#Blue Anvil Sound

[eiightysixbaby]

princess leia, and other wishes

pairing: bestfriend!eddie munson x fem!reader

wishing on a star? i guess it can’t hurt… (1.7k)

cw: mutual pining, eddie calls r an asshole playfully, fluff fluff fluff

a/n: just something short and sweet with our favorite guy 🥹 this really started as something smaller to give me a break from writing my longer oneshots. enjoy!!

The grass is prickly beneath your fingers, your palm outstretched beyond the edges of the blanket beneath you, pulling absentmindedly at the lush green strands.

Night fell some time ago, the sky a deep inky blue above you with stars that twinkle spectacularly as far as the eye can see.

Eddie lays beside you, hands clasped on his chest as he looks up at the bright flickering dots. You’d come out to this field on a whim, a random suggestion from him to go stargazing. Tucked high on a hill, away from the lights of Hawkins, you feel as though you can see every galaxy.

Occasionally you find yourself stealing glances at him, watching the way his chest rises and falls easily with each breath. If you were braver, you’d roll onto your side and study every inch of his face, radiantly beautiful even in the dark.

You feel his pinky finger graze your side, and you turn your face to his.

“You need to come up with a wish, in case we see a shooting star,” he says, his voice conspiratorial, like he’s telling you about a top-secret operation.

The corner of your mouth twitches in a sort of smile. “D’you believe in that junk?”

He chuckles lightly, shrugging. “Not really, but it’s worth a shot, right?”

“Yeah. Worth a shot,” you reply, feeling your heart thrumming in your chest.

Both of you turn your faces back to the sky, listening to the crickets chirp in the grass around you. Occasionally you hear the faint, dreamlike sound of car horns honking on the roads beyond. Being here with Eddie, in your quiet secluded oasis all alone, only ramps up your suppressed longing for him. Your right hand and his left rest mere centimeters apart from each other on the worn blanket, and you swear your skin vibrates with the desire to touch his.

You allow yourself a moment to wonder if he's feeling the same urge, if it's as hard for him to hold back as it is for you. The weight of your yearning is heavy on your chest, as if you have an anvil sitting on top of you and stealing your breath. You curse yourself for letting it get this bad, this stupid crush on your best friend that never should've started to begin with.

You're broken from your thoughts as one of his hands reaches out to grab your arm, his other hand pointing up at the velvety blue above. Sure enough, a shooting star streaks across the sky; a blink-and-you'll-miss-it moment. As you watch it, you're unaware of the fact that Eddie is watching you.

One foolish wish crosses your mind.

"Okay, I honestly didn't think we'd actually see one," Eddie says beside you. His fingers release their grip on your arm, and you find yourself missing the soft squeeze of them. “So, what'd ya wish for?” He waggles his brows expectantly, waiting for your answer.

You swallow hard before forcing yourself into a lighthearted tone. “No way, if I tell you it won't come true.”

He scoffs, rolling onto his side so he's facing you. “What happened to not believing in 'that junk'?” he jokes. “Now you're getting all superstitious on me.”

You match his movement, rolling onto your side as well.

“My wishes are top secret, sorry,” you reply, miming zipping your lips shut.

“No fair! What if I tell you mine?”

“Let me guess, you wished Steve would finally let you steal that Slave Leia cardboard cutout from Family Video?”

He narrows his eyes. “Okay, am I that predictable?”

“Yes,” you say deadpan, trying not to crack a smile. He doesn't reply, just stares at you, like he's committing every inch of your face to his permanent memory. It's too much, and you avert your gaze abruptly from his deep brown eyes. You're suddenly far too close to him, and your heart feels like it might claw out of your chest and find a home in his instead.

You lie on your back once more, your breathing shallow as your heartbeat races.

A finger pokes you in the ribs.

“Will you pleeeeease tell me what you wished for?” Eddie asks, giving you his best pout and puppy eyes.

“What if I didn’t wish for anything?”

“Nice try.”

“Why is it so important to you what I wished for?” you ask, intending to stall as long as you can. You could come up with a lie, some dumb filler wish, but you know Eddie would see right through it.

“Honestly, the fact that you won’t tell me is driving me crazy. So now I need to know or I’ll literally die.”

You huff, reaching a hand out to cover his still-pouting face with an open palm. “You are SO dramatic.”

His tongue licks a flat stripe up your palm, making you recoil with a gasp. You go to swat at him, but he moves quicker than you, pinning your arms down on either side of your head. His knees press into the blanket on either side of you, his body hovering over yours but not quite touching anywhere.

He’s keeping his distance. Your heart aches. You want more than anything to pull him into you, press your lips to his.

“Tell me your wish, you little asshole!” he says, a devious smile playing on his lips.

When you don’t return his playfulness, his teasing, is when his brow furrows. You look too serious beneath him, lost in thought. He moves again to sit beside you, letting go of the hold he had on your wrists.

“Hey, what’s up? If it’s that big of a deal, you don’t have to tell me. Swear, I was just messing around.”

You shake your head, groaning softly as you rub your hands down your face, your skin stretching with the motion. “Eddie, you have no idea.”

“What do you mean?”

Your words barely come out audible the first time, and he can’t hear you over the singing crickets and the slight breeze rustling the leaves.

“I wished for you,” you say again, after he asks you to repeat yourself.

“Me? But I’m— I’m right here. I’m sorry, are you being funny, or?” he trails off, not putting the pieces together in his head.

“Eddie,” you say, sitting up now.

“Yeah?”

This is a bad idea, you think to yourself. Bad idea bad idea bad idea.

And yet you push yourself to keep talking. To not lose your nerve. To get an answer, finally. Because there’s a smaller voice in your head that’s telling you this is right.

“Can I kiss you?”

His eyes go wide, confusion crossing his features like he’s not sure he heard you right. “Wh- me? Now? You want to kiss me?”

He’s not into it. Retreat. Retreat. Retreat.

“I wished for you,” you say with a shaky inhale. “Because I want you, as more than a friend.” You’re speaking so quietly he has to lean in to hear you.

He doesn’t say anything for a minute, and for once you can’t gauge his expression. You’re ready to tell him to forget it, to get up and haul ass out of this field and back to the van, but then he clears his throat.

“Swear you’re not messing with me,” he says finally. His eyes search your face almost frantically, and your breath catches in your throat.

“I’m not messing with you, Eddie. I mean it.” You aren’t sure how you even manage to say the words. You feel like all of the oxygen has left your lungs.

“Well, shit. Then yeah,” he says, almost bashfully. “Yeah, you can kiss me.”

Your eyes blow wide, blinking at him while you make sure you heard him right.

“I can?”

“Did you think I’d say no? Shit, sweetheart, I would’ve let you kiss me ages ago. O-or I would’ve done it myself, but y’know, I didn’t want to cross a line or anything—”

“Eddie,” you say, a smile breaking out on your face.

“Damn, my wish was so fucking stupid. I mean you’re out here wishing for me, and I really couldn’t see the signs? I’m so sorry—”

“Eddie!” He stops his rambling, eyes wide as they meet yours.

You don’t give him the chance to say anything else, leaning forward into his personal space. You let one hand come up to hold his jaw gently, pressing your lips to his in your final act of bravery.

It’s such a fucking cliche, but you swear there’s fireworks going off the moment you kiss each other. You can see them behind your closed eyelids, vibrant colors bursting before you. His lips are so soft against yours, the way you’d imagined them to be on all of those restless nights spent tossing and turning and yearning in your bed.

When you pull away, you can hear your heartbeat loud in your ears. His eyes are huge and bright, like the galaxies up above shrunk down to fit inside his dark irises. Neither of you know what to say at first, and it’s silent until you both erupt into a fit of giggles. His hands are warm when they take yours, letting his thumbs run over your knuckles.

“Can we please do that again?” he asks, a sweet smirk tugging at one corner of his pretty mouth.

In lieu of a verbal response, you simply lean back into him, kissing him harder this time. Far more sure of yourself. His hands find your waist, holding you so softly. You'd be perfectly content staying in this moment forever, fireflies twinkling in the grass surrounding you as your mouth moves slowly against Eddie's.

There’s no awkwardness, not a single hint of doubt pooling in your gut. His hands feel like they were made to hold you and his lips slot with yours like they were molded to fit together. This time it's him who pulls away, a boyish grin spreading across his face.

“Would you look at that,” he says. “Wishes really do come true.”

“Should we go talk to Steve about yours?” you tease, letting your nose brush against his.

A puff of air leaves his nose, a quiet laugh. "Nah, I'm good with this."

“Me too.”

When he eases you down onto the blanket, his weight on top of yours as he kisses you breathless, you have no complaints. The stars twinkle down at you, and everything is perfect.

[heavenbarnes]

“He’s here again.”

You could swear the girl from reception says it like she knows something. Like there’s some swirling inside joke that everyone was in on,

except you.

Instead, you were left with that swirling feeling in your stomach as the elevator traveled to reception. A swirling that should’ve been laced with fear, but wasn’t.

One that was gripping tight in your stomach as the doors opened and you were eclipsed by a sun wearing blue tradesman’s clothes.

Ugly bastard.

Mean face with a shorn head, snarled lip and cauliflower ears. Tattooed arms like battering rams and tree trunk legs leading to steel cap boots like anvils.

And he was here for you.

“Um- I’m not actually in facilities.”

You could’ve cursed yourself for sounding so small. You’ve lead meetings, addressed crowds, argued points with a voice like cracked thunder.

But he takes one step towards you and,

“B-but that’s okay, I’ll take you.”

And he doesn’t say a word, just grunts as he steps into the lift with you and you feel the tension spring.

He never says a word.

He met you for the first time three years ago, the girl from facilities was on maternity leave and you happened to be the lucky duck who sat beside the reception door.

Three years later you’d changed floors and you hadn’t even seen him for at least six months. But he still asks for you.

“He always asks for you.”

You’d shushed your colleague, boasting about being helpful and having a tendency to be in office more often than not.

“Probably doesn’t want to remember another name.”

“Then how do you explain the time he refused the job when you were off sick?”

You don’t explain it, you actually try not to think about it.

When the doors open on the floor with the broken toilet, he follows you along the hall like a dog.

Like a hound.

The floor shakes every time he puts his boot on it and he actually manages to make you feel very small against picture windows.

Your colleagues look away when he walks past.

The sign for the ladies toilet at the end of the hall is like a beacon of hope, you can let him in and leave him be and then pretend to be on a phone call when it’s time for him to leave.

Until you get inside.

The sound of running water from the broken cistern echoes off the walls as you show him to the cubicle.

“It’s that one.”

He gives you a look that says “no shit” before he lowers his head to step through the stall door. He must hear your shoes scuff against the floor as you break for your exit.

“Stay put.”

You tell yourself you’re just shocked it’s the first time you’ve heard his voice. He’s British, Mancunian you reckon. Caught you by surprise.

That’s why you obediently spin on your heel and press your back to the wall.

No other reason.

You listen to the sound of grating porcelain as he removes the cistern lid and messes about with the flushing mechanism.

Your eyes catch him in the mirror, watching the way his back flexes under his work shirt as he reaches a bloody great paw into the water.

“Piece of shit.”

Second thing you’ve ever heard him say. Granted, it’s under his breath but he definitely said it. You try not to show any expression lest he have eyes in the back of his head.

Wouldn’t put it past him.

The sound of running water stops but you can tell by the huffing and puffing that he’s not fixed it, you can tell by his next outburst he’s not even close.

“Cunt of a thing.”

You almost let a smile slip onto your face before you’re blanching at the sound of your name.

“In ‘ere.”

He’s the mutt, he’s the hound with sharp teeth and clipped ears. He’s mean and he’s nasty and he’s not good with others, definitely not house trained.

But it’s you whose ears prick up at his call and immediately walk to join him in the small space. Show dog.

A retriever, running towards the sound of a gun.

The cubicle is small enough as is but with Simon (the embroidered patch on his shirt tells you, he’s never actually given you his name) in here it feels like a coffin.

You end up with your back to the wall again, this time with his elbow all but digging into your stomach. He’s got pieces of the flusher in his hand and he’s sending them your way.

Obedience in spades, you’re letting him place the dirty parts right in the flat of your hand.

Getting you as dirty as the rest of him.

“Oh, okay.”

You catch him look at you out the corner of his eye before he huffs, again, and reaches right back into the cistern.

He almost looks disappointed, dissatisfied- like he’d hope you’d put up more of a fight with him. Like you’d shove the metal right into his chest and really give him something to huff about.

But you leave your hand out stretched and let him pick from it at his leisure. Take from you as he pleases.

(He wonders if that’s a transferable skill)

To your delight (and his dismay) the toilet is back in perfect order and after three test flushes you can both leave the tiny fluorescent cave you’d been inhabiting for the last fifteen minutes.

“Um, do you need to go back upstairs or are you good to go?”

He dries his hands on the thighs of his trousers before he stares at you blankly. He snarls his lip in a way the makes the scar above it stretch and you wonder if it hurts him.

(If it does, you wonder if that’s why he does it)

He turns without warning and suddenly it’s you following him back down the hall. Struggling to keep up, pretty pampered little dog following this great big mutt around on his heels.

“Need t’go down to my van- I’ll show you.”

You could probably stop walking here. It would’ve been very easy for you to break to your desk and honestly? He probably would’ve let you.

“Oh, you don’t need me to access the garage.”

But you’re following him to the elevator anyway and you think you see that same air of disappointment drift across his features as he realises how easy you’ve made yourself.

“Don’t tell me what I don’t need.”

[todoriin]

tidal waves | ayato is looking for a spouse. he comes to you.

cw: mentions of pregnancy, ayato kind of toxic (sry), coercion, manipulation, arranged marriage, unrequited love, ambiguous ending.

“Our new diplomatic relationships with Fontaine are moving along smoother than I imagined.”

The blue-haired head of Kamisato Clan sits before you comfortably, happily relaying the events that occurred during the time he was away from Inazuma. The sunlight shines delicately over you, creeping through the leaves of the sakura blooms that hang overhead. Often, the leaves fall around and onto you, summoning drizzles of pink.

Ayato remains the centre of your attention, though, the colour palette of spring enchanting when it is surrounding him. 

“I’m happy to hear that. Trustworthy and hardworking, that’s our Yashiro Commissioner for you,” you praise, raising your cup of tea to your lips. 

“No doubt this will bring forth some interesting business opportunities for you, correct?”

“Of course, as with any nation. However, my greatest concern with Fontaine is the travel time, but with their advanced technology, I doubt any rigorous human effort will be required during the process. I’m hoping it will be smooth for both parties.” 

A long time ago, you were ashamed of how long you could talk for. Now, with someone like Ayato listening to your every word, you don’t withhold any (negligible) information. 

(There is no news that will escape Ayato. He knows more than he lets on and has ears placed at all corners of Inazuma. Try as you may to keep something from him, the only thing you can truly control is when and how the information reaches him.) 

“Please, feel free to keep me updated. I am fascinated by Fontaine’s productivity with their machinery, I would love to learn more.”

With a humble bow of your head, you reassure him you will invite him so he may see for himself when the time comes. “Why did you invite me here, Ayato?” You ask, setting down your now empty tea cup with a clink. 

“Oh, yes, thank you for coming on such short notice. Hopefully you did not have to cut out any important matters for this meeting, did you?”

“I will always have time to see you. Arranging my schedule is no trouble if the Yashiro Commissioner needs me.” 

He blinks twice before his expression melts into something softer. “I am delighted to hear that. As for why I summoned you here today, well, I am hardly as young as I was when I first took up the mantle of Yashiro Commissioner. With every passing day, I am increasingly aware of my age.” He begins, violet eyes as unreadable as ever as they gaze into you, unyielding. It’s always hard to look away when you first get a glance.

(If you were to describe Kamisato Ayato, you’d compare him to an ocean. On the surface, harmless with his calm and predictable waves, reflecting the light of the sun in ripples, tempting you to take a step in.)

“Even Chiori made a comment about having to make me look younger.”

“Stop it- the wrinkles around your eyes aren’t that deep-”

“-Y/n. There is still no heir to the Kamisato Clan or the Yashiro Commission.”

“You won’t be giving up the mantle any time soon though, right?”

“Rest assured, I have no thoughts as such, but it is now the time to think about matrimony.”

You’re not sure why, but your stomach feels like a falling anvil, premonition settling in your bones like lead. “Why did you call me here, Ayato?”

An answer formulates in your head before he even needs to open his mouth, and it sounds out an awful song, one that causes your ears to bleed and knees to buckle. 

(You take your first step into the sea. The sand is silk beneath your feet, and the water splashes with your every step. You keep going until the water is up to your waist, knocking against your chest with each wave.)

“I want you to be my spouse.” 

No matter how many surprise meetings you have sat through with alarming news, none will ever shake you to your core like this one. For all the news of lost shipments, pirates that confiscated your products, and investment failures, nothing would have ever trained you for an occasion like this.

Professionalism is a delicate mask, and Ayato knows exactly how to chip away at it.

“No- no, I couldn’t,” you begin, nothing but a jumble of feelings that have turned you inside out like a kimono. “Ayato, I refuse.”

You? A Commissioner’s spouse? How detestable. You know the last thing Ayato could wish for you is a life of misery, confined to the chains of propriety, social etiquette, and societal management, but you also thought you’d be the last person he’d consider to be wed to. 

All these decades of friendship, was it just so it could lead to this finale? Did you ever know him like you truly thought you did? 

The monster disguised as a man sits himself beside you, sinking to his knees, and the white, rich fabrics of his attire pool around you. 

“I can promise you happiness, Y/n. Mora, safety, whatever you need, I’ll be at your beck and call.”

Happy? Married?

His gloved hand finds yours. It’s not warm, and his touch feels inhuman, but you don’t have it in you to pull away from him. “In collaboration with the resources from the Yashiro Commission, we could make your business operations much more efficient.”

“Can’t you find another partner? There are no shortages of elites who are looking for potential partners in Inazuma. I could talk to some candidates on your behalf to organise a meeting, I am certain no one could ever reject your hand in marriage-”

“-Then, why are you?”

“Why are you so persistent that it must be me?” 

“There are… no other individuals like you. I recognise that not all marriages need to be formed from love, but that does not exclude friendship. Our companionship is one I trust, you are my ideal candidate.”

“I would not make a good spouse.” You omit to tell him of your carefree qualities, that you have a business to run, and that you could not imagine a life bound to another, even if he is someone as dreamy as the Kamisato head. “I could not make you happy.”

“Guaranteeing my happiness does not have to be your duty.” His hands delicately trace the lines on your palms, you protest against the way they naturally curl at the sensation. 

“Then what will be?”

“Producing an heir to the Kamisato Clan.” 

He does not miss the way you shift uncomfortably in your position, or the subtle displeasure that clouds your eyes. Ayato’s not sure how successful he can be if he remains this persistent, every attempt seems to only push you further away, but if there’s anything he’s good at it is biding his time. The best lesson his time as the Yashiro Commissioner has taught him it’s that patience leads to success, and he’s willing to give you some time to figure it all out.

