#I might be hitting a bit of a low lads | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

obscuremantisman · 4 months

Text

Maaaan, i love writing about silly eldritch creatures. ALSO, WE'RE ALMOST HITTING 30 EPIC FOLLOWERS EVEN THOUGHT I'VE BEEN AS ACTIVE AS A ROCK?!?! YIPPEE!!!

this is following both ending J and ending L.

⪧ I appreciate criticism, ideas, and your opinions. ⪦

As you finished wrapping up your target's body, you threw it inside the trunk, closing it without much care, and walking back to the front.

A heavy sigh left you as you plopped down on the seat. Your back was killing you. That's what you get from carrying heavy weight for too long. You glance up, staring at the roof empty-minded for a few seconds before today's events replay in your head.

You fucked up, you had been working nonstop, and countless hours were spent on a mission that was supposed to end midday, all because you had made a tiny mistake. The little mistake that simply provoked a chain of unpredictable events, being almost the death of you in several moments.

"Aaargh... I should've been more careful, next time I might actually not make it." You scolded yourself, stretching your arms with a frown plastered on your face. This mission was simply a disappointment, one of your worst performances this year. You could've done so, so much better, and that fact bothered you.

You wiped off some sweat from your face, glancing down at the empty seat beside you in thought, your eyes widening as realization hit you like a truck. "Aaarrgh! I'm such a fucking moron! Out of all things, I just had to forget about this!!!" The words came out of your mouth before you could even think, grabbing a fist of your hair.

Were you really coming back home with empty hands? again? You're supposed to already have new books from the local library inside your car. You panicked, looking around for any kind of magical solution.

You could try reaching the place right now... but you were so far away from it at the moment that you'd never get to the damned library in time if you wanted to keep a low profile, which was necessary to keep you out of the police sight.

You bit the inside of your cheek, staring at the front mirror, finger tapping at the wheel. Was it worth it? No matter what plan you elaborated, too much risk was in sight. You were hesitant, of course, rethinking all choices available while guilt crept to your mind, an image of Hector coming to mind. The lad being the sole reason you'd bring home so many books. A smile crept onto your face as you recall Hector's expression when you told him he could read any of the books you had around, his happy hums replaying in your mind.

He had become a massive bookworm once you introduced him to the world of literature, and you felt absolutely no guilt in admitting that you couldn't resist spoiling him rotten, trips to the library turning into a habit.

You sighed, hands clutching the wheel, any thought of coming home with nothing being discarded as you turned the car on, your foot going down on the accelerator with force. "I need those damn books!!!"

When you finally stopped the engine at a safe place, you immediately ran to the building, almost falling face to the floor when throwing yourself at the library's door. It attracted a few stares, but you couldn't care less about the embarrassment passed, although stiffly walking for Hector's preferred book section, hiding your face from view.

You looked like a mess. You had, quite literally, gotten the books just by the last minute, and life was practically drained from your complexion. You had been resting on a wall for a few minutes, recovering your forces when the lights of an open store across the road caught your attention. You tried your luck with it, having a bit of money spent on delicious treats for the night. Now with two grocery bags in arms, and lips dry as chopsticks, you walked back to your car, resting your face on the wheel. You waited silently for nothing to occur for a few seconds, fisting the air in victory, plastic bags being put just on the seat beside you. "Mhm, let's see, three books, a bag of caramels, aaand a chocolate cake." You grinned, glancing at the street a few times before putting your car to work again.

You felt happy to see your house, taking the bags as excitedly as you could and sneaking to the back of the car, using the key in your other hand to open the trunk.

Taking out the body from inside the trunk was the easy part, you've come to have a facility in weight lifting due to how you did your job. The hard part was the back pain achieved later, which right now was killing you.

"And up you go." You threw it over your shoulder, closing the trunk with a slap, the bags in your arms swinging around as you walked.

You open the door, greeted by the smell of waffles in the air. Hector must be enjoying the waffle maker you brought last month, you thought to yourself.

You had a glance around, closing the door behind with one foot. "Hectoor! I'm home!" You called out, the lack of answer not bothering you as you walked further in.

You eyed the walls as fleshy tendrils with teeth came into view, something you grew accustomed to seeing within the years of living with Hector. They slid closer to you without much stealth, the largest one coming ahead to reveal an eye, black sclera, and shiny green iris.

"Hi there." You greeted it, reaching a hand to pet the tendril, a hum leaving you as it slid past your fingers to around your arm, its pupil expanding as it stared straight into you.

It had a firm yet wet, squishy composition, rather satisfying with your gloves on, which had you spend a good few minutes squeezing it around, not that Hector minded, letting you do as you please.

You were brought back to reality once your sore muscles hurt yet again, making you groan, letting go of the tendril and continuing in your way.

You took a turn towards the kitchen, poking your head in to have a look inside, only to be taken by surprise as you came face to face with Hector, who was not only savoring a waffle but also waiting for you, a gurgling laugh leaving him at your reaction.

You sighed, putting your hand on your heart as you calmed down. You swear Hector is gonna end up giving you a heart attack one of these days. "A sneaky bastard as always, I see." You only received a little hum in response before his interest was peaked at your things.

You looked behind yourself at the wrapped body, to the bags, and then at him. He was staring at you for permission, digesting the remains of his waffle more quickly.

"Did you do any bad?" You questioned playfully with a lifted eyebrow, and he shook his head frankly, giving you the best puppy eyes he could manage, already approaching. You chuckled, signaling with your head for him to proceed.

You watched as he crawled towards the body eagerly, being quick to take it with his fleshy limbs and pull it towards the living room, where most of his form rests.

You popped your shoulders and didn't dare to keep looking once Hector tore apart the plastic. The gruesome sight would've spoiled the sweets for you. "I brought more books. Surely you finished the ones I last gave you, right?" You asked, leaving the groceries at the table while listening to the supposedly happy gurgling with a smile.

You went looking for water in the fridge, finishing the drink with a relieved sigh, your throat thanking you very much. Putting the empty cup away, you take off your coat, throwing it to a chair only to stretch out yourself after, your back giving off a satisfying pop.

You glanced at one of Hector's eyes in the wall, which had been watching you in interest all this time. "Oh, yeah, try not to make much of a mess, okay?" You spoke out loud. "Because I can't keep stealing new carpets." You frowned, and thought of the last three carpets you got, all gone now, reduced to dust to erase evidence.

You pouted for a moment. They all looked so nice but the blood was hell to get off. It certainly pained you to see them go.. despite not spending much time around the living room due to your busy life.

"If you save our new carpet from getting dirty, I might get you...." You spoke slowly, a chuckle leaving you as tendrils slid closer from the side of your view in anticipation of your words. "An extra piece of cake!!!" You revealed the cake inside one of the plastic bags with a ta-da, hand hovering around it dramatically.

All eyes you could see had extended pupils, almost like a cat, a sequence of excited hums following action as they tried reaching for the sweet while you moved it away just in time. "Oh! Hey— come on now—!" You laughed, holding the cake the best you could away from Hector as his limbs latched onto your arms.

"Hey, hey, the first piece is mine. Don't even try." You shooed Hector away, placing the cake on the table while eyeing the creature suspiciously. It looked delicious, really, the Chantilly glistening in the light. You took off your gloves and the cover, sweeping off some topping with a finger, savoring the taste with a hum of delight, acting oblivious to the light push received from Hector, who was anxious to have a taste, too.

You poked the closest of Hector's tendrils before walking to the sink, washing your hands before anything. Behind you, squelches could be heard, and you deducted a little someone was trying to get a sneaky bite, if not already. You simply rolled your eyes, turning back, only to be met with Hector, who had already returned from the living room, his mass seated awkwardly in a chair and a knife already in his hands, an excited glint in his eyes as he waited for you.

"How helpful..." You mumbled out with amusement, drying your hands with a cloth and taking two plates for each before coming to divide the cake, taking the knife away from Hector.

He couldn't resist, coming closer and staring at the treat with pure interest. By the time you finished cutting, Hector was practically ready to pounce, shifting around agitatedly, and quickly taking his plate once you offered it.

He desperately needed a bath, drool dripping from whichever mouth was in your view, the blood covering his body definitely making you concerned about the state of the living room. As he was in no rush to savor his piece, you went to get a brief inspection of the room he was last in, quickly sighing in relief when there was no blood in sight except on Hector's body. He was on point like always. It almost made you excuse him from looking like a rabid animal at the moment.

You returned to the kitchen, taking your piece and inviting Hector to spend the rest of the day with you, taking the briefly forgotten caramels you brought in hand and throwing it to him as a gift. It was safe to say you both enjoyed the lunch.

Pillows were on the couch to help with your back pain as you cocooned your body with a blanket, an empty plate resting by the couch arm. Hector was back to his favored wall, entranced in reading the books you bought while savoring the sweets he had.

An entertaining movie played on TV, quiet so as not to disturb your company. A comfortable silence settled between you both. That is how what was left of the night was spent.

I took too long to post this. Also, did you like the banner? I didn't find a cool pic for it so i made one.

••● anyways, you can download and play the epic game here ●••

#homegrown pet #homegrown pet game #homegrown pet hector #x reader #x gn reader #homegrown pet hector x reader #monster x reader #character x reader #character x you #gn reader #x you #can be both platonic or romantic #idc really i just wanted a lil fanfic for this creature #i find it funny on how technically YOU'RE the one whos kinda ooc kfkfkfkfgfgddf #male reader #x male reader #horror character

31 notes · View notes

callsignvenomcod · 7 months

Text

nobody's son, nobody's daughter

Young!Simon and his troubled life in Manchester with his equally fucked up best friend Y/N, loosely based on "Chemtrails over the Country Club" by Lana del Rey.

Trigger warning: Mentions of abuse, sexual abuse, drug addiction, physical abuse, violence.

Author's note: In my head, at least for this one shot, young Simon would look like Charlie Hunnam during his Green Street Holigans era. Maybe a tad bit taller. A headcannon of mine, I guess.

He tried to convince himself that he was only crying because of the stinging feeling of the alcohol against his broken skin, against the red cheek bone and the bleeding gash he had on top of his right eyebrow. The flickering greenish, puke-colored light that was dangling on top of his head didn't help much to the cure. That and the sad looking tiles of his bathroom, no toothpaste, broken mirror, whole look. Simon had to convince himself that this really was going to be the last time. He did a lousy job at that. The lad really drank that kool aid.

That next time he will hit harder, that next time he would be smarter, faster, wiser than Daddy. His heart and his lungs were still on fire from the fight he just had with his father; saliva dripping down his chin mixed with vice and blood, because if Simon was a big boy, well, he had to get it from someone. Petey Riley was a big son of a bitch, standing 6'5, belly outside of his wife beater (saddly, ironical) blonde patches of hair covering his baldening head, he drank like one, hit like one. No distinction too, Tommy would take it, his Mum would take it too. Simon just wanted to be present to take the biggest hit. He could bare it; he would do it. For those he loved he would sacrifice.

Some days it felt like he was the bull and his father was The Matador. A bloody number they both put on for his mum and his little brother but none of them were clapping. Simon was merely a distraction, one that showed his horns to drag attention.

It was an act of love. Some days it was all he could give, somedays it was all that there was left of him.

"For fucks sake..." he hissed dapping a pink colored, blood-stained cotton ball against his eyebrow split, the gash squeezing out anti septic and crying red down his face. He threw the cotton ball to the trash bin and let his head hang low on top of the sink, without looking in the mirror, before letting out a big, tired sigh.

18 years old and his live had already gone to shit. No compass pointing north, no aspirations, no home, and a family he felt pity for. A world that felt no pity for them, for him. Simon Riley was just another alley rat of Manchester, with lungs so black from the coal he might as well have been a miner.

The truth was that Tommy could no longer stay in the house like this, nor could his mother. Tommy was barely 12, an age in which his brain was so moldable it might as well be play doh; and Pete fucked everything around him; even carrots would rot if stood next to him too much time. He had to get Tommy away from the man before it was too late. Before he became like him.

There was a knock on the door, and he instantly knew it was his mother, because Tommy would just slip in due to the nature of being a younger brother, and his father would just storm inside, stumbling around to piss without caring someone was using the toilet; plus, his father had stormed out of the house with a loud door slam, making all the glasses in the house rattle. He looked at himself in the mirror while answering.

"Oi..." he acknowledges.

"..." only silence for a moment, before her mother cleared her throat from behind the door. "Here's more antiseptic, sun..." They all knew too much about first aids, he might as well become a doctor or join the army.

He almost smiled at use of the old nickname. Her sun, he called him. 18, looking 23, and his mum still called him sun.

Simon perked up in front of the mirror, his trashed simple white shirt, (now stained with yellow and few drops of blood) slipping back on himself as he took a deep breath and walked out of the toilet, straight into the hall.

His mother took a few steps back. It had been a while since Simon had outgrown her in height. The blonde woman, pale and frail stood in front of him and only could see the tip of his chin now. She was wearing acid washed jeans and a bright colored shirt with shapes in it very 80's, and they were so dirt poor it might as well be from the 80's. On top of that, an open bathroom robe and her hair was, in deed a mess.

Molly Riley, maiden name Harrison, winced out loud at the state of his son's face. Simon could tell she had been crying. "Oh, sun..." she moaned, quivering lower lip.

The woman looked up at his older son and gave him an apologetic smile, and Simon would be damned if he stood around to listen to her apologized for whatever reason it made his father snap this time. Simon shook his head, sadly used to this and placed a hand on the woman's shoulder, feeling her shiver under his touch.

"Where's Tommy?" he asked, walking over to his room with his mother following close on his step. He just wanted to slip on his jumper and get out of the house.

"He's at the TV room. Sooty and Co is on." She explained, leaning against the frame of the door, hugging herself. She watched with hazel eyes as his older son would sin on his bunk bed and slip on his white trainers, dusty and worn out, and zipped up a jumper that went just below his chin, putting on a jacket on top of it.

"Simon..."

"Mum..." they both said at the same time as they mirror each other. He knew what would happen the second he went outside the house. Tommy would drown himself in milk and cereal, being a vegetable in front of the TV until his eyeballs burned, and his mother would sit in the couch behind him, laughing at the show until she ran away to cry in her room, toying with the idea of picking of the things and leaving Pete. Nothing would happen and the wheel will keep turning. In a not so hopeful way of speech, they still had tomorrow. They had to take that as it sounded at the moment.

"Where are you going?" she asked, in an effort to seem motherly. The boy had seen her give up all her earthly power to the monster of his father and being in this same room with her suffocated him. He hated himself for it. Sometimes he had to really try not to hate her. He could never be quite there, but he was always dangerously close.

"Pub." He simply said, feeling up his pocket to make sure he had enough money to spend. He worked long shifts in the butcher's and weirdly enough, being surrounded by so much blood and carnage made him feel relaxed. Maybe it had to do with the fact it was him holding the knife and the pig hanging upside down, cutthroat. Simon wanted to tap out, get a flat for himself, even move cities, move damn planets, but couldn't bring himself to leave Tommy and his mother behind. They were all victims of the same natural disaster. "Don't stay up."

"Well, give her my regards..." she simply said with a soft smile.

They shared a knowing look, knowing that Molly would drop a pill in a few hours and won't be up until tomorrow morning; if lucky. She nodded, dropped eyes, and leaned against the frame to let Simon walk past her, the too loud sound of the TV in the room next door and distracted laughs of his younger brother making a soundtrack. Simon would look the back of his blonde hair before stepping out of the door and head out to the pub, much like his father did a few hours ago.

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

Breathe in, breath out. Mechanical, your body could do it without your brain telling it to, but sometimes your brain got so anxious it forgot about it. Some people started calling them anxiety attacks. Doctors, mostly. Y/N wasn't a doctor, but instead just knew it made her feel like ripping out her hair one by one and crawl out of her skin.

The cigarettes helped. Michelle, her older sister told her it wasn't a very feminine look to smoke Marlboro reds the way she did, but with a prostitute mother and a junkie lizard for a step father, whatever effort they made to look good to society was futile now.

That and the multiple bruises they both sported on their bodies. Michelle had learned how to put makeup on them, Y/N couldn't bother anymore.

Michelle. Emerald eyes, long face, short hair. Smart Michelle, kind Michelle, 5 years older Michelle, in love Michelle, pregnant Michelle, crying face Michelle, "Come with us" Michelle, "Come to see me soon," Michelle. Two jobs and a new born Michelle, always a mother Michelle. Too busy for her Michelle.

Michelle, Michelle, Michelle. Ma belle.

She missed Michelle, and now and then she wished she just had picked up and left Manchester with her and John, take a train to America, to a place called Chicago. Scape this place like a crying Michelle had asked her to, but no. She had done too much: her older sister had already acted like a mother her whole life, and Y/N thought she deserved a chance at love. John was that. A chance at happiness. A warm pair of arms, a nice house. No unsolicited grabbing, to drugs, no shouting and no smacks. Y/N couldn't just storm into her life and wreck it all, be a reminder of the past Michelle barely survived.

She took a drag of her third cigarette and leaned against the back alley of the convenience store she worked in. Few hours, shitty pay, but it was a way to stay away from her house, with her mom asleep, drugged off her tits most of the day and working all the night, she no longer felt like it was a home; not that it ever did. It was a place where she had a thin mattress and some clothes and a place she would only want to use to sleep.

The girl hugged herself, her too big on her black coat almost swallowing her. Her shift was off, the old man owner of the store telling her to "fix herself" before coming back on Monday.

He meant the bruises. They all meant the bruises.

She had a gash on top of her eyebrow from running away from a blow from Ethan, Mum's husband, presumedly pimp. It took a lot of rage, but the bastard wouldn't touch her again, not a single hair on her head.

This was not the first time he did it. This was not the last time it would happen. Y/N knew it.

Her hands slipped down her face, chipped burgundy polish on her nails, and she ran her hand down her hair, stepping on her cigarette butt and placing her hands inside her pockets.

She could see her breath in front of her, and the news said that it might snow this year again. Man, her house could no longer hold another winter the way it was. It was cold and wet on the bottom floor, and she wouldn't dare step upstairs in fear of the risks of being in the same room as Ethan.

She thought that if it came down to it, she could always convince Simon to just gather some money and spend the season in a motel with heat. It was a luxury, but she didn't want to be an Ice Lolly.

She smiled to herself at the thought of him. She flicked open the fire and lit another cigarette, the cherry burning almost instantly as she blew the smoke out of her hair. The girl started walking out of the alley, with a bit of a hunched back to her step, something she learned from when she was a kid and tried to conceal the fact that she had grown tits now.

The boy was her best friend, if not he was her only friend, the only one she could trust. What started with an innocent childhood friendship, with both of them being at the headmaster's office almost daily (teachers would find Y/N stealing stickers and pennies out of other girl's school bags and had to physically break out fights Simon started) developed into a deep understanding of each other circumstances; into an everlasting love that held no labels.

Simon gave Y/N her first beer at 11 years old and smoke her first joint with her at 12. Y/N pierced Simon's ear lobe with a burnt-out safety pin drenched in vodka, and with time had more experience in curing his bruises than the local doctor. A match made in heaven, you could say. A refuge for both of them. They both did it for the right reasons.

It was freedom of not having to use a mask. Y/N could crumble to pieces in front of Simon, curse the Gods, curse fate, confess herself a human being because she knew her vulnerability was safe with him, that Simon wouldn't let the light in.

In a sick joke of destiny, they seemed made for each other. Y/N's mum was also an addict much like Pete Riley. Broken homes both opened their doors to let loose the monster that lived inside Simon and Y/N's chest, and their jaw clenched at a fury that they never knew where to direct. None of them knew very well how to live now, and at 18, it had stopped being cute long ago.

