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writinglizards · 4 years ago

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Make me Happy

Summary: "I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous." - Mary Shelley's Frankenstein He is created. He is abandoned. He is found.

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The first thing he knows is agony.

He feels set on fire from the inside, bright white pain arcing through his veins. He cries out, voice hoarse. The sharpness of it ceases as quickly as it came, but the ache persists.

A clatter to his left draws his attention. He shifts. Distantly, he’s aware of the scratch and shift of the rough-hewn shirt and trousers he’s dressed in, but there are larger concerns, at the moment. His limbs feel awkward but otherwise cooperative, so sits up.

There is a man across the room with his back pressed against the counter. White hair, a beard. The man’s face is drawn in an expression he can’t parse. Beneath the man’s feet are shards of glass.

He doesn't understand where he is or what's going on. He opens his mouth to speak--and finds he doesn't know the words to communicate this. He makes a quiet, wordless sound, questioning. He hopes it's enough for the man to understand. He so wants answers.

In response, the man jolts for the door.

He starts at the abrupt movement, makes another quiet noise of surprise, reaches out a hand toward him, wait, please--

The man makes a shrill noise, "Stay away, you, you--" he flings the door open after a brief scrabbling with the lock and bolts, a high pitched terrified noise leaving his throat. He throws the door closed behind him, but it hits the doorframe and bounces back, hard.

He follows because he doesn't know what else to do. The other man is scared. Should he be scared?

He lets the smell of terror, sickly and awful, lead him down a spiral staircase and out a partly concealed door onto the street where he's abruptly hit with an overwhelming wave of scents and sounds. It's too much for him to understand; all he knows is he needs to find the man again. He hopes he can help.

He sees someone, not the man from the room, on the street a few feet away. He approaches, timid. He's trying to work out how to ask what he wants to know--where did the man from the room go?--when he catches the other's attention.

"What the--what the fuck?" He doesn't understand the words, but the tone--the man spins on his heel and sprints away, terrified. It catches the attention of several people up the street. The first man was scared, but these men--help, maybe?

He takes a few slow steps in their direction, still trying to figure out how to ask what he wants to know when he catches the glint of steel. He freezes. He takes quick stock of their expressions, the naked weapons in their grips, and hesitates.

"You'll get the fuck out of here if you know what's good for you, monster." He doesn't understand, doesn't know how to respond in a way that will ease the aggression of their posture. He just wants help.

"Well? Get," one of the men shouts, rapping the flat of his blades together. It makes a harsh sound, makes him whine with how the sharp noise hurts. He ducks his head, cups his hands over his ears to try and make the hurt stop. "I said get," the man shouts again, repeats the movement of his weapons. He keens, a low, quiet sound full of pain. He doesn't understand--

"You got to the count of fucking three," another says, and he doesn't wait for them to make the noise again. He runs.

Every person he sees in his mad dash down the street and away from the pain reacts similarly. Either they flee or they bare steel and make threats, loud and angry. The mixing scents, the noises, his own fear, it's all too much. He doesn't know where he is or where he's going. He just runs.

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By the time the sun is beginning to rise, he's finally broken out of the rows and rows of buildings and into the trees, where he runs until his lungs burn and his feet hurt before he collapses in the shade at the base of a tree. He doesn't know where he is or what's going on, doesn't understand the fear and hostility of the people he'd seen. He sits there, somewhere in the middle of the forest, and finally feels it hit him. He doesn't know, he doesn't understand. He sits and he cries, deep chest wracking sobs, until he's too tired to keep his eyes open. He curls himself up small and tight in the roots of the tree, and sleeps.

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He's woken some indeterminate time later, to the sound of footsteps. Lots of them. The sky is going grey at the edges, so he knows he must have slept a while. There's shouting coming from the direction he came from yesterday, words he can't understand in a tone he can--they sound like the men who made the awful noise.

"If you see that fuckin beast, just kill 'em. No need to leave him loose to terrorize the city again."

“Nah, the mage wants ‘em. Said--”

“I know what he said and I’m saying just kill ‘em.”

They're not that far. He knows enough now that he doesn't want to run into these people, doesn't want a repeat of last night. He rises very quietly, and treks farther into the forest, away from the sounds of the approaching men. He'll walk all night if he has to.

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He walks until he can't hear them any longer, and then he keeps walking, for good measure. He walks until he stumbles across another group of buildings, much smaller than the one he'd fled last night. He lingers at the edge of the trees, watching a trio of young women leaning against a wooden fence not far, talking. One of the women has something she appears to be eating in her hand, and his own stomach growls loudly in reminder that he has eaten nothing since...he doesn't know when.

These women look nothing like the men with their weapons, which is the only reason he steps out of his hiding spot in the trees, starts towards them.

"Sara, look--" one of the women catches sight of him and goes pale. She steps backward, hands shaking, and he freezes. He doesn't want them to be afraid. He only wants--

The one eating turns to look back over her shoulder and their eyes meet. She drops the thing she'd been eating. There's a shriek--the third woman--and then all three of them are running pell-mell back towards the rest of the buildings.

He tamps down on his hurt and darts forward to scoop the food off the ground--an...apple?--and then he's running again, farther into the forest. He knows better than to stick around for the angry men and their weapons.

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He doesn't pause until he feels he's far enough away he'll be able to hear anyone coming with enough warning to escape. He settles at the base of a tree and gnaws on the apple slowly, trying to savor the small thing. It's a little better than nothing, but it reminds him he's hungry, sets his stomach to rolling uncomfortably. When he's gnawed the thing down to its core he finally sets it aside, disappointed.

He’ll have to see if he can find more food, or venture back towards the buildings to see if there’s anything he might be able to take that won’t be missed. But not tonight.

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In the end, he ends up doing quite a bit of stealing from the village at night while he hides in the trees during the day, watching the way the people interact with one another. He feels bad about just taking, but there’s nothing much that can be done for it--there’s no easily accessible food in the forest and the people still spook and run at the sight of him.

So that’s the way he survives, for a bit. It's not a comfortable existence and he knows the people of the little town both know he's there and are upset by it. He tries not to scare them, only slips down into their fields at night, when most are asleep, only takes as much food as he needs to quell the emptiness in his stomach.

Watching the people interact with one another is helpful, though, even if he can’t approach them. The field workers do a lot of talking to one another as they work, and over time he starts to pick up what the words mean, in a roundabout kind of way. So he lingers and he watches and he hopes for...something he can't put a name to.

He's finally forced to move on when he tries to slip down into the town about three weeks later and there are men with swords again, lining the outskirts of the village. He knows enough about people at this point from what he's observed and he doesn't want problems. He moves on, just picks a direction and starts walking.

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When he stumbles across a tiny cottage out in the woods all on its own, he assumes it must be abandoned--people don't live alone, after all. He would investigate further, but the sun is already peeking over the horizon, sky dusting pink, and he knows he needs to find somewhere to settle before daybreak.

There are several little shacks sprinkled around the clearing that he doesn’t know the purpose of so he picks one--the shack behind the cottage--to test the door and finds it unlocked. It's a storage shed and moderately well-stocked, despite how the little room seems to be on the verge of collapse. He settles to the ground on the far side of a crate and tucks himself into a tight little ball. He'll stay here today and investigate more closely tonight.

Shortly, he dozes.

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He wakes much too soon to the sound of...something. He's never heard it before, this softly twanging noise. It's good. Nice.

He knows it must be well past mid-day from the way the light slants in through the chinks in the walls. He's just thinking it's too early to try venturing out when the singing starts, soft and lovely and he thinks, oh, It's a person.

He rises very slowly and quietly and crosses the tiny storeroom to the wall that's shared with the cottage. The music is a little louder here, and he can make out the words, a story of a knight saving a fair maiden and true love's kiss. He can understand what those words mean a bit now--language has come slowly, but he's getting better at piecing together bits and pieces from the things he's heard, although not all of it makes sense all the time. And well, some things just feel right, like he's known them all his life. Language has been a little like that, even if speaking is a challenge.

So he can follow the story, vaguely, even as the song ends and another quickly takes its place. He hears no other voices or movement in the adjoining room, just that smooth tenor singing of heroics and heartbreak. He settles down beside the wall, rests his temple against the rough wood grain, and listens.

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He wakes again an indeterminate time later. It's late, the sun is down and the man in the cottage sounds as if he's retired for the night. It's quiet. He...probably shouldn't stay here, but it's warm and quiet and the man sings so beautifully. He borrows a small meal of hard bread from the stores and tells himself he won't be back when he slips out of the storeroom to stretch his legs.

By the time the sun rises, he's tucked back into the storeroom anyway, curled up against the wall that joins the cottage. What's one more day?

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One day becomes two days becomes a whole week. He's reluctant to leave the security of the little storeroom, the pleasant singing. A few days in, he finds a chink in the wall that lets him see into the cottage room and he now spends his daylight hours pressed to that wall, watching, listening. The man is...beautiful. He looks like they would be of a height, even if the man is a little leaner than he himself is. Despite that, the man is still broad-shouldered and strong looking, with brilliant blue eyes and a sweep of brown hair he can only think of as pretty. And he can tell the man is not just beautiful; he’s also intelligent, witty. He talks to himself constantly, sings, reads, dances his way around the room. The man moves through life as if he has not a care in the world. He wants so badly to be a part of that.

Despite how much he yearns to join the man, he still won't reveal himself, too afraid of the potential reaction to him. He finds himself growing attached, despite how much he shouldn’t. If this soft and delightful man is as afraid as the village people were, it will break him.

So he watches and he dreams and he tries to help around the cottage, at night. It starts with some chopped wood when the woodpile gets a little too low, which the man reacts to with delighted confusion. Then it's a few rabbits and other small animals, here and there, to replenish some of the food stores he's been dipping into to feed himself.

"Well, looks like we've got ourselves an admirer," the man says softly the morning he finds the first rabbit. He'd been...nervous about leaving the little thing. Nervous it might upset or scare the man. Instead, he looks...pleased. He smiles all day, even when he comes back in from caring for the chickens, which he knows the man dislikes. It's nice, kindles a warm feeling in his chest.

He wants to be the cause of that smile more often.

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A few days later, he wakes to the sound of more than just the man in the yard out front. There are several people he can't see but he can hear them, carrying things to and fro.

"Jaskier, where do you want this?" one of them asks.

"Oh, that's fine there," the man says. Something flutters in his chest. Jaskier.

There's a few more crates the other men bring into the cottage that he can see through his chink in the wall. The man, Jaskier, watches the stacking of these crates on the far side of the cottage along with another man who stands at his elbow. Compared to Jaskier, the man is very broad and well built with short cropped dark hair. He carries a sword on his hip and stands like he'd be ready to draw it at a moment's notice. He reminds him of the men who'd threatened him the first night.

"I should also warn you there's been sightings of some kind of monster lately." Jaskier turns to the man with the sword, effectively presenting his back to the chink in the wall. He wishes he could see his face.

"What kind of monster? Monsters have been gone for almost a hundred years."

The other man is already shaking his head, "not a monster, monster, no. This is some kind of abomination. Looks like a man but...not. Wrong. He's been spotted at one of the nearby villages as little as a few weeks ago."

"And? How do they know he's a monster then?"

The man puffs out a tired sounding breath, "I'm just relating what I heard, Jaskier. I don't know."

"Of course not," he says, tetchy. There's something beyond the words that have upset him.

"Look, I--"

Jaskier pulls away from the hand hovering over his shoulder. "I don't care, Vincent."

"Jask, you know I didn't--"

"We're not talking about us," Jaskier says, tone sharp in a way he's never heard, "just...let the men finish and then you can run on home to father and tell him what a good little disowned son I've been, hm?"

Jaskier doesn't give him a chance to respond, just steps over to watch the men bringing in the crates more closely, steps just a little too heavy.

When they're gone, he watches Jaskier cry, head in his hands. It makes his chest uncomfortably tight but there's nothing he can do.

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When night falls and he's sure Jaskier is asleep (and he feels a little flutter of delight in his gut when he thinks the man's name, elated that he knows it after all this time), he slips out of the storeroom and into the pooling moonlight of the little clearing, stretching his legs. His goal tonight is to chop some more wood so Jaskier will have enough to stay warm tomorrow. Then...maybe a walk. He'd seen some blackberry bushes a few nights ago. Maybe he'd pick some, leave them for him in the morning.

The wood chopping goes quickly and he stacks the split logs nicely with the other chopped wood against the wall by the front door. He does so quietly, not wanting to rouse his sleeping friend. Not that he thinks it likely the man will rouse tonight. He'd been somber the rest of the day and he'd cried again, curled in his bed when he should have been sleeping. He finds he wants to do something to ease the unhappiness that's settled over him since the men had come by.

It's with that thought he wanders off in search of those blackberries. He takes one of the wooden buckets Jaskier usually uses for gathering eggs and sets off to find the blackberry bushes.

They're right where he remembered them, just a short walk from the little pond where the ducks gather from time to time. He goes about picking them to fill the bucket, careful of their little thorns. He gets the bucket three-fourths or so full before he calls it good. By then, he's covered in sticky juice and the sun should be up soon. He's got just enough time to visit the pond, wash off his hands and leave the bucket out front before he’ll settle back in the storage room.

The pond is silent and still when he wanders up, the bucket dangling from one hand. He sets it aside on the shore and kneels at the edge of the pond. He tries not to peer into his reflection in the water, even as the moonlight reflects back off its surface.

Unbidden, then man's words resurface in his mind. Like a man but not. Wrong. He knows he looks...different. There are harsh scars scattering his face, his temples, his arms, his torso. His eyes are wrong, too bright, too strange a color. His hair is unnatural, too pale, too wild. He understands why the villagers are startled by him, understands why they react with fear. He's...wrong. He just doesn't know what to do about it.

He pushes the thoughts from his mind and doesn't let himself linger. Instead, he washes up quickly and treks back over to the cottage. He leaves the bucket of berries on the doorstep and retreats to the storeroom.

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He rouses just a little when Jaskier rises. He listens to him sing and go about his morning routine with half an ear, still mostly asleep. The sound of his friend awake and back to normal is a comfort, so it's disturbing the way he abruptly goes silent when the door creaks open.

"Oh--" he's obviously found the berries. The quiet stretches out for a beat too long and then there's a sniffling noise. "Shit," Jaskier mutters. The door clunks back shut. He hears the noise of the bucket being sat down somewhere in the cottage. "'s stupid to fucking cry over berries, Jask, pull it together," he tells himself, voice thick with tears.

He can't help the surge of alarm that rolls through him--he didn't mean to make Jaskier cry. He presses his face to the wood, eye at the chink in the wall, and is surprised to find him smiling despite the tears, gazing down into the bucket of berries as if they are something far more precious as he wipes aggressively at his eyes with the heel of his hand.

"Blackberries," he repeats, once his breathing is a little more under control, "I'll have to make a pie." He's still smiling. Maybe they weren't such a bad idea, after all.

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Jaskier continues with his daily routine after that, and he lets himself sleep again, after a time. He's fairly attuned with the noises of Jaskier going about his day, so he doesn't startle when Jaskier begins going through the crates of supplies the men brought yesterday. By the time he realizes what that means, Jaskier's already at the door of the storage shed, dried goods tucked under his arm.

He lays very, very still where he's curled in the corner, pressed against the wall of the cottage, eyes squeezed shut, and waits for the inevitable.

The gasp is expected. The sound of the bundle Jaskier is carrying hitting the ground is as well. What is not expected is the hands that land on his shoulder, tug him over gently. He blinks up at the face of the man he's only watched from a distance, startled. He expected revulsion, fear, the sound of footsteps fleeing. Instead, he's peering down at him with concern.

"Oh, thank the gods you're alive," he sighs out on a breath, patting reassuringly at his shoulder where his hands still rest. "What are you doing in my storage shed, darling?"

And oh, this is...not something he'd been prepared for. He swallows hard and can't seem to force words out.

"You don't have to tell me," Jaskier says softly, "but let's get you inside, alright? It can't be comfortable out here."

He follows in a daze when Jaskier tugs him gently upright and leads him into the cottage. This doesn't feel real. He must be dreaming. Why else would Jaskier be looking at him like that?

"Have you had anything to eat? Are you hungry?" Jaskier asks once he's settled at the table. He at least can follow that much so he shakes his head, still afraid to speak. Jaskier jumps to preparing him a small meal of hard cheese and fresh bread. “Sorry, I haven’t had the chance to make that pie yet,” he says as he sets the little plate before him and settles across the table from him, smiling. "Go on, eat," he says, and he doesn't have to be told twice.

The food is the best thing he's ever tasted. The pleased look never falls off Jaskier's face. "Thank you," he whispers once the plate is empty, wincing when the words fall rough like gravel from his disused throat.

"Oh," Jaskier breathes, freezing with his hand outstretched to take the empty plate. He thinks maybe he's made a mistake, but Jaskier's smile stretches impossibly wider, eyes sparkling, "you're very welcome, dear heart." The look on Jaskier’s face, that tone, settles something warm in his chest.

Jaskier puts the plate on the counter and resumes his seat. He doesn't know what to do with himself in the face of Jaskier's kindness and keeps his eyes averted. Jaskier doesn't give him time to start feeling self-conscious, though.

"I'm Jaskier. Do you have a name, darling? Something I can call you?" And he knows Jaskier’s asking a question but--

Jaskier can tell his mistake almost immediately. “Oh! Um,” he fumbles to press his hand to his chest, “Jaskier,” he repeats, and he nods. Then, tentatively, Jaskier holds out his hand to him. He doesn’t move, not quite sure what Jaskier means until his palm makes careful contact with his chest. His breath catches. “You?”

He shakes his head, understanding that Jaskier is asking for his name. He feels a bubble of shame rise in him. It's not his fault he doesn't have something to go by like everyone else, he knows, but that doesn't lessen the feeling he's let his friend down.

"Oh, sweetheart," Jaskier breathes, and he doesn't sound upset. Or at least, not at him. "What should we call you then?” He looks thoughtful for a minute before, “Hold on, I’ve an idea.”

Jaskier rises and crosses the room, bringing back something from one of the shelves. “I’ve got a book here,” Jaskier says, settling it on the table in front of him, “It’s a storybook, but I could read you the names of the characters here until you find one you like?” and that was a lot of words but…“Just nod if you hear one you like, yes?” He can do that.

So Jaskier flips through the book, stopping periodically to read out the names as he finds them. And they’re...fine. But none of the names sound right to him.

“Hm, Eric?” He shakes his head, “No, I agree, too bland. Jakob? No? Alright then, Alice? That’s typically a lady’s name but--nope okay, um, Geralt?”

And that’s--“Yes,” he says softly. Something about that feels right.

The smile on Jaskier's face is small and delighted. "You want to be called Geralt?"

"Mm." And something about choosing the name makes his face hot. He ducks his head.

The grin that stretches Jaskier’s face looks like it hurts it's so wide. "A good name. Heroic. Kind." His gaze softens as he reaches across the table to rest his palm on Geralt's forearm. The touch is reassuring, even as he burns hot under Jaskier's fingertips. "It suits you."

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He doesn't pressure Geralt for an explanation of anything, but he reassures him several times that he can stay, that it's no trouble. He even sets him up with new clothes, soft cotton that isn’t as scratchy as what he’d been wearing.

"Really Geralt, I have to insist. I won't be able to rest knowing you're out there somewhere with nowhere to stay. And," he continues, “if you stay long enough, I’ll even send for some clothes of your own, if you’d like.” And well. He can't let Jaskier worry (and the new clothes would be nice, too).

He sleeps on the little divan and marvels at how quickly Jaskier drifts off, breaths evening into sleep. The trust inherent in the action shakes him to his core. He follows a while later, chest overly tight.

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They settle into a habit surprisingly quickly in the weeks that follow. Geralt picks up many of the tasks he'd already been performing for Jaskier in the twilight hours and Jaskier provides excellent company. He still sings and plays his lute in the evenings, preening to have an audience that Geralt is happy to provide.

He's thankful Jaskier asks no questions, although it's obvious Jaskier would like to know more about him, about what happened. He catches him staring at the scars when he thinks Geralt isn't looking, but it's not with revulsion. Geralt can't name the emotion on his face, but it's not a bad one necessarily.

There's only one question he does ask.

"So, do you know who my admirer is?" he says finally. Geralt’s just starting to feel truly comfortable here with Jaskier and is less worried about Jaskier changing his mind about keeping Geralt around. He’s proven he’s helpful and he’s trying very, very hard not to scare him (he’s beginning to think Jaskier can’t be scared, actually).

Geralt's in the middle of chopping wood when he asks. "Because you know, it was really very sweet of them." He's grinning.

"Uh," is the very elegant response Geralt comes up with, cheeks hot. He’s not sure why he’s embarrassed. Jaskier obviously knows it was him. He chops the next piece of wood with a singular focus, doesn't shift his gaze back over to Jaskier.

"He must have very fine arms. He chopped all my wood for weeks, you know," Jaskier says offhand, and oh. He's teasing. His tone is friendly. Geralt only flushes harder. He’s not sure why Jaskier can fluster him so quickly. "Not as good as yours, I'm sure," he continues, and Geralt nearly jumps when Jaskier's hand settles on his bicep, squeezing. "Mm, not sure anyone's as deliciously built as you are, darling."

"Jaskier," he finally bites out, mortified. He feels--he feels--he doesn’t know the word for it, but he’s pretty sure it’s not appropriate. Jaskier laughs.

"It's alright sweetheart," he grins and shoots him a wink, "your secret's safe with me." And Geralt doesn't know what to do with himself, but he likes the way his stomach clenches when Jaskier touches him, the soft way he speaks. And he does trust that he's safe with him. It's...reassuring.

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Despite how safe Geralt feels, he still can't bring himself to tell Jaskier how he ended up hiding in his storeroom. He's fairly certain Jaskier won't care at this point, but every time he tries to say something, he finds the words have abandoned him. Unlike Jaskier, he struggles to voice his thoughts, even when he has the words neatly arranged in his head. Jaskier reassures him that it's fine, not everyone is gifted with their speech and it's normal for words not to work the way you'd like, but it frustrates him anyway. He...cares...about Jaskier. He’s…different. He wants to share this part of himself with him. He just doesn't know how.

His efforts are further complicated by the way his stomach flips uncomfortably every time Jaskier is close. He's not an idiot, he knows what it means (Jaskier is a big fan of love ballads, the raunchier the better, he says and it’s…that) but it feels...dishonest to entertain Jaskier's subtle flirting, especially when Jaskier knows nothing about who he really is, how he came to be. After all, who could love a monster?

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"Geralt," Jaskier calls from his mound of blankets as Geralt stokes the fire for the last time that night, "come to bed with me, darling."

Geralt can feel himself flush. "Jaskier," he admonishes, but Jaskier only laughs, lifts the corner of the blanket invitingly.

"It's been cold at night and it will only get colder. Come on, Geralt." He bats his eyes enticingly, pats the corner of the mattress again.

"I can't," he says, quiet, and something in Jaskier's expression softens.

"Alright, darling," he says, letting the blankets fall closed around him, "but that's a standing invitation."

"Hm."

Jaskier doesn't press further, but Geralt lays awake thinking about it for far longer than he should.

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"I'm a viscount," Jaskier says apropos of nothing a few days later. It's early morning and they're outside, returning from the chicken coop. Geralt turns to where Jaskier's stopped in the middle of the yard, bucket of chicken eggs forgotten on the ground beside him. "Or at least, I used to be. My father disowned me about a year ago now."

"Why?" Geralt asks, because Jaskier seems to need the encouragement. He wouldn't have brought it up if he hadn't wanted Geralt to know.

"I...embarrassed him. With who I chose to take to my bed." He's staring hard at the tree line opposite the cottage. He's not even facing Geralt. "My father's head of the guard. Vincent."

The name brings to mind the day the crates were delivered. The man with the sword who stood too close.

"I was disowned either way and I knew that, but Vincent..." he trails off.

"Thank you, Jaskier. You don't have to tell me." His eyes meet Geralt's finally and he smiles. It's a tiny, watery thing.

"No I--he chose to stay. With my father. And I'm...here. It bothered me. For a long time." He's quiet so long Geralt thinks maybe that's the end of it, but when he steps forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with Jaskier, he keeps talking. "I thought...who would want a disowned viscount? Vincent certainly didn't. I'm damaged goods."

"Jaskier, you're not damaged," Geralt says, horrified at the prospect. Jaskier is...wonderful (even if he talks a little too much for Geralt's taste, sometimes). How could anyone think him lesser for loving who he loved?

Jaskier extends his hand to catch Geralt's and squeezes tightly. Geralt squeezes back, stomach fluttering when Jaskier smiles at him. "I know," he says softly, "and I know you’re not ready to talk about yourself yet, but whatever it is, it’s okay, okay?" And when Jaskier says that, looking at him the way he is, Geralt can almost believe him.

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They settle deeper into their routine, something Jaskier calls "disgustingly domestic" with a smile that nearly splits his face, so Geralt's pretty sure he doesn't think it's a bad thing, actually. Geralt certainly enjoys it.

Jaskier talks incessantly about anything and everything and Geralt likes listening.

“You know,” Jaskier says one night, after he’s wound down his playing and put the lute away, “I haven’t had many guests out here since I was disowned. It’s been...nice.”

“Why not?” Geralt asks, stoking the fire before settling back on the fur rug. Geralt can’t understand why someone wouldn’t want to spend time with Jaskier.

“Being disowned is…” he pauses, obviously searching for the right words, “it’s not something that’s done lightly. It means the people I grew up with, the people who were close to me, they can’t see me anymore, or risk having their own reputation tarnished.”

Geralt feels his lips twitch in a frown. Jaskier laughs.

“Oh, don’t make that face, I know. But that’s how it is. I’ve spent some time with the village locals, but it’s...not the same. I’m still nobility to them and I’m no longer nobility to the actual nobles.” He shrugs, but Geralt can see the thought still bothers him.

“You were lonely,” Geralt says. He’s not sure he should have pointed it out, but Jaskier doesn’t seem angry.

“I was,” he agrees softly. Something in his eyes pins Geralt to the spot, “until you.”

And that’s...too much to think about. “Hm.”

The smile that creeps over Jaskier’s face is blinding. “Yes,” he agrees, “hm, indeed.”

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"My father's men should be stopping by in the next few weeks," Jaskier says on a morning like any other.

"Did you want me--"

"No," Jaskier corrects hastily before Geralt can offer to hide, "No, I want you here. I just--wanted to give you a heads up."

"Oh."

They don't talk about it again. They probably should have.

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"Jaskier?" Geralt calls across the small space of the cottage, sitting up.

There's banging outside. People. Jaskier shifts in his cocoon of blankets that is his bed, only the top of his head visible. "No," he mumbles fuzzily, "don't wanna." He's...not really awake.

"Jaskier," Geralt rumbles, voice still thick with sleep himself, "we should--"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence before the door is swinging open and a man is striding through. When he sees Geralt, his hand lands on his sword.

"Jaskier, what the fuck--"

"Vincent," Jaskier gasps, nearly tripping in his haste to extract himself from the blankets. He’s eyeing the space between Vincent and Geralt with panic, "ever heard of fucking knocking?" he bites out, shifting to put himself between them as much as possible.

"Jaskier, you've got a--"

"Don't finish that sentence," he says, tone flat and threatening, "and I'd appreciate it if you'd give my companion and I some fucking privacy. I'll meet you in the yard in a moment."

Vincent's hand tightens around the pommel of his sword, "I don't think--" he starts, but the look Jaskier pins him with is cutting. He hesitates, but he leaves without another word, pulling the door shut behind him.

"Fucking prick," Jaskier growls, stalking over to his wardrobe to put on some clothes before facing their company.

"I should--" Geralt starts, but Jaskier cuts him off.

"You should get dressed and let me drag you around the yard to hang off of while I make sure my father hasn't fucking shorted me on supplies. I'm already disowned, what more can he do to me?" The grin on Jaskier's face is brittle.

When they exit the cottage, Vincent is hovering by the door, obviously nervous. He's still got his hand wrapped around the pommel of his sword like a lifeline. Jaskier scoffs at it, but Geralt stays carefully back and works to make his posture non-threatening.

"Jaskier," Vincent says the minute he's out the door, "what is--"

"This is Geralt," Jaskier cuts in smoothly, "my companion." Vincent winces.

"He's--"

"My companion," Jaskier reinforces.

"The mage in Novigrad is looking for him." Geralt stiffens.

"I assure you we have no idea what you mean," Jaskier bites out, even as Geralt feels his stomach drop uncomfortably. The mage. The man from the room. He no longer cares one way or the other who the man is or what he wanted from Geralt. He’s happy here, he doesn’t want to leave. Vincent opens his mouth to respond, but he snaps his jaw shut a moment later with no protest.

"Okay," he sighs. Then-- "Where do you want the supplies?"

The men don't stay any longer than they need to, but it's a tense affair for everyone involved. Jaskier takes Geralt's hand in his and doesn't let go until long after Vincent and his underlings have left.

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

The rest of the day, Jaskier’s filled with a frantic sort of energy. He breezes through chores, drags Geralt on a walk with him out to the pond where he paces the water’s edge for near an hour before they head back. And it doesn’t dissipate even after they’ve returned to the cottage and had dinner.

The fire’s lit and Geralt is settled on the fur rug before it the way he normally does. Usually, this is about the time Jaskier would fetch his lute, or perhaps a book to read from. Instead, he’s still pacing.

“Jaskier,” Geralt finally says, breaking his focus as he comes up short in another circuit of the room, “come sit. Your pacing makes my head hurt.”

“Sorry,” he huffs, flopping down beside him with a heavy sigh. He leans against Geralt’s side for a bit, but he’s still restless, still shifting.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says again and Jaskier sighs hard. He pulls away only to lay beside him, pillowing his head on Geralt’s thigh. Immediately, Geralt slips his fingers into Jaskier’s hair, soothing.

"So that was awful," Jaskier mutters.

"Mm."

He rolls so his face is pressed to Geralt's stomach. Geralt's fingers stay tangled in his hair, gently petting.

"I don’t want you to go," Jaskier says into the silence, muffled against Geralt's bulk.

Geralt’s chest siezes.

“I know you aren’t ready to tell me anything and that’s okay, but I--” his breath is warm against the thin cloth of Geralt’s shirt, “If that mage really is looking for you, I don’t want you to go,” he repeats, voice small.

Geralt feels as if his throat has closed. "I'm--I want to stay here,” he forces out, swallowing roughly. He should explain because Jaskier doesn’t know, but Jaskier sags with relief, presses his face closer to Geralt's stomach, fingers digging into his side and Geralt doesn’t want to take that relief from him, not now.

"That's--I'm glad." They don't say anything else for a long time as the fire burns down.

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

Geralt can’t stop thinking about the fact Jaskier doesn’t know, though. He needs to tell him. So that he’ll understand. Geralt owes it to him to tell him, whether he wants to or not. And if Jaskier wants him gone after? It will hurt, but he’ll go.

"Jaskier, do you have a minute?" he asks while Jaskier's tuning his lute that evening. He'd been getting ready to play, as he usually does.

"Of course, sweetheart. What is it?" he asks, strumming through a simple, uncomplicated tune. He meets Geralt's eyes with a playful smile, but his expression sobers when he sees the seriousness in Geralt's gaze.

"You asked me," he says carefully, "about before."

"Only if you're comfortable, dear. You don't have to--"

"No," he says, "I do." He needs to understand. He drops his gaze to his lap where he's wringing his hands together nervously. He stills them with effort, but that only makes the scars there stand out more starkly. He startles when Jaskier catches his hands in his own, traces those scars tenderly with lute-calloused fingertips.

"Well then, I'm listening," he says and smiles, small and encouraging when Geralt's gaze flickers back up to his face. It makes his chest tight. He doesn't deserve this. Jaskier. He tries to take in his face now, that tender care, that concern. Just in case it’s gone, after. So he knows. So he can remember.

Despite the fear churning in his gut, he takes a deep breath and starts talking, gaze glued to their still joined hands.

"My earliest memory is--uh. I. I woke up in a...room. I didn't know where I was. There was...a man. The mage, I guess." Jaskier is very, very still but his thumbs rub soothing circles against the back of his hands, a grounding point of contact.

"I tried to ask him what was going on, but I--" he trails off, unsure how to phrase what he means. He shakes his head. "--I didn't know how. I didn't have the words. And I--scared him. I think. He ran."

