs out of view of the drain. He sees the red truck, and has the passing urge to get inside and wait for (Y/N). But after such a close call, he's committed to not sabotaging himself, at least for now. She'll be sore anyway.

Continue with CHAPTER 5

______________________________________________

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theunbonded · 6 months ago

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“You chose kitchen duty?” I couldn’t keep the scorn out of my voice as I threw a large sack of rice onto the counter, grunting as it slapped the metal surface.

“I don’t mind waking up early.” Violet at least had the decency to look embarrassed.

I rolled my eyes, not unkindly, before grabbing a scrap of cloth and trying my dark hair behind my neck. Two weeks had passed since becoming official members of the Rider’s Quadrant, and nothing disastrous had happened yet. Friendships within our squad were growing, classes were becoming a routine, first-years were assigned their chores, and our first challenges on the mat would be this week.

It was a little… boring.

Sure, I wasn’t expecting full-on war to break out in our first weeks, but everything felt mundane. The classes were the same history and physics my father had taught me for years, so familiar I could recount it in my sleep. All the first-years were too scared to make a move against each other, probably waiting until challenges to make their mark in a sanctioned arena.

The only exciting part of my day was Battle Brief. In retirement, my father had lost primary access to information about attacks against Navarre. The giant map that covered the entirety of the classroom wall had made my heart stop on the first day, and I ogled the red and orange flags indicating recent attacks on the border.

This was why I came to Basgiath. This was the information my father couldn’t give me.

“You probably wish you had the extra hour of sleep.” Violet stood next to me, grabbing a knife to begin preparing the fruit for breakfast.

“I don’t mind waking up early.” I threw her phrase back at her with a little smile. “I would have been up anyway. My father kept me on a strict schedule back home.”

“The Scribes keep earlier hours too.” She looked sad for a moment before shaking off whatever memory had taken hold of her. “How is your father? It’s been a while since I've seen General Capplynger.”

“He’s bored to death in retirement. I’m sure he wishes he was back here in Basgiath.”

“He did seem to love this place. I’m sorry our arrival meant his departure.”

The forced retirement of General Capplynger from Basgiath War College allowed for General Sorrengail to take station here. I barely remember the dinner before we left, meeting a tinier version of Violet and her siblings. They brought so much energy and light to the dark stone structures. My father had thrown his cane against the wall until it broke that night, refusing to use it as we were escorted out.

“I’m just glad we are both able to meet again as riders, Violet.”

“Me too, Beatrice.”

⤧⤧⤧

Sparring mat after sparring mat was arranged in an orderly line down the gym. There must have been over two dozen, ready for the matchups between the various riders crowding around the damp room.

I stood cushioned between Violet and Sawyer, another rider in our section. He was unbonded, without a dragon after his first year and having to repeat. How embarrassing that must have been, to go through this whole ordeal and end up with nothing to show for it. To have to repeat with a set of fresh faces. What do his parents think? Do they even know?

Professor Emetterio, the sparring professor, had a giant parchment in his hands, and he quickly read off who was paired off with who for the first challenge. The golden mage lights reflected off his shaven head as I crossed the room towards my mat.

I was going against a first-year from Second Wing. The boy’s skin was tanned from the summer sun and his dark hair was cropped close to his head. While not entirely tall, he was muscular, reminding me of an ox. Eyes the color of coal flared with hatred as I took off the weapons strapped to my chest and thighs. The heat in the room had given the boys in the room an excuse to take off their shirt, and his rebellion mark was on full display.

They assumed the lack of clothing meant an opponent couldn't grab onto anything to use as a weapon. In my tight long-sleeved shirt and pants, I knew that they were overreacting. A good fighter didn't let their clothes dictate who won.

“Ready to die, Capplynger?” The ox-looking cadet sneered as Emetterio started the match.

I sighed as I bent my knees, quickly getting into a fighting stance. Guess this was personal for him.

Head-first he charged at my torso, and I quickly dodged his assault. With his back facing me I kicked the inside of his knees, forcing him to fall onto the mat. A low grunt escaped his throat, and I gave him time to stagger back on to his feet. This time, when he faced me, he didn’t immediately charge.