“I do not want to force you into something you do not want to partake in. You may have some time to think, I await to hear your answer once you are ready.” he gets up silently and quickly. It’s strange. You feel like you disappointed him. 

He strides out of the gardens, tea and sweets untouched. For all the years you have known him, this is the first time he leaves without escorting you out, showing you the retreating figure of his broad back.

What will you do? Ayato, above all else, is cunning and calculating; a terrifying trait of his. Everything he wants, he eventually gets, the art of patience is one he has mastered. The only thing you can liken him to is a fox biding its time to catch its prey.  

You will not remain ignorant to the fact that it appears this time, you are his prey.

He will find subtle ways to intercept in your business, he will take advantage of everything he knows about you and use it to your demise, everywhere you turn, he will be there. How long will it be until he sinks his teeth into you? 

That day, you go to sleep with an uneasy heart. You feel like you’re playing with a lit bomb, juggling with it so that it will explode when it is out of your hands. 

Three weeks later, you receive news that a shipment of yours suddenly caught fire, destroying everything that you were exporting, harming few of your employees in the process. 

Your time is up. 

(His hand grabs your ankle, and pulls you under.)

[thewertsearch]

I'm getting 'em all this time, dang it!

I love that John plays along with the Consorts' programmed ignorance of him. He's such a good sport.

These guys really love their Important RPG Terms. It's sort of like a species-wide typing quirk.

SALAMANDER: Our great elder, the magnificent Secret Wizard was one day graced with the First Rag of Souls from the clouds. SALAMANDER: He donned the oily, humble cloth and assumed the countenance of a simple beggar. SALAMANDER: But lo, he beheld a great pillar of rock, and on that pillar he beheld an impossibly tall white tower belonging to the fabled Heir of Breath. SALAMANDER: And so our leader ascended this pillar and this tower, but found no sign of the heir. SALAMANDER: He did however find the Heir's floating blue servant, and she laundered his robes, and so the Rag of Souls was born anew. SALAMANDER: Such was his magnanimity, he employed the Heavenly Machina to duplicate this relic and distribute robes to his many followers across the land, so that they too might be beheld with a beholden eye of admiration.

What I'm getting is that Nanna started a salamander cult for the bit.

Talented though he is, John will have a hard time living up to such a prankster's legacy.

Ooh, we're back in the old style - it's like a game-within-a-game!

This thing does an uncomfortable amount of damage, even with John's maxed Gel Viscosity.

Still, at least it doesn't one-shot him like I expected. These Imps aren't quite as scary as I originally thought.

I can even time-freeze it with Fear No Anvil! There's a shocking amount of polish here for a one-panel walkaround.

It's tough, but John's fully capable of taking it down.

Hopefully once he's scaled the god tiers, Imps will go back to being fodder - although we don't know for sure if the god tiers increase your stats. I assume they're distinct from the Echeladder levels in some way, but I can't really speculate.

SALAMANDER: I'm so hungry. Alas, I have not a single boondollar to pop my bubble with. JOHN: i've got loads of boondollars! here, i will treat you to a nice lunch.

Such a good dude.

Is that some LOHAC contraband I spy?

The Consorts must have opened an interplanetary trade route.

SALAMANDER: Do you hear that? He is still asleep, thank goodness. SALAMANDER: But when the Windy Thing was kicking up all that fuss, it sounded like he was not happy at all. SALAMANDER: It makes him absolutely furious when anyone other than him bends The Breeze to his will! It is not pleasant for anybody. SALAMANDER: Luckily there is only one person who can do that, and he is surely a mythical figure, who only morons believe in.

Now this is interesting. Typheus claims authority over the Breath element, and can't abide anyone else wielding it...

SALAMANDER: Luckily there is only one person who can do that, and he is surely a mythical figure, who only morons believe in.

...which means he's basically calling John out by name.

The Heir is the only person in the Medium even capable of drawing his ire - and thus, the seeds of their inevitable battle have been sown.

SALAMANDER: It's said the Heir will wake the denizen by playing a magical song only he can play, and when he wakes up, the Heir will meet the terrible beast face to face! SALAMANDER: It is then that he will be offered The Choice. The nature of the Heir's triumph depends on what he chooses!

How much choice do you really have, when your future's set in stone? Choose anything that hasn't been pre-approved, and you're sent careening into an offshoot timeline, before being dissolved into nonexistence.

Maybe this proper-noun Choice is a real choice, then - a decision that can violate fate, but won't doom the timeline. The implications could be staggering.

SALAMANDER: Then the Heir will lead us all to a beautiful place, with the most bristling insect furrows and the richest, dampest mushroom soil you could hope to farm.

Either way, John's Choice seems to involve transporting the Consorts somewhere. This salamander is describing a heaven-like location, so I hope the twist isn't that John will destroy LOWAS, 'transporting' its residents to the afterlife :/

[netherfeildren]

Joel

A Fear of God story : Series Masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x OFC

Summary: The thought sounds on the anvil of your mind every night at four am on the dot, the song of grasshoppers and slumbering, fatherless children singing around you; I am lost, and if I read a little bit confusing, it is only because I am confused amidst the battleground of my grief, and it is difficult to find my way back now that he is not here to guide me.

A/N: this was only written for myself, but i’ve decided to share with you, as well. if you’re a fear of god reader please know that this isn’t part of my official story line, and again — only an exercise for myself, but as this is written about birdie i’ve decided to include it as a part of the birdie’s house anthology. i apologize for any confusion or emotional turmoil this might cause, but rest assured that i’m desperately hoping to have something else up for birdie and joel for his birthday and that i plan to continue to write for them after that as well.

Content Warnings: Character death; Grief/Mourning; Description of death/injury; Unreliable narrators

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 2.1K

Read on AO3

JOEL

The billboard said “The End Is Near”

I turned around, there was nothing there

Yeah, I guess the end is here

Phoebe Bridgers, I Know the End

The week before it happened, you watched a pack of wolves take down a moose. Old and stalwart and with a sort of strength only an animal that stands apart from all others in the hierarchy of nature can hold. Something unrelenting about a creature like that, that was made all the more shocking for the way the wolves had surrounded the old thing, tricked and felled the beast that for so long had stood solitary and unmoving. 

There were so many things you knew about Joel after all these years. He was a father, a husband, a brother, a friend. Once he’d been a monster. Everything about him had been red. He’d tried not to cause harm. He’d failed more than he’d succeeded. 

He had loved you. You think, more than any creature had loved another in all of man’s history. Or… at least sometimes it had felt like that. He had made you feel like that. 

He is killed in the seventh year of your life together. Only seven little years which seem like nothing in the face of everything. Nothing in the face of the destruction of the whole world, and then the rebirth of it right here in this farm house in Wyoming, but which you know, no matter what they might seem like in the aftermath, were really everything, the only time that has ever mattered. 

You remember that sometimes when you’d look around the kitchen table, the girls sitting around laughing and screeching and raucous with so much joy it seemed imaginary and untouchable, it felt like the whole world was sat existing around that oak table he’d made for you. The whole world right here at our kitchen table, Joel. 

You remember the last time you heard his voice, right before he went out into the frigid snow to look for Ellie: Don’t you love me, Birdie bird?

Oh, shut up. And then whispered right into the reddened sea shell of his ear, Here is what I see in your eyes right now: myself, reflected back at me – more love than has ever existed before in all history. And then his laugh – you’re laughing and when you laugh I want to carve the face of the world in your image. Lena zooming by your legs as you kiss for the last time, a blue ribbon in her hair. 

Half a century from now, no one will remember us, but I will never forget you. 

Remember the first time we met? Bated breath and racing heart, and the sound of the rest of your life ringing in your ears. 

Remember the stitches in your palm? The first time I took you inside of me and all the times thereafter? When you pulled our first daughter from my body – and then the two others? Her first birthday? The countless birthdays after that? Remember the endless happiness so intense it was almost painful sometimes? Remember how much I love you?

But of course, he cannot. He’s not here anymore, and nothing hurts worse than the memory of joy when you’re living through grief. The thought sounds on the anvil of your mind every night at four am on the dot, the song of grasshoppers and slumbering, fatherless children singing around you; I am lost, and if I read a little bit confusing, it is only because I am confused amidst the battleground of my grief, and it is difficult to find my way back now that he is not here to guide me. 

They’d hurt him so badly. Fractured him in a way that not even your hands could mend, your years of study and practice futile in the face of such destruction. He’d fought hard, he’d tried to get away. This is the least comforting thing you could ever imagine. 

What does it do to a person to be confronted with the inequity of their purpose? To have worked tirelessly for so many years only to fail when the moment was most dire. 

Fracture of a different but equally devastating nature. And that moment of final realization, that there was nothing to be done – his bones had carried him for so long, you rest now, we’ll be okay, whispered into his mangled ear, half a chunk missing, savaged. You did good, Joel. You did good, my love. 

The sound of Ellie’s voice telling herself over and over and over again that he was okay; he’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay. 

And she’d said to you: I wasted so much time being angry at him, for what? For loving me too much? For keeping me alive? For making a decision that now, with the clarity of age and a child of my own, I would have made exactly the same way? I wish I could walk in his shoes through that hospital all those years ago. I’d take his exact same steps – not a single pace different. And now he’s dead. And all that anger was for nothing. And our reconciliation feels so fraught, so meaningless in the face of all that time now. No matter that we’d had years after to be together, to be a family. All I can focus on now is the time lost, the sight of his crushed skull, the night I pushed him away before you, his face full of pain and regret. And the sound of his screams at the end. 

Ellie tells you: I remember the sound of his screams better than anything else. The sound of him screaming out for me, for you Birdie – Birdie, Birdie, my Birdie. Begging for help, but actually, I’m not sure, she says. I’m not sure if that really happened or if my nightmares imagined it. 

[I still think of you on your birthday. I’m sorry for everything, she thinks, when she lays in the grass with her sisters and looks for shapes in the clouds without him now. I only see you in the spaces between them. And she asks God why He didn’t work harder to save him. And He spits in her face and asks why she didn’t do the same.]

So, there are still our children. There is still Ellie. This family you’ve gifted me. The whole world abandoned here at our kitchen table. How can death exist when that exists? How can your death exist when they’re still here?

Don’t stop to think. Don’t interrupt the scream. 

And you tell yourself, no this wasn’t supposed to happen, but the universe laughs and grips you by the throat; the gladiator scream goes on. Salt the earth, there’s nothing to return to. 

And yet… that isn’t true either. Four little faces look up at you. Three sets of his eyes. 

You were furious at the sun the day after he died. How could it just continue to rise as if nothing had happened?

And after all that, it is like this: You scream for seven days and seven nights.

You don’t get out of bed for thirty days. 

You cry every single night for a year. 

This is different. A strange and terrified sort of place. What does it mean to lose the basis of your entire existence?

And Ellie? Ellie, Ellie, Ellie, Ellie, Ellie. What is Ellie going to do without him? How is she going to be okay? The sound of her cries: Don’t let me be alone. Please, God, don’t let me be alone. I never wanted to end up alone. You need to make sure she’s okay, you need to take care of her the way that he would, the way that he’d want you to.

Ellie loses her mind for a little bit. After your thirty days in bed, she calls her turn, tells you and Dina that she’s leaving, that she’s going. That she’ll bring you back a vengeance you could never want and lay it at your feet, and you cup her chin gentle in your palm, and ask, What does it matter now, honey? Connie’s voice ringing in your memory. He’s gone now, what difference would it make?

She tells you that he would have done it for her, and you cannot refute such a claim. He would. He’d do much worse. He’d turn himself back into that monster we both know he had inside of him.

“So I need to do this.”

And you tell her: “I’m begging you not to. Me, who belonged to him, who knew him in a way no one else in the whole world did. I’m asking you not to. I’m still here. The girls are still here. We need you. We need you as a reminder of him.”

“You’ll remember him anyways,” she tells you, which is true.

“But you’ll make the memory all the better,” And so she does not go, for a time.

Ellie stays, and you have a funeral surrounded by the people of Jackson who respected a man who was good. A man who took himself for a monster for so long, even though he never said it out loud, but you knew, you saw. All that time apart, all that fear, fear, fear, the very fear of God struck into his heart, afraid of what he was, of what the world and a little girl with green eyes more than thirty years ago had made him into, but then, look at what we’d turned around and made together. 

And you whisper to the apparition of him in your dreams: Joel if you were a monster, surely it was some sort of divine monstrosity. 

So many people leave remembrances at the gate of the farm, the whole of Jackson. His brother, holding you up gripped beneath the elbows so as to not frighten your children, and Ellie is crying but trying to pretend she’s not, which somehow makes it worse than if she were to throw herself at the base of his coffin and howl. 

You give her his jacket after that, and she smells like him all the time until the day she doesn't. Until the day it’s been so long since the last time that he was alive that his scent fades and leaves forever. She wears that jacket everywhere, to work, to hunt, to bed. Leaving her wife, leaving her family, leaving her sisters, leaving you because eventually she does – leave, and she wears his jacket. An inevitability like so many other things in life, you’re unable to keep her forever, and for a time she does go. 

And you will never forget him, you will never move on, you will never stop telling your daughters about him. He lives on in them. And you wonder why it is that no one ever talks about the physically intimate aspect of grief? Of missing your person and wanting them and needing them, and your body physically craving relief from that singular person and never being able to achieve it fully ever again to completion like he could give it to you because he’s just not here. 

He was, in every way, all that anyone could ever be. 

I cried every single day for a year. The day I stopped, I put him inside of a drawer within myself and was never able to move myself to tears again. 

Seven years since then, and you go to his grave for what you tell yourself will be the last time, recognize the lie for what it is, a single slab of carved stone, and you think, he doesn’t belong here, even still after all these years, and yet this is the only place he will ever be again. 

He should have been made into a redwood, the tallest thing in the entire world. Let him be a tree. You’d climb and climb and climb, like that night with Beth, so long ago you can barely remember the sound of her voice most days. You’d climb, and he’d protect you one more time like he had so many times before. 

Joel, years ago, when we were first married, I had a strange dream: I’d had to walk down a staircase that led far beneath the earth. As I traversed it, I had to move through all of our happiest memories, the births of our daughters, the birthdays and celebrations and the long nights together, dinners, breakfasts and laughter, lazy afternoons at the lake, in bed together, still endlessly fascinated with each other despite all the times we’d found ourselves in that exact position. But when I reached the end, I’d be able to come upon our worst moment, see what it was in preparation, perhaps, for what would come to pass. 

I feel as though I have finally reached the bottom of that staircase, and part of me would like nothing more than to have never begun the journey down, but had I not, then I would have not lived through all the rest of it. And in the end, that was worth everything else.

That last night again, in my memory: Don’t you love me, Birdie bird? 

Close your eyes, he whispers, it’ll be worth it, the last taste of his mouth. 

My eyes are still closed.

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog

[respheal]

WIP Wednesday!

Smith leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching his grandson work. Well—grandsons, at the moment. “Watch your angle, Blue,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind.

“I know what I’m doing,” Blue snapped. Sparks flew from the blade he was sharpening, the whetstone’s pitch climbing with each turn.

“Sure you do, lad. That’s why you’ve broken three hammers this month,” Smith chuckled.

“I didn’t break three! It was two and a half!”

Vio, bent low over the workbench with a dagger in hand, setting gems in its hilt, didn’t even glance up. “You can’t break only half of something. It’s a binary—broken or not.”

“I’ll break your—”

“Enough, Blue,” Green cut in. “Let’s just finish the sword, alright? The customer’s coming by today.”

Red piped up from the scrap bin. “Do you think we’ll get to work on that big order next week? You know, the ceremonial—”

The shopfront door rattled suddenly, the sound cutting through the banter. Four voices groaned in unison, and Smith pushed off the wall with an exaggerated sigh.

“That’ll be them now,” he said, giving the boys a pointed look. “Keep at it. I’ll handle the customer.”

Green nodded and set his hammer down, taking a step back from the anvil as the others gathered. “Thanks, Grandpa.”

Smith waved him off, already moving toward the shopfront, paying no mind to the brief pulse of magic in the forge. His voice shifted seamlessly into the hearty, welcoming tone he used to greet customers. “Welcome! You here for that blade we talked about?”

Behind him, Link lowered his hand from the hilt of the Four Sword, sheathed snugly on his back. As if nothing had happened, he picked up the hammer Green had left behind and resumed his work on the glowing steel.

[puffyducks]

DCRC Week #19 (Part 2)

This post isn't slightly late SHUT UP SHUT UP. We're reading Trick or Treat ok it was made by this really underground duck artist idk if you've ever heard of Carl Barks before. This is also an adaptation of the animated Disney short of the same name but it's BETTER because it's Carl Barks. Not that YOU'VE ever heard of him...

THEY'RE SO LITTLEEEE I LOVE THEM!!!! Nevermind that Louie's soul was sucked out of his body his eyes are scaring me a bit

look at them they're so small and polite..... surely no one would want to be mean to these fine young gentlemen on this night

Shoutout to Huey using his pitchfork to ring all the doorbells. I'm assuming cause his tiny little baby hands are too short to reach.

WHYYY 😭 WHAT REASON WAS THERE FOR THIS YOU'RE GONNA BLOW DEWEY'S FUCKIN FINGERS OFF

THIS GUY FUCKING SUCKS!!!!!! DNI donald duck fans I don't fw him anymore

He's not even being mean to get back at the triplets or whatever he's literally just harassing whoever comes up to his door LMAO WHAT'S HIS PROBLEM BRO

DT17 Louie could never L + ratio

Shoutout to Donald saying "what the blazes" it reminds me of my very southern grandmother who says "WHAT IN BLUE BLAZES" a lot as an expression of shock

shoutout to this freak with the hand nose I dig his whole vibe tbh. he's very well dressed for the occasion

WHAT THA HELL

he's gonna fucking axe her to death

cuddle dove???

NOT THE FUCKING LASSO 💀

Guys this is so much fucking work between both parties. The boys probably could've had like 10x as much candy by now if they just went to other houses instead of doing all this 😭 I get it though it's about sending a message and beating the fuck out of your mean uncle

SHE'S LITERALLY CONJURING HORRORS BEYOND IMAGINATION JUST GIVE THEM THE DAMN CANDY

and there it is... THE panel. I adore this shot he needs to be flattened by an anvil

that one's gonna hurt coming out the other end

I appreciate his stupid little sound here

WHAT DOES THIS ACCOMPLISH NOW WE ALL FUCKING LOSE

Huey just like 8l

This beef isn't even involving the triplets anymore it's just Donald and Hazel going at each other lmao

Y'know it might've been easier to just knock him out at the start

All that back and forth and Donald still smiles and waves goodbye. I guess it wasn't personal he's just REALLY defensive over his candy.

Well folks, I think there's a lesson to be learned in all this. And the lesson is to not be a huge BITCH on Halloween and just give out some damn candy!!! And don't be one of those guys that hands out like plastic spider rings or whatever ok nobody wants those just give out some fuckin chocolate or don't even bother.