Jaskier sucks in a noisy breath and squeezes his hands briefly. "Go on," he encourages when Geralt glances back up.

"I followed him. I didn't know what else to do. I was in a town, I think."

"Novigrad," Jaskier interrupts before wincing. "Sorry, go on."

"The people there--I tried to ask for help but they--" he can feel the tears burning in his throat and tries to breathe through it, keep going, "they either ran or they threatened me. I didn't know what was going on." He feels the tears spill and ducks his head. If he stops now, he won't be able to continue. "I ran."

"Oh, Geralt," Jaskier whispers. He lets go of one hand to bring his palm up to Geralt's face. His fingertips brush the corner of his eye, wipe the tears away gently.

"I ended up in the forest. There's a village not too far from here," Jaskier makes a quiet noise of acknowledgment. It’s the village Jaskier goes to sometimes when he needs things his father won’t or doesn’t send. "I stayed around there for a few weeks. Until the men with the swords showed up." Jaskier makes another small noise, rubbing his thumb along Geralt's cheekbone. Geralt closes his eyes. "So I picked a direction and started walking. And I found you."

"And I'm glad you found me, love. Sounds like you've had quite the rough go of it."

The calm acceptance is...too much. Does he not understand? He's a monster. Not natural. The mage wants back his creature. "Jaskier, I'm--"

"Shh," he cuts him off, grip still tight on his hand as he caresses his face, slips his fingers back into his hair, "I'm glad you told me, darling, but it doesn't change how I feel about you. You're a good person." He tugs him into his arms, gentle. Geralt goes, feeling like he did when he woke--unmoored, lost. He feels the tears slip down his cheeks, feels the way his breath catches on a sob. "I love you."

"Jask--" he can't get the words out past the lump in his throat so he just tucks himself a little closer, presses his face into Jaskier's neck. His lute sits forgotten beside them.

"You don't have to say it back, sweetling. It's okay," he says, stroking his free hand through Geralt's hair, the other tucked around his waist.

"I do, though," he whispers, lips brushing his throat, "I do." Jaskier sucks in a shuddering breath and holds him tighter, presses his lips to Geralt's temple, right over the mass of scars there. It's gentle, reverent.

That night, Geralt sleeps in Jaskier's bed, curled against his chest. He’s nearly asleep when the gentle tenor of Jaskier’s voice cuts through the soft haze of near-sleep. “--don’t know where I’d be,” Jaskier is saying softly, lips pressing intermittently to the top of his head, “gets hard being alone out here. And you’re so--” he cuts off, presses a kiss to Geralt’s hair again. He obviously thinks he’s already asleep. “You keep me grounded,” he says. “This is the happiest I’ve been in a long time.” He breathes it like a secret.

As Geralt lets sleep finally pull him under, swimming in Jaskier’s quiet confession, it's the most cared for he's ever felt.

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

And that’s how things continue, for a long time. Jaskier frets over who may or may not be looking for Geralt and vacillates wildly between stressing himself out about it and pretending it’s not a problem. Vincent and his men show up about every eight or so weeks with supplies from Jaskier’s father and Jaskier drags Geralt out with him to watch every time. Vincent eyes Geralt skeptically still, but he no longer comments or reaches for his sword. And as Geralt begins to experience what contact with other people is like when they’re not running from him or threatening him, he’s further convinced that Jaskier is special. He doesn’t feel this way about Vincent or the other men who deliver their supplies, or the people in the village who Jaskier’s taken him down to meet a few times now (they still won’t come anywhere near him without Jaskier around, but Jaskier is insistent they treat him like anyone else and it’s...it helps).

But Geralt doesn’t know how to make it clear to Jaskier that he’s interested in more. They share Jaskier’s bed, they touch frequently, but things are...remarkably tame. They already say “I love you.” At some point, Jaskier’s flirting had tapered off and now he’s just...sweet. And Geralt loves it, but he also wants...that. The raunchy flirting and the...the things that come after. And the happy ending, like the ones from the fairytales Jaskier readers, sometimes. He just doesn’t know how to let Jaskier know that he wants everything.

It turns out he doesn’t have to ask at all.

"So I know this is a dumb question but," Jaskier's paused over making their eggs one morning, gaze downturned and intense, "I'm--uh. I mean, you--fuck. I have no idea how to say this," he huffs, taking the pan off the open flame and tipping the egg onto a plate. "You want to stay. Here. With me." It's obviously supposed to be a statement, but it sounds like a question.

They’ve already talked about this, haven’t they? "Yes, Jaskier," he says softly, "as long as you'll have me."

Jaskier lets out of a gust of breath, "Fuck okay, so--" he turns to face Geralt, egg abandoned, to take his hands in his, crouching at Geralt’s knees, "I want you here with me, too. More than I, uh, probably should."

Geralt makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat. This sounds like--

"And I know there's no real practical purpose for it since I have nothing but this--" he gestures around them at the cottage, "--to give, but, um. I'd--If you'd be so inclined I'd like to marry you, Geralt." He pauses, eyes downcast and face flushed. Geralt for his part can't seem to put words in any order that might allow them to come out of his mouth and communicate just how much Jaskier's offer means to him.

"It's, uh, a little bit of protection. If the mage does come back for you, or something. But," he's rambling now, words falling from his lips so quickly his tongue is almost tripping over them in an effort to get them out faster, "but it's not like I don't want to marry you, or anything like that. I've been thinking about it quite extensively and I--"

"Jaskier," he cuts in, and he shuts up immediately, wide eyes focused on Geralt's face, nerves pouring off him. "Yes," Geralt says simply, and Jaskier gives a giddy little laugh, tips forward to hide his face in Geralt's lap.

"That's--yes. That's good. I'm glad." When he pulls back to look up into Geralt's face again, his eyes are shining. "Thank you, Geralt."

Geralt's not sure why Jaskier is the one thanking him when Geralt's the one who will most benefit from the arrangement, but he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

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

Jaskier makes a special trip to the village to bring the priest of Melitele back to their cottage to officiate the hand fastening less than a week later. Geralt's nervous the man will balk when he sees him, but other than going a little pale at the sight, he stands fast. Even the temple boy that he brought with him doesn't do more than flinch when Jaskier levels him with a look.

"Are you sure--" the priest begins, but Jaskier cuts him off quickly.

"We are. And we want a small, private affair. No fanfare. I'm disowned, remember?" he says sardonically, and Geralt knows it's a tactic to keep the man from asking too many questions, they'd talked about it beforehand, but it still makes his chest ache. Jaskier is so good, he doesn't understand why everyone isn't as drawn to him as Geralt is.

"Now?" The priest asks, fiddling with the cord he's brought with him.

"Geralt?" and Jaskier's expression is so cautiously guarded--

"Yes," he agrees, stepping forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with him in their little clearing, just outside the door of the home they've already shared for months. The priest heaves a gust of breath.

"You'll need to kneel," he says, "Jaskier, give him your right hand. Uh--"

"Geralt," Jaskier supplies, eyes hard.

"--Geralt, give Jaskier your left." They kneel before the priest, hands clasped and held up in offering. The priest slips the cord around their joined hands, talking all the while. "Now, you don't untie this once it's done. Bad luck and all that. Ready?"

"Yes," Jaskier says, and Geralt nods.

"Alright." The priest waves the boy over to watch and serve as witness, and then he begins.

"As this knot is tied," he says, twisting the cording together in the first of several knots, "so are your lives now bound."

Jaskier squeezes Geralt's hand so tightly he can feel how he trembles.

"Woven into this cord, imbued into its very fibers, are all your hopes for your new life together." Another knot.

"With the fashioning of this knot do I tie all the desires, dreams, love, and happiness wished here in this place to your lives for as long as love shall last." He ties off the third and final knot and leans backward.

"Hold tight to one another through both good times and bad, and watch as your strength grows." The silence that rings out after the priest ceases speaking is deafening. Geralt can hear the blood rushing in his veins. "It is done."

"Geralt," Jaskier whispers as their joined hands fall to rest on Geralt’s thigh. He can't help but follow the movement of those lips with his eyes. "Kiss me, Geralt." And who is he to deny Jaskier anything?

He squeezes their joined hands, free hand rising to cup Jaskier's cheek. The look in Jaskier's eyes, the tenderness, the love, the thinly veiled excitement, twists his chest. How could he have ever feared this man would reject him?

"Geralt," Jaskier says again, and Geralt doesn't make him ask twice. He leans forward and presses their lips together in a tiny, chaste kiss, hardly more than a brushing of lips. It's still electric, especially when Jaskier makes a tiny, wounded noise and presses in closer, nearly in Geralt's lap.

Somewhere behind Jaskier, the priest clears his throat and Jaskier draws away reluctantly.

"You'll make it official in the books?" Jaskier asks without actually moving from where he’s perched on Geralt's knees.

"Of course. Should I send word to your father?"

"No," Jaskier scoffs, "don't bother." Geralt sees the priest nod behind Jaskier's shoulder. "Thank you."

"You are very welcome, son. May Melitele bless your binding. Come, boy." Before Jaskier or Geralt can say more, the man is hurrying away with the temple boy who's eyes are still wide and fixed on Geralt.

"I'd like to see them take you from me now," Jaskier says once the man's footsteps have faded from hearing, "husband." Something in Geralt trembles at the word.

"Husband," he repeats slowly, testing out the word on his tongue and finding it to his liking. Jaskier grins, wide and bright.

"Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?" He leans forward to kiss Geralt again, as if some dam has broken and he can't help himself. "My beautiful husband," Jaskier breathes against Geralt's lips.

When he pulls back, breathing hard, Geralt brings their still bound hands up to his lips to kiss Jaskier's knuckles, tender and reverent.

"How could anyone not look at you and see how sweet you are," Jaskier breathes, pulling his knuckles away from Geralt's mouth to give Geralt's scarred fingers the same treatment. "So beautiful, so full of love, my husband is."

"Jaskier--"

"Shush, I'm basking," he teases, giving another deliberate kiss to the back of his hand.

"I'm not--"

"No," Jaskier corrects immediately, "you just don't see yourself the way I see you. You're beautiful, Geralt and I love you very, very much."

He feels his face heat, ducks his head so his hair falls in the way, hiding his eyes.

"And I'll say it as many times as you need to hear it. I love you and I'm not going anywhere. And--" he continues, slipping the fingers of his free hand under Geralt's chin and tilting his head up until their eyes meet, "--I'm not letting anyone else have you. You're mine, husband dearest."

"Yours," Geralt agrees easily. The mage may or may not be looking for him, but it doesn't matter. Geralt wants nothing to do with him anyway.

"And I'm yours, darling. As long as you want me."

"Mine," Geralt echos, "Always."

And that's enough.

#witcher #witcher fic #geraskier #lizard writes #my baby! she lives!#a love letter both to geralt as a character and frankensteins creature

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dreamescapeswriting · 4 years ago

Text

Unfinished Business ~ Part Five

WORD COUNT: 4.3K

WARNINGS: Mentions of mafia, strong language, murder, blood

PAIRING: Bang Chan X Reader

DESCRIPTION: Part five of nine of my new Bang Chan series.

You’re taken hostage but one of Seoul’s leading mafia families Bang Chan but he doesn’t take you because he wants to fake a marriage or make you fall for him in 365 days no…He wants to use you for his own personal gain. To take over another family but when you try to escape things take a turn for the worst and you learn Chan isn’t one to be messed with.(Please I suck at describing stuff)

THEMES: Smut will be included in a later chapter so this is a fic for a mature audience, Chan x Fem!Reader, Self insert

MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS | NEXT

The last couple of days had passed by without another incident happening, you'd kept yourself in your bedroom singing to the small radio that Chan had brought for you on the one condition that you keep the volume low, you just kept painting the back bedroom wall. It was almost completely covered in sunflowers with small parts of blue paint being able to peek through.

"You look proud of yourself," Chan said as he came into the room, you looked over your shoulder at him and nodded.

"It's pretty good, I think it's finished and then the rest of the walls are going to be white. I don't want to take too much away from your house." He chuckled at you and walked closer to the sunflowers,

"Where did you learn to paint like this?" You took the paintbrushes and paint tray to the sink in your en-suite and put them under the hot water.

"My grandmother, she was a painter." He looked at you as you spoke about her. He'd read a lot about her in the folder he had on you, your head was hung low as you washed up the paintbrushes in the sink.

"Have you eaten anything? Jisung said you didn't have breakfast." You looked at the time,

"No, it's okay. I was on a diet before I came here-"

"Nonsense, what do you want? Felix isn't here and I just sent Minho to lunch but I'm sure I can make something." You stared at him as you put the brushes out to dry on a towel on top of the countertop,

"What can you cook?" You asked, looking as he took off his blazer and laid it on your bed. You looked at his arms as he rolled up the sleeves of his long shirt as he rolled them up. He was never out of the suit and it bothered you for some reason.

"Why do you always wear a suit?" He cocked his head at you and raised an eyebrow,

"Why does it bother you what I wear?" You ignored him since you didn't know the answer to the questions either and followed him down the staircase towards the kitchen.

"I work in an office building, the suit it's my uniform. I can cook omelettes, french toast...yeah that's about it." You stared at the back of his head as he spoke to you about what he couldn't cook and you pushed him out of the way going to the back door, his heart began pumping thinking you were going to walk right out of the door. He was alone, no one but him would be able to stop you and you knew that but all you did was reach for an apron.

"I'll cook, what do you want?" He shrugged his shoulders at you, he normally just ate whatever the boys were making he really didn't have a choice in any of it.

"Right, sit." You sat him down at the table and began going through the cupboards and the fridge. There was literally nothing inside with the exception of some old tomatoes and a tub of mayonnaise. Felix must have brought his own things whenever he decided to cook for you all.

"You can drive right?"

"Obviously." You looked back into the empty fridge expecting some kind of magic trick to happen when you opened it but it was still empty.

"I'm going to write a list of things you need in this fridge and stuff we need for the night. Will you go and get them?"

"So you can leave while I'm out? I'm not that stupid." You flinched as he raised his voice with his hands clenched into fists by his side.

"No. I told you," Your hand rested on top of his, rubbing your thumb along his bruised knuckles. It was the first time you were noticing the dried blood and scabs that were sitting there, it made you wonder what he'd been doing all day if he was in an office building.

"I was going to stay, I meant it." You hated that you were acting so friendly with him. But it was going to be the only way you could get him to trust you on this, make it easier to slip away.

"You're still coming with me." He knew the more he was seen with you the better, he looked up at the time one of Namjoon's men would be around the edge of town so he could take you to that supermarket, in his care you'd get spotted instantly and Namjoon's men would report back right away.

"We'll go now. Make your list." You stared at him, you had no idea where anything was in this huge mansion so how were you to know where to find the paper and a pen.

"I think Jisung keeps a pen and pad in the top corner cupboard. He thinks if he hides it high enough I won't know what he's doing." You raised an eyebrow wondering what he meant but began climbing onto the kitchen side so you could reach, Chan sprung to his feet and stood behind you. The plan was working afterall, he was going soft on you.

"I'm fine. I won't fall, Chan." He kept his hands out just in case and you pulled down a pad and pen looking it when Chan explained what all the writing was.

"Music, he writes songs." You hummed and jumped down from the side, you stood between Chan and the side. Your face inches from his, your back pressing against the marble countertop. His hand moved to rest on your waist and you swallowed the lump that was in my throat.

"I should write this list." You whispered trying to move away from him, he nodded and moved away from you giving you the space you needed to get away from the counter. He sat back down on the chair beside the table watching you closely. You were being far too nice to him after what had happened a couple of days ago but he was being naive and assuming you were just coming to your senses about being there with him.

"You're going in that?" He asked looking at the jeans you were wearing, they were covered in paint and rolled up at the bottom with swatches of paint on the cuffs.

"Yeah, it's just a supermarket, not a fashion show." You didn't see a problem with what you were wearing, it was something you'd wear a lot if you were on the other side of town.

"But it's covered in paint." He sounded disgusted at the thought. You stared at him and ripped the paper off the pad and began folding it up.

"Can we just go, please? And make sure the boys will be home for dinner." He followed you over to the front door and he put his thumb down on the lock opening the door and taking you out with him.

"We'll take my black Porsche." You followed him over to a black car and got inside shivering a little at how chilly it was outside. It was pitch black despite it being 6 pm, but then again it was autumn.

"Seatbelt." You clicked into place and stared as Chan began to back down the drive without doing his seatbelt up,

"Seatbelt." You quipped back at him and he rolled his eyes ignoring your comment, so you reached across him and pulled it into place smiling in satisfaction when you pulled away and he stared at you.

"What? You have to be safe." He rolled his eyes at you playfully and began driving down the road. You stared out of the window trying to see how far away from society you really were.

"You live pretty far out." You said, trying to bring it up naturally. But you watched his grip tighten on the wheel at the thought of you trying to figure out where you were, his head was filling with thoughts about why you were mentioning it.

"I have to. Stops people from finding me and stops you from running away." He whispered turning onto the main road and continuing to drive in dull silence, it was torture not having some kind of background noise.

"Can we play music? You let me back home." Home. The way you said home instead of his house, prison, torture chamber or hell hole. Home. Like you were saying you liked it there, he liked that.

"Sure. Nothing bad though. I can't stand those romantic songs." He lied, of course, he was a sucker for those songs they were his favourite kind of song to listen to...Or they used to be. Being able to sing them with someone he loved, it was one of the reasons he stopped music in the house. He couldn't stand listening to it without her being there with him. You flicked through the stations and landed on classical and you assumed it would be your best bet for him right now something to keep the peace until you were able to work up to usual music.

The store was practically empty when you and Chan reached it, except for the workers who knew Chan. Instantly they began to hide in the storerooms, but not before snapping some photographs of you and him together for Namjoon. After all, this was his side of town and Chan wasn't one to show his face here. Which was exactly what Chan wanted everyone to see, that he was there and he wasn't alone.

"Chan?" A voice filled the empty aisle as Chan stood behind you. You were bent over, picking out carrots and turned your head to see a man around 5''8 standing there with a smirk on his face.

"Who's this?" A stupid question, he was already running a background check on you to see who you were and why you were with Chan. Chan's hand wrapped around your waist and he pulled you closer to him tightening his grip a little, though it was weird you said nothing, because you knew who Namjoon was. You recognised him from the photos in the paper just like Chan's, not to mention the photos of him and your grandmother together in your folder. You kept your eyes downcast not knowing what to say or do in this situation.

"This is Y/n, Y/n this is Namjoon." Chan wasn't going to give your last name to Namjoon that would be far too easy for him. Namjoon took your hand in his and left a kiss on the top of your skin while holding eye contact with you, lingering for more than Chan liked.

"I didn't know you started seeing someone again. She's pretty." Chan looked at you and turned to kiss your cheek, you stayed still playing along since Namjoon was eyeing you up carefully.

"Go to the back of the store and pick out what meat you want. Don't leave." You nodded at him squeezing his hand as a silent message you weren't going to leave. You could tell that Chan seemed to be scared of Namjoon, or at least annoyed that he'd touched you. All you knew was they had business and fights over certain selling areas with their drugs, but that was all you knew.

"Nice to meet you." You whispered, putting the bag of carrots down into the trolley. Chan was pushing and walked towards the back of the store. Chan looked like the real husband type like this and Namjoon wasn't going to let him go off without mentioning it. You kept your head down as you walked, never once turning back to look at the two men, the smell of testosterone filled the air and you wanted to get out. Now would be the perfect chance to make a run for it, but there was a downside to that plan, your ankle was still bummed and you had no idea where you were in this side of town. Not to mention you didn't know who was and wasn't working for Chan, or where to go once you got out of there. Mrs Lu was your home but she was gone now, you were going to wait this out. Play the long game. Even if it meant pretending to like him a little while longer, make him think you loved him and make a break for it when he was vulnerable.

"What can I get for Mr Bang's young lady friend?" The butcher had a scar from the top of his face down to the bottom, he had blonde hair that was hidden under a chefs cap. He grew impatient the longer you stared at the scar along his face.

"It's rude to stare," You shyly looked down at the meat in the fridge he was standing above.

"S-Sorry, just a large chicken please." He nodded and began adding all of the spices while you looked over your shoulder at Chan and Namjoon, who looked like they were in a heated discussion about something.

"Everything okay?" You questioned as Chan came storming up behind you. His face and ears red with anger as he came to you holding onto your waist tightly.

"No. It's fine. Do you have everything you need?" You took his hand in yours and he seemed to lose tension instantly. You smiled softly at him to let him know it was okay for him to tell you if something was wrong.

"You can talk to me." You tried to tell him but he wasn't having any of it.

"No, it's fine."

"I need some other things," You glanced over at Namjoon who was watching you both closely, he wanted to know if what Chan had just told him was true. That you were his new girlfriend now, if it was he was going to have to do some serious digging into you. The longer you stared at Namjoon you remembered Chan telling him you were dating and you were going to have to start playing the part for Chan sooner or later anyway. You stood up on your tiptoes and left a small kiss on his cheek, you thought there would be an involuntary gag but there wasn't one. When your lips touched his skin it was as if there was a static shock running through your entire body, but you pulled away. He stared at you as you began walking away from him and he slowly walked after you, watching as you walked down an aisle and grabbed items you needed.

You'd brought the radio down from your room to play some music while you waited for the food to be prepped, you were attempting to teach Chan how to cook since he only knew basic things.

"You need to cut them into slices, but first peel them." Chan was dressed in a black apron over his usual suit top and tie, his sleeves rolled up to expose his arms. He stared at you while holding the knife, images flashed into your head but you cleared your throat, trying to push the thoughts of that night away. Chan put it down and looked at you once again to check if you were okay.

"How?" You sighed and showed him how to peel a carrot and then chop them up. It was simple enough and you wondered how his wife had dealt with him for all those years.

"Easy enough, just don't catch yourself." You turned away not wanting to see him with the knife again, this was harder than you'd expected it to be. You'd just got the images out of your mind but now you'd seen him with a knife again it brought everything flooding back to you.

"Boy I hear you in my dreams," You sang quietly, as you began cleaning the potatoes and chopping them up. It was one of your favourite songs as a teenager and now it was playing on the radio, you couldn't help but sing along to the words.

"I feel you whisper...across the sea. I keep you with me, in my heart." Chan watched you from behind as you sang along to the song coming from the radio, his eyes trained on your hips as you slowly swayed along to the duet that was playing. Continuing to sway as you moved the pan of chopped potatoes onto the stove and then took the carrots away from Chan and did the same.

"Lucky I'm in love with my best friend." You sang, looking down nervously at Chan as he stared at you. He hadn't said anything for the last two minutes and it was scaring you, but you didn't show him. He got up from the chair and wrapped one arm around your waist and placed his hand on yours dancing you around the floor in time to the beat.

"So I'm sailing through the sea, To an island where we'll meet, You'll hear the music fill the air," He put his hand on your cheek and moved the hair from your face, your pulse quickened as he touched you and your mouth ran dry.

"I'll put a flower in your hair," You stared into his eyes as you felt a tingle go through your body as he touched you and looked at you like that. His eyes were filled with something but you didn't know what it was. The front door chimed and you sprang apart from one another, standing back where you had originally been.

"Felix?" You called out and he popped into the kitchen,

"Can you come and finish the vegetables? I need to shower." All of the boys stared at you and Chan with the sense that something was going on, but you didn't care. You needed an excuse to get away from Chan before he could make your heart skip a beat again.

"You didn't make a run for it today then?" Minho smirked playfully at you. He'd asked you that every day since the day after you ran away from the house, and every time it was the same response from you.

"I'm staying." You said to him as you walked over to the kitchen door.

"I need to shower too. I'll walk you up." They stared at Chan as he walked over to you, both of you keeping your distance as you walked towards the staircase. Awkwardly trying to make it seem like nothing had happened in the kitchen before they walked inside.

"What do you think she's up to?" Minho questioned folding his arms over his chest,

"Keep an eye on her, she could be faking to get close to him," Changbin said, he'd seen enough movies to know what people did. They'd lure their kidnappers into ''love'' only to make a run for it when everything seemed clear enough or they'd made the kidnapper weak enough it was an easy enough plan.

"You know, she could genuinely be falling for him….happened in that Disney movie." Each of them turned to stare at Hyunjin who bit into an apple from the table.

"A Disney movie and it's called Stockholm syndrome, look it up." Jeongin said as he looked at the apple.

"Someone also died from eating an apple...Are you going to take all your advice from kids movies?" Jeongin quipped, taking the apple from him and biting into the fresh side.

"He killed someone she loved less than three days ago. That's not something someone gets over this quick. I'm telling you we watch her closely." Changbin mumbled, not liking the thought of his boss getting hurt again. The boys might be joking about it all but this was serious, Chan couldn't risk getting hurt again. The first time had been rough on them, all but the worst for Changbin, he was Chan's right-hand man. He had to be right there when everything happened and he didn't want to see his close friend at rock bottom once again.

Sitting at the table was weird, it was silent and uncomfortable all of them were watching you closely as you sat beside Chan, wondering what your next move was after their talk with Changbin earlier.

"I didn't poison it." You joked at them, referring back to what they'd said to you when you were in the basement. Felix chuckled as he heard you say it and then started to eat the food, while the others stared at him waiting for him to die but he started moaning about how good it tasted.

"Where did you learn to cook like this?!" Everyone dug in and you smiled doing the same, sticking to the vegetables to start with. A habit you'd had since you were a kid,

"My grandfather. He taught me how to cook when I moved in with him. He used to own a small restaurant." Chan looked at you, it had been included in the report they did on you but he took out why he didn't own it anymore. He thought it would best that part stayed between him, you and the Private investigator he'd hired to work alongside Changbin.

"Used to own?" Jisung questioned, you swallowed the carrot in your mouth and took some water from your glass suddenly getting a dry mouth thinking about your grandfather.

"He had to give it up when my grandmother got sick. Then he erm, then he got sick and-" You couldn't finish the sentence, it was too hard to talk about without crying. Chan's hand overlapped yours on the table, he knew where your grandfather was, that he'd left in the report, but you didn't flinch at the sudden contact from him. It felt oddly nice to have it there. Changbin watched you closely as you didn't react to Chan's touch.

"Is he-" Jisung asked, leading off not wanting to say what they were all wondering if he was dead or not.

"He's in a nursing home. He doesn't remember much these days. I'm just a girl that works...Worked there." Your mind flooded with thoughts of him, sitting alone and playing dominos on his own. You wanted to go to him, you needed to see him again.

"You used to volunteer there and the hospital, right? I remember from your file." Jeongin mentioned and everyone glared in his direction for bringing up the file during this hard topic for you but you didn't mind, you knew they'd all seen it.

"Yeah. I volunteered at the hospital and continued doing so even after my grandmother died and then the nursing home when my grandfather was admitted." Chan was still staring at you as you let silent tears roll down your face, he took a napkin from the table and wiped them away for you not wanting to see you cry like this. The boys could already see that he was falling fast and hard for you, but they still couldn't determine how you felt about him. It was hard to read you.

"I can take you to see him, you can go and see him whenever you want." You nodded along to him and looked at the plate in front of you, not daring to meet his eyes.

"You should all eat. I'm tired and I'm not that hungry." You whispered, getting up from the table. But Chan's hand was lingering on top of yours and he slotted his fingers into yours.

"I promise I'll take you." You hummed, not wanting to believe that he would be willing to do that, if he was willing to take you then that would mean he wasn't as bad as you thought he was. Your head would spin with thoughts about if everything you'd heard about him was true. You left the table followed by Changbin who was taking the first shift for the night, volunteering for it in fact. He followed close behind you until you were right outside your bedroom door, he took your wrist in his hand and pinned it above your head while holding his other hand over your mouth to stop you from making a sound.

"What are you playing at? Huh? What's the angle?" You mumbled against his hand and he roughly pushed you against the wall again,

"If I find out you're planning anything, and I mean anything. Your grandfather and everyone else will be gone. Just like Mrs Lu, remember her? Remember the way Chan slit her neck with ease?!" He forced you to look at the office door and your eyes welled up with tears, he was doing this on purpose trying to make you remember everything Chan had done. All this time you thought Chan had been the evil one but you could see now that it was Changbin.

"I'll make sure that happens to everyone you love if you hurt him. Understood?" You nodded and he pushed open your door waiting for you to go inside,

"Sleep well." He mumbled, shutting the door and taking his place right outside the door for the night, sitting on the chair and waiting for time to pass by. Your legs hit the back of your bed and you landed down on Chan's suit jacket from earlier. You slid it out from underneath you and held it against your chest, maybe he wasn't so bad after all? Maybe he was just doing all of what he did because it was what was expected of him? The boys? Namjoon? Maybe they were the reason he did everything he did. You pushed the jacket away from you hurriedly, what were you thinking?! He killed someone who helped raise you, put a roof over your head and here you were thinking he wasn't so bad? You'd heard the stories, vicious killings, drug runs, weapon cartel, money laundering not all of that could be rumours. He was bad. He had to be bad. He was bad for you, you had to get him to think you'd fallen for him and fast, the sooner you did that the sooner you could be out of there and the sooner you could stop looking at him as a person with hurt feelings rather than the cold-blooded killer he was...Is.

Tagline: @moonprincessdiviniation - The wonderful editor who stayed up late to do this for me even though I told her not to!!! @taestannie @kneel-begyourpardon @calling-dips-on-j-hope @hugs4chan @ncitythoughts @inseonqt @cloudsgathering @atletino @mischiefmakerliesmith5 @freckledquokka

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four-loose-screws · 3 years ago

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FE8 Novelization Translation - Chapter 13, Section 2

If you would like to start from the beginning, read a missed part, etc., click here!

FE Game Script Translations - FE Novel Translations - Original FE Support Conversations

If you are interested in donating to support my work, please check out my Ko-fi here. Thank you!

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I call this a “section” because it is not a separate part of the chapter in the book, but divided from the rest of the chapter by a scene break.

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Chapter 13: The Desert Palace (con’t)

A cacophony of noises echoed from around the front gate.

Innes and his force had started to move. The enemy soldiers were being even louder than usual. In their eyes, Eirika’s army, at a severe disadvantage, must appear to have attacked with the resolve to sacrifice themselves in battle.

Joshua led Eirika’s group around to the east side of the palace. With them were just Seth, L’Arachel, and a few others, making up a force of only ten soldiers. Though they knew that this passageway would be lightly guarded, it didn’t seem possible that they’d be able to lead a successful attack with such few numbers… Eirika was unsure, but Joshua insisted that they were more than fine.

Just as he’d said, the east side of the palace was deserted. Eirika’s group completely avoided being spotted by any enemies, and they safely arrived at a small door.

It was completely unsurprising that the Grado Army had overlooked this place. If one did not know the construction of the castle in full detail, they would probably never realize that a door would be located in a part of the castle like this.

Ross stepped forward and chopped down the door with a single swing of his axe.

A few guard soldiers had been positioned in the hallway just in case, but they were taken by surprise, and all they did was flail around in a panic, and hardly helped guard the entrance at all.

Eirika’s group defeated them before they could even call for back-up.

“You can see a door to a room used as a weapon storeroom over there. If we take the weapons that are in there, it’ll be a huge help to us.” Joshua said.

L’Arachel started galloping over to it.

Joshua called out to her, “Hey, that’s not where the weapons are! That’s the door to the treasure room! You won’t find anything in there that will help us!”

However, L’Arachel didn’t seem to hear him, as she grabbed the doorknob.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t locked. It opened easily, and L’Arachel rushed inside without any concern.

Eirika followed after her in a panic. There could very well be a crass Grado soldier sneaking and rummaging around in there. It would be very dangerous if they were to cross paths.

The next words she heard come from L’Arachel were almost hysterical.

“My goodness! This is where you were?! I told you to follow me! You cannot meander around in a place like this!”

‘Who is she talking to?’ Eirika thought it very strange, and peered inside the room.

Several locked boxes were inside of it. The contents were probably the various treasures that had been gathered and stored inside Jehanna Palace.

L’Arachel was standing and looking at a young man, someone Eirika had seen before.

He was none other than L’Arachel’s other follower, Rennac.

Rennac looked back and forth between L’Arachel and Eirika, utterly dumbfounded, before dropping his shoulders. “Oh, um… Why wasn’t I following you? I, um… More importantly, what are you doing here…?”

“Rennac?”