“They learn.” I flashed him a smile, and he narrowed his eyes.

On heavy feet he slowly came towards me. I let him back me up to the edge of the mat, bouncing on my toes, until he took a swing. I ducked underneath his arm and slipped behind him. He turned and threw another punch. I dodged. Another punch. Another dodge.

“Stop playing around!” A booming voice bellowed from off the mat.

The next time the ox-looking cadet threw a punch, I ducked and grabbed his outstretched arm with two arms, twisting until I heard a pop. He howled in pain, and I quickly got him back on the floor, this time on top of him. He had a size advantage, but I haven’t had years of training for nothing. I locked his arms and torso underneath my knees. His legs scrambled to find a holding, but they couldn't get an advantage.

With no hesitation, I wrapped my fingers around his neck and squeezed as hard as I could.

His dark eyes popped out of their sockets as he gasped for breath. Underneath mine, his body struggled to get free. Even if he tried to tap out, my hold on him wouldn’t allow him to.

“He taps out.” The same voice from before shouts. I don’t ease my grip on his throat. “Cadet Capplynger, he taps out! The match is over!”

Hearing my name snapped me out my haze. I quickly got up and watched the boy struggle to fill his lungs with air. When the majority of his wheezing was finished, I reached my hand out towards him. My father said it was important to be a good sport after winning a match. It helped dim the burn of defeat.

The ox-looking cadet stared at my hand for one second before grabbing it and yanking me down onto the mat beside him. Before I had fully landed, I was thrown onto my back and his weight was thrown on top of me. He landed a punch to my face, and I heard a sickening crunch as my nose began to gush blood.

Before any more damage could be done, his weight disappeared off of my torso, and I scrambled to my feet. Emetterio and the Second Wing's leader had the boy between their arms, dragging him off the mat. He managed to spit once in my direction, but as I lunged at him, my forearm was grabbed and I was dragged off the mat in the other direction.

“No need to kick an injured dog,” a gruff voice admonished. “You already humiliated the kid.”

Garrick Tavis was holding my arm like I would go kill the Second Wing cadet at any moment, which I can’t say I blame him for. His nose wrinkled at the blood pouring from my nose.

Once we were off the mat, I ripped my arm away from him. “Call off your dog, Tavis.”

“Is that how you speak to your section leader?” That fucking eyebrow, raised again.

“That cadet was marked with the rebellion rune. He had it out for me. I don't know what you all are doing but tell them to fuck off or I’ll finish what I started today.” I hated the way I was snarling, but I was angry. The ox-looking cadet hadn’t deserved that hit to my nose. He had earned it from a dirty trick.

Garrick just looked at me. “You need to go to the infirmary and get your nose checked out. It looks broken.”

I felt the bridge of my nose and felt the disconnected bones. They were like jagged edges of a broken piece of glass. With only a quick breath to orient myself, I pushed my nose back into place with a small crack.

“Come with me, Cadet Capplynger,” Garrick sighed. He didn't try to grab my arm again; he just turned around and expected me to follow him out of the sparring gym and into the hallway.

And I did. My rage didn't made me dumb enough to not follow direct orders from a section leader.

Once in the dimly lit hallway, he turned back to me. “Popping your nose back into place is not a permanent fix. Go to the infirmary while you still have the resources to do so, because this might be the only time you can have a mender see to it.” He then leaned down so his face was right in front of mine. “The cadets with the rebellion marks are not the only ones who have it out for you. If you weren’t being cocky and playing with that kid on the mat, you would have realized he had two friends, both of which were unmarked, watching the fight with more interest than necessary. Your father had many enemies on both sides of the war.”

I raised my chin, but it’s hard to look dignified with blood covering the entire bottom half of your face.

“You’re a good fighter. There is no denying that. But they will find a way to catch you unawares, like he did on the mat today. They will probably try to gang up on you so they have the advantage of numbers. Will you be able to handle them then?”

“Yes,” I said proudly.

He shook his head at me again, raising back to his full height. “Fucking first-years.”

“I can handle myself.”