So, it wasn't Simon beating up John Misty in the playground, rather bare-knuckle fighting drunks at the local pubs that would serve him, spitting into his father's face, in a screaming contest with the police. It was no longer Y/N shop lifting lip glosses from Macy's, giving a cheeky wink to the slow and beat up security cameras, rather than that it was her letting any boy that would fake listen to her feel her up under her clothes in the alley, picking up the tails of stranger's joints in the street. In a race with rats.

The girl detached herself from the wall and fixed her jacket, putting some strands of hair behind her ear and walking down the alley, the sound of her torn sneakers against the cold pavement. The bags under her eyes were turning blue now and her back was starting to hurt like it always did after a shift, but she couldn't go back home, if she ever had one. Plus...she thought, looking up.

The stars were out.

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

It was a nice night.

The stars were out.

He could see it through the smoke of his joint as he leaned over the hill, joint in one hand, 40oz of beer in the other one. Nothing but the grey air of Manchester and the big hill under him, and yet the moon and the stars managed to go out and shine down on all of them mortals. Simon took a drag of the smoke and blew it out almost immediately, feeling every muscle in his body relax. He had to thank Ake next time he saw him; Ake had half a brain but double the heart and was always there when he needed someone to talk to...or free weed.

Yeah, Simon had that other bit covered. He knew that whenever he decided to open his mouth to speak whatever was locked inside, Y/N would be there to listen to him. He was the only girl he could talk to without fucking stuttering or feeling such an inadequate monster of a man. All the girls around him were older, mostly prostitutes, ladies of the night, that were equally broken than him, and more often than not, Simon thought about...just doing it. Pay for it. Pay for sex. In reality, he was paying for the company, for a warm chest and nice hands, for a fake smile, cheap perfume, but who was he to judge?

He stopped doing it that one time he saw Y/N's mum walking down the street in very tight latex and tired eyes and he couldn't stomach the image of another prostitute's kid, hungry and cold, waiting for their mum at home. Much like Y/N had done it before, and Michelle before her.

Around the same time, Y/N grew sick of the one-night stands. Of boys pretending to listen, to care, to feel her up. She grew tired of the empty eyes and the dead beat "goodbye's" after having sex. And after fucking Paul Brendan in the back of the school yard, and the boy fixing himself up and giving him a nasty wink without a second action to it as a goodbye, she decided enough was enough.

It was nice to have a friend for any ocasion.

A best friend.

They started fucking each other the summer they both turned 17.

And they never said it was something, let's say, exclusive, but none of them touched anyone else. Y/N just couldn't trust anyone else enough to do so, wouldn't go near boys or men in general after that last slip of her dignity and self-worth, and it was only wrapped around Simon's arms that she could allow herself to be as intimate as she wanted to, to literally spread open for him.

For Simon, however, it ran deeper. Once he tasted Y/N, well...there was literally no one else in the whole of Manchester that could catch his attention. Maybe he was attracted to other girls, sure, Emily Nichols could make a grown man cry with those tits of her, and Samantha Blunt's leg should be ensured for 1'000'000 pounds at least, but there was just something about Y/N that no one else could supply. It was like she had some sort of additive dripping from in-between her legs, something laced in her saliva that he just couldn't resist. He was just perpetually thirsty.

They never quite said it but they both knew they were only for each other, and they knew each other enough, so much, to reach the point where Simon could tell Y/N who she was in case she forgot.

And that's why, guzzling the rest of his first 40 oz down his throat, messily getting his chin wet, Simon could hear the dry leaves behind him and identify, the way only a kid born in a house on fire could, the steps of her friend behind him.

This was their spot. Sure, maybe some junkies came over, left needles and used condoms around, teenagers like themselves used them to drink from cans of beer and leave their traces behind but this was their spot. Hidden behind thick leaves and bushes, down the hill, slightly tilted down enough to lay down with no effort, only using their elbows. Simon bit down the joint to keep it in place and scratched under his shirt lazily.

"Look what the cat dragged in..." Simon joked, eyes still to the front, to the dark night. He earned nothing but an annoyed huff erupting from Y/N's plush lips as the girl sat down next to him in the dark.

"Fuck off, Riley. I am not in a good mood today."

Simon almost giggled in a lazy weed haze. "Oi, when are you ever in a good mood? I bet...-Shit."

"Shit." They both said at the same time, staring at each other, analyzing their faces, at least as much as the moonlight would let them. They had seen each other with all sorts of bruises and gashes, purple and red, dried blood and busted out stitches but it was always a sight for sore eyes. Simon sat down correctly, putting off the joint next to him next to the beer bottle and Y/N crawled next to him, sitting on her knees to observe his face.

Simon's hands went directly to her face, delicately, afraid to hurt her even more, calloused hand above a beat-up princess cheek. He wasn't surprised, he stopped being surprised years ago, at the same exact spot, seeing her first bruise, boiling with rage, wanting to go to her father, beat him up. Simon was as scrawny 12 year old back then.

Yeah, but it still wasn't a pleasant view. Never would be.

Y/N at the same time was able to stare back at him. Simon's rugged features were there, no doubt, but if she squinted her eyes enough, she could see the boy beneath him. The soft cheeks, now beat up, the kind eyes, now darkened. He was also sporting a pretty gash on top of his eyebrow, still red and angry around the edges. He must have cured it himself. She sucked on his teeth as his hands went and wrapped around Simon's wrist, in an effort to make contact. They both stared at each other for a pretty minute before both stumbled across their own words, trying to figure out what had happened.

"What did..."

"That fucking arsehole, the cunt..."

"Simon, it's not..."

"Did he...?"

"No." They both remained silent. She had hurried the answer, not wanting for Simon to finish the question. "He didn't." Not this time. And it was true. This time it was true. Y/N had seen him reach for his buckle, but she had hurried away before he could do anything to her. Make her do anything to him.

Simon scanned her face for a second. "Good..." he whispered. There was nothing much else to say. He sorts of missed the days where she would rush over to him a crying mess, babbling, shaking with fear and anger and sadness and shock. These days Y/N would just sit next to him, sort of showed her wounds and then just...drink it away. There was nothing else in there. The light was already broken.

The ball of the bottle gagged up and down as Y/N drank a big gulp from it, the burning sensation on her throat long forgotten. Simon watched for a few seconds before deciding to look away, look to the abandoned park in front of them and just let her sit in silence for a while, figure out her emotions, how much pain she was in. If it was worth the cry.

Y/N leaned the bottle next to him and her fingers left the neck of it seconds before Simon picked it up, drank a little himself. She placed her elbows on her bent knees and sniffed the cold air of Manchester through her nose. Simon lazy eyes scanned her side. Perky nose, loose messy ponytail, tear eyed, glassy look. He sighed and shook his head slightly. He wasn't sure about himself but...he knew Y/N deserved better.

This wasn't like any of the other times. Once she was fierce, fiery, talking about how many things he would do to her stepfather if she ever gathered the courage to do it herself or let Simon take business in his own hands, but now she was quiet, and the lonely park was just an extension of her silence. Dead, and beautiful and familiar and comfortable.

He opened his mouth to say something, as he thought he should but Y/N, beautiful, forceful, trainwreck Y/N spoke first.

"You know I see us so far away from here? Sniff." She said with a watery tone in her speak. She looked at him before briefly looking at her torn boot. She sniffed again, holding back tears. "So far from Manchester, so far from that fucking neighborhood..."

"What?" He dared to say. "Wales?" They shared a very brief look before she shook her head.

"Out of fucking England, me and you..." she said, talking absently, more to herself, as if Simon wasn't there. "Away from Ethan, the cunt, and your bloody father. Away from this park..." Her voice was raising, and she didn't even realize she was close to shouting. Simon straightened up in his seat, alert.

"Oi..." he tried to interrumpt, hands up to stabilize her.

"Away from this fucking cold, and the leaky ceilings and, and my whore of a mother and... a-away from...away from that fucking house! Away from... FUCK, FUCK!" she ended screaming, as if it was a crescendo.

No one was around to hear it except Simon, and it tore his insides a little to see the vein in her neck pop out, to see her run out of breath, fisting her hands, face all red and angry. Her chest was going up and down, her rage bubbling inside her chest, from an angry red dissolving into a confusing and cold blue. She swallowed her tears, chest still in a rush and stared at him, biting her bottom lip, trying to contain herself.

It was seeing herself reflected in Simon's unsure, impressed face what broke her. Her brows furrowed, and her face contorted in a sob as Simon opened his arms to embrace her, whiskey bottle now forgotten next to them. Their cheap jackets rubbed against each other, sheltering the cold away from them, so thin their hearts could touch each other.

She had kneeled next to the boy now, almost crawled into his lap and it was only there that she allowed to...feel.

It was the loudest she had cried in years and again it was Simon's chest who sheltered, from the outside world, from the cold, from the dark of the park, from herself. From Ethan.

The girl leaned her cheek against his chest, pressing hardly, as if wanting to crawl into his ribcage. It had reached a point where she was that scared. Where she made sense out of it. She trembled and groaned, and cried, stopped for a few seconds shivering, while Simon rocked her slightly, confused, aware, terrified.

Was this the end? Was this what happened before the whole world went utterly to shit? Were they staring at the abyss and didn't even realize?

The girl trembling in his arms knew it was ending. Something had kicked inside her, her surviving instincts and, okay, if it came to it, he knew that Y/N would be the type of girl to survive a mass shooting, a natural disaster, any disaster really, but first...she was going to cry. She was a Manchester girl, a port girl, she was made to live in the waters.

"I see us so far away from here, Simon..." She repeated, her voice calmer, miles away from that park. "I need us far away from here." Y/N closed her eyes and frowned. "I still believe we deserve a kinder life than this..."

"Y/N..." he whimpered, holding her tight against his chest. "Where...?"

"Do you see it?" She asked, and Simon looked down to his chest, to her pressed cheek against his pectoral, his arms surrounding her small frame, his thumbs rubbing against her shoulders. Her eyes were staring at nothing, or at something very far away in the distance. "Simon, do you see it?"

Did he? What were they going to do now? Okay, out of Manchester, out of England. Then what? They were 18, just out of their mum's fannies, not a penny to their names, no one that gave a shit about them really. Did he really saw something out of that park, something that involved them both, safe, not starved, somewhere warm?

Nobody's son, nobody's daughter.

Somewhere kinder.

He looked down to his chest, to her rosy cheeks, to the small patch of tears that stained his jacket, the icy forms her lips made due to the cold of her breath. A little dove nesting in his chest, a pair of bloody knuckles from bare knuckle fighting, holding her so softly. Simon's breath got caught up in his chest and he decided they will leave town the next day.

"Simon?" she asked, looking up, childish thick eyelashes, glossy stare, hopeful, terrified. "Do you see it?"

He nodded, hugged her tightly against him and felt her arms hugging him back for the first time in the night. She had moved into giving a part of herself, hugging back. She was in.

He kissed her temple, he dared, softly, wet, his eyes now also looking into the distance, to something that involved them both in a kinder place.

"I see it."

#call of duty modern warfare #simon ghost riley #cod mw2 x reader #cod #cod headcanons #cod x reader #simon riley #call of duty smut #call of duty x reader

40 notes · View notes

personwhowrites · 2 years

Note

Hello, I have a request, do you write short stories if yes can you make a funny short story about the task force 141

Gaz losses a bet with Soap so Soap dares Gaz to flirt with Ghost as a joke to see his reaction, Gaz is a little scared Ghost might beat the crap out of him, when he walks over to Ghost at the opposite side of the room, he just say a couple of corney put up lines like "I'm usually on top of things, would you like to be one of them?" Ghost looks at him confused wanting to know what the hell is going on while Soap and Price are dying from laughter

“Are you high?”

Task Force moments

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *•

“I bet that I can do over hundred push-up.” Gaz says with a prideful smile. “Against Soap.”

“You bet?” soap response looking up from his gun. “I mean, what are we betting?”

“Loser does anything the winner wants.” Gaz says dropping his gear next to him. “Price will do the counting.”

“I never agreed to any of this shit.” Price responds quickly looking up his book. “But, this seems interesting.”

“On your marks..set..” Price held a moment of silnce as the two men held their push up positions. “Go!”

The two men started to do their push-ups.

“Twenty.” Price says looking at the two men. “Twenty seven.”

Soap look at the struggling Gaz— his arms were shaking but so were his. He could give up any moment but so could he. This continued on for a few more minutes. Both struggling to lift their bodies up and straighten up. Price took note of this and shook his head. He honestly expected better out of his men kids. Gaz look at soap and his arm shook under the pressure of his weight.

“Seven eight.” Price says paying close attention to their form. Gaz slips and hits his face on the way down. “And soap wins!”

“Damn it!” Gaz says with a groan. “All fair..”

Soap lets his body fall and he smiles. Knowing a dare he has been wanting to do someone. Ghost enters the room and sees them laying down. He doesn’t dare question because that would involve an unnecessary conversation. He walks to his cot and sits down looking at the floor.

Soap and Gaz sit up and stare at each other. Price sits down on his chair again and goes back to his book.

“Well you know what we bet.” Soap says with a devilish smile. “Go flirt with Ghost.”

“What.” Gaz says looking up quickly at soap. He was serious about the words that slipped his mouth. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope, now come on lad.” Soap says getting up and extending his hand out. “Getting cold feet now?”

“…What if he beats the shit out of me.” Gaz says in a low whisper. “He can.. destroy me in one blow of his fist.”

“He wouldn’t..” Price says not looking up firm his book. “Most practical thing he would do is yell.”

“Ghost yell?” Soap says turning to Price. “I never truly heard ghost yell unless his mad.”

“You aren’t helping.” Gaz says panicked. “I’ll take your duty of training the rookies.”

“I actually like it, I get to torment them.” Soap responds looking Gaz. “Now, don’t chicken out mate.”

Gaz shook his head and started to walk to ghost. Price look up form his book and then turn to soap.

“His actually gonna do it?” Price asks looking at him. “I didn’t think he had the balls to do it.”

“He doesn’t, watch him back out.” Soap says with a laugh. Ghost looks up to soap laughter. “Oh looks like his awake.”

Gaz stops a few inches away from ghost. Ghost looks at Gaz a bit confused by his anxious behavior. Gaz sits next to him on his cot and gives him a smile.

“The fuck are you doing?” Ghost asks in his annoyed British voice.

Gaz took a small breath and place his arm around his shoulder. Gaz look at him and smile, a subduction smile.

“Are you tired?” Gaz asks ghost with some fear. Ghost turns his attention to him and glares at him. “..are you?”

“Why..?” Ghost asks confusion. “But.. uh I am..”

“Because you been running all over my mind.” Gaz says grabbing his face. “..Wanna run down on something else?”

Ghost stares at him deep into confusion. Then soap holds onto price holding his laugh in. Price looks at the confuse look on ghost and then shakes his head.

“The fuck are you on?” Ghost says moving his face away from Gaz hands. “Are you high?”

“For you.” Gaz says more confident than before. “..Always for you Ghosty.”

Ghost gets up and stares at Gaz, slight angry filling his eyes. He turns to look at Soap and Price. Both avoiding his gaze and holding in laughter.

“Ghost, I’m usually on top of things.” Gaz says getting up and placing his hand on Ghost chest. “Would you like to be one them?”

Soap has enough as a concern Ghost backs away from Gaz. Soap bursts out laughing as Price chuckles and shakes his head. Gaz gives ghost a nervous smile.

“The fuck is wrong with all of you?” Ghost says leaving the room in deep confusion. “Jesus Christ..”

“I won’t forget this Soap.” Gaz says turning to them. “Just you fucking wait.”

“Oh trust me.. I don’t think none of us will.” Soap manages to say while still laughing. “Best shit I seen in this whole base.”

——

A/n: I really hope this what you had in mind! Sorry if it seems to lack reliable source of the background. If you anymore requests I would love to write them! This was fun and interesting to write!

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #john soap mactavish #john price #kyle gaz garrick #male gaze

412 notes · View notes

thebeatles-world · 1 year

Text

Picture Perfect: Part Five

Summary: You are Elvis Presley’s ex girlfriend and you are dating one of the Beatle members who happens to be Ringo Starr.

Here is Part Five of the Picture Perfect Series! I hope y’all enjoy it!

''Elvis, don't you dare lay a finger on Ringo do you understand me?'' You said in a serious voice even tho you were a bit wasted but you still meant it.

"Okay Y/N, I won't," Elvis muttered as he walked away from you.

You sighed and sat in an empty chair near a table, trying to clear your mind.

"Hey Y/N, do you mind if I take a seat here?" asked a familiar voice.

You looked up to see John, Ringo's bandmate from The Beatles. "Sure, go ahead. I don't mind," you replied.

You were sitting next to John and wondering why Ringo wasn't with him. You haven't seen Ringo at all, but Elvis claims to have seen him.

The club was dimly lit, with flashing lights and people dancing. There were a lot of people dancing and drinking. That's why it was hard to spot Ringo.

''Where did Ringo go?'' You leaned forward towards John so that way he could hear you over the loud music playing in the club.

"I'm not sure. He walked away from me as soon as we entered the club. I thought he might be looking for you," John informed you.

"Ringo has been a mess lately. I had never seen him so low before. John mentioned, and it broke your heart a little because Ringo had always loved you so much.

''I didn't know he was a mess over me, I was honestly crying over him the night that he left.'' You told John, feeling a lump in your throat.

You tried not to cry in front of John. Your heart ached just thinking about Ringo being so low over you.

Before John could say anything to you, you two saw Ringo walking past you guys without noticing that you and John were there, sitting down.

Ringo started to march angrily towards Elvis who didn't even pay attention to him. Elvis was too busy flirting with a blonde woman which made you wince towards your teeth because even though you have moved on from Elvis, a part of you still felt a little hurt just seeing him flirt with another woman.

''Hey mate, I need to talk to you.'' Ringo tapped Elvis on the shoulder.

Elvis turned around to see who it was and rolled his eyes once he saw it was Ringo.

''Oh great, it's you.'' Elvis glared at Ringo.

''You might be the King of Rock, but what you did was not cool lad. I looked up to you and your music but now you disgust me. You lost all of my respect because of what you did to Y/N.'' Ringo confronted him angrily.

All Elvis did was laugh at him which made Ringo even more angry.

This made you and John get up and you stood behind John, nervously grabbing on to his arm. You hated fighting and confrontation. All through your childhood and teen years, you grew up with your parents fighting, screaming and confronting each other which gave you trauma and ptsd.

John didn't mind you grabbing on to his arm which he could tell that the whole thing was making you feel uncomfortable and overwhelmed.

''Stay away from Y/N and I mean it.'' Ringo warned Elvis.

''Or what? You're gonna hit me with your drumsticks?'' Elvis laughed at his own comment.

''I bloody mean it. Stay away from my woman. You think this is funny? I'll show you what's funny.'' Ringo glared at Elvis before giving him a hard shove which made Elvis fall to the floor.

Well that wasn’t very peace and love of him.

You and John rushed over to both Ringo and Elvis.

''Why I ought show you a piece of my mind.'' Elvis angrily said to Ringo as he got up from the floor.

''Why don't you show us a little bit of fight moves eh? If you know how to fight.'' Ringo turned his hand into a fist and so did Elvis.

As Ringo was about to throw the first punch, you went up to Ringo just in time and pulled him into a kiss, hoping that it would calm him down.

When Elvis saw you stopping Ringo with a kiss, his face softed and he looked heartbroken.

''Ringo, please don't fight him.'' You begged, pulling away from the kiss.

''Y/N... I am so sorry... I'm also sorry for the way I treated you. I believe you I swear I do baby.'' Ringo's voice was soft and calming now as he grabbed your face gently.

''I know you do.'' You nodded with him with a smile.

''I missed you so much darling, I really did.'' Ringo couldn't stop kissing you over and over again.

Almost everyone else was staring at you, John, Ringo and Elvis.

''I missed you too Ringo.'' You giggled through the kiss.

''Alright you two lovebirds, let's get outta here eh?'' John placed a hand on your shoulder and Ringo's.