An open chest lying on its side lay at his feet, and when Eirika looked very closely, she saw that he was wearing bracelets and crowns, and glittering necklaces lined his pockets.

“What… were you doing?” Judging by what it looked like, Eirika couldn’t imagine that he was doing anything other than sneaking into the treasure room to try and take the treasure.

However, right now, the palace was occupied by the Grado Army. How could Rennac have possibly snuck in here after separating from L’Arachel in Carcino?

But L’Arachel did not mind any of that, instead extending a hand towards him.

“Come with me right now! We will combine our powers and defeat the Grado Army!"

“Hey… now wait just a minute! I’m not your servant anymore! The Grado Army…”

“What?!”

“I was trying to say that I’m working for the Grado Army now!”

“The Grado Army is committing such shameless acts! I cannot believe they stole a follower of mine!!”

“No, that’s not… Oh, whatever. I’m not like that old man Dozla at all! I didn’t really pledge my loyalty to you. I was just employed as your guard, wasn’t I? Yet you haven’t paid me any money at all! Of course I’d be swayed by the Grado army and their high pay…"

“What are you talking about, Rennac? I gave you something far greater than a salary, didn’t I?” L’Arachel warmly spread her arms open wide.

“Huh?” Rennac answered.

“A life mission! I gave you a duty from the gods to fight evil! And it is a duty more grand than any other! The joy you get from doing good and helping others cannot be replaced by anything else! This is all much more important than money!”

The crown and bracelets all fell with a clang from around Rennac’s arms. He covered his hands with his ears, showing how much he did not want to hear another word. “It’s always the same with you! I want money more than duty, or to do good deeds! You always make me go with whatever logic is convenient for you, and drag me around everywhere…”

“And it was all for the better, don’t you think? Your eyes are so much more clear and beautiful than when we first met. It's because you were with me, doing good deeds! Now you shall do even more! Come with me!"

L'Arachel immediately left the room. Rennac watched her leave with regret in his eyes, but then he looked at Eirika. "...Say, Miss?"

"Y-Yes?"

"Would you like to hire me?"

Rennac's expression quickly brightened. He clapped his hands together at his brilliant idea, and walked over to Eirika. "Yeah, that's the best way to solve this! You're different from that stingy princess! You look like you'd pay me well!"

"Uh… um…"

"The name's Rennac. I'm a skilled thief. Well, I call myself that, but I'm no fool. I am more skilled in lockpicking than anyone else! No matter the type of lock on a door or a box filled with treasure, I can open it in an instant. My sword fighting skills are the real deal too! And you can have this indispensable man for ten thousand gold! For just ten thousand gold, I will become one of your allies. That's quite the bargain!"

"Ten… thousand?"

That was a lot of money. To someone who was careful with money like Eirika, such an amount made her take a step back.

If they needed someone who could pick locks, they already had Colm. They had no need to pay this man such a large sum of money and hire him.

She tried to turn down his offer, but Rennac picked up on what she was thinking and quickly said, “You’re a tough nut to crack! Ten thousand gold is a bargain, but I’ll make a special offer for a pretty little lady like you. I’ll give you a big discount, and drop it down to nine thousand, nine hundred, eighty gold! How about that?”

“Um, no.. That amount is still too much…”

The moment he was starting to overwhelm her, L’Arachel peered back into the treasure room. “What are you dragging your feet for, Rennac? Come along!”

Even the eloquent Rennac was weak to the princess of Rausten.

He said in a voice completely unlike the one he had cornered Eirika with, “Please go on ahead, don’t wait for me.” It was the best response he could muster.

“What was that?”

“Um, what I mean to say is…”

“If you don’t follow right behind me, then you’ll get lost again! You have no sense of direction, so be careful not to lose sight of me!” L’Arachel didn’t even wait for a reply, immediately leaving the treasury again.

Rennac ruffled a hand through his hair and whispered defeatedly, “...Dammit… my hands are tied. Guess my luck ran out when I thought she’d be a good employer…” Rennac looked over at Eirika and lowered his head. “You heard her. I’m coming with you.”

“But ten thousand gold is way too high for me…”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I’ve decided to get her to pay me someday. For now, I'll go along with her…”

Rennac picked up the bracelets he dropped earlier and stuffed them in his pockets, then smirked. “I’ll settle with this for the time being. Now let’s go, before the princess starts complaining again.”

#fire emblem #fe #fe8 #sacred stones #eirika #gba #game boy advance #japan #japanese #translation #light novel #fe8 novelization translation

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albertasunrise · 4 years ago

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Amateur Heist - Chapter 1

Summary: You know his name is Marcus Pike. You know he works for the FBI. You’ve seen him around the gallery the past week, or so. Thrown him longing looks when his back's turned but he's here for a reason, a tip that the gallery was going to be a robbed. What you don’t know is that you are about to get a lot more acquainted with him as his life will literally be in your hands.

Warnings: Blood and Injury, Hostage situation, Angst.

Relationship: Marcus x Reader

You know his name is Marcus Pike. You know he works for the FBI. You’ve seen him around the gallery the past week, or so. Thrown him longing looks when his back's turned but he's here for a reason, a tip that the gallery was going to be a robbed. What you don’t know is that you are about to get a lot more acquainted with him as his life will literally be in your hands.

The day started out like any other. You opened up the gallery as normal and busied yourself with cleaning and paperwork as you did every day. Your boss usually arrives around 9 with a coffee for you and he in hand, he never fails to bring you your latte with a single shot of Caramel syrup.

‘Good morning Sweet.’ He says with a smile as he hands you your to-go cup, pecking you on the cheek before heading to his office in the back.

Marcus doesn’t have a particular time that he arrives but he usually pops in around mid-morning to scour the CCTV footage and speak to you and your boss about anything suspicious that you may have seen. He’s always dressed down, never looks like an FBI agent and he explained that this was in case they were scoping the place. He didn't want to raise suspicion which was why he always enters from the rear of the gallery also as the alley made anyone spying on the place easier to spot.

‘I have a lunchtime reservation with Fiona today so I will be out until around 2.’ States your boss as he emerges from his office a little while later, iPad in hand ‘You think you’ll be able to hold the fort whilst I'm out?’

‘Oh, I think I’ll be able to handle it.’ You chuckle as you look around at the empty gallery.

‘Perfect!’ He exclaims before returning to tapping away at the tablet in his hand.

You busy yourself again after he leaves, busy typing up emails when the bell above to door dings, alerting you to someone entering.

‘I will be with you in just a moment.’ You say as you finish up a receipt for your latest sale.

‘You’ll deal with me now.’ A voice growls and you look up slowly to see a gun pointing straight at you.

You don’t know where the sudden confidence comes from but you manage to blindly dial Marcus’ number, knowing he was the last person you’d called on your work mobile to confirm something the previous day.

‘Step away from the counter with your hands above your head.’ He spits and you do as you’re told, your eyes fixed on his ‘Lock the door. You run, I shoot you.’

You nod, slowly making your way to the door and turning the key in the lock before turning back to face him. What now?

‘You going to swing by the gallery today boss?’ Asks Matt as Marcus walks into the communal kitchen.

‘I’m not sure yet.’ He replies, shrugging as he pours some coffee into this mug ‘It’s been over a week and there have been no hits on the gallery.’ He pauses to take a sip ‘Maybe we were given a bad tip.’

‘So you’re not even going to pop by just so you can see her?’ Matt asks suggestively as he wiggles his eyebrows at his boss.

‘Don’t Matt.’ He warns as he points at him.

‘Oh come on. I've seen the way you look at her.’ He states ‘Just ask her out. I’m sure she’d say yes.’

‘How would you know. My dealings with her have been nothing but professional.’

‘Because I’ve seen the way she looks at you when your back is turned.’ Matt finishes and Marcus feels a warm feeling wash over him.

Did you like him? He couldn’t deny that he had a rather large crush on you. He found you irresistible. You not only had a vast knowledge about art but you were also just as passionate as he was about it. His phone ringing in his pocket tugs him back to reality and he pulls it out to see your name flashing on the screen.

‘Who is it?’ Asks Matt quizzically.

‘It’s her.’

‘Maybe she’s calling to see where you are?’ He states, giving his boss a wink as Marcus answers.

‘Pike.’

He doesn’t hear anything initially and he wonders if you may have dialled him by mistake but just as he was about to pull his phone away from his ear he heard it.

‘Step away from the counter with your hands above your head’

Marcus’ face drops.

‘Boss, what is it?’ Matt asks upon noticing his bosses change in demeanour.

‘We need to get down to the gallery now.’ He states, hanging up the phone ‘It’s being robbed.’

In less than an hour, the gallery is surrounded, the whole street closed off as FBI and Police vehicles line the street. Marcus jumps out of his car and makes his way to the rest of his team that is eagerly awaiting his instruction and he glances inside to see you curled up against the wall as the assailant paces nervously.

‘We have both the front and rear entrance’s covered.’ States Alice as she nods at her boss in greeting ‘We don’t think he is aware that there is another way into the gallery. I think it’s likely that he’s new to this boss.’

‘Right,’ Marcus starts, looking down at the blueprint spread across the hood of Alice’s car ‘Matt and I are going to enter from the rear. If he isn't aware of it then we should be able to get in and subdue him easily. Alice, I want you and James to stay here and keep the local police instructed on what the plan is. If we aren’t able to get in then he may start making demands.’

‘You got it.’ She replies as she folds up the blueprint and makes her way over to a cluster of officers stood a little further down the street from them.

‘Right. Vest on. We’re going in.’ Orders Marcus and Matt nods.

As soon as they were suited up they were sprinting down the alleyway, Marcus pulling out the key the owner had given him and gingerly turning it in the lock.

‘Stay behind me.’ He says to Matt before opening the door and stepping inside, both of them watching their footing carefully as not to alert the robber to their presence.

Meanwhile, you have been made to move to the other side of the divide that sits proudly at the centre of the gallery and thats when you’d realised that this man wasn’t alone. There is two of them. You’d managed to keep yourself somewhat calm but you were starting to feel the adrenaline wearing off and your body had started to betray you. From the corner of your eye, you notice the storeroom door creaking open, your eyes growing wide when Marcus’s face comes into view and he raises his pointer finger up to his lips. You nod, just enough that he knows that you understand but not enough to rouse suspicion and then your gaze flits to the man across from you, you shut your eyes and pray for it to be over.

‘FBI, HANDS UP.’ Shouts Marcus as he jumps into the room, aiming his weapon at the man behind you, the only one he knows about.

‘MARCUS, WATCH OUT.’ You scream as your eyes shoot open and you see the second man aim his weapon at the agent.

It happens in a flash. Pike turns just quick enough to see his attacker before they pull the trigger, the agent hitting the ground with a loud thud. You look over at him, his face already painted in blood and he's blinking rapidly in what you assume is an attempt to try and clear his mind.

‘BACK UP.’ Shouts the man behind you as he steps closer to Matt ‘Back up or my partner here will shoot him between the eyes.' He spits as he waves his weapon at a dazed Marcus.

Matt did as he was bid, backing up with his hands raised in surrender. He glances at his boss, there's is blood and a lot of it. Marcus is laying there still blinking, desperately trying to make sense of what has just happened but all he could hear is a ringing in his ears as his vision starts to grey around the edges.

‘You tell your colleagues that we’ll have some demands.’ Growls, who you had decided must be in charge ‘If they aren’t met. These two die.’ He states and you lock eyes with Matt in a silent plea to save you ‘Now run along and tell them that we’ll be in touch!’

Matt turns and leaves, sprinting through the back door with Marcus’ attacker hot on his heels.

‘Make sure no one can get through that door!' He yells before turning his attention back to you, and then to the bleeding agent on the floor ‘You best take a look at that.’ He orders as he watches Marcus flop on the floor ‘He don’t look so good.’

You pull off your blazer and scoot over to him, pressing it firmly against his gushing head wound in an attempt to slow the bleeding. Now you were no doctor but you’d watched House. You know head wounds bleed a lot but do they normally bleed this much? You peel your blazer back a moment to get a better look at the damage and you gasp at what you see. This grabs Marcus’ attention.

‘That bad eh?’ He asks, his brown eyes full of fear.

‘No.’ You reply, shaking your head ‘Just grazed you. You’ll be okay.’ You lie, not able to bring yourself to tell him the truth. The bullet had grazed him alright but from the looks of it, it had fractured his skull in the process.

His eyes were starting to droop. You know that people with head injuries need to stay awake and so you shake his shoulder and you speak to him ‘You need to stay awake agent Pike.’ You urge, feeling tears start to sting your eyes ‘Just keep those pretty brown eyes on me.’

‘You think my eyes are pretty?’ He questions, smirking at you and you let out a breathy chuckle.

‘Yes.’ You reply with a nod ‘I think they’re very pretty Agent Pike.’

'Marcus.'

'Hmm?'

'Marcus.' He repeats 'Call me Marcus.'

‘Matt, what the hell is going on?’ Yells James upon seeing the younger agent sprinting across the street ‘Where the hell is Marcus? We heard gunshots!’

‘He’s been shot.’ Matt states as he leans heavily on the car whilst he attempts to catch his breath ‘There's two of them.’ One’s hiding just on the other side of that divide. He caught Pike by surprise, got him in the head.’

‘FUCK!.’ Yells James ‘He alive?’

‘He was when I left.’ Matt replies ‘They’re going to be calling with demands soon so we need to make sure someone's ready to take that call. He was bleeding badly so I’m not sure how long he’s going to hold out.’

‘Right grab Alice.’ James orders, motioning to the female agent ‘She’ll be our best bet at getting them out alive.’

‘How did you get into art.’ He asks, his eyes growing heavier by the minute.

‘Well, it's the only thing I'm any good at.’ You chuckle before noticing how cold his skins gone Shit he’s going into shock ‘I went to school in England where I studied for 6 years. Learned that it’s impossible to make any money selling work no one wants. Then I met Simon and he offered me a job here. What about you?’

‘Pretty much the same.’ He replies, shivering as he looks sideways at the painting on the wall beside you ‘Apart from the studying on England part. Discovered that I was also quite the detective and ended up working for the FBI Art Crimes Division. I hadn’t even known there was one till I joined.’

‘I’ll confess I didn’t either. It almost seems like something out of a movie.’ You say and he smiles warmly at you before his eyes slip closed ‘Hey Marcus no. Keep your eyes open for me.’

You can see he’s trying but he’s failing miserably and so you rack your brain for something, anything you can do to get his attention.

Then it hits you.

You lean down and press your soft lips against his, smiling when he gasps in surprise before kissing you back and letting out a small hum of approval.

‘Normally I like to be wined and dined first.’ He jokes as you pull away, his brown eyes sparkling.

‘Well how about we make a deal? You keep your eyes open for me and stay awake and as a reward, I will take you out to dinner.’ You say and he grins at you.

‘Are you asking me on a date?’

‘Maybe I am.’ You reply, returning his toothy smile with your own.

‘I’m supposed to do that.’ He mumbles, eyes starting to flutter again.

‘Well, you’ve had over a week!’ You exclaim and he chuckles weakly ‘I guess I’ve had to take matters into my own hands.’

He looks up at you through hooded lids, his smile, though weak, still spreading to his eyes.

‘Okay. I will on one con-condition.’ He stutters and you tilt your head in curiosity ‘I pay.’

‘Hmmm, I think I can accept those terms.’ You reply, smiling sweetly at him as one hand presses down your blood-soaked blazer to his head as the other cups his cheek, thumb rubbing circles on the soft skin there.

‘Then it’s a date.’ He chuckles before scrunching his eyes as the pain starts to filter through.

‘What are they demanding?’ Asks Matt, watching as Alice listens to the perps over the phone.

‘They want to walk out of there.’ She states ‘They haven’t taken anything and they won’t if we let them go without charge. They want a car and the promise that when they leave, they won’t be followed.’

‘Are they insane?’ Matt whisper shouts ‘One of them shot a fucking federal agent in the head!’

‘Well, we might have to concede to their demands.’ She states ‘Marcus isn’t doing well according to him.'

‘Headquarters aren’t going to just let them walk out.’ States James and Alice throws the phone down as she lets out an exasperated sigh ‘Well it's that or Pike bleeds to death.’ She growls ‘Which will it be?’

You notice that Marcus’ eyes are starting to slip shut again. His skin is now a scary shade of white and his breathing has become erratic. You know the warning signs for shock and he is definitely ticking those boxes. You also know he didn’t have long before his organs would start to shut down. It would most likely kill him before the blood loss.

‘Where shall we go on our date then?’ You ask, desperate to keep him with you ‘Now I don’t know about you but I live for Pancakes.’

‘I l-love p…pan-cakes.’ Your heart twists at how hard it is for him to speak now.

‘Well, I know this super cute little diner. Does the best pancakes.’ You state as you pull him a little closer to you ‘They do the Canadian special. Thick, fluffy pancakes topped in crispy chicken and maple-cured bacon. Of course, it's then drowned in maple syrup.’

‘S-sounds good.’ He says, his hand grabbing your forearm and giving it a squeeze ‘I think I'd like t-to try th-that.’

‘Well, then that settles it. We’ll go there for dinner and order two Canadian Specials.’ You declare and he gives you a dopey smile.

‘Then what will we do?’ He asks, his eyes a little brighter than before.

‘Then we can go for a walk. There’s a lovely park a little way down from there. They light up the trees at night, it's magical.’ You state and he smiles as he listens to you speak ‘Then you can walk me back to my apartment, I don't live far from there, and you can kiss me goodnight on my doorstep.’

‘I’d like that.’

‘Just a kiss mind.’ You state as you feign a serious expression ‘I don’t do any funny business on the first date.’

‘Noted.’ He replies, his laugh followed by dry coughing that makes him groan in pain.

When the pain settles a little he looks up at you again. That fear you’d first seen has returned and you feel your stomach twisting in knots.

‘I’m so cold.’ He states and you feel your blood turn to ice.

‘You just need to hold on a little longer.’ You plead, shaking him gently as his eyes slip shut for a moment ‘Come on Marcus, let me see those eyes again.’

He graces you with his gaze. Brow knitted together as tears start to leak from the corner of his eyes ‘I’m scared.’ He sobs and you swear your heart shatters.

‘There’s no reason to be scared, Marcus.’ You say softly as you rock him gently in your arms ‘You’re going to be fine.’ You state as you look up and your captors who are busy growling down the phone ‘Everything’s going to be okay. We're going to get out of here. Okay? Marcus?’

Nothing.

‘Marcus?’ You glance down and sob.

He’s lost the battle to keep his eyes open.

Chapter 2

#Marcus Pike #Marcus Pike x Reader #Marcus Pike x You #Marcus Pike Fanfiction #Mentalist fanfiction #pedro Pascal character fanfiction #Pedro Pascal fanfiction #Pedro Pascal characters

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prettywordsyouleft · 5 years ago

Text

Yellow Bells

Pairing: Kim Yugyeom x reader

Genre: florist au / fluff

Warnings: none

A/N: this is for the lovely @mrkimyugyeom for her birthday today. Thanks to the anon the other day who mentioned the florist! concept, I realised it fits this present for my dear friend perfectly. Thank you for everything you have done for me over the last year, Nora! I’m so grateful for our friendship Xxx

Word count: 2136

“Are you sure you can manage on your own, Yugyeom?”

He nodded, ushering his parents eagerly to the exit of the store. “Mum, I’ve grown up in this shop. I’m pretty sure I know every type of flower in here from your little songs you sing as you care for them. Go, I can handle it for a week.”

“He’s right, darling. The florist will be here when we return from our vacation,” Yugyeom’s father assured, tugging his wife outside. She turned to look forlornly at Yugyeom.

Or, probably the row of baby azaleas behind him.

“Make sure you water-”

“I will and I’ll feed those in the tropical part and check the temperature for the lilies and honestly Mum, I can handle this.”

She reluctantly nodded, stretching to place a kiss on his cheek as she hugged him. He waved his parents off as they drove away for their first vacation alone since he was born over twenty years ago. And as soon as they were out of sight, he stepped back into the house of flora and slumped visibly.

Sure, he wanted his parents to have a good time. And he wasn’t exactly lying; he had spent more time within this florist growing up than in the apartment above it.

But Yugyeom wasn’t born possessing a green thumb like his parents. He was even somewhat affected by pollen and since his mother was deeply attached to her flower children, he had only minded the store a handful of times.

“I can do this,” he reaffirmed, nodding his head and slipping his hands deep within his pockets, eying the succulents’ table carefully. “We’ll do this together, right guys?”

He then grimaced, wondering how his mother could speak so fondly to everything in here without any problem. So, maybe he wouldn’t be singing the bushes down the back to sleep as he locked up later on.

But he’d at least be able to keep the store running for the next five days.

Hopefully.

The first day started well. Yugyeom followed the pages of instructions his mother left behind for him to follow, the step by step guide foolproof. He managed to serve a couple of customers and take an order for next week for an event when his mother would be back to make new intricate arrangements.

But that was where he was failing the most. Staring down at the stack of cut-offs lying on the decorative paper he had chosen, Yugyeom groaned out loud. There was no charm to the arrangement he had made. They all clashed and he knew even he wouldn’t buy this to give to anyone.

“You need a different colour palette to balance out all this pink,” you called and he glanced up, his breath getting caught in his throat.

You smiled politely and pointed to the flowers. “You have pink roses, pink tulips and pink carnations. Monochrome is nice but I think if you changed the carnations for a white, it would make the arrangement more interesting.”

“I can do white,” he slowly replied, soon grinning at you. “Thanks!”

“Anytime. I have an order to pick up under the name Y/N,” you stated and Yugyeom nodded, turning to the computer to look up the details, keeping you in his peripheral as he did so.

You glanced around mindlessly. “Mrs Kim isn’t around?”

“Nope, she’s on vacation this week.”

“Oh so you’re Yugyeom then,” you commented and he stopped looking up your order details, blinking rapidly at the fact that you knew his name. You chuckled. “Your Mum talks about you a lot.”

“Really? Are you sure you didn’t hear her say Yellow bells instead?”

You grinned. “I sense some jealousy here. The plants will be offended.”

“You really do know my mother,” he retorted with a breathy chuckle, hiking his thumb in the direction of the storeroom. “I’ll just get your order.”

He returned with a bag of fertiliser and some seeds, sliding them up onto the top of the free counter space. After ringing up your order and accepting your card, Yugyeom then held onto it a little longer than he should. You eyed his lack of action curiously.

“So white?”

You nodded. “White. Don’t stress too much, someone will buy them.”

“Easy for you to say, you’re not the one jealous of flowers,” he teased when he handed back your card.

“Who knows, if it’s still here tomorrow, I might buy it.”

“You’ll be back tomorrow?”

Shrugging, you reached for your purchases. “Perhaps.”

Yugyeom waited for your return the following day. He had managed to empty out the clearance table to a kind elderly couple, stacked the new batch of supplies that arrived just before lunch and even got a start on another mediocre bouquet of flowers when the jingle of the bell over the door made him look up and find you walking inside. He dropped the roll of ribbon he had been fumbling with and then yelped when it landed on his foot.

You laughed. “And a hello to you as well, Yellow bells.”

“I’m going to regret saying that to you yesterday, aren’t I?” he grumbled, bending down to retrieve the ribbon. When he stood back up, you were holding his first arrangement. Yugyeom sighed. “You don’t have to.”

“Why not? I want to be the first person to have one of Yellow-”

“I swear, Y/N if you keep it up!” he cut in with a hearty laugh, your own soon joining his. When the moment was over, Yugyeom then waved you off. “You can have it.”

“Well, I plan on that.”

“No, I mean, for free.”

You grew curious. “Don’t businesses require financial backing?”

“They also require creativity and some sense of pride in their work. That sad bunch has neither. I can’t expect you to buy it.”

“I will. And I will continue to keep buying them until you have just that!”

“What did you say?”

“Ring it up for me, Yellow bells.”

By the fourth day of your regular appearances to the florist, Yugyeom was certain of two things. One, he really liked you. There was just something about you that captivated him and he wanted to talk to you endlessly. Even if it was all about the species of one plant family, he was certain he would listen to every word you said.

Secondly, he knew his mother was behind all this.

“She told you to come and check on her babies, didn’t she?” he asked pointedly when you appeared, looking rather inconspicuously at the indoor houseplants section.

“Who?”

“My mother,” he said and you smiled. “I knew she didn’t trust me!”

“She does actually, like I said, all she talks about is you, Yellow bells.”

He clamped his eyes closed momentarily to clear out the nickname that he was growing rather attached to and then rounded the counter, coming over to your side. “Then why are you turning up every day?”

“Have you made another arrangement yet?” you wondered and Yugyeom rubbed the back of his neck, nodding shyly. “Where is it?”

“It uh, it sold.”

You almost looked upset. “You’re kidding me! Then you’ve done it!”

“I think the old lady felt sorry for me. Something about going home to pretty it up in one of her fine vases.”

“Well, your colour choices are improving so you never know.”

“What’s the deal about you anyway? You always talk about colour.”

You grinned. “I study colour theory at the local university.”

“Huh.” Yugyeom moved over to look at a baby fern, inspecting its leaves. “You’re majoring in art?”

“Business management. I just take it as an extra paper.”

“What’s the end goal for you then?”

“Really?” you asked, biting at your bottom lip as you grinned. “Is Yellow bells interested in where I end up?”

“I’d laugh if it was a florist.” Your eyes sparkled as your lips twitched and Yugyeom gaped at you. “A florist?!”

“I’ve been helping your mother make changes to the business marketing part of the shop for three months now. So it would be this florist.”

“I’ve never seen you before.”

“You moved out, remember.”

“You know too much,” he breathed and you nudged him.

“Not everything.”

“Enough,” he lamented and moved back to the counter in a slump. “You’ll come and work for the family and then you’ll not see me for anything more than Yellow bells then.”

“Were you hoping I’d see you for more than that?” you questioned, unable to hide your intrigue.

“I’m glad the old lady bought the bouquet now.”

“You’ll just have to make me another one,” you concluded, heading towards the door. You stepped out, only to stick your head back around the corner. “Make sure it doesn’t sell before I get here again tomorrow.”

Yugyeom was discouraged. With the knowledge that you were being primed to join the family business, he couldn’t see how this would separate him enough from the son of your future employer. He barely said a word to any of the plants as he locked up that night and grunted in greeting the following morning. He only had to get through today. Tomorrow, his parents would be back and he would be able to return to his apartment downtown and forget all about the way you smiled whenever you called him your preferred nickname.

The day felt like it was dragging. He completed all the morning chores, ensuring the plants that needed watering or fed an enrichment mixture had been checked off his list before he approached the arrangement station. Yugyeom had gathered an assorted bunch of flowers earlier in the morning. There was nothing special to them, just cut-offs that didn’t seem to fit in with others. Together, however, they seemed aesthetically pleasing. Choosing to wrap them in simple brown paper to enhance their beauty, he placed the bouquet into the front stand, going back to working on some multi-coloured roses.

The doorbell jingled and he didn’t even look up. He knew it was you.

“Afternoon flower babies,” you called out, sounding just like his mother. He huffed petulantly, trimming off the excess stem of the rose he was readying for the arrangement. You were soon in front of him. But instead of greeting him with his nickname, you didn’t say anything.

Yugyeom looked up to see what was wrong, his eyes narrowing when he found you staring at something in awe. “What’s wrong with you?”

“You made this?”

“Oh them? Yeah, I felt sorry for them since they didn’t match with their other batches so I put them all together. It’s a bit wild, huh?”

“I love it,” you confessed shakily, blinking a few times. You then glanced up at him and he could see how moved you were. “It’s beautiful, Yugyeom.”

He was overwhelmed. He hadn’t expected this reaction to the bouquet, or within himself. Your words bounced around his insides, shooting off spikes of warmth. He was certain he was madly blushing and cleared his throat awkwardly. “Oh uh, well.”

“I can’t buy this,” you murmured, still clutching the bouquet despite your statement. Your eyes searched his and Yugyeom eventually grinned bashfully.

“Good, I can finally gift you some flowers, Y/N.”

“One of many bunches, I hope.”

“You forget, today’s my last day here.”

You faltered. “You don’t plan to visit?”

“Well, yeah I come and see my parents most weekends.”

“Then you can make me some flowers then.”

“You won’t be here every day, will you?” he wondered, trying not to stare at you too much. He felt there was more to what you were expressing and his palms started to sweat as he thought over what next to say. “You… you wouldn’t come here looking for me, would you?”

“I have every day this week, haven’t I?”

Yugyeom frowned. “That’s because of my mother’s-”

“Actually, she just asked me to come in on Wednesday. I was curious and couldn’t wait until then.”

“Curious about what?”

“You,” you confessed, burying your face into the flowers you held to hide your expression. You then gazed up at him once more at ease. “You’re kind of handsome, Yellow bells.”

He sighed heavily. “It was going so well.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t like it,” you mused and Yugyeom laughed.

“I’ll need to come up with a nickname for you then too,” he announced and you tilted your head to the side.

“You seemed so sure we wouldn’t be crossing paths after today.”

He grinned. “Didn’t you say I needed to make more flower arrangements?”

“I did.”

“Well, I’ve got some new ideas. I need to try them out when I come by. Since you’ll be here, after all.”

You seemed to bloom then, brightening up entirely. “Well Yellow bells, I can’t wait to see what you come up with next.”

_________________

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whimperwoods · 5 years ago

Text

Arms of the Enemy (D&D Whump)

This is part 4.

Here are part 1, part 2 , and part 3.

Castor is a warlock, in service to the Great Old One and the Dark Emperor, in that order. Ed is a fighter, a knight and battle master in the service of the True King of Lumenea. They have always been enemies. In the space between the Old One and the Emperor, they might be able to become something else.

(Also, Castor is winging it and Ed is, as usual, recalcitrant. And emotional. It’s been a long day for both of them.)

tw: Gosh, probably something. Aftermath of torture. Mental mess. Ed is easily triggered and maybe paranoid and definitely having a traumatic experience. Physical anxiety symptoms? Yeah we’ll go with that. Physical symptoms of anxiety/trauma.

taglist: @redwingedwhump, @fanastywhump, @insanitywishes @bluebadgerwhump

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

Ed was deeply, horrifyingly present in his own body, the last place in the world he wanted to be. His body was all he had left to him, the only thing he controlled at all, and he had to keep it breathing, had to keep it conscious, had to keep himself from crying, even as the pain and shame rolled through him in deep, unstoppable waves.

Castor the Black was talking, but the words came to him like he was underwater, like the mage was miles away, and they meant nothing. The mage’s hand carded softly through his hair, and Ed squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to think about that.

The touch felt good. Comforting. His attention kept falling back toward it, to get away from the pain, and he hated it. Hated it. Couldn’t cry. Couldn’t cry.

He was ashamed of himself, ashamed of lying here, ashamed of letting one of the enemy’s battle mages touch him like this. He should shrug away. Should fight back. The hand in his hair was the only good thing in his world, and he hated it, because it couldn’t be good at all. It wasn’t allowed to be, and he wasn’t allowed to like it.

Heat and cold swirled through him, shame and pain and, when he couldn’t bear to shut it out, comfort.

He had cried, already. He had cried until his body gave out, exhausted by the sobs, and part of him wanted to let go and allow it to happen again. Instead, he breathed, and breathed, and breathed, and kept his breaths steady even as his eyes began to leak tears, hoping that it meant something that he was quiet, this time.

*****

Sir Edmond’s breathing slowly settled, and Castor knew they should move, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. Instead, he kept rambling softly, explaining his plan, such as it was, and hoping it was comforting.

“Don’t worry about the change in plans. My master said it would protect us, and like I said, I don’t think the healer’s kit will be missed, or even remembered. There’s no reason for them to look in the stables, not with all the horses accounted for. Not that you’d have been able to ride off on your own, but then, you couldn’t have gotten out on your own, so that hardly matters, either.”

He sighed. “I should move us. Better to hide, protection or not.”

Sir Edmond didn’t respond, still lying listless on the ground beside Castor.

Castor stopped stroking Sir Edmond’s hair and found as whole a patch of shoulder as he could to shake. “Did you hear me, Sir Edmond? I need to know you’re alright with moving. I need to know you won’t try to wriggle away from me. I don’t want to drop you.”

The knight hissed, though Castor couldn’t be sure if it was in pain or anger. He reached down and scooped up Sir Edmond’s hand, holding it in a way he hoped was reassuring. “Hey. I’m not - I know you don’t trust me. I know you have reasons not to. But I have to move you.”

