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jaskierswolf · 4 years ago

Note

Mayhaps a wild take : Geralt folds the corners of his precious, centuries old, valuable beyond compare, bestiaries. Jaskier sees and loses his marbles. ( Then gifts geralt a book mark with pressed.. somehow familiar flowers... 👀 )

Hi, hello... So... I got carried away? This is 2.1k? I hope you like it!

CW: mentions of injury (on Jaskier)

________

Monsters mutate. They adapt, change, grow. Geralt was clearly a very skilled witcher with decades of experience, and Jaskier never grew bored of watching him fight, on the rare occasions he was actually allowed to watch that is. Most of the time, he had to make do with second-hand stories told by Geralt himself, which just wasn’t the same. But, sometimes, just sometimes, Geralt would deem the contract safe enough for Jaskier to trail along with a silver dagger gripped in his hands, and sometimes... Geralt got it wrong.

Jaskier was poking at his bandaged thigh where the drowner had bitten him, already beginning to stain red as the blood oozed from the wound. It hadn’t needed stitches but it still stung. The fight, however, oh the fight had been surprisingly spectacular. It was a small drowner nest just outside of town, attacking nearby fisherman along the beach, nothing that Jaskier hadn’t seen before and certainly not ballad worthy, but he’d tagged along regardless. He never wanted to pass up the opportunity to see Geralt in action. The witcher was just so beautiful, dancing with his sword in hand, all grace and elegance and fury. Jaskier was entranced every time. It was truly a miracle he didn’t get hurt more often.

The drowners had been fast, faster than they should have been, and now Geralt was muttering about mutations and skin pigments as he scratched words into a worn out copy of a bestiary. The witcher has borrowed one of Jaskier’s least expensive ink sets to update the centuries old book. It broke Jaskier’s heart to see such a beautiful book treated so poorly but he understood that it needed updating to keep his witcher safe.

The poor book though.

Academics at Oxenfurt would kill to get their hands on it. It would have been treated with the utmost respect, kept away from the grubby hands of the first and second years, only allowed out for special projects, and here was Geralt, covering it in his appalling handwriting, bloody fingerprints and dirt smudges in the margins.

“Oh bollocks,” Jaskier hissed as he jabbed at the bandages a little too hard, his restless energy getting the better of him. The witcher always told him off for picking and scratching at his bandages and scabs, but he couldn’t help it. They were just so scratchable, and the itching drove him mad!

Geralt sighed, glancing up at Jaskier with an exasperated expression. He took one look at Jaskier’s bandage and…

And he fucking folded the corner of his page before closing the book.

Jaskier saw red. He stammered and pointed at the pages, gaping as he tried to find the right words to express his utter outrage. “You-You… Geralt!” he whined.

The witcher’s brow furrowed and he looked between the book and the bard, obviously completely confused by Jaskier’s sudden change in mood. “What?”

“You did not just fold down the pages!”

“Yes?”

Jaskier scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Oh, dear witcher, you and I are taking a trip to Oxenfurt immediately!”

Geralt scowled, looking at Jaskier as if he’d grown a second head. “Why?”

“Geralt, please. Don’t make me suffer your cruelty any longer,” Jaskier pleaded.

The witcher rolled his eyes but didn’t argue any further. He just took Jaskier’s hands in his, keeping them away from the bandages. Jaskier blushed, the gap between them suddenly feeling too small and yet too far all at once. He swallowed, trying to ignore the sudden swell of nerves in his chest, and laced their fingers together, smiling shyly up at the witcher.

______

By the time they reached Oxenfurt, Jaskier’s limp had almost entirely gone. He still got tired quickly and by the end of the day he had to lean on Geralt or ride Roach until they found a suitable camping spot. Geralt had been ridiculously caring, obviously looking out for Jaskier at every opportunity, their days were shorter and well… Jaskier had actually been allowed to ride Roach. That was new. Holding hands had now become almost normal, and Geralt was just so gentle when he took care of the bandages, making sure the bite wound wasn’t infected. It made Jaskier’s heart do all sorts of acrobatics in his chest.

If he hadn’t been in love with the witcher, then he certainly would be after all of this-this… nonsense.

When Geralt wasn’t looking then he crouched at the side of the road, picking up a variety of buttercups and cornflowers and slipping them inside his heaviest poetry book. The supplies he needed from Oxenfurt were specialist ones. He hadn’t made bookmarks in ages, not since his days at the Academy, but he used to make them for all his friends. It was something to do with his hands that didn’t feel like work, and he had always enjoyed giving gifts. He was looking forward to getting back into his old hobby.

“Why are we here, Jaskier?” Geralt groused, glaring around the town with his scary witcher face. Jaskier felt a little bit bad for dragging Geralt back into a busy city but it was important.

He scoffed and waved a hand at the witcher. “You’ll see,” he said with a grin, and booped Geralt on the nose. “Don’t be nosy.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier hummed back, sticking out his tongue. “You know your way to my rooms at the Academy?” Geralt nodded. “Excellent! I will see you there in time for dinner, but I have shopping to do. Did you need any potion ingredients?”

Geralt cocked his head, his brow furrowing as he thought. “Blowballs.”

Jaskier grinned and brushed his lips against Geralt’s cheeks before he could chicken out. “Be good, darling, no scaring my colleagues.”

The witcher smirked. “Unless it’s Valdo?”

Jaskier laughed, “Unless it’s Valdo.”

And then they went their separate ways. Jaskier easily navigated the streets of Oxenfurt, basking in the hustle and bustle of the city. It was alive and thriving, as if it had a beating heart of its own. The witcher may hate the city but Jaskier lived for it. He was a bard, a man of the people. He needed to be seen, loved, adored. The bookshop was in the same place that it had been when he was a student, tucked away in the backstreets, only known by the students and professors. Jaskier grinned and slipped inside, the bell ringing as he pushed up the door.

He let his fingers trail along the leather spines of the books, inhaling the musky scent of paper and old parchment. It smelled like home, and a warmth settled in his heart. He knew this shop like the back of his hand, and he easily found the supplies he needed. The pressed flowers from the road would be fixed onto a soft leather strap, and then Jaskier would cut the end into smaller strips, creating a kind of tassel. He also planned to engrave an inscription into the leather, something lyrical, something poetic… something for Geralt to remember him by when they were apart.

“Gods, I’m pathetic,” he mumbled as he worked. His tongue flicked between his lips as it so often did when he needed to concentrate. Each letter took time, a delicate process, and he sat in the little corner at the back of the shop, just as he had in his youth. After an hour the owner, now an old man with a thick grey beard, brought him a cup of herbal tea. Jaskier smiled up at him, and gestured to his work.

“How’s it looking? I’m, well, I’m a little out of practice,” he hummed, scrunching up his nose.

“It’s beautiful, and it’s good to see you back here, Jaskier. It’s been too long. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten us.”

“Oh, no. I would never!” Jaskier reassured him, “and thank you. This one is special.”

The shop owner chuckled. “You used to say that every time.”

Jaskier grinned sheepishly. “This one is extra special.”

He stayed later than he intended, past the closing time of the bookshop, and certainly past dinner time but he just lost track of time, too focused on his task. By the time he finished, Geralt’s bookmark was a work of art. The inscription was written in his finest calligraphy, and the flowers were arranged just perfectly. It had been made with love.

He just hoped that Geralt liked it.

When Jaskier made it back to his room, Geralt was perched on the corner of the bed, a needle and thread in his hands as he made repairs to his armour. His silver hair was loose and falling in front of his eyes, and there were the beginnings of a beard growing on his cheeks. The witcher’s golden slitted eyes were almost completely black in the dim light of the room, and Jaskier was once again envious of his friend’s ability to see in the dark. It was a handy skill, and he looked almost ethereal as the light bounced off his eyes, making them glow.

“Dinner was two hours ago,” Geralt murmured, not looking up from his sewing.

Jaskier felt his cheeks heat up and he scratched the back of his neck. “Ah, umm…, yes, well…”

“Jaskier.”

“You know how I get?”

“Hmm.”

His friend finally looked back up at him, giving Jaskier a soft fond smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. Jaskier stuck his tongue out, “Don’t hum at me, witcher, I’m fluent in Geralt speak!”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Now you’re just being obtuse, and don’t you dare…” Geralt hummed again. “Stop it! You bastard. I’m not giving you your present now.”

“Present?” Geralt cocked his head, looking stunned by Jaskier’s revelation.

“Ha! That got you, oh shit, cock it. It was meant to be a surprise. Fuck!” he groaned and buried his face in his hands. The bookmark was tucked away in his bag but it seemed to be taunting him, and he was suddenly struck by the fear that Geralt would hate it.

Fucking buttercups.

He was an idiot.

Why would a witcher want flowers on a bookmark?

“You got me a present?”

Jaskier nodded “I made you a present, Geralt.”

The witcher looked completely taken aback, a blush painting his cheeks. He set his needle and thread aside, and reached out for Jaskier. It was almost instinct at that point to reach back, taking Geralt’s hands in his. “Can I see?”

Jaskier glanced at his satchel and sighed. “Yes, yeah. Yes, of course. Umm, wait here.”

With shaking hands he plucked the cloth bundle from his satchel and handed it to Geralt, mentally preparing himself for the worst. At least he was already in Oxenfurt, he wouldn’t have to travel alone when the witcher inevitably decided to dump him. Gods, he was such a fool.

Geralt gingerly unfolded the dark blue cloth, humming as he picked up the bookmark. “Buttercups?”

Scratching the back of his neck, Jaskier cleared his throat. “Yes?”

“To my dearest, Geralt. May your days be filled with Destiny, heroics, and love. Ever yours, Jaskier.” Geralt read the words aloud and Jaskier wanted to sink into the floor. It was ridiculous. They weren’t even that good. He was supposed to be a poet for Lilit’s sake.

“It’s shit. I’m sorry, I’m tired, what with my leg healing and the rush to get here, but I just… you fold down the corners of your page, Geralt. I could not sit by and let that happen, and I-I… ah fuck it. I wanted you to have something to remember me by, you know,” he gave a flick of his wrist, one hand resting on his hip, “when you’re stuck up in that mysterious witcher keep of yours, and well, you probably don’t remember but I-I said you smelled like-”

“Death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak, I remember.”

“Oh, umm… well yes. Death and heartbreak seemed a bit… dramatic? So, I-I changed it… to love.”

“Thank you, Julek,” Geralt murmured, cupping Jaskier’s cheek and pressing their lips together in a chaste kiss that was over before Jaskier could even process what was happening.

He stared wide-eyed up at his friend, his heart racing and the whole universe shifted until Geralt was at the centre, burning brightly in the dark. Jaskier cupped the nape of Geralt’s neck and pulled him back into another kiss, and this time they didn’t break apart, their lips moving in tandem. It was slow, lazy even. There was no rush, just the two of them against the world, their breaths mingling and their hearts beating as one.

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier pankratz #geralt x jaskier #geraskier fic #wolfie's witcher writing

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anyoneseenadam · 4 years ago

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Hii

Can you please write something for fenrys? first meeting maybe? And the bond clicks? Thank you 🥺🥺

pairing: Fenrys x reader (throne of glass)

warnings: implied smut, kissing and nudity, lil bit of blood and injuries but mainly pure fluff

a/n: fenrys is my fave and u can tell in the fic omg!! i hope you enjoy it cause it’s probs my fave one i’ve written yet :))) (i also made it a teensy bit ddlg but that’s just cause i want Fenrys to baby me lol)

——————————————————————————

Shit

Fenrys pressed his hand to the wound in his side, feeling the slow pump of blood seeping between his fingers as he stumbled through the woods. He had won the fight. The other guy now lying in the dirt, however not without consequence. And he wasn’t entirely sure he would stay alive unless he could find a healer soon.

He stopped to lean against a tree, breathing heavily as he held himself together. He transformed into a wolf, moving faster, and trying to pick up a scent, any scent, that could possibly help him, when he caught the sweetest smell he ever had. It was a female, smelling like peonies and blackberries, sweet but with an underlying smoky smell. She smelled of long days in flowers fields and even longer nights beside campfires, evenings spent curled in hand woven blankets and mornings spent drinking dark coffee and eating sweet toast.

He whimpered and began running in the direction of the scent. If he wasn’t so focused on not bleeding out he may have stopped to consider why the scent was pulling him in the way it did. He would have considered the direction he was running into, the direction of his future, his past and his present. But he just kept up, going as fast as his injured body would allow, concentrating on the sweet smell and putting one foot in front of the other.

He felt the change almost immediately, the cold snow and rough bark being swapped for cool moss. The pine trees swapped for tall, oak trees teeming with life. The silence of a frozen forest swapped for the rustling of bushes as nocturnal animals moved silently under the guise of darkness. The chill of the snow-covered woods swapped for the warmth of a summer evening. He pushed between two bushes and found himself facing a clearing, in the middle of which stood a wooden cottage, the wood dark and the roof covered in more moss, flowers growing from every surface and ivy peeking out of the crevices in the house. He stumbled down the path to the cottage, turning back into a male and crossing a small bridge over a stream that separated him from the intoxicating scent he chased.

He let out what he could only describe as a bark, calling for the female that carried the scent he was growing addicted to, collapsing onto his knees, feeling his conscious fade as he held to the side of his stomach, searing pain replaced by fiery veins as his head swayed. He barely heard the door open, only noticing the scent get so much stronger. He attempted to look up, the movement making his head spin as he collapsed, the last thing he saw, a girl in the halo of the moon.

Fenrys awoke in a foreign bed. An unbelievably comfortable bed, but foreign all the same. He pushed up on his forearms, gritting his teeth at the reminder of his wound.

The room he was in was dark, not just in light source, but also in décor. The window was cracked open with lacy curtains half closed, there was a tall bookshelf sat next to a desk with leather-bound books lining it, and tall candles flickering and casting the room in a golden glow. The bed he was in was small, clearly just for one, but so soft. He had blankets surrounding him and copious amounts of pillows, some that appeared hand made. In fact, upon closer inspection, a lot of the room looked handmade. Art covering the walls depicting crying women or bloody scenes that he presumed had been done by the owner of this house, given the pallet and assortment of brushed he saw on the windowsill.

And then there was that scent. It was stronger here and he pressed his face into a pillow tentatively, breathing in through his nose as he picked up on the deeper undertones. Fresh picked daisies, melted wax, the pages of old, worn books and something he couldn’t describe. Something so intoxicating he felt tears spring to his eyes, his body reacting in an unheard-of way, so overcome with emotion from scent alone.

He heard footsteps approaching the closed door and hastily put down the pillow, sitting up straight and readying himself to fight whoever it was if they were an intruder. But when you entered he faltered.

Mate. The word clanged through him as he came face to face with an angel. You were wearing a dark brown broderie dress with white hearts lining the hem, your feet bare and toenails painted black. Your hair was falling around your face, messy and untamed, and you had dark smudges around your eyes, makeup that accentuated your features and made you look like a character from the scary books he read as a boy. However right now you looked more like a teddy bear.

He briefly remembered the tail of a witch he had read. An evil witch who lured men into her house with whispered words and sweet kisses, only to steal their hearts and use their blood to keep her skin young and eyes bright. This girl however was no witch, you had elegantly pointed ears and a graceful way of moving that only came from being Fae. He watched as you moved to his side, silent on your feet, putting a tray down beside him before moving an opening the curtains further, letting in more natural light.

“How are you feeling?” your sweet voice interrupted his thoughts. His mind coming to a halt as he heard you speak.

“I- er fine..?” His voice was rough, and you smiled, a reserved smile. Moving to his side and sitting at the edge of the small bed he was on, pouring him a glass of water from a small decanter you had brought through.

“(Y/n.)” you answered his unspoken question.

“Fenrys.”

He muttered a thanks as you passed the glass to him, noting the crystals that hung around your neck and adorned your fingers.

“Crystals?” he asked, and you looked down, playing with the rings you wore nervously.

“My mother taught me about their meanings, they’ve always helped me.” You bit your lip and Fenrys decided he would never meet anyone as cute as you again, it simply wasn’t possible.

“Me too, my mother used to carry them everywhere.” You smiled at him shyly, a beat of silence passing between the two of you as he listened to the birds outside.

“Can I see your wound? I want it make sure it’s healing properly.” You asked and he nodded, pulling the blankets down slightly, grinning as your eyes widened as you took in his physique.

“I’m presuming you’re the healer I have to thank for letting me see another day.” He flirted playfully but you shook your head,

“I’m not a very good healer I’m sorry, but I did stitch it up and it should do the rest itself.” You pressed gentle fingers against the skin surrounding his wound and he glanced down, seeing it was already practically healed.

“You still saved my life.” He said, completely serious and you looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

“I’ll let you rest.” You said quietly, standing to walk away and he smiled, feeling more at ease than he ever had since the war, watching his little mate leave.

He woke up again a few hours later, wound completely healed and puckering into a scar. Standing he stretched his arms above his head, not bothering with a shirt as he left the room in search of the girl that had occupied his dreams.

The rest of the house was alike your room, tall candles and worn books everywhere. He passed a kitchen filled with copper utensils and a living room with an old armchair, a half-filled mug left next to it, but still no you. He saw the front door was cracked open and wandered over to it, pulling it open and stepping into the fresh air, barely feeling the chill on his body as he found you kneeling on the moss-covered ground facing away from him.

You were muttering under your breath and as he got closer he saw you were cradling a small bird with a broken wing. He watched as you closed your eyes, the ground and air seeming to still as you called upon your magic, a soft white light flowing from your hand into the bird until its wing was healed and it could flutter away.

“I thought you said you weren’t a healer,” he broke the silence and you turned to him with a small smile.

“I said I wasn’t a very good healer.” You replied, standing with green stained knees, your hair now piled atop your head and lip gloss coating your soft lips.

“What are you then?” he came closer to you, unable to resist holding his mate, even if you weren’t aware yet.

“My mother said we were natural faeries.” You said, looking at him shyly, “we derive our power from the earth, crystals, sea water, dirt, fire, stuff like that.”

He hummed, “So technically you could have any type of magic?”

“I guess, but I’m not very good at magic,” you muttered, hands fiddling with your rings again as he wrapped his arms around your waist. “Fenrys?” you asked, all pouty lips and wide eyes.

“Have you realised yet darling?” he asked, and you bit your lip. He knew he could tell you, but he wanted to hear you say it.

“I- we’re mates I think.” You were practically shaking, and he didn’t know why he suddenly had this burning desire to scoop you into his arms and protect you against the horrible world that was out there. He nodded with a smile, watching as awe took over your stunning face.

“Can I kiss you princess?” he asked, and you felt your face heat up, looking down as he pulled you closer. “Have you ever been kissed before angel?” he asked, his face hurting from the grin that was spreading over his face when you shook your head.

He tilted your head up to his, looking deeply into your eyes as your breaths came out quicker. “Not many people can find our cottage, my mother put up wards when she got ill, our family wasn’t well liked by the king. You probably only got here because we’re mates,” You muttered.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked again, running a soft hand over your head, smoothing your hair away from your face as you nodded sweetly.

He smiled before leaning down and kissing you gently. Pulling away and feeling as smug as a thief when your lips followed his, pouting at the loss of contact so quickly. He chuckled at your put out expression and leaned down to kiss you again, deeper this time, his tongue slipping into your mouth when you gasped against his lips, quickly beating your own in a battle for dominance and taking his time exploring your mouth.

He laid you down that morning and took you for the first time in the soft moss. Then again in your even softer bed. Now you were sitting in his lap, eating strawberries of a bush you had in your back garden as he pressed dizzying kisses into your neck, both of you still as bare as the day you were born, Fenrys having forgot how much he missed skin to skin contact, when you suddenly remembered.

“Fenrys?” he hummed in response, completely enamoured with the feel of your soft skin against his rough calluses. “Why were you hurt last night?”

“I didn’t tell you my job did I angel?” he asked, the pet name making you giggle as you shook your head, “I work for the queen of Terrasen.”

You gasped, “But she was killed!”

“Oh angel, when was the last time you left this cottage?” he asked, worry coming over him as he realised you had been holed up alone for so long.

“Not since my mother died. She said the king was dangerous and that he would hurt me if he found me,” your bottom lip was wobbling and Fenrys quickly kissed it away, shushing you as it dawned on him just how innocent his little girl was.

“No baby, he’s gone now, the new king of Adarlan is a very kind man and the Queen of Terrasen is wonderful,” he promised, “Will you let me take you to meet them?”

You nodded enthusiastically, bouncing slightly in his lap making him groan. He nipped at your ear lobe and you squealed as he pushed you down. You could meet them another day, today he was too busy with his little mate.

#throne of glass #tog #fenrys moonbeam #fenrys x reader #fenrys moonbeam x reader

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kkaeyva · 3 years ago

Text

work of art

𐐪𐑂 includes: delusional corrupted!albedo

𐐪𐑂 summary: even when the world ends, you will always be part of his canvas.

𐐪𐑂 genres + warnings: angst, major character death, blood mention, swearing, spider mention, food mention, that’s about it i think

𐐪𐑂 note: today i woke up and chose violence on readers’ hearts

𐐪𐑂 word count: 1.3k

albedo’s eyes flutter open to welcome the presence of the morning sun filtering through the window. he hums something quite monotone as he lifts the covers off of him, sitting up to observe the room, as he always does.

“good morning, love,” he presses a gentle kiss to your skin and tries not to flinch when his lips meet glass, cold like it’s been frosted over from chilly winter air. the blonde makes a mental note to make you a warm coffee, maybe something to wake you up— but for now, he’ll focus on himself first. (you are still asleep, after all.)

his blue eyes dig into the bathroom mirror, just barely under enough to penetrate the surface of the cold glass like a pebble into a still lake. he recognizes the person who stares back at him, though he’s not sure he’d call him a friend. a foe would not be a good title either. he blinks himself out of his trance and reaches for his toothbrush.

albedo doesn’t cough very often, and when he does, it’s only a natural reflex to clear his throat; this is one of those times.

“my throat’s quite dry today,” he observes as his fingers brush over the diamond-shaped tattoo that sits upon his neck. the skin feels rough under his fingertips, so he gulps down a glass of water to wash away the feeling. (it does nothing to help though, and albedo is left feeling more unnerved than before.)

the breeze adopts a faint melody of whispers and rhymes; characteristic of mondstadt, albedo thinks. though he was always neutral about the weather, he clearly recalls how rejoiced you used to get whenever you felt the sun on your skin. he smiles absently at the thought and considers stepping outside today, for your sake. and of course, just for your sake, he gives in to the urge.

he steps over sticks and rubble as he walks out into the open. the sun shines as it always does, as if it ignores the issues of the world below; narcissistic, as things are. he turns the other cheek when the sunlight extends a ray to caress his skin with fiery warmth.

nevermind, he sighs as the door creaks shut behind him, this was a bad idea.

the controllable, indoor lighting is much more his style. it works with him when the weather does not; a cooperative being. as such, it illuminates something in the corner of his eye, as if it were the guidance at the end of a tunnel: his forgotten, blank canvases collecting dust.

and, just to humour himself, he picks a less dusty one up. it’s not too big nor small, able to sit comfortably on his well-worn easel. there’s nothing in the room that inspires him, he realizes, but he also doesn’t want to make the trek to dragonspine. (the sun is not very comforting at the moment, you see.) he settles on a tried and true muse— you, of course.

so he begins.

the curve of your jaw is natural to him. so is the way you pucker your lips and the way your eyes crease when you smile. the tone of your skin and how the shadows dance along it has long since been committed to his memory. he makes quick work of painting you, but he feels something is missing. there should be something or someone beside you, smiling and enjoying the environment in the painting just as much.

right, he almost laughs at his own naïvety, he has to be there beside you.