You were about to say something to Elvis as you turned around but you relized he was gone. It was like as if the floor suddenly swallowed him up.

''Wait, where did Elvis go?'' You said in curiosity.

What you, Ringo and john didn't know that Elvis ran out of the club with a broken heart, knowing that he couldn't get the love of his life back which was you.

Elvis felt like as if he lost you forever.

50 notes · View notes

theirishwolfhound · 3 months

Text

AHoGiSoG- Chapter 3: The Ural Mountains Pt. 1

Mission Start: Locate Unknown Target Word Count: 5,671

Content Warnings: Gays Flirting, Dad Jokes, Really Bad Flirting Happy Pride month! Enjoy these four gays hiking chatting. Not too much action (violence mostly) takes place in these few chapters, take it as a slice of life type content. Just to see the vibes and how I imagine everyone interacts with one another. :) Banners are from: @Firefly Graphics

5:45 July 31st, 2022

The same faint, annoying blare of an alarm clock that woke him up every morning began to buzz in the empty room. He slapped his hand over the clock, turning it off before sitting up to get ready for the morning. Running a rough hand over his face and through his messy hair, he swung his legs over the side of the bed to stand up and stretch his sore muscles. A low groan pooled from his lips as he headed to his bathroom to clean up and get ready for the day. He would get dressed into his fatigues— they’d have time to put their gear on and check it later— tucking his shirt into his pants to look somewhat put together, and exit his room to walk towards the common room.

The walk was quiet, his boots hitting the floor just right to avoid making any sound, nor did any of the soldiers that were up that early pay him any mind, it was way too early for a conversation after all— at least that was the idea.

“Ghost! Good mornin’...” The familiar Irish accent got his attention and he was quick to look up towards the sergeant that stood in front of the coffee maker, his fatigues covering up the pale canvas of skin underneath. Curly hair pulled back into, what he could only guess was supposed to be, a bun while a small smile splayed across his lips. For once he looked well rested, and it looked good on him. “I, uh, made ye’ tae.”

“Sergeant.” Ghost greeted, giving the younger man a nod as he made his way over to the Irishman so that he could take the cup of tea from him when it was offered out. He looked down to the cup and hummed softly to himself. “Thanks, lad, didn’t ‘ave to make me a cuppa…” He mumbled, pushing his mask up slightly to take a sip when Wolfhound turned to continue pouring himself some coffee. Johnny had come by after he had left Crow’s bunk, telling him that the Irishman might have a sneaking suspicion on their more intimate affairs— but Simon was surprised the man didn’t figure it out sooner, considering how clingy Soap was. But at least he knew now what the two had been teasing one another about. “How did you sleep?”

“Like a feckin’ babe.” Crow laughed softly as he set the pot back under the dispenser and picked his mug up to turn towards Simon. He hummed a little, lightly reaching over to slug the taller man in the shoulder. “T’anks t’ya. Now, uh, I’ve gotta go finish up m’paperwork so it won’ pile up ta’much..”

“Hm… yer welcome, red.” The lieutenant mused, rolling his eyes at the other’s words. He took a sip of the tea, sighing in faint delight before watching the ginger take his mug and exit the common room. “Have fun.”

~~~~

Hours would pass before any of the sergeants or the lieutenant would see one another. Between training separately or tying up loose work before they had to leave, but once they were given the word to finally group up at the tarmac they would. Price was waiting for them near the helicopter, watching as they approached with gloved hands tightening loose gear to their proper fittings. He stepped over to Gaz when Ghost stepped in front of Soap, the two commanding officers tugging and inspecting their gear while Wolfhound adjusted his a little bit more. The smaller man occasionally glanced up to watch the four men fret over one another. With a few pats to the older sergeant’s chest the captain moved on to the younger’s, checking over his gear.

“I know you’ll take care of the lads out there,” Price started, his voice soft enough for the other three to not hear— not like they were listening anyways, they were bickering with one another while trying to check Ghost’s gear as the tall man grumbled in annoyance. Crow stumbled a little when John gripped the sides of his vest, pulling on it to make sure it was strapped perfectly. “...just make sure you let them do the same for you, y’hear?”

“Aye, cap…” The Irishman chuckled softly, lightly patting the captain’s hands a little to reassure the man, he knew that he could be stubborn on missions with how he put others before himself. Though ever after he lost his fiancé he couldn’t help but make sure his team got out safely, even if he had to fight tooth and nail to do so. “We’ll come back safe n’ sound, yeah?”

Price didn't need the reassurance, trusting his men enough to go in and get the job done so that they could come back to him and the others— but he needed at least one, preferably two at most, to come back without an injury. “Right well… I’ll hold you lads to that.” He chuckled, lightly letting the smaller man go, patting his chest like he had done for Kyle, before walking back to the other three. Sure the simple gesture was given before almost every mission, but it still felt nice— reassuring even, leaving the younger man wanting more for the simple comfort. Crow looked to the spot that had been patted and smiled softly, placing his hand over it before quickly rejoining the group.

Wolfhound stood at Gaz’s side and gave the taller a faint smile as Price spoke about the mission details once again, the four men listening intently before they loaded onto the helicopter.

~~~~

After a long and rather boring flight, with the occasional smartass roast sesh between Johnny and Kyle— specifically when the Scot fumbled over his words when he was talking about a dream he had the night prior— they would land and clamber off the helicopter. Waving the pilot off with a quick signal before they began their trek.

The unadulterated beauty of the landscape was like a breath of fresh air, literally, compared to the scenery around the base. Their more desert-like home was nothing in beauty when put against a lush green valley with a healthy mixed forest of coniferous and deciduous trees before them. Crow stared out from the flat summit they had been dropped on, turning in a circle to look south at the distant steppes and nearly full deciduous woods. His eyes wide with appreciation, only for him to smile widely and hop lightly on his feet. He couldn’t help but feel giddy at the naturalistic view that he had before him.

“Cac naofa... Tá sé chomh hálainn…” He breathed out and then turned to look at his teammates as they watched him. There was something so ethereal about seeing the normally unamused man seem so… smiley and excited. Johnny couldn’t help but smirk and raise one of his brows.

“Cannae keep yerself contained, eh, ya wee cuilean?” The Scot teased before laughing as the Irishman glared playfully at him.

Wolfhound gave a gesture with his hand and scoffed slightly. “Wud ya get outta t’at garden, big fella!” He hissed back with a laugh while the Scot joined in.

“Oi, would y’two muppets stop arguin’?” Gaz quipped teasingly as he moved to gesture the ginger man over, wrapping an arm around his shoulders to pull him north. He slid his hand up into Crow’s hair, ruffling the already tangled curls enough to earn a soft growl from him. “C’mon, we can admire the view while we walk rather than faffing around.”

~~~~

August 1st, 2022

After walking as far as they could before the sun set, and a restful night in tents, the four would wake back up and begin to dismantle their tents— Wolfhound and Gaz working together with little argument, though a lot of snickering as Ghost purposefully messed with Soap by toying with the tent as the Scot worked on unhooking the stakes. Once they were packed up and ready to travel they would begin to head north once again, after having a quick breakfast of course. They hiked through the valley and up the incline of a steep mountain path that Johnny took one look at and called the degree of the incline. 16° according to him, and no one had the right to argue because the bastard was right.

The man was fucking brilliant. It was one of the many features about Soap that Wolfhound loved, his intelligence, simply because it made everything so much easier— and it was lowkey attractive, even when it pissed the Irishman off. But he couldn’t deny that he loved giving him problems to solve just to see him happy about planning or solving a puzzle that he himself was having trouble with. Though when it came to something that Crow was supposed to be good at, he couldn’t tell if he was supposed to be impressed or angry that he was right.

It was a hard climb—not overly difficult, just annoying— but they managed to get to the peak and out of the valley so that they could continue along the way. It felt more casual than other missions, like a hike between friends despite the lingering caution in the air since they knew that they would eventually find some sort of resistance. Yet that did not stop them all from lightly joking around especially whenever it came time to take a quick break a little bit after noon.

“What is red and bad for yer teeth?” Ghost asked gruffly while opening his canteen to take a sip, watching as Soap struggled to open up his rations.

“What’s it?” Gaz asked, chuckling slightly as Wolfhound snatched the rations from the Scot to open it for him.

“A brick.”

A soft snort came from the Irishman’s nose, only for him to bring a hand up to his brow and pinch it slightly. “Oh my God.” He breathed softly, stifling the rest of his laugh while the other two shared one. “T’at was terrible.”

“Y’laughed.” The lieutenant teased with a gruff chuckle.

“An’ I regret it immensely.”

“Oh I’ve one fer ya’.” Soap said with a mouthful of his ration, a sly smile on his face. “Jus’ git back from a magic holiday in France, great hospitality in te’ hotel. Every time I ordered twa pints, they brought me three!”

Gaz snorted at the joke, rolling his eyes before watching as the Scot beamed proudly with his joke, his eyes sparkling faintly. The other two had to take a moment to understand, but they also wound up chuckling— at least Ghost did, considering Wolfhound was still trying to mask his giggles. Garrick seemed to take a few seconds then crossed his arms over his chest. “Where do y’ take someone who was injured inna peekaboo accident, eh?”

He paused for a few seconds making sure to hold eye contact with the first one that looked to him— and unfortunately the ginger-haired man was the first to glance over. He held a straight face then smirked when he noticed Crow’s attempt to stifle the little smile that was trying to form. “...the ICU.”

The younger’s breathing stuttered softly at the silly joke— though when a certain someone to his right let out a hearty laugh he couldn't help but laugh as well. He hid his face in his hands and shook his head as he giggled, the sound more genuine than any of his other laughs. “Eejits! Te’ lot of ya’.” He chortled, which only caused Johnny to laugh even more.

“Yet y’laughed. Again.” Ghost chuckled, watching as the redhead looked at him through his fingers.

He hid the goofy smile behind his palms then shook his head slightly. “An’ I regret it immensely.” It was a lie, they could all tell from the way he hid his lip— hid his tell, but they didn't call him on it. Not yet anyways.

~~~~

The day would go by fairly quickly, and soon— after another half day of hiking— the night would come and the four men would settle down. Though as they ate, Crow set to work after grabbing a flattish rock to start digging a hole… much to the confusion of the other three. It was odd. Wolfhound had his…. quirks sure, but they never included digging holes like an actual dog.

“Oi, heathen,” Kyle laughed softly, lightly flinging a bit of soil in Crow's direction to get his attention. “What in t'bloody Hell are you doing, wolf?”

“Dakota fire hole. Keep who'ver's on watch warm while bein’ sneaky still.” The shorter man replied as he continued to dig out the main hole with practiced fervent motions. “G'get some nice dry wood and kindlin’ fer me.”

At the wave of his hand, and to humor his request, the three went to find the items near the campsite they had set up— which they managed to do rather smoothly, no thanks to the bitching that happened during the setting up of tents. Finding the dry pieces of wood was rather tedious as when Soap brought back some sticks, Wolfhound would feel their bark before looking to the Scot with a disapproving frown… only for it to turn into a playful grin when he noticed the pout on his friend's lips.

“A'said dry, MacTavish, nae fresh out th’ river!” The Irish sergeant teased as he jammed the sticks down into the hole to hollow out the tunnel that would feed air into the fire. “...jus’ kiddin’, mate. T'ese will do jus’ fine.” He chuckled when he noticed the frowning pout on the Scotsman's face.

With the help of the other three the Irishman was able to get a small, nearly smokeless, and completely out of sight fire going. He breathed out happily and then turned to look at the others. “I’ll take th’first watch, eh?” Crow offered, smiling gently to the others. “Get some rest, lads— I’ll wake th’lot of ya if somethin’ happens.”

13:04 August 2nd, 2022

“‘Ave you lads ever heard of th’ Dyatlov Pass incident? Took place further up in the Urals.” Crow’s voice called back to the three men as they walked down a particularly smooth grassy hill. The previous night had gone by relatively easily, and breakfast was just nice, seeing as they were able to actually heat it up since they fed the fire throughout the night— up until the Irishman buried it to leave no trace except loose dirt. “Happened back in 1959, nine people died from a few differn’ causes. Mostly hypothermia, some had blunt force trauma t’ough.”

“I think I’ve heard of it,” Kyle hummed as he trailed behind the ginger man. “Can’t say I know much onnit.”

“If it makes y’feel better, no one knew what caused it fer a while.” Crow mused, turning to walk backwards so he could look at Kyle. “Back t’en no one knew what could’ve killed them. Whether it be th’ Soviet military, fall winds, animals… hell some people even t’ought it was a supernatural force or t’ey all panicked due to a low-frequency sound.” He paused then smiled faintly. “Back in 2020 t’ough, th’ Russian government said it was an avalanche after openin’ up another investigation.”

“Why the hell d’ya know about this?” Simon asked with a faint chuff of a laugh.

“Looked it up when Cap’in first told us about t’is mission.”

“Did ya’ always look up things like this before a recon?”

“Nah, sometimes I jus’ know t’ings.” He boasted playfully. “Mostly about flora and fauna… but I keep m’eyes on some true crime stories… runnin’ inta cannibals is a fear o’mine.”

“Cannibals?” Ghost asked with a faint chuckle

“Aye, t’ey’re… uh kinda scary.”

“Well, go on then, puppy, give us a few facts about th’other things y’know.”

Wolfhound had to pause his backwards stride at Gaz’s voice, his eyes narrowing in faint disbelief— only to shoot an annoyed glare at Soap, who smiled proudly. ‘He’s put others up to this game now?’ It had been a common thing to hear from Soap, especially when Wolfhound started to come around a few months back, but he never would have thought he’d get the others in on it. “Is fuath liom tú.” He muttered out to the older man before shaking his head. ‘Smug bastard.’ But he could never deny liking the teasing, though before it had only been Soap calling him that— as far as he knew.

“Why in the bleedin’ hells ‘ave you lads started t’at, eh?” He asked with a scoff, turning on his heels to face forward and start walking down the hill once again when he felt a rush of warmth rise to his face.

“Ye like it,” Soap teased with a laugh. “...an’ it’s a play on yer nickname… truer than jus’ ‘Wolf’. An’ besides… we’re friends we gotta tease one anotha’.”

‘Yeah, friends..’ The Irishman pursed his lips slightly then threw his hands up slightly, almost in defeat before he let them drop down to his sides once again. He needed to change the subject not wanting to dwell on the ‘friendly’ teasing— even though he knew it wasn’t just a friend thing to call one another names like that, freckles sure but not puppy. “I…” He huffed and shook his head. “Yeah, I d’mind it.” ‘More than you’ll ever know.’

He was quiet for a few seconds feeling the wind against his face before he heard Gaz’s voice speak to him once again. “Whatta ‘bout those facts?” Which got him to think much more intently, specifically about what he knew about their general area.

“Th’ eurasian brown bear is Russia’s national animal… t’ey live in t’ese parts too.” Crow said, looking over his shoulder to the three men with an annoyed look to give them a sharp playful glare. “T’ere’s like… ova’ a hundred thousand of ‘em in this country. T’ey're unpredictable, an’ ye’ gotta be big an’ loud to scare ‘em off.” He chuckled, turning back around once he was sure that his blush had died down. “Like t’is.” Crow said, raising his arms over his head before letting out a short yell— to which it would have been longer if he didn’t stumble into a small divot in the soft grass.

The yell turned into a series of grunts and laughs as he toppled backwards, due to the extra weight of his backpack, and down the remainder of the hill. At first the three men were worried— well Soap and Gaz seemed worried, Ghost had to clench his jaw shut to not laugh at the sight— but hearing the man laugh as he tumbled down the hill eased their concerns.

“Oh you dumbass!” Kyle grumbled as he hurried down the hill followed by John, who was now laughing teasingly. The oldest of the sergeants made it to Crow’s position, watching the younger hold his sides as he laughed, while John managed to slip on the grass and join the other at the bottom of the hill. It was more like a series of giggles, but burrs and twigs, among many other small plant debris, had gotten tangled into his curly hair and some even stuck to his gear. Soap was no better, laughing and lightly pulling little bits of nature from his mohawk.

“Oi get up, y'knobheads.” Kyle laughed as he moved to gently nudge both men with the side of his boot, only to grab Crow’s hands when the younger man stuck them up in the air for assistance— lifting him off the ground, unlike Simon who playfully slapped John’s hands when he asked for help off the ground. The Irishman laughed as he was yanked off the ground and into the oldest sergeant’s arms, lightly clinging to him as he continued to giggle.

