#Paying for the Poison They Sold Me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gloomwitchwrites · 2 months ago

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Devil in a Dark Wood

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader Historical AU

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): Witch AU, Historical AU, early colonial America, Puritanism, biblical themes & scripture, suggestive themes, brief descriptions of injury, arranged marriage, loss of virginity, brief descriptions of sex, horror/suspense

Word Count: 7k

A/N: Requested by @ferns-fics for 3.5k Spooky Bingo (Witch AU) A/N (2): Enjoy my religious trauma!

Arriving to new shores a married woman, you find happiness with the man you're betrothed to without ever first meeting him. But beyond the place you call home is a dark wood. And in that dark wood, something waits for the perfect opportunity.

ao3 // main masterlist // 3.5k spooky bingo masterlist

Pendle, Massachusetts, Late April, 1662

The earth speaks to you.

Back home, the ground is alive with the song of faeries, elves dwell within the trees, and kelpies call from the waters. Nature is alive there. A buzzing that wraps around all living things.

But it is different here in the New World.

Here—there is an echo. There are no nymphs. No sweet songs to lull the wayward wanderer into dancing.

There are teeth here. Teeth in the dirt. Teeth in the bark of the trees.

And a thrumming.

A thrumming that sounds like a thunderous heartbeat.

You hear your name. It is called like a command by a stern, male voice. Eyes opening, you disconnect from the unyielding noise of the ground, and focus on the man in front of you.

A man of the cloth. Reverend Shepherd—if the letter in your haversack is correct.

There is no smile on his face but a sternness etched into every crease and wrinkle. His mouth is a thin line turned downwards, with a balding head, and a slight swell to his belly that reminds you of the one your father grew when he began favoring drink.

Your father.

The reason you’re here.

The reason you stand on the very edge of the New World a newly married woman.

"Reverend Shepherd?" you ask, inclining your head in submission.

The motion is painful. You are not like him. You are not like the people who have settled here. You were raised to be wild and barefoot. Raised by a woman who taught you to listen. To put your ear to the ground. To sense the world sitting just on the other side.

“Child,” he says, gaze narrowing. “Your hair.”

Frowning, you reach up. Some of your hair pokes out from beneath your white cap. “Pray pardon me,” you murmur, discreetly tucking it back.

“I am Reverend Shepherd,” he confirms with a brief nod. “I bid you welcome to Pendle.”

“Thank you, Reverend.”

“And the journey?”

“Pleasant,” you reply, keeping your gaze downcast. “Calm seas.”

“A blessed crossing then. God’s favor came with you. Pray that it stays.”

Your stomach twists at the jab. It is clear what Reverend Shepherd means. You are an outsider. An unknown factor. A disciple that he believes may not fall in line. God’s chosen are already here, and you do not belong.

“Are you to be my escort?”

“Indeed,” he sighs as if the notion bothers him. “And we have much yet to walk. God favors a quick step. We best be off.”

Clutching the haversack to your chest, you nod. “Of course, Reverend.”

This is just an exchange, a way for your father to rid himself of you and to pay off his drinking debts. Your father is no man of God. Wives are needed in the New World. The crown paid handsomely to bring you and other women to these shores.

Grief is a sour thing.

It is a weight upon the living.

Your mother, a woman so wonderful that the world couldn’t contain her, sent herself up to the stars, leaving you with only your father for company.

He is just a man.

Simple. Kind.

And then a poison.

Grief wove its way between bone and blood until he no longer wanted to see your face. The remembrance pained him. And that pain led to long nights away, only for him to return with liquor on the breath and empty pockets.

It is why you were sent away, why you were sent far across the sea. Sold off to a husband you’ve never met. All because of a man who cannot control his grief.

How will your memory be written?

Are you simply your father’s daughter in the King’s ledger? Not even a name. Just…daughter.

Perhaps. That is how it is after all. A history of a woman is rarely written.

Reverend Shepherd turns away and starts walking. You almost slip in the mud as you follow. He passes the docks, moving further away from the center of Pendle.

“Are we not to stay in town?”

“In town?” Reverend Shepherd’s frown deepens. “No, child. Your husband lives beyond the township.”

“How far, pray tell? Are we not to take horses?” you ask, a little breathless.

Reverend Shepherd scoffs. "Why should you require such a convenience? Walking allows for reflection and penance. Do you know your prayers?"

You chew on the inside of your cheek.

“Child?” prompts Reverend Shepherd.

“I do,” you nearly bite out.

“Let me hear them. A good wife can recite the Lord’s prayers when prompted. Scripture will help us pass the time.”

As the two of you walk, your voice becomes monotone, reciting but not listening. Every word is like an empty scallop shell. Mud sucks at your boots, threatening to relieve you of your shoes. Reverend Shepherd remains ahead. Never slowing down. Always keeping a few paces forward.

“Good,” says Reverend Shepherd. “Now, I shall begin and you shall continue. I have no master but You. Now law but Your—”

“You’ve yet to speak of my husband,” you interrupt, frustration growing by the lack of information.

It’s not in you to be obedient, especially around bothersome men.

Reverend Shepherd turns abruptly, the middle of his brow creased in severe displeasure. “Prayer, child. I have no master—”

“His name, Reverend. At least allow me that.”

“Disobedience of woman is an act against God. Your father assured me of your obedience. Of your purity and piety. Is he mistaken?”

Yes. I do not belong here.

“He is not,” you mutter.

Reverend Shepherd holds your gaze until you turn yours downward. When he sets out again, you scowl at the back of his head, reciting perfectly all that you were taught before departing for different shores.

Outside Pendle, the road twists between clumps of trees. Farms stand between, but Reverend Shepherd stops at none of them. He rattles off scripture, keeping his back to you as he does so. It only dampens your mood.

"The Lord is my—"

At the bend in the road, you pause your recitations. A peaceful buzzing surfaces up from the ground, slithering into the soles of your feet, traveling upward into the crown of your head. A sturdy wooden fence lines the road, sectioning off the homestead from travelers. The main gate sits open, a dirt path leading inward toward the cottage. Corn lines the path, and you hear the gentle bleat of a goat in the distance.

Reverend Shepherd turns, his mouth pursed in annoyance.

"Pray pardon, Reverend," you say before the chastisement can leave his lips. "Is this..."

The irritation retreats slightly, his gaze turning passive. "Is it home? Indeed." Reverend Shepherd glances across the farmstead. "The Riley family owns this land. The eldest son, Simon, tends to it."

Simon.

Your husband's name.

Only a name. Nothing else.

The entire journey across the sea was rife with your swirling imagination. What kind of man did your father sell you off to? What might he look like?

Reverend Shepherd presses on. "The younger son lives in town."

You don't reply. It's best not to. Women are expected to be seen and not heard, and you have already overstepped your limits.

Following at the proper distance, you keep silent. Reverend Shepherd walks quickly, eager to be rid of you.

The thwack of an axe piercing wood echoes in the air, drowning out the bleating goats. You clutch the haversack against your chest, the weight of it finally catching up, arms heavy with the load. Reverend Shepherd moves with purpose, following the sound of the thwack and the subsequent clatter of splitting wood.

Beyond the cottage, divided by another wooden fence, is the forest. The trees are tall, towering over everything, pointing toward the grey sky like arrow points. From them, you hear whispers, faint and unclear. A soft chill cools your skin, and you shiver, the whispers disappearing as you and Reverend Shepherd walk around the side of the cottage.

The two of you come to a stop next to a large pile of wood.

Before you is a man with no shirt or doublet to be seen. His back is to the both of you, and your breath catches at seeing so much bare skin. Old scars mark his flesh, yet you're unsure if they're from some accident or from grislier means. The man's shoulders are broad, giving way to muscled arms and a tall frame. Of what you can observe, his figure is thick, honed from hard labor.

Lifting the axe above his head, he brings it down on the log in front of him. The wood splits cleanly.

"Simon." Reverend Shepherd's voice is smooth with authority.

At the sound of his voice, Simon straightens as if struck. Just his head turns, glancing over his shoulder, gaze sweeping over Reverend Shepherd and then landing on you. His eyes widen slightly, and then he fully pivots in your direction, giving you a clear view of his face.

Simon has scars here but they only add to his features. He is handsome with a strong jaw and prominent nose, and his eyes are a golden brown that remind you of sun rays through amber. The hair on his head is slightly askew from the gentle wind.

"Reverend," greets Simon.

While your husband addresses Shepherd, his gaze is entirely fixed on you. There is no smile, but there isn't a frown. You're unsure of Simon's first impression or what he might be thinking.

"Your wife arrived."

Reverend Shepherd makes you out to be little more than an object. A thing delivered.

"Thank you for escorting her here," replies Simon. "Had I known, I would have fetched her myself."

Reverend Shepherd holds up a hand. "Think nothing of it. The Lord values hard work, and her delivery is but His reward for all you do."

The corner of Simon's mouth twitches. He's still holding on to the axe. "Allow me to see you off, Reverend."

"I can see myself. A blessed day to you, Simon. And to an... easy marriage."

Easy. Obedient. Subservient.

You are to bow your head and grovel at your husband's feet for the rest of your days.

"God go with you, Reverend," replies Simon, taking a step forward in your direction.

The two of you silently watch Reverend Shepherd disappear beyond the cottage and down the path. Neither of you speaks, the air heavy with an unresolved tension. The wind kicks up, and you smell pine. A goat bleats, and you shift on your feet.

"Good morrow, Simon," you murmur, arms tightening around the haversack.

Simon blinks, shoulders relaxing, a warm smiling spreading across his face. It's genuine—full of kindness. Even the edges of his cheeks darken with color.

"Good morrow," he replies. "I—" He glances down at himself. "Forgive me. My appearance is unbecoming. Not how a husband greets his wife upon their first meeting."

You take in all the exposed skin and an itch forms in the tips of your fingers. A carnal desire floods upward, seizing your heart and mind. The urge you feel begs you to touch, to step forward and run your hands over that slick flesh. This man is your husband now. He belongs to you as much as you belong to him.

The Reverend would beat these thoughts out of you if he could read your mind.

But he cannot. The Good Reverend isn't here.

And your husband is half-undressed and blushing before you.

"Unexpected," you say slowly. "But nice."

His blush deepens.

Perhaps God has sent you someone you can be yourself with. Not completely,as any mention of the voices from the trees or the teeth in the ground would send you straight to a pyre, but someone who might listen. Truly, kindness and patience are all you want. If Simon is that, then you'll be happy.

Flustered further, Simon glances around like he can't quite look at you. Running his fingers through his hair with his free hand, he finally settles, resting the axe against the stump.

"I should bathe," he says, but not in response to you, more like he's simply speaking to the air.

You take a step forward, moving toward him, taking in more of his muscles. It is clear he has not been without. His largeness isn't from hard labor alone. Simon is eating well and often.

"Allow me." In seconds, Simon is before you, hands grasping the haversack.

"Thank you," you murmur softly as he tucks your belongings under his arm like it weighs nothing at all.

"Would you like to stay here? I won't be long."

"Where are you off to?"

Simon heads for the cottage and you follow. "Just on the other side of the fence is a stream."

You glance beyond the fence line. "May I join you?"

Somehow, Simon's face grows brighter. "I—join me?"

"The ship—"

"Of course," he says quickly. "I imagine there are few opportunities to bathe aboard a vessel. Fewer even for privacy."

You follow Simon to the door of the cottage. He enters but you linger a moment, hesitation halting your momentum.

Like a thunderous stampede, reality comes crashing down around you. There is no ship take you back. No mornings spent in the mist. This place is your home now, this man responsible for you until your death or his.

Simon emerges, shirt on but doublet unbuttoned. In his arms is a small basket. "This way," he says with a grin.

At the back of the property, Simon opens up a small gate and leads you to the stream. The forest is just beyond. Now that you're closer to the towering trees, that thrumming from earlier returns, and a sense of gnashing as if a wolf nips at your heels comes with it. Your gaze narrows as a dark shape moves between the trees. It is tall, and at first, you mistake it for another tree. Whispers rise up again, and is that—horns?

"I do not know your name."

You inhale sharply, hand pressed to your chest as Simon holds the small basket in front of him. You tell him, and then glance back at the forest.

"Something amiss?" he asks, matching your stare.

"No—I." You lick your lips. "The forest feels strange."

Simon nods. "It is. Most avoid it."

"Do you?"

Simon shakes his head. "No. Rosie always wanders off. Wish she'd just go down the road to John's but she favors the forest."

"Rosie?"

Simon laughs. "Apologies. Rosie is one of the goats."

"I see," you giggle.

"She’s a sweet thing. Sanderson favors her."

"Is that another goat?" you ask with a smile, reaching back to untie your apron.

"It is. John gave him to me as a kid. Raised him myself. He's a strong buck now. Hates everyone but me." He shrugs, and then leans forward as if to tell you a juicy secret. "Once bit Reverend Shepherd in the arse."

You burst out laughing, and then quickly cover your mouth. "I should not. God will punish me."

Simon's grin is wide and sweet. "In death, maybe. But as your husband, it's my responsibility to punish you."

"And pray tell, what would befit such a punishment?" you tease, undoing the buttons of your waistcoat.

Simon's smile falters, his gaze lingering on your chest. Your waistcoat hangs open, and the ties at the top of your shift are loose, revealing bare skin. Simon swallows, clearly enraptured by this small reveal of flesh.

A nervousness slips in, but it's not fear. A desire swirls low in your belly, a feeling you haven't felt since you were a young woman and a village boy you favored gifted you flowers.

This is your husband. He will know all of you eventually. You will share the same bed and give him as many children as your body is capable of. There is no need to be nervous.

"Simon?" you prompt, removing your waistcoat.

He coughs, clears his throat. "You're correct. The forest is strange. You are not to go in unless I'm with you." His change in demeanor briefly startles you.

"Is it dangerous?"

Simon shakes his head. "No. But folks in town are…fearful of what they don't understand. I don't want—I don't want anyone believing things about you that aren't true."

Witch.

"Why would they?" you whisper.

Witch.

"There's a tree,” continues Simon. “Large. Dark bark. Not like any other tree in the forest. At least none that we've seen. Reverend Shepherd and his wife wanted it cut down. Said it was a sign of the Devil. But Pendle's blacksmith took axe to tree. The blade broke upon impact. Not a scratch on the bark." Simon sighs and offers you soap from the basket. "Rosie tends to wander near it."

"Woods always hold strange things. Might be a nearby plant she likes chewing on."

"Perhaps. But I'll go after her if she does. It's not a place for you."

The water in the stream is incredibly clear, flowing steadily. Simon produces two washing cloths, offering you one before taking his, dipping it into the stream. It is not truly bathing, but it is refreshing, the cool water a calming entity against the slight burning beneath your skin.

There is silence afterward, and once clean, the two of you return to the cottage. Simon shows you your new home, already built to accommodate a family. There is a small barn for the animals, and coop for the chickens. You meet Rosie, an all-white beauty that constantly chews on your apron. Sanderson is big, black beast of a buck with grey horns curled backward and away from his head with eyes so pale they’re almost white.

Sanderson does not bite you, but he follows Simon around the homestead, lightly tapping Simon’s outer thigh with his horn like he wants attention.

The first night—that very night—Simon does not touch you. At least, not at first. He allows you your space, keeping his distance. But he observers silently, his gaze lingering on those flashes of bare skin. There is nothing harmful in his gaze, only a deep appreciation, and a longing you can’t quite place.

From what you were told to prepare you for this moment, you expect Simon to flop on top of you. For you to remain silent and still. To thank him afterward whether or not you enjoyed yourself.

Simon is patient. He is gentle. And above all, kind.

“May I touch you?”

You slip into bed in nothing but your shift. Simon is without, only wearing loose breeches that have seen better years.

You curl up next to Simon, facing him. Reaching out, Simon’s fingers lightly brush the curve of your bottom lip and then your jaw. Descending, his fingers find your throat. Then collarbone. He traces the neckline of your shift, and then his fingers tangle in the ties at the front, pulling them loose until your shift opens further.

“Do I tread too far?” he asks, softly.

His touch is awakening something. You sense a tingling, coiling outward.

“No,” you reply. “Continue.”

Simon’s hand slips between shift and your body. His palm is warm, and then he’s guiding it over one shoulder, exposing it to the cool air. Leaning in, Simon’s lips press to the curve of the joint. It is a small thing, but this one bit of contact causes you to shiver, for the tingling to further travel outward.

