#blade's entire story centers around him wanting to die | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dimdiamond · 4 years ago

Text

Bagginshield fic list

Yeah, I decided to make one too because there are enough to cause me headaches and I'd like to have them somewhere organized. Please look at the tags before reading them!

Fix-it fics

Desperate magic by BeautifulFiction: Bilbo is left to tend Thorin as he hovers on the brink of death after the Battle of the Five Armies. Is love enough to save Erebor's king, or is this the last farewell?

Lay your troubles down by Avelera: An extended version of "the acorn scene." Bilbo sees his chance to snap Thorin out of his madness, and takes it.

The Riven Crown by BeautifulFiction: The aftermath of war is no laughing matter. Those who died must be honoured, those who are wounded must be healed, and those who remain need food and clothing, peace and sanctuary. With Thorin's life hanging in the balance, it is up to Bilbo and the rest of the Company to rule the rag-tag remnants of Erebor in his place. Then there is the matter of the gold... Can Bilbo save both king and kingdom, or is Erebor destined to fall deeper into ruin?

The Color of Possibility by lindoreda: When Bilbo puts himself between Thorin and Azog's blade, his mithril shirt protecting them both, it isn't long before some dwarves whisper that 'Oakenshield' might not be the best epithet for their king anymore. But for Bilbo, barred from Thorin's sight since the battle, this new epithet only adds to the sting. Spending his days caring for the recovering princes, Bilbo wonders how much more of this he can take, not suspecting his place at the center of a silent divide in the company.

Homesick by Margo_Kim: Five years after they've reclaimed Erebor, Thorin is sick of home, Bilbo is just sick, and neither is handling the situation ideally.

The Road Delivered Us Home by keelywolfe: In the years since Bilbo left Erebor, he has lost his respectability, gained a nephew, and gotten on with life at Bag End. He'd left aside adventure for the comforts and peace of his little Hobbit hole, and for the love of a child who needed him. Though perhaps, adventures can yet find him.

Notices in the Paper by YamBits: Bilbo returns to the Shire after his adventure, newly married, and newly homeless, after his two year absence allowed the Sackville-Bagginses to obtain Bag End. Bilbo and Thorin go to the Tooks for help, and find newly orphaned Frodo Baggins, also looking for a home.

A Royal Guardianship by ladyoakenshields: When Bilbo and Thorin return to the Shire for a sabbatical during Yuletide, they find a reason to retire the throne in Erebor sooner than expected.

The Shire's gems by awkwarng3: Thorin, Bilbo, and Frodo move to the Shire after raising Frodo in Erebor, and Frodo makes a friend.

Time travel fix-it fics

An expected journey by MarieJacquelyn: For years Bilbo has written about his adventures and told stories about his dealings with dwarves and dragons. To most it seemed like fanciful nonsense but to Bilbo it was all very real. A weight followed him home from his travels, one called regret. Now in his final moments Bilbo has a choice to make – go quietly into death’s embrace or go back again and face all the fear and pain for the chance to make things right? Of course, change is a fickle thing and not everything can be done again as Bilbo is about to find out. In the end, it may not only be salvation that he’s fighting for.

Bilbo Baggins, warrior of the Valar by Pallalalo: Bilbo raised his eyebrows. “And you’ve come to the Shire to look for this someone? My, Gandalf, I wonder if you know Hobbits at all. They would tell you that adventures are nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things. That they would make you late for dinner.” Bilbo recalled his own words perfectly. It had been something he and Gandalf had looked back on with bittersweet laughter. This Gandalf however noticed his exact words. “Would they now? And what about you, mhm? What would you tell me about adventures?” #The Valar send Bilbo back in time, to the day where Gandalf asks him to join in an adventure. After living a lifetime of regret and suffering, he vows to change things for the better. For Thorin. For Frodo. But will he succeed?

I'll die to care for you by thehufflepuffhobbit: His gaze landed on Mahal's eyes once more. "You did your best, Thorin." It was tempting to look away; he wanted to deny that with everything he had. It certainly didn't feel as though falling into Gold Sickness and then dying was doing his best. Mahal smirked, as though he knew Thorin's desire to contradict him, and pinched his cheek before walking over to a table. "Aye, I didn't think you would believe me. I'm not lying, it certainly could have gone better. More according to my plan, but I know you really did try." "Your plan?" He didn't know if he should ask, really. Knowing that his Maker had set a course for him, he didn't want to think about the ways he had done everything wrong. There were too many examples of mistakes in his long life, too many opportunities that he had missed that had probably been planned for him from the beginning. Or:Mahal feels like Thorin fucked up his legacy and gives him a do over.

Darker times ahead by Reach4theSky: Bilbo is sailing to the Undying Lands but wary of letting go of the guilt that has been with him for many decade. His most sincerest wish is to go back and change what was done. Before reaching the lands of peace and healing, he dies aboard the ship and finds that his wish is being granted, not because he is the one to wish it but because this is the dwarves last chance to escape a fate of eternal waiting. He finds that not only is he going to be sent back to his younger body, but so is the entire Company of Thorin Oakenshield. Time is a fickle thing and not all the members have their memories returned to them at the same time. The journey on becomes interesting as the dwarves slowly remember and fight for themselves and their kin, yet new hurdles are thrown at them when they realize that more people remember than expected...

Of an arcane binding by Salvia_G: An inexplicable magic ties Bilbo Baggins, hobbit of the Shire, to Thorin, dwarven prince of Erebor.

Legends by DomesticGoddess: The fellowship has set out on its noble quest to destroy the ring and put an end to the threat that is Sauron! Just set out really, barely left the gates of Imladris, but things are going smoothly enough so far. That is until the two most unlikely party crashers fall upon their little fellowship. Uncle Bilbo and the Legendary Thorin Oakenshield?! Frodo just wants to know what's going on but the two of them won't stop hollering at each other long enough for anyone to get a word in edgewise. Suddenly, their little group is joined by Frodo's two biggest heroes and he discovers there was a lot more to Uncle Bilbo's stories than he realized.

Beside myself by bliboboggins: "What are you doing? Just who do you think you are?" Startled, Bilbo turned around slowly. And there, in a familiar patchwork dressing gown, brandishing a fire poker wildly about, was... Bilbo.

Erebor never fell au fics

The hearth doesn't make the home by Moonrose91: For things Bilbo could not change, he was condemned to a life of isolation, with the belief that none could love him. And then a Dwarf came to Hobbiton.

Clarity of vision by Mithen: In a Middle-Earth where Erebor never fell, a shadow remains in the heart of the Lonely Mountain. Bilbo Baggins finds himself drawn reluctantly into a quest that will lead him across the continent--from Bree to Lake Evendim to the icy North and beyond--with a party of five dwarves searching for an artifact that will cure the ailing King Thrór.

Ghivashel by mdseiran: The last thing Bilbo expects when he stays up late one night is company. The strange dwarf and his companion crash into his life and prove unexpected saviours. But the dwarf seems to think he will be joining them on their travels, and Bilbo has no such intentions.

The Song of My Heart by DomesticGoddess: After a failed attempt of trying to carve out a new home in the Blue Mountains for his people, Thorin finds himself beseeching the Hobbit Thain and his council for a place for his people in their bountiful land. An agreement is struck and plans in the works for integrating his people into their land. The only condition being an arranged marriage between himself and one of their family heads. A small price to pay to see his people safe and well fed. Unfortunately, he’s to marry the most disagreeable hobbit in all the Shire who also seems to hold a personal grudge against him. If only he could figure out why his new betrothed hates him so much.

Oak and Mistletoe by HildyJ: After a life dominated by a strange form of sickness, Thorin is sent to the Shire to seek a cure only Bilbo Baggins can offer.

Karkûn shukula - A Cinderella AU by harrypanther: When the Prince of the Shire visits the Kingdom of Erebor, there is great excitement. There are hopes he will choose to marry one of the Royal Family, cementing an alliance that would secure food supplies for the dwarven Kingdom and gain new allies. All eligible dwarves are expected to attend a series of Balls. Unknown to the guests, there is a third royal child, manoeuvred out by his ambitious stepmother, for whom this may be his last chance of restoring his fortunes and escaping his fate…

Alone this Yuletide by Emsiecat: 'Alone this Yuletide? Irritated with prying and nosey family members? I am an out of work blacksmith currently trying to make my way by any means necessary that does not involve my resorting to thievery (prisons are most uncomfortable, I've unfortunate first hand experience). However, if you would like me to be your strictly platonic companion for any social function, but have me pretend that we are in a serious courtship, so as to torment your family and ward off unwanted suitors then I am more than obliging...' After becoming increasingly irritated by overtures of romance from various Shire residents following the death of his mother four years ago, Bilbo is more than ready to resort to desperate measures. That is, up to and including pretending to be in a serious relationship with a certain surly blacksmith currently inhabiting the Bindbale Woods. It's a good idea after all; all they have to do is pretend to be in love over the Yuletide period and Bilbo's family and suitors will surely leave him alone after that. It's perfect! And nothing can possibly go wrong, right? Certainly nothing as preposterous as falling for one another for real...

Modern au fics

Nothing gold can stay by perkynurples: Bilbo Baggins led a rather peaceful life, thank you very much, until an old acquaintance decided to turn it upside down, and he found himself agreeing to take a job that’s… let’s say not exactly up his alley, and might eventually cost him a little more than his treasured cozy lifestyle. Who would have thought tutoring a slightly menacing monarch’s more than slightly overbearing nephew could prove to be such an adventure?

Love-In-Idleness by perkynurples: Taking Bilbo Baggins, a successful movie actor who is only just getting used to the perks and intricacies of becoming A Face People Want To See, and putting him together with Thorin Oakenshield, with his very traditional (read: slightly backwards) ideas about what constitutes Real Art and Real Talent, might very well be viewed as just some clothead’s idea of a joke. But there are jokes, and then there are carefully calculated risks the size of controversial reproductions of classic Shakespearean plays - for Bilbo, it is the chance of a lifetime to prove himself to all those who have ever deemed him too one-dimensional to even attempt stage, while Thorin has the opportunity to get out of the rut that’s been hindering his career for so long now, and shine in a role worthy of his talent once again. That is if the two learn how to share the same space for more than ten minutes without wanting to tear each other’s hair out. The course of true love never did run smooth, after all…

Candid by northerntrash: Thorin wasn't entirely sure why there was a six-foot candid photograph of him hanging in this exhibition, but he was going to wring the neck of whoever had put it there. In which Bilbo is a photographer, Thorin an accidental model, and Gandalf just likes to make trouble for everyone.

How the west was won and where it got us by stickman: Bilbo is a harried 1st year British literature Ph.D. (early 20th century fiction) who happens to have an interest in spatial narrative structures, a lack of time-management skills, and a tiny apartment with a lot of books and very little furniture. He’s stressed, always, and doesn't quite know where he belongs. He tells himself that really, this is, in fact, what he wants to be doing. But sometimes, as much as he loves books, he gets an urge to do something with his hands. Thorin is a disgruntled M.Arch. 1 in his last year who can’t be arsed to shave and frightens his students, and, frankly, his profs, but his work is top-notch so no one can really say much. They can, however, bully him into running a hands-on design workshop on Saturday mornings, which is complete crap, because he’s used to drinking his Friday nights into oblivion so showing up at Milstein at 7:45 the next morning and trying to teach in a room of wall-to-wall windows as the sun rises is not at the top of his list. Besides, no one ever shows up. Except one morning, someone does. [graduate school AU]

Butterfly effect by eyra: Yoga wasn’t for him. Yoga was for interesting people. Luminous people; people who took gap years and spoke a foreign language. People who ate lentils and burned incense and had fantastic, colourful friends with fantastic, colourful lives full of travel and silent retreats and those baggy trousers with elephants on them. Yoga was decidedly not for people like Bilbo, who wore cardigans and ate beans on toast and whose linguistic capabilities stretched only as far as a rusty Spanish A-Level. Just your regular story of boy meets yoga instructor.

Remover of the obstacles by MistakenMagic: "Dis often chided her older brother for being a misanthropist. She did it so often it had become a term of endearment. It was true that Thorin struggled with people; he struggled to form and maintain relationships. Dr. Grey had diagnosed him with this and Thorin hadn’t the heart to tell him this wasn’t a symptom of his PTSD, it was a symptom of his personality. He exercised a sense of apathy with almost everyone he met… But Bilbo was different. Thorin actually found himself wanting to know more about him."

Color outside the lines by andquitefrankly: Kindergarten has just gotten significantly better. Just ask Thorin, who's got the biggest crush on the new kid in class, Bilbo Baggins. With the help of his friends, Thorin knows that he can take back the swings from the 1st graders, show up the K-1 class in the school pageant, and win the heart of one curly haired boy. Yup. Kindergarten is going to be a year to remember.

Bran' New Suit by pibroch (littleblackdog): Andrew's description had been sufficient to recognize him— a riot of honey brown curls, short in stature, a well-favoured face with expressive features— but it hadn't quite been enough to prepare Tom for the sharp, almost painful tug in his gut at the sight of the man. They had never met before, to the best of Tom's recollection, but there was something eerily and inexplicably familiar about him all the same.

Different species au fics

I've grown a hedge around my heart by pibroch (littleblackdog): "Thorin was the essence of so many Buckland oddities, distilled into one misfortunate young hobbit, much to his infinite embarrassment. Built like a stork, his father had said once, in an example of Thrain Brandybuck’s usual tactless humour. All beak and legs." Thorin Brandybuck, just recently come of age, still lives in his family’s smial in Buckland, with his parents and two younger siblings. Thorin is an odd duck amongst his relations and neighbours-- unsociable, grumpy, shy, and awkward. And beyond that, he looks rather strange even for a Bucklander, strongly favouring the thick, dark haired build of his Stoorish blood. It defies all sense and reason why Bilbo Baggins, an exemplar of all the respectable traits Thorin lacked, would ever desire a friendship with him. Bilbo, as Thorin discovers, is not always as sensible as he appears.

In which the dwarves are satyrs for reasons by HiddenKitty What the title says basically.

Bride of the demon king by DomesticGoddess: Thorin is King of the demons, a beast-like race feared by humans. Ever since the demons and humans formed a truce years ago, the humans have sent a young human every year as a tribute to the King of demons. Thorin is tired of having to deal with the tribute that has long since lost its meaning. The only tribute he'd be interested in is the boy he met fifteen years ago on the border of the demon and human realms. Despite his fantasies, Thorin knows the chances of ever seeing the boy again are slim to none, until they're not.

Lost He Wandered Under Leaves by serenbach: Thorin son of Thrain is a struggling blacksmith descended from a fallen line of kings. In an attempt to provide for his family over the winter, he reluctantly accepts an impossible sounding task - to hunt down an enchanted deer that lives in the Old Forest that borders the Shire, and make armour and weapons from its hide and antlers. He never expected to succeed. And he certainly never expected what he found to change his life so completely.

A Dryad's Tale by Bilbo Baggins by Moongazer12: Bilbo is a dryad (think little sibling to ents). Long ago a curse was placed upon him from destroying one of the rings of power. Whenever he touches someone with his bare skin he will make them insane. But despite this, he and Gandalf have gone on many adventures to help protect Middle Earth (What was the point to destroying the ring if something else destroyed it instead?) Gandalf has called on him once again to help on a quest, Bilbo just hopes that they read his amendments to the contract.

The quest but with a twist au fics

King, come at the red morning by Tawabids: Bilbo has heard fairytales of the lost prince of the dwarves, Thorin son of Thrain, who disappeared the day Smaug attacked the Lonely Mountain. But he does not believe in fairytales until he comes across the dwarf sleeping in the depths of Erebor, and kisses him back to life. Now Thorin - a hundred and fifty years out of his time - has to confront a world in which his city is empty, his people scattered, his baby brother Frerin is king, two nephews he's never met are missing in action, and a war is brewing right on his doorstep. And as if that wasn't complicated enough he's trapped in the body of an old man and falling stupidly in love with a gossipy, grudging little hobbit.

When the sun rises by Harry1981: Bilbo Baggins of Bag End was not a very respectable Hobbit. No respectable Hobbit had a sword and crossbow hanging in their home, nor did they have Dwarves as family. But Bilbo Baggins did, and all of Shire knew of his husband, blacksmith Thorin Oakenshield. When Bilbo comes home to find his Husband earlier than expected, he learns of a quest to reclaim Erebor. It is a death mission. Bilbo knows that Dwarves are stubborn creatures, and none more than Thorin himself. But nobody said that Bilbo himself was any less stubborn. So he will follow his dearest husband across all of Middle Earth, through plains and mountains and forests, all while hiding the true nature of their relationship (Dwarven politics never helped anyone), brushing off some old wounds (and getting new ones) and finding out new things about the dwarf Bilbo calls husband (and his extended family). Nobody ever said love was easy, after all.

Small, but fierce by DomesticGoddess: As a result of a magical mishap during the trip to the lonely mountain, Bilbo is reverted to a wee little hobbitling. Only in body, of course. His adult mind is still very aware of the indignity of it all (seriously! He doesn't need to be coddled, carried, and fed like a child). It turns out, dwarves love children and there is nothing cuter than Hobbit children. Bilbo soon realizes that he can get away with just about anything in his babyish form and starts taking full advantage of it. Even the grumpy brooding king can't deny the angelic little creature anything he desires (and Bilbo's going to milk that for all it's worth).

Your song like a home in my heart by Nennvial: In Middle Earth, all creatures have a soulmate. Not all have some, but if they do, it is a bond nothing can break, not even death. The more famous story of such a bound was the story of Bren and Luthien, who even defied detath. The way someone can find out that the other is one’s soulmate is through song: when they meet and hear the voice of the other, a song sings in their heart, which feels like home and makes them complete. They may refuse it if they wish to do so, but they hence risk a life of bitter looniness. Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins are soulmates, but they must admit it to themselves throughout their journey to Erebor.

To Dungeons Deep (And Caverns Old) by KingUndertheMountain: Bilbo Baggins was not your average hobbit. Of course, he had the wonderfully groomed and well-taken-care-of hairy feet like every other one of his race, yes, but he was not like other hobbits. He was cursed. Or, as the witch who gave him the enchantment put it, was “gifted”. She had given him the “gift” of obedience – whenever there was a direct command given to him, for example “cook a large meal” or “take a walk”, he could not disobey. Not without a lot of pain and eventual submission.

Chocolate candy one-shots

The world is sleeping (my world is you) by katheneverwrites (mandolinearts): I asked Persephone, “How could you grow to love him? He took you from flowers to a kingdom where not a single living thing can grow.” Persephone smiled, “My darling, every flower on your earth withers. What Hades gave me was a crown made for the immortal flowers in my bones.” - Nikita Gill ---“What do you mean, my friend?” There is a line of thought that surfaces in Gandalf’s mind, but he drowns it before it can take root. Surely not. But Bilbo’s chuckle sets him on edge. The small, gentle god of harvest, nature, and flowers sits up straighter, and in his crown of flowers there is a wire of strong metal, his cloak is suddenly not colorful anymore but the deepest black and he is terrifying, horrific, powerful - “I married Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the World.”

Of seasons by northerntrash: As far as he could tell, he had been kidnapped, which in itself made this week more than a little unusual. In which Bilbo steals away the Lord of Death, and Thorin can't quite bring himself to stay angry about it.

Warm up by paranoid_fridge: On one of their walks, Bilbo tumbles into a stream. They make it back to Bag End and Bilbo demands Thorin warm him up.