And hey, for what it's worth, it took like 70 years but Donald finally learned his lesson and actually WANTED to hand out candy in DT17!! (also my way to sneak Della into this post hi Della)

[bridgyrose]

Penny nearly flinched as she heard the sound of a hammer slamming down onto molten metal, her eyes wandered around to look at the spirits that flew around her like fireflies. It was unlike anywhere she’d seen on Remnant, and yet, almost familiar to her. As if it was something she’d seen in a dream. “W-where… am I?” 

“This is the Ever After,” the Blacksmith replied as they looked up from the anvil, almost curious as they looked over Penny. “Though, you aren’t one of mine.” 

“One of yours?” 

“Someone who belongs in the Ever After. No, you’re a lost soul. One that shouldnt belong here, but needs help.” 

“I-I guess I am lost,” Penny answered quietly as she looked away. “Though, I-I am not sure how I got here to begin with. I know I died, but I… I do not know why I am here.” 

“No one in the Ever After dies, they ascend,” the Blacksmith answered. “You must’ve been caught between Remnant and here instead, so instead of making it to the afterlife in Remnant, you’ll be allowed to ascend and take on a new life.” 

“But I do not want a new life, I want the one I had with Ruby.” A faint blush crossed her cheeks as she said those words and a smile crossed her lips. “She made me feel… human. Like every part of me mattered and that I was more than just a weapon. That I was loved and cared for, that I was allowed to be my own person. I-I do not wish to live a life where I did not know Ruby.” 

The Blacksmith smiled and offered a piece of floating array to Penny. “Choosing yourself is always an option, though I cannot guarantee where you’ll end up once you’re back, only that you’ll arrive where you’re needed most.” 

Penny nodded and reached for her weapon, only to pause as she caught her reflection in the blade. For a brief moment, she had thought about choosing a different life, one where she could be anyone she wanted. One where she didnt have to be her. And yet, even with those thoughts in mind, she took hold of her sword. 

The blade itself was warm, nothing like how she thought it’d been. She smiled at the Blacksmith as she felt herself start to get pulled away. “Thank you.” 

“Good luck, Penny.” 

Penny took a deep breath as she felt her body plunge into a pool of white light beneath her, only for everything around her to turn black. Then she felt a pain in her side as she gasped, green eyes opening wide as she started to pant. Finally, she started to get her bearings as she realized she was on a cot in a tent. 

“You’re finally awake,” a young man said with a smile. “Mom said you were probably as good as dead when we found you. Figured some bandits left you for dead after taking anything they could from you. She’ll be surprised you’re awake.” 

Penny nodded and sat up, wincing as the wound on her stomach started to act up. Her fingers clutched at the bandages around her side, still getting used to the feeling of being alive again. “Where… where am I?” 

“About four days north of Vacuo,” the young man answered. “Though we’re probably going to get moving again in a few days. You’re welcome to stay with us until we can get to a village that has an airship. Otherwise, we might be able to lend you a horse once you’re feeling up to traveling.” 

“That is fine, I can call my friends and-” Penny paused for a moment as she searched through the pockets of her dress, unable to find her scroll. She frowned a bit and leaned back a bit. “Or not. Do you have a scroll I can borrow? I am sure Ruby is worried about me.” 

“I’m sure we can find one. By the way, I’m Garnet Valkyrie.” 

“Penny Polendina,” Penny answered. 

“Its nice to meet you. I’ll let you rest and grab some food for you.” 

Penny relaxed a bit and laid down. “Valkyrie, huh?” she thought to herself. The only Valkyrie she knew was Nora, though now that she thought about it, Garnet did look a lot like her. The same orange hair and blue eyes, though he did seem to have the same smile as Ren along with his skin tone. 

She sat up again as she heard someone outside the tent, then paused once she saw a woman walk in with a plate of meat and bread for her. Familiar orange hair had a few streaks of gray, her skin was scarred in a way that looked like lightning had run through her body. 

“You must be Penny,” the woman said as she placed the plate down next to Penny. “Garnet said you woke up and I wanted to meet you myself.” 

Penny nodded and took the plate, still staring at the woman. Now hearing her voice, without a doubt she knew exactly who this was. “Thanks, Nora.” 

Nora cocked a brow. “How do you know my name?” 

“Its me, Penny,” Penny answered as she tried to move off the cot and stand up, wincing before she could move enough to get her legs over the side. “Though it seems to have been a long time.” 

Nora took a step back as she looked Penny over. “P-Penny… but you… Ruby told us you were killed… how are you back?” 

“I do not understand it myself.” Penny looked over her hand and smiled a bit. “But I met a woman who gave me another chance. A chance to be with Ruby again and to help others.” 

“That… might be a problem,” Nora said quietly. “A lot has changed since you died.” 

“LIke what? And where is Ruby?” 

“Assuming Weiss hasnt moved her yet, she’s still buried out on Patch.” 

“I… I do not understand.” 

Nora sighed and sat down. “Ruby was killed by Cinder just a couple years after Atlas fell. Then we lost Sun and Coco while trying to reclaim Vale and the relic. We lost a lot of friends while trying to stop Salem.” 

Penny felt her heart stop for a moment as she listened, her whole reason for being alive gone. She was supposed to be here for Ruby, and yet, with Ruby gone… A tear fell into her lap and she moved a finger to her eye to wipe away a few more, not sure when she had started to cry. “I… I want to see her.” 

“Ren and I will send out a rider to the closest village to see if they have an airship that can take you to Patch.” Nora sat up and gave Penny a sad smile. “I’m glad to see you again, but… I’d be careful giving your name out. A few of the churches see you as a saint now. If they find out you’re back, its anyone’s guess about what they’ll do.” 

“Thanks, Nora.” Penny slowly picked up some meat with her fork, staring at her reflection on her fork. She still looked like she did all those years ago, out of place compared to everyone else. But now, she had a start. She’d go to Patch and visit Ruby and then try to find her place in this world. 

Weeks went by as Penny healed and an airship came for her to take her to Patch, and over those weeks she learned more about what she had missed. Salem had been defeated a little over a couple decades ago and a monument now stood in a reclaimed Vale to memorialize those that lost their lives to stopping Salem. Atlas had been rebuilt and renamed as Neo Atlas, a reminder to humanity that nothing is ever lost. And the grimm had started to become restless. Without Salem to control them, while many areas saw grimm keeping to themselves, others like Mistral started to see the grimm attack in larger groups, making it harder to keep villages safe away from the kingdom walls. Even as the airship flew over Vale, she could still see the mark that Salem left with her grimm river, much of the farmland now dead due to the grimm. 

“We’ll be arriving at Patch shortly,” the pilot said over the speakers. “Please stay seated in case of grimm activity.” 

Penny stared outside the window for a little longer before making her way back to her seat, her heart pounding in her chest as her emotions ran wild. Love, grief, terror, anger… all of it still new to her. She took a few deep breaths to calm her heart as the airship descended, lucky that there werent any airborne grimm around to halt the descent. Finally the airship landed and Penny clutched the armrest of her seat. 

“You may now depart.” 

Penny slowly got up and filed out of the airship with everyone else with shaky steps. Cold air hit her cheeks as she stepped off the airship, a reminder that it was mid fall. She shivered as she walked away from the landing pad and into the streets of Patch, pulling what was left of Ruby’s cloak that Nora gave her over her shoulders. It wasnt warm, but it at least kept the breeze off as she walked through the small town and out towards the place Nora said Ruby had been buried. 

It took almost an hour for Penny to reach the gravesite, her cheeks red from the cold wind and her body aching from the cold. She hadnt been sure what to expect, but seeing Ruby’s grave next to her mother’s did bring her a bit of comfort. Penny knelt down and rubbed her hands together to try to keep warm. Tears welled up and stung her eyes as it finally hit her that Ruby was gone. 

She wasnt sure how long she sat there on her knees shivering, but as the cold air stopped, she looked up to see a glyph behind the grave blocking the wind. Then, she turned to her left, then to her right to see a woman she didnt quite recognize  standing next to her. At least, until she saw the scar underneath what she could only describe as stress induced wrinkles. “Thanks,” Penny said quietly. 

“Its a bit cold to be out here dressed like that, dont you think?” Weiss asked. 

“I-I just came from Vacuo. I did not expect it to be this cold.” 

“Maybe this will help.” 

Penny paused when she saw Weiss hand over a green cloak, almost surprised that she still had the cloak that Ruby had given her in Atlas. She slowly reached for it, then pulled away. “I-I cannot accept-” 

“Please, take it, its only going to get colder tonight.” 

Penny nodded and took the cloak from Weiss and put it over her shoulders. The fabric felt warm against her skin, much warmer than what she had before. “I will make sure to return it to you before I leave.” 

Weiss shook her head. “After Ruby passed, we thought we went through everything she had. I only found this today when I got a message about a lockbox we never knew about. I was planning to leave it as an offering for her, but I think she’ll be happy to know its being put to good use now.” 

“I am glad she kept it,” Penny whispered under her breath. Her chest felt warm as she kept the cloak around her arms, glad she had something more to remember Ruby by. “How do you know she would not mind?” 

“She always wanted to help people even until she died.” Weiss knelt down and lit a small candle at the side of Ruby’s grave. “What brings you out to her? Only a few of us know she’s here.” 

“I-I wanted to… pay my respects to one of the fallen heroes,” Penny lied as a small hiccough escaped her lips. Well, it wasnt a complete lie, she did want to pay respects to Ruby, but not because she was a hero. Because of what she meant to Ruby, to try to say the words she never did to her. “But I should get going.” 

“Since you’re out here, why not come to my place for some tea to warm up? Next airship wont leave until morning and it’ll be a pain to get a room at the inn.” 

“That… that would be lovely.” 

“I’m Weiss,” Weiss said as she stood up and offered a hand to Penny. “What’s your name?” 

“P-Pen- Penelope,” Penny answered through another hiccough. She took Weiss’s hand and smiled a bit. “I go by Peneolpe.” 

“You look familiar. Like an old friend I knew.” 

“Maybe you can tell me stories about her. A-and Ruby. I would very much like to hear more about Ruby.”

“Tea first to warm you up, and then I can tell you a few stories.”

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Penny motioned for her swords to swing around to slice through the grimm, a smile crossing her lips as she watched the blades move as commanded. It took months to get everything to work, and while she was glad that she could finally take them on a test run, the amount of grimm that were showing up had started to worry her. She looked behind her towards the caravan she was protecting, yelling between breaths. “Get across the bridge now!”

“Are you sure you can handle this?” the caravan leader yelled back. “There’s no shame in blowing the bridge!”

“My job is to make sure you get across the bridge and to the next village!” Penny took a few steps back towards the bridge, eyes on the grimm in front of her. “I will follow once you are across!”

“We’ll hold you to that, Penelope!”

Penny sighed as she heard the name, still not quite used to being called it. Still, she couldnt worry about that now, not while the grimm were more aggressive than normal. Her blades stayed between her and the grimm as she tried to keep them from the caravan. Then, she paused as a larger beowolf made its way closer. She swore the eyes were silver instead of red, her body freezing as she remembered the Hound when it attacked.

She came out of her thoughts as she felt the grimm ran into her. Penny lost her footing and fell back, slipping off the edge of the bridge. No scream left her lips as she fell down the abyss, swearing she saw silver eyes staring back at her as she listened to the caravan leader call out her name. Soon, she felt water rush around her. It was warmer than she had expected, almost turning to light as she continued to sink. She closed her eyes, ready to accept her fate until she felt air across her face.

Penny gasped as she swam to shore and climbed out of the water, coughing as her body practically glowed. She picked herself up and started to walk back to the bridge she had fallen from, pausing as she watched a gash on her arm heal itself. With a sigh, she continued moving on forward, ready to continue her work.

[letsgetdowntobismith]

How did you even get into the sword making business?

Oh wow my first ask!! 😁 👍and actually a rather sweet story so get comfortable cause we’re going on a trip down memory lane kiddo 🙏

So growin up my parents where STRICT people, I’m talkin: 7 o’clock bed time, all work must be done before I can draw and eat, always wearing gods awful dresses with those frilly sleeves and fuckin ruffle on the skirt bottom, no going outside past 5 (and even then I had rarely left the house), no playin with the other kids as my parents always had some neighbourhood issue with their parents and the way they where raising them to be (as she puts it) ‘brutes’ , to put it simply I was kinda lonely, parents trying to turn me into a little madam so I’d ’attract a man better’ I couldn’t do ‘boyish’ things essentially. They say that they were protecting me from corruption. Pathetic excuse to get me to change who I was for what they wanted me to be. The only thing I could do so I didn’t die of boredom was draw using a sketching pad and some shitty old dried out markers my parents had found most likey on the street, and even THEN what I was actually allowed to draw was very restricting, no blasphemy, no inappropriate drawings, the only thing that I was allowed to draw where patterns. I cant make this shit up, I assume my parents thought they were patterns for a dress but I didn’t like that, I wanted them to be used for a greater purpose. I wanted to have a greater purpose.

I had a neighbour who never really showed themselves or went outside to interact with others, I guess looking back now we had a lot more in common than I thought but anyway, during the day time I would cautiously look outside my window considering I wasn’t really allowed outside much. At the time I didn’t fully comprehend what everything was in their home front, there were some tables, a couple mallets on the walls and a large stone furnace with a couple of different sized metal slabs (of course I know now these were called anvils), really nothing interesting but at night would be a different story. My room window was facing his house, as I would sleep at night id see spark past my window, sound of metal grinding and screeching and smoke would fill my room. I was always so scared of the shadows it would cast in my room, I didn’t know what the hell it all was. Parents told me our neighbour was ‘a brute’ ‘a corrupted person who would bring harm and violence to this world’ ‘up to no good’ and the list goes on. I grew to fear my the next door neighbour, I hated what they did and how my parents said they would harm people; so I would spend my nights watching the shadows on the walls whilst cowering under the bed sheets listening to the whistling and clanking from the window, though, despite the terror I felt watching the room fill with bright sparks there was always something so mesmerising about it.

I still don’t know what had come over me that one night, perhaps it was the lack of food that day, or the amount of sleepless nights I had suffered OR maybe even curiosity to help my mind relax but as I had gone to bed that night, and the noises and lights began I had decided to look out of my window for once during the night time. What followed was the moment I realised the world is not defined by my parents word.

A strix, with pale blue skin, top of their head adorned with different symbols running downwards leading onto their face, long ears pointed downwards with metal hoops hanging from random parts and as they turned to face the direction of my window their eyes, pitch black sclera with a glowing orange iris. Taking their blistered and stained hand reaching into a bucket of bubbling water and pulling out a spike before throwing it back into the fire and grabbing a mallet off the nearest wall, the once dull scenery of this workshop now shined and dazzled with bright colours of red and amber as the strix whilsted its familiar tune I’ve heard many times before, only this time it felt more comforting than scary. Every move they made was done with such grace, taking out the glowing hot metal from the ovens and smashing them repeatedly with a hammer watching as all the sparks fly out. The metal was then moulded and crafted into a long swords with fancy swirls around the handle. A new found wave of inspiration washed over me (till this day I’m not sure why but Michael’s guess was I had finally seen something new and it was exciting) as I ran to get my sketch book and pen, immediately copying the outline of the sword before drawing detailing on the swords blade.

I had awoken the next morning to my dad shouting, crying bloody murder but not from inside the house, from out side my window. Confused by this I walked over to the sound and there was my dad, MY notepad in hand, holding it up against the face of that strix from last night. “Look what you’ve done with your violent ways, exposing my child to such weapons” he should have known this was bound to happen, I mean seriously my room was right above his workshop!! But I suppose that he thought after scaring me so much I would be too afraid to do investigate what the strix was up to at night. My dad ripped the paper with the sword on it and slapped it onto the strix chest, they took the paper and started to analyse the drawing I watched as their now pitch black eyes study the paper a faint smile going across their face. I don’t think my dad was aware that I was listening because when he had walked in he told me the neighbour was going to hurt me and kill me with their weapons if they ever saw me by that window again. I knew that was a lie.

I wasn’t scared falling asleep that night, I felt nothing really. I awaited for the sparks, whistling and screeching but none of that came. Confused I once again walked up to the window now peering out at the glowing workshop with the strix sat ontop of one of the anvils eyes fixated on the drawing in their hand. “Did you draw this?” They said, such a gravelly and corse voice but one laced with intrigue and happiness. Now looking up at my window with their new glowing orange iris’s back. I didn’t know what to say really, all the terrible thoughts I had about this person because of my parents words had been completely false. “My names Orpheus, you are Runica aren’t you?” All I could do was nod my head. “That’s a lovely name, say, this is a quiet design you made.” Again I didn’t respond “Would you like to see it come to life?” They sat up from the anvil and walked over to a wooden barrel with a couple of handles sticking out and proceeds to pull out the sword that I had watched being made the night before, placing it on the anvil with my drawing beside it, unravelling a leather kit inside filled with different small chiseling tools each with a unique ending to them. Now grabbing the end of the sword Orpheus’s hand begins to glow orange as the sword begins to copy heating up the metal. Without thinking I walk closer to the window, opening it up all the way and begin sitting in the window ledge watching their every move. They tie their messy brown apron around their waist “this” Orpheus said placing their hand on the metal square “Is an anvil, I use it aswell as some other tools to be able the morph and shape it into what I desire” they reach over and grab a mallet off the table next to them “This here is a called a cross -peen hammer, you may want to take note of that, and its job is to shape the metal and this will help us get the basic blade and flatness of the sword, do you follow?” I nod my head along as I observe and listen intently to their voice. The way they spoke with such passion really changed my perspective on things, things my parents had told me about them. They aren’t doing this because they wish to bring harm, they do this because it’s art. That night I had spend my evening asking many questions, learning all different types of mallets/tongs/anvils and their purposes, whilst watching them make my drawing a reality upon that sword until the sun peered over the hills signalling morning.

That day I had spent all my time in my room, drawing new patterns only this time on different weapons. Once Orpheus had given me a showcase of all the different weapons they’ve forged I was a drawing MACHINE. Sickles,syths, knuckle dusters, flails you name it I had already drawn it. Of course I had to keep this a secret from my parents as they probably would have beaten Orpheus to death with their own tools so they had given me one of their books with all the different sketches they’ve made over the years, notes on temperatures, hammer sizes and metal quantity. During the day I would design, by night fall I was a blacksmith. Orpheus had set up a ladder so I could come down undercover, get a better veiw of their workshop and let me tell ya it’s even more magical up close once you see everything for their actual size. The anvil was almost as big as me!! After days of preparing and sketching different work for Orpheus, they would take my designs and show me how to craft them but they were always adamant on ME doing it, they would sit off in the corner on their chair observing me. In a way I’m greatful for that, at the time I was a little annoyed frankly but as I’ve grow up remembering those nights of all that hard work and heavy lifting I can look back and think, I DID THAT. I believe this was their subtle way of showing me independence, I don’t have to rely on someone to tell me what to do.