For a moment, he considered thinking to Sir Edmond again, since at least when they spoke telepathically, they could both manage full sentences, but then he thought of the pain of being driven out and he didn’t.

“Just - squeeze my hand if it’s ok to move you. If you won’t try to hurt me or get me to drop you.”

*****

Ed held himself stiff. even as the tension of it hurt and tired him. He couldn’t let Castor the Black think he liked having his hand held, couldn’t let him think he wanted the comfort of that any more than he could let him think he liked having his hair combed through.

He was forcing himself to listen, now, everything the mage said clicking into place and becoming understandable only with a moment’s delay.

He didn’t know what would happen if he didn’t squeeze the mage’s hand. Would they just stay here? There was only so long they could be outside in the open, but he didn’t know where he would be agreeing to go. He focused on breathing, on staying calm, on seeming to be in control of himself.

If they stayed here, they’d be caught eventually. If they were caught, he’d be back in the dungeon, where his captors hadn’t shown any more inclination toward a quick death than the mage had. He had already told them what they wanted to know, betrayed his comrades and his king in a moment of weakness, and whatever awaited him in the dungeon at least couldn’t make that any worse. But he hadn’t been strong enough to hold out, and he wasn’t sure he was strong enough to go back there, to take the pain again, even if it meant getting away from Castor the Black’s sinister games.

His face grew hot. He could give himself over to the man holding his hand, or he could put himself back in the dungeons. To go back - to refuse to cooperate - it seemed more honorable. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t. The thought of the dungeons made his breathing speed up, his heart pound, even as his mind skated instinctively away from it.

He couldn’t go back to the dungeon. He didn’t have a choice.

He closed his eyes and squeezed Castor the Black’s hand, knowing he was making a deal with the devil.

*****

Castor relaxed as soon as he felt Sir Edmond’s hand squeeze his, and squeezed gently back, acknowledging the answer. Good. Good. They were on the same page, as impossible as that still seemed if he thought about it too hard.

He let go of Sir Edmond’s hand and brushed the man’s hair off his forehead before getting to his feet to get a good look around them in the dark.

No one seemed to be coming, which was good. He’d been careful when he’d charmed the guards, been careful not to push too hard, not to say anything that would tell them definitively that he planned to take Sir Edmond with him, rather than just paying his old enemy an unsupervised visit. Maybe they wouldn’t look into the cell. Maybe they’d just return to their posts, assuming he’d roughed the knight up and left. But no, they would at least check to make sure he was gone. And then they’d find out that Sir Edmond was, too.

He closed his eyes and reached outward with his awareness, feeling for other minds and finding none within the admittedly limited range of his telepathy.

He squatted back down beside Sir Edmond and started packing up the little he’d taken out of the healer’s kit. “Alright,” he said quietly, “I can’t sense anyone coming. If we’re lucky, the guards will spend some time looking for you before they sound the alarm. They’re human, so until they call in someone else, their vision will be limited in the dark.”

Sir Edmond didn’t answer, but the knight’s half-dazed eyes met his, and that was good enough for the moment. Castor collected the healer’s kit, straightened up for one more glance toward the castle, and then scooped Sir Edmond up into his arms and tucked the hanging chain from Sir Edmond’s ankle out of the way so he couldn’t trip on it.

*****

Ed wrapped his arms around Castor the Black’s neck, clinging to him with what strength he had left, only to find that the man’s grip on him was surprisingly solid.

He tried to think about that, instead of the pain that jolted through him with every one of the mage’s steps, or the fact that he was being carried like a bride crossing her threshold, curling willingly into the man’s chest where he felt more secure.

Castor the Black was strong for a mage.

That was a problem. Or it could be, at any rate.

They moved more quickly than he’d expected, though the jolts meant he couldn’t focus on where they were going without also focusing on the pain, and he was surprised when they reached a building and Castor the Black carried him inside without hesitation.

He found himself inside a stable, one that looked shockingly normal, and whose horses were apparently unbothered by their presence.

Castor the Black carried him to the ladder that led to the hayloft, then stopped and looked up toward the loft itself. “Shit.”

Ed started shaking, his body responding to the sense that something was wrong even as his brain was still trying to make sense of being inside a place that felt so familiar. Things were falling into place, but it was hard to make sense of it, hard when his body hurt so badly, hard when he kept having emotions that muddied the water.

He shook, and clung tighter to Castor the Black, and hated it.

*****

Castor stared up at the hayloft, the weight of Sir Edmond pulling at his arms. “Ok,” he said softly, “Ok, so we’re not gonna make it up there. There’s an empty stall and we’ll just have to -”

He looked sideways. The block and tackle for hauling the hay up there would never do for getting Sir Edmond up there, and they’d never make it up the ladder if he tried to carry him.

“Yeah, we’ll just have to stay down here.”

Sir Edmond was shaking in his arms. Castor’s brow furrowed. He needed to move. He needed to get Sir Edmond somewhere safe and hidden, so he didn’t have to move him again.

He bit his lip, thinking for a moment, and then moved quickly toward the empty stall farthest back, toward the storeroom. It was a risk being closer to where the horsemaster slept, but he’d risked that once, and it was still less dangerous than someone coming in and happening on them before he could adjust to their entrance.

Setting the knight down was a relief, but instead of turning his face away, Sir Edmond stared back at him, his eyes confused, half-dazed, and locked intently into Castor’s. A shiver ran down Castor’s spine, and he knelt down, laying a hand on Sir Edmond’s forehead. He still didn’t seem feverish, and that still didn’t make sense, and Sir Edmond was still shaking.

“It’s ok,” he said, forcing himself not to break eye contact until the knight did. “I’ve got you. You’re gonna be ok.”

*****

Castor the Black stared into Ed’s eyes, and Ed stared back. He hadn’t gotten an answer to why. Not really. He hadn’t even gotten an answer to what, not that he’d asked. And yet - they held eye contact, the mage staring back at him deeply, intently. Ed’s heart raced and his body shook, every part of him buzzing with the knowledge that something had gone wrong, that something had made the mage swear and change his mind, that whatever this was that he’d just given himself over to was every bit as dangerous as he’d feared.

“You’re gonna be ok,” the man whispered again.

Ed’s head spun. The eyes looking into his were an icy blue in color, but where he expected something cold and hard behind them, he found a soft, open gaze with something warm behind it. He hated it. It had to be a lie. And he’d fallen for it. He’d agreed.

He reached out and grabbed the mage’s sleeve to keep him from pulling away. Finally, the eye contact ended as the other man looked down at his wrist and Ed’s hand wrapped around it.

Ed couldn’t talk. Not the way he wanted to - the way he needed to. He gathered his strength, took a deep breath, and wheezed, “head.”

The ice-blue eyes looked confused, the eyebrows over them contracting. “Does your head hurt? I mean more than the rest?”

Ed grunted in frustration and tugged at the mage’s sleeve, pulling it toward the ground. “Talk,” he managed.

The eyes widened in comprehension and Ed relaxed, letting go of the bloody sweater sleeve.

Then Castor the Black was speaking in Ed’s head again, still half hunched over him, and Ed not to let his revulsion show.

“Is this what you meant?”

Ed fought not to insult the man and managed, narrowly. “Why are you so strong?” he asked, “I don’t understand. What are you doing with me?”

“Oh!” the mage answered, aloud. “Yeah, I’m not -” His voice showed up in Ed’s head again. “I’m a battlemage, but I’m not actually a wizard. It’s - people aren’t supposed to know, because they’re supposed to think my magic’s wide open and limitless and all that but - nobody’s is.”

Ed grunted, impatient.

“I’m not a wizard. What I am has its upsides and its downsides but it mostly just means I - uh - well, I don’t exactly hang out in the library. I train with everybody else.“

That made sense. It mostly made sense. It wasn’t the important part. “Why are we here?” he asked again, “What are you planning to do with me?”

The mage’s eyes were locked into his again, just as intent, and still softly, bewilderingly kind. “I don’t know,” he answered aloud, his voice soft. “I know that’s not the answer you want, but I don’t.”

*****

Castor’s heart raced as he made his admission, looking into Sir Edmond’s dark brown eyes as they started to clear, or at least to focus on his own better than they had before. “What now?” the knight asked, reaching up and grabbing his sleeve again.

Castor sighed. “Now we hunker down for the night and hope nobody finds us.”

Sir Edmond grunted, still displeased.

Castor closed his eyes, sighing. “I offered a look into my head before,” he said. “You won’t find a better answer. I saw what they were doing to you and I acted. I don’t have an answer for that. I can put you back, if you want. I can just let the guards think I wanted to hurt you, too, and pretend I did. Or you can trust me, and we can hide. That’s what now.“

Sir Edmond whined, an unexpected noise of distress, his hand squeezing tighter at Castor’s wrist.

Castor slid down onto his knees, giving up on this being a short conversation.

“I don’t understand,” Sir Edmond said into his mind, pushing again, not as sharply this time, and Castor could feel a deep anguish under the words, an anguish the knight was pushing at him just as hard as the words. “Something’s wrong. What aren’t you telling me?”

A lot of things were wrong. What had happened to Sir Edmond was wrong. Breaking out one of his biggest enemies on an impulse was wrong. Being out here instead of safe in his room. Not having the time he needed to properly clean the man’s wounds while they were next to fresh water. Sir Edmond’s persistent, infuriating stubbornness, and his own inability to be angry about it, to blame the man for putting every ounce of strength he could muster between the two of them and Castor’s goals.

He sighed. “I know. But I’m not - there’s not that much not to tell. We’re here. I can’t get you into the hayloft to hide, so we’re gonna have to make the best of it down here.”

There was another shove against his mind, just the anguish and confusion, without any words, and he wasn’t even sure Sir Edmond knew he was doing it.

He shoved back, trying to focus on the way he’d felt deciding he had to rescue the knight, the way he’d felt when Sir Edmond was unconscious and he could see the wounds he was cleaning in their full horror, the way he’d felt watching the knight grow calmer under his fingertips the way he’d calmed down himself as a boy, having his hair stroked.

“No.” The anguish was still there under Sir Edmond’s words, “I don’t understand. Why are you lying to me? I don’t have anything left. I know something is wrong. I feel it. Why are you making me feel like it’s not? Why are you trying to trick me? I don’t understand.”

Castor didn’t know how to answer. He pulled his wrist out of Sir Edmond’s hands. “I - I’ll explain tomorrow.” He should use his telepathy again, should try to push his honesty at Sir Edmond like the other man was pushing his anguish, but he couldn’t take it, and he stayed away from the knight’s mind, giving in to his own frustration. “We have to hide. And I need rest so I can hide us better tomorrow. Let me finish saving you, and I’ll explain tomorrow.”

The knight’s fingers scrabbled desperately at Castor’s ankles as he stepped away, but he didn’t stop - couldn’t stop. He had no answers. He had no answers and that was hardly something new, but right now - he scrubbed a hand over his face. Right now, it was late. Right now, he was tired. Right now, he couldn’t do anything but try to make the stall as comfortable as he could, and trust that his master meant it when it said it was protecting them.

#whump #fantasy whump #d&d whump #aftermath of torture #hurt/comfort #emotional whump #somehow is most of this even though the plot started with bad physical injuries?#trauma tw #trauma response tw #ptsd tw #anxiety tw #one of those is probably right #just a couple guys who are confused and having a lot of feelings that slow them down #if they're lucky maybe they can eventually have some of those feelings together so they slow them down less #i really wanted to get this to a soft and fluffyish place but instead - this #anyway taking bets on the next installment which will involve either crying or fluff or both #probably both

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mamabearcat · 5 years ago

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#47 for Inukag please 💖

Again, apologies for the length of time this took Nonny. It ended up being a little longer than I thought. I don’t love the ending, but... eh. Hope it’s okay!

47. “Dogs don’t wear clothes!” – Inukag

He came to just as the Ronin kicked into his ribs with his heavy wooden geta, not for the first time by the feel of it, and he couldn’t help coughing out the grunt of air in response. A dribble of warm blood ran down his chin. He was laying on his side, hands and feet tied, resting on what seemed to be a dirt floor… and what the fuck? Why was he naked? And where was Kagome?!

He’d must’ve blacked out for a while; the last thing he remembered was that bastard appearing out of nowhere near the edge of the village and clubbing him on the side of the head with the butt of his katana – he’d better not have hurt her! A muffled whimpering sound came from the corner, and he sighed in relief. She was still nearby, not locked away somewhere else where he couldn’t find her. That small sound nearly broke his heart, but at least it proved she was still alive. He tried to pull his knees towards his chest to cover his nakedness, and earned a hard kick to his shins for his efforts.

“Why the modesty? Dogs don’t wear clothes!” the man sneered. “Not so tough now, are you? Just a pitiful excuse of a human, easily dealt with.”. He scuffed the front of his shoe on the dirt floor, as if to clean off something disgusting. “I will have to reward the yamabushi that gifted me those protection ofuda if I ever see him again – who would have known they had the power to strip a hanyou of his youkai?”

Inuyasha grunted, noticing for the first time the strip of paper stuck to his naked chest. The bastard’s damn ofuda had nothing to do with it. It was just bad luck that they’d been passing this village just before sunset on the night of the new moon. He and Kagome had been separated from the others by a landslide caused by the heavy summer rains, and had to make their journey back to the village by a longer route. His waning sense of smell and hearing meant he hadn’t realised they were being followed by this bastard, and they’d been ambushed.

He tried to open his eyes. One eye was swollen almost shut, but he could blearily see out of the other, and he did his best to glare up at the man standing over him. He couldn’t wait to wipe the smug smile of that fucker’s face come sunrise. He just had to hang on until then. He heard the man walking behind him, and strained his ears, trying to work out what the hell was going on. He heard Kagome whimpering again, and he gritted his teeth in anger.

“Don’t waste your time worrying about the dog, sweet thing” the Ronin crooned. “As we’ve already discussed, the local teahouse will have a place for you in their back rooms come morning. Judging by the style of clothing you’re wearing; you’ll be no stranger to the experience.” He heard a rip of fabric and a pained gasp from Kagome. “Just look at you! I’ll be sure to visit often, so you won’t be lonely.” Another pained gasp, and whimpering. “For now, you can stay here with what’s left of your dog – he won’t last much longer. Sweet dreams, princess.”

Inuyasha blinked, trying to focus. He watched the Ronin walk towards the door and close it behind him, taking the lantern with him, a smug grin still on his face. Come sunrise, that bastard was gonna pay.

He rolled onto his other side, choking back a groan as his ribs moved painfully, trying to work out where Kagome was. The room was dark, but he could see her in the small amount of light that was filtering in through the storm shutters. She was hunched over on her knees with her arms tied behind her back. Her shirt was torn open, and there seemed to be a dark bruise on her cheek.

“Kagome…” he whispered, his heart breaking at hearing her frightened whimpers. He would get her out of here if it was the last thing he ever did. She continued to whimper, but then shook her head, wiggling her eyebrows, then winking at him. What the fuck?

He watched, perplexed as she wiggled her arms, shuffling so her hands went under her bottom. She winced in pain, but kept wriggling them forward, then leaned and folded her legs, finally managing to get her hands past her feet and up in front of her. She wriggled her wrists, twisting and turning her hands, one ear tilted towards the door as she continued to make whimpering sounds.

Inuyasha blinked at her groggily. “What’re you…?” She shook her head frantically, making a quiet ‘shh’ noise. Finally with a wince, she managed to pull one hand free – her wrists were bruised and bleeding, but free of the rope. She tiptoed over to the door, listening for a few moments, then moved quietly over to him, and began working on the ropes tying his arms and feet. It took a while in the near total darkness away from the window, but she finally managed it. He groaned softly as the blood began rushing back into his numb feet as she freed them of the rope, and she rubbed them gently, trying to help his circulation.

“Do you think you’ll be able to walk?” she whispered anxiously. Inuyasha shrugged.

“I’ll give it fucking good try to get the hell outta here”, he grumbled quietly, impressed by her efforts to free herself from the rope. He turned his head away, not wanting to look at her bruised face and open shirt at the moment, guilt churning in his stomach. “How’d you learn how ta do that?”

“Survival books”, she whispered. “I wanted to know how to free myself if I ever got stuck somewhere without you. I played the ‘weak little girl’ card, hoping it would mean he wouldn’t tie the ropes as tightly, and it worked. Sucker!” She snickered a little. “I found out why he attacked us too. Apparently, he has a protection racket going in the towns in this area, and thought we might damage his source of income.” She moved away, and he heard her rummaging in the corner of the room, then he felt her pile his clothing next to him. He sat up slowly, his head thumping, and grunted his thanks as she averted her eyes to give him privacy while dressing, even though the room was almost pitch black.

He ripped the ofuda off his chest, crumpling it in disgust, then dragged his kosode and hakama on, a pained hiss escaping his teeth as the cloth touched various bruises. From the sound of it, Kagome seemed to be collecting the scattered items discarded by the Ronin after he’d ransacked her backpack for anything valuable.

He heard Kagome stamp her foot a little on the dirt floor. “Damn, he must have taken my bow and quiver. And I just spent all that time making those arrows too! At least he didn’t take Tessaiga. He said it was a useless sword – shows how much he knows, huh?” She moved towards him, and placed his sword into his hands. He shoved it into his belt gratefully.

“He didn’t get the jewel shards, did he?” he asked quickly.

“Nope.” He saw a faint flash of white teeth in the darkness as she grinned. “I managed to hide them inside my bra before he tied my hands.” He heard her shuffling around a bit more, it sounded like she was down on her hands and knees. “I was a bit worried he’d find them when he groped me though. I feel like I need to have a soak in the hottest hot spring ever, to get rid of the feel of his gross hands. Pervert! Aha!” He heard a slight rattle as she shook something. “I found my matches. Fire’s a good diversion, right?”

“Yeah, as long as you don’t cook us along with everyone else”, muttered Inuyasha gruffly, easing his suikan on with a pained grunt. Fuck his ribs hurt. Sunrise couldn’t come soon enough.

“Good point. Okay, let’s just concentrate on escaping then. Do you know how to open the storm shutters on the window?” she whispered, moving over towards the small window covered with slatted storm shutters. “We’re in a storeroom at the back of the inn. I could see the forest through the open shoji screens when he first brought us in here. There aren’t many buildings that I noticed on this side, so hopefully no one would see us if we climb out the window and run into the forest. We can find somewhere to hide until sunrise.

“And then I can come back and kill him?” asked Inuyasha hopefully, grinning for the first time since sunset. Kagome huffed.

“And then, we can go find the others, and see what needs to be done about putting an end to the protection racket he’s running. No more talking. Who knows when someone’s coming back? We need to hurry.”

Kagome tried sliding the wooden lock, but it was wedged tight. Obviously, this shutter wasn’t opened very often. Her hand slipped, banging into the edge of the window frame, and she bit back a yelp.

“You okay?” whispered Inuyasha.

“Yeah”, she grumbled, sucking on the knuckle of her forefinger. “I got a splinter. Stupid window.”

“Here, lemme try.” He staggered over to the window, and shoved the heel of his hand at the wooden latch. It had swelled a little in the weather, but with a bit of brute force, he managed to push it back. He slid the shutter sideways, pausing momentarily to listen as the old wood creaked, then pushed it into the cavity.

“You first”, he motioned to Kagome.

“But you’re more injured than me Inuyasha!” she protested.

“Then you can catch me when I land on my worthless human butt! Hurry it up wench, before someone notices the window’s open!” he hissed, giving her a little shove.

Grumbling, she grabbed what was left of her backpack, then landed with a small grunt in the bushes outside. Inuyasha was quick to follow, swallowing his moan of pain as he landed. He turned and pulled the shutter back into its closed position.

They staggered from tree to tree as quietly as possible, then managed to find a small fissure in a cliff face, not big enough to be called a cave, but just big enough for the two of them to squeeze into. Between them, they managed to stack some of the fallen rocks nearby in front of it to make it look like a natural landslide, mostly blocking the entrance.

“Do you think it’s long until dawn?” asked Kagome quietly, her voice sounding loud in the darkness. They were sitting side by side, knees up towards their chests, with Tessaiga balanced across both of them.

“Your guess is as good as mine at the moment – I don’t know how long I was out for.” He moved slightly to try and get more comfortable, then wished he hadn’t. He was pretty sure at least one of his ribs was broken.

Kagome sighed, then rested her head gently on his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re mostly okay – I was so worried when he knocked you out.”

Inuyasha grunted. Stupid fucking human night. He was almost useless. “m’sorry Kagome”, he said softly.

“Why are you saying sorry! He’s the one that hit you from behind like a coward! You have nothing to be sorry for! I was worried because you were hurt!”

Inuyasha grunted again. A worrying thought suddenly occurred to him, one that he couldn’t let go.

“Kagome, he didn’t do anythin’… bad… while I was knocked out, did he?” Kagome sighed.

Inuyasha managed a very good approximation of his usual hanyou growl. “Did he?! Because if he did, there’s nothin’ that’s gonna stop me goin’ back in the morning and gutting that prick!”

“Shhhhh! Not so loud! We’re still hiding, remember?” she hissed. Kagome moved her hand around in the darkness until she found his. She stroked his fingers until he unclenched his fist to allow his fingers to intertwine with hers. “He roughed me up a bit, touched me a little inappropriately, but it’s okay, he didn’t do anything like you’re thinking. It’s alright”, she soothed.

“It’s not alright Kagome! None of this is. He hurt you!”

“You’re hurt too, more than I am”, she pointed out.

“Yeah, but I’ll be fine as soon as the sun rises. You’re all banged up, and I couldn’t stop it. I hate this!”

“Inuyasha”, said Kagome softly, “you don’t kill humans, remember?”

“I’m willing to make an exception in his case!” he snarled. “He fuckin’ deserves it!”

A pale solitary sunbeam found its way through the piled rocks. Inuyasha shivered slightly as the change came over him, flooding him with strength, restoring his senses and easing away almost all the aches and pains from the abuse he’d suffered, and he let out a relieved sigh, his head thumping back against the rock behind him.

“Welcome back”, smiled Kagome. He sniffed, then snarled, realising her usual sweet scent was marred by the cloying smell of salt tears and blood. Now that he could see her in the light of day, his anger returned tenfold.

There was bright red mark in the shape of fingerprints above her barely covered breasts where that asshole had obviously groped her. His eyes travelled down to her dirty, scuffed and bruised knees that were beginning to scab over, and then back up to her bruised and rope burned wrists. There was a dark purpling bruise marring her pale cheek and underneath her eye which was a little swollen, and her lip was cut and bruised. She dropped her head, turning her injured face away to the side, her tongue licking at the cut in the corner of her mouth.

“Look at me!” he said fiercely. He let go of her hand to use his fingers to pull softly but insistently against her chin, turning her face towards him. She blinked rapidly, her eyes filling with tears as she sucked her swollen bottom lip into her mouth.

“Don’t”, he said softly. She looked upwards, trying to stop the tears from spilling down her cheeks. Her lips wobbled, and she breathed in shakily.

“Please, don’t go back there. I just want to leave. Don’t go back!”

“Shhh”, he soothed, gently rubbing his thumb over her injured cheek, and wincing with her as she flinched in pain.

“Sorry for crying”, she huffed, sniffling back tears. “I know you don’t like it. Guess I am just a weak little girl, huh?”

“No.” He stroked her fringe out of her eyes, wiping away her tears with his thumbs. “We got outta there because a you, Kagome. While I was just lyin’ there, passed out on the floor, you were payin’ attention, makin’ plans. You found out why he’d attacked us in the first place – that took some guts. I wouldn’ve known how to do that trick you did with the rope to get yourself untied. I’m so used to relyin’ on brute strength all the time; when I’m human I’m less than useless. You’re not some weak little girl – you never have been. Ya did good, Kagome!”

Kagome smiled through her tears, wincing a little as her swollen lip pulled. “That’s high praise coming from you, dog boy.”

“Sure is. You know me wench, I tell it like it is.”

She rolled her eyes at him, then sighed. “I’m still annoyed about my bow. And it took me ages to make all those arrows!”

Inuyasha grinned cheekily at her. “If ya want, I can just go back over there now an…”

“No!” She shut her eyes in pain after moving her bruised jaw a little too vehemently. ”Ow.”

“Fine”, Inuyasha growled. “But this is only postponed, right? That prick’s earned himself a date with my Tessaiga.” Before he could lose his nerve, and while Kagome had her eyes shut, he leaned forwards and placed a gentle kiss on her uninjured cheek. “Ain’t many people I’ll postpone a fight for Ka-go-me.”

Kagome’s eyes fluttered open in surprise. “Inuyasha?”

He kissed her forehead, and then her chin, smiling at her wide eyed expression. He paused for a moment, hesitating, then slowly leaned in to kiss her gently on the mouth. He couldn’t help his small sound of relief as she kissed him back as best she could, but he pulled back at her slight whimper of pain.

“Guess we can postpone that too huh?” he sighed, stroking her uninjured cheek. “Want me to find ya a hot spring to get all cleaned up before we find the others?”

“Yes please”, she whispered, her eyes shining at him.

Turning in the cramped space, he kicked out the pile of stones, and stood up, stretching in the dawn sunlight. Kagome followed him out more slowly, whispering a lot of ‘ow’s’ as her bruised and battered knees straitened after being bent for a while. She tugged her backpack on and climbed on his back as he squatted down in front of her, draping her arms around his shoulders.

“Let’s go Inuyasha”, she whispered, and he nodded. He would make sure Kagome was okay first, see to her hurts, kiss away her bruises, but nothing was going to stop him coming back and dealing out some well-deserved justice.

#inukag ficlet #inukag oneshot #Bearpluscat fanfics #ask drabble

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twdmusicboxmystery · 5 years ago

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TWD 10x13: What We Become -Details

Okay, let's talk details. This won’t be terribly long. Most of these are things we’ve been talking about for years, so I don’t think I need to over explain them. If you have questions about anything I point out here, send me a message or an ask. ;D

***As always, spoilers abound for 10x13 below. Don’t read until you’ve watched!***

There are a lot of small symbols that were very important, but also things we’ve seen a lot before, so I won’t go over absolutely every instance. For example, in Michonne’s hallucination of Andrea, she finds bullets on the ground. I thought that was significant.

We saw a lot of boats, such as the little boat Michonne and Virgil arrived in. She had him locked in handcuffs on the boat, a symbol of the sheriff. We also saw a lot of fives. Virgil said something about how she could've unlocked him five hours ago, his kid was five years old, etc. Of course, we also saw a lot of threes.

The herb garden reminded me of Herschel at the prison, and the fact that Virgil kept talking about making tea was kind of a call back to Herschel making the tea in order to fight the virus in S4. I'm also wondering if the tea theme this episode might be related to the Tibet theme we've seen a lot of lately. When talking about his kids playing, Virgil mentioned sailors and buried treasure. interesting references, no?

Okay, one thing that jumped out at me was the fact that we saw three graves for Virgil's family. It reminded me of 7x04 when Father Gabriel filled in an extra grave so that they could lie to Negan about Maggie having died. In the episode, it only really focuses on the one grave (the fake one) but if you think about it, there were three graves. Glenn, Abraham, and then the fake one for Maggie. Well, TD pounced on that at the time because we're literally talking about an empty grave. About someone Negan thought was dead, but who's really alive and well in a different place.

So, a callback to that, but I'm starting to think the three graves represent the three resurrections from the pickle story. I will talk a little bit more about that either tomorrow or Thursday.

Virgil’s backstory was just a little bit confusing. Apparently, this facility was still functioning, even after the apocalypse hit. But when stragglers would come to the islands in boats, they would take them in. He talked about how people started to run short of food rations and a fight broke out and resulted in a newbie being killed. I kept thinking that that story and wondering how we're supposed to apply it.

Then it hit me. I do believe that this entire thing was sort of a replay of Grady. Think about it this way. Grady didn't really take in stragglers so much as force them in, but they were bringing people in all the time. The newbie who was killed in a scuffle could be Beth.

Plus, you have the fact that Michonne was thrown into a cell, imprisoned, and at one point, she makes a break for it, much like Beth did. She even let people out on her way out, just as Beth let Noah out with her. And, like Beth she wasn't able to escape as she'd hoped, because the boat was on fire. Also, the food try Virgil gives her looks an awful lot like the ones they used at Grady.

When Michonne and Virgil first go into the facility, there's a whole bunch of debris almost blocking the hallway. There's a small space they can squeeze through, but a blonde, female walker is caught in the space. So, Beth walker. After Michonne kills her and lowers her to the ground, you can see a phone cord and receiver wrapped around her. More of the Communication Theme there. It also reminded me a lot of Still, when Beth and Daryl had to go over and under things and right the clock because it was in their way. Just reminded me a lot of the golf club.

They even use a stretcher as a shield – talk about a hospital theme — and there are lots of posters about that talk about not spreading virus. That's a little weird with the pandemic going on right now, but obviously there is a theme here. (And yes, it’s a VD poster. 😊)

As I mentioned yesterday, there are people hanging in the room, just like a golf club.

I also thought the dead rats in cages were interesting. It reminded me of the pet shop in 6x03, which was right before Glenn’s death fake out. This is also the second time we've seen rats the season. The first time was right before Alpha’s horde arrived when a pack of rats ran across the field in front of Yumilo and Kelly. I’m not sure how to interpret the rats, yet, but I’ll keep an eye on them.

There's technically a water theme because of the island, but we also kept seeing water dripping from the faucet. We found out that Virgil accidentally locked his wife and kids inside the right happened. It's a lot like Father Gabriel, only the opposite. He locked inside instead of out, but they still died.

Every time Virgil looked through the door, he reminded me of Rick and the Governor and last season Daryl looking to the door the same way. That theme very much revolves around Coda.

Threes. Virgil told it had that conversation three times and he kept saying, "I want you to see." Part of the speak no evil theme. When Michonne is hallucinating, she says she's cold, and he says, "then picture of the sun." Remember that we saw the sun drawing at the prison and it's always been sort of a symbol of Beth.

Another big thing that jumped out at me is that when Negan gave Michonne his bat in the clearing, he said, "wish them a happy new year from us, will you?" I'm not entirely sure clear on what this means, but we have definitely heard it before. In 4x16, when the Claimers were about to kill Rick, Joe Claimer also talked about New Year's Eve. These are the only two times I can think of that we've heard it, though I might've missed other instances.

The only thing I can think of is that New Year's comes after Christmas. If Christmas represents someone returning from the death fake out, then maybe New Year's Eve makes a weird kind of sense. Nobody really had a death fake out quite like Beth in S4, but it's also true that when everyone scattered from the prison, no one knew if anyone else was alive. Rick and Michonne didn't know if Daryl was alive and Daryl didn't know if they were alive. I don’t know. I’ll have to think on it more.

I will say anything more about Michonne’s hallucination, except that it was really epic. I really enjoyed that part of the show.

When she gets out and realizes the boats been set on fire, she tackles Virgil. He's talking about his wife and says, "she always told me the right thing to do, and then she was gone, and I didn't know what to do." Sounds like something Daryl could say about Beth, right?"

Michonne talks about mercy and letting Virgil live. I thought that was sweet because it was a callback to what she and Rick learned from Carl.

The next day when she talks to him in his cell, he talks about looking up at the stars (constellation = Sirius) and also about heaven, will Michonne talks about hell. So there's a big heaven and hell theme going on here.

After she finds the boots in the storeroom, he takes her to the boat. One thing I noticed was that he talked about the boat washing up in the big storm. I think the characters were talking about a big storm in the very beginning of the season, so I’m assuming it's meant to be that one. There’s something strange about that big storm because they keep referring back to it.

We see red crustaceans and reads near the boat. I’ll talk more about those in my next post. On the boat, we see a yellow life preserver, blue coolers, and a pickle jar (resurrection. Yea!). All important symbols.

The book Michonne finds suggests the boat set out from the New Jersey shipyard. I'm assuming that's where she’s headed.

When Virgil is surprised that they're willing to let him come with them, Michonne says, "sometimes the most injured are also the most forgiving." Just reminded me a lot of Daryl.

I thought it was super cute that RJ chose Little Brave Man for his call signal. I totally didn't get it at first, but remember that earlier in the season, Judith was telling RJ the story of Rick on the bridge and she called him, "the Brave Man." So, using “Little” Brave Man, is just another way of saying Rick Junior. Super cute.