Royal Blue And Crimson Red by Mistofstars: Here's what happened before and after Bilbo accidentally eavesdrops on Gandalf and Elrond at night in Rivendell, as they discuss Thorin's quest and his family's history. Oh, and Thorin and Bilbo share a room, of course ;)

I was young when I left home by Margo_Kim: There was a pity clapper somewhere in the third row. Thorin finished his fourth song to polite applause from the people who noticed that the song was finished, but within the smattering of claps was someone beating his hands together like he was trying to rhythmically kill a fly. There was usually one of those, the kind who notices that no one else is paying attention and so is determined to compensate for that regardless of how they feel about the actual music. Thorin ignored him. It was easy to do so—he'd always hated looking at the audience when the singing was done.

A matter of buttons by StupidFatPenguin: “Your shirt,” says Thorin, quite out of the blue, and Bilbo looks down his front to see if there is a spot of tea or jam or anything equally embarrassing spilled on it. He is relieved to find nothing of the sort and looks up at the dwarf with an eyebrow raised in question. Thorin sits mute, his still-smoking pipe forgotten in his hand. He looks on for long moments still, seems almost lost to a thought before he shifts and lifts his gaze to meet Bilbo’s inquiring face. “It is familiar to me. Did you not wear this on the eve we met?” In which Bilbo and Thorin re-enact the evening they met.

The ladder by Milliethekitty27: Inspired from a post made by wheeloffortune-design on tumblr. Tired of his lonely kitchen in Yavanna's Garden, Bilbo Baggins wonders if the dwarven love of being underground is true in death. If so, maybe his dwarves are living (ha ha) under the very land Bilbo is weeding. With that thought, Bilbo goes and asks Hamfast for a shovel.

Love hobbit by HybridOwl: Bilbo Baggins considers himself a bit of a cock up, all things considered. He never made it out of his small highway adjacent town, can't seem to stop chain-smoking, and overall has more to talk about with the plants in his shop than 90% of all the rest of Middle Earth. So when he's reading the morning paper and a love note that can't be for anyone but him pops up, he's pretty sure - almost positive, really - that he's being made fun of. "TO the chain-smoking little stud who collects two metros from Gamgee's Goods every morning, will you be my love hobbit? - Bearded Biker." (heavily inspired by tumblr posts)

Fusion with other fandoms au fics

The Second Time by authoressjean; Sebastian Moran can't pull the trigger on John Watson to save his own hide, and what the hell is it with the doctor, anyway? Then Gandalf shows up, meddlesome wizard, and reminds him none too gently of his past life: as Thorin Oakenshield, leader of a company that had once included a small hobbit named Bilbo Baggins. One that looked decidedly like John Watson. And this would be the perfect chance to make things right with Bilbo the way he really hadn't been able to before he died, and that's when Gandalf tells him John doesn't remember being Bilbo, and to leave him alone. Right. Like that's going to happen.

And sow a star divided in us by MistakenMagic: Short summary: Gays in space! Longer summary: After his first successful solo mission, Jedi Knight Bilbo Baggins, trained by High Council member and full-time nuisance, Master Gandalf, returns to the Jedi Temple on Coruscant. During an excursion to the sparring arena, he meets a group of Dwarven Jedi from Ered Luin, a mountainous planet located in the Outer Rim. Young padawans, Fili and Kili, are full of curiosity at this strange, barefoot Jedi, but Master Thorin, who appears to have the personality of a rancor and mental shields like blast doors, is less than impressed.

Comics you should definitely check

Every work by rutobuka, seriously they're criminally cute and they're not still favored by everyone without reason.

Retelling the Hobbit by Mellow_Comics: Bilbo has never been good at telling the "true" story of what happened on his journey to the Lonely Mountain. Now he's trying to turn the tale of his quest into a lighthearted children's book-- a bedtime story for his young nephew Frodo. But what really happened on his journey? And how did it actually affect him? This is a comic adaptation/retelling of the Hobbit! It's framed as a bedtime story that Bilbo is telling a younger Frodo.

For now these are some of my personal favourites! However, I'm sure my list will grow since my reading list has some gems still waiting for me to read, so be certain that there will be a part 2 of this list!

#bagginshield #fic list #bagginshield fic #they're a LOT #they're all great #thank you fic writers #thank you artists

472 notes · View notes

lena-in-a-red-dress · 3 years ago

Text

Alt S5b Plot Bunny, Pt 6

Lena doesn't wake for three days. Kara stays with her, watching for any sign of life beyond the steady beep of the heart monitor. She's almost when she hears a rustle against the sheets, and bolts upright when she opens her eyes to see Lena's head turning towards her against the pillow.

"Lena? Can you hear me?"

"Kara..."

Lena's gaze is blurry, struggling to focus on Kara. Kara takes her hand, doing her best to ignore the straps still buckled around it.

"It's okay, Lena, I'm here."

Blinking, Lena's eyes clear a little, and Kara's heart soars when she sees confusion rather than the cold, cruel regard she'd last seen. It had worked. She knows it in her bones.

Kara fumbles to unfasten the buckle on the strap, only to jump when Lena stiffens and pulls away.

"Don't," Lena says, her voice suddenly sharp. Kara looks up, only to find fear looking back. "I don't want to hurt you."

Reaching for Lena's hand again, Kara doesn't let her pull away. "It's okay. The device is inert. It can't control you anymore."

Lena's breath hitches in her chest, her eyes filling with tears. "I hurt you..."

"I'm okay," Kara promises.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!" Lena begins to cry.

Kara leans down, pressing her forehead to Lena's in comfort. "It's okay. It wasn't your fault. There's nothing to apologize for."

What Kara doesn't give voice to are her own apologies. For not telling her the truth sooner, for letting Lex rewrite the universe, for not pressing harder when Lena banished her from LuthorCorp. She should have tried harder. She shouldn't have let Lena go through this alone.

When Lena's tears finally subside, Kara pulls back to begin unfastening the restraints. Lena lets her this time, taking a moment to look around the unfamiliar room. "Where-- where's Jack?"

Panic jabs suddenly through Kara's chest. "You-- you said he was gone," she stammers. "He left..."

Lena pauses, then slumps in relief. "He did. He left-- that was true. It was the only way I could confront Lex."

Kara breaths a quiet sigh. At least Jack was safe.

"We'll stop him," Kara tells her. "We're going to stop Lex, I promise."

Lena looks at her, unable to keep the hopelessnes from her features. Kara takes her hand again.

"We'll stop him together."

Finally, Lena nods.

"Together."

---

When the confrontation with Lex finally happens, Kara and the rest of the Superfriends face him alone, buying Lena time to finish a lexosuit of her own. Only Kara can go head to head with him-- the rest of them handle the goons on the ground.

Only Kara can keep up with Lex, but the modifications to her suit to protect her from his kryptonite only lasts so long before the device ultimately fails. The Kryptonite saps her strength, making her sluggish even as she struggles to fight through the pain.

When Lex finally grabs her by cape and flings her to the roof of LuthorCorp, Kara struggles to rise again. She can't. Lex steps on her back, pushing her to the cracked rooftop.

"You and your cousin are too late," he says. "Earth already has its hero-- me."

Kara hears his weapon charge, but when the whine terminates in an explosion of sound, the weight suddenly disappears from Kara's back. She looks up to see that Lena has finally joined the fray, hovering in her own mechasuit.

Lena sets down and helps Kara to her feet, her helmet retracting to reveal features dark with concern. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Kara pants, staggering slightly. Lena helps to steady her. They turn to face Lex as he too rises, wiping blood from his chin. He glares at his sister.

"So you did survive," he remarks. "I had wondered what they did with you."

"You failed, Lex," Lena returns, her voice steady. "And you'll fail now."

Lex's features twist into a scowl. "We'll just see about that."

He fires a burst of kryptonite from his blasters, forcing them to duck and cover as he flies off. Lena takes the blast on her shield, but grounds Kara with a hand on her shoulder before the hero to soar after him.

"The others need help," Lena says. "Go."

Kara catches her armored wrist. "Lena..."

"Go." Lena offers a reassuring smile. "I've got this."

Kara wants to protest. She wants to gather Lena up and ferry her down to street level as well. She wants to be the one to take Lex down-- Lena shouldn't have to do it a second time.

But Kara feels her weakness keenly, and knows shes on the verge of a solar flare. She doesn't have the strength to succeed where she knows Lena will.

She nods.

"Be careful."

Lena's faceplate descends with a clank, shielding her face from view before she launches into the air and goes after Lex. Kara returns to her friends, determined to help as many as she can, even as her heart weighs heavy.

Lena is on her own.

---

Lena pulls up her hud, tracing Lex's energy signature through the city. She's so focused that she doesn't notice the trail curling back on itself until something collides with her from behind. Sensors wailing, Lena tumbles out of control, spinning dizzingly for long moments before her reserve thrusters engage to course correct.

Lex doesn't wait for the world to stop spinning. He blasts her with another burst of kryptonite, then fires a rocket that explodes against her shoulder. The armor holds up but Lena's control of the suit slips as she spins out to collide with a building. Punching through the glass windows, the collision proves to be the reprieve she needs.

When Lex comes looking for her, Lena explodes out of the building, wrapping her arms around Lex bodily. He has better control, having piloted the suit multiple times before, but Lena's got the edge in structural integrity. His attempts to grapple his way out of her grip scrapes off her hull-- she returns each blow by searching for the weaknesses in his suit, tugging at punctures and joints even as they climb higher and higher.

Finally, Lena's armored fingers close on something important. When she yanks, Lex's boot thrusters sputter out. In her moment of victory, Lex elbows her in the side of the head. Her grip slips, and he slides out of her grasp.

She expects him to flee-- to retreat to a safe distance and fire another rocket. Instead, he cocks his fist back and lunges towards her. There's a squeal of metal shearing, and then all Lena can feel is a sharp burning in her abdomen.

Lex tugs his arm free with another squeal of metal, withdrawing the blade that's just pierced through Lena's armor. The blade pulses green with kryptonite, but Lena's greatee concern is the oxygen leaking from her suit in the high atmo, and the blood swiftly soaking through her gambeson.

"I always win, Lena," Lex calls, his voice tinny over the comms channel. "You might as well accept it."

"Not this time," Lena grunts out. Her vision threatens to start spinning again, though her readouts confirm she's hovering steadily. She knows she doesn't have long.

"Then you'll die," Lex snarls.

He jets towards her using the pulse thrusters in the palms of his gauntlets. Lena dodges the thrust of his blade, again hooking her arms around his waist. Without hesitation, she engages every rocket she has and aims towards the ground.

Time to finish this.

---

Kara hears the roar of imminent collision mere seconds before it hits. When she looks up, she sees a glimpse of two armored suits interlocked mere moments before both slam into the ground. The earth shakes with the impact, and a cloud of dust rises thick and heavy from the cratered earth of the impact site.

"LENA!"

Kara charges towards the crater, moving against the flow of fleeing citizens. Her strength all but gone, she coughs heavily, pausing at the rim of the crater to peer through the dust. All she can see is a deep shadow at the center of the crater, and she pelts towards it without a second thought.

"Lena!"

The shadow she sees resolves itself to be a mess of fractured pavement. Struggling to move them aside, she catches sight of Lena's armor.

"Lena!"

Sparks fly as Kara desperately heaves the heavy exosuit into her arms, levering Lena out of the pit and onto a slab of broken pavement. The mangled mess of Lex's own lexosuit remains where it is, unmoving.

"Lena, Lena please..." Kara's fingers scrabble under the chin the of the face plate, searching for the release. When she finds it, she presses it twice, prompting the entire suit to disengage. As each panel separates, Kara pulls them apart, flinging them aside until Lena is fully exposed.

Through the dust, Kara sees the stain of blood on Lena's side. Her blood runs cold.

"No..."

"Lena!" A new voice shouts from behind them. Kara hears the scrape of shoes against the rubble as someone climbs down to join them. She doesn't realize it's Jack Spheer until he falls to his knees beside Lena. "Lena!"

"Jack..." Kara blinks at him, stunned to see him. Lena had said he'd left, but the sweat and blood and grime on his face told a different story. He was here, in National City.

"Is she breathing?" Jack asks. Kara is too slow to respond. "Is she breathing!"

"I-I don't know."

Jack leans in close, listening for any sounds of life. When he presses his ear to Lena's chest, he pulls away in relief. "Her heart is beating. She's alive-- Lena! Lena, sweetheart, can you hear me?"

He cups Lena's cheeks with both hands, not quite daring to move her. Beneath Kara's hands, Lena twitches.

"Jack...?" comes the faint murmur. Jack gasps a shuddering sob.

"I'm here," he says, kissing her forehead in blatant relief. "Lena, I'm here..."

"S'posed... t'go away..."

"I couldn't--"

"How touching."

The rubble shifts at the bottom of the crater. Lex staggers into view, eyes bloodshot and glinting with deranged menace.

Kara stands to face him, stepping between him and the others. "It's over, Lex. Even if you win here today, your reputation is ruined. Everyone knows who and what you truly are. Surrender yourself, and I promise you'll get a fair trial."

"It's not over until I say it is!" Lex bellows. His armor is broken and mangled, yet somehow functional enough that he's able to prime his plasma cannon. "If I'm going down, then I'm taking you with--"

Before he can finish, a pulse of bright hot energy sears past Kara's sense to detonate against Lex's chest plate. The explosion that follows blasts Lex off his feet, throwing him back a dozen yards before he skids to a stop with a singed, smoking hole in his chest.

Kara doesn't need to listen for a heartbeat to know that he's dead.

She turns, and finds Lena with her own plasma cannon outstretched, her aim guided by Jack's hands. When the cannon retracts, Jack rips the guantlet off, tangling his fingers with Lena's.

"Nice shot," Kara tells them both. Jack barely glances at her. Kara looks at Lena, meeting her bleary, exhausted gaze. "It's over."

Lena nods. Her eyes close, her relief plain to see. Kara takes her free hand, offering a gentle squeeze. Lena squeezes back.

They did it.

#spheercorp #jack returns #lex gets his #the finale #there may be a denouement #havent decided yet #but im feeling one #again-- lots of feels for kara and lena #i cant help it #what happens next?#should i be tagging this as supercorp too?#or would that be misleading?#nah i wont #we'll keep it spheercorp

51 notes · View notes

bikerjongho · 3 years ago

Text

welcoming song | song mingi

genre: supernatural, horror

characters: vampire!mingi ft. vampire!jongho

description: After a millennium of imprisonment for crimes, the dark, powerful, and vampiric Lord Song returns home and catches up with his life that passed him by.

word count: 4.5k

warnings: violence, murder, explicit mentions of a dead body, blood

author’s note: happy birthday mingi and welcome back from your hiatus!! I hope your day is amazing, special, and you enjoy it to the fullest <3 and now onto evil vampires.

taglist: @itsapapisongo @mangomingki @irehlevant @blueprint-han @doievoir

For thousands of years, the Song mansion had withstood the test of time. Nestled in the dead-center of a lush forest, the mansion had proved itself to have incognito techniques as only few ever found it. Lucky travelers and explorers would get to experience the towering and magnificent architecture of the home, the addicting fragrances of the flowers that seemed to never die, and the unnaturally clear pool of water that looked to be the drink of the gods. All of this was available for them to drink in, and yet they were still thirsty, for if the outside was as glorious as it was, surely the inside would prove similar.

No sooner did these travelers step foot on the marble staircase leading to the doorway did the hidden arrows built into the bird feeders release and rob them of life. Wild bears and decomposers alike took delight in the delicacy of human flesh lying quite literally at their front door. When the mess was cleaned by the hungry animals, the stage would again be set for another unsuspecting victim to be drawn in by the beauty of the mansion. Because while the mansion had the looks and was clearly adept at drawing people in, the mansion was not to be entered by anyone other than the owner. And he hadn't stepped inside in over a thousand years.

The travelers were correct in assuming that the inside of the mansion was beautiful. Much like how the outside of the mansion lured in curious travelers to the front porch only to be transported to the doorstep of the afterlife, the inside swarmed with even more beauty. But this beauty was not soft and warm like the outside. It was as sharp as a blade, and just as piercing as an animal's teeth gnawing on meat.

There were over fifty vampires in this mansion, each adorned with fangs and priceless clothing. The vampires had been living inside the Song mansion since the days where it was new, and they worked hard to conserve its attractive looks. Though their hearts didn't beat, they moved with the swiftness of the most nimble humans and worked endlessly for the hope that one day, Lord Song would return.

Every golden piece of pottery was glimmering at all times, and the floors were like mirrors because of how reflective they always were. Cleaning in this household was no issue because of the sheer amount of vampires that were in this mansion, but there was also never anyone to mess up any of their work. The pillows were always too fluffed and the fireplace too kindled, and this was like that because of the hope that Lord Song would return. The mansion had to look spotless and perfect, to tell him that even after a thousand years, his servants were still as servile to him as they had been before he had been taken from them so unexpectedly.

But unbeknownst to the vampires, the anniversary of one millennium had passed and the prison sentence for a man was finally lifted. Black and buckled boots made their way through the forest, a cloak of the same color billowing behind the wearer. The traveler inhaled sharply when he saw the immortal beauty of the mansion, and increased his speed to the front porch. As usual, the sharp arrows shot out from their hiding places to pierce the newcomer, but the newcomer knew of this trick. After all, he was the one that had installed it.

A pale hand shot out and caught the sharp arrow. His eyes swiveled to the left to glance at the point of the arrow that was only inches from his face, inspecting it. Then, with a swift flick of his wrist, the arrow was snapped in two.

Mingi Song had arrived home at last.

His knock at the door sent reverberations across the entire mansion, and every vampire snapped their heads to the direction of the sudden noise. There hadn't been a knock at the door in a thousand years.

A small child with a mop of black hair and eyes as big as tennis balls clung to his mother's dress and stared at the door. His small fangs dug into his teeth and he huddled in close to his mother in fear. "Did the arrows-" he whispered, but his mother cut him off.

"The arrows never miss."

She said this with a shake in her voice, and all of the vampires could hear it. All eyes, red, black, yellow ones, were glued to the door and this mysterious visitor that had somehow bypassed their impenetrable security.

Finally, a vampire woman with long and silky black hair stepped forward towards the door in a move of bravery. Her hand shook as she grabbed the cold handle of the brass doorknob. She turned around and looked at her vampiric brethren. When Lord Song had been taken to jail because of his war crimes, none were given an estimate of when he would return. Many thought he had died. The majority held it within themselves that he would return someday. This person at the door, whoever they were, was not just some traveller. They could have been another vampire from the Song family taking ownership over them, or an entirely different vampire that wanted to kill them all or take them for their own.

But none of them truly expected Lord Song to be at the doorstep.

The all-familiar sight of his crimson red eyes caused most of the children vampires to burst into bloody tears. Mothers and fathers gathered them in a hug to soothe them, but couldn't close their mouths while they gaped at their Lord Song.

Prison had hardened him, but in the same way that polish on metal made the hard material shine even brighter. Despite being immortal, he looked older, but he had a new glint to his sharp, red eyes that suggested that the recklessness of his youth had subsided. His hair had been a tangy orange upon his arrest, and now it was a dark and jet black that rested over his forehead. He was tall as ever with a commanding presence that was frightful to enemies and comforting to friends.

His crimson eyes glanced over all of the vampires in his walkway. Some had been on the second floor and were frozen over the banister at his sight.

"Lord Song," a vampire finally said. "You've returned."

Mingi held out his arms and enveloped a child running towards him, smiling as he spun her around and she giggled with glee. "You all seem well," he said, and many of the vampires began to fan themselves to stop tears from running.

He placed the child back into the ground and walked forward. His knee connected with a small and wooden table by the entrance to the foyer, and the potted plant that had been placed on it tipped and shattered onto the floor.

