#and hiss and spit at mean when I bellow out in pain? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

of-birds-and-men · 4 years ago

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Kass gave Link a warm smile, the early morning sun dipping him in honey and making his smile glow even more. “Well, this is quite out of the blue. Not even a ‘hello?’ Much less a ‘please?’”

Link’s lips snapped into a flustered frown. “I’m sorry,” he frantically signed. “Please, could you teach me?”

After throwing his head back to bellow a laugh, Kass chuckled, “I am only messing with you, my friend. Do not worry.” He patted the spot next to him on the landing where he sat, signaling Link to sit by him. “I’m curious about what song you want to play. Which is it?”

Accepting the invitation to sit next to Kass, Link kept his head down as he shuffled over. His eyes flicked around and his cheeks started to redden the slightest bit. Why the answer embarrassed him so much, he wasn’t so sure, but it was hard to get his reply out.

“Ah,” Kass said with his smile still prominent on his beak as he set his accordion down next to him. “Do you mean to learn the other Champions’ songs as well?”

Link breathed in through his teeth and shrugged. “Maybe. But I want to learn Revali’s right now if I can...”

Kass looked down at him with raised eyebrows, as if gently urging him to elaborate.

With that, Link rubbed the back of his neck and shrugged again. “Well...I don’t know. I had some memories come to me, but they’re foggy and I can barely understand them. But, something is telling me today is Revali’s…” His hand dropped and his brow furrowed in thought. He knew the sign for the Hylian term but didn’t know it for the Rito if there even was one for it. Opting to fingerspell, Link spelled it out with his fingers as Kass read it closely.

When he was finished, Kass’s beak hung open a little in interest. “Oh, so today is Champion Revali’s Hatchday? I had no idea.”

“Yeah, I…”

“...I think so.”

“You mean to play his song in his memory today?”

Link’s cheeks burned brighter. “Is that stupid?”

“Oh, no. Not in the slightest,” Kass assured, waving his hand. “In fact, I think it’s a lovely idea.”

“...Thanks. I don’t know what else I would do anyway. If there was something, I don’t remember it,” Link said, his hands moving slowly. His mind drifted; not that there was anywhere for it to go after his century-long sleep practically wiped it clean.

He brought himself back to where he was with a sigh. “I don’t know. I would do something or leave him a gift, but I remember next to nothing about him. I don’t remember what he liked or even what he hated. Nothing...”

It was true. There were only a couple of clear memories of Revali that Link remembered now. Only a few moments where Link could see his face and hear his voice clearly. And then there were even more blurry, foggy images of him that were slowly trickling in and left Link with more questions than answers. Leaving him feeling like there was so much more that he was missing. Almost like he was missing an important part of himself; of what his life had been before Calamity Ganon struck.

Really, it was the same thing with everyone; with Zelda, Mipha, Urbosa, and Daruk. Brief memories, some clear and some so hazy they were beyond recognition.

But with Revali, it was somehow different. It hurt more. It was severely more painful. It made both his heart and head ache. And he had no idea why it was the case for Revali out of all of them. Why the one who seemed to like him the least, or even hated him, made Link feel this longing...No, this need...to remember and know him like he used to. However it had been.

Still, even though his mind was riddled by all sorts of questions he couldn’t answer after forgetting everything but his own name…

Something within him couldn’t quite let itself completely forget.

“But I know that I have to do something for him and this is all I can think of,” Link finished, taking his time with every hand motion as he stared down at the lake below them; the surface of the water was almost black with the light of the morning sun not having reached it yet.

Noticing the gloom that was beginning to dawn on Link again, Kass leaned over and spoke up in a chipper voice. “It is more than a generous gift. Do not sell yourself short. I’m sure that if he is still there to listen, he will be grateful.”

Link forced a small smile to give to Kass. “Thank you. I hope you’re right.”

Kass let the corners of his beak curl all the way up to try and settle whatever troubles he thought Link had. “I must say though, I did not take you for the musical type,” he began. “What does a man like you play?”

Letting out a short hum, Link fumbled around in the small bag on his belt to show the instrument in question. Once he fished it out, he held it out for Kass to see.

It was an ocarina he had come across in his travels. His curiosity had driven him to buy it with the extra rupees he had on hand when he saw it amongst Beedle’s wares. Though, it wasn’t until he actually held it and felt the cool ceramic touch on his skin and the shape in his hands, did he realize it was not so much curiosity as it was familiarity. Or something close to it.

And again, it was proven to Link that while his head was clear of what made him himself in the past, there were many things that his body seemed to remember. Muscle memory helped him ride horses like a pro straight away, and instinct along with that allowed him to fight the way he had before without needing to relearn much of anything. It was the same sort of thing for the ocarina; as soon as he brought the mouthpiece to his lips, his fingers knew exactly where to go to play notes he didn’t remember and songs he couldn’t recall. It all came to him naturally as if playing it was once something that was ingrained in him. And he found himself occasionally fiddling with it until now. Too busy to really sit down and learn anything new, but playing what his lips and fingers remembered when he had a moment to himself.

If Link couldn’t leave Revali a proper gift on his Hatchday, then at least he could play his song, one of the last things the world had left to remember him by. Whether it was for Revali himself, if he was still there, or if it was in his memory on his day.

Or, even if it was just for Link; a way to remember Revali with what little he had left.

Hopefully, it would be enough. But it definitely didn’t feel like it, even if it was all he could really do.

“An ocarina certainly does suit you,” Kass said, looking at the instrument in Link’s hands before peering at him and pointing at it. “Ah, may I?”

Link nodded, allowing Kass to take the ocarina in his hands and examine it himself.

“Can you play it, too?” Link asked.

Tittering, Kass replied, “Well, Rito aren’t exactly equipped to play wind instruments, considering our anatomy.” He tapped his beak. “Though, I think once I found a way around it to make it work with this blasted thing on my face. Would you mind if I tried?”

Link’s lips tightly creased together to keep him from smirking as he shook his head and motioned toward the ocarina. He watched as Kass brought it to his beak, which clacked against the ceramic as he tried to find the best position.

Kass’ feathers ruffled; clearly, he was flustered, but he tried his best to get past it by laughing it off. “Well, this is certainly humbling. This proves that no matter how esteemed of a bard I may be, I simply cannot master everything...What with my pesky beak and less than graceful fingers.” He rubbed the mouthpiece of the ocarina on his scarf before handing it back to Link.

With how much spit he saw flying from Kass when he was trying the ocarina, Link decided to rub it again on his clothes for good measure.

Kass let out another embarrassed chuckle and twisted around to grab his accordion. “I might not be able to give you direction, but I can teach you the notes.”

Link nodded. “That works,” he said, his last words before readying his hands to focus on his ocarina rather than on speaking.

Smiling while he slid his hands through his instrument’s straps, Kass said, “Well, let’s begin then.”

Link opened his mouth to say something, finding himself gaping at Vah Medoh, but clamped it shut again. He attached the ocarina to his belt for a moment to speak with his hands.

Whether he was really alone or if there was still someone there to see him, he was not sure at all. After the defeat of Ganon, he was never sure what happened to Revali or the others.

Even so...he had the feeling he wasn’t quite alone.

But maybe that was just him being hopeful. Hopeful that he wasn’t just making a fool of himself. Grasping at straws for nothing.

“Hi.” Instantly, he cringed at himself and hissed through his teeth. Now he really felt stupid. Nonetheless, he made himself go on. “I’m not sure if you’re even here right now or if I’m talking to myself. But, either way-“ Link took a second to swallow and fix his eyes back down to the ground beneath him. “I wish I could say I remember you. There are only little things I remember, but something is telling me there’s so much more to you...to us...that I’m still missing.”

Link licked his lips. He hoped that he was, in fact, alone, so Revali wouldn’t be seeing him rambling on to himself.

“But I know that we were close somehow. I feel that, once, you were the most important thing to me, but that’s all I know. I’m sorry.” He bit his lip that was still wet from when he licked them. “That’s why when I remembered it was your birthday-“ Link froze, then corrected, “Sorry, hatchday...I knew I had to do something for you, because, in a way, you still matter to me now as much as you did before. But you’re still a mystery to me; I know nothing about you further than you being a Champion and being the pride of your people.” He laughed a little to himself. “And that you didn’t like me at all. At first, at least. I’m not sure.”

Finally, he racked up the courage to look back up at Vah Medoh. “I do know your song though, which I’m sure you’d like to know is played by bards to keep your memory alive. I’m not one of those at all, but I can just barely remember how to play this thing and Kass taught me how to play your song. One of the things of yours that’s still here- Even if these are all the memories I can ever have of you, at least I can have this. And your bow, too.”

Nervously, he started to chuckle to himself. “I don’t know what I’m saying. Maybe I never should’ve said anything. Anyway, the point is...I know it’s a crummy present and I don’t know if you’re even still here to listen, but I learned how to play your song for you.”

Done with his monologue, Link anxiously took the ocarina off of his belt. For a moment, he stared at it and focused on the cool touch of it in his hand before slowly bringing it up to his mouth. He took in a deep breath while his fingers went to their places and he played what he learned for Revali.

Dormant, Vah Medoh said nothing in reply, leaving Revali alone to revel in both Link’s appearance and song. That was fine. He honestly hadn’t expected her to reply anyway.

Even when he couldn’t even remember him, Link was still annoyingly sentimental. It brought bittersweet comfort that, even with everything that had happened, it was still the same Link before him. His Link.

He had the same golden hair he used to run his fingers through. The same lustrous, sapphire eyes he used to stare into. The same quiet laugh that warmed Revali’s heart. The same strength that Revali both envied and once fell in love with. The same kindness. The same courage. The same everything. Every little thing Revali loved and even hated about him was still there, down below, playing a song for someone he didn’t even know anymore.

Still, it hurt knowing Link didn’t know him. Seeing no recollection on his face when Link first came to Vah Medoh...Seeing Link looking at him as if he was a stranger…

Well, it nearly broke his heart. To be eventually forgotten by his people was worse enough, but then to have the one he loved come back to him only to forget him, too…

Revali sniffed, resting his hand under his chin to watch Link far down below.

Link was right. This was a crummy present. His finger clumsily fumbled around and he kept blowing into the ocarina’s mouthpiece too hard or too soft. Even from here, he could see his spit flying. Funny how, even over a hundred years later, he never did get better with that thing.