Here are some other quick things my fellow TDers have pointed out:

During Michonne’s hallucination, the camera angles were weird and skewed, much like a Grady.

Andrew had a bone-handled knife, just like Beth did.

When Michonne killed herself in the clearing (hallucination) she said, "welcome to the New World." That was originally Jesus’s line. I'm not sure if we should be reading into that too much, but it could be that they're going for the fact that this kind of the opposite. Jesus’s line was said with hope, where Michonne says it here in a negative, homicidal sort of way.

I thought it was sad that Virgil ended up staying behind. Even though he said he pictured heaven with his family when he hallucinated, the island is actually his personal hell, because they're dead. He's just staying behind to put flowers on their grave every day. So, it's like he’s staying in hell. Also, the flowers are very much a symbol of death and loss in this episode. I'm sure that will segue into the next episode, Look at the Flowers.

Finally, the two people Michonne helped were interesting. It reminded most of us of the two people Morgan helped at the end of Here’s Not Here. In this case, the guy was wearing a sheriff's hat and a poncho, which I find suspicious. But no way to know where that's going yet.

Okay, I think that's all the details I have. I'll probably put up a new TWD video tomorrow. The next day, I have something I'm super excited to show you guys. It's gonna be crazy! Stay tuned.

#beth greene #beth greene lives #beth is alive #beth is coming #td theory #td theories #team delusional #team defiance #beth is almost here #bethyl

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hedwigstalons · 5 years ago

Text

This is a first foray into TAG so apologies for any continuity issues (a common problem in my head). A little bit of festive fun and nonsense with a rescue thrown in for good measure.

xoxoxox

**Going Out With A Bang**

Christmas has arrived and for once it looked like the whole family would be able to share in the festive meal. The world had been quiet and since December 22nd and the Tracys hoped it would grant them peace for a few days more so they could properly enjoy the holiday season.

The final arrival had been John who has returned via the space elevator late on Christmas eve. He had been reluctant to desert his post as space monitor but Eos has practically threatened to pump out all the oxygen if he hadn’t stepped through through the air lock right now. He suspected she had been conspiring with Alan; those two had been mightily absorbed on the youngest Tracys last visit up to Thunderbird Five. Now, sat with a coffee in hand, he was glad to be home even if home came with a heavy dose of gravity.

Christmas morning had been a whirlwind of activity. Alan had resembled an over-excited puppy as he dashed from one sibling to the next to wish everyone a merry Christmas. Gordon had managed to find the most hideous shirt bedecked with neon candy canes that Virgil had proclaimed to to an offense to the senses. Scott had adopted his usual role of commander and made sure everyone had eaten a proper breakfast (“No Alan, marshmallows are not breakfast”). John had tripped over the step in the lounge at least twice already. It was a typical island Christmas.

As lunch time approached the assembled group of five brothers, Kayo and Brains were glad that Scott had insisted on breakfast. Grandma has declared that there would be no barbecue this year and she would be treating them all to a traditional turkey dinner. As the allotted time approached the prospect of consuming a hot and heavy meal in tropical heat was not appealing, especially as Grandma had insisted on doing most of the cooking herself. More than one island resident was caught sneaking off to the store rooms to stock up on pre-lunch snacks until Grandma had locked the stores and declaring that she would not let them spoil their lunch. She ignored the pained glances that passed between brothers that said clearer than words that lunch would definitely be spoiled if Grandma Tracy was catering.

The smell of scorched meat and the sound or curses as a pan of vegetables boiled dry signalled that it was time to set the table. International Rescue worked as a smooth machine and laying the out the dishes for lunch was no exception. Figures interwove as plates were passed along and settings made up. As the last dish was put in place the team stepped back to admire their handiwork. Even if the food in the dishes looked a little suspect the table itself was a picture of festive cheer.

“Crackers!” exclaimed Alan, the disappointment in his voice evident for all to hear. “Didn’t we order any for this year? It’s not a proper Christmas lunch without crackers”.

“I’m sure we did. I think I spotted a box in storeroom 3. You all sit down and I’ll go and fetch them.” Gordon sped out of the dining room and down the hallway that led to the stores. He soon veered off and headed towards his own room where the box of crackers had been liberated to a few days earlier. The selection of bright foil cylinders appeared identical but he knew otherwise.

As Gordon returned to the dining room, box in hand, he was pleased to see that everyone was seated already. He walked around the perimeter of the table, carefully laying a cracker across each place setting. Conversation was in full flow and only Scott noticed that the crackers were not pulled out of the box in an entirely random order. He wondered what Gordon had planned but as he was evidently not the intended recipient of whatever prank had been prepared to was happy to sit back and watch the drama unfold. It looked like Virgil would not be so lucky.

Gordon finished his round of the table and sat back in his own seat. “Ok, crackers in a circle, right? Everyone hold out you cracker to the person on your left.”

Virgil and Alan then, thought Scott as everyone complied with the seemingly innocent instruction. Soon a chain of crackers was set up around the table.

“Five...Four...Three...Two…One...”

The klaxon sounded and the crackers were dropped back on to plates as everyone rushed through to the comms room. The light hearted atmosphere had gone and been replaced the usual rush of adrenalin that preceded a rescue.

“Go ahead, Eos” instructed Scott. The AI was pretty good at filtering out the necessary rescues from the surrounding noise of global radio chatter. She had also been instructed to reroute calls to the local emergency services or GDF for the duration of Christmas day so the fact she was intruding on their family time meant the situation must be serious.

“I have received a distress call from an oil rig. It has been damaged in a storm and the crew need to evacuate. The weather conditions preclude evacuation by helicopter. Some of the crew opted to leave by life raft but the transponder has failed and all contact with the life raft has been lost.”

“Virgil, Alan and Gordon; you all get going in Thunderbird Two. We’ll need Thunderbird Four to help with the missing life raft. I’ll take Thunderbird One and meet you there. John, you’re on comms; get full details and co-ordinates and brief us once we are airborne.”

The brothers dispersed to their respective concealed chutes that let to the Thunderbirds. John was grateful to claim his seat by the comms table; the sudden rush from the dining room had left him a little dizzy and highlighted that he was not yet acclimatised to Earth enough to take a more active role in the rescue.

Grandma, Kayo and Brains retreated to the dining room. The dishes were returned to the kitchen and would be warmed through once the boys returned, whenever that might be.

xoxoxox

As the two Thunderbirds approached the rig the weather conditions worsened. They had taken off into bright tropical skies over an azure sea. Now, several time zones and climatic regions away they were surrounded by darkness. Fierce winds buffeted their craft and the pilots could feel the strain through their control yokes. Rain lashed the cockpit screens and visibility was almost zero; flying was by instruments and instincts. The seas below churned and roiled beneath them, not that those aboard the mighty ‘birds could see that.

John had made contact with those still trapped on the rig and was now in possession of the full details and severity of the situation. Eight personnel required evacuation from the rig and a further four were lost somewhere on the unforgiving ocean. Part of the platform had failed structurally and the was at risk of collapsing into the sea. A small mercy was that the crew has managed to cap off the bore hole so any potential environmental disaster had already been averted. The drilling company would be able to make the structure safe once the storm had passed but until that happened the crew was in danger. With the first four to evacuate now lost without a trace the remaining crew were unwilling to follow their colleagues into the remaining rafts and preferred to take their changes on the unstable rig.

Eos had also been busy. Having ascertained the exact time the life raft had been launched and its last known location before the transponder had failed she had run simulations using the weather and ocean current data from the area. Her high-tech models allowed her to narrow down the search area and she was able to provide Scott with a more defined zone in which the life raft should be found.

“Approaching raft rescue zone now” Scott announced as he reached the area. “I’ll see if I can locate the life raft by scanning for life signs. Deploy Thunderbird Four then continue to rig; you should be able to evacuate those remaining using the rescue cage.”

“FAB” acknowledge Virgil.

Scott activated his scanner and started a sweep of the area. It looked like a futile task, trying to locate a small orange raft in miles of dark ocean, but he trusted in Eos’s calculations. He needed to, there wasn’t a lot else to go out out here. He knew that Gordon would also be scanning the area from Thunderbird Four and it was hopefully only a matter of time before one or other of the brothers found the missing crew.

Gordon was at least more comfortable that Scott. Underneath the surface of the ocean he was protected from the worst of the storm conditions. Other that the occasional deep swell that would shift his ‘bird slightly off course he could almost forget the tempest playing out on the surface. He was used to working in limited visibility so the darkness was no hindrance to him. He maintained radio contact with his sky-bound sibling as they scanned the rescue area, starting in opposite quadrants to maximise efficiency.

The brothers swept the area using a mix of radar and life signs scanner until “Woohoo, I win!”

“Gordo, this is not competition. Do I take it you have located the raft?”

“Sure have. Sending through the co-ordinates now. So how do you want to go about extraction?”

“The conditions are too rough for you to tow the raft. I’ll snare it with a grapple and return it to the main rig. From there we can get them aboard Thunderbird Two. It’s not going to be comfortable for them though. I want you to try and attach a communicator to the raft so I can let them know what is happening.”

“FAB”.

Attaching a communicator to the side of the raft would require a trip to the surface. A prospect Gordon wasn’t looking forward to as the swell still hadn’t abated. It would also require some careful piloting.

Gordon surfaced the submarine. His powerful lamps soon illuminated the orange box that was being tossed about on the waves. He hoped those inside had strong stomachs because it was one hell of a bumpy ride they were being subjected to. He monitored the rise and fall of both the life raft and his own craft until he was familiar with the pattern the waves were moving to. Then, at the optimal moment he fired a small cannon. A disc flew through the air and adhered itself to the side of the life raft with a dull thunk.

To those inside the raft the sound of something solid hitting the side was disconcerting. Their fear soon turned to elation as Gordon’s friendly voice was heard inside their craft.

“This is International Rescue. Please report your status. Is anybody hurt?”

“International Rescue? Thank goodness, we thought we were lost for sure.” The relief in the speaker’s voice was palpable. “We are all a bit bumped about. One head injury but no signs of concussion.”

The rescue plan was soon relayed to the crew in the raft and while they were not enamoured with the idea of being suspended below Thunderbird One they were pleased that their ordeal would soon be over.

Back at the rig Virgil and Alan were concentrating on rescuing the eight remaining crew. Virgil was holding a hover over the rig while Alan was on winch and rescue cage duty. The rig was creaking and groaning in the storm force winds and the pair knew they needed to work quickly.

Alan lowered himself and the rescue cage to the deck of the rig. The surface of the platform was exposed to the elements and the most dangerous aspect of the rescue would be stopping himself and the crew being blow off the side of the platform. For now the crew were safely holed up in one of the cabins on the surface of the rig.

Alan ensured his gravity boots were engaged and that he was attached to a safety line before he risked exiting the rescue cage. The short walk to the cabin felt like a marathon as he braced himself against the vicious gusts. The checker plate surface was slick with the rain that was still falling in torrents and even the gravity boots were struggling to get a purchase. It was with some relief that Alan reached the cabin and entered. His safely line prevented the door from being closed and he had to shout to be heard above the elements.

“So, who needs a lift home?” he grinned. He easy manner and smile instantly calming those waiting for rescue.

He was pleased to see that the crew were already kitted out in full safety gear including harnesses and helmets. This would make his job a whole lot easier and save him having to escort everyone to the rescue cage individually. He connected the safety line to an anchor point within the cabin and instructed everyone to clip in. The line acted as a guide rail and would allow everyone to traverse the deck safely between the fixed point of the cabin and the rescue cage.

Alan issued instructions on how to harness in to the safety cage. Then, one following close behind the other, the line of eight crew fought their way across the deck, gripping the safety line for support. Only once the last crew member had reached the cage did Alan release the anchor point in the cabin and begin his own return journey. Form there it was just a matter of activating the winch and they were being safely swallowed up into the belly of Thunderbird Two.

There was no chance to rest though. The evacuation from the rig had been the easy part; the real challenge would be to secure the life raft which was even now on its way to rendezvous with them, suspended from the base of Thunderbird One. Once Alan had settled the crew from the rig into the passenger bay he returned to the winch cables.

The plan was to attempt an air to air transfer. It would not be safe to transport the life raft all the way to land underneath Thunderbird One, nor was the idea of individually winching out the four trapped inside. The solution, although far from ideal, was for Alan to to attach Two’s grapple to the life raft. Scott would then disengage One’s grapple leaving Two free to winch the life raft inside the cargo area where there was plenty of space. The manoeuvrer would be challenging and not without risks.

Alan looked out of the open hatch in Thunderbird Two, grim determination on his face. Thunderbirds One and Two were being hovered expertly side by side. His two oldest brothers seemed to act in perfect unison, each acting to correct against the still-buffeting winds at the same time. The life raft was swinging wildly about on the end of its tether and Alan felt sorry for the four poor souls he knew were contained within. He took aim and fired the suction grapple but the erratic movement of the raft in the gusting winds meant his first shot missed. He recalled the grapple and tried again. The raft swung in and out of his line of sight and the whole exercise felt faintly reminiscent of a fairground game but one that had four lives as the prize rather than a misshapen stuffed toy. With a fair dose of luck on his side the second shot flew true and the suction grapple adhered firmly to the room of the raft. Scott quickly disengaged the line from Thunderbird One. Alan activated the winch mechanism and drew the raft inside the safety of the giant transporter ‘plane.

With the rig workers all safely accounted for the final task was to collect Gordon and Thunderbird Four. International Rescue would then be able to drop their grateful passengers off at the nearest airfield and head for home.

It might not have been the Christmas they hoped for but there was something about a successful rescue that lifts the mood. The International Rescue secure frequencies were soon filled with cheerful chatter between Thunderbirds One and Two and Tracy Island. Gordon attempted to lead everyone in song but soon stopped when Virgil threatened to dump him back in the ocean. The only disappointment was that Christmas day was nearly over by the time everyone had safely returned to base.

xoxoxox

It was a weary crew of operatives that gathered in the lounge again once post-flight checks had been completed and dirty uniforms discarded.

“I’m starving” groaned Scott as he kicked back and relaxed in an easy chair. “I thought Christmas was meant to be a time of eating to excess but instead I feel like we missed about four meals.”

“You’re always hungry” Virgil retorted, stretching out and taking up about three sofa spaces “but I know what you mean. I could almost contemplate Grandma’s Christmas lunch after all that. I’d go and fetch some food but I’m too comfortable now. Hey, Johnny, you fancy digging out some snacks?”

John was interrupted in making an indignant response about Virgil being perfectly capable of fetching his own snacks when their Grandmother appeared. “Welcome back, boys. I know you must be tired out after today but you need to look after yourselves. I’m not having anyone heading off to bed without a proper meal. We saved lunch so I want everyone back in the dining room in five minutes. I just need to set the table again.”

There was a collective set of groans that had more to do with facing their Grandma’s cooking in reheated form than the prospect of shifting off the sofa. However, everyone knew that if they didn’t face the meal tonight she would only wheel it out again tomorrow and Grandma’s cooking was one thing that did not improve with age.

Everyone shuffled through to the dining room to help finish setting up the meal again. Gordon gulped as he realised that everything had been reset. The crackers had been placed back in their box when the first iteration of lunch had been cleared away and Kayo was now in the process of laying a tube across each plate. He scanned the table but he had done his job too well, the crackers looked identical.

The sinking feeling deepened as Scott’s hand landed on his shoulder from behind. A low voice growled in his ear. “Well this should be interesting. Cracker roulette. I know you didn’t get those out the store room earlier, Grandma had them all locked down tighter than Fort Knox. The question is, little bro, are you feeling lucky?”

It is one thing to play a prank when the victim is carefully selected. It is quite another to have that control taken away. Pranks come with retribution and Gordon knows that each person around the table would have their revenge somehow, the unknown is the price he would be expected to pay.

Everyone returned to the seats they had vacated all those hours previously. The crackers raised to signal the start of the meal.

“Five...Four...Three...Two...One...Merry Christmas”

Except the ‘Merry Christmas’ was partially drowned out by a shout as one cracker erupted as a highly effective glitter bomb. Sparkles of red and green coated those that had been holding either end.

Uh oh.

Gordon’s chair crashed to the floor, knocked over in his haste to exit the room. He took off at a sprint but his attempt at escape was futile. The way no escaping the wrath of a now twinkling Kayo and Scott.

“Gordon Tracy, I’m going to be finding this stuff for weeks! Just you wait until I get my hands on you.”

Pranking Kayo comes at a cost. Usually a very painful cost. She caught up with him half way to the lounge and expertly tackled him to the floor. Scott arrived moments later. Between the pair of them Gordon was soon trussed up in tinsel. Scott threw him unceremoniously over his shoulder and carried the prankster back to his chair in the dining room, ensuring his younger brother got smeared on copious amounts of the glitter in the process.

There were a few sniggers as Gordon was fastened to his chair. He knew there was no point in trying to escape his tinsel bonds, Kayo had made sure the knots were firmly tied and out of reach.

Gordon tried appealed to their better nature. “Aw come on. It’s Christmas after all. You can’t let me starve while you all eat. That’s just torture.”

“Oh you’ll be eating, Gordo.” Kayo’s voice had taken on a dangerous edge. She freed his hands while making sure he was still unable to escape the chair. “You’ll sit there until you have cleared your plate like a good boy.”

Scott started heaping large portions onto Gordon’s plate, carefully selecting the most suspect looking parts of their Grandma’s cooking.

“There might even be...dessert.”

Gordon gulped and picked up his fork. The price for his prank was high and it was time to start paying.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #scott tracy #virgil tracy #john tracy #gordon tracy #alan tracy #kayo

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mssjynx · 6 years ago

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Kri77y, NSFW and 11 "You caught me staring at your ass. Oops?" PLZ

alpha / beta / omega au

krii7y drabble

11. You caught me staring at your ass. Oops?

warning: nsfw

a/n: this is way longer than i thought and it is a full sm.ut, unlike the others. have fun though this was a fun one to writePS my only editing was skimming for incorrect spelling. sorry for mistakes! enjoy all the same

John was loving having a prac teacher. It meant all he had to do was supervise his lesson, throw things at the kids who didn't behave and make sure the twenty-one year old was teaching the right content. Other than that, he could sit and mark all of his tests, create new worksheets and prepare future lesson plans.

Unfortunately, having a prac teacher like Jaren wasn't to most professional or easy task. The young man was eccentric, catching the class's attention and keeping them engaged as he explored the topics he was truly interested in with a depth that kept the students in tow. It was in his natural aura as an omega to be a subject of interest and he didn't shy away from abusing such power in keeping the class involved. John would find himself distracted from his private work as he watched Jaren stroll around the class, explaining difficult concepts and helping students to understand.

Except John would often go from listening to the omega talk to watching how he walked, admiring his attractive form, his painted fingernails, his skin-tight jeans that clung to his thighs and butt in a way that John swore was a deliberate method of torture. Zoned out mid-class, red pen twirling between his fingers, the beta didn't notice Jaren until the man was standing on the other side of his desk, hands on the wood where he leaned down to meet John's level.

"You really ain't subtle, you know that?" His tone was quiet as the class behind him bustled, working through their tasks as they discussed with one another. John placed down his pen, head tilting in confusion. With a sly grin, Jaren elborated, dropping further to rest an elbow on the table, head on his knuckles. "You've been staring at my ass all class, John. A bit unprofessional, don't you think?"

John blinked, fiddling with his ring. He didn't shy away from the omega's stare, his confidence oozing in the air around him, but he didn't miss the way students were casting the pair intrigued looks. "And if you stand like that you're gonna have the whole class staring at your ass in a minute," he returned, letting his head fall to his hand as he grinned at the omega, who stood bolt upright and cast a wary glare to the kids still working.

Some grinned and waved, someone looked away with pink cheeks. John just snickered, successfully drawing Jaren's attention back to him. The omega rolled his eyes before decidedly sitting on John's desk instead. He kept his eyes on John, analysing for a reaction, before flashing that charming grin and flaunting his pretty scent of chocolate. "Any explanation to why you can't keep your eyes to yourself?" he purred, voice leaving implications in the air between them. Though the claim was accusatory, there was no discomfort or irritation in those deep brown eyes. Jaren didn't seem to have too big of a problem with being under the beta's gaze.

John leaned back in his chair, grin wide and shameless. "Do I gotta explain myself? I'm just admiring."

Jaren's smile widened, leaning over the desk catching John's fingers in his. "Wanna get a closer look, hm?" he whispered, voice barely audible if not for the beta's sharp hear. Out of the view of the students, Jaren drew John's hand to his thigh, flattening his fingers over the curve of his leg and squeezing his own hand atop John's. "You can help me with some human biology practical work," he teased, words insinuating enough for John to catch on. He felt his chest warm, stomach twisting at the thought of having Jaren to himself. The omega drew his hand up further, John able to feel the heat beneath the prac teacher's pants.

Not one to refuse a challenge, John leaned forward, curling his hand further around the inside of Jaren's thigh, tilting his head as he smirked up at the omega. "Let's not get unprofessional, Jaren. I think we need to talk about this behaviour; come see me at the end of the day." He kept his voice low, suggestive and sly as he squeezed Jaren's thigh and held the man's eyes. Satisfaction rolled through his stomach as pink tinged the omega's cheeks and ears. "Sound good, baby?" he purred, tilting his head as his smile widened.

Jaren managed a shy nod, hips subtly squirming before John withdrew his hand.

"Oh God, Mr Smith, is that you!?" Both teachers turned their attention to a girl in the front row, standing with her hand covering her face and a look of disgust in her eyes. "Jeez, you smell terrible!"

Jaren's cheeks were red then as the students sniffed the air, but their inexperienced noses weren't able to decipher what the omega scent was. The prac teacher hopped off the desk, prancing out in front of the class to explain how scents smelt different depending on compatibility and attraction. John sat back in his chair, grin broad. The scent of arousal and fluster that reeked from Jaren was sexier than any smell he'd caught before on any other person.

He went back to marking, smiling to himself as he wondered how his afternoon would turn out.

By four o'clock, most of the teachers had left. The science department was empty other than a few late stayers and John had happily filed away all of his marked tests. He was free to go but the faint smell of chocolate that tickled his nose was one that distracted him.

He dawdled at his desk, saying goodbye to the last few teachers, dreary eyes and grumbling tones. Jaren hadn't been seen in the office for over an hour but John knew he was still there. The tricky omega wasn't one to be subtle and John had locked the pretty scent away since the class Jaren had confronted him during.

The remaining classes of the day had consisted of Jaren shooting him sly looks, walking around in front of his desk and making John's job of supervising far more enjoyable.

He was asking for it and John wasn't going to refuse.

"Ren?" he called, strolling through the building as he locked up the classes. He'd offered to do the job for Craig so the physics teacher could go home earlier. He was the last out of the office and John felt like a cat after a mouse as he prowled through the building. "Jaren?"

He passed through the doors, locking them behind him as he came to the science lab. Chocolate wafted in the ear, hot like it had been melted over the tables, standing the air conditioner. John breathed in deeply and smiled to himself as he tapped his fingers on the desk. He could pick up the trail, his beta senses known to the omega who liked to play his games.

The light in the storeroom could be seen beneath the door and when focused, John caught the sound of the young man's heartbeat from within. He drew himself quietly to the door, pushing on the handle and letting himself into the storeroom.

"Oh, shit," he murmured to himself as he was showered in the scent of sweetness and excitement. A soft laugh from within the room pulled John closer and the beta felt himself shudder as he tasted the air around him. Jaren had filled the room, every corner, with his scent and John wasn't oblivious to the hint of heat that tainted his every inhale. "Jaren, don't hide from me," he murmured, dragging himself around the other side of the shelf to find the omega pushing boxes into their place.

A box cutter in hand and a roll of tape, those big brown eyes landed on John and the beta couldn't not notice how dilated his pupils were. With another deep breath, he could tell that his prac teacher had something far different from taping boxes in mind.

"You know you make my job so much harder," John said, dropping his keys on the shelf to his right and prowling closer with a small grin. Jaren's smile was small but there, teeth nibbling on his bottom lip as he kept his eyes locked solely on John. "I can't focus when you're fillin' my class with that scent," he murmured, head tilting to the side as he devoured the omega with his eyes. "And when you're wearing those jeans."

Jaren's smile was sly but weak, the scent of eagerness melting into arousal. "Dunno what you mean," he purred, voice heavy from his tongue. John shuddered, drawing closer and tapping his fingers along the shelf.

"You know what you do to me," he said, keeping Jaren's eyes on him and grinning wolfishly. "I see the way you look at me, like you're waiting for me to give in and give you what you want." When close enough, John hooked his fingers into the omega's belt, pulling him close.

He didn't miss the way Jaren flicked his tongue out to moisten his lips, lashes fluttering to kiss his cheekbones. "Well?" he murmured, placing a hand thoughtlessly against the beta's chest. His head tilted in that painfully cute way. "Are you here to tell me off?"

John hummed gently in thought as he fiddled with Jaren's belt, swiftly pulling the leather strap out of the buckle. With his pants loosened, the omega could only lean into John's space as the beta slid a hand down over Jaren's tailbone to where his fingers could curl around the curve of his ass. John dropped his head, nudging Jaren's jaw with his nose before skipping kisses up the bone to where his scent gland was releasing waves on waves of pheromones. "I'm here to teach you a lesson," he growled, fingertips feeling the heat and slick that the omega produced between his legs. Jaren let out a weak whimper, head stretched up to present his neck to the teacher. "I'm gonna fuck you senseless. Tomorrow, no one will be able to be in the same room without noticing my scent all over you."

A needy whine was all the omega could get out before the beta was capturing his chin with his deft fingers and leaning in to claim his mouth with his own. Jaren's lips were soft, warm and smooth as they eagerly pushed back against John's. They parted almost instantly as nimble fingers jumped to tangle with the hair at the back of John's head, encouraging the kiss deeper.

The simple brush of John's tongue along his bottom lip had Jaren whimpering as he stumbled back, John following him to where he could pin the omega to the back wall. He pressed his tongue into Jaren's compliant mouth, swallowing the little gasps and hitched moans as he squeezed the omega's ass.

"John." The name was gasped as soon as John's lips fell away from Jarens, dropping kisses down his throat. His head thumped against the concrete wall, sounding somewhat painful, but the omega didn't react other than a sweet moan as John sucked a bruise into the base of his neck. Fingers tugged at the teacher's hair, eager and needy as the omega pushed his hips forward into John's. "John, I'm- I'll be too loud," he moaned, shuddering as the beta ground his hips forward again.

John laughed, breath rolling over the fresh new bruise. "Everyone's gone," he murmured, bruising the words along Jaren's collarbone as nipped at the protruding bone. "Jus' you and me," he whispered. "I wanna remember every single sound you make."

The omega whimpered in response, legs spreading easily as John pushed his thigh between Jaren's. He let out a long, low moan, allowing John to pull back for half a second to pull his shirt up over his head. Hands on John's shoulders, he pulled him close and tucked his head beneath the beta's jaw instead. "You smell so good," he groaned, grinding himself down on John's leg. "Do you- Do you know how hot I get when I know you're watching me?" he breathed the words against John's ear, catching his lobe between his teeth and tugging. Fingernails dug into the flesh of the back of his hips.

The beta growled beneath his breath as that greedy tongue teased his ear, dropping down to his scent gland where the omega eagerly tasted him. He breathed a weak whine. "You're gonna smell incredible when you're drenched in my scent and wearing my marks," John murmured, nipping at Jaren's jaw before pressing their lips together and biting his bottom lip between his teeth.

The kiss was a mess of heat as John mapped out the taste and texture of the omega's mouth. Jaren kissed with vigor, whole body pressing up against the teacher as he licked into his mouth. As he kissed, his hands were desperate and shaky as they yanked and tugged at John's shirt and belt. He wasn't able to undo the leather strap, John's fingers dropping to stop his hand to intertwine their fingers together.

He drew back from the kiss, taking a moment to really appreciate the omega's face. Wide eyes, huge pupils. Lips plump and slick. Cheeks flushed.

"We're gonna talk about this later, okay?" he told the omega, dragging his thumb across that pretty bottom lip. The omega hummed in agreement, eyeing John's mouth with hunger as he pulled the teacher's thumb past his lips to suck on.

John shivered, the tongue swirling around his thumb sending heat straight to his guts. "I want you to fuck me," Jaren whispered, leaning in to kiss John but was stopped by a hand on his chest. He whined stubbornly.

With a stern look, John let go of the omega to pull off his shirt. "Patience," John scalded, leaning in to nip at the omega's jaw. He threw his belt aside, dropping his pants as Jaren hurried to drop his own down, boxers and all. As soon as he was able to, the omega was grabbing at John's shoulders and kissing him like the beta was his only source of oxygen.

John pressed against him, the new feeling of skin on skin; bare chest to chest, bare hips to hips. He replaced his thigh between the omega's leg, purring pleasantly as Jaren ground his erection against John's hip.John's hands returned to the behind of the man, grasping the meat of his ass as he purred against his tongue. Jaren's fingers skated up and down his chest, over his shoulders and up to brush along his cheekbones.

He sucked desperately on John's tongue, massaging its underside with his own as he rocked his hips. Every brush of his arousal against John's hip was a brush of John's against his and the beta couldn't help sliding his finger between Jaren's cheeks. The pad of his fingertip pressed to the omega's entrance, John noticing it flutter beneath the pressure. He could feel the hot slick engulfing his finger and broke their kiss to hear every little gasp and moan Jaren released as he sunk one finger into him, not stopping until he'd reached the knuckle.

Then he stilled, eyes narrowed on Jaren's face as the omega panted. Within seconds, he was shuddering, rocking his hips back and forward in attempts to create friction within himself. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he murmured, head falling to John's bare shoulder as his hips rocked back and forth. "C'mon John, gimme more." The words were uttered against the bare skin, baring his teeth as John pulled his finger out and drove it back up into him.

Feeling the man's hips jolt at the depth of his touch was a whole new level of beautiful. John couldn't help the low groan he allowed at the sound, rubbing his arousal against Jaren's as he picked up a pace with his finger.

Despite the surplus of slick, Jaren was still tight around him, his inner walls seeming to pulse against John's intrusion. The omega was extremely reactive to every little touch and as John peppered kisses down the side of his neck. "I can take more," Jaren hissed, biting gently at John's shoulder to get his attention.

Stopping his movements, he hummed in thought. The exasperated whine was worth the teasing, chuckling as he crooked his finger against the man's walls. The breathy whimper went straight to the boiling heat in John's stomach. "Can you?" he purred, rubbing at the inside of his walls.

Jaren whimpered and jerked his hips impatiently. "Yes, John, you- ohh." Mid-sentence, John drove his two fingers up into him and the uncontrolled moan was a pleasant reward. He slipped his hand down to the inside of the man's thighs, caressing the quivering muscles and gathering the dripping slick along the palm of his hand.

The omega's weight was sunk heavy against John's chest as the beta worked him open. Drool was beginning to pool on John's shoulder as the omega hummed and moaned pleasantly with every teasing push. John didn't mind, the heat and wait of his prac teacher's body one that was welcome as those pretty hips worked back and forth.

When John pulled his fingers out completely, the omega was pushing against him more, clamping thighs either side of John's leg to make sure the beta couldn't pull away. "More, more, more," the dazed man murmured, hands on his shoulders holding John close as Jaren kissed from his shoulder up to his jaw. He nosed against John's scent gland. "Your fingers are so good- feel so good. Want you to fuck me, want you to fuck me 'til I can't walk-"

"Shh," John murmured, catching his mouth in a kiss and silencing the desperate rambling. He eased the omega back against the wall and pinning him there. He hummed gently as Jaren licked needily into his mouth, the hand on his thigh sliding down before grabbing the muscle and pulling his leg up. to spread him open.

Slick dropped to the floor, the scent filling John's nose torturously. He had to urge to spin the man around, drop to his knees and taste him with his tongue but he knew he could find another time to do exactly that.

In the storeroom, he wanted to see Jaren's face while he tore him apart.

With his leg raised, Jaren rocked forward as soon as John's hand was close enough, grinding his arousal down and panting with lust. John held him still, lifting his leg further and admiring the flexibility of the prac teacher. As soon as he could access the slick-producing entrance, John was pushing three thick fingers up into Jaren and watching as the omega threw his head back with a cry.

"John!" he cried, grasping John's hair and bucking his hips down. "Fu-uck- We- I'm gonna come-" And John could feel it. Jaren's body quivered, his arousal leaking with precum. His hips almost convulsed as he shuddered, hips jerking with no control.