Mingi's eyes were wide with shock, but this only caused even more tears and happiness within the crowd of vampires.

"Lord Song, I'll clean it up!" a woman cried.

"I will! It's my pleasure!" Another sobbed.

A millennium of meaningless dusting, sweeping, and wiping for anticipation of Lord Song now had meaning. And for the vampires of Lord Song, cleaning was the least they could do to show their admiration and loyalty to him.

A child pushed away from his mother and, disregarding a dust pan and broom another vampire had ran in with, began picking up the glass pieces with his bare hands. Blood prickled on his palms before spilling out onto the floor as he cleaned.

Mingi, surprised only moments ago, was grinning at the child. "Why, thank you," he said softly, then stepped over the child like he was a toy in the way of his steps. His long and black cloak brushed over the child's head without concern. Some of the vampires had fallen to their knees. Others averted their gaze to hide the tears of happiness in their eyes.

"Lord Song," a man sobbed. "I've missed you. You've returned."

"Tell us of your troubles that you faced while you were gone so that we might soothe you," another suggested, wiping away their bloody red tears with a white cloth.

Mingi surveyed all of them with his eyes, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his pants. "I'd like that," he said after a minute. "You all have kept this home in perfect condition. Let us have a drink while I tell my tales." He smiled with a glimmer in his eyes. "There's much to say. A millennium, however short that is in our lifetime of forever, is still long."

The beautiful and enormous dining hall, which had been bare and dull for a millennium, was waking back up with Lord Song's presence. The vampires cracked open aged blood and ushered Mingi into the hall with the grace of a palace servant. One pulled out his seat for him, while another was unfastening his traveling cloak and black gloves. The rest ogled at him like he was a magnificent piece of art in a museum.

Fancy glasses that hadn't seen light in so long were shining by the light of the chandeliers and candles. The cool, crimson liquid in the glasses swirled around as the vampires amused Lord Song with stories and tales that had been thousands of years in the making. A little boy excitedly told Mingi about the new species of bacteria that had spread around the mansion in the course of six months over three hundred years ago, and his mother told the story of the wild pack of bears that had nearly ransacked the house, stopped only by the mansion's poisonous and lethal breed of ants that lived in the lawn. But it all ceased when the binder of suitors was brought to the table.

A vampire with a monocle and poster straighter than a board dumped a six inch binder in front of Mingi with no preamble. He adjusted his tie while Mingi raised his eyebrows, and the rest of the vampires grinned at him with their fangs expectantly.

"Much time has passed during your absence," the monocled vampire began, and Mingi recognized him as one of the sparse British vampires in the mansion because of his accent. "We had grown bored of boredom during your absence. Days and years passed us by with a wink. Isolation can make you do many things," he said, and tapped the binder with his pointer finger.

"This is a matchmaker binder," he began, and Mingi's eyes widened as the vampire flipped it open and he was greeted with tens of faces on each page. There must have been thousands of pages. "We weren't sure if you liked men or women, or both, so we have everyone," he said casually, and flipped from a grouping of women to a section of men.

"My God," Mingi breathed. "Pray tell, why-"

"She's pretty, isn't she?" The vampire asked and pointed to a woman in the binder with dark hair down to her shoulders.

"Yes," Mingi began, but the vampires were too excited to let him speak.

"I like this one," cut another one, pointing to a man with blonde hair and a large smile. "He's also a Lord. I would marry him if I wasn't so low class."

"This one looks like he could kiss me until the sun rises," a girl sighed and pointed to a man in the binder. "And then we'd evaporate together. That's love, isn't-"

"Enough," Mingi said abruptly, pushing away the binder from himself and silencing the vampires. "Enough," he repeated, rubbing his brow.

"What's the matter?" The original vampire that had given him the binder asked. A hundred pairs of eyes leaned in closer for his response.

"Why did you do this?" Mingi sighed, looking at all of his vampires with contempt. He lifted the glass of blood to his lips and took a long drink. A hundred pairs of eyes watched every last drop dribble into his mouth, and then he set down the glass. "This is childish."

At that, many of the vampires sunk into each other in embarrassment. The monocled vampire coughed. "You are a fine man," he said simply. "We thought it would be a good idea to get you interested in the vampires available so you may extend the Song family for millennia to come. Many vampires of your class in recent years have found that marriage is a wonderful experience to behold in life."

"And as soon as I got back from my imprisonment was your best time to tell me about this?" Mingi snapped and the monocled vampire bowed his head in shame. "I was hoping to share my stories, not engage in some mindless and useless talks about love."

The vampires hung their heads. "I'm sorry, Lord Song," the monocled vampire lamented, sliding the enormous binder off the table and securing it in his arms. "We won't bring it up again."

A little vampire, a girl that looked no more than eight years old, appeared next to Mingi. "Lord Song," she spoke in a voice that was small but had hundreds of hidden years behind it, "tell us your stories now."

The room hushed and chairs squeaked across the floor as the vampires leaned towards Mingi. A thousand years was not even a twentieth of a vampire's lifetime, but it was still long. Eager ears awaited to hear the experience that Mingi had gone through during his time in jail.

Mingi cleared his throat and surveyed them all once again. Jail had been terrible and boring. It was the price he had paid for the crimes he had committed as a younger and reckless vampire, but he couldn't say that he regretted doing any of it. Mingi had taken himself and all two hundred of his servants to town after town, mowing through houses and draining the residents of their blood. The screaming of the townspeople had only made their own blood curl, and blood with adrenaline tasted richer. Despite being a dead being, Mingi had never felt so alive in that moment. It had been a display of power, a display of the awesome and terrible Song family that had roamed for eons.

But no one else had found it funny, especially the supernatural council that had reigned at the time. Mingi's name protected him from the worst of punishments, but not even he could squirrel himself out of an extended period behind bars. His servants had been sent back to his home and had been locked in with no idea of when Mingi would return, and Mingi had rotted in a cell for a thousand years. It wasn't all bad, though - there were vampires like him, burning with the desire to escape but burdened all the same with exhaustion and the cage that surrounded them. Mingi had lots of time to reflect on his actions, and he had come to the conclusion that if he was to do such an event again, he'd have to be much more discreet about it.

But now he was home. Mingi described the bad conditions of the jail to his enraptured crowd, preached about the terrible clothing he had to have on his back and vocalized the terrible treatment that the jail had given him. With every word, the shock on the vampires' faces melted into anger and sadness.

"Lord Song," many of them sobbed, "we are so sorry you had to go through that."

"What's done is done," Mingi murmured. "Stop crying. It's over now. Rejoice that I'm back."

And amongst the sudden cheers that yes, Lord Song had returned, Mingi smiled. A sliver of fear had baked inside of him when he had been released. He had been concerned over the thought that his brigade of vampires had deserted him. After all, a thousand years inside of a house with nothing to do was not an enjoyable time. But his stupidly obsequious servants had stayed locked in the house all the same.

The arrows at the front of the mansion only hurt those coming towards the mansion. They could have left any time they wanted to. But Mingi relished in the idea that they knew fully well of the arrows that were awaiting if they ever decided to come crawling back. His servants were locked in, and Mingi now knew with confidence that the leash he had on them was tighter than a double-knotted knot.

He raised his empty glass and savored the multiple vampires that tripped over chairs and table legs to reach his glass and refill it. He had them wrapped around his finger.

The next week allowed Mingi to be acclimated back into his home. The couches he rested on gave him peace and restfulness that he had forgotten he could feel during his time on the rock-hard floors of the prisons. The constant vampires that were begging to wait on him was also a complete change from before. But while his servants entertained him and kept him company, Mingi longed to talk to someone on his own caliber. So the next day, Jongho was on his back doorstep.

Only friends knew that the back door was the correct door to enter if they liked to keep their brains inside their head, and even then Lord Choi was smart. "Mingi," Lord Choi exclaimed when he was brought to the dining hall by Mingi's servants and saw him at the table. "It's wonderful to see you once again."

Like all vampires, Lord Choi hadn't aged a day since Mingi had last seen him. The only noticeable difference in his features was his now slicked back dark hair that gave him a more mature look, a look he never would have attempted thousands of years ago. He still had muscle on his arms, if not more, and his black and large eyes that seemed to catch every visual in Mingi's mansion had grown softer, more tempered. Something had tethered him down, and Mingi was curious to find out what it was.

The two of them circled one another in a hug, patting each others' backs as they laughed at their reunion. "How long has it been?" Jongho laughed when they broke apart. "A thousand years?"

"A thousand years," Mingi repeated. "What have you gotten yourself into?" He asked as Mingi's servants led the two of them to their seats at Mingi's long dinner table and sat them down. He expected Jongho to launch into a terrible and exciting story about a murder spree - he was famous for those when Mingi had last known seen him.

But Mingi was wrong. Jongho was more than happy to talk about his disciplined and mild travels he had done around the world. While a glass of red liquid was poured out for him and Mingi, he talked about his travels around Europe, Asia, and most recently, North America.

"I was most impressed by the humans' ability to be clean," he said as he took a long drink of his blood. "A bit of a shame because blood was so much easier to obtain when humans threw the carcasses of each other outside of doorsteps when plague raged. And I quite enjoyed the phase of blood-letting. But now, at least there's no more human feces for me to step upon when I stroll through the neighborhoods in London. I call that a win."

"You'll have to tell me about that," Mingi said and raised his eyebrows. Vampires didn't need to use the bathroom or sleep, but Jongho was glad to explain the modern wonder of indoor plumbing.

"And I think Ireland was my favorite place to visit," Jongho continued. "I was there about two-hundred years ago. Met some interesting humans, I had a book written after me as well. You may know of the book."

"Quite highly of you to think that I was allowed to read in prison," Mingi said, not unkindly, and Jongho laughed.

"Just a little book about vampires. Written by Bram Stoker."

"Never heard of it," Mingi said, and Jongho once again shook his head.

"We need to go on a trip together at some point," Jongho smiled. "To get you accustomed to the new world. You would be surprised how much human innovation has happened in the millennia you missed."

Jongho went on to continuing his life story that Mingi had missed, and Mingi was amazed to listen. Prison had been hard. It had been boring and harrowing, but he had survived, in the end. But he couldn't help but feel a pinprick of jealousy as Jongho described his tales and freedom he had, even if his adventures weren't as violent as he would have guessed. Jongho, like Mingi, had taken his vampire servants many times through towns for blood feasts. But Jongho had perfected the art of subtlety and remaining underneath the radars of watchful vampire councils that made sure none of them stepped out of line. He had found a way to let his innate vampire desires tear through himself and never subject himself to the horrors and pain of prison.

Mingi listened, but his ears turned greener as Jongho continued on about his life.

It wasn't until Mingi's servants arrived with that too-familiar courting binder of vampires did Jongho stop talking. Mingi opened his mouth to shoo them off, but the book was placed in front of Jongho and the vampire that had placed it cleared her throat.

"We hope you don't mind, Lord Choi, but we've come up with a few potential suitors, both male and female, that you may be interested in," she said, giving a bright smile to Jongho. Jongho's mouth twitched and he burst into laughter.

"Lord Choi?" The vampire asked, gasping. "Is something wrong?" Mingi looked at his servant and Jongho, equally as confused as she was.

"No, nothing," he said, "it's just that I'm married already."

"You're what?" Mingi choked and the vampire flushed with what little blood she had left in her body.

"Married, like I said, you missed a lot," Jongho said and reached in his coat pocket for a piece of paper. He threw it on the table, and it was a photo of a bright and smiling woman with blonde hair. "This is Analise, my beloved of almost seven-hundred years."

"Seven-hundred years?" Mingi gaped. The female vampire that had given Jongho the binder was already dragging it away from him, her face hidden by her hair.

"Yes, and she's wonderful," Jongho said casually, shrugging. "It's simply the way of life. I'm sure you'll find someone."

Mingi made a mental note to go back to his own binder later. "I never thought you'd get married," he said, and Jongho smiled.

"And neither did I. But sometimes, you just meet someone," he sighed, then looked at Mingi. "I haven't felt the need to go out and ravage towns or humans now that I have her. She keeps me occupied and happy."

Mingi's question as to why Jongho seemed more calm was finally answered, but it was accompanied by bubbling discomfort. "She must be truly amazing," he said through his teeth.

"She is," Jongho sighed, and then went into stories about her. The stories warped back into tales about his travels around the world, and soon night had fallen across the sky. Jongho couldn't have left the mansion earlier because of the sun and he hadn't brought a cloak, but now the moon could aid him in walking back into town.

"Be sure to come with me to Australia," Jongho said and hugged Mingi before he left. "It'll be lots of fun." And then he smiled, and Mingi's heart broke at how soft he had become.

"Of course," he said, giving a painful smile. Jongho grinned and left the mansion through the back door.

Mingi was back with his thoughts. He watched Jongho walking away through a window and retreated to his study. He sat down at his desk to write something on a piece of paper with a quill. When he realized all of his ink had dried up over the course of a thousand years, he begrudgingly took his glass of blood from earlier and wrote one phrase onto the paper using it: never to be sanguine.

It was a phrase that he and the rest of the vampires at the prison had learned and repeated to each other. Because while sanguine meant blood-red, it also meant that a person was blindingly optimistic and cheerful. And Mingi ached to never, ever, become like that. To be optimistic, to be sweet and kind and cheery, was to ignore the inhumanity of being a vampire. It was to align with humans more than vampires, their own kind. He had lost Jongho to the sanguine nature.

"Not like Jongho," he said, his hand shaking as he finished the end of the word sanguine. "Never like him." Because if prison had taught him anything, it was to be patient, it was to be quiet.

It was to be unassuming. Mingi rushed to his vampires. He must have seemed shocked, because the vampires nearly fell to the floor into a bow. "I need that matchmaker binder," he said. "My binder. The one you tried to give me a few days ago."

"But Lord Song," the vampire said, quivering, "you didn't even want-"

"I want it now," Mingi growled and the vampire shook. He left and came back a minute later with the book in his hands. Mingi yanked it from his arms and stormed back into his study.

Analise had made Jongho soft. The vampire council must have seen this, they must have known this. He flipped through the book until he found a page of attractive people.

A partner was exactly how Mingi could keep going with evil misdeeds and remain under the radar of the council that could reprimand him. The council must have had the impression that a partner would tame him, just like Analise had done with Jongho. And even if his partner ended up hating him for who he was and the actions he did, he could pay them a handsome sum to keep quiet. It was the perfect disguise.

"Marriage," Mingi murmured, and looked at his bare ring finger. A ring would allow his greatest diabolical plans that he had thought of in prison to come to life. He stood up and walked out of his study with the proposal of proposing in his mind. "The secret to staying hidden is to hide in plain sight."

74 notes · View notes

ibijau · 3 years ago

Note

I’ve sent you an ask like this before but like. reverse au where nhs’ goal is wrh instead of jgy - imagining little nhs with his father’s blood on his saber unable to stop bawling but insisting that he has to go on trial for the murder of his father - being furious when he’s not pronounced guilty because it has to be someone’s fault - little nmj crying sympathy tears and trying to guard huaisang against whatever’s making him cry -

lxc only starts to let go of his jealousy of how frivolous sect leader nhs is allowed to be when wrh attacks nhs in the middle of a cultivation conference and is bravely defeated by now-jgy and lxc sees nhs first realize through his tears that wrh may have been the one to kill his father - he lets go of it entirely as he begins to suspect the decimation of the main branch of the wen clan took a lot more hard work than chance

oops, I went for something centered around the Nie brothers with this orz

It was just the three of them in that room when it happened, and though Mingjue is quite young, he is brought to testify at that trial his da-ge insists on having. When the elders ask, he explains that he had closed his eyes and didn't see much. He doesn’t tell them that his da-ge had just ordered him to close them. If it’s relevant, his da-ge will say something.

But Huaisang stays silent, except for some quiet sobbing.

“You didn’t see, but you heard,” one elder insists. “So what did you hear?”

“A-die was angry,” Mingjue replies, eyes darting toward his brother. “He was shouting at us.” He hesitates. “It’s words da-ge says I’m not allowed to know and if I use them around grown-ups I’ll be in trouble.”

The elders smile weakly at this well-behaved boy of seven.

“Just for today, you can say it. We need to understand, er-gongzi.”

Mingjue glances again at his brother. He only speaks again when his da-ge nods at him through his tears.

“A-die said that I was just the son of a whore and he was tired of me scheming against da-ge,” Mingjue recites, the accusation branded onto his mind. He can still hear the exact tone of his father’s voice, feel the power of his unrestrained aura oppressing him to the point he nearly fainted. “A-die also said that da-ge was a disgrace anyway and he was going to get rid of both of us and have real sons, instead of a Wen and a bastard. Then I heard blades hitting, and A-die shouted a-die couldn't hurt me, and there was a fight, and then everything was very quiet and da-ge said I needed to go get help.”

The elders nod solemnly. Huaisang sobs harder, his face awash with tears. He presses both hands against his mouth in an effort to keep quiet, so he won’t disturb the trial too much, but it’s not very efficient. Their cousin Zonghui, standing next to him, pats Huaisang’s shoulder to try to calm him.

“What did you see, before you left the room?” one elder asks.

Mingjue doesn’t answer right away. It’s fine to take time to remember, they told him early on, so he does that. In truth though, it’s not like he could ever forget the sight of his brother, usually so soft and funny, standing over the still twitching corpse of their father. He hasn’t forgotten that their father was breathing and even moaning when he left. He recalls, also, how different his da-ge had looked with his bloody sabre in hand, that hard look on his face.

When Mingjue had returned with help, his father had stopped breathing, and there was no hardness left to Huaisang who had dropped his sabre and was sobbing in a corner.

“There was a lot of blood,” Mingjue says, which isn’t a lie.

His eyes catch Huaisang’s. His da-ge, who doesn’t let anyone insult him for his mother, who told Mingjue many nice stories about her, since he never got to meet her. His da-ge who encourages him even when others say that the son of a servant shouldn’t be given the education of a young master, shouldn't dare to be better than children of higher birth. His da-ge, lazy and spoiled, but always putting in the effort when he feels Mingjue needs protecting.

It’s Mingjue’s turn to protect him now.

“I onlyremember the blood, and that I was scared,” he claims.

This time, it’s a lie.

But he can’t let them hurt his da-ge.

At the issue of that trial, it is decided that Huaisang acted out of self defence, and cannot be too harshly punished for the murder of his father. He has to offer sacrifices to the heavens and make public penance, but there won’t be lasting consequences, and he still gets to be sect leader.

Uncle Wen would not allow for anything else, Mingjue hears some of the elders whisper.

Uncle Wen went through a lot of trouble to make sure Qinghe Nie stopped bothering him, they also say. And now his sister’s child is ruling the only sect that used to stand up to him.

Huaisang laughs when Mingjue repeats this to him one night, while his da-ge puts him to bed for the night. Everything else has changed, but not this: Huaisang makes the time to take care of his didi, and Mingjue worries for his da-ge. Making time is harder than it used to be, the worries have become bigger than before, but fundamentally it’s still the same.

“Don’t listen to what those old farts say,” Huaisang advises as he tucks Mingjue under his blanket. “And don’t let them catch you listening, either. They’ll think you’re going to repeat things to me.”

“I do repeat things to you,” Mingjue points out. “And they shouldn’t be saying things like that. It’s not right to speak about people behind their back. A-die said people should speak their grievance in the light, or not at all.”

Huaisang smiles, and pets his hair.

“A-die was a good man,” he says. “Don’t let anyone make you forget that. A-die was the best man in the world. The way he was at the end, that wasn’t him. He was kind, and he loved you, and he was the best man any of us will ever meet… but this isn’t a world for good men.”

Mingjue frowns. His da-ge has always said odd things, but it has gotten worse lately.