Orpheus would sit off to one side and would answer any question I asked, but there was one answer that had always stuck with me. Orpheus’ worked during the night time as opposed to the day because of the light. There was something about the sun rays that would cause their eyes to hurt and strain resulting in such pain for them, however watching the red hot glow from the metal and fire was one of the only lights that Orpheus could bare witness too, the glow provided them with the ability to see light without the strain that the sun would give off. I always thought that was rather sweet, the fact that despite their difficulty they still managed to do something they loved and brought them joy, it’s the simple things that get to me honestly.

that’s what made me fall in love with blacksmithing and forging weapons, you don’t have to follow the rules, because there are none, forging is about making your ideas come to life and testing new ideas. If it works, great do it again!! If it doesn’t, melt it down and try again, you don’t have to get it right first time and you know deep down in your heart that with a couple of changes it will work you just have to keep trying. It’s art and I will never forget when I made my first dagger, it wasn’t perfect don’t get me wrong, could have been less bumpy, the leather on the handle was overlapping to much in certain parts and the soldering was um unique to say the least but I had done something for myself for once in my life, I had control over something. I kept going, I kept pushing the limits of what’s possible and always did my best; I owe Orpheus my life, gods knows what I would be doing now if I had just stayed away from the window, I wish to continue on their legacy and create all the designs they had made in that book they gave me all those years ago.

I hope they would be proud of me.

PHEW that was a long one apologies for the ramble but when I see the opportunity to talk about Orpheus I simply can’t pass it, I’ll speak of them until the day I die 👍

[finn-m-corvex]

Whumptober Day 22: Vehicular Accident

Day 22, and this one was also extremely fun to write. I try to inject humor into everything I write, and this one is no exception. We also get some Lloyd and Jay bonding time because it's been too long since I've had a sip from that particular coffee cup!

Taglist: @splinnters @abigailxoxo @tornoleander @mondothebombo @ghostwalloper @toastingpencils37 @lightning-chicken

Words: 2k

Slight tw for very VERY small suicidal ideation towards the end!

Jay stirred to the sound of alarms wailing, opening his eyes and squinting at the flashing hazard lights spilling over his dashboard. There was something sticky on his face, but when he tried to move his arm it wouldn’t cooperate, almost like it was being pinned down. Pain was radaiting from everywhere in his body as he was coming around, enough that Jay couldn’t pinpoint any injury in particular. Jay wasn’t even sure if he could feel his legs.

He was covered in small shards of glass, the windshield in front of him utterly destroyed and doing nothing to keep the breeze from blowing past him. His head was pounding, throbbing like someone was trying to break his skull open on an anvil. Blood poured out from a wound on his chest, flowing down into his lap and soaking through his pants.

Oh yeah, and someone was shaking him.

“--ay!” the person was saying loudly, jostling his shoulder. “Jay! Come on man, wake up!”

Lloyd. He was driving with Lloyd.

Groaning, Jay did his best to turn his head to the side, but his neck refused to cooperate. Maybe if he didn’t feel so tired then he would’ve felt afraid of his neck being broken. “Lloyd?”

“Oh thank the First Master,” and Jay saw his little brother’s blond hair as Lloyd reached over to unbuckle his seatbelt. “The police are on their way. I need you to stay awake for me and I’m going to look you over.”

“What happened?” Jay asked, coughing. He felt blood spatter across his chin, Lloyd reaching up to wipe it off with his sweatshirt sleeve.

“There was a truck coming,” Lloyd said, still working to free Jay, “and there wasn’t enough time to get out of the way, so you swerved the car so it would hit your side instead of mine. It was incredibly stupid of you.”

A soft click, and the ruined seatbelt was going back to its place and Jay was falling to the side. Lloyd quickly caught him, but Jay cried out when the side of his head brushed against the younger’s shoulder. Breathing was a chore, every inhale dragging against his ribs like nails on a chalkboard. He swallowed back the sudden urge to puke his guts up all over the both of them, instead leaning on Lloyd and shutting his eyes to dispel the dizziness.

“Are you okay?” Jay’s tongue felt like it was made of sandpaper, the taste of iron overwhelming.

Lloyd snorted. “You look like you’re on death’s door and you’re asking if I’m okay?”

“Well, yeah, you’re my little brother.”

“Unbelievable,” Lloyd shook his head. “Okay, we need to get out. I think your door is smashed in, so you’ve gotta come out from my side. Can you do that?”

“Can’t feel my legs.”

Stopping, Lloyd turned, fear flashing across his face. “What?”

Jay’s hand was shaking when he tried to grab Lloyd’s arm. “I can’t feel my legs.”

Taking a deep breath, Lloyd closed his eyes and counted to three before opening them. “Okay. Okay. We can work with this. Since my legs still work, I can get you out if I need to.”

He quickly checked over Jay’s head, fingers skimming lightly against his scalp as he searched for any injuries. There was a small bump on the back, and Jay flinched when Lloyd touched it. Backing off, Lloyd apologized, and propped the blue ninja up against the seat so that he wouldn’t fall over again.

“Where are the others?” Jay slurred, barely noticing as Lloyd got out of the car. There was a green glow on Jay’s other side, and suddenly the door was gone as Lloyd tossed it aside. His hands were still glowing with the residual energy. Lloyd’s hands were everywhere, on his neck and then his shoulders and down his back. Oh yeah, he guessed that snapping his spine was a possibility.

Frowning, Lloyd continued until he reached Jay’s hips. “I haven’t called them yet.”

“Shouldn’t you do that before I die?”

Lloyd snapped his head up. “You’re not dying, Jay.”

“Uh, yeah I am,” Jay chuckled, and he cringed from how wet it sounded. “I can’t feel my legs, I’m bleeding out, and we don’t even know if we can get me out.”

“I am getting you out of here,” but Lloyd’s hands were shaking, covered in Jay’s blood as he finally glanced down to where Jay’s legs were, and he nearly lost his lunch. “You know what? I think I will call Nya now.”

Miraculously, Lloyd’s phone had made it out of the wreck with only a few cracks, and Jay sucked in a breath as something in the car shifted. Pain lanced up his back, blinding, and he bit his bleeding tongue to keep from crying out. His little brother was already worried enough.

Was his vision always this spotty?

Someone on the other line finally picked up. “Lloyd? What’s up?”

“I think Jay lost his leg.”

“What?!”

Lloyd was panicking. “Okay look we got in an accident because a truck was coming and we couldn’t get out of the way in time so we crashed but it went into Jay’s side and he was knocked out and now he’s bleeding with a maybe broken spine and he can’t feel his leg and I don’t know what to do—”

“Hey,” Jay said, shoving his hand out clumsily, “give it here and calm the fuck down.”

Shoving the phone into his hand, Lloyd started some breathing exercises, clenching his fists and slamming his eyes shut. Jay brought the phone up to his ear as best as he could, hoping that he wasn’t going to get his blood all over it.

“Lloyd! What is happening?!” Nya was saying, sounding angry. He hated it when she was angry.

He coughed. “Hey, Nya.”

“Jay!” she said. “What happened? Where are you?”

“Car accident on one of the side streets. Hit and run. We don’t know where it went.” His vision was dimming, either that or the bulbs in his hazard lights were starting to fade. Either option wasn’t great, especially when they didn’t know when the emergency services were coming.

“Where is Lloyd?”

“Next to me,” Jay said, watching his little brother as carefully as he could, “he’s fine. I made sure that I took the brunt of the hit.” Talking was suddenly very hard.

Nya sighed, and he knew that she was still worried. “Pixal is tracking you and then we’re coming. I just need you to stay awake until we get there. If you ever do something this stupid and reckless again I will murder you myself.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Jay said, and he screamed into the phone when Lloyd started trying to lift the debris off of his legs. The front of the car had been completely crushed, collapsing directly on top of Jay’s legs and midsection; the only thing that had saved him was the now deflated airbag. Colors flashed rapidly in front of him like a kaleidoscope, and it took every ounce of Jay’s self-control to keep from throwing up.

Panting, he squeezed his eyes shut as Lloyd kept going, continuing to lift and lift and lift until it was finally somewhat unbent and Jay’s legs were technically freed. He started to feel pins and needles as the blood flowed back into the limbs, and Lloyd looked relieved to see Jay’s legs still firmly attached to his body.

“Come on, let’s get you out of here,” Lloyd said, reaching for Jay’s arm and throwing it over his shoulder. Jay was basically deadweight as the green ninja hauled him out of the ruined car, plopping him down in the wet grass and laying him down as carefully as he could. “Holy shit, you’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“Yeah, I know,” but Jay still didn’t think that it was the most that he had ever lost in his life. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Shaking his head, Lloyd started to feel around Jay’s legs. “You are most definitely not fine if you’re bleeding this much.”

“Is the moon supposed to be green?”

“No, Jay. The moon is not supposed to be green.”

“Good, just checking.”

Both of them had forgotten that Nya was still on the phone until there was a loud “HELLO?!” echoing from Jay’s hand. Lloyd snatched it up and put it to his ear, rolling up Jay’s pant leg to inspect a gash that had been inflicted on it. It was deep, and would definitely need stitches.

“Nya, I’m fine. Seriously. I think I just hit my head,” Lloyd was insisting, “the one you need to be worried about right now is Jay. But don’t worry! He still has his legs.”

The night air felt good against Jay’s warm skin, and he hummed as his lightning started to activate. It was almost tingly, and Jay was happy to feel it stretch into every one of his limbs and through each of his nerves, helping to dull some of the pain and bring him back down to earth. Lloyd wasn’t prepared for it, pulling back after an initial shock but continuing his work.

His little brother. His baby brother.

First Master, he loved him so much.

“Hey, hey Lloyd,” Jay said, looking up at the dark sky as Lloyd carefully folded his hoodie to use as a pillow for the blue ninja. His phone lay on the ground with a dark screen; Nya was gone.

“What?” Lloyd asked.

“I’m glad it was me and not you.”

Lloyd stopped for a second and then kept going. “Why’s that?”

“If it was you…” Jay shook his head, “I never would’ve forgiven myself.”

His ribs were protesting every breath, creaking and groaning under the pressure and struggling to fight against the force of gravity. There was a part of him that didn’t want to try and fight it anymore, content to let nature crush his lungs into the ground. The feeling of his head splitting open was slightly soothed when Lloyd started to run his fingers through Jay’s filthy hair, untangling the knots and twirling the natural curls around his thumb.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself either,” Lloyd whispered, and Jay forced himself to stay awake. Nya told him to stay awake.

“You have to,” Jay insisted, “it wasn’t your fault. I made my choice.”

Was he even saying the right things?

Jay wanted his Yang and her voice and her touch and all of the sweet nothings that she could say. He wanted his big brothers and their strong arms and their confidence and their comforts. He wanted someone else to be here and comfort Lloyd and comfort him and take all of the pain away. Jay had never been good at that sort of thing, in his opinion. Tears started to run down his face, hot and fat and ugly and Lloyd began to wipe them away with his other hand.

“You’ll be okay,” Lloyd said, and Jay hated how close his brother’s voice was to breaking, “you’ll be okay.”

What were they even going out for? What could’ve been worth a risk like this?

He vaguely remembered something about being sad and wanting to go out, and Lloyd had volunteered to keep him company.

Sirens wailed in the distance, and Jay could’ve sworn that he saw the Bounty swooping in from the sky behind the cover of the clouds. Lloyd continued to comfort him, squeezing his hand and still playing with his hair, and Jay was grateful because if he wasn’t being reminded that there was someone next to him then he may have given up on breathing. It was too hard to do by himself; too suffocating and too much and too difficult and what was the point if all it was going to do was cause you more pain?

Lloyd sobbed when Jay said that out loud, and he hoped that he wouldn’t have to talk about it later at the hospital.

[waitwhaa]

cw: shots, mention of kidnapping, chasing

It's cold, wet and damp in the forest - jogging through wet grass at five o'clock in the morning obviously won't have a good effect on Phos' health, but now wet grass was the least of her worries.

FUCKING RUN.

R U N.

Her lungs were already burning - it seemed to her that a little more and she would simply spit them out. Her legs were buzzing, the blood was pounding in her head, and the thin dress she was wearing had already become slightly torn on the branches of the bushes.

It was terribly quiet around her and because of this, her whole soul sank into her heels every time she made loud noises.

She wonder what will happen when he finds her?

Will he kill her?

Will he kidnap her? He's already done it, damn it!

Why was she so stupid and went along with his sweet speeches?

Ever since she was a child, she had been told to be wary of strangers and not to trust them.

..however, he was not a stranger.

The edge of the forest - but the girl does not feel inspired, only an endless, tight, dense anxiety, nerves stretched like a bowstring do not allow joy to embrace an already tired mind.

Mechanical sound of a hunting rifle.

"Wait...what?.."

`Shot!`

It looks like he will kidnap her after all.

Screaming in pain, the girl collapsed to the ground, straight into the mud.

The bullet went through the arm muscle, but Phos still fell to the ground. Pain shot through her head and, trying to overcome the darkness and stars in her eyes, with a roar, the 21 y.o. student stood up and ran forward.

Now it was impossible to stop - she pulled as hard as she could, ignoring the wound and only squeezing her hand on top of the hole.

Click, cruck.

Does he reload on purpose to warn of a shot?

Is he making fun of her!?

Of course he does.

"He's aiming at me right now, i need to do something unexpec-"

`Shot!`

Phos jerked to the left - the bullet slid across her right calf, leaving a scratch.

"I need somewhere to hide..I NEED TO FUCKING HIDE!!!"

Her heart is beating like crazy - the girl feels her throat being constricted. This is a game of life and death, and she clearly doesn’t set the rules!

She runs out of the forest.

Oh, yes, of course.

Fucking bare field.

All that was left was to run along the curve, ignoring the throbbing of her hand and the prickling of the scratch.

And she rushed forward...

...To fall screaming into the ground again - this time it hurt to the point of sparks from the eyes.

A sharp, piercing, paralyzing pain grabbed her leg like a thorn vine and climbed onto her back. Tears flowed from her eyes involuntarily - she was shot in the knee.

Writhing and groaning, she convulsively grabbed the lumbago with her fingers. There was absolutely no relief from the pain, but she grabbed the skin above her injured knee and clenched her teeth, whining.

"I need to leave...I need to leave, get out of here!!"

The heart beat like a dull hammer against the anvil, the body began to tremble - the hand made itself felt again. The girl could not stand it and whined again, protractedly, suffering.

"But I can not! ...I can't get up...I can't get up...I can't get up, I can't get up, I can't get up, I can't get up, I can't get up, I CAN'T GET UP, I CAN'T-.."

Jerk.

Groan.

"Ugh, get up...the field is small, there are houses nearby..."

Strained breath.

Jerk!

"C`mon, Phos, it's just a knee... You moved calmly and on one leg, jumping, for the longest time than others, come on, you can do it, come on, you just need to do nothing - get up, and walk, get up and..."

"Do you want to take a second bullet in the knee?"

What?

The girl froze in a half-raised position.

"A good choice."

"How is he so fast..?"

The girl was afraid to move. And it wasn’t just the hellish pain dulled by adrenaline.

Behind her stood a blue-haired hunter with blue and white eyes.

In his jacket and with his hunting rifle.

Which was now pressed to the back of her head.

The girl slowly sank to the ground.

"Good girl. Now, be the good girl you are, turn to me and let me pick you up so I can carry you home."

Carefully turn sideways.

.

.

.

Phos felt boiling lava inside her.

Anger.

"DIE, SCUM!!!"

.

.

.

The attack was successful but useless.

Having fallen out of the stranger's hands and falling straight on her shot knee, the girl froze in painful shock.

"Hm. Bad girl."

A moment later, the butt of a rifle landed on the back of her head.

The darkness fell on her with a ringing sound...

UPD: She's not dead damn it, why does everyone think she's dead? He knocked her out with the butt of a hunting rifle, hitting her on the head, guys, LMAOOO HAHAHA...

Also,,,,

@turvuren hi friend

[writernopal]

Find the Word

Hi, hello, using this as proof that I do indeed live lol I've just been. Having A Time. Anyway, thank you to @oh-no-another-idea for tagging me here!

My words to find were: remember, something, blue, and dawn. All sneeps are coming from Man O' War for this one because I desperately miss this project!

remember

‘Do not expect to return as you are.’  Quye’ck looked all around. Not a thing for miles. Did it matter where he went? ‘With any luck, you shall return as who you are meant to be.’ Perhaps. Perhaps not. But anywhere was better than standing here.  ‘The wilds are the furnace and anvil with which Kava perfects us in her image. Remember that and you shall not break.’

something

They walked, in his case, slithered, for miles and miles, cleaving through sand and across earth. Sand and earth. Sand and earth… Golden and shining. Waves upon waves of splendor decorated the horizon, marvelously unaware of their own violence, blotched only by the occasional tuft of something living and wild. Perhaps a hare or a dried up shrub. It was hard to know, and he hardly cared. The blank stares from before had yet to leave his mind, and the hobbling steps of the modest one created an uneasy clock, ticking down and down…  Four days later, the clock stopped ticking, striking instead a heavy sound.  They stopped. 

blue

A man as tall and wide as his Pa, though far more wrinkled, circled the couple, speaking words not of contract but of unity. He donned robes in the same bright colors of the squawking birds that decorated the canopies of The Heartlands—rich greens, vivid yellows, and brilliant blues—to stand out against his maroon scales. Jewelry crafted of carefully carved wood and bone dangled around his neck, wrists, and ankles, making the pieces of steel in his nose all the more noticeable. They glinted in the candlelight. One, two, three, four, five rings straddled the space between his nostrils, one for each of his wives. Not just ‘a man’ then, no, he was the indelible, the ancient, Lord X’chtlama, Clan Leader of Lexlar. The only one worth remembering in that sea of faces.

dawn

He flinched and from the cluttered space emerged a woman. She was old and walked with a cane. Her scales were a silvery-blue, like the waking color of the dawn sky, and her shoulders were hunched. They made the papery crest trailing down her back appear more like a vestigial fin or perhaps a tattered piece of old fashion. Swirls of shapeless fabric draped over her person, given structure by cleverly placed pins and a heavy belt. On her face, a kindly and teetering smile. One which made apparent the puckering creases on her snout and around her mouth as it quivered to form that pleasant look.

Tagging (gently): @tabswrites @void-botanist @thatndginger @sarahlizziewrites

Your words will be: wither, gather, surreal, and fragrant

M.O.W Taglist: @moonluringfrost @full-on-sam @illjustpretend @sparatus @outpost51 @captain-kraken @the-mindless @zestymimblo @mysticstarlightduck @tabswrites @void-botanist

Join/leave the taglist using this Google Form.

[solaneceae]

grief

a team bolas oneshot (read on ao3) written before green team was split between red and blue, so in this they all died. angst with a side of family comfort. tw: blood and gore, temporary character death, self-inflicted burns

Pac wakes with a deep ache inside his chest and at the back of his mind — like a fresh, open wound that’s still bleeding. He reaches out, for the comforting hum of his soulmate’s sleeping mind on the other side, and finds nothing.