As he draws back, you tilt your head. Then it is Simon kissing you, and you accepting him. He is not forceful here. There is no claiming. It is exploration, and you find yourself reaching out, hands gliding over his chest.

He is all hardness, and yet nothing about him terrifies. Strength resides within him, but he is ever so gentle. Taking his time. Savoring.

The shift lowers as Simon pulls it downward. He palms one breast, and you gasp, breaking the kiss.

With a soft groan, Simon’s head dips, trailing kisses along your neck, moving over collarbone, descending down until his mouth explores the valley between your breasts, and then further still.

The tingling explodes outward into the tips of your fingers and toes. You are buzzing—the restlessness of the world coming with you.

The shift is over your hips. Down your thighs.

Gone.

Utterly gone.

Your legs part as Simon continues to trail kisses downward. His hands squeeze your thighs, and then he’s kissing you between your legs, lingering there as the buzzing ascends into a crackling that sucks all air from your lungs.

“Simon,” you gasp, fisting his hair.

He abruptly lifts his head, lips shiny in the light of the hearth. “Have I harmed you?”

Harmed you? No. Hardly.

“No,” you gasp. “I—this is unexpected.”

Simon places a kiss to the inside of your thigh before leaning on an elbow. “My understanding came from observing the farm animals.” A small smile spreads across his face. “But after service one Sunday, Reverend Shepherd rounded up all the unwed men. Told us the King was sending us wives.”

“Were you happy when he told you?”

“No,” chuckles Simon, absently stroking your thigh. “I was scared.”

“And now?”

“Still scared.”

“Do I terrify you?”

Simon gives a small shake of his head. “No. I am scared of how my heart feels.” You gently place your hand against his cheek. Simon turns into the touch. “Reverend Shepherd explained. Made this sound like a duty. A chore.” He sighs. “But I do not see how.”

Shifting, Simon drapes himself over you, gaze intense. “My heart is full but my mind is confused. God demands duty but I see no duty here.” He closes the distance, lips brushing over yours. “A wife is not a chore.”

Your fingers find the band of his breeches. They surrender easily under your touch. Legs widening, Simon settles between. There is a small tangle—a clumsy back and forth as the two of you adjust. It stings at first, but quickly fades, leaving you boneless as your bodies meet repeatedly.

You whisper his name, and Simon groans yours.

He shudders, burying his face against your next. Warmth and wetness blooms in your womb. You tangle yourself around him, holding Simon close.

Inside your chest, something cracks. Splits. Fractures.

Part of you believes it is just this moment between husband and wife, but a whisper runs beneath, and a slithering like that of a serpent. The forest is creeping in—pushing in. Making room where there is none.

But it is quick, and it is fleeting.

It is after the first night that the two of you truly begin to explore. Simon starts with simple touches, and you accept them all, wanting to understand to be close to someone. He is happy you’re here with him, and you’re happy to be his.

Unlike the rest of the men in town, Simon listens, and values your opinion. His jokes are terrible, and his willingness to subvert and ignore Reverend Shepherd’s doctrine makes him the pariah. The only time the two of you make it into town is for Sunday service, and while townsfolk are friendly, they don’t interact with him unless they have to.

Between it all, you help out on the farm, tending to the animals, and whispering sweet encouragement to the crops when Simon isn’t looking. They all flourish under your care, the land bountiful and beautiful. When others suffer, you and Simon’s land remains strong and steadfast. He is quick to share in the wealth—to take care of others.

A home is built.

Love flourishes.

And for three years, life is peaceful.

The forest hardly whispers. The teeth do not gnash. There is quiet in the wood, and you see no glance of horns.

Simon's hand rests upon your stomach. He turns on his side, pressing a kiss to a spot just above your navel. As he descends, you playfully shove his head away.

"I cannot," you laugh. "I am sore everywhere."

Simon grins and then pushes up, stealing a kiss before rolling over you and heading to the mantel above the hearth. Retrieving his bible, Simon returns, settling back in beside you. The leather cover is worn in places.

His gaze takes in your nakedness. “Stay like that for me.”

You are uncovered and bare before him. Simon’s seed rests heavy between your thighs.

Opening the bible does not result in reading scripture. Simon picks up a charcoal stick. Turning the bible vertically, Simon starts to sketch.

Neither of you read from it. There is nothing to be read. The pages are covered with Simon’s sketches. Most of them are of you—of pieces of you—even the place that is well-loved even now. There are less lewd images etches across the parchment. All of the animals are there. So is the cottage.

If someone—anyone—were to discover these drawings, they’d blame you.

A hex. A curse. A spell.

You have turned him from God.

But Simon doesn’t think so, and you care not. God has given you nothing but this man. Everything the two of you are is only because of the effort and love the two of you have brought. God did nothing but drop you at Simon’s feet.

You thank Him for it, but nothing else. And if that will send you into hellfire, then that is where you will reside.

In silence, you observe your husband. Simon’s gaze darts from the page to you and back again. His bottom lip is between his teeth, and the middle of his brow is creased with concentration. You remain as you are until he turns the bible around to show you.

There you are, sketched over a page of Leviticus.

“Your talents are lost on farming.”

Simon chuckles and then he closes the bible, placing it upon the small bedside table before returning to you. His hands explore, reaching. Then you're opening again, allowing him in.

Sleep is peaceful, and Simon does not wake you in the morning when he leaves to check on the animals.

It is his firm hand shaking you awake.

“Simon?” You rub at your eyes, yawning.

“Rosie is gone.”

“Again,” you groan, digging around in the bedding to find your discarded shift. “That’s the third time this week, Simon.” Finding it, you slip it over your head, retrieving your stockings.

“Keep finding her near the tree.”

A whisper of a voice brushes against your ear and you swat at it like a pesky fly.

You frown. “All three times?”

Simon sighs, and nods. “I’ll go for a look.” Kissing the top of your head, Simon retrieves his musket. “Be back before supper.”

Simon does not come back before supper.

The food grows cold.

And when it’s entirely dark, and the whispers from the wood become overwhelming, you take a lantern, and rush up to road to John Price’s homestead.

John takes a horse to town. Returns with a small party of men.

“It’s best you not go with us. Won’t know what we’ll find.”

“He’s my husband, John. I’m going.”

With lanterns lit, and hunting dogs are your heels, you enter the woods.

The moon is swallowed up as if eaten by a beast, plunging everything around you into utter darkness. The only light you have is that of your lantern and of the other lanterns carried by the menfolk.

And yet, it does not seem like enough.

The darkness here is eternal, and all around you is a dreadful silence.

“Simon!”

“Can you hear us, Simon!”

The only response is the echoing of your collective voices. No insect buzzing. No owls hoot. Nothing scurries underfoot. Even the leaves and twigs you step on are absent of sound.

The forest is consuming, eating away all noise until the only thing you hear are the thoughts in your head.

At the back of the pack, you do not see the tree. Don’t hear the cries for help.

It isn’t until John is approaching you, urging you away that you know something is wrong. Dreadfully and utterly wrong.

There are teeth in the New World. Teeth in the ground.

Jaws. A maw.

It has eaten your heart.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

Licked the tips of its fingers.

The forest has devoured. Consumed your husband for a meal.

Reverend Sheperd prays for three days over Simon's body. When he leaves, the women gather around you. Each day, one or two depart, and by the end of the second week, there is no one but you holding vigil.

Simon does not stir though his breathing remains steady. The town likely whispers of the Devil's work, that Simon's long sleep is a curse.

Do they blame you?

Perhaps.

Maybe.

You cannot form enough resolve to care what the townspeople think. If they do blame you, they'd have to drag you from your home by the hair. You’ll draw blood and break bone if anyone attempts to remove you from Simon’s side.

Tucking the blanket in, you curl up next to your husband, cheek resting against his shoulder. He smells of the forest—damp leaves, crushed berries, and sharp pine. Breathing deep, you commit your husband's scent to memory.

Life is a fragile, fickle thing. The thought of growing old here, of giving Simon children, of watching them grow and have families of their own filled you with such purpose again after your father’s betrayal. It is not the future you expected for yourself, but it is the one you’ve found happiness with.

"Come back to me," you murmur, tears forming in the corners of your eyes. They fall, dampening Simon's skin. "Come back, my love. Come back."

Simon remains silent and still.

Night arrives and then departs, bringing the morning with it. No one comes to visit. No one comes to check on either of you. Responsibility is on your shoulders now. Without your guiding hand, the farm will fall into decay, the fencing will rot, weeds will overtake the crops, and animals will starve. A part of you wants to hand it over to God, to allow him to lead.

But God did not protect your husband. He looked away, leaving Simon to his fate.

A deep sigh escapes you, gracing the air with your accepted reluctance. Slowly, you lift your head from Simon's shoulder. He has not changed in these two weeks. Without food or water, Simon should show signs of wasting. But there is no hint there is anything amiss.

"I will fix this," you say, addressing Simon as if he'll answer.

You rest your palm against the side of his face. Warmth radiates from him, but your touch does not rouse him from his sleep.

A sharp howl pierces the air.

It is not a wolf or dog. This sounds like agony. Like despair. Like a dark creature pulling itself from the earth.

Turning abruptly toward the door, every limb solidifies, turning your blood to stone.

Something is out there. Something that does not belong.

Slipping on your shoes, you creep toward Simon's hunting musket. Grasping it, you reach for the blackpower and musket balls, preparing it like Simon showed you. The howl ceases, but your blood remains chilled like morning frost. The hunting musket is heavy, and the sweat in your palms makes holding it difficult. You can hardly keep it upright.

Grasping it, you hold it in the way he showed you, heading for the door. Pressing your ear to the door, you hear nothing. Not a sound.

Reaching out, you unlatch the door, guiding it open just enough to point the barrel outward and to glimpse the morning.

Nothing stirs. Nothing moves but the tall grass and the corn stalks.

Opening the door wider, you cautiously step outside. Your gaze scans the dirt. No footprints of animal or man.

The air vibrates, and beneath your feet, you sense a creeping static. Tilting your head, you listen—not with your ears but with all your senses, tapping into the ground like your mother taught you.

A tug comes. A gentle pull that lulls your attention leftward.

You take a step in the direction of the feeling, the creeping static intensifying until it suddenly disappears, as if pulled from existence.

"Child." The voice—no, voices—speak with two tongues. "How fares thy husband?"

Turning slowly, you glimpse not man or animal but a combination of the two. The creature stands at nearly twice your height on two cloven hooves. Its head is that of a black goat with red eyes and horns so dark they resemble the night sky. Draped in black robes, and hands clasped in front, you notice they aren't hands at all.

Not human hands, but claws. Talons. Long and spindly like thin twigs.

"Devil," you whisper, because what else could this creature be but a servant of Satan.

The creature only blinks. "To the Good Reverend Shepherd and his flock, I am devil and demon," it says, imitating the voice of the stern religious leader. Switching back to its natural voice, the creature continues. "To others, a guardian. A friend. A god."

You aim the firing end toward the creature. "How do you know of my husband?”

"He came to my tree looking for his goat." The creature’s head cocks to the side as if listening for something. “Rosie. That is the name he called before all went silent.”

The tree.

The one made of dark bark.

The one that breaks the axe on first strike.

"Was it you that harmed him?" you accuse, voice shaking. Sweat pools in your palms, the metal of the musket slippery in your hand.

"Wouldst thou like revenge?" it purrs.

“Answer me! Was it you that put hands upon my husband?”

"It is not Godly to accuse thy neighbor of treachery when proof is lacking.”

"But you don't deny it?" you snap.

The creature is silent for a long moment as if frozen in ice. “No,” it finally says. "I did not cull your husband.”

"Who?" When he doesn't answer, you ask again. "Who?"

“A man of flesh.”

“Which man?”

"Wouldst thou like revenge?" the creature repeats, the dual voices reverberating in your chest.

“Answer me, demon. Or be gone.”

“Does my appearance offend?” it asks slowly. “You…puritans seem bent on burning.” It unclasps its spindle-fingers. ��Would you prefer a change?”

"Whether devil or guardian or beast, my ears do not wish to hear more. Be gone."

"No."

No.

Startled, you hesitate. And then your resolve bleeds back into bone. Raising the weapon higher, you plant your feet into the ground, squaring your shoulders. "I said—"

The creature raises its hand, palm upward, forming a fist. The barrel of the weapon bends skyward. Fires. Smoke and ash fill the air.

Blinded, you cry out, falling upon the ground, arm over your eyes protectively. The musket falls from your arms.

"Again, child," comes its voice—a whisper in your ear. "Wouldst thou like revenge?"

You swing your arm outward and only meet air. With a touch of hysteria, you swipe your arms out and around you, expecting to meet solid flesh.

There is nothing. Nothing.

"Be calm, child. Calm."

Chest heaving, you blink through the pain, searching for the house.

Simon. You need to go to him. To protect him.

The world is in color but it is fuzzy. Unclear. The dirt beneath your palms is rough as you crawl, digging into your skin, stinging until you know blood blooms in the wounds.

"Go away," you whisper. The creature does not answer. "Leave. Leave my husband and I in peace."

As your vision clears, a dark shape steps in front of you. The creature towers, hands outstretched placatingly. "Listen, child. Listen."

"Simon," you whisper, every limb shaking as you try to push yourself up to a seated position.

"God abandoned Simon. Abandoned you."

Your arms give out, and you collapse. With every remaining morsel of resolve, you start to drag yourself through the dirt.

"Simon."

"A shadow darkens your door. Not that of any devil—but of human suspicion. Townsfolk consume gossip like plague consumes a newborn babe."

Dirt collects under your nails.

“Suspicion. Godly suspicion. Devil-spun no doubt but by human tongue.”

You drag yourself a little further.

“Witch.”

“Leave us,” you murmur, voice weak and cracked.

Your vision clears a bit more—the sting receding. It is enough to push up to your knees.

“I hear all,” the creature says. “No wooden board or stone or packed dirt can hide a whispered word.”

Witch.

“There is nothing the Godly despise more than a woman alone in the world.”

Its words cut deep. They tear into you, ripping out the dreaded truth. The townsfolk will lay blame. And what a perfect perpetrator you are. Why would Simon Riley, one of their own flock, befall such a fate unless someone had done it to him.

Witch.

On shaky legs, you face the creature before you. Its red eyes have softened. Pity rests there, and you do not know what to make of it.

The goat head shifts, gaze moving to somewhere within the house. You glance behind you and only see the open door. When you glance back, the creature is gone.

"Wouldst thou like revenge?"

You spin and find the goat standing inside the doorway. He's too large to fit. He's bent in half, peering out at you.

"Get out of my home, demon."

It only blinks, and steps out of view. You rush toward the door, charging inside, finding no one. The room spins as you head for Simon. All you want is to be beside him. If this is a punishment, then so be it, but you will weather it at his side.

Kneeling beside your bed, you grasp Simon’s hand. You bring it to your lips, placing a kiss against his knuckles.

"I'm seeing things, Simon," you whisper.

Spindle-fingers slide over your shoulder, the creature’s palm coming to rest against the joint. It is no hallucination. There is no iciness, but warmth. Not hot—not an inferno as Reverend Shepherd always preaches—but a comforting one. Like a burning hearth in the middle of winter.

Closing your eyes, you listen.

There is no static. What assails your senses is this creature’s age. There are stars and dust in his aura—of sleeping beneath mountains—of a time before trees when there were only teeth.

“I can heal him,” comes its two-toned voice. “Make him whole.”

In this, you hear the truth. There are no lies. The words weave around you, spinning and encasing you like angel wings.

“Pray tell me, stranger. What price for such an offer?”

“Stranger,” muses the creature. “Thou hast named me.”

“What price?” you prompt.

A beat.

“You.”

“Me?”

Stranger bends until it’s crouched next to you. “I shall heal your husband. Ward him from harm and illness. He will live to an old age. Pass peacefully in his sleep.”

“A nice thought,” you murmur, gazing on Simon’s face.

“But in return, you shall come with me.”

You turn to face Stranger. It gazes at you intently, waiting for a response. As you peer into its red depths, something dark—tentacle-like—slithers in the red and promptly disappears.

“I have nothing to offer.”

Removing its twig-like claws from your shoulder, it presses the point of one to your forehead. At contact, the air comes alive, coursing through vein and bone until your skin glows with a deep radiance of brilliant white light.

“A blessing doth dwell,” its two voices sing. The power surges and then recedes as Stranger removes its claw. “Join me. Be my bride. Walk the forests.”

“Agreements are not freely given. I come from a world where the Fae walk. Bargains favor wing and wit. Not mortal flesh.”