He really was still his Link. Just how he remembered him. Just how he loved him. How he would, unfortunately, always love him. Even if it meant being unrequited for the rest of time.

~~~

GASPS OUT OF BREATH,,,,,, WOW OKAY,, umm LOL here is le @revalinkexchange gift for @mars-janka ??? I. hm. certainly took some liberties and for some reason with my srs lack of expertise ..I was like “HEY I KNOW HOW TO MAKE THIS INFINITELY HARDER ON MYSELF!!! WRITE AND ALSO DRAW A BILLION PICTURES WHICH IS SOMETHING I BARELY KNOW HOW 2 DO.”

//sobs// i was so drained of my life juices by the end that the quality DROPPED and im genuinely so sorry pls forgive me wwwwwwwwwwww- i even redrew the last link panels to try and make it better if u can believe it LOL i also was considering making a prose only version of this to make up for it but i honestly don’t know how to translate some bits to that...SO- ah

anyway...yaaaaaaaahhh happy valentine’s day!! hope u still like it despite my clear depletion of life juices dskjghkjag

also teehee ty @udog for helping me w vah medoh u smell

#i also was planning on posting it on ao3 but.#but frankly posting it here with the images was a fucking NIGHTMARE as it is so im. not... exactly interested in doing that anymore LOL #it's fucking 6:30 am im going to SLEEP so i can have enough energy to draw teba in a maid outfit as my own present to myself. HAHA #dont ask me when i'll return to our regularly scheduled programming i kind of never want to take drawing seriously ever again ASHGKASDGKJDHG #revalink #revali #botw #revalinkexchange #revalink exchange #?#bweh #botw revali

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primasveraas-writing · 3 years ago

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"the holy or the broken" -Ted Lasso

I'm so sorry.

WORD COUNT: 2401

XXX

There are three eras in Roy’s life, and they’re all defined by the same woman.

The third echoes the first: Roy Kent, angry at the world with no one to pull him out of his frustration. It’s also worse, though, because before, Roy lived in blissful ignorance of the joy and sorrow that laid ahead.

Rebecca and Ted express their surprise at Roy’s anger. They thought him changed, or perhaps that grief would prevail over rage, and they were wrong. Because Roy Kent, when stripped of everything he is -his athleticism and grim humor and the love of his life- has anger. Nothing less and nothing more.

At first, he can’t say her name. He doesn’t even think it, because every reminder of her is a reminder that she’s gone. Despite her mark on everything- the furniture they picked out together, the bed they shared, her usual seat at the dining table, the compliments she gave his hair and clothes- Roy doesn’t think of her. Which means he doesn’t think at all, so he becomes his anger and his pain, and nothing else.

He stops coaching, obviously. Nobody asks him if he’ll keep going, nor does he announce his departure. His absence, professionally, personally, emotionally- is expected fully. Though people still coming to the fucking house. He tolerates her parents, and Phoebe once or twice, but eventually the visits dwindle, and Roy doesn’t check his phone or answer the door. There’s shouting, sometimes- inevitably Ted Lasso- but Roy has soundproof headphones for a reason and he’s perfectly fine with calling the cops on Ted. And he does, more than once.

His sister begs him to talk to her, or at least to Phoebe, and Roy, in all his anger, doesn’t have the heart to turn his niece away. So it’s just her and Roy, a few days a week, and they order food directly to the house and Phoebe tells him about school, and he grunts in acknowledgment. She cries sometimes too, and that’s when he holds her. No words are exchanged, but he comforts her, enough so that the sobs stop. The numb feeling he has remains intact.

The yoga moms scout his address, somehow, and drop off a wine basket- they drink in relative silence, and clean up his house and make a few casseroles. He picks at the food, but they slowly disappear, and it’s almost nice to eat more than once or twice a day.

It doesn’t get easier. People tell him it will, that the pain will start to lessen, but it doesn’t. Not three weeks after, or four, or five, or when summer emerges and the lilies bloom.

Roy’s not particularly good at adapting. He never wanted to be. And it’s bullshit that he’d have to start now, for some shit fucking luck and life-alerting occurrences he never saw coming.

Because he never expected that there would be an “after” regarding Keeley Jones. It’s not something he planned for and certainly not something he ever wanted. It’s just: one breath she’s there and the next, she’s not. Gone and the house empty, her office too, and suddenly every space at Richmond is filled with flowers because Roy doesn’t accept a single bouquet.

He does start to say her name, although only to his sister- the only adult he talks to. He spits it out, with venom, and he suspects that it’s this habit that prompts Rebecca to show up at his house.

She sneaks her way in, the stubborn shit. Apparently, she hid down the street until he ordered food, bribed the deliverer with an obscene amount of money, and rang his doorbell herself. Rebecca slips into the entry before Roy realizes it’s her, and slams the door behind her.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He hisses, and to her credit, Rebecca doesn’t flinch. She gives her best businesswoman smile, the one that so directly contradicts the flint in her eyes, and straightens.

“Someone informed me that you made developments in your grief-

“Fuck you-”

“-so I thought a visit was due.”

“Get the fuck out of my house.”

“Somebody told me once that I was always welcome in her home. Has that changed?”

“Yeah. She’s fucking dead.”

Rebecca does bristle at that one but she doesn’t challenge the statement. Instead, she clears her throat, setting Roy’s food down on the table in the foyer.

“Your sister told me how quiet you’ve been. And that any time you talk about Keeley, you do so with an incredible amount of anger.”

Roy doesn’t deign to respond, glowering at Rebecca instead. She takes a look around the room, in all its dusty glory. Lights off, trash piling on the floor, clothes strewn over backs of couches. It matches Roy, in terms of appearance. Unkept. Uncared for. Unloved.

“I’m calling the police,” Roy decides, scanning the room for his phone. “You can’t fucking impersonate a food deliverer. Or fucking be here when I don’t want you to be.”

“I paid him handsomely-”

“-illegal. And fireable.”

“-enough so that his salary for the next few months should be covered.”

“Get out.”

“I can’t do that.”

“I don’t give a damn about what you’re here to fucking do or say. Leave me the fuck alone.”

“And leave you to stew in your anger and your filth? I don’t think so.”

And Rebecca struts into his living room and seats herself on a sofa.

“Dr. Sharon proposed to me that your anger had legitimate grounds. Not just your usual brooding about playing and coaching a game for a living, but you know,” Rebecca gestures to Roy. “Real reasons to be so surly.”

“My fucking wife died.”

“Yes, well. My best friend died yet I’ve been outside over the past few months.” She gives Roy another placid smile. “Despite the fact that I’m mourning.”

“It’s different.”

“Undoubtedly, yes. You’ve been much unhealthier in your habits.”

“Fuck you,” Roy growls. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

“No.” Keeley would refer to that as Rebecca’s scariest tone. “I came to talk.”

“I don’t care.” His hands clench into fists.

“You’re angry at Keeley.”

“I’m fucking pissed at you and your fucking break-in habits. Did you fucking compare notes with fucking Lasso?”

“You need someplace to direct your anger, and since fate dealt you both such a terrible hand, the only thing you can think to do is blame Keeley.”

“That makes as much fucking sense as you impersonating a takeaway driver. Fuck you.”

“So you go from not being able to say her name to saying it like a curse because you’re much more comfortable with your anger than sorrow.”

“I can say Keeley’s name.”

“Can you say it without sounding like the angriest person on the entire planet, Roy?”

“Fuck off.”

“Well?” Rebecca stands. In heels, she towers over Roy, who glares right back at her. “Show me you can, Roy.”

“I don’t have to prove shit to you.”

“No. But I asked you to.”

“I’m not fucking angry at my dead fucking wife.”

‘You’re angry at someone.”

“Yeah. You.”

“Come on now, Roy. Do better.”

“I’m NOT fucking angry at Keeley!”

Rebecca raises an eyebrow. “Clearly.”

“Fuck you.” Roy paces before her, ignoring how every step makes his knee throb. “Fuck you, fuck off. Fuck you.”

“Are you even sad?” Rebecca says quietly, and Roy freezes, his muscles clenching painfully.

“Ask me again,” he dares, his tone low. He takes a step closer to Rebecca, who remains unfazed.

“I said: are you sad your wife died in your arms, Roy?”

“Fuck you!” Roy bellows. He spins away to upturn the coffee table, sending dishes crashing to the floor.

“Do you miss her? Do you wish she hadn’t died?”

“I’ll fucking kill you.”

“So I’ll see Keeley again. How lovely.”

Roy roars, using the full force of his body to punch a hole in the wall. His fist comes out covered in plaster, bright red blood leaking from his knuckles dusted white.

“She fucking died in a freak fucking accident. There’s nothing- nothing- she could have done differently.”

“But she left you.”

“She fucking- she-” Roy’s chest heaves as he looks wildly around the room, at anything but the woman in front of him. “She was supposed to get her fucking nails done. We were going to get Thai for dinner. We had a sexy fucking weekend planned, and she was going to come home and it all would have been fucking fine.”

“And now she’s gone.”

“We can’t do any of that shit. Can’t fucking fall asleep next to her ever again. Or hold her fucking hand. We had fucking plans-” His words catch in his throat, and he looks away, examining the new damage to the wall. “We had plans.”

“Roy-”

“Don’t.” He closes his eyes. “You riled me up. Is that what you fucking wanted?”

“Yes,” Rebecca admits, and she retakes her seat on the couch, disregarding the surrounding wreckage. “Since the one person you want to talk to is gone, I figured I’d substitute.”

Roy glances around the house, at the forgotten groceries by the entrance, at the overturned table, and at the destroyed wall. “Good fucking job.”

“Thanks,” Rebecca says swiftly. “I figured I’d be better at it than Ted.”

“I’d have fucking killed him.”

“I thought so.” Rebecca sighs, massaging her temple. For the first time since her arrival, her bravado fades and her shoulders slump. It’s a familiar sight, one Roy witnessed the last time he saw Rebecca- at Keeley’s funeral, where all traces of the usually confident woman had faded away, and a grieving shell stood in her place. “Is that it, then? All the anger is for what’s never to be?”

“Yeah. That’s it.”

“And this is the first time you’re realizing it?”

Roy’s eyes narrow. “Yeah, it is.”

Rebecca shrugs. “Okay.”

Silence prevails for a long while, then Roy sighs and takes a seat next to Rebecca.

“You know, my office has quite literally never been quieter. Even with Ted bursting in at all hours, it’s just… not the same. I started to get frustrated at Higgins trying to coordinate with me simply because he’s not the person I want to see. And then I woke up angry, too. Absolutely pissed at the sun just for rising. Because every day that I experience is one I should be sharing with her.”

She looks down at her hands, which tremble slightly. “It’s not fair. And I have nowhere to put all my anger and blame.”

Roy wordlessly gestures to the wall, and Rebecca gives a soft laugh.

“There’s one option.” Then, she swipes at her eyes, and sniffs.

“Keeley would have never forgiven any of us if we gave up on you, Roy.”

“I know.” He clears his throat. “She told me as much. About me.” He rolls his eyes, then blinks rapidly. “I’m not supposed to give up on myself.”

“Good job,” Rebecca retorts, and Roy growls, but Rebecca gives another breathy laugh. “You didn’t call the police on me. I’d say that’s a good sign.”

“Don’t let it go to your fucking head.”

“No. Of course not.”

“Thank you,” Roy says very, very quietly. Rebecca takes his hand and squeezes it briefly. Her palm comes away coated in dust and blood.

“Clean up, Roy,” she tells him, standing. “I’ll be seeing you soon.”

Rebecca leaves, but she sends over a team of cleaners and a fresh batch of groceries. For the first time since Keeley died, his fridge is fully stocked with food for him to make into meals, and the house is spotless. He sends a text to his sister, telling her to fuck off in a way she’ll know means thank you, and showers. He trims his beard and dries himself off with a freshly laundered towel, then he falls asleep ass naked on the bed and sleeps for twelve hours.

He goes to see Phoebe and the rest of his family. They catch him up on all the petty bullshit he doesn’t give a fuck about, and it’s nearly normal, except that he drives home alone to an empty house.

He goes back to yoga, and every stretch feels like he’s never done a downward dog before in his life. Still, the wine after is good, and he ends up going home with a spare bottle and another casserole, and so another part of his life resumes.

It’s a slow process. Richmond is a hard place to face, with Ted trying to be casual as he checks in on him, and the boys stepping around him like glass, and Jaime Tartt in tears when he first catches sight of Roy. Her office, the lack of visits from his wife during the day, and the plaque commemorating her on the wall hurt like getting that phone call all over again. But it’s the beginning of the mourning process, Dr. Sharon will tell him, and now that it’s started, the hurt will eventually lessen.

With every end, a beginning.

Roy takes his first steps.

There are three eras in Roy’s life, and a thousand different Roys.

There’s the prodigy footballer, eight years old and scoring goal after goal in every match. There’s the Chelsea player, a championship winner, then the Richmond player, bittered by age. Injured Roy Kent, retired, coaching his kid niece’s football team. Then, briefly: professional commentator. Richmond coach.

Roy Kent, who fucking hates Jaime Tartt except usually his girlfriend is nice at least. Roy Kent, Keeley’s boyfriend. Roy Kent, Keeley’s fiancé, husband- widower.

Roy Kent- a bastard luckily enough that Keeley loved him too. Roy Kent, who lit up when she walked into the room, who smiled more during their time together than he ever had before in his life. Who wanted to start a family with her. Who doted on his wife and promised her the world and a thousand other cheesy things, because she had that power over him.

Roy, who was beside her at the very end, who evoked her last words and smile. Roy, who had that horrible, painful privilege of easing his wife’s passing with reassurances and small comforts and anything he could do to make her feel his love.

Roy, who loves her still. Who’ll die loving her and missing her, and wishing they had just one more day.

Roy, who learns to live to make her proud.

#roy kent #keeley jones #roy x keeley #roy x keeley fanfic #ted lasso #ted lasso fanfic #ted lasso fanfiction #roy x keeley fanfiction #roy x keeley imagine #roy kent x keeley jones #keeley x roy #angst #oops im so sorry yal #rebecca welton

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ichorai · 4 years ago

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cellmates ; four ; j.wy

pairing ; jung wooyoung x reader

summary ; stuck in jail after stealing a necklace off the princess, what happens when your new cellmate with an impossible escape plan comes along?

words ; 5.2k

warnings / includes ; medieval fantasy au, blood and grime and death and everything in between, some curse words, future ateez cameos, future suggestive / mature content, cellmates to (future) lovers !!

a/n ; surprise !! here you go stop crying >:( kdjffj jk i hope yall enjoy !!! the plot thickens up quite a bit in this one 👀 ,,, there are also a couple surprises sprinkled here and there :DD to make up for what i did to yall last chapter lol

cellmates masterlist.

As a child, a popular tale you often heard was one depicting a man stranded on an island, throat dry with thirst and stomach void of nourishment. He passed out in exhaustion by the beach, just on the brink of death. But before his soul could fade away, the mermaids took pity on the man of skin-and-bones and brought him underwater, breathing life back into his lungs. He contentedly lived the rest of his life as a merperson.

Although stories like those always had happy endings, they could never really make you smile, unlike how all the other children reacted. What about the people the man cared about when he was on land? Had he just completely forgotten about them to selfishly live an easier life underwater?

The same thoughts ran through your pounding head repeatedly as you dully stared out into the gleaming ocean. From where you were, bound tightly against the main mast, you had a clear view of both the ship’s deck and the waters. You couldn’t really remember how long you’d been tied up… if you could recall correctly, they had only thrown Wooyoung overboard just last night. That felt like an eternity ago.

All thoughts of mermaids and fairy tales and Wooyoung dissipated from your mind once a pirate stepped into your view. In the daylight, they were far less scary than when you had first encountered them. The pirate had bronzed skin verging on being sunburnt, and sharp eyes of molten gold. A red bandana held his hair out of his leering face, and you noticed a dark branding burn of a sword ran through a skull embedded on his chest, partially covered by his loose tunic.

The man tutted, grabbing your chin between two fingers. It was then that you realized just how tired you were; you hadn’t gotten any sleep, instead spending the night struggling against your bonds and crying after Wooyoung.

“Let me go.” Your voice was so hoarse that it didn’t sound like yours anymore.

The pirate merely grinned and shook his head.

You wracked your brain for a second before spitting out, “Isn’t it bad luck to have a woman onboard? Your ship will sink if you keep me here.”

“Why, you must have nothing but worms between your ears,” He cackled in a sinister manner. “That’s just a silly little myth, sweetheart. Women are more than welcome here.” With those words, he ran his eyes over your tense form. A predator surveying its prey.

Much to your relief, the pirate stepped down. That feeling didn’t last very long, however. Just as he slid back, more pirates filtered into your view, clearly just having woken up to start the day. There were so many eyes on you; some curious, some disinterested, and some boldly staring with unsavory expressions.

“I say we make her do the dirty work,” One with golden teeth chimed. “Scrub the decks, clean the chamber pots.”

“We should toss her overboard. We don’t need another mouth to feed.”

“Keep her tied up there! A pretty thing like her should be on display for everyone to see!”

“We can drop her off at the next port and sell her off as a slave. We could use the extra gold.”

“Awh, don’t you think we should keep her? Ain’t half bad to look at.”

Those were only just a few snippets you could make out in the midst of the tumultuous roaring of the pirates as they yelled their suggestions over each other. They grew progressively louder as more ideas came into mind on what they should do with you. Panic brewed within you, but your limbs were tired and your mind was numb. All you could do was stand and watch.

The pirates immediately quietened once a one-eyed man with a peg leg hobbled out of the navigation room. The soft clunk, clunk, clunk of the wooden leg against the planks was not unsimilar to the rapid thundering of your heartbeat.

This is the captain, you thought. It was obvious, what with the way the pirates shut their mouths tightly and bowed their heads down to their chests. Some even trembled on the spot. If Wooyoung were here, he’d laugh at them.

Oh, how you missed him.

The captain had a voice of pure silk, a stark contrast to his ragged appearance. In a quietly powerful tone, he stated firmly, “We leave her here until we reach Aurecia. Then we sell her off.” After a tense pause, he sternly added on, “Nobody touches her until then. Aurecians pay well for unspoilt women, so if any of you lot come remotely close to her, I’ll have your heads.”

The diminutive consolation you received from the captain’s commands ebbed away slightly when you thought more about what he was saying. They were going to sell you off as a slave in Aurecia. And if you could recall the map correctly, Aurecia was the opposite direction of Virelis, where you were supposed to be going. To top it all off, Cerulea and Aurecia were trusted allies, and that could mean nothing good for you.

“No!” You suddenly interjected in a croaky voice, throat so dry it felt like you had sandpaper in your mouth. “Please, don’t take me there. I need to go to Virelis. Please, you can sell me there!”

Everybody stared at you in complete befuddlement. The captain gaped at you with one narrowed eye and spat out, “Virelis doesn’t take slaves. Don’t play games with me, girl.”

Out of desperation, pleading words frantically poured out of your mouth before you could stop and hesitate, “Then don’t sell me! I’m useful, I swear!”

“Forgive me if I have difficulty believing you,” The captain said in a bored tone, gesturing to your bleeding, tied up form.

A frustrated huff escaped you as you hissed out, “I’m Y/N L/N! I was the one that stole the princess’ necklace! I’m a valuable asset and you’d be lucky to have me on your crew.”

A stunned silence washed over the pirates. Then, one by one, they started laughing. They snorted and chuckled and slapped their knees as if you had told them the funniest joke in the world. You half-heartedly attempted speaking again, but your voice was drowned out by their howling laughter.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP BEFORE I FEED YOUR SORRY ASSES TO THE SHARKS!” The captain bellowed, his velvety tone long gone. He had his arms crossed tightly over his chest, a scowl pulling at his lips.

The lot of them snapped their mouths shut so quickly you could hear their teeth clacking against one other.

“Y/N L/N is nothing but a legend,” The captain stepped closer to you, his one eye narrowed in suspicion. “I don’t know, nor do I care for why you’re lying, but it better not become a problem. I’ve already got one crew to deal with. I don’t need to add a raving lunatic onto the list.”

“Please!” You wiggled against your bonds slightly, wincing at how the coarse rope fibers scratched at your chafed skin. “Why would I lie?! You’ve got to believe me, I’m Y/N L/N, I’ve been in jail for a long time and I’ve only recently escaped with the man you tossed overboard. Please, we can go bring him back, he can tell you, I - !”

The words lodged in your throat. It was pointless, trying to convince a haggle of savage pirates to go back for someone they tossed to the sharks. There was a sort of heavy pain deep down in your chest, and you brokenly blew out a sigh. The feeling churned at your insides uncomfortably. It might’ve been the sea sickness, but you knew it was a nasty combination of guilt and panic and regret.

The captain noticed your abrupt change in demeanor, but decided not to comment. Instead, he said stoically, “Y/N L/N is a wonderful character in a legend told to scare children and I would absolutely love to meet her. But unfortunately, I don’t think I’d ever get the pleasure to. She’s not real.” You stared into his one eye, tears welling up in your own. “And about the man we tossed over… he put up a real fight and he wasn’t worth the trouble. He’s probably long gone by now. It’d do you good to forget about him.”

Pirates behind the pair of you started snickering, but were quietened when the captain straightened and just about snarled out, “DON’T YOU HAVE WORK TO DO? GET ON WITH IT, YOU STINKY BASTARDS!”

They scrambled in a panicked fashion, a few of them running into each other as they dashed in opposite directions, others clumsily slipping on the damp plank wood, and some merely ran like headless chickens with no definite direction in mind.

“They’ll treat you well in Aurecia, girl,” The captain slipped back into his velvety tone once more. You supposed this was his way of apologizing… or, the closest thing to an apology you’d ever get from a pirate. “Just try to accept it and it won’t seem as bad. This lot here won’t hurt you in the meantime. I’ll make sure of that.” He gestured to the rest of the men who were settling back into their daily routines. You were surprised to see that they were already hard at work; manning the sails, scrubbing the decks, navigating the ship, so on so forth. The life of a pirate definitely wasn't an easy one.

You said nothing in return, staring blankly at the glinting ocean. The hollow clunk, clunk, clunk of his peg leg fading away was a sure sign that the captain was gone. You couldn’t bring it in yourself to watch him go.

This was most probably the worst possible time to cry. At this point, you were surprised your sore eyes could still manage to produce tears, considering how dehydrated you were. It was obvious that some of the pirates were still watching you, pausing mid-job. You tried to ignore them and hung your head sullenly as dry sobs rumbled in your chest.

You were stuck floating in a gigantic cesspool of saltwater, and yet your body had the audacity to produce even more. It was this very water you were bobbing on that most probably filled Wooyoung’s lungs as he gave up his last breath. The thought did nothing but make you weep harder.

Pirates really had no designated time to have luncheon and supper, but their stomachs all seemed to revolve around roughly the same hours. By the time the golden of the sun was grazing against the deep green waters and the sky was bleeding a strange shade of amaranthine, they were all shouting out complaints of hunger and trotting to the small kitchens below deck to have supper.

You were hungry, but also sure that if you had even a morsel of bread, you would heave it right back out. The day was spent with you gazing at the rocking waters, bustling pirates, and the large, tattered flag that hung proudly way above you. On occasion, you tried pleading to the pirates who were passing by, but none of them so much as glanced towards you. It seemed as though they took their captain’s orders to heart.

And so, after hours and hours of being neglected, imagine your surprise when one particular pirate sheepishly walked up to you, a little after all the others had disappeared below the deck to eat.

At first, you hadn’t noticed the quiet man because you had your stinging eyes shut, trying to block off the last and harshest glares of the sun as it sank under the edge of the world.

He cleared his throat once, and your eyes flew back open, startled.

“You must be starving,” He said.

The first thing you noticed about him was the strangely soft shade of pink his hair was. It wasn’t unsimilar to the color of Yunho’s hair, and you found yourself wondering how the kind giant of a man would react knowing that you lost Wooyoung.

“Oh,” He gestured to the brightly-hued strands on his forehead. “I’m half fairy. Everybody looks at me funny when they first see my hair.”

Snapping out of your thoughts, you observed the man in front of you suspiciously. You had little to say in reply to the strangely personal fact he told you, and so you bit down on your tongue and let silence further consume you.

He had an angular face and complementing sharp features, but he bore a timid expression in an unexpectedly stark contrast. What was this fairy-man doing on a pirate ship? He didn’t look at all like the rest of the crew. The others were sunburnt and filthy and rugged. He, however, was somewhat well kempt, skin void of burns and scars and dirt. A loose cream-hued tunic was hung over broad shoulders, barely slung over his hardened chest, a leather belt tightened around the small of his waist and tucked into black trousers. It was quite a dignifying outfit in comparison to the rest of the crew clad in dirty rags and stolen clothes that didn’t match in the slightest. But for that, you could understand. Seeing the pirates randomly throw on haphazard articles of clothing, you thought back to when you were on the run with Wooyoung, stealing clothes off of drying lines and changing into whatever would fit.

The only thing that pushed the strange pink-haired man more towards the ‘rugged pirate’ side was a silver lip ring glinting with the late sunlight from the side of his bottom lip. In his eyes you saw gentle kindness, but you knew better than to trust him just yet.

“Are you hungry? I can sneak something up for you while everyone’s busy stuffing their face full.” He had a voice of honey and silk, tempting you to accept his generous offer. But you kept your mouth shut.

“I understand,” A sad, empathetic look crossed his face. “Sea sickness is the worst the first couple of days. From there, it’ll gradually get better once you get used to it. But please, drink some water.”

From out of nowhere, he brandished a pretty silver chalice and held it up to you, the metal stingingly cool against your lips. You would’ve been stupid to turn down the water, so you leaned forward slightly and slurped at the drink so quickly that some sloshed down your chin and dripped onto your chest.

“I can get you some more later,” He said, pulling the cup away as you gasped for air. “But I have to tell you something important first. My name is San, by the way.”

He had a name that roughly translated to ‘mountain’ in Old Cerulean. You thought it was a rather pretty name… fitting for such a pretty man.

“I just wanted to say this while no one was around,” San sucked in a deep breath, steeling his quaking nerves. “I believe you.”

The water had certainly drowned away the scratchy burn in your throat, so you were free to painlessly stutter out, “W-What?”

“I believe you,” He repeated. “It’s like you said… why would you lie?”

“You believe that I’m Y/N?” Your voice raised an octave or two higher, to which San shot you a warning look and glanced behind him as a precaution. If anybody heard or saw either of you, the captain would have his head. “Why?”

Hope was a dangerous thing. It muddled your brain and clouded your consciousness, blurring the lines between reality and fantasy. So you looked upon the pink-haired pirate dubiously, furrowing your eyebrows.

“I might be the most gullible man out there,” San snorted, raising a hand to rub against the back of his neck. “You kinda fit the description in all the stories and legends. And you don’t look like you’re lying… I don’t know… it must be the fairy blood in me. My mother always knew when I was lying or telling the truth. She used to tell me that good people only truly lie when they want to protect others. But… you don’t have anybody here to protect. Not anymore, anyways.” There was a guilty, remorseful sort of look that flooded his face.

You were so relieved that you could’ve burst into tears right then and there.

“And… that man the others threw overboard… he kept saying your name. You might’ve had reason to lie to us, but he didn’t. Especially not then.” San spoke gently in a low tone, as if he were speaking to a frightened child. Something painful twisted in your stomach at his words. “So… yes, Y/N, I believe you.”

Then he leaned forward and quickly swiped his cool thumb over your damp cheek. You only then realized that you were crying again, flinching away from his touch at first, before relaxing your tensed muscles.

“Thank you,” was the only thing you could properly croak out. There were so many things you wanted to tell him. Help me. Let me out. Bring Wooyoung back. Take me away from here. Why are you helping me? What are you doing here?

Although none of your erratic thoughts were heard, you sagged in relief when he said, “I’ll try to talk to the captain about making a stop in Virelis.” As a tentative afterthought, he added, “I’m sorry about your friend.”

“I loved him,” You croaked out, surprising even yourself. “I didn’t know that I did.”

San flashed you a sad smile, “Some people never realize. You’re lucky that you did.” Then, he murmured after gesturing to your bloody hands and wrists, “I’m also sorry about them hurting you. I have a special coconut extract lotion that treats wounds and burns very well. I’ll try to sneak up something for you to eat, as well. We’ll have to wait until it’s completely dark, though.”