(now, albedo isn’t one to draw self-portraits very often, but he tries to paint himself as accurately as possible when he does. and so he brings a mirror.)

albedo stares perplexedly at the same reflection he ignored this morning. no, no. he must’ve remembered himself wrong. he definitely does not recognize the person staring back at him. it makes him want to cry.

where has the brightness in his eyes gone? and the dark circles around his eyes weren’t there last time he checked. he looks sickly, a pool of guilt and hatred in his eyes. the star at his neck has morphed into a disgusting shade of violet, with spidery legs extending from it like someone smashed a hammer directly into glass. the broken expression he sees in the mirror makes his mind spiral.

he rushes outside. the sun burns as if he poured one of his potions directly onto his skin. it doesn’t matter to him at the moment, though, because surely—

the tall, overarching buildings of mondstadt are now only piles of rubble and ruins littering the ground. there is no wind, not even a light breeze. the statue of the anemo archon is what he assumes to be the giant, grey figure laid down on its side as if it was a god defeated in battle.

like the statue, albedo crumbles. he falls down onto his knees and it brings a stinging, painful shock throughout his body but he really can’t afford to care about that right now.

did he...

did he do this?

he wants to scream. his throat restricts him, much too dry to even let out a hoarse whisper.

he wants to cry. when his tears flow down his face, it feels thick; disgusting. it feels like blood— not his, though. (it’s so much worse when it isn’t his.) he can’t name whose blood it is; there are too many names going through his mind: lisa, jean, amber, venti, sucrose, klee, you. (oh, you.) his tears spill down his face. he gets up only to run away from it, away from the blood. he seeks your comfort as he rushes through the house (please please please be there—)

where are you?

where have you gone?

albedo picks up the picture frame on the nightstand. (funny how it perfectly reflects in the lighting— archons damn this controllable fucking lighting! leave him alone! let him wallow in his own self-destruction!) your smiling eyes look at him fondly. he doesn’t deserve your kindness, does he? but he really, really needs it.

he traces your face with his hands, covered in the transparent blood of all those he cared about and more, and flinches when he meets the icy, cold glass. his mind connects the dots at the last minute. he barely registers the sound of glass breaking as the picture frame hits the floor with a shattering impact.

there is only one last place for him to go.

he stumbles to his easel. the canvas is safe, thank the archons, though his palette and paintbrush have fallen to the floor, long since drying and staining the hardwood with the colours of you.

he gasps lightly, in awe, when you positively glow, not exactly like the sun, nor like the candlelight of the house’s ceiling lamps— something new, something different. something he fears he is too corrupted for. something he wants to protect for the rest of his life.

albedo lifts his hand to caress your face, only to reel back in horror when the only half-dried paint sticks onto his fingers and stains his skin with your colours. your beautiful, perfectly sculpted face is now smudged— just as delicate as he remembers.

and even though you look like you are melting, fading away from his life, he smiles, basking in your light. his throat starts to burn again when he tries to say “i love you,” and the paint on his hands feels more like (your) blood when he tries to wipe it off— he’s become numb to the horrifying feeling, even just for a little while. he’ll spend his time loving you, even if his memory dies like paint going down the drain when he washes it off the palette. he cherishes you so, even when his neck looks and feels like crackled glass. he’ll paint you over and over again, and when he runs out of paint, he’ll find more. he’ll create more, no matter what.

(why?

because you were always a work of art.

and you always will be.

now, would you say the same about him?)

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #albedo x reader #genshin impact imagines #genshin impact drabble #genshin x reader #albedo #genshin albedo #albedo.txt #kkaeyva.writes #tw blood #cw food #cw language #cw spiders

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cryptiql · 3 years ago

Text

untitled god song

pairing: bakugou/m!reader (trans reader in mind you can see it if you squint but can also be read as cis)

words: 2k

warnings: themes of religious trauma, homophobia, mentions of blood, the author projecting their mommy issues

a/n: this is purely self indulgent, don't mind me 😩✋ (written in first person)

i wish i had known him before the pain started. perhaps it is a fools dream to think that his presence would have solved anything, and it is likely that he might blown me sky high at the time, if given the chance, but i often ponder his place in my narrative. he is nothing less than a king—nay, a god—and what else am i to be except his humble servant, adoring him in the only way i've been taught?

i would bruise my knees as i kneel for him, and should he turn me away, i shall be lost and without purpose. but he does not, and instead, he snorts out a laugh and pulls me to my feet, roughly squeezing my cheeks together with a shit-eating grin. he'll tell me a joke i've heard a thousand times, and yet i laugh with him anyways, the pads of my fingers idly tapping the pulse on his wrists.

"dumbass, at least take me out to dinner first."

i never thought i'd ache to hear such a demeaning nickname, but it's like birdsong to my ears, and i long for the myriad of butterflies it provokes.

i would heed his every word like a faithful disciple, and—if i knew he would not use this power for the wrong reasons—carry it out without question. he'll roll his eyes at the notion, far too prideful at the idea of being praised, and card hands through my hair, gripping softly. "right. and if i told you to go to bed before five in the morning, would you listen?"

my smiles are genuine, as they all are with him.

"no." i wish my mother had been more open-minded; more loving to those she claimed were goners. maybe then, i could still call her my mother, and not a snarled version of her first name steeped in vinegar. maybe she could have met him, and maybe she would have keeled over in the process, but that is how we put it "killing two birds with one stone".

he was a fallen angel if ever i saw one—emblazoned in smog and ravenous inferno, the pieces of child-like innocence turning to ash. something happened to him when he was a kid, just as all gifted children, and oh, what a fool i was to let my gaze dawdle on his gorgeous form. but i will never regret it—no, not ever—for there is no such feeling that can compare to his eyes on mine, burning with a mind-fogging intensity.

it was instantaneous, the moment my thoughts turned on me with malicious intent, her voice ringing out like a gunshot.

you'll never be him.

his hand slots with mine perfectly; deliciously warm and comforting in a way i haven't felt in years; and hauls me up, the flecks of dirt and rubble from the road clinging to my jeans.

"watch it, pretty boy. i won't always be here to save you, y'know."

my heart batters against my ribs like a caged bird, screeching and wailing to be set free, and i wonder in a haze if i've died. judgement day must have come early, i think, not realizing that it was spoken aloud until the blonde quirks a brow inquisitively. he does not speak on the matter, but continues on his merry way, leaving my helpless; hopelessly enamored; and praying that we will meet again.

no, i could never be him. but i am like him. he has a sureness in his walk and fervor in the way he talks that is only recognizable when i look in the mirror. and we do meet again. it is a shame, however, that i must burden him with the weight of my past. i remember too often the troubles of my youth, even when all has passed into fleeting memories that haunt me as ghosts do to an abandoned house. yet, i still live in this house, and the ghosts are here to keep me company.

i remember the church, first and foremost; nestled between the barren country road and the outback; a beacon of hope to all those who stood in its doors. the luster of freshly polished wood still sits in my mind, accompanied by the echoing remnants of dulcet tones and multicolored bands of light, glaring from the stained glass windows and dancing across the musty carpet floor. the doddering pews were just as uncomfortable as the poorly padded chairs squatting in the front row, but every sunday, they were filled to the brim with hungry worshippers. they sang praise as though they were starved, but i was too young to understand for what. i am older now, and i still don't understand. all i know is that despite its reputation, the church was a cursed place, and i should never set foot in it again lest i go mad. i remember the creaking stairs which lead downstairs, and the winding halls that reeked of torment where shadows loomed. the paint was corroding and foul, and my conscious always loitered too long on the merlot stain on the ceiling; its origin unknown, but nevertheless urging my stomach to twist with nausea.

i remember the feeling of tall grass grazing my ankles; itching horribly from the old moth-eaten socks i was forced to wear. it had become second nature—running and hiding from my problems, from the church, from her. i shall never know a greater animosity than the likes that my mother encouraged, although unintentionally, with her pressuring views and sickeningly sweet smile. it's fake, and i would know, because ours are the same.

we are too similar, and i am sickened by the fact. will i become the wretched woman she is? will i fail to be the father i've dreamt of being? it is an easy thing to fall prey to haunting questions, and it serves as brain rot for every moment of silence that leaves me clawing at my skin, trying to reap the memory of her touch. then i began to think—about nothing and everything—and it does not stop. i will be kind; unforgivingly so, and without biased judgement; like my mother never was, and i'll make her hate me for it. i will grow in leaps and bounds, not for her sake or for god's, but for mine, as it always should have been. i will drink and curse with reckless abandon and kiss who i damn well please, because in no life does she have have the power to make me something i'm not. why should i feel sorry when the tears she wept were forged by my own blood; by the childhood memories locked away to rot in my subconscious? yes, she has suffered too, but it is through clenched teeth and raw-bitten lips that i must confess this, for her suffering was born in me and grew from a seedling into a thorned flower, nourished by her hatred and mine. she'll tell me the lie of all mothers before her: that she knows best, and i'll never know joy that is not from my savior's gracious hands.

one day, when she lies not with words but in silence, under worm-filled earth and withering pastures, i'll tell her that she was right. i'll tell her, with his hand in mine, that my savior arrived with hellfire in his eyes and fury unrelenting. his tongue holds venom that would make the devil blush, but he tastes of a sinful sweetness that i've drowned in more times than i care to count.

mother you should know, my god is like no other. he has a broad chest and muscles, i attest, that are sculpted like fine marble and smooth to the test.

my god is a man who loves other men, unashamedly; in all that is true; and kisses me like real people do. and i know it sounds silly, and a bit cliché, and he'd surely make a mockery of me if ever he heard, but i love him. i love him as passionately as you she does lord above, and it is a crime in itself how much i crave him, so yes, i will burn for this—not because my mother said so or by the ancient script that foretells it, but because i promise it. i promise to let neither hell or high water deter me from that which gives me life, and i'll do so with a ring.

"you hear that mom?" i'll whisper in the dead of night, his body flushed against mine in the most delightful way; his fingers curled into my nightshirt, pulling me closer as listless mumbles fall from his parted lips. he is dead to the world amid his dream ridden stupor, but still leans into my touch when i smooth back the wild tufts of hair to kiss his forehead.

"i'm gonna marry him." part of me wishes she didn't live on the other side of the planet, just so i could rub it in her face, but i won't give her the satisfaction of seeing me again. i won't let her think she's won, because i know, and katsuki knows, that he and i are one in the same.

i do not know who i should thank for my stubbornness, be it my mother or my father, so i will thank the pain they both caused me, for it made me stronger than they ever could. no, i did not become a better person, because the scars have yet to heal from how deep they cut, and the smell of blood still lingers, and i am angrier than i once was, but i cherish my wounds. the stench of my agony has long since been subdued, and i have learned to swallow the sickness it evokes. and yes, this anger is unhealthy and i've chosen not to purge it from my mind like the weed it is, but how lucky am i to have found one whose malice rivals my own?

the tales of his glory have littered my notebooks in smudged ink. you would hate him, is scrawled messily on the last page, but i only feel giddy with excitement. you would hate him for his spite and his unapologetic behavior, and that is why he's perfect. he's everything you hate about this world, but everything i love.

so when she gets to heaven and asks the angels "why?", they'll tell her it was him who made the devil cry. him, who held me like she should have—could have, if she hadn't terrified me—and who chased the nightmarish visions of her from my weary mind with his callous palms and soft-spoken reassurances. i wish i had known him when we were young; when things were not so simple and i needed a hand to hold; but i suppose we'll have to settle for faded photographs and stories told through the bitter aroma of alcohol. that's more than enough, i muse to myself, legs hooked over his as i rest my head on his shoulder, keening softly at the gentle scrape of his nails on my scalp. his arms wind around my waist as he mutters something along the lines of "i love you", his lips curling into a smile, illuminated by the televisions glow.

so when they ask of my religion, i will think of only him. i will recall the way he looks at me, the sound of my name on his tongue, the feeling of his lips trailing between the valley of my breast; featherlight, cautious and unfitting for a man of his nature. i've written songs of praise, all dedicated to him, and if only he knew, oh how smug he would be. but i love him, i love him, i love him. and when he spins me around like a marionette, it is with overwhelming pride and joy that i tell him this, and with rose hued cheeks and bashful grumbles, he tells me the same. so mother, wherever you are, i hope you know i've found my god.

#💥.katsuki #bakugou x trans reader #bakugou x trans male reader #bakugou x male reader #katsuki bakugou x male reader #male reader insert #mha x male reader #boku no hero x reader #bakugou x you #trans reader

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penguintransporter · 3 years ago

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Tiny Clouds (Serge Gnabry oneshot)

You need to ban me from here 😂 I don’t know if it’s the fact that I am on my holidays, or if it’s my mum’s homecooked food, but I have been writing and updating more than ever before. Anyway, you should all thank @disneydaddyevans for giving me the idea to write this little piece that is so cheesy, but I couldn’t help myself. Inspired by his fashion sense and the overall cuteness that the man oozes. Read, heart, reblog, and tell me what you think about it. Also, I wasn’t sure if I should use to name for my OC or just “Y/N”, so I stuck with the way I usually write.

“Max… Max—Maximillian,” Dolores hissed quietly, stopping dead in her tracks, barely fifty meters away from where they were heading. “That,” she pointed her index finger at the outside of the Museum of Urban and Contemporary Art with a horror-stricken face, “it doesn’t look like a regular exhibition opening. Look at all the press. Are you sure they will let me come in wearing this?”

“There is nothing wrong with your outfit, Lola,” her friend replied, using her nickname – a deep chuckle escaping his throat. She couldn’t help but glance down at her attire, narrowing her eyes at the worn-out jeans and a woolly pullover she had knitted for herself, some two years ago. It was already losing its shape and growing lint on several spots.

When Maximilian asked if she would like to join him for an exhibition opening, Lola agreed without thinking twice, not expecting to be thrown into the middle of what seemed to be a huge media fuss. If she was being frank, she could have googled what the exhibition was about or what the artist’s name was, but with her long shifts at work and three papers due for her night courses at the university, Lola completely forgot to do so.

“If you say so,” she mumbled back, glancing once again at her outfit – eyes narrowing at the stubborn stain on her Converse high-tops. For a moment she contemplated licking her thumb and trying to rub the dark spot away, but she decided against it once she realised that it was highly unhygienic and probably a very weird thing to do in front of all the people that mingled around her.

It wasn’t like she hated or didn’t like fashion – on contrary, she thought it was fun, but Lola found comfort in being practical rather than being stylish, and the older she got, the more overwhelmed she felt with the fast pace of fashion and trends in general. There were too many terms, too many weird combinations being pushed in the foreground, so she decided that it would be the best for her if she stood on the sidelines of it all like a spectator rather than participant.

“I am being honest,” Max added as she caught up with him and they slowly made their way towards the entrance – camera flashes that tried to capture very important people hurting Lola’s eyes. “Moreover, I think that jumper is incredibly cute with its tiny clouds. Or are those sheep?” Max asked, grinning down at her as he adjusted the collar on his trench-coat.

“Tiny clouds,” Lola remarked, “better than your Inspector Gadget coat though, if you ask me,” she joked back, making her friend laugh out loud before he placed his arm around her shoulders and pulled her into the crowd.

The main exhibition room wasn’t as packed as Lola had expected it to be, and once they were ushered inside by an artist friend of Max, they made their way around it - slow-paced and without any rush or pressure. They stopped ever so often to read the description, comment or even chuckle on some of the art pieces that they didn’t find very interesting.

Lola had visited the museum only a handful of times before this, but whenever she was here she enjoyed the look and feel of it. From the minimalistic approach to the main rooms and furniture, to the small and narrow hallways that led to different rooms with unique art exhibitions and graffiti on the wall.

“Maximilian!” a deep, mature voice called out from across the large room, and Lola reflexively turned her head in the direction of it before seeing a tall and a lanky man in a pressed suit trousers and white button down striding towards them. She could vaguely recognise his face as one of Max’s artist friends, but she couldn’t remember his name. “Maximilian,” he repeated as he stepped closer, blocking Lola’s view of the art installation in front of them, forcing her to look away from it, “there is someone I want you to meet,” he breathed out as both, Max and Lola curiously peered at him. “He doesn’t have a lot of time, but he plays for your favourite team, so I thought you’d be happy to meet him.”

“Maximilian, this is Serge. Serge, this is Maximilian, and…,” the artist friend trailed off, looking down at Lola with an awkward smile, “sorry dear, but I don’t remember your name.”

Lola smiled back nervously, shifting on her feet a little. “Dolores,” she answered, looking first at the man in front of her before glancing at the good-looking athlete only to find him looking back at her curiously, “or Lola for short. Nice to meet you.”

“It’s lovely to meet both of you,” Serge replied politely, sticking both of his hands in the pockets of his wide trousers, and Lola couldn’t help but glance at his well-put outfit that looked very expensive and taken care of. “Are you an artist too?” Serge asked looking in Maximillian’s direction.

“No, no,” Max replied, mimicking Serge’s posture, “just enthusiast. By the way, great season with the team...”

Next to them, Lola was wringing the exhibition brochure she picked up on the entrance in her sweaty palms - bits of the paper sticking to her skin. She wasn’t shy or easily intimidated by other people, but there was something about being in the crowd that made one stick out like a sore thumb with her outfit. It was turning her into a nervous wreck even if she didn’t want that.

Having Serge Gnabry in front of her didn’t help either.

“And what about you, Lola?”

Lola felt her heartbeat quicken at the sound of Serge’s voice saying her name, and when she looked up at him, slightly confused, he had a gentle smile on his face, patiently waiting for her answer. His brown eyes were focused on her face and her eyes, and she suddenly felt at loss of words.

“Lola is not an artist either, but an avid knitter instead,” Max interjected with a grin, and Lola looked away from Serge’s eyes and up at her friend – her eyes narrowing a little. “She’s once knitted an entire winter scarf on her way to Hamburg,” he added as Lola felt the heat rise to her cheeks, but she managed to push it away casually.

“It was a nice scarf, though,” Lola sheepishly smiled, feeling the insides of her stomach flip excitedly when Serge chuckled before the silence fell upon the three of them. To keep her thoughts straight, she looked down at her smudged Converse, knowing that Serge probably waited for her to elaborate or keep the conversation going. The only problem was that her mind was blank, her palms sweaty, and all the words she wanted to say seemed to be stuck inside her throat. “I real—really enjoy knitti—,”

“—Serge!” a middle-aged woman wearing a shapeless dress and thick, white-rimmed glasses approached them in a hurry, interrupting Lola in the middle of her sentence. “We have Thibaut from Revver magazine outside. It would be lovely if you could just answer few questions for him.” The woman sent an apologetic smile towards Lola, and Lola only smiled back weakly, not really knowing what else to do.

She looked away to mask her disappointed for ruining her chance of talking to Serge, not noticing the lingering gaze he gave her before he walked away.

An hour into the evening, Lola found herself walking along one of the walls covered in graffiti on her own after Max excused himself to go outside for a “much needed smoke”. Rather than just standing alone and waiting for her friend to come back, Lola continued to walk along the painted walls before seeing another room that was adjacent to the main room, and which seemed to be empty.

Smiling at the several people who quietly talked among themselves outside, Lola pushed her way inside, quickly being mesmerized by the colours and style of the art that occupied the tiny space she was in. It was a collection of the tall yet narrow murals – each one describing a different story that captivated Lola’s curiosity, and she found herself forgetting about the time.

“You don’t like to talk much, do you?”

Lola looked in the direction of the voice before shyly smiling once she realised it was Serge who stood behind her. Quickly, she looked away, feeling her cheeks redden at his words. He moved closer, stepping mere few meters away from her before interlacing his fingers behind his back as he observed the same mural as she did – his lips curled into small smile.

Lola breathed out a short breath before opening her mouth to speak. “It’s actually difficult to shut me up once I get started, but I easily get intimidated around people who…,” she trailed off, unsure in how to phrase her ridiculous insecurities, “nevermind,” she finished, glancing towards Serge for a brief second.

“Are you intimidated by flesh and blood, Lola?” he asked before stopping for a second, “That’s your name, right?”

She nodded, stepping closer to the wall, reaching out to touch it, as if that would help her figure out what kind of materials did they use for it.

“Flesh and blood in trendy, expensive clothes. I will be honest with you,” Lola shook her head a little, pointing at the large museum room where the actual exhibition was presented, “I felt so out of place over there, so I came here.”

“Well, maybe they are expensive,” Serge commented with an amused smirk, “but how many of us are actually wearing a knitted pullover we made ourselves. That’s the real style, if you ask me.”

Lola felt the warmth evade her face yet again as she moved away from the wall, straightening her back and looking at him. “How do you know I knitted it?”

“Pure guess,” he shrugged nonchalantly, “Did I guess right?”

“Yeah,” Lola admitted, “And these are tiny clouds, by the way, not sheep,” she quickly added making Serge chuckle a little. “It’s the confidence and courage,” she muttered, and Serge muttered a small ‘mhmm’, urging her to continue. “I wish I had the courage to experiment a bit more. For example, I like what you are wearing. It’s very,” Lola stopped for a moment, thinking of the word to use for his immaculate outfit, “…fashionable.”

Serge laughed a little at her words, and she curiously peered up at him, waiting for him to speak.

“I don’t think there is anything wrong with what you are wearing,” he responded, looking down at her, “but here…” he trailed off as he turned around to face her before untying the neckerchief he was wearing around his neck and holding it out for her. “May I?” he asked, taking a step closer, and Lola felt her heart start beating faster because of his proximity but she nodded slowly. Serge nodded as well before putting the scarf around her neck, tying it in a loose knot. “There you go,” he mumbled.

Lola smiled, looking down at his hands as he adjusted the ends of the scarf, folding them so that they sat nicely against the curve of her neck.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, touching the neckerchief with her fingers – the silky material soft against her skin.

“Now you’re wearing something fashionable,” Serge commented, emphasizing the word ‘fashionable’ with air-quotes.

“Fashionable, I guess,” Lola smirked, “but you should take it back. It feels so wrong to wear it,” she added with a small and nervous laugh.

“Wear it tonight, and you can give it back to me some other time,” Serge replied, sticking his hands in the pockets of his loose trousers, turning around so that he was facing the wall again. “That’s if you want to meet up, of course.”

Lola was quiet for a moment, trying to stop the butterflies in her stomach from going crazy, but she couldn’t stop the smile that made its way on her face.

“I do,” she answered, moving so that she was standing next to him – her eyes trying to focus on the tiny details on the mural. “I do want to meet up.”

They stood next to each other in silence for a few seconds – neither of them looking away from the wall. “Friday maybe? Sunday afternoon works too. We don’t have to dress up.”

“Friday works for me,” Lola answered, “but if we wait on Sunday you might get a pair of knitted mittens as a thank you gift for making me look,” she stopped to raise her hands in air-quotes, “fashionable.”

“Only if they come with tiny clouds,” he stated, looking at her at the same time as she looked up at him.

“If you want,”

Serge nodded – his eyes never leaving hers. “Then it’s Sunday afternoon.”

“It is,” Lola nodded.

“Perfect.”

Thank you for reading, and this really needs some editing. I apologise.

#serge gnabry #bayern munich #football fanfic #football fanfiction #football imagine #serge gnabry imagine #serge gnabry fanfiction #football oneshot #bayern munich fanfiction #german nt

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yanderenightmare · 4 years ago

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YANDERE ! CHISAKI KAI

goodiebag WARNINGS: dubcon/noncon, yandere, abuse, anxiety, eugenics, kidnapping, abduction, manipulation, stalking

BREAKING VASES

“How are you feeling?”

His voice was a blur of sound she fought no battles to make out. Annoying in some sense, antagonizing the base of her skull, poking and prodding at the back of her mind. Yet she managed to piece together what he’d asked after deciding it’d be unwise to leave his query unanswered.