“I am Elder,” purrs Stranger. “Trickery is foul tasting.”

“But after you heal him? After I agree to go with you? What then?”

“You shall see him not. Never know his touch. All memory of you will be erased. He nor the townsfolk will remember you. A hint, maybe. A feeling. But it shall always slip away.”

A life without Simon. A life without his gentle touches and drawings by candlelight. You will bear him no children. Never again enjoy the carnal rite that is your most sacred vow.

Yet, he will live.

Simon will thrive.

You detect no deception. The air is still and calm. No tension.

“What must I do?”

Stranger turns and you follow its gaze.

Upon the table is a large book. Ornate. Shiny. Gold-plated. Open.

You swallow. “I’m…poor with my letters.”

“It needs not names but blood. Just a drop.” Stranger elongates. Still too small for the space, it bends its upper half to accommodate, its back scraping against the ceiling. “Sign the book,” he prompts.

“Forgive me, Simon.”

Pressing your lips to the back of Simon’s hand, you send forth a silent prayer. Pushing up, and leaning over him, you place a second kiss to his forehead. You breathe him in, infusing the memory until it resembles vines, tangling the essence of Simon into your brain.

Retreating, you offer up your palm, splaying your fingers in extension.

Stranger gently takes it, bringing it over the golden book.

Pointed claw meets human flesh.

A sharp sting.

A pause.

A bead of blood wells.

Hovering. Hovering.

Then—

The dark bead lingers on the blank page.

Silence.

And then a sucking sound as the parchment absorbs the blood.

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rcksmith · 6 months ago

Text

Sun and Water - Kaz Brekker

Couple: Kaz Brekker/ Fem!Reader

Warnings: A LOT OF ANGUISH. Lots of mention of post-traumatic disorder. Curse words. Mention of death. Blood. Slave market. Mention of murder. VERY EMOTIONAL. VERY SWEET.

Word count: 4k

A/N: This one was very emotional for me. I cried writing with my playlist on full blast. I hope you love it as much as I do.

💕 English is not my first language, so I so sorry if have a mistake.

Requests are open. Love you ❤️

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

Ketterdam smelled of trickery, poison, desecration and danger. It was a dark place by birth that housed even darker people. Its soil was stained with blood and despair; of both Grisha and ordinary people. Their hiding places were for tormented souls who had long lost their humanity.

If you walked the wrong streets at night with an arrogant attitude, you would definitely not return alive. But if you turned south, and had a little money in your pocket, your feet would take you close to the huge, shiny, flashy casinos run by Pekka Rollins. You would pass clubs where the smell of beer mixed with cheating, and the laughter of drunks drowned out the screams of convicts across the boat harbor. The colors of these establishments ranged between red, orange and yellow, a vibrant explosion that, in such a funereal place, became infinitely more macabre.

If you were more adventurous, and had a little more money, you would pass by pleasure houses. With pink and purple facades, provocative titles and women perched in the windows, waving at any gentleman who smelled a fair amount of kruger, their chants insinuating and seductive. The silk pieces of these places waved like a Land in Sight flag for the lost and tormented men in that sea of stone that was called Ketterdam.

To less experienced - and novice - eyes, those places were just grotesque pieces that were part of a strange scenario. Just a bad city, without many mysteries or secrets. But Kaz Brekker, whose mother's name was Ketterdam, knew that these establishments were more profane than they first appear. Its sins were part of a long list of money laundering, human and arms trafficking, drug exports, a meeting point for commissioned murders and, deep in the corrupt heart of that city, the headquarters of the black market. He knew that Ketterdam was not just a land of trickery, poison, desecration and danger. It was the place where anyone could have absolutely everything for the right price.

And that's how he found you.

Kaz didn't like to remember that day. But it was engraved on his skin like a tattoo, like a hot iron. A damned, cursed reminder that despite his Herculean efforts to be the monster everyone whispered about, Kaz was still a man of flesh and warm blood. With a heart that writhed.

Something about that day in the past wasn't right. It was like a mysterious whisper in the breeze, an omen in the unknown eyes of the wanderers, a mistake in a painting that made his nerves itch. And Kaz Brekker always hated mysteries that he didn't know how to solve.

His cane banging against the thick, crooked stone floor in that even darker part of Ketterdam, the hem of his black coat swinging from side to side in the cold wind. He had 2,000 kruger in his pocket - the Crow Club's only money to pay employees, bribes, drinks and bills. He used and abused Ketterdam to offer everything at the right price, and now he was going to pay his debts to men who provided information, to locals who spiked the beer with water and sold it for a cheaper price, and to women who seduced targets and facilitated robberies. It was the only money he had.

He didn't have to look to the left, there was nothing for him there. He didn't have to wonder why people seemed to crowd closer to the curve of the last street. But, in a way that Brekker could never explain even in confidential whispers to his own soul, he turned that corner.

With his cane tapping on the ground, money in his pocket and responsibilities to fulfill, he approached, against all odds. Step by step, the air grew thicker, the invisible ropes tightened unjustifiably on the pulse of his neck, the ghostly sensation of the icy water approaching like the waves of the dark sea.

Those sensations were getting more confusing with each pump of blood. The physical consequences of his soul being shipwrecked at sea never came lightly, and this was a warning. A warning that Kaz Brekker should have turned around and walked away. While he still could.

The men around were euphoric. The women looked sadistic. And the racket of voices was too loud for him to be able to focus on a single line of conversation. The hands of men and women were raised and clutched money notes tightly, waving in the wind as if it were a flag, their sadistic, depravity-hungry eyes staring forward like predators in hunting season.

Perhaps in a parallel reality, Kaz would have followed every sign Ketterdam gave him to turn his back and leave. There's nothing for you here, Dirty Hands. Ketterdam needed demons and monsters to stay stand, it fed on trauma and anger to perpetuate the ‘everything for the right price’ market. People's chaos and hell were what maintained the local economy. Any possibility of redemption, peace and, worst of all, love, were severely condemned.

Go away, Bastard of the Barrel. Maybe Kaz would have exerted the steely control over his veins more tightly, maybe he would have listened to the city's singing and paid more attention to the sea that swelled its tide, and then there would have been a life in which he wouldn't have widened his eyes at the scene.. Go away.

The sea roared, the waves broke, the putrefying hands of the bodies drowned in the depths of the ocean grabbed his ankles with more ferocity, preventing, restricting, screaming that his place would forever be there with them in the dirt of the sea. But it was already too late. He looked at the reason for all the commotion. The sun fell on that girl's hair and it was as if the rays had also penetrated the deepest waters of that vast oceanic darkness, exorcising all the claws that retreated with infernal screams, letting go of his ankles as if they were burning.

It was like a ship's anchor being pulled up with extreme brutality, splashing water everywhere, pushing the dying pieces into the depths of hell, scaring birds in the air, and finally, finally, bringing his soul out into the warm air.

Kaz Brekker felt his entire body shake as if he had just died and been reincarnated, it was like an explosion in the darkest depths of his chest that made his blood warm again, his heart show that it was beating and his soul breathe.

The scene in front of him shouldn't have caused any commotion in his spirit. Ketterdam was not a good place, and it was home to even less good people. That open-air slave market was nothing new. It was repulsive, disgusting and disgusting, but not new. And it wasn't something Kaz got involved in. Everyone had problems with him, and he didn't play anyone's hero. Never.

Until now.

One of the girls was sitting on that improvised wooden stage, eyes extremely scared and that damn sun shining on her hair that shone like the heat of release that made him breathe for the first time. She was young, small as a rabbit, and her fur didn't belong on those rusty chains on her wrist. You.

That was all an lapse. A powerful lapse not only in his judgment, but in his long-tormented soul. He blinded himself for the first time since Pekka.

The deprivation of air, the burning of the claws sunk to the bottom of the cruel ocean, the ice that shook his bones and the smell of dead flesh swollen with rotten water had finally given him a respite.

A truce so portentous and so overwhelming that, for two blissful, desperate seconds, Kaz fucking Bekker felt fucking normal. He was breathing, for the love of the Saints. He felt the heat of the sun, his muscles were light, his heart was swollen and the corners of the world were as colorful as when he was 8 years old.

He felt Kaz Rietveld.

All because that girl was in his sight. As if her sight was a miracle to his torment. As if she were a curse to Ketterdam. No good feelings have a place here.

But it was already too late. That lapse made Kaz approach as if he no longer controlled his feet. It made his heart beat with blood that wasn't his. It made him take out the only money in his pocket and hold it up high as the biggest proposal. None of that insanity was coming from Brekker. But from Rietveld.

“Her.’’ he said in a voice he didn’t recognize as his own.

Yes, Kaz didn't like to remember that day. Because it was confirmation that the boy he had tried so hard to keep dead and drowned in the sea was as alive as tangil. And that beating heart was his. Fucking hell. That lapse cost a lot; all the money the Crow Club made in that month. Kaz Brekker had countless dangerous people to pay and he had no idea what would do. But what irritated and infuriated Kaz the most was that, when he looked into the eyes of that girl as fragile as a rabbit, he didn't regret it.

Not at all. Not a bit. Even when he had every reason in the world to regret it.

He didn't regret taking you out of those horrible rags you wore and buying you a dress. He didn't regret bringing you to his quarters even when still had no fucking idea what he would do to you now.

What use would such a small, fragile and beautiful girl would have? You looked like a little rabbit. He made a fucking mistake, because now this little rabbit was looking at him with those big eyes full of emotions: fear, innocence, curiosity. Brekker hated it. But his soul was smiling.

''Don't worry. I won’t touch you’’ Kaz said that day. His words dripped with venom, disgust, and self-loathing. He constantly thought that his condition was a sarcastic and cruel joke from the Saints that Inej prayed so much to; doomed to never stand a touch, to always be a broken and pathetic bastard to the point of mortal weakness. This always aroused anger, hatred, and a thirst for revenge against Pekka.

But looking into your big eyes…he felt as if something very valuable had been brutally ripped from him long before Kaz understood what he wanted.

Inej was wrong. The Saints were not merciful. They were as fucking sadistic as the demons of Ketterdam.

--------

The days passed, and Kaz still had no idea what to do with you. Or how to pay his debt to so many people or how to replenish Crow Club drinks. He hid you from the rest of the dregs because he didn't want to and didn't know how to explain the situation. What would he say? Kaz Brekker never did anything without a plan. Everyone knew that. And your presence refuted ALL the certainties and theories that Kaz always had a motive.

Until one day, what he knew would happen happened; fate than those who do not pay powerful people. If he didn't have money, then he had to pay in blood. As it always would be in Ketterdam.

--------

The moon was paler than usual that autumn, sending icy golden rays across the dark city. The breeze smelled of sea air, smoke, sand and blood.

Kaz sat down in his writing chair, gasping as the thud made his broken ribs hurt. His teeth clenched tightly and dropped the broken cane to the floor, his blood on the silver raven combined with the dried blood around his face.

“Oh My God’’ the voice that Rietveld’s soul loved so much sounded, terrified and in panic.

You.

Kaz closed his eyes tightly, cursing under his breath that you had chosen to come in at that exact moment. It had been 2 weeks since you were here, with him, but your presence still made his hate the reactions and sensations he had.

Brekker couldn't have feelings. Ketterdam didn't accept that, it didn't tolerate that. And the proof of this was the bloody state he was in. Sentimentality is a weakness. He repeated to himself. But why then did his soul not regret anything when he saw you? Damn, he'd probably do it all over again.

“Get out of here’’ his voice was hoarser and lower than usual. And, when you did the opposite and took a step forward, Kaz looked at you warningly ‘’Now’’ Brekker could handle a beating, he'd had it his whole life. He could deal with broken ribs, with a bloody face, with a broken cane, with wounded pride. But he can't deal with the feeling that, when you looked at him, what hurt and tortured him more than anything else was the fact that he was robbed of your touch. He couldn't touch. And it never sparked anything but a fire of rage and revenge. Until now.

Kaz Brekker couldn't feel you. Not even if he fell to his knees on the floor and prayed to all the Saints. Not even if he sobbed asking for just one day of mercy. Just one day. Just a memory of how your skin felt beneath his hands. It had been more than a century since Brekker had touched another skin, warm skin. His was always cold, cadaverous, wet even when it was completely dry. And that was never a reason for despair. Until now.

He wanted to touch you more than he wanted to breathe. He wanted to slide his fingers across your cheek more than he wanted to slide his hands across money notes. But the sensation would send him back to the waters of Ketterdam. Back to the sickening feeling of rotten flesh and death surrounding him, making his chest tighten and his vision blacken as that traumatic memory would drag him back into.

The Saints were a fucking sadist. “Please…’’ your voice was broken and completely tearful. Please…

That single word - that single word alone had the power to bring his gaze up to you. Your pleading voice, your eyes filled with pain, not for your own, but for his, the way you whispered as if you was about to crumble. You looked more scared than the day he took you from the slave market. Kaz fought down the tightening of his chest, his throat closing in. Please. Oh. He wanted to throw caution in the wind. Just once. Only for you. He wanted to put his gloves aside, just once. Just to hold your face. The desire to beg the Saints on one knee came back with more force. ''No" Kaz looked at you, staring into your eyes, as he saw you step closer. He watched the silk green dress flow, the fabric he bought for you, and for some reason it made him ache more. Damn dress.

He kept his eyes locked on that green silk for longer than expected. His body was completely bruised, but his thoughts were just feeling envious of that dress. That dress was on your skin. Feeling something he could never feel. Lucky dress.

Kaz heard your sobs get louder. "I beg you’’ You were about to fall apart “let me help…’’ He didn't know the extensions of his own injuries, but the look in your eyes said they were serious. Perhaps there was more blood than he expected.

Yes. his soul, Rietveld, screamed. Screaming so loud his bones shook. Yes. Touch me, make the cold go away again. Take me out of this ocean one more time. Help me. Touch me! Make the hands of the corpses leave my neck. Touch me. Saints, this is the most unbearable thing in the world. Kaz had no idea how long it had been since he had heard a person sob for him, but your voice broke something in him like nothing else. Kaz could get stabbed and beaten and shot, but this—this was the one thing he couldn't bear. "No'' Yes!

But you seemed in tune with his soul. As it has always been since he first saw you. You seemed to see beyond Brekker facade. Your footsteps reached him like desperate birds, your beautiful eyes growing wider every moment you saw the details of his injuries.

He didn't move from the chair, even when he should have, even when you fell to your knees between his feet, looking at him with so much fear and panic that he felt his heart skip a beat. Damn organ.

Yes. You looked beyond Brekker, You looked at Rietveld. And no one ever looked at Rietveld. “I promise to be quick. Just let me clean up the blood. Let me sterilize the knife cuts.’’ Your voice had so much pain that Kaz thought you were the one who suffered the beating. Which was impossible. Because Kaz Brekker would never let anyone touch you. but he can't touch you either. Yes, his fucking fate.

He wondered if you were so shaken because of guilt. Did you know that the 12 men he owed money got together to beat him? Did you know that he just hadn't paid because he used all the money to buy you? That's why you were so sentimental? Because the guilt. Out of pity. But it was impossible, Kaz never said anything about it. Maybe he was just looking for reasons to justify the magnitude of your concern with something other than feelings of the heart. “Please… I can't- I can't see you like this.” Your voice took him out of his thoughts, realizing that no matter how much he screamed inside, his expression remained as hard as a stone.

“I’m scared that something irreversible could happen.’’ you were honest, exposing your heart because you knew he wouldn’t expose his “Please, the thought of you dying makes me scared.’’ Yes, you were scared…like a cute rabbit. His body was hurting too much to know which stab wound was deeper, which were more superficial and which caused you so much panic.

Kaz swallowed around the lump in his throat, his heart beating wildly in his chest, but for a reason completely different from the wounds and bruising that plagued his body. Kaz wanted to put his guard up and push you away, but the sight of you kneeling before him, your eyes pleading for his consent as you raised your palm up to his battered and bloodied skin, that pleading tone - And that dress. The fucking dress he bought for you - was making him lose.

Kaz looked down at your face. His heart was burning. What am I doing? Your eyes, gazing up at him with tears rolling down your cheeks, you were breaking because of him, for him. And saints — he couldn't…Not when you looked that way. Not when every fiber of his being wanted you. Touch me. Make me come out of the sea. Make me breathe again Kaz closed his eyes, his breath sharp as he braced himself. A moment of hesitation before he finally speaks. "Quick."