You had so much to tell him, so much to ask, so much to thank him for. The fairy-man rotated on the stub of his heel to walk away, and you whispered out, “San!” He glanced back at you with a curious expression, and you nodded your head, sincerely grateful, “Thank you.” The questions could wait, you supposed.

A smile so wide spread across his lips that his eyes almost disappeared. Around savage pirates practically all his life, he rarely ever heard those two strangely comforting words. He dipped his head politely and walked away, leaving you to your own overwhelming thoughts.

Sleep had taken you under its dark wing a little while after San left, however fitful and sporadic. Your head pounded as your swollen and aching eyes fluttered open, somewhat surprised to see that it was still dark. Where was San?

Then, as your consciousness shook away the foggy webs of sleep, your brain registered a faint singing voice. However, it wasn’t just any rotten pirates’ singing voice; it sounded as if a woman was wailing, but in the most beautiful way possible. The trembling vocal chords pierced through the night sky, high-pitched and ringing in your ears melodically. It was a song in a language you couldn’t understand, but the warbled words molded together sounded pure and whole, just about placing you under a trance. But of course, you were still quite dazed and confused from slumber, unable to clearly hear the singing voices. On top of that, the water seemed to be extra loud, splashes and waves thundering against the boat almost every five seconds.

Tired, you rolled your stiff neck. Strangely, you noticed that the deck in front of you was void of any pirates. Glancing to the side, there was not a single soul to be seen manning the navigational wheel. Your neck ached as you craned it to look upwards, squinting at the crows’ nest, just to see that it was equally empty. Where are they? you thought absent-mindedly.

The singing was getting louder, and you had to physically shake your head to get your mind out of the gutters. The ropes strained against the skin of your raw wrists even more when you shifted to look behind you.

The sight that you were met with had you reeling against the mast in panic.

Sirens. Dozens of them, sitting on moldy rocky ledges jutting out of the ocean waters. They were beautiful creatures, smooth skins tainted a faint green and shimmery silver hair just long enough to drape wetly over their breasts. They bore seductive expressions and parted their full lips to croon out the mesmerizing song in unison.

And the splashing against the boat? With a choked gasp of horror, the undisputed mystery of where all the pirates had gone was answered. One by one, they were marching off the planks, plummeting into the salty ocean waters, swimming as if their life depended on it, closer and closer to the beckoning sirens. They all held entranced expressions, some with gaping mouths and others with fully blown pupils of adoration and lust.

The sirens were far enough where you weren’t fully under influence, but much too close to be clear of mind. You had to count yourself lucky for being female; it was known that sirens had stronger effects on men. But you didn’t have much time to spare.

You suddenly became short of breath in panic. Where was San? Had he already jumped off? Blowing out a shuddering sigh, your neck trembled with great effort as you angled yourself to look back again. It was easy to spot his brightly-colored mane, the pink starkly bright in the moonlight.

“SAN!” You screamed to the best of your abilities, voice scratchy from your previous slumber. For a second, the fairy-man seemed to twitch slightly into your direction. A particularly high-pitched note echoed across the waters, just about slicing through any hesitation San might’ve held. Just like that, he turned completely away from you with a stupefied look, before hopping off the ship and plunging into the ocean.

A scream of protest ripped through your throat. There was no time to think… you could already feel their lulling voices numb the corners of your mind…

No. No, I have to get out of this.

With a quick glance back, a flare of hope ignited somewhere within your chest when you spotted a dagger just behind you, buried in the fraying wood of a grog barrel. Its handle was jutting out in your direction, the crooked blade void of rust and gleaming with reflected moonlight. Excruciating pain shot through your right arm as you twisted your wrist about, desperate to be freed of the knot. The hardest part was getting your hand through the tight loophole, groaning at the throbbing sensation.

After frantically yanking yourself upwards, you managed to wrench your right wrist free, covered with blood and scratches and blisters. Then, with no time to spare, you reached as far as you could behind you, towards the barrel. Your bones ached and cracked under the strain, but you pushed through with gritted teeth. Tears ran down your twisted features from the pain. With a final shriek, you lunged and wrapped your blood-slicken fingers around the hilt. The sick sound of your left shoulder popping had you screaming in pained misery, but there was no time to lament. You’d fix it up later.

It took little effort to extract the blade out of the rotting wood. You prayed not to drop the dagger as your hand trembled ruthlessly. Swallowing dryly, you raised the blade to your left wrist, and began hacking away at the ropes.

They were tough, coarse things, but gave way eventually, unraveling with each strand. You didn’t even have to cut through the whole thing until it was weak enough to break on its own.

You were free.

The sirens’ song grew louder and louder, and frantically, you wobbled away from the mast and to the side of the ship, steadying your shaking legs against the rail. Every fibre of your being screamed at you to stop and jump into the water, swim to the beautiful melody that came from just over there…

“No!” You managed to moan out. Your left arm was completely useless; you weren’t able to move the limb at all. The tearing of your shirt as you somehow managed to rip off the sleeve rang in your muddled head alongside the foreign words quavering through the air. You used the dagger to slice the cloth in half, and shoved each piece into your ears. It was disgusting and uncomfortable, but it would have to suffice. The sirens’ voices sounded little other than muffled hums, and though you had to stay cautious, you could already feel your mind clear tremendously.

The last of the pirates had just clambered off the side. You would’ve heard the large splash he made as he cannon-balled into the waters if it weren’t for your make-shift ear plugs.

You were tired. You were thirsty, aching, sleepy, and just about every other bad feeling one could possibly have. Unfortunately, the ship was still heading right towards the sirens, no doubt turned off-course by a crewmate heavily under their influence.

And so, you dragged your heavy limbs over to the navigational wheel, letting out a soft tormented wince when the small act of curling your quaking fingers around the wooden spokes were enough to send what felt like great electric shocks of pain up your spine. Then, you spun the wheel one-handed, over and over and over again until the massive beauty of a ship leaned away from the sirens (who were clearly enraged, hissing and baring their sharp teeth), silkily gliding over the waters. Warm ocean air billowed into your face and tousled your hair, and for the first time since you’ve gotten onto the ship, you didn’t feel like throwing up.

A part of you felt bad for leaving San, the only pirate to show you even just a morsel of empathy. Who knows, maybe he’d survive. He was half fairy, after all. You muttered out a soft soft wish of good luck for the pink-haired man, though you doubted that would do much.

Your mind was quick to leap from the fate of San to a man who’s been in your life for much longer. Where would you be if it weren’t for him?

Wooyoung wasn’t one to just… give up like that. He couldn’t be dead. Perhaps you were being a fool for holding onto hope, but you would gladly welcome that title if there was even the slightest chance that he was still out there, alive and breathing.

And so, you steeled your nerves by drawing in a grand breath. Your lips settled in a firm, determined line.

You were going to go find Wooyoung.

Where were you to start?

Dozens and dozens of maps and scrolls were tossed about as you pillaged through the papers, in search of a chart that would actually be of use to you. Much to your dismay, there weren’t any maps whatsoever that held the directions to Virelis. There goes that plan down the drain. Where else was there to go?

The sling that held up your left arm was procured hastily from the medbay after you popped your dislocated shoulder back into its socket with a quailing shriek. The pain had faded into a dull ache, but at least now you could wiggle your fingers. That was a good sign, you supposed. Your stomach was full with what you could find in their kitchen pantries (which was mostly just stale biscuits and half-cooked fish), and to be honest, you felt better than you have in a long, long time, despite the circumstances.

There was still the problem of finding him, though. If you could recall correctly, you were only around a days’ sail away from where they had kicked Wooyoung off.

But that would mean turning back to Cerulea. And that… definitely didn’t sound smart. You rubbed your fingers against your throbbing temple, taking a long swig of refreshing water from a pitcher. Gentle light was filtering in through the small circular window, illuminating the yellowed maps in such a way to make them look golden. There was no time to appreciate the simple beauty of this, however, because a stupid, moronishly foolish, plan was forming in your head.

What if you went back to Cerulea? Would Wooyoung be waiting for you there? Maybe he was staying with Yunho while he got back on his feet. After all, it’s not like he could swim all the way to Virelis, especially with how injured he was. Cerulea was a much closer, safer plan. It was the only place he could go, right?

Unease twisted your stomach at the thought of going back to the country that locked you in a dark dungeon for moons upon moons upon moons. Deep down inside, you knew that no part of Wooyoung would ever willingly go back to Cerulea. Not after all he went through trying to get out. But what else were you to do? And even if he weren’t there, at least you’d be able to inform Yunho on what happened. Then the sweet giant of a man could help you find him.

You stood up, compasses and maps slipping off your lap, respectively clanging and fluttering towards the ground noisily. With large, determined strides, you exited the navigational room and to the main deck, where the steering wheel was situated. Warm, salty breeze whispered against your ears, calm and encouraging.

“I’ll find you, Wooyoung,” Your words were swiftly stolen by the wind. You hoped that gale would be kind enough to carry the message over to him, however impossible it was.

Halfway across the world, laid an unconscious dark-haired man, clad in nothing save for his smallclothes and bandages tightly wrapped around his skull. He was situated stiffly atop a narrow bed, scars and bruises still quite fresh and clearly visible against his paler-than-usual skin.

Wooyoung awoke with a startled choke of a gasp, sore eyes flying wide open. There was a searing pain in his abdomen as he sat up, wheezing and hissing in agony. He took in his surroundings with a panicked demeanor, gaze landing on the mildly surprised fair-headed figure with striking green eyes standing by the doorway, fresh bandages in his palms. He’s an elf, Wooyoung realized after a long moment of gaping, noticing the ever-so-slightly pointed ears poking out beneath silvery locks and the infamous nature-woven clothes only elves wore.

“Took you long enough,” He said in a thick Elvish accent, followed by a beguiling snort. “I thought you would stay asleep forever. I’m Yeosang.”

Wooyoung blinked sluggishly once, twice, and a third and fourth time for good measure. He knew very well that he should probably answer. After all, elves were widely known to be an easily offended kind. But for the love of everything he held dear, he just couldn’t seem to crack his lips open.

The two stared at each other awkwardly for a second more. Then promptly, his eyes rolled into the back of his skull as his upper half crumpled onto the bed, instantaneously returning into the sweet relief of unconsciousness.

152 notes · View notes

vinciwolf · 4 years ago

Text

Bruised but Not Broken

Pairing: Cody x fem!medic!Reader

Warnings: 18+, light smut, angst, violence, blood, gore, death, alcohol, depression

Tags: @sunburstcody I wrote this for you.

You’re on the battlefield of war again. Covering your mouth with a gloved hand, your lungs forcibly expel the thick smoke. Blaster bolts whizz past your head as you crouch behind a fallen AT-RT walker. The clone trooper slumped against the machine groans in agony, head flopping to the side, as you try to ease his pain with a numbing injection.

With a steady, confident voice, you say, “You’ll be alright.”

But deep down, you tremble. Please, not another one, not another one.

You didn’t want another trooper to die. He was just a goddamn shiny! You wave down a passing clone trooper for help. Both of you take the wrists of the fallen clone and drag him behind the thick vegetation where the rest of the wounded were placed.

You take off the trooper’s helmet to assess his wounds. The damage is severe, like most wounds you have already become desensitized to. His neck looks like an unraveled mess of shredded muscle and tissue, jagged and pointing in unnatural directions. The blaster bolt that clipped him left his neck looking life a half-spere, bleeding profusely. While tossing backwards the flap to your medical bag, the absence of supplies cruelly laughs at your surprised face and sends a cold wave of dread over your skin. The entire bag is empty.

Trying not to make it obvious to the soldier, you advert your gaze and swallow the hard clump in the back of your throat. This clone trooper is doomed and there is nothing your can do about it. Rationally, you decide to return to the battlefield to save other potential survivors. No time to waste on the already dead. Before you can run back into the fray, the clone trooper clasps your wrist. You pause for a second, then kneel back down and grip the clone trooper’s hand tightly. Tears burn the back of your eyes.

“I—I don’t want to die,” he gurgles. “I don’t want to be forgotten.”

His face is a carbon copy of Jango Fett, but he has an intricate rose tattoo that stretches from his brow, over the side of his head, and down behind his ear. You also note his eyes to be a very rich earthy color, like when the soil is dark and saturated with water after a hard rain. But his beauty is short lived when ground-shaking explosions and echoing shouts from the other clone troopers sucks you back into reality. The clone’s eyes turn red and begin to wiggle with heavy tears.

Deep down, the terrible pit in your stomach wants to lurch forward and trade your life with this clone. So, at least, he could experience life without fear, or missions, or being taught that he’s disposable in the grand scheme of this war he never asked for.

“I won’t let you be forgotten—” your thumb brushes the tears falling form his eyes.

Despite his pain, he weakly smiles at the thought that someone – somehow in his pathetically short lifespan – actually cares for him, then he shut his eyes forever.

A single tear, heavy with thousands of memories like this one, burns the side on your cheek until in finally drops off your chin and absorbs into the blood soaked ground.

You didn’t even get his CT number… not even his nickname.

Blinking once, you bury these feelings into a deep place for another time. For now, you need to focus.

You remembered the look Cody gave you when your battalion returned to the shuttle. The standard white attire you wore is stained with blood and soot. He is truly a sight for sore eyes. Halfheartedly grinning, shoulders slumping in relief, you are happy he survived. The thought of another innocent becoming a casualty of war turns your stomach. Luckily, the few clone troopers who managed to survive are either put into medical capsules or hobble into the arms of their fellow brothers. You shuffle towards the commander and plop your head on his shoulder. He squeezes you in his arms then helps you into the LAAT. This planet was devastating, but it was won. You should feel good, but all you feel is painful exhaustion in your shaky legs and feeble lungs. Not to mention the invisible weight creeping onto your shoulders.

It is like this every time, all over again… and again… and again.

Guilt fills your aching heart like an overstuffed balloon. It is like clockwork. This stabbing pang in your chest rises intensely and fades after every mission. You rub the unseen soreness with your palm as the refresher gushes hot water over your squatted, naked body, the steam cleansing your lungs. It is not enough to cure the pain however, but you need to rid your physical self of all the grime – all the evidence – of the soldiers you could not save today. The dense mist shields your vulnerable form and the heavy pattering of the water drowns out your whimpers as you cry away the horrible events that plague your mind.

This… this small, private space in the refresher… had to be enough.

It is your only fortunate curtesy in these dark times.

Your first mission was on Kashyyyk and you were absolutely mesmerized by how densely forested one planet could be. Given that the temperature here was nothing like what you experienced at home, by the time your squad rendezvoused at the main base, your cloths had already become drenched with sweat. Taking a swipe to your forehead with the back of your hand, you began to understand why none of the other medic graduates willingly chose this planet. The only graduate on the list was you.

The commander glances at you.

“So, now the Republic is sending anybody these days. Pathetic,” he scoffs, probably eyeing you up and down under his helmet.

“I wanted clone medics, not greenhorns who’ll shit their pants the moment they land on the battlefield.”

Taking a step forward, Shots, the head medic, points at the commander.

“Oi! Watch it. She finished at the top her class at the academy and is one of my best trainees I’ve had on the field. She might not be a clone, but I’d entrust her with my life. Plus, the Republic needs all the help it can get.”

The commander dismissively waves at the both of you while turning on his heel and mumbling an agitated ‘whatever’ under his breath. Letting out a deep sigh and closing your eyes, you unclench your fists that you didn’t realize had formed during this rude confrontation. Shots turns towards you and pats his hand on your shoulder.

“Don’t be intimidated by these guys—” he points over his shoulder at the clone troopers with his thumb “—war does this to us clones sometimes. Makes us hard inside—” his fist thumps twice over his heart.

“Okay, when all hell breaks loose, just stay hot on my tail,” Shots whispers into your ear while your squad slowly proceeds through the thick vegetation. This was it. You first time on a real battlefront against the Separatists.

Keeping your eyes ahead, your mind did not process the sudden explosion of brain matter that splattered on your face. You look to the side, towards its origin. Shots, the clone medic who had been your mentor since day one, the clone medic who never doubted your medical training, is flat on his back on the ground. The brain matter came from him. Shots’ face, a face you had conversed with just seconds ago, is now perfectly hollowed out by a blaster bolt. You crouch down and stare at the dead clone medic, hands shaking profoundly.

He is not dead. This is not real. No way!

No amount of medical training could prepare your for losing a loved one.

Screaming grounds your focus. The blasters firing, the yelling, the smoke entering your lungs, the whole world rapidly woke up in your ears and everything is very loud again.

“Where the kriffin’ hell are these blasts coming from?” a clone trooper hollers while shooting into the forest, his brothers scrambling to find shelter behind the trees.

“It’s an ambush!”

“We need a medic!”

You run towards the clone troopers ducked behind a fallen log. Immediately, your adrenaline kicks in and you remember where you are, what you need to do. Pulling out supplies, you patch up their fallen comrade, but when everything seems to be smoothing out, a trooper bellows, “GET DOWN!”

You look up and spot the missile flying right towards your face.

You jolt awake with a startled gasp. Gulping down air, you realize that you are in your barracks. Safe…safe…for now. Looking down, you sigh at the state of your shirt. A dark stain in the fabric trails down your chest, sticking to your damp skin. You stand up and change into a clean shirt before heading over to the sink.

After splashing your face with some cold water, you peer at yourself in the mirror. Exhaustion looks back at you. The purple bags under your eyes only seem to become worse as this war drags on. Nothing can make this night worse. As if on cue, the rapping at your door frightens you out of your thoughts.

Stepping over to your room door, you click a button and it hisses open. You wipe your face with your hand, massaging the soreness out of your puffy eyes, and sigh a soft ‘what’ at the commander standing in front of you.

“You’re needed in the med bay,” Cody states.

Grunting in response, you turn around and begin to put on your uniform in silence. The commander steps into your room, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I’m worried about you. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

You face Cody while aggressively putting your hair into a quick, messy bun.

“Did Kenobi put you up to this? Now he’s sending his commander to spy on a poor ‘lil, sleep deprived medic, huh?” you spit while adjusting your boots too tightly.

Cody does not respond and a twinge of guilt shoots through your stomach. Looking over to the commander, he is gripping his helmet a little too firmly and his eyes are adverted… deeply hurt.

“Oh, Cody… I didn’t mean that…” you confess, shoulders sagging.

Standing up, you cup Cody’s cheek and lift his chin to look at you— “It’s just… I don’t know actually…” I’m actually tired of burying myself beneath all this death.

“You haven’t been yourself.” He overlaps your hand with his large one, eyes softening.

“None of us have—” you let go of his cheek and wrap your arms around his armored torso, nudging your head close to his heart with a long exhale “—I’m sorry that I snapped.”

Cody’s free hand rubs slowly down your back as he pecks your forehead. Releasing each other, you gaze up at the commander and force a tiny grin.

Cody’s eyes sag downwards. “I… don’t know what to say.” I don’t know how to make things better for us.

“There’s nothing you can say.” I want to tell you that everything hurts.

As you veer around his presence, you pat his armored shoulder before disappearing into the corridor of the attack cruiser. Your heart screams for Cody to stop you from walking away. It feels like magnets pulling you back into that room, tugging your body to turn around and go back to explain everything. Inside your mind, however, you are blank of thought and ignore your instincts. The only thing filling the void is the agonizing screams and last words from the clone troopers you couldn’t save.

THE WAR IS OVER!

GRIEVOUS DEAD!

CHANCELLOR ARRESTED FOR TREASON!

Coruscant is in the midst of wild and loud celebration. At 79’s, the clone troopers drink and sing until they fall over, but Cody merely sits and stares at his untouched shot of alcohol in a private corner. Somewhere in the background commotion, Rex dances on a tabletop with two twi’lek, which makes the crowd of clones howl even louder. The floor screeches when the commander abruptly pushes his chair back to leave the bar. Nobody seems to notice his absence in all the partying.

Outside, confetti falls from the sky while rockets pop and squeal into the air, lighting up the night. Cody walks alone and passes the multitude of citizens embracing each other. None are the wiser about the commander walking by them – a soldier who helped end the war – as he navigates through the streets of Coruscant. He doesn’t mind though because there is only one person on Cody’s mind that he wants to see.

Standing in front of your apartment door, Cody hesitates for a moment before finally unlocking it and treading inside. He places his helmet on the kitchen counter and looks around. So many memories reside in this small place. Your couch still remains were it was the last time he visited your home. That couch where he kissed you for the first time and decided that this is the only person he wants for the rest of his life. Shaking his head with a fond smile, he continues his investigation.

Sliding open the door to your bedroom, the commander expects the worst when his eyes glance towards an empty bottle of wine abandoned on the floor. He scans the room and finds shattered pieces of glass littering the carpet, a red dot staining the nearby wall. The commander assumes that you must have obliterated the wine glass in your fit of drunken rage. Holding his breath, Cody’s eyes widen at the dried-up specks of blood accompanying the mess. He finally takes a step past the bedroom threshold and notices the outline of your body beneath the mattress covers.

Your body becomes larger as Cody slowly advances closer to the bed, boots dodging the sharp pieces of glass. He notices your arm, hand wrapped in gauze, poking out of the mountain of blankets. His fingers gently brush your wrist. Sighing with relief, the commander relaxes from the light thump of your pulse against his fingers. You groan in sleepy annoyance from his cold touch and retreat your arm into the safety under your huddled-up covers. Cody grins slightly in amusement. Pulling up a chair next to your bed, he tenderly shakes your shoulder to waken you.

Slowly but surely, you peel your heavy eyelids open with a throaty groan then glance up at the commander sitting close beside your bed. You say nothing and just await the reason why he is in your room on this particular night. Cody closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before finally breaking the stillness.

“The war’s over. I thought I’d find you with the rest of the boys celebrating, but you never showed.”

Looking at your damaged hand, you remark, “I was… busy.”

“If there’s anything on your chest, you can tell me about it.”

“It’s all over now. The war’s over. There’s nothing to talk about anymore.”

“No!” Cody snaps. “Somethin’s eating you alive inside. I’ve noticed! And—and—” his voice softens “— I want to help… Please… I love you.”

That I love you stung.

You give up hiding it. He already knows and there is no point keeping secrets from the man you adore… the man you trust.

“This day isn’t fair! We won, so what? I’ve never felt less accomplished in my entire life—” your fingers dig into the bedsheets “—I couldn’t save them—” you blink away the squirming tears obscuring your vision “—they all died and never got to see the end.”

Cody understands immediately who you are talking about. The clones. His brothers.

“We were bred for this—”

“Y’all are more than just stupid numbers, Cody! He had a name! They all did!”

You scream in agony into your mattress as your walls come tumbling down. After a moment of letting go of the pain, small hiccups pipe from your aching chest as you slowly calm yourself down.

“It’s hard being the one who survives. That’s a burden I – all my brothers – will have to carry. But not you. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Not knowing how else to help you, he lifts his hand and slips his fingers beneath yours, helping you ease your grip on the poor mattress. His thumb rubs gentle circles into your skin while the atmosphere goes still again. Unspoken understanding passes between the two of you. No words had to be exchanged as you share this silent moment with the commander.

Then, in the dead quiet, tears filter down your cheeks. You did not know where they came from, but you didn’t feel sick anymore.

Cody is there. He takes off his boots and armor and slips into the bed, wrapping you with the most protective hug. This warm space inside his arms calm you, but the tears still fall. Peering up into the commander’s face, you giggle uncontrollably when he kisses your red, puffy eyes. He keeps kissing you until all the tears are dry and you stop crying, then he slows down and takes his time. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you embrace the commander and the hands running up your sides.

Cody's body rocks together with yours in slow, sensual movements. Your arms firmly grip around the commander’s torso as he takes care of you, whispering sweet nothings into your ear while warmly caging you beneath his weight.

His strong arms bend backwards to hold your thighs with his calloused hands. The affection in his thrusts is unrushed. His hips roll in big, smooth circles to memorize your walls, to memorize the way you softly whimper and pant from the endearing pleasure he gives you.

You are his world. He wants nothing more than to keep you here in this moment forever to show how much he loves you. Luckily, he'll have so much more time to do so now since the war is over.

Your head lulls back into the soft pillow, mouth agape, as you allow yourself this moment to unwind. As Cody's cock delves rhythmically into your folds, you moan with each stroke. The tip of your ears heat up from the way this man above you tickles your neck with feather light kisses. He strokes your thighs with his thumbs, making sure not to buck too harshly into your hips. Tears begin to burn your eyes again.

This man is making love to you.

Cody – after everything he has been through in this war – still somehow retained his gentleness. But now he is sharing some of it with you in order for you to heal.

The commander continues to whisper into your ear as you silence your whimpers in his chest, hands coming to rest on his pecs to feel more sheltered and secure under him.

"Everything will be okay," is all that he repeats. "Everything will be okay."

Smiling, you believe him while he gently wipes away your tears with his thumb.

#commander cody x reader #commander cody fanfiction #commander cody #commander cody x you #the clone wars fanfiction #star wars fanfiction

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anileahvictoria · 3 years ago

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When Toothpick came to a few minutes later, Toothless made sure breakfast was waiting for him. "Oh, th-thank you," Toothpick said, a bit surprised when Toothless scooched a fish toward him. "You catch this yourself?" Toothless bobbed his head, urging him to take a bite. "You seem to be in a mood this morning." Toothless growled impatiently. "Or not." Toothpick hurriedly scooped up the fish but hesitated, eyeing it warily, "I, uh, don't usually eat my fish raw..." Toothless's growl deepened. Enough stalling. He needed to know if humans ate anything other than sheep if he would nurse this boy back to health. "But I've always wanted to try." Toothless watched in anticipation as Toothpick took a bite, struggled to swallow, then made that same toothy expression Toothless had seen earlier. Success! Toothless returned the expression, then hurked up another fish and proudly set it down for Toothpick if he was hungry for seconds. The Toothpick had swallowed suddenly seemed to want to come back up.