He doesn’t understand. But he also does. He’s surprised he’s not immediately breaking down screaming, but maybe he’s been broken for a long time and just didn’t notice until now.

He finds Pierre and Bad, busying themselves at the anvils. And he asks.

(Nothing, he has nothing, Richas missing, Cellbit insane and on the hunt for him, Forever dead, Mike dead, Bagi dead, Felps still MIA.

Fit.

Fit’s gone. Fit has died hating him.)

“I see,” he says, numb and empty.

And he draws out his sword.

When Red Team wakes the next morning, some of them are still holding onto hope. Hope that it was all a lie, hope that Green would merely be dissolved, its members assigned to the two remaining teams.

Hope is a cruel, fickle thing. And it dwindles fast in the minds of team Bolas as the hours start to trickle by, with no sign of any green-tinted name popping up on the global chat. Even faster when Carré comes back from recon, reporting the disappearance of Green’s spawn barrier as well as their mission NPCs.

The silence within their cave is deafening, only broken by the sound of a hammer hitting red-hot metal over the anvil. Some of them just check their comms obsessively, fraying minds tethering between denial and a complete breakdown. 

Cellbit hasn’t moved an inch since he woke up, sitting up at the center of their shared nest with absolutely nothing in his icy, blue slitted eyes as they stare at his commlink. At the last messages he’d sent to Roier, still unanswered. (His husband is gone. His sister is gone. His best friend, his President is gone. He has nothing left, and his tongue tastes like unspilled blood.)

Phil is looming over a crafting table, mindlessly placing and removing materials with no rhyme or reason. (Étoiles is gone, his best friend and brother in arms, his devil-may-care attitude, his humor, his fearless smile. Fit’s gone, his shameless flirting and unwavering determination. Forever. Forever. Kristin is eerily silent.)

Jaiden sits in a faraway corner, sharpening her sword until the edge can slice the very empty space between atoms. (Roier taught her. He taught her so much. She would make him proud.)

Charlie is off near the ovens, baking bread after bread after bread in a compulsive act of self-soothing that doesn’t quite work. (He thinks of his bitch wife, and hopes he’ll be smart enough to stay asleep today.)

Baghera’s shaking, huddled close to her fellow avian and mentor as she watches him work without really processing it, the crow’s hand occasionally tapper on her arm to keep her from ripping her feathers off. (She thinks of her brother. Her stubborn, annoying baby brother and his cursed bleeding heart. His hair had been cut so short, she’d been wanting to take a moment to even it, maybe style it a little even. She thinks of Pierre, and feels hatred. She thinks of Badboy, and feels betrayal.)

Foolish straightens up, rolls his shoulder as he admires his handiwork. (He thinks of his adopted son, and remembers why Bad always told him not to get attached to mortals. But Foolish never listens, and never will, despite how much it hurts every single time.) “It’s ready,” he drones out, catching the attention of everyone present. Phil turns to him, expression set in stone and unreadable. “Let me see.”

Team Bolas congregates around their leader, slightly bowed in something like reverence as he walks past them towards the shark-totem. Foolish grins, mirthless and cold, as he hands him a metal stick. The head of it is adorned with a strange shape, still reddish from heat. “Good job,” the Angel of Death nods, eyes and hands stained black as a few stray plants and roots wither away under his feet. His flock shivers like a single entity, all of them fastening their masks over weary, tear-streaked faces. Foolish whistles, spinning the branding iron like a majorette would their stick. “Thanks, Crowfather sir! Wanna do the honours?” Foolish chirps.

Philza Minecraft nods, silently letting his robe fall off his shoulders, exposing his naked back. “Let’s do it quick,” he says, looking over each of his fledgelings, who bow their heads in unwavering loyalty. “Today, we don’t let them rest. Not for a second. Doesn’t matter how many times they kill us, we swarm them, again and again. We, teach them pain.” He feels the heat of the furnace on his back as he sits before it, Foolish humming a cheery tune as he pokes at the blazing inferno inside. “Baghera, how many chainsaws did you make?”

The duck tilts her head. He can see her red-tinted eyes through the mask, and they crinkle in vindictive joy. “More than enough,” she coos, and Jaiden bumps her mask against hers, hello, clean, flock, hello. Phil croons out a yesyes. “Good. Very good.” He beckons her over, runs his claws through her hair-feathers lovingly. “You’ve become stronger. I’m proud of you. All of you.”

“Thanks Dad,” the duck hybrid whispers, preening under the praise. “Get ready,” Foolish warns. Phil doesn’t wince, doesn’t brace himself. Doesn’t care. “Jaiden,” he says, and the conure chirps in acknowledgment. “Taunt them. Trick them. Use every dirty tactic you can think of, I don’t care, this is no longer a fight. It’s retribution. Carré,” he turns to the warrior in the cat onesie, “I trust you. Put the fear of you in their hearts.” Carré gives a salute, sword gleaming in the dim light of their den. “Charlie, Foolish, literally go apeshit. Now’s the time.” Foolish laughs, eager, and Charlie’s codified parts glitch in anticipation. “Cellbit.” and the detective perks up. Phil flashes him a cruel smile. “Do what you do best,” he declares, and the Brazilian looks like Christmas came early.

Then red-hot iron slams against the skin of his back, and Phil lets out a gasp as his flesh starts to sizzle and burn. His talons dig deep into his own thighs in an attempt to distract himself from the pain, and the air smells like cooking meat. Cellbit starts howling first, the last of his sanity breaking when the smell hits his nostrils even through the mask, pupils dilating — like a shark smelling blood. The rest of them soon join in, screeching and laughing, too loud, too high-pitched and broken. Then Foolish removes the iron, and Philza almost falls over under the mixture of pain and relief. The rest of the flock rush over to support him, glancing at the result of Foolish’s hard work with barely disguised awe.

Angry red lines, bloody and bubbling, form the simplified shape of a gas mask right between the mangled remains of his ebony wings. A symbol of loyalty, devotion, belonging. (Pack, flock, family, murder.) “How’s it look?” the crow wheezing out, somehow still mustering the strength to make a joke out of his own agony. Jaiden flashes him a thumbs up. “Nice.”

“I want to go next,” Baghera pipes up, wings twitching with anticipation. Foolish nods, letting the others help Philza wobble away to let him recover for a minute. “Alright. Get over here then, sister.”

(There is no coming back after this, they all know that. Those marks would be here to stay, because self-inflicted scars don’t get erased by respawn, as some of them had found out over time. They all count on it.)

***

The trip is like a blur, partly because of the pain making their vision go hazy and, partly because the sky is red red red and it makes their minds fuzzy and time all wibbly-wobbly.

Charlie remembers hot desert sun hitting his shoulders and colouring them an angry red, Carré taking off his hood to breathe properly. He remembers Foolish carrying them through a freezing river, ice-cold water a temporary balm against the fresh burns in the center of his chest. (He doesn’t regret it. The pain is worth it. And the code infection is so cold, cold cold, the blazing heat radiating from the brand mark is almost soothing in comparison.) He remembers Baghera, limping the whole way, yet refusing any help. Pushing herself further than she ever has to keep up with them. Refusing to be a burden, refusing to drag them down. “I’m fine,” she would say, brushing her feathers over the mark on her right hip. “I’m fine.”

The sky is red, everything is. The blood-fog rolls in, or maybe it’s the toxic gas disaster. They can’t tell, with the masks that keep them breathing and tinted lenses painting the landscape crimson. They press on, helping each other whenever one falls, because their armors might be shit still despite yesterday’s grind, and they might have nothing. But they have each other.

When they finally find Blue, it doesn’t quite feel like catharsis. Not yet. All seven of them loom over their location - Pierre, Bad, Tubbo. (A shame. A shame he was here. He’d tried, they all knew that. But it hadn’t been enough.) They can’t see Pac anywhere, but given the few death messages that popped into global chat earlier, Phil can take a guess at what happened. (Note to self: extend an invitation to the Brazilian later.) No words are exchanged (quiet, quiet, don’t get spotted), only quick glances and flexing talons and flashes of teeth hidden beneath rubber masks. The sun hits their backs (it hurts, for Phil and Cellbit, who has chosen to place his own brand in the small of his back. He’s forsaken armor for this, he wants to feel every slash and tear, he wants to feel something, anything), their shadow-cast silhouettes stark against the red skies.

(They are pack, scavengers. They are eager to sink their teeth into writhing flesh and sharpen their claws on picked-clean bones.)

Philza raises an arm when Bad spots them, immediately barking out orders at Pierre and Tubbo, who doesn’t look like much of a leader at the moment. (What a shame. He deserved better.) The flock tenses, talons and claws digging into loose dirt, eerie growling and giggling and Charlie’s eager ‘how about now? can we go, please, dad?’

The Angel of Death looks down as his children. He lets his arm fall, and six shadows take off and rush downhill in a cacophony of barks and howls and cackling, hyena-like laughter.

Cellbit can see nothing at all, blinded by burning demon blood in his eyes, in his mouth, in his hair and beard. His knife digs into something soft and warm, someone screams, doesn’t know who. Something trips him and his head hits the ground, stunning him, and a sword stabs him in the shoulder and he laughs, ripping it out to roll away, uncaring of the copious amount of blood he’s losing. He hears the revving of an engine nearby, and wipes the blue liquid out of his eyes just in time to see Baghera slice at Pierre with her chainsaw, severing bone and tendons from his left shoulder to his right hip. Blood and viscera fall out of the gaping wound as he chokes, impossibly blue eyes widening, and then his body falls and the chime of death-respawn rings out over the battlefield. One. 

“First kill!” Carré woops, blocking strike after strike from a hissing Bad. “My turn now,” he grins, feral and they all know he’s the only human here how could a human feel so much like them, and his legs do a thing none of them can comprehend but he’s behind the demon now, thrusting his blade forward and into a groove in the fiend’s diamond armor. Chime. Bad falls, dead before his body hits the ground. Two. The Argentinian Beast swipes to the side, ridding his blade of sickly blue liquid. His sleeve creeps back up his arm, revealing the bottom of their symbol. “Mejórate, noob.”

“Oh SHIT!” Jaiden cackles, busy carving out the inside of Tubbo’s ribcage like a halloween pumpkin. “Carré’s out for blood, we love to see it.”

“Where’s Pac?” Cellbit grumbles, teeth around someone’s liver. Foolish rushed back from respawn, waving at them cheerfully, and bodies an incoming Pierre to the ground to bash his head against a rock until his skull gives and splits in half like a watermelon. “Uuuuh, dunno! Why, wanna eat his other leg?”

“Maybe.”

“Be nice,” Baghera pouts, beak splattered in red as she discards her broken saw, only to summon a fresh one from her inventory. She looks down at it with motherly fondness. “He did kill Bad earlier. And he lost Mike, and my brother. I say we leave him be.”

“Mmmh. Careful, here comes BitchBoy.”

“Oh, hello,” the duck chirps, evading a strike from Bad’s scythe. “Did you miss me, Bébou?” she giggles, thrusting her saw forward and cutting through the demon’s armor like it’s butter. Bad lets out a frustrated what the FUDGE before the blades pierce through the enchantments and through his belly. Chime. “I don’t know if I missed you,” she hums, throws her machine away, summons a new one. “I’m still thinking about it.”

Jaiden howls at her, Foolish barks, and all of them devolve into throat-tearing screams as their clothes soak up all the red, red above, red below, red, red. Philza climbs up a tower and swoops in, deadly precise, skewers another Tubbo that just showed up. “You should really give it a rest, mate,” he hums without an ounce of aggressivity, sitting on the lad’s chest as he wheezes out his last breath. “You’re making this a lot harder than it needs to be.”

“Can’t—” the goat hybrid chokes, bloody foam bubbling out of his mouth as his lungs fill up with fluid. “I’m. Tina. Nikki, Missa.” The name makes Phil blink. “Can’t… abandon them.”

“Suit yourself,” the Crowfather shrugs, then plants his blade into his former protégé’s neck with nary a sound. Chime.

Chime. 

Chime. 

Chime. 

They don’t always win, far from it. Chime . But they don’t care, losing themselves in the cycle of fight-kill-die-respawn-run-fight. Chime. Even when their resources run out, when they have nothing left but their own hands to fight with, they still come, again and again, moved by the collective desire to make them pay. They get less and less kills, armors and weapons gone, their own bodies piling up in a grotesque display. Chime. Chime. Chime. Blue Team tries to run and hide, but Jaiden and Foolish sniff them out like a pair of bloodhounds, always on their tail as the rest of the flock follows. The hours trickle, too slow yet too fast, and Blue is now winning because they kill them a lot more often than Red kills them, but they don’t give a single shit about that stupid bar made up but a stupid eyeball thing that they are done entertaining because THEIR FUCKING FRIENDS AND FAMILY ARE DEAD.

They rip, and tear, and bite when nothing else works anymore. Everything hurts, repeated respaws and the brand mark making their bodies stumble and fall and shake and seize against the cold dirt, making them easy targets. But they keep fighting.

Cellbit starts crying at some point, tears washing off the blood in twin lines on both his cheeks, and he repeats his husband’s nickname like some fucked up mantra as he stabs into Pierre’s chest over and over again, the engineer long dead. Yet he still keeps going, until Phil gently tears him away from the body to press his own bloody forehead against the Brazilian’s, letting him cling to his robes like the crow’s his last anchor to the mortal plane. Foolish and Jaiden come back, huffing, saying they’ve lost track of their target, and everyone stands still for a moment.

Phil’s commlink buzzes. He glances at it, spots something blue, turns it off. No more parlé, no more talks. “I think they’re done for today,” he sighs, helping Cellbit to his feet. “Let’s go back.”

“To the den?” Charlie asks, ripping off his mask to shake off stray pieces of viscera before putting it back on. His entire body is soaked in red, but Phil can spot some green beneath it. His code arm glitching erratically, but he barely seems to feel it. 

Philza nods. “To the nest.”

“Can we burn?” Baghera asks. Her voice is shot, just like after an intense session of karaoke. “I don’t wanna walk back. I wanna burn.”

“Me too,” Jaiden raises her hand, Charlie following suit. “Oooh, we should all do it,” the conure gasps, already piling up dead wood and whipping out her flint and steel. “It’s like a warpstone! But crispier.”

Maybe Phil should discourage that. But his bad knee hurts like a motherfucker, and what’s a little more agony after today. “Sure, fuck it.”

The pier lights up their surroundings as they dance their way into the flames, hot coal burning the soles of their feet. They briefly wonder if this is what witches did back in the day, before their last hearts are drained and they fall into the space-between-spaces, respawn mechanic spitting them out the other side and into the damp coolness of their cave-home-nest-den.

Their wounds are gone, as always. But not the brand, still pulsing with dull pain on each of their bodies. They all put ice on it, mechanically, minds already far away as their timer nears its end for the day.

None of them bother to clean up before it hits zero. The pack huddles into the nest together, blood-sticky and shaky and Cellbit is still sobbing, Jaiden’s arms around him while she croons and chirps, avian words eaten up by her own hiccuping sobs ( help, sad, sad, flock) , Charlie rubbing soothing circles into the cat hybrid’s back as he wails. Carré whispers praise and fighting tips to Baghera’s who’s only half-listening, wrapping up Dad’s sprained wing in a makeshift splint. Foolish sits close, humming absentmindedly as he finger-combs the knots and bits of flesh out of Jaiden’s long hair. “...You guys wanna move to Eggxile with me?” Charlie asks, drowsy and sluggish, Baghera’s hand-wing in his code-infected one. “When we go back. You can- you can take care of Flippa with me, if… you know. If this shit doesn’t work out.”

Jaiden laughs, wet and unstable. “I’d love that actually.”

“Your house has fumes in it,” Cellbit adds, so quiet it’s hard to make out. “I like that. It’s homey.”

“We can keep the masks there, it’s perfect,” Baghera approves, and Phil finds himself considering it because Charlie’s ramshackle house might be turning into code shit, but at least it’s far away, safe, away, away, and he doesn’t know if he can trust anyone outside his flock after this. Not stay on the wall, where everyone and their dog can show up unannounced. “Maybe,” he says.

Then their comms buzz, darkness claiming them quick.

[fandomficsnstuff]

The Dragon's Daughter - 24

(Warnings: Some tiny hints at angst mixed in with fluff, more fluff and lastly, some angsty angst:3)

Dothraki will be in bold

High Valyrian will be in cursive

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

Rhaella was silent as she sat in her chair, watching the jousting, the nobles around her having the time of their life while she sat, utterly bored, forcing a smile and thanks whenever nobles and knights would approach to wish her a pleasant name-day, as though none of them were aware that her real name-day was a week away, and not now. “Your Grace” she turned to look at one of the knights who had been jousting, Ser Jeor, he had cleaned up somewhat and gotten out of his armour, dressed as a nobleman and she found that she preferred the armour on him instead of his clean linen clothes and expensive silks. “Ser Jeor, congratulations on your victories. Again” Rhaella stated stiffly with a forced smile and Jeor smirked a little “thank you, Your Grace. If I may, what will you be doing on your name-day? I’ve heard rumours of a contest?” he asked politely and Rhaella frowned a little at him. He seemed to be the only one who actually knew when her name-day was. “Yes. A contest for the people of King’s Landing to participate in” she admitted, sitting a little straighter in her seat, her eyes turning to whoever made her feel so watched and she saw Tyrion, raising his brows subtly and gesturing to Jeor in a subtle way, making her sigh and almost roll her eyes, forcing a smile at Jeor “would you like to sit, Ser?” she asked stiffly and Jeor smirked, leaning a little closer, hands clasped behind his back “I thought the point of being Queen was that no one could order you to do something?” he asked almost teasingly and she narrowed her eyes at him before sitting a little straighter “I asked if you’d like to sit, Ser, not if you had an opinion�� she whispered back, Jeor trying to hide his smirk as he bowed his head “if it would please you, Your Grace” he stated and Rhaella sighed, waving her hand mindlessly, a chair being brought over and she was already looking away from him “it wouldn’t, but since when did that matter” she muttered to herself, looking out over the jousting matches, a bored look on her face that she didn’t even bother to try and hide anymore.

“You will turn twenty next week, will you not?”

“I will, yes.”