“Da-ge is good too,” he mutters, unable to express the worry starting to form in his chest.

What he means is this: if good men are struck down by a cruel world, then his da-ge, who is good, might be at risk of dying. The thought terrifies him, and he would do anything to keep his da-ge alive. He lied for him at the trial, and he can do it again.

Huaisang laughs again.

“Don’t you worry about me!” he snickers, ruffling his brother’s hair. “I’m not good at all. Haven’t you heard people complain how little good I am?”

“You’re lazy not good, not bad not good,” Mingjue corrects. "Not like uncle."

Da-ge's good humour is shattered, replaced by a severe frown which makes him look too much like he did, that night their father died. Mingjue doesn't like it.

"MingMing, you remember the rule about uncle, right?"

"I don't say anything bad about uncle where others can hear," Mingjue meekly recites. "Only da-ge can say if it's safe to talk about uncle. Sorry. I know you didn't say."

"It's fine this time, but be more careful. Uncle is dangerous. He killed a-die, he'll kill us too if he realises we're not on his side. And we're not. Whose side are we on?"

"Each other," Mingjue dutifully replies.

He knows it's the right answer, but only if they're alone. If there are sect elders, Mingjue must claim loyalty to the sect. If they are in front of Wen Ruohan, he must say family. But the truest of truth is that he'd do anything for his da-ge, and da-ge has proven more than once he'd do anything for Mingjue.

"You're a good boy," da-ge said, ruffling his hair once more. "Don't think too much about these things. Da-ge will take care of all the problems for you."

"But I can help!"

"Yes you can," Huaisang agreed, pinching his cheek. "You can help by doing as you're told. Can you do that?"

Past events prove that Mingjue, on the whole, isn't good at doing what he's told, not when he thinks he's told to do something stupid. Sometimes, he makes a big argument about that. He's young, not stupid, and he doesn't want to do things just because grown-ups have ideas about how things should be.

But da-ge looks really tired tonight, and Mingjue doesn't want to become yet another problem on his brother's mind. So he nods dutifully.

It makes da-ge smile, so it was probably okay to lie.

#nie huaisang #nie mingjue #mo dao zu shi #mdzs #jau writes #might continue it later but also might not #It's just that you know...#reversed nie bros my beloved #and also I'm trying to make a small dent in my prompts lol

90 notes · View notes

blossom-hwa · 3 years ago

Text

inspired by a song from ‘the ballad of songbirds and snakes’ (I highly recommend the book!!)

(lyrics modified slightly to fit the story, and no copyright infringement intended!!)

wc: 2.4k ~ haknyeon x gender neutral!reader ~ nobility!au (ish) ~ triggers: blood, death (nothing graphic) ~ the boyz masterlist

prequels: don’t be silly | shattered

for @thepixelelf :)

[ birds in the heavens ] Lying on a field filled with smoke and ash, you drag in a long breath.

So this is what it’s come to.

You cough, pain shooting through your chest as the metallic tang of blood fills your mouth. Just a few years ago, you never would have imagined this – a battlefield death, so far from home, a fall from grace…

No, not grace. Not you. He was grace. He was everything beautiful in this war-torn world, sunlight on the grass, stars in the sky, flowers in the meadow beyond the village, blue and red and pink and white woven in a wreath that you placed on his head with trembling fingers and a smile only he could put on your face.

Where was grace but in the curve of his lips and the scrunch of his eyes as he laughed? Where was grace but in the rough brush of his fingers to your smooth skin, worlds apart united for brief, beautiful moments in the touch of your hands together? There was a time when you thought you were grace, fine clothes and elegant dances and lilted words, but he was grace, truly, sunbeams personified, tanned hands rough from work deftly twisting grass together into a makeshift ring that fit perfectly on your fourth finger, a crude proposal in the eyes of anyone in your circle but so beautiful in your eyes, accompanied by a voice of sugar and honey, birdsong whispering between the blades of shifting grass, promises of a future where the warmth of his touch would never leave your skin.

What was the song he sang? Something about valleys and trains, roses and violets and red and blue…

A memory of his voice washes through your mind, a taste of honey sweet against the bitter ash coating your tongue.

Down in the valley, valley so low,

Late in the evening, hear the train blow.

The train, love, hear the train blow,

Late in the evening, hear the train blow.

He used to say that he’d wait to hear the train whistle during the months he knew you’d be there. He said it took everything in him not to run to the station and blow both of your covers, he wanted to see you so much.

What wouldn’t you give to see him now?

Go build me a mansion, build it so high,

So I can see my true love go by.

See him go by, love, see him go by,

So I can see my true love go by.

A smile stains your trembling lips. Where the first verse was his, this one was yours. Only you could speak of mansions and true love and not be entirely joking – you used to promise him you’d build yourselves a house someday, a house where you could live together in secret peace, away from the prying eyes of your family and their spies.

Go write me a letter, send it by mail,

Bake it and stamp it to the capital jail.

Capital jail, love, to the capital jail,

Bake it and stamp it to the capital jail.

A sob racks your body, ash settling in your throat and mixing with the blood bubbling on your tongue. How were you two to know that the third verse he sang so teasingly, eyes squinting with laughter as he swore to you with honey-sweet seriousness that he’d love you to the end, would become truth? That he’d be imprisoned in that very jail and later killed, with you sent to the battlefield to die? You couldn’t even send letters, like in the song.

There’s a fourth verse to the song, a verse you’d sing together, but the sun burns overhead and seals your lips shut. Its rays sear into your eyes, scorching your heart with the guilt, the knowledge that you have no right to sing or even remember the verse, and it hurts, but you can’t look away. Won’t look away. It’s the sun, what he was, pure warmth and light made whole into one human being whom you were lucky enough to love – how could you let that go?

How could you let him go?

Tears spring into your eyes. They fall slowly, cutting tracks through the grime on your face. One hand struggles to rise, to wipe them away, but you can’t. You can’t. The tears… they’re him. What you have left of him. Tears, tears only, and the dried grass tied around your finger…

Your face burns under the sun. It’s bright, so bright, just like him.

You were so bright, love. The hand that tried to wipe the tears now aches to reach up to the sky, fingers enclosing around a ray of light in a futile effort to bring it to your lips, to kiss him one last time before the darkness blurring your vision takes you completely. Bright as the sun. I could never close my eyes to you.

Even if it burned.

An image appears in the sun, his face contorted in pain and agony as they dragged him to the center of the square. Two guards held you back as you screamed. Four more stood in front of him, guns raised.

The sun blazed that day, just like his eyes as they stared into yours with all the conviction of a man who knew he had done nothing wrong, the bravery of a boy who had been taught to love and only love.

Even when the one he loved could do nothing to save him.

The same sun flares overhead, witness to your love, witness to his death, and now, soon, a witness to yours. It shines unflinchingly, fierce, unforgiving – you couldn’t save him. You couldn’t.

I couldn’t. A sob rips through your bleeding body. Pain tears into every wound in your skin, but it can’t compare to the ache in your chest, the knowledge of a death you couldn’t prevent. I’m sorry. I couldn’t.

I failed.

The sun feels colder now, warm rays chilled under your confession of failure. It hurts to stare, to keep your eyes open even as cold fire sears anger into your wounds, but it’s penance. Punishment. Just like when they stripped your title and shoved you into war, a nameless foot soldier to be buried under a heap of other nameless bodies, retribution for loving a boy they believed to be beneath your station.

Beneath my station. If you could, you’d snort. If only they could see that the farmer boy they scorned to death was so much more than all of them. Than all of you.

Sunlight personified, sparkling in a blue sky without a cloud.

You blink. There are clouds now, of gray smoke from firing guns stained red from the screaming bodies falling all around you. But the sun cuts through it all to shine on you, cold, unforgiving in the knowledge that you failed to protect the boy who loved you to the end, even as bullets ripped into his body the way they now have ripped into yours.

I failed.

I’m sorry.

I failed.

Blood trickles down your face. Your eyes remain open, focused on the sun. They burn, but it’s nothing compared to the punishment you deserve for not keeping him alive the way you promised yourself you would.

I couldn’t. Another sob wracks your bloodied chest. Everything hurts. I couldn’t.

But then –

A face you never thought you’d see again leans over your ruined body, bright, visible, even as darkness further coats your eyes.

The sunlight grows a little warmer.

Haknyeon?

You couldn’t, love. A hand reaches out, caresses your bloody cheek with a softness of touch that almost makes you close your eyes. You couldn’t. And that’s okay.

Tears fill your eyes afresh. No, it isn’t, you try to argue with the vision that can’t be real but that feels so real, so frighteningly warm in this one moment. I couldn’t save you. You should’ve lived.

You couldn’t, Haknyeon repeats, eyes sparkling. He looks so healthy, so whole – no bullets in his chest, no blood running down his face. Your heart aches. It’s okay. Please believe me, love. It’s okay.

The softness in his voice makes you want to believe it, makes you want to fall into his honeyed words that flow, smooth, through your ears, soothing the pain throbbing all over your body. I don’t deserve your forgiveness, you try to argue through cracked and bloody lips that cannot speak. Don’t give it to me. I don’t deserve it.

His touch feels so real against your skin. It’s a good thing I’m not here to forgive you, then, he laughs, for there was never anything to forgive.

Blood bursts from your lips as ash tickles your nose and you cough again, this time curling into his phantom touch. Then why are you here, if not to condemn me?

A question remains in the air, unsung, unsaid, but heavy as the clouds of smoke settling on the field.

Surely you can’t still love me?

He shines, warm, light, brighter than the sun overhead. You hear the answer to your question in his next words even if he doesn’t say it and it hurts, hurts so much – you don’t deserve it, you don’t deserve any of the love he still holds for you –

Close your eyes, love, Haknyeon whispers. Close your eyes. I’ll take the pain away.

Panic rises in your chest. You can’t. You can’t close your eyes, can’t lose sight of him or the burning sun, penance for your crime, the last sight of your lover that you will take as your soul slips away – you can’t let this gift go, this last vision – it’s all you have left of him besides the tears and the grass ring wrapped around your finger –

Close your eyes, love. His smile trembles, but his palm remains steady against your cheek. Close your eyes, and I promise you will still see me.

You blink unsteadily against the black spots dotting his face and the sunlight. Truly?

Truly.

The sun dances between the spots in your vision. To close your eyes and lose sight of the sky and of him, or to keep them open and take the image of him, smiling to your grave?

But it hurts so much to keep them open. Burns. And he said he’d still be there even if you closed your eyes against the burn, against the sun…

Maybe you will still feel his warmth, even if you give in to the darkness.

Slowly, slowly, your eyes flutter shut. Black washes across your vision and you almost panic – you can’t see him, he said you’d see him but you can’t and now you don’t have the energy to open your eyes once more – but then warmth settles on your forehead and, oh –

It’s him. His lips, kissing your grimy, bloody skin. And you can still see him, see his smile as he comes closer to cup your cheek with his hand once more, his palm warmer than the sun ever was.

It’s okay, Haknyeon whispers, words ghosting across your skin. I’ll take the pain away. Remember our song?

It hurts so much to breathe a few words from your lips, but for him, you manage. Yes, I do.

Sing with me.

And somehow, you know that if he were granted a last request at the end of his life, it would have been this. For you to sing with him one more time.

Who are you to deny him the last wish he never had?

Your lips begin to move, ever so slightly.

Down in the valley, valley so low,

Late in the evening, hear the train blow.

The train, love, hear the train blow,

Late in the evening, hear the train blow.

His song buoys you on, lifting words from your throat even as the pain begins to blur, to fade, taking your voice with it.

Go build me a mansion, build it so high,

So I can see my true love go by.

See him go by, love, see him go by,

So I can see my true love go by.

You falter at the next verse, unshed tears choking your words, but he continues, fingers still stroking your cheek as his song filters through your ears, soft, sweet.

Go write me a letter, send it by mail,

Bake it and stamp it to the capital jail.

Capital jail, love, to the capital jail,

Bake it and stamp it to the capital jail.

Bitter grief wells in your throat, mixing with the blood. If you couldn’t sing the last verse, there’s no way you can do the fourth. You can’t. You don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve to sing the verse that you always sang together, soft under the sun in a meadow of flowers, holding each other close as you whispered the words into each other’s ears. You don’t deserve to say those words to him, I love you, because even when he loved you to the end, your love wasn’t enough to keep him alive.

Come, love. A hand takes yours, toys with the dried grass tied around your finger. Sing with me. Please.

I don’t deserve it.

Yes, you do. He kisses your forehead again, soft as a flower petal against your skin. You still love me, and I still love you. Nothing has changed.

But –

Nothing has changed, he murmurs. Nothing has changed.

Tears no longer spill from your eyes, but if you had the energy, you’d let them fall. Okay, you whisper. Okay.

Thank you.

You struggle to move your lips as the pain fades, disappearing into the touch of his skin against yours. But his voice stays strong, warm, golden as the sunlight still washing over your skin.

Roses are red, love, he sings. Violets are blue. Birds in the heavens know I love you.

A last trembling smile spreads small across your face, lyrics lingering on your lips.

Know I love you, oh, know I love you…

His arms wrap warm around your shoulders, warmer than sunlight, and the last words whisper soft into your ear as the world finally slips away.

Birds in the heavens know I love you.

If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

(1 reblog = 1 well wish for the couple they deserve it)

53 notes · View notes

meep-morp-s · 3 years ago

Text

Febuwhump 26- "please don't do this", Maul

Maul had been to many planets for assignments from his master and they were all more or less the same. Crowded city or rural Outer Rim colony, the people all had the same tired slump of their shoulders and the same wary look in their eyes when they spotted him.

He didn’t mind; in fact it made his tasks all the more pleasing when he could wipe those looks off of his target’s faces. They were shocked, scared, when he struck. It made him feel strong and powerful. It made him feel like how he imagined his master felt about him.

Sometimes they would put up a fight and give Maul a bit of a challenge, or their companions would try and defend them. He was used to it now after months of being his master’s trusted assassin. No resistance would slow Maul down or make him enjoy this freedom any less. He had never been this far from under his master in his entire memory, been given so much free reign to do as he pleased. As long as he killed his targets swiftly and without too much mess, Sidious left him on a long, long leash.

Which is why when he tracked his next target (a Devaronian banker on the Black Sun’s payroll) to a crowded bar on the outskirts of Ord Mantell City, Maul decided he could have a drink first. It was something the master assassins and bounty hunters did in this situation. He saw them do it on the holos he could pick up on free subspace frequencies on his holo projector, one he’d found in the pocket of a target and repaired to be his own. The hero would swagger into a bar, order something strong, say something cool and take down their enemy with one blaster shot.

Maul was certain using a double-bladed saber would make the situation all the more interesting. Maybe they’d make one of those outlaw holos about him.

The bar didn’t quiet as he sauntered in. Most of the patrons were focused on a boloball game in the third quarter. Nevertheless, Maul continued to the bar where he elbowed himself a space in front of the bartender, an Iktotchi woman with her shirtsleeves rolled up underneath an apron. Behind her a sign read MY BAR, MY RULES!

“Corellian whiskey,” he ordered.

The bartender raised a brow, unimpressed. “Exactly how old are you kid?”

Maul blinked. That might be compromising information, was she a spy? He took too long to answer and the Iktotchi rolled her eyes and reached under the counter. Maul tensed and reached for his ‘saber, hidden beneath the folds of his clothes that made him look a lot larger than he really was. But the bartender only pulled out a glass of clear liquid and placed it in front of him. “You can have water, shrimp. What are you doing here, huh? Looking for your crappy parents or a stupid older brother? We get a lot of those type here.”

“I am not looking for anyone. I’ve found him already.”

“Oh yeah?”

Maul flicked his gaze to the Devaronian. He was laughing obnoxiously and sloshing a beer across the floor. He threw credits with reckless abandon, then growled at another man who tried to swipe some of them for himself. Maul wondered what he had done to get Sidious’ ire. It didn’t matter really, and Maul couldn’t care less, but there must be some story behind it.

The bartender followed his eyes and frowned. “I hope you don’t have any business with that man.”

“He has business with me,” he replied. He took a swig of his water– then another longer gulp. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was, but then again the ship his master had provided him with didn’t have a functioning water filtration unit. After the glass was empty he stood up and ambled toward his target.

The Devaronian and the group around him quickly noticed Maul. They quieted and stood up, reaching for blasters and vibroblades as they did. The banker stood tall and confident, front and center.

“The Hell do you want, runt?”

“You have displeased my master. For this you will die.” Maul recited the charge with a bored voice. This was his favorite part, though. Seeing his target’s reaction. Sensing the feelings of fear and confusion that ran through them and fed into his energy. Waiting with anticipation for the ensuing fight that he would inevitably, always win.

The Devaronian cocked his blaster and Maul smiled. He raised his saber and lit one end. The bar was completely silent. He lit the other end.

The sound of another blaster whining to life sounded from behind Maul. The bartender held a giant bowcaster with steady arms. Its barrel was aimed at Maul.

“I don’t want any trouble in my bar,” she said.

“I’d be happy to take this outside,” the Devaronian purred. He tilted his head toward the backdoor that led to a dark alley. “After you.”

“No.” Maul was not relenting to his enemy. It was beneath him as a Sith to do so. This would be carried out in his terms.

“Kid, I don’t want to shoot you but I will,” the bartender pleaded. “Nobody gets hurt in here, but if there has to be hurting I’ll be the one to dish it out.”

He could kill every single person in this room if he wanted to. Nothing could stop his fury, except for his master who was lightyears away in the center of the galaxy. He would decide how this ended, so he stepped closer to his target. The man was twice his size but still he took a step back. A heavy blaster bolt scorched the floor between Maul and the banker.

He looked back at the bartender, her determined eyes slightly hidden behind the smoke that trailed from the tip of the bowcaster. “I warned you. Now please, don’t do this.”

Anger rose quickly in Maul’s chest. He screamed and slashed through the Devaronian’s defenses in one spinning slash. They fell to the floor as he jumped forward and impaled his target as easily as skewering a womp rat. His scream rose into yelp and he was knocked onto his face with the force of a blast to his back.

People were screaming and pouring out of the bar. The only unmoving people left were Maul, surrounded by the corpses he had piled up, and the bartender. She gave him a sad look as he rolled over slowly.

“I warned you,” she repeated quietly.

It hurt to reach his arm out, and it shook as he used the Force to lift her up by the throat. He grit his teeth and closed his eyes, not opening them until the choking quieted and ended with a thump on the floor. Maul caught his shaking breath before standing up. In a mirror on the wall he could see the burn mark had torn up the back of his tunics. The skin on his back was a darker red than usual and a marred terrain of burnt flesh replaced intricate and symmetrical tattoos.

He grimaced and walked behind the bar, where he found a bottle of something clear but definitely not water. He uncorked it with his teeth and reached over his head to pour it down his back, disinfecting the blaster wound. It stung badly. With nobody around, he allowed a whimper to escape his lips. His arm came back shaking. There were a few drops left in the bottle and he downed it thirstily. It burned the same down his throat.

After shoving some packets of salted nuts into a pocket he shuffled out of the bar and back into the shadows. The feeling of safety that usually enveloped him in the dark did not come. Past the physical pain, he felt empty in a way that could almost be described as guilt.

#febuwhump2022 #febuwhump #whump #darth maul #sidious #angst #baby maul who hasnt killed qui gon yet is still oh so redeemable

11 notes · View notes

p33paw · 4 years ago

Text

blue

zhongli x f!reader

summary | zhongli realizes he can’t always protect you

warnings | major character death

word count | ~1.7k

links | ao3

Standing in the grass, illuminated only by the moonlight's cold midnight silver is a man. He holds in his arms a woman. She nearly glows, the moonlight turning blue where it mixes with her skin, reflected back to him. She turns her head toward the man, the rise and fall of her chest shifting the silk fabric that blankets it.