Yet as beautiful Jaren was, pinned to the wall, grinding on John's fingers, moaning his name; he didn't want the omega to come so soon.

So despite the pained whimper, he eased his fingers out and instead collected slick over his hand and fingers. "I'm ready, I'm ready, I'm ready," Jaren murmured, eyes locked on John and lips swollen. He bit them anyway, worrying his bottom lip under John's heated gaze. "C'mon." He tugged on John's hair. "I need you, already."

"Don't misbehave," John scolded, slipping his hand between them to slide over his own arousal. Jaren's slick made it far more comfortable to lubricate himself, the feeling setting fire along his nerves. His back curled, leaning in close enough to pull Jaren's lip between his own, sucking gently. "Don't rush," he murmured, kissing his cheekbone in a loving manner.

Lifting Jaren's leg further, he slotted himself closer and lined himself up with Jaren's entrance. Then slowly, he eased himself forward.

Jaren took him in with ease. The omega was still tight but his slick was hot and his entrance twitched and fluttered all the way down John's shaft. He managed to hook his leg up over the beta's hip, head tilted back, eyes shut and mouth open as the beta filled him completely. John kissed down his throat, sucking another mark into the man's collarbone as he finally reached his hilt.

"God, Jaren," he muttered, pressing his forehead to the omega's shoulder. "You feel amazing. I- You're so perfect..."

All Jaren could manage was a weak whimper in response, hips shifting forward and back. The angle was a hard one to hold and John could feel how his thigh was flexed in the palm of his hand. His other leg was shaking, the strain on his muscles too much to hold himself for too much longer.

"M'kay, up," John murmured, slipping his other hand down to Jaren's ass. "Ready? Up." As he said it, the omega complied, lifting himself up and wrapping his legs around the teacher's waist. John pinned him to the wall to keep him there and the omega gasped as John ground himself in that slight bit further.

"John, John, John- Mov- Move, please," he hissed, smacking his head against the wall again. With his hands beneath the omega's thighs, John held the prac teacher in place, finding no difficulty in keeping him there. He pulled his hips back until only his head remained inside Jaren, before he drove himself forward and jerked his arousal into Jaren as deep as it could go.

The responding moan the man made was perfect and John didn't hesitate to draw himself out and thrust in. A rhythm started between them, Jaren's claws sinking into the back of his shoulders as he brace himself. John's mouth found Jaren's throat and he began licking, sucking and biting as his hips set a bruising pace.

Curses and shouts poured from Jaren's tongue, the prac teacher unable to hold back his moans and whines. They were music to John's ears as his body moved in autopilot. The pleasure and heat within him drove his movements as he fucked Jaren against the wall. The room was full of their scents; arousal, lust and slick. Jaren's own arousal was trapped between them, rubbing against his stomach where precum collected.

Through the mess of it, Jaren found his mouth, yanking his head up and crushing their lips together. He pressed every tender, desperate moan into John's mouth, trusting him with every needy sound. John's tongue pressed in and claimed his mouth, licking at his bruised lips and flicking the tip of Jaren's.

The submissive moan that the omega allowed drew a responding growl of possession for the beta, his thrusts growing faster and sharper. The wall thumped with every thrust, Jaren mewling and moaning as he tore his mouth from John's.

"Close, close, close!" he whined, jerking his hips to meet John's with what little room he had to move. John's tongue tortured his scent gland, tasting the chocolate as it stained his senses. "John-"

Jaren keened, whole body spasming as his spine went rigid.

The feeling of his inner muscles clenching around John as he drove in and out was incredible. The friction drove him wild, mind soaring out of the present moment and pleasure crashed over him. He didn't register how he sunk his teeth into the omega's shoulder. All he could focus on were the sounds leaving Jaren's mouth as he rocked his hips and the pleasure coursing through him as he rode the both of them through their orgasms.

When John drifted back into his consciousness, he lazily lapped at the bleeding wound on Jaren's shoulder. The omega was like dead weight against him, pushed far enough that he needed a number of minutes to recover.

John didn't mind, holding him there, still seated, and peppering kisses over his bare skin. He pecked at Jaren's mouth, kissing his bottom lip gently as those deep brown eyes fluttered. It seemed he was only able to hold them half open, smiling goofily at John as the beta kissed his cheeks, eyelids and nose.

"You okay?" he murmured, pressing another chaste kiss to the prac teacher's lips.

"Amazing," the omega sighed. "But itching for a good ass sleep- Would you- Do you wanna-" It took him a second to gather his thoughts, cheeks tinting a soft pink as he looked away from John's gaze. "Would you wanna come back to mine and- and nest with me for the night?" he asked, brushing his fingers through the beta's hair.

But he had no reason to be worried as John pressed in close again and fit their lips together. "I'd love to," he mumbled, letting the omega back down onto his feet. He was clearly weakened from the sex and his knees wobbled dangerously. John held him up as they slowly dressed themselves, before he lead the omega out of the building and locked everything up.

They got to the beta's car, Jaren gave him directions and within five minutes, the omega was passed out in the passenger seat. John didn't mind carrying Jaren up to his apartment, letting them in and curling up with the peaceful omega in the guy's bed. He made a half-assed attempt at nesting the bed before passing out as well with his head tucked beneath Jaren's chin and his arms tight around the gorgeous omega.

#anon #krii7y #fic #fanfic #sm.ut #ns.fw #banana bus squad #bbs #alpha beta omega #alpha/beta/omega #a/b/o #abo

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clonerightsenthusiast · 5 years ago

Text

Port in a Storm

[Campaign Skyjacks, Gable/Travis, 2k words, G]

There was a light on in the captain's quarters when Travis slipped past the night watch and approached. He tried pushing it open with no real hope of success and sure enough found it locked; doubtless Gable kept it locked to avoid anyone barging in and seeing the captain staring dead-eyed at the wall in the middle of the night, but Travis couldn't help but feel like they also did it to keep him out. They took such glee in keeping him from getting his way.

The joke was on them, though; Travis wasn't one to let a little inconvenience stand in the way of inflicting himself on someone else. Especially when it could so easily be passed off onto someone else. To this end, he simply sat down, fluffy white tail wrapped primly around his paws, and started clawing insistently at the door.

In a game of irritating chicken, Travis was confident in his ability to win out over Gable every time. Sure enough, he only had to break out the tactic of pausing just long enough for them to think he'd given up and then redoubling his efforts once before he heard a sigh followed by heavy footfalls inside the room and the door eased open, revealing Gable's best unamused face.

"What do you want, Travis?" they asked, resigned. "It's late."

(read on ao3)

"Booty call," he said flippantly, as he slipped in through the cracked door and past their ankles to jump up on the bed, ignoring their huff. There was a book laying open on the small nightstand beneath the hanging lantern, and Travis leaned over to inspect it out of principle.

Gable shooed him away before he could make out more than a spare word or two, reclaiming their place on the bed. They picked up the book again and resumed reading, apparently content to ignore Travis entirely. Well. They'd see about that.

"Speaking of booty calls," he said, pleased at the dirty look Gable shot them over their book, "How did your time with Helga go?"

Gable went very still, their hands flexing around the book. Interesting. Pretending not to notice, Travis settled himself comfortably along their thigh, resting his head in their lap and sighing contentedly. The captain's bed was really just so much nicer than the crew hammocks.

"Hildred," Gable finally said in a low, tightly controlled voice. "Her name was Hildred."

"That's what I said," Travis sniffed. "Helga."

"Travis," Gable growled.

Travis rolled his head sideways and looked up at them with one eye. Their new short hair was ruffled, framing their face like a halo cast in shadow by the flickering light of the lantern. It was a fun sort of irony and he kept looking, basking in their glower.

"Well, are you going to tell me?" he asked when they didn't continue.

Gable maintained their glare for another few seconds to really hammer home their displeasure before finally they sighed and broke eye contact. "Shut up, Travis," they said wearily, dropping one large hand from the book to his head to shove him away.

Travis allowed himself to be pushed, then pushed back, pressing his head into their palm. Gable made a sound in the back of their throat somewhere between annoyed and amused and relented, lightly running their hand down his furry back.

Travis gave a satisfied hum, his eyes sliding closed. He was terribly comfortable, squeezed between Gable's warm bulk and the hull of the ship, fur prickling with pleasure under the weight of their hand and attention. "It's alright if you don't tell me now," he said, his words starting to run together. "I'll find out eventually. We have forever, after all."

Gable's hand paused its strokes and Travis flicked an ear in protest. After a second they huffed and started scratching with dull fingernails around its base, right in his favorite spot. Travis sighed in pleasure and tilted his head to give them better access.

"You said something like that after your fight with Tiberius," Gable said softly. "Forever, huh? You wanna talk about it?"

Well. He most certainly did not, and he also rather wished he'd done a better job of keeping a lid on things that night. Though in his defense, he had just been through a rather traumatic experience. Not to mention all the blood he'd been losing. He had less of an excuse now but, well, he was just so comfortable, things… slipped out.

"Travis?" Gable asked when he didn't reply, lightly shaking the fur at his ruff. They sounded amused, damn them. This sort of teasing was supposed to go the other way, and Travis didn't care for a flip in the dynamic.

He let out a loud, theatrical snore. Gable laughed, a single short, surprised "Ha!" and tugged lightly on one of his ears. "Fine," they said, struggling to maintain a facade of irritation. "I'll find out eventually."

Travis snored again.

After a moment, Gable gave a soft, "Alright," and took their hand away. There was some quiet rustling for a few moments, and then Travis could sense the cabin going dark. Gable shifted, jostling Travis as they laid down on the bed. Travis squirmed around until he found a comfortable position with his back pressed against their side, his muzzle resting on their bicep as they curled their arm loosely around him.

"Good night, Travis," Gable said, warm and close.

Travis would respond, but he wasn't sure what would come out of his mouth if he opened it right then. Instead he pressed himself more firmly into the space between their arm and their body. He felt a nigh-inaudible laugh as a vibration in their side and smiled to himself, relaxing into a puddle of warm coyote as he let himself slide slowly into sleep for real. He figured they'd got the message.

Being back on the ship meant being back to potato duty, and this time Jonnit had been given strict instructions not to help. Travis was of the mind that if the boy was gullible enough to be talked into doing math for him he deserved it, but of course Spit didn't care about what Travis thought was fair. So it was up to him to count the potatoes.

Heavy footfalls signaled Gable's arrival. Travis glanced back to see them leaning against the doorframe to the storeroom out of the corner of his eye, but didn't turn around.

"If you want a potato, you'll have to wait," he said airily, picking one up and weighing it in his hand. "If Spit sees any unauthorized potatoes around he'll complain at me for hours."

"I don't want a potato," Gable said, pushing off of the doorframe and ambling over to lean on some crates beside him instead. They sounded amused, but with that edge of exasperation they so often had while talking to him.

"Well I haven't counted anything else, so I guess if you just snuck something while my back was turned no one would notice. Not that I would ever encourage such behavior. I'm a very responsible quartermaster, after all." Travis put the potato back in the crate and turned to face Gable, brushing his hands together.

Gable snorted. "I'm not here for food, Travis," they said. "Not that you should be offering me any," they added with a stern look. Travis smiled innocently back in response and they shook their head. Travis couldn't help but notice the way their short hair moved in new and interesting ways around their face as they did. "I wanted to... talk. To you."

"I don't know, I'm just so busy with these potatoes," Travis drawled with a broad grin, leaning back against the crate and making no move to return to counting.

Gable gave him a look and his grin widened. Then they shifted back against their crate and broke eye contact, casting their eyes upwards towards the ceiling. They crossed their arms, the fingers on one hand tapping restlessly against their bicep. Travis mirrored their pose but kept looking at them, eyebrows raised curiously.

"After your fight with Tiberius, when you were… injured," they finally began, and Travis tensed, eyes flicking over to the exit and back automatically. Leave it to Gable not to leave well enough alone. "You said a lot of things, most of them… strange. But you also said… that not being able to die wasn't so bad, because you would have me." Gable looked back at him, their piercing gaze pinning him to the crate he leaned on. "Or something like that."

Travis swallowed, breaking eye contact to carefully study his fingernails instead. "Well, you know, I was delirious," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "I was losing a lot of blood, after all. You can't take anything I said too seriously."

Gable hummed in acknowledgement, but Travis could still feel their eyes boring into him even without looking. "And then last night, you said we had forever. Are you planning on sticking with me that long, Travis?"

Travis looked over at the door again, trying very hard not to make it look like he was planning an escape. The animal in him wanted to run, very badly, but he felt pinned in place, unable to break away with Gable looking at him like that.

He swallowed again. "Well," he said, drawing out the word. "I think you can forgive me a little hyperbole but, ah… I mean, we have a good thing going here, don't you think?"

"Travis," Gable said, their voice a low, serious rumble. "You don't know anything about me."

Travis scoffed, finally making eye contact just to give them a disparaging look. "Please," he said. "You're not that mysterious."

Gable straightened up. Now besides looking troubled they looked annoyed. Travis felt a little closer to being back on familiar footing; there was clearly something going on here he didn't know about, but Gable being annoyed with him for not taking something seriously enough? That he was intimately familiar with. "You don't even know why I'm here," they said, slowly pacing over until they were in Travis's space, looming over him.

Travis rolled his eyes, and Gable took his chin in one large hand and forced him to look them in the eye. "What if I did something terrible?" they asked in a low, heavy whisper.

Travis looked up at them, at those eyes like lightning, and laughed. "Gable," he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Who cares?"

Gable's eyes darted across his face, searching for any signs of artifice. Travis let them look, for once with nothing to hide. Who cared what crime Gable committed that had them stripped of their wings and cast down to the earth? What mattered to Travis was that they were here, and would remain so. He wasn't alone. Wouldn't be alone.

Gable must have seen something of what he was thinking, because some of the tension in their shoulders relaxed and they let out a laugh that was mostly just an exhale. "You really are just awful, aren't you?" they said, with more genuine fondness than Travis was used to hearing from them.

Travis grinned at them. "I'm just so understanding, is all. A paragon of virtue, really."

Gable tightened their grip on his chin, a smile threatening to mar their dour expression. "Shut up," they said, and leaned in to kiss him.

Travis maintained enough dignity not to throw his arms around Gable's neck and climb them like a tree, but he did lean ever so slightly into their hand as they shifted from holding him in place to cupping his jaw. "So?" he asked as Gable drew back just a little, staying firmly in his space.

"So what?" they asked, raising their eyebrows.

"Are you going to tell me what you did, or not?" Travis asked, mirroring them.

Gable laughed, the sound surprised out of them. They looked down at him with nigh-unprecedented warmth, thumb sweeping across his jaw. "You'll find out eventually," they teased. "We have plenty of time."

"Forever," Travis said with less irony than he'd really intended, finally reaching out to touch, laying his hands on Gable's broad chest.

Gable smiled. "Forever," they agreed, and kissed him again.

#campaign podcast #merry chrysler yall have some trable #like everything skyjacks i write this is shameless coyote travis propaganda #take travis...... and make him fuzzy #anyways trable is Good enjoy #my fic

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1-1snailxd-art · 5 years ago

Text

Libraries are for Meetings

Master List —– Chapter 8

Chapter 9 - Life is a Book

Warnings: negative thoughts, death mentioned, memories of trauma

Summary: E prepares for their day as the anniversary draws nearer and Virgil thinks about the past for the first time in a while. .

Word count: 3832

Note: reading on mobile can remove the paragraphing sometimes. Use desktop site or visit my Ao3 page if it bothers you as much as it bothers me.

____________________

Heat. Screams. Burning. Pulling. Crying.

“E! Jason!”

“Are they breathing?”

“They’re breathing. You need to cool them down and stop the bleeding; I’m going back.”

“Jason, don’t!”

“Oskar hasn’t come out. I’m going back. Just take care of E, Sasha. I’ll be back”.

Heat. Screams. Burning. Crying. Sirens. Screams. Screams. Scream.

Eyes snapping open, E gasped for breath as their heart raced from the memory. Shaking hands tightened around their blankets and pulled them close to their chest as they started timing their breaths and grounding their senses in reality. It took 10 minutes for them to be able to sit up; muscles stiff from being tensed up so long. They slowly stood and made their way over to their dressing table mirror; sighing as they took in their unfiltered appearance - head shaven and maintained around the leathery skin on their scalp, red scar lines tracing the skin under their left eye and cheek. Those features didn’t bother E anymore; they were nothing but a minor inconvenience, the mounds on their chest were another story. Despite sleeping in an oversized shirt, they could still see the fabric protruding out slightly; and E squeezed their eyes shut as their mind, body and soul fought over their identity.

E hated mornings like this; just not being sure of their gender. They preferred the days they felt just feminine or just masculine; those days were easy compared to days like today, when they just didn’t know.

Their stomach growled in hunger, snapping them out of their thoughts. Avoiding the mirror, E slipped on a green hoodie and yellow beanie before heading downstairs to greet their roommates. Sophie and Xander were just leaving as E reached the bottom of the stairs, getting a brief farewell before the front door closed.

“Morning, E!” Sam called from the kitchen, popping out with two plates of scrambled eggs. “I hoped you were up. I have a massive favour to ask.”

“Shoot.” Taking a seat at the table, E watched as Sam repeatedly tucked their long fringe behind their ear and sat down.

“I have a big presentation today and I was wondering if you could do my hair and make-up. You do such a good job and I really want to make a good impression during the presentation. Can you spare some time, please?”

“Sure, your make up is an easy job.”

Sam beamed, “Thank you so much. I’ll pay you for this of course.”

“Don’t bother,” E muttered, slipping another spoonful of eggs into their mouth, “breakfast is payment enough.”

As soon as their plates were cleaned, E invited Sam to their room and set to work on their makeup for the day. The work was a good distraction, though looking at Sam’s red streaks gave them flashes of flames and they took a moment to refocus before continuing. It was going to be a long day of held emotions if the morning was anything to go by.

“You had a nightmare, didn’t you?”

The questioned stunned E so much, they almost poked Sam’s eye with the liquid liner tip.

“What? Where’d you get that idea?”

“You’ve been off all morning, Ethan.” The name sent a calm through Ethan’s mind and the world seemed to get a little clearer; Sam was always good at picking which name they needed to hear. “Are you going to stay with your family this weekend?”

With a sigh, he nodded and continued working.

“I’m staying with the library crew tonight and then I’ll be with my aunt the rest of the weekend.”

“That’s good. Those library guys will look out for you. Is your sister going too?”

“Sasha doesn’t really associate with them anymore,” straightening, Ethan moved to finish styling Sam’s hair. “I think the guilt is too much for her; I mean, it was her party, but Oskar is just as bad too.”

“That sucks. I know Sasha and Jason were good friends. It’s a shame she couldn’t have stayed connected with Logan at least.”

“Yeah, well, they’ll see each other this weekend for sure.” Moving around, Ethan inspected their work and made a few small adjustments. “My aunt is catering for the Reels memorial again and giving them the diner for most of the day. I hope she lets it go after this year. Honestly, the whole action is a little over the top and selfish.”

“Everyone deals with guilt in their own way, E. Don’t knock your aunt too much.”

“Yeah, I know.” Stepping back, Ethan gestured to the mirror, “all done.”

Sam beamed at their braided hair and soft silver eyes that matched their blouse. “It’s amazing.”

“You’re going to knock ‘em dead today.”

“Thanks, Ethan.” Sam stood and blew a kiss in his direction. “Message me if you need anything, okay?”

With a nod, Sam headed off to collect their things while Ethan grabbed their binder and headed into the bathroom for a shower.

Locking the door behind them, Ethan headed for the bus stop to make their way into town. They had a short, blond wig with gold eye liner; paired with a white speckled, black shirt with dress pants and shoes. Black felt like an appropriate colour for the day, as they made their way to the theatre to do some special effects makeup tests for a new production. A few years ago, Ethan never would have thought they’d be pursuing a career in makeup, but now they couldn’t see themselves doing anything different. Turns out having your face scarred was a good motivator for pursuing a new career in makeup artistry. Taking a seat on the bus he hoped today’s work would provide a reasonable distraction and make the day pass quickly until it was time to go to the library.

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

The moment the morning Librarian, Tate, officially opened the library, Virgil raced inside to begin boxing up his gaming system. He had sent an apology message to Ben earlier but was yet to receive any form of reply, which had him worried beyond belief. Part of him hoped that the threats against the library were fake and he would simply come after him, but he wasn’t about to take any risks. His only hope was that Pete was in a giving mood and had some more items for him to fix.

Air fresh, Virgil wished he had his thicker hoodie on as his deep violet jacket was doing nothing to stop the wind slicing through him. Pushing through the doors of Pete’s Pawn Shop, he was thankful for the reprieve from the chilling winds.

“Virgil!” The rotund man boomed from the back of the store. “How’s my junior fixer going today?”

“Fine, thanks, Pete.” Reaching the store counter, Virgil placed the box down and put on his best act of confidence. “Got this relic back in working order. Perfect for selling to a hardcore gamer with plenty of money from their mothers’ basement.”

Pete laughed and opened the box to pull out Virgil’s meticulous report of what he had done and how the system ran. Half of it was nonsense to the man, but he pretended to read it all over for the sake of professionalism.

“Seems you did a fair bit on this thing?”

“It had a fair amount of wear and tear from neglect and general ageing.” Virgil assured, pulling out the controller to show off. “I cleaned all the pieces so it’s almost as responsive as any modern console. Considering its age, and former condition, this thing runs as smooth as anything. Collectors would be foolish to walk past a piece like this.”

“Okay, okay, Virge, I see what you’re saying.” Pete turned to his computer and started typing away. “You want fair price for your work, I understand.”

“I need more than fair, Pete.” Virgil turned and leant his back against the counter and looked around the store. “I need to be in the green zone and make our partnership worthwhile.”

“Alright, kid.” Pete clicked away from the search screens he had just used to double check the systems value and opened the register to retrieve some cash. “How about $50 for your efforts?”

Looking sideways at the money on the counter, Virgil shook his head. “That’s barely covering the labour and parts, Pete. I paid you $20 for this thing in the first place and it was only a dust collector at that point. Make it $120.”

A smile spread across Pete’s bearded face and he laid more notes on the counter. “$60 and then you’ve got $40 in the green.”

“Not good enough,” turning to face the man, Virgil leant his hands on the counter and met Pete’s gaze. “I need more green for parts; make it worth it.”

“$75 a better colour?”

“$100 would put me in a better place.”

“Why don’t we settle on $85 and I’ll throw in a busted blender for free?”

Slamming his hand down on the money, Virgil thrust his other hand toward Pete. “Deal.”

Accepting the hand, Pete gave it a firm shake before closing the till and grabbing the box down from the counter. “Go take your choice of appliance from out the back, kid. That’ll be an easy 20 for ya later.”

“Thanks Pete.”

Pocketing the money, Virgil quickly headed to the storeroom to assess his possible options. Pawn shops were a sense of comfort for the young man, a pleasant memory of much of his childhood spent in his grandparent’s store where he learnt how electronics worked from the employees. While his grandmother managed the jewellery aspect of the store, Virgil spent his days working with his grandfather’s tech-group; watching them pull apart and piece together everything from toasters to PCs. Losing his grandparents, and the store, was the first domino that fell in a series of events that transformed his childhood to a less than pleasant memory.

Pete appeared in the doorway and Virgil turned to give him a deflated look.

“Have you got anything a bit more substantial?”

“Sorry, Virge, this is all the stock I have. Phil came in and took my last PC yesterday.”

After sending a silent curse to Phil, Virgil grabbed a small handheld game that seemed in reasonable condition and followed Pete back out.

“Look, I know you prefer your other guys to do your client jobs, but can you please give me a call if you get anything in that you’re happy for me to work on. I really need the money.”

“I can’t promise anything, but,” The man ran a hand over his head and took a long look at the young mans fragile form, “if I get anything coming through I’ll give you a call.”

“Thanks, Pete. I really appreciate it.” Virgil headed for the door; eager to get back to his office and start on his new project.

“Take care of yourself,” the door closed, and Pete sighed, “lord knows you look like you need it.”

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

The library was uncharacteristically busy for a Friday morning; a constant flow of studiers and families pulling books from shelves and engaging in whispered discussions. Headphones blocked out the sounds outside of his office, as Virgil inspected the disassembled the handheld. Slouched in his chair, Virgil stared at the collection of parts and tried to mentally work out which parts were going to be salvageable. Lost in thought and music, the vibration of his phones alarm had him jolting out of his chair in shock; expecting the vibration to signal a message from Ben. Though his heart still raced with fear, once his mind comprehended the time, fear was replaced with excitement. Tate took notice of the unusual spring in the cleaner’s step as he left the library; a smile on his face for the first time in months.

The wind was still cold and unkind as Virgil made his way to the university; pulling his hood up to shield his ears. He had exchanged his jacket for a heavy black hoodie with white ringed designs, which was proving to be a better shield against the cold. Heart pounding with excitement despite the quiet whispers of doubt; Virgil wasn't going to let those voices stop him today. Today was his day. He was making the choice to see Logan. It was his decision, and he was going to enjoy it.

Virgil's throat instantly tightened as his music was cut off for an incoming phone call, and he quickly slipped into an ally to answer it discretely. Relief hit hard when he saw the caller ID was Katie.

"What's up, Reels?"

"Is that an echo I hear, Virgil? You better not still be at the library." Katie sounded irritated and Virgil rolled his eyes.

"No, Mum. I slipped into an ally to escape the wind."

"Oh." He could hear Katie clearing her throat and shuffle around on the other end of the line. "Sorry. I thought you were hiding from, Logan. That was a dick move on my part."

"It's fine, Katie, but I'm going to be late if you don't get to the point." "Yeah. Sorry. I was wondering if you wanted to help me set up for the meeting this afternoon, instead of your normal clean. That way you won't miss any hours; unless you've already got plans."

"Nah, that's fine." He hid a sigh of relief at the prospect of keeping his hours up, and mentally adjusted his money situation. "Starting at my normal time?"

"Yes, please."

"Too easy. I'll see you then."

"Have fun with Lo-gan."

"Bye, Reels."

Virgil hung up the phone as Katie erupted into giggles; looking at the time and quickening his pace to make sure he met Logan on time. Memories shifted to the front of his mind as he got closer, and he slowly increased the volume of his music to overpower the thoughts.

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

Logan had never been one to watch the clock, but today he could not stop himself from glancing between the loud analogue clock on the wall and his watch. The professor’s voice faded from his hearing, drowned out by the ticking of the clock edging closer to the session being over. Restless fingers fidgeted with his pens until finally the group was dismissed and Logan packed up faster than he had ever done before.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, his heart sank when he didn't see Virgil waiting outside. Coat tucked over his arm in the rush, the wind sliced across his uncovered arms as he stood outside the building; a still figure in the flow of exiting students. As the crowd thinned, Logan turned towards the car park with his heart sinking. In that moment, he consciously realised just how excited he had been to see Virgil again. Though he had known he was enjoying their company, Logan hadn't been willing to admit the extent of his feelings. Despite hardly knowing anything about him, he felt that Virgil was more than a simple acquaintance; he was already a friend.

"Logan!"

Logan's head jerked around at the sound of Virgil's voice and he was quick to spot the thin man waving as he made his way up the path. Making no effort to hide his sigh of relief, Logan waved back and smiled.

"Didn't think I ditched you, did ya?" Virgil beamed, slipping his headphones off and proceeding to slip them into his bag.

"I will admit," Logan chuckled and fiddled with his bag strap, "that was my initial conclusion. I am glad you proved me wrong."

"I'll try not to make a habit of it." Virgil naturally began walking beside Logan as they headed towards the carpark; as if it was a regular routine they had. "How was class?"

"Very uneventful," he practically grumbled the reply, "as most lectures have become. I prefer opportunities to complete hands on activities and research tasks. Listening to someone drone on for an hour is beyond me - What's so funny?"

No longer hiding it, Virgil openly laughed and nudged Logan's shoulder, "You never cease to amaze me, Lo."

"What do you mean?"

"You've been arrested, you're pretty much a pro-athlete, and you hate lectures just as much as any regular person."

"It may surprise you to know," Logan reached up and adjusted his glasses with a smirk, "but I am a regular person."

To the untrained eye, the pair seemed like old friends as they laughed their way into the car park and stepped up to Logan's surprisingly close parking spot. Depositing bags in the back of the car, they slid into their respective seats after confirming pizza was the best lunch option and Virgil plugged the order into his phone for them to pick up on the way. After exiting the car park, Logan steered the conversation away from himself and tried to earn some more from Virgil.

"So, what did you get up to this morning, Virgil?"

Virgil shrugged and slid his phone back into his pocket, "nothing much. Went down to the pawn shop to sell one gaming system and buy another. Nothing newsworthy or anything."

"On the contrary, I find your work fascinating. When did you learn all this stuff?"

"My grandparents owned a pawn shop and I spent a lot of time there when I was younger." A weight shifted on Virgil's chest as he spoke; but emotion still gripped at his throat slightly. "I learnt everything from my grandad and the fixers that worked for him."

"You are very lucky to have such a close relationship with your grandparents."

"Yeah, I was..." Head dropping, Virgil picked at his nails absently as he felt Logan sag into his seat.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's okay. I got 13 years with them; that's more than some people get."

"True, but that doesn't make your feelings any less valid. It sounds like they had a significant influence on your childhood."

Straightening in his chair, Virgil raised his head to look ahead and compose himself as his throat constricted further.

"They were very much my childhood. I spent more time with them than either of my parents." Pausing to take a shaky breath, Virgil recalled their smiling faces the last time he had seen them. "They didn't deserve to die the way they did."

Brow furrowing, Logan chanced a glance at his passenger; question cautiously forming on his lips.

"May I ask what happened?"

Part of Virgil screamed for him to remain silent as he closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the headrest. He hadn't spoken to anyone about his grandparents since he stopped going to therapy; but part of him wanted to tell Logan. Logan had already told him so much about his past and it only seemed fair that he did the same to some degree.

Eyes remaining closed, Virgil slowly spoke; each word painfully tearing at his soul to leave his mouth.

"They went missing. Just didn't open the shop one day. Vanished for two weeks along with my Dad." A single tear threatened to slip from his closed eye, and Virgil took a shaky breath in and forced the emotion away. "They came back and I got to see them one last time before... Before they were..."

Pulling into a parking space near the pizza shop, Logan placed a hand on Virgil's shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze. Virgil turned away and sighed; unable to find the words to continue.

"You don't have to say anymore if you don't want to, Virgil. It's okay." Logan assured and felt blindly in his centre console for a pack of tissues to offer.

Virgil opened his eyes and turned to face the man beside him; hazel eyes as soft and comforting as the hand on his shoulder. His thoughts froze for a moment as he found himself lost in Logan's comforting features; pained memories present but duller with those eyes on him and hand lifting to offer a pack of facial tissues. Finally, he was able to swallow the lump in his throat and nodded gratefully; taking the tissues and tearing his gaze away so he didn't cry.

"I'm going to get the pizza," the drivers side door opened as Logan prepared to leave. "Why don't we change the subject upon my return."

He carefully closed the door, after Virgil gave him an affirming nod, and headed around the corner to collect the pizza they had ordered. Though Logan felt guilty for bringing up the topic in the first place, he was thankful that he had. The conversation gave him the smallest glimpse into Virgil's past, and he was comforted by the fact he seemed just as determined to hold his emotions to his chest as he was. It was a welcomed change that intrigued him greatly. Everyone Logan had previously befriended had been such open books, easily talking about themselves and their past; it was overwhelming and slightly boring. On the other hand, Virgil was a choose your own adventure mystery novel that required careful questioning and consideration to find any answers. Their friendship may have happened in a single afternoon, but Logan was now slightly hopeful they could work through their novel-like lives and make a relationship of some kind.

"It's too soon to make judgements like that." Logan reminded himself, "I don't even know if Virgil would be interested in a relationship, let alone one with me."

After collecting the food, Logan headed back towards the car; pausing for a moment when it first came into view. The man in the passenger seat looked so peaceful; head resting back in the slightly reclined chair and breeze shifting his hair from the opened window. If his hands weren't preoccupied, and it was less creepy, Logan would have taken a photo; Patton would have in his position. In the moments before reaching the car, Logan made a decision. I rather selfish and impulsive decision considering the circumstances.