“This contest, it sounds quite unique. Would you mind telling me about it?” Jeor asked politely and Rhaella almost rolled her eyes but forced a smile at him “I’m afraid I only came up with the idea, if you want the finer details, might I suggest talking with my Hand? He’s been ever so helpful” she stated politely before looking away again, Jeor smiling ever so slightly at her before nodding, looking ahead “I can imagine… you know, it was your mother who knighted me… I still remember the day as though it was yesterday” Jeor noted and Rhaella looked at him with a small frown before sighing, lookin ahead again “I don’t think I remember. Forgive me” she stated softly and Jeor smiled at her “I remember you… you were watching from your mother’s side, your step-father on the other side of your mother as she knighted me. You were wearing a red dress and earrings made from some black metal-”

“I remember” she muttered, turning to look at him, a frown on her brows as she studied him closely “you were shorter, back then… your hair was longer and a little lighter” she added quietly, Jeor smiling ever so slightly “it pleases me to know that you remember me, Your Grace” he said softly and she had a strange sense that he was genuine. She finally took the time to actually look at him, study him and take in his features. He had bright blue eyes as cold as iced steel, his jaw was strong and square, like an anvil, his hair was a little wavy but otherwise it was as black as night, he had broad shoulders, a strong chin and cupid’s bow lips, his skin was as pale as Jon Stark’s, proof of his northern heritage and he had a strong, bulky nose that somehow fit him perfectly without being too bulky or crooked. In short; he was handsome. Very handsome, in fact. He had the cold of the Northern Realm in his eyes, his features strong and handsome and despite the cold colour of his eyes, they seemed almost… warm… He was quite the handsome man indeed. And only a few years older than her, he couldn’t be older than 25 in her opinion. “Forgive me for asking, but, how old are you, Ser?”

“I turned two-and-three a fortnight ago” he admitted and she nodded ever so slightly, looking ahead at the jousting, her heart racing in her chest as she turned her head to Lord Tyrion, seeing him watching her and Ser Jeor with great interest, and hopeful eyes. Rhaella glared lightly at him before rolling her eyes, mouthing a quick ‘what?’ to him, Tyrion hesitantly approached. “Your Grace, perhaps I could have a moment of your attention? Please, excuse us, Ser Jeor” he stated politely and Jeor nodded “of course, My Lord Hand,” he turned to Rhaella, bowing his head with a charming smile “Your Grace” he greeted before leaving, Tyrion taking Jeor’s place “I see you’ve talked some with Ser Jeor…”

“And?”

“And?? What do you think? Perhaps it wouldn’t be untoward to invite him to walk the gardens with you?” Tyrion hinted and Rhaella scoffed quietly, shaking her head before rolling her eyes “fine, call him back” she muttered bitterly and Tyrion hesitated before nodding, nodding Jeor over. “Thank you for allowing me a moment, Your Grace. I hope you enjoy the rest of the festivities” he stated politely and diplomatically and Rhaella glared subtly at him before looking up at Jeor, sighing heavily as she looked away “would you-... Ser Jeor, perhaps you-” she couldn’t get the words out, sighing heavily again, wanting nothing more than to run off and fly away on Raemor. What would she even say? She didn’t want to walk in the gardens! She’d walked it more times than she cared to remember, they were boring and looked the same everywhere!

“Would you-... perhaps-.... I was wondering if, perhaps, you’d like to-... go to-.... would you like to-”

“I’d be delighted to go to the Dragonpit with you” Jeor stated with a soft smile, having assumed that’s what she wanted instead of walking around in some boring gardens like every other noble lady. The thought almost made Rhaella smile a little but she kept a stoic face as she nodded “yes. Good…”

“Does Her Grace have an idea as to when we would take this journey?”

“She does not… I mean-... She does-... I mean I do…” Rhaella blabbered and Jeor smiled ever so slightly, he found her adorable. “Perhaps, if I may suggest, after the tournament?” he asked and she nodded “yes, that was my intention as well…”

“Of course, Your Grace” he stated and bowed his head, Rhaella nodding awkwardly before clearing her throat “so… would you perhaps sit through this tournament with me until it’s over?”

“I can’t stand these things, but for you? Of course, Your Grace” he stated softly and Rhaella narrowed her eyes at him as he looked ahead at the jousting, trying to figure him out. “You joust and yet you can’t stand them?”

“I joust and enter tournaments to bring honour to my house, but I am not fond of them myself… if I may be honest, I’m the sixth son of a sixth son… not much is expected of me, this way, I feel as though I’m serving my house in some way” he admitted softly and Rhaella felt her heart flip, she could understand how he felt, at least better than most, she thought. “Forgive me, Your Grace, I didn’t intend to-... I’m sure you have much on your mind already-”

“No, I-... do not mind” she said instead of saying ‘I understand feeling as though you have to resort to stereotypical acts in order to serve one’s house and family’. “Thank you, Your Grace. You’re very patient and kind, much more so than I’d heard” he stated softly and she looked away when she felt her cheeks heating up, her heart racing in her chest and she tried to keep a stoic, neutral face “well, gossip should never be listened too closely to” she stated casually and Jeor held back a laugh, studying her, taking in her face, her sharp yet beautiful features. “No, one shouldn’t” he agreed quietly before looking out over the jousting once more.

----------------------------------------------------------

Rhaella felt a hint of worry as she led Jeor to the restored dragonpit, it’s open cavernous mouth of an entrance showing off it’s real size, which had been doubled by the orders of the then Queen Daenerys, knowing that otherwise, Drogon and Raemor wouldn’t be able to stay in there comfortably, and the dragon’s staying in the dragonpit was more for the comfort of the people of Westeros than anything else. Though Drogon often left on his own, often being spotted around Dragonstone where he remained for days before returning to the dragonpit. Two of the dragon keepers met them outside, bowing their heads in respect to the Queen. “How’s my brother?”

“He is well, Your Grace, though his appetite has suffered slightly over the past few days” the oldest one reported and and Rhaella frowned with a small sigh “it’s been too long since he’s been ridden” she muttered before nodding to herself “bring him, please” she ordered, the two men leaving and Rhaella turned to Jeor “do not make any sudden moves, do not step behind me or in front of me, do not reach for him” she ordered sternly, Jeor nodding ever so slightly “of course, Your Grace, a dragon is not a pet horse” Jeor stated softly and she studied him before nodding, looking ahead, the sounds of heavy thuds echoed in the massive dragonpit, there was a deep rumbling sound, almost purring, then a sharp but quiet shriek as the thuds got closer and closer.

As the massive dragon was revealed, Jeor now finally understood why she had warned him to stay still, he felt the urge to run away, it’s sharp, golden eyes fixated on him as it blew out smoke from it’s nostrils, it’s massive mouth opens a little, revealing the rows upon rows and rows of sharp teeth. Rhaella approached without fear, a smile on her lips as the dragon keepers stepped back while Rhaella stepped up just next to the massive creature’s nose, her hands flat on the hard scales and the creature closed it’s eyes almost as though it was in bliss, a light yet rumbling, deep purr left the creature, it’s head tilting a little closer into the Queen’s embrace, Rhaella placing her forehead against the warm scales, she could almost feel the fire pulse through the dragon’s veins, through his veins, her other half, her twin, her brother. She turned to look at Jeor and couldn’t help but smirk “you haven’t fled yet, Ser Jeor” she joked, Jeor laughing nervously “you told me to stay put” he admitted and Rhaella tried not to laugh, looking up at Raemor, his eyes still closed in bliss at her presence and touch. Rhaella studied Raemor a little longer before turning to Jeor “come” she held out her hand, Jeor hesitantly looking up at the massive creature before looking back at the Queen “he will not eat you. Unless I tell him to” she half-joked and Jeor chuckled nervously, hesitantly approaching and took her hand “I was more concerned about being seriously maimed” he joked nervously and she smirked, taking his hand and placing it against the warm scales, Raemor opening his eyes as though he knew the touch of the Queen and could feel when it was someone else.

The scales were so warm that they nearly burnt Jeor, a frown on his brows as he splayed out his hand flat on the scales, his heart racing in his chest, but not just from fear. It was exhilarating, standing so close to such a powerful creature, touching it, having complete faith that it’d listen to the woman next to him, and having faith that she wouldn’t tell the dragon to eat him. Rhaella watched him closely, taking in each and every one of his expressions, every little change in his features. Finally, Jeor had to remove his hand, hissing a little as he looked down at his slightly red palm. He wasn’t burnt, thankfully, but the heat had still warmed his palm to an almost uncomfortable point. “How-...” Jeor trailed off as he saw that her hand was still on the dragon, his heart still racing as he looked at the Queen “are you not burnt?” he asked in shock and Rhaella almost scoffed with amusement, shaking her head “no… no, Raemor has never burnt me… not even when I was a child” she admitted quietly and Jeor saw the look on her face, she seemed so… peaceful… like the dragon brought her a sense of peace and calm. She sighed and leaned away from Raemor, looking up at him with sad eyes before stepping back, turning to the dragon keepers, giving them a solemn nod and they nodded in return. Jeor stepped back with Rhaella as the dragon keepers tried to urge the massive creature back into the dragonpit, Raemor growling in defiance until Rhaella spoke up “we will fly soon, I promise…” she stated softly and effortlessly, Raemor turning to look at her and it was like both of them had a sad and reluctant look in their matching eyes, sad, reluctant and accepting that this is how it is now. The dragon let out a quiet shriek as he turned around and walked back into the dragonpit, Jeor watching the sad look on Rhaella’s face with remorse.

“If I may, Your Grace… it’s a lovely evening,” Jeor started, gesturing to the setting sun and Rhaella frowned at him with slight confusion “it seems almost perfect for a ride… or a flight…” he insinuated carefully before bowing his head “have a pleasant evening, Your Grace, and thank you for introducing me to your brother” he stated and left after bowing his head once more, Rhaella feeling her heart race in her chest “not many call him my brother” she admitted loudly, making Jeor stop and look at her with a soft smile “should I refer to him otherwise?” he asked and Rhaella almost felt tears sting her eyes. No one referred to Raemor as her brother anymore, except her mother, as though they saw Raemor as nothing more than a large horse, something to be owned and controlled, not a separate being with it’s own personality and desires. “No” Rhaella settled on, Jeor bowing his head before turning around and leaving again, saddling up on his horse and riding off. Rhaella considered his words before turning to one of the dragon keepers “bring my brother back out” she ordered, turning to look at Ezzo and Brienne “I will return to the keep on my own, Ser Brienne. Thank you, for your vigil” she ordered and Brienne sighed but bowed her head and left, knowing the Queen wanted her privacy for this. “Same for you, Ezzo. I’ll see you later at the Red Keep, I need this time alone with my brother” she ordered softly and he bowed his head and nodded “of course, Khaleesi” he called, taking his leave as well and the second Raemor was brought out, Rhaella stormed over, climbing up on the large creature before anyone could say anything, Raemor instantly taking flight the second he was out of the dragonpit and could do so, Rhaella feeling a sense of freedom and peace that she hadn’t felt since she was told she was to wed someone a year ago.

-------------------------------------------

It was late when Rhaella returned from her flight, the sun having set half an hour ago and she smelled of dragon, yet the grin on her face was undeniable, Falia, Ezzo and Brienne greeting her at the gates to the Red Keep, along with a stablehand as soon as her presence had been announced. She saddled off and let the stable boy take her horse to the royal stables, Rhaella walking past Falia and her two guards and into the keep. “Was it a pleasant flight, Your Grace?” Falia asked sweetly and Rhaella nodded, letting out a heavy breath of relief “it most certainly was. It had been too long since my brother and I took flight” she admitted cheerfully, Falia smiling at her with adoration as she, Ezzo and Brienne followed their Queen through the halls. “Perhaps you’d like a bath, Your Graze? And some food, you missed supper” Falia offered and Rhaella nodded, looking over her shoulder briefly at Falia to give her a thankful smile “yes, please, it would be most welcome” she stated and Falia nodded, bowing her head before parting from their little group of four, leaving for the kitchens, knowing the Queen was too polite to admit that she was starving, as she always was after a long flight.

“I’m pleased you enjoyed your flight, Your Grace, but there is the question of your security-” “While I’m on the back of a dragon?” Rhaella asked with slight amusement, sighing lightly “I understand your concern, Ser Brienne, and I apologise if my… stubbornness causes you any problems, it was never my intention, but I needed this flight… this time with my brother… it seems that many forget that he is not just my dragon, I do not own him, just like my mother does not own Drogon. You cannot own a dragon, it is not a slave” Rhaella reminded them before sighing when they were near her chambers “I don’t mean to be difficult, Ser Brienne, far from it… but I would not ask you to part with your sword-hand, it is a part of you, a part of who you are, your identity, is it not?” Rhaella asked with a frown as she stopped and turned to face both Ezzo and Brienne, the latter hesitating which made Rhaella nod “Raemor was born from the funeral pyre of my birth father… his egg rested upon his chest as my mother carried me into the flames and he was born with me… I lost my twin to blood magic but I regained him when Raemor’s egg hatched… It may be hard to understand, but he is my brother. My twin. My other half… My life is tied to his, as is my blood and soul. He is my sword-hand, a part of me” Rhaella attempted to explain, sighing heavily, closing her eyes briefly “I am tired, Ser Brienne, of being kept from my brother, I am incomplete without him, but I bite my tongue because I’m no longer a Princess, I’m the Queen, and I know that my duties must come first and my heart second… All I ask in return is that I’m allowed to feel whole and at peace every once in a while” she finished before bowing her head a little “goodnight, Ser Brienne,” she stated, turning to Ezzo “good night” she offered him before walking into her chambers, Brienne frozen in place and Ezzo looked her up and down “she’s your Khaleesi, Blood of your Blood, Daughter of the Dragon. She does not need to be watched over like a child” he stated casually before moving to stand guard outside her bedroom as he often did, Brienne sighing heavily, not having understood a single word that Ezzo said, but she didn’t have to, the message was clear enough already, and so she did as she was ordered and took her leave.

[beelicious-and-fictitious]

Getting Off

❤ A Valentine's Day Special! ❤

Summary || [Walter “Keys” McKeys X Female Reader SMUT] the cop arresting you is wearing a cock ring and you get out of trouble by bending over for him. 

Free City AU | 3.5k words | NO BETA/ SELF- EDITED, Swearing, Valentine’s Day Theme, Prompt: “Day Three + Walter McKeys + Ring,” Dubious Consent, Impersonating A Police Officer, Car Theft, Mentions of Toxic On-And-Off Relationship, Infidelity, Vibrating Sex Toy, Public Sex, Exhibitionism, Manhandling, Torn Clothes, Size Kink, From Behind, Hair Pulling, Rough Sex, Creampie (Please Use Protection IRL Use Condoms), Cockwarming

More Valentines! | Other Keery Fics | Main Masterlist 

Stupid fucking car. Stupid money hustling boyfriend. How hard is it to give a fuck about Valentine’s Day? It's one day a year! You have tried everything: begging, screaming, dropping hints like an anvil, sending yourself your own fucking flowers, making the dinner reservations and handing him the fuck details just so he shows up, fucking his best friend. But year after year, February 14th rolls on and your boyfriend does nothing. He was either stealing away to a basketball game, cajoling a client at his day job to buy into one of his entrepreneurships (which would fail like all the others had, or refused to leave the house gym because he had to “get swole.” 

The entrepreneur shit pisses you off the most– you are professional bank robbers! Who needs a legitimate job when crime pays so well?! 

So this year, you stole his favorite car! This particular make and model of super car went from 0 to 90 in a second flat, though you could tell from the way it accelerated and decelerated was weighed down by all the added armor plating. The paint job is obnoxious neon colors with the graphics from his shitty mandom podcast.

Now you could have stepped on the gas when the cop car behind you turned on their lights. You could probably make it by crossing over county lines and out of his jurisdiction. But you have had enough of car chases for a while and pull over instead. As long as your boyfriend hasn't reported it as stolen yet, you’re probably fine. 

A set of knuckles wraps on the window and you roll it down. “Afternoon officer, how can I–” 

“Turn the ignition off,” he interrupts you gruffly and leans down to glare at you. This part of Free City is flat and dry, no shade to hide you from the burning rays of the sun and air conditioning is the only thing keeping you from fainting, but you turn it off anyways, hoping he'll be quick about this stop given he should also be extremely hot, too. 

Slicked back chestnut brown hair and a comb for a mustache. His eyes were hidden by a pair of reflective aviators (of course), his shirt collar was open at the throat in the heat and his white undershirt glowed pristinely. His big, meaty hands were tucked by the thumbs into his utility belt, and your eyes dragged lustfully back up his lean torso to his freckled, handsome face– well he would be handsomer if he wasn’t wearing the meanest fucking scowl. 

“Got a hot date?,” he asks with sarcasm dripping from his voice. “That why you’re driving so fucking fast? 60’s not enough for you?” 

“‘M so sorry officer,” you say, distracted by a light buzzing sound (was that his radio maybe?). “I, like, dropped my phone and stupidly tried to pick it up and my foot pressed down on the gas and, and…” 

His uniform makes you double take. It’s tight on him– you only need to look at the bulge of his crotch to see that– but it’s also the wrong color for this area. That shade of navy blue is reserved for Free City’s urban jurisdiction… but he pulled you over in the sticks, nothing but desert and meth dens and old highways like the one you’re on. He should be wearing khaki, he should be a state trooper or something, right? And what the fucking is that buzzing! 

“Hey,” the weird cop snapped, “I said. License. And registration, ma’am.” 

Shit, shit, shit. It’s not your car and you were driving twice the speed limit and you can get in trouble anyways. “Yeah! Grabbing it! My license… but I should tell you this is my boyfriend's car, that’s why I'm not on the registration.” 

The cop– his name tag says Keys– hums mockingly. He snatches your wallet from your hands and walks back to his patrol car (also weird looking, might be missing decoration on the door but it could just be your position in the sun) without waiting for you to fumble for the registration. Fuck, fuck– this wouldn’t be the first time a cop fucking robbed you, how much cash did you have in that thing this time?!

You check the rearview mirror and see nothing but the cop's head looking down in the driver's seat, possibly entering something into his laptop– fuck again. You’ve got a record– who the fuck doesn’t have a record in this fucking city– so there’s no way you’ll get away with just a warning. Even a speeding ticket was seemingly unlikely given Officer Keys shit attitude. You need to have the registration before he gets back or he’ll become insufferable. 

“Okay,” you take a deep breath to calm down and pull the glove box handle, only to have it fall open and dump paper, dime bags, and guns into the passenger seat and onto the floor. “Oh, motherfucker!” 

There’s a gun– there’s two guns laying on the floor of the car in plain sight and a pissy cop who will be back any minute looking for probable cause to arrest you. You rip your hand back like the guns were going to explode and your blood pressure only raises more when you realize there’s no way to dig anything resembling a registration out of that mess without getting your ass shot. 

Defeated, you cover your face with your hands. Maybe you could get out of the car and drop straight to your knees. It would piss the cop off as he didn’t tell you to get out and he’d obviously fucking shoot at you but maybe he’d just graze you for climbing out instead of unloading his whole fucking clip if he finds you staying– 

A shadow falls over your body, one you feel rather than see as you the boiling directness of the sunlight washes away. “UHm…” 

You hear the cop sigh and pull your car door open. “Step out of the vehicle slowly and with your hands out.” 

The curses flooding your brain overwhelm you. It’s fucking Valentine’s Day! You should be sipping champagne and getting your back blown out in a luxury sized bathtub, not harassed by a city cop in the desert and taking the fall for your loser boyfriend’s coke and unregistered weapons. 