Having broken through the thick haze she’d momentarily been lost in, she didn’t quite know what to make of his words. It was an impossible question. It was an impossible question due to the fact that it had infinite answers. There seemed to be no end to what she was feeling. Robbed, estranged, vulnerable. She was given a robe, but it acted as a weak replacement to the smoke-ridden garments she wore before. Those scented with herbs, dirt, sweat and blood and culture. Those with holes and rips painting a story of the past few years of her life. Granted, they’d probably pose as nothing more but mere rags to anyone else, but to her they posed as something, out of a select few things, that truly belonged to her. Her armor. The piercings that once acted as her weapons, her axes and spears and swords and arrows, were gone too, stolen away, leaving phantom remnants to fill what empty punctures should have been left, however who had miraculously grown shut as though never even there to begin with. Sentiments of those occasions where she’d gifted herself with the cheap jewels; memories she cherished beyond whatever more money could buy her. The feathers and string woven into her hair, her shield, had also been taken, untangled from her locks, letting the dull tresses fall unenthusiastically down around her shoulders. Her scars as well, the blooming bruises on her knuckles and knees and elbows; gone, and the stories of her victories gone with them. Gone, not healed; removed from existence. She even missed the grime that used to coat her skin, the smudged mascara she never bothered to wash away, the soil beneath her fingernails and stuffed between the ridges in her skin. They were as much part of her as the blood simmering through her veins.

She knew she was exaggerating, thinking of her bath in antibacterial as an acidic Armageddon. She’d merely been washed, but it felt as though her spirit and soul had gone down the drain as well. Her body scrubbed to the point where she could have sworn her skin had been torn away, leaving nothing but blood and bones in their wake. She felt raw. She felt lonely. No, worse. She felt left. Reborn but dead in the same moment, yet she was still alive and the fact felt forever unavoidable by the presence of the man sitting before her. The man who looked like some heathenistic God she might have worshipped once if it were not for his demeanor telling tales of what felt like the onset of destruction. The man who demanded to know, what now felt like ages ago, how she was feeling.

He felt he was being generous with his patience, but that generosity would soon shift if she were to keep on being unresponsive to him. Granted, it was a simple question, a question with a mere two answer option. But she seemed to be weighing the world in her pensiveness. She’d answer for her disobedience sooner rather than later, nothing good ever came from delaying the inevitable. But for now, he would kindly gift her with more of his patience, even though it was running thinner by each second spent of his eyes taking in her presence. Her spotless and cultivated purity. He’d shined away for hours on what would seem like coal to the naked eye, revealing what he knew to be a diamond in the rough once he finished. Chipping away at the edges to create the perfect symmetrical shape he knew she could inhabit.

Her shivering didn’t go unnoticed by him nor did the way she averted her eyes from his peering gaze. She had her knees tucked up under her chin, her position placed picture-perfectly in the middle of the bed; her whole being speaking volumes of how alienated she felt being surrounded by the ocean of silk and cotton and pillows as large as herself. Newly washed hair splaying in thick meanders down her shoulders, legs and spine. Not wet enough to be dripping but enough to damp her clothing. A few dry locks irritatingly dancing across her face, making her nose impulsively scrunch up every now and again.

She was cute, he’d give her that. But being cute wasn’t enough to quench his temper. In fact, it merely aided in his frustrating. Spit rising, pooling under his tongue which writhed and lurched at the sweetness of it. Mere seconds away from starting to drool, similar to how a hound would react upon eyeing a slab of meat, and despite him not wanting to act like a wild beast he found more and more just how hard it was going to be to resist the brute force he was in capacity to use.

He'd at some point removed the bejeweled plague-mask, as she saw it now repositioned on a counter-top. Not daring to face the male, letting his frame remain a blur in her peripheral vision. “Naked.” Her voice was tender… meek. It took him a while to understand that it had been her answer. It had come such a long time after he’d asked and the answer wasn’t exactly orthodox. However, as curious as it was, it was at least more candid than he would have hoped, which made him… not exactly satisfied, but… let’s say… less displeased.

Not sure what to make of it, he figured he’d more or less ignore her retort. Refraining from explaining why his remedies had to be done, as he’s sure it wouldn’t help ease any of the woes, worries and feelings of sentimental loss currently flagging behind her eyes. He was never prone to establishing such ridiculous attachments to anything himself, therefore having a hard time understanding her catatonic sorrow, but he could at the very least make an effort to understand their complications. Thinking perhaps replacements were in order. “Would you want more clothes?” He wasn’t dim. He knew that it wasn’t the same type of naked she meant, but more clothes in exchanged for the translucent kimono she was wearing couldn’t hurt. Perhaps she’d even realize that it all was for the better. She couldn’t possibly prefer the filth she wore before above what precious materials he’d bestow upon her now that she belonged to him.

He was wrong, evidently. “I’d like my clothes, please.” There was a hint, a weak hint, of scorn in the request, but it was rather drowned out in timid timber of her soft voice. He enjoyed the caution she spoke with, as though she’d already assessed the situation and come to terms with her new role. Yet, the shy inkling of ire still caused the hairs on his arms to rise in frustration. Not so much because of her meek defiance, but more so due to the fact that the request was based in such silly audacity. The reason as to why she would ever want those cheap rags back was beyond him, and would hopefully soon be beyond her as well.

His brows flatlined to a nonchalant expression as opposed to the low furrow they’d been held before. “I burnt them.” It was still spoken through grit teeth, unable to hide his annoyance completely. She noticed, scurrying her heels closer to herself, trying to better hold onto her frame, not wanting to slip outside the self-made confinement. Her knuckles turning ashen with how hard she was hugging her body. Trying to better balance her fear in hopes of not causing enough uproar as to make the male sitting a mere meter away suddenly pounce like any other predator might. The feeling of her heart in her throat was choking, making her swallow thickly even though her mouth felt dry.

She flinched when he moved, squeezing her eyes tightly shut, trying to find comfort in the blinding dark behind her eyelids, however failing. The sharp padding of his leather shoes across the floor were intimidating enough on their own, enough to make the image of the golden snake-like slits he had for eyes rise up in front of her. His presence was closer when she dared peek a glance through her lashes. Tears glued them together and it was upon seeing it she understood she’d been crying without noticing, but come to think of it, she did feel the salt rivers sting on her freshly scrubbed cheeks.

He’d come back with garments in his hands. Lace she noted; white, expensive, luxurious, revealing lace. And a dress, just as clinically white, yet far from resembling any of the lechery as the lingerie. No, it was rather something she’d expect you’d dress a doll in. Thin shoulder-straps met with a sweetheart neckline which eventually strutted out into a short airy skirt. The fabric detailed in enhancement of the textile, bumps and ridges forming a vague pattern of roses across. In fact, it was so lavish and occasional that, if the skirt had been floor-length, she’d guessed it to be a wedding dress.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d even worn a dress. She couldn’t even remember the last time she wore the color white. White, in its impracticality, stains too quickly, so granted if she ever even wore the color it wouldn’t remain that way for long. Nevertheless, she reached out. Dainty fingers, what should have been bruise-knuckled were it not for whatever procedure he’d put her through, stretched out in an ever so shy descent from its position atop her knees. But the movement was short-lived, killed with a gasp caught in her throat, for as soon as she brushed fingertips with the displayed fabrics was her wrist tightly snatched from its proceedings and brought forward in an action so rough it made her entire body tumble in the same direction. Promptly pressed firmly and snuggly into his chest as he made quick instalments to secure her new position in his lap. The roughness of his dress-buttons making abrasive contact through the silk of her robe, as the cool metal of his belt-buckle caused similar yet more intrusive discomfort to the place found in between her thighs.

“What do you want from me?” Was the only thing that made it past her quivering lips, granted it was the sole question that seemed to burn with a terror-fueled passion inside her.

“What good would come from stating the obvious?” He said as he cocked his chin to the side. Searing, golden eyes unmoved, or rather amused, by her prominent fear-stricken features. “All you need to know is that my name is Chisaki Kai, and how if you call me by anything but Kai, I will hurt you.” Her wrist felt cold in the pressure of his hold. Her other hand limply placed on his abs. “Do you understand?” Her chest seemed to tighten more and more with the knot tying itself in the pit of her gut, rendering her just barely able to even comprehend what he was saying. Unsatisfied with her blank expression, his eyes narrowed even further. “Let me make it a bit more clear.” His gloved hand rose from the position it had on her thigh and made contact with her face, pinching her chin in an effort to slant her head to the side. “You see that vase over there” He nodded in the direction he’d faced her in. The warm breath of his words tickling the shell of her ear as he spoke. “Watch closely.” She was too afraid to shut her terror-wide eyes, even with the sentiment he’d brought with his words, gently biting into her earlobe as he dropped her wrist. The hand repositioning, palm facing the vase he’d mentioned.

She wouldn’t have guessed it was a vase. Vases were for flowers, but this cauldron could roam at least three liters worth of water. She figured it must have been some ancient artifact, given its placement in the rich complex she found herself situated in. The texture decorating the shell of it resembling that of a toad’s back, bumpy and wriggly and swamp-colored. And it was because of the uneven appearance she didn’t quite catch the moment it all started moving. Ripples, waves, earthquakes seemed to run across the surface of it, before pieces started completely dislodging from the original assignment. Reanimating before his gloved fingers. The sight, acting as the onset of horror, had her guts in turmoil, her stomach folding in on itself, toppling in ways she hadn’t known were possible, as her tongue suddenly felt heavy and foreign in her mouth.

“Do you understand now?” His voice was soft; calculating, yet so very grave in its nature. Turning her head back to face him, fingers making a move to sharply cling to her cheeks yet again, keeping her chin in the palm of his hand. Wishing for a moment he’d removed his gloves, but the regret was too weak to battle the feeling of pleasure at the sight of seeing her lips puckered together between the force of his fingertips and the swimming look of hopelessness displayed so deliciously less than an inch from his face.

“Yes…” The word was only barely audible amidst her quivering, and the display, though brought him great pleasure, didn’t seem to satisfy him. Therefore, quickly adding his name to further her understanding of the rules she’d been giving. “Kai.” He felt his well-fitted pants tighten at that, his member growing hot and heavy, being sure she felt it too.

His hands sank from their endeavors of holding her face in place and of rearranging the vase, and, whence lowered, was placed back on her thighs, stroking a path upwards as to push the silk away from her skin, exposing the cooling soft skin. Soon pulling at the end of her belt, which easily fell away, opening the curtains so that he could peek more clearly at what was found inside. A chill wafted flush against her skin, goosebumps springing to the surface of her breasts; nipples perking as the soft material rubbed across them before being removed. His hand wandered further, inside the kimono to untangle the last tie found by her waists.

“Are you gonna kill me?” Her words lacked momentum, void of purpose, laced with defeat instead, as though she’d already answered the question herself. And if he at all heard what she’d said, he didn’t feel the need to show any indication of it. “Once you’re done with me?” She furthered the question, and at that the man seemed slightly shaken.

She had no doubt what she was there for. If his current actions weren’t any indication, the past hours certainly were. She’d been prepared for him. Groomed to fit his idea of perfection. It was all evident now. His eyes still trained over her body, never once showing any further acknowledgment for her words. “What makes you think I’ll ever be done with you?” It was as though he weren’t even speaking to her. It looked more as though he were speaking to himself, ignoring the growing terror he was increasing by the second. His hands exploring with his full attention at their disposal. Gloved fingers running over smooth skin, having the new foreign urge to remove the protective garments.

He moved slowly, controlled, yet she could see the fidgety urge he possessed to get the gloves off as quick and effortlessly as possible. Pulling each gloved finger halfway off. The act soon became a strange type of clumsy; childish, as if he couldn’t quite do it fast enough. However, despite his hurried movements, whence the gloves were fully removed he took the time to place them neatly beside him, as though they were of outmost importance, too good to be thrown on the floor in the fit of his impatience.

Momentarily mesmerized by the strange actions of the golden-eyed boy, she shook out of her stunned state. “Toys break… and broken toys are no longer fun to play with.” She didn’t know when she gained back her confidence, perhaps somewhere along perceiving him nearly trip at the mere strive to remove his gloves.

“That’s true.” He stated, naked fingers hesitantly making first contact with unresearched, untested skin. Yet, once his fingers only barely brushed past the thin peach-fuss found on her hips, unscathed in their venture, there seemed to be nothing keeping him at bay. “Only… you’re not a toy.” It was hard to believe the sentiment when he was poking and prodding and playing with her flesh as though she were some type of doll. Still and withal, despite it being unwanted, the touch wasn’t unpleasant… at least not for now as he went on with the tender cautious ticklish strokes of a child. As if in reverence or savory or relief or all of them at once. Though, it would soon turn into possessiveness.

His hands were soft, to her great surprise. Just as soft as the silk she wore before. His nails were long, sharp, groomed, manicured. The talons sinking into her skin more so than his fingertips, in an amateurish fashion, giving off the impression he hadn’t ever done such a thing before or that it had been a very long while since he had. He seemed confident despite it, or… any grain of angst was thoroughly outmaneuvered by his curiosity.

“What am I then?” She feared the answer as she eyed the growing lust in his starry irises, as his pupils seemed somehow a darker color than black beside the godly glow of gold.

He had half the mind to repeat the answer she’d first given him, given that it was now true in all its information, but decided against it. It would be wrong of him to mock her when he was the one nearly drooling at the sight of her in such a state. He took a breath, surprised to find it uneven. “Perfection.” It was only barely above a whisper. Frightening adoration and unwanted worship over-seasoned the one word.

Her brows furrowed at the endearment, it feeling so foreign an adjective to describe her of all people. Confusion wafting over her, nearly replacing the fear. “I think you’ve kidnapped the wrong person.” She didn’t exactly think he’d stop, yet the light-hearted smirk that soon quirked at the corner of his lips still came as a surprise, it serving as a convinced resolution, disagreeing with her foolish accusation. She guessed it was the certainty that surprised, or scared, her more than anything. The way he acted as though nothing was out of place, as though she was exactly where she belonged, just another relic, quite like that vase, he’d get to manipulate to his will without her having any more courage than ability to stop him. “I’ll disappoint you.” She said, more as a warning than a fact. He eyed her as though she were some sort of angel on earth, still with his entitled godlike gaze, yet she knew she was no less human than faults themselves. She was far from perfection, far from wanting to be either.

She sucked in a breath, her hands crinkling into the bedsheets as a thumb rubbed across the nib of her breast. “Impossible.” He spoke with resolution now, yet again eliminating her doubts with more grave timber added to his already gravelly tone. “Besides…” It was the first time in a while where he re-gifted her with his gaze. Sharp, golden eyes fixated onto her teary orbs. “I fix things just as easy as I break them.” She was reminded of the vase and how it so eerily represented her situation. Images of it being her demise spilling, flooding her mind, causing her brows to rumple. It was no question to it being a threat and if she’d been standing she was sure her knees would have given out under her. Especially as his chin prodded forward and hers was once again caught firmly between his fingers. The action stopped in its tracks upon her pouring words.

“I don’t understand, this makes no sense, you’re…” She shook her head as she spoke, words tumbling from her lips like speedy rain, as though she were shaking them from the confines of her mind, however pausing in her process, biting her lip as if what she was about to say were too insensitive, as though genuinely not wanting to hurt the feelings of the brute man before her. “Not to sound superficial, but…” She bowed her head in apology for her next words. “You’re…” She looked around, at the expense surrounding her. “Rich.” Her eyes found his again, as though searching for something her words had aggravated, but found nothing but attentive eyes staring back at her. “And you’ve pretty lashes.” She added, more on a spur than anything. Shaken out of her puzzlement for a brief second before finding her way back to it. “I don’t... I don’t understand… why go through all this trouble?” Her body shifted as she spoke, and the movements did not go unaccounted for by Chisaki. However, the current bewilderment strewn on the girl’s face called for more entertainment. “You can have as many girls as you wish, willing girls who’d love a rich guy like you-” She was stopped, her sentence caught in the air, unable to finish.

“It has nothing to do with quantity.” She had to think for a second to remember the meaning of the word, finding she felt uncertain by what she decided upon. ”But everything to do with quality.” That word she knew well enough, yet it left her even more puzzled than the confusion his previous statement gifted her with.

“If it’s the acid bath you’re talking about…” She queried cautiously. “You’d be surprised how much people will put up with for cash.” He wouldn’t, he knew very well of people’s adamant desperation. How often it made him sick.

His head tilted, giving her words more time than they needed to breathe. Yet, time he needed to evaluate and admire the freckle adorning her neck. “You possess something other people lack by lacking something everyone has.” His hands felt heavy on her thighs as she was once again left puzzled beyond comprehension, leaving room for the pressure in his grip to come to mind as she rummaged her brain for the meaning of his riddling words.

“A quirk?” She said it with too much enthusiasm, caught in her split-second satisfaction for cracking the mystery, before reeling herself back into reality. “You want me ‘cause I’m weak?” Her nose scrunched at the thought, gut winding like livid snakes. “That’s sick.” She hiccupped in her oncoming cry, feeling the desperate hopelessness of her situation hanging around her, the air itself becoming suffocating to take into her lungs.

His hands made a sharp stir at her words, nails briefly poking into her skin at how twisted her reality was. “I desire you because you’re pure.” He didn’t let his guilt shine through in his tone, making it sound ridiculing instead, as though she were stupid to question his intensions, despite her suspicion being nothing but unfounded and sound. “Quirks are a disease not a blessing, you’re spared from its corruption.” He spoke so matter-of-factly, lecturing her as though she were clouded by some ignorance he saw past. It was the tone more than the words that had an effect on her. The lump in her chest, resembling that of shame, rose in her throat. Though, she weren’t stupid; the undeserving condescension vanished once awareness of his manipulation came as a realization in her head. Clarity of the situation soon finding its footing in her mind, no longer feeling insecure in the clouds of his judgement.

She decided to play his game. Having a strong feeling that no amount of questions or arguments would have her leaving her current imprisonment in the house, let alone her position on his lap. “I have conditions.” She quipped quickly, trying to sound assertive in her command, however it playing off as what it actually was, which was insecurity.

A curious glint flashed in his golden orbs as well as a humored tug at the corner of his lips. “You have conditions?” He had half the mind to inform her she was in no such position to demand anything, but he figured there’d be no harm in hearing her out. “Amuse me.” A brief and terribly low chuckle erupted from somewhere deep in his throat, a noise similar to what she’d imagine an old heavy door creaking would sound like.

“I want a garden.” She said first and foremost and what would soon be revealed as last.

Although he didn’t enjoy the messy past-time of hers, some part of him had understood it was something more than that in his time stalking her. How he’d seen her treat her plants as though they were something precious above being mere dirt. “Already provided.”

“Really?” She looked astonished, happy even. “Well, uhm…” She skimmed her brain for more commands, more because of a yearning to exercise the power to command than actually having anything further to request.

“You have nothing else to ask for, do you?” He gave a knowing look. A look of content endearment. “Such a humble creature you are.” The smile, though rather flat, still exuded an inane amount of awe, so much so it made her feel even more exposed than what she already was.

“Don’t call me creature.” She said, more as an attempt to wipe whatever frenzied state he’d escaped to than from actual discomfort by the word itself.

Her attempt didn’t seem to do the trick. “Hmm, anything else?” He started leaning toward her again. Her lips trembling from his exhales. “No?” It would be wrong to say she had no more desires, however those which she had seemed out of reach or strangely punishable if mentioned. “Well, if there’s anything you might feel the need for, do not hesitate to ask.” She most certainly would hesitate before asking for anything from the man, however… she figured it was more or less a purposeful joke than a genuine sentiment.

He hesitated once again as he did when he first touched her, lips only barely brushing over each-other, hovering in the presence of one another’s breath, before primly pressed together. It felt like fire against her freshly scrubbed raw and swollen lips, but she made no effort to stop him as he pressed on. Teeth seemed like fangs as they tugged at the sensitive chunk of flesh, grinding it between them, his tongue soon accompanying her own inside the comfort of her mouth.

It was strange; foreign. She’d kissed, been kissed and shared kisses before, yet the sensation was always adorned with the scent of smoke in the air and on her breath, and the taste of bitter beer swirling and pooling on her tongues. But this, this transaction of something that was purely them, left her feeling barren and at a complete loss for words. With nothing else to cling to sept for the taste of him on her and the even stranger feeling of him desperately trying to taste her.

She felt like a rag-doll, a toy more or less, as she made no effort to move; limp and only barely lively as he laid her beneath him on the bed. Lips caught in each-other’s embrace all the while. His hesitance diluted quickly, turning rougher and painful in a sense, as though he were in some sort of hurry, or as though he couldn’t quite satisfy whatever yearning had awoken in him as fast as it was building. His large hand wrapping around her throat, squeezing to paint a clearer point of who it was that were in charge. “Look at me.” The talons made their presence known, digging crescent moons into the delicate flesh of her spine. Growling accompanying the act, beckoning whimpers from the small thing beneath him. His other hand helping him hunch over her, acting as a pillar for his weight to rest upon. One of his knees soon diving between her legs, prompting her thigh on top of his, preforming the same maneuvers with the parallel leg. Having her knees spread to either side of his hips, nuzzling between them. Her windpipe seemed to bend more than break beneath his viscous hold, yet the sensation felt no less painful.

As lips continued to clash and teeth started to do more than just graze, small hands made to push at his tough chest. Not in an effort to shove him away but to subdue whatever frenzy had taken ahold of him, as a weak attempt to get her discomfort across. He didn’t seem to notice how he’d started biting, or of her rather obvious distress, and if he did it would seem he’d elected to ignore it all, as his weight remained unmoved by her desperate actions.

He didn’t know what he was fussing about before. She clearly respected his authority. How could he ever think that a creature like her, quirkless and infinitely vulnerable, would ever have the heart to disobey him? The mere thought of it was laughable now, as she made such feeble attempts to simply soothe him and not at all in an effort to make him stop. Too kind in her nature to ever want to deliberately upset him. It would be cruel of him to not answer to her prayers of making the ordeal more comfortable, especially when she was being so sweet in her request, in her begging. She should be rewarded, not ignored, he resonated, deciding to go slower, softer.

His hand moved from cramping around her neck to cupping the side of her cheek instead, fingers spreading to either side of her ear. The hand keeping him in a menacing stance, towering over her petite frame, bent at the elbow, lowering him down to rest more intimately against her chest. Feeling her hands move instinctively away from his chest to grasp his shoulders instead, an inkling to perhaps tangle them behind his neck burning in her thoughts, but she was left at a loss for how far she was willing to sell her freewill, but also because she had no way of knowing if such an action would please him. The doubt was soon answered as he assisted in placing her hands above her head, one large hand securing her wrists in a firm yet strangely delicate lock.

Newly free of anything to do, his other hand repositioned to grasp her breast. Lips soon joining as he slobbered a wet path down to her exposed nipples. She fought the urge to scurry away, knowing there was nowhere to go and how nothing good would come out of it, or if it would at all change the events of what was currently in motion. She wasn’t sure just how far his temper reached, but she wasn’t at all that inclined to find out. Besides, he’d already installed the measures to keep her from doing anything of the same caliber of foolish, her position unmovable beneath the inescapable presence of him.

He was broad. Not thick, but thick with muscle to a sense where her legs where thoroughly spread by the mere diameter of his torso. Her knees tightly hugging him because of it, unable to spread even further without it becoming an uncomfortable stretch.

She felt strange. So unavoidably naked. She’d done it before, shamelessly more times than she could count, proudly shared her body with past lovers and friends, yet this seemed a strange type of surrender more than an understanding. Perhaps because she was fully naked whereas he still wore his black suit-pants and matching black dress-shirt with the contrasting white tie. Or, perhaps being naked had nothing to do with it, and the explanation laid solely in the fact that he had taken her from her home without hindrance from both herself and the law it would seem, bathed her and groomed her and dressed her and taken claim of her as some type of belonging all without her being able to object. She was powerless. He was living proof of her hopelessness, helplessness, weakness. Weak and fragile and infinitely exposed beneath him. Inferior, but… it would seem… desirable to some unfounded extent as his golden attention locked on her where nothing else seemed to be worth any significance.