“Go to the infirmary.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, but he only turned to the side, allowing me to bypass him to continue walking down the hall. My shoulder brushed against his chest when I stepped and his leather bled warmth through my cotton sleeve. Goosebumps crawled up my back and I hastened my steps until l turned the corner of the hall, until I no longer felt those hazel eyes on me.

Masterlist

#fourth wing #iron flame #the empyrean #garrick tavis #garrick fourth wing #xaden riorson #violet sorrengail #fanfiction #fourth wing fanfic

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aliatori · 7 months ago

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Light as a Feather, Dark as Brine

The Forsaken and the Forsworn | Early Years | Hugo Melançon | 3k words | T rated

The true heat of summer proves an unwelcome guest on the shores of Watcher’s Cove. Whether it’s because of the preternatural damp of the Umbra and its fog-wreathed waters or some consequence of the storm wards lingering off the coast remains a mystery to Hugo.

Today, it’s a mystery he does not care to solve.

Sun cracks through the velvet grey clouds and bathes the black sands in gleaming light. Warmth permeates past his rough-spun, Fold-made shirtsleeves and straight to his bones, chasing off the deep and lingering chill within them. The ink of his bondmark is as new as the flatness of his chest this Rising; his sanctified skin tightens as if recoiling from the light, but Hugo quickly dismisses it as a flight of fancy. The Fury has more important matters to concern herself with than a single young man barely initiated into her mysteries.

So he’s been told.

Were he alone, Hugo would indulge in a moment of forbidden idleness away from prying eyes—stretch out in the sun, light a roll of smokeleaf bartered from his fellow deckhands back aboard the Boiling Brine. But he’s not alone, and there’s work to do.

There’s an older acolyte from the Siren’s Maw with him. Camille. For guidance, so the Furysworn claim, but Hugo’s not so easily fooled. Only the novices like him—the ones whose inductions to the fold were borne in force or violence—are subjected to ‘mentorship’ when about their roster tasks at the fold. It’s one of the many reasons he’d rather be aboard the Brine.

Still, she’s not bad company, as far as his minders go. She doesn’t share Hugo’s reservations about enjoying the unexpected summer day either. Stripped to the waist, her bondmark undulates across her muscles as she raises her free arm and shades her eyes, black ink a void against her brown skin. The bucket full of oysters clacks like a sack of bones where it dangles from the other.

“About halfway through the best stretch,” she says, shaking her bucket for emphasis. “We keep harvesting this good, there might be a free evening in the offing for us.”

“Seems unlikely.” Hugo looks down at his own bucket, battered pilfered metal heaped heavy with clusters of oysters. An ache thrums through his tendons in anticipation of the repetitive task of shelling them, of digging for precious Fury-black pearls beneath their slimy tongues.

“Not if I have anything to say about it. I’ve got plans after sundown I intend to keep.” Camille takes a deep breath. She faces west, brushing sand from the gentle slope of her breast as she thinks. Then she turns to Hugo, eyebrows lifted in conspiratorial arches. “Follow me. I’ve got an idea.”

Inwardly, Hugo bristles at the command, but he’s learned well these past four Risings the importance of obedience to those more blessed with Xeheia’s favour than him. He flicks his fingers in silent agreement, pursing his lips at the salt-crusted state of his brown leather gloves; soon, they’ll be fit only for the scrap pile.

He follows Camille for a quarter of a turn, he guesses. His boots, necessary to avoid jagged cuts and paying unintentional salt prices during such harvests, crunch along the sand. A sea wind gusts in from the water and whips his hair, now down to mid-back and in dire need of cutting he’s yet to earn, into a frenzy, lashing at his lips and eyes. Hugo pauses to tie it back though it means breaking into a light jog to catch up with Camille by the time he’s finished.

She stops at the point where the beach curves around the sheer cliff face, the area pockmarked by tidepools before dropping off to the seafloor proper.

“Most folks don’t come this far or want to get waist-deep wet just for some oysters. They love clustering on the long stretch of rock on the opposite side. It’ll be enough to finish these and earn our keep for one day.” She runs her finger along an invisible line, pointing to the middle distance.