“I said get out of the car!” The cop grabs you with his thick hands (hands that you had, for half a second, wanted on you before you remember he’s a damn cop) wrapped around your thighs to drag you out faster.

“Okay, okay! I’m sorry, stop!” Shaking, you hold your hands out in front of you and try your best to roll your body off of your back on the very edge of the seat. He was the one who commanded you to move slowly, but now he was impatient and this time his big hands capture your waist, making you flinch a second before you are ripped upwards into his chest, nearly hitting your head on the low rise of the car cabin door. “I didn’t know that was in there! Jesus Christ!” 

You never expected to feel hatred when a hot man’s body was pressed against your back, but today you’ll make an exception for this prick. High off his authority, officer Keys kicks the car door closed with so much force that a cool breeze kicks up among the dust. Then he slams you bodily into the hot car body and probably delights in the angry shriek that leaves you. 

“You fucking asshole!” All the fear that had been bubbling in you earlier turns to anger for a moment and you try to push off the hot car to free yourself unsuccessfully. 

The cop groans in response– probably the weirdest thing about this exchange, it almost sounds… sexual? “Keep talking, baby. Maybe the courts will give you a nickel and a dime to serve!” 

He forces your arms up and behind your head and starts patting his belt for his handcuffs. He grunts, and this time it sounds repressed, like he was trying to keep it down… that’s when you realize the bump in his tight pants is pressing hard into you… and vibrating. 

Your mouth falls open and dries up instantly in the dry desert air. “...are you wearing a cock ring?” 

“What?” You can still hear him fumbling for the handcuffs, his other hand so tight on your wrists that it hurts. “Shut up.” 

You push back with your hips and feel him counter you– and you would have believed it was just him being pissy about you not holding still, if it weren’t for the way his hips roll at the end. Effectively rubbing his very hard cock into your ass to get some friction. It’s embarrassing when it suddenly feels like the hot air around you is suddenly inside of you, spinning into a ball and writhing like fighting cobras in your gut. 

You desparately need a way out of this dilemma and you may have found it. “Fuck me…” 

The cop hummed, slapping a silver cuff on your wrist. “What did you say?” 

“I said–” you pull your arms until your elbows graze the painfully hot roof of the car. Because your motion was unexpected, the cop startles and freezes when he feels your head lay on his shoulder. You can peer past his sunglasses at his indignant, brown eyes. “Fuck. Me. I don’t want to go to jail for my trash boyfriend, and you don’t want to be suspended for sexual deviancy on the job, do you? Win–Win.” 

“Who said I wanted to fuck you, huh?” The cop, less angry and more amused now, tightens the other cuff to your wrist and braces his hand on your chest. “If you’re stupid enough to steal your boyfriend’s car full of illegal shit and get pulled over, who’s to say you're not stupid enough to give me a venereal disease, you little slut?” 

You pout. “... I didn’t steal his car and I don’t have a disease. And don’t fucking call me a slut!” 

But officer Keys just laughs at your indignance. “Open your mouth for me, cupcake.” 

You do what he says cautiously and are instantly gagged by his fingers. You can taste dust on his dry skin as well as something foul like oil. It’s entirely reactionary when your teeth close around the intrusion, and officer Keys grunts and draws them back but not fully out. Now that you know what to expect, it only takes a second to relax and allow him to press his fingers deeper into your mouth again, struggling to fight back your gag reflex and remember how to take it. He’s testing you but it doesn’t take long for you to ease into it, even sucking on them and swirling your tongue for him. 

“Atta girl,” the cop purrs, “yeah, yeah. Oh, I can work with this. You can deepthroat, right? You’re gonna need to be able to swallow the whole sword.” 

You nod your head and then find yourself suddenly unbalanced. The officer’s fingers pull free with a wet pop and he takes a massive step back from where he was crushing you against the car. You are stopped from falling by the very strong grip that takes hold at the back of your neck and he commands you to drop to your knees. Hot car, hot pavement, by the end of this, you’re going to have burns and bruises. You delicately squat instead of kneeling, wishing you had your knee pads or a jacket to throw down for protection but Keys is already unbuckling his belt. 

Your lip curls impatiently as you wait for him to finish pulling his dick out. A part of you wants to smack the sunglasses right off his face or pull his gun and shoot him, but you know it’ll do you no good in the long run. And as he uncovers his junk, the sound of vibrating gets louder. There's a wet patch on his underwear that you immediately forget about when he pulls the waistband down and his fat cock pops up. 

"Jesus Christ–"you gasp and try to protect your mouth, turning away from the sight before you but unable to tear away completely. 

It appears Keys is a meticulous groomer below the belt, too. The cock ring is glittery cyan blue, a ring around his balls and another around his cock making them both flushed red and veiny. You watch him twist the vibrating plate around his swollen flesh and use his other hand to pull back his foreskin. 

"Hey! Tick tock, cupcake," he says as he winds his hand in your hair and starts to pull you forward. "I'm on the clock and we're running out of daylight." 

Time to work for your freedom.  

Gathering saliva in your mouth, you wrap a hand around the base (fuck, your fingers don’t touch your thumb) and with your other hand still cuffed, you push the vibrating plate to his balls. Keys pulls his phone from his pocket and turns up the vibe via remote app, causing his hips to jerk and leave a wet smear of pre-cum under your nose. 

“Okay deep breath, baby.” The hand in your hair pushes you forward and despite the warning, you still gag when he slides right back and hits the back of your throat. “Uho, more.” 

He barely pulls back to let you suck in a new breath before he’s back at it, pushing you down on him despite your squirming resistance until your nose is buried in his short pubes. Your hands drop to his thighs and your nails leave red scratches on the pale white skin, tears gathering on your lashes until you are able to take one shaking breath through your nose. 

You should be mad, but the simpering whine he makes fills you with pride instead. It was impressive for you to take all that cock on one go. Your sex pulses with need and you don’t even notice your knees are on the hot pavement. 

“Swallow, baby, come on,” he praises as he looks down at you, his sunglasses moved off his sweaty nose to his head so he can better. 

Your jaw aches fiercely but you manage to obey and Keys’ moans at the feeling of your throat constricting his length. “Good girl, fuck.” 

Finally, Keys releases you and you’re able to gasp and cough and catch your breath while you stroke him to keep him happy. Your preferences for servicing him begin to shift as you feel your underwear slicken and stick to your outer lips. The last time you had good dick was probably that bank bathroom mid-heist (that janitor was packing just like this). This cop may be a complete asshole and a pervert, but damn it a huge dick was always going to do something for you! 

“Officer?” Keys looks down at you with slight disdain. He does admire the glistening drool on your chin and the wetness of your lashes, and he’s quickly distracted by your leaning back to squeeze your breast over your top. You’re going to ask him for something he fully intends to deny you until… 

“I’m so wet, please please…” you bite your lip unconsciously and make him watch you touch yourself to tell him about your soaked panties. “You can fuck me as hard as you want, don’t even need a condom, baby, please…” 

Officer Keys seemed to like the sound of that very, very much. He hauls you to your feet and walks you backwards twenty feet to his patrol cruiser. Still handcuffed, you can’t do much except obey and try not to trip over your own feet and fall. He keeps a tight hand on your arm as he swings open a door in the back before shoving you in halfway. You feel him yank your bottoms down your thighs and spit on your slick and puffy folds. 

“O-ho, baby,” he cooes almost mockingly and runs a calloused thumb over your clit, “how bad did you need to be fucked? You are one lucky girl that I pulled you over, aren’t you?” 

You try to answer him but he smacks your pussy and you shriek instead. 

“Just breathe, sweetheart,” he says, stroking his length still dripping with saliva, “nice and easy…” 

And then you feel the head of his cock pressed against your entrance and realize he is not going to stretch you out first even with that monster. On a long exhale, you force your body to relax but still you squeal a little as you feel him begin to fill your channel. For all his perverse snarling and coldness, he does exhibit some level of mercy as he doesn’t make you take too much all at once. It’s still a bit of a painful stretch but he moves slowly right up until he bottoms out inside you and growls loudly. 

“Goddamn!” You feel him grind against your hips and the cock ring vibe bumps your clit adding pleasure over the slight pain. “Haven’t fucked a pussy this tight since the Penris Bank robbery.” 

He starts moving in you, but your mind is somewhere else. Penris Bank has only ever been successfully robbed once in thirty years. You did that– I mean, you and your crew did that. Walked away with 20 mil each. Okay, your crew robbed the bank while you got your back blown out in the executive office bathroom suite. Hold the fucking phone– 

“Oh my god, you’re not a fucking cop!” In the blink of an eye, you realize how blind you’ve been. How could you forget that dick? Just because it was cosplaying as a police officer? So stupid. “Fucking asshole!” 

You try to struggle out of his grasp, but Janitor Keys adjusts his grip on your hips and lifts you up until your legs are kicking uselessly and he’s spear heading his cock into your g-spot. And as angry as you are, you can’t resist the coiling fire in your gut turning your arms to jelly or punching some high pitched moans out of you. 

“That’s it, kitten, purr!” Keys laughs and fucks you faster. “You missed this dick, huh baby?” 

You grumble and he smacks your ass so hard it stings. “I can’t hear you, bitch, did you miss this dick?!” 

“Yes,” you cry and drop your chin to your chest and throw your head back when he starts furiously circling your clit. “Yes, fuck! No one fucks me like you do–” 

“Fucking A’ right, baby…” 

Your feet find purchase on the car floor allowing you to brace against the heavy assault and push back, taking him even deeper. If a car packed full of people wolf whistling and shouting obscenities drove by, you hardly noticed, except for Keys' prideful wave as they disappeared. 

"Fuck, fuck," your stomach tightened painfully and tears gathered on your lashes. The bumping of the cock ring vibe slapping against your clit does you in and you collapse, gushing all over your partner's cock and soaking his pants. 

You feel lightheaded as you are gently laid out in the backseat of the faux cop car on your stomach with Keys cock still deep inside you. It only takes him three or four thrusts before he stills with a grunt and pumps you full of his cum. One of his hands rubs your back just like he had done when he finished on your stomach at the bank. 

Damn, you really had missed him. 

Catching your breath, you lift your head and turn a bit, then smack him across his face. Keys looks at you wide eyed, sunglasses gone and fake mustache peeling off his upper lip. 

"Ow…" He swallows and ducks his head to mumble, "okay, I guess I deserved that. Sorry."

You lay your head on your arms, feeling exhaustion wash over you as the role play ends. 

"...you know if you want, you can come over to my place and uh," Keys voice drifts off as he traces shapes on the soft skin between your shoulder blades. "I've got this huge bathtub in my penthouse thanks to the cut you gave me. We can, I dunno, throw some rose petals everywhere and drink champagne since it's Valentine's day." 

You lift your head again and give him a puzzled look. "Why would you do that?" 

Keys is a great actor because the way he blushes now is so sincere that you almost forget he was manhandling you not five minutes ago. 

"Because I like you, and you deserve it…?" 

Well, if your shit boyfriend wasn't going to spend Valentine's day with you… "fuck it, sure. But you need to clean this up and tell me what the fuck you are doing in a cop uniform!" 

Keys finally pulls his overstimulated cock out, leaving you empty and leaking but he massages your sore flesh to ease the slight pain. "Happy to tell you everything! We've got all night, if you want." 

And he leans over you one more time to plant a kiss on your temple before climbing back to eat his cum out of you. 

It looks like you are in for a great Valentine's day!

More Valentines! | Main Masterlist

So I was deadass going to scrap this entire fic several times, but I feel like I managed to work around the whole "fucking a cop" aspect. Drop a like if you liked this and leave a comment or anon ask if you wanna let me know what you liked about it!

[soulnb42]

Times Like These (part 7)

AO3

Beatrice was startled out of her slumber by Ava’s agitation. She stood up and made her way to the bed. Within two minutes she was in bed, holding Ava to her.

Their talk at the lake had helped Ava to get over the roadblock that was impairing during training. Now, she was able to tap into the Halo. It had helped opening the channel of communication as well. That being said, it hadn’t made a dent into Ava’s night time struggles.

Ava had yet to have a quiet night of sleep. Every single night since they had arrived in Switzerland, she had been tossing and turning, fighting off bad dreams. There had been three very bad nights when Halo had surged in the midst of it all. Most nights though, Ava was only crying in her sleep.

Beatrice was a light sleeper, so she’d always wake up as soon as Ava was becoming agitated. She’d hold Ava in a tight embrace and whispered soothing words. Sometimes Ava calmed down immediately, sometimes she’d wake up in alarm. Beatrice would simply rock her back to sleep, all the while assuring Ava that she was safe and everything was okay.

The light jolt and sharp intake of breath indicated to Beatrice that Ava had escaped the grip of whatever bad dream had plagued her.

Ava put her hands on the arm Beatrice had around her chest and squoze, as if to assure her that she was awake and Beatrice was really there. The gesture was familiar by now, in fact Ava did the same every time she woke up.

Beatrice felt the slight tremor of Ava’s body, she listened as Ava tried to get her breath slowly back in control. She didn’t prompt Ava to talk. She had on other occasions but Ava never wanted to, so she never pushed, not wanting to add to Ava’s distress.

Ava leant against Beatrice, resting her cheek on Beatrice’s forearm. The nightmare hadn’t seemed too intense, but whatever it was, it had rattled Ava because suddenly she was crying, her body shaken with silent sobs.

Beatrice tightened her embrace. She was at a complete loss. She couldn’t think of anything to say either. She had never been good at comfort. It wasn’t that she didn’t know when people needed comfort, because she did, she was very much an empath. It was just that she never knew what to say or do, to alleviate one’s pain.

This was Camilla’s area of expertise. Camilla always knew what to do or say to keep the morale up, to make things okay, give hope, reassure and comfort. 

Well, that was it… what would Camilla do?

“The sun has gone and forgotten me…” Beatrice started to sing with a soft but unsteady voice.

Beatrice didn’t remember why or how the topic had come to be discussed, but she had once mentioned one of the very few good family-related memory she had to Camilla. One of the only good things she had preserved really: a song. One day long after having shared that memory with her, Camilla had sung it back to Beatrice when she was down and it had immediately lifted her spirits up, as if Camilla had known she had only needed a little reminder.

She didn’t know if the song would have the same soothing effect on Ava, but right now, it was all she had so, she committed to it in all her awkward glory.

“…somebody told me, I don’t know who, whenever you are sad and blue…”

She rocked them gently along the song, she was singing it slower, turning it into a lullaby.

“…Hang on things will be alright, even when it’s dark and not a bit of sparkling, sing-song sunshine from above spreading rays of sunny love, just hang on…”

Ava was emotionally exhausted. Just breathing was near impossible, emotions, like an anvil were weighing onto her chest. She couldn’t even put words to describe her bad dreams, but the feeling of dread, the cold sweat, the fear, the anxiety, the terror, all of it was real and tenfold.

She was surprised at the sound of Beatrice’s voice, but she gave it her full attention. If she was a boat caught up in a storm of terror, Beatrice was that hopeful lighthouse in the distance, guiding her back to safe shores.

“…and so I hold on to this advice, when change is hard and not so nice…”

Beatrice didn’t think she was a good singer, but kept on with her song if only because it seemed to have the intended pacifying effect on Ava.

Ava hung onto Beatrice’s voice and her embrace. She focused on the warmth, the softness; she let the song fill her, guide her mind back in the moment. She was safe.

“…if you listen to your heart the whole night through, your sunny someday will come one day soon to you.”

The song came to an end, but Beatrice kept on with her soft rocking motion. In a silent thank you, Ava delivered a lingering kiss on the forearm across her shoulders.

After a few seconds, Beatrice rearranged her position as the big spoon and Ava put her hand over the one Beatrice had on her stomach, entwining their fingers.

Ava eventually fell asleep again, Beatrice watched over her for almost forty minutes before giving in to her own exhaustion.

xxxOxxx

When Ava woke up, the first rays of dawn were piercing through the window. She wasn’t surprised at the fact that Beatrice was no longer in bed. It didn’t matter how many times Beatrice lull her back to sleep after a nightmare, she was never there in the morning.  Ava wondered if she went back to sleep on the couch once she, herself, was asleep again.

With a sigh, she sat up and rubbed her face. She listened for movement but there was none, so she deduced that Beatrice was out for a morning walk or run. She got out of bed and started her own morning routine.

By the time Beatrice came back to the apartment, Ava had showered, dressed and made the bed.

“Morning,” Beatrice said when she spotted Ava eating cereals at the kitchen table.

“Morning.”

Ava took note of the light sheen of sweat and tilted her head when a thought occurred to her. “Don’t you think it’s weird that you go for a run before our training session?” she asked.

“Why is it weird?”

“Well, you always start our training session with a run… so if you go for a run before that run… it’s like… rehearsing a rehearsal,” Ava shrugged.

“I’m just… warming up,” Beatrice replied. “Besides, I need all the stamina I can get to keep up with you, because I don’t have an ancient artifact powering me up.”

It wasn’t a lie, Beatrice had to train herself on top of their regular training to keep up her shape. But if she was honest her pre-training morning run was just a way for her to clear her head.

She always felt unnerved in the morning after spending the night watching over Ava and holding her through the night. She knew things would have been different had she been in exile with Camilla, or Lilith or Mary. There was something about Ava. Their connexion had been different from the beginning, but it had truly changed when they had been training at Arctech to prepare their Vatican mission.

It was easy to ignore whatever that thing she felt was on a normal day, but their confinement, her worry about Ava and the constant proximity changed everything. Things long buried were trying to surface and Beatrice couldn’t allow that.

So, she ran. She pushed herself physically to keep her mind off it. By the time she was back, she generally felt centred again, in control.

“I do see your point, I still think it’s kind of weird,” Ava stated with a smirk.

“Whatever,” Beatrice rolled her eyes. “Let me shower and change, then we’ll go train.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

xxxOxxx

After their training they had come back to the apartment, stayed long enough to freshen up and have lunch, then they had gone to the bar for their shift.

After a long day, they were eating dinner, at least Beatrice was, Ava was pushing her food around. Beatrice had noticed how during the day Ava’s mood had improved when they had been training or working, but now it had shifted back to something darker.

Ava had a luminous personality. She was always upbeat as a general rule, seemingly finding something to smile about at every turn. Beatrice was no fool, she knew some of Ava’s joking and ‘can’t-take-anything-seriously’ nonchalant attitude was a defence mechanism, but there was also a genuine sense of constant wonder at the world around her.

Beatrice assumed that Ava was just catching up. After all, she had been confined in one room, prisoner of a bed and unable to feel anything for a very long time.

Ava was full of life so as a result, when her mood was down, it was unsettling and impossible to ignore.

“Not to your taste?” Beatrice broke the silence effectively pulling Ava back from her thoughts.

Ava looked up in a daze, then she seemed to realize what she had been doing. “No, it’s good,” she shook her head.

A memory of being force-fed a mixture so horrid it could barely qualify as food, and then being severely berated for avoiding it popped into her head.

“I’m sorry, I know I should stop being an ungrateful brat and eat, there are people starving…” she mumbled bitterly.