It was another lapsus. The biggest mistake he could make. Ketterdam was again screaming in the background in the form of furious winds; that city did not allow pure emotions, redemptions and love.

You were so quick to get up and run to the bathroom, returning with a damp towel and a desperate but relieved look. Your knees dropped to the floor once again between his feet, and your breathing was faster than it had ever been before.

You were going to touch him

It was a mistake. An absurd error. A sin and a profanation of the worst kind.

The tide of the icy ocean within him changed course, beginning to churn its waters and threatening to drown Kaz Brekker once again. The sensation was as if his skin was swelling from the cold waves, like a corpse that had been discarded at sea for centuries. And that wouldn't be far from the truth. Kaz Rietveld was shipwrecked in that ocean along with Jordie. Along with all the other unfortunate people in that damned city.

So why did he also feel Rietveld now more than ever? when you were about to touch him.

Kaz's soul stirred, perhaps in desperation, perhaps begging for release. Maybe for both things. The emotions were so strong that he felt like vomiting the salty sea water stuck in his lungs. Then he focused on one point: the smooth skin of your neck.

You were so nervous and desperate that he could see your vein pulsing, a few errant droplets of sweat running from behind your ear to your slender neck, making their tempting way, mocking Kaz for not being able to follow the same path with his fingers.

Would he be able to fool his demons if he made that journey with his mouth? Could it be that his tongue also carried his traumas?

The wet towel went over one of his cuts, and Kaz swore so loudly that it scared you. His fingers locked for a second in the chair, but your fear of him changing his mind was greater than your fear of his reactions. You pressed the towel again, and again, and moved from one wound to the next. Your movements were in automatic mode to want to take advantage of his permission as much as possible, to help as much as possible in a time limit that you didn't know.

The invisible clock chimed like a premonition.

With one hand, you used your trembling fingers to move a piece of his cut shirt to the side. And your and his skins brushed

Holy Mother of Saints. Kaz grunted, letting his head fall back and pressing his fingers into the wood of the chair's arms even more. He closed his eyes tightly. The avalanche of emotions raised a tisunami in his sea and crashed over him with such brutality that Kaz felt he might die again. And revive.

Your fingers brushed against his skin once again, and this time his chest exploded on a different note; as if the heat of the sun was fighting to rescue him from the bottom of the sea. Making its way through the petrifying waters like a ray of heat. Like a chance. A hope. Or as an illusion.

Kaz Brekker never cried. He came out of that ocean swearing revenge, like a ghost, a monster, the murderer of Rietveld. Vowing to be a knight of the apocalypse. But he was none of those things. Kaz was a man of flesh and blood. With a heart that bled every day, with a soul neglected and so massacred that it bordered on unrecognizability: but not total annihilation.

Kaz Brekker never cried. But Kaz Rietveld did.

Being touched, after so many years without even human contact, made Brekker want to vomit, scream, cut his hands off, drown himself with Jordie, blow Pekker's brains out. But it made Rietveld want to cry, to cry out to the saints for salvation, to beg that he could have just one good thing in life. Please. his soul tore in prayers. Please…let me have this moment…for the love of God, have mercy on me just now. Somehow, he didn't vomit, and his skin on his became more like being caressed by the sun. He squeezed his eyes closed even more and imagined himself on the roof of the Crow Club, beneath the midday sun of the height of summer.

You were the sun. Just it.

Your hands pressed bandages into his deep cuts.

You were the sun. Just it.

Your breathing was heavy and your fingers pushed the rest of his bloody shirt away.

You were the sun. Just it.

Kaz repeated that like a mantra. A prayer. A choir. An exorcism. But his midday sun at the height of summer was beginning to be clouded, the sea on the horizon was beginning to swell, and Jordie's voice was beginning to rise from the dead in the air. The second he couldn't take it anymore, you pulled his hands away. Brekker breathed a sigh of relief. Rietveld screamed in despair.

‘’You’re going to be fine’’ your voice was as shaky as his emotions.

Kaz couldn't open his eyes yet. Not now. Not at this moment and… the absence of touch gave way to the feeling of extremely warm lips touching one of his bandages for a second.

This removed him from his disabilities. Stunned and perplexed, Kaz opened his eyes immediately and tilted his head towards you the same second his your moved away.

If your touches had been the sun, that micro kiss had been the entire fire.

“My mother one day said that kissing the wound makes it heal faster.” Maybe you were holding on tooth and nail to all the things that guaranteed you that Kaz Brekker would survive that moment.

Maybe a kiss heals wounds faster... indeed. Kaz Brekker thought before a curve of a smile painted his lips.

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ladykailitha · 6 months ago

Text

Paper Hearts Part 3

Thank you for the lovely response to this story, it makes me warm and fuzzy inside.

This chapter is just 2000 words of Wayne and Eddie being sweethearts to Steve.

Part 1 Part 2

****

Eddie led the way through his trailer to the kitchen past Wayne, who was sitting in his armchair reading the newspaper, a defeated Harrington limping behind.

“What did I tell you about bringing home strays, Ed?” Wayne huffed, a small, gentle smile on his face.

Eddie shook his head, his curls flying. “I’m just watering and feeding this one before I return it back to its owners.”

Harrington blushed and ducked his head. “I got lost.”

Wayne’s eyebrows shot up. He looked over at Eddie who nodded his confirmation.

“This is my Uncle Wayne,” Eddie introduced them. “This is Steve Harrington, Uncle.”

Wayne’s eyebrows stayed raised. Of all the people Eddie could have brought home, he was pretty sure this was the biggest surprise.

“You got your car?” he asked.

“This dumbass was out running around with his head in the fucking clouds,” Eddie scoffed.

Wayne’s glance at Harrington was far more appraising. He looked him up and down, taking in the sweat on his brow, the limping, the slumped shoulders, and vacant expression.

“You do that often, son?” he asked Harrington, folding up his newspaper.

Harrington just shrugged. “I like running to get out of my head.”

Wayne licked his upper lip slowly, calculating. “Uh-huh.” He looked over at his nephew, who had his hands on his lower back and staring at the floor. “There is some leftover beef from Sunday.”

Eddie jumped excitedly. “Yes! That would be perfect.”

He loped over to fridge and pulled out a Tupperware container. He set it on the counter. He got out two plates and a glass. He filled the glass with water and handed it to Harrington.

“Don’t worry, princess,” he huffed. “Our water comes from the same place as yours does.”

Harrington rolled his eyes. “I’m not worried about you poisoning me.”

“You’d be the first,” Wayne said with a chuckle.

Harrington furrowed his brows and looked between them in confusion.

“Surely,” Wayne said in amusement, “you’ve heard about Ed’s reputation going to that school of yours.”

Harrington shook his head. He looked down at his feet. “I mean, I hear rumors and shit, but I really don’t believe that he chased three freshmen with a hunting knife.”

Eddie threw back his head and laughed. “You would pick the one rumor that was actually true.”

Harrington’s head snapped up. “What? Why would you do that?”

Behind him the microwave beeped and Eddie hurried to get their food out. He piled on the food and handed it to him.

“Because they were trying to buy drugs off me,” Eddie muttered as he handed Harrington a fork.

Harrington blinked at him a moment and then nodded. “Is there an age that you do start selling to high school students?” His eyes went wide and looked at Wayne in panic. “I mean, if you were selling drugs. Not that you do or anything.”

Wayne chuckled and shook his head. “I am more than perfectly aware of my nephew’s side business, thank you. I wish he didn’t have to do it, but he hasn’t had a lot of choices in the legal employment racket, not for someone like Ed. But sometimes a couple of grams sold is the difference between not having to chose to pay the water bill or the power bill.”

“Uncle Wayne and I set down ground rules when I started dealing,” Eddie huffed. “One of them was not selling to anyone under the age of sixteen.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.”

Harrington ate his food in silence.

“Do you need to call your parents?” Wayne asked. “Won’t they be worried where you are?”

Harrington shook his head. “They’re going to scream the same amount if I was five hours late or on time. I’d rather just deal with it the once thanks.”

Eddie and Wayne shared a worried glance over his head. Eddie was far too familiar with that nugget of parental discipline, because that’s exactly what Al would do with him.

“You ready to go, Stevie?” Eddie asked as he set their now empty plates in the sink.

“Don’t worry about cleaning up, Ed,” Wayne said. “I’ll take care of it while you take him home.”

Harrington blinked up at Eddie after he used his given name. “Oh, yeah. Of course. Thanks for dinner and the water.”

Wayne nodded. Eddie led the way back out to the van.

“All righty,” he said, pulling his door closed. “You’re gonna have to give me directions, pretty boy.”

Harri–Steve blinked at him for a moment. “I thought everyone had been to my house at one point or another.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow. “Seriously, dude?”

Steve just curled his hands on his lap and then mumbled directions.

Eddie cursed himself in his head. He had gotten the other boy to come out of his shell a little bit while they were talking to Wayne, but now the lid had slammed shut.

Because Steve was right. Even though he only invited the popular kids, his parties always exploded way past the original guest list. But Eddie had avoided it when it was Steve’s place though. Dealing at Hagan’s or any of Steve’s former pals was easy enough, his van fit right in with all the vehicles no problem. But in Loch Nora? Yeah... that was like showing up to a funeral in torn up jeans and smelling strongly like booze.

“Let’s just say my van is a little more conspicuous in Loch Nora,” he said after they had driven in silence for a couple of miles.

Steve’s head snapped up. “Oh. Shit. Yeah. My neighbors might not call the cops on any of my parties but they would absolutely be on the horn if they saw your van parked anywhere on the street.” He picked at his nails. “I keep forgetting shit like that.”

Eddie risked a glance at the other boy, whose shoulders were rounded against being bullied.

“Dude,” he huffed, “the whole fucking school saw what you looked like when you came back after tangling with Billy that kind of damage leaves lasting affects. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Steve scoffed. “Asshole fucking cheated. Took a plate to my head and then just started wailing on me. Probably would have killed me too.”

“So what stopped him?”

“Being tranq’ed by his step-sister,” he snorted. “She was visiting a friend of hers. One Billy didn’t approve of because of the color of his skin. Billy threatened to kill the kid, so I hit him. Would have won, too, if he hadn’t fucked me up with the plate.” He took a deep breath. “Anyways, they had some tranquilizers because one of their parents were having trouble sleeping. She grabbed one and jabbed it into his neck.”

“Pretty brave thing to do,” Eddie conceded. “Sounds like there were two badasses there that night.” Then he shook his head. “So you got the shit beat out of you for defending little sheep and Wheeler still went for Byers? I don’t know, man, sounds like she wouldn’t know a good thing if it bit her in the ass.”

Steve huffed out a breath of laughter before he caught himself. He hid his smile under his fist. “Something like that, yeah.”

They pulled up to his house and Steve let out this strange little pained noise. Like it was relief and disappointment all rolled into one. A sound Eddie was far too familiar with.

“My parents aren’t home.”

Eddie looked over at him in curiosity. “How can you tell?” Because yeah, the front lights were off and the house seemed quiet, Eddie knew these houses were big enough that if there was a light on in the back of the house, it couldn’t be seen from the road.

“The garage is closed,” Steve huffed. “They only close it when they leave. They have to show off to the whole neighborhood the cars they drive.”

Eddie blinked at Steve in confusion. “Aren’t they worried someone will steal their car?”

Steve shook his head. “It’s insured, plus they don’t believe anyone would rob them in their fancy house while they’re home.”

Eddie looked up at the large house, so big it could only really be called a mansion. “Are they stupid or arrogant?”

“Both.”

“Look, Steve,” Eddie said, stopping him briefly. “I need to apologize and every time I see you you distract me. So I’m just going to come out and say it. I’m the one that shoulder checked you the day you hurt your hand.” He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed dramatically.

“You see, you had this far off look my uncle gets sometimes and the best thing to do is make a noise or bump into him. Just something that reminds him that his not where ever his mind is and that’s in the present. But I heard these assholes saying that they got their kicks out of kicking your stuff and stomping on your hand and I realized that it was my fault that happened and I’m really, really sorry.”

Steve stared at him for a moment. “Oh. Hey, it’s not your fault, you were only doing what you thought would help. I wasn’t spacing out or whatever. I was just feeling sorry for myself over a stupid holiday. But apology accepted, I guess.”

Eddie nodded, feeling a little bit better about it.

Steve hopped out of the van and he turned back to Eddie. “Thanks for the ride, Eds.”

He slammed the door behind him and walked up to his big, dark, lonely, still house and Eddie felt a small pang of something like pity for the guy. And wasn’t that a kick in the teeth.

When he got home, Wayne was waiting up for him.

“Did that boy get into any trouble when he got home?” were the first words out of his uncle’s mouth. Not so much as a ‘hello’ or ‘by your leave’.

Eddie shook his head. “They weren’t home. I don’t know if they went out to dinner without him or if they just went on one of their infamous business trips.”

Wayne cocked his head to the side. “What’s so infamous about them?”

“They leave so often,” Eddie murmured, “that Steve is pretty famous for the ‘rich kid, empty house’ trope you see movies these days.”

“He’s got friends he can stay with, doesn’t he?” Wayne pressed.

Again Eddie shook his head. “He blew up his friends group awhile back, called them all assholes and bullies over some chick. Then the chick broke up with him over the eldest Byers boy.”

Wayne patted the spot next to him on the sofa. “Tell me about this Harrington kid. You used to all the time, ranting and raving about something or another that he did and then you just stopped.”

Eddie flopped down on the sofa with a heavy sigh. “Like there wasn’t anything to tell after that, you know. He just faded into the background. Gave up his title of King of Hawkins High and then Friday happened.”

“And you found out he was being bullied,” Wayne finished. “I see. That’s got to be rough to go from being surrounded by people to not having anyone there for him.”

Eddie threw his head back onto the back of the sofa and let out a loud groan. “Like it’s my thing. Picking up the lost and the lonely. But this one comes with a lot more baggage than the others and I’m not afraid for me or the rest of my friends but...” He buried his fingers into his hair and screamed.

Wayne nodded. Eddie befriending Steve could make things worse for him and not better. But inaction might hurt the boy in the long run.

“Maybe do something for him that he doesn’t know it’s you,” he suggested to his nephew. “That way he knows he’s not alone, but your reputation won’t make things worse for him.”

Eddie frowned for a moment and then his eyes went wide. “Oh! I think I know exactly what to do!”

Wayne smiled at him. “I figured you would.”

****

Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Tag List:

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#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailtiha writes #rom com au

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togenabi · 1 year ago

Text

apothecary diaries

vinsmoke sanji (opla) x fem!reader

♡—you need peppermint for a salve you're making, but sanji bought all of it, and that's seriously not fair.

word count♡— 3.7k

genre♡— fluff

content notes♡— opla sanji, afab!reader runs an apothecary and likes to make things, inaccurate chemistry for the sake of the story, mentions of flames in bottles, please do not do that, no use of y/n, not fully proofread

also on♡— ao3

author's note♡— I love sanji sm he makes me cry. might be first in a series, but we'll see. please enjoy. xoxo, belle.

The third time a pirate entered your shop, you genuinely considered closing up early today.

You level him with a stare despite the man being twice your size. You cut him off before he can get a word out.

“No, I don't have anything that works against people made of rubber.” Crossing your arms over your chest, you gesture to the rest of your wares. “Now, are you going to get anything else? Or should you be on your way?”

He leaves, disgruntled, but without a fight.

A huff escapes your lips. The nerve of these people.

Ever since that outrageous bounty for that new pirate came along, suddenly every pirate and pirate hunter in the East Blue was gearing up to chase after him. All the poisons that were gathering dust in your storage were cleared out within days of those posters showing up.

It was good berry at first, but they got more aggressive, and started demanding more of everything. More doses than you were comfortable handing out. More dangerous poisons that could kill everyone in the room if the seal loosens by even a crack.

You took up this apothecary business because you wanted to help people. It wasn't exactly your dream to become a poison dealer.

The shop bell rings again. Thankfully, this time it's one of your elderly neighbors and not a pirate seeking poison.

The old lady smiles at you, the sides of her eyes crinkling. “You seem to be quite busy these days, dear.”

“If only they were paying customers like you, Ma'am.” You pick up a box of loose tea from the shelf, already knowing her usual order.

She gasps in concern. “Oh my, did they steal from you?”

“Only my time.” You grimace slightly, remembering how many pirates barged in last week.

“Would you like some honey with this? We have fresh jars from today's shipment.” You offer as you tally her order.

The lady hums in agreement. “Yes, I think some honey would be lovely.”