“Dinnae see th’ hole t’ere.” Wolfhound said as he lightly held onto one of Gaz’s arms to keep himself steady. “’aven’t rolled downa hill inna while… I t’ink I needed t’at.”

~~~~

That night Crow spent most of his time around the hidden fire pulling twigs and leaves from his hair, cursing playfully as he tossed the items into the fire pit while he listened to the others speak.

“I jus’ hope th’cap lets us head to the pubs after this mission,” Kyle groaned as he opened his MRE. “O’Neil said th’first round’s on him after all.”

“Yeah, jus’ th’ first, one rule t’ough.” The younger man chuckled as he continued his light grooming. “Has t’be a pub I choose.”

“Oh easy deal,'' came the other man’s reply. “You probably know better places t’go anyways, eh?”

Wolfhound shook his head lightly. “Nah, mate. Malakai did t’ough. He scouted out th’places we wen’ to.” He chuckled and tossed the last (hopefully) burr from his hair then reached to his vest to open one of the pockets. The Irishman would pull out a rubber band then slide it onto his wrist as he began to braid his hair back. “I’m… not a super heavy drinker really. Got scared outta it when I was a lil’ lamb. But communion wine is fine, I guess, heh..”

“Eugh, altar wine.” Soap groaned and shook his head as he took a bite from his meal. “That’s boakin’. I’d rather be a roaster than eva’ drink t’at shite again.”

“It ain’t too bad, now t’at I’m grown.” Crow admitted with a shrug and then smiled faintly, only to clear his throat slightly. “Bu’ yeah, Kai had a list of pubs t’at were top tier— I’m sure he wouldnae mind if I shared ‘em wit ya lads, hmhm.”

“Figured he’d come t’haunt us if he dinnae like sharing his bonnie lad wit us, few pubs won’t hurt.”

Simon shot a silent glare at John, while Kyle looked at him with a bit of warning— though Crow blinked and glanced over to the Scotsman as he finally tied his braid off with a faint hum. His smile had slowly faded to a faint frown, though he did not seem too upset and was rather in thought. He then nodded slightly before their lieutenant swatted the Scotsman upside the head.

“You troglodyte.” The older man hissed.

“Nah… Johnny-boy issa bit right… I jus’ never t’ought of it t’at way.” The Irishman replied slowly, then chuckled a little. While not expecting the conversation to go this way, it did remind him of what his therapist had brought up before. Malakai loved him, he would want him to be happy. “...he’d be happy t’share.”

His words seemed to surprise the other two sergeants, though the lieutenant seemed to just be relieved that the other did not get upset over John’s teasing and took it with some sort of stride.

“Yeah? Well… we’ll keep it in mind, red.” John chuckled softly and then nodded a little as Crow glanced to him, an unsure smile on his face.

“Save it fer t’ride back, yeah?”

11:53 August 3rd, 2022

“Alright, so, uh, what’s everyone’s favorite food? One that you’d kill for at th’ moment?” Gaz asked as the group made their way through a particularly rocky pass through the mountains they had to head through. A chill had begun to settle in the air as they continued their trek north. “I personally I’d murder for some bangin’ curry right now.”

“I’m cravin’ somethin’ sweet,” Soap chimed as he wet his lips with his tongue. “It’s t’ start of raspberry season… could go fer a cranachan bu’ some shortbread would do me ova’.”

“Shepherd's pie, ‘specially if it’s made wit venison or boar meat.” Wolfhound replied from the lead, stopping for a second to let the other three men catch up to him. He leaned against the rocky wall behind him then turned back to look at them.

It took Ghost a few moments to respond, though it seemed like he was really mulling over the question. “Hmm… might kill for a taste of human—”

“Absolutely not, ye shitehawk.” The Irishman squawked. “Yer fecked up.”

“Ah yer crabbit,” A boisterous laugh sounded from the Scotsman at the other Celt’s reaction, noticing the faint look of disgust— but in a fearful way almost. He clapped the shorter man on the back and gently grabbed at his sides as if he were mocking an eating motion. The light pinching seemingly tickled Crow with the way he jumped and tried to pull away. “Dinnae worry, Wolfhound, yer too sweet fer Ghost’s tastes.”

“He drinks too much coffee for my tastes.” Ghost corrected before moving to lightly swat John away from Crow. “Too bitter— ‘e’s more of Price’s taste, heh.”

“Yer not funny! Neither ov’ya.” The shorter man grumbled softly. “Least Kyle loves me ‘nough t’be nice t’me.”

“Aye,” The oldest sergeant mused, moving to wrap an arm around the smaller’s shoulders— sticking his tongue out at the other two while playfully shielding him. “I’ll keep these plonkers from nipping at yer bones, eh?”

“Yeah yeah,” The lieutenant chuckled before waving his hand dismissively. “...I’d actually like sushi… something with eel sauce. Or some sorta stew.”

“See… now that’s better than a bite outta our freckled friend— who may ‘er may na’ taste bitter or sweet.” The youngest of the four mused.

“Ye two are terrible,” Crow replied, feigning annoyance. “I hate ye both.” He shot a mock glare at John and Simon, only getting a few chuckles from both of them and a faint squeeze from Kyle.

“Hehe, ye know ye love us, pup.” Soap teased, reaching over to ruffle Wolfound’s messy braid— further messing it up. He could not help but chuckle at the way the smaller man’s nose scrunching up when he gave his half-attempted glare. Though when he put a bit of thought into it, it looked more like a pout. “Ye feckin cute, ye ken?”

“Oh, dún do bhéal!” The Irishman hissed, rolling his eyes as he ducked out from under Gaz’s arm so that he could continue heading north. “Told ye ta save it fer te’ ride back, when tis is all ova.”

It did not help the man's case when he seemed to blush at the faint teasing, having dealt with this sort of attitude for the past few days it really started to break down the walls he had put up after the death of his previous lover. Though, deep down, Crow did relish in the attention— truth be told he really needed it deep down but couldn't let it show, for as far as he knew Ghost and Soap were in a relationship while Gaz and Price were in their own.

"Oh come on, we've got ta' 'ave fun out here somehow, yeah?" Soap teased gently as he headed after Crow, followed by Ghost and Gaz who shook their heads in light amusement.

“Nah, yer just a collective group of dicks,” Crow barked back, only to huff quietly and grip the armstraps of his heavy travel pack. He stepped up onto a larger rock to start leading the group out of the rocky terrain as best he could. “...compliment obviously… I wouldn’ travel out ‘ere wit just anyone.”

“An’ ye feckin’ know ‘at.” John chuckled, grinning to himself as he watched the Irishman take the lead once again. The smaller man was agile, kept his balance rather well though at the faintest wobble, the younger sergeant moved forward. He did not hesitate to reach out, wrapping his hands around Crow’s waist in a simple attempt to keep him from falling backwards as he stepped up the rocks. “Yer lucky te’ rest a’ us are soo ‘elpful and handsome, eh?”

Kyle watched with a faint chuckle while Ghost shook his head slightly, though Crow seemed rather surprised at the sudden touch. He knew that even with his gear he weighed a little over one-hundred kilos— though he had to remind himself that he once saw the Scotsman lift more than his weight before in the gym.

Wolfhound turned slightly while looking to Soap for a few moments, only to roll his eyes and continue to lead the way. “Aye, I ‘spose it is always good ta’ ‘ave eye candy along side yer trail mix.”

Soap nearly choked on a quiet laugh at the sight of Crow’s eye-roll and ability to keep marching forward— though he could practically hear the flustered tone in the man’s voice. The thought alone would send him into hysterics, though he held back as he knew Crow would take any chance to shove him off a cliff if he stepped on his toes too much. He turned back to look at the other two men, raising his brows with a smile.

“Eye candy,” He snickered, then shook his head to follow after the older man.

"Shut up, ya git." Crow huffed back with a little pout, but he couldn't help but let out a little scoff that sounded a bit like a chuckle before continuing on. He knew it was all in good fun— but that did not mean that he could not have some fun himself. He gave Soap a small sideward glance before grinning to himself.

"Not my fault ye lads keep tryin' ta' get a rise out a me," he teased.

Soap could not help but snicker at the pout— not to say that it wasn't the most adorable thing, it just seemed so out of character for the smaller sergeant, though he was happy to see the man’s walls start to crumble. But the scoff followed by a light chuckle was the icing on the cake, making Soap almost wish he could have seen the expression that went along with it. He chuckled lightly himself, following closer beside Crow on their trek.

Crow continued to lead the other three men out of the rocks then turned to look at them slightly. Making sure they caught up before continuing on the way. Ghost was the last to pull himself out of the rocky terrain, but he was quick to catch up to the group and rejoin the circle, falling into a sort of rhythm with their pace. The only sounds were their own footsteps and the quiet shuffling of gear being pulled here and there. It was relatively quiet save for the natural sounds of the region, and it was obvious that John was starting to get a little fidgety.

~~~~~

"Ye ken," Soap started, falling into step beside the shorter man. The sun had begun her descent into the horizon— though it would be a few hours before she began to set when his voice broke the long, albeit comfortable, silence. "I've been thinkin’…”

“Dangerous game yer playin’ t’ere.” Wolfhound quipped, beating Ghost’s attempt

"Oi, quit it," Soap huffed in response, rolling his eyes at the typical cheeky response. "This is a serious question."

"When is anythin' you ask serious?" Ghost chimed in with a low chuckle, knowing full well where Soap was likely going with the question.

Gaz laughed softly and then gave a faint shrug. "They're right, suds."

The Scotsman shot a glare at the both of them, mostly for being right. But before he could come up with a smartass response, he felt a sharp pinch on the back of his arm— courtesy of Ghost, who gave him a smirk before gesturing for him to go on.

With a roll of his eyes and an annoyed huff, Soap turned back to Crow. "Right... I've been meanin' to ask... how long's it been fer ye... since the whole thing wit' your fiancé… yeh mentioned it, but neva said how long..”

"... he died last November? So it'll be 'round eight months given August just started?" He replied softly then shrugged faintly. "Some days it still feels like it happened yesterday." The Irishman then paused for a moment turning his head slightly to look up to the sky, then towards the horizon. He was quiet, though his faintly saddened expression turned to one of sheer focus. He was silent for a few seconds then he held his hand up to silence the other men.

"...shh...listen."

The men perked up at the sudden signal to be silent, and they almost spoke up but stopped just at the last minute, looking between each other with concentration. It took a few moments, but soon the faint sound of a helicopter came into range. The four of them exchanged looks with each other then ducked behind a large rock— huddling close together. Ghost and Soap crouched together while Gaz pulled Crow over to where they had ducked down, holding the man by his shoulder almost as if it was a subtle show of protection. The faint sound grew closer to their direction.

"Military?" Ghost mouthed to the group, his voice barely above a whisper when the helicopter began to fly overhead.

With precise movements Crow pulled his sniper from his back, though did not load it. Rather he aimed it towards the helicopter to look through his scope curiously. He eyed the soldiers' uniforms that were in the craft as it began to pass by, his brows furrowing slightly as he adjusted his scope to zoom in. As he watched the helicopter fly over he began to take a mental note of everything that he saw. The make and model, the size and style for how many passengers it could hold, and then finally, how heavily armed it was.

"Unmarked." He responded just as quietly. "It's not Russian… seems like an espionage..?”

“Whatever they are… means we’re heading in the right direction.” Gaz said quietly, lightly peeking over Crow’s shoulder while keeping his arm around Wolfhound’s shoulders. “Good catch, Wolf…”

Soap opened his mouth, as if to say something else, but just as quickly closed it when Ghost shot him a glare that said 'shut the hell up'. The group was silent for a few moments, but Ghost was the next to speak.

"We need to find somewhere to camp for the night. Re-check our gear... rest." Ghost said with a quiet tone. "If we keep pushing, then we risk running into them.”

“Rog, Lt.”

7 notes · View notes

wellpresseddaisy · 10 months

Text

Beginning to See the Light

@greens-your-color What happens when Darius takes Severus into Society the first time. (No biting, although I think Lucius wanted to chomp on someone for both of them.)

“…heard you’re allowin’ your boy to racket about with the Potter set.”

Severus heard the adenoidal tones that meant Gwendolyn Whitlow found another victim. He drew back slightly, letting the curtain of his alcove shield him. Old habits died hard, he supposed, but listened in anyway. One never knew what one might learn.

“Oh, yes. Family, you know.” Lucius answered coolly.

“Isn’t one of the girls not magically born?” She made that sound like a communicable disease.

“Miss Whitlow, I know you, tragically, have yet to enter the beautiful precepts of parenthood, but when one’s only son is determined to do the right thing by his…relative, then one simply must support him in that endeavor. The Granger girl is more palatable that I imagined.”

Severus could see, in his mind’s eye, Lucius’ expression given the chilly tone. He’d bet a month’s salary Lucius had his monocle out. Or perhaps he twitched a fan at her. The monocle, Severus decided, was more likely. Lucius’ liked people to feel as if they were being examined and found wanting.

“Don’t you worry at all about low company?”

“Quite frankly, Miss Whitlow, Draco’s manners and marks both have done nothing but improve since he took up with Potter, not that it is any of your business. I think, perhaps, it’s time to repair your own ignorance on the subject of the non-magical world.”

Miss Whitlow sputtered something at that. Severus swallowed hard. Low company. He’d been that, once. The little urchin graciously taken in hand by Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black. Eileen’s boy, so tragic she’d gone and married that muggle.

He didn’t belong here. He’d never belonged in this glittering world of balls and routs and card parties and boxes at the opera. His world was chalk dust and bubbling cauldrons and sticky children managing to have the most ridiculous accidents possible in class.

“Right, my lad, that’s quite enough of that.”

Severus startled as his husband suddenly loomed up at his side.

“I…Dare…I’m…” he floundered at seeing the stern set of Dare’s jaw.

“Hiding behind a curtain and thinking you could never belong here?” Dare raised an eyebrow.

How did the bloody man know that?

“Oh, Severus. Do you think I never had those moments myself?”

That put a different complexion on it.

“Come with me, pet. We’re going to plead a headache. You look peaky enough.” The wry twist of his mouth took the sting out of that one.

In short order, Severus found himself standing on the pavement waiting for their carriage. Dare wrapped an arm about his shoulders.

“Why don’t we try somewhere more to our taste?” Dare asked.

Severus looked up at him, the misery of ruining their first evening out together in Society dissipating with his surprise.

“Where?” he asked.

“Will you trust me?”

Severus felt his heart melt at that and tried to keep from smiling soppily. “Of course I trust you.”

“Then hold on. I sent the carriage back.”

Severus tucked himself close, closer than one really needed for side-along apparition, and closed his eyes. One squeezing moment later, he felt their feet hit pavement again.

“We’ll have to put your hair up, if you don’t mind, but the rest should be right.” Dare held up a clip and Severus turned around.

His husband’s hands were gentle as he carefully combed his fingers through Severus’ long hair. He plaited it quickly and clubbed the heavy length of it up at the nape of Severus’ neck with the clip. Severus looked at the brigtly lit façade before then and choked on air.

“A dance hall? Dare, if someone sees…”

“No one here will utter even one peep about us. They knew my father.”

How he said that and kept a perfectly innocent expression Severus would never know. He snorted.

“He used to dance here?” he finally choked out.

“Apparently,” Dare bit his lip. “That would have been in the forties. He used to bring his Slytherin cronies with him, slumming it.”

“The imagination boggles,” Severus murmured.

“Come along,” Dare grinned, anticipation lighting his eyes. “I’ve been watching you in set dances all evening. I cannot believe Mrs. Sedgwick thinks waltzing immoral, even now.”

Severus let Dare lead him in, suddenly happy he’d worn the flame-colored evening pajamas Narcissa and the tailor insisted he required for less formal events. The flowing trouser legs gave him some comfort—Dare seemed like the sort who danced energetically.

Who would ever have thought that Tobias Snape deciding that the best way to tire out energetic magical children was to teach them both swing and jive would come in handy? He could hear his mother even now, leaning out the kitchen window over the cramped back garden and laughing:

“Toby, why is Severus learning all the lifts?Surely that would be for Lily?”

“Nay, ‘leen. The lass’ll be taller than our Severus in weeks! Growing like a weed, that one.”

So Severus learned how to be lifted and all the aerials. Did Dare know any of them? He supposed he’d find out. They secured a table around the edge of the dance floor after checking their cloaks. Dare marked it as engaged and led Severus out to the floor.

Severus let him swing them into the flow of dancers, following his lead in a slow fox trot.

“Can you keep up?” Dare grinned down at him.

“With this?” Severus raised an eyebrow.

“This is just a warm up, my lad.” Dare stole a quick, smacking kiss.

It was. The more decorous fox trots and waltzes slowly trailed off into Stompin’ at the Savoy and One O’Clock Jump. Severus matched steps with Dare, following his lead easily. Several numbers he didn’t recognize passed as he and Dare familiarized themselves with each other.

He’d forgotten the joy of it, giving over to the music, the bass thumping in his blood up and down the scale as the band kicked the tempo faster and faster. He’d never felt like this dancing with Lily—so wholly in sync.

He realized that many of the other dancers had cleared off the floor, leaving more space for the jitterbugs. Dare laughed down at him, and swung him out, his hair falling over his forehead.

“Can you do the aerials?” he shouted over the pounding drums.

“All of them,” Severus bellowed back. “My father said it was my patriotic duty so I could show up the Yanks and scandalize the Malfoys!”

Dare snorted and steered them to an emptier section of the dance floor.

“Want a go?”

“Yes!”

He hadn’t trusted Lily’s muscle strength enough to try anything like a candlestick or an around the world with her. They’d confined themselves to some of the tamer pops and throws. He might regret it in the morning, but he couldn’t resist Dare’s infectious enthusiasm.

Frankie flips, around the worlds, k flips, tick tocks, and coffee grinders followed in quick succession. Severus knew they were drawing a crowd, but he didn’t care. He matched Dare step for step.

“See now, Davey, I told you that were Tommy’s boy. No one else danced like that.”

Severus caught Dare’s eye and laughed in delight as Dare supported him into a candlestick.

#hp society/the ton #hp the season au #hp the season/the ton au #severus snape #darius riddle-sinclair #the problems with ritual magic

19 notes · View notes

wodra-regon · 1 year

Text

Suddenly a Proud God Parent

So I just went to Rito Village. Not only did it make me attempt to figure out how much time has based since all the children grew up a bit- but I IMMEDIATELY ADOPTED Tulin.

[Spoiler free version:]

He’s a good lad and I will FIGHT for this child. I’m worried I end up adopting half the children in this game because the writing is really grabbing me in.

[Spoilers for Rito Village main quest below]

As soon as I saw him I thought, “Oh my god you’ve gotten so big! He’s grown so much-“ then I immediately realized that 2 seconds into seeing him I was already devolving into those relatives that say “I remember when you were a baby”. So I collected myself from suddenly becoming this child’s low key god parent or whatever- but then I advanced the dialogue (yes all that happened without me starting the conversation) and Tulin hit me with the “ Link?! Is that you?!” As he was genuinely happy to see him….. I caved. I crumbled. I collapse to the ground sobbing “he remembers me?!”. He’s my god child now. He’s accepted me and I CAN NOT let him down or else I’ll be a complete failure.

That was just meeting him again.

These parental tendencies got worse as I progressed the side quest because I was not expecting that the child would be traveling with me all the way. I was concerned for his safety when he went off on his own and I had to find him. I was proud of him when I learned he’s got SKILLS and learned a gust technique for himself. I was even more proud as he helped me in combat. And I was crying proud when he became a sage. “You’ve earned it kid.”

It was emotionally exhausting having that much positive energy flow out of me NON STOP for that long. Like y’all I need a break of emotional neutrality inbetween emotional spikes or else I melt or something.

But yeah. Sorry not sorry Teba, your child is also my god child. No I don’t have legal proof- my proof is that I’ll lose my other arm for him.

I’m worried now- for the other kids that might have grown since botw… am I’m going to adopt literally everyone? We’ll see- 0u 0

#loz spoilers #loz totk #totk tulin #tears of the kingdom #legend of zelda #legend of zelda: tears of the kingdom

34 notes · View notes

ilikeyoualive · 1 year

Text

Been fighting with the first fic in the 'Primeval' series, so I figured that I could post a bit of what my co-author and I have so far in order to hopefully create some hype for it. And if you happen to be interested in looking into this AU, here's a link to my Main Masterlist!

Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Missions Gone Wrong

Word Count: 905

Sneak Peek Below The Cut:

Because the universe seemed to have one hell of a bone to pick with Soap lately, the 141’s current mission had gone to shit almost immediately after they had reached the landing zone and disembarked the heli. Price had exited first followed by Gaz and Ghost with the Scot taking up the rear, Soap getting maybe a total of three steps away from the heli when there was a sudden flash of light in the distance closely followed by the deafening boom of an anti-aircraft weapon being fired.

The Scot didn’t have time to do much else other than tense before a stinger missile erupted from the treeline directly ahead of them, flying across the small clearing to hit the heli dead on in a matter of seconds. The resulting explosion knocked the Scot clear off his feet, heat licking at his back as he was propelled forward. Soap was airborne for a breathless moment before the ground rushed up to meet him and a low, pained grunt was forced out of him when he met the ground in a violent collision.

He was laid out on the ground face-down in a disoriented state long enough that it had apparently become a cause for concern because he suddenly felt hands on him, roughly rolling him onto his back and making the injuries he no doubt acquired during the explosion twinge and throb. He blinked up at the blurry figure hovering above him, the hand that had involuntarily reached for his sidearm going limp when his vision cleared enough for him to recognize Ghost’s signature skull-themed balaclava.

“Sergeant, on your feet!” Ghost had to yell to be heard over the nearly deafening cacophony of gunfire as gloved hands with a familiar skeletal pattern printed on them suddenly grabbed the shoulder strap of Soap’s vest to bodily haul the Scot up to his unsteady feet like he was nothing more than a wee lad as opposed to a muscular full grown man. Steaming Jesus, he had forgotten how inhumanly strong Shifters were. “C'mon Soap! Up!”

“G’st…?” Soap slurred, his mind fuzzy and his body aching something fierce, but his side was screaming the loudest. The fogginess implied that he had hit his head when he’d landed on the ground, which might have given him a mild concussion. Then, suddenly, Ghost gave him a little shake —since the man still had yet to let go of the Scot even though he was more or less upright— as if to try and jostle Soap’s brain back into working order. Surprisingly, it seemed to do the trick because the Scot was able to regain his bearings with some effort.

“Run, Johnny! I’ll cover you!” Ghost shouted, his fingers uncurling from Soap’s vest strap in favor of using that same hand to firmly and pointedly shove the Scot away from him and toward the treeline a few feet to their left. Soap stumbled from the unexpected push but miraculously managed to keep his footing despite the fact that his legs were being uncooperative at the moment, the Scot lurching into an awkward jog in order to enter the forest.

He felt the occasional branch catch on his gear as he ran, the sounds of gunfire and screaming gradually fading to just an ominous echo in the distance the deeper into the woodland that Soap went. Though, sooner than he would’ve liked, Soap was forced to stop because his side was burning, the bright and nearly crippling shock of pain each time he took a step slowing his pace from a run to something more akin to hobbling. The Scot knew that something was wrong, that the pain radiating from a very specific point in his side most likely meant that he had sustained a wound when the heli exploded.