"Will you tell me about the glaze lilies again?" She asks.

The man takes a breath before speaking, a heavy inhale that shifts both of their bodies, tightening his hands where they hold her.

"Of course." He says, barely louder than a whisper, before he begins to lecture.

The depth of his voice makes his spoken words seem louder, projecting his speech outwards. Though, where his voice is usually grounded, there's a tremble, an uneasiness. It breaks as he finishes speaking, looking up with eyes that drip gold, fixed to the face of the woman in his arms.

She sighs to him. "Could we go see them?"

The man swallows his words, eyes flicking down the length of her face until reaching her just parted lips.

"Yes." He finally says, quieter than before.

The woman smiles, small, private, missable by the man. She shifts her head in, resting it against his chest, tilting her chin in to brush her cheek across the silks he wears.

He keeps her held tight in his arms, one under her knees, the other looping her shoulders. He strides through the misted grass, barefoot, cutting through to an arch that breaks the wall enclosing the garden that they're in. Just beyond it is a forest of bamboo, dense enough to cut the moonlight, sending it cascading down in pulses, scattered by the leaves that it bleeds through.

The man walks confidently, deliberately. He seems prepared for this walk, despite his general state of being underdressed.

Both look ready for bed.

Color cuts under the woman's eyes, deepening them, giving away her exhaustion. It's apparent in the way she moves and speaks, slow, measured. She closes them as the man walks with her, carrying her through the bamboo forest, careful that not a single leaf brushes her and bothers her from her rest.

He only looks at her again once he's reached a pond, lifting his hand until his thumb brushes against her cheek. He uses it to caress, dragging the pad of his thumb to follow her cheekbone to the corner of her eye and further, until he reaches her hair, brushing it back.

Her eyes open again, meeting his for a shared moment of intimacy. Holding the eye-contact, she blinks, slow, before glancing away at the pond she's been brought to. She takes it in, a clear pond set in stone, broken only by an island in the center.

The grass dances with the wind, gently swaying, blades brushing against each other to create soft noise that fills silence. Springing forth from the grass on the island are long stemmed flowers, blooming to display in the moonlight.

They glow, soft, blue where the moonlight reflects from them.

The woman smiles, turning her face back in toward the man. She looks up to his eyes, catching them. For a moment, his serious expression softens as he looks at her, tenderness and age showing in the look he gives.

"I want to lay with them." The woman finally says, before the couple falls back into silence.

The man takes another heavy inhale of the air, perfumed by the scent of flowers and fresh water. He nods, once, then steps forward.

He walks directly into the bank of the pond, then, unwaveringly, into the water. It surrounds him, seeping through his clothes as he trudges deeper into the pool, past his knees, then higher up his thighs. The woman flinches once her body finally hits the water, her dragging skirt and sleeves already saturated.

"I'm cold." She says through chattering teeth, tilting her face into the man's neck and hiding there.

Though the man doesn't say a word, his arms tighten, lifting her higher, until she's out of the water, cradled to his chest. The water encroaches, up his waist, up his chest, then rests there as he wades to the island in the center.

The lift to the bank there is sharp, immediate. He lifts from the water soaked, his garments heavy as water streams from them. He walks as though nothing is the matter, and his clothes weigh nothing more.

He carries the woman to the center of the island, where the bloom of flowers is the thickest, covering the ground like a blanket. He stops there, sudden, tilting his head back to look at the moon.

"They're in full bloom." He says.

The woman hardly stirs, only lifting her head from his neck to look to the ground. When she speaks, it's with admiration.

"It's beautiful." She says, then lifts a hand to squeeze his shoulder, signaling to be let down.

The man listens, lowering her to lay amongst the flowers, careful not to crush any. She musters another smile, though it looks tired, lifting a hand to pluck a single lily and lift it. Her hand slips, dropping the lily to the ground before she can bring it to her face.

The man is quick to catch the flower, lifting it for her until she can inhale, breathing in the natural scent. He holds until she pulls back, seemingly satisfied. Then, he lifts it, tucking it into her hair behind her ear.

His attention catches, his eyes remaining locked to the fresh bloom as it rests tangled in her hair. He grazes along the shape of it, tracing the petals with his fingertips.

"It is." He finally says, a delayed response to her thought. "The glass petals remind me of you." With that, his eyes finally leave the flower, fixing back to the woman's face. "They remind me of how fragile you are. How—" He hesitates, dragging in a steadying breath. "Breakable."

The woman blinks.

"Isn't that why you have your shield?" She asks, voice teasing. "To eternalize me? To keep me guarded?"

"Yes." The man replies back, quick, voice wavering. "I figured with my shield, I'd never have to watch someone I love suffer." Hurt curls his words. "That's what it's for."

The woman blinks again, staring up at the face of the man. It takes her some time to move, but she lifts her hand, slow, intentional, cupping his cheek just the same as he did to her. She brushes his jaw with her thumb, and he turns into it, closing his eyes, pressing his lips to her palm and breathing. The silence is weighted, until broken by the man.

"Please—" He begs out, his eyes still closed, like he can't stand to look at her. "Just let me— let me save you— I can still— I can save you—" His voice breaks for him to breathe, ragged, wet with tears.

He finally opens his eyes, soft gold light radiating from them.

"Please." He whispers.

The woman holds his eye contact, taking a heavy breath and continuing to stroke his cheek. Her face has softened, the exhaustion dragging her eyes deeper and deeper.

"I'm sorry." She says.

The man's eyes close again, squeezing shut. He tilts his head down, lifting both of his hands to hold the woman's wrist, holding her hand to his face.

"Please— please— please—" He whispers, repeated, broken. "I can't lose you—"

The woman lets him speak, until his eyes open. He pleads with them, holding her eye contact as her expression deepens further.

"You'll be okay." She soothes, lifting a hand to wipe his tears. He presses into it with his entire body, buckling over to hover his face next to hers.

She lets him get closer, until they're nearly sharing breath.

"Winning the favor of an Archon, does not deserve me immortality." She whispers to him, "Let me go." As she finishes, she closes the distance, chastely pressing her lips to his.

His body is rigid, all of his focus on the point where they meet, trying to remember every moment of it. When she finally pulls back, his eyes are open, a resigned calm in his expression.

He nods in acceptance.

Another smile melts the woman's face, crinkling her eyes. She looks away from him again, up to the sky, directly to the moon as it illuminates her.

"Thank you, Zhongli." She says letting her eyes shut as he squeezes her hand with his. "For all of my courage, I was always afraid to die alone."

It's the last words spoken, the couple falling into silence, until her breaths get shallower, her body breaking into itself. Just as her breath catches, her eyes open once more, locking onto the man's, a moment of panic and pain clear in her expression, just before she labors her final breath.

As her body finally relaxes in the man's arms, his body breaking into her just the same, a miasma surrounds her. It's gold like the eyes of the man, forming around her body. Nothing breaks through it, shielding her from even the wind.

The man's expression remains unchanged, other than the golden tears that stream his face. He sits with her, running his thumb along her cheek until the moon fades from the sky, and the sun rises, exposing to him what he already knows.

His protection was useless.

***

Everyone knows of Zhongli, of his warm smile, the stories he can tell, the timbre of his voice as he speaks, and the depth of his knowledge. They also know, he leaves town at sunset every day to rest.

What they don't, is that he goes to his home, changes his clothes, and walks out the back entrance. There, resting in his wall, is an arch that leads out to a bamboo forest. It's thick, but through the undergrowth is a trail worn by repetition. It leads directly to a pond.

In the center, an island that breaks the water. Sprouting from the grass are glaze lilies with flowers wider than your palm. He tends to them, bringing them water, rooting their weeds.

Every full moon he sits among the flowers and reads to them throughout the night. It's then that the moon is bright enough for the glaze lilies to bloom their fullest, reflecting blue where the moonlight illuminates them.

#zhongli #genshin zhongli #genshin #genshin impact #genshin fic #x reader #genshin x reader #zhongli x reader

65 notes · View notes

wefoundloveunderthelight · 3 years ago

Text

Love or Duty by GleefullyCaptainSwan - Chapter 8/8

Or on FF

Stacy's Tortured Crew: @teamhook @kmomof4 @stahlop @lfh1226-linda @ilovemesomekillianjones @itsfabianadocarmo @mariakov81 @qualitycoffeethings @zaharadessert @jrob64 @jonesfandomfanatic @natascha-ronin @tiganasummertree @xarandomdreamx @therooksshiningknight @batana54 @superchocovian @onceratheart18 @ultraluckycatnd @snowbellewells @karlyfr13s @the-darkdragonfly @xsajx @deckerstarblanche

Notes:

Thank you all for your interest in this story, it was really my first time trying to write a story that was not modern. It took a lot of research and not all of it is accurate but it was a lot of fun stretching myself to try this out. Thank you all again for all the comments, flails, and encouragement. You guys are the best.

Chapter 8: Love is Stronger

Emma watched in horror as the King and Queen of Jonesboro fell to the ground, a pool of blood expanding under their motionless bodies. Killian advanced to his mother’s position, glaring up at Regina with a look of murderous anger.

She felt like everything was moving in slow motion as he stood from his spot, his sword out in front of him, a low growl expanding from his throat until he ran full force toward the woman. He was blocked immediately by her guards as his sword clashed against metal. Liam moved beside her, rushing to flank the evil Queen between himself and his brother.

Emma stood frozen to her spot at the front of the room, moving only when she saw her mother pinned between two guards. She knelt on the ground next to a fallen soldier, pulling the blade from the man’s hand. Spinning away from an approaching attack, she raised the blade, hearing the metal clang loudly in her ears as it connected with the man’s sword.

The man seemed surprised, his eyes widening as she narrowed her eyes. “Come now sweetheart, I promise I’ll make it quick for you.” He taunted her.

Emma stepped back on her foot, spinning under his blade, and driving hers through the man’s chest. “Thanks for making it quick.” She glared, kicking her foot against his body to push him off her blade as he fell, lifeless to the ground.

She continued to make her way toward her mother when Regina’s voice boomed louder than the commotion around her, causing Emma to spin around to find her in the crowd.

“How does it feel to be king?” She taunted Liam. “Unfortunately, it will be the shortest reign on record.” She growled, rushing toward him. Liam met her sword with his as they stood inches away from each other, a grimace of anger on Liam’s face. Suddenly she saw movement behind the Queen, dark hair moving through the crowd as he rushed toward the pair with his weapon raised in front of him.

Thinking he had the upper hand he left himself unprotected, something that the Queen immediately took advantage of. As if she sensed his presence, she spun around, the end of her blade slicing into his shoulder.

“Killian.” The words left her mouth in a scrambled scream. She looked toward her mother, seeing her defending her spot valiantly. Emma rushed forward, trying to race to the other side of the room. When she could see Liam in front of her, she watched in horror as strong arms pulled Liam backward, allowing the Queen to focus her full attention on his younger brother.

The path to Killian closed as men flanked her on all sides, evil smiles spread across their faces as they held their weapons in front of them. She lunged forward, fighting off two of the men, but the men behind her were getting closer, the blade narrowly missing her leg as she tried to spin away. She heard a loud clash behind her and turned to see her father’s sword enter the fray. She nodded in his direction as he took care of the men behind her, and Emma turned her attention back to the soldiers at her side.

Dispensing of one of them easily, she began swinging her sword, the feeling of anxious desperation to get to Killian’s side starting to grow in her.

When the man in front of her finally fell, she looked up to see Killian still fighting the Queen in the center of the room, behind them she could see Liam fighting off three other large soldiers. Before she could reach them, Liam burst through the wall of men, backing up against his brother as the two of them held their swords, fighting the crowd around them, while trying to keep the Queen at bay.

For a moment as Emma watched between blades, she thought perhaps they had the upper hand, but then Liam was on his back, a blade at his throat and the Queen had Killian in her grasp, his arm wrenched behind his back, a dagger digging into his side.

She spun him around, showing him off to his brother and Emma felt her heart pounding in her throat.

“Which is gonna hurt more, watching your parents die, or your baby brother?” The Queen taunted Liam, laughing as she threw her head back.

Emma kicked at the man in front of her, bringing the blade down against his neck, pushing past him before his body fell. She heard Killian wail in pain, the dagger drawing blood. Emma lifted her sword, ready to plunge it into the woman’s back. Again, as if the woman sensed the presence behind her, she spun around, holding the dagger to Killian’s throat. “The bride wants to play games.” She said with a roll of her eyes.

The Queen looked to her right as a man pushed Liam to his knees and she locked eyes with Killian. “Go…save your parents.” He grunted at the end when Regina dug the knife into his neck.

“No, I won’t leave you.” She cried out, biting her lip as she tightened the grip on the hilt of her sword. Something flashed in the Queen’s eyes before an ominous laugh escaped her lips.

“Interesting.” She mused and Emma took a step toward the woman.

“You have nowhere to go. You are surrounded, we will destroy you.” Emma threatened only causing the woman to laugh louder.

“Do you think your measly forces are a threat to me? Such a naïve child you are.”

“Emma go! Our people will follow you, even after we are gone. They need you.” Killian grunted, struggling to free himself from Regina’s grasp.

“I need you.” She said through tears as her eyes stayed locked on Killian’s, avoiding turning her gaze toward the man she was supposed to marry. She couldn’t lose Killian; she would not let this woman take the one thing she had waited her entire life to find.

Love.

She didn’t know what overtook her, but a growl from somewhere deep in her belly left her throat as she rushed toward the woman, her sword held high in front of her. Killian pressed an elbow into the woman’s side, bending forward to avoid the blow of Emma’s sword, Regina twitched to the side causing her aim to be off center as the blade plunged into the woman’s side.

Before she could react, she was shoved backward against the ground, the woman yelling orders around her as men rushed toward the door surrounding their Queen in a circle of protection.

She winced in pain as she sat up on her elbows, knowing that tomorrow she would have bruises in places she didn’t dare think of, if she survived today, she thought grimly. Killian was at her side, his fingers in her hair.

“Are you alright?”

She looked up into his blue eyes, a smile returning to her face for a moment. “I think so, are you?”

He reached down, pressing his hand to his side. “Nothing that can’t be fixed, thanks to you.” She was transfixed by his gaze, the way he stared at her as if he were afraid she would disappear in his arms, leaning into the soft feel of his hand against her cheek.

“That’s the second time I’ve saved your life.” She said with a soft smile.

“You’re very good with a sword.” He smirked.

As if suddenly they were both aware of their surroundings, he helped her to stand and they both looked around the room at the men and women scattered about the ground. Emma’s eyes searched desperately for her parents only to have them appear at her side, fussing over each scratch and bruise displaying on her skin.

“I’m fine.” She said, brushing them away as she watched the two brothers standing mournfully over the bodies of their parents. She knew they would both be devastated, though Liam was fully aware of the possibility of one day taking the place of his father, she knew this was not the way he had anticipated it happening.

She leaned into her father’s side as he cradled her head in his hands before Liam and Killian approached. “The guards advised that Regina retreated by way of the East Road, though most of her men have scattered.”

“We need to attack while she is vulnerable, Your Highness.” Her father said with a bow of his head toward Liam.

“I am in agreement, she is injured thanks to your daughter, she will not expect an advance after the destruction she left in her wake.”

“Then we shall continue the ceremony at once.” Her father stated, gesturing to some of the men to collect the priest, Emma’s heart sinking in her chest.

~*~

Killian pressed a palm to his mother’s face, closing her eyes and bending to press a kiss to her forehead before draping the cloth over her body. “She loved you more than me, you know.” Killian glanced toward his brother’s voice, a small smile splaying on his face.

“You know that isn’t true.”

“You were the baby, I reconciled with it long ago.” He chuckled.

“Regina must pay for this.” He said solemnly.

“She will. Today we stand together, you and I. Nothing will stop us from bringing Regina’s reign to an end.”

He clasped a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I will follow you to the end of the earth, my King.”

“You fought valiantly today.”

“We still lost.” He said sadly.

“They would not want us to lose hope.” Liam said softly. “As mother always said, when we are at our darkest, love will bring us to the light.”

Killian turned his eyes toward Emma’s at the other end of the room, her mother fussing over her hair as she looked nervously in his direction.

“It’s you, isn’t it?”

Killian jerked his gaze back to his brother. “What?”

“Before the ceremony, Emma told me that she was in love with another.”

Killian gulped, the guilt tearing at him. “Brother, I swear, I never meant…”

“Do you love her?”

His eyes met hers once again. “With everything that I am.”

~*~

“Mom, please. Stop.”

“It’s just a spot of blood.” Her mother complained, brushing her cheek with the corner of her sleeve. “Emma, I’m so sorry, this is not how your wedding should have gone.”

“I’m not upset about the wedding! His parents are dead?”

“I know.” She said sadly, pausing as she leaned against the wall beside them. “Alice and I were friends when we were younger. I would never have wished this on her. She was a wonderful woman. But Liam has been preparing for this his entire life.”

Emma shook her head, staring at Killian across the room, their eyes meeting for a moment as he spoke with his brother. “Liam will be a good King.”

“And you will be a wonderful Queen, Emma, you were born for this.” Before Emma could respond she was approached by her father.

“We must start the ceremony now.” He announced as Liam and Killian appeared behind him. He turned toward the men. “It’s time, you and Emma must marry now.”

Emma met Liam’s eyes and he smiled at her softly. “I was wrong earlier.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I cannot perform my duty when my heart belongs to another.”

Her father’s face narrowed in anger. “Are you rejecting my daughter?”

Liam smiled at Emma. “I am simply allowing her to meet her own destiny.”

“King Liam, I know this has been a difficult day, but we must unite our kingdoms if you wish to avenge your parent’s death.” Her father tried to reason.

Liam stepped closer to Emma and took her hand. “You and I do not need to marry to unite our Kingdom, Emma, but there can still be a wedding this day, if that is what your heart truly desires.”

“What are you talking about?” Her father interjected, staring between the two of them.

“Liam…I can explain.” She started before he cut her off.

“There is no need to explain. The heart wants what the heart wants.” He looked over her shoulder toward the woman standing behind her, Elsa looked bewildered as he stepped toward her and took her hand.

“This is an outrage.” Her father said angrily. “You reject my daughter for another woman at her own wedding.”

“Father.” Emma said loudly. “Stop.” She turned toward Killian. “I’m sorry I wasn’t brave.”

“Love, you did what you thought you needed to do. I could not judge you for doing your duty, no matter how much it pained me.” Killian stepped toward her.

“I should have chosen you; for it is all that my heart desires.” She heard her mother gasp behind her.

“Then choose me now.” He reached for her hand, pulling her toward him. “I cannot make you Queen of Jonesboro, but I promise that I will always be by your side, and I will love you like no other.”

“Emma, what is the meaning of this?” Her father stepped between them.

“I love Killian, daddy. I do not wish to disappoint you, but I choose him, and together we can still stop Regina, we can still protect our people.”

“Killian will never be King.” Her father stated somberly.

“You taught me about responsibility, about duty and honor, but I don’t need to be the Queen of Jonesboro to unite our people.” She reached over and took Killian’s hand, looking over her shoulder at Liam. “We simply need to lead the way and they will follow.”

Her mother stood next to her father, reaching out to touch his arm. “Years ago, it was love that tore these kingdoms apart, perhaps now it is time to let love bring them together.”

“But she needs to be Queen…”

“And she will be.” Her mother said suddenly, reaching out to touch her daughter’s cheek. “Emma is the rightful heir of Misthaven.”