During slow days like these, you like to tinker with new recipes to sell. On a desk at the very back of the shop, obscured by thick curtains, is your beloved workstation.

You review your notes from the previous day. You'll need to get some peppermint for the healing salve you're developing. Taking a small jar of the experimental paste, you test a small amount on your hand.

Indeed, it needs more peppermint. Maybe you should use extract instead of crushed leaves next time, so that the texture is smoother.

The problem arises when your go-to herb supplier says he's run out of peppermint.

“Please tell me you're kidding.” You groan, looking down at your sadly empty whicker basket.

“M’sorry, lass.” The vendor shrugs, not looking very sorry at all. “You just missed the guy who bought everything. I promise I'll get you your peppermint next week, though.”

Resigned, you sigh, reading through the rest of your shopping list. The salve, at least, can wait a week as it's still a work in progress. The rest of your list, however, are crucial ingredients for your usual bestsellers.

“Fancy looking lad. He asked about spices. Told him to go to the shops down by the river.”

Your stomach drops. Everything else you need are sold by those shops.

Mentally cursing that vendor, you run as fast as your feet can take you. You're not letting some tourist get the better of you when it comes to ingredients.

You reach the river in record time. You'd feel proud if you didn't feel winded. Even so, you scan the road for anyone matching the tourist's description.

There doesn't seem to be anyone remotely fancy around. Triumphant, you go on with your shopping.

You begin to feel better as you cross more things off your list. You've almost forgotten about the peppermint incident, if only you didn't suddenly smell so much of it pass by.

A tall blond man walks by, clearly doing a lot of shopping based on the boxes of supplies he's carrying. The scent of peppermint hits you again. In a paper bag, at the very top of the boxes, you spot bunches of those leaves you've been so desperate for.

You can only clench your jaw in frustration and frown at the back of his head. He purchases a large amount of meat and fish in the next stall, and you gather that he must be some sort of chef. No normal person buys so much meat that the shopkeep offers to deliver everything. But that's what happens to this fancy looking lad. He must not be normal then.

“Yes, my ship's in the docks. You can't miss it, thank you so much for your help.” He smiles. His blue eyes wander the stall, then travel to the next stall over, where you are.

There's a moment of surprise when he finds you already looking at him, but his expression changes instantly into a suave one. It almost makes you want to back away, but you stand your ground when he approaches.

“Aren’t you stunning? I was feeling tired, but your pretty face woke me right up.”

You turn away, pointedly ignoring him. He can't flirt with you while smelling like peppermint. It's just not fair.

“Sorry for the hold up, lass. What's it you need?” The shopkeep you were waiting for shows up just in time. You continue to not pay the blond beside you any attention.

“Cinnamon and salt, please.” You respond. “Pink, if you have any.”

“I'll have the same, good sir.” Fancy pants says. “Though, my salt doesn't need to be pink.”

As the shopkeep rummages through his supplies, the blond continues to speak to you. Why does he keep speaking to you?

“Pink salt is lovely to look at, same as you,” He begins, “But other than the color, there really isn't a difference to normal salt, isn't there?”

He shrugs, his broad shoulder shifting his suit jacket slightly. “You're paying extra for the same result. It's all the same when you cook it.”

“I'm not using it for cooking.” Is your only response.

The shopkeep returns before the stranger can reply. “Here's the salt for you's.” He hands you a bag of pink rock salt, and the stranger a bag of regular salt.

The dread from the peppermint vendor returns when you realize the shopkeep is holding only one bag of cinnamon. He pats it and says, “I could split it so you both get half.”

“I was here first.” You insist desperately. “Sell it to me.”

“...My hands are tied here, lad.” The shopkeep sells you the cinnamon, and it's quickly tucked into your basket when you get your hands on it. The stranger doesn't barter for it. Good.

And with that, you cross out cinnamon and salt from your shopping list. You were able to get everything except the peppermint, which stays neat and legible at the very top of the list.

You crumple the paper and toss it into a nearby bin before making your way back to your shop.

“Are you on your way to get some peppermint?” How did the stranger catch up with you so quickly?

“No.” No matter how much you wish you were.

You try to walk faster, but his pace is steady even with a large box under one arm and several others tied up with twine held in his other hand.

“But it was on your list.” He seems to be very interested in your dealings. Is he always this dedicated when he flirts?

You cross the bridge that arches over the river together. The townsfolk who recognize you and not the man next to you begin to whisper amongst themselves.

It takes everything in you to resist rolling your eyes. After a week of pirates, you suspect your shop will be full of gossiping neighbors soon.

“A certain someone bought all the best peppermint today.” Of course the scent of it wafts over you again as you say so.

“Ah.” Understanding dawns on his face. “I see, I'm sorry if that inconvenienced you.”

It was your turn to shrug. You were about to say that it was okay, but then remember that you wouldn't be able to complete your salve until next week.

You pout before you can help it. “Did you really have to buy all of it?”

He breathes out a laugh. “I normally wouldn't, but my friends tend to have endless appetites. It always pays to have plenty of supplies.”

Even in the middle of the bustling street, a certain group of strangers stand out. They're gathered outside the tavern. You don't know any of them, but you recognize one of them as that infamous new pirate with the exorbitant bounty on his head.

“Speaking of my friends...” The blond trails off, nodding towards that particular group.

You just about stop in your tracks. He's with them? He's a pirate?

Okay. A rich, flirtatious tourist you could deal with. A random pirate crew? You would probably still be fine.

But the crew with the highest bounty in all the East Blue? That's just asking for trouble to happen.

While the stranger is distracted by his friends, you slip into an inconspicuous alleyway. You'd have to go a little further around to reach your shop, but that's alright as long as you avoid those Straw Hat pirates.

Luck seems to not be on your side, though. Because fancy pants shows up to your shop later that evening.

He grins. “You didn't tell me crossing that bridge together meant something. I would have talked about something more romantic than peppermint if I knew.”

Of course, word travels fast in a small town. You should have known someone would tell him. And that he would be able to find you easily if he wanted.

“How does the legend go, again?” He asks teasingly. “If two people cross the bridge together on the day they meet... Theirs souls are bound.”

“It's a myth.” You dismiss his charming grin and try to ignore him.

He leans his elbows on the counter that separates you. He's hunched down, but still towers over you somehow.

“It's romantic. And I'm glad it happened to us.” He smiles. “May I at least know the name of the person my soul is now bound to? Mine's Sanji.”

“Well, Sanji. Are you going to buy something?” You ask and avoid giving him your name.

Sanji, surprisingly, nods. He grabs two cans of your special handmade tea and a large jar of honey.

“I'll buy these,” He places the items on the counter. “And give you this.” He holds out several sprigs of peppermint. You blink at him in surprise.

“...Thank you.” You gingerly take it, and carefully set it to the side.

You're silent while you ring up his order. It's when you're taking out a paper bag for him that you finally cave and reveal your name.

The smile that blooms on Sanji's face isn't how you expected it would be. You expected him to look arrogant, to look proud that he was able to sway you like he did other women before.

But he looks at you sweetly, dimples showing and eyes sparkling. You wordlessly hand over the paper bag.

“A pleasure, darling.”

You would have thought that would be the last time you saw Sanji. But, be it luckily or unfortunately, he finds you the next day with the rest of the Straw Hats tagging along.

Only this time, they seem to be on the run.

You hold open the door for the Straw Hats and, one after another, they flood into your shop. Sanji smiles and says something about your hair, but you can't process the words with his friends scattering to hide.

“Sanji, what the fuck?”

“I know, I know, love. I'm sorry we had to reunite like this. We just need to lay low for a bit.” He reassures you, caressing your shoulders as he does.

“I'll make it up to you! I'll cook you a romantic, candlelit dinner.”

You frown at him, unimpressed.

Sanji kisses his teeth and sighs. “I'll give you the rest of the peppermint.”

You perk up instantly. “Deal. You can all hide in my workstation.”

“Hi, I'm Luffy!” Their captain greets you jovially. “That's Zoro,” Luffy points to the swordsman. “Nami,” The woman. “And Usopp.” The one hiding under your counter.

“Of course, you know Sanji already, being soulmates and all.”

You trip on nothing, and Sanji grabs your hand to steady you. You glare. He just smiles.

“Your shop is really cool!” Luffy exclaims, looking at all the trinkets on the shelf.

“Thanks.” You say dryly, pushing the curtain partition aside. You lead them to the back of the shop.

“Make yourselves at home.” You wave a hand towards the couch and some chairs around your desk. They should be fine here as long as they don't need to stay the night.

Through the gaps in the window blinds, flashlights and shadows stream into the room. There seems to be an active search party out for these guys. You suddenly can't believe you agreed to this for peppermint.

Zoro, whose three earrings glint in the light, shifts to scratch at his chest. You spot bandages from the gap in his shirt.

You grab the small jar of salve from your desk and toss it to him. He catches it, but looks from the jar to you and back, confused.

“It's a healing salve I made. It should help soothe your skin.” You explain.

The swordsman still looks unsure, but opens the jar anyway. Zoro sniffs its contents, and tries putting a small amount on his chest.

You beam at him, unable to help feeling proud at how his shoulders visibly relax after using it.

“Thanks.” Zoro says simply.

“No problem.” You nod back, still smiling.

Luffy looks at the jar as if it's a miraculous cure-for-all. “That's amazing.”

“It smells really good, too.” Usopp says, sniffing at the air around Zoro.

“Do you sell that here?” Nami asks.

“I will, once I make more.” You answer. You never realized how uplifting it was to share your work with new people.

Subconsciously, you turn to Sanji. But, why is he frowning? You follow your gaze to find he's looking at the jar in Zoro's hand.

Before you can ask him if anything is wrong, Luffy bursts out excitedly, "You're a doctor! You should join our crew!"

You wince. “No, I'm a chemist.”

“Cool!” Luffy's enthusiasm does not wane. “So you can heal, right?”

You're about to correct him before they assume things out of your pay grade when Usopp claps his hands in realization.

“She's even better than a doctor!” Usopp insists. “She makes the medicine that the doctors give out!”

Just as you were about to interfere with how much they were overestimating your skills, the shop bell rings. You turn to the clock. Shit, you should have locked up twenty minutes ago.

You meet everyone's eyes and they all nod, understanding that they need to be quiet. You switch off the lights in the back room for good measure.

The customer is a pirate you've never seen before. He looks angry, glaring at every possible hiding spot in your shop. Particularly the room you just came from.

You're careful to completely shut the curtain behind you.

“How can I help you, sir?” You put on your best customer service smile. “I was just about to close the shop, but if it's urgent, I'll help you find what you need.”

The pirate grunts. He's not buying what you're selling at all.

“Perhaps some calming tea? You look like a refined gentleman who would enjoy this.” You hold up a can of tea as if that will help you seem less suspicious.

“What's behind the curtain?” He points behind you accusingly.

“My work area, where I make all the fine products you see before you.”

Stomping forward, he seems to have had enough of your stalling. Fine.

Just as he's about to bash his fist down onto your counter, you grab a suspicious looking dark jar. You hold it up threateningly.

“The hell is that?!” The pirate snarls.

“Haven't you heard? I'm the go-to poison dealer in all the East Blue.” You bluff. “A whiff of this, and you'll sink like a rock, my friend.”

He freezes, but glares at you more fiercely. You pretend to twist the lid.

“Y-you'll kill yourself too, then!” He barks back. “Let's see your bullshit poison then.”

“Oh, but that's what makes me so brilliant.” You grin, laying the act on thick. “I'm immune to all the poisons I make.”

Your hand settles ominously on the lid. “Shall we test who survives?”

The pirate scrambles to leave. He's out before you can blink. Without missing a beat, you lock the front door and draw all window blinds down.

You rest your back against the door. Letting out a loud exhale, you almost let yourself slide down to the floor. How long do you have to deal with pirates like that?

Thoughts of yesterday with Sanji at the market fill your thoughts. If only all days could be like that, where the worst of your problems had been a peppermint shortage.

“You guys can come out, now.” You call out to the Straw Hats.

“Uh... Is that really poison?” Usopp asks, staying very far away from the jar.

You laugh, though it comes out airy due to your tiredness. “No, those are just some herbs I left to ferment.”

“How brilliant of you, love.” Sanji is beside you in a few strides. Him and those long legs.

“Was he the one you guys were hiding from?” You ask. The crew members shake their heads.

“No, actually.” Nami says. “We were hiding from a bunch of—”

Your shop explodes.

Sanji is quick to pull you into his arms and shield you from the debris with his own body. For a minute that feels like eternity, you can't hear anything. Your ears are ringing, and dust clouds over all your years of hard work. You sob into Sanji's arms.

“No!” You cry out.

Marines step into the shop, wood planks cracking and glass panels shattering under their feet. There are so many of them. You don't understand. Even if you hid the Straw Hats here, they shouldn't be allowed to destroy private property, right? Right?

“We got a report of illegal poisons in the area.” The leading officer states, his face stoic. “Just our luck that we run into pirates as well.”

You look to the Straw Hats, all of them are positioned to fight, save for Sanji. He's still cradling you protectively.

Taking a shaky deep breath, you lift your hand to rest it on Sanji's arm. He instantly looks down at you, silently asking if you're alright.

You're not yet, and if you're being honest, you'd rather stay in his arms until everything is over. But you nod anyway. Sanji gently lets you go and gets ready to face your new enemies.

“Get them all.”

Chaos breaks, and you run to duck behind a shelf that toppled over. The Straw Hats put up a good fight, but there are just too many Marines. Your eyes find round bottles of herbs scattered around you, and you come up with an idea.

“Guys!” You yell. “Buy me some time!”

“Anything for you, darling.” Sanji winks at you before sending a Marine flying. You gape at his audacity. The rest of them don't even react, but you notice they rotate slightly, surrounding you to keep you from being interrupted.

Grabbing as many of the bottles as you can, you stuff them with shards of wood and more dried leaves. You take rocks from the debris and strike them together.

With a few sparks, the herbs and leaves catch fire. You act fast, throwing the bottles at the Marines.

The bottles shatter, bursting into flames once they hit their mark. The Marines panic and become disoriented, giving the Straw Hats an advantage despite being outnumbered.

Eventually, the Marines run and scatter, leaving only the few bravest of them to fight. The Straw Hats make quick work of them.

When the battle is over, you watch the dust settle over the ruins of your apothecary. It's going to take years to earn enough berry to restore how everything once was. You can't help but feel heartbroken.

Sanji sits down in the rubble next to you, wrapping you in another embrace. You let yourself fall into him.

“We'll help you get everything back. I promise.” He swears, voice slightly muffled into your hair.

“Or, you could come with us! Join our crew!” Nami hits Luffy on the shoulder.

“What? It's true!” Luffy insists. “We need someone like her!”

You pull back from Sanji's embrace to look at him. He doesn't say anything, but something tells you he wishes for you to come with them. The others look at you expectantly as well.

No one speaks to persuade you further. But when you compare this rag-tag team to your ruined apothecary, your answer suddenly feels very clear. If you're to slave away to earn the berry for rebuilding your home, why not spend that time with them?

The back of the shop is less affected, even if the sight is still dreadfully sad. Your notes are thankfully intact, and you're able to find a bag and shove some extra clothes into it. It saddens you that you're so quick to pack up your life, but you'll come back. Someday.

When you return to the others, they're all smiling. Sanji more so, but you should have expected that.

He holds out his hand, and you reach out to take it.

“I change my mind,” You jest. “I'll take that romantic candlelit dinner now.”

Sanji laughs loudly while he guides you to walk over the rubble safely. You catch some of the others laughing too, but they walk a ways ahead you and Sanji.

“Like I said,” He says with his signature grin, “Anything for you, my dear.”

Your mind must be playing tricks on you, because he still smells like peppermint. Now, that's really not fair.

#vinsmoke sanji x reader #sanji x reader #one piece live action #opla sanji x reader #opla vinsmoke sanji x reader #opla spoilers #opla x reader #opla sanji x y/n #sanji oneshot #sanji imagine #opla #togenabi-writes #sanji x you #vinsmoke sanji x you

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xxgoblin-dumplingxx · 2 months ago

Note

One (☝️) freebie plz. For whatever verse your heart desires (or a new one if you have an idea)

"You never have cash," Vanessa mused, watching you pay for a couple pairs of new pants and a new dress with now straightened out bills.

"Not usually," You hum, "Logan handed it to me this morning and told me to do something with it- I'm assuming that was his not-so-subtle way of telling me he can hear me struggling with my jeans in the morning."