Sliding into the car, Virgil stirred from his light sleep and gratefully took the boxes from Logan's hands. With his hands free, Logan looked down at the rings on his fingers; a simple black band on his right middle finger and a silver band on the index finger of the same hand. While Virgil was focused on inspecting the pizza, Logan slipped the silver band off and changed it to his left hand. The action would have seemed foolish and unnecessary to an onlooker, but for Logan it was a sign of moving on. The ring was originally a symbol of friendship given to him by Jason, but then he changed the rings placement, making a mock proposal out of the event.

"I want this on your right hand now because right here, right now, I am yours. For now, and forever. And perhaps, one day, if all goes well, I might move it again."

Smiling sadly to himself, Logan started the car and stared at his hands on the steering wheel for a moment longer before pulling away.

____________________

End Note:

Sorry I dropped off the edge of the Earth for a while. Part of this chapter just wasn’t working out for me and I kept leaving it and coming back to delete and start again. I’ve got a holiday break coming up again soon, so I’m hoping to get out of this slump I’m in and write a fair bit and get ahead again.

Also, if you haven’t already, you should check out the art @the-pastel-peach did for Chapter 7. Logan and Virgil look so good and she did a great job at capturing the emotion on their faces as Logan tells Virgil how he met Jason. I just love it.

Another side note because I put this on Tumblr: I’m no longer in immediate fire danger anymore; though it seems every couple of days the fire level goes from ‘high’ to ‘extreme’ (it goes well with the critical water levels). All good though. I got to do the virtual meet and greet with Thomas the other day right after I heard the sirens of the fire truck heading out. He was so sweet though as I had a slightly ‘panicked’ moment at the start of our time (seriously, he knows how to quickly steer a conversation and take your mind off things).

Tag List (let me know if you want to be removed)

@notalwaysthebadguy @thequeensphinx

_____________________________

Chapter 10 — MasterList

What else have I done:

The Perfect Ring (oneshot - analogical proposal)

You Promised (oneshot - prinxiety angst/injury/near death)

Sides of a Hero (Completed Fic - sides are fusions of impulses and aspects of Thomas. Virgil has a depressing past that he is forced to face thanks to Deceit and Rage. Was canon compliant at the time of completion)

The Shield to your Sword (WIP - A fantasy/magic au - Prinxiety (Royal Roman and orphan Virgil - they’ll admit to their love eventually), Virgil angst, non binary, healer Logan, *spoiler* Patton)

Writing Master Post

Check out my other blog for random fandom reblogs and stuff @snail-giggles

#libraries are for meetings #sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #sanders sides au #alternate universe #fanfiction #ts fanfiction #logan sanders #ts logan #virgil sanders #ts virgil #deceit inspired character #original characters #analogical #developing analogical #self discovery #negative thoughts #my writing #snail writing

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joshversus · 5 years ago

Text

... Holiday Gaming, Year 5

It is absolutely batshit that I’ve been running these stupid Risus one-shot adventures every December for half a decade. And yet, here we are, and once again I close out a year’s tabletop RPG play with a chaotic mess of wild improvisation and half-baked ideas loosely themed to midwinter celebrations. You can read about previous years adventures here, here, here, and here.

This year formed a direct sequel to last year’s game, which was itself a semi-sequel to the first holiday one shot.

Following a lawsuit alleging image infringement, trademark violations, defamation, and mail fraud (among other charges), Lucifer settled out of court. As a result of the arbitration, Lucifer (Satan) is legally obligated to fulfill those letters intended for Santa which, due to misspelling, have been delivered to the Infernal Pit instead. The letters from Good Children, in particular, must be fulfilled on Christmas Eve as is the expected contract with Santa. Of course, Lucifer himself is embedded waist-deep in Cocytus, the frozen lake at the bottom of Hell, and anyway you don’t get to reign over the entire Inferno without delegating, so the work has been farmed out to lesser demons. The easy letters are dealt with by imps and various minor servitors, but there remain a few more problematic missives, and the Devil has appointed these to five of the lords of Hell to handle before Christmas morning.

Our player characters are:

HAAGENTI, President of Hell, governor over 33 legions, in the shape of a winged bull. (Polymath 4, Boozehound 3, Demon 2, Alchemist 1)

AMDUSIAS, Duke of Hell, governor over 29 legions, in the shape of an upright unicorn. (Magical Musician 4, Treebender 3, Booming Voice 2, Demon 1)

BARBATOS, Duke of Hell, governor over 30 legions, in the shaped of a devilish bearded man. (Demon 4, Dr. Doolittle 3, Treasure Hunter 2, Fortune Teller 1)

FURFUR, Earl of Hell, governor over 26 legions, in the shape of a hart with a fiery tail. (Cupid 4, Thunder and Lightning 3, Demon 2, Soothsayer 1)

MARCHOSIAS, Marquess of Hell, governor over 30 legions, in the shape of a winged wolf with a flaming mouth. (Rowdy Boy 4, Demon 3, Fundamentally Honest 2, Flamethrower 1)

(Our demonic cast is directly but loosely based off their attributes as recorded in The Lesser Key of Solomon.)

Lucifer lays out the deal: Get this done before dawn. They’ve got to follow the rules Santa laid on in arbitration:

No teleporting inside the residence. They can teleport to it, but must get inside physically.

No damage. No blasting the walls down with hellfire or the like. Santa doesn’t do property damage.

No getting seen, unless being seen fosters belief in Santa Claus and the Magic of Christmas.

If milk and cookies or other snacks have been left out for Santa, they must be consumed.

Letters from Good Children must be fulfilled.

There are five Good Child letters left. Lucifer has provided them with a magic sack which will provide the next letter as each is fulfilled, and also potentially provide gifts or other useful tools (no guarantees). The letters are revealed first with names and locations, and only once the party is at the residence is the child’s request made visible. It is also established that the demons all basically have a roughly 13th-16th century European level of understanding.

LETTER ONE comes from Jimothy Sanchez of Passaic, New Jersey. Jimothy lives with his father Oliver, stepmother Alanis, and his older stepsister Quinn. Jimothy is eight.

The demons arrive via teleportation outside the two-story suburban home of the Sanchez family. They are confused by the environment, but immediately begin debating how to get in. Examination of the letter reveals that Jimmy wants a “fidget spinner” and to “go to space like an astronaut.”

Barbatos begins interrogating a nightbird for information on how to get inside. “You’re tellin’ me you want to get in there to give a little boy a ‘present’? You fuckin’ pervert,” the thickly-NJ-accented bird replies. Eventually, the bird summons some pigeons, who attack Marchosias. Furfur responds by summoning lighting to strike the bird’s tree, which splits and bursts into flames.

This wakes the father inside, who (as can be seen through the window) calls the fire department, although the demons are unclear on what’s happening. Barbatos turns himself into an approximation of Santa (long white beard, red sharkskin suit, curling ram’s horns) as the fire department arrives. Marchosias and Haagenti teleport back to Dis to visit the infernal library and attempt to unravel the word “astronaut”. Amdusias attempts to pull a key out of the magic sack, but gets a viper instead, which she discards on the ground where it almost immediately bites a fireman. Oliver Sanchez comes outside, and Barbatos introduces himself as Santa, leading to a great deal of confusion. Marchosias and Haagenti return, and Haagenti attempts to sell the Santa con by turning into an elf, but succeeds only in turning into an Elf on the Shelf, all of which causes Mr. Sanchez to faint. Barbatos picks up the EotS and they and Marchosias go inside. After getting the rundown on what “astronaut” means, Barbatos attempts to get a book on Space from the bag, and gets a book about NASA. Amdusias downs the milk and cookies, and is revolted by the lack of parasites. Based on the book, he goes to the Moon, where he attempts to collect a footprint left there by astronauts. Since it’s all moon dust, he just gets a fist of dust. He brings that back and stuff it and a wooden top (provided by the sack in response to a request for a fidget spinner) into the stocking labeled Jimothy, and the demons collectively bug out while the firefighters attempt to revive their envenomed compatriot.

LETTER TWO comes from the children of St. Guinefort’s Home for Disadvantaged Children, an archaic Catholic orphanage in NYC’s Lower East Side. Surprisingly, the children have not requested anything unreasonable, but have requested a badminton set so they can play together. Haagenti and Barbatos teleport to the roof of the building in search of a chimney, and finding one Barbatos tosses Haagenti (still in stuffed elf form) down it. Haagenti hits a metal barrier and finds himself trapped. Furfur joins them and drops a steaming, acidic load of demon poo down it, burning a hole through the closed flue and dumping Haagenti into a disused storeroom. Barbatos turns into a rat and follows him down. Haagenti attempts to take the form of a child and only manages to become a naked, horned baby with a devil’s tail, but is at least able to crawl around. Barbatos goes for Santa mode again, but this time ends up worse, appearing gaunt and skeletal in his red garb. Barbatos stuffs the baby Haagenti into the magic bag, a transimensional experience which shatters his mind and that of Furfur, who was scrying on their progress at the moment. The two have a close encounter with and narrowly avoid the notice of a nun doing the rounds, and manage to quickly locate a room full of sleeping children, where a sad, Charlie-Brown-esque tree sits with no presents around. Outside, Amdusias attempts to prevent any undue attention by summoning the sound of a traditional Christmas carol, but unwittingly makes everyone in earshot lose Whamageddon instead, followed by Fairytale of New York.

Back inside, Barbatos extracts the extremely dazed Haagenti from the sack, and then attempts to get a badminton set out of it. The sack provides everything required: net, rackets, shuttlecocks, posts, post-hole digger, cardboard tube forms for pouring concrete anchors for the posts, bags of concrete, a backhoe and steamroller for flattening the court, turf, grass seed, chalk, a spreader, etc. The room is very full, and the tree is entirely obscured.

The demons retreat to Central Park, where they have a brief altercation with some hoodlums, before heading to the next home.

LETTER THREE was from Emily Chen of Hollywood, California, where she lives with her mother Amy and three brothers Ted, Leo, and Bobby in a three-bedroom apartment on the fifth floor of a walk-up building. Emily, as the letter reveals, wants a pony.

Amdusias’s tree-bending bends a palm over the fence and lets everybody past the gates of the building, and the demons gather around the door to apartment. Barbatos uses his treasure-finding skills to locate a key. It is inside the apartment. A cat is sensed inside, and Barbatos attempts to convince the cat to let them in. The cat explains that even if it wanted to, it can’t work the lock. A bribe of fish is offered if the cat will retrieve the key and push it under the door - the cat agrees if they will give it sushi. A key is pushed under the door. It does not fit in the lock. Haagenti turns it into a more ductile metal to make it fit into the keyhole, and then attempts to firm it up so it can be turned, but in doing so ends up fusing it into the keyhole. The cat demands sushi, which when extracted from the bag is revealed to be a piece of tamago nigiri. An offer of salmon is made, but the cat again points out they are not capable of working the locks. One of the demons tried to turn the cat into a human. The locks click, the door opens, and a very sexy, very naked, and entirely testicle-less human man is revealed, demanding salmon. The salmon is given, but the former cat asks for its balls back in exchange for letting them in and not just blowing up their spot right then and there. Magic succeeds in restoring the man-cat’s genitals, and after garbing himself in a child’s gym shorts and some flip-flops, the cat leaves into the Hollywood night and the demons are free to enter.

The living room bears a silver metallic tree, which confuses them, but they quickly and successfully extract a full-sized live pony and a bale of moist hay form the sack, the demons depart.

LETTER FOUR comes from Bethany-Ann Mayweather of South Carolina. Bethany, it turns out, lives in a heavily-fortified survivalist compound in the woods with her dad (Steve), two brothers (Jesse and Dave), and two sisters (Katie and Donna-Lee. The entire place is surrounded by an electrified fence topped with razor wire.

Emily would like to go to school like other children.

Things get weird. Amdusias bends a tree over the fence, and Furfur drops down to discover that the clear ground between the fence and the building itself is heavily mined, exploding instantly (but non-fatally, because demon). Lights are going on at the compound as Furfur starts bouncing around setting off mines and motion-sensing lamps.

Marchosias has the idea that the humans at the first house had somehow summoned that metal chariot in response to the burning tree by talking into that weird curved oblong shape, and that if they do the same maybe the metal chariot will help them get in. Reaching into the bag extracts a banana. Marchosias holds it to the side of his head and says hello.

“Hello?” says a sleepy voice from the banana. “Who is this?”

“Uh, Mark,” responds Marchosias, who is Fundamentally Honest. “Are you the...cops? There is a little girl and there is a lot of gunpowder and fire and explosions.”

“What? No, this is Raffi. How did you get this number? Is this a prank?”

It is established that this is not a prank (”Did Steve put you up to this?” “There’s a Steve here but no.” “From Blue’s Clues.” “I don’t know who or what that is.” “Mark, I’m looking at this caller ID here, and it just says ‘banana’. What’s going on?”). Barbatos teleports to this ‘Raffi’, the shock of which causes Raffi to suffer a heart attack and die. Barbatos resurrects Raffi as an undead revenant, and after difficulty (”Raffi, how do we call the police?” “RING. RING. RING. BANANAPHONE.”) manage to extract the magical incantation “911″ from the former children’s entertainer. Marchosias invokes this to the banana and connects to emergency services, and after a very complicated discussion (and some light aerial reconnaissance to pinpoint a location) succeeds in convincing them that there is a dangerous, heavily-armed incident at the compound and a child is in danger. SWAT is being sent. Meanwhile, Furfur is drawing gunfire from the survivalist dad, and Amdusias uses spectral music to distract him while they slip inside.

The six-foot-tall unicorn-headed naked figure reaches the crude two-dimensional paper Christmas tree inside the survival bunker and attempts to eat the dry saltines and rehydrated powdered milk that has been left out. They are interrupted by the sleepy-eyed and tow-headed Bethany-Ann, who asks who they are. Amdusias explains that they’re subbing in because Blitzen is sick. Blitzen is Bethany-Ann’s favorite. Amdusias tells her she’s going to get to go to school soon, and after a hug sends Bethany-Ann to hide under her bed until some nice people come get her. Furfur attempts to use his lightning powers to dash Blitzen-like over the compound to drive home the Christmas-ness of it all, and instead burns holes through a number of trees as he accelerates to an appreciable fraction of the speed of light. The remaining demons depart as militarized police descend on the compound.

THE FINAL LETTER is from Marcus Fitzwilliams III, son of Buck and Nancy, brother to Samantha, of Casper, Wyoming. Marcus is ten, and he would like “a fortnite”. The demons gather outside the ranch-style suburban home and debate what that means. Eventually, they decide this means he wants to spend a night in a fort, and locating the Fort Caspar Museum nearby they plan to liberate the child from the house and take him there. They decide against a plan to bring the fort to the house on the grounds that this might cause property damage. Everyone but Marchosias goes to the backyard; Marchosias, who at this point looks like Bea Arthur because of reasons, remains out front with the banana to allay suspicion.

In the backyard, Barbatos again attempts to find a key, but fails. He does detect a dog, and attempts to convince the dog to let them in. The dog declines. “Stranger bad. Bite stranger.” An offer of bacon is made, and raw bacon pulled from the sack. “Bacon good. Bite bacon. Bite stranger. Good dog.” This goes back and forth for a bit, and the dog starts barking. Barbatos attempts to turn into a dog to sell the bit, and turns into a massive, ebon mastiff with glowing red eyes. The bacon falls on the ground. Furfur is now hiding in trees behind the house, joined by Amdusias, who attempts to keep things under control by bellowing “somebody let that dog out for a walk”, which comes out in a titanic demonic shout which rattles windows and kills the azaleas. Lights come on. The backdoor opens and Buck, carrying a rifle, looks at the giant demon dog and Haagenti, who is still a demonic baby, and the pile of bacon. In the trees, the flaming tail of Furfur glows.

“MA, GET UP AND CHECK THE FRONT, I THINK THE METHHEADS ARE TRYIN’ TO ROB US.”

Shit goes sideways quick. Nancy opens the front door and sees Bea Arthur standing in her yard talking into a banana, and confirms the meth suspicion to buck. The dog escapes into the yard and eats the bacon. Baby Haagenti jumps on mastiff Barbatos’ back and the two dash into the house as Buck fires wildly at them and the intruders in the trees. Nancy shoots the bananaphone and the side of Bea Arthur’s face. Inside the house, Haagenti and Barbatos dodge bullets semi-successfully. Haagenti scarfs cookies while Barbatos abandons the original plan and reaches into the bag while thinking “Fort Night”, pulling forth a card with a download code for Minecraft. Furfur pulls his lightning-assisted flight trick over the house while Amdusias tries a bellowing “HO HO HO” so loud and infernal it shatters windows in houses throughout the neighborhood.

The list complete, the demons depart for Dis, where they are quickly met by Asmodeus, who tells them the boss wants to see them. The demon lords report total success, but receive a thorough chewing-out from Lucifer, who details the many, many violations they have committed and the agonies he is going to inflict on them for their failure.

“You know the ring where we bury people up to their face in flaming shit?” “Yeah, that one’s great.” “Not for the humans. I’m going to turn you all into humans and stick you there for the next thousand years.”

The demons attempt to portray their actions in a favorable light, and Amdusias protests and attempts to get the sounds of Michael Bublé’s Let it Snow to play and encourage the spirit of the holiday to earn them some clemency. However, it turns instead into Snow’s Informer as Belial reveals himself from behind Lucifer’s torso and tells them he was following and reporting on them the whole time, everyone gets in a Christmas “no, fuck you”, our heroes are consigned to flaming shit, and credits roll. Happy Holidays, everyone.

#risus #annual holiday game #rpgs #not a strict interpretation of the goetia #man seriously a lot happened I probably forgot a third of it but this was long #demons are not elves #also there was the bit where furfur tried to make a bird fall in love and it got weird

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fightevilandthengetblownup · 5 years ago

Text

FIC: Where The Chips Fall

The black door was completely nondescript, but glancing at the woman beside her and the sharp nod she got in response was enough to make the blonde raise and rap her knuckles three times.

There was the sound of a buzzer, and glancing up to her right, she saw the camera stationed above the door shift and move towards her as well as the sudden flash of gold and black disappearing from beside her before the noise started. The camera fixed on her, and rather than frowning at the added security, Jo winked saucily and blew a kiss towards the lens as she waited impatiently.

She thought for a moment nothing would happen, that no door would unlock and she’d be barred from this opportunity. It had taken a lot of sweet-talking, a lot of gentle queries and patience to finally get the story of a witch left alone out of Bobby and the boys, a lot of time and effort to not raise any suspicions after she first heard one offhand comment from Sam about “fuckin’ witches, even that Patrick guy and his fucking poker”. Eventually, she managed to piece the full story together - the legend of the witch who didn’t deal in bones and blood and teeth but instead over a poker table in chips and years. One who might even be able to be reasoned or appealed to in a way so different to most witches that were stuck on their own selfish desires.

The lure of years, of having more than just her allotted timeframe on this earth, of being with him longer than her body as it was would be able to sustain - it was too strong a draw and she’d found herself in her downtime tracking and looking for anything that might suggest the witch was active and prowling. Any sort of pattern or way to find him that wouldn’t lead her on goose chases around the country. That was her plan, right up until a bright sounding laugh and an “Oh, you’re looking for a witch, are you? You’ve got the right demon,” from the one-time witch helped cut that search short.

Jo had told Grey she had a hunt, and that wasn’t really a lie.

There was another sound of buzzing, and then the unmistakable sound of a lock clicking before the door before her swung inwards.

It was a quick walk down the dark, lightless hallway before she found herself in a dusty back storeroom for the bar out front which reminded her sharply of home. Or rather, where she’d once called home in the dusty roadhouse on the side of a Nebraska road. The air held the same musty scent of dust, beer and whiskey that had once been the scent she associated with the safest feeling - that and the smell of warm leather. Now it made her feel bitter and sharp, her sense focused on trying to keep the smell out of her nose and force her mind to focus on the table sat in the middle of the space.

She’d heard from Dean that the witch was a well-dressing, slick-talking playboy type. She’d heard from Bobby that he was cocky and arrogant and could practically read every single tell. All swagger and confidence, and the flare of theatrics to book. Altogether it didn’t sound like anything she hadn’t already tumbled with before and looking at the man sat at the green felt table, fingers clicking the small stack of chips together, Jo could tell neither of their accounts was accurate anymore.

Sam’s account though? Of a man mourning the loss of his love, of a witch without purpose but with a heart not unconnected to the pains and struggles of others, of someone who might be able to understand her situation but was still recovering from his own crushed heart?

He definitely seemed to fit that bill in her eyes more so than the picture painted by the other two hunters. Sure he wore a nice suit and an ironed shirt, and the very smarmy approach of the three buttons undone. Sure his hair was quaffed correctly and it looked like he had had a manicure very recently. Sure he eyed her with the look of a card sharp ready and waiting to strike. But she could see the bags under his eyes, the dark circles from what must have been years of restless or sleepless nights. The way the tiniest wrinkles were forming at the corner of his eyes that weren’t from age and weren’t from laughter anymore. And the way he seemed to be weary beyond his years as she moved towards the table.

“You don’t look much like my ten o’clock, darlin’, unless you’ve had a sex change in the last hour.” The man’s eyes focused on her, the click of the chips sounding louder than they should in the small space as she made her way behind the spare chair facing across from him. The Irish lilt of his voice made the words sound gentler and less threatening than the way his eyes glinted dark and dangerous in the overhead light. “Are you here to play, missy?”

“I’m here to win.” “Aren’t you all. You don’t look much like my usual type.” “You don’t know much ‘bout what I look like then.”

“I know more than you think, girlie.” The witch replied snappily, a hand gesturing across to the chair in front of her with toothpick spinning between his fingers with the dexterity of a real sharp player. “I can read people, darlin’, and I can tell you think you know what you’re doing here.”

Jo found herself scowling as she pulled the chair out and shrugged her leather jacket off her shoulders and onto the back of the seat before sinking down across from him. Eyes focussed sharply on the way the witch’s tongue flicked out to wet his lips before he set the toothpick back between his teeth and reclined back into his seat. There was a seriousness to his review of her, taking in each movement as she shifted back as comfortably as she could into the rickety chair.

“Now, before we get more acquainted let’s see how well I can see through you, shall we darlin’?” The man quipped sharply as he bit the end of his toothpick between his teeth and slid his chips back into the elegant carry case on the tabletop. Instead, he picked up a deck of cards and with a sound Jo was more familiar making than receiving, she felt her eyebrow raising before she could stop it at the gentle sound of the cards stacking and sliding together reminiscent of her misspent youth. The witch grinned across at her, lips tugged into a knowing smirk before he raised a hand with half the cards to gesture towards her. “You, my dear, are used to bein’ on the winning end of these games. Older men and cocky men who underestimate you based on that pretty little face of yours. Probably learned this game sittin’ on your daddy’s knee with some cheap beer you’d steal sips from - tell me, am I warm?”

“Actually it was my mom, not my dad that was the player.” Jo snapped back haughtily, shifting her weight to relax back into her chair as she watched his own reactions just as carefully as he watched her own. There was a brief widening of his eyes before they squinted back at her, considering and prying at her as if trying to determine if it was the truth or not. She bit the inside of her cheeks to stop the quirk of her own smirk that threatened, knowing that both were a lie - days spent playing against any and every hunter after Rufus had taught her the ropes as a way to practice her numbers - but if she could pass this test she’d be one step above him for the rounds to come. “And she only drank bourbon.”

“Pity, I’m fond of the Irish stuff myself.” The man replied with a smug grin as he cut the deck again before shuffling them quickly and spreading the cards in a quick line across the table, flipping them the right way up and then wrong ways again in a flash. “Well, let’s get down to business, shall we? Patrick’s the name and Texas Hold’em is the game. And you are?”

“Jo. Joanna Harvelle.” The blonde replied with a smile of her own, before blinking in surprise as the man stood up abruptly - cards still lying face down on the table. “Surprised you don’t favor the Irish style of game as well as in your drinks.”

“Oh you know more than the popular rounds, do you now?” Patrick asked, the surprise clear in his tone as he moved about the space towards a small cupboard not far from the table almost out of the line of the dim lighting’s visibility. There was the sound of something hard hitting the bottom of a glass before he turned to look back at her, his hand held out towards her with an empty tumbler other than the chunk of ice in it. “You want a drink too, Jo? I get the feelin’ we’re going to be playing for some hours tonight.”

“Whatever you’re havin’,” she replied quietly, shifting uncomfortably in her seat for a moment as he let out a huff of a laugh and returned to the table with a glass for each of them. Jo reached out before he could set it down, taking the drink from him and taking a sniff - the malt tones of Jameson’s easy to note, and somehow not surprising that he was serving something so classic and uncomplicated. “Thanks.”

“You’re very welcome, darlin’, just for the politeness - how about you set the buy-in value?” The dark-haired man said with a jerk of his hand, toothpick back between his fingers, as he sat back down in his chair. “Usually it’s twenty-five years, but perhaps you don’t want to waste that pretty youth of yours.”

“That’s fine with me.” She snapped back, waiting for him to settle in as he lent forward, arm across the green felt before him as he moved to pick the cards back up. The toothpick and the way his lips would curl fully up on one side in a cocky smile made her skin crawl a little, but this was the safest option she’d come across so far. If he knew she was here though, Jo knew - spinning her ring around her finger awkwardly as she thought about it - that he’d throw a fit at her being there and even just trying this. The prospect of losing twenty-five years with him made her stomach flip, but the prospect of gaining them extra made her heart thud harder in her ears. “You cuttin’ or am I?”

“You want to do the deck?” “Seems unfair that the one with the bank gets to control the cards as well to me.” “Perhaps, but it’s my game, Joanna, so you’re playin’ by my rules.”

That didn’t surprise her, nor the way his lips quirked all the way up in a twisted smirk. The cards snapped against each other again, and as he sat the deck in the middle of the table and opened the chip carrier again, Jo frowned as she watched the witch pull out two stacks and set them beside the cards. This was what all three of them had said, and his hand - that toothpick back between those dexterous fingers - waved over the stacks as he chanted the ritual to set them from chips into years. As he lent back and began the same on two others in front of him with the same chant and hand movement, Jo pulled her chips towards her, slowly setting the piles into the sets she liked. Little towers of five in a row, before fidgeting with the plastic discs to create the quiet clink against one another.

“So, ready to play?” “Born ready.”

That got a small huff of a laugh from the witch, as Patrick began to shuffle and then slid two cards before each of them and sat the deck back to the center of the table. Jo tossed out two chips - the big blind - as she pulled her cards back towards herself and glanced down quickly at her hand, face as blank as she could make it.

King and Four of Diamonds alike. An alright starting point, but excluding many of the options that cards closer together might have afforded her. Flushes were still available though, and a King could come in handy if they both ended up on a Four’s pair or three of a kind.

There was a pause before the man across from her flicked out two discs. “I raise one.”

“Check,” Jo said gently after a moment thinking, tossing one disc out across the felt to sit atop her blind as she rapped the table with her knuckles as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

The witch grinned, pick flicking between his teeth as if his tongue was flipping the small stick up as he reached across the table to draw and set out the flop.

Jo had to fight herself from reacting, her hand crushing for a moment around the silver ring on her left hand, spinning the face of it around and around her finger for a moment as she considered the cards. Two more Diamonds - a Queen and a Jack - as well as a second Queen in the remaining red suit. If only her four was a ten!

Considering her options, Jo fiddled with her ring awkwardly, glancing repeatedly between the cards face up on the table and the piercing look on the witch’s face. He just bled out glee behind those dark eyes, amused and sparkling dangerously. Whatever he had, he likely held either a Queen or a Jack in his own hand, but the fact two of the ladies were face up made Jo lean towards the knave.

Chewing on her lip thoughtfully, she picked up one disc and tossed it out again, raising a brow across at the other man as she mumbled quietly, “One.”

“I’ll see you,” Patrick replied, matching her bet with a quick placement of his own chip atop his others before he reached to flip over the turn card.

It took everything in her not to react as the King of Clubs stared up at them, and from the likelihood of probability - the game had just shifted into her own favor instead of the gleeful look that had been on the witch’s face. Jo knew she must have given something away though, as the dark-haired man sat back in his chair now, reaching up to pull the toothpick from his lips as he considered her.

“Two years,” Jo said quietly, slowly shifting another two chips out onto the pile on her side of the board. She blinked slowly as she moved her hand back, trying not to let her fingers shake in pre-emptive excitement. All that could lose her this hand was another Jack, and the probability of that was small, but not impossible. She’d have to wait until the other folded or the River flowed before she knew if this would be in her hand.

“Two huh? Well, how ‘bout we make this fun, hey, Joanna.” “Isn’t this already fun for you?” “Oh, sweetheart, I find the learning curve more fun than the luck involved. How about we make it five and I’ll give you a bonus chip if you aren’t here to make yourself young and beautiful.”

The man sat out a full tower of five chips with the other four already out there, a wicked smile curling up one side of his lips as he lifted his whiskey to his lips, considering her and her moves.

Looking at the board again, Jo fiddled with her chips for a second, the calming sound of their clicking sinking her back to the days spent on Rufus’ knee and sliding the coins of her pocket money for cleaning tables or sweeping the floors across the tabletop as she stared down this hunter or that one. Flicking her eyes between her chips and the witch’s curiously dark eyes, she nodded before she added another three discs out to match his five. They were already playing for nine years.

“You need to give me a chip then, I’m not here to be young,” Jo said back gently as she fiddled with her ring again, watching hungrily as the man ran an eye over her before nodding and fetching her a freebie from the chip holder. If nothing else, she would only be down eight years now if the River showed a Jack.

“Interesting, darlin’, very interesting,” Patrick said with one of those same sharp smiles, sharper and darker than the glint in his eyes as he moved his hand to hover over the deck. “Let’s see how your first hand has gone for whatever your goal is then, shall we?” He didn’t wait for a response and simply flipped the last card over for the board with a flourish and a twirl of that toothpick between his fingers.

Jo felt her stomach drop at the black card facing up at her, the bored-looking manchild with his staff staring up at her from the Jack of Clubs. She didn’t even need to look up from it to know that the other would be fighting down a gleeful sneer at the way the cards had fallen, letting her fingers slip back from her chips and instead working over her ring repeatedly. Spinning it around and around as if it could keep her from reacting any harsher to the loss that was about to come.

“Check.” “Oh, darlin’, you just made a blue didn’t you?” “Luck of the draw, isn’t it?”

“That it is, that it is. Now, you’re not goin’ to respond to any raise I make are you now?” He looked across at her, and Jo blinked balefully for a moment before nodding her head and biting down on a self-deprecating smile as the witch gave a huff of a laugh. “Well, I’ll be kind to you shall I-” Patrick quipped, rapping the table with his knuckles. “And we can get this hand done and dusted with a flip, aye?”

Jo sighed as she turned her cards over, and shook her head ruefully seeing the Ace of Hearts and a Jack staring at her from the other’s hand before he pulled the pile across the tabletop towards himself.

“Thems the breaks, sweetheart. Did you want to keep playin’ or you ready to be in your forties already?”

“My button.” Jo snapped back as she rubbed awkwardly at the back of her neck for a moment, as he slid his chips into neat stacks before he began cutting and shuffling the deck again with another laugh.

The next hand was possible trash and checking to add the two chips only to meet the blind, Jo wasn’t surprised that the other followed suit. It was a smart move, to wait until they had seen the flop if neither of them had decent hands - and a Five and Two of non-matching suits was definitely not a decent hand for her to start on.

As two Nine’s and a Five flopped out in the center of the table, Jo felt that might have just changed, but waited for the other to consider the table thoughtfully with that ever-present smirk but the uncertain twitch of his lips that gave away almost nothing except that there were probably no Five’s or Nine’s in his had at that moment. That the witch threw out three chips with a flourish suggested he might have two of an Eight, Seven or Six though. Jo slid her own matching three years across the table to await the flip of the Turn card as she took a sip of her drink, thumb still spinning the ring on her middle finger gently, soothingly.

A damned Jack. But this time, a welcome reprieve for her from the chance she might lose this hand as well - already five years in on this hand and down the eight from before, she didn’t want to face fighting back to make up thirteen years instead of three.

The witch seemed to pause though, staring thoughtfully across at her rather than making any calls about the hand just yet - dark eyes focused fully upon her face and then running along all the pieces of her he could see. Jo knew the moment his eyes paused and held on the silver chain just visible under the neckline of the blue sweater she wore, and then the way he fixated on her still spinning ring as if trying to determine exactly what it was that drew her there. As if he could read her mind by reading her face and hands and the smallest shifts of her stance.