"Ooo, oohh," Toothpick shuddered, "I-'m good, thanks." He started to set the first fish down, but Toothless's growl returned. "Oh come on! Can't I at least cook it?" Toothless snorted but set a few sticks on fire. Note to self: humans are picky eaters. He stalked away and pretended to sleep while watching Toothpick closely as he, in return, watched Toothless. The forest was quiet as Toothpick skewered the fish and held it over the fire for what seemed like an eternity. But even when it was cooked to satisfaction, Toothpick spent an even longer time staring at the fish. It was no wonder Toothpick was so small, Toothless thought. The fish could've sprouted wings and flown away by the time he finished. Finally, Toothpick took a deep breath, closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and took a bite. "You know," Toothpick said, swallowing, "if you try not to think about it, and I mean really try not to, It's not too bad. Not great, but not bad." Toothless grumbled mockingly from where he lay and enjoyed the little laugh Toothpick gave in response. There was a small grunt of pain a while later, and Toothless's ears perked up at the noise. He watched Toothpick hold the thigh on his injured leg gingerly, trying to shift positions while careful not to touch or bump his leg against anything. An uncomfy feeling of guilt settled in Toothless's chest, and he quietly made his way over to Toothpick. He sniffed the hurtled and made a low sad moan in his throat. "Don't feel too bad," Toothpick said, staring hard at his leg, "To be fair, I did try to shoot you down first." This was true, but Toothless still felt badly. He sniffed the injured leg once more, stuck out his tongue and- "No, don't-!" Too late. Toothless licked the burned leg then instantly jumped back as Toothpick cried out. If dragons had fur, Toothless's would be standing on end, and he snarled and growled at the sudden outburst. But his eyes quickly softened when he caught a whiff of the pain radiating off the boy. He cautiously tip-toed back to Toothpick, who was now a puddle on the ground. But before he could get close, Toothpick shoed him away. "No, no, no! No more licks!" He pleaded, his face scrunched up in pain, "Oh, Thor's hammer, just pass out already, Hiccup." Toothpick shut his eyes tight and moaned, "Ooooh, where's Gothi when you need her?" Toothpick stayed there like that, small sobs escaping every now and then until he fell asleep. Toothpick stayed fast asleep for a long time, his body doing its best to heal. All the while Toothless paced worriedly, nuzzling Toothpick every now and then to make sure he was still alive. With any luck, his sticky saliva would lower any swelling and cool the burns, but that's about as much as it could do. It wasn't until late that night that Toothpick woke up to a pair of huge green eyes staring down at him. "Ah!" Toothpick yelled in surprise. Toothless hissed in equal surprise, and Toothpick shielded his head with his arms, ready to get blasted into oblivion, but Toothless calmed and sat back on his hind legs. "Sorry," Toothpick apologized, rubbing his eyes, "Forgot where I was for a second." He looked drowsily around at the dark surroundings. He was surprised to find the night sky full of stars, "How long was I- eww what in Thor... and that would be dragon spit." he said, half-heartedly trying to sit up before giving up and flopping back onto his back, "courtesy of your oh so generous gift." he lifted his head to look at Toothless, "Am I crazy for saying it actually feels better?" Toothless made a warbling bellow almost like a laugh, "See? I do know what I'm doing." "You're right. You're right. I should've trusted you. After all, you've kept me alive this long, haven't you?" Toothpick sat up with some difficulty, then fingered the sticky soothing spit coating his left leg. "Night Fury saliva has healing properties... Who knew?" He looked curiously at the dragon sitting on his hind legs in front of him, and Toothless thought he saw something like understanding settle in the boy's gaze. "Everything we know about you is wrong." Toothpick said quietly, then, at a sudden urge, slowly reached out a hand. Toothless grew a bit uncomfy and leaned away, his lips curling a bit. Toothpick pulled back, his fingers closing back into a fist, and he lightly thumped it against the ground. "But everything you know about us is right. Isn't it, Toothless?" Toothless said nothing, of course, and busied himself superheating a small patch of ground then curling up. "But I'm going to change that," Toothpick promised. Toothless's head lifted to stare back at Toothpick, "We're going to change that."

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

#httyd fan fic #hiccup httyd #toothless httyd

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tothemeadow · 4 years ago

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Serendipity [Chapter 1]

When the kingdom of Ainamoryp falls, a motley crew of unlikely allies must come together to save the country.

warnings: swearing, mentions of death, mentions of blood

words: 3.8k

(a/n): All characters range from 19-20. Reader insert, reverse harem.

Dinton Keep, Ainamoryp, May 3rd, 492, 00:43

“The king! The king is dead!”

As soon as the declaration is shouted, there’s a growl of pain, then the unceremonious thump as a body hits the ground.

All around, flames lick at the stone walls, set the sky ablaze. The inky hue of the night is abruptly ruined by a brilliant orange, the smell of burning wood and bodies drifting along with the night’s breeze. The clamoring of swords crashing against each other rings throughout the air, seemingly traveling for miles. Horrified screams and blood-thirsty growls make for a gruesome, twisted melody, one that imprints itself on the brain and promises itself its unholy stay.

Heavy pants, cloudy eyes, a desire for murder.

This is what keeps Prince Shouto pressing forward.

Flanked by two guards, the three scramble through the narrow halls – the hidden passageways hidden behind the castle walls. A mere torch is their only source of light, a pitiful flame compared to the hellstorm raging through the city’s streets. Their movements are rushed, silent; there’s no time to be discussing the finer details of the invasion when the only thing playing on their minds it escaping. Gods be damned if more royal blood be spilt on the stone, seeping through and leaving a burgundy scar.

Despite the silence cloaking them, Shouto grits his teeth, the urge to turn back and fight ever present and growing. That’s his kingdom who’s suffering, hundreds of innocent people dying, suffering. And for what? Power? Wealth? If it were up to him, he’d go back and slaughter those intruding the lands, planting their flags and proclaiming their victory.

This isn’t how things were supposed to go.

“Please, my prince, we must keep moving,” the guard in front throws over his shoulder, as if sensing Shouto’s inner turmoil. “We have to get you away immediately.”

Funny how this works, how simple guards think they can control their prince, a member of the royal family. He could easily rip them a new one, put them in their place and insist they stand their ground, but he knows they’re right. There are too many enemies, even by Shouto’s standards. Even if he stayed around and fought, there isn’t a doubt in his mind that he would be slain right there on the spot.

Up ahead, a rickety wooden door comes into view, a heavy bolt holding it shut. The metal creaks as the frontmost guard slides it loose and opens the door. Heavy smoke hangs in the air, slowly spreading towards the surrounding woods and farmlands. Shouto’s heart clenches at the sight, at the putrid odor of death, the sounds of petrified screams. Closing his eyes, he tries to calm his rapidly beating heart, the anger boiling in his blood twinging the outlines of his vision red.

He’s a complete and utter fool for abandoning those who need him most.

Still, he allows the guards to lead him to an awaiting horse, a brilliant beast the color of ivory. Swinging up and onto the saddle with graceful ease, his cloak flutters behind him.

“Go! Now!” the guard with the torch bellows, eyes latching onto a group of enemy soldiers scaling a wall. “Get out of here!”

“You’ll be killed, dammit!” Shouto proclaims, his anger finally boiling over. “I refuse to have anybody else shed their blood!”

“You’re the prince, your highness,” the guard shoots back, both he and the other one drawing their swords. “There’s a watchpoint south of here, hidden away in the woods. Get there, seek for help. The soldiers there will lead you to safety.”

“Bastards, the lot of them,” Shouto hisses, “I can stay and fight.”

“No! You must go!” Before Shouto is given a chance to say anything in return, the guard strikes the horses rear. Letting out a shrill whinny, the horse rears up, landing back down heavily and taking off at a breakneck speed.

Cursing under his breath, Shouto watches over his shoulder as the two guards confront the enemy soldiers. They soon disappear from sight, leaving only the smoldering haze and raging fires encompassing the silhouette of Shouto’s childhood home. As the castle and surrounding city grow smaller and smaller with each impounding trollop of the horse, he can’t tear his eyes away, even long after it disappears from the horizon.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Levalon, Ainamoryp, May 3rd, 492, 10:14

Easy does it now, easy does it… Don’t get too close… And… Gotcha!

Snatching his hand away, Zenitsu quickly stashes the pigskin coin purse underneath his cloak. Heh, suckers, the lot of them. Most of them couldn’t tell the difference between their right hand and a horse’s ass, much less when someone steals their coinage. Briskly turning on his heel, he walks away, whistling casually.

It’s so easy.

On the market streets of the town, a large sea of people roam from stall to stall, buying smoked meats, freshly baked breads, the farmers’ latest pickings. It’s a jolly scene, the constant chatter of patrons and high-pitched yelps of young boys trying to direct potential customers to their father’s stalls. Zenitsu grew up on these streets, raised right alongside other peasant boys with no home or family to call their own. Perhaps it’s a sad story, one meant for lonely nights and listening ears, but it’s Zenitsu’s lineage. It’s what made him into what he is today, a thief with deft fingers and a pair of legs that could challenge a horse in a race.

An easy smile comes to his face. He’s long since grown used to the smell of piss and sweat clinging to the cobbled street, the hollow-eyed children staring long after the people carrying baskets and sacks of food. Everything is so horribly imperfect, but this is home. Hell, although he’s making his living in a dishonest way, it’s enough to keep a roof over his head and food in his tummy. And maybe, if he saves up enough coin, roll around in a bed of hay with a large breasted whore.

Sidestepping the crowd, he makes way towards the local tavern (Ye Olde Wife, can you believe that?), breakfast and busty barmaids on the mind. If possible, the patrons inside the tavern are nearly as loud as the ones outside. Kicking the door shut, Zenitsu heads for his usual spot at the bar, sliding onto the wobbly stool and shucking his hood down. Ale and body odor permeate his nose, the smell foul yet welcoming. Nothing is more greeting than sweaty men and alcohol.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” the owner’s crackly voice says. A stout old man with wild hair and a bushy mustache, he’s about as rough as they come, but to Zenitsu, he’s probably the closest thing to family that he’s ever had.

“Oh, come on, Gramps,” Zenitsu says, tapping the bar top with his fingertips. “You love seeing me, eh? I bring you plenty of service-“

“You flirt with the girls in here more than you order anything,” Gramps spits. Even so, he starts to step away, already heading to the kitchen to fetch Zenitsu something to eat. “Ungrateful bastard – it’s a wonder you’re not a father yet.”

“Yet!” Zenitsu calls after him. “Don’t jinx me, Gramps!” Easing back, he turns around, resting his elbows on top of the bar. Now that he’s closer to the kitchens, the smell of succulent meat turning on a spit makes his mouth water and his stomach growl. Gods, he is hungry. While he could easily steal something from the stalls lining the market street, he normally comes to Gramps’ tavern for a proper meal. And yeah, maybe he ogles the barmaids while he’s at it, but it’s merely a dinner and a show for him.

“Oh, shit,” some random man sitting at a nearby table says. “You mean you haven’t heard about the capital?” Along with him sits another man – they’re most likely miners, if their builds and dirty fingernails say anything. Knocking back his cup, the other merely shakes his head. “Them bastards from the north – Nialliv – they stormed it. Took Dinton Keep as their own.”

Now, it’s usually polite to not listen in on others’ conversations, but this is Zenitsu here. For as long as he can remember, his sense of hearing is astronomically better than the average human’s, and it’s actually quite a useful tool when it comes to his particular jobs. But this… The capital city being taken over? How come he hasn’t heard anything before?

“You’re telling me that Dinton Keep isn’t ours? Watch the shite spilling from your mouth,” the other man grumbles.

“Aye, it’s true. Took in the wee hours of this morning, I tell you. Apparently, the king is dead.”

At that, Zenitsu stiffens. The king? Dead?

“Fuck,” the companion curses. “And they haven’t said anything yet?”

The first one shakes his meaty head. “Only a few know, I guess. The messengers probably all got their throats slit. Gods bless their souls. It’d be a miracle if we’re all not dead by the end of the month.”

“How many are dead?”

“Hundreds, I take it. Mostly guards and members of the royal court, probably. No point in killing civilians if you don’t want to clean up the mess.”

“And the prince?”

“Disappeared. Haven’t heard if they found his body or not.”

“Oi,” Gramps barks, slamming a plate down on the bar before Zenitsu.

With a jolt, Zenitsu yelps. Whipping back around, he flashes Gramps with wide eyes. “Gramps,” he whisper-yells, “is it true?”

Cocking a bushy brow, Gramps leans forward, arms crossed over his chest. “Is what true?”

“That the king is dead,” Zenitsu says, slowly. He can hardly believe the words are coming out of his own mouth.

Pointing a thick finger at him, Gramps flashes him a warning look. “It’s not your damn business spreading the news around. People are gonna be in a panic when it goes public.”

Zenitsu pales. “No way…”

“I had a carrier pigeon come in this morning,” Gramps continues, voice tight. “Unless they kick them bastards out of Dinton Keep, Ainamoryp can kiss its ass goodbye.”

Glancing down at the steaming meat and eggs in front of him, Zenitsu’s body immediately says that his appetite is gone.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Roman Sea, off the coast of Ainamoryp, May 3rd, 492, 12:39

“Captain! Land clear up ahead!”

“Well, what the fuck you waiting for? This ship isn’t going to dock itself!” you screech.

The sky above is a limitless blue, not a hint of a cloud in the sky. The sun itself seems in a good mood, as does the waters. Your ship heads towards your homeland gracefully, the waves slapping against the sides in a hello, welcome back. As much as you love sailing and exploring new lands, home forever beckons for you, calls you back with welcoming arms. There’s nothing as relieving as setting foot on familiar land.

Although you’re young, you’re powerful. Already a captain of your own crew, the proud owner of The Pearl Lady, you’re meant to go places and the gods are surely smiling down at you. Granted, the overexposure of sun and salt water may have left your skin permanently freckled and mind scrambled, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re a force to be trifled with, and all be damned if they dare challenge you.

Hands settled on the wooden railing, you watch as the rest of your crew scrambles to prepare for docking, lowering the sails and readying the anchor. The coast of Ainanomyrp glimmers under the afternoon sun, truly a sight to behold, but something feels… off. Normally, other boats come to and from the mouth of inland, the capital city of Endeavor being a major port. However, there’s not another boat on the water, not even the small dingeys for fishing.

Your ship glides in smoothly, coming to a gradual stop by an open dock. Your crew pushes the anchor overboard, the salty water giving a final splash as your boat jolts to a stop. Hell, even the docks are unnaturally silent, not even a single ship hand or merchant in sight. All other vessels are docked, their decks bare of any people. Your crew shifts uneasily, clearly noticing the strange lack of other human beings.

“Uh, Captain?” the quartermaster asks you, hand instinctively landing on the butt of his pistol as he glances around, “Should we lift anchor and sail to another port?”

“Like hell we are,” you grunt, narrowing your eyes. Something’s coming. You can feel it.

Stepping away from the railing, you saunter down to the main deck, heading to the side where your crew set the bridge down. The clunk of wood striking wood echoes into the air; instead of it being a relieving sound – a sign that you’re truly home – it’s ominous. It’s only a matter of time before disaster hits.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” you tell your crew, “Something isn’t right.”

“Halt!” an unknown voice calls. Straining your neck forward, you catch sight of a small patrol of guards in dark gray armor clamber down the cobblestone steps leading from the streets to docks. While it’s somewhat of a relief to see actual human beings, you’re immediately on edge, body stiffening. Those are not the given uniforms of Ainamorypan soldiers.

“Fuck,” you grumble, biting the inside of your cheek.

Metal clanking against wooden boards fills the tense atmosphere as the patrol comes up to your ship. The group stands ramrod-straight, faces stoic, eyes sharp. The leader steps forward, neck craning as he looks up at you. “Who goes there?” he barks.

Clicking your tongue, you lean over the side of the ship, elbows resting on the weathered wood. “A bunch of merchants returning home. Everybody’s got to make a living somehow, eh? Now, if you’d kindly fuck off, I’d like to step on some actual dirt for once.”

The guard sneers, expression turning ugly as he flashes yellow teeth. “All incoming and outgoing ships are to be registered. And, as far as I’m concerned, your shitty dingey isn’t on the list.” With a metallic snap of his fingers, one of his followers hands him a clipboard and a hunk of charcoal. “Ship name, captain’s name, date of arrival and planned dismissal.”

At that, you bark out an incredulous laugh. “Are you fucking kidding me? When was this instilled?”

“Just this morning, actually,” the guard snips. “Since I’m feeling merciful, I’ll let you off with a warning just this once. Follow these orders or we’ll have no other option than to imprison you.”

Prison? Seriously? Just who did this dickhead think he’s talking to?

Scoffing, you draw yourself to a full stand, placing your hands on your hips. You could easily pull out your pistol and try to shoot one of the damned guards, but lead balls aren’t going to do much against a full suit of armor. “And I’m pretty sure I told you to fuck off.”

The same guard who gave the leader the clipboard and charcoal steps close and leans in, whispering something into the leader’s ear. The leader spares you a single glance, his eyebrow cocking in interest. With a wave of his hand, the rest of the patrol storm the ship, drawing their blades. Your crew readies their own blades and brandishes their pistols, murmuring unsure words.

“Captain (l/n) of The Pearl Lady,” the lead guard says, scribbling it onto his parchment. “Such a pleasure to meet a wanted criminal.”

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Dinton Keep’s dungeons, Ainamoryp, 492, May 3rd, 13:00

“Oi, oi! Keep your grubby hands off of me!” you bark, shoving yourself against the guards holding you by the biceps.

“Shut your damn trap, you filthy pirate,” the guard on your right seethes, his putrid breath clogging your nostrils. “Thinking you can just waltz right into Endeavor? What are you, an idiot?”

“Far as I was concerned, Endeavor used to be leagues more friendly than this horse shit.”

“I told you to shut up,” the guard barks. Lifting a hand, he cracks up alongside the back of your skull, leaving a thrumming ache. The other guard merely stays silent as he shoves you into the other’s arms, fishing a set of keys from his side and opening the door to a cell. “Fucking rot for all I care,” the guard spits, pushing you into the dingy space.

You sputter as you crash onto the jagged rock, your palms scraping against the surface. You hiss in pain as the guards slam the gate shut and lock it. The one who mocked you takes off with a bark of laughter as the other simply follows behind. “Bloody bastards,” you grunt as they disappear from sight. “I oughta wring their necks and hang them from the bow.”

“Are you alright?” a new voice speaks.

With a screech, you fling yourself to the side, your hip screaming in pain as a sharp rock digs into the flesh. You instinctively reach for your sword, only to be left blubbering curse after curse after remembering that the guards confiscated all of your weapons. Perched on the windowsill sits a boy no older than you, head topped with messy green curls and a face adorned with a sea of freckles.

“Oh, sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you!” the stranger proclaims, waving his hands frantically before him. Hopping down from the wall, he holds his hands in front of him, much like he’s encountering a vicious wild beast. Which isn’t totally wrong, but still.

“Bullshit you didn’t! I’ll kick your ass, mate!” Scrambling onto your feet, your press your back against the cold stone wall, bloody hand clutching your bruised hip.

“I swear it! It’s just… Well…. Look, your hands are bleeding,” the stranger says, turning his hands so his palms are facing upwards. “Let me treat them.”

Your face curls into a snarl. “And why would I do that?”

“I’m a healer,” he continues, stepping forward and snatching your wrist. You yelp at the sudden contact and try to rip your hand away, but his grip is strong. Now that he’s up close and personal, you can’t deny the fact that he’s tall and muscular, the sleeves of his tunic rolled up and exposing the veins and scars riddling his forearms.

Holding your wrist with one hand, the other hovers above your scraped, bloody palm. A golden light emits from his hand, casting a warm glow over your own. Ah, so this guy is a magic wielder. While it isn’t uncommon for people to practice magic, you yourself have never taken an interest in it. Magic can be a finnicky force to deal with, and one who cannot rein in its power may be subjected to a world full of hurt.

With a sigh, you keep your emotions under control and allow this stranger to continue his treatment. For one, this guy is healing you for free, and secondly, he appears as though he can easily throw you through the stone wall with little effort.

“There,” he says once he’s finished, gingerly retracting his hands and flashing you a tiny smile. “It’s all better now, see?”

Staring down at your hands, you flex them into fists, noticing how whatever tension that was in them had disappeared along with the scrapes. Magic can truly be a wonderous thing, but in the wrong hands… Well, things don’t turn out as pretty.

“I don’t get it,” you say, sidestepping the stranger and planting yourself on the pile of dirty hay strewn about the floor, “why is a healer in a dungeon, of all places?”

At your question, the stranger visibly perks up. He follows your movements, getting onto the floor and sitting across from you. “I guess a proper introduction is needed, huh?” he says, scratching his cheek in embarrassment. “My name is Izuku. Izuku Midoriya. It’s a pleasure!”

“I didn’t ask for your name,” you snap. “I asked you why you’re here, not who you are.”

At that, Izuku huffs and physically deflates. “You remind me a lot of Kacchan…”

“By the gods, do you know how to answer a simple question? You know what, don’t even answer that-“

“The king is dead,” Izuku says, cutting you off. His large eyes don’t hold their friendly glow anymore, but rather one of determination and anger. “He was killed last night.”

You blink rapidly at him, your mind throwing itself in for a loop. Wait, wait, the king is dead? How is that even possible? The king isn’t a weakling, and you’ve heard stories of him being a powerful fire sorcerer. But now that you think about it, it would explain the change in guards, the lack of people filling the once busy docks and streets…

You inhale sharply. “How?” you ask, voice small.

“Forces from Nialliv intruded the country last night and took Dinton Keep by force. People were…” Izuku stops, wets his lips. “People are gone,” he finally forces out. “The king is dead, the prince is nowhere to be seen, and all of Ainamoryp is going to lose hope.” Wringing his hands, his gaze drops. “I was here when the intrusion happened. I was fighting off enemy soldiers with all my might, but I couldn’t save the city. People are dead because I didn’t work hard enough.”

“And then you were captured,” you say. “But why not killed?”

“They found out I was a healer – well, I specialize in herbology, but the point still stands. They had men and women on their side who needed medical attention, and I was simply another pair of hands to them,” Izuku answers dryly. “They threw me in here once everybody was treated.”

“Then why’d you help them? They’re the enemy, you fool. You wanna know what I would’ve done? Slit every single last one of their throats.” Shaking your head, you lean back against the wall and laugh, but there’s no humor to it. “When you have the opportunity to fuck your opponent over, you take it.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Izuku snaps, clenching his fists in his lap. “I can’t stand seeing others hurt. I’m a healer, for gods’ sakes. Not everyone is some filthy, selfish pirate like you.”

Snapping your attention back to him, you send him a steely glare.

“Wait, wait,” Izuku hastily says, reaching up and smacking himself on the forehead, “I didn’t mean that-“

“You said what you said,” you interject. “And you know what? You’re right. I’m so fucking filthy and selfish that I’m the captain of The Pearl Lady. I bathe in blood and gold, you pathetic little twat. And I like it. So, do us both a favor, shut your damn trap, and leave me the hell alone.”

Izuku audibly gulps, his hands falling limp in his lap. You almost want to laugh at him; whenever somebody hears of your infamous title, their reactions are all the same. Despite the stigma towards pirates, you’re still pretty damn powerful, and your crew voted you as captain for a reason. Turning away from Izuku, you settle onto your side, willing for either sleep to take over or for Izuku to magically disappear.

Your quartermaster was right – you should’ve lifted anchor and docked somewhere else.

Anywhere else.

#kny #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #mha #bnha #ny hero academia #boku no hero academia #kny x reader #mha x reader #bnha x reader #demon slayer x reader #kny bnha crossover #serendipity fic

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harlot-of-oblivion · 4 years ago

Text

A Lotus In Full Bloom (Part 9)

Vergil finally confronts his feelings for his lovely rose while you untangle the thorns from around your darling devil’s heart.

It’s finally here! Hope ya’ll are ready for some angst, comforting fluff, and all the romance! 🌹😍🌹

Here’s the link to the list of all the flowers featured in this part 🌺😊🌺

If someone had told Vergil over two decades ago that he would not only be a father but also be in his son’s wedding, he would’ve laughed in their face before calling them a fool. But now, here he is checking over his suit for the big day that is only two days away. And he isn’t just part of the wedding party…he’s all set to surprise the happy couple with a violin performance during their first dance with a little help from his lovely rose.

The thought of you summons that warm feeling in his chest as he zips the garment bag up before putting it back in his closet. Both of you have met every single day since the beach party, tirelessly practicing together in your music room until late at night. You still think that your piano skills are woefully inadequate, but he has the utmost confidence in your abilities. He knows that you can perform this unique gift for his son and future daughter-in-law with him.

There’s only enough time for one more practice session before the rehearsal dinner tomorrow, Vergil thought as he finished getting ready in his room. He glances over to the hidden box underneath his bed, reminding himself to pick some fresh flowers for you before heading over to your place. The pit of his stomach drops a little at the thought, knowing deep down that he will no doubt give you the blooms without a verbal confession despite his best efforts to do so this entire week.

Ever since he shared that intimate moment with you among the waves, he has felt this sickening swirl building up inside him; it grows stronger and stronger the more time he spends with you. And every time he intends to finally confess, it crawls up his throat and stifles his words to a mere quiet gasp of frustration. He honestly does not know what’s come over him; what could possibly be stopping a Son of Sparda from admitting his intentions aloud? The very notion of hesitating at all is maddening…and today is his last chance to tell you how he truly feels before both of you get swept up in the final preparations for the wedding.

Vergil looks over at the wall mirror by his bedroom door, giving himself a nod of approval in the reflection before grabbing the Yamato. I won’t hesitate this time, my lovely rose, he vows with a determined huff while exiting his room. It only takes him a few long strides down the hall to turn around the corner by the staircase. And it is there where he comes upon a strange sight: an oafish buffoon that bears a striking resemblance to his little brother is lying across the couch in the shop’s office, groaning loudly while covering his eyes with one arm.

How…curious, he thought with a quirked brow as he descended the stairs. Dante doesn’t even acknowledge the sound of his soft footfalls nor the occasional creaks of the wood on some of the steps. Vergil rolls his eyes at his brother’s overly dramatic display, but he cannot resist asking about his little farce. “And what, pray tell, has you groaning like a stricken cow?” he snidely inquires, pausing by the foot of the stairs as he waits for his brother’s answer.

Dante turns his head and peeks up from behind his arm. “Have you kissed Buttercup yet?”

Vergil’s jaw hardens into a harsh scowl. “What I do while in the company of Y/N is none of your concern.”

“Unbelievable,” Dante mutters under his breath with a shake of his head. “She’s totally in love with you and you’re blowing it!” he exclaims, waving both arms in the air before letting them flop back down on the couch with a frustrated sigh.

Vergil scoffs at his brother’s attempt to pry into his personal life as he walks behind the desk. “I don’t see how our relationship is any of your business.”

Dante grunts as he sits up on the couch. “Just listen to your brother for once, Verg,” he requests sincerely, voice dropping down into a serious tone. “You gotta make your move soon before she gets the wrong idea.”

The familiar sickening swirl starts to coalesce deep within his belly. “The wrong idea about what?” Vergil asks stubbornly, trying his best to ignore the thick lump forming in his throat as he stares down his brother from across the room.

“Do I really need to spell it out for ya?” Dante asks incredulously as he leans back against his seat. “Man, Buttercup’s really got her work cut out for her,” he sighs with a disappointed frown, crossing one ankle atop his knee while stretching his arms out on the back of the couch as he continues talking. “Being strung along by my dumbass brother, who can’t even admit his own feelings and JUST KISS HER ALREADY!”

Vergil’s brow twitches irritably at his brother’s rowdy voice as it bellows through the shop. He can feel a surly retort forming on the tip of his tongue but just before he can spit it out, the subtle movement of something shifting out of place catches his eye. His head tilts inquisitively as he leans over and peers down behind the radiator, spotting a very gaudy piece of poster board that depicts what looks to be some sort of seaside scenery. But what really grabs his attention is the huge bold letters that make up the header of this poster:

OPERATION: GET DUMBASS BROTHER AND BUTTERCUP TOGETHER

“Dante…” he growls, feeling every last ounce of his composure turning to dust as he reaches for the poster. He pulls it out from its poor hiding place, silently seething as he reads the intricate instructions detailing some of the events that played out during the beach party. “What’s the meaning of this?” he demands, turning the poster around and pointing at the childish drawing of two stick figures holding hands with a deathly glower.