She snorted, "Not like I want to give him credit, but he probably didn't notice. Or he's too distracted by your boobs. He probably just knows there's stuff you want to buy and haven't yet."

"Probably," you take the bag and your change, "I just don't even know where to start."

"Not telling your mother," she recommended, pulling you towards a stand that sold smoothies. "God I'm thirsty, my treat. Can't let you get scurvy or something."

"As long as it doesn't have bananas in it," you say, crinkling your nose. "Ugh."

"I told Wade NOT to bring the banana bread," she laughed, "I don't think he really believed that you were gonna puke."

"Well- he found out." You lean your head on her shoulder and look at the menu, "The peach one sounds good."

"And hopefully won't make you puke."

"Peaches are fine. As long as they aren't canned."

____________

Logan let himself into your apartment cautiously. Feeling better now that he was clean and in clean clothes. Construction was hot, dirty work, but it paid. And that was important.

There were some new baby things, carefully put away in the corner where you'd been putting them until you could organize it all and he could smell something beef based and savory cooking in your crockpot. But it was quiet.

It made him feel weird as he walked across the floor.

But then he peered over the sofa and smiled a little. You were snuggled into a blanket and asleep. Trigger eyed him warily and Logan pressed a finger to his lips as he walked around the sofa and knelt to kiss the side of your head. "Hey, Princess," he murmured, stroking your arm.

"Hm?"

"Tired today, huh?"

"Wasn't even trying to go to sleep. Just settled down to watch a show," you tell him, yawning. "Was waiting to hear back on some stuff."

He smiled a little and stroked your hair, "Must've needed the sleep, just didn't want to scare you poking around in the kitchen."

"It's beef stew. There's bread in the oven and I made brownies," you hum, stretching.

"No wonder you needed a nap," he chuckled.

"Brownies just sounded good. And it's cold out today. Figured you were tired of Wade's chicken experiments and would probably want something hot."

"Thanks, sweetheart," he said, feeling himself blush. You thought about him? He didn't think you poisoned it either. "Kid's got a sweet tooth, huh?"

"At least I know they like brownies. And not banana anything."

Logan snorted, "I owe them a pony on their 5th birthday for making you throw up on Wade when he shoved that bread in your face."

"I couldn't even stop it-"

"Better than it comin' out your nose. And I bet he won't just shove shit in your face again."

"There is that." You sit up slowly and rub your eyes, "If you gimme a second I'll make some plates and-"

"Just stay there," Logan said, "I'll get it. Do you want water or-"

"Ice tea, please."

"And a brownie."

"Or like 2. Two is good."

#ask answered #minors dni #reader insert #wolverine #wolverine x reader #writer!reader

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ameagrice · 3 months ago

Text

Capsize

percy jackson x fem reader

chapter thirty-five | when I say ‘hell’, you say ‘nah’

Being tied up and gagged sitting beside a barbecue spitting hot oil at you, was not on the agenda.

And yet you sighed, tied up to a barbecue. Across the porch, Nico sat the same way, bound to the railing. To your left, Grover mirrored him, tied up in the sun. He was sweating, and looked incredibly tired. You wished you could do something about the situation you got caught in, but the truth was, you couldn’t do a thing. Percy got you here, and only Percy could get you out.

“Lovely day!” Geryon flipped sausages. A bit of piping-hot oil landed on your cheek. You flinched, but he didn’t pay you any notice. “Lovely day…Eurytion, get those banners higher!”

Streamers and party balloons were tied up and taped to the windows by Eurytion, who you deducted to be a spineless man. He’d tied you all up at Geryon’s instructions and relaxed on the bench under the window, in the shade.

You tried desperately to think of a way you could contact anyone. Chiron, perhaps, who could advise you on what to do now that Percy had gotten you tied up and held hostage. Maybe even Sally Jackson, since she always knew what you could do. Her advice hadn’t failed you yet. But there were no water sources or reflective surfaces to make a rainbow, and you could reach your bag chucked out of the way down on the grass, anyway. Eurytion had been kind enough to put your dagger in your bag, rather than throwing it away. That was something.

Eurytion and Geryon ate barbecue food, put more on the grill, and ate that, too, until the sun had set relatively low. The whole time, you tried not to hyperventilate at the thought of Percy being eaten by monster horses. You tried not to think of the high possibility you’d be sold off like a piece in a thrift store. You tried not to, but your mind ran wild. Grover communicated with his eyes, probably as tired as you were after your struggle to get out of the ties. You hadn’t any idea what he was communicating, though—the sun beamed in your eyes.

You were beginning to think he wasn’t coming back at all, a hopeless sort of sadness setting in, when a desperate, boys voice rang out above the barbecue and Geryon’s terrible singing.

“Let them go!” Percy’s voice raged. He ran up the porch steps and rounded. He locked eyes with you, and then Grover and Nico. “I cleaned the stables. So let them go.” Relief lifted the weight off your shoulders, that Percy was still breathing.

Geryon lifted off his cooking apron and dumped it over the porch rail. “Did you, now? How’d you manage it, sonny?”

Breathing deeply, Percy explained. “The water from the river. I…controlled it. Cleared the stables out completely.”

Geryon nodded appreciatively. “Well, then, Mr. Genius, smart move. You could have at least poisoned the naiad that resides in there, but hey-ho.” The staticky radio on the bench next to Eurytion played an Elvis Presley song, cutting out here and there. Polk Salad Annie felt a little bit too upbeat for the unpredictable crowd.

“Let my friends go,” Percy seethed, not appreciating the insinuation that he hadn’t done enough. “We had a deal.”

Geryon chuckled. “See, the problem is, and I’ve been thinking about this very deeply; if I let your friends go, I won’t get paid. They’re staying.”

Your eyes widened so much you might have looked comical. Percy turned gray. “You. Promised.”

“Ah, but you didn’t have me swear on the River Styx, did you? Therefore, it was not binding. Always remember, Percy, when you’re conducting any business, you should always swear on the River Styx. A binding oath is worth everything, alrighty?”

A beat of silence hit as Percy drew his sword. Riptide reflected the gold of the sun, strong at your friend’s side. Orthus, standing at Grover’s head, growled deeply.

Geryon waved Percy off like he was a knat. “Eurytion, he’s annoying me. Kill him.”

Grover and yourself protested as much as you could with your mouth’s somewhat bound too. Geryon looked away and slung a packet of bacon on the grill. At the same time, Percy inched closer to you, angling Riptide to the ties on your ankles. Orthus pounced and snapped at him, forcing Percy to move away. Saliva dripped from the dog’s mouths in a disgusting puddle near your feet. You couldn’t help feeling a little angry at him. For the first time, Percy had truly put your life at risk, and his way out of it failed to be effective.

“Kill him yourself,” said Eurytion, crossing his arms loosely.

Raising his dark brows, Geryon uttered a calm, “Excuse me?”

“You heard me! You keep sending me to do your dirty work. You pick fights for no proper reason, and I’m tired of dying for you. You want the kid dead; kill him yourself.”

Tensely, the scene reminded you of a movie, like a cowboy facing down his enemy. You wanted to laugh, but honestly you felt a little too heat-exhausted and scared.

Geryon threw down the metal tongs. “How dare you defy me? I should be rid of you this instant!”

“And who’d look after your cattle then? Orthus, heel.” The dog left you, settling at Eurytion’s side.

“Whatever! I’ll deal with you later, after the boy’s gone.”

Then the scene

went

wild.

Geryon picked up two carving knives and threw them with such fury in Percy’s direction that they went haywire; he raised Riptide and deflected one away, over the rail, the other landed between Eurytion’s feet. Orthus barked aggressively, and Elvis Presley went crazy on the radio. Though obviously tired, and looking sweaty and pale (and in need of a shower after the stench of the stables), Percy went on the offence, raising Riptide and aiming right for Geryon’s head. He ducked and moved aside, causing the sword to go right through his middle chest. You looked away, praying to your mother you didn’t gag, because the way you were feeling in the sun, it would not be good. Geryon yelled in pain and thudded to the deck. You anticipated the familiar sound of crumbling to ashes and dust the way monsters usually do, but it didn’t happen.

“Nice try,” he growled. “Thing is, I obviously have three hearts. It’s the perfect backup!” You looked back just in time to witness him kick over the barbecue that had been boiling all day long. The metal grates fell away, as smoking coals spilled out. Being so close to it, one caught your cheek as it dropped, others burning around your feet. You screamed, and couldn’t stop it. Grover yanked uselessly at his bindings, while Orthus approached him in a low crawl. Elvis didn’t give a shit that you found yourself in a stressful situation. Eurytion stepped back down the porch steps. Nico looked visibly terrified. After all, he was only a kid.

Percy struck Geryon in the chest again, but he only laughed in his face. The dark-haired boy ran the sword through his stomach but it did absolutely nothing. Percy persevered, usually, so watching him take off inside the house was a kick to the stomach. He couldn’t leave you here, surely? Your cheek itched painfully from the burn of the coal and the oil and the sun, you were tired and hot and stressed. Sooner rather than later, you might explode.

Geryon launched the large barbecue fork through the open doorway, and it landed in something with a terrible clunk. “Your head’s gonna go there, Jackson, next to the bear!”

In the doorway, Percy appeared carrying a large bow and notched an arrow, shocking since he couldn’t so much as hit a target a metre away at camp. Geryon berated him verbally with cruel remarks and laughter, but Percy was not to be deterred. The monster didn’t need weapons to charge toward Percy, who dove sideways. Before he could react, Percy let the arrow fly. It shot straight through Geryon’s arm in a bloody mess, and right through his bodies to the other side, landing in the wall inside the house. The ranch grew still and quiet, Geryon turning. “You can’t shoot,” he struggled to talk. “They told me you can’t.” In a sickly shade of violent green, he fell to his knees heavily and promptly turned to ashes, grains as small as sand. Silently, all that remained was a pair of jeans, a huge shirt and boots.

Percy turned, dropping the bow to the deck, clattering. In his pocket Riptide had returned. He cut your mouth free first, careful of the stinging cheek, knowing somehow that freedom of speech was what you wanted now.

You coughed to clear your throat, and brilliant-gray met sea-green. “Glad you’re still breathing, Percy Jackson.”

He swallowed, cutting through the binding at your ankles. “Glad you’re still here, B.”

You collected your backpack and dug straight for a bottle of water, sipping slowly as Grover and Nico were released. Casting the bottle away into your bag, you stood to build up the barbecue again, and offered the last packs of burgers to the gods as a thanks for helping Percy actually get a good shot…and not somehow shooting you, instead (which he had nearly done, once before).

Nico said Eurytion should be tied up, and Grover agreed on the grounds that his dog had tried to kill you all. Murder wasn’t in your books, and you didn’t want to become a subject of interest, but the old man had done nothing while you cooked under the sun and was going to allow you to be handed over to Luke. So…something had to be done.

“Why don’t we just…” you thought, “I don’t know, actually. Could just tie him and make a run for it before he breaks free?”

“Or we could contact Chiron?” Suggested Grover. “Maybe he could do something about this?”

You waved him off. “Chiron would be too nice.”

Percy raised his brows. “And just tying some up is isn’t being too nice?”

“Alright! I’m just saying, murder is a bit far. He isn’t completely guilty. He didn’t really do anything to us.”

“Didn’t do anything for us, either,” retorted your friend. Percy flicked his hair from his face, sweaty and sun-kissed.

Nico gasped with an idea. “We could kill him, and then I’ll go and judge him in the Underworld.”

You clicked your fingers, pointing at Nico. “Ha ha, that’s not what we’re gonna do.”

“Look,” breathed Percy, pocketing Riptide-now-pen. He held out a hand to Eurytion as he spoke. “How long will Geryon take to reform and come back?”

“Couple hundred years,” the farmhand shrugged. “He ain’t one of those quick reformers.”

“Oh, thank you Zeus,” you mumbled. The sky rumbled, perfectly clear.

“You said you died for him in the past, didn’t you? How’d that happen?”

Eurytion explained his immortality, chosen way back when in his half-blood era. Percy stood beside you leaning on the fencing, raising his hand to shield his bright eyes from the blinding sun. In turn, his shadow blocked you, dimming the feel of burning on your face.

“You can change things ‘round here,” offered Percy, “be nice to the animals, not selling them. If we leave you here, you’ve got to stop trading with the Titans.”

Eurytion thought about it hard, and long. He sat silent, just pondering, until eventually he nodded. “I can live with that.”

“Hey, if you get the animals on your side, maybe when Geryon comes back, he’ll be working for you. Tables—turned.”

Eurytion hummed, chuckling low in his throat. “I wouldn’t mind that,” he grinned. He waved off in the distance. “Now go. I haven’t had peace and quiet in years. And the girl looks like she needs a hospital. Seriously, you look sick.”

“That’s rude.”

“You’re not gonna stop us?” Grover pushed away from his seat. You leaned your elbow on his shoulder.

“Hell no.”

Despite his calm, laidback demeanour, you couldn’t help feeling suspicious. Raising your bottle to your warm cheeks, cooling them a little, you asked the question stuck on your mind. “He said somebody paid for our safe passage. The only person I can think of down here who could have done so would be Hera. She met us in the maze. She gave us some not-so-helpful advice. You seen her anywhere?”

Eurytion shrugged. “I don’t know what he was talking about. And I ain’t seen any gods round here, lady.”

“What about Luke, and his army? Did you actually tell them we’re here?”

He scoffed with humour. “Did I hell. We were waiting until after the barbecue. So to answer your indirect question, missus, they don’t know about Mr. Nico.”

The boy himself glared right at you with such passion it almost physically burned. Two options were here and two only.

“You can come with us and get out of here,” you offered. “Or you can stay on the ranch for a while. Either way you’d be quite safe.”

Nico’s face warped to one of fury. His skinny fists clenched at his sides. “I’m not going anywhere with you! Safe? What do you know about being safe? You got my sister killed!”

You practically saw red. Shoving your bag into Percy’s fumbling arms, you leaned down to face Nico, who ground his teeth loudly. “Alright, you little shit—let’s get one thing straight before we go anywhere: I did not get your sister killed. I’ve thought long and hard about it, and ultimately I’ve decided that Bianca had her own brain, and her own free will. I didn’t make her do anything, and I didn’t push her. It was a tragic accident, okay?”

“Nico,” Percy stood beside you, laying a warm hand on your shoulder and urging you back from the kid who didn’t move. “She’s right. Please believe her. Believe us. None of this was anybody’s fault. Staying here would be fine, you don’t have to come with us if you don’t want to. But if Kronos finds out about you, he’ll take you, and he’ll do anything to get you on his side. It won’t be good, Nico, trust me.”

Nico turned his face away. “I’m not on anyone’s side. And I’m not scared of any of this.”

“You really should be. Bianca wouldn’t want any of this.”

He turned back. Nico’s eyes swam with tears, and you felt a little bad for popping off. “If you knew my sister, you know she’d want to come back! If you cared about her, you’d help me to bring her back.”

“A soul for a soul, right?”

“Yes!”

Percy looked troubled. “But if you didn’t want B, and you didn’t want me, then who?”

“I’m not explaining anything to either of you!” He exclaimed. When a tiny tear tread down his cheek, Nico raised his hand to wipe it away aggressively. “I’m going to bring her back. She’s my sister. I need to…I need her.” He rubbed his eyes viciously.

You deflated. Nico tried to look brave, and act older than he was, but his eyes were rimmed with red as he rubbed at them, and he choked on his tears. All of a sudden you wanted nothing more than to sit him down and talk to him, apologise for shouting when he was so upset. You wanted to kick yourself for acting impulsively, and shouting at a child as they cried. At fifteen years old, you should have known better. You reminded yourself terribly then of your father.

“Why don’t we ask Bianca what she wants?”

Nico’s face stilled. “I’ve tried,” he said miserably. “She won’t answer.”

“Try again,” shrugged Percy. A cold breeze shocked you, suddenly. In the distance, storm clouds were rolling in out of a perfectly sunny day…. “I have a feeling she’ll answer with me here.” He sounded very confident in that, and for what reason?

“Why would she?” Asked Nico.

“Because she’s been sending me messages,” Percy shifted on his feet at the sudden onslaught of confused looks. “I’m sure she has. She’s been warning me of what you’re doing. She wanted me to protect you.”

Nico wiped his eyes furiously. “That’s impossible.”

“Why is it?” Percy offered. “Besides, didn’t you say you’re not afraid? Let’s try it. We’ll need a lot of food, and a pit. You got anything like a grave around here?”