“You know, perhaps I was wrong about you, sweetheart. You seem to be reading me like a book and I’m struggling to pin you down.” Patrick spoke with that same smugly joking tone, that she could tell he meant nothing but the opposite as he smirked across at her. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you knew exactly what it was you were playin’.”

“And you don’t mean the poker, right?” “Of course not. That’d require none of the brainpower you’re runnin’ through right now counting the odds and cautiously keeping back from jumpin’ full-on in.” “Very true. You mean that I’m playin’ against a witch, yeah?”

“See now, that’s what I like in a competitor.” The man’s grin grew wider as he sat back in his seat, still not making a move to set any of his chips forward or make any bets on this round so far, just setting his toothpick down next to his hand of cards as he looked back at her. “I like someone that has surprises available.”

“Is that just these days since she left you?” Jo found herself compelled to ask. That little part of her that always struggled with impulse control straight up directing her, daring her even, to ask about the man’s dead love. To ask a question about the only nice witch that the boys had ever interacted with from the way Sam had described her. She felt like her tongue was too big for her mouth at the furious look that flashed across his face for a split second, followed by an even more painful and haunting look for an even smaller fraction, before the other raised his glass to his lips to delay a response or hide his reaction. Jo shook her head, cheeks blushing sharply as she lent forward for a second, fingers twitching as if wanting to reach out to comfort him. “I’m sorry, that was rude-”

“So, you’re one of them are you?” “One of what?” “A hunter like that trio of bumbling buffoons a handful of years back.”

“Ah. Yes then.” Jo replied softly as the man seemed to rake an eye back over her, trying to assess the validity of the concept. As if his eyes were looking for that scar on the side of her neck now that he was paying attention, or the way her hair had split ends she’d not found the time to get trimmed between cases, or the way her fingers had thin pale lines that cut over the very ends of the pads of her fingertips that had taken so long to heal. “That would be a group I’m part of.”

“So it is. You disguise it well under all your finery and the pretty face, you know.” The witch bit back, gesturing at her with his almost empty glass before he tossed the remaining contents back and set the crystal back down on the table beside that toothpick of his. The next second he appeared to be back in the game or never having left it unlike the distraction leaving Jo’s mind scrambling to quickly remember that the threat was likely any card higher than a Five that the other might have in his hand. She shook her head a few times before the click of chips caught her back. “Raise you three.”

“Check.” Jo rapped the table, setting out the three chips and bringing the total hand up to eight each as before. If she won this, she’d be back where she started, a good position to be in.

And then the River came rushing over with a Seven of Diamonds. A card higher than a Five, and leaving Jo’s stomach tying up in knots as to if the other’s hand held that magic number or not to beat her two pair.

Patrick appeared to be doing the same mental arithmetic, and the next moment, Jo let out a rush of air as he rapped the tabletop without calling to add any extra tokens out and spend any extra years on this hand.

The flip of both their hands, showing his useless Six and Three in comparison to her useless Two and her Five that turned her hand into a two pair and the winner of that round. She slowly pulled the chips back over to her side, and began stacking them carefully into their piles of five - gently clicking them together as she realized she was right back where she started from but no worse off.

The next hand few hands were uneventful and more teething than anything - with his winning with a pair of Sixes of all things and then her own win with a Jack high that had her down all of one chip given the discrepancy to the shitiness of their hands. The third hand had her up by two again with a hand of Two Pair.

“So, before we begin the next round - if you tell me why you’re here, I’ll give you another freebie chip. That’d take you up to twenty-eight years, so up by three overall.” Patrick’s voice was soft and guiding at that point as if trying to draw the secret out from her of the push for her to be there, as he’d stood to refill both of their drinks. He looked over his shoulder towards her after a second, raising an eyebrow at her. “What is there for you to lose other than a free extra year of your life if you decline?”

“There’s many things for me to lose, actually, and that’s part of what I’m here for,” Jo replied softly, her voice quiet and filled with uncertainty compared to the playful banter they’d had over their useless and worst hands thus far of such poor opportunities. If she wasn’t so concerned at walking away at least even on her buy-in, she might have bet up a storm on the hand with the Jack high just to scare him off and end that round quicker. But instead, she was playing cautious and gentle, playing the chances rather than the gut instinct that sometimes led her to greatness. Fiddling with her ring again, the dim light above the table catching in the shining crystals and bouncing small sharp jabs of light around the room and tiny rainbows into the shadows around them. “But the main one is.. the main one is a guy called Grey.”

“You’re riskin’ your future for a guy?” “He’s.. not just any guy. And I want to be with him forever.”

“Darlin’, I hate to be the one to break it to you - but humans don’t really live forever, no matter how much it may seem that way.” Patrick’s tone was condescending in a way that made her want to check out her chips and then punch him in that beaky nose of his, before she could shake that desire off. “I mean, unless this fellow is like yours truly, you’re not going to get much longer winning some years without splittin’ them.”

“You’re right, but oh so wrong.” Jo quipped back. She spun her ring one more time, before letting out a soft sigh. “He’s as immortal as you practically are now, though not quite so old as you supposedly are.”

“Oh? And what exactly what makes this man of yours so special, sweetheart?” “He’s a monster.”

“Well, color me surprised again, dollface, that is not what I’d expect for someone like you.” The witch seemed to freeze for a moment at her reveal, though he returned back to the table within a few seconds and his face was impulsively smug as it had been the whole time they had been playing. “And here I thought it wasn’t done by your kind and that.”

“You’d be surprised the number of us that don’t quite follow the killin’ method of dealing with things,” Jo grunted the words out, with a shake of her head and a raise of her hand to rub awkwardly at her neck and then twist a finger through the dainty silver chain of her necklace.

There was a shift, and looking up from her hands and the sliver wrapping around them, Jo was somewhat nonplussed by the way the man was leaning forward - arm resting on the table as he peered towards her - eyes fixated on the thin chain in a way that made the dark circles under them stand out sharper as he was thrown into the shadow of both the light and whatever it was rushing through him. Jo couldn’t be sure, but she was almost positive it was something to do with the woman Sam had quietly told her of. The one that had promised to love the man forever, and then finally changed her mind. The one that forced his hand to draw her years out of her and into him instead. The one that made this ancient soul destroy the one he’d loved most. Whatever it was, it made her stomach twist to see the twitch of his lips before they finally formed into a scowl.

“So, the little lady thinks she can win some extra time to spend with her lover, does she? Well, I’m here to tell you, darlin’,” Patrick’s voice sounded rougher then, harsher and less the smooth and charmingly playful tones of before and a darker edge to them that made Jo happy she knew that someone was waiting nearby in case anything bad happened and a borrowed silver bracelet around her wrist she was assured would protect her from any demonic or witch flare-ups. His words turned into knives instead though, as he picked up the cards and shuffled them through and viciously sliced her cards across the table to her. “You might win some years here. You might even double your bets with me. But that time? It’ll mean nothin’ in the long run. You’ll be the same fickle way all you women are - you’ll decide somewhere down the line that this fella? He’s not enough for you anymore. You’ve got other things you care about more, or places you don’t want to be. You’ll get sick of him and his ways. You’ll find you loathe what you’ve become for him, the things you gave up for him like a normal life or families. Your love will turn into resentment, and you will slowly burn the both of you from the inside until there’s nothin’ left for him in this world once you decide to leave him.”

His words were vicious and cruel and punctuated through his entire speech by the click of chips between the both of them as their cards played out. The witch’s words were harsh, but the cards were harsher for him. Jo’d upped the bet to six years on the flop - the Ace in her hand met by an Ace on the board reconciling that of the cards out, she probably held the highest match unless he’d gotten a straight right away with the Ten of Clubs and King of Spades sitting face up as well. The Turn gave another Ten, Spades this time, and they each raised again taking the total number up to a matching ten years.

As the final River card was set out, a Seven of Spades throwing her at risk of fighting off a Straight or a Flush with a lowly two pair, Jo found herself swallowing thickly as the witch snarled across at her, another two chips pushed into the pot as a call with it, “You will grow to hate him and what you’ve become for him instead.”

Jo sucked in a breath at his words, shaking her head a little as she clicked her chips, carefully trying not to let his distractions force her into a bad move as she looked at the fifteen discs still on her side of the table and the ten years investment she’d already placed in. Meeting his eyes, the dark fire burning in them calling to that dangerous impulse of hers to brush with danger - that adrenaline junkie siren call and the risky nature she always had - and before she realized what she was doing, before she’d fully weighed the risks that perhaps they might be deadlocked or he was calling her out, she saw rather than felt herself sliding the corresponding chips forward to match his bet.

“Oh, darlin’, you are in way over your head.” The Irish man sneered at her, flipping his hand over to reveal a King and a Five but neither of them Spades. Jo’s heart that had been racing and thudding in her ears the moment she realized she’d put twelve years on the line stopped and the rush of silence as it returned to normal set her floating over the barbs he laid out.

His own smirk twisted in disgust as Jo flipped her Ace and Eight over - both of them a Two Pair but her Aces coming out trumps.

“You sure ‘bout that?” Jo said back quietly, the soft slide of her own bladed words as she raked the pot over to her side of the table and began restacking them. There was a huff of a laugh, but mirthless in the sound from the other as he began reshuffling the deck before Jo added gently. “By the way, you owe me another chip.”

The cards made a slick sound as he riffled the cards together between his two hands and the table before tapping them all back together again. Squaring the deck and setting it in the middle of the table, the witch gave another harsh-sounding laugh as he pointed at her with his toothpick.

“Right you are, missy, right you are.” Patrick nodded, fishing one of the chips from the holder and setting it down on the table between them, one finger harsh and pressed white atop it. “You can’t say I’m not a generous man with my life, can you, darlin’?”

Jo nodded her head, reaching out to take it, though his finger held firm and hard until she caught his eye. That same thrill-loving impulse told her that there was danger afoot as she stared back at him - silent and considering - for a long moment before he withdrew his hand and started dealing the cards again. She couldn’t tell what it was as she drew the chip back to her pile now thirty-eight up, but something told her that this friendly game was about to change for the worse.

That instinct was proven right over the next five hands, her fortunes going up and down in waves through crappy hand after crappy hand. A Jack High of all things was her only win in the second hand out, a bluff that the witch hadn’t bothered calling and let her take the four years only from the blind and Flop round before he passed it in. The rest were atrocious for the both of them, but Lady Luck seemed to be smiling on the Irish man more than upon herself for most of them. Those thirty-eight years slowly dwindled away through no fault of bad plays of her own back down to only twenty years - the fates how they are and the luck of the draw on the witch’s side eating her profit away until she was down again and struggling to make it back up. It might only be five down from her buy-in but it was a blow from what she could have walked away from the table with if she hadn’t given in to that need for the heart-thumping thrill and wager of loss.

“Now, sweetheart, you’re down a pretty few years right now. You sure you want to keep this up and leave your bonnie love sooner?” Patrick’s voice was back to that silky smooth charm, but Jo knew it was poison underneath. It was sharp and meant to taunt her into giving up, into leaving the table at a loss rather than rush after another big win. Or perhaps it was a taunt into making her chase that winning high rather than quit while she was ahead. And unfortunately, her brain wasn’t making the decisions as she quirked a brow up at him across the table before he began to deal for the next hand. “He wouldn’t appreciate your comin’ home all wrinkled and a failure, would he?”

“I doubt he’d care about such trivial things. More the years gone than the physical change.” “You sure ‘bout that? Men are as fickle as you women are, you know.” “Oh, I’m sure. He’s not a man after all.”

The bitter sounding laugh rang through the room as Jo lifted her cards to look at her hand as she set out the two discs for the big blind that round. A Seven of Spades and a Two of Hearts. The hearts made her smile, a tiny thought that something about it connected to her playing with her heart on the line and his the way that she was. The hand wasn’t good at all, but she felt something quiet in the back of her mind that sounded like his voice whispering that it would be alright.

“Well now, it looks like someone’s got a good hand.” Jo blinked in surprise as she looked across the table to the other, having forgotten to school her face blank for half a second as she’d let the smile tug her lips up rather than keep her poker face in place. The dark-haired man was smirking across at her as he played with his chips for a moment, before tossing five out alongside the small one year blind. “Let's take it up by four, shall we?”

Looking back down at her cards - a useless hand that any other time she’d fold with and count those two blinded years as the bad money she didn’t want to throw good after - Jo chewed on her bottom lip for a moment before she nodded. Something, she couldn’t tell what at all, was telling her to trust this hand and the two hearts it held onto. Sliding another four coins across to match his, Jo nodded again.

The Flop served it’s purpose, and Jo nervously shifted in her chair as she continued to roll her ring around her finger to calm herself down. She’d already broken the facade of calm before and accidentally made the witch think she had more than she’d had - but now, looking down at the Eight, and then the Seven of Diamonds and the Seven of Clubs to join her own tucked into her hand, Jo felt that little prickle of excitement starting up again.

“Well now, looks like we’re both in a good spot there, right sweetheart? I call ten.” Patrick quipped, toothpick held between his teeth as his grin pulled all the way up on the left in that dangerous way that made her certain he had something good in his hand from the get-go. A pair already, most likely, and as he threw out another ten chips - a bold move but not an unpredictable one as he seemed to have learned Jo had trouble backing down from a bite - his grin got wider still like a shark circling its prey. “How’s about it? Your two pair versus mine, isn’t that right?”

Jo hummed quietly, before making up her mind and shifting not only the ten of her chips to match his own but another two on top of it with a nervous rub of her necklace chain as her eyes darted between the Board and his own predatory smile. “I raise another two.”

“Oh, darlin’, that’s just reckless.” He let out another laugh, sliding the requested two discs across to match her bid and call her in turn. “You’re down to four years, and you won’t make it through another hand at this rate.”

That thought hadn’t crossed her mind, and Jo knew immediately her cheeks were flushing in reaction to her foolishness to risk it all on this hand. Three of a Kind like she had was a good spot to be in right now, and it would trump his Two Pair if that was indeed what he had, but if he had two Eights in his hand? He’d have a Full House and she would be down to four years of the twenty-five she’d started with, and not nearly enough to play another round.

“Guess this is the last hand then,” Jo said quietly, blinking away the sting that she might have just lost entirely at this rate and would be walking away feeling closer to sixty than thirty, as she continued to rub her thumb against and spin her ring nervously.

There was another of those mirthless laughs as the Turn card showed a Six of Spades, and the witch stared her down for a long moment. And then his knuckles rapped upon the top of the table, rather than raising the ante at all. His eyes were fixed on her, and blinking in surprise at him, Jo let out a shaky breath as she too rapped her knuckles to check. No extra coins needed at that point as she guarded her remaining four protectively.

And then it happened.

Jo’s heart lurched violently in her chest as the River card was laid out and that thudding in her ears continued to ring sharp and high. She didn’t hear a word the man said as his lips were moving, his hands were pointing and gesturing, and he sat back in his chair with a smug, self-satisfied grin as he’d slid four chips into the pot.

All Jo was focused on was the way her Two of Hearts tucked carefully away in her hand, had just found it’s match in the Two of Spades facing up at her from the last round.

“So, what do you say, you goin’ all in, sweetheart?” Jo blinked and shook her head for a moment to clear her ears as she looked at the card and his risen bet. “Is that a no-”

“I call. All in.” Jo breathed the words out, harsh and ragged as she shoved the remaining four discs across the table and her hands splayed out, shaking nervously against the green felt. She didn’t have the years to play another hand, and she had to make this one work for her - her and her Full House had to be higher, it just had to - or she’d be leaving the table then and there with some more silver strands and more lines around her eyes than she came in with. She had to win this, and her heart was lodged in her throat as she watched the other shake his head sadly at her actions.

“Darlin’, your man is going to be mighty upset with you.” The witch said gently, as he turned over his cards - revealing to her immense relief a pair of Tens rather than the Eights that could have wrecked everything for her. His smirk, however, held the cockiness of someone expecting an Eight in her own hand and the win of the pot to go to him. “You looking forward to hittin’ sixty in the blink of an eye?”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Jo said softly, rolling her thumb over her ring again, calming herself from the warmed metal and the press of her finger pad into the intricate design as she allowed her smile to slowly grow. “And I’m cashin’ out now.” Jo flipped her cards with the other hand, the Seven and Two partnering up to give her her Full House and the ownership of the forty chips in the center of the table. “I’m goin’ to quit while I’m ahead.”

There was a moment of joy she got to experience watching the Irish man’s face shift and twist in surprise to frustration and then finally, as she fished her pendant out from inside her sweater to grasp tightly and excitedly around the sharp edges of the design, it turned into a soft smile as the other looked across at her.

“That, my dear, was a very ballsy play. And a very smart move.” Patrick’s voice was gentle there, and she almost felt like crying not only in her own happiness to have not risked so much for no reward but for the way she could see part of that tiredness in the man’s own face - the wear and tear of his losses and the work he did for nothing but himself anymore - ease a little. And then the chips were alight and the brush of ash that never reached her other than the power behind it washed over her. Her shoulder that always seemed to ache from sitting too long felt better, and as she let go of her necklace she noticed her hands didn’t have any of the pains from the breaks so long ago that she didn’t leave be for long enough. Nothing hurt and raising her hands to her hair, she saw even the split ends had come back together.

Jo let out a surprised noise before the man laughed again, that mirthless sound was harsh and jagged but wasn’t as condescending as it had been previously. “Well now, aren’t you a lucky one. If you ever want to play again, darlin’-”

“I’ll try not to take too much from the bank next time.” Jo finished for him, her eyes lighting up as she pushed her chair back, looking over the table in disbelief as she rose to her feet. Tilting her head as she shrugged on her leather jacket and the sound of footsteps coming down the hallway to the exit suggested his previous engagement may be there, Jo waited for a moment to see a middle-aged man with a pot-belly, the sagging jowls of a man who’d ate his way through his youth while he played College football but hadn’t adjusted once the knee injury took him out of the game, and the pale band of skin around his ring finger that suggested divorce had come first rather than death, before she turned back to the witch. “Thanks again, Patrick. I’ll be seein’ you.” She didn’t know what compelled her to do it, but leaning down she pressed a brief kiss to his cheek, laughing herself at the stunned look on the witch’s face and the same on his next victim’s before she started off for the door with a new, or should that be old, spring in her step.

Behind her, she could hear the scrape of a chair and the clicking of chips as the words bounced off the walls and down the hall with her. “Are you ready to play a little game?”

#fic #ca #jopov #cc

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jarienn972 · 6 years ago

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Curse of Undoings - Part 5

I know it has been a few days since the last update but now that I'm back to my semi-normal routine after pulling something in my back a few weeks ago, I won't be able to update this quite as quickly as the first few chapters. There's still lots more story to tell and absolutely lots more whump to be had. This chapter is heavily focused on Henry but (spoiler alert) we'll have plenty of Captain Cobra action coming. This chapter does contain some semi-graphic descriptions of injuries - nothing too clinical, but adding warnings to the squeamish.( although if you fall into that category, this probably isn’t the best fic for you.)

Tagging @killian-whump, @hookaroo and @castielamigos for the new update and you can read from the beginning here: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 or on AO3 and FF.net

Henry leaned his back against the cobweb strewn wall of the crawl space behind his mother's office – well, what had been Regina's office before the advent of the Black Fairy's curse and his adoptive mom, along with so many others from town, vanished. For some unknown reason, Henry appeared to have been immune to Fiona's curse. Maybe it had something to do with him being the Author or perhaps it was because he was, by blood, Fiona's great-grandson, but either way, he'd not been subjected to the false memories plaguing his mother, Emma.

Having grown up playing in and around the Town Hall building, Henry knew all of the secret passages within its walls – including this narrow, dusty air vent that was adjacent to the office. Regina had discovered it long ago but Henry made the assumption that Fiona would be oblivious to the secreted space, being new to the town and the occupant of this office for less than a day. He'd come here straight from the park intending to spy on Fiona, ducking inside through the building's rear entrance before climbing into the vent from its access point in the janitor's closet.

He just didn't expect to stumble upon a conversation between Fiona and Gideon, the pair discussing a prisoner being held downstairs. Henry hadn't realized at first who they were talking about, but a few minutes later, he very quickly put two and two together when Emma strolled in to Fiona's office. Henry couldn't see the expression on her face, but Henry was horrified by the lust for vengeance resonating in his mother's voice while bragging about questioning the prisoner about murders that never occurred. He was especially disturbed by her statement that she didn't care if her questioning killed him first. What exactly had she already done to Killian? Worse yet, how could she harm someone she loved so much? Was the curse really so strong that it could destroy True Love?

Now Henry knew he had to find Killian. He knew that his stepfather was hidden away somewhere in this building, or more correctly under the building in the super creepy sub basement. If he could get Fiona to leave the office for five minutes, he knew where Regina kept a duplicate set of keys in her desk. He'd just need a distraction to get inside and grab the ring, preferably before his mother got done with lunch and before she discovered that he wasn't at home like he'd promised. Nothing difficult about any of this…

He knew nearly every nook and cranny of Regina's office and from all appearances, Fiona hadn't changed much during her takeover. There were a few new touches – photographs of various infants he didn't recognize and a few random knickknacks added to the shelves, but otherwise, his mother's office seemed intact. Fiona just had to leave so he could get inside and he'd be able to check to make sure she hadn't changed anything within the desk itself. It didn't seem likely that the Black Fairy would have had time to search for hidden false panels or stashed away duplicates of the keys to every door in this building and probably to every other public building in town.

She wasn't really the Mayor so Henry doubted there would be much for her to do here in the office. He could only hope that it wouldn't be a long wait before she vacated the office. Mercifully, he heard Fiona's phone ring and while there was no way to know what was being said on the other end of the conversation, it was quite clear that the person she was speaking to was someone else who had retained their real memories. Midway through the conversation, Henry heard Rumplestiltskin's name mentioned and saw Fiona push her chair back from the desk and stand, agreeing to meet the caller in a few minutes. She strolled briskly toward the office door, but Henry noticed an odd action as she left the office. She took a glance at one of the bookshelves as she passed it and appeared to smile, but Henry couldn't tell what object had drawn her attention. He thought it was strange, but it was something he simply couldn't think about right now.

As soon as he could no longer hear the click of her heels on the marble, Henry scrambled to the vent exit and cautiously peered into the hallway to make sure the coast was clear. Certain he was safe, he hurried to Regina's office door which now bore Fiona's name emblazoned across the glass. Shaking his head at the surname she'd adopted – Black, he shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out a chain containing a copy of the office key that still successfully gave him access. Fiona was so certain she'd win that she didn't even bother to change the locks. And that was a good thing.

Now to the desk where he found that the duplicate key he'd made for the bottom drawer also worked perfectly, giving him access to places he'd poked through so many times before the original curse broke when he'd been hunting for information about his family or evidence that his beliefs were true. That was how he'd first stumbled onto the concealed false panel in the bottom right drawer containing a huge ring of assorted keys in every imaginable shape and size. Over the years, he'd learned what most of the keys would open but there were some he'd never really tested. He knew there were a series of doors located in the sub-basement that he'd never asked about. He didn't know what purpose they served or what they'd been intended to hold, but he was certain that he'd find Killian behind one of them.

It took him under a minute to locate and pop open the panel, finding the keys exactly where they'd always been but while he had the desk drawer open, he plucked out a few other items that might prove useful later and pocketed them all. He knew what trinkets and potions Regina kept on hand here and since she wasn't around to tell him no, he figured he could ask for her forgiveness later – assuming this worked… He didn't care what he had to borrow or steal right now because getting his family back was most important.

As he departed the office, he found his own eyes drawn to the same bookshelf he'd watched Fiona peruse earlier, wondering what object she'd been grinning at. Had it been one of these books or perhaps a photograph? Some other shiny object? There was no way he could know what it had been so he dismissed the thought with a brief shake of his head. He'd worry about finding Killian first and then maybe his stepfather would be able to provide some insight into all of this.

With so many people missing from Storybrooke, Henry encountered little resistance as he descended the stairs to the basement level of the Town Hall. He hurried past the storerooms and maintenance closets to the unilluminated doorway at the end of the hall marked DO NOT ENTER in vivid orange lettering. Neither that sign nor the door's lock had ever deterred him before and he was already quite familiar with the dimly lit concrete staircase that lay on the other side.

Those shadowy stairs led down to the bowels of the building which he knew housed the boiler room and a series of locked steel doors. It definitely resembled a dungeon down there so it made sense that they'd stash Killian in one of those rooms. But before he could search for his stepfather, he needed to get past the single guard positioned at the bottom of the steps. The uniformed guard didn't seem overly enthusiastic about his dungeon duty, leaning his chair back against the concrete block wall while playing a game on his phone. No one really knew about this place so Henry figured if he could get past this guy, he likely wouldn't encounter any other guards. Giant, locked metal doors generally provided enough security themselves so the solo guard was probably just there to ward off any would-be trespassers.

Henry had taken into consideration that he might encounter guards along the way so he made his way down the stairs as silently as he could. When he reached the landing where the steps changed direction, he paused a moment to pull a tiny velveteen pouch from his jacket pocket. He untied the drawstring that sealed the pouch and tipped it onto his palm, spilling out a handful of bright purple powder. With a hearty puff of air, he blew the colorful powder towards the oblivious guard's face, waiting as the man coughed a couple of times before tumbling off of his chair and onto the floor in a deep slumber. Henry smiled triumphantly at his first success. Sleeping powder sure comes in handy at times. This guy would be out for at least an hour now.

After the cloud settled enough to be safe, Henry scurried down the remaining steps with his mother's ring of keys now clutched in his fist, ever so thankful that they hadn't shifted in his pocket to betray his position. In the poorly lit corridor, he could see the five steel doors lining one side of the hall that ended at the boiler room – well, officially ended at the boiler room. He'd previously discovered that the room contained a hidden tunnel that connected the Town Hall to the mines, a passageway that, as far as he knew, not even a single dwarf was aware of.

Henry stood before the first door for a few seconds while fumbling through the plethora of keys in his hand, trying to figure out which might be the right one. The lock had a large keyhole so he could easily rule out the smaller keys, focusing on the larger ones that more closely resembled the skeleton key that opened Regina's vault. He had to fiddle with a few of them before locating the correct one but he finally felt the mechanism turning and then tugged the heavy door towards him.

Peeking in, he had an involuntary shiver wash over him as he took in the horrific sight behind the door. Rusty iron chains and shackles hung from the ceiling and he could see more of them strewn across the floor that appeared to be anchored to the concrete walls. He couldn't really tell from his present location but he was certain that the stains on the cement floor, despite being the same ruddy hue as the chains, were probably blood – and he didn't want to venture any further into the empty chamber to find out. It was clear that nothing good had taken place in this room and he was now feeling a bit more consternation about what Killian might be experiencing.

Not bothering to close or re-secure the first door, Henry moved quickly to the next. With little time to spare, he repeated the process with the keys until he found the right one to unlock the second deadbolt. When he pulled this door open, he found the room to be completely dark, but he remained still for a moment, certain he'd heard sounds coming from inside. There was a faint scraping and a rattle that could have been something metallic like the chains in the other room but there was something more – it sounded like labored breathing and maybe - whimpering?

Henry tentatively ran his hand along the wall closest to the door feeling for a light switch. The first little torture chamber had electricity so this one must too. His fingers finally found the switch but as the light illuminated the room, he realized he wasn't fully mentally prepared for what he would find. In the center of this second concrete block chamber, there was a man laying atop a raised metal table and even from the threshold, Henry could see that the man was secured to the table by a series of heavy shackles and sturdy padlocks. The restrained man's breathing seemed to become more accelerated after the light came on and Henry now knew that the rattle he'd heard was from the prisoner's fearful quivering, likely in anticipation of further torment.

He couldn't yet see the man's face, but Henry noticed that on the left side of the table, the prisoner's arm was dangling off of the surface, trailing blood onto the floor that dropped from a scarred and stumped wrist. Only one man he knew had an amputated left hand… "Killian?" His initial voicing of his stepfather's given name was more of a stunned statement than an actual question. He knew this was Killian, but he had no idea what condition the pirate would be in, the sight of blood not a promising indication. Hearing a grunted response, Henry moved closer to the table and immediately saw the reason he didn't get a verbal reply – Killian had been gagged with some sort of harness contraption and his neck was encircled by a huge metal collar that was chained to the table too. "Wow, Killian… what happened? Uh, never mind… Let me see if I can get these things off of you…"

Killian watched the boy with hopeful eyes and a racing heart as Henry flipped through a bunch of keys, searching for one that might open the padlocks but none seemed to be the right fit. He had no idea when Emma or Gideon might return and the last thing he wanted was to see any harm come to Henry if he got caught in here trying to free him.

"None of these is the right size," Henry announced in a slightly disappointed voice. "But don't worry – I'm not done yet. We can try these…" Resting the ring of keys on the tabletop next to Killian's shackled hand, Henry reached into his back pocket and withdrew a small, rectangular case that had a zipper running around three sides. The pirate recognized the case as Emma's lock pick set as the teenager unzipped it and withdrew two of the picks, one with a straight, flat tip and one with a narrower, slightly curved tip. Henry went right to work, first on the padlock securing the collar around Killian's throat. With a few practiced maneuvers, he had the lock popped open in no time, tossing the padlock into the floor as he freed Killian from the cumbersome collar. His next task was to free Killian's wrist from the iron shackle which then enabled him to help his stepfather into an upright, seated position so that he'd be able to get a better look at the contraption secured to Killian's head and see how the harness was fastened.

As he swiftly released the padlocks from the ankle shackles, Henry began to take increased notice the wounds on Killian's battered body. His wrists and ankles were chafed and ringed with bruises from the cumbersome restraints. His abdomen bore angry red marks on each side that looked like burns as well as a patch of darkening bruising beneath his ribs and of course, there was a deep puncture wound in his left shoulder that was bleeding heavily, but it wasn't until Henry moved behind Killian to remove the harness and gag that he saw the worst of the horrors Killian had been subjected to. Killian's entire back was laced with crisscrossing cuts and welts, some bright red and seeping, others deep black and blue, pooled with blood that hadn't escaped his skin.

"Wha…what happened?" Henry asked, trying not to stare at the open, obviously painful wounds, but he immediately chastised himself, remembering that Killian was still gagged. "Oh, sorry… You can't answer that yet…" the boy apologized as he located a narrower pick to release the smaller padlock securing the harness buckles. Once the lock and straps were opened, Killian yanked the offending device off of his head and massaged his aching jaw that had been forced open far too long.

"Thank you, lad," Killian croaked out the words in a raspy whisper, his throat burning and parched. "Have you any water?"

"No, sorry… I'll find you some as soon as we get out of here."

"How? Where are we even?"

"Beneath the Town Hall and I know a way out. Come on, we need to hurry."

"You're taking a huge risk rescuing me," Killian said honestly as Henry helped him off of the table, his legs shaking as his bare feet reached the cement floor, not even certain if he had the strength to walk, but for Henry's sake, he had to, but Killian also knew they had another problem – should they make it out of this prison safely, he had no clothing. He couldn't exactly venture outside clad only in his undergarments. "Also, we have a small problem I've no clothing. I was locked in here with scarcely a stitch…"

"Then we'll borrow the guard's," Henry stated, gesturing toward the sleeping man on the ground as they made their way into the corridor.

"Shouldn't we worry that we might wake him?"

"Nah… I snagged a pouch of sleeping powder from my Mom's desk when I borrowed her hidden ring of spare keys. He'll be asleep for a while yet. The clothes might be a little big on you, but at least you won't be naked."

"Some interesting skills you've acquired, young man," Killian commented with a proud smile curling on his lips while Henry started rapidly undressing the slumbering guard.

"My mother was a thief, my grandmother was a bandit and my stepfather is a pirate. I'd say it runs in the family."

"Indeed," Killian smiled broadly before biting it back with a wince as a wave of pain caught him unprepared, but he didn't let Henry see his grimacing. Clearly the lad had been paying attention during their adventures. Perhaps a bit too much attention, but that would be a conversation for another day. Escaping this hellhole was his foremost priority then he'd think about giving lessons on misspent youth. Maybe after vanquishing a fairy…

#ouat ff #ouat fan fiction #killian jones ff #killian whump #captain cobra #curse of undoings

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