His brother has the audacity to shrug his shoulders defensively. “Whaaaaat? You needed a little push in the right direction and I just-”

“You insufferable wretch!”

Dante grunts as a couple of summoned swords pierce his chest, effectively cutting him off as the offending poster gets shredded by the blue ripple of a small Judgement Cut. “I know you’ve always loved meddling with my private affairs, but you better tread carefully, little brother…” Vergil stalks over to the couch and looms over his brother as he finishes his venomous warning. “I’m in no mood for your foolishness!”

“Maybe if you weren’t so helpless when it comes to romance, you wouldn’t need my help putting your tulips together!” Dante remarks bluntly through gritted teeth, clutching his chest as he rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Look, I know that you somehow managed to nail at least one other lady back in the day, but that doesn’t mean-”

Vergil’s entire body becomes rigid as he draws back from the couch, averting his fierce gaze towards a messy corner of the shop. Dante stops short at the sudden yet subtle shift in his overall demeanor. The air becomes still and eerily quiet since the shop is absent of the jukebox’s abhorrent music for once…until one of them breaks the silence.

“Wait a minute,” Dante murmurs, resting both hands on his knees while looking up at him suspiciously. “Are you afraid of telling her?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Vergil scoffs, barely giving his brother a passing glance as the sickening swirl starts churning in the pit of his stomach.

“Holy shit,” Dante whispers, eyes widening in shock as he keeps goading him into talking more. “You really are afraid, aren’t ya?”

Vergil glares down at his little brother. “I’m no such thing!” he snarls, lips twisting into a bitter grimace while his fists ball up impatiently, one clenching around the Yamato tightly while the other pulls his leather glove taut over his knuckles.

Dante snorts with a nod of his head. “Really? Then why haven’t you swept her off her feet yet, huh?” he inquires with a knowing smirk that only grows wider at the stoic silence that answers his question. “Something’s holding you back…I can tell,” he sighs wearily, crossing his arms and leaning back against the couch again. “So, what’s scaring you off from a total babe like Buttercup?” he wonders aloud, scratching his scruffy chin while staring up at the grody ceiling in thought.

“I will eviscerate you on the spot if you don’t cease this infuriating conversation immediately!” Vergil commands with a vicious growl, lifting the Yamato to show his thumb at the ready below the hilt.

“If it’s really about making the first move, then you can’t say I didn’t try to help!” Dante points out with a wave of his hand, completely ignoring his final warning as he persists with his nosy musings. “C’mon, Verg…talk to me. Are ya afraid of commitment? Or maybe you’re scared she’ll reject-”

Vergil feels the last shred of his self-control snap as he pops the handle up with a loud metallic click. Then, he teleports in front of his brother before sinking the Yamato deep within his gut. Dante grunts from the inflicted pain as he struggles to move, but the sword’s razor-sharp edge has him pinned to the back of the couch. “I’ve had enough of your mindless chatter!” he fumes, giving his blade a grinding twist before withdrawing it with a furious growl.

Dante hisses and doubles over on the couch, clutching his belly while groaning in agony. Vergil pays his brother no mind as he flicks the Yamato clean before sheathing the blade, not caring about making an even bigger mess of the shop as he turns away from his brother. “I’m going for a walk,” he barks while marching over towards the entryway, “and if you know what’s good for you…” He pauses with his hand on the door handle.

“You will not follow me.”

And with those final cautionary words, he jerks the door open and stomps out of the shop in an awfully foul mood. He quickly steps down the stairs before unsheathing the Yamato once more. The faint rumble of thunder booms across the sky as he opens a portal to anywhere but here. His keen ears hear the shop door swing open just as he walks through the portal and some gruff cursing as it seals shut behind him.

Vergil finds himself standing in some sparse woodlands. He has no idea where he is exactly, and he does not care to find out. The only thing occupying his thoughts now is the pure unbridled rage running through his body like a wildfire in the dead of a blistering cold night. And with no one around to witness the crack in his carefully constructed façade of cool composure…the devil inside him roars and claws beneath his skin as this white hot anger fully consumes him, triggering the transformation of his other demonic form with a loud snarl.

The leaves of the surrounding trees tremble at the force of his demonic power as it rushes through the woods. His scorching hot breath comes out in aggravated puffs as he waits for the anger to subside, but his brother’s false assumptions keep ringing through his mind…making his blood boil even hotter as he takes to the air. How dare he make such foolish claims…fear doesn’t suit a Son of Sparda! he seethes while zooming over the scattered canopy of trees.

Then why haven’t you swept her off her feet yet, huh?

Dante’s astute observation strikes at the heart of the matter just as a streak of lightning flashes through the sky. The sickening swirl is back and stronger than ever as it coils into a nauseous knot deep within his gut, forcing him to halt his furious flight as thunder crashes down all around him with a loud crack. He hovers amid the charged air, hoping that the rumbling roll of the oncoming storm would drown out the maddening thoughts of his mind…but the persistent voice of his brother keeps chipping away at his resolve.

Holy shit…You really are afraid, aren’t ya?

Something’s holding you back…I can tell.

Are ya afraid of commitment? Or maybe you’re scared she’ll reject-

Vergil lets out a tormented roar, no longer able to stand the torrent of thoughts whirling in his head. The distorted tone of his suffering melds with the deafening boom of thunder as the sky finally breaks open. He stares up at the dark clouds and as the heavy drops of summer rain douse his armored face, he cannot help but think of the day he first spoke to you…how he found you standing in the rain moments after you brazenly bloomed before his very eyes. You were the image of pure tranquility…staring up at the sky while your lovely face glistened in the sprinkling rain.

The very thought of you drains every bit of his bitter anger out of him…leaving only misery and regret in its wake. He slowly descends towards an open area of the woodlands, no longer feeling up to flying away from the truth. His demonic form fades away with a quick flash as soon as he lands, kneeling upon the wet and grassy ground with a dull thud. The heavy rainfall immediately soaks through his slicked back hair and signature coat now that the thick armor plating is gone. But he hardly notices his drenched state while the thunderstorm raging on above, dejectedly hanging his head as he finally faces the truth buried deep within his tangled briars.

I’m afraid of getting hurt...again.

The hurtful memory of his mother leading Dante by the hand away from danger flashes before his eyes. He remembers seeing them enter the manor together from the playground…leaving him behind with the demons running amok. It was on that fateful day that he first felt the sting of rejection…being abandoned by his mother and watching her save his brother shaped his ruthless outlook on life for years to come. And even though he now knows that she not only turned back but died trying to save him…it still does not erase the pain he went through while enduring his past trauma and all the trials and tribulations thereafter.

I’m afraid of being rejected…again.

Vergil clenches his fists as another unwelcome memory comes to taunt him. He squeezes his eyes shut, hoping to bury the image of a woman clad in red back into the deeper recesses of his mind. What a strange twist of misfortune…he can recall the day she spurned his offer to stay with her, and yet he cannot even remember her face nor any other details about the mother of his only son! And with that little tryst, he learned a harsh yet necessary truth: rejection is inevitable when you’re a Son of Sparda.

But knowing a truth does not mean you have to accept it, my darling devil.

The sweet lilt of your voice shakes him out of his brooding thoughts, bringing him back down to the present. Even when you are not there with him…you know exactly what to say to pull him back from the darkest part of his crumbling soul. He blinks and wipes away droplets of rain from his eyes, but the relentless downpour of the storm blows against his gloomy face as he picks himself up from the grassy ground. The painful memories of his past slowly recede as he wanders aimlessly through the marshy woodlands, completely despondent while a litany of self-loathing spins uncontrollably around in his head.

How can a prickly devil such as myself ever be worthy of her love and affection?

I have nothing to offer her except torment and despair…

There’s no sense in delaying the inevitable.

After all, I’d only be a burden to her if I kept denying what I’ve always known since the beginning of our unlikely relationship...

I’m unworthy of the lovely rose that has bloomed within my heart.

His sulking spell comes to a screeching halt when the faint glimmer of a pink flower catches his eye. He suddenly becomes aware of surroundings; the thunderstorm has dwindled down to a light shower and the sky has grown dark with the approaching night. But the total loss of time doesn’t fully sink in as he moves in closer towards a peaceful pond, feeling drawn to the exquisite blossom upon its serene surface.

Whenever you find yourself consumed by despair…remember the spirit of the lotus.

The soothing tone of your voice drowns out his dreadful contemplation. He recalls the day he heard those wise words pass from your lips…he shared a meal with you for the very first time among the beautiful blooms of your garden. A lotus begins its existence in the dark and murky depths, your charming voice continues to ring through his head as he wades through the pond towards the lone lotus. For it to fully bloom it must endure those harsh conditions, pushing through the mud and the muck as it rises towards clearer waters. He reaches down and cups the elegant bloom with both of his hands while your flowery anecdote ends on a happy and hopeful note.

Eventually, its resilience pays off when the lotus breaks through the surface and its petals slowly unfurl to soak up the rays of the sun for the very first time.

Vergil summons a sword and carefully cuts the lone lotus from the pond. I may have missed the practice session…but perhaps this will make up for my tardiness, he surmises while storing the lotus inside his soaking wet coat before calling for the Yamato. He finds himself facing one last truth as he opens a portal just outside the gate behind your house:

You may be better off without him…but he simply can’t let go of the lovely rose that has miraculously bloomed within his briars.

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

You’ve had a pretty hectic week since the beach party: between putting together all the floral arrangements and many musical interludes with Vergil, you’ve been busier than a bee in the spring. And you’re only going to be buzzing around even harder now that the big day is only two days away! All of your time today was spent doing last minute preparations before the wedding rehearsal, making sure all the flowers are accounted for before being delivered, and squeezing in one last practice session before the imminent chaos of a wedding frenzy.

Well, that was the plan anyway, but then Vergil didn’t show up on the agreed time, which struck you as very odd…he’s always been so punctual and has even been cross with you on a couple occasions whenever he had to wait for you to join him! You tried calling his cellphone after waiting for a while, thinking that maybe he just got delayed or something…but there was no answer. And there must not be anyone at the shop either since nobody picked up the phone there either.

Your gut tells you that something is wrong, but you’re at a loss of what to do about it. You thought about contacting either Kyrie or Nero, but the soon-to-be wedded couple already have enough on her mind. Plus, you do not want to add any unnecessary stress if it turns out to be nothing at all. So, you decide to just keep an eye on your phone while putting the finishing touches on the dress you’ve made especially for the happy occasion.

I hope he’s okay, you thought, worrying your lower lip while reinforcing the floral embroidery with a needle and some thread. You try to stay focused on the task at hand, but your mind keeps going back to your darling devil. Vergil has become such a huge part of your everyday life ever since that fateful rainy day in the book café. It feels so empty without his familiar presence near you now…always watching from the corner of his eye with a soft smile or sharing a favorite passage from a beloved book. And even though your romantic feelings haven’t technically been reciprocated aloud, you know that your affection has taken root and with a little more patience…just a little more…

Another roll of distant thunder echoes through the room as the storm finally lets up, but now it has gotten dark outside. Your eyes flicker over to check the time on a nearby clock and see that you have missed dinner…by six hours! Sweet basil, I should really pay more attention! you berate yourself while cutting the thread with your teeth. You stick your sewing needle into a stuffed rose bud that serves as your pin cushion and gather up all the spare scrapes of tulle, lace, and satin. As you hang up the dress, you note that it’s so close to being complete; all it needs is some minor fixes and a good steaming before it’s ready for the wedding.

You sigh and head downstairs for a belated dinner, wondering if you should heat up some leftovers or just make a sandwich with some veggie chips. By the time you get to the kitchen, you’ve made up your mind and open the fridge to take out your homemade chicken salad with grapes and pecans. Your stomach growls impatiently as you grab a couple slices of ciabatta bread and put this simple meal together on a plate. You add some salt and vinegar zucchini chips to the plate before pouring yourself a tall glass of iced hibiscus tea.

“There…now it’s time to eat, drink, and be rosemary!” you cheer, softly giggling to yourself while taking your meal to the small dining table across from the kitchen.

You set your plate down before pulling a chair out, but the sudden ringing of your doorbell stops you from taking your seat. Huh…that’s strange, you muse with a curious tilt of your head, it’s a bit late for receiving visitors. You bite your lower lip and twirl a stray lock of your hair around your fingers while considering your options: it would be rude to not answer the door…after all, it could be someone in need of help! But then you remember the worried face of your darling devil that day in your garden when the demons attacked, recalling the promise you made to not put yourself into any possible danger ever again…

The doorbell rings once more and you finally decide to see who it could possibly be since it seems they have no intention of leaving. And besides, it could be Vergil, you reason while making your way down the hall. And he could even be hurt! you add in panic, picking up the pace until coming to a halt just on the other side of the front door. You take a quick peek through the tiny peephole and your starving stomach drops at the sight of a familiar stoic face on the other side of the door.

“What in carnation!” you gasp in shock before ripping the front door open. “Vergil? What are you doing out so late in this rain?”

The devil in question just silently stands there looking sullen and soaking wet as he glances down at you. His icy blue eyes are filled to the brim with melancholy and unspoken regret. And his perfectly styled white hair is now disheveled and framing his sodden face. He shows no sign of hearing your inquiry and continues to stare down at you quietly. You do not know what may have happened, but whatever it is…it’s shaken him to the core, and you will not idly stand by while your darling devil suffers alone.

“Here,” you whisper while offering your hand, “come inside.”

Vergil seems to ponder for a moment while his eyes dart down towards your hands. Then, he raises one gloved hand and places it upon your own warm and welcoming palm. You gently guide him inside your home, noting how cold and damp his skin is as you close the front door. “Alright,” you sigh in relief now that he is safe within the comforting walls of your home. “Now, you need some dry clothes to change into since you’re absolutely drenched!” you explain with a sweet and cheery grin.

You start to walk towards the stairs, but the slight tugging on your hands stops you in your tracks. “Don’t worry,” you murmur, looking back over your shoulder at the man who not only stole your heart, but also needs your help right now. “Let me take care of you, Vergil,” you plead quietly, reassuring him with a soft squeeze of your hand. The spark of concern within his eyes recedes as he nods his head in consent.

Your lips curl into a gracious smile as you lead him up the stairs and straight towards your bedroom. You hope that he doesn’t notice the mess in his distressed state as you usher him into your adjoining bathroom. “I’m gonna scrounge up some spare clothes while you dry off,” you explain with a gentle nod of your head. “And feel free to the shower if you want,” you suggest while pointing to one corner of your bathroom. “There should be some soap and shampoo already in there.”

Vergil looks at the glass doors of your shower and back at you before rubbing the back of your hand in understanding with his thumb. You squeeze his hand one last time before backing away towards the door. “Just uh…put your wet clothes right outside the door and I’ll take care of them,” you inform while stepping out of the bathroom, trying hard to not let your mind wander into more steamy territory. “And I’ll uh…leave those spare clothes just outside the door for you, okay?”

You give one last encouraging smile before closing the bathroom door. Your mind starts to race as you rush over to the closet and start frantically searching for anything that comes close to being his size. But all you can find is an oversized T-shirt and some baggy cotton pants that you sometimes wear to bed. Hmm…they might fit, you ponder before tossing them onto your bed along with a floral satin bathrobe you spot hanging on your vanity mirror. Then, you scurry down the upstairs hall and open the door to your childhood room, remembering that you had a large quantity of flowery fabric that you once used to make some curtains.

This will do nicely if all else fails! you reckon with a crafty grin while cutting a huge section of the fabric off the spool. You fold it up nicely and head back to your bedroom to put it with the assortment of clothing by the bathroom door. A pile of soggy blue clothes is waiting right outside the door just as you requested, so you quickly drop off the dry clothes and carefully gather up his signature coat, vest, leather pants, boots, gloves…

Your eyes widen when you realize that there isn’t any underwear to be found. You look towards the bathroom door just as the shower turns on and you find yourself thinking about all the times you spent together, wondering if he had always…you can’t even finish the thought without blushing. There’s no time for dilly-dallying! you reprimanded yourself with a shake of your head before marching out of your bedroom and back downstairs to take care of Vergil’s wet clothes.

You zoom by the belated dinner that is still waiting for you on the small dining table, but you ignore it for now and open the door to the laundry room. As you place the pile of clothes on top of the dryer, you catch a whiff of what smells like the lake in your hometown: murky and a little bit musty with a hint of fresh rain. Did he go swimming in the middle of that thunderstorm? you wonder while sorting through the wet clothes. You decide to at least wash his signature coat and hang the rest up to dry since they need special treatment to get clean.

It only takes you a couple seconds to check the pockets before putting his coat into the washer with a scoop of laundry detergent. Then, you dig up a few hangers lying around before hanging up the rest of his clothes except for his boots, which go underneath your ironing board to prevent any tripping. You walk out of the laundry room and your stomach growls impatiently as you pass by your neglected dinner again…but the sudden thought of preparing a place for Vergil to sleep delays your meal for just a bit longer as you rush back upstairs.

The only other bedroom you have is your old childhood room, but it’s more of a supply closet now for various things. And your mother’s small and quaint library would work if it weren’t for all the dust plus the lack of furniture. So, that only leaves your room or the couch in your living room…you can already feel your cheeks heating up at the thought of inviting Vergil to share your bed. But your heart tells you that despite the tempting opportunity, now is not the time to pull such a risky move since it’s obvious that something is troubling him…and you’re going to help soothe his sorrowful soul.

You enter your room and notice that the shower is no longer running as you head towards the closet again. And as you walk back out with an arm full of pillows and blankets, you note that the assortment of dry clothes you left out is now gone. You hurry down the stairs and dump the pillows onto a nearby chair so that you can lay a couple of blankets out on the couch. Then, you replace all the decorative pillows with comfier ones while looking over your handy work. But when you take in the overall size of your couch, you start to wonder if his long legs will even be able to rest on the couch comfortably.

Well, it’ll have to do, you thought with a resigned sigh while turning around to check up on your devilish guest.

“Friggin’ figs!”

The sudden appearance of Vergil quietly lurking behind you makes your heart skip a beat as you jump back a little. You clutch your chest while taking a couple of deep breaths as your eyes linger up and down his form. The floral satin robe stretches taut around his shoulders, and you guess that it must’ve been too short since the flowery fabric is wrapped around his waist and hanging down below his knees. His eyes still have a gloomy spark within their icy blue depths as they stare back at you through his damp hair. And even with that pouty frown on his handsome face, he looks a lot better than when he first walked into your home a little while ago. So, you let your usual quip about wrapping a bell around his neck die of your tongue and give him a relieved smile.

“I brought out some extra pillows and blankets just in case you needed them,” you explain, gesturing behind you towards the now ready-for-bed couch. “But it might be a bit too small for you,” you tack on sheepishly, biting your lower lip in thought while Vergil takes a couple steps closer to you. “Maybe I should just sleep here while you…take…” you gradually trail off as he brings one hand around from behind his back to reveal an extraordinarily beautiful pink lotus flower. Your heart thrums like a buzzing dragonfly as you reach out to caress one of its many elegant petals.

“Is this why you were completely soaked from head to toe?” you inquire, realizing that he must have waded out into a deep pond to pick this flower of pure devotion. He remains silent as you look up at him, but the way his eyes soften for the barest of moments before slowly blinking tells you it’s part of the reason why he’s so drenched. Your lips quirk into a fond smile at the thought of your prim and proper devil trudging through mucky water for a most wondrous bloom just so he could give it to you.

“It’s getting late,” you murmur while lowering your affectionate gaze to the offered flower, taking it from his hand and holding it close to your heart. “We need to get some rest since the wedding rehearsal is tomorrow and-”

“Stay with me.”

Your eyes widen and snap back up to meet his solemn gaze. Vergil takes another step closer to you, reaching up with one hand to cup your face. You find that you cannot deny his earnest request as you lean into his touch and shiver at his warm touch as he caresses your rosy cheek. “Okay…but let me just-”

The very loud and hungry growl of your stomach abruptly ends the tender moment. Vergil furrows his brow in confusion while you softly giggle and pat your belly. “I was about to eat dinner when you arrived,” you reveal with a bashful smirk. He frowns sadly at your words and begins to move away, but you place your hand on top of his before it can leave your cheek and press a soft kiss against his wrist.

“Let me just grab my plate and bring it in here,” you continue while rubbing the back of his hand. “I can also make you something to eat too if you haven’t had dinner yet,” you kindly insist with a small smirk.

Vergil declines your offer of dinner with a shake of his head. Your lips press one last kiss against his wrist before excusing yourself with a light pat on the back of his hand. You place the precious lotus flower on the coffee table before dashing to your neglected sandwich, which is still patiently waiting along with your now lukewarm drink. But you don’t seem to notice as you pick it all up and hurry back to the living room.

You take a seat on the couch and invite Vergil to join you by patting the empty cushion beside you with a pleasant smile. The corners of his mouth twitch into a soft smile as he sits down close to you. The only sound filling the comfortable silence between you two is the light tapping of rain against the roof of your house. His stiff posture gradually unwinds as he watches you from the corner of his eye while you finally eat your dinner. You give him a veggie chip after every other bite of your sandwich, which he always accepts despite turning down your earlier offer of food.

You ask if he still needs some company before going to bed as soon as you are finished eating your dinner. He responds with the same soft request while squeezing your hand within his firm grip. His eyes track your every move as you collect the dirty dishes before standing up, never letting your hand go until you let him know that you will only be gone for a moment. “I can’t very well sleep in this dress now, can I?” you ask with a soft giggle, slightly swinging your clasped hands while gesturing towards your pink and white floral skirt.

Vergil nods his head in understanding and kisses the back of your hand before letting it go. You walk back to the kitchen to put the dirty dishes in the sink, and then you quickly make your way upstairs to get ready for bed. Some of your daydreams about giving your darling devil a place to stay after a rigorous battle with demons start running through your mind while picking out a nightgown. You also recall one particular daydream about patching up his wounds after saving you from mortal peril…which somehow leads to you writhing in pleasure beneath him…

Your cheeks feel like they are on fire by the time you finally settle on wearing a long nightgown with a white floral pattern. You get undressed and slip on the gown before letting down your hair, pushing all the salacious thoughts out of your mind with a flustered shake of your head. After taking a few more minutes to use the bathroom and brush your teeth, you head downstairs and hurry back towards the laundry room to put his signature coat into the dryer before rejoining your darling devil in the living room.

Vergil hasn’t moved an inch since you left, still sitting motionless on the couch until he hears your dainty footsteps. He raises his head up at your soft approach, and you swear his eyes seem to dimly glow as they roam up and down your shapely form. Your body shivers at his blatant gaze as you adjust some of the pillows on one end of the couch before grabbing one of the numerous blankets you brought for him. You know…it would’ve made more sense to give him one of these instead of that huge piece of fabric, you silently admit, hiding the embarrassment of making such a silly decision with a coy smile.

You sit back down on the couch and lie back against the pillows, beckoning Vergil to come join you while holding both your arms out towards him. He only hesitates for a moment before crawling over and laying his head just below your chin while you cover both of your bodies with the blanket. His arms wrap around your waist, burying his face in the crook of your neck. You nuzzle the top of his head while your arms encircle his broad shoulders, sheathing his weary soul with the love and affection you have for him.

Both of you lie there on the couch swathed in each other’s comforting presence while the rest of the world passes by in silence. Vergil has only spoken three words since arriving at your doorstep, never revealing what exactly is wrong. But now that he’s safe within your arms, you can feel the faint trickling of tears dripping against your neck, hidden away from your view as you snuggle him closer. You do not ask why he’s crying…you know that will only thicken the prickly briars around his heart. Instead, you just let him express the inner turmoil currently raging inside him while providing a safe place for him to release all these pent-up emotions churning inside him.

The harsh downpour from earlier has now lessened to a light rainfall, barely occupying the empty air with its pitter pattering of the dissipating storm. You can still feel Vergil trying to put up a strong front despite the tears pooling in the groove between your neck and chest. Your fingers brush through his soft hair while you press a comforting kiss upon his forehead, wondering how you can possibly bring peace to his troubled mind. The only solution that pops into your head is what your grandma used to do whenever you were sad and upset: sing you to sleep with a lullaby. So, you begin to softly sing one of your favorite lullabies from your childhood, hoping that the serene lilt of your song will help soothe your darling devil’s soul:

Count to one, count to two, where do flowers grow?

Underneath the window where children softly doze

The moon shining brightly makes every petal glow

Count to three, count to four, where do flowers bloom?

Resting upon the mirror frame in mama's room,

A sweet little bud of a beautiful flower of blue

Let us count them all, let us count them all,

All the lovely flowers blooming, let us count them all!

Count to seven, count to eight, as we fall asleep

Every child is dreaming of fragrant flowers sweet

And momma makes a bouquet for you to keep

The soft cadence of your voice fills the room, banishing the gloomy air surrounding you with every refrain of your sweet lullaby. You feel all the tension slowly leave Vergil’s body until all that you’re left with is a totally relaxed devil sinking into your loving embrace. One of your hands rubs up and down his back while the other continues to rake your fingers through his hair, hoping that you lulled him to sleep while your eyes droop from your own drowsiness. You try to fight it off, wanting to be there for him just in case he needs you, but you feel yourself drifting off…clutching onto him while trying to stay grounded in the waking world…

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

You’re not aware of finally succumbing to sleep until the first ray of dawn shines through the window. You slowly open your eyes and start to wonder why you are sleeping on the couch instead of your very comfy bed…but then you feel the soft touch of familiar lips kissing your neck. The memory of Vergil showing up at your doorstep in the middle of a storm swiftly dispels your confusion. You hug the man that makes your heart sing like a songbird in the morning while his lips leave your neck to bestow a light peck on your cheek.

Vergil props himself up with one arm and brushes a few locks of your hair away from your weary face. “Good morning, my lovely rose,” he murmurs with a fond smirk.