“Thank God.” Henry exclaimed behind them.

“Mary Margaret, women are not in the line of succession.” Her father argued. “It is the law of the land.”

“A law that the King of Misthaven has the ability to ignore or perhaps rewrite.” She said with a smile in Emma’s direction.

“Regardless of my father’s stubbornness, and though he would not admit it publicly, he knew that his Margie had chosen the better man that day.” Liam said stepping forward. “And now we face a mighty adversary, a woman who does not care about the law of men. Perhaps on this day, it is not a man who will defeat her.”

“Emma, is this what you want?” He father asked.

“All I have ever wanted was for you to see me for what I could be. I have watched you lead my entire life. I have learned everything I know because of you. I am more than a decorative piece of furniture.”

“Aye, she is a fierce fighter, skilled with a blade, and too stubborn to back down.” Killian said proudly as he stood at her side.

“She gets that part from me.” Her father said with a laugh.

“People of Jonesboro.” His brother’s voice boomed behind him. “Today has been a sad occasion. We have lost our beloved King and Queen, but we will not let this deed go unpunished. I promise to serve you proudly as King of Jonesboro and we will avenge my parents by removing the evil that set foot in our house here this day.” He turned toward Killian, glancing between him and Emma. “This kingdom has long since held ill will to our neighbors in the North, but starting today, there will be no malice toward the people of Misthaven. We must let love guide our hearts.”

He paused, taking Emma’s hand. “I have learned much from Princess Emma, she has taught me that our duty as royals means that we must protect those who trust us to lead them. But she also taught me that without love, duty means nothing.”

He turned toward the blonde woman standing behind him. “Love is stronger than any blade and I will not allow love to be defeated on this day.” He turned his attention back to the people standing in their seats, confusion, and anxiety on their faces. “Today Jonesboro and Misthaven will join as one, a force of love so strong that it will defeat anything that stands against it.” He guided Emma’s hand toward him until he had placed it into Killian’s palm.

“My brother, Prince Killian will wed Princess Emma of Misthaven, a pair who have proven their worth on this day, a pair who will guide and lead our kingdoms to victory.”

There was a murmur among the crowd as many people whispered to their nearest neighbor.

“Hear me Misthaven.” King David’s voice boomed. “I will follow King Liam into the depths of the black forest until we reach the Queen’s castle and remove her from her reign of terror. I will do so with my daughter by my side, the rightful heir of Misthaven.”

Killian heard the crowds gasp before David pushed on.

“People of Jonesboro, we must never forget the sacrifices that were made today, a loss that I am most certain will be felt for years to come. As many of you know, King Brennan and I were not friends, but perhaps we had more in common than we realized. The devotion of our Kingdom, the joy of watching our children become braver than ourselves, and the support of the one who stands firm beside us.” He reached over and took the hand of his wife, pulling her to his side. “We should have let go of childish pride, but we could not see past our own anger. An anger that divided us and surely would destroy our lands. It is our children that have shown me the error of our ways, sadly it is too late for me to make it right with King Brennan, but together, with our children united, we can save the Enchanted Forest from a most certain destruction.”

Liam clasped him on the shoulder. “Let love rule this day.”

Killian glanced at Emma; her eyes wide as she took in the scene in front of her. “Love, what do you say?”

She turned to him, her eyes blinking slowly. “I…”

“Marry me, Emma. Marry me for now and for all eternity.”

She shook her head repeatedly as her father laughed. “She was never this quiet at home, you have done something I have tried to do for years, you have rendered her speechless.”

“Father.” Emma said in a warning tone but with a playful smile on her face. He turned toward the priest.

“Please, continue.” He gestured to the couple and stepped away from the altar to take his seat.

The priest took in the situation in front of him, hesitant to proceed. “They have my blessing.” Liam said softly, stepping back from the couple and taking Elsa’s hand once more as he guided her happily to a seat at the front of the room.

The man cleared his throat. “I suppose I shall ask again, Princess, art thou here this day in pledged troth of thy own free will and choice?”

Emma turned to him and smiled widely. “Yes Father, with all my heart.”

“Prince Killian…” He continued after a pause, “and Princess Emma have pledged their troth to be married this day, we call upon Heaven to bless this union.” The man stared at the door nervously. “Therefore, if anyone can show just cause, why they may not be joined together, by God's Law, or the Laws of the Realm; let them now speak, or else hereafter keep silent for all time.” He winced, as if waiting for the doors to barrel open once more. When he was met with silence, he exhaled.

“Wilt thou have this Woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her, in sickness and in health; and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

Killian felt his heart flutter at the words, barely believing the fact that she was standing in front of him, giving herself to him and not his brother. He heard her clear her throat across from him, her eyes nervously scanning his. “Aye, I will.” He said quickly, offering her a smile to reassure her that he was alright.

“Wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

Emma squinted her eyes closed for a moment and then opened them as she leaned toward him. “About the obey part…” She whispered.

“Considering you are the one who will one day become Queen, it is I who will follow your lead.” He winked.

She laughed light heartedly. “Knowing you, neither one of us will be very good at this whole obeying notion.”

The Priest scowled. “May we continue?” He offered quietly.

Emma stepped back, “I believe we have an accord.” She grinned. “I mean, yes, I will.” She corrected as the Priest stared at her with a frown on his face.

Killian watched her with admiration and pride as they exchanged rings, his hand shaking with nervous energy, his heart barely contained in his chest the moment he felt the cold slide of metal on his own finger.

“Forasmuch as Killian and Emma have consented together in holy wedlock and have witnessed the same before God and this company, I pronounce therefore that they be Man and Wife together, in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

He pulled her to him before the man spoke again, brushing his lips against his own as he felt her mouth turn upward in a grin. “My wife.” He whispered softly as she pulled away from him, grinning and turning toward the cheering crowd.

They were approached by his brother and Emma’s parents, congratulatory cheers surrounding them before they were quickly ushered from the room. There was much to be done before they had a moment to digest the last few moments of the day. Planning their armies next moves was paramount if they were to get the upper hand in the fight against Regina which meant they would have mere moments alone before they would head into battle.

The moment the doors closed and the air around them was finally still, he pulled her against him, holding her close against his chest. “I will remember this day as long as I shall live.”

“Then remember to live longer than today.” She said softly against his chest. “For I wish to think upon this day when we are old and gray.”

He pulled away from her, the worry in her eyes shining through. “Emma, I would have followed my brother to the depths of hell to protect my kingdom. And today, I will follow him, but mostly I am honored to fight side by side with you in battle because I believe in you and your will to survive. I saw you today as you stood in front of Regina, unafraid and full of pride. Today you are not only my wife, my love, but my Queen. Regina doesn’t stand a chance against the likes of Jonesboro and Misthaven united. Today she will fall.”

Emma wrapped her arms around his neck, her lips assaulting his in a bruising kiss. “Keep talking like that and you will find yourself properly rewarded in your bedchamber.”

“Our bedchamber.” He corrected her. “And I very much look forward to my reward.”

She closed her eyes and pressed into him once more. “I love you, Killian.”

“I love you too.” He returned, opening his eyes, and staring into hers with every emotion he could muster. “Stay close to me, love.”

“I shall not keep my eyes off you for one moment.” She teased.

“I would despair if you did.” With one final kiss, they joined the others to make their united stand against Evil Queen Regina.

~*~

Three months later…

“No this is my favorite spot.” Killian’s voice wafted from below her, his lips lightly pressed against the skin behind her knee. She mewed appreciatively. “Ah yes, and that is why it is my favorite, it elicits such a glorious sound.” He traced his hand higher up her thigh, “Though I do enjoy the sounds this area brings as well.” A groan left her throat, much lower than the previous.

“Killian, if you keep this up, we will be late for breakfast.” His lips pressed against her inner thigh.

“Since when are we ever on time for breakfast?”

She giggled, watching his dark hair disappear between her legs, her eyes closing lazily as she enjoyed his ministrations. “Mmm, you make a valiant point, my love.” She could feel the short hairs at his chin brush against her most sensitive area, causing her head to fall back against the bed as she reveled in the feelings washing over her.

“I do believe if you continue to make that sound, we will be late for dinner as well.” He teased as his tongue slid across her center causing her to squeal in delight.

“Then it would be wise for you to quickly finish what you started, before your brother arrives on the morrow.” He lifted his head, his blue eyes gleaming in the sunlight.

“Your father takes great delight in our conversations at the table.” His fingers slipped inside of her. “I would hate to disappoint him with my absence, and it has been a while since I have seen my brother.” His tongue pressed into her folds, sliding languidly against her hot center. “But it would be a shame to rush such a delicate art.”

“Art, huh?”

“Aye.” He said with a smirk, “Pleasing you is a work of art that I take great pride in.” His finger curled inside of her, his tongue hanging loosely from his mouth as he watched her, their eyes locked in a sensuous stare.

“You are quite gifted at…” She moaned as his fingers increased their speed. “Oh God.” She cried out the moment the feeling overtook her, her hands fisting in his hair as she pulled his mouth against her center, riding out the wave of ecstasy before she settled against the bed once more.

“I will never tire of that song.” He chuckled, pulling himself against her body as he brought his mouth against hers. “A song made entirely for my ears, or at least that is what I assume since you enjoy tugging at them while you sing it.” He joked, his tongue sliding against her lips as she allowed him entry.

“I find it is the only way to silence you.” She giggled.

“Minx.” His body melded into hers as he slid inside of her, a low groan leaving his throat the moment he was fully seated inside of her. It was in these moments, the golden sun streaming in through their window, the light caressing his naked skin as he hovered above her, his blue eyes focused only on her, the true intent and emotion of their connection the only thing she could see or hear as his body became one with hers, in these moments she knew that when she had been faced with the decision between love or duty, there was always only one answer.

She had fought beside Killian, and Liam, her father standing by her side. On that day, even her mother had found her bow and set aim on Queen Regina that day. Jonesboro and Misthaven fought side by side, driving out the Queen and ending her evil reign of terror.

They had won because they fought together. Because they were bound by their duty to their people and to each other. They were bound by a love that had risen and bonded them in a way that could not be destroyed. That day they fought for each other, for their home, and for love.

And when Emma returned to Misthaven, as the future Queen of her lands with Killian at her side, she had done her duty and in return been rewarded with love.

#love or duty #stacy's fics #killian jones #emma swan #captain swan fics #captain swan au #captain swan

29 notes · View notes

epiphany-of-a-madwoman · 4 years ago

Text

The Last Dragon | The Witcher

Chapter 17 | A Tale of Dragons

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Targaryen!OC

Summary: Visenya Targaryen is the eldest and only surviving child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell. When Robert Baratheon’s rebellion was won, instead of being slaughtered by the Mountain like her mother and siblings, she was saved by Ned Stark and taken as his ward. Years later, after she’s killed at the Red Wedding, she wakes up outside Blaviken. Now she finds her destiny intertwined with the White Wolf on her quest to go back home.

Warnings: Soft Visenya being soft with Geralt and children

Word Count: 5.6k

Note: Click here to read the previous chapters ♡ Also! My tag list is open!

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

She counts out each second, blade in hand as she moves along to her quiet muttering. Each step is like a dance, careful and practiced, as she leaves footprints in the dampened dirt. Every breath is even and quiet, inhaling on the beat and then exhaling on the offbeat. If her movements are a dance, then her breathing and counting is the song she sways to.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

She spins in time with the crescendo to the imaginary music. Her blade slicing through the air, steel whistling in the wind. But it isn’t uncontrolled. She maintains a firm grip on her blade, manipulating how it moves and where. She’s in a trance, captivated by the breeze on her bare skin and the symphony in her head. It’s not the rigorous and disciplined sword training she’s used to, that’s been hammered in her mind from the day she first held a sword. Instead, it’s lighter and freer, her sword becoming an extension of herself rather than a tool she uses separately from her.

“What are you doing?” a small voice says.

The music silences and her movements stop. She lowers the blade to face the ground rather than outward and turns, eyes falling to the ground. A small elven boy stares up at Visenya, curiosity, and wonder gleaming in his wide green eyes,

“Practicing,” she says, staring down at the small boy, no discernable emotion on her face. Despite the bluntness of her words and the blank expression on her face, the boy isn’t deterred.

“Can I try?”

She recognizes him as Rohir, the little boy that got knocked unconscious by the skeevy bandit Visenya killed. Within a few hours of making camp, he woke, restless and unable to stay in one spot for too long, much to the chagrin of his mother.

The corners of her lips twist into a look of amusement, eyes faintly twinkling in the dim light. He’s small, not much smaller than she had been the first time she held a sword - albeit a wooden one. She remembers faint memories of training yards and practice dummies at the Capitol; holding weapons too large for her, whilst onlookers simply ignored her, except for Ser Jaime. He stuck close to Visenya when he could, whether out of a sense of duty or genuine enjoyment, she never knew. As the years go on, she leans toward the latter, but a small part of her still hopes it was genuine liking.

A grin slowly creeps onto Rohir’s face, the prospect of sword training making his entire face light up with anticipation.

“No.” One word, two letters; that’s all it takes. The grin on his face and the sparkle in his eyes immediately disappear, leaving no trace of ever being there. Instead, a scowl overcomes his young features, his hands crossing over his chest. Visenya can’t help the snort that leaves her mouth, only further infuriating the boy.

“Why not?” His voice is petulant, a faint lisp following each letter.

“You’re too small. You’ll only hurt yourself,” she says, a hint of amusement in her otherwise deadpan tone.

“Says you!” he responded, fire and frustration coating each word.

“Says me,” Visenya mimics his words, lacking any of the heat that he possesses.

“But I’m really good!” Rohir exclaims.

She sheathes her blade, turning away from Rohir, eyes focusing on Geralt. He’s sitting on the ground, back against the trunk of a tree that’s on the other side of the camp. He sits so he’s not in the immediate line of sight, but at a vantage point that he can still see everything.

“I am sure you are,” Visenya says, a slight smirk on her lips. Ice cold leaves crack under the weight of her feet as she moves towards Geralt. Her walk is loose and casual, not a tense bone in her body.

“So why won’t you let me hold your sword?” He follows closely behind her, a furious storm, but his anger only furthers Visenya’s amusement.

“Because, you’re too small, and my sword is too big,” Visenya responds. She’s halfway to Geralt, standing in the center of the camp. Rohir huffs an argument on the tip of his tongue, only to be cut off by Amaria.

“Rohir! Come here, En'ca minne,” He loudly inhales only to sigh a moment later. Visenya hears his feet stomping into the dirt as he walks away. Quiet laughter follows Visenya as she closes the remaining distance between her and Geralt.

His eyes don’t move to meet hers; not when her feet appear in his peripheral vision nor when she joins him on the ground and her shoulder faintly brushes against his.

She says nothing and neither does he. Gold eyes focus on the flurry of movement and noises that fill the clearing. It’s more lively and happy than it had been only four hours ago. Amaria switches between tending to her still unconscious husband, only bearing to leave his side when she has to chase around one of her children who are acting up. The two youngest - Elana and Vyron - squeal in glee, chasing each other around without a care in the world. As their forms zip past Visenya she hears faint wisps of their conversation. They’re acting out a grand tale brimming with adventure and happy endings. They’re so free and untouched by the tragedy that was gripping at their feet, begging to pull them under its desolate claws.

She remembers those days. When she’d run around Winterfell like a feral animal, unblemished by the fate of her family. The horrors she was able to bury so deep in her mind they felt more like distant nightmares rather than reality, the box only unlocking when she grew old enough to understand that more than just silver hair separated her from the Starks.

More often than not she wishes she could go back, to be protected by the naivety of childhood.

“I didn’t take you as a fan of children?” Geralt’s voice pulls her from her thoughts. She glances over at him, the small smile that managed to slowly creep onto her face disappearing.

“Why?”

“They seem too loud, I thought you liked the quiet,” Geralt says. Visenya snorts, rolling her eyes. She returns her gaze to the clearing. Rohir sits beside his mother, a pout on his lips, still upset by Visenya's refusal to train him. Elana and Vyron continue to whip through the clearing, with no sign of stopping any time soon.

“I do, but children aren’t terrible,” Visenya answers, watching as the two youngest stop in a portion of the clearing that’s the farthest from anyone. Elana is yelling, the words foreign to Visenya, but Vyron seems to understand her perfectly.

“Do you want any?”

Visenya shrugs, watching as the respite the two children have taken ends as they continue to run around the clearing. She’s never thought about the prospect of children. For most of her life it seemed inevitable; she would be married to some lord or another, bear his children, and then die at some point. But then the war happened, and everything about her life that seemed certain became undetermined.

Visenya opens her mouth, despite not actually having an answer for his question, but is cut off as Elana appears, jumping onto Visenya's lap. Her breath is temporarily lost, and before she can regain it, Vyron quickly follows, landing on the right side of her lap just as Elana moves herself to rest on the left.

Geralt grunts, watching the two rambunctious children with a wary gaze, praying to every god that may listen that they don’t decide to jump on him next.

“Do you have any stories?” Elana asks, her face beaming in the dim light. A wide smile makes its home on her face, wonder causing her wide eyes to nearly glow. Vyron’s expression mimics hers, but his face is softer and smaller, causing him to look more like an excitable puppy. It’s nearly identical to Rickon, who clung to Visyena’s leg as if his life depended on it.

‘How fitting that he’s now dead,’

The thought enters and leaves her mind before she can fully comprehend it. Mentally she clears her mind, opting to focus on the wide-eyed children in front of her.

“What an odd question to ask. Why do you believe me to have any tales to speak of?” Visenya asks.

“You’re an adventurer. Adventures always have tales,” Elana says, her tone not allowing for objections. Her words are fact and she seems set on not accepting any other truths. Vyron doesn’t speak but opts to enthusiastically nod his head in agreeance with his older sister, a matching grin on his face.

“Do they now?” Visenya asks, tilting her head to the side.

“Yes,” Elana says, giving Visenya a single nod.

Laughter bubbles out of Visenya's mouth - the sound so light and sweet it captures the attention of Amaria and Rohir. She throws back her head and her eyes shut, the noise continues to resound in the camp. Geralt watches with less wariness, his face morphing into a less stern expression. On the opposite end of the camp, Amaria stands from her position, quickly making her way to the group of them, Rohir following behind her like a shadow.

“Elana, please, I’m sure the both of them would like to be left to silence,” she says, moving to grab her daughter. Elana’s posture slouches, the smile on her face falling ever so slightly. Visenya finally stops laughing, opening her eyes and looking towards Amaria.

“No, it’s quite alright,” Visenya says, shaking her head in disagreement as she adjusts to get in a more comfortable position. Amaria freezes in place, eyes darting between her children and Visenya as if she doesn’t actually believe the words she’s saying.

“As a matter of fact, I happen to have a tale that I know quite well, but it’s not one that I’ve experienced personally. Would you still like to hear it?” Visenya asks a playful grin resting on her features. Elana immediately perks up, nodding her head so enthusiastically it might’ve fallen off - Vyron following his sister's every movement.

“Yes, please please please,” Vyron and Elana immediately begin to plead, widening their eyes to achieve a more innocent and puppy dog appearance. Visenya’s eyes dart to Amaria, silently asking if it would be alright. The worry melts from Amaria’s face, posture relaxing as she grants Visenya a single nod.

She pauses for a second, racking her brain for a tale to tell that would be suited for an audience this age. She doesn’t think about it for long, a story she’s known since she could read words on a page immediately entering her mind.

“Let me tell you a story about dragons,” Visenya says. Elana and Vyron grow silent, waiting with bated breath for Visenya to continue. Rohir appears from behind his mother, a pout still present on his lips, eyes scowling at the dirt, but he continues forward, sitting right beside Visenya. He grabs a stick and begins tracing symbols into the dirt, refusing to make eye contact with anyone but the ground, attempting to maintain an air of disinterest.