Soap stumbled into a nearby tree, grunting when his shoulder rammed into the thick trunk, sweat beading on his forehead as he breathed heavily, far too labored considering that he had only ran maybe a half mile from the landing zone. The Scot grit his teeth as he gingerly turned so that his back was leaned against the rough bark, pausing in order to blink the black spots out of his vision. It took a few seconds, but the threat of falling unconscious eventually passed.

Soap’s hand reached down to prod at his side, frowning when he found nothing and even looked down to confirm that his front was completely fine. Though, with growing trepidation, Soap’s hands adjusted to reach behind his back, grinding his teeth together as he carefully felt around the massive rip in his shirt, his fingers coming away wet. He slammed his head back into the tree when his searching hand hit something solid, the object shifting inside of him and causing his nervous system to light up like a fucking firework.

“Shite.” Soap hissed, immediately snatching his hand away from the shrapnel currently buried deep in his side. He resisted the rising urge to throw caution to the wind and just yank the chunk of metal out despite the fact that he was horribly ill-equipped to deal with the fallout of such an impulsive action. Though, he didn’t find the alternative to be very appealing either, just the mere thought that he was most likely going to have to make for exfil with a foreign object embedded inside him had him swallowing down the urge to vomit.

#cod shifter au #shifter tf 141 #shifter 141 #modern warfare ii #modern warfare 2022 #modern warfare #cod modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare #cod mwii #cod mw 2022 #call of duty mwii #cod mw2 #simon riley #john mactavish #ghost #soap call of duty #soap cod #ghostsoap #ghost x soap

24 notes · View notes

hi-my-name-is-cosmopathy · 2 years

Text

Bloody Fresco (A Short Casas Tidmouth Fic)

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

It was a cold night on Sodor. Everyone had bathed in the warmth of their homes as they looked at the window, weary of the unknown criminals roaming around the island, waiting for another person to kidnap.

All were safe and comfortable in their homes.

All except Donald, of course, who was currently on the run from a deranged Duck. You might be thinking; “But doesn't Duck like Donald”? Oh, if only that was the case...

His wheels whirled as he sprinted through the dark alleyway while squeezing the great wound on his arm. “Mebbe this is wha’ happens ta people who witness dead mangled bodies.”

Donald then recounted why he ended up in this situation in the first place....

Donald wheels creaked as he wandered the dark paths of the island. He was still very much in Sodor, but something about it was different.

He was on a dirtied road, with missing posters scattered across that flew everytime the icy wind came. He stopped and crouched down to catch one of them, and he read...

MISSING PERSON: DONALD DUNALASTAIR

BIRTHDAY: ■■■■■■

AGE: 29

GENDER: MALE

RACE: SCOTTISH AND VIETNAMESE

EYES: BLACK

HAIR: GINGER

HEIGHT: ■■■■■■

WEIGHT: ■■■■■■

WEARING: RED SCARF, BLUE TURLENECK SWEATER, BLACK COAT WITH RED AND SILVER ACCENTS AND A BLUE BELT, BLACK PANTS WITH SILVER LINES, BLACK BOOTS

FACIAL CHARACTERISTICS: PRONOUNCED AND LOW CHEEKS, ANGULAR BUT SQUARED NOSE

EXTRA NOTES: DRIVES THE NWR 9 WITH HIS TWIN BROTHER, DOUGLAS DUNALASTAIR, A NO-NONENSE MAN BUT IS ALSO MISCHIEVOUS AND CAREFREE, CHARMING AND WITTY, FRIENDS OF MONTAGUE “DUCK” COLLET AND OLIVER SWINDON, WORKS IN THE LITTLE WESTERN

LAST SEEN: ■■■■■■

IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION ABOUT DONALD, PLEASE CONTACT: ■■■■■■

“Tis is definitely no’ ma Sodor”, he said to himself. He put down the paper and left to continue his journey.

He eventually found himself in a cozy village. He glanced through the windows to see the faces of happy, joyous people as they ate their dinner and socialized. Some were simply alone watching TV, while some were on the telephone. He stalked one of the houses a little bit, hearing someone ramble about their beloved “Percy” as they walked around their living room. “So tha wee lad went missing too...”, he thought.

He travelled the village until he heard something eerie, in contrast to the jovial noise of the houses. He heard it coming from a dark and creepy alleyway. Donald didn’t mind it at first, until he heard agonizing screams. It's sudden stop worried him and he rushed to the shaded area. He ran as quickly as he could to the noise, but it was too late. Donald’s wheels came to a screech as he came to the horrible scene.

His mouth gaped wide, no words coming out of it. He was speechless from what he saw.

The sight of a brunette man wearing a coat that became stained with red blood as he drew is axe and sliced the dead corpse over and over to his heart's content, the sound of flesh being cut ringing through the alley, paralyzed him as he felt his breath drifting away from him. The man eventually stopped and slowly shifted his sight to the Scottish human(oid). He was met with dejected eyes, harsh yet sorrowful breathing as his bloody hands shook from the weight of the axe.

Donald swore he looked similar to someone he knew. Then, he thought of who he was...

“Duck?”, he murmured.

The man's dejected eyes widened at the name. Donald took a step back. “Duck” then swung up his weapon as he charged towards Donald.

“Donas fhios agam” were Donald’s last words before being hit in his right arm. Donald yelled as he tumbled down the stone floor. He held his arm firmly as he felt a sharp pain growing from it. He removed his hand and became horrified seeing his own blood drip from it. In a state of panic, he got up, but was greeted with an unexpected punch in the face as he fell down again. He decided to return the favor by kicking the man's ankles. As he fell over, Donald took this opportunity to hurry away from the scene.

“I shouldn’tna have bothered with the noise”, he wondered to himself as he made with way down the lane. While his wheels made him go quicker, it was not use to him as he stopped at a dead end.

“Ach— an donas dubh!”, he shrieked under his breath. The sound of an axe being dragged across the floor only added up to his worries as he slowly stepped back to the brick wall. Duck sharply turned his head to the Scottish bloke as he slowly walked towards him. He could only stand there with baited breath.

He wasn't afraid of Duck because he had already learned to fight, but he was more terrified of the fact that his friend had become a murderer. Duck stopped halfway, staring at Donald, before swiftly running up to him, his axe seemingly ready to cut someone's head off.

Donald closed his eyes as he charged towards him...

...Only to hear the axe swing and hit something else.

Donald steadily opened his eyes to see the blade just beside his face, blood from the previous victim and himself dripping down. His gaze then turned to Duck. While there still seemed to be intent of murder in his eyes, he wasn't doing anything. He was just...staring at the nearly-half-dead man, as his cold breath seamed through the air. Donald didn't want to make eye contact, but he couldn't help but stare too. To him, it seemed like Duck was... analyzing him for some reason. He looked suspicious and untrusting of this version of Donald, but his eyes started to softened. He didn't understand at first, but suddenly he remembered the poster he saw at the street...

...A NO-NONENSE MAN BUT IS ALSO MISCHIEVOUS AND CAREFREE, CHARMING AND WITTY, FRIENDS OF MONTAGUE “DUCK” COLLET AND OLIVER SWINDON...

“Does...does he miss me?”, he asked no one in particular. He started analyzing Duck too. A solemn face with eye bags and a heavy frown, his hair a mess, as if he hadn't been taking care of himself. He wasn't wearing any green, and nothing about the Great Western. “Did somethin’ happen?” was his thought.

He couldn't help but feel pity for the man. He continued to study Duck. Long, but brown luxurious hair, blue icy yet mesmerizing eyes, a body you seriously just can't ignore, like, seriously, he actually looks pretty frickin hot—....

“Wait, wha’ am Ah even thinkin’?!”, he yelled to himself in his head as he contemplated what the hell just came up in his mind. How does one feel frustrated and terrified at first, later feel pity, and then become down horrendous for a murderer?

...Well, we'll probably never know, but it did happen.

Donald tried to look away, but Duck had become rather irresistible to him. His face started to flush a bright red. Duck took notice of this. And, he finally spoke...

“...Are you blushing?”, the despondent man asked.

“Tis has ta be tha worst timing in tha history of ma life”, Donald muttered quietly.

“No, Ah”m not”, he crossly answered. “Mebbe yer eyesight is just goin’ bad.”

It was another long and awkward silence between the two. Then finally, Duck let out a heavy sigh as his head faced down, and his axe moving out of position.

“What am I even doing?”, he grumbled as he lay down to the ground on the wall next to Donald. He was unsure of this but decided to follow Duck anyways.

“Wha’ are ye even doin’?”, he questioned.

“I don't know”, he responded. “It’s just, ever since I lost Donald to...whoever kidnapped him, I’ve just been so miserable...they even got Oliver and Douglas. And now? I am alone with the Little Western in my hands. Someone has to be the leader, someone has to be strong for the workers here, but... I'm just so tired of trying to keep going forward. And my family? Oh, don't even get me started! They're not bothered at all by my friends going missing! Not even worried that they might be...” Duck had run out of breath to talk.

Or so Donald had thought.

His eyes began to fill up with tears in frustration. He tried to hold them back but his blinking caused one to fall down, following another. Duck tried to wipe them but before he could, he could feel another pair of hands touch his face.

The cloth on Donald’s hands made it easier to rub them off, but more had just continued to come. He cupped Duck's cheeks with his crimson hands. “Don’ try an’ bottle them up”, he said, sternly but gently. “Ah’ll be glad ta wait until yer fine.”

More tears came from the “Great” Western man as he covered his face in shame as he wept, his tears mixing up with the blood on his face. Donald could only do so much, but it made Duck feel...better. Somehow.

It took a while, but he eventually composed himself once again. And with a loud “ahem”, he continued his lament...

“I’m really sorry for attacking you. I never meant it. It’s just... you're so different..but so similar to him...”

“To yer Donald?”

“Y-Yeah...Tough, yet caring...And really, really admirable..And...still so goddamn tall.” Duck chuckled to himself at that part as Donald smiled softly.

“But, you have brown and black hair...A-And... your cheeks are rosier which is actually kind of lovely and...you have wheels attached to your shoes—”

“Actually, they're a part o’ ma legs.”

“...What?—”

“Forget Ah said that.”

“...Well, you were just so like him, but you... I...I didn't...but... you're not him. I couldn't..handle that.”

Donald had listened intently to the entire vent. He pat his back.

“That’s..Tha’s horrible lad. Ah’m really sorry tha’ happened ta you. But tha’s no excuse to try an’ kill me.”

Duck turned away bitterly at those words. Donald only sighed.

“Well, there’s nothin’ we can do now.”

The two men looked up to the sky. It was a beautiful night, the stars gleaming like diamonds. They gave their attention to each other and stared in silence.

“This is so awkward”, were their thoughts.

Nothing they could do about it though. A murder scene, a great chase, to an entire lament. The two railway workers had exhausted all their energy, and all they could do now is look and look.

As the cold wind blew, Duck shivered. He was wearing a coat, but it wasn't made for cold weather, unlike Donald's. He took notice of his and shifted closer to Duck. He felt himself being brought in a warm embrace as the Scottish bloke wrapped himself around. Donald wasn't completely human, and still often consumed coal and water, which, as a result, made him hot.

Duck felt rather weird at the odd action, but not in a bad or a good way. “Enjoy yerself while ya can”, Donald said. “It’s gonna be a long night wit’ tha’ dead corpse an’ ma wound.”

And so he did. The brunette still decided to respect the personal space between him and Donald, but the longer they stayed together, the more he couldn't help himself. Being held like this took him back to the time he once held someone like this, a person he loved. He dug into his embrace even more. He buried his face into his neck and held him tighter, firmly yet sweetly. He found himself in a conflict of emotions. This moment between him and a stranger felt so nice...too nice.

He couldn't shake off the unknown feeling of dread. “This is so wrong...this is so wrong this is so wrong this is so wrong this is so wrong this is just so wrong—”

It was so, so wrong.

But he didn't mind staying like this of the rest of the night.

“...We still have ta tend on mah wounds, ya know?”

“Oh, right.”

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

GOSH FINALLY FINALLY!!! THIS TOOK FOREEEVERR!!! AAAH YES!

Also yeah even Duck isn't safe from me.

Also I didn't draw some parts because I wanted to see other people draw them 👀

i got this fic inspired by @beumdi 's fic “Murderous Marmalade” and that old 8x9 art that @bruhstation made for them. Okie thas it i hope you enjoy it :D

(The AUs used here is Casa Tidmouth and Human For One Day)

65 notes · View notes

edalene-slater-ffxiv · 10 months

Text

Trust

Trust.

It was such a simple word, and such a complex thing.

Edalene stood quietly on the deck of the Sirensong, watching the crew go about their work, listening to the wind and the waves as the ship moved.

The storm of the day before had moved on, and though it seemed there was another in the near future, if the horizon was to be believed, there was at least a bit of calm to be enjoyed for the time being. Some time to breathe, to think.

“Everything alright, lass?”

She turned, shifting enough so her good eye could glance over her shoulder - it was amazing how quickly she’d fallen into the habit of looking one direction. “Fine, Captain. I assessed the cargo hold this morning. You’ll need to have a few crew members re-secure a handful of items before the next storm hits. We wouldn’t want any cargo to be damaged before we arrive at the first port.”

“Aye. Can see that it gets done. Aught else amiss? Seem awfully pensive this mornin’.”

“Just contemplative. You and your crew have a job to do until we reach port. I’m here to observe until we reach port. Then my work really begins. Leaves quite a bit of down time, no?”

“Too much, lass. Find a drink, sing a shanty with the lads. Relax. We’ve days before we’re scheduled to reach port.”

“Perhaps after this first voyage is completed successfully, Captain. Until then…the cargo, if you don’t mind.”

“Aye, we’ll see to it. Oi! You two oafs, I’ve a job for you!”

As the man lumbered off Edalene was once again left with her thoughts. She wanted to trust the crew - but how often had she given her trust just to have it shattered?

Memories drifted in and out of focus. Of family - her parents and uncle, their lies their decisions, of former lovers - one in particular who’d couldn’t even be bothered with a fucking goodbye before disappearing into the fucking aether, the godsdamned drunkard (of all the wasted energy and time she’d spent trying to save the bastard from himself), and of her brother and his choices.

She couldn’t help but wonder how things might have been different, had she trusted people a little less, invested a little less…cared a little less. Not that it mattered now (though she still wasn’t above shooting a particular bastard’s dick off if she ever saw his sorry ass again. No matter how many times Erik insisted she let it go - she would not.)

A particularly strong breeze moved across the deck and Edalene took a moment to inhale deeply - there was something calming about the sea air, even if it did hint of rain.

“Looks to be another rough afternoon - they just got that cargo all secured too.”

Edalene opened her eye, straightened her shoulders and walked over towards the captain with a confident smirk as a low rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance. “Well, then let’s see what Llymlaen has in store for us and how well your boys did, hm? Earn my trust, Captain.”

#blurbs #short stories

5 notes · View notes

miitgaanar · 1 year

Text

Title: Blood on the Cobbles | Wherein the Lioness Falls Prey to the Wolves

Summary:

Unrest plagues Alderode, her Ssaelit citizens under constant threat of violence by their Gefendur neighbors. Even the city of Durlyne, the capital of the Ssaelit faith, is no longer a safe haven. Soldiers patrol the streets of the city, stretched thin by the constant attacks on the people they are charged with protecting. Addilyn Theron is one such soldier. A woman of the Semon caste, an accident of fate allowed for her to join the Lions of Mercy, a post she has proudly retained for nearly ten years—though it has not been without its hardships. Such hardships have only ever been exacerbated in times of strife, and it would seem now is no exception. Something torments Lemuel Adelier, Addilyn's commanding officer and trusted confidant. She had assumed it to be the burden of command, but his silence on the matter eats at her heart until it is nigh unbearable.The air is rife with hatred and fear in Alderode, and Addilyn can only hope that she can be more of a help than a hindrance to her esteemed captain.

Here it is, lads! My submission for the 2023 Unsounded Fanworks contest. It is terribly long, but I can only hope that it at least entertains :)

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

Heavy, gray clouds sat low in the sky above Durlyne, leaving the city bathed in an ashen and gloomy light. There was a chill to the air, as if winter had dug its claws into the earth in a desperate attempt to keep its hold in the face of a looming spring. Flower buds dotted the trees and lush, green grass had begun to sprout from the ground, but such delicate life might well be snuffed out should this chill persist into a full-on frost.

Not that Addilyn Theron paid any of that much mind, even as her breath appeared as a visible cloud before her and the brisk wind stung at her cheeks. She had more important matters to attend to, like the wooden staff haphazardly swung at her head.

With hardly a thought, Addilyn batted the weapon away with a swing of her own wooden staff, the sharp clatter of wood on wood echoing loudly throughout the training grounds.

A harsh sigh escaped her, and she gave ground as yet another poorly aimed swing came toward her face. “You swing that thing like an old woman would wield a broom against the lads stomping around her newly planted roses.”

Addilyn’s young opponent let out an aggravated growl, the girl’s lovely golden hair tied back into a braid that swayed wildly with each equally wild swing of her staff. Sharp, vibrant green eyes glared up at her as she stabbed toward Addilyn’s abdomen.

“Oi!” Addilyn sidestepped the jab and swung down to trap the weapon beneath her own against the ground. Her protégé tended to get a bit overzealous once frustration began to set in. “Easy, Mikaila. No need to get nasty about it.”

“Then just stand still for a second so I can actually hit you,” Mikaila Adelier bit out, grunting with the effort to free her staff.

Addilyn tsked softly, releasing the weapon and causing the young girl to stumble backwards. In a single, smooth movement, Addilyn closed the distance between them, sweeping the butt of her staff toward Mikaila’s unprotected side.

To the girl’s credit, she recovered quickly enough, bringing her staff up with a startled yelp to block the attack. Addilyn hummed her approval before shifting her weight to strike with the opposite end of her staff, aiming for Mikaila’s upper torso.

But Mikaila’s reflexes had always been sharp, and she ducked low, avoiding the blow with little issue. Addilyn then stepped into a sharp spin, her staff a blur as she swung downward at Mikaila’s nearly prone form—only to have the girl roll out of her reach, the butt of the staff hitting the dirt with a dull thwack.

Mikaila quickly scrambled to her feet, her staff held out in front of her in a defensive stance, her gaze steady on Addilyn as she watched for her next move.

Addilyn twirled her staff with a flourish, her lips quirked into an amused smile. “And how do you expect to hit me from all the way over there, Miki?”

“Arrogance is hardly a good look on you, Addie,” Mikaila retorted, circling around Addilyn so she no longer stood directly before her. “It’s bad enough when Papa talks like that.”

Addilyn huffed a small laugh, tracking the girl’s movement with her gaze. “Where do you think I learned it from?”

Mikaila rushed her then, swinging low toward Addilyn’s legs. Smart move—incapacitate rather than go for a killing blow. A good strategy for someone with her particular talents. But Addilyn easily avoided the swing, stepping back and to the side as Mikaila attempted to redirect the swing into an uppercut to her head.

A thunderous crack sounded through the air as Addilyn met the swing with one of her own, pride swelling in her chest as the force of the impact reverberated up her arms. The strength behind the blow was evident, even in one as slight as Mikaila. There was a time where such a strike would have caused the young Soud to drop her weapon, her hold too weak to weather such an attack, but she stood firm before her now, her grip upon the staff solid and sure.

A smirk pulled at Addilyn’s lips, and she dug her heels into the earth to push back with her staff. Mikaila stumbled backwards, nearly losing her footing as she struggled to maintain a fighting stance. Addilyn moved quickly then, jabbing the base of her staff forward in a feint—only to then sweep the girl’s feet out from under her with the other end as she attempted to block.

Mikaila landed on her back with a soft oof, which was quickly followed by an aggravated groan as she rolled onto her side to scowl up at Addilyn.