Hugo also doesn’t want to trudge back to the Cove in sopping clothes, wet and sticky and deeply uncomfortable, but there’s no point in voicing his objection. There never is here. He sets off towards the area Camille indicated, bucket in tow, resolved to finish this as quickly as possible.

“Hold a moment,” Camille says, lifting a hand. Hugo clenches his jaw and stops. “I’ll help a different way, this time.”

She shakes her arm until a bone-laden bracelet slides from her forearm to her wrist, draped over enough of her palm for her to curl her fingers backwards and clasp it. Camille closes her eyes as she runs her fingertips along its jagged surface. A frisson of the Fury’s magic along his newly marked skin confirms Hugo’s suspicions—it is Camille’s focus, and she’s using it to dip into communion with Xeheia.

Moments later and the pull of the Fury’s tide becomes frustratingly apparent; Hugo’s flesh and spirit surge towards it, denied and out of reach of the Watcher’s embrace due to his lack of a proper focus. Camille opens her eyes, ink-black and luminous, and Hugo hungers—not for her, but for the power she teems with.

“It’s tough to keep hold without the brine, but I can get enough hold to do…” Camille trails off, gesturing in supplication to the water.

Hugo watches as the grey waters of the Umbra retreat further from the shore, rippling backwards as though blown back by a strong storm wind. There’s a narrow gap just big enough for the two of them to fit, granting them access to underwater portion of the rocky beach—and its copious amount of oysters, as Camille promised.

“Hurry,” Camille says. The eldritch twist to her rich voice, the evidence of the Fury’s presence, sends a bullet of yearning tearing through Hugo’s core. “I can’t keep this up for long.”

Hugo steadies himself, nods, and jumps down into the gap with her. They work quickly, boots squelching in the wet seafloor sand as they strip every inch of the miniature wall, oysters clacking and pinging into the buckets in a staccato rhythm. Hugo focuses on the pervasive smell of the sea—salt, rot, fish—with every breath, trying to ignore the way his bondmark sizzles like lightning made flesh.

Once his pail overflows with his harvest, Hugo reaches high above his head to balance it on the edge of the tidepools above him, then climbs back up, careful to avoid cutting himself on the jagged edges. Camille wordlessly hoists her bucket in his direction; he takes both towards the shore as she makes her own climb out.

As soon as she joins him on the shore, she releases her focus and her grip on the Fury’s magic. It echoes through Hugo like the deep crack of a spine, punching a breath of relief and exhaustion out of him. Camille sways on her feet. He offers her an arm and a questioning eyebrow, but she shakes her head.

“Thanks be to the Fury for her storm and her sea,” Camille intones.

“Thanks be to the Fury,” Hugo echoes, his part of the call-and-response.

They make it back to the Cove without incident to deliver their bounty. True to her word, their combined harvest earns them both a reprieve from evening duties. Camille inclines her head, offers a wink when Furysworn Barbier has her broad back turned, and slinks off into the twisting tunnels of the Cove for her own pursuits. Some social engagement, no doubt. Hugo pays enough to attention to know Camille’s popular amongst her cohort of shipmates and acolytes.

As for Hugo? His plans have changed.

-----

By the time Hugo gets back outside the Cove and descends to his favourite beach, the sun sets in a dazzling display, red spilling across sky and water like blood.

Time and time again, Hugo’s presented a crux for his focus for approval, the last step in his initiation, and time and time again, Furysworn Eloi has denied him. The Fury demands sacrifice, he tells Hugo. She demands a salt price worth the taking. What sacrifice is there in the bits and trifles he’s embarrassingly brought to the Fury’s altar for consideration?

Hugo will no longer be denied.

He bears her mark, he senses her presence, and he deserves her gifts. Why else would they have bothered to bring him here at all? Xeheia is his as much as anyone’s here, and if she wants a sacrifice, a sacrifice she will get.

Secret caves and smuggler’s nooks abound around Watcher’s Cove. Hugo knows the path to his favourite by heart.

He finds the hideaway as he last left it: the lean-to constructed from pilfered driftwood, blankets appropriated from the scrap heaps to soften the ground, a rusted lantern with dimly glowing fauna scraped from the walls of the Cove. It’s salt-rotted and damp, but it’s his.