His lips again finding their way up to her throat, his gelled hair tickling her chin and cheek before his breath splayed across the tender skin of her ear. “I undressed you…” He whispered matter-of-factly in the seductive tone, lips brushing against her earlobe at the sentiment. “Time to return the favor.” He shuffled back and made to kneel between her legs, helping her prop herself up with both hands at her waist, pulling her so close she was made to sit on his lap again with her legs cradling him behind his back. His hands serving as the only leverage in keeping her position upright and from falling back onto the bed.

It was selfish and greedy of him to want to test her obedience, especially when she was shaking so violently like a leaf caught in a hurricane. Her head bowed, afraid to meet his height, yet her eyes still peered back up at him through the thick veil of lashes.

She felt his hands tighten around her waist, fingers and talons digging into soft plump flesh as large, glossy eyes stared at him for far too long without her acting on his command. For it was a command. “Need I remind you of what happens when you disobey me?” The belt-buckle seemed a frozen or electric type of cold against her clit as the threat boiled in the back of her mind. She shook her head, or… that was the intention, yet her whole body seemed to quake with the movement.

Hesitant hands and fingers that seemed far too frail for this world reached out to undo his tie. Once he reassured himself she knew what she was doing he tilted his head to lean in for another kiss. He was sure she didn’t do it on purpose, yet he needed to inform her of her mistakes as she seemed to use his tie as some sort of rope that would keep her from falling as she leaned backwards away from his antagonizing lips. His hands once again digging calloused fingertips into the doughy flesh of her waistline.

As though shocked from her transgression she did the opposite action of averting his kiss and came back to meet him. Sniffling as she loosened the tie, reciprocating the unwanted kiss. The realization of how hopeless her predicament coming down on her, as well as the impending events of violation and perhaps unwanted stimulation wracking through her with a vengeance. She couldn’t help but start crying, only this time she noticed the tears as they streamed hot and heavy like silent waterfalls down her face and neck, dripping from her chin onto her chest and falling down further in soundless rivulets, streaking her skin with reddened irritation. He must have tasted it on her lips, for soon his kisses turned sloppier, as though elevated and somehow frenzied by the display of her struggle. His tongue, flat and all-capturing, soon licking up her cheek to better taste her tears, making her cry with increasing fervor. Clutching onto his tie in false comfort as though it were some lifeline. “Put it on.” He demanded as she lifted it above and off his head, hesitating for a second, scanning his eyes for humor but finding nothing sept for lustful impatience. She complied and the once false lifeline turned into a very real noose. She whimpered as one of his hands left her waits to grab onto the tail of the tie, pulling her closer to his face in a choke-hold. “Come on.” He growled against her lips, referring to the still movement of her hands, the hands that were supposed to be halfway done with the unbuttoning of his shirt.

She hurriedly undid the buttons, nimble fingers working precisely despite it. And, although he was under no illusion her hurry was a product of his threat, he could fantasize the rush was of the same desperation he felt festering inside him. However, it was hard to imagine when she finished unbuttoning the shirt, her hands hovering above his pants, left yet again at a loss for what to do.

With his patience running thin, he let his temper get the best of him. The last hand leaving her waist to grab her face with a growl. However, upon seeing the tearful, terrified look displayed swimmingly in her orbs, his snarling features softened. He could pretend she didn’t know how to unbuckle his belt. He could pretend it were some inconceivable contraption you needed to be familiar with beforehand to ever hope understanding. He was good at pretending.

She yelped as he dropped her back onto the mattress, his weight quickly followed suit as he kissed a trail down the valley of her breasts, before rising back up and admiring the sight of her in his tie and the blooming love-bites that had formed from his teeth’s last encounter with her skin. He decided, in his constant growing impatience, to go back on his command, granting her one mercy by removing his belt on his own.

Not wanting to see or find out if she’d disobey more of his clear commands, he placed one careful yet firm hand around her throat, strong fingers pressing into the sides of her throat as so to keep her in her place. Feeling her precious little heartbeats drumming against his palm. Eyes locked with each other. Fearful, tearful, spiraling eyes seemed to take up half her face as she searched his business like, monotonous features in a desperate scramble for hope or escape. Blotchy, red, screaming skin surrounded those gorgeous round eyes of hers. Tear-slicked lashes seemed thicker, hugging each other close for comfort. Nose a blossom shade of pink, nostrils flaring in the meekest of flutters each time she sniffled. She didn’t mean to whimper as Chisaki stroked his middle finger over her neck. She was reminded yet again of the vase from earlier. The vase that was meters away, yet broke apart easily despite the distance and how she was infinitely closer to his destructive hands. How expensive that vase must have been and how priceless in the sense of carrying no expense she was. The possibility of him breaking apart her anatomy similar to the vase was uncertain, on purpose or even by accident.

He made no further moves, just feeling up her pulse beneath his fingertips and watching her eyes go rounder and wider with fear of what he might do. She had completely lost her composure now, and he knew the sight should have awoken some form of regret inside him, some form remorse or guilt, yet the only thing he seemed to think was about how pitifully beautiful she looked in her helplessness beneath him, how undeniable his ownership now was, and how victorious he felt.

To her it felt as though he were oblivious to her discomfort, as though he didn’t even register the tears streaming down her face or the ever-present tremble in her body. How her stomach toppled in on itself, how she was afraid to even as much as move her hands from their places on either side of her head, how she felt as though the sheets swallowed her whole and how the whole atmosphere seemed too strange, too foreign. How the smell of bleach in the air had all five of her senses in utter turmoil, how the cleanliness of everything made her skin crawl, how the silk tie around her neck was both the softest and roughest form of embrace she’d ever felt. How the love-bites on her body represented bullet-wounds, how he’d poked holes through her skin into her very core, how she felt as though the remnants of her soul seeped out through them, spilling onto the fresh bedsheets. How his eyes oddly looked like the eyes of God despite her not believing in such things, how even in her fear she found herself wondering why his lashes were so long and why his skin looked like porcelain and why on earth would a divine creature like him ever show such a devoting interest in the likes of her.

The sharp clashes of an unbuckling belt weren’t enough to shake her from her rambling thoughts, nor was the unbuttoning of his pants or the sound of the textile being thrown on the floor. Fingers however, fingers easily brought her out of her own mind. Fingertips grazing tender, unprotected, wet skin. Slender-veined, long, striking fingers that reached farther inside her to that spot she couldn’t ever hope reach on her own. Fingers that easily entered through the slick of building wetness, pooling with the rush of blood that had celebrated by the countless accidental, conditional and intentional feather-touches she’d received throughout the events of her time in his presence. It felt good. Undeniably so, in spite of her fear, maybe even in product of her fear. Two digits buried knuckle-deep inside her, slithering, bathing, curling, stretching, molding her walls to their liking.

With his face inches away from her, with the fingers of his hand dancing curious choreography inside her and his thumb drawing careful patterns onto her clit, she couldn’t help put moan past the hand tightening around her throat. His hot breath fanning over her face she felt him grow restless at the lewd sounds she made. There was a still present stretch in the outer ring of muscle despite her growing wetness, but her insides fluttered, happily and welcomingly sucking on the guests taking up space within her. Her knees pressing harder into his sides in an impulsive desperate attempt to rub her thighs together, hanging onto every precise move his fingers made, wanting more, needing more.

“Look at me.” Eyes wrenched shut at the unwanted yet much enjoyable pleasure, peeled open at the threat of his words and the tightening enclosure of pressure her vocal cords sustained beneath the grip of his hand.

She had at a point tangled her hands around his neck, despite her dilemma with the movement earlier. Teeth adamantly biting down into her bottom lip as she proceeded in getting lost in his eyes and at the pooling sensation of his fingers pumping in and out of her. Un-allowed to look any other place but his eyes, un-allowed to move when his digits disappeared and the soft velvety tip of his cock nuzzled at her entrance, feeling warm and much bigger than the expanse of his fingers.

He made a sound. A low, guttural moan which reverberated through his chest and erupted somewhere deep within his throat; hungry in its conviction and greedy in its quest, making the girl beneath him whimper as his swollen cockhead kissed past the lips of her pussy, beginning to push through into her plushy walls. His hand soon finding its way to cover her mouth, muffling each pathetic little whimper that came with his throbbing cock tearing through her constricting walls with its monstrous girth frustratingly slowly, the small sounds vibrating, tickling him in the palm of his hand. The frustrating slow move letting her feel every ridge, every vein, every prodding rift on his bulging cockhead.

Nails belonging to small hands dig into the back of his neck as he thrusts the remaining length of his cock inside her, his pillow-like tip bumping into her cervix, bottoming out in one quick movement of his hips furiously slamming up against the underside of her thighs. She gasped at the intrusion, her velvety walls fluttering around the size of his, moaning whence he pulled out ever so slowly. He groaned blissfully, lolling softly into her. Her eyes once again closing, falling into the back of her skull, but that couldn’t be allowed. “Look at me while I make you mine.” It was hard to bring herself back, it was hard to even open her eyes and even harder to focus on keeping eye-contact as he continuously buried himself inside her. However, the throaty growls and moans and croaks, that somehow deafened the wet creamy squelching of his shaft driving into her sopping folds, served as enough a wordless threat to keep her attention tethered to him.

The pace was slow, agonizingly so, but he drove deep. And as the speed picked up, she couldn’t help that her needy walls began clamping around the girth of his length, sucking his cock right back inside her warmth each time he reared his hips back, as if he belonged there. Her struggle was unnecessary as he eagerly slammed his pelvis back into her, creating an ear deafening smack with each bone-shattering thrust. Her back arching into him as her warm walls seized up around his cock rapidly pumping in and out of her, feeling the early building fluttering of her orgasm closing in, chasing her in her bliss. His hand still tightly enclosed around her neck, the space dividing their faces nearly nonexistent as his hot breath fell upon her face each time he grunted and groaned with the thrusts of his hips.

She moaned his name, trying to find the words to warn him of her upcoming release, but between his thrusts she had had to prioritize breathing above anything else and as the feelings inside her spurred violently she was rendered unable to even as much as think about anything but the bliss. Her legs cramped around his torso, bringing him close and holding him there as her body convulsed in earth-shattering spasms. Moans slipping past the fingers on her throat, forgetting they were there for a moment. All movements stilled before she opened her eyes to find those weighty eyes staring back at her, feeling an inclination to apologize but having the words choke in her throat by both his hand and once again picked up speed, as he slammed into her with a newfound vigor. Her orgasm still ricocheting, pulsating, crippling her body in warm heat and fuzzy shocks, the tingling contrasting with his sharp and angled thrusts into her swollen walls, riding her through the feeling. Her crying had partially subsided, however started returning. His pounding so crucial and stinging she sobbed at the brutality of it, her throat feeling sore beneath his fingers.

He bit into her neck, stuffing her again and again with his cock, heavy balls hitting against her ass in wet slaps. He drove harder, making her hiccup and scream at the force of his shaft tearing a hole through her abdomen. She begged him to stop, but he was chasing his own form of release. Her hands slamming and pushing at his shoulder, but he was neatly and snuggly slotted against her, in no hopes of moving without wanting to himself. His hand descended to gripping the underside of her knees, spreading her further out for him to rut into. Face buried in her chest as he selfishly groaned and moaned and grunted like some animal, ignoring her spluttering cries. His noises grew louder, uncontrolled, building to one final croak, feeling his cock spur in warm twitches, ropes of white thickness sprouting from his pulsating tip into her, creaming up her walls and dripping out of her crammed hole.

He sighed contently, continuing to slot his cock inside her warmth however slowly, feeling his cum run down the length of his and she felt it smear her thighs in stickiness. Her hands shook, clinging to him for comfort from the relenting attacks, her entire body aching. He pulled out all the way only to fill her up again, his cock keeping its size and length without faltering in the slightest, she was afraid he wasn’t done, but he seemed content relaxing into her chest, eyes closed and resting. He lied there for a bit, cock going limp inside the comfort of her warm walls, before he rolled off. A large hand still left on her stomach.

Part of her told her to simply fall asleep. Her aching body begging to find rest in the soft sheets, yet the almost wild need to get as far away from the man at her side outgrew her need for comfort, as it usually did. She stirred from her position, slipping out from under his hand, yet the movement was quickly silenced with the hand coming to snatch her wrists instead. “Where do you think you’re going?” His voice was calculated despite groggy and tired, annoyed in some sense yet desperate in another. She opened her mouth to speak but the words fell stillborn on her tongue. “You’re not going anywhere.” He pulled her towards him again and she was sure he wanted to go another round, but found that instead of lining her up with his cock another time, she was instead firmly placed against his chest. One arm coming to wrap around her, whilst the other made to grab the duvet from its place at their feet, draping the both of them in sterile white cloth. “If you move during the night, expect to wake up to a punishment.” He added softly in her ear. His fingers delicately dancing across her cheek to brush a tress of hair behind her ear. His lidded eyes intently locked; admiring, the curves and slopes of her face, even as the red and teary confusion started back at him. He was glad to see no hints of hatred or scorn laced with her gaze, or perhaps he was just too tired to notice. Though, she did as commanded. Keeping her frame neatly placed where he’d positioned her. Her eyes scanning the man’s features until sleep as well soon brought her to her knees. And she would like to dispel the notion, but the truth wasn’t easily buried. Despite the burning swollen soreness found between her legs, the soft comfort of clean pillows and covers and sheets had her body relax more so than she knew she should. The smell of bleach accompanied by lavender and lilac soon aiding her in her relaxation as well. And when all was said and done, the warmth of Chisaki’s body was a strange type of welcoming consolation despite it also being the reason to her aches.

#yandere chisaki #yandere chisaki kai #yandere kai chisaki #yandere #yandere overhaul #yandere kai #yandere boku no hero academia #yandere bnha #yandere mha #kai chisaki #chisaki kai imagine #kai #mha chisaki #chisaki #chisaki kai #chisaki overhaul #overhaul

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bad-behavior · 3 years ago

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Lester: A Light Novel

Chapter: 1

Content Warnings (Writing and Art):

Blood, Lady Whump, Gore, Torture, Manhandling

This is my first shot at doing something story related in the whump community, so here it goes!

Lester likes to think he’s got it together. He’s got a decent salary and pays his bills on time. He may not have friends, but has plenty of acquaintances so socializing isn’t off the books. He even makes a living doing what he loves.

Torture.

He just wishes torturing people didn’t need so much cleanup.

Lester wipes a brow before scrubbing mercilessly with a sponge at the rust and dried blood caked on the metal workstation.

He squeezes the sponge dry in the sink, and then moves on with a damp rag, soaking up the excess juices to reveal the shiny surface. Tracing a single finger across the squeaky clean countertop, he frowns.

The salesman had told Lester the workstation was stainless steel. Apparently, it’s not.

He stands up, stretching, then walks to the closet to grab a mop and bucket.

While holding the smelly mop in one hand, he uses the other to push the bucket of murky water to “the chair”.

The “Chair” was Lester’s favorite tool of torture. There isn’t inherently anything special about it, but it has been with him since he began his role with the Blightbloods. The base of the “Chair” is adjustable, and can be cranked up taller, shorter, and Lester’s favorite, drawn backwards into a laying position. Perfect for working on the mouth and eyes. The straps on the arms of the chair are made of heavy duty premium leather, and the seats are covered in a smooth vinyl, making it easy to wipe up any unwanted spills.

He dips the mop in the water, and then slaps the wet fabric on the ground, pushing body fluids and debris to the floor drain.

He sighs. Cleanup is Lester’s least favorite part. The chemicals mess with his lungs, but the boss refuses to get an actual janitor. He sucks in a small, strained breath, before hacking dryly into an elbow.

He stifles another cough as he dumps the rest of the water into the drain. He’d rather not be seen coughing up a lung. Lester already had to slit a coworker’s throat after a joke about his short stature and noodle arms, just to gain the respect of the other guys.

Blood splattered from the mans neck, following the knife as it cleanly sliced through and exited flesh. The man gulped like a fish as blood bubbled from his lips. Bright red spilled all over his hands as they scrabbled frantically at the gushing wound on his neck. Finally his legs buckled, eyes rolling back into his head, and he crashed to the floor with a resounding thud. The previously jesting eyes locked on Lester quickly became ones of horror and shock. Lester brandished the bloody knife in his hand, droplets of blood painting the glint of metal, rolling off, and plinking to the floor one by one. He cracked a rare smile.

Lester licked his lips at the memory, savoring every moment he could recall. It’s not something he’d like to forget anytime soon. The feeling of power, and the lust for more. The guy ended up ok after some intensive care, but Boss probably won’t tolerate a move like that a second time.

Just as Lester had put the cleaning supplies away, the metal door swings open with an ear-splitting creak. He whips around, to see Armond bumbling in with a tied-up young woman in tow.

“Lester, my man!” Armond bellows before pushing the woman into the chamber with a laugh.

Her arms are twisted behind her with rope, so she can’t soften the blow as she smacks into the ground face first. Letting out a soft groan, the woman slowly rises to her knees, showing a fresh bloody nose and a split lip.

Lester nearly sees red. He spits out,

“Really? Didn’t the Boss tell you I don’t do two sessions in a row?”

Armond crosses his muscular arms.

“Eh? I haven’t heard that anywhere. The Boss was having a really hard time cracking this one so he said to take her to you.”

Lester opens his mouth to retort, but is cut off by a sudden need to cough. He tries to clear his throat to mask it.

Armond looks at him with narrowed eyes, a devious grin plastered on his face.

“Unless there’s something else going on.”

Lester’s jaw drops in feigned disbelief. He scoffs in disgust.

“Uh, no! I’ll handle it.”

He motions with a hand,

“I’m tired of seeing your ugly mug, so just leave already.”

Armond glares at Lester,

“Don’t. Kill. Her. We just need her to spill on a neighboring organization. Food is scarce nowadays, and we don’t need anyone taking our local supply.”

He pauses.

“Also I’m not ugly. My wife thinks I’m beautiful.”

Armond whips out a middle finger before slamming the door.

Lester looks down at the woman on the floor. Her sunburned face is smudged with dirt and grime, and her dark hair stained and matted. If looks could kill, he’d already been dead by her ebony eyes.

Might as well get this over with.

Taglist:

@hurt-the-innocent-ones @cupcakes-and-pain

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moonsbasileia · 4 years ago

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Root and Bone

Also posted on AO3

Dishonored - Original Characters

Synopsis: Two witches from the Brigmore Coven venture into the Flooded District to look for their missing companion. They have a less than warm welcome from the Whalers occupying the place- despite that, the situation takes a turn, unfolding an unexpected, but positive, outcome.

An exploration of the witches and whalers as individuals. Set in the six months between Jessamine's death and Corvo's escape. Written as practice.

The way them whale fish went for us

It seemed as though t'was planned

For each one had his target boat

They played us man for man

Just knowin' now they think so clear

My heart says let them be

I swear to God them fish can think

As good as you or me

“A Whaler’s Tale” – Ken Graydon

Night fell over the rooftops of the old Financial District, painting the sky in dark orange. With the addition of the smog, pouring out of the factory’s chimneys, the horizon mixed and coiled like a bubbling cauldron. It was impressive, Rowan thought, but suffocating.

She was leaning out of the balcony of one of the many abandoned apartments of the district. Shards of glass lay around her feet, clinking whenever she moved, and the walls had become rotten with humidity.

Despite it all, and the mess of papers, clothes and shattered glass around the room, it seemed like it had been a nice place once, though simple. It had a small single-bed room that had been stripped of everything except for the bedframe, a simple kitchen with a pantry, and a considerably sized living room, still furnished with a red couch, a centre table, and a cabinet resting near the window. Rowan speculated it had belonged to a single accountant, as she’d found a book of finances forgotten on the small wooden table.

“Our time is running out,” a scratchy voice behind her sighed. Rowan shot a look behind her shoulders and saw Beatrice walk out, her face pinched, and holding a bottle in her hand. Despite her young age, her features were hard with unease.

“Is that…?” Rowan pointed at the dark green bottle. It worked; Beatrice’s face softened for a second, and she cocked an eyebrow and cut in:

“Yes, sister, Serkonan wine,” she held the bottle up so Rowan could read the label. Rivera Fig Wine, 1750. “We should drink it after we find our lost sister.”

Rowan hummed in agreement, looking back out to the water below. The stench of stagnated water wafted up, forcing her to avert her face in the direction of the breeze. The balcony next door had been blocked by planks, but the rooftops were low enough that she could see a building with an open terrace entrance.

“I will look over there. She mustn’t have gone too far,” Rowan warned.

“We shouldn’t split up, sister,” Beatrice said. Her green eyes reflected the light of the whale oil lamp that flickered inside the apartment, like a cat. “Who knows what lurks in the shadows of this horrible place.”

Rowan squeezed her shoulder, with her lips curling into a grin. “Nothing as terrible as us,” she assured.

Beatrice smiled, nodding, although she brought up her hand to hold Rowan’s wrist.

“I will check the apartment in the back, then,” she said, “But we shouldn’t take too long.”

Rowan nodded. “If we don’t find anything in twenty minutes, we regroup here.”

“Agreed. Until then, sister.”

The last thing she saw was Bea’s lingering smile while, with a crack, she vanished in a curtain of shadows, leaving behind a small pile of ashes. Rowan looked towards the terrace to the right and felt her body do the same; the rush in her ears of dark energy around her, and weightlessness from plunging into an empty space. A muted crack- and then suddenly spilling out like fish out of a net, into the dusty ground of the terrace.

It was not the first time she’d done that, and wouldn’t be the last. Yet, there was little she loved more than the feeling of surrendering her body to the Void, if for a moment.

Rowan crouched, eyeing her surroundings before going towards the door. Its wood was putrid and soft, and peeling off the bottom. It was ajar. She pushed it open slowly, and it still groaned. Rowan kept still for a moment, listening for any signs of movement inside. Nothing came. She went in.

The corridor was dark, as the only source of light was coming from the moonlight through the door she’d kept open. At the turn towards the stairs, she kept her body close to the wall, leaning sideways to squint at the dark. She saw nothing, but inhaled deeply before unsticking herself from her place to keep going.

There were two doors in this corridor, both blocked by planks. She stopped briefly by them, reaching out with her perception to try to feel Alice’s presence, but to no avail.

Down the stairs, the next floor was equally empty. Rowan crept towards the end of the corridor, where it turned into the next stairwell. The stairs were blocked by debris carried by the water, which she could hear lapping against the other side. However, there was a door, unblocked, directly in front of the stairs. She reached out. Nothing.

Still, Rowan touched the knob, and with a gentle twist of her wrist, tested it. It clicked open. She held her breath, surprised by the noise. When nothing seemed to respond, she pushed it further, and went in.

This apartment opened directly to a narrow corridor that opened to a larger room. Light poured out from it. Rowan followed. There was a doorframe to her left, leading to a bathroom.

She walked further, and the next doorframe belonged to a former bedroom. She searched it briefly. All that was left was the bedframe, a shelf with a few leather-covered books, a safe –that was open and empty- and a cabinet, with a cup still atop it.

Rowan went straight to the bigger room, this time. The light came in from an open window, busted and crooked on the frame. She widened her eyes. Bloodstains clashed with the window’s faded white wash. Rowan touched the hilt of the sword strapped to her waist.

She followed the trail of blood with her eyes. Like the other apartments, this one was scattered with dust, papers and glass shards. However, there were footprints in the dust, although they formed a chaotic pattern, like an abstract painting of dirt and blood. Two roses had been trampled over in the fight, stained and pressed onto the dusty ground. One trail of footprints went out through the window. That was certain.

Rowan walked in slowly. The silence was overwhelming in comparison to the loud beating of her heart, which she felt in her ears. She braced. And she found Alice, lying crookedly near the wall, in a puddle of her own blood.

She knelt next to Alice, cupping her face with her hands and turning it gently. There was a deep tear in her neck, almost all the way through, but not quite. She gasped, and let go quickly. It made her head hang in a strange way, which sent shivers up Rowan’s back.