—

The grave happened to be dug especially by yourself and Grover. You never were one for gardening, and you find yourself slacking towards the end of the grave-digging.

“Come on,” urged Grover, sweaty and tired. “Just—we can do this. We’ve got this. Positive thinking. Deep breath in…”

You want to tell Grover that positive thinking won’t influence positive actions, because your limbs feel like lead. But together you finish the grave, and your friends pull you out of it. You waited until dark, the five of you and the dog, to call on the dead. With crates of root beer at the ready, Nico paced back and forth, anxious. You sat at the edge of the grave and dangled your legs in, exhausted beyond belief. Every now and then you had to kick away a bug. Grover sat on his heels, sleeping on the crates of root beer.

“Minos should be here by now!” Came Nico’s tiny voice, his dark eyes full of worry. The moon was high and full and bright. Percy’s infinite gray streak shone in the light, a patch among dark, dark hair. “It’s dark enough. It’s late enough…”

“Maybe he got lost,” suggested Percy. Nico glared furiously.

Percy crouched beside you and clapped you on the shoulder, digging his fingers in as a means to try and show you he was there. Maybe he knew you well enough by now to know you were getting irritated and agitated, waiting and tired and forcing your eyes to stay open.

Little Nico grew fed up himself, and wrenched a bottle of root beer from the crate, pouring it into the pit. Grover jerked away, and began helping. With food in a pile from the forgotten barbecue, Nico’s hands dashed out hungrily, and threw them into the pit too, chanting in Ancient Greek. To anyone else, the sudden chill of the night air and the aura that settled with Nico’s chanting might have been terrifying, or uncomfortable. You found the grim ordeal that was summoning the dead to be a rather interesting situation. Something satisfying in raising what once was. A reminder that things never truly died.

It didn’t take long for someone to come forward. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the right someone.

A dark shade of blue, a thin and whispery figure that mirrored who it was once, kneeled at the edge of the grave and reached in. The image somewhat shimmered, and when you looked hard enough, features showed through; deep-set eyes, hardened and somewhat angry; facial features showing crows feet around the eyes, dark brows…

“Minos!” Yelled Nico, suddenly on guard. He brought forth his sword, aimed at the ghost. “What are you doing?!”

“My apologies,” he said, though there wasn’t a hint of sorry in there. Slowly, the ghost’s image grew a bit more real, more colorful. “The sacrifice seemed too good to leave be. Almost in solid form—it’s nice to see myself again.”

“You are disrupting the Ritual! Leave, now!”

Minos paid him no mind. You’d long since jumped away from the edge of the grave, and joined Percy’s side, but something about the ghost ignited in you a want to take Nico’s sword and run the loser through with it. He turned to the two of you, running his eyes in a way that had you almost wretching.

“Percy Jackson!” He hummed. “My, my. The sons of Poseidon never seem to get any better.”

A rude and untrue comment, because you’d seen old images of Greek heroes, and Percy was the best by a million. Not that you’d say that out loud, or anything.

Percy had a lot more self-control than you did in the moment, because he simply took a deep breath, and said, “We’re looking for Bianca. Get lost.”

“Do you really believe Daedalus will help you?” Minos taunted, tilting his head. Nico had begun chanting again, kneeling at the edge of the pit with Grover kneeling dutifully at his side, taking care. “He cares nothing for you, half-bloods! You certainly cannot trust him. He’s cursed by the gods, and guilty of murder. You want somebody like that on your side?”

“Who did he kill?” Asked Percy.

“Don’t change the subject!” Minos spat, a confirmation that he was talking bull, really. “Stop hindering Nico. Don’t persuade him to abandon his goals!”

“We’re helping Nico,” you touched your dagger tucked away in the pocket of your pants. “He’s a child. Leave him alone.”

The ghost settled by Nico’s ear, leaning down to mutter. Nico visibly flinched and squeezed his eyes shut. “Don’t listen to them, Nico. Let me protect you, not them. I’ll turn them to madness as I did the others. Just say the word.”

If Minos wasn’t already dead, you swore, you’d have killed him there and then.

“Was it you?” Barked Percy. “Did you hurt Chris Rodriguez?”

Minos rolled his eyes lazily, turning around to face Percy. He got in real close to his face; Percy’s arm shot out in front of you and urged you backwards, away from the vile ghost. “The maze is my property,” he hummed. Percy refused to back away. “Those who intrude on it deserve madness.”

Nico turned furious, whether at Minos’s lecturing, or his interrupting. Either way, he turned to the ghost and ran him through with his sword. “Go away, Minos! Leave us!” His voice turned sad and desperate, like he was tired of this too. “Bianca! Come on!”

It was heart-wrenching, watching Nico beg for his dead sister. It wasn’t fair.

But she’d heard him. Bianca came forth, a silvery wisp of light from the dark trees in the distance, growing closer. You didn’t feel wary of her, and Percy dropped his sword, Nico backed away to give her space, and Grover shuffled away from the edge as Bianca knelt to accept the offering in the pit. When she got to her feet, she was a solid hue of silvery-blue form, the image of herself in life. It was like the chatter grew quiet, the chaos turned silent, when Bianca smiled sadly at her brother. Nico had grown still, and pale.

He wasn’t the first one she spoke to, though. “Hello, Percy,” said Bianca, her voice like a lullaby. Her body flickered like the stars would, before it stilled.

“Bianca…” One look at Percy had you reaching for his hand, clasping it between both of yours. He was choked up. You didn’t blame him one bit—you hadn’t known Bianca well at all, and she’d killed herself in the process of saving you all, but even seeing her again like this had your throat burning. “I’m—I’m so sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologise for, Percy. I made my choice.” Somehow, she seemed older, calmer, and a whole lot more at peace, as if this didn’t phase her and her death was simply an article she’d read in a paper and let pass over her, at the back of her mind. “I don’t regret it, either.” Her eyes, a mirror of Nico’s own, fell on you. What did you look like to her, you wondered later? Holding back your own teary eyes the way Percy did.

She turned to face her brother quickly, and his name fell from her lips. She turned sad.

“Oh, Nico.” She raised a hand to cover her mouth. “You’ve gotten so tall.”

“Why didn’t you answer me any sooner!” He exclaimed. “I’ve been trying to find you for months!”

“I was hoping you’d give up, Nico. Please give up.”

Heartbroken, Nico reached for her, but his hand passed right through. “Give up?…I’d never!”

“I need you to do this, Nico. Trust Percy. Trust her.”

“No! She let you die! They’re not our friends!”

Bianca’s ghostly hand reached out to touch Nico’s cheek, but she fizzled out too quickly, and never made contact with him. “You must listen to me now, because this is important. Holding grudges is bad for children of Hades. It’s our fatal flaw, and you must forgive.”

“I can’t. I’ll never.”

Bianca struggled, exhaled. Her eyes betrayed every feeling in her body—anguish, anger, sadness. “Percy has been worried for you, Nico. I let him see what you were up to so that he could help you. You understand, don’t you?”

“It was you, then,” shuddered Percy. “You were sending me those messages.”

Bianca nodded softly. “I was.”

Nico demanded her attention. “No, listen!” He screamed and went to grab at her again. “Don’t help him! Help me! This isn’t fair!”

Bianca kneeled to be face-to-face with Nico. “You’re so close to the truth now, Nico. Believe me. It isn’t them you’re angry at; it’s me. And it’s okay to be angry, do you understand? You’re allowed to be upset—”

“No!” He heaved a great cry.

“You’re mad because I left you, to join the Hunters. And you’re so angry because I died and left you here. It wasn’t my intention, and I’m sorry.” Bianca’s voice turned thick with emotion. “But you must try to accept this, now. I cannot come back. And you must stay with them.” She nodded at you and Percy.

“I just want you back,” Nico sobbed. Bianca, on her knees, looked as if in a great deal of pain. She swallowed hard, and her voice was shaky.

“You can’t have that, Nico. This is how it has to be. And one day, we’ll be reunited again properly. Trust me. Believe in that. I’m never too far away, even when you can’t reach me. But for now, you have to let me go. Can you do that for me, Nico? You’re so strong…you’re so brave.” She turned suddenly to look over her shoulder at something the rest of you couldn’t see. “I must go now. Your powers are attracting unwanted attention. I have to go back.”

“Wait!” A terrible, pained cry ripped from Nico’s throat. “Please don’t go!” He heaved. “Please stay! Don’t leave me here!”

“I love you, Nico.”

You understand Bianca then, and her decision. It was why you dropped Percy’s warm hand and took up Nico’s cold, limp one. He heaved and cried, and didn’t protest when you lay your free hand on the side of his head, and gently pulled him to you. You raised your gaze from Nico’s teary, reddened eyes, squeezed tightly shut, to Bianca’s mirrored gaze. A single, shiny tear trailed down her translucent face, and you tried to convey one last message: Nico would not be alone.

She nodded slowly, and sniffled once. Getting to her feet, Bianca managed a sad smile, and lowered her eyes to Nico once more. He was the last thing she saw, as she trailed out of the mortal world for the final time. Bianca di Angelo simply faded away.

Just because she’d told him to trust you, didn’t mean he trusted you right away. That night, Nico sat out on the porch alone, talking to somebody that wasn’t there, crying to himself. You’d tried to talk to him, but had no luck. Nico demanded to be left alone, so you left him. When you returned two hours later, he’d fallen asleep on the bench, a hand tucked under his cheek. Percy dug out a blanket from one of the bedrooms upstairs, and you’d covered Nico over as the night air grew chilly. Your heart felt heavy, but the day’s trials didn’t prevent you from falling asleep quickly. The boys took the sofas downstairs, and you picked a spot at the bay window with a comforter and pillows. Sleep took you the second you laid down your head.

Your mother decided it was a good time to pop up and say hello, apparently.

You recognised the setting immediately as New York’s Public Library. Beyond the windows lining either two walls, the sky was black as could be, no stars or anything showing through. The lights and the slightly dusty chandeliers on the ceiling of the grand roof were golden, more yellow than usual, and the tables stretching the length of the hall were empty as could be, the dark stretch of tile down the middle aisle echoing your footsteps the further you walked.

At the end of the wall, standing beneath the clock small in the grand wall, was a tall lady, casual as could be in jeans and a pretty sweatshirt. This didn’t defer her from wearing a sword in a scabbard at her hip. Long, light hair was tied back in a practical bun, tight and secure. In her hands was a heavy book, and her brilliant gray eyes scanned it furiously. She didn’t look up from it until you’d paused at her side, peering up at the taller woman, admiring her. Strange, how the gods technically had no DNA, and yet you were her mirror image. The same jawline, the same nose, definitely the same eyes. She was pretty, really pretty, and she carried herself with confidence.

It would have been nice to be acknowledged, however similar you were.

“Mom?” You voiced into the quiet library air.

“Chapter eighteen of The Iliad—what do you know of it?”

You raise your eyebrows, curiously. “I don’t know off the top of my head, exactly. There’s a fight over Patroclus’s body, isn’t there? Real dramatic, like. They’re worried about going to fight the Trojans. Achilles worries about the outcome of Patroclus going out to join the fight.”

“Do you notice any similarities between this and our life?” She quips. Your mom huffed at something she read, and snapped the book shut. The cover was battered leather, the title almost rubbed away. It was old, but no dust rose from it.

You shrug, and feel somewhat nervous. “We’re history repeating itself?” You offer. “Is this to do with Bianca, last night? The fight over what happened to her, fighting over what she wanted for her end?”

Mom hummed, and threw the book over her shoulder. You had a sudden desire to catch it, but as you went to grab it, as it hit your hands, heavy as hell, it disappeared, as though she’d never thrown a thing. Your mother turned to watch you, bringing your brows together, spinning in a circle to look for this damn book like a stupid dog chasing its tail.

“The fight for life is always happening,” said mom, factually. “What happened to Bianca di Angelo was a negligible accident. She could have been saved.”

Frozen, you shakily exhaled. Gray met the mirror image.

“She could have been saved, but it was her destiny. You understand, don’t you, daughter? That what is meant to be is meant to be. So even though you could have saved her life one way or another, she was supposed to die.”

You scoff, and surprise yourself at the burning in your eyes. “People aren’t supposed to just die, mom. When their time comes, when they’re old, then sure. Not like this.”

“Was it not Bianca’s time? Who decides when it is right to die?”

“What’s the point of this?” You snap. “Did you bring me here just to take a dig at me?”

“Everybody has their time. I’m here to tell you to your friend that he should stop meddling in things. Leave things well alone.”

“Great advice. After we’ve sorted things. Bit late to the party.”

“Not entirely.” She tilted her head. “Before I go, just one thing—tell Percy Jackson to let the dead rest, when the time comes.”

“That’s ominous.”

“That’s life,” mom hummed. “I’ll let you go, now. The boy is trying to wake you up.”

When you come to, Percy is knelt beside you. Sunrise is in your eyes, and Nico is shouting downstairs. You gather your things, and prepare to make your way back into the maze.

—

TAGLIST

@bl6o6dy @embersparklz @lilyevanswhore

@rottenstyx @rory-cakes @i-am-scared-and-useless-bisexual

@marshmallow12435 @lantsovheiress @distinguishedmakerpandapatrol

@twsssmlmaa @gayandfairycore @padsfirewhisky

@emu281 @charlesswife @jessiegerl

@tojismassivemantiddies @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @nothankyou138

@obxstiles @mxltifxnd0m @cxcilla @itzjustj-1000 @sp00kcanwrite

@randomesthings @fratbrochrisgf

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pixeldolly · 5 days ago

Text

The Sacrifice - Part 10

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!"

"The idol's gone, Eliza. I displaced it into Yg's core; if that doesn't melt it, nothing will. Either way, nobody's ever getting their hands on it again."

Yg...the name flashed through Eliza's reeling mind. It was an incalculably old star, a bloated red giant orbited by the lifeless husks of three nameless planets on a plane of existence so remote, fact gave way to rumor and conjecture.

None of that mattered.

Not even her disfigurement mattered, weighed against this new calamity.

Eliza could have struck Fiona dead right then and there, if she hadn't been frozen in utter terror.

The Chkrxgmbvegh, the Nameless One, also felt the shift in the planes.

It felt the inexorable pull of the abyss, as its hold on the material plane began slipping away. Already, it could smell the familiar stench of sulphur and rot and hear the cries of the damned, but the demon was furious.

It had been cheated.

"Witch! Thisss iss your fault! Your sssuffering shall be legendary, even in Hell!"

It did not specify which of the two witches it was speaking to, but Eliza Clare could sense the demon's red-hot ire even as it was pulled into a vortex of lurid un-light. That burning, vengeful anger was aimed at her.

"No, please! It wasn't my fault! SHE's the one, SHE did it!"

"I'll fix it, I swear! I'm begging you, give me another chance!"

Eliza's pleas fell on deaf ears. If the demon was listening, it didn't care; all it cared about was revenge.

She screamed as the fire ignited under her feet, engulfing her with a speed that was unnatural, unstoppable. Eliza thought she knew pain, but she was soon to be disabused of that notion.

She also knew with a certainty that did not originate within herself that this, too, would pale before future torments. Demons did not forgive.

And there was nothing she could do to change it. In a flash of insight dying minds are sometimes granted, Eliza realized that she had been hurtling towards the inferno all along, unable to feel the heat.

Maybe, once, a different outcome had been possible, but the point of no return had come and gone long ago. For the first time in decades, Eliza tasted regret, bitter as a mouthful of poison.

And then, she saw.

A stern father, a Jacoban preacher, trying to "beat the magic out of her."

A resentful mother berating her, knowing she could never, ever be good enough.

Herself as a young woman, vowing she would never be made to feel powerless again, no matter the cost. Sentiment was a weakness to be exploited, which she would cut out of herself as one would an infection.

Her son in her arms, her resolve weakening. It did not break.

Her son...

Then, Eliza saw no more.

"Wh- What happened? Where'd that thing go? Uuughh, I feel like I was hit by a goddamn truck!"

"Banished back to its home dimension. It sounded none too pleased about it, which means a certain blonde witch is being shown the hospitality of the Hellplanes as we speak."

"The fire...shit, are those ashes...?"

"Yep. Didn't leave much behind, did she?"

"Fucking hell - Roman!"

"He's fine. Luckily, the demon only took Eliza."

"Luckily? Sounds like you weren't sure what would happen."