Creature comforts are not what Hugo’s in search of tonight, however. Tonight, he looks for creatures of the literal sort.

The signs are there. On a natural shelf carved into the dark grey rock of his nook, offerings of a different sort rest: a bronze coin from foreign shores stamped with a face he doesn’t recognize, a discarded triangle-shaped gold earring, and three buttons of varying sizes and shapes. Hugo’s befriended the unkindness of ravens that also call Watcher’s Cove home, and in return, they leave him bits and baubles they’ve found, including the hoop now pierced through his own ear.

He can remember the mainland books his mother read him better than he can recall the shape of her face or the colour of her favourite dress. In a flight of fancy, he named the ravens after characters in those stories, the last remnants of a different life: Reyr, Skafti, Finnur, Eldmey. One in particular, the one who leaves the trinkets, bonded to Hugo swiftly.

It’s only now Hugo’s intent sinks into his body, spreading like delayed poison. Nausea churns in his stomach, and a suspicious ache tightens in his chest, a familiar one, a pale imitation of what he felt after a different slaughter in a different place. Red and black, black and red, spreading across a distant deck.

Can he really do this?

He scoffs aloud, disgusted by his own weakness. No wonder the Fury’s found his propositions lacking. Xeheia’s influence and power are as boundless as her very Depths, Depths Hugo has only glimpsed in brief through brine-hazed ritual.

He won’t be kept from them longer. He’s no longer a shaking child with a stolen gun. He will be—is—a force to be reckoned with. On his terms.

Cold salt spray kisses his ankles and soaks his worn-out boots as he scatters his handout. Bits of oyster, thinly sliced with the knife hanging at his hip, spread from the entrance of the cove to where Hugo sits and waits.

It could have been any of the ravens swooping in from the distant cliffs.

But of course, it’s Akkeri.

Perfect.

Hugo schools himself to stillness as Akkeri pecks at the flecks of fresh shellfish, gobbling them up in greedy tosses of his head. He was ten-and-three the first time he escaped to this nook, the first time he found the unkindness living here. Akkeri had been a fledgling too, a bold scavenger, wary of Hugo but determined to steal the bone buttons right off his shirt nonetheless.

Now, he’s even more fearless, tilting his head at a crooked angle and fixing Hugo with a gimlet eye. He lingers just out of arm’s reach. Hugo can’t catch a full breath, like his lungs are full of water.

You don’t get something for nothing. This was a lesson imparted to Hugo long before Watcher’s Cove, before creche and brine and deepest dark. The fold only heightens the stakes:

You consume, or you are consumed.

Akkeri caws, raucous and impatient. Hugo hands over the last of the oyster, a cool sliver in his palm. Stone joins the water his lungs. Tension bleeds through his chest which has nothing to do with the fresh scars across it.

Hugo pounces.

Lulled by longstanding trust, Akkeri doesn’t struggle much in his grip at first, aside from the cawing protests at his newfound confinement. But as the moments pass, he begins to thrash; Hugo’s hands tighten in a vise-like grip, barely big enough to hold him. Akkeri’s nearly the size of a hawk, and realizing the imminent danger, struggles with all his might, talons glancing and wings thrashing.

Hugo knows the feeling.

And he knows the swiftest way to end it.

Akkeri fixes Hugo with one black eye. His body’s almost hot in Hugo’s grasp, his tiny bird heart beating in frantic pulses against Hugo’s palm. It’s like the Fury herself guides Hugo’s hand to Akkeri’s neck. He calls out louder, his cries echoing off the cavernous walls.

The caws stop when Hugo twists his wrist and snaps Akkeri’s neck in a near-effortless motion. The hollow crunch echoes through Hugo’s spirit like Akkeri’s final cry throughout the cave.

In an instant, he’s a warm, dead weight in Hugo’s hand. A promise and an offering.

As Hugo reaches for the knife in his belt, his vision blurs, smearing the cavern into shades of blue and black and bleeding red. Hugo blinks hard to clear it and only then realizes he’s crying. There’s no matching pang in his heart or ache in his chest— only the traitorous shake of his chest and shoulders as sobs he can’t control hiccup through him. Only darkened speckles of stone where his tears fall.