“That’s not fair!” she accused, her girlish face twisted into something short of fury. A few strands of hair had come loose from her braid, which only served to make her look more frazzled than fearsome. “I had you!”

“If you had me, I’d be the one on my back attempting to soothe my wounded pride.” Addilyn planted the butt of her staff into the dirt as her free hand came to rest at her hip. “But you did well, though. That last hit was a strong one. And your reflexes are as sharp as ever. You made me fight for it.”

“You tricked me,” Mikaila pouted, and Addilyn couldn’t help but laugh. “You move too fast! And that last move was dirty. I thought you were going for my face!”

“Excuses, excuses,” Addilyn intoned, moving forward to help Mikaila up. “I never thought the great Golden Delight would stoop so low—”

The world suddenly tilted on its axis, and Addilyn landed on her back with a shout as her feet slipped out from under her. She blinked in confusion, staring up at the deep gray sky for a beat before she pushed herself up into a sitting position. Beneath her, the ground had solidified into a smooth sheet of ice, its surface so clear that had Addilyn not known any better, she would have sworn that bone dry earth lay there.

She looked up in time to watch as a dull green glow faded from Mikaila’s hand, and a devilish grin began to split the girl’s otherwise angelic features.

“You brat!” Addilyn groaned, rubbing at her lower back. There was going to be one hell of a bruise there tomorrow. “I said no pymary!”

Somewhere off to the side, Addilyn could hear someone snicker. Daring a glance over her shoulder, she spotted the young Will Argenti leaning against the wooden fence that separated the sparring area from the paths that cut through the Temple of Song’s parade grounds, practically doubled over with the effort to suppress his laughter.

“Great show, Addie!” Will called, his bright blue eyes sparkling with mirth beneath a messy head of silver hair. What an asshole. “Exactly the grace and skill I’d expect from the Lioness of Durlyne.”

Addilyn chose not to comment on the use of her accursed moniker, and instead simply flashed her pinky at him. Will only chuckled anew.

“Way to be sporting about it!” he replied. His attention shifted slightly and he offered a small wave and a charming grin.

Addilyn rolled her eyes, turning to see that Mikaila had gotten to her feet and was sheepishly returning the wave. A soft moan left her as her shoulders sagged. Lemuel would give her an earful for this later.

“I’d be even better if you let me fight with pymary,” Mikaila said, coming to stand before Addilyn, her hand outstretched. “I’m not good at this sparring stuff. But I am good at pymary.”

A sigh escaped Addilyn, and she accepted the proffered hand, grunting slightly as the young girl pulled her to her feet. It was odd to see Mikaila nearly match her in height, her blossoming womanhood only just barely hidden beneath the brown and green uniform Lemuel had lent her. The days of the little wright draped in powder blue cloaks hugging at her waist were long gone, though those days had vanished far sooner than they should have—in a flash of spellfire and blood soaked steel.

“I’d much rather not have the flesh flayed from my body or my blood boiled from within during a simple sparring session, thank you,” Addilyn said lightly, a snide grin in place.

“You know what I mean, Addie.” Mikaila bent down to collect their staves before turning to lead them toward where Will still leaned against the old, splintering fence, a barely suppressed indignation coloring her words. “Even little tricks like freezing the ground or redirecting momentum could be useful in a fight.”

“It’s because we don’t want you relying too much on the pymary, Miki,” Addilyn replied gently. “You never know when it might not be an option.”

“When wouldn’t it be an option? You could bind my hands and gag me tight enough to bleed and it wouldn’t matter.”

“And what of a khert fire? What if the lines become too agitated to cast?” Addilyn said mildly. The look Mikaila threw her was one of the purest vexation. Addilyn offered her an obnoxious smirk in return, reaching up to ruffle her hair. “I know more than you think I do, brat. And my point stands. There are times when your spellery might not be possible, even with your irritating little tacit casting tricks, and we don’t want you caught flat-footed should that ever come to pass.”

Mikaila scoffed, swatting Addilyn’s hand away from her head. “At least let me learn to fight with both,” she pleaded. “I know it’s Papa pushing for this. You never minded the pymary much. Couldn’t you just talk to him? Please?”

Addilyn released a long, slow breath. The truth of the matter was more complicated than she had let on. The country was in a sad state, the disdain for Ssaelism and its faithful reaching a height that made living even within Durlyne itself treacherous. Gefendur were known to make their way into the city, vandalizing Ssaelit businesses and defacing temples, but the animosity was growing as of late, and such hatred could not be sated with the shattering of a window or the destruction of a few statues.

And Captain Lemuel Adelier wasn’t keen on leaving such matters to chance, not when it came to his family, and so had tasked Addilyn with ensuring Mikaila had at least a rudimentary knowledge of how to break a man’s nose or shatter his kneecaps. She was too well known, a symbol of Ssaelit resilience in the face of Gefendur loathing; the Golden Delight, blessed by Ssael himself, who had survived a Crescian blade through the heart—and then slew her father’s murderers even as her own blood stained virgin snow a deep and angry red.

It had afforded Mikaila a certain measure of leniency in the eyes of their fellow Ssaelit, her pymaric talents a parlor trick to call upon, her presence a talisman for their troops when sent off to fight against Cresce’s ever looming forces.

But what their favor did not offer her was protection, not in any meaningful or long lasting way. It instead made her a target, and that was something Lemuel was desperate to mitigate.

And so it was now left to Addilyn to maintain this delicate illusion, to disguise a father’s worry as little more than practicality and a soldier’s caution. After all, simply telling Mikaila not to practice pymary, even for her own safety, would be about as productive as attempting to shout the ocean waters into a state of tranquility. Better to avoid the conversation entirely and compel her to learn how to exist without it under the guise of a learning exercise.

“It’s basics first,” Addilyn began after a beat. “That is the rule of all forms of learning, yes? Even with your spells and incantations.”

“But—” Mikaila tried, her bright eyes wide with desperation. Addilyn’s heart broke a little at the sight.

“I’ll tell you this, little girl,” Addilyn cut her off, her hand held up to silence Mikaila’s protests. “Work at the sparring, strive to master your footwork and your stances. And then maybe—maybe—once you’ve managed to land a blow on something other than a scarecrow, I can convince your father to allow us to work in a bit of spellery.”

Mikaila’s distress morphed into a precarious hope, and she immediately launched herself at Addilyn, wrapping her arms around the woman’s midsection in a tight embrace. Addilyn stumbled back a step, but only too happily returned the affection, a gentle smile pulling at her lips as she patted lightly at the girl’s back.

“Thank you, Addie.” Mikaila pulled away to grin brightly up at her tutor. “I promise I’ll work hard at it. I’ll make it hard for Papa to say no.”

Addilyn snorted softly. It had been years since Lemuel had taken on the role of father in the Adelier household, and yet still it struck a sour note in her ears at times to hear him referred to as such. “As long as you work harder than young Will, I’m sure you will be a master swordsman before the year is out.”

“Oi!” Will shouted, clearly now within earshot of their conversation. “I won the last few bouts against you, Addie!”

“Only because you conveniently chose the most inconvenient times to assert your newly acquired prowess with the sword,” Addilyn retorted, coming up to flick at the young Renghul’s nose.

Will flinched back, rubbing at the afflicted flesh like he used to as a boy. He looked so very young, then, and Addilyn found that she rather missed the days of his skittish youth. He was, for all intents and purposes, a man now, standing almost a head taller than her and broader than she could ever hope to be. It was a Silver's curse to have adulthood thrust upon them at a time when other castes might have continued to enjoy some semblance of innocence. Though Will's childhood had been snatched from him long before it was necessary.

A common occurrence in Alderode, it seemed.

“Fight me on a day I haven’t been patrolling from sunup, or assisting Captain Adelier with training,” she continued. “Then we’ll see who comes out on top, Little Lion.”

“Big words from such a small lass,” he scoffed, resting an elbow atop her head, a taunting smirk firmly in place. “It’s been some time since that abhorrent sobriquet you so generously bestowed upon me applied in any true sense. Perhaps it’s time we traded?”

“By all means, take the damned thing.” Addilyn slapped Will’s arm from her head none too gently. Both he and Mikaila snickered. “I would gladly have you knighted our dreaded Lioness if it took the burden from my shoulders.”

Mikaila tugged at her braid so it came to rest over her shoulder, her fingers fiddling with it nervously. “Has it been so bad?” she asked tentatively. “To be so widely known?”

Addilyn bit back a curse, a terrible guilt beginning to pool in her gut. It was careless of her to grouse so openly with Mikaila here. Will understood the difficulties that had sprung anew in light of her recent public exposure. She’d always been something of an open secret, something the men of the Lions of Mercy didn’t particularly wish to talk about outside of the barracks, mostly in the vain hope that she’d one day just vanish, not unlike that of a sour stench when given time to air out.

But things hadn’t been too bad the last few years. At least not compared to the beginning of her service amongst the venerable Lions. It had taken time—hours upon hours of training and patrols and shit shoveling—and more than a handful of skirmishes, but the outright resentment directed her way from her fellows faded. Some of the soldiers warmed up to her, and any who hadn’t mostly just ignored her. It had been that way for some time, and it was something she could have happily lived with, had God permitted.

It had begun with a jest, started by her esteemed captain one night when drunk on spirits and the high of a victorious skirmish with Crescian forces.

“And here’s to our vicious Lioness,” Lemuel had slurred loudly, tankard lifted high for all the room to see. “For without her mighty claws and keen eye, I might very well be less one head.”

It had earned a round of raucous laughter and cheers, the rest of the men just as drunk as their captain and in good spirits. She hadn’t thought twice about it, nor had Lemuel, if his foggy memory the next day was any indication, and the spontaneous salute to her deeds had been all but forgotten.

At least, that was what she had thought.

Either prying ears or loose lips led to that small fragment of the night reaching the desk of an especially nosy reporter, and, some weeks later, a headline printed in incriminating black ink and large, blocky lettering filled newstands across Durlyne.

The Lioness of Durlyne, they had called her, with all of the mockery and revulsion that such a title could evoke in her fellow Ssaelit. The words printed upon the page were damning, and had left her more shaken than she cared to admit. The whispers began soon after, spoken in low tones in taverns and storefronts and ghers alike.

A Semon woman? A soldier? Within the ranks of our sacred Lions of Mercy?

It was unthinkable, even on the heels of the Golden Delight and her hallowed battle in the snow.

All too suddenly, the open secret of her existence was no secret at all, and she went from tolerated to abhorred overnight, leaving her right back where she had started nearly ten years ago.

But Mikaila didn’t need to know any of that, didn’t need to know how hard the last few months had been under such intense scrutiny, to suddenly feel so alone in a place she considered her home. Mikaila was adored, cute as a button and believed to be a conduit for Ssael’s blessing. They were different, to that effect. Mikaila was a novelty; Addilyn had never been anything more than shit to be scraped off the heel of a boot.

Addilyn sighed, her shoulders sagging slightly as she forced a reassuring smile. “It’s not so terrible,” she finally said, her smile taking on a mischievous edge. “I suppose some of us just don’t take as well to fame as others.”

“Aye,” Will said, mercifully catching on to Addilyn’s discomfort. “I do fear she’ll outgrow us someday soon. What is God’s favorite to a couple of grunts like us?”

Mikaila rolled her eyes, her anxiety replaced with exasperation. “Blaspheme all you want, but you’ll not catch me testing God’s good graces.”

“Color me surprised,” Addilyn laughed, leaning back against the fence alongside Will. “That’s never stopped you before. Last I heard from your mother, you enjoy teetering on the edge of blasphemy with every chore she bids you to finish.”

“Sweeping the den is hardly important when there are techniques I still haven’t learned.”

“Were you half as dedicated to your footwork as you are to your spellery, I daresay you might have felled me today.”

“She might have felled Captain Adelier himself, in that case,” Will added with a solemn nod.

Mikaila muttered something incoherent, picking up the staves from where she had leaned them against the fence to place them back in the wooden trunk from whence they came. Addilyn and Will merely grinned triumphantly.

“It’d be nice to try my hand at sparring with Papa,” Mikaila said, closing the lid of the trunk with just a little too much force. “But that’d mean he would have to come home every now and then.”

Addilyn’s smile fell, the bitterness in Mikaila’s voice not lost on her. “Has he not been home?”

Mikaila met her gaze, and Addilyn’s confusion must have shown on her face, as the young girl wilted slightly. “Oh,” she said simply. “I had just assumed—I mean, you and Papa spend so much time together. I just thought—never mind.”

It would have been less of a blow had a hound kicked Addilyn directly in the gut. For all the years she and Lemuel had danced around the complexities of their relationship, especially in the shadow of Duane’s death and the obligations it entailed, she had somehow never prepared herself for a moment such as this. Mikaila was no longer a child and surely realized there was more between Addilyn and her father than the camaraderie the military tended to cultivate. She was not naive in any sense of the word, which only made Addilyn feel all the more foolish.

The only question was how long Mikaila had suspected as much.

Addilyn’s one saving grace in light of such a revelation was the fact that she truly didn’t know where Lemuel had been as of late.

“If I’m being perfectly honest,” Addilyn began after a beat, doing her best to save face, “I had assumed he’d been going home the last few weeks. I’ve not seen hide nor hair of him when he wasn’t on duty.”

“Oh,” Mikaila said again, looking thoughtful. “I hope everything’s all right. Mama said the last time he was gone so long was after—well, he had been helping with the hunt for the Crescians from that night.”

That made Addilyn pause, and suddenly her worry had morphed into a different beast entirely.

“Addie,” Will said softly, nudging her. “I didn’t think it was all that important, but Mother told me that the captain has been meeting with Father over the last few nights.” He stole a glance at Mikaila, lowering his voice further. “It still might be nothing, but the fact that you didn’t know is a bit…” He trailed off then, finishing the thought with a grimace and an uncertain hand gesture.

It was odd, to say the least. As much as she had not seen Lemuel when off duty the last few weeks, she continued to see plenty of him at all other hours of the day—whether it be sparring, training, or patrolling—and he had not spoken a word of any late night, clandestine meetings with the Argenti patriarch.

The unease lapping at her heart had all but swelled into a veritable tidal wave, leaving her nauseous and unbalanced with anxiety.

“They’re old friends, your father and the captain,” Addilyn said, but even to her ears the words sounded pathetic and brittle.

“Aye.” He nodded, his brow raised. “But last I checked, so were you.”

She had nothing to say to that. Her stomach tightened as her disquiet mounted.

“Taking a break, are we?” a familiar voice cut through the tense quiet.

Both Addilyn and Will spun around, muscle memory taking hold as they came to stand at attention with a stiff salute. Though her head was bowed slightly, her eyes downcast as she pressed her two middle fingers to her forehead, she could just make out the approaching silhouette of her golden haired captain.

“Papa!” cried Mikaila, immediately running forward to greet him. She stopped just short of the fence before straightening her posture into something similar to parade rest. “I mean—good afternoon, sir!”

To her left, Addilyn could hear Will mutter to himself; something to the effect of “To speak of him is to invoke the specter.”

She had to bite back the snort that nearly erupted from her lips.

“At ease,” Lemuel Adelier said, an amused smile alighting his handsome features. His golden eyes were ringed with dark circles, as if he hadn't had a decent night's sleep in some time. “I see Theron has yet to teach you a proper salute.”

“Didn’t know that was part of the orders, sir,” Addilyn said, dropping the salute to place her hands on her hips. “I’ll be sure to add it to the list.”

He quirked a single eyebrow at her, his smile shifting into a sardonic smirk. “Dancing on the edge of insubordination today?”

Addilyn rolled her eyes, but replied, “Not at all, sir. Simply taking note of my shortcomings.”

Lemuel hummed his dubious assent, coming to stand along the fence beside Addilyn. He nodded his head in greeting at Will.

“Addie’s been busy training with me, sir,” Mikaila piped up, pride painting her words. “There’s not been time for much else.”

“Is that so?” Lemuel cast Addilyn a sidelong glance, playing along with his daughter’s enthusiasm. Addilyn simply offered a modest shrug in return as she leaned back against the fence once more. “And how did that turn out, da aliaol?”

Mikaila grimaced slightly. “Could have been better, sir. But Addie said I did well.”

“Let’s see about that.” Lemuel motioned for Will. “Argenti, take up arms. Go a few rounds with the lass.”

“Yes, sir.” Will vaulted over the fence with ease, smiling brightly all the while. “C’mon, Miki. Let’s get you a real opponent.”

Addilyn kicked out at Will’s backside, earning her a devilish cackle from the man as he made his way toward the wooden chest containing the staves. “Muol,” she laughed.

Lemuel chuckled softly next to her, a charming sound that seemed to resonate from his chest. There was a gentle tug at her braid, and it took Addilyn a beat to realize he was the culprit, the offending hand coming to rest at her back for a brief moment before settling atop the fence.

“Truly, now,” he began, “how was she today?”

“A charmer, as always,” she said. “She froze a patch of ground once I had her on her back. Made me slip and fall right on my ass. I’ll expect compensation, sir.”

“Hazards of the job, I’m afraid.” He nudged her lightly, his mirth giving way to more solemn ground. “Thank you for this. Truly. Leysa’s had her hands full with Simon as of late. And we’ve both grown weary of fretting over what trouble this wee wright can stir up in the absence of a more traditional chaperone.”

The hollow clatter of wood on wood filled the air once again, along with Mikaila’s near deranged laughter. Addilyn watched Lemuel from the corner of her eye. He looked so tired; from this proximity, she could see that the dark circles were the least of it. His long golden hair, pulled back into a loose ponytail, had lost some of its luster, and his already pale skin seemed to take on a near ghostly pallor, making that long healed scar carved into his face stand out further. A light dusting of scruff lined his usually clean shaven jaw, as if even that was too much of an effort to maintain at the moment.

A frown pulled at her lips. It’d been some time since she’d seen him so harried, and even then he had made no secret as to its source, let alone attempted to conceal it from her. That gnawing dread in the pit of her stomach returned, near painful in its intensity.

“Of course, sir,” she said evenly. “She’s a handful, but no more than I’m used to. I love the lass, despite her efforts to test my affections on the daily.”

Lemuel huffed a small laugh. “A more sympathetic sentiment I’ll never hear,” he said softly. His demeanor changed then, more captain than companion within the span of a breath. “But I’ve not come only to check in on the glorified chaperoning of my wayward daughter. We’ve a patrol in an hour. I came to fetch you.”

“So soon?” Addilyn’s brow lifted in surprise. They’d just had a patrol that morning. She’d figured that she’d be off the hook for at least a few days. Her expression soured, the yawning pit in her gut large enough to swallow her whole. “Has something changed?”

“Nothing so dramatic,” he replied lightly. “Just some trouble in the northern part of the city this afternoon. We’re spread too thin for the evening patrol, so we’re part of the lucky batch to pick up the slack.”

She sighed wearily. “Piss and shit.”

He nodded. “Soud and Semon. Just the same. Go get your gear and get the hounds ready. I’ll break the news to Miki and meet you at the kennels.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, turning to hop over the fence and head toward the armory, the sound of Mikaila’s infectious laughter following her the whole way.

——————————————

An unnatural hush fell over the city in the evening hours. It was an inauthentic quiet, the kind that descended over a battlefield as a battalion awaited the high-pitched whistle of artillery fire, rife with tension and a thick sheen of fear.

People continued to bustle about despite this, enjoying the waning hours of sunlight that filtered through the slowly dissipating clouds in thin orange rays. They averted their eyes from the shattered windows of the storefronts they frequented, the gentle crunch of yet to be cleared glass shards that littered the streets sounding with each step they took; shopkeeps continued to hawk their wares, pointedly ignoring the ugly writing scrawled across the sturdy brick of their places of business, the paint a deep red, the color of fresh blood seeping from a wound.