“Mmm…good morning,” you hum, sweetly smiling back at him while looking down with a demure tilt of your head. “Feeling any better now that you’ve had some rest?” you inquire, fighting the urge to yawn while rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

“Yes,” he replies with a firm nod. “But sleep isn’t what lifted my spirits,” he admits, softly caressing your cheek as his silver blue eyes shine with admiration.

You happily beam up at him and quietly bask in this intimate moment while leaning into his touch before asking if he would like some morning tea. He gladly accepts your offer with a slight nod of his head and sits up so that you can get up from the couch. You catch a glimpse of his bare legs in all their glory before he covers them up with the blanket. The flowery fabric must’ve come loose during his sleep, you surmise, spotting the piece of fabric in question down on the floor by the couch. Warm tingles flutter around in your stomach like a swarm of butterflies as you hop off the couch and rush towards the kitchen before you make a blushing fool of yourself so early in the morning.

It takes you a few minutes to brew a couple cups of blackberry and mint tea while pushing away all the elaborate daydreams that try to occupy your thoughts. You make your way back to the living room and hand Vergil his cuppa with a kind smile before taking a seat next to him. Both of you drink your tea in comfortable silence, enjoying the sweet tartness of blackberries while the refreshing undertone of mint banishes the remnants of sleep from your mind. You peek up at him between every other sip of your tea, wondering if you should even bring up what happened to him yesterday.

You wait until he’s about done with his tea before finally broaching the subject. “Do you want to talk about what made you so upset?”

Vergil pauses at your question while setting his cup down on the coffee table. You give him a moment to recover before continuing. “You don’t have to tell me anything,” you softly reassure with a comforting pat on his arm. “And if you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to-”

“You’ve already done so much for me,” he interjects, staring down at you with dejected eyes. “And it is I that should return the favor and explain myself.” He takes your partly finished tea and sets it next to his empty cup before turning his body towards you on the couch while holding both of your hands. His thumb sweeps across your knuckles as he takes a moment to collect his thoughts. You cannot help but to admire his handsome face while waiting for him to speak, wondering if his unkempt hair always frames those beautifully blue eyes of his every morning.

Vergil takes a deep breath through his nose before pinning you down with his pensive gaze. “For a long time, I genuinely believed that my mother abandoned me during the attack on our childhood home. I’ve endured for years with that burdensome truth hanging over my head until…” he trails off, squeezing your hands while closing his eyes for a moment before going on. “It turns out that she did try to save me…she just didn’t make it before…” he pauses again as the trauma of his childhood breaks through his voice.

Your eyes begin welling up with unshed tears as he takes a shuddering breath, wanting to wrap your darling devil within your protective embrace. But he quickly composes himself with another calm and more even breath, and you resist the urge to pull him into a hug for now as he continues to speak. “And then there was this woman who I thought…” he bows his head and rubs the back of your hands with his thumbs as he tells you the sad ending of that romance. “She spurned me even after I confessed my desire to stay by her side.”

You hear the sharp pang of heartache in his words, which dredges up your own personal experiences with the painful sting of rejection. A single tear starts trickling down your cheek as you lean over and nuzzle up against his chest, squeezing his hands in understanding while he finishes his explanation. “I finally just resigned myself to living a life spent alone, vowing to never let anyone get too close again since all they ever bring is pain and suffering...until now.”

Vergil grasps your shoulder and gently pushes you back from his chest. “I find myself wanting to spend my every waking moment with you,” he earnestly confesses, bringing his hand below your chin and lifting your face up so that he can stare into your teary eyes. “The lovely rose who has captivated the heart and soul of this crumbling devil before you,” he adds with a sincere smile, cupping your lovely face and wiping away your warm tears with his thumb.

Your heart thrums within your chest like a hummingbird as his heartfelt confession graces your ears. You gaze up at the man who has cleared a path through his prickly briars to the heart and soul of his very being. You’ve longed to hear those words ever since that day in the book café where you finally found the courage to speak to him. It ended with you making the promise of only taking a small step among the briars and yet, here you are now…just one last step away from the alluring devil that has captured your heart and soul as well.

Vergil leans down and rests his head against your brow, still rubbing your cheek fondly while staring deeply into your hopeful eyes. You’re drawn to the flicker of conviction within the depth of his icy blue eyes, and you feel yourself being pulled in closer and closer…but the sudden flash of uncertainty gives you pause. You silently ask if this is truly what he wants with a tilt of your head. He sighs and takes both of your hands once more, closing his eyes before lifting his head to press a soft kiss between your brow.

“I have nothing to offer to you in return,” he murmurs sadly against your skin. “And I’m not worthy of your love and affection.”

Your eyes widen in astonishment as you rear your head back. “But you’ve already given me the best gift, my darling devil,” you reveal, shaking your head at his silly assumption with an amused smirk.

“Truly?” he whispers while the little crinkle between his brow that you’ve always found so endearing furrows in confusion.

“Of course!” you giggle softly, nodding your head as you lean in closer. “I’ve seen your requited love with every flower you’ve ever given me.” Your eyes glance over at the exquisite lotus flower still sitting on the coffee table near your forgotten cup of tea. “And with every soft caress upon my cheek…” You lift your arm and trace up along his elegant jaw with the back of your hand. “And with every gentle kiss pressing so sweetly…”

You lean up as far as you can without leaving your seat and press your lips just above the corner of his mouth, mimicking his previous kisses at the beach and by the camellias. All signs of lingering doubt vanish from his eyes, which only leaves a fierce flicker that sparks into unbridled desire. He leans down and wraps his arms around you while lowering his head towards your chest, pulling you closer to him until you are practically sitting in his lap. You feel his mouth moving just below your neck as he softly recites what sounds like a poem, but the intimate touch of his lips muddles your mind while his sensuous voice makes your body tremble with anticipation:

Innocent breasts, when I have looked upon them,

Would that my hands were there,

How have I craved, and dreaming thus upon them,

Love wakened from despair.

Vergil pauses and nuzzles your neck for a moment before drawing back to pull you even closer to him. You clutch the floral satin robe around his shoulders and let out a shuddering sigh as he cups your flushed cheek once more, meeting your ardent gaze while gently nestling his face closer to your own. His thumb slowly traces your gaping mouth as he continues his riveting recitation:

Beauty on lips flaming,

Roses red with her shaming,

And I with passion burning

And with my whole heart yearning

For her mouth, her mouth, her mouth,

That on her beauty I might slake my drouth.

A soft whimper creeps up your throat when the amorous poem comes to an end, but the feel of his soft lips crashing against your mouth turns the whimper into an enraptured moan. You tilt your head slightly while your arms slide up around his neck, letting him have more access to your lips as you kiss him back with wild abandon. All the pent-up tension of the last few months is finally released as both of your lips smack against each with feverous hunger. One of your hands slithers down his chest and slips beneath the satin robe before resting right over his heart. You let the rhythm of his passionate heartbeat lull you into a rapturous stupor, relishing the sight, the smell, the feel, the taste…just everything about the devil sets your heart aflame.

Vergil squeezes your hip with one hand while the other rakes through your hair, cradling your head as he swipes his tongue out against your lower lip. You part your lips and softly moan as he plunges in, showing no mercy as he explores the cavern of your mouth with his devilish tongue. His movements are a bit clumsy from lack of practice, but his enthusiasm makes up for it as he guides you to lie back on the couch, never breaking away from your lips while enclosing you beneath his body. You surge forth and entangle your tongue with his own while pulling him tighter against you, greedy for more of your darling devil’s kiss after waiting for so long. The outside world fades away and time becomes meaningless as both of your lips silently beg for more, more, more…

The unexpected chime of your doorbell rings through the room, but neither of you cease your heady kissing as it rings again…and again…until a series of very loud knocking cracks against your front door. Vergil finally breaks away from your gasping mouth with a growl, glaring towards your front door with spite in his eyes. You are about to wonder who could be visiting this early in the morning aloud when a familiar voice booms through the door:

“Hey, Buttercup! Anyone home?”

Dante gives another ring of the doorbell along with some more knocking, which only deepens the vicious scowl on his brother’s face. You sigh softly and cup his cheek before turning his harsh gaze back towards you with a tender caress of your thumb. His silvery blue eyes instantly soften as soon as they peer down at your flushed face, and he smirks with pride while bending down to kiss your reddened lips. He tries to pry your lips open once more, but you gently push him back before his tempting tongue can sweep away.

“We both know that he’s not going anywhere until we answer,” you point out while the knocking gets even louder. “Plus, it sounds like he’s about to break down my door!”

Vergil remains still as he stares down you, mulling over your reasoning as his brother’s persistence makes his brow twitch with annoyance. “Foolishness,” he growls softly before sitting up on the couch so that you can go get the door. The floral satin robe loosened up a little during your heated kiss, so you do your best to not openly stare at his chest as he wraps a blanket around his waist. You pick up the flowery fabric from the floor and cloak it over your shoulders as you scamper off towards the entryway.

You open the door just as Dante is about to bang on it again. “Well, look who’s up earlier than a morning glory!” you exclaim with a radiant smile while placing a hand on your hip.

Dante nods his head in greeting before rubbing the back of his head. “Sorry for waking you up so early,” he apologizes with a sheepish grin, but you can see a glint of worry within his eyes before it quickly disappears. “But my cranky brother ran away from home and I was wonderin’ if you’ve seen him recently?” he asks while taking out a piece of paper from his coat pocket. He opens it up and shows you a poor rendition of his brother’s likeness drawn in what looks to be crayon.

“I am not some stray dog, Dante!”

You look over your shoulder at the sound of Vergil’s angry voice. He stomps across the living room towards the entryway while Dante lets out a bark of laughter at his brother’s furious remark. “Well, ya could’ve fooled…me…” he stammers, eyes growing wide with shock as Vergil appears behind you. Your head turns back and forth between them as they just stare at each other in silence, comparing Dante’s astonished grin to Vergil’s severe frown.

Your eyes glance up at Vergil as you step away from the door. “I’m gonna check to see if your clothes are dry,” you inform, gesturing towards the laundry with your head. “Just please don’t damage my front porch, okay?” you implore with a charming grin.

Vergil chortles at your humorous plea. “You have my word,” he vows with a small stoic bow before stepping out onto your porch, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Your ears pick up the distinct sound of summon swords materializing as you rush towards the laundry room. You wince at Dante’s grunts of pain echoing through the hall as you enter the kitchen. But instead of checking on his clothes, you sneak out the back door and run through your garden, not caring about the morning dew chilling your bare feet as you quickly pick the perfect flowers. Then, you hurry back inside to really check on his clothes this time; his shoes and leather pants are fairly dry while his vest remains very damp. You open the dryer and pull out his signature coat, nodding your head in approval at its crisp and clean appearance before laying it out on your ironing board.

I can’t tie flowers around the Yamato this time, but I can still surprise him in other ways! you contend while going back to the kitchen. You bind the little bouquet of flowers with some twine you cut from a spare spool before heading back to the laundry room. All the lovely memories of Vergil pulling flowers from the inside pocket of his coat plays in your mind as you hide the pretty blooms in the very same place. The front door slams shut just as you are gathering his clothes into your arms. You walk out the laundry room and meet Vergil in the hallway, exchanging a few hurried words as you lead him down the hall towards the guest bathroom.

You tidy up the living room while he changes clothes, but your thoughts are buzzing with all that has happened since late last night. The couch is still slightly warm from both of you sleeping there…and kissing there. Your lips tingle at the thought, already aching for another kiss from your darling devil. The familiar warmth of a blush dusts your cheeks as you fold the blankets and stack the pillows. As soon as the couch is all straightened out, you turn to the coffee table and reach for the teacups, but an almost fully dressed Vergil entering the living room halts your hand.

The vest must’ve been too damp for his liking, you observe with subtle gulp while your eyes appreciate the pleasant view of a disheveled devil walking towards you. The lapels of his signature coat sway with every step, revealing just enough of his bare chest for your hungry eyes. And you cannot help but to admire the alluring sway of his white hair around his gorgeous face as he pins you down with his fierce gaze. The knowing smirk curling on his lips makes you shiver with delight as he stands in front of you.

“I guess you’ve got to go now, huh?” you inquire with a doleful pout.

Vergil gives you a confirming nod. “I promised Nero that I would help him memorize his vows before rehearsal later this afternoon,” he informs while taking your hand within his gentle grasp. “Thank you for receiving me with such warm generosity despite my tardiness.” He bows his head and lifts your hand up to give the top of your knuckles a tender kiss. His adoring gaze never strays from your enamored stare as his lips linger up the back of your hand. “And thank you for the lovely flowers in my coat pocket,” he murmurs, pressing one last kiss against your hand with a smug grin.

You let out a small huff as his lips draw back from your hand. “You’re supposed to find them while walking back to the shop!” you exclaim as he reaches into his coat to reveal what you thought was a well-hidden tiny bouquet of snowdrops with a single red dahlia. “They would’ve looked prettier on the Yamato anyway,” you mutter, rolling your eyes while staring down at your feet in defeat.

“I tend to agree.”

Vergil extends his arm to the side and a sudden flash of bright blue energy surrounds his hand. Your eyes widen in surprise as the Yamato materializes out of thin air within his grasp. He hands the flowers over to you before holding the impressive sword out for you to tie the tiny bouquet to its sheath. Your face lights up and an excited giggle escapes your lips as you loosen the twine around the flowers and carefully wrap them around the Yamato. The white snowdrops add a touch of hopefulness while the single red dahlia compliments the sword’s power and strength, perfectly conveying the message you wish to send:

Never doubt my love for I’ve always been forever yours.

“There!” you exclaim as soon as you are done tying the flowers with a secure bow. “They really are quite beautiful, aren’t they?”

You feel your heart bloom as you glance up to behold his besotted gaze. “Yes,” he replies while wrapping an arm around your waist. “But it’s not their beauty that captivates me, my beloved rose,” he declares before capturing your lips in a passionate kiss.

Your mouth instantly gives into his unyielding mouth with a soft whimper, clutching the lapels of his coat while craning your neck to meet every ravenous stroke of his tongue. This kiss is more desperate, as if he’s begging you to accept every scar upon his soul, pleading that you’ll stay beside him despite the dangers of treading through his prickly briars. And you give yourself to him openly, accepting his battered and bruised soul, vowing to love every part of him despite all the thorns that may cut you along the way. Neither of you want the kiss to end, constantly taking turns drawing back only to be drawn in again for just a little bit longer…but both of you have a busy day ahead. So, your fervid kiss eventually slows down until both of you exchange a few sweet pecks on each other’s lips.

You walk with Vergil to the entryway but stop him from opening the door, claiming that he needs to give you a farewell kiss with a cheery grin. He raises an amused brow and bends down to fulfill your request, giving you the perfect opening to rake your fingers through his hair. He hums against your lips as the soft white locks stay up in his usual slicked back style, and you happily announce that he’s now ready to face the chaos of a wedding rehearsal. He chuckles softly at your cute gesture and promises to speak more about your newfound relationship after the wedding before taking his leave.

As soon as the door shuts behind him, you look through the peephole and see Dante waiting at the bottom of your driveway. Vergil walks past him and down the street, which earns an amused shrug from his brother before he chases after him. You continue to watch until both of them disappear from your view before turning around and leaning back against the door. You lift your hand and lightly touch your lips, which still tingle from your darling devil’s kiss as the significance of what just happened sinks in…and then, you let out a joyous squeal while bouncing around like a bumbling bee.

He called me his beloved rose!

This subtle change to his endearment for you may be small, but it’s enough to send your heart soaring high like a skylark. Never have you felt such sweet bliss as this…but there’s no time dawdle with an impending wedding around the corner! So, you fly up the stairs to get ready for the day busy ahead while thinking about Vergil. And as your mind wanders through many rapturous daydreams, you reflect upon a certain truth within your heart: you will gladly bear the prick of your darling devil’s pain for there will always be thorns amidst the roses.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Read on Ao3

My Masterlist if you want more 💖

The lullaby is Hanakazoe (Chise’s Lullaby). The steamy poem is from Carmina Burana (trans. by Helen Waddell). And I’d like to thank @furyeclipse and @twinkstimulator for beta reading my first attempt at angst 🌹😘🌹

Tagging: @drusoona @bettybattaglia @exsultry @thedyingmoon @veenus-ow @meowykittenn @fandomhell97 @vergilsangel @thenightgazer @cherryvane @yesno18 @diabeticsugarush @queenmuzz @mary-v-o-n @tinamalee @a-midsummer-nights-odyssey @ancientwhitefire @agentdedf1sh @divinity-deos @shiranyaaww @skarlet-red-rose @lucinalu219 @superluckystar

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shinichirosbabymama · 4 years ago

Note

Levi being protective of a young male recruit who saved him from a bunch of Titans when he was injured during a mission?

A/N: Thank you for the request ❤ I don't often write from the male perspective (something I need to work on) so please feel free to give me any pointers or constructive feedback to make it better. I also went slightly off piste here and it's more centred on the recruit protecting Levi but I hope you don't mind! Please also note I never write adults/underage relationships (not that you were requesting that I just want my followers to know 😊) the reader is aged up (at least 18). Enjoy!

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You breathed deeply, focusing on the repetitive gallop of your horse as you watched the familiar walls vanish from view as you passed through the main gate. Your vision was suddenly swimming with green, endless grass and fields stretching to the horizon. You were momentarily stunned, your mind unable to process how views could stretch so far given your captivity within the walls.

This was your first expedition into the outside world and you could feel the nerves rippling through your fellow scouts around you. The formation was being led by Captain Levi and you kept your eyes trained on him waiting for any sudden commands. You had been selected for his squad after demonstrating your skill when using the omnidirectional gear and were keen to make a good first impression.

After just a few minutes out in the open you saw a black flair close to right hand side. Already!? You tried to quell the panic in your chest as your eyes searched the horizon. It wasn't long before an abnormal titan came into view, galloping fast on all fours and frothing at the mouth as it sought its prey. You calculated that you had probably around a minute before it reached the formation and you felt a small amount of vomit build up in your mouth, quickly turning to spit onto the floor.

'Brats - this is what I want you to do -' Levi starts but is cut off by the explosion of three red flairs to the left of the formation. More titans!? This was turning into a nightmare already.

'I would normally suggest we outrun them but the abnormal is too close. All of you - take out the three on the left and I'll handle the abnormal.' Levi reels off, calm and composed as ever as he tugs the reigns of his horse and veers off to the right.

'Come on then you ugly shit.' You hear his voice distantly as he rides towards the abnormal without a shred of fear. You watch him for a few seconds before swallowing hard and deciding it's time to act.

As you veer off to the left and make your way towards your fellow scouts, the sight is one that will sit with you forever. You can hear the shrill screaming from those that were situated closest to the approaching titans, as there arms and legs are torn from their body. You know that titans aren't supposed to have any free will but there's something sickening about the way they seem to slowly remove the limbs first, ensuring the victim suffers as much as possible before killing them.

You urge your horse to go faster, your fear dissipating and replaced with the need to do something, anything, to save your comrades.

You don't think twice as you discharge your grappling hooks straight into the fleshy back of one of the titans, propelling yourself forward towards it's grasping hands. You use your gas to dodge it's reaching hands and release your blades to slash it's eyes, which explode almost instantly and the hot blood covers your cloak. Now blinded, the titan grabs at the air hopelessly and you're able to easily land on its back and deliver the fatal blow to its nape.

You let out a breath that you hadn't even realised you'd been holding - your first kill. But there was no time to celebrate as the screams of your comrades entered your focus again. You were able to take down the second titan much like the first but the third was much larger and with nothing of height to grapple onto anymore you were forced to run and dodge it's stamping feet.

As you ran wildly having lost your house, you noticed a figure fast approaching in the distance. Captain Levi was riding as though his life depended on it but even from a distance you could see that his face was stained dark crimson with blood that wasn't evaporating - meaning it had to be his own.

'Captain!' You called frantically amongst the chaos. Levi met your gaze briefly before launching his hooks straight at the remaining titan. Even from your position on the ground you could see that something was wrong - his movement through the air was floppy and uncoordinated and his face twisted in pain as he hurtled himself forward.

Your heart stopped as you watched the titans large hand reach out and snatch Levi from the sky, closing its grip around him as he struggled and tried to cut its wrists with his blades. As the titan brought his struggling form towards its mouth, Levi stopped suddenly and bellowed a final order as he accepted his impending death.

'RETREAT!' He ordered and you made the decision to defy him, firing your hooks straight into the arm of the titan and propelled yourself forward. You swung your blades as hard as you could, chest filling with relief as you were able to successfully sever the arm holding Levi. He fell like a stone but you had to time to help him as you used your gas to rise and twist yourself in the air, dropping down and slicing through the titans nape. You held onto it's defeated form as it collapsed into the ground, quickly hopping off and sprinting towards Levi's crumpled form.

'Captain?' You enquired urgently, holding his face and studying his ashen experience. Fortunately he was conscious and his eyes darted around, seemingly surprised that he was still alive.

You looked around and were relieved to see that at least half a dozen scouts remained although the loss suffered was already beginning to weigh on your mind.

'Everyone retreat. Back to the wall!' You shouted and the others began whistling for the horses, a few of which began galloping back towards you. You looked nervously over to Levi, expecting a beasting for speaking for him but he merely nodded grimly, face contorting in pain once again.

'Here Captain.' You gestured, clutching the reigns of the horse you'd managed to wrangle tight.

'You'll have to help me. Ribs are broken.' He muttered and you nodded quickly, noting how light he was for someone so strong as you lifted him and placed him onto the horse. He dipped forward dangerously, threading his hands around the reigns so you jumped on behind him and sandwiched him between your forearms to keep him steady.

The ride back was fast but with a heavily silence. Levi didn't say a single word the whole time a part from a few grunts where you jabbed him lightly to make sure he was still conscious.

He stayed in the medical bay for the next 3 days. All of the scouts were stunned by what happened - the thought that humanity's strongest could be anything but invincible was unfathomable to them.

You grew incredibly irritated at the rumours surrounding Levi's injuries and kept your mouth firmly shut about your own involvement. One of the newer recruits who had yet to visit outside the walls but was hopelessly arrogant was the only one to draw a reaction from you.

'So not humanity's strongest after all? I always knew they were exaggerating about that pipsqueak.' You heard him snicker to another scout one day and the look on his face made your blood boil.

You roughly grabbed him shoulder and gave him a hard stare. 'Captain Levi has 89 confirmed kills and you haven't had a single visit outside of the wall. Are you really in a position to be criticising?' You hiss and the scout's face twists with anger.

'Who the fuck asked you L/N? Bored yet of playing teachers pet?' He spits at you and your grip on his shirt tightens.

'You should earn some respect, cadet.' You raise your voice a little and his next move takes you completely unexpectedly as he delivers a hard punch to your cheek and you feel the world move sideways as you fall to the ground. Not to be bested by some little punk, you're on your feet in seconds and pummel him in the face until he squeals at you to stop. You would have carried on but his face is so pathetic it makes you sick. You take your leave quickly when you hear others approaching, not wanting your name to be carried around the barracks.

Levi calls for you on the third day and your stomach twists with nerves as you make your way towards the sick bay. There a deep purple bruise now blossomed across your cheek from where that little shit hit you and you mentally prepare yourself to brush it off the moment he decides to bring it up.

You enter the sick bay and notice that Levi is sat on the side of his bed, dressed in a casual long sleeved grey shirt that opens slightly at the chest and dark trousers. He looks a little tired, bags more pronounced than usual but much better than his condition a few days ago.

'Y/N.' He greets you with a nod and you're surprised to hear your first name being used.

'Captain.' You respond politely and Levi tsks quietly. 'Call me Levi, I hate those bullshit formalities.' You nod, cheeks heating up slightly as he gestures for you to sit next to him. You notice his glance at your cheek and scowl slightly but there's clearly more pressing matters on his mind.

'I wanted to discuss the expedition.' He starts and gestures you to sit next to him.'

'Why did you defy my order to retreat?' In classic Levi fashion, he does not beat around the bush as he asks you the question, steel grey eyes boring into you as you pause for a few seconds to consider your response.

'You were about to be eaten.' You state after a few moments, deciding not to embellish the response with any complex reasoning for why you saved him.

'That is true. But you and your comrades could have easily been killed also.' Levi reasoned with a raised eyebrow. It made you want to look away but his gaze kept you rooted.

'I made that assessment myself at the time and believed that the chance of saving you without harming myself or the others was high.' You stated with a slight tremor to your voice.

'I see.' Levi pauses and sighs, seemingly unsatisfied with his own thought process. 'It appears that I underestimated your abilities. Don't get me wrong you could do with some fine tuning but you've made a fine addition to my squad.' He adds stiffly and you know that's the closest you're going to get to a compliment or a thank you. You feel your chest bloom with pride and Levi watches the smile tugging at your lips.

'Thank you sir, it's an honour to serve under you.'

'Levi.' He reminds you but he sounds gentler this time. You tense up when he suddenly reaches out to brush his fingertips against the bruise on your cheek. Despite the calloused feel of his fingers from years of battle and training, his touch was light.

'What happened?'

'It's nothing...just a disagreement.' You reply awkwardly, silently willing your face not to heat up as he retracts his hand.

'Between you and another scout?'

'Yes.'

'Was it about the expedition?' Levi's eyes are boring into you again and you know there is no point lying. He's not blind to other's opinions on him, although you doubt he cares much.

'...Yes.'

'I see. The name?'

'I'm not going to tell you that. It's resolved now.' You squirm slightly as you speak, embarrassed at the thought of the captain reprimanding the other scout on your behalf.

'Fine.' Levi huffs and the two of you sit in tense silence for a few moments. 'For the two counts of insubordination, I want you to clean my office every night for one month.'

'But, Sir I-' You're about to say I saved you but fortunately stop yourself.

'Better make it two months.' Levi shrugs but you can see a smirk forming on his lips and your annoyance fades away at the thought that he might just want to spend some time with you.

#levi ackerman headcanon #levi ackerman fic #levi ackerman imagine #levi ackerman x reader #levi x reader #levi prompts

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exquisitley-obsessed · 5 years ago

Text

I’m (right) here