A salt price is a salt price. Let the Fury have two this evening.

Hugo walks to the mouth of the cave where twilight spreads across the sky, Akkeri’s body cradled reverently in one hand. He kneels on the stone beside the ocean, gazing out at the salt-dark of Xeheia’s sea, and withdraws his knife from his belt.

It’s easy, too easy, to invert Akkeri’s body, his clouding eyes unseeing as they face the water. To tuck the blade against his neck and slit his throat with one firm pull. To hold him upside-down over the Fury’s altar and watch the steady flow of red as it vanishes in the sea. Smaller droplets join the waters from the tears still coursing down Hugo's cheeks.

Despite his foolish crying, his voice does not crack or waver as he declares, “Xeheia, Watcher of the Depths, accept this sacrifice given in your name. Let this salt price be a gift worthy of your blessing.”

----

The next time Hugo presents his would-be focus to Furysworn Eloi’s black, unblinking gaze, there’s no doubt in his mind of the Fury’s approval.

Long hair braided, eyes painted, and garbed from head to toe in Fury-black, Hugo presents a painting of the perfect aspiring acolyte.

The necklace he fashioned by hand drapes across his collarbones. Leather cord and punctured shells form the bulk of it, accented by long, black feathers that brush the skin of his bare chest. Akkeri’s skull, picked clean by the members of his own unkindness and the Fury’s tide, sits in the center, its weight tucked beneath the hollow of Hugo’s throat.

Eloi sneers. “Feathers? They’ll be worn down by salt and sea faster than you can ask the Fury to forgive you for your carelessness.”

Hugo inclines his head in the deference Eloi expects, even if his words don’t match. “If I have to make another, I will, and consider it her due worship.”

“Then go on. Let’s get this over with.”

Without the ceremony Hugo deserves—and with a grave trespass even for a novice—Eloi grabs at Hugo’s focus. His fingers close around the raven skull. Hugo fights down the nausea of being touched at all, let alone so intimately violated.

A heavy pause descends like the heartbeats counted between lightning and thunder. Hugo’s bondmark thrills with an electric surge as the eddies of the Depths rise within him.

Eloi gasps, releasing the skull as though burned—and he has been burned, by an errant spark of the lightning dancing along Hugo’s skin.

Because Hugo’s called to the Fury.

And the Fury has finally answered.

#the forsaken and the forsworn #hugo melançon #cw: pet death #cw: animal death #my writing #started thinking sometime this year about how Hugo got his focus and here we are #rounding out the F&F anniversary weekend with some real sad feels #qliatori

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gingersnaptaff · 25 days ago

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♻️A scrapped idea for your current WIP?

Ooh originally I had made it so that when Gwyn reunited with Fach in the castle Fach would've asked for a story involving their mum and how she and four siblings fought off a giant. I stopped cuz I was like "It'll work better down the line," and so if I get round to it that'll be book 3.

(It's under the cut if u wanna read)

(Also the Gwyn and Dylan sex scene was gonna be a bit more explicit but like she would not disclose such things to a carting boy. Gwyn has BOUNDARIES.)

"Will you tell me about mama? The story about how she defended her brothers from the giants? I always liked how you told that one.”

‘Why? Will you whip me if I don’t?’ I thought, phantom lashes cutting my skin. I must have shot her and Cigfa such a contemptuous look that I might have reached over and struck them clean across the face with how hard they flinched. As it was, I rearranged my face into a placid mask and nodded primly. Dutifully. “Of course.”

“Or, maybe Cigfa and Ffion would like to dance? So we can play the crwth and pibcorn together, like how we used to.” Fach said, veering from one diversion to the next so rapidly that it was a wonder that i could even keep up.

“If that’s your will.” I replied with a calmness that I did not feel. I took a gulp of wine to soothe my throat before I launched into my tale: “When she was about sixteen mama and her brothers - Goreu, Iorwerth, and, Cynan - all went up to the highest pesk of the Preseli Hills along with some of their servants so that they might take in the air. It was a warm day so they brought food alomg with them. Halfway along their jounrey they decided to break their fast and set about eating it.”