An arrow had lodged itself right through her sternum. Her eyes, which had become white when she received her magic, had now faded into her natural brown and glazed over. Her jaw was lax, already open. Rowan imagined she might have screamed.

“You gave them a fight,” she said, and barely recognized the cracked voice that came out. She breathed, and said, “You showed them who you are and sent them home bleeding to lick their wounds. You are one with the Void now, sister.”

She didn’t want to leave Alice there to be eaten by rats and flies. But she couldn’t carry her. Her body was stiff and Rowan could barely hold her up, let alone transport her back. So she gently laid her out in the middle of the room with her arms resting on her stomach, and went into the bedroom. She opened the cabinet, and grabbed a few sheets, despite the strong smell of dust and mildew. She covered Alice with the least yellowed one, and took the shards of decorated porcelain bowls and plates from the kitchen to surround her.

She whispered a prayer to the Void, fighting against the nausea that threatened to rise past her throat.

When she was done, Rowan followed the footprints into the window. There was a smudged dirt stain in the lower frame, and nothing else. Either the killer had dropped down into the water or used magic. The prospect made her grimace.

She looked up at the setting sun and startled. Beatrice. More than half an hour had passed, and she had forgotten completely to come back to their meetup point. She summoned the shadows to involve her once more.

With a crack, she was back in the rooftop of the apartment. She walked to the edge, where she could see the balcony downwards. She only needed to drop.

A second, muted snap sounded somewhere behind her.

She turned back. Her fingers twitched towards the hilt of her sword.

Under the full moon’s light, however, the rooftops were well lit, and after scanning them Rowan didn’t see anybody or anything.

“Rowan?”

She barely stifled the jump at the sudden voice. It was Bea, on the balcony, calling up to her. She’d heard it as well, Rowan was certain.

“I’m here,” she said, shooting the rooftops a last glare before bracing with her arm on the edge of the tiles and dropping down onto the balcony. “We need to leave.”

Beatrice nodded, catching onto her unease. “I agree, sister. But- Did you find anything?”

Rowan felt her stomach drop. Beatrice still held onto the wine bottle, and fiddled with the corkscrew’s lid. She held Beatrice’s arms gently, guided her into the apartment, and said, “I did. I’m sorry.”

Bea’s eyes welled up, glinting in the moonlight, but she compressed his lips, as if she was afraid that if she started talking she would break down. She nodded, but the tears escaped, running down her cheeks.

Rowan put her arms around her, pulling her into a hug. Bea rested her head in her shoulder. She let the other stay for a while, pretending she didn’t hear the sniffing and hiccups. When her breath stilled slightly, she pulled away gently.

“We have to go. Take that wine with you, so we drink it in her memory.”

Beatrice wiped her face and nodded. She turned to pick up the bottle in the centre table, where she had left it before they went scouting.

She heard a dry crack behind her.

Rowan spun, her hand already closing around the grip of her sword. A person was perched on the balcony’s rail. Their face was hidden by a mask. Two red-tinted glass panels and a filter cartridge canister over the mouth. They dropped down, and with a blur of movement, something shot out of their wrist. Rowan flinched, expecting it to hit her- a dart, or a crossbow arrow?

Instead, Beatrice let out a thin noise behind her. She looked at her, wide-eyed, swayed, and dropped down.

The person approached Rowan, unsheathing their sword.

Rowan channelled the Void’s energy to her chest, and as she thought of Alice’s broken body, of Beatrice, behind her, she released it all into her shriek. The whaler stumbled back, losing his footing. He quickly balanced himself again, but that was enough to allow Rowan to unsheathe her own blade and slash it at his throat.

He caught it with his own. The metal grinded against each other, until Rowan was pushed back roughly. She stumbled. He slashed at her, but she caught it haphazardly. The assassin didn’t hesitate, and slashed again. This time, it cut a line under her collarbone.

Rowan growled, sneering at him. When he pulled the sword back to pierce through her, the only thing it caught was the smoke and ashes she left behind.

She appeared behind them, with a crack. It alerted the whaler, and he twisted back with the sword ready- until she hurled a vase at their chest.

It shattered, pushing him backwards. This time he did fall over, and Rowan was over in a second, her sword swinging in an arc towards his torso.

The whaler raised his left arm, turning his forearm outward. It didn’t register to Rowan until her sword caught on something, producing a crush. She looked down. It was a gauntlet, a tiny crossbow, notched to the leather vambrace around their wrist.

She tried to back out, but the assassin moved quickly, holding onto the lapel of her coat and hooking his leg around hers. Rowan fell, with the whaler over her, pinning her down. But his sword had been lost somewhere; hers was still on her hand. She tried to slip to the side, gain room to swing the sword again, but the whaler noticed. He trapped her arm between his own torso and left arm.

She struggled against the hold, but there was no give. Panicked, Rowan hit her palm against the mask, shattering the red glass visor and forcing his head back. She felt the meat of her hand split, caught in the metal sockets of the mask, and the warm blood seeping out.

Suddenly, the whaler disappeared, leaving behind a brief image of themselves that shattered onto nothing. Rowan didn’t wait; she disappeared as well, and when the person reappeared near the centre table, picking up their sword, she was already up on the cabinet.

Rowan threw herself at him.

The whaler had heard her, and spun around to deflect her sword, but Rowan’s was angled differently. She felt it pierce through his shoulder, not passing through, but breaking the skin. A sudden, red-hot line of pain traced her ribs, but she used her magic to pull him further into the sword. He kept pushing, trying to get her to release her hold. For a moment, they were stuck in this stalemate.

He broke first, letting go of his sword to close his gloved hands around the tip of hers. Rowan sighed out a small laugh. She pinned him on the wall. Though the whaler were much larger than she was, the sword lodged in his shoulder impeded his from reacting too fast. He tried to move, to throw Rowan off him, but she twisted the sword ever so slightly. Blood gushed out, soaking into the dark uniform.

“Don’t even think about it,” she said, between her teeth. Her knuckles turned white as bone holding the sword’s grip.

“Be done with it, witch.” Despite the metallic rumble the mask gave it, his voice came with a strong accent. Instead of aggressive like she’d expected, the whaler sounded strangely composed. Rowan gritted her teeth.

“Tell me,” she said, “The witch with dark shaved hair, green-skinned. Did you kill her?”

He said nothing. Rowan plunged her knife further into his skin, and he groaned, squirming. “Did you?”

“No,” he said, and hung his head. He looked strangely ashamed when he said, “Not me.”

“Why are you whalers here?”

He hesitated, then said, “…Not for any of you.”

Rowan frowned at the cryptic answer. The man slowly brought his hand up to touch his chest and catch some of the blood that was running out, pooling in his glove.

“Why are you witches here?” he asked.

“I’m asking the questions,” she cut in. “How many of you are there?”

“Many.”

“Not all of you are looking around,” she said. “How many are in patrol?”

“Seven.” His voice was breathy now, tired.

“Where?” Her hand moved slightly, tired of holding up the sword. The man winced, sucking in air through his teeth. She heard the noise through the metallic filter.

“Near the rail tracks,” he said. That was south. They had entered through the buildings near the southwest, and if she kept close enough to the old Hound Pits quarter, maybe she would be able to avoid them entirely. It was her only shot.

She pulled her sword off, but kept it pointed at the same spot. The whaler staggered, propping himself up on the wall. He covered the wound with his hands.

“She’s not dead,” he said.

“What?”

“Your friend,” he indicated with a nod, “It was a sleep dart.”

Rowan didn’t turn to inspect Beatrice and see if he spoke the truth, but she mulled the idea over in her head. He was a whaler, an assassin by profession. He could be buying time. Yet he claimed to have spared a trespassing witch.

“Why would you let her live?” she said, looking at the inscrutable mask’s eyes. She had broken one of the visors, but the inside of the sockets were darkened. He said nothing, but his shoulders were tense.

After a while, he tilted his chin up, and said, “I don’t know.”

His eye showed through the broken visor. It was barely open between his swollen eyelids, red and slick with blood like a weeper’s tears. A piece of glass had lodged itself on the outer corner of his eye socket. He would probably lose that one, if he lived.

Rowan lifted her arm and quickly brought down the pommel of her sword to the side of his head with a crack. The whaler slumped to the floor.

She scrutinized him, still holding onto the sword. When he gave no signs of standing up or moving she sheathed it and ran towards Beatrice.

A small, syringe-like bolt was stuck on her neck. The whaler had called is a “sleep dart”. A quarter of a bright green liquid still sloshed in the syringe when Rowan picked it out carefully, and turned Beatrice over carefully. Alice’s opaque eyes. The wilting flowers on her collarbones. Rowan’s heartbeat echoed on her ribs, hammered on her throat, as she brushed her fingers against Bea’s neck and the budding saplings that grew there. She just started. She’d just started.

Beatrice’s eyes fluttered, and flew open. Rowan’s breath hitched, but as her sister looked over, searching for her, she quickly wiped the tears that had begun to overflow the corner of her eyes.

“Are you alright?” Rowan asked. She offered her hand for Beatrice to hold onto as she propped herself up.

“Yes… I think so,” she said, rubbing her hand on her temple, which had hit the ground as she fell. She looked at the body of the whaler across the room. “Good riddance.”

Rowan kept silent as she helped Beatrice to her feet. The girl stumbled slightly, but held onto her shoulder, taking a moment to regain her balance.

“We need to leave through the Hound Pit’s surroundings,” she explained, “Are you well enough to walk? Can you see properly?”

“Yes, Rowan”.

“Then, be a dear and look out to see if there’s anyone watching. Stay crouched, and don’t leave the balcony.”

Bea nodded, and went out onto the balcony with steady steps, although she still blinked slowly.

Rowan sighed. She dug into the small leather pouch strapped to her belt, pulling out a bit of moss. It was from the deep of the Wrenhaven, and was mixed with enchanted witch hazel oil, giving it a strong herbal smell.

Her heart still beat fast. Everything she’d learned told her it could still be a trick. That liquid might have been poison. Maybe the Whalers had used their magic to concoct a potion that would reveal their lair to them, and they would be made the foolish hares, walking back to their burrow and giving the hunters a better quarry.

She walked over to where the whaler laid, and pressed the moss into his wound, moving his hand to cover it. The blood had seeped out, blooming dark on the front of his uniform.

He had sounded tired, when he’d spoken. That was what convinced her he was being sincere. I don’t know, he’d said, but with a look that carried more than that. He didn’t sound tentative at all. Or maybe, she thought, it was relief that was filling in these logical holes, making up these cues for her.

When it was done, she sighed, frowning. She felt like a fool. The whaler was slumped with his head at an angle, seemingly done for, but his chest lifted and fell rhythmically. Rowan scoffed and turned back, ready to join Bea at the balcony.

“All clear?” she said, walking out with the same half-crouched posture as the other witch.

“All clear.”

“Let’s go home, Bea.”

The two vanished, and reappeared in the rooftops opposite to the apartment.

#dishonored #dishonored fic #dishonored fanfic #I miiiiight continue this bc I wanted to get into Brigmore coven ~cult mentality~#but I'm busy writing my thesis so idk #I just kinda like this it was fun to write #dishonored oc #whalers #brigmore witches

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ichorizaki · 4 years ago

Text

gunshot—t.k.

pairing mafia member!tsukishima kei x assassin!gn!reader

genre angst. pure angst.

word count 2.1k

warnings slight gore, torture, blood, guns, shooting, character death, s*icide

a/n wooo! my first mafia au! hope you guys give it lots of love<3

synopsis you weren’t supposed to get caught. but you did, and now everything is falling apart.

Tsukishima Kei knew that it was you all along. He knew that it was you who infiltrated the mafia under the guise of a new recruit with the tech department, and yet he fell for you. He knew that it was you. You promised him that you wouldn’t get caught—that you were going to triple-cross instead and turn your back against the network you came from, against your employer who was nothing but a shadow and an auto-tuned voice. He knew that you wanted to come clean, to formally join as a recruit loyal to the mafia and only the mafia, so you could both be together without sneaking around like high school kids anymore.

So why were you on your knees before him, arms bound behind your back with thick rope? Why were you in a torture room meant for infiltrators, trespassers, and traitors? Why were you battered and bruised, wounds fresh and old littering your skin where it was exposed from the tears of your clothes? Why were your knees red as were your right cheek, tears streaming down your face and sweat lining your forehead? Dirt and grime on your shoulders, neck, face?

Why in the absolute fucking hell were you the one he was pointing the barrel of his fully loaded gun to?

“Kei.” Why was his voice so sickening? His voice was so sweet that it revolted him. He was never on the frontline of action. He had always sat back, being part of the team that was the watchful eye or the mastermind behind operations, never once touching his loaded gun. He had sworn to only point his gun when needed. Everyone knew this. Everyone, including Sugawara Koshi himself. “What are you waiting for?” He hummed, blithe in the way he stalked to his side with his hands behind his back.

He was a foot taller than Sugawara, but the man’s presence alone was enough to make someone as tall as he is to cower. Kei clenched his teeth, jaw tense, and never once took his eyes off of you. The thick braided rope was caught in between your teeth, a grimy mix of sweat, blood, tears, and saliva bleeding into the material. You were shaking your head, words muffled.

“Shut the fuck up, you fucking traitor.” Kei didn’t need to look at Sugawara to know that he was glaring at you like you were the scum of the Earth. The way his voice dropped and was fuelled with hatred burning so strongly nearly stunned him into thinking he’d gotten scalded by his words alone. Kei swallowed his saliva. His lips were dry and hot, peeling at the end as he pursed them together once again. “C’mon, Kei. Just pull the trigger. You said you’d never use it unless it was absolutely necessary, right, Kei?”

No. He wanted to shake his head no. This was not a necessity. There could have been another way—there’s always another way. Fuck, he just wanted to get you out alive. He didn’t want you to suffer like this. He didn’t mean for you to get caught. How did you even get caught in the first place? You told him you wouldn’t get caught—you promised him.

“What’s the hold up, Kei?” Never had he hated their leader like this before. All this while, he’s been the one laughing at the sidelines, mocking and taunting these traitors and anyone who thought they were strong enough to take on a whole mafia clan on their own. “That bitch is a traitor. Why are you taking so long? I’ve got a meeting with Oikawa-kun in fifteen minutes.”

Now that it was him in that position, he didn’t know what to say. What could he even say? That he was in love with you? That you both love each other? Love was nothing but a ruse or a bait to Sugawara—a weapon, even, that he liberally uses to get what he wants. Your whimpers and cries, muffled by the rope burning into the skin and edges of your lips, was what caught his attention. His arm was getting tired from holding the heavy gun in your direction. You were merely six feet apart from him. He didn’t even have the strength to place his finger close to the trigger. His index finger hovered over it, the weight of what could have been you and him and a happy ending sitting on his chest like a thundercloud that’s heavier than the world.

The him before meeting you would’ve scoffed at him for even thinking about a happy ending. He knew who he was—or is?—a crime syndicate member with a penchant for helping the community whilst thirsting for the blood of those so-called righteous fuckers. It was the main reason why he joined the Miyagi clan after all, and it was also your reason for being part of a web of networks with assassins and political leaders alike.

“Kei,” he called for him in a sing-song voice. “Why won’t you pull the trigger? Do I need to make Tadashi, do it?”

“No! Fuck, not Yamaguchi.”

“Then what’s the hold up? He’s right outside the door, you know.”

Fuck you, is what he wanted to say. Fuck you, leave me and Y/N be before I lose my shit.

Thorns of guilt wrapped around his throat like a vice when his eyes met yours once again, pleading and begging for him to pull the trigger. Your voice was muffled but he knew what you were chanting over and over again. He just chose to ignore it. He refused to acknowledge that you were begging for him to end it then and there, to end your suffering and his, but he knew damn well that it would be prolonged. He knew all too well that he’d suffer for as long as you were with him, and oh, how he hated himself for coming to terms with that.

“Look, they’re begging for you to shoot them, Kei.”

No.

“It’s just one pull, Kei. That’s all it takes.”

No.

He swallowed his saliva once again. He couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger. He just couldn’t. Not after spending time with you. Not after learning who you were, not after learning that you were supposed to infiltrate the Miyagi clan to take out Sugawara so that the clan would crumble without one of its three heads and refusing to go through with what you were hired to do because you found out that the clan was actually helping the underprivileged in the state. Not after learning that he loves you.

Kei heard Sugawara’s footsteps walk further from him and towards the door. He heard it click open as he stepped outside, footsteps down the hall and when he was sure that he was no longer there, the poor man sunk to his knees. The tears that he tried so hard to keep at bay spilled down his cheeks, arms going limp as the pistol was placed on the floor, barrel aimed away from you so you wouldn’t get hurt anymore. He couldn’t do it. His shoulders slumped forward, his body shaking and trembling as sobs broke from his dry throat. His hand moved to cover his mouth, lips quivering and glasses fogging from the hot tears when he looked up at you, shaking your head with more tears of your own running down your tear-stained cheeks, mixing with the grime, sweat and blood.

“It’s okay,” you told him. “I’ll be okay, baby.”

He refused to listen to that. No, it wasn’t going to be okay. It wasn’t going to be okay, not when your life was on the line. He found himself shaking his head, refusing to listen to your words as he wiped his tears away with the back of his wrist.

“I love you, Y/N.” He all but croaked it out to you. “I love you so fucking much, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Y/N, I swear. Fuck, I’m so– I’m so sorry.”

“Kei, I love you too. Please– Please don’t cry.”

At that point, both of you were on your knees, sobbing and wishing things were just the slightest bit different. He couldn’t stop apologizing a thousand times and a little bit more, neither could you stop telling him that you love him and that everything would be okay even though you both knew it wouldn’t be. His mind was filled with too many thoughts running around, looping and tangling with one another until it was one convoluted mess. He couldn’t think. He didn’t even notice Sugawara had returned to the room until he felt someone grab his chin to lift his head.

“Kei,” Sugawara’s voice was but thinly veiled impatience. It sent chills running down his spine as he was forced to watch you. His cold hands were strong and tight on his jaw, ordering him to keep his eyes on you and nowhere else. “Tadashi-kun, if you’d please.”

Wait, what?

Before Kei could even comprehend what was going on, he heard the click of the safety lock before the ear-splitting bang! It all happened too quickly. He tasted gunpowder on his tongue before he heard another shot as your body went limp and fell to the floor in slow motion. There was a ringing in his ears from the glaringly loud shots, but he didn’t care if he’d gone half-deaf.

The second that Sugawara’s hand left his jaw, he rushed to his knees and swiveled around, feeling his heart beat a rhythm he never quite listened to before. It was rash, abrasive, and he found himself grabbing the only person he could truly call his brother by the collar and shoving him against the wall. He was seething, burning, aflame with anger, but he couldn’t bring it upon himself to even say a word to him.

Both their eyes met and he dropped Yamaguchi. He didn’t care about the two remaining men in the room. He rushed to your dead body, a fresh gun wound square in the middle of your forehead with the bullet embedded deep inside. He wanted to cry more, but he couldn’t. Or was he? The tears were falling onto your lifeless face like paint-splattered rain, smudging the blood and dirt.

“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

Kei gently pulled you into his arms, holding you for one last time. His hand caressed your face, red staining his hands and smearing your hair where his fingers carded through your locks gently. He was just deathly quiet and he knew that their leader was unnerved by it, as well as his best friend, just that the former was better at hiding it.

“Now, now,” Sugawara sighed. “I better leave now if I don’t want to be late for my meeting with Oikawa-kun. Tadashi-kun, don’t forget to call in the cleaning team to clear the room!” Of course he was so cavalier about it. He didn’t expect any less from the silver-haired leader who led the mafia with an iron fist, the glue that ties the three leaders together so the clan could run as it should.

“Yes, sir.”

Even with your lifeless body he was so careful. He tenderly lifted your body off of his lap, settled you down on the cold cement floor before slowly rising to his feet. He could tell that Yamaguchi’s eyes were on him, watching his every move. He knew he was turbulent; dangerous, even. Yamaguchi knew how much you meant to him. So what in the goddamn fuck did Sugawara offer him to use his stupid skills to take your life?

“You know it’s for the best, K–”

“No the fuck it’s not, Yamaguchi.”

Both of them were staring at each other, a barren stillness in the dead of his golden eyes. It was silent. Neither of them moved a muscle. Kei blinked ever so slowly as his eyes traveled to the gun that sat on the floor where he knelt earlier. It was probably a bad idea. An unamused chuckle left his lips.

“Kei, what are you . . .” Yamaguchi’s voice died in his throat the second he realized that Kei was reaching for the gun. What was he going to do now? If he was going to try and shoot him, he knew that he could easily throw the gun out of his hand. Kei lacked in what he excelled at.

The metal felt so cool and smooth against the roughness of his calloused palm. He let the weight sit on his hand, eyes admiring every detail of the sleek gun. He didn’t even know what model it was. All that he knew was it was for shooting others and it wasn’t in his book to do so regardless of how adequately skilled of a marksman he was. His name was but the ghost of a whisper on Yamaguchi’s lips as he heard the safety click undone, barrel pointed to the side of his head.

What you said was probably true. Things were going to be alright. Things were going to be alright as long as he pulled the trigger.

So he did.

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nsheetee · 5 years ago

Text

CEO!Jaehyun x Reader

Part 1 || Part 2

Summary: In which you and Jaehyun deal with the aftermath of the media finding out about your marriage, learn to sacrifice some things for each other, and make new promises for your future

Warnings/Details: please read Part 1 first, includes other NCT members (Ten), mentions of some adult themes, some kissing, and some fluff

you wake up the next morning with a crick in your neck and what feels like the world’s biggest headache

you sit up to stretch yourself out, trying to remember how you got to jaehyun’s office and why you ended up sleeping here

and that’s when you remember it all: the pictures, the scandal

and you wish you could disappear and just forget it all ever happened

jaehyun is still peacefully sleeping at your side and you let him enjoy his last moments of rest before you’re both thrown into what will probably be the most hectic week of your relationship

a knock on the door followed by jaehyun’s assistant popping his head in makes you pat your face to attempt to look like you’re awake

“your PR agent is here. should I send him in?” the assistant asks and you sigh

“can you give us 5 minutes?”

the assistant nods and closes the door, leaving you and jaehyun alone in the dark office

time to wake up and smell the roses, jaehyun

you carefully move some hair from his forehead and press a kiss to his smooth skin, raising a small groan from jaehyun

his arms find your sides and try to pull you down next to him again, but you pull back

“jaehyun... it’s time to wake up.”

“5 more minutes...” he mumbles, eyes still closed

“jaehyun, your PR agent will be here in 5 minutes.” jaehyun’s movements cease and he finally opens his eyes

the morning grogginess washes from his eyes at your words, and he’s reminded of the events that occurred last night

he sits up sharply, rubbing his cheeks and looking back at you

“oh god, that wasn’t a nightmare? that actually happened?” he asks and you nod

jaehyun reaches out to grasp your hand in his, playing with your knuckles before squeezing your fingers reassuringly

“we’ll figure this out. I promise.”

you nod, truly feeling a little less nervous than before

jaehyun has never broken a promise, and you don’t think that streak will end now

the office door opens and jaehyun’s PR agent, along with his entire posse, walk in

you’ve met him a few times before, but luckily have never had to do business with him

ten is one of the best PR agents in this city, and a close friend of jaehyun before they were in the positions they are in now

which is probably why jaehyun trusts ten to fix this situation

“jaehyun, y/n, good morning.” ten greets you both as he sits on the chair across from the coffee table. “It looks like you both slept... well”

you sink back into the couch, slightly embarrassed about what you must look like: messy bedhead and smudged make up

“ten, there has to be something you can do to fix this.” jaehyun gets straight to business

“here’s the deal: those pictures have been spreading around this city like a bad STD and everyone wants to know who that woman is and why she has such a big ring on her finger.” ten takes a moment to sip on his coffee

“so far, people have said that she’s just one of your hook ups that was caught on camera, and the ring is not from you. some people think she’s your baby mama and the ring is just decoration.”