“Many years ago, in a world far far away, there once was a city - Valyria they called it, and what a grand city it was. A place filled with wonder, magic, and dragons.”

Elana and Vyron gasp, audibly portraying their excitement. Rohir is more subtle, his ears only twitching slightly as his movements pause for a brief second. Visenya leans her head back, closing her eyes as she begins to bury herself in the stories she read a million times over, clutching that worn and torn book every night like it was the only thing keeping her on the ground. After a moment of silence and a deep breath, Visenya opens her eyes, staring straight ahead and into the fire that flickers a few feet away from them.

“It was a great city, managing to tame dragons they would ride into battle. They were fearsome and respected, managing to conquer large amounts of territories with their dragon fire. For 5,000 years Valyria was the capital of the greatest civilization, the heart of an empire that ruled half of the world. It was grand, but unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, which leads into this story.”

The children are enraptured, eyes solely focusing on Visenya - even Rohir abandons his guise of not being interested in her tale. She doubts that Vyron is following the story, but his eyes are wide and mouth agape - growing more exaggerated each time she mentions‘<dragons>’. Elana is young, but her eyes are sharpened with intelligence that’s older than her as she seems to follow the story well.

Amaria no longer stands, opting to sit on the ground, opening her arms as Vyron crawls off of Visenya’s lap and onto his mothers. Visenya glances at Geralt, his eyes already on her, his gaze burning into her. Her mind stutters, fog momentarily taking over so she can no longer focus on anything. Eyes snap away, once again focusing on the fire to clear her mind.

“There were many great houses, one of them known as House Targaryen, with shining silver hair and amethyst purple eyes, the family held distinctive Valyrian features. Targaryens were believed to have a closer connection to their dragons, to understand them in a way the other dragonlords never would.”

“Because they had magic, right?” Elana says, her voice firm and sharp. Rohir turns to his sister, a pout on his lips as he shushes her. She turns to face him, a matching glare set on her face.

“If you wait, she’ll tell us,” he says. She huffs, an indignant look on her childish face.

“I just wanted to know!” Elana says.

“Well, you should just wait!” Rohir says, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Rohir, be nicer to your sister, she’s just excited,” Amaria says in a soft and soothing tone, diffusing the argument before it could get any worse.

“But--” Rohir says, but quickly grows silent when he receives a stern glare from his mother. He huffs, slouching his shoulders and looking towards the ground. Amaria sighs, looking at Visenya with a soft smile on her face. Visenya smirks, amusement glimmering in her eyes.

“But to answer your question, in a way they were magical. They didn’t have mages, but they had visions that would come in the form of dreams. The most notable of these came from Daenys the Dreamer, who saw the fall of Valyria.

“But they had dragons! What could beat dragons!?” Rohir says in disbelief, eyes wide in shock. Visenya turns to him, the smirk on her face turning into a knowing look that has Rohir ducking away from her gaze. She chuckles, a soft sound that is carried away by the sudden roar of the fire.

“They did, but dragons couldn’t save them from the natural disasters that tore through the city. Fire, ash, and smoke filled the air, managing to kill even the dragons.”

“So they all died?” Elana asks with a quiet and sad tone, a strong lisp following every vowel.

“All except House Targaryen, who because of Daenys’ dream went west to Dragonstone, an island far enough away from Valyria to escape the desolation,” Visenya says.

“What’s dissolution?” Vyron asks. Elana turns her head to look at him.

“I think it means the end,” Elana says.

“No, it means death. There was lots of death!” Rohir says, turning to face his siblings. Vyron just nods, whilst Elana cocks her head to the side, brows furrowing in thought.

“It’s when something is damaged beyond repair,” Amaria says. “Their homeland was destroyed, just as many homes to the elves have been.”

Visenya looks at Amaria, who meets her gaze. There’s a sadness in her eyes that Visenya didn’t notice before, but it’s familiar. It’s the same look she saw in Filavandrel’s eyes, and any other elf she met that day.

“But they brought dragons with them, right? The dragons weren’t all dead, right?” Rohir asks, breaking Visenya from her mild trance. Before she can answer him, Elana whips her head in his direction, a look of exasperation on her face.

“Of course! They were the best with dragons!” Elana exclaims.

“I was just asking!” Rohir yells back, straightening his posture and face contorting into a petulant expression.

“Well, why are you asking stupid questions?” Elana responds, turning away from Rohir to face Visenya and rolling her eyes. Visenya’s hand shoots up to her mouth, attempting to cover the grin on her face. It manages to muffle the small laughter that escapes her mouth, the noise escaping the notice of everyone except Geralt and Amaria - who looks at Visenya with exasperation in her eyes.

“There is no need for arguing,” Visenya says, looking pointedly at Elana with a single eyebrow raised. She at least has the decency to look sheepish, scrunching her nose and looking down at the ground.

“Sorry,” she mutters at the same time as Rohir.

“You are forgiven, shall we get back to the story?” Visenya asks, a slight smirk on her lips. Elana looks up at her through her lashes, nodding her head.

“Good. They did bring dragons with them - five to be exact. While the names of four have been lost to the ages, one name is known to everyone who knows of House Targaryen; Balerion the Black Dread. He was a massive dragon, who when he grew to full size, could black out entire towns as he passed over them, his wings large enough to cover the sun.” Visenya says. The children make various sounds of wonder, eyes wide and unblinking.

“What did they do next?” Rohir asks.

Visenya pauses, cocking her head slightly as she tries to recall. Her only source of knowledge concerning her family is an old book that had been buried in the depths of the library in Winterfell that was tattered and torn from continuous use by the time she marched off to war. It was vague at best, not offering any new or rare information about her house, therefore the time in between The Doom and Aegon’s conquest is blank.

“Well, House Targaryen made a home at Dragonstone, away from the war that ensued twelve years later when Valyria was destroyed. Nothing of note happened until roughly a hundred years later,” Visenya says.

“Well, what happened!?” Rohir exclaims.

“That would be a story for another day. I believe it is getting too late to begin another - much longer - tale,” Visenya says, glancing at Amaria. She stands from the ground, Vyron still firmly attached to her. She reaches a hand towards Elana, who groans, but takes her mother’s hand, getting off of Visenya’s lap. Rohir doesn’t voice his displeasure, opting to silently stand and move to stand beside his mother, but it’s clear on his face. His eyes aren’t as bright as they were when he was enraptured by Visenya’s story and his lips are pulled into a small pout.

“Visenya is right, it’s getting late and we have a long day of travel ahead of us. Let us give our saviors some quiet,” Amaria says, turning her gaze to Visenya and Geralt for a brief moment before herding her children to the other side of the clearing. “Now say goodnight.”

Three ‘goodnights’ resound all at once, in various tones and noise levels; Vyron gifting Visenya with a particularly toothy grin.

She smiles, unable to force away the action nor the laughter that escapes her mouth.

“Goodnight. I promise to tell you another tale tomorrow while we’re traveling,” Visenya says, earning a blinding grin from Elana and causing Rohir to immediately perk up.

“You promise?” Rohir says.

“Swear it on my life,” Visenya responds without missing a beat. He nods his head, turning and rushing across the clearing, eager to sleep the rest of the night away. Elana tears after him - yelling about racing him there. Vyron squirms in Amaria’s arms, the grin still on his face, but Amaria maintains her tight grip on him.

“To bed we go, Dilthen er,” Amaria says to Vyron and places a kiss on his cheek. She turns to give Visenya and Geralt, giving them one last warm smile before she turns to follow after her children. They all gather in one section close to the fire and near the sleeping body of Aldon. For a few moments restless chatter and light giggles come from the children as Amaria attempts to lull them to sleep with a soft lullaby. Eventually, the noise dies down as one by one they all fall asleep, leaving only Geralt and Visenya awake.

“An interesting tale,” Geralt says, after a moment of silence - once the children have all fallen asleep, Amaria shortly follows suit, leaving only Visenya and Geralt awake. Crickets chirp all around them, the low rustle of wind disturbing their melody occasionally.

“I thought so too,” Visenya says, bones cracking as she stretches her body out. She wraps her arms around the tree behind her as she reaches her arms behind her, slumping against the tree a moment later. She continues watching the fire as the flames that used to rise towards the night sky die out.

“Is it real?” Geralt asks. He’s looking at her, she always knows when he is. Something about the way his gold eyes linger on her is so distinct that she'll always know when a gaze is him, even if it seems impossible to know such a trivial thing. Nothing about a person’s gaze leaves any physical sensory that can be identified, and yet, never once has she been wrong about Geralt’s gaze.

“Supposedly. Although, I’m sure some details have been lost to the ages - some purposeful and some not. Books aren’t always incredibly accurate, stories are often skewed to the favor of the author,” Visenya says. She turns away from the fire to look at Geralt, locking eyes.

“Details you knew perfectly,” Geralt says. His tone isn’t accusatory, but she can hear the underlying question in his statement.

“When I was a little girl I had a book that I would read every day. It was the only comfort I had most days. That story was one of the many tales within the book,” Visenya says, a smile that can only be described as melancholic on her face. Geralt grunts, continuing to watch Visenya, but not saying anything further. His eyes are curious, hoping she’ll continue and say something that makes her less of a mystery. Yet he’s also not willing to press her for information she doesn’t want to share. That much they have in common: two people with too many secrets that are wrapped behind scars that they cover up with fury and rage. Because it’s easier to lose people if they were never allowed close to her to begin with. Life is safer when she keeps everyone at arm's length.

Visenya stares up at the night sky, watching the stars as the ambient sounds of soft snores and dream laced giggles resonate through the clearing. She swallows thickly, a lump beginning to form in her throat as her mind wanders farther and farther away.

“They were my ancestors,” Visenya says, shattering the silent air around them. Geralt doesn't move, doesn’t even breathe in fear that it might disrupt the trace that Visenya is in.

“House Targaryen, the Dragon Riders from Valyria that conquered the Seven Kingdoms.” She chuckles after the words leave her mouth, brows furrowing ever so slightly as her eyes briefly meet the dirt before returning to the stars.

“An impressive ancestry,” Geralt says, his gravelly tone unsure, the words fumbling nearly awkwardly out of his mouth.

“Yeah I suppose so,” Visenya says, voice sounding a million miles away as if she isn’t even physically only a few inches apart from Geralt.

“Better than my lineage, anyways,” Geralt continues, looking away from Visenya. He adjusts his body, resting against the tree more comfortably as his eyes scan the dark forest around them, wary of any threats that may linger just out of eyesight. Visenya’s lips curl into a bare smile, he whispers of a chuckle leaving her mouth as she languidly leans against the tree.

“The dragons were the most impressive part,” Visenya says, eyes fluttering shut, the hectic day finally catching up to her as her body grows wearier the quieter their camp grows.

“Maybe we should find you a dragon,” Geralt says, a smirk on his lips and a gleam in his eyes. Visenya snorts, opening a single eye to look at Geralt.

“This world couldn’t handle me with a dragon, Geralt of Rivia,” she says, shutting her eyes.

“That may be so, but I’d still pay good coin to see it.”

She laughs again, cautious to not be too loud in fear of waking up the camp. She opens her eyes, turning her head to face Geralt, meeting his gaze head-on. Their eyes lock, the beat of her heart steadily increasing the longer they maintain contact. A fluttering sensation fills her stomach, one that she’s almost entirely unfamiliar with. The tired smile on her face softens as Geralt’s lips curl into a similar grin.

“But could you imagine having a dragon,” Visenya says. “To ride on the back of one and feel the wind against your skin and to just...be free.” Her voice is far away again, as she dreams of fantasies she stopped having at some point between childhood and having to become an adult.

“Hmm, I imagine it’d be cold,” Geralt says, a teasing undertone in his otherwise deadpan voice. Visenya reaches out, pushing against his shoulder as another round of quiet laughter leaves her mouth.

“That is what warmer clothes are for,” she responds. “It would be foolish to climb onto a dragon unprepared anyways, lest you become its dinner.”

Geralt laughs, a quiet gravelly noise that nearly causes the ground around them to vibrate and it’s so contagious she can’t stop the bubbling of laughter that also leaves her mouth. Eyes shining and grin getting larger, Visenya watches Geralt's normally harsh and austere face grow softer the longer he laughs. He nearly looks like a child, despite the scars across his face - both fresh and faded - and the deep-set bags under his eyes from the lack of a good night’s rest. His voice is hoarser than usual, sleep and exhaustion weighing down his words causing them to slur together. But the way his eyes are alight and the sweet grin that tugs at the corner of his lips are adorable - a word not often associated with a man like Geralt, but Visenya wouldn’t describe him any other way.

“Stop, it was not even that funny,” Visenya says, and despite her attempt at sternness, laughter follows every word.

“I’m not laughing,” Geralt insists, and despite his best efforts at swallowing it, a small grin still rests on his face.

“Yes you are,” Visenya says.

“I think you’re hearing things, Vis. Perhaps it’s time for you to sleep,” Geralt says, moving his eyes to scan the camp. Her laughter immediately dies down as the smile on her face dims just the slightest, but Geralt seems unaware of the sudden shift in tone.

“What did you just say?” Her words are a whisper, nearly unheard by Geralt. He turns to look at her, the light grin on his face disappearing once he notices her expression.

“That you should rest,” Geralt answers.

“I heard, but what did you just call me?” Visenya says.

He pauses, eyes scanning the entirety of her face, focusing on the unreadable glint in her eyes and taking special note of the slight frown on her lips. But she doesn’t appear angry or sad or any of the other flurry of emotions he’s seen on her face in their travels.

“I called you Vis,” Geralt says after a moment of silence.

“Why?”

“Because Vis is shorter than Visenya,” Geralt says. “Should I not call you that?”

She inhales, quietly, eyes moving towards the dirt. It’s the nickname she’s had all her life. Robb, Jon, and everyone else always called her Vis. It was shorter and easier, they’d always tell her. She’d always argue her name isn’t even difficult to say, but they’d never agree and she’d never say how much she secretly enjoyed the name. It’s been so long since she’s ever heard anyone utter the nickname, it’s startling to hear it slip from someone's lips so effortlessly.

Then she exhales, an unknown weight lifting from her chest as she meets Geralt's gaze.

“It’s been so long since I’ve heard that nickname. I wouldn’t mind hearing it again,” she says, lips curling into a shy smile. A small sparkle appears in her eyes. It’s not the fiery gold eerily similar to burning flames that sparks when she’s furious or the sly mischievous glint he’s familiar with. Nor is it a glassy look from tears that she’s trying her best to hold back when she’s drowning in sorrowful thoughts. It’s bright, but not painfully so. Instead it’s sweet and soft, like the first flower blossoming on the first day of spring or the soft wind after a harsh winter.

Geralt nods, his stiff features relaxing as the stress of inadvertently offending her dissipates.

“Now I have to think of a nickname for you,” Visenya says, a teasing smile slipping onto her face. Geralt groans and rolls his eyes, flashbacks of all of Jaskier's attempts at creating nicknames to call Geralt. Much to his chagrin, the White Wolf seemed to stick as his title that the general public knew him as, but Jaskier was determined for another one to call Geralt. And Visenya knows this, as she was there for every failed attempt.

“Please don’t,” he says, only causing Visenya to laugh harder. She quickly rests a hand over her mouth in an attempt to suppress the noise so as to not wake up the camp. But every time she glances at Geralt and sees how truly exasperated he appears.

“What about Ger. We’d be a pair: Ger and Vis; Vis and Ger,” Visenya says. “I should be a poet, did you hear that little rhyme I did?”

“Hmm, you’d give Jaskier a run for his coin,” Geralt responds.

She snorts a small smirk on her lips. Her thoughts wander to Jaskier, wondering what he could be up to and if he is still happy. He probably is, he could find fun in the dullest of affairs.

“As much as I hate to admit it, but I miss Jaskier,” Visenya says. This time it’s Geralt that snorts, an exasperated look crossing his face as he rolls his eyes.

“I can’t say I feel the same.”

“Don’t lie, Geralt. We all know he’s wiggled his way into your good graces, it’s just what he does. You’re annoyed and want nothing more than for him to leave and then one day, you enjoy the constant jokes and mindless prattling,” Visenya says. Geralt hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

She adjusts her body, attempting to get into a more comfortable position, eyes growing heavier as each second passes. The cool wind is soothing against her warm skin, the crickets a lullaby that pulls her closer to sleep.

“What about your ancestry? What family does The White Wolf come from,”

Silence washes over them. And just when Visenya thinks Geralt won’t answer, he does.

“My mother was a sorceress, that’s all I know about my family. She left me with the Witchers when I was young.” His voice is somber and low, quieter than the volume they’d been talking with earlier.

“Do you miss her?” Visenya asks. She’s cautious and careful, taking special care to not push Geralt. Once again she’s met with silence and after a few moments, it becomes obvious he’s not going to answer.

“I miss my mother. I can’t really remember her, but I have this… this void that her death left behind,” Visenya says. She sighs, glancing up towards the stars once again, using the wind to dry the tears forming in her eyes. “And it never goes away, no matter how hard I try to pretend it isn’t there.”

Her breathing stutters and she huffs out a weak chuckle, attempting to cover the slip up of emotional vulnerability.

"I’m not sure how to feel. A part of me resents her for giving me to the Witchers, allowing them to turn me into a mutant,” Geralt says. She looks at him, wide eyes watching him. He doesn’t look at her, opting to stare at the dying fire.

“Sometimes I hate my father, it’s easier to blame him for everything that happened to my family because of his selfish decision. But I can’t bring myself to fully hate him, and I hate myself for feeling so indecisive about him,” she says.

It’s silent again, the air more uncomfortable than moments ago.

Not allowing herself to think on it too much, she begins to move her body, shuffling to sit closer to Geralt, only stopping when their legs are touching. Tentatively, she lowers her head to rest on his shoulder, hand intertwining with his. Neither of them say a word, and the awkward tension dissipates. Geralt’s stiff body relaxes, resting his head on top of Visenya’s.

"I wouldn't mind having children someday, to live a simple life and retire from adventuring," Visenya says.

Geralt hums in response, drowsiness coating the simple response causing Visenya's lips to turn upwards and her cheeks to glow.

They stay that way, silent and content with the comfort of each other. Eventually, sleep begins to once again pull on Visenya, and she doesn’t resist.

“Goodnight Vis.”

“Goodnight Geralt.”

o0o

Elvish Translation:

- En'ca minne: Little Love

- Dilthen er: Little One

o0o

#geralt fanfiction #the witcher fanfiction #geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia fanfic #the witcher #game of thrones #game of thrones crossover #the witcher crossover #targaryen!oc

62 notes · View notes

fairlyspnfanfic · 4 years ago

Text

The Ties That Bind Us - Part 5

Summary: When your past comes back to haunt you, who will prevail? Hunting had been your life since your were 4 years old. The monsters that started you on that path were resurfacing, and you knew what you had to do. But nothing is ever truly secret, and nothing is ever that cut and dry with the Winchester’s in tow.

A/N: This is a new one that is coming from a few requests. I’m not going to post the actual requests because…well because it would spoil the story line and I’m pretty into this one.

Words: 2328

Warnings: Trauma, medical terminology, stress, hospital waiting room

PART ONE PART TWO PART THREE PART FOUR

My toes had been resting in the sand, fully submerged in the ocean saltwater, for hours. The chair I lounged in had sunk to the point that my seat was resting on the sand and was just beginning to cover the side rails. I could feel the warming rays of the sun on my skin, and I basked in the comfort of my parents sitting on either side of me.