THE GODS DO NOT ABIDE YOUR GODKILLER

TAKE BACK THE COUNTRY, SLAUGHTER THE HERETICS

THE STREETS WILL RUN RED WITH MOULTEN BLOOD

It was vile, minacious in its intent, and had subdued the people of Durlyne to the point of fearing the shadows that flickered around corners and loomed in alleyways.

And yet Addilyn found that the sight did not stir the familiar feelings of enmity she had become accustomed to, her mind elsewhere as she sat astride her hound.

She and Lemuel had been patrolling the streets of the southern part of the city for the better part of an hour, their mounts alert and attentive. It had been a routine patrol thus far, their mere presence seemingly deterrent enough for any who might have had malevolence hidden in the darker parts of their hearts, but Addilyn could find little solace in this fact, her gaze constantly drifting over to her captain.

He was putting on a front, of this much she was now certain. The usual banter was there, but there was a hollowness to his voice, the words lacking the playful bite she had grown to cherish. He sat straight in his saddle, the picture of a seasoned soldier, and yet there was a heaviness to his posture, as if a terrible weight sat upon his shoulders—one that he so desperately tried to bury beneath a veneer of authority.

The unease Addilyn had been fighting back finally began to spill over, and she could abide his reticence no longer.

“Sir,” she began, cursing the hesitance evident in that single word, “what’s going on?”

“Hm?” Lemuel glanced over at her briefly before making a show of looking around them, his tone surprisingly caustic. “The slow and methodical extermination of our people, Theron. Don’t tell me you’ve only just now noticed. I’d be forced to question my nigh unshakable faith in you.”

“No, sir,” Addilyn replied evenly, biting back a rather cutting retort. “I’m well aware of that. The Geffies make it rather difficult not to be.”

“Then what seems to be troubling you?”

She paused for only the span of a heartbeat, steeling herself. “You, sir.”

He simply scoffed, not taking his eyes off the street before him. Maha continued to amble along, the hound unbothered by her rider’s newfound rigidity. “Me, Theron? A bold declaration. Were I but anyone else, you’d be spending the night in a cell. And the next week shoveling dogshit in the kennels.”

“You look exhausted, sir,” she pressed on, unbothered by his veiled threats. They lacked the necessary edge to be taken seriously, more scathing quip than genuine reprimand. “I just want to relieve whatever burden they’ve thrust upon you this time.”

“Looking to be promoted?” He laughed, a flat and humorless sound. “You should know by now that’s not in the cards for you, Private.”

Addilyn’s annoyance began to build, though it was hollowed out by her persisting trepidation. He was deflecting, attempting to divert her attention to avoid the matter at hand.

She pushed her hound into a slow trot, coming up to ride alongside him.

“Mikaila said you haven’t been home in weeks.” She tried to catch his eye, but Lemuel kept his gaze forward, steadfast and sure, his mouth set in a thin line. “She’s worried. I’m worried. You look fit to drop, sir.”

“A captain’s responsibilities do not end with the completion of a successful patrol,” he bit out. “You claim to see the sad state of things, and yet you do not grasp the resounding repercussions for those of us tasked with holding the line.”

“I grasp it all just fine, sir,” she snapped, not even bothering to tailor her anger. “I patrol these streets with you, I see the ire firsthand. Do not treat me like some fresh Semon recruit who has yet to even see his first battle.”

“Mind your words, Theron,” he said lowly, darkly. “You forget yourself.”

“Something plagues you,” she continued. “Something that keeps you up at night, keeps you from your family.” From me. The words went unsaid, but the weight of them felt heavy in the air between them, to the point that Addilyn almost cringed.

A brief silence fell over them, filled only by the panting of their hounds and the cacophony that accompanied the close of a city’s day. The fading light reflected dully on Lemuel’s wan countenance, the setting sun dyeing his golden locks a foreboding shade of red.

“It is a matter well beyond you,” he finally said, the reluctance in his voice clear. “Leave it at that.”

“Has it anything to do with your covert meetings with the elder Argenti?”

That got his attention, his head snapping to meet her gaze for the first time since she’d broached the issue. A small measure of fury flashed in his aureate eyes—fury, and just the slightest hint of panic.

“Where did you hear that?”

“From Will,” she said, his reaction catching her so off guard that she didn’t even think to deflect.

“Damn that boy,” he snarled. “A worse gossip than even his sow of a mother.”

“Better a gossip than a sneak-thief slinking about in the dead of night. What has you so perturbed that you’d involve Argenti?”

“I told you,” he said coldly, “it is a matter beyond your station.”

“Then I ask not as a soldier, but as a friend. A confidant. I can’t just stand by and watch as you wither away into a husk of a man.”

“You try my patience, Theron.”

“Let me help you,” she pleaded. “You’ve borne so much, especially these last few years. I only want to help however I can—”

“Addilyn!” Lemuel finally snapped, his voice sharp and commanding, her name echoing faintly through the slowly emptying streets. He brought Maha to a sudden stop before turning to face her, a quiet rage etched into his features. “What fucking part of drop it are you not understanding? Must I frame it as an order? Or must I threaten you with a court-martial before the words finally register in that shit-filled head of yours?”

Addilyn flinched back, stunned into silence. Not since her early days under his command had he spoken to her with such rancor. It was something she’d never thought she’d hear from his lips again.

“You forget your place in all of this,” he continued, his frustration palpable. “You forget the precarious precipice upon which you sit. You’ve no friends here, save myself and a Silver who can hardly cast better than a battle-addled Plat caught in an ambush. Or have you forgotten that your generous benefactor has long since abandoned you?”

Addilyn swallowed thickly, averting her eyes to the ground. A small statue of Ssael lay discarded in the dirt, the head smashed to dust, as if a club had been taken to the stone in a fit of rage.

“A Copper’s favor is a fickle thing,” Lemuel said severely. “And you enjoyed the fruits of their interest for longer than most. Their boy recovered and now wanders Alderode with a prosthetic worth the sum needed to feed an entire ghers for six generations, as if he’d never lost the limb to begin with. They were grateful for your heroism, and placed you here, in a den of lions, amongst which you must now fend for yourself.”

He reached out, clasping at her hand, his grip tight. She didn’t dare to lift her eyes, lest he see the tears that welled there.

“You’ve few friends amongst us, especially now.” His voice was quiet, his anger replaced by something gentler. “And my influence means less and less with each passing day. I beg you, Addie, keep your head down. If not for yourself, then for me.”

A trembling breath was all the answer she could offer him, pulling away from his touch as she fought to maintain her composure. There was a tightness in her chest, a pain like a crow’s talons digging into the space where her heart lay, and her face burned with the heat of newly forged steel.

He was right, of course. She had overstepped. Despite it all, he was still her commanding officer, and she a lowly Semon woman in far over her head. She had no right to pry into whatever business tormented him so, no matter her intentions, no matter her concern.

Addilyn lifted her gaze to meet his own, an apology upon her lips—

—only to watch as a crossbow bolt struck Lemuel in the shoulder, the force of the impact knocking him from his saddle and to the hard, unforgiving ground.

For but a heartbeat, Addilyn had no idea what had happened. She saw Lemuel fall, naught but a soft gasp escaping him as he hit the cobblestones. Maha immediately began to bark uproariously, her hackles raised as she came to stand before her downed rider. Someone screamed, and chaos ensued as the few pedestrians that remained on the street scattered, fleeing for the relative safety of their homes.

It was the telltale sound of a second bolt—a high-pitched whine, faint and barely audible over the furious baying of Lemuel’s mount—that shook her from her stupor, and she turned just in time to watch as the small projectile shot by her face, the sharpened tip cutting into the flesh of her cheek.

The pain barely registered, and she practically leapt from her saddle to rush to Lemuel’s side, a third bolt whizzing through the air where she had been seated but a mere moment prior.

“Captain!” she called, crouching beside him as he pushed himself upright. He knelt low as Maha acted as cover for them, his eyes already scanning their surroundings. “Are you all right?”

He reached up and yanked the bolt from his pauldron, wincing slightly at the movement. “Fine,” he ground out, and he drew one of his swords from the scabbard strapped to his back. His eyes briefly flicked toward her. “You?”

“Fine, sir.” Addilyn quickly unsheathed her own blade as a sharp yelp split the air. Her hound had likely been struck by a bolt, though the beast continued to faithfully stand guard, growling viciously all the while.

“He seems to be at ground level,” Lemuel said, hardly even blinking as Maha whined softly. He dared a glance over his hound’s saddle, shushing the animal as he soothingly patted at the thick black fur on her flank. “Nothing from the roof, otherwise we’d likely be riddled with arrows about now.”

Addilyn was about to voice her assent, a succinct plan of action taking shape on her tongue, when a flutter of motion drew her attention to a point over Lemuel’s shoulder—an errant shadow in the alley across the way.

And with a sudden burst of movement, the shadow surged forth, taking the shape of a Semon man with a sword raised to strike.

Addilyn immediately jumped to her feet, the hilt of her blade gripped with both hands as she met the man’s swing with a wordless shout. The bright, almost musical sound of steel on steel rang out through the now empty streets, and the man’s eyes widened in apparent shock.

But shock quickly gave way to something darker, and an almost malicious gleam lit up his black eyes.

“Keep the pissmop pinned down!” he shouted, pushing hard against her blade. “The bitch is here!”

A brief flicker of confusion sparked to life in Addilyn’s mind, but it was quickly snuffed out as her attacker attempted to kick out at her knee. She stepped back, dipping the tip of her blade downward as she moved. His blade slid down the freshly-sharpened steel of her weapon and away from her torso, giving her but a moment to shift her weight and bring her sword up and over her head in a single smooth movement. The blade cut through the air, burying itself in the man’s neck before he could even think to block the swing.

A pained, wet gurgle was all he could manage, and as she wrenched the blade from his flesh, he fell to the ground in a blood-soaked heap. He wildly grasped for his neck, desperate to stem the bleeding, but a river of red spilled from between his fingers unbidden, the viscous fluid dripping steadily onto the cobblestones.

Another crossbow bolt hit the dirt somewhere behind her with a muted thunk, and Addilyn knew that Lemuel must have tried to make a move.

“Theron, take cover!” he shouted over the continued barking of their mounts, his head ducked low behind Maha.

Addilyn moved to comply, only to catch a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. On pure instinct, she spun on her heel and raised her sword, only just managing to deflect a blow from a wooden club. The strength behind the swing had been immense, and a pained grunt escaped her as the shock of the impact traveled up her arm and into her shoulder—but she maintained her hold upon her weapon and brought the blade up to block a second swing aimed for her head.

A Stenkonn stood before her, his cropped, black hair standing out starkly against his pale skin. He was flanked by a pair of Semon men, one of which had bent down to retrieve his fallen brethren’s now bloodstained sword.

“So the Lioness does have claws,” the Jet drawled, a leering grin splitting his features. He spat at her feet. “If no Ssaelit is man enough to tame you, I will happily oblige, iwchig.”

A hot flash of horror surged through Addilyn’s veins, the implications of his words settling like a stone in her gut.

This wasn’t just a blind ambush on a Ssaelit patrol. They were here for a reason.

They were here for her.

The Jet moved first, charging at her with his club held high. Addilyn parried the blow, her mind frighteningly muddled with shock as she attempted to wrap her head around the situation. He didn’t allow her a moment’s reprieve, whaling on her blade repeatedly. Each strike resounded with a loud clang, her sword vibrating violently in her hands as thick, heavy wood made contact with steel. Her fingers were all but numb with the effort to maintain the death grip she had on the hilt, and her thighs trembled as she struggled to push back against his onslaught.

The Semon chose that moment to dash forward, the bloody sword of his dead comrade in hand, his eyes alight with a monstrous bloodlust.

He didn’t make it more than four steps before he fell to the cobblestones like a discarded sack of bricks, a small projectile protruding from his temple.

Addilyn thought it to have been a poorly-aimed crossbow bolt, the shot going wide as its wielder tried to take her out—but a sharp, staccato whistle suddenly split the air, and she realized it had been no bolt that struck the Semon.

“Maha, liimabi!” Lemuel shouted, and Addilyn heard the unmistakable sound of a battle hound taking off at a gallop down the street. Almost immediately following the command, a terrified scream pierced the looming twilight, only for it to be drowned out by the ferocious snarling of a hound on the hunt.

And then Lemuel was there, running full tilt into the Jet’s side shoulder-first, shoving him away from her. He stood before her now, putting himself between her and her assailant, both blades drawn and poised to strike.

“Prokul Soud,” the Stenkonn hissed, regaining his footing with some difficulty. “Do all of your women have your balls in a vice? Or just this one?”

Lemuel didn’t bother with a response, moving instead to strike at the Jet. He was fast, strong, and each blow had the Jet stumbling backwards as he fought to keep cold steel from piercing his flesh.

The remaining Semon darted forward then, a mere dagger in hand, his eyes intent on Lemuel. Addilyn dove for the quickly cooling body of the man Lemuel had felled, yanking the small projectile that had cut his attack tragically short from his skull.

She cradled the throwing dagger between her fingers, the feel of the blood-slicked metal an odd balm on her frayed nerves and, with a practiced ease and a dextrous flick of her wrist, flung the weapon at the Semon.

The dagger didn’t exactly hit home but instead buried itself in the man’s thigh. He let out a surprised yowl, staggering as his leg gave out and he fell to his knees.

Addilyn scrambled to her feet, her sword still in hand, and ran toward the man. She stopped just short of him, quickly kicking away his dagger before she raised her blade to his throat. She hesitated, each breath a heaving gasp as her sword arm trembled, exhaustion and waning shock staying her hand.

He looked up at her, not an ounce of fear in his dark eyes. Only a deep-seated loathing.

“Prokul iyanol,” the Semon spat and wrenched the throwing dagger from his leg. He raised his arm as if to strike, a frenzied desperation twisting his features.

But she was faster, the tip of her sword finding the soft flesh of his throat and slicing cleanly through his dark skin. Blood surged forth, splattering her face and gloves with the thick, warm fluid. He slumped slowly to the ground, a soft choking noise escaping him as he drowned in his own ichor.

Addilyn bent down to retrieve Lemuel’s throwing dagger, wiping the blood off on her trousers. Her hands continued to shake, but she pushed against the sensation, focusing on what still lay before her, what still needed to be done. She clenched her hands into tight fists, the feel of a weapon in each hand grounding. A reminder that she was still standing, still in control.

Steeling herself as she forced her breathing to slow, she tucked the dagger into her belt. She then turned on her heel to face the last of their assailants, weapon at the ready.

But there was no need. Lemuel had the Jet on his back, a boot planted squarely on his chest. The man wheezed loudly, blood leaking from his nose and mouth as he struggled to take in air. His weapon lay discarded a few feet away, the club reduced to a pile of jagged splinters.

The man said something, too low and muffled by choking coughs for her to hear. A wicked grin appeared, revealing a row of bloody and broken teeth, and before Addilyn could object, Lemuel promptly stabbed the man through the mouth, the tip of his blade coming out the back of the Jet’s skull.

“God damn it all.” Addilyn took off at a run. The Stenkonn sputtered weakly around the thick, sharp steel, and Lemuel pulled his blade out before lifting it high above his head. He then brought the razor-edged sword down again and again, hacking at the Jet repeatedly.

“Captain,” Addilyn tried as she approached, slowing to a stop behind him.

But he did not cease his unending slaughter. The man lay motionless beneath him, his face a mess of bloody sinew and crushed bone. Gore splattered along the cobblestones with each slash, chunks of flesh hitting the ground with a wet splat.

“Lem, enough!” She finally stepped forward, grabbing for his arm before he could bring the blade down again. Lemuel stilled, his breathing rough and ragged, his eyes unfocused. Blood spatter covered every inch of him, tiny specks turning his golden hair a frightful crimson.

They stood like that for a moment, motionless and silent as the sun began to dip below the horizon. Lemuel slowly came back to himself, the tension leaving him with each breath he took. Eventually, he stepped back from the ruined body, shrugging out of Addilyn’s hold on his arm.

“Come,” he said, his voice low and monotonous. He swung his sword in a wide downward arc, the offending blood sloughing off the steel and onto the ground in a gentle splatter of burgundy droplets. He then sheathed the twin blades stiffly, the action more instinctive ritual than conscious thought. “We need to signal the others.”

“We could have used him,” Addilyn said, her words coming out surprisingly hoarse. “He might have known something.”

“What’s there to know? Better he join his comrades now, save us the trouble of cleaning his vomit from the Inquisitors' floors.”

“He was a Jet,” she persisted. “He could have known meeting locations, dates for future attacks, numbers—”

“Do you know what he knew, Addilyn?” Lemuel suddenly spun around, facing her. “How long they’ve been hunting you. How long they’ve sought out the Lioness. What patrols she is assigned to and what taverns she haunts.” His anger was a near physical thing, radiating off of him in white hot waves. Addilyn almost stumbled back with the force of it. “He knew that the Gefendur are hellbent on putting your head on a pike. Would you have preferred we add the Ssaelit to their schemes?”

Nausea gripped at her, the acidic tang of bile burning at the back of her throat as her head swam. “I—I don’t…”

“The Gefendur already want to wipe us off the map,” he said, the venom of a viper’s bite in each word. “You were just the final straw. An insult to their gods they cannot abide. Were the Lions to hear of this, they would only too happily throw you to the wolves. Pacify the rabble, while finally ridding themselves of the stain that is Addilyn Theron.”

There was a terrible roar in her ears; the sound of blood rushing through her veins, the pounding of her heart in time with the throbbing in her skull. “How… how long have you known?”

Lemuel heaved a heavy sigh, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “A few weeks now. An… acquaintance alerted me to the whispers he’s heard in less than savory spaces. I’d been trying to find the source of the bleating, hoped to cut off the rot at the root.” His hand dropped, and the look he gave her was one of utter fatigue. “You must realize what this means. They won’t stop with you, Addie.”

Her stomach dropped, and it was all she could do to keep from collapsing where she stood.

Mikaila. The Golden Delight. Ssael’s blessing given physical form. The heart of Ssaelit resistance to Gefendur oppression.

Addilyn was nothing. Had always been nothing. She was a fly to be swatted. A thorn to be extracted. A beast to be put down. This had always been the eventuality. An inevitability that lurked in the back of her mind and only ever surfaced to haunt her in the dead of night, when whispers were at their loudest and daggers at their sharpest.

But if the Gefendur saw her as a slight to their dead gods, what must they think of Mikaila?

If they would plot and plan her death—a Semon woman barely tolerated by her own faith—what would they do to the beloved Delight?

Addilyn could only nod dumbly, her hands trembling fiercely at her sides.

Lemuel approached her then, his hand coming to rest upon her shoulder. The weight of it was a cold comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

“Come now,” he said, the timbre of authority returning to his voice, “I’ll retrieve Maha and send up the signal. Go to your mount, he needs your care.”

Addilyn simply nodded again, unable to give voice to her acquiescence, before turning to seek out her hound, her mind a mess of horror and profound guilt.

——————————————

The moon had long since risen by the time Addilyn and Lemuel made it back to the training grounds, the sky clear and bright with starlight. The events of the day had finally had the time needed to fully register, hours of cleanup and vague reports to the other patrols only offering so much distraction. Addilyn had done what she could to assist, but Lemuel had all but forbidden her to speak on anything that had occurred. It was as if paranoia had suddenly taken hold of him, his fear that her mere presence would spark a realization in the minds of their fellow soldiers absolute.

Though she supposed that fear was not entirely unfounded, not with the peculiarities that came with the Dammakhert.

It was a curious thing, realizing that your death weighed so heavily in the minds of people you’d never know, people that would have otherwise never even crossed your path. Addilyn was no stranger to death; it had chased her through every path she had taken in life, though this was a new experience entirely.

And yet it wasn’t her own life that so worried her, but that of the little wright who now raced to meet them at the Temple of Song’s gates.