“oh god.” you grumble, a hand coming up to your face to shield yourself from the other people in the room

you didn’t want to be in the media at all

and now after less than 12 hours of accidentally being exposed, THIS is how you’re being perceived?

this is exactly why you never wanted to be public about your relationship with jaehyun

no matter how close the two of you are or how much you love each other, people will always get the wrong idea and create fake stories for their own devices

“ten...” jaehyun warns from beside you and you can feel him tense up

“surprisingly, not many people have come to the conclusion that y/n is actually your wife. I guess not many people think you can settle down.” ten laughs from his spot but quickly stops when jaehyun glares harder at him

“I'm... going to have to say something that both of you won’t like. as your friend, jaehyun, I apologize in advance...” ten takes a deep breath

“ideally, we’d like to keep jaehyun’s “playboy” and “unattainable” image for the media. it’s added to your popularity and helped your business, you can’t deny it.”

ten is right

jaehyun’s image in the media, although not the most innocent, has fueled jaehyun’s career and has been one of the reasons jaehyun’s company is so popular

“...since y/n’s face wasn’t actually revealed in any of pictures, here’s the options: you can admit to the media that y/n was just a hook up and that she’s someone else’s wife-”

“no.” jaehyun doesn’t even let ten finish his thought

there is no way jaehyun is painting you like that to the media

and there is no way he’s saying you’re someone else’s wife

he doesn’t care that your face isn’t visible, he doesn’t think he has enough will to release a statement calling you “just a hook up”

it might break him, even if it isn’t true

“... okay,” ten sighs as jaehyun’s inflexibility, “another option could be to deny it all. the pictures of you two kissing are blurry enough to just say you were hugging. not the most solid excuse, but it could work for long enough to hold down the media until this dies down.” ten suggests

“ten...” you sigh and shake your head, “that’s too far-fetched. no one will believe that. there’ll be this... stain on jaehyun’s career.” jaehyun winces at the word “stain”

it’s a harsh way of putting it, but it’s true

if this isn’t completely reversed, you will become a stain on jaehyun’s life

it causes you to sink down further into the couch, the pounding feeling of your headache worsening

“well how about-”

“jaehyun, you should just say I was a hook up.”

the room goes silent at your request

“are you sure that’s what you want?” ten asks, not believing you would submit yourself to being called a “hook up” and all the implications that come with it

you don’t want to do it

as much as you would like jaehyun to stand in front of the entire world and pull out his wedding ring for everyone to see that he was taken, and has been taken for years

there was a part of you that knows it’ll never happen

the situation was bigger than you and jaehyun, and now you could only hope to control one lie by adding more lies on top

everyone in this room is aware that this won’t save your relationship in the future

it’ll only put a band aid on this stab wound

“it doesn’t really matter what I want anymore. what matters in jaehyun’s career.”

sometimes, you have to sacrifice your wants for your love’s needs

jaehyun wishes you never had to be put in this position

and he also isn’t sure how he’s going to stand in front of the press and lie about his love life

but yet, here he is

the press meeting was scheduled a few days later

from what ten told you, lots of media companies and news stations would be there

so the word will travel fast

when ten asked if you wanted to join the press meeting, you almost shook your head and mumbled out fast “no’s”

but there was something that made you accept his offer

maybe it was because you were curious enough to see if any of those media companies will recognize you

maybe it’s because you wanted to hear jaehyun’s voice in person calling you a hook up

in some twisted way, maybe it could give you some type of closure or relief to know that the deed in done and that would be the end of it

so on the morning of the press conference, you dress up quietly and a chauffeur drives you to the company building

no one pays attention to you as you walk into a conference room

there are men and women with cameras and microphones chatting away with one another

and you walk past all of them with your head up

they don’t even spare you a glance

“y/n, you look like you need some coffee.” ten greets you as you approach him on the other side of the room

you shake your head, your stomach is too delicate for something like coffee right now

it isn’t long before the clock chimes 10am and the attention of the room is turned to the stage as jaehyun walks up the steps, across the platform, and to the microphone

you and ten stand next to each other, behind everyone else and slightly to the side to still be able to get a good look at the stage

“good morning, everyone. I am jung jaehyun and today I will be clearing up the situation of the pictures that surfaced last week.”

the conference room is completely silent, only the sounds of a camera shutters and some shuffling reporters waiting for their curiosity to be repressed

“last week, pictures were taken of a woman who came up to my office after hours. she was...” jaehyun trails off and when you finally look up from the piece of wood you found particularly interesting on the stage, you see that jaehyun has his gaze on you

you didn’t tell him you would be here, in fact you didn’t really talk about what will happen on this morning

you can tell he’s surprised to see you, but the next few emotions that run across his face are so quick that you don’t catch all of them

“I'm sorry...” he says into the microphone, making some people in the audience shuffle around

“I’m sorry... I was about to lie and say that that woman was a hook up.”

you and ten both drop your jaws at jaehyun’s words and some confident reporters yell out a “so who was she?”

“oh my god, why am I not surprised that this is happening” ten mumbles from beside you and downs the rest of his coffee in one gulp

“she's someone I met a long time ago. she’s someone important to me. she’s someone who I've been lucky to have in my life.” jaehyun goes on, completely ad libbing his speech

“is she a family member? were you just hugging in those pictures?” a reporter asks and some ruckus rises over her words

“she’s not a family member by blood. she’s the type of family you choose to have. she’s stood by me more than my own blood has sometimes.”

“so is she a lover?” a different reporter asks, and once again the volume of the chattering in the room rises.

“I do love her, but she’s more than a lover. she’s my friend and she’s the one who tells me if I'm getting too far ahead of myself. she is the love of my life, and it has been absolutely heartbreaking to not admit this fact for the past few years. she is my wife.”

his words cause a shock to spread through the room

your eyes fill with tears, but when you try to blink them away. they just fall down your cheeks

on one side, you’re happy- you’re relieved

there was always a part of you that hated seeing jaehyun on those “Most Wanted Men” lists and hated the fringe group of crazy fans that sent him messages asking to marry him and have his babies

it could all finally start to dwindle down and you could finally be a normal couple, as normal as a CEO’s family can be

on the other side, you’re worried

a big part of jaehyun’s portrayal in the media was his status as a bachelor and one of the reasons his company is so well known and profitable was his top spot on those “Most Wanted Men”

jaehyun didn’t look like he regretted anything, though

“I’m going to have to apologize to my wife. I promised her that marrying me wouldn't have her face and name plastered all over the media. we both know that won’t be possible now. I hope that you all will give us some sympathy and time to show ourselves to the public as a couple. please understand and support us. thank you.”

and with that, jaehyun walks off of the stage with an onslaught of questions thrown at his back

there are many things you want to do right now: cry, laugh, maybe have a little celebratory champagne at 10 in the morning

but ten falls into a seat next to you, and you sit down next to him with a hand on his shoulder to console him

“I know this is probably, like, the worst day of your week. but this is probably the best day of my life.”

“you’re so bad as consoling people, y/n.” ten sighs and you rub his shoulder until he grabs your hand and pushes it off him and motions towards the exit

“what are you waiting for? go to your man. we’ll talk about how to get over your camera shyness later.” ten rolls his eyes and as his assistant comes up to him, you slip away from his side, through the hoard of cameras and reporters, and to the elevator on the other side of the building

you take a moment to be thankful for your nonexistant life in the media, to be able to walk through a crowded room and not be noticed, to be able to live without having everyone’s eyes on you

jaehyun’s announcement also marks the day you have to give up this luxury

jaehyun has been giving up things since he met you

it’s time to give up something for him, too

you walk across the top floor of his company’s building once again, the life and chatter about the new gossip so different than from when you were walking through here by yourself a few days ago

you nod at jaehyun’s assistant as you walk by and open the door to his office to peek your head in

jaehyun’s sitting at his desk, his suit jacket off and his sleeves uncuffed as he looks out at the city through the wall of windows

“mr. jung, you’ve got a visitor.” you startle him slightly, but he hums when he sees you

before you get any closer to his desk, he stops you and picks up a remote, pressing a button

curtains drop over the windows and the room lights come on to light his office

“I just got it installed. what do you think?” he asks as you finally approach him

“it’s perfect. should’ve got it a week earlier, though.” jaehyun rolls his eyes

once you’re at an arms length away, he pulls you into him and your lips finally meet

his force pushes you into his desk as he kisses you, but he’s gentle with you otherwise

“you didn’t tell me you were going to do that.” you mumble against him and he pulls back slightly

“I know. I didn’t know I was going to do it until I saw you in that room.” he admits, his hands finally finding their place on your cheeks. “are you mad at me?”

“no. it was about time everyone found out about us, I didn’t think it would happen so soon. will... you be okay?” you ask, glancing up at him

jaehyun knew exactly what you were asking

“that whole playboy act worked when I was a new CEO with a good looking face. I'm old now-” you cut him off with a laugh and he giggles with you for a bit, “-I'm serious. I'm not young anymore. I think it’s time for my image to change. maybe to a bit more... familial. maybe paternal?” he asks and your jaw drops in amazement

“I knew it. this was all one big elaborate ruse because you want a baby.” you laugh and jaehyun shrugs

“you would be... an amazing mom.” you both get serious once the words leave his lips

“if I would be an amazing mom, you would be one hell of a dad, jaehyun.” you nod as if agreeing with yourself, “thank you for doing that today. you have no idea how much it means to me.” you let tears surface again as you remember the words jaehyun said earlier that morning to the entire world

it was something you only thought could happen in your dreams, but jaehyun was good at making your dreams come true

“I meant everything I said.” his hands slip down your arms to gather your hands in his

he looks at the two rings on your finger before perking up as if remembering something and quickly rushing to his suit jacket, pulling out his own ring. “I can wear this everywhere now.”

he walks back and hands the silver band to you

just like several years ago, you slide the wedding band on his ring finger and admire how it shines in the lighting of the room

“I'm never taking it off now.” jaehyun promises and you smile at him, wrapping your arms around his middle and pulling him in a long hug

your head in his shoulder and his breath on your neck

“I know”

you stand in an embrace for a bit, scared and excited for the future, but grounded because you know one thing is certain

everything will be okay

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merigreenleaf · 4 years ago

Photo

Unexpected Inspiration Series: Concordia’s Art Magic

Blythe could only assume that if Adair was holding a paintbrush, the jar in his other hand must contain paint or ink. Then again, it was Adair. It could just as likely be grape jam. And to think, she'd finally got herself unsticky from Sol's glue fiasco this morning. With some trepidation, she held out her hand. Adair dipped the tip of his brush into the jar, then drew a quick blue swirl on her palm. At least that solved the mystery. It was, in fact, paint. "I wouldn't call a paint smudge much of a glow." "Give me a minute." This time Adair didn't return the brush to the jar and instead held the tip of the bristles just far enough away that they tickled Blythe's skin. She fought back the reflex to close her hand so she wouldn't disturb whatever it was he was trying. When nothing happened for a long while besides Adair gazing intently at her hand, Blythe mouthed to Etri, "What's he doing?" Etri tapped his finger against her wrist, calling her attention back down. She had expected nothing to change and hissed a sharp intake of breath when it had. The swirl was still there, but now there was an aura of purple about an inch away from her skin. When she moved her hand, the strange glow stayed with it. Etri leaned closer for a better look. She pried her eyes away in time to catch Adair looking pleased with himself in an embarrassed sort of way. "So all Weavers' hands look like this?" "Yeah, but not just our hands. Picture that covering your entire body and you get a better idea of how we glow." Blythe made a face and wiped her hand clean on the paint-stained cloth he handed her. "Blech. I'll pass." -Excerpt from an early draft of Colorweaver (Book 1)

Concordia as a whole is filled with artists, craftspeople, inventors, and creative hobbyists. The culture has art at its center and almost everyone joins in, even if it's just a way to pass the time rather than as a vocation. It's a drive passed down from generation to generation and the reason for this is that art magic runs deep in the blood of Concordians. History and myth have blended together into stories telling of how the first Concordians-- several struggling, displaced groups of people who joined together to survive-- asked for help in driving away a threat and to help keep their small population safe. Legends say that the constellations came down from the sky to teach magic to the people. Centuries later, these magics have become the nine types of art magic in Concordia.

(Info about the art magic below!)

Here are the types of magic. These are represented in the moodboard from left to right, top to bottom.

Wordweaving (Glow color: red) These Weavers work their magic into words, both spoken and written. These are the poets, the storytellers, the actors, the writers. They're the ones who can affect emotion or, in the case of my morally ambiguous main character, influence someone's thoughts for a short time. This is probably the most dangerous or easily corrupted of magics, but considering the tests that go into becoming a master artist and the checks in place after someone does, this hasn't been a huge problem. (Dray has just made it a problem by avoiding any real training, which is also not a usual thing-- nothing Dray has done with their magic is correct, if you get down to it, and it means that they are going to have Consequences sooner than later. But I digress.) Another example of how this magic can be used is in the scrolling marquee in front of the theater the characters visit in book 1.

Colorweaving (Color: purple) These are the artists whose tools are ink, paint, pencil, charcoal, etc. They're essentially illusionists with the ability to make what they draw/paint move around on whatever they're using as a canvas. Adair has this magic and while he'll sometimes use this to make animated paintings, his career as a cartographer has him creating interactive maps. As the series progresses, he figures out that if he paints on himself or someone else, he can change their appearance. He may even work out something that Colorweavers have forgotten they once knew how to do: by drawing on the air, it's possible to create a believable 3D illusion.

Timberweaving (Color: dark green) Woodworkers and carpenters, obviously, but their magic does more than just allow them to make sturdy creations from wood. Not that this is anything to scoff at-- this is why the oldest Artisans' houses haven't fallen over despite being built on stilts and almost every generation adding a new room or even a new floor. This magic can also make wood as buoyant on air as it would be on water and is a frequent way transportation is built. Not all vehicles hover a few inches off the ground, but this does include the "float-wagons" my main characters call home. Those are something of a cross between a motorhome and a house and can be driven (albeit slowly) around.

Terraweaving (Color: orange) These are the Weavers who work with stone and clay, sculpture and pottery. Way back in Concordia's history there was a Terraweaver who used to sculpt trainable dog-sized animals to give companionship and help to those who needed it. Not just by way of a service dog-- one of the things she made for a gardener friend was a pet that doubled as a planter. The more traditional ways of working this magic are the ability to work stone as though it were soft clay and putting their magic into buildings to make them more steady and solid, much like the Timberweavers, or to make them resist fires.

Oreweaving (Color: red-violet) These Weavers frequently have chemical or heat magic and often use this to etch, shape, and manipulate metals. They're the jewelers, the smiths, and are probably the most "inventor" group of the bunch. Sol tends to use his light/heat magic in a similar way to how the arcane metalworkers would (softening and shaping metal in his hands), so there's some overlap here in terms of heat with the glassworkers. The reason for this is Oreweaving was originally a kind of lightning magic. You'll still find it used as a kind of "battery" when an Oreweaver works with a different type of Weaver on a project. This could be to extend the life of the magic in something else, because eventually all magic inside a creation will run out and need to be recharged, or it'll be a backup battery. Concordia relies on wind, water, and solar power, so magic is only ever a backup or a way to store power they already have.

Savorweaving (Color: pale green) The Weavers who work with food and drink. What they cook doesn't burn, produce stays fresh longer, herbs don't lose potency or flavor after they're dried, food keeps longer or can be made to be more filling. They're the reason Concordia has the equivalent of refrigerators. These artists can also influence the taste and strength of flavor, and I bet they can look at a person and guess what their favorite foods might be.

Glassweaving (Color: gold) This magic involves heat and/or light. These artists are the reason why Silveridge has so much stained glass! As well as using this to make super-strong glass, some Glassweavers use this magic directly by putting it inside glass globes to be used as lamps. Portable heating, like something to keep in your pockets to keep your hands warm? Probably also had a Glassweaver involved. Concordia's mail system is via pneumatic tubes that run about twelve feet off the ground, and while a few different kinds of art go into creating these, the tubes themselves are made of magically-influenced glass.

Songweaving (Color: blue) This magic involves sound and voice, although in terms of pitch and changing how you sound, not the verbal influence of the Wordweavers. I have a character in later books with this magic who can make her voice sound like anything, as well as throwing it so that the sound appears to be coming from somewhere else. This is also the reason that Concordians are able to record sound and music, as well as amplify it or play it at another location simultaneously.

Threadweaving (Color: blue-green) These are the fiber artists, the spinners, weavers (small "w"), knitters, tailors, etc. They can put their magic into clothing and fabric to make it warmer or cooler than it would otherwise be. (This suits Concordians well because current fashion calls for lots of layers of embroidered fabrics and they live in a warm climate.) This can also make clothing protective, usually against things like weather, but it is also how the Protectorates are able to stay safe without needing to wear something heavy that would look like protective gear. Remember the floating homes I mentioned earlier? Some of these are propelled via large fans, sort of like a hovercraft, but some are made with sails on the roofs. Whether it's land or sea, these sails can propel the vehicle forward even if there isn't much wind and can quite likely store some of the wind for later, should it be a still day.

Not everyone in Concordia has magic particularly strongly: some are only good at never burning what they cook, some have simply a pleasant singing voice, some are above average at writing poetry. Sometimes these people will make this part of their careers, sometimes it'll only remain a hobby they enjoy. If the magic is particularly strong, though, it requires additional training and those people are considered Artisans. There isn't a lot of difference between an Artisan and a craftsperson when it comes down to what they create; the only real difference is that an Artisan has magic as an extra tool, so their end results are different. Considering no two artists ever create exactly the same thing anyway, this means that there has never been more importance placed on the Artisans versus craftspeople. Each person will only ever have one type of art magic; even if they carry several types in their bloodline, one will be dominant and only this one will be usable. Each of the nine types of art magic has its own color that glows in both the artist and the creations they make. Only those with decently strong magic can see this, but it does mean that a lot of people, clothing, objects, and locations in Concordia have almost a stained glass look to them if it's something you can see. Part of the reason buildings in Silveridge are made with white stone is because of these glows. Silveridge is where a large percentage of the Artisans live, so it became a tradition to build and paint in white, then add colorful embellishments. Otherwise think about how badly paint colors might clash with the glows used to create the things in the city! Even if most people aren't really aware of how magic glows, they've embraced this aesthetic. Concordia, and Silveridge in particular, is all about aesthetics.

These are just some examples of what each kind of magic can do. Concordians are always coming up with new ideas-- sometimes those ideas work great, sometimes they fail spectacularly. Either way, the artists and craftspeople are constantly creating. Their art magic allows for greater technology than their world might have had without it. Concordia freely trades their creations, so most of their world has access, as well. At some point I'll talk more about Galanvoth, the country that considers itself Concordia's competition.

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This moodboard is for @homesteadchronicles theme of “craftsmanship” because how could I not talk about Concordia and their art magic when most of my series involves this. :D In the future, I'd love to talk more about the Artisans, the history of Concordia’s magic, and just more world building stuff in general.

Tagging my series list! Let me know if you want on or off the list, it’s all good. And as always, please add me to any writing tag lists you have, whether you’re on my list or not. I love reading about writeblr projects. :)

@homesteadchronicles @ageekyreader @lynnafred @the-gay-hufflepuff @oceanwriter @desperatlytryingtowriteabook @muffindragon227 @theguildedtypewriter @toboldlywrite @wchwriter @dreameronthewind @shadow-maker @pen-for-sword @loopyhoopywrites @emptymanuscript @madmoonink @perringwrites @megan-cutler @elliot-orion @thatwriternamedvolk @indecentpause @writer-on-time @ravenpuffwriter @siarven @musicismymoirail @lady-redshield-writes @bluemartlet @reeseweston @worldbuildingwren @hiddswritingrefs @cay--scribbles @focusdumbass @enasroterfaden @missrobinswritings @joshuaorrizonte @zofiehelen @kainablue @kalis-scribbles @inspirited-goddess

#writing #writeblr #moodboard monday #moodboard #world building #about my world #fantasy series #art aesthetic #worldbuilding #magic #unexpected inspiration series #unexpected inspiration aesthetic

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heartofsnark · 4 years ago

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This Is Love (Chapter Eleven): Angels of Doubt, Bearing Broken Halos

Notes; The chapter title is pretentious as fuck, but I don’t care. I’m very happy with the beginning of this chapter so I’m very excite to finally let y’all read it fully. Overall, this chapter definitely is more of the build up that this uhhhh nice little religious family mayyyyyhaps be a bit less nice than originally thought.

Word Count: 10451

Chapter Warnings: Cult Angels, Animal Death (in the context of dangerous wildlife needing to be put down), A Judge Wolf, Indoctrination, Assault, Me Awkwardly trying to write himbo Nick Rye for the first time

For chapter one and the warnings about this fic’s overarching themes, please click here!

For the previous chapter; click here!

They don’t go to The Spread Eagle that night, staying too late making plans. But it’s all for the best in the end, Casey would be more busy in the evening and if she’s interrupting his work, he’ll be less likely to listen. It’ll be easier to talk to him tomorrow just as the bar opens, before anyone arrives and during down time. Regardless, when she comes back to the trailer park. She breaks next to the registration building, checking her mailbox in case Cassie or Joseph had wrote her back, but no such luck. Maybe it will take a while for them to even get it?

A breeze passes through as she leaves the building, that familiar flower smell itching at her nose. The trailer park has fields of those white flowers surrounding it, the delicate petals seem ghostly in the moonlight. Moonflowers, the trailer park has to be named after them, these flowers that haunt her in her dreams. A shift of movement, far back in the expanse of flowers catches her eye. Someone tending to the flowers with a hoe, but she doesn’t know anyone in the trailer park who takes care of the flowers. Surely, if they had a grounds keeper, they’d start with the trash within area; not the flowers surrounding it.

Dahlia decides to park her bike before investigating, not wanting to leave it in the open while she journeys through the flowers. She pulls out her phone once she’s parked, tucking one earbud in. If only to ease her nerves as she walks to confront the odd stranger.

“When you told me I should text your brother.

I was walking with a blunt in my hand.

Double Jameson was in the other.

I was drinking like a spiritual man.”

She stands at the edge of the field of flowers, little the scent tickle her nose, watching the…person in the distance. Their gender, or at least presentation of it, unidentifiable. She blinks her eyes, when did she start seeing spots? Her tension eases, body and mind relaxing.

“I was just talkin’ to Jesus in my hotel room.

I was just talkin’ to Jesus in my hotel room”

And she walks further through the flowers, brushing through them, fractals blurring her vision with every step. Her head swims and floats away, fuzzy as the smell surrounds her. She drags her fingers along the blossoms as she walks, grounding herself with their velvet touch, the contrast of her black painted fingernails against them.

“And I could barely stand

He said, "Get some water, man"

'Cause they don't understand

I'm not what they think I am”

As she nears them with every unsteady step, she sees them more clearly. And truly they’re a ghastly sight. Shaved head and dirty white clothes; the smell of the flowers strengthens as she nears them, turning acrid with an edge. That smell comes from them, like they’d bathed in chemicals infused with the flowers. The mask latched around their grime coated face, covering their mouth is marked with the Eden’s Gate symbol. They pay her no mind, focused on tending to the moonflowers, their eyes are glazed nearly white and milky. Like Dahlia’s eyes looked her first night in Hope County, when she dreamed of Faith despite having never met her.

“They can never ever understand me, no

What I came from, what I was before”

“Are you…okay?” She asks them, despite her own swimming vision and weak knees.

“HelpmeFaithhelpmeFaithshieldmefromsorrow.”

They grumble, not sing, the lyrics to one of Eden’s Gate’s songs. Their voice a rasp as if they can hardly breathe, each word running into the other, energy manic. The moonlight shining on gaunt cheeks and white eyes makes them look dead, a walking corpse before her. She reaches out, gingerly touching their shoulder, hoping touch can break through whatever state they’re in.