Fach nodded eagerly.

“However, the scent of the pies and meat enticed another to their makeshift camp. A giant lumbered towards them, club in hand, and asked if he might partake in the feast. They consented and duly gave him some food. He ate it and declared that he was ahungered again and again and again. This went on for agood while until their provisions were so whittled down that they became worried that he might never even be full! Uncle Cynan even fretted that he would soon start to eat their horses. Or worse: them!”

Fach gasped, and I knew then that she was transfixed, “What did they do?”

“What could they do? Nothing, other than try and summon help from their guards. But they’d slipped away from their caer without a chaperone!”

“Oh no.”

“So Uncle Goreu volunteered to slip away when he was distracted. Slipping into the forest, he left his sword behind so as not to alert the giant, and made his way down the steep hills. Obviously, the others wers scared Tou would be, I suppose. A bloodthirsty giant with a glint in his eye is not be something to be taken lightly.”

Fach nodded, her dark eyes wide, captivated.

“Terrifed I should think.” Cigfa murmured, similarly attentive.

I nodded. “So then, not knowing how long Uncle Goreu would be, mama declared that she would distract him. They still had the sack that they’d taken their food in and it still bore crumbs in it. "

#answered ask #ask answered

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thirsty-boba-fett-posts · 1 year ago

Text

Part II of this fic that doesn’t yet have a title and isn’t even on the Masterlist yet but it’s gonna be a BIG OL’ SAGA.

THE JOURNEY CONTINUES UNDER THE CUT

She slept better than she had in at least a week. Jabba’s old slave quarters, once an austere room with no ‘fresher and two rows of bunk beds stacked three high, was now a comfortable apartment with a large futon. It was still a windowless room, but that made sleeping through eight hours of daylight easier. She didn’t relish traveling through the night on supply runs to and from Mos Espa, but it made for a faster, more efficient trip if she avoided the heat of Tatooine’s twin suns.

When she awoke the suns were low in the sky. She washed her face in the room’s newly installed wash basin and stretched out her sore muscles. There would be other courier jobs - she could saddle up her dewback and head into town to see which merchants needed supplies couriered overnight from Mos Eisley or maybe even somewhere closer, like the moisture farms or Mos Pelgo.

The man in black, as stern and imposing as he’s been that morning, approached her as she filled her water skin from the spigot in the sallyport. He held out a small sack and fished a stack credits from inside of his cowled cloak.

“Go to Anchorhead and bring back the palace droids Honwoo reprogrammed. Take two days if you need to - here’s enough credits for a stay at the Sidi Driss Inn, and there’s more when you return.”

She took the sack and the credits with a bewildered expression on her face. Sidi Driss Inn is a luxury hotel, she thought. Did the new daimyo really intend to pay for her to spend the day sleeping at a resort?

The man, a lieutenant of the daimyo, she supposed, called over his shoulder to her as he walked away.

“Get your water from the kitchen from now on. That spigot is rusty and that old tank needs cleaning.”

The burlap sack contained a rather expensive assortment of dried meats, cheeses, pastries, and even fresh fruits. She hadn’t had fresh fruit in years - this daimyo was lightyears more generous than the previous two. She wondered if he was struggling to find good help, but his gravely voiced deputy seemed like he ran a tight ship. Maybe the new daimyo was a puffer pig who needed to surround himself with strength and loyalty. That would explain the uncommon generosity.

She set off with the twilight towards Anchorhead on her dewback, who was fresh and energetic from a day of sound sleep and a belly full of rich kitchen scraps. The sky was clear and the stars were bright. The moonlight reflected pale blue off of the sand of the Dune Sea. She sampled each of the decadent foods in the burlap sack and shared them with her dewback when they stopped to rest at the halfway point between Mos Espa and Anchorhead. If he intended to outfit all of his contractors so generously, she would be silly not to work exclusively for the daimyo.