This is technically a part two: you can read part one HERE

Author: @exquisitley-obsessed

Summary: Arthur lost sight of y/n on a hunting trip and it turns out the Pinkertons have hold of her and are doing everything they can to beat information about Dutch out of her. Arthur’s only goal is to get her back but he’s beginning to realise that if he does, nothing will be the same.

Word Count: 5568

Pairings: Arthur Morgan x Reader

Warnings: Torture, murder, bruises, scars, cuts!!

A/N: Currently playing RDR2 so please no spoilers <3 Literally took five minutes for me to fall in love with this damn fool and so felt like I needed to write something angsty for him.

REQUESTS OPEN <3

MASTERLIST

That had to be a broken rib.

Y/n gasped as she tried to roll away from the steel capped boot that had just gutted her; the chubby, squat old man at the other end of the boot was the more aggressive of her two captures - Steven was his name, or something like that.

It was his plump, well-rounded face that she had woken up to sometime ago, sneering down at her with this sickening gleeful look. It was understandable, by his terms he had struck gold by capturing y/n l/n, proud member of the Van Der Linde gang.

“You still don’t want to talk?” He husked out, hands on his portly hips. Y/n simply spat in response, a mixture of saliva and blood. Days had passed. Weeks maybe, it was difficult to tell when stuffed in a cage in a windowless room.

They came and they went, her captures. Steven and Tony were their names, or at least, that’s what they called each other. So far all they had revealed was that they were Pinkertons, and desperate for information on Dutch Van Der Linde. The beatings were consistent, another day without information, another beating – more painful than the last.

But y/n already knew that nothing could break her vow of silence. She had been dragged into this cage loyal to Dutch and she sure as hell would find a way out of it still being loyal – they’d have to kill her otherwise. It appeared that would be the direction of things anyway.

They were getting tiresome, annoyed, frustrated. Constantly checking their watches and disappearing for long lengths of time, leaving her aching and alone on the concrete floor watching the free flies mock her as they crawled the walls before flying away. It was easiest when she was asleep, it didn’t hurt so much then, like small shelter in a hurricane.

They’re coming. She had rhythmically repeated the mantra to herself a thousand times by now, a prayer. Dutch and Arthur, those she who she was currently dying to protect – they would come. They had to.

***

“We’ll find her Arthur.” Dutch said for what felt like the thousandth time. Arthur was sitting glumly inside his camp, ignoring his company as his eyes bore into his map, spotted with pins and small notes.

“I know.” He huffed back without much thought, his mind somewhere else. It felt like so much time had already been wasted, and Arthur has resorted to spending every waking moment tracking y/n, at least it kept his mind occupied.

Pinkertons weren’t necessarily nasty men, he’d sure as hell met worse, but they were by no means men to be trusted. Honour among thieves didn’t apply to them.

Sighing heavily his eyes drifted from the map above his bed to his collection of photos pinned nearby; him, Hosea and Dutch, his mother, an old newspaper clipping and the most recent edition was the printed photo of y/n that he had taken on a hunting trip.

He put it up there after getting it printed, a few days after her disappearance. Somewhere in his mind he validated the action through it only being a reminder of his task.

He liked the photo. She looked the same as ever, same braid, same work pants, John’s old shirt – her eyes were crinkled slightly as she smiled at the camera her jaw slack as if she were about to start laughing. Actually, she wasn’t looking at the camera, she was looking behind it – at Arthur.

It was strange to see the way someone looked at you, those moments which you normally don’t get to see at all, and yet he had it captured in time and hanging above his bed. Something about this whole situation had awoken something he thought he had buried a long time ago, but that’s always the way with old feelings, they don’t really go away you just start convincing yourself that they’re not there anymore as you suddenly become busy with someone else. But now he had no distraction, and with all this time, this torturous time without her – he was remembering.

“God’s sake,” He muttered under his breath, collapsing in his chair and flicking through his journal for the hundredth time. It was escapism really, reading old passages and admiring old drawings from a few weeks ago; pretending as if he were back then with nothing to fear.

He hadn’t realised how much he drew her. It seemed obvious now, flicking through the creased papers where loose sketches of y/n seemed to dot every other page. He had never questioned it before, just always thought that he could remember her figure a lot easier than others – the shape she took when she was hunched on her horse, how she always sat in the same crumpled poor-excuse of a chair every morning when he brought her a coffee. When the gang had had a small party, out of everyone it was her he remembered when sitting around the fireplace, lips parted slightly as she half-sang.

Everything was different now, even he couldn’t deny it. But God, he hated it.

What would this mean? When they got her back, if they got her back, what would happen then? Another cycle of burying his feelings, he could see himself already back at Mary’s beck-and-call, desperate for a distraction. Maybe there was a part of himself that didn’t want to see her again, that just wanted to see her safe and then disappear – could he seriously continue to live an elaborate lie he had formulated years ago, when he was only a boy? Who was that fair to?

He cussed again low under his breath. The past few days all he’s wanted to do is escape his mind, calm his rushing thoughts, tame them into something he could tolerate. Hazily, he noticed somewhat raised panicked voices out in the main camp. He could do this; he had done it before, burying feelings. The voices sounded excited. Maybe he was simply destined to live a life of half-loves. Footsteps were now moving toward his tent.

“Arthur!” But he had already picked up his gun and was headed through the folds of his camp. He had survived his feelings for y/n once before, of course he could again.

***

“Your own family left, y/n…” She cringed at how sympathetic Tony’s voice was, as if he were on her side. “They’re gone…there’s been no sign of them for weeks now. They’re not coming.”

This was apparently their plan for the time being. Whispering false truths to her about Dutch, how he was spotted on the other side of West Elizabeth, three days ride from, well wherever the hell she was.

“No,” Y/n gasped, her ribs grinding against the ground, bone and concrete. The lashes on her back felt like they were writhing as the leather whip in Steven’s hand dripped her slick blood.

“Stop!” Steven exploded, y/n was hazily aware of the whip being catapulted across the room, “Stop protecting them y/n! We’re here to help you, for God sake they-”

“Help me?” She hissed. He didn’t hear.

“don’t care about you! Look-” Steven grunted, hauling a chair from the desk to the front of her cell and throwing himself in it, “Life has been nothing but unkind to you y/n, we can see that,” Y/n squeezed her eyes shut as another dull, aching throb radiated from her back, “We’re at a point now where we can forgive you for all of your past crimes…you could walk away from this a free woman…marry a good man, whatever the hell you want…we just need something in return.”

She couldn’t meet his eye. Couldn’t begin to accept what he was telling her about her family but, the reality was, where were they? Weeks he said, weeks waiting in agony for the moment they’d come for her only to be left day in, day out, entirely and utterly alone.

Y/n felt herself being lulled in to a numb state, all she could pitifully think of was that she wanted to go home: she wanted fresh clean clothes, Pearson’s warm soup, a story from Hosea, a hug from Dutch – when was the last time someone had touched her in an affectionate way?

“Please…” She wheezed through her shattered lungs as her eyes rolled, “Just leave me alone.”

This apparently wasn’t the right answer. Steven, in one fluid motion, swung the chair out from underneath him, hurling it at the cell. Colliding against the steel bars, the wood promptly splintered like fragile bones.

“You stupid bitch!” He exploded, “You can’t see help when it’s fucking standing in front of you! You refuse it like a fucking idiot!” He was gasping for breath as he bellowed, his podgy skin flushing scarlet, “No wonder you’ve ended up like this...all alone…” He was spitting at her, stalking across the front of her bars like a predator homing in on its prey. Y/n felt dull tears dribble down her cheeks as she began to drown in how utterly helpless she was. Crumpled on the floor, unable to move, unable to breathe. “This...” He stopped stalking, his pulsating eyes glaring down at her over his rounded cheeks, “This…” He repeated, lowering himself to her level, “is why deep down…you’ll always be an orphan.”

Y/n watched him curiously, he hadn’t acted like this before. He had always had control. She then focused on Tony behind him whose eyes were avidly watching a pocket watch as his flicked it back and forth between his fingers nimbly.

“We best get going.” Tony finally spoke into the silence, swinging his coat on before checking the bullets in his pistol.

“Not yet,” Y/n’s heart dropped as Steven turned back to her, “They aint getting you back.” He spat at her, his voice low, almost as if he was laughing at her. Y/n watched in silent trepidation as he pushed his key into her cell door and slung it open, “At least…” Y/n moved her eyes back to Tony, pleading for him to do something, “They aint getting you back alive.”

Lying there, face down, unable to move, y/n found herself desperately coming to terms with her own mortality as she heard the click of the gun; summoning all her strength she tried to raise her head to look at him but his steel capped boot struck her clean across the cheek. Choking out a feeble cry she then tried to use the momentum of the kick to roll away from him, but it was futile. With her body broken beneath her there was nothing she could do, and all too soon she felt the cold, lifeless tip of the gun’s barrel pushed against the back of her head. This was it. Her pathetic, ruthless, pain-filled life – this was the climax, the pièce de résistance. The final click sounded followed by a short explosion before finally, darkness.

****

“I told you to only blow the god-damn doors off!” Arthur hollered at Sean who merely gave him a meek look and a shrug of the shoulder. Irish idiot, Arthur thought. The explosion was only supposed to take out the chains and bolts encasing the front doors, but the underestimation of the TNT had caused a shudder through house’s frame, resulting in the roof crumbling in on itself.

“Okay boys!” Dutch commanded, getting off from his horse and assessing the damage, “They know we’re here now which is fine…there’s more of us than ‘em I can promise you that.” He turned back to the gang, patrolling across the front of them like an army captain, “One objective: get in there and find y/n…you see any Pinkertons…gun ‘em down. They messed with us…with our family.” Slowly and in unison, the Van der Linde gang pulled on their masks. “Aint nobody messes with the our family and survives…nobody.” They moved in.

Arthur turned left with Charles, moving swiftly through the large, white manor house they had tracked the Pinkertons to – and God what a job that was. Weeks had passed of tracking and losing sight of the Pinkertons, putting everyone’s necks on the line trying to find the whereabouts of y/n. At first, they had been so sure she was in this old, abandoned farmhouse. They planned meticulously their attack for a week before attempting, only to discover it was some O’Discrolls cooped up in there – y/n nowhere in sight.

Realising how much time had been wasted, they quickly went back to work, until Micah’s loudmouth made things blow up in the local town. Time and effort were then directed to moving camp somewhere safe, no one allowed to go after y/n during that time – it was also during this time that Dutch and Arthur had a rather explosive argument.

But they were finally here, finally had tracked her to this bulky manor house out west, and if she weren’t here… well, Arthur couldn’t think about that.

“In here,” Charles’ voice rumbled as they moved past some double doors. Sharing a quick glance with Charles, Arthur jolted forward, the doors snapping back out of his way as he moved into the room. Looking around, he noticed how it looked like it was crumpled in on itself, planks of wood, an old piano, a large cabinet that had been picked clean years ago. All signs of life felt distant and foreign, as if someone hadn’t lived there for years – still, Arthur couldn’t lose hope. He turned back to Charles shook his head and they moved on.

****

Y/n blinked for what felt like forever, her heart racing as a high-pitched whine completely dominated her hearing. She hadn’t expected to still be conscious so it took her a minute to gather her bearings. Slowly, fuzzy outlines hardened into shapes and then, objects. Something had exploded, something was happening. Y/n moved and her whole body burned but it didn’t matter anymore – something was happening.

Fumbling for a second, she dragged herself up, her legs threatening to give way underneath her as she clung onto a fallen beam for support. Looking around she saw Steven rolling around near her, his face contorted into that of agony as one of his legs sat stuck under a pile of rubble and brick, a low gurgling, gasping noise whining from his throat. Sweeping low, y/n swiftly plucked up his gun and felt adrenaline start to pump through her – she had the power now.

“I can help,” Her ears still ringing as she coyly smiled at the chubby, little man at her feet. “Make the pain stop…I mean…”

Y/n, without thinking, raised the gun to his head and shot. Blood splattered across the room. Letting out a long deep sigh, y/n felt herself snapping back into her body, her arms and legs now feeling a little more like her own. Looking over she saw Tony collapsed; maybe passed out, maybe dead. It didn’t matter.

Panic rose quickly inside her, she needed to get out. She didn’t know what was happening or what had sparked the explosion, but this could be her only chance to escape - she needed to get out now. Swinging herself clumsily around the corner she opened the door and peered out, her eyes greedily racing across all the new sights and imagery. She tried to move as light as she could across the creaking floor tiles, her legs limping and stumbling over one another beneath her. Maybe there were other people in the house, maybe she was just being overcautious. She didn’t much care. She just needed to get out.

Successfully reaching a flight of stairs, she began to pick her way down, half hanging over the barista, the world spinning around her. Then, she heard a noise, heavy thumps and distant voices – she wasn’t alone. Panic rose like bile and suddenly, she was racing down the stairs, another flight followed by the next – out, out, out. The next flight, almost there, keep the gun in hand. God it’s so heavy. The world spinning around her, the adrenaline not slowing down until she scrambled down that last flight of stairs until there in front of her were the doors, opening out in a grassy barren knoll ahead.

She didn’t care about the pain anymore, or the fact that all this movement had cracked open all her cuts and lashings – she ran. She ran faster than it felt like she had ever run before, racing forth into the greenery and the open night sky. The stars gleaming down on her as she sprinted through the tall grass, feeling the wind move through her, an explosion of smells - the world alive around her. Then, a figure arose from her right. Instinctively, she stumbled down into a crouch, hiding herself in the shrubbery.

“Any sign of her?” Someone called out, fear latched onto her heart, she already knew she was the ‘her’. She tried to make out the voice, but it felt like the whole world was swimming in her head.

“No…I think John found some dead bodies in the attic. He said they were real fresh though.” Another voice, a different accent. Why wouldn’t her head unscramble itself? She felt her stomach lurch at the name – she knew a John.

“But I thought…” She heard her own voice softly choke out as she rose to her knees, swaying back and forth as the Earth moved underneath her.

“So…she aint here?”

“Doesn’t look like it…there are signs she might’ve been…they’re going to burn down the house down though.”

Looking up over the spikey tops of the greenery, y/n tried to make out the dark silhouettes barely visible against the inky night sky.

“What the hell are we going to do?”

“They won’t give up…not when it comes to her…”

“Not when it comes to anyone, Javier. We’re family. No one gets left behind.” Y/n felt a sob explode out of her – it was them. Hosea and Javier, talking about her, looking for her – saving her. In the same second another explosion erupted, this time, it was to begin the fire. Bright and beautiful, greedily eating up the dry wood of the abandoned home and exploding light into the universe. The bright and beautiful universe in which her family were here, her family that had come for her.

“Hosea!” She tried to shout but it came out as a wheeze, her voice stuck somewhere in her broken throat as she dragged herself to her feet, stumbling forward towards the figures. “Javier!” She tried again, but no noise. Nothing. Something desperate arose in her, what if they couldn’t see her? What if they left her without realising they had found her, she was here, and she was safe now. She went to shout again, her feet stumbling beneath her.

Her hair was completely loose, her clothes torn, her body broken. The heat of the fire warming her skin and yet, her skin wasn’t warm, it was burning. Fresh blood dribbling down her body as her wounds split. She wanted to scream again but something stopped her.

“Y/n…” All he said was her name. Looking up all she could see was Arthur. He was walking between Hosea and Javier, away from the house, looking at her. He could see her.

“Arthur-” She tried to say his name, but a sob shattered her lungs. She silently begged him to come to her, to touch her as she began to crumble. And, almost as if he heard her, he jolted forwards, his face enigmatic as he reached out for her but just as he was about to reach out for her – she jumped back, as if he had shocked her.

She had this God-awful look in her eyes then, all glossy and confused, like she didn’t quite recognise him. Like she was questioning him, staring at him as if she couldn’t quite make her mind up about something.

“How long’s it been.” God her voice was quiet, barely audible over the sound of the fire, the shouts of Hosea and Javier as they called for the others.

“Since what?” Arthur heard his own voice softly rumble, all he wanted was to soothe her, touch her, keep her safe.

“Since I went missing Arthur?” She looked numb; her were eyes wide, her mouth half open, a salty mixture of tears, dirt and blood dribbling down her cheeks. Arthur had not realised a single question could make him feel so guilty.

“Um…maybe a few weeks…”

“Maybe?” She let out a shaky breath. He felt like a small stone settle at the bottom of his gut – guilt.

“Four weeks yesterday…that’s when you went missing.”

And there it was. Y/n’s mind felt like it was crumpling in on itself, beginning to choke on the feeling of betrayal. Four weeks. Four weeks they had left her there, maybe searching, maybe not. She had lay in that poor excuse for a jailcell for a month, she had been dragged past her breaking point, she had faced pain like she could never had imagined waiting every second, every minute for her family to do what a family does, to protect her and yet, where were they?

“Y/n, girl, there you-” Dutch’s gruff voice swam into her mind as she twisted away from Arthur. The blazing red of the fire and the inky blue of the night sky, all of it blurring into a complete and utter mess.

“Four weeks….” She was surprised at how meek her own voice sounded, she hated it venomously. How was it that she had become so weak? How had she gotten here, to this moment? “Where were you?” She turned back to where Arthur stood, his head bowed like a scolded runt and Dutch, his hand half outstretched towards her, his euphoric face crumbling. “How could you let…”

“Y/n we were looking for you…I promise we were looking…” Dutch began, already stumbling into his defensive tone. Y/n wanted to believe him, but then she blinked and suddenly she was back in her cell, the ominous faces of men she was savagely scared of hovering above her, sneering at her as they told her how her family had disappeared, left her behind, just like her parents did. She blinked once more, and they were gone.

“You were supposed to protect me-” Suddenly, she exploded, “We’re family! What kind of a family does that to one another…you left me there…you left me there with those men…”

“I know baby-” Dutch began again.

“No!” She was gasping now, unable to breathe – the smoke and the sobbing choking her, “You don’t know…if only you did…if only you knew what they did to me Dutch….” Her cheeks throbbed as she tried to resist a guttural sob, “I thought I was your daughter.”

“You are-”

“No…I aint.” Her legs were shaking now, the fire and sky crashing together once again, “You don’t do that to your daughter, you left me…you left me behind.” Suddenly the grass felt so soft, “You left me...” The grass was so gentle compared to the concrete of her cell, the soil softened, responded to her touch, moved with her – earth and flesh, “You left me just like they did…”

Resting back, she dug her fingers deep into the earth and looked up. The sky was hot, the soil cold. Her world being torn open around her, exploding and rearranging into something new.

Nothing would be the same.

*****

“Oh…you scared me.” Arthur murmured, his eyes flickering up to the ghostly figure at the mouth of his tent.

“Sorry I-” Y/n stood awkwardly between the folds of cloth, dressed in only her night things with her hair loose down her back. She looked young, a little like how she did when they had first met. Arthur also noticed then how delicate she looked; it had been like that for a few weeks now.

Dutch had basically carried her back to camp, leaving her with Ms Grimshaw so her wounds could be tended to. Arthur had checked in on her regularly during the first few days, he liked it most when she was asleep, it gave him time to watch over her without feeling as though he was intruding.

“No, it’s okay,” A sloping grin melted into his cheeks, “Stay...please…I got, uh, oatcakes and beer.”

“Wow…my lucky treat,” Arthur watched with concealed warmth as a smile pattered across her cheeks. It had felt like forever since he had seen her smile. “Sorry for intruding, guess I just wanted to be close to someone for a ‘lil bit. Can’t sleep, y’know,” Moving into his camp, she curled herself up on Arthur’s fur rug, resting her back against his side table; it was her position, whenever she had snuck into his tent she had always somehow folded herself into that specific corner and he had never dared question it for she would always aggressively insist she was comfortable.

“Yeah, I understand. I’d be lying if I said I don’t feel like that most of the time.”

“To be honest, it wasn’t made very clear when I signed up to this gang…” Y/n grinned at him, “Maybe then I would’ve rethought my application.” Arthur chuckled.

“True…they don’t exactly give you a run down before you start living a life of crime.” Moments like these were more regular the past few days. Moments where he found himself relaxing into the familiar rhythmic conversations with y/n that he had always had, it was comforting, a reminder that the pain was temporary. “How you holding up?”

“Fine,” She smiled at him, a real smile, “Ms Grimshaw works a miracle.”

“That she does,” He shuffled slightly to rest his back against the wagon next to his bed.

“Nothing really bad happened to me physically…I mean, nothing I can’t recover from.”

“And you will, with time, you always do.” She smiled at him again, but this time her eyes lowered after meeting his – was she nervous?

“I guess the only problem is…Dutch aint shifting outta protective mode any time soon.”

“He’ll get over it…” Arthur chuckled, “I think he’s just mad at himself y’know. You know how much you mean to him.”

“Yeah, yeah,” She nodded sleepily. “I know Morgan.” God, it killed him when she called him that. Suddenly, y/n’s face twisted up in a grimace and she jolted up, her hands stretching toward her back.

“Y’okay?” He asked nervously after a moment.

“Fine…fine…” She winced, rubbing at her shoulders, “Just not quite 100% yet, y’know.” He eyed her for a moment as she pushed her hair out of her face, trying to massage the spot in her shoulder that was causing her pain.

“Here,” He surprised himself by saying, “Let me do your hair.” She eyed him; an eyebrow half raised her lips slightly parted. It seems neither of them had expected him to raise that offer. “Oh c’mon, remember how I used to braid your hair before shooting lessons with Dutch?”

“Feels like a lifetime ago…” She murmured; a faint smile painted on her lips as her eyes clouded with a distant memory

“I ain’t forgotten how to,” He smiled at her and she smiled back, shyly. A pause. “Please y/n. I know I can’t do much to help you right now…I’m no good doctor, I’m a god damn idiot when it comes to words and, y’know, comforting people. So, please…let me do this.” He watched as her lips parted slightly into a distant smile, her eyes lighting up.

“Okay Morgan…if you really want to braid my hair I guess I’ll have to allow it. Just do a good job of it okay.”

“Who you trying to look good for?”

“Oh, you know me Morgan…everybody and nobody.” Arthur chuckled to himself. She plodded herself down on the floor next to his cot and, shifting over, he planted his legs like trunks either side of her, creating a small cove in which she could tuck herself.

He went to move her hair to the back when he noticed his hands shaking ever so slightly, his heart rate jumping too. Arthur tried to calm himself then and there but couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by the feeling of her, the warmth along the inside of his claves as she curled into him, resting her head lightly against his right knee. Desperately trying not to hurt her, he scooped up her hair and used his fingers to softly comb behind her ears and down her neck, ensuring he had caught every soft wisp.

Silently, he cursed his fingers for being so calloused, spitefully thinking of how his fingers might be grazing her soft skin. Sweeping all her hair to the back, he watched as it loosely tumbled down before softly combing his fingers through it. He promptly forgot about how much he hated his hands, forgot his hatred of how he had always been so large and gruff, unsubtle and mean. Instead his mind became full of thoughts of her.

How different her hair colour looked in the orange candlelight compared to daylight. How long her hair tumbled down her back when loose and how he hadn’t noticed considering she always had it tied back. How he could see the skin of her neck peeking at him as her hair began to sway when he braided it. How that skin sloped down into the loose collar of her night shirt. The way her shoulders and back moved with her steady breath and, if he listened carefully, how he could hear it. Steady, strong, safe. It seemed all too quickly the braid twisted to a finish in his fingers.

“You got a tie?”

“Course,” She sleepily murmured. God that killed him. The way her eyes drooped, the way she moved without being conscious of what she was doing to him. She placed the tie in his outstretched palm and seemed to not realise that her delicate hands had brushed so softly against his rough ones.

“I’m scared,” She piped up as his fingers returned to her hair, her voice ever so slightly dreamy.

“That they’ll come take you again?” Now done, Arthur relaxed back into his cot a little but refused to move his legs, desperate to not disturb her.

“No…well yes but…” She melted deeper into the cove of his legs without thinking, “I’m scared that what they did to me, what happened in those weeks…I’m scared it’s going to be with me for the rest of my life, affect me for the rest of my life, I mean.”

“But-”

“Sorry, I know it sounds silly-”

“No…it doesn’t,” Arthur leaned forward, catching her eye, “There aint anything silly about what you went through, but…I know for a fact that it won’t affect you forever.” A beat.

“How?”

“Because you’re so much more than what happened to you in those four weeks. You’ve lived through hell; we all know it, and yet at the end the day – you’re more than any of the people who have hurt you.” He watched her looking at him, trying to figure out the enigmatic feeling written on her face, but the conversation moved swiftly on.

“Are you ever going to tell me what happened in those weeks?” She whispered, not blinking, “Where you all were?”

“We were looking for you y/n, and that’s the God honest truth,”

“But-”

“But nothing y/n. For a while uh…things got complicated. We lost track for a bit and you paid for it, I’m sorry.” He looked down, wondering how far he could take this, “Y’know, I thought that you were dead, just for a moment…I was destroyed.” Her face remained enigmatic, “Now I’m scared to turn away from you for one second, I’m afraid I’ll lose you again.” It felt like he was crossing into unmarked territory.

“You’ll never lose me,” She breathed, “Not really.” A knot tied itself into existence in his gut.

Their eye contact never broke. It felt like it never would. Looking at her then, he felt like there were a million things he wanted to say to her, like there was so much of himself he had yet to reveal to her. The parts of himself which, in all honesty, cared for her more than he ever realised. Sitting there, with her tucked against his right knee, he couldn’t help himself.

Almost as if he were in a trance, he began to trace his fingers along the hair behind her left ear before scooping up her braid and shifting it to the side, how comforting it was to know that she was right there, under his fingertips. His left hand moved to her shoulder were he gently shifted the white cotton of her dress so that it slipped down, exposing her black and beaten shoulder. Slowly, and without breaking eye contact, he brought his lips down and pressed them against her colourful skin. She shivered into his touch as his beard grazed her bare flesh, but she never looked away. He kissed her again, moving up closer to her neck, his eyes fluttering shut. He was so close that she could feel his breath fluttering across her exposed neck. She relaxed into him, almost daring him to go further until she noticed something – he was crying.

Soft beads rolled down his cheeks as he kissed her again, and again, and again. Softly, y/n started to hear his whispers warm into the silence.

“I’m sorry…”

“I can protect you…”

“They won’t ever hurt you again…”

“I’m here now…”

“I’m sorry…”

“I’m here…”

Maybe y/n was right, maybe nothing would be the same. But change didn’t seem so scary anymore.

requests open <3

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yurtletheturtlehenderson · 4 years ago

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Scars That Heal || Eddie Kaspbrak x Reader Series

• Ch. 10: Who Needs You •

“You!”

The howl of fury from Sonia Kaspbrak brought a whole new sense of fear to the Losers as they stood on the opposing end of her finger. Having fled the gruesome house on Neibolt, the Losers, in a great panic, had managed to haul their injured friend away from Neibolt and back to his own front lawn. Thanks to Mike, who while thinking quickly, had placed Eddie in his bike’s basket, the two were able to escape on their bikes with the rest of their friends. And though the horrid scene was now blocks away, not a single Loser dared lose a notch of speed. Nor did they stop until they had discarded their bikes on Eddie’s front lawn, panting heavily.

“You did this!” She hissed, immediately separating Eddie from his friends.

The seven Losers parted hesitantly as she forced him by the nape of the neck across the lawn towards her car.