Beatrice frowned, surprised by the vitriolic words. She knew that tone though, enough to deduce those words weren’t Ava’s but had been drilled into her repeatedly enough to leave a mark. Beatrice had plenty of those toxic gems in the recess of her own mind, luckily, she knew how to deal with that kind of things.

“Actually, you don’t have to eat if you don’t want to,” Beatrice pointed out. She made sure to be gentle with her tone so Ava knew everything was fine. “There’s this thing called a food container and this even more amazing device called a fridge. The combined use of the two allows us to save food from being wasted.”

Ava hiccupped with amusement. “You don’t say.”

“Mind-blowing, I know,” Beatrice kept on with her teasing.

Ava stared at her for a long moment, her expression brightened a little but to Beatrice, the lightness seemed a bit forced. “I was talking to Hanz today,” Ava said non sequitur. “About what it was like to be a bartender. One of the things struck me as funny. He said something about people confiding in him and how there was this unwritten rule in the bartending world that as a bartender he was like a priest, bonded to secrecy.”

Beatrice listened attentively, waiting to see the point Ava was trying to make. “So…”Ava dragged the word out. “Technically, you’re a priest now. Well, a priestess.”

Beatrice felt her eyebrows trying to reach her hairline and couldn’t hold the surprised snort of amusement that passed her lips. She didn’t think Ava’s mind would ever cease to amaze her, with its unpredictability. “Right,” she nodded with a playful frown. “Anything you want to confess then, child?” she asked with a mock serious tone.

She had meant her question as a joke, so the abrupt mood shift confused her. The grin on Ava’s lips was sad and permeated with something Beatrice couldn’t quite identify.

Ava turned her attention back to her plate and started pushing food again. She did have a confession to make. The thought of it alone was like a thick dark fog coiling around her, slowly constricting her chest, cutting her air supply, squeezing fear and anxiety back to the surface.

On pure survival instinct her mind latched onto the first thing it could to fight her way back to a safe mental space. That thing turned out to be the echoes of Beatrice’s voice singing to her the previous night.

“The song…” Ava frowned. “What was it about?” she looked back up at Beatrice.

That second non sequitur threw Beatrice for a loop. By now Beatrice was used to Ava’s mind going in unexpected direction, but it was always a steady stream. Right now, it all seemed off, somehow.  

Beatrice couldn’t explain the sense of unease that was nagging at her, she didn’t like it either. She wanted to ask what was wrong, but her instinct told her it was best to blindly hop onto Ava’s train of thoughts without questioning its origin or destination.

“It’s…hum…” she stammered a little before mentally shaking herself. “It’s about a sad little tomato.”

Ava nodded absentmindedly, the corners of her mouth barely lifting up in a failed attempt to grin. “I liked it…”

Before Ava could slip away in her thoughts again, Beatrice added. “My older sister used to sing it,” she paused and then shrugged. “She’d sing almost all the time and this one was one of her favourites. She’d sing it to me when I was upset, or to cheer me up or lull me to sleep.”

Ava’s attention was back on her food, she seemed mesmerized by the slow movements of her fork

“My mother used to sing all the time too. I don’t remember a lot but I remember that.”

Ava felt the familiar ache in her chest at the thought of her mother.

She had been seven when the car accident that claimed her mother’s life had happened. She had been old enough to have a florilegium of memories, but too young for those to be solid and fully timeproof.

If it hadn’t been for Sister Emelyne’s kindness, Sister Frances’ cruelty would have corroded all of Ava’s memories, reducing her mother to nothing but a fleeting, nebulous souvenir.

“Things weren’t…great at the orphanage…” Ava murmured.

Beatrice could count on one hand the instances Ava had mentioned her time at the orphanage. The one constant in those moments was the forlorn expression on Ava’s face.

Maybe it was because she had spent more time with Ava than the others but Beatrice had picked up on the unsaid and subtle cues; it was in some jokes Ava made with depreciating or acidic undertones, in the minute flinches at times as if Ava was expecting a bad touch. Many little details that could easily be missed had led Beatrice to conclude that Ava had been hurt emotionally and physically at some point.  

“Every morning, for the couple of minutes when I was still caught in a sleepy daze, I’d think I had a crazy nightmare where I was paralyzed and alone because my mother was gone…” Ava’s chuckle was bitter. “Then I’d open my eyes only to realize that it was all real.”

The despair Ava had felt then was starting to bubble back up to the surface. She had cried so much during those first days, calling out for her mother every time she’d wake up.

Ava cleared her throat when tears started to prickle her eyes. “One day, Sister Emelyne, she was the kind one,” the fact that Ava had to specify the character of one of her caretaker only confirmed Beatrice’s suspicions of abuse. “She tried to reassure me by saying that my mom would never be really gone as long as I thought about her, remembered her…that only made me cry harder because I had already started to forget…”

Between the accident, being paralyzed, being told every day by Sister Frances how much of a burden she was, how no one cared enough to look for her, the souvenirs of her mother had been fading fast.

“The day after, she came back with a small box, no bigger than a shoe box. She had gone through the belongings that had been brought with me at the orphanage, what had survived the car crash. She had put things from my mother in the box, things that would help me remember.”

It hadn’t been much: a bottle of perfume, a silver necklace, bracelets, two journals – one full and one freshly started, a small sketchbook, a wallet and a book. Small precious treasures, the last traces her mother had left behind.

To Ava, the most prized items had been the journals, pieces of her mother’s mind, thoughts, hope, dreams and her struggles. They had found a dozen of photographs stuck in the pages; pictures of Ava as a toddler, pictures of her mother with people, of landscapes, picture of the both of them. Ava’s favourite picture though, had been used as a bookmark in the book her mother had been reading. It had been taken at her seventh birthday, the both of them beaming at the camera.

All of Ava’s memories had flooded back to the forefront of her mind upon seeing the objects. That day she had felt a tad bit better thanks to Sister Emelyne.

To this day, Ava doubted Sister Emelyne really knew how cruel Sister Frances was, but it was no secret that Sister Frances was feared and not well liked, so Sister Emelyne had made sure the box was well hidden and only took it out whenever she was the one attending to Ava’s care.

Now that box, Ava’s only possessions, was still hidden in the wall of her room at the orphanage, behind two broken tiles. One day, hopefully, she’d get it back.

“You know over the years, there were days I couldn’t remember my mother’s face or the colour of her eyes, but the one thing I’ve always remembered clearly was her voice. The sound of it when she spoke, when she laughed or sung.”

Ava looked up and smiled sadly. “She sung all the time. One of her favourite songs was ‘feeling good’.”

It had taken quite a while for Ava to find the name of the song. She sung it to herself a lot, she had forgotten the lyrics but the melody was clear. Sister Emelyne had surprised her one day with a tape with Nina Simone’s version on it, as well other songs Ava had been able to remember. That day, Ava had cried tears of joy.

“Birds flying high… you know how I feel,” Ava sung the first verse then stopped.

“Oh yeah, that is a good song,” Beatrice agreed.

Ava nodded. “It got me through the bad days.”

That song and the others had helped her mute Sister Frances’ cruel words. Ava had developed other ways to escape over the years, but during the darkest time, her mother’s songs had been the ultimate shield, maternal protection at its finest.

Once again Beatrice picked up on the unsaid. That last statement let her know that Ava’s bad days at the orphanage far outnumbered the good ones.

“I didn’t kill myself.”

If Beatrice hadn’t already known that information, that third non sequitur would have virtually knocked her out. As it was, even though she hadn’t expected them to go down that road, she was able to contain her surprise and keep up with Ava.

“You’ve told me once. I believed you.”

Ava’s jaw worked for a few seconds but no sound came. “I was murdered.”

Beatrice was so stunned by Ava’s statement, her mind went blank for several seconds.

“Sister Frances killed me,” Ava specified. “Those were the drugs in my system.”

Beatrice didn’t say anything, she had the gut feeling that there was more to that revelation.

There was fear in Ava’s eyes, but also something else. It took Beatrice a moment to pinpoint it, she frowned when it finally clicked.

Guilt.

Ava was ridden with guilt, but at this moment that didn’t make any sense.

For a second, Beatrice feared Ava would clam up but her silence turned out to be the perfect prompt in the end.

“I had a friend at the orphanage, my roommate, Diego.” Warm affection tinted Ava’s voice. “Sweet boy, we used to laugh a lot,” a smile lit up her face.

There was a long pause, Ava’s expression darkened again. “When I was running away with JC, I put all the pieces together. I finally figured it all out, how I died,” she continued. “And I knew, deep down in my guts I knew Sister Frances was about to do the same to Diego. I don’t know how I knew but I did.”

Ava pushed her plate away and balled her fists to cover the fact that her hands were shaking. “I ran to the orphanage and I made it just in time because… she was about to kill him.”

Bile was burning the back of Ava’s throat. If it hadn’t been for the Halo the outcome of that particular night would have been different, for all of them.

She bit her lips and looked at Beatrice. A part of her was screaming at her not to say any more. If she was honest, Ava dreaded what Beatrice would think of her once she knew what she had done. On the other hand, she couldn’t bear the weight of that secret anymore.

“I confronted her about murdering me, you know? Because it dawned on me that I wasn’t her first…”

A cold frisson ran down Ava spine as she remembered the feeling of horror when she finally saw the big picture.

“She laughed… gloating about having lost count of the years.”

Breathe. Beatrice had to remind herself to breathe. She needed to temper her emotions because she knew, she knew as dark as Ava’s story was, it was about to get darker.

“Years…years, Beatrice. Can you imagine how many…” Ava trailed off. “She went on saying that she was a saviour, giving her life to look after us, freeing our souls, releasing us into the arms of God…”

Ava heard the venom pouring from her voice. Anger was burning through her veins again, just like it did that night.

There was a pause then Ava cleared throat before continuing. “She murdered me again,” Ava let out a bitter laugh. “I’m probably the only person on the planet who can say they’ve been murdered twice.”

Everything came back full force. The burning of her lungs as they had ceased their function, her struggle to breathe, her whole body turning into heavy lead… life slowly and painfully leaving her body.

“I was dying while she laughed… she was literally cackling, enjoying herself…”

Ava shook her head to get rid of the souvenir. “Only this time, the Halo protected me, it brought me back again.”

That night and every day since, Ava has told herself that it was self-defence… that she protected Diego and herself. In spite of all that, she knew that what she had done was wrong. Also, she couldn’t deny that there had been a second maybe two, when her rage had taken over, when she had wanted to hurt Sister Frances. She had just defended herself afterward, but those two seconds had happened.

Ava looked at Beatrice. She knew that with her next words everything would change. She just hoped she wouldn’t lose her friend.

“I grabbed her neck…”

The words came out so low Beatrice had to strain her ears. When she registered them, cement settled in the pit of her stomach.

“I just wanted her to stop laughing… then she attacked me and…” Ava unclenched her fists, and stared at her open palms. Those hands had hurt and they were hers.

“I just wanted her to stop laughing,” she repeated with a hint of despair, she needed Beatrice to believe her. “I didn’t realise my strength…” she looked up at Beatrice again. “Her neck…” her voice failed her. She cleared her throat and plough on. “Her neck snapped… but I didn’t mean to do it… I didn’t mean to do it.”

Ava’s breathing shortened and became heavier as if there was little to no oxygen in the room. “I killed someone… that’s my confession,” she added in a rush with a glance in Beatrice’s direction.

The harder she tried to breathe and the more her lungs burnt from the lack of oxygen. Ava stood up abruptly and turned to the sink. She braced herself against it, certain she would empty her guts and, or, pass out in any minute.

Nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared Beatrice for that bombshell.

Beatrice was overwhelmed by a myriad of emotions. Emotions she felt for Ava, on behalf of Ava and for herself. She took a deep breath, immediately shutting them all out. She’d have time later to analyse and deal with her feelings, now there was more important things to do.

She got onto her feet and silently approached the body slumped over the sink. Ava was heaving, her grip on the counter was so tight her knuckles were white, and despite her tensed, rigid stance, her body was shaking all over.

Although when on a mission, they primarily incapacitated or wounded whoever they fought against, Beatrice knew her hands had killed. More than once. She had come to term with it. She was a sister warrior and as such she had to accept that while Death was no friend, it was no stranger either.

In any circumstances, the strongest moral compass and the best intentions never truly justified taking a life. They did help to cope with it and appease conscience though. Still, a life was a life. Regardless of any other considerations, Beatrice was of the opinion that all lives should be valued equally. Thinking that some lives mattered more than others was a slippery slope toward extremes. Deciding who should live or die was a power that didn’t belong in any person’s hands.

Beatrice could tell Ava that Sister Frances was a monster with a God complex and no regards for life. She could tell her that although her action was not right, she had effectively saved herself, her friend Diego and who knows how many future victims. She could tell all those things.

She didn’t.

She didn’t say any of those things because she knew nothing she could say would alleviate that particular burden off Ava’s shoulders at that very moment. Ava would have to come to term with it on her own. Beatrice would help of course and be there every step, to talk it through and figure the path toward acceptance.

She gingerly put a hand on Ava’s back. Ava startled at the touch. Beatrice didn’t move, patiently waiting. It took a minute but eventually Ava dared to look at her. Amidst the maelstrom of emotions swirling into Ava’s eyes, guilt, fear and apprehension were the most prominent ones.

Beatrice cradled Ava’s face gently with her other hand then pull her closer. Ava didn’t resist and wrapped her arms around Beatrice in a bone crushing embrace.

Ava took a deep breath and the dam of her emotions broke loose.

Beatrice held on, solid as a rock while gut wrenching sobs shook Ava.

“In my dreams…” Ava hiccupped. “I’m paralyzed again… and she kills everyone… Diego… JC… and you and the others…” her breath was short and unsteady. “She’s laughing and… I can’t do anything but watch…”

Fresh tears doubled on Ava’s cheeks as haunting images from her nightmare came to the front of her mind. Every night, Ava was in her own version of Hell as soon as she closed her eyes.

“… and then she comes for me.”

On a good day, that was when Ava would wake up. On bad days, Frances turned into Adriel and if Ava was terrified when Frances was laughing and hurting people, there was no qualifier for when Adriel took her place.

Ava tightened the embrace trying to absorb Beatrice’s strength and warmth, letting it all wash over her and sip in through to chase away the cold of dread that was running into her veins.

Ava’s relief was incommensurable now that her secret was out. She breathed a little better. She knew it would take a long time before her action stopped haunting her (if it ever truly did), but at least now it would stop eating at her from within.

When she was confessing to Beatrice, the sound of bones snapping, how it had all felt in her hands…everything had come back to her so vividly she had felt sick.

She had expected bad things, judgement, words of reprimand, disgust… she had expected Beatrice to walk away from her. Instead, she had nearly jumped out of her skin at Beatrice’s delicate touch. She had been surprised when she had been brave enough to look up, only compassion and understanding had shone in Beatrice’s eyes.

It had taken the smallest nudge for her to melt into Beatrice’s arms, overwhelmed with emotion Ava had finally broken down.

Beatrice held Ava, she made sure she was breathing in and out slowly, subtly forcing Ava to match her, pacifying her. When she felt Ava’s fists unclenched around her shirt, Beatrice loosened her hold just a little bit and Ava pulled away and looked up at her.

They stared at one another. Neither spoke. Ava’s gratitude was silent but Beatrice heard it loud and clear all the same.

Ava took a step back, completely breaking their embrace. “I’m…tired…I think I’ll go to bed,” she announced with a small nod.

Beatrice acquiesced at her statement and watched her leave the kitchen. She took a deep breath, held it in then exhaled deeply. She’d need a moment to process everything, but not tonight. She chose to focus on cleaning the kitchen to keep her mind of the past few minutes.

She was finishing the dishes when she heard the bathroom door open again. She turned and faced Ava who was standing there awkwardly. With her slightly hunched posture and the way she was swaying from foot to foot, Ava seemed small, younger, to Beatrice.

“You know… you may as well share the bed with me from the beginning. That’s most likely where you’ll end up anyway,” Ava said with an uneasy chuckle.

Ava had a point, Beatrice knew she did, but… well, there was a discomfort she really didn’t want to dwell on. She didn’t want think about that tug she felt when she was holding Ava. It didn’t occur when she was focused on comforting her, no, it’d happen after, during the hour or so she’d keep watching over Ava after she’d fall asleep again.

She would feel the dull tingle of something warm and electric trying to bloom in her chest, in her whole being really. Something that felt good but that she’d instinctively want to repress because she could hear those nagging voices in the back of her mind telling her how wrong it all was among other things. She had spent a lifetime smothering those voices, burying them in the dark recess of her psyche. The very last thing she wanted was for them to be loose again, free, and loud.

Beatrice’s silence was unbearable to Ava. Sure, she had showed understanding and compassion earlier, but now that her confession had had time to truly sink in, Ava was overwhelmed with fear. Maybe Beatrice was disgusted with her after all, maybe she saw her as a monster.

She had just confessed to literal murder, and the thought of losing her friend over it was killing her.

“Do you mind sharing the bed with me?” she asked in one breath. “It’s just that… I feel better… safer when you’re near,” she admitted.

Ava didn’t wait for an answer and turned around to go to bed. She got on her side and forced her eyes closed. Maybe she’d fall asleep rapidly then and wouldn’t have to face an eventual rejection.

Tonight emotional rollercoaster had left her raw. She felt so vulnerable right now she knew she’d probably cry if Beatrice went to the couch. She needed her friend. And something as ridiculous and simple as sharing the bed would let her know that everything was fine, that nothing she had said had changed things between them.

Also, if she was honest, Ava craved Beatrice’s closeness right now. She hadn’t lied when saying that she felt safer with Beatrice by her side.

She heard Beatrice moving around the apartment for her night routine. The sound of the light switch echoed loudly in the silence when Beatrice turned off the light, then there was a long pause. Ava held her breath and sent a silent plea to the universe.

I feel…safer when you’re near

Ava’s words echoed in Beatrice’s mind. Whatever discomfort she felt was ridiculous and irrelevant right now. Ava needed her and that was all that mattered.

After a brief hesitation, she walked to the bed and lied down awkwardly on her back with her arms along her body. She felt tensed, and berated herself for it. She stared at the ceiling and concentrated on her breathing, trying to relax.

Should she hold Ava?

No, probably not, that would be weird. It was one thing to hold her when she was having a nightmare, it was another to initiate that kind of contact out of the blue.

The relief that washed over Ava upon feeling the pressure on the bed, was indescribable. After a couple of minutes, she rolled over to get on her other side so she was facing Beatrice. She cradled Beatrice’s hand in both of her own.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

She made out Beatrice’s little nod in the darkness and felt the small squeeze around her fingers. That was all the assurance she needed. Those gestures, as small as they were, let her know that nothing had changed between them, she still had her friend.

She still had her friend.

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The songs are 'Hang on Little Tomato' by Pink Martini and 'Feeling Good' by Anthony Newley and Leslie Bricusse (Nina Simone and Michael Buble both have very cool interpretations).

Thanks for reading