And then they scream, swing the garden hoe and bashing it against the side of Dahlia’s head. She’s knocked to the ground, head hitting rock and dirt. The creature screams out and jumps on her, trying to maul her. Vacant eyes staring down at her, her body and head too fuzzy to even give it the reaction it deserves. She should be scared, she should be terrified, but she isn’t.

Gently, she puts her hands on each side of the person’s neck, applying pressure, not enough to strangle but to hold it at slight distance. It tries to dig dirty fingers into her flesh through her jacket, screaming mangled cries of pain or anger, she can’t tell as she looks over its face. The haunting glow of moonlight on their dirty face.

“How you get to heaven with a broke halo?

How you get to heaven with a broke halo?”

“Help me, Faith,” Dahlia sings the song it used to soothe itself, “help me Faith, shield me from sorrow… From fear of tomorrow…”

And a switch has been flipped, it stops screaming. Body going lax, fingers no longer trying to tear her apart as she sings the church song, own voice overlapping the contrasting melody of her music.

“Help me Faith, help me Faith, shield me from sadness…From worry and madness…”

And it’s slipping out of her loosening hold and climbing off her, resuming it’s gardening work, as if she never existed at all. On trembling legs and with her vision still blurring, she leaves, not sure of what else to do. A part of her knows she should be more panicked, more concerned, more anything, but then she takes another inhale the floral scent around her and she can’t find the energy. It fades as she leaves the flowers and their scent behind, vision steadying as she enters her trailer, the full reality dawning on her just as she shuts the door behind her.

“What the actual fuck!?” She screams at her empty living room, because what the actual fuck did she just see? Her mouth is dry and her brain a mess as distress finally shines through the haze.

Dahlia digs her phone out, shutting off her music and doing a search. Her vision is still fuzzy with prisms of shifting colors, body still light and floaty. They were there the first time she saw Faith, they constantly itch her nose and make her eyes see things. The church compound was covered in bushels of them.

Moonflowers, she searches, and sure enough the images show the white trumpet shaped blossoms. Also called datura, angel trumpets and it’s down a rabbit hole. They’re toxic and hallucinogenic, can be harvested for either medication or poison. Scopolamine and atropine are in them; Dahlia does not even remotely know jack shit about chemistry. But a quick search shows scopolamine has been used in everything from nausea medicine to truth serum. So…she may have just hallucinated the person? From the flowers… but when she touches her forehead, where the person stuck her, blood stains her fingers. She really did get hurt…

Dahlia grabs her sketchbook, sitting down on the floor before her coffee table as she’s done so many times before, and she draws what she saw. Painstakingly she tries to recreate them, to draw the gaunt of their cheeks and the grime on their skin. To catch the white emptiness of their eyes. And she dates the drawing, scratching out the date in as neatly as she can. And on the next page she draws her first weird dream, sketching herself vomiting flowers and blood, those moonflowers. She adds the rough date she remembers it happening in the corner when she’s satisfied. Then she draws herself burnt and marred with flowers blooming from her mangled remains, hand moving of it’s own accord to match the details, shutting out the rest of the world as she works to carefully craft every line. She dates it as well and then draws the newest one, smears of ink on bare skin with flowers blooming from them.

Once each image is created with a date etched in its corner, she sits back and rakes a hand through her hair. She’s had nightmares before this, certainly, but never as frequent or vivid as these. Flowers are the recurring theme and she’s not sure why; maybe the datura are doing it? The scent of them always present, making her sleeping brain conjure odd images. She already has a list of things to do; the apple festival is the highest priority, but she still wants to know what each flower means and what on earth is working in those flower fields, what connection it has to Eden’s Gate.

She’s exhausted, graphite from her pencil smudged and sticking to her hand. But she feels more at ease having put her demons into art, having created something out of this. There’s still a lot of questions in her mind. This constant back in forth of trusting the church only to doubt them again is frustrating.

Dahlia barely manages not to fall asleep in the shower that night, exhaustion clinging heavy to her leaden muscles and pulling at her eyelids when she lays down on her couch.

The junior deputy is running on two hours of sleep, coffee, and an energy drink the next morning. But that doesn’t stop her from swinging into The Spread Eagle as soon as it opens, Pratt in tow since they’re technically on shift.

“Something wrong, deputies?” Mary May asks when they stride in, Dahlia can already see Casey through the kitchen window, prepping food for the later in the evening.

“No, we actually just wanted to talk to you and Casey about something.”

“What’s up?” Mary May raises an eyebrow and the chef’s head perks up.

Dahlia explains Debbie and Doug’s situation, that John is trying to buy them out, at the very mention of the Seed sibling’s name she can see Mary May tense. But the tension lessens, smiles on the bartender and cook’s face when the deputy mentions their plans for an apple festival.

“I know we could use more cooks selling food there and Debbie mentioned you work with the Testy Festy, Casey.”

“Plus, figured the band that plays here, might be willing to work a night or two if you talked to ‘em Mary May.”

“Look, you had me at pissing off John Seed,” Mary May says, grinning, “I’ll talk to the band and Casey, you damn well better help them out.”

“Come around here, sister,” Casey calls out, voice deep and booming as she walks around into the kitchen already warm as starts prepping food, he spares her a glance as he minces vegetables, “your destiny hangs off you like a coat, the soul of a warrior, and the heart of a hero.”

Dahlia blinks, taken aback by his unabashed and weirdly soulful compliments. She doesn’t really believe in destiny nor does she see herself as a warrior or hero, but she certainly appreciates the thought. Her heart, that of a hero apparently, warms and she smiles after another second.

“So…you’ll help?”

“It’s important for people to gather, to bond, and feel a sense of community. I’ll call Deb and Doug to offer any help I can.”

“Thank you so much!” Dahlia grins: Casey is definitely an odd duck, but he cares about the community and willing to help. So, a fantastic guy in her book.

“Happy to help, sister.”

First two people dragged into their plan, Pratt and Dahlia give some friendly goodbyes before being on their way. This is already coming together and Stray is nearly vibrating with excitement as they leave the bar.

The pair continue to do their patrol while swinging in to talk with folks about the festival. They swing by Lorna’s Truck Stop, Dahlia unable to resist snapping a picture of the giant cheesy cow statue outside of it before they walk in, door chiming. An older woman is talking to someone in a green hood, the woman with chubby cheeks and blue eyes pushing a little bag of mini pies into the hooded person’s bruised hands.

“Here you go, Jess, on the house as always.”

“Thanks,” the hooded girl responds, an awkward gruff to the words before she leaves. When Dahlia catches a sight of her, Jess has a face of mottled bruises and cuts.

“Anything I do for you, Deputies?”

“We were hoping you could help us out, Lorna,” Pratt starts.

And just like Casey and Mary May; Lorna’s all bright smiles and kind eyes, happy to help. Even pushing bags of the free small handmade pies into the deputy’s hands before they go. There is something undeniably heartwarming at everyone’s willingness to help. She crams one of the little pasties into her mouth, sugary berries on her tongue as they get back into the cruiser.

The shift passes by with ticketing traffic violations and stopping in to rope people into helping out. Hudson and Brennan sending texts letting Dahlia know that Grace has agreed to help and Adelaide will too if only so her boytoy Xander can have a smoothie stand during the festival. Riding through the valley, Dahlia sees a billboard advertising gun lubricant, Grace Armstrong’s face plastered on it, though her eyes on the board seem off. Dahlia too far away to put her finger on it, but it looks like that part of the advert has been damaged. An award-winning sniper and veteran; well loved in the community. Dahlia only saw a glimpse of her at the barbecue, talking with Hudson, but it seems clear just how important she is to the county.

Within an hour of their shift ending, Doug and Debbie have them called out to the orchard. Their smiles are bright, the middle-aged couple holding each when the deputies pull in. Pratt’s still trying to pretend to have a grumpy face but there’s still a slight smile pulling at his lips as they get out of the cruiser.

Arms are wrapping around Dahlia in a second, Debbie pulling her into a tight hug, the young deputy tenses hands hovering awkwardly at the woman’s sides.

“Thank you, so much,” Debbie says, pulling away but her hands still on Dahlia’s shoulders, “we’ve been getting calls all day, everyone wants to help us do this, thank you so much.”

“Uh, yeah, it’s no problem…just happy to help,” Dahlia flusters under the attention, proud of what she’s done, but squirming under the weight of gratitude.

“Well, we certainly appreciate it,” Doug tells her with a smile, “but we called you out ‘cause we got some flyers made, figure’d it help advertise, though word of mouth already seems to be doing us a lot of good.”

“We could definitely hand them out, see if some places are willing to hang them up too.”

“And now we’re the flyer brigade,” Pratt grumbles under his breath and Dahlia jabs her elbow into his side.

“I’ve already been coming up with everything I wanna sell at the festival, but if you two have some free time Sunday, I could use some taste testers too,” Debbie offers, with a smile, “least I can do is feed you for all your help.”

“Yeah, I can do that,” Dahlia agrees readily.

“I…could probably swing by.” Pratt tries so hard to sound above it all, but free apple pie can apparently draw even him in.

“Can’t wait to see you both then!”

They wave goodbye to the couple, Dahlia packing the flyers with her into the cruiser car. The ending hours of their shift and the day is spent finding places to hang them up. Mary May posting them in The Spread Eagle, hanging in the window of the garage and general store, Whitehorse even letting it be posted up in the window of the department. Dahlia’s ride home that night takes longer as she stops at places to ask if they’d hang up the advertisement; after getting Lorna’s Truck Stop and Audrey’s Diner to put them up. Dahlia stops at the Hollyhock Saloon, bartender agreeing to hang it up in the small bar, the rookie deputy giving a quick hello to Brennan and some of the other officers gathered at his table. The 8-bit Pizza bar hangs them up without any question, happy to help, and Dahlia manages to convince Darcy to hang it up in the registration building of the trailer park before she heads in for the night. Dahlia crashes easily that night, sleep finding her as soon as she hits the couch.

The next day Stray is hit with déjà vu as they’re called out to deal with Eden’s Gate blocking another road. She’s still not sure why this is apparently a thing they do. And to her misfortune it’s not Waylon or members of the church she likes waiting behind the cement block when they pull up this time; but Theodore and Lonny. Because of course.

“Deputies,” Lonny forces a smile, “to what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Well, you’re breaking the law, so there’s that,” Pratt says with a roll of his eyes.

“Yeah, heard you two gave some of our members a hard time about blocking off a road,” Theodore comments, arms crossed over his chest.

“I’ll refer you back to the fact it’s against the law,” Dahlia grumbles, “why on earth are you blocking the road anyway?”

“Got some property nearby that needs some work.”

“The church own a lot a property?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow, that was Waylon’s reasoning too.

“Soon to be even more when John secures the orchard for us,” Lonny has too wide of a grin as he looks Dahlia over, “though rumor has it some little cop is trying to get in the way.”

“Irrelevant, you’re breaking the law. Just scram and there won’t be any issues.”

“Look, h-“

“We’ll be going then, deputy,” Theodore puts a hand on Lonny’s back, reigning him in. Though the way Lonny sneers tells Dahlia that their conflict is only resolved for the moment.

Regardless, Pratt and her watch as the men yet again pack away the blocks and clear the road out. Dahlia still can’t quite figure out why on earth they’d need to or would want to block the roads. Between that and the strange person she saw in the flowers, bearing the churches symbol, things just seem to get weirder and weirder. She considers for a moment asking the church members there about the person with the shaved head, but she has a feeling asking more questions will just put her higher up on Lonny and Theodore’s shit-lists.

“Still don’t get why they keep blocking the roads,” Dahlia comments when they get back in the patrol car.

“They’re assholes, what more reason they need.” Pratt shrugs before starting the cruiser engine and Dahlia just doesn’t feel like it’s that simple.

“Well, if they do it again, we don’t really have a choice but to arrest ‘em do we?”

“Can’t let them get away with shit forever; three strikes seem fair.”

Questions still run through her mind; but there’s no way of getting answers at the moment, left to bury her curiosity as they leave back down the winding roads. Hours pass and bright blues shift to pastel pinks as the sun sets upon Hope County.

That evening at The Spread Eagle, she’s listening to Pratt and Hudson argue about something; she can’t even be sure what but she’s just amused to not be at the butt of the humor tonight. She’s cramming fries into her mouth when she feels eyes on her.

“That’d be her right there,” Mary May says, pointed out at Dahlia as she talks to a man the young officer has only seen in passing. Shaggy dark hair under a cap and beard on his face, though the last time she saw him he’d been wearing glasses. She thinks it’s Nick, only having seen a glance of him at his own barbecue.

“If I’m in some sort of trouble, I’d like fair warning, Mary May.” Dahlia comments, unsure why anyone would be trying to find her in a crowd. The blonde’s smile eases her nerves as she comes across the bar, the man walking Dahlia’s way.

“No trouble, Deputy, Nick here was just wanting to know which one of you started the apple festival. He’s going fly a banner ad around for Debbie and Doug.”

“Oh, that’s awesome.”

“I just wanted to find out who was helping them out, Nick Rye,” he introduces himself, sticking his hand out for her to shake.

“Pleasure to meet you.”

“I’ve been crop dusting for Doug and Debbie for years, last thing anyone needs is for John to get his hands on that place.”

“That seems to be most people’s sentiment.”

“Told ya just about everyone is sick of his shit,” Mary May says with a shake of her head, “it’s about time he doesn’t get what he wants.”

“That son of a bitch has been hounding me and Kim for months now, trying to buy our place.” Nick’s jaw clenches, irritation coming off him in waves.

“I know Kim damn near broke his nose for it.”

“Wait what?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow; how often does John harass people?

“Listen to this,” Nick gesture emphatically, now sitting down next to Dahlia, “asshole shows up to the house while I’m gone, trying to bully Kim into selling the damn place, while she’s pregnant. What kind of sick fuck shows up at a man’s house while he’s gone and tries to strongarm his wife into signing the place over. Fuckers lucky I wasn’t home.”

“You not being home was kind of the point of when he showed up.,” Mary May reminds him, “besides, no offense, but even ready to pop I think I trust Kim’s right hook protected her more than yours ever could.”

“Now, that’s just mean,” Nick says with a slight pout to his face, reminding Dahlia of a tall puppy dog.

“It’s okay Nick, anything you lack in strength you make up for in…” Mary May seems to have to search for the next word, normally brains would be the natural contrast, “well, you just keep being you.”

“Never really thought about being anyone else; well except maybe an eagle, but I don’t think that counts.”

“No, it doesn’t really count, Nick,” Mary May says with a slight laugh.

Dahlia stifles her own laugh raising an eyebrow at the ridiculous turn of the conversation. Nick is sweet and willing to help out with the festival, so she won’t spend too much time questioning his desire to be an eagle. It’s not long before Pratt and Hudson fall into conversation with the pilot; allowing Dahlia to comfortably settle into the background as the night winds down.

It’s not even the noon the following day before things around Hope County manage to pick up pace. Sirens and lights flashing as Pratt rushes them up north towards the mountain; there’s a palpable tension. Crisis situations are rare; most days filled with handing out traffic tickets and dealing with roadblocks. Hell, the county is boring enough that the sheriff would allow them to actively work on a festival during shift hours. So, a call requesting EMS, all deputies and units, and the F.A.N.G Center; is definitely out of the normal.

They see the gathering of people as they pull up, Whitehorse is talking with workers in F.A.N.G Center shirts, Hudson and other officers gathered around and EMS workers carrying someone into the back of an ambulance.

“Pratt, Rookie; over here now!” The sheriff calls out for them and they rush over.

“What’s going on?” Pratt is the one to ask.

“Wolf, possibly rabid, but we don’t know. It attacked a pair of hikers. We tried to tranq it but nothing is bringing it down, we gotta find it and put it down before it hurts anyone else.” The F.A.N.G Center employee explains to them.

“No way to get around killing it?” Dahlia asks, she understands it can’t always be avoided, but she would prefer not to.

“We hit that damn thing with enough tranq to take down an elephant and it still tried to maul us before running off; tried to get it with a snare pole and it broke it. We can’t rehabilitate an animal we can’t get near and if we let it go; it’ll hurt someone else.”

“You heard the man, alright,” Whitehorse’s voice booms as he starts addressing everyone, commanding attention “we got a wolf to find, grown wolf, white fur and aggressive. I want everyone to stay in groups; we have tranquilizers, snare poles, and what’s used to put ‘em down. We want to try to do it as humanely as possible but protect yourselves and keep an ear to your radio. We need to make sure the trails are safe and can’t let anyone else get bit; move out!”

The deputies are given tranquilizer guns, the snare poles, and syringes filled with pentobarbital. Though, given what they’ve been told, she’s not completely sure how effective any of it will be. If the wolf has enough tranquilizers to take down an elephant in it already and is still moving; as well as having previously broken one of the snare poles, then how on earth is any of this suppose to work?

But she doesn’t voice these concerns as she follows after Pratt, Hudson, and another police officer tagging along so they can maintain a decent sized group per Whitehorse’s instructions.

The mountains are beautiful, she thought that when she’s gone hiking before, but even during this tense situation she finds herself amazed by how gorgeous it is. Bright green summer grass and towering trees as far as the eye can see. Mountains that reach up to kiss the bright blue sky.

Dahlia stays at the back of the group, letting Pratt and Hudson lead as she keeps her ears and eyes peeled for anything suspicious. The sneer pole is across her shoulders, her wrists on top and holding it there as she walks. She half listens to Pratt and Hudson talk; something about people making up werewolf rumors because the wolves have been acting wilder and wilder lately. She’s reminded of her meal at the Grill Steak, that man who warned a group of people about wolves. He claimed they were trained by Eden’s Gate; but those still just sound like conspiracy theories.

Tension crawls up Stray’s spine, skin forming goosebumps at the sensation of being watched, then the sound of snapping branches coming from forests that surround the trail she walks along. She moves without thinking, leaving the trail and her group behind, following where she heard the noise.

Branches and brush scratch at her arms as she ventures deeper into the wooded area; then she sees his back. Jacob Seed, why does there always seem to be a member of their family just around the corner when trouble happens?

“Something you need,” he says, not bothering to turn and face her, examining his red rifle.

“You shouldn’t be out here.”

“I shouldn’t be,” he spares her a glance over his shoulder, blue eyes rife with condescension, “last time I checked it’s a free country, ain’t it?”

“That’s not what I mean. There’s a wolf running around; possibly rabid. It’s not safe for you to be out here alone.”

And he laughs; dry and deep, the sound making her raise her eyebrows. Why is the idea of being mauled by a rabid wolf so funny to him?

“You worrying about me?” He asks, finally turning to face her in full, shifting the bright red gun to the holster on his back.

“I mean, yes? My job is keeping the public safe and you are a member of the public.”

“Pfff, you’re just a pup,” he says walking past her, “be better off watching out for yourself.”

His hand is large and rough as it ruffles her hair while he walks by; his palm and fingers nearly encompassing the entire top of her head. His hand is probably bigger than her face she realizes, heat flushing up her face though she’s not sure of why. He’s so condescending and patronizing and fucking giant; the last point isn’t entirely relevant but it’s still true.

“I’m a deputy, don’t patronize me.” She says, reaching up to grab his hand from her head, capturing it in her own. His rough scarred hand is nearly double the size of her own; warm calloused skin against her own.

“You having fun there?” He asks, when she doesn’t let go of his hand right away, instead pressing her small hand back against his palm, comparing the immense size difference. He really could probably wrap one hand around her entire head.

“Your hands are so big, wow.”

“’Preciate it pup.”

And he laughs again, still dry and brief in it’s sound, pulling his giant hand from her smaller one before he leaves. She glares at his back; corded muscle shifting beneath his black tee shirt. Despite her pout, she can understand why he’d see her unable to defend herself in comparison to him. She’s been confident in her physical abilities for a while; but she imagines a man like Jacob isn’t scared of anything.

“Rook, where the hell are you?” Pratt’s voice crackles over her radio as Jacob walks off.

“There was a hunter out here, I was warning him about the wolf,” Dahlia explains herself, she wasn’t suppose to leave the group per Whitehorse’s orders, but no one could blame her for warning a civilian. There’s something odd about thinking of Jacob as just a hunter or civilian; though she’s not quite sure why.

“We’re in the woods near the Visitor’s Center, get over here, you pain in the ass.”

The radio crackles out and Dahlia gets on her way; she knows the Visitor’s Center is south of where she is. Though she has no sense of direction, so that has little bearing on her ability to find it. She hikes down, feeling that’s the closest approximation to south that she can get, sticking a little closer to the woods than the paths. She prefers the shade and atmosphere of being surrounded by the trees.

But the further she travels down, the sparser the trees grow, exposing Dahlia to the sun. Green grass and branches crushing underfoot as she stumbles down the terrain. She can just imagine Pratt and Hudson’s frustration, but warning someone about a rabid wolf is certainly understandable.

A drawn-out howl echoes through the woods, making the deputy freeze. Sunlight is warm on her face and stinging at her eyes as she turns towards the sound. A spire of craggy rocks coming off the mountain; the silhouette of a wolf howling with the sun behind it. She uses her hand to shield from the sunlight, straining to see more detail. Seven distinct darts stick from the wolves back; tranquilizers.

Dahlia quickly tugs her uniform shirt off from over her black tank top, wrapping the fabric around her forearm. Not quite the cushioned guard they use for training police dogs, but it will provide some barrier between it’s bite and her skin. Worse case scenario, she’ll be taking rabies shots once everything is done. She holds the syringe of pentobarbital in one hand, she has her firearm too if that’s unable to bring the wolf down, but she prefers to let it go peacefully if she can.

She stays crouched down as she approaches the peaked edge of the mountain, craggy rock building up to a spire, levels to climb up to reach the clearing where the wolf sits. Dahlia stays low as she climbs, moving as quietly as she can, using a blue grappling hook handle to help lift herself up to the final level. There’s a gap in the clearing; a log showing a passage between craggy rock to craggy rock; boulders surrounded by grass. She can see the wolf, but it’s yet to noticed her, another howl echoing out as it cries out to the sky.

It’s beautiful and she’s all at once ashamed that it has to be put down. Matted white fur with a black nose and lips; it’s eyes are luminously silver, like moonlight. Red is mottled across it’s face, red frothing around it’s mouth, as well as a brighter crimson stroked across it’s brow and down it’s nose. Across it’s furred shoulder blade and spine are seven different tranquilizer darts that were shot at it, how has it not passed out? It doesn’t see her not right away, then it’s nostrils twitch and it’s lips pull back to snarl, red tinged drool dripping down it’s maw. Then it’s gaze is on her, growling and baring it’s teeth.

And then it pounces.

She puts up her cloth wrapped forearm, the force of it’s body hitting hers knocks her onto her back. It’s teeth snap into the fabric, as it tries to chew through her arm, the edges of fangs just grazing the flesh beneath. One large paw presses against her wrist, attempting to pin her limb down so it can rip the meat off her bones.

Dahlia pulls back the plunger on the syringe before slamming the needle into the thick of the wolves neck, sinking through fur and flesh before she pushes the chemical through. The wolf snarls through it’s bite on it, then she watches that shine in it’s silver eyes die. It’s mouth goes slack and then it’s body falls limp on top of her.

The deputy pushes the wolves dead weight off of her, getting up onto her feet, she touches the torn shirt wrapped around her forearm. Drool and blood has stained the green, small damage done to her skin under. It stings but nothing she can’t deal with; the idea of getting rabies shots worries her more. She crouches over the wolf and looks at it’s face, the red around it’s mouth is darker, rusted and clearly blood. But the brighter more purposeful crimson looks like paint.

She remembers the warnings she overheard in the Grill Steak before; someone warning conservationists about wolves owned by Eden’s Gate. Though, he called them a cult. It’s not for sure or a real connection; conspiracy theories and paint. But, who could have gotten close enough to paint the wolf’s face? Who would want to?