She arrived in Anchorhead as the first sun crested the horizon, before the merchants and shopkeepers opened for the day. She decided to see if a room at the Sidi Driss would even be available at this time of day. A few hours of sleep in a luxurious room before businesses opened for the day was more than she could hope for, but she felt the optimism of one who has been blessed by an unseen benefactor.

“Checking in?” asked a chipper desk attendant.

“I don’t have a reservation,” she replied, tentatively.

“You came in on a dewback, did you not? We have a reservation for you secured by the Daimyo of Mos Espa.”

Wonders never ceased.

A valet took her dewback to the stable to be hosed off and fed while she was shown to a corner room on the hotel’s top floor. It was opulent - a large bed, a ‘fresher stocked with expensive soaps and oils, and a balcony overlooking all of Anchorhead. She had been given plenty of credits for the room, so she supposed that the daimyo intended for her to spend them all on the sumptuous accommodations. She indulged long in a bath in the wide round tub before wrapping herself on a fluffy robe to settle in for a nap.

She awoke a few hours later to a note slipped under the door of her room.

Honwoo will have your cargo ready at sunset. The Daimyo of Mos Espa has opened a tab for your expenses and wishes for you to take yourself shopping at the hotel boutique at your convenience.

Surely, the Daimyo of Mos Espa had lost his mind. Had she somehow been mistaken for someone else? A dignitary or prominent merchant or guild member? She felt like an imposter, then reread the letter and realized that it addressed her by name. She knew she was a reliable courier, but were reliable couriers so hard to find in Mos Espa that they needed to be plied with luxury accommodations and shopping sprees?

She thought it best to follow the daimyo’s instructions. He was paying her way, so she may as well do as she’d been told and enjoy herself. She ordered a breakfast of colo claw fish and a fruit platter with a side of blue milk. It was more food than she’d eaten at a single meal in years and the experience of being well and truly full was delightful.

When she finally made her way down to the hotel lobby, a concierge met her at the base of the stairs.

“I’m to escort you to the boutique.”

This was getting weird. She briefly considered if she should continue going along with what felt like some kind of dream, but surely the daimyo must have his reasons for treating her to so much finery. The boutique was small and the clothing was perhaps impractical for someone who spent much of her time on a dewback crossing the desert, but she could not remember the last time she’s bought herself anything new and she could not resist the opportunity. The concierge even managed to convince her to pick out a dress with all of the requisite accessories - although what occasion she’d have to wear such an ensemble, she could not fathom.

Feeling overwhelmed, she returned with her new wardrobe to her room to decompress from experience and get a few more hours of sleep. She dreamed of Boba Fett as she remembered him from years ago - a figure in green armor and a distinct helmet - wielding a beskar ax to cleave the chains that bound her to Jabba The Hutt. But Boba Fett was dead and she awoke with a sense of loss that she hadn’t known she could feel for a stranger.

The valet brought her freshly bathed and well fed dewback to her and helped her load him up with her expensive new clothes. The suns were just beginning to set, which meant that the cargo she was hired to transport would be ready for pickup at Honwoo’s Repair Shop. She mounted her dewback and tipped the valet generously before making her way through town.

Honwoo and his human droid technician, Mathus, met her at the shop’s bay doors with crated droids ready to be loaded up for transport. She dismounted and introduced herself as labor droids began loaded and strapping crates to her dewback. Mathus handed her a data pad with a packing list, and she gave it a cursory read through before signing and handing it back to him.

“You should be all set in a few minutes. Do you need to fill a water skin before you head out?”

“Sure,” she replied, gratefully. He walked her to the shop’s sink and as she filled her water skin, the two made casual conversation. Mathus enjoyed his job as a technician and liked working for Honwoo, an honest and agreeable Rodian.

“So how do you like working for Boba Fett?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, what?”

…

LET’S GOOOOOOOOO

@meshlaxbunny

@daimyosprincess - the dewback’s name is Guapo

@baufraus

@dukeoftheblackstar

@acatalystrising

@die-herzlos-engel

Y’all we have to name this thing. Help. Please.

#boba fett thots #boba fett x reader #the book of boba fett #daddy daimyo #boba fett #boba fett can get it #boba fett imagine

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