"Well, I wasn't, exactly. I made an educated guess that it would see Eliza as the bigger prize. She'd sold her soul to that thing years ago - Roman was an advance payment on that debt, but it was never going to be enough. The Nameless One was toying with her; it would've demanded more and more, until she could no longer pay."

"Uhuh. And what if it had decided to take both of them?"

"That was a possibility, but I figured it only had enough power left to take one or the other."

"You gamble an awful lot with people's lives, Fiona."

"Considering the alternative was that we all died, I like to think it wasn't unreasonable."

"Fair, I guess. I'm okay too, by the way. Fuck, this bite burns like a motherfucker though! Is demon spit toxic?"

"Jacob...?"

"I'm here. Everything's going to be okay!"

"Where is -"

"It's gone. Fiona banished it; I think. You're safe now."

"And my...mother?"

Jacob pursed his lips; giving that woman the title of "mother" felt like a travesty.

"She's gone too."

"You...How did you know...?"

"It's a long story. I'll tell you all the details later, but right now we need to get you to a hospital. How...how are you feeling?"

"Hurts. But - Jacob..."

"Shhhhh."

"Thank you..."

#sims 2 #ts2 #the sims 2 #sims2 #sims 2 bacc #bacc: walden #sims 2 story #story: the sacrifice #roman turner #jacob merridew #fiona merridew #eliza clare #evelyn morgan #the nameless one #yes that is a hellraiser reference #tw: blood #tw: death

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mikaelsrose · 6 months ago

Text

some thoughts and theories on abh so far

Both Raphael and Mikael's touch is said to be cold while David's is hot

If anyone has any theories about who the guys' superiors could be, please share because I have no idea.

I'm 1000% certain that the guys don't really live at the agency.

The mansion possessed a most unusual trait: if its residents weren't actively seeking you out, it was nearly impossible to find them yourself."

Moreover, I think MC was going somewhere and mentioned again that the house was empty.

"Our father went missing. I believe he's dead" - this actually makes me think the father they talk about isn't God.

This could be a red herring but the man who approaches MC at the club could be involved in the murder. His glassy eyes ("but he didn't look drunk") are definitely a hint and his hot-tempered personality make him very suspicious. "He looked around quiclkly," his outfit is rather out of place at this club, he's pushy and insistent. I found some info that glassy eyes could mean lifeless eyes and when you look at this dude, it's.......plausible (kinda kidding, kinda idk. He just looks suspicious)

I believe they all don't truly grasp the concept of emotions. Mikael doesn't really care about the clients + don't understand the concept of grief, David has no empaty for the deceased. Idk about Cas, and Raphael could be the one able to understand emotions (or he's just good at pretending and/or he feels the emotions his interlocutors do)

As for MC - I think the guys had sth to do with her patient going beserk and her ending up at Astrea. It's just a hunch, I don't have any proof, but they obviously need her for something, and I wouldn't be surprised if Mikael already knew she lost her medical licence.

Mikael:

Cheeky if you pay attention - even during the interview in ch 1 he laughs at MC's poor attempt of touching him under a really weak excuse (can't blame her though); "a playful spark flashed in his eyes," "sly smile" so he's not as stuck up as it looks at the first glance lol

Physically: a picture of Renaissance beauty, it is constantly stated he's very graceful and charismatic. MC also says he's very fit and has prominent muscles (which is surprising "for someone in his position); "stately figure"; statue chiseled out of marble".

He's Not a doctor, but yet heals. In ch. 4 he 1000% sucked the poison out of MC body, and I believe so not only because of what he says but also from the way his eyes look. He also says "I've never had a chance to heal mental wounds" which implies he's been healing for a long time.

David:

Could be far reaching and I formulate this theory mainly because I've been watching too much Supernatural lately, but I believe he's some type of a demon.

He's very confident and he "never loses" as a lawyer, so he's either very very good or able to influence people somehow.

MC obviously didn't end up in Astrea by accident, and she's the MC so she must be somehow special, so it makes me think David constantly calling her a witch isn't without a reason. Ch. 3: "don't admit to anyone in the village that you're a witch, either." Could be just a joke though.

Also the fact he was extremely friendly towards MC is suspicious, almost as if he tried to influence her to stay at all cost.

"It's impossible to get enough of me"

After the murder: "he's like a doctor who has seen death so many times that he hardly feels it anymore"

We learn his father lost his mind because he sold his soul. I've yet to come to any conclusions on this ngl.

Raphael:

I think he takes people's emotions onto himself and makes emotions come to the surface in people. Ch. 3: "Raphael approched the man, and the man's eyes filled with tears."

General:

Felonia emphasising that the guys treat MC differently, kindly and friendly. During the meeting in chapter 3, Mikael is cold and impartial when he talks to Fel

David: "You're so hash, Mikael"

"Only constant effort can attract his attention and make him believe that you deserve another chance" so the question is - who's he?

Felonia: "They're not villains, but they're not exactly heroes either. They have a mission and will go to any lengths necessary to complete it"

Mikael knows about the nightmares MC has and the dream we saw at the beginning of the book is definitely an answer to one of the big mysteries of the book, imo we'll learn what it means at the end of season 1 and it'll be the first supernatural thing we witness (although I'm not entirely sure because of how the last chapter ended)

Mikael: "Everyone's terribly worried about you" - why? They're not that close. They're worried because she's crucial to their plan.

My take is that Raph and Mikael are (arch)angels. Possibly fallen angels or at least angels who fucked up and are being punished. I'm not sure about Raphael, but if Mikael is the Angel Michael then he's the God's commander - his strict, controlled character, the fact he's the director of the agency then it kind of makes sense he;s so harsh to Felonia who seems to have seriously fucked up? He doesn't like disobedience.

Quora (don't judge me lol): "His power is believed to come from his closeness to God and his unwavering commitment to righteousness and the defeat of evil."

"The sword and shield are used today to represent a cutting of cords or energies that no longer serve and protecting us from harm. Michael can help in healing and repairing our energies where trauma, grief, past lives or karmic debts are holding us back from our true potential in this life. He will then work with Archangel Raphael to replace the negative energy, emotions, worries, doubts, physical ailments with positive vibrations. Michael will cleanse your entire being both the physical and spiritual."

@agattthaa mentioned that God is kind only to humans, he's not a good father to angels because he isn't present or forgiving to them; God forgives humans, but when angels make mistakes they fall from grace. Just a food for thought.

I'm curious about others' thoughts and theories. I just wanted to put all this together to sort it in my head as well.

Tagging @raleigh-edward 🫧

#i didnt include cassiel because i didnt take his scenes so there are people better suited to analyse him lol #over all I D K #i just f e e l that mikael and raphael are archangels #david is a massive enigma to me #also im not an expert on biblical lore so if anythkngs wrong thats on me #rc abh #romance club #rc mikael #rc raphael #rc david

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persephonememes · 1 year ago

Text

* ( GUTS BY OLIVIA RODRIGO / SENTENCE PROMPTS.

These may have been edited for clarity or length or to better apply for roleplaying.

❛ i pay attention to things that most people ignore ❜

❛ i'm alright with the movies that make jokes about senseless cruelty ❜

❛ i feel for your every little issue ❜

❛ i know just what you mean ❜

❛ i make light of the darkness ❜

❛ i've got sun in my motherfuckin' pocket ❜

❛ you know me ❜

❛ i forgive and i forget ❜

❛ i know my age and i act like it ❜

❛ i've got what you can't resist ❜

❛ i got class and integrity just like a goddamn kennedy ❜

❛ i'm a perfect all-american bitch ❜

❛ i know my place ❜

❛ i don't get angry when i'm pissed ❜

❛ i'm the eternal optimist ❜

❛ i scream inside to deal with it ❜

❛ i'm grateful all the time ❜

❛ i'm sexy and i'm kind ❜

❛ i'm pretty when i cry ❜

❛ haven't heard from you in a couple of months ❜

❛ i'm out right now and i'm all fucked up ❜

❛ i'm sensing some undertone ❜

❛ i'm right here with all my friends ❜

❛ i know we're done ❜

❛ i know we're through ❜

❛ my brain goes 'ah' can't hear my thoughts ❜

❛ i cannot hear my thoughts ❜

❛ i should probably not ❜

❛ seeing you tonight, it's a bad idea, right? ❜

❛ it's a bad idea, right? ❜

❛ fuck it, it's fine ❜

❛ yes, i know that he's my ex. but can't two people reconnect? ❜

❛ i only see him as a friend, the biggest lie i ever said ❜

❛ i just tripped and fell into his bed ❜

❛ now i'm gettin' in the car, wreckin' all my plans ❜

❛ i know i should stop, but i can't ❜

❛ i told my friends i was asleep but i never said where or in whose sheets ❜

❛ i'm sure i've seen much hotter men but i really can't remember when ❜

❛ how's the castle built off people you pretend to care about ❜

❛ i see the parties and the diamonds sometimes when i close my eyes ❜

❛ i loved you truly ❜

❛ you gotta laugh at the stupidity ❜

❛ i've made some real big mistakes but you make the worst one look fine ❜

❛ i've made some real big mistakes ❜

❛ i should've known it was strange you only come out at night ❜

❛ i used to think i was smart but you made me look so naïve ❜

❛ the way you sold me for parts as you sunk your teeth into me ❜

❛ bleeding me dry like a goddamn vampire ❜

❛ every girl i ever talked to told me you were bad news ❜

❛ you're so convincing ❜

❛ how do you lie without flinching? ❜

❛ how do you lie? ❜

❛ what a mesmerizing, paralyzing, fucked up little thrill ❜

❛ i can't figure out just how you do it and god knows i never will ❜

❛ you went for me and not her 'cause girls your age know better ❜

❛ you said it was true love but wouldn't that be hard? ❜

❛ you can't love anyone 'cause that would mean you had a heart ❜

❛ i tried to help you out ❜

❛ i tried to help you out now i know that i can't ❜

❛ how you think's the kind of thing i'll never understand ❜

❛ aren't you the sweetest thing on this side of hell? ❜

❛ did i ever tell you that i'm not doing well? ❜

❛ i linger all the time ❜

❛ i linger all the time watching, hidden in plain sight ❜

❛ i try but it takes over my life ❜

❛ i see you everywhere ❜

❛ the sweetest torture one could bear ❜

❛ i'm losing it lately ❜

❛ i feel your compliments like bullets on skin ❜

❛ aren't you the greatest thing to ever exist? ❜

❛ my stomach's all in knots ❜

❛ you got the one thing that i want ❜

❛ people are people, but it's like you're made of angel dust ❜

❛ it's like you're out to get me ❜

❛ you poison every little thing that i do ❜

❛ i just loathe you lately ❜

❛ i despise my jealous eyes and how hard they fell for you ❜

❛ i despise my rotten mind and how much it worships you ❜

❛ i don't think i get along with anyone ❜

❛ i'm on the outside of the greatest inside joke ❜

❛ i hate all my clothes ❜

❛ it feels like my skin doesn't fit right over my bones ❜

❛ so i guess i should go ❜

❛ the party's done, and i'm no fun ❜

❛ i broke a glass, i tripped and fell ❜

❛ i tripped and fell ❜

❛ i told secrets i shouldn't tell ❜

❛ i stumbled over all my words ❜

❛ i made it weird ❜

❛ i made it worse ❜

❛ each time i step outside it's social suicide ❜

❛ i wanna curl up and die ❜

❛ i laughed at the wrong time ❜

❛ i talked to this hot guy, swore i was his type ❜

❛ everything i do is tragic ❜

❛ the morning after i panic ❜

❛ oh god, what did i say? ❜

❛ when i'm alone, i'm fine ❜

❛ don't let me out at night ❜

❛ i'm shocked i'm still alive ❜

❛ i called you the wrong name twice ❜

❛ i want it, so i got it ❜

❛ another thing i ruined, i used to do for fun ❜

❛ another conversation with nothing good to say ❜

❛ another day pretending i'm older than i am ❜

❛ another perfect moment that doesn't feel like mine ❜

❛ sometimes i feel like i don't wanna be where i am ❜

❛ i push away all the people who know me the best ❜

❛ it's me who's been makin' the bed ❜

❛ i'm so tired of being the girl that i am ❜

❛ every good thing has turned into somethin' i dread ❜

❛ i'm playin' the victim so well in my head ❜

❛ every night, i wake up from this one recurring dream ❜

❛ i read somewhere it's 'cause my life feels so out of control ❜

❛ i tell someone i love them just as a distraction ❜

❛ they tell me that they love me like i'm some tourist attraction ❜

❛ i got the things i wanted, it's just not what i imagined ❜

❛ i'm counting all of the beautiful things i regret ❜

❛ i'm pulling the sheets over my head ❜

❛ you're so good at what you do ❜

❛ you come for me like a savior ❜

❛ i'd put myself through hell for you ❜

❛ i fell for you like water ❜

❛ i couldn't get out if i tried ❜

❛ it was all in my mind ❜

❛ now you got me thinking ❜

❛ love is never logical ❜

❛ all the things you did to me ❜

❛ you lied ❜

❛ i'm sure that girl is really your friend ❜

❛ you said i was too soft ❜

❛ why do I do this? ❜

❛ i know i'm half responsible and that makes me feel horrible ❜

❛ i know i could've stopped it all, god, why didn't i stop it all? ❜

❛ i met a guy in the summer and i left him in the spring ❜

❛ i wanna make him feel bad ❜

❛ i wanna make him really jealous ❜

❛ i really miss him and it makes me real sad ❜

❛ i want sweet revenge ❜

❛ i want him again ❜

❛ i want to get him back ❜

❛ i write him all these letters, then i throw them in the trash ❜

❛ i miss the way he kisses and the way he made me laugh ❜

❛ he said i was the only girl, but that just wasn't the truth ❜

❛ i am my father's daughter, so maybe i could fix him ❜

❛ i wanna key his car ❜

❛ i wanna break his heart ❜

❛ he's not even gonna know what hit him ❜

❛ he's gonna love me and hate me at the same time ❜

❛ i don't know ❜

❛ i told my friends you were the one ❜

❛ i stayed in bed for like a week ❜

❛ when you said space was what you need, i waited by my phone like a goddamn fool ❜

❛ love's fucking embarrassing ❜

❛ how could i be so stupid? ❜

❛ you found a new version of me ❜

❛ what was i even doing? ❜

❛ i give up ❜

❛ i give up everything ❜

❛ i keep coming back for more ❜

❛ i have nightmares each week about that friday ❜

❛ one phone call from you and my entire world was changed ❜

❛ you took everything i loved and crushed it in between your fingers ❜

❛ i doubt you ever think about the damage that you did ❜

❛ i hold on to every detail like my life depends on it ❜

❛ i hear your voice every time that i think i'm not enough ❜

❛ i try to be tough, but i wanna scream ❜

❛ how could anybody do the things you did so easily? ❜

❛ i say i don't care, i say that i'm fine but you know i can't let it go ❜

❛ i've tried for so long ❜

❛ it takes strength to forgive, but i don't feel strong ❜

❛ i try to understand why you would do this all to me ❜

❛ i know in my heart hurt people hurt people ❜

❛ do you think i deserved it all? ❜

❛ you built me up to watch me fall ❜

❛ you have everything and you still want more ❜

❛ even after all this, you're still everything to me ❜

❛ i know you don't care ❜

❛ there's always something missing ❜

❛ when pretty isn't pretty enough what do you do? ❜

❛ i could change up my body and change up my face ❜

❛ i'd always feel the same ❜

❛ you can win the battle but you'll never win the war ❜

❛ fix the things you hated and you'd still feel so insecure ❜

❛ i try to ignore it, but it's everything i see ❜

❛ i don't know why i even try ❜

❛ i bought all the clothes that they told me to buy ❜

❛ i chased some dumb ideal my whole fucking life ❜

❛ none of it matters and none of it ends ❜

❛ you just feel like shit over and over again ❜

❛ when am i gonna stop being wise beyond my years and just start being wise? ❜

❛ when am i gonna stop being a pretty young thing to guys? ❜

❛ when will it stop being cool to be quietly misunderstood? ❜

❛ i'm sorry that i couldn't always be your teenage dream ❜

❛ when does wide-eyed affection and all good intentions start to not be enough? ❜

❛ will i spend all the rest of my years wishing i could go back? ❜

❛ they all say that it gets better ❜

❛ it gets better the more you grow ❜

❛ it gets better, but what if i don't? ❜

#rp meme #rp memes #rp prompts #ask meme #meme #memes #roleplay meme #ask memes #lyric meme #lyrics #guts #guts olivia rodrigo #olivia rodrigo

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