“Rookie,” Pratt’s voice crackles over her radio.

“Pratt…”

“Rook, if you’re not here in five minutes, I’m gonna kick your ass,” Hudson threatens in the background.

“Please, she’d probably like that.”

Dahlia’s face flushes at Pratt’s teasing, she can’t say he’s completely wrong, but that’s not the point. She hefts the wolf’s corpse up onto her shoulder, carrying it’s heavy weight, the head of the furry creature beside her head. It’s fur is soft and thick despite the matted nature. She’s not big on hunting culture, but the wolf would make a nice rug.

“I got the wolf,” she says into her radio, holding it in one hand while the other keeps the carcass steady on her shoulder as she carefully makes her way down the craggy rocks.

“What?”

“I got the wolf,” she repeats to Pratt’s flat question.

“What? Wh-where the fuck are you?.”

“I’m on a big ass like spirally mountain thing.”

“That tells us literally nothing,” Hudson informs her.

“Uhhhh,” Dahlia looks over the edge, of the elevated mountainside, “I think I see a helipad nearby?”

“Fuck, I know where you are, stay put. Okay, do not approach the wolf.”

“Uhhh, I think you misunderstood me.”

“What do you mean?” Pratt asks and she can just imagine his raised eyebrow.

“I mean, I got the wolf, I already put it down. We can call off the search, but, uh, I think we have bigger issues.”

“Did you get hurt again?”

“Hey,” she objects to his tone, “you make it sound like I’m always getting hurt.”

“You didn’t answer me.”

“No, I did not get…seriously hurt.”

“Oh lord,” Hudson grumbles in the background.

“Look, that’s not the issue, alright. Just get up here and let Whitehorse know what’s going on, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Dahlia finds a steady rock in the clearing to pull herself up onto as she waits, since apparently Hudson and Pratt have figured out where she is. She tries to look for anything else on the wolf that could indicate it being owned; but nothing. Dahlia does find herself wondering why it’s fur is white? Aren’t white wolves usually those in snowy climates, for camouflage?

She doubts she’ll receive any answers, so she tries to quiet her mind. The sun warms her skin where she sits on the rock, white wolf still up on her shoulder, ripped uniform shirt still wrapped around her forearm. It all forms an odd picture, she’s certain.

It’s less than an hour or so before she hears the rustle of footsteps; Hudson and Pratt along with the other officer walking up the way to her. Pratt just stops a second and shakes his head, Hudson is rolling her eyes.

“Hello,” Dahlia says with a soft wave.

“What the actual fuck, Rook?”

And she cracks up; unable to help but laugh at the absolute absurdity of the situation and Hudson’s flat response. She may have already hit the highlight of her career here.

“Stop laughing; it’s not funny, you could have gotten seriously hurt!” Pratt tries to scold her but he’s laughing through his words, the oddity of it all must be hitting him as well. Dahlia presses a hand to mouth to try and stifle her laughter as Hudson gets her radio out.

The senior deputy radios Whitehorse, letting him know they’ve gotten the wolf. He tells them where to meet him with the body, so the veterinarian and F.A.N.G Center workers can examine it. Dahlia will be reliant on actually listening and following obediently behind the older deputies.

“C’mon, Rookie, let go.”

“Alright.” Dahlia hops down from her rock and starts to follow after them down the mountain.

“You need help packing that?” Pratt offers, probably because the wolf is nearly the length of her entire body.

“Nah.”

“You just feel cool packing the wolf on your back, don’t you?” Hudson is the one to call her out, raising her eyebrow with a soft smirk on her lips, looking entirely too pretty.

“Uhhh….”

“God, you’re a dork.”

“I can’t really argue with that,” Dahlia admits with a red face and shrug of her shoulders, happy to see Pratt and Hudson smiling at her dorkiness.

“What happened with the hunter you were warning?” Pratt asks after a beat of silence as they keep walking, helping her over a craggy step with a hand on her hip to keep her steady as the weight of the wolf limits her movements.

“Uh, asshole just patronized me and left. I don’t know why I still talk to him, he’s always a dick,” she says, rolling her eyes when she thinks about Jacob calling her a pup. He likes to comment on her being a puppy a lot.

“Someone you knew?” Hudson asks, offering a hand to help Dahlia get over a large branch in the way of the path. The ease at which the two older deputies silently help her, makes a soft smile pull at Dahlia’s lips. Silently grateful for them as she answers their questions.

“Jacob Seed.”

“Seriously?’

“What?”

“You don’t find it a little fuckin’ weird how the Seeds are always around you?”

“I mean, they’re not around me anymore than anyone else.”

“They really fucking are; you went to the barbecue, John jumped at the chance to rope you into that.”

“Churches like new blood, it’s n-“

“You’ve apparently talked to Jacob more than once; I didn’t even know he could talk,” Hudson says rolling her eyes, “all he ever does at anyone outside the church is glare.”

“She’s talked to Faith a lot too, apparently.”

“I still don’t even know where she fucking came from.”

“I’m still not fully convinced she isn’t a ghost,” Pratt tells Hudson.

“She’s not a ghost,” Dahlia says with a roll of her eyes.

“And you would know, because they cling to you like leeches, right?”

“Shut up.”

“You know what I think it is,” Hudson says after a moment, “you put up with Joseph’s creepy ass speeches and they realized you’d put up with anything.”

“He’s not….that…creepy…” Dahlia says with zero conviction, because, well. He’s definitely off, but despite all the weird little red flags, he did help her and Cassie. So, he can’t be all bad. Even if his brother is taking people’s shit…and well…she still doesn’t know what the hell was up with the shaved head person.

“You can’t even say that with a straight face.”

“Look, we’ve had run ins with him before, he’s the weirdest creepiest person in this whole damn county and that is saying something,” Hudson shudders, “I’d take Zip lecturing me on being a government shill for nine hours over Joseph even looking at me for even a second.”

“His stare is weirdly intense…”

“All of them are weird; John’s skeevy, Jacob looks like he skins people alive in his spare time…Faith’s kinda cute, but at what cost,” Pratt tells her and eh, Faith’s not really her type. The Church Mouse is pretty, but a bit too delicate for the young deputy to really get those weird stomach feelings she gets around women like Hudson or Mary May.

“Really, I didn’t think you liked women who are taller than you?” Hudson asks.

“Faith is like barely taller than me,” Dahlia says with a snort, watching the pure look of offense on Pratt’s face, how could she be taller than Pratt?

“How short do you think I am, Joey?’

“What?” Hudson raises an eyebrow, confused by their confusion, “ heard she was like six foot something with black hair.”

“She’s like this tall,” Pratt puts his hand maybe two inches above Dahlia’s head, “and blonde.”

“Kinda blonde,” Dahlia corrects, thinking of the youngest Seed siblings dirty blonde hair that fades to a slightly light color at the ends. It toes the line between brown and blonde fairly well.

“Whatever.”

“Someone told me she was taller than John, I know they did, am I losing my mind?” Hudson tries to think for a moment; gears visibly turning behind her green eyes.

“Did you ever really have it?” Pratt taunts her.

“Keep it up, asshole, see what fuckin’ happens.”

The trio makes it down to where the sheriff asked, a parking place within the northern area of the county with little gas pumps but not much else. The F.A.N.G Center employees and the veterinarian with a stethoscope around his neck waiting for them as they make their way over. A worker with the center helps get the stiffening wolf off of Dahlia’s back, putting it into the back of a van so they can take it to be examined.

“Good work, Deputies,” Whitehorse congratulates them and Dahlia grins at the praise.

“To be completely fair,” Hudson interjects, “it was Rook who was able to get him.”

“Hey, we helped…move the body…” Pratt jokes, in their own ways they’re both ensuring Dahlia gets her due credit and she can’t help but smile.

“Well, outstanding work, Rookie.”

“Thanks, but uh, I’m kind worried about something.”

“What’s that?’ The sheriff asks, the attention of him, the veterinarian, and center workers all falling on Dahlia.

“The wolf has paint on it’s face, like a cross or something…which kinda makes me think someone owned it or…something?’

“Yeah, that’s definitely not all blood.” A worker looking over the wolf’s face in the van confirms.

“There’s nothing else on it, but we definitely will have to keep that in mind.”

“But, uh, what happens from here?” Dahlia asks.

“I’ll test to see if it’s rabid or if anything else might be the cause for the aggression,” the veterinarian, his name tag she finally catches says Dr. Charles Lindsay, “I’ll let the hospital know and if needed, the hiker will get treated for rabies.”

“Ah, uhh, is there any possible way you could let us know at the same time…well let me know…?”

“Why…?”

“I may have been slightly bit.”

“Slightly?” Pratt is the one to yell out, incredulous at Dahlia’s description of her injury.

“Just a little bit,” She brings two fingers close together in front of her for added effect.

“Jesus fuck, can you just not get hurt for like a week?”

“No, clearly not.”

“Pratt, take her out to the clinic,” Whitehorse says with a heavy sigh and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t need a doctor.”

“Yes, you do. Even if the bite ain’t too bad, you never know if it’s infected. Not only could the wolf be carrying something, but it had someone else’s blood in it’s mouth. This isn’t optional, Rookie, you’re going to the clinic and that’s an order.”

Dahlia can’t and won’t argue with the sheriff on that. Instead shrinking slightly at the realization that her own disregard for her own safety has gotten her scolded despite her accomplishment. She doesn’t think about risks to herself; she needed the wolf put down to save others and if the worst case scenario is her own well-being being sacrificed, that’s worth it to help others, isn’t it?

“C’mon, Wolf-Bait lets get going,” Pratt says, giving her a light smack on the shoulder to follow him.

“I’m coming, asshole.”

She follows behind Pratt, back to the cruiser where they parked at the beginning of this day. The sun has long since set, the moon now bright and high in the sky as she climbs into the passenger side seat. Unable to stop herself from pouting slightly that she’s being forced to go to the clinic again. Even if she understands why.

“Hey,” Pratt gets her attention as he starts up the cruiser engine, “if it makes you feel any better. I’ll be happy to put you out of your misery if it turns out to be a werewolf.”

“Fuck you!” She yells out through a laugh; his dumb joke bringing a smile back to her face as they go off to the clinic.

She’s at the clinic late that night, her injury doesn’t need stitches just some bandaging, some bloodwork and tests done to account for anything that could be wrong. Then she’s sent home with antibiotics; the entire time Pratt making jokes about werewolves and silver bullets like a nerd. All that’s left is crashing for the night and eventually hearing if she has rabies.

Dahlia sleeps easily that night; thanks to her adrenaline crashing down. She sleeps in the night morning, Saturday never being such a blissful treat for her as she manages to not wake up until around noon.

The young deputy takes her time when she gets up, eating cereal and grabbing a shower. Faith mentioned her being able to see Cassie at the convent this weekend spending a day together, so that’s her plan on top of doing the rounds on roping folks into the Apple Festival.

The Convent isn’t far from the trailer park, two buildings seated before the edge of a cliff with craggy staggered mountain range covered in trees beside it. So many mountains and cliffs within the county. The larger of the buildings has dark roofing, a smaller white church with white latticing canopies between them. Like the material used to construct a gazebo and fields upon fields of the white moonflowers.

Before Dahlia can step too far onto the property, a woman with long baby blonde hair with flower tattoos spiraling up her arms and the sin of GREED across her chest runs up to stop her.

“Hello, is there something I can help you with?”

“Yeah, I was here to see Cassie.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, but our sister Cassandra is busy today.”

“Sister?” Dahlia asks, blood running cold for a moment. She can’t seriously mean…Cassie wasn’t interested in joining, she just needed shelter.

“Well yes, she’s opened her heart to the Father, a child of Eden’s Gate now.”

“Interesting…” Dahlia clenches her jaw, “Faith said that I could come see her today.”

“Well, I’m afraid that’s not possible, she’s been busy with finding salvation. She’s with herald John, giving her confession, she can’t possibly be bothered right now.”

“I-”

“Deputy~!” Faith’s sing song voice rings out and Dahlia can’t help but still feel angry, they were supposed to help Cassie, not convert her. The youngest Seed sibling rushes over, nearly floating with the ethereal energy only she can manage. Her white floral dress of the day has a halter neckline and flowers are woven into her braided hair.

“Faith…”

“I’m so sorry; I heard, I know you were excited to spend time with me and Cassie today, but I’m afraid things just became too busy with her deciding to join us here.”

“Yeah…what the fuck?”

“Excuse me?” Faith says, her pretty little smile fading for a moment.

“Cassie needed shelter, not Jesus, so I reiterate…what the fuck?” Dahlia gestures wildly, anger tinging her words. Her blood pressure rising and heat crawling up under her skin like pins and needles.

“Cassie is an adult, she made a choice to join us. Surely, you can’t deny her that freedom, deputy?” Faith’s face pulls into a pout, making Dahlia feel unreasonable all at once, but Cassie was never interested in the religion aspect.

“Yes, she’s an adult, but she was vulnerable, and I don’t think leaping into a religion when you’re in a shitty place is the best move. I-I wanna talk to her myself.”

“Well, I’m afraid that can’t happen, not today. But, maybe next weekend or you could write a letter of course.”

“She still hasn’t responded to my last letter…”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Faith puts a hand on Dahlia’s shoulder, meant to be comforting but the deputy flinches away, “as I said, it’s been impossibly busy, she’s been studying our beliefs and methods of joining. It’s a long process at times, very time consuming, but I assure you…Cassie opening her heart to the Father doesn’t mean it’s been closed to you.”

“Yeah, sure, just too busy.”

“Well, you’ve certainly been busy too, haven’t you?” She tilts her head delicately to the side, still smiling.

“I have?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow.

“Mmm hmm, John’s already learned of you helping put together an apple festival.”

“Oh, yeah, Debbie and Doug wanna save that place so why not, I figure.”

“Yes, we’ve been hearing all about it, John’s not exactly thrilled.”

“Nothing personal to it…”

“I figured, I’m not upset, I promise,” Faith offers a soft smile, “the orchard will end up in the rightful hands no matter what. John just worries a lot about getting land for our church, after all we’re growing by the day and need space for our people.”

“And Debbie and Doug worry a lot about keeping their livelihood, ya know?”

“Like, I said, I have no ill will over it, I’m just interested to see you’re so full of surprises.”

“I am?”

“Mmm hmm,” she giggles, but offers no more information, like she knows a secret that Dahlia doesn’t. But before Dahlia can ask another question, a sight among the convent makes her breath catch in her throat.

Shaved head men and women; tending to fields of those flowers, masks across their face. So, they’re definitely with Eden’s Gate as if she really had to question. They work silently, tending to the fields of moonflowers in their white sweaters.

“Who are they?” Dahlia asks, giving Faith a pointed look. The girl’s eyes move back and forth from the deputy to the workers.

“Oh, those are our angels,” she answers, grinning, “they’re high ranking members of our church, so devoted to The Father they’ve taken vows of silence and dedicate their lives to helping The Project. Amazing, aren’t they?”

“Vows of silence, huh?” Dahlia says, more to herself than Faith. Then why did they mumble lyrics and scream out…why would they attack Dahlia? Is Faith lying to her, she’s got to be, right?

“You know, deputy, if you’re so interested in The Project, The Father would still happily let you join our family.”

“Hmmm, I’m sure, didn’t realize there was a huge process to it though…” Dahlia comments, hoping Faith will elaborate, what the hell kind of hoops did Cassie jump through? Confession, is all she really knows.

“Well, “ Faith grabs both of Dahlia’s hands in her own, smiling, “we ask for our new family members to prove they see the truth of our faith, to prove their dedication, rid themselves of their sins and make sacrifices in order to truly cut their ties with sin.”

“That’s-“

“Faith, there’s a call from the conservatory!” Someone calls out and Dahlia’s words die on her lips; the notion that Faith’s description is vague and generally unhelpful.

“I’ll be right there, see you later deputy, hopefully we can meet with Cassie next weekend.” Faith waves her goodbye and then leaves.

Stray straightens her jacket before leaving the convent, a flood of unanswered questions and doubts in her mind. Everyday something new worries her about Eden’s Gate. If Faith’s lying…that’s fucking bullshit. She doesn’t want to imagine that Faith would lie to her face like that. But, why would their oh so special angels, even the name makes her roll her eyes, be screaming and murmuring despite vows of silences? Why would they attack her?

The rest of her Saturday is spent speaking to people about the Apple Festival, roping Chad from the Grill Steak into it. At least, she believes she did, she’s not completely sure of anything he says. His dialect unintelligible, so she just upped her cajun dialect until she barely knew what she was saying either. Its good busy work, getting places to hang up advertisements, though her heart and mind are somewhere else the entire time. She’s thankful that most people are just genuinely invested in helping; because she certainly isn’t getting by on her charisma.

Her night is spent with trying to distract herself, but thoughts always coming back to the weirdness of Eden’s Gate, to her doubts. Wondering what exactly led to Cassie’s conversion… She’s being silly, she tells herself time and time again, but something just doesn’t feel right lately. Maybe she’s overeating; seeing connections and red flags where none exists. But, the case remains that no tv, manga, music, or drawing can distract her that night.

There’s still a slight cloud looming over Dahlia when she arrives at the orchard Sunday, ready to taste Debbie’s baked apple goods. The sun is high in sky and the smell of apples lifts her mood slightly; but she finds herself still distracted as she parks her bike.

“Deputy!” Debbie greets her and Dahlia gives the warmest smile she can muster. The older woman’s smile helping lift some of that cloud.

“Hey.”

“Staci’s already here, c’mon, we’ll sit in the market stall,” Debbie gushes bring Dahlia over to the picnic tables that are under the covering; where they first talked about the festival.

Pratt is already there; the smell of baked sugar and apples hits Dahlia’s nose before she even sees the array of food Debbie’s put out. Apple pie, apple dumplings, apple scones, and she’s sure that’s just the beginning.

“Hey dumbass,” Pratt greets her around a mouthful of apple pie as she sits down next to him.

“You couldn’t wait like five minutes?”

“Nope.”

“Ass.”

The deputy’s feedback is predominantly noises of happiness; neither really food critics but happy to be shoving it in their mouths. The gloomy cloud is starting to lift by the time they’ve finished off a pie; cinnamon, sugar, and apples warm on her tongue. Apple dumplings settle warm in her stomach and she forgets why she was ever upset. The scones are munched down next; cream sticking to her fingers and lips as she eats.

“God you’re a mess,” Pratt taunts and she sputters a laugh when she turns to face him.

“You have food in your beard, asshole.”

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath and starts wiping at his face.

The stuff their faces for a long while longer; strudel, apple cake, apple cobbler, candy apples, and fritters. Pratt leans back from the table, pressing a hand to his face after a while.

“You alright?” Dahlia asks, raising her eyebrow.

“Debbie is gonna have to roll me out of here at this rate; are you not fuckin’ full yet?”

“…No…” She pauses, before shoving more cobbler and whip cream in her mouth. Debbie and Dough are off rushing to get more goodies.

“Jesus fuck, Rook.”

“You’re just a baby.”

“Shut up,” he leans back away from the table and runs a hand back into his hair, “hey, Rook?”

“Hmm?”

“You ever gonna shoot your shot with Joey?”

“What?!” She chokes on her food, just barely stopping it from flying out of her mouth, where the actual fuck did that come from?

“Your little crush on her, you ever gonna do something about it?”

“Like what?”

“Ask her out, you know, like people do.”

“Yeah…why the fuck would I do that?” She cannot grasp his logic here.

“I don’t know how to explain to you that when people have crushes; they ask the person out.”

“I don’t know how to explain to you that that would be really fucking stupid.”

“Why?”

“Because I already know the answer, there’s no way she’d say yes, and frankly if she did I’d be concerned.”

“Concerned?”

“Yeah, who in their right fuckin’ mind would say yes to me?!”

“So, you wanna act weird around her forever and never deal with it?”

“That was the plan.”

“I’m just saying the sooner you rip the band-aid off, the quicker you can act like a normal person around her.”

Dahlia sighs, she doesn’t want to act like a freak around Hudson for the rest of her life or for her little crush or whatever to get the way of life. Pratt knows more about this crap than her, because everyone does. So, if he’s saying this would help, maybe it would? But, her brain still is struggling.

“But I already know she’s gonna say no, you know she’s gonna say no, literally anyone with a functioning braincell knows she’d say no. So, why would hearing her say no make a difference?”

“Its like closure and shit; I think it’d help.”

“Ugh, just sounds like an excuse to make an idiot out of myself.”

“Compared to the genius you usually are?”

“Fuck off.”

She swallows down a mouthful of strudel before the conversation can continue, but Pratt’s words stick with her. It’s not as if she needed any more on her mind, but she got it anyway. The two continue taste testing for Debbie, though the subject of Hudson never comes up. She’s not sure why Pratt is suddenly so keen on helping her work through her little crush, a friendly gesture, she figures. Maybe her life would be a little easier if she could stop turning into a red-faced mess around the oldest deputy.

It’s late when they finally finish tasting everything; Dahlia giving friendly goodbyes to Pratt and the couple before she goes back home. Her weekend coming to a close with her falling asleep with a stomach full of baked apples.

She’s woken up to her phone ringing; instead of her alarm. Dahlia already knows well that despite shift hours, the nature of their work and the higher level of being deputy means that being called out at odd hours is expected. But her blood runs cold when she sees sheriff Whitehorse is the one calling, something is wrong.

“Sheriff?” She answers, sitting up on the couch.

“Rook; I already called Pratt and Hudson, I want you all at the clinic now! It’s an emergency!”

And that’s all she gets before the call ends. She throws on a uniform and runs out the door, jumping on her motorcycle. Mind racing with each passing second. The hurried and frantic tone in Whitehorse’s voice flaring anxiety inside of her. A million possibilities shooting through her mind as she rides towards the clinic; is it about the wolf? Has there been a murder? Is someone she knows hurt? Could it be an officer?

She’s practically tripping over herself as she climbs off her bike, running into the clinic. The staff is a mess, nurses rushing frantically to attend to someone. Words of transferring, stabilizing, blood transfusion. Something is wrong. Each word swims around her head, but she doesn’t know who they’re talking about. Then she sees Whitehorse, Hudson, and Pratt at the front desk. The three living closer than her.

“What’s wrong?” Dahlia asks running over; all three’s expressions are tense. Pratt shaking his leg, Hudson digging her nails into her arms until her knuckles turn white, and Whitehorse looking a moment away from collapsing.

“It’s Pastor Jerome,” Whitehorse tells her, “someone attacked him.”

“Left for fucking dead,” Hudson interjects, a crack in her voice that Dahlia’s never heard before.

“They’re trying to stabilize him long enough to transfer him to a hospital in Missoula. We need to make sure it stays secure, no telling if whoever did this won’t try to do something again, and we need to be there to ask questions once he’s out of the woods. I don’t want this slipping through the cracks, Jerome’s a good man and he damn well deserves our best effort.”

“Got it,” Dahlia nods in agreement to the sheriffs words.

Images of the man in the priest collar coming to mind. She’s seen him in passing, never a conversation between the two. But she saw him speak with Whitehorse; Pratt implied that both him and Hudson went to Jerome’s church as kids. He means something to them all and that’s clear in just how serious it’s being taken; obvious in how shaken up they all seem to be.

She stands next to Pratt, squeezing his shoulder in an attempt to comfort, wishing she could offer more. He tries to give her a small smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, too worried about the pastor.

Why would anyone attack him? His church is modest, nearly dying out from everything she’s been told, it wouldn’t make sense to rob him. Hope County has some less than accepting residents; but the idea of a potential hate crime is a hard pill to swallow…

All Dahlia can do is wait with her coworkers, listening to the frantic yells of nurses struggling to save a man’s life. Heart in her throat, anxiety telling her that any second this will become a murder investigation as she watches the hands on a clock ticking away…

#far cry 5 #fc5 #jacob seed #staci pratt #faith seed #uhhh they're the most prevalent this chapter

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