“Papa!” Mikaila all but ran toward them, though skidded to a halt upon seeing the state of them. Her already pale face blanched, and Addilyn’s chest constricted painfully. “What happened? Are you all right?”

“Fine, aliaol,” Lemuel said, lightly patting his daughter on the head as he passed. “Naught but a scratch upon us.”

Addilyn made to follow Lemuel toward the barracks, avoiding Mikaila’s bright green eyes. She couldn’t bear her scrutiny. Not now.

But Lemuel came to an abrupt stop, addressing her directly. “Stay with Miki. I’m going to fetch young Argenti.”

Addilyn glanced behind her at Mikaila. The girl had hung back by the gates, her uncertainty and apprehension clear.

“Why, sir?” Addilyn asked, turning back to Lemuel. She was sure her own befuddlement must have been quite plain.

“I don’t want either of you here right now.” The words were severe and allowed for no question on the matter. “And I’d like at least one cock between the three of you when taking to the streets.”

“Lem,” she said softly, “surely you don’t think—”

“I’m not willing to risk it, Theron,” he cut her off, his eyes hard. “Not now.”

There was a moment—brief and fleeting—in which she wanted to object. There wasn’t a man among the Lions who would dare lay a hand on Mikaila, not on their Delight. They wouldn’t risk the wrath of God—nor of Lemuel Adelier, for that matter—in such tumultuous times as these.

But she stilled her tongue, the caveat of his demand obvious. He wanted both of them far from here, tucked away in his ghers and hidden from the prying eyes and ears contained within this veritable den of lions.

And it was then that she realized, even now, that Lemuel Adelier was keeping something from her.

She hesitated only a moment longer before finally nodding, the movement stiff and tentative. “Yes, sir.”

She turned to head back to Mikaila, but Lemuel stopped her, a hand coming up to grasp at her chin. She froze, her eyes darting around for anyone lurking in the dark, the presence of his daughter like a garrote tied about her neck.

But he simply hummed softly, his thumb brushing over her cheek. She hissed slightly, flinching back, remembering the crossbow bolt that had very nearly killed her.

“Have Leysa look at that,” he said, releasing his hold on her. “And tell her to give you my share of supper. I won’t be home tonight.”

He then turned to stalk off toward the temple, not once looking back.

Addilyn stood there dumbly, only shaken from her stupor by the blonde-haired wright appearing at her side.

“Addie, what’s going on?” Mikaila asked softly, the trepidation in her voice like a knife to Addilyn’s heart.

And not for the first time that day, she lied to the young girl. “I don’t know, Miki,” she said, her eyes locked on Lemuel’s retreating back. "But I'm sure your father can handle it."

#Lemuel Adelier #Will Argenti #Mikaila Adelier #Unsounded #oc: Addilyn Theron #otp: rewrite this story #writings from mandalore #boy howdy this sure is a thing that i did

8 notes · View notes

evansbby · 2 years

Note

Girl I was literally one of your first likes but I couldn't respond right after I read it because I was running late for my lecture. But this is what I think of the latest POYT chapter

IT WAS AWESOME : 11/10

1) For the first time I did not hate Steve and was actually hurt when he hurt in the very end. It was as if I had the mark and I could literally visualize him being hurt seeing Omega being taken away just after she's aid yes to marrying him, after he told her he loved her and after she told him she was pregnant. That's absolutely devastating.

2) I STAN OMEGA. The way the girl finally let her real emotions out this time. For once her inner Omega was stiffened by her other feelings. Each time she hit him for each of his bs was so so so stress busting. Fr she was under so much pressure. I am so happy she finally put herself first and stood up for herself. The way Steve treated her was absolutely unacceptable.

3) FUCK OFF BUCKY. Tf is wrong with you?! What kind of sick person leaves a girl out in pouring rain and laughs? The audacity he had to think Omega would cheat. It doesn't only show how bad of a friend he is but also how low he thinks of Omega. You really think she would be unfaithful to Steve because he did that to her? And even if she was - trust me lad - not happening with you out of all the people. Fucking knob. I wish Steve threw him out of the house.

4) Even tho Sam was shitty throughout the series seeing him sincerely apologize was kinda nice and sweet. Made me break into a little smile between all the angst.

5) Peter, baby ik you're heart's in the right place, but respectfully ...... piss off. Not happening. Also hilarious that he's the one GRIPPING Omega and dragging her away. WHY CANT THESE BOYS LEARN A BIT ABOUT ✨️CONSENT✨️

6) Jensen getting to play was so sweet, now all he needs is some nice company who actually treats him well.

7) As a reader I want to feel like a part of the story, I DID. IT WAS FUCKING AWESOME. I felt as if I, myself was in that poytverse. I saw Omega cry and imagined Steve sketching her at night in the dim moonlight when her skin glows and she's so peaceful and finally looks like an angel cause she is one. I felt the love, I felt the rage and I felt the hurt. There was so much that I can't even begin to comment on everything. I bet I missed out a lot but I really wish I got to comment on each and every line.

It was everything I imagined and more. It was so well written, love. Honestly, it probably made my entire week and will get me through my hectic schedule. I also recommended it to my best friend and I Def think she'll love this too.

Btw, the I love you and I am pregnant at the football game after they won the game - straight out of a fairytale. It think Steve might truly deserve Omega now. And the one where he exposed his neck for her to mark - MADE ME SO WEAK.

Ok I should stop now or else I'll get carried on-

~A <3

ooof bestie so many opinions!!! firstly thank you so much for reading, ily😩💕 lemme answer them in order!

1. Poor Stevie😩 finally poured his heart out (as much as someone as heartless as him can) and it was all thrown back in his face when his omega left him. His perfect life — future wife, baby, everything — was ripped away from him and I wonder how sadistically he will react to that🤔

2. Yassss omega finally let Steve have it! I wanted to write this for all of us, bc all my readers have hated how she was treated — so i was hoping it would be super satisfying to see her voicing her frustrations!

3. Bucky is kind of delusional… I guess he just can’t seem to grasp that Steve got to omega first. He’s insulted that she’s not interested in him — bc he’s slowly becoming obsessed with her😮‍💨 her rejection insulted him so much that he not only locked her out in the rain, but he also twisted her arm painfully😭😭 the villain of poyt, and we haven’t seen the last of him!

4. Sam showing signs of maturity! But also… omega didn’t forgive him and she doesn’t have to hehe.

5. Unfff exactly!! All these boys need to chill and give omega some space to figure things out for herself!! 😤😤😤

6. Jensen played well!! I didn’t write it in the chapter, but he played well and even Steve was begrudgingly impressed. Not nearly as good as Bucky would’ve been tho.

7. Oh bestie, as a writer this is so lovely to hear!! All I wanna do is make sure my writing invokes some kind of emotion within the reader, so I’m so so so happy that you felt that when reading!! Thank you so much!💕💕😌

#a<3 anon #anon #poyt ask #poyt 4 ask

23 notes · View notes

novalunosis-numinous · 11 months

Text

‿︵‿✎ There’s a Giant in the Prison! ✎‿︵‿

The shadows had bent and stretched with the dull orange light of sunset. The wind howled above the crossed bars of the pit entrance far overhead. Nick sat with his back to the wall, waiting for the patrolling guard outside to make her way back to the stairwell past the cells. As he heard her boots on the metal platform, he scooted back to the bars, putting his cuffs through and angling them to get stuck between the iron. He tugged again, gritting his teeth with the pain of trying to wrench his fists out from the wrist-wide clamps.

The dark haired convict scoffed from beyond the wall. “Give it a rest, would yeh, yeh glorified shit!”

“Watch your tongue, Scratch.” The old man snapped back. “If he makes it out, you’re gonna be singin’ a much different tune wishin’ you’d’ve minded your manners.”

The convict blew a breath out from his lips.

Nick tilted his head from side to side with a roll of his eyes before he clenched them shut, focusing on directing all his attention to the bones in his thumbs. In his mind’s eye he imagined them softening, growing bendable - turning into something more like a cartilage. A tingling spread through his thumbs. He yanked forward, hissing a gasp through his teeth as a jolt of pain shot up his arms.

He’d never exactly gotten the knack for shapeshifting to begin with - of any sort. But if he just had a bit more give...

Nick sighed with defeat, re-angling the cuffs to get them back out. “Hey, I hate to ask, but… think either of you, could, uh,” he grimaced, “think you spit in my cuffs?”

The convict barked out a laugh. “Yeh think we haven’t tried that, DUMBASS?! Do it yourself!”

Nick scowled, gesturing to the restraints stuck behind his back even though no one could see it. “Well I CAN’T exactly, CAN I?!”

“KEEP YOUR TRAPS SHUT, JAILBIRDS!” A guard shouted from somewhere overhead, accompanied by the thud of a pole arm against the rock. “There’ll be no TALKIN’ in the CELLS!”

Nick narrowed his eyes. “Gods above, do they let you do anything here?”

The chains jingled from the old man’s cell. “It might be better if we all keep our voices low.” He whispered. Then he sighed. “Come ‘ere lad. I’ll help what I can.”

Nick nodded. “Right.” He moved to the corner of the bars closest to the left hand cell and wriggled the cuffs out.

After a moment the man hacked onto his wrists.

Nick jerked instinctively away with a grimace. “Uggck!” He breathed. “Uh… thanks.”

“Oi.” The convict beckoned a clawed finger out from the bars.

Nick went to the right hand corner, listening.

“If I help you with this,” he whispered, “d’you promise to help me get out? If you even DO, that is.”

Nick squinted. “What are you in for?”

The yellow eyes narrowed as they looked him over. “Well a little bit o’ everythin’ run o’ the mill - thievery, burglary, the occasional forgery.” He cocked his head in thought. “A couple o’ ‘rough ‘em up’ hits… hmm… and there was that one assassination request…”

Nick’s eyes widened with his growing frown.

“Well I didn’t do it though. Anyways,” he continued, “point is my work’s above degrading folks. I know what yeh might be thinkin’, but I’m not a lowlife like some o’ the fucks in here.”

Nick opened and shut his mouth wordlessly. “I… I wasn’t thinking anything in particular.”

“... oh.”

The old man breathed a tired sigh. The sound of his smacking a palm to his face echoed out. “He’s not exactly good with phrasing. But if it helps, I’ll vouch for him. He’s been a help and, whether you’d believe it or not, even a comfort in these awful times.”

Nick gave one final frown at the cat-like eye. “And what about you?” He turned to face the other cell. “You don’t strike me as a criminal.”

“Same reason as you, I suppose.” The old man replied. “Or, heh, maybe not exactly. I own - owned - a bakery on the west side of the city. ‘Robin’s Crumbs’, it was called. Quaint, but quality.”

“Ohhhh!” Nick nodded. “I’ve heard of that place!”

“Great-great-great,” the convict interrupted, “so do we have a deal or not?”

“Fine.” Nick answered. “Now are you gonna help me or not?” He snapped.

A long, disgusting snort dragged from the convict’s cell, and another hack landed into the cuffs.

Nick did his best not to gag. He sat against the bars, sticking the cuffs through and angling them to lock them stuck. Once more he closed his eyes and imagined the bones turning warpable. He clenched his jaw and jerked forward with all his might…

And landed face down in the foul dust of the cell, his hands screaming with pain. He raised them to his face, turning them over.

The cuffs were off.

“Haha!” He pumped an arm in the air.

The old man gasped.

“Did it work?” The convict whispered.

Nick jumped up with a dance, thrusting his hands through the bars to wiggle his fingers where they could see.

“Eureka!” The old man said as hushed as he could manage. “What’s next?”

Nick touched the bars with a scowl. “Now… now we find out what this will do.” He opened his fist to look at the Charm.

A small ruby pendant, rounded into a bead with bronze rimmed ends, sat strung with a thin brass chain. Nick plucked up the chain and dangled it before his eyes.

“Uhh… what’s ‘this’?” The convict asked.

Nick took a deep breath. “We’re about to find out.” He held a hand out to his cell. “Those claws of yours any good at cutting?”

The convict pressed his face to the bars, casting a frown between the hand and Nick’s face. “You’re not serious?”

Nick beckoned. “C’mon, I need to bleed. Just a drop.”

Hesitating, the convict pricked one of his fingers.

Nick snapped the hand back and smeared the blood over the ruby.

The gem glinted in the pale light.

A wind stirred up from above, whisking Nick’s hair into his face. Dust rose from the bottom of the cavern floor far below. It swirled higher and higher as the breeze strengthened, growing to a howling whistle in his ears. Dirt, then pebbles, then whole rocks picked up in the whirlwind.

The cavern floor cracked and a burst of earth, water, and rock erupted towards the sky.

“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS THIS?!” The convict shouted over the noise.

A storm of footfalls descended from the upper levels as voices, both guard and prisoner alike, shouted with alarm.

But Nick barely noticed. His widening eyes were locked on the cloud of elements that coalesced into a single huge hill of mud on the floor below.

The whirlwind stopped. What was left of it scattered against the walls of the prison. Nick gasped the clear air, along with several other nearby prisoners.

The old man sputtered while the convict spat with disgusted groans.

Nick pressed into the bars, staring at the mud. A disappointed scowl on his face.

Just. Mud.

How anticlimactic.

He was about to turn away when he had to look again with a squint.

Did it just move?

“WHO THE HELL DID THAT!?”

Nick snapped his head up, tucking his hands behind his back as he scrambled away from the bars.

A guard skidded to a halt outside their cells, their pole arm raised. In the distance - on the other side of the prison cell levels - several other guards ran across the walkways, spacing themselves out to similarly stop and glare at the prisoners. Their shouting rang out as they barked the same question this guard demanded.

“WELL?! WHO!?”

“Eh, uh, well, we-we don’t know!” The old man piped up. “W-we were as surprised as anyone!”

Nick fought back a smile. But all difficulty in restraining it quickly melted away as his gaze drifted off to the thing lurching up from behind the guard. His expression went blank.

The guard scanned over the three cells, stopping on Nick as they noticed his empty stare. They didn’t notice the blanket of shadow falling over them.

“YOU! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE LOOKING AT!?” They glanced over their shoulder and jumped, whirling around as both their hands clutched the spear. “MOTHER OF MONSTERS!!”

A renewed round of shouting started up. It was barely a second before the whole jail took notice.

A massive form had risen from the mud. It picked itself up, swaying as something at its base thudded like an earthquake against the ground. Two enormous pillars shot out from its sides like branches, slamming and digging into the walls. In the flash of the moment, Nick could’ve swore there were massive hands at the ends of them.

But the form was still rising, straightening up in jerking movements from a bent over state; the pillars climbing the walls along with it.

Those were definitely hands.

A loud, rasping rhythm sounded from somewhere in the shape. It reached the gridded bars of the prison’s roof, but it only stopped for a moment. With a shove and the terrible screech of metal, it bent the bars outward and sent the whole thing flying out of view like it weighed next to nothing.

Then it stopped. The top of it stretched out from the prison pit, leaving the obvious form of a muddy, colossal man. His jaw opened up, and the loud rasping sounded again as he panted, gasping for breath.

Nick’s jaw dropped.

The guard’s pole arm clattered to the floor as they took off running towards the stairs.

The whole prison went into utter chaos. Shouts and screams tore through the air. People pleaded with the guards, arms reaching out to snag them however they could as they bolted back over the walkways. The few guards that were too slow to act, whether by duty or by fear, were snatched and wrenched against the bars of the cells, their pole arms useless to defend them. Nick could hear the screams of one of them in particular, who’d been yanked into the bars of the cell above him. They shouted and begged for the prisoners to let go, but all Nick could hear were similar protests in return as leather and cloth ripped apart, followed by a thud and the guard scrambling to get away.

Meanwhile the towering figure was reaching up to wipe away the muck from his face. His lips stretched into a toothy grimace as his breaths turned into huffing growls - every sound reverberating off the stone walls. The massive hands dropped, and a huge pair of reddened eyes scanned over the room.

“Blood…” His words boomed, even as tame as the tone was. The voice rumbled like thunder, with a pitch so low it was nearly animalistic, and with such a bass that the sound was almost a physical presence. His eyes narrowed in an undeniable scowl as he raised his voice to a roaring tidal wave that stabbed at the ears. “I NEED BLOOD!!”

Nick winced, his eyes widening. Until now he had been fascinated - awed by whatever being he’d been miraculously able to call back from the dead. But of course now all the ghost stories and fables he’d ever heard were cramming into his brain. And all he could think of was what a terrible, terrible idea it was to bring anything back from the grave. Let alone a-

“Giant...” the convict breathed from his cell.

Nick jumped back as he rammed into the bars, pressing his face so hard against them that his skin turned red. His eyes threatened to nearly pop out of his skull from the force of his sneer.

“THAT’S YOU’RE FUCKIN’ PLAN!? TO BRING A GIANT HERE?! WHAT KIND OF TWISTED! FUCKED UP-!“

“I DIDN’T KNOW!” Nick shouted back over the screaming. “ALL I’D BEEN TOLD WAS TO DO IT!”

“BY WHO!?” The convict snapped. “BY WHAT GODS-DAMNED MADMAN-“

Nick slammed a fist against their shared wall. “DON’T FUCKING TALK LIKE THAT ABOUT SOMEONE YOU DIDN’T EVEN KNOW!”

“Hmm…” the giant stooped low, sniffing the air.

They both froze as the gaze swept over them, sharing a sigh of relief as he continued on.

But the eyes stopped on the old man’s cell.

“N-no-o…” The man whimpered as the giant leaned closer. Hungry eyes darted over the cell, widening with a brief pause on the occupant.

Nick could hear the old man scrambling to the back wall, scraping against the rock. His heart sank.

The giant looked down and frowned, squinting at the bars.

“Well,” He licked his lips as he straightened up, “this’ll work!” One of the hands rose, spreading wide over the cell bars. The huge fingers digging at the spaces between them until the metal bent with horrible, creaking groans. With a shove of his wrist, the whole row came snapping out at the stone to be swept away into the air.

The old man yelled with fear, his shoes scraping back against the rock, though he had nowhere left to go.

Nick gasped. He leapt for the other corner of the bars, shoving his face into them and waving his arms as wide as he could. “HEY! HEY YOU! LEAVE HIM- leave- uhhhh…?” He stopped short as the giant shoved the iron bars into his mouth.

He barely chewed the bite before turning to Nick’s cell. Nick wriggled his arms free and leapt back just before those bars were wrenched away too. He went down the whole row of cells like that, yanking the iron from the stone and shoving it all into his maw as if it was the best food in the world and that it might disappear in an instant. He paused only occasionally to gasp for breath and rub his eyes. It wasn’t long before the whole of that side of the prison no longer had functional cells.

Nick rushed to the old man’s side, helping him to his feet despite his shock and letting him lean on him for support. The stone walkways were busted and cracked from the force of the monster’s destruction, but they were still stable for the most part. The two hobbled into the convict’s cell, where they found him curled up in the corner, shooting a disturbed glare at the gigantic person still outside.

Not that the giant could’ve cared one bit. The screams only continued as the freed prisoners bolted, flew, and climbed for the exit.

Nick held out his hand. “Come on! You’ve gotta hurry before the soldiers get here!”

The convict blinked. He took his hand, and Nick hoisted him to his feet.

“Here,” Nick shifted the old man’s weight from his shoulder. The convict caught his arm and - being much taller - wrapped it around his waist, putting his own arm under the old man’s to keep him on his feet.

“What…” the convict started. “What about you? Ain’t ya’ comin’?”

“Not yet. But I’ll be fine.” Nick jabbed a hand towards the stairwell. “Just get outta here!”

The convict hoisted the old man up against his side. “Don’t have to tell me twice!” He bolted out of the cell, shouting back “good luck!” over his shoulder.

Nick turned to the open doorway - all that was visible straight beyond was the giant’s torso as he twisted and reached about for more metal to devour. Nick squared his shoulders. Prepared for it or not, this was his responsibility now. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out of the cell.

#reupload #HereBeGiants first draft

2 notes · View notes