“You know how delicate he is.” She huffed, earning a few heavy eye rolls from a select few.

Bill stepped forward after them, finding his voice, and powering through his stutter.

“W-We were attacked, M-Mrs. K,”

She opened the squeaky passenger door, just about shoving Eddie inside, and turned on the seven friends. She stared each of them down, fiery gaze meeting with each pair of eyes.

“No! Don’t,” she ordered, slamming the door shut, caging a still frightened Eddie. “Don’t try to blame anyone else.”

Her hands shake with rage, causing her ring of keys to slip from her fingers and land on the pavement. Seeing this, Beverly bends down after them.

“Let me help-” She offers, only to be cut off and shooed away by the woman.

"Get back!“ She bellows.

She steps forward, retrieving her keys, and straightens enough to lean in close to intimidate Beverly.

"Oh, I’ve heard of you miss Marsh,” Mrs. Kaspbrak sneered. “And I don’t want a dirty girl like you touching my son.”

“Mrs. Kaspbrak, please, if we could just explain-” Y/n pleas were soon cut short.

“Enough!” The woman roared, her puffy face turning red.

She looked Y/n up and down with a snide look in her eye as if the young girl was nothing more than something she had dragged in on her shoe.

“Don’t think I haven’t heard of you either, you filthy little thing! Following this harlot around town,” she quickly throws Beverly a hostile look. “begging for scraps like some stray. Wouldn’t be surprised if you picked up on her dirty little habits and I certainly won’t have you lurking around my son any longer!”

Y/n stood unnaturally still, taking the conjectures she had heard almost her entire life with surprising composure. But that wall she had built up, cracked, just ever so at the mention of Eddie and she glanced past the screaming woman and into the car where Eddie’s small stature was barely visible over the windows in the low seat. This was the first time he had allowed himself to look at one of them, and it was at Y/n.

Their eyes met, her gaze was distant, and she seemed to be disconnecting from reality as if to spare herself from the pain of saying goodbye. As if she knew his mother would finish her lecture, get in the car, and drive away with Eddie and that would be it. She knew that Eddie wouldn’t stand up for her. Get angry for her, or even for himself, and finally stand up to his mother. But she didn’t blame him, he had barely escaped death, and even still, he had a horribly broken arm.

But that didn’t stop her heart from breaking as she saw his large doe brown eyes staring back at her. They were frightened and docile as his mother continued shouting abuse at her; The girl who was quickly after his heart.

“You are not to speak to my Eddie, you are not to set foot within five hundred feet, of my Eddie Bear, nor can you even-” she stopped suddenly, roughly turning the girl’s head to look at her, and lowered her voice. “You are not to even look at my Eddie.”

She leaned forward into the girl’s face and glared spitefully.

“I don’t want my son catching fleas.” She spits.

Everyone had stood silently in shock, not expecting such venomous words from the woman. Nor were they expecting a heated comeback from Richie who stepped forward beside Y/n, fists clenched despite his otherwise cool exterior.

“With all due respect, Mrs. K, Y/n isn’t the problem,” Her wild glare shifted to the boy. “If you’re worried about fleas, Eddie’s more likely to catch ‘em from living up your v-”

Richie was suddenly cut off by a hand clamping over his mouth, it was Y/n. Who albeit, very much appreciated the gesture - and would certainly laugh about it in the future - still wanted at least a sliver of a chance of both her and Richie getting to see Eddie again.

The woman took a long deep breath and glared daggers at the boy. Anyone there would know a million things were running through her head at that moment; several things she would have liked to have said to the no-good heathen that her son always clung to, but she knew she could waste no more time. Her eyes said enough.

“Don’t start with me young man, this is far from over.” She seethed.

And with that, she whirled around on her heel and wobbled over to the driver’s side.

“Thanks, Richie,” Y/n croaked, a silent tear streaking her dirtied cheek.

“Catching fleas,” Richie grumbled. “Honestly! And you guys actually think my mouth’s the one that outta be sewn shut.”

The remaining seven Losers watched miserably, and helplessly as the '79 Pacer Wagon containing their friend, disappeared around the block. Y/n felt hopelessly deflated, and her gaze fell to her torn and mucked up shoes. She silently noted they were somehow, even filthier now thanks to her trip to Neibolt. Her slight disappointment with her shoes paled in comparison to what she was really troubled with. It felt as though, even when they had each escaped with their lives, this moment did not feel like a victory.

Bill turned to face them each, a surprising amount of hope in his eyes and it was enough to pull Y/n from her somber thoughts. That is until she heard what he had to say.

“I saw the well.” He says, drawing several concerned glances his way. “W-w-we know where it is, and-and next time we’ll be better prepared.”

“No!” Stan cried incredulously. “No next time, Bill! You’re insane!”

“Why?” Beverly countered. “We all know no one else is going to do anything.”

Y/n looked at her best friend with a pained look, shocked and brokenhearted at where this conversation would head. Biting her lip, she steps forward, anger flaring up.

“And what about Eddie?” Y/n asked heatedly, gesturing down the street before pointing at her other bleeding friend. “or Ben? Does the fact that they, among all of us, nearly died, mean anything to you guys?”

Bill does not fight hard to stop the wounded expression molding onto his face, but it quickly dissolves in his growing impatience. “Y-You too?”

“Bill,” Mike eases. “Come on, man, think of what you’re asking.”

“N-No,” he sputters. “Think of w-what you’re asking.”

Richie gapes at his friend, a look of wild bewilderment in his eyes and his arms thrown to the sides. “You shittin’ me, Bill? Were you not just in that crack den with us? Did you not see what happened? Fucking Christ, we were this close to being chum!”

Beverly stepped forward, a hand thrown behind her as she gestured protectively to Bill. “But we’re not! We hurt it - Y/n, you hurt it! Don’t you guys see? The moment we came together is the moment It got weaker.”

“And look where it got us,” Y/n scoffed, looking around at the broken circle of Losers. “Beverly, this isn’t some make-believe bullshit quest we’re talking about. Hell, I don’t know what the fuck that was, but I do know one thing. That we’re just kids, and we don’t stand a chance against that thing.”

A sour look crosses Beverly’s face at her friend’s words.

“Well, we can’t pretend It’s gonna go away,” she argued, suddenly turning to the Hanscom boy. “Ben, you said it yourself, It comes back every twenty-seven years.”

“Fine! I’ll be forty and far away from here.” He snapped, immediately feeling a small pang of guilt and his demeanor softens just ever so. “I thought you said you wanted to get out of this town, too.”

“Because I wanna run towards something. Not away,”

Richie’s eyes rolled behind his thick lenses, and he threw his arm up at the girl with great annoyance.

“I’m sorry, who invited Molly Ringwald into the group?”

Beverly merely glared and held up her middle finger to the trashmouth.

“Richie-” Stan argued.

“No!” Richie looks around once more, anger flaring up as he gestures to Y/n. “Y/n’s right, we need to face facts. Real world.”

Richie settled his gaze on Bill, a genuine spark of sympathy in his eyes.

“Georgie is dead.” He says, and he feels as if the weight he’s carried tiptoeing around his friend has lifted and he begins to walk away. “Stop trying to get us killed, too,”

Bill jumps in front of Richie, instantly blocking his path, and his face goes beet red in anger.

“Georgie’s not dead!” Bill roars, squaring his shoulders though he did not feel more powerful.

Richie looks his friend in the eye and notes his hurt, but cannot ignore his own. “You couldn’t save him, but you can still save yourself.”

“No!” Bill stops Richie in his tracks once more, his stutter flaring up as every ounce of hurt over his brother resurfaces. “T-ta-t-take it b-back! Y-You’re scared,”

Bill looks around at his circle of friends, all lost and broken.

“we all are. But take it back!” He shouts, his heartbreak turning to anger in seconds and he shoves Richie back harshly.

Richie tenses briefly before charging after Bill and shoving him harshly. Bill can no longer hold back. All his anger, hurt, and loss that had been festering over the past several months. It had all boiled to the top and formed a fist that hooked into Richie’s left jaw that sent him stumbling into the concrete.

“Bill!”

Stan and Mike scramble to pick Richie up off the ground, and Ben lunges after Bill to keep him from another attempted swing at Richie.

“You’re just a bunch of losers!” Richie sputters, fighting against his friends to get a punch in himself.

“Richie, stop, just take a breath,” Y/n eases, placing herself between the boys.

Blinded by the betrayal, and the painful welt already forming on his jaw, Richie ignores the girls’ pleas and continues shouting over to Bill. “Fuck off! You’re just a bunch of losers who’ll get yourselves killed-”

Beverly cuts in, her own anger boiling to the top. “Stop!”

“-trying to kill a fucking clown!”

“STOP!” Beverly roars, finally gaining everyone’s attention.

A look of clarity passes over her and she looks around at her friends. “This is what It wants. It wants to divide us. We were all together when we hurt It. That’s why we’re still alive.”

“Yeah?” Richie pipes, adjusting his lenses having finally broken free. “Well, I plan to keep it that way.”

His chest puffed out in his mix of pride and anger, he marches past Bill. Not without a swift but harsh shove of the shoulder, knocking him off balance. One by one the rest of Losers follow his lead, the first being Y/n.

“Y/n-”

“No, Beverly,” Y/n states, heartbreak evident in her voice. She turns to look at her two friends, her eyes matching her tone. “No way. That’s three times now I’ve barely gotten out alive. I’m not trying for a fourth.”

Her mouth parted to speak the parting words that sat on her tongue, but even goodbye was too painful. In a way, she feared if she were to say it, she’d be sealing their very fates. That she’d never see them again, so instead, she settles for picking up her bike, casting one last pained look their way before disappearing down the road.

Bill shifts his attention to Mike, who is already picking up his bike.

“Mike-?” His voice is aching, pleading for his friend to stay.

Mike only stops briefly, throwing back an equally broken and pleading voice. He shrugs, defeated.

“Guys… I can’t do this,” he shakes his head, his grandfather’s voice ringing in his ears and tugging at his gut. “My granddad was right… I’m an outsider. Gotta stay that way.”

And just as Y/n had moments earlier, he mounts his bike without another word and starts off down the road. Bill and Bev remain, exchanging sullen looks at a loss for words. And a plan.

· · ─── ·𖥸· ─── · ·

The town of Derry Maine had never been in more danger with the separation of the Losers Club. And the kids themselves had never felt more broken. In the span of just those few short minutes, their world had shattered. The only Losers to remain in one another’s company was Y/n and Richie, who both carried the heavyweight of Eddie’s absence on their shoulders the most. But even they found themselves alone in times where it counted the most.

In the weeks that followed, a dark cloud hung threateningly above their heads, watching their every move. While this was by definition, the very concept of Derry itself, they knew now exactly what it was. And yet, after all they had faced, all the pain and horror that would follow them for the rest of their lives, there still lingered the pain of their separation.

Beverly sat at her desk, head hung over her keyboard as she plucks away a familiar tune. It brought her back to the many times Y/n had been over, the two of them both attempting to play half of a song, laughing hysterically in the process as they screwed each other up. It would go on like this with no end in sight, that is until Beverly’s father came to scold them for being too loud. But when he disappeared they’d just snicker to one another, too amused to care. But all Beverly had now to keep her company was her sullen thoughts and the many photos of herself and her friends - mostly Y/n - scattered across her wall.

Bill’s house was as lonely as ever. Like Beverly - and the rest of their friends - Bill would wander the halls of his house, desperately hoping for a distraction from the loneliness he felt. Not just from the fight with his friends, but the usual lack of Georgie that taunted him. His picture was everywhere which seemed rather odd to Bill given his parents’ blatant denial of Georgie’s death that went so far as to pretend he had never existed at all. As he sat alone in the dining room now, watching the summer rain patter against the window just has it had that day, he felt the inescapable grip of isolation clutch his heart. He hadn’t been greeted by such a silence since before summer break where he’d face the emptiness of his house with not even his mother’s piano to coat the silence that Georgie left. And to this day, nothing had touched the piano but the thick layer of dust that coated it now.

Stan had not been fairing so well either. While he usually found himself facing a great deal of frustrations with the combined chaos of Richie, Y/n, and Eddie, he now found he missed them greatly. He missed sharing jokes with Beverly that nobody else understood, and he missed sharing gentle, quiet moments with Mike who always showed interest in Stan’s hobbies like birdwatching. Something the others never really took to. The quick remarks thrown back and forth between Bill and himself from the sidelines when the others got into mischief. And Ben, who often tended to be soft-spoken like himself, was better at creating a space for Stan to talk when he didn’t feel quite as heard. Stan missed the Losers deeply, and more than anything, he missed being one.

Mike went back to work on his grandparents’ farm. Not that he hadn’t ever stopped, but now he had nothing to look forward to. Normally, his days consisted of farm work until five - sometimes four-thirty if he got his work done early - before he promptly met up with his best friends. Now it was just himself, all alone on the farm again. Aside from Mooriuel, his favorite calf who he had named in secret. She was rather happy to be seeing more of him on the farm. Though like her caretaker, she missed the occasional visits from his friends. But they hardly did, except for Y/n who’d often feed the cows snacks, and even made a daisy chain for Mike that he refused to take off. That had made her smile profusely, and he often thought of that day.

While Mike had thrown his attention into his work on the farm - including taking up the duty of putting down the sheep, which he greatly despised - Ben spent his time deep within the books at the Derry Public Library. He hadn’t learned much, nothing he hadn’t already yet again he found himself closing another dusty old book. He sighs, looking up at the first thing his eyes find. Coincidentally, though deep in his heart it does not feel right to call it a coincidence, his gaze lands on an old painting framed on the wall that loomed over the entire library.

It was a woman and her newborn child standing alone on a prairie, looking deep into an old familiar-looking well. Ben knew very well that it was a historical art piece of Derry, the Well House no less and as he looks at it now he can feel the thick layer of ice encircling his heart and chilling him to the very bone. What horrors this town was capable of, horrors he had seen with his own eyes, and yet no one else in Derry had even the slightest clue what lived under their very noses. He wondered if they ever would.

Eddie Kaspbrak perhaps fared the worst among his friends, he hadn’t realized how suffocating his own home truly was when he didn’t have the simple escapes with the Losers. It was a feeling both metaphorical and literal as he struggled to survive under his mother’s thumb, not to mention he had gone through twice his supply of inhalers with the crushing weight of anxieties his mother gave him. He thought of Richie and Y/n the most. He missed Richie’s teasing and crude humor no matter how crass and disgusting it was. And he longed for the times Y/n would bring out a specific blush in his cheeks when she called him 'shrimp’, or the simple sound of her laughter.

He knew how sappy he sounded, and a part of him hated himself for it, but it was true. He could picture them now, riffing on one another while still managing to rag on him.

He hoped they were.

+++

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for-a-muse-of-fire · 5 years ago

Text

before the otherness came (2)

the wench and the witcher

“before the otherness came”

Fandom: The Witcher (2019)

Paring: Geralt of Rivia x Fem!POC Reader.

Summary: Two years go by.

Warnings: Language, some violence and sexism.

A/N: Part 2 of my “As It Was” fic set. Once again, big love to my darling Tumblr wife, @inber ,for helping me sus these bad boys out. This was a beast to write, and I think the longest think I’ve banged out. I will always and forever second-guess my ability to write angst, but I did it and it’s y’all’s problem now.

@coconutxraikage - @onyour-right - @ly–canthrope - @kianya-loves - @c-s-stars - @gczanetti1 - @alwaysnatz - @agniavateira - @inber - @owillofthewisps - @hina-chans-stuff - @yespolkadotkitty - @wastingmypotential

Part 1 can be found here.

Tell me if somehow, some of it remains How long you would wait for me? And how long I've been away

Heartache has a particular bite to it. It’s bitter – metallic - like holding a copper coin in your mouth, it sits heavy on the tongue. You’ve been trying to choke back the taste of it since Geralt left.

He always takes a piece of you with him when he goes but gods it feels different, this time.

This time the empty space left behind is jagged. It splinters. It breaks off sharp little pieces that slice deep as you try to go about your life. As you try to pretend that it’s fine, when you try to keep moving, and working – walking and talking and living as if there isn’t a piece of your own heart missing. It’s exhausting. You end your days almost too tired to sleep, curled up in your empty bed and each night. Your fingers reach out and drift over the space where he should be and the chasm widens.

More jagged bits break away. More cuts, more pain.

You hadn’t started to worry, really worry, until Geralt had been gone for two months. It wasn’t uncommon, but the longer you went without hearing word, the more you worried. When you still hadn’t heard anything in four months, the fear set in. The Continent is vast and wide, though – he could be anywhere.

After six months, the fear turns to dread. After ten months and no word, nothing, you’d reached out to Jaskier, but even his connections had their limits and that was when the sorrow found you. There was a chance the White Wolf didn’t want to be found, but the more likely alternative, well.

The Path is dangerous. Geralt of Rivia is big, and bad, but he’s not invulnerable.

You haven’t seen him in over two years. No one has.

With a shaky inhale, you pull your gaze from the flame of the candle at your elbow. You make another attempt to focus on the open ledger in front of you with middling success. The sharp bits, the cutting bits he left behind have mostly been pieced together. Some days you can almost ignore them, but today it feels like you’re on the verge of breaking apart again. Swearing quietly, you tally the last of the earnings for the week and flip the book closed before rubbing at your aching eyes.

You take the small flask from your desk drawer. The brandy is smooth and warm on the way down, dulling the edge of your pain until you feel like you might be able to stand and smile in the land of the living. Another sip and you decide to try and do just that.

It’s not terribly crowded tonight, but the people eating your food and drinking your ale are in good spirits. It warms you some, watching them smile and laugh over your recipes. You cast your gaze across the room, grinning and waving when your name is called until your eyes light on a newer face at the bar. He’s certainly handsome. Curly copper-colored hair, pretty green eyes – some manner of tradesman by the cut and styling of his clothes. Not poor, but certainly no well-moneyed type; that lot doesn’t drink here. The copper-haired stranger catches you looking. He has one of those secretive smiles, dimpled and cheeky, and you find yourself returning the one he flashes your way.

You touch the necklace at your throat. It’s almost enough to give you pause, but…

The redhead’s name is Nathaniel.

A carpenter and a shameless flirt, you let him buy you a pint of your own ale and don’t mind when he touches your hand. He listens to you when you talk about the tavern and your cooking, tells you that you make the best rabbit he’s ever had, and you let him slide closer as the evening wears on. His hand is warm on your lower back, his voice lilts in a sweet Skelliger brogue, and he’s entirely too charming for his own good.

When he starts to call you ‘darling’, you don’t feel like correcting him.

You let him tuck you against his side, relishing in the way he bows his mouth close to your ear and you nearly miss the way the room goes quiet. You’re not sure what makes you tear your gaze from Nathaniel’s lips, but then you meet a pair of honey-gold eyes across the room, your heart stops.

Geralt’s face passes through a number of emotions in a split second before you see him shut down.

Gods on high. The bastard’s alive.

Elation and relief make you feel dizzy, you such in a breath and it feels like being punched square in the ribs. Fuck’s sake. The bastard’s alive – he’s been alive this whole godsdamned time.

It suddenly feels as if the stays of your bodice are laced too tight. The room is too loud, too crowded, and the copper-haired man at your side far too close. Nathaniel’s hand brushes down your spine and you bristle, squirming away with a muttered apology. You hear him call after you and ignore it, at least until he grabs your wrist and pulls.

“Hold on, darlin’,’ the redhead leers down at you. “I dun’ think we’re through yet.”

“Let go – “

“Nooo, I dinna think so – “ He pulls again, hard, and his palm chaffs against your skin until you hiss in pain. “You cannae just leave a man high and dry like this, lovey,” Nathaniel says with a smirk. “Come on. Why don’t ye take me upstairs and you can make it up to – “

Over the Skelliger’s shoulder you see the hulking form of the white-haired Witcher and you’ve never seen Geralt so angry. Soft lips are curled back into a deadly sneer, bright eyes flashing with malicious intent. You say his name, warning him off to no avail; you’re not his focus. He grips Nathaniel by the collar and pulls; the smaller man is yanked away and you stumble as his hold on you is broken suddenly.

“Geralt, stop,” you bark.

Nathaniel regains his footing before glancing between you and the Witcher. He looks gobsmacked, at first, and then he laughs, but there’s no humor in it. It’s mean; spiteful.

“You let a Witcher have you?” he scoffs. “Fuck all, love – if I’d-a known you were that easy, I would’nae tried so hard. You’ll let jus’ about anythin’ settle between those pretty legs, won’t ye?”

Geralt snarls, actually snarls, before grabbing the redhead by the shirtfront and slamming his fist across his face. You shout at him to stop. Nathaniel breaks the grip on his shirt with a sweep of his arm before returning blows; man and Witcher ignore your furious cries for cessation, trading blows like brawling idiots, until you roar, “Enough!”

You throw all your weight at Geralt, shoving him hard enough to knock him off balance and away from Nathaniel. “I said enough!” you bellow.

Man and mutant are panting, the former bleeding from his nose and the latter sporting the beginning of a good shiner. Nathaniel sneers at you, “Mutant-humping bitch.”

With a snarl of your own you spin – a flash of metal, and the point of your dirk sits at the redhead’s pulse. “This is my bar, boy,” you snap. “You don’t speak to me like that. Set foot in here again and I’ll finish what he started – do you understand me?”

Nathaniel’s eyes go wide before he glares and spits at the hem of your skirt. Regardless, he does as he’s told. You watch him skulk out the door with your teeth grit so hard that your jaw starts to ache. The rest of the bar is silent as the grave and you can feel embarrassment flush your cheeks with heat. Poor Lucja behind the bar gapes like a fish in a dry stream. It takes a second to find your voice. The dirk slides smoothly back into your bodice.

“I’m sorry for the disturbance, friends,” you call out, grateful that you sound steadier than you feel. “Accept a round, on me.”

At the bar, one of your old regulars makes a show of clearing his throat. “See that, lads?” he growls. “That’s why you don’t tangle with the lady of the house.”

The unbearable tension breaks, laughter rippling lowly over the room. You almost smile, and then you look back to see Geralt. Something awful and prickling hot starts to claw through you when you meet his gaze. The terrible, gut-wrenching feeling only gets worse when you turn towards your study and he follows. You know the sensible thing would be to throw him out on his ass, but you let him follow and turn to face him when the door slams shut.

He just… stares at you. His gold eyes are flat and impassive, handsome face gone hard, and the heat in your gut goes so cold that it hurts. You’re on him in two short strides, both hands shoving hard at his chest. Geralt barely wobbles.

You haul back and slap him hard across the face instead.

The momentum snaps his head to the side; you hear him exhale, slowly. When he turns back to pin you with his gaze again, his eyes flicker dangerously. “Don’t,” he growls.

You strike him again.

He bursts into movement so quickly that you give a short scream of surprise. You swear at him, punching at his chest, trying to kick at his knees – or his groin – before your back hits the wall hard enough to rattle your teeth together. Geralt pins your wrists with bruising force, presses his full weight into you until you’re immobilized. “Don’t you fucking hit me,” he snarls.

You bare your teeth at him. “I oughta black your eye. Put me the fuck down.”

“You gonna calm down?”

“Try it and find out.”

Each short exhale rushes over your face, disturbing the curls that have fallen over. Geralt moves slowly, flint-cold eyes fixed on yours as he eases back. You yank yourself away from him as soon as your feet hit the ground and rub at your sore wrists. Beneath the anger, beneath the hurt and embarrassment, you feel the sharp stab of your old heartache. It shifts in your chest, pieces of jagged glass that drag over the bits of yourself that you had so carefully packed back together.

Oh, it hurts. It scrapes you raw. The pain snags at the breath in your lungs, but your fury surges to the foreground and you shake with it. Your nails dig crescents into the flesh of your palms.

“You asshole,” you spit. “You do not come here and attack my fucking customers – “

“Sweetheart – “

The petname makes you see red. “Don’t fucking call me that. Don’t you dare – you do not get to storm in here half-cocked after you vanish and try to, what, defend my fucking honor?”

Geralt growls from low in his chest. “He all but called you a whore.”

“And you all but treated me like one,” you bite back.

“That’s not fucking fair – “

“Not fair? You fucking left, Geralt. You were gone – “ You choke on the words - they sit too heavy in your mouth.

“For fuck’s sake – it’s my life, the Path! What the fuck am I supposed to do –“

“Try picking up a godsdamned quill.”

Geralt’s teeth click together. You see his jaw twitch, watch his golden eyes flash with barely contained anger and you feel your eyes begin to smart. His face goes hazy and you hate it – it feels like weakness when all you want to do is put your fist through something. The tears spill over your lashes and you wipe at them, angry and embarrassed.

“Two. Years,” you snarl. “Two fucking years I waited, and you couldn’t be arsed to send word?”

The Witcher barks out a laugh, sharp and cold as splintering ice. “You call that waiting? Found the first hard prick looked like he had money and hopped on, so maybe the ginger cunt wasn’t wrong - “

The rage, the hurt surges – bonfire hot – and you turn, grabbing the inkwell from your desk to pitch straight at the Witcher’s head. He dodges with curse and the glass shatters, but the cacophony does nothing to cover your howl:

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD, YOU BASTARD!”

The words tear their way up from your heart, breaking open the makeshift cage where that fear had been desperately packed after weeks, then months of nothing and damn him. Jagged bits of yourself run you through and let the grief well up. You try to grit your teeth against it, try to force it down, but those sharp pieces cut and bleed you.

“You unimaginable bastard,” you hiss. “I thought you were dead and – and Jaskier didn’t know where to find you – no one did. Gods damn you, Geralt. I thought I would never see you again.“

Your voice cracks. Geralt’s stares at you, wide-eyed, and you have to drop your gaze. You bite your tongue and close your eyes, shoulders trembling with each silent sob. If only the earth could open up and swallow you whole – you wish for it, pray silently for it, to no avail. The sound of the Witcher’s footfalls breaks through and you expect to hear the door closing as he leaves. Instead, you feel his fingers close on your elbow. You open your eyes, staring hard at the ground; you can see the toes of his heavy, dirt-caked boots butted up against the edge of your skirt. Geralt’s fingers pull once, gently, and that’s all it takes; you stumble forward against his chest with a low keen.

His grip is just shy of too tight. You feel the press of his face against your hair, so familiar that it hurts. He whispers your name, curls his fingers in your hair to keep you close. Your hands fist in the black of his shirt. He lets you cry until there is nothing left.

When your breathing evens and the tears have ebbed, you let him tilt your face up to his, but his expression is no easier to read. It stings at you – salt in the open wound – and the space around your heart aches. His gloved thumb drags gently over the apple of your cheek and you’re tired, of a sudden. Too tired to keep fighting this.

“Damn you, Witcher,” you breathe. “I love you.”

Geralt goes utterly still. Frozen like a cornered cat. You see a flash behind his pretty golden eyes before his hand drops away from your cheek. The look on his face makes your stomach turn over. “I never meant to hurt you, sweetheart,” he mumbles.

Humiliation has a particular taste to it.

The bitter, copper bite coats your tongue and, this time, you can’t swallow it down. It has thorns now, burrs that stick in your throat. You’re not sure why you laugh – it’s a hollow, bitter sound.

“Of course you didn’t,” you say as your voice shakes. “No, you just… you just ran. I said I was yours, and you made a promise, and then you ran.”

The leather cord on your necklace is old enough that it gives with little resistance when you pull. Geralt’s brow creases when you take his hand, but you watch his face go ice cold as you press the wolf’s tooth into his palm. You retreat, move away and behind your desk to pick mindlessly at a few papers before you stop and simply brace there. The smooth, polished oak is cool under your hands.

Geralt’s voice is rough over your name – you grit your teeth and snap, “No. No more. I have done with you, Witcher. Leave me be.”

He doesn’t move, at first. You can just make out his still form in your periphery, and you feel the weight of his eyes on you before he turns, making his silent way to the door. There’s a creak of old wood on ancient hinges. The tavern noise rushes back in for a moment and is cut off with a slam. You screw your eyes shut against a fresh wash of tears to no avail.

You manage to bite your cheek hard enough to keep your sobs muffled.

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