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees and lazily dragging my fingertips over the surface of the water. I planted my feet and began pushing myself up to a standing position. Having been sitting so close to the ground, it took no shortage of effort to get myself upright.

“So, what’s it gonna be, baby girl?” My father questioned me from his seat in the sand. Running my hands through my salt-air blown hair, I took a deep breath.

“I don’t know.” Looking out over the water, I crossed my arms over myself, hugging my elbows. I looked over at my mother, her ever-smiling face looking up at me.

“They’ll be here before you know it,” she said soothingly. I scrunched my eyebrows together quizzically, confused once more. “The boys. The Winchester’s.” Her answer was matter of fact. I hadn’t considered them, having been too elated to immerse myself in the bubble of happiness and relief that was my family being given back to me.

“Dean,” I whispered, drawing my eyes back out to the water as the pit of my stomach dropped out.

I heard my father chuckling behind me. “That boy’s a good nut. A little marred on the outside, mind you, and completely oblivious at that. But he’s a good nut.” My arms loosened and I felt my shoulders relax as I allowed myself a laugh.

“He really is.” My words were tinged with a hint of sadness. I could picture his face. The panic that was etched into it, his wide green eyes staring at me, pleadingly, assuring me that I was going to be fine.

“Hummingbird,” my mother’s voice pulled me from my thoughts of him. “I’ve known you for your entire life. From the first fluttering of your feet in my belly, and every second since. I’ve seen you grow into this beautiful woman, inside and out. But honey,” she paused briefly, taking a breath. “I’ve never seen you as happy as you are when you’re with that boy.”

Her kind eyes seemed to be able to see right through me and directly into my heart, if not my soul.

“But mom,” I whined. “I just got you back.” She reached out and held her hand open, gesturing for mine. I placed my hand gingerly into hers, feeling the prickling of tears coming to my eyes.

“I know, Y/N. I know. But you’ll never lose us.” She looked over at my father, her smile growing. “We’re always with you. And we’ll be here whenever you’re ready.”

I knelt into the wet sand in front of her, the waves lapping at my legs as my jeans quickly soaked through. “What if I want to stay?”

“Then you stay. But it’s up to you, baby girl,” my father answered nonchalantly.

“I think I’ll just go for a walk. Clear my head a little, okay?”

They both nodded back to me in response, as I began walking down the beach, my bare feet pressing into the sand with every step.

“Trap a reaper? Dean, are you insane?” Sam was yelling, his voice full of incredulity.

Dean gave no answer, just stared at his brother expectantly.

“No, Dean, this is crazy. We aren’t doing this!”

Dean stepped quickly over to his brother, gathering the front of his shirt in his fists as he pushed Sam against the wall behind him violently.

“Insane?” Dean’s voice was shaky and manic. “This is what we do, Sam!”

“No,” Sam responded calmly. “It’s what we’ve always done, and it never ends well.” He kept an even keel, ignoring the rage and sadness that were circling within him. He understood his brother’s actions but didn’t want to encourage them if he could help it.

“It ends with our family together, Sam. That’s all that matters here!” Dean’s fingers relaxed as he released his grip on Sam’s shirt and took a step back.

Sam’s face dropped. “Y/N wouldn’t want this, and you know it.”

“Well, she’s not here, is she?” Dean’s yelling attracted the attention of the nurse that had been sitting at the computer at her station. She looked up at them with judgmental eyes. “Sir!” Her voice rang out with authority.

“Sorry,” Dean answered, calming his voice down slightly but not breaking his eye contact with Sam.

They stared at each other, neither willing to back down. “I’ll do it alone,” Dean stated softly. He grabbed the bag that he had set down on the chairs and stormed down the hall. Ducking into the first bathroom that he could find, he closed the door behind him, quickly throwing the lock.

It didn’t take him long to get everything set up. Trap symbol painted, crucifix in the bottom of the mortar, ore, hemlock, what else? What am I missing? Dean went through the recipe in his head making sure he had everything just right. Finally, he dragged the blade of his pocketknife across his left palm, letting his blood begin to drip into the concoction as he threw a lit match down into it.

“O theris tes, caleo se cai deo.” He chanted the incantation and held his breath, praying that he’d done everything correctly.

“Really, Winchester? You’re summoning us into a washroom now?” The reaper who Dean recognized as Jessica was indignant. “What is it this time?” She threw her hands up in the air, disgusted, and attempted to walk away from him. Her foot faltered, hitting the edge of the symbol he had painted on the floor.

“You have got to be kidding me!” Her irritation was tangible.

“Not quite,” Dean answered with just a hint of casual jest. “I need your help.”

“You usually do.” Jessica was full of indignation. “What is it this time? Running from some big bad? Need to take a stroll through the land of the dead? What could it possibly be now?” Her anger was blazing, and though he would never admit it, Dean found himself intimidated by the reaper.

“Y/N,” Dean said by way of explanation. But the reaper gave no response, simply shrugged her shoulder and lifted her palms to the ceiling.

“What about her?”

“I need you to bring her back. Work a miracle, pull her back from hell, I don’t care.” He swallowed, his throat closing with pent up emotion. “Whatever it takes to bring her back. Just do it.”

“There’s always a price, Dean.” Her amusement was clear, both in her speech and body language, as she was now standing with one foot to the side, propping her right hip higher than the other as she stroked her chin.

“Name it. I’ll pay it.” His caramel-apple eyes began to tear as he struggled to hold them back.

“Oh Dean, Dean, Dean. Always so willing to die for those you love.” Jessica smiled, a devilishly delighted grin.

“We have a deal or not?” His gravelly voice enunciated his seriousness.

“I haven’t even told you what I would require,” she droned. “Have some patience,” she spat at him in staccato as her grim smile quickly fell into a severe and intense glare.

“I told you to name it, I don’t care. Just tell me what you want!”

She hesitated, lightly pacing across the two or three feet that she had been granted. Suddenly, she stopped in the center of the mark, her head snapping up to Dean and that same devilish grin slowly drawing itself across her face.

“What?” Dean’s demand was loud, hoping to show her the urgency of the matter.

“Nothing,” she said, succinctly and sweetly, her arms crossed in front of her.

“Nothing? You’re saying you want nothing in return? What’s the catch?”

“Call it a get out of jail free card, Dean.”

He looked at her incredulously. “I don’t get it, why would you do it for nothing?”

“Because you, Dean Winchester, will be in my debt. And I will hold that debt until it is paid in full. You can count on it. But for now,” She held her hands up, opening up her fingers as if demonstrating their emptiness. “For now, I want nothing. But you will come when I call,” she looked down at the trap before making eye contact with him again. “And I will call.”

Dean paused, considering the offer and turning it over in his mind. “Done.”

There was a knock at the door, startling Dean momentarily. “In a minute,” he yelled, waving the would-be-intruder off.

“We have a deal, then?”

Dean nodded in response, leaning down and scraping away the edge of the painted symbol. By the time he stood back up, Jessica was gone. He could only hope she would make good on it.

I walked down the beach, enjoying the feel of the warm sand between my toes and the water lapping at my feet. But internally, my mind raced. Getting my parents back was life changing. Or I guess, afterlife changing. I hadn’t seen then in decades, and yet being with them felt so natural. As if no time had passed at all. Each time my mother called me Hummingbird, the nickname I’d had since I was just kicking her bladder around in-utero, my heart soared. Each grunt or chuckle from my father sent delight through me. And yet, I felt as though I was in an impossible situation.

The Winchester’s were there. Undoubtedly working through the job, or on their way to another. Could I leave them? Could I really be truly happy knowing that I may never see them again? May never see Dean again? The thought brought a sob from my mouth as I moved my hand up, running my fingers over my mouth.

A seagull flew past me, cawing as it went, drawing my attention back behind me. I had walked farther than I had realized. I could just make out my parents as they sat in their chairs, their silhouettes small and distant. Taking a moment, I faced the ocean again, feeling the slow drag as my feet sank into the sand more with each caress of the water. I could remember my mother taking me to beaches as a child. We would both sink, giggling at the loud smacking sounds that were created when we pulled our feet out.

Smiling to myself, I looked back over towards my family and began walking again. But out of seemingly nowhere, my path was impeded by a person. A woman with long red hair and defined cheekbones stared at me, her face unreadable, wearing a long black trench coat.

“Let’s go,” she said, matter-of-factly as she pulled her black gloves off her hands, one finger at a time.

“What?” I shook my head, confused.

Her deep sigh did nothing to endear her to you, let alone to explain who she was. “You’re not the easiest soul to find up here, ya know. It took no shortage of effort on my part. Effort I should not be extending to begin with.” Both of her gloves were off now, as she looked me in the eyes, unblinking but the corners of her mouth seemed to draw up, as though she wanted to smile but thought better of it.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Jessica.”

I waited for an explanation that clearly was not coming voluntarily. “Jessica who?”

“Y/N, we really don’t have time for this.” She sighed through her sentence, obviously irritated.

“Maybe you don’t, but I have all the time in the world apparently.” My aversion to authority had kicked in and being pushed around by a stuck-up stranger did not bode well for it ending anytime soon.

“Jessica. Reaper. Here to whisk you back to the land of the living as instructed.” She rolled her eyes, clearly resentful.

“Instructed by whom?” She looked at me blankly, as if to tell me that my question as asinine.

“He didn’t.” My eyes were wide and felt as though they might burst out of my sockets.

“Like I said,” she began. “We don’t have much time. It’s now or never, kid.”

My eyes drifted over to my parents, my heart feeling as though it would break, as I felt Jessica’s cold hard fingertip press against my forehead and my vision went black.

To be continued….

Part Six

Taglist (Tag requests are open):

@vicmc624@waywardprincesa @heyyy-hey-babyyy @carissime72 @deans-baby-momma @formulafun @woodworthti666 @yetanotherreader @crashlyrose @hobby27 @gabby913 @jxackles @polina-93@supernaturaladdictsblog @fandomoverdose666 @deans-baby-momma @deanwanddamons @tazzi-baby @acertainhero @lilulo-12

(Desperate attempt to get my faves to notice me) @thinkinghardhardlythinking @smol-and-grumpy @wonder-cole-reads @watermelonlipstick @that-one-gay-girl @waywardbaby

54 notes · View notes

border-spam · 4 years ago

Text

Leech Lord - Beginnings and regrets

The single least Seifa thing Seifa has ever done, is probably also the most actual Seifa thing she's ever done, and that's extremely Seifa of her.

It was going against every lesson survival had beaten into her so far in her life, and helping Tyreen instead of walking away all those years ago.

(Pre CoV)

Pandora is a terrible place.

The whole Galaxy is, Pandora just has a reputation that's honest about it.

The Edens, Athenas, Promethea, Tantalus, every city on every settled planet is built on a foundation of bones, nowhere's really safe or actually wants the humans that settled uninvited and ruined the neighborhood. Can't really expect an ecosystem to welcome you with open arms when you immediately start destroying it for profit, and life ain't easy anywhere. Nowhere is good. Nowhere is nice.

You can't live for long without finding out how dangerous "caring" is.

Small family units survive, yeah, clans scrabble out a living on rock plains and migrant space-rigs, but if you hold out a hand to a stranger in need you need to know the risks, need to really understand how likely it is that there's a knife behind their back and a couple of crosshairs already trained on you.

You have to be harsh, you have to be cruel. Everyone who makes it on the border planets knows the unwritten rules.

Unless you've the backing of a town militia or a hell of a lot of weaponry, you can't afford to risk your own safety for others - and Sei has walked past more people who gasped out a desperate plea for help with one of the few breaths they had left then she could ever, ever let herself acknowledge. Fuck man, everyone has. It's one of the sad truths of living at the knifepoint everyone balances on out here at the fringe.

...It's no different really on the corporate ones, the blades waiting to land in your back are just better dressed there.

So, when Seifa went to walk away from that filthy kid in the junkyard with the busted SMG and found herself stopping as the girl pleaded for medicine, that was beyond out of character.

That was weird. That was impossible to justify, and she lost plenty of nights to trying to do so after - long ones, with tears and far too much whiskey.

It's hard to think back on, how unsettling and stomach turning that first month had been. The whole thing feels like a blur, some grease smeared memory that's mostly lost to the desperately anxious conflict that was going on in her head the entire time. She can remember specific points, but they're half images half feeling, nerves and worry all tangled together into something she hates dwelling on.

She remembers the heat mirages swirling above the desert sands as Elpis set on the horizon, driving the girl out across the salt flats as Ty panicked and urged Sei to go faster, all while she was trying to explain to herself WHY she hadn't slapped this stranger out of her buggy and throttled in the opposite direction. What had gotten into her?

She doesn't remember anything that the kid had said as she was lead by her into that dark shack, still battling with why she wasn't turning around, why she was gingerly picking through debris to reach what looked like a hastily set up camp surrounded by rusting sheet metal and pieces that used to be the hovel - but she remembers the stink of fever sweat that wrinkled her nose and that sad mound of sharp angles heaped at the center by a burnt out fire pit, and the shock of realising it was a man when Tyreen had dropped to her knees and begged through sobs for him to keep breathing.

That she had "Found someone to help."

Recalls fighting back the equal disgust she felt with herself for helping carry the nothing he weighed out of that shithole, and for the fact he was still alive in this state. Covered in filth, blood, chunks of.. something, and reeking of puke and god knows what else. How she chewed at her lip till she tasted copper as the buggy engine rattled in complaint under them, flooring it when she knew the shoddy weld job on the left axle wasn't going to take this strain and would need another couple of hundred dollars she didn't have in repairs by the time she got these pathetic kids back to her ship - and she remembers wincing hours later at her empty medical cabinet after gutting it to keep the boy alive.

Saline stock sucked dry, bactum wasted, and she was saving those health kits for when she might need them...

It was a bad decision. It was a stupid decision, and she'd spent that first night when the girl had cried herself to sleep and he'd finally stabilised, sitting on the cold floor of her quarters with her back pressed against the repurposed mag-lock door, cradling her pistol in her lap as she gnawed at her nails.

They were Sirens.

Sirens.

Moron. Stupid fucking twat, If Boss found out, he'd kill her before these two could get the chance.

Helping them had been idiot move enough, had gone against every fiber of who she'd built herself into, but she couldn't have known. Tyreen had been covered in rags, and Troy's markings too dim and caked in muck to even see before they'd gotten him cleaned up and stable.

She hadn't known. She didn't know, nothing about Sirens anyway, just that you didn't fuck with 'em in the first place. Sirens were bad news, Sirens were the bane of Pandora in the last few years and everyone knew the stories. They were monsters who could turn you inside out or roast you alive without needing to point a gun first, and now she had two in her home with no defenses bar a shitty Jacobs she knew damn well she could barely aim, and hopefully enough faux confidence to seem in control of the situation.

That first night had been the worst.

The twins slept fine, Troy out cold and Ty having cried herself unconscious shortly after his heart beat had become something possible to confuse with normal if you squinted at the scan display from the right angle, but Sei didn't close her eyes once.

Sat awake all night in the clunking, humming, rattling silence of her home as she thumbed the revolver's cylinder slowly, considering how each click marked another second she'd left them both alive instead of doing the right thing and emptying a round into each of their skulls. Pandora would take care of the bodies and she'd fix a serious mistake she was walking straight into... but the suns rose in the end, and the twins were none the wiser about how close the decision had actually been.

It didn't really get better. The fear did, that passed over the next couple of days, but not the worry, not the regret. Two more mouths to feed when she only had the funds for herself? The girl was going to have to learn how to work. The cash she'd put aside was for her junker colony, not strangers, and the boy still couldn't even stand... and how were things going to pan out even if they so far didn't seem to be quite as monstrous as she'd been told so many times in no name dive bars in settler towns?

What if she took Tyreen out on a barter run and her markings got noticed? That mad corporate fuckwad Sexy George or fuckin whatever had just been running some reward scheme for Sirens, right? Would the lowbrows she dealt with on a daily basis here comprehend that wasn't a thing anymore, or would Sei be shanked and Ty abducted within hours of setting foot in a trade dock?

And him...

What the fuck was she going to do with him.

He wouldn't talk, wouldn’t even look at her, just some massive, gangly, awkward, nervous child that ghosted around the edge of her vision and scurried out of the room like a panicked Skag pup if she made the mistake of looking directly at him.

Sick still, even if he was trying to stay in his crew cubby for less every day, the one she'd told him was his and still had not a word of thanks for yet. Shaky, delicate, and in no physical condition to be able to help around the ship yet alone have a chance of bringing in some extra dollars, even if he hadn't been missing such a huge chunk of himself. Pity wasn't going to keep him fed, and she was pissed with herself for feeling it for him in the first place.

She figured that's what had done it really... them being siblings.

That raw desperation in Tyreen's voice as she'd begged Seifa to help when she'd turned to walk away. That her brother was so sick and she didn't know what to do. Siblings gut punched her in ways she knew were a weakness out here. The twin thing? That had just cemented it really. Helping wasn't in Seifa's nature, but leaving kids to die wasn't in her bones.

Still, she'd make it work, she always did. They'd survive, and she'd come out of this in profit one way or another, that was as sure as an Athenian monk lowballing an offer.

She'd train the girl up and run some deals with her, cover the costs of helping them out with a tidy margin for herself - then she'd leave 'em with the tools to survive, a couple of hundred bucks to get started and never have to see them again.

She'd be fine. She was always fine.

That's very Seifa of her.

Asks are Open!

#borderlands #borderlands 3 #bl3 #troy calypso #tyreen calypso #seifa #leech lord #my hcs #my writing #fanfiction

21 notes · View notes

tiredassmage · 3 years ago

Photo

FFXIV Write Day 17 19

Because it was far too good for Shay and I didn’t have the time to write it up that day. We love makeup days in this house. And Shay being Shay... well, he’s very rarely just blunt and straightforward about his feelings.

Why would you let go of that which you love?

His motives had been muddled, at best, to most for years now. There had been times he’d spent so much energy trying to avoid them himself that he hadn’t been so certain of their exact names.

When you named something, you cared about it. For better or for worse, you cared. You gave a damn about its feelings. Maybe you even loved.

Shay idly twisted the faded golden chain around his fingers again, waiting for the faint dig of the metals against his skin when it pulled taught. A locket he still carried, even after years. A thing he had cared about. Did… Had loved… Dead.

Another damned, twisted memory buried in the snow. Stained snow. Snow he had tainted with blood. Because they had spilled hers.

The locket and chain was once more wound around his opposite hand - one to another, back and forth, through the storm of his drifting mind.

He’d never call himself gentle. Hells, not even in his youth would he give himself the kindness… It was foreign. Kindness did not a soldier make. Ishgard had been at war for centuries. She had no need for idealists. The horde would come. People would die. One day, Ishgardian steel would, at last, crush them entirely.

An old, exhausted, and now false tale, they had proven… They… She… Hells knew he hadn’t…

Fray had never had to pry too deep in him for the black depths of the abyss. Shay was not a creature that required a shield. His sword and flashing teeth would be enough of an aggressor that nothing could come close to him. Burning mistrust and unspoken tells of regret and betrayal and longing he had not wanted shared… Weakness… Halone help him if he’d actually dared to admit he felt vulnerable.

Nay, he’d crafted himself of the mind that he’d rather throw himself upon his sword than admit such. He had no time for betrayals, he said, nor the patience. But what of the pain? What if..?

He puffed out an agitated breath. Even having admitted his past to her, he still found these thoughts… difficult. She’d stayed and stayed and begged him to leave that bloody damned night in Ul’dah to save himself and then she’d stayed some more when he’d tried to give her every reason not to.

Even when he jumped at the chance to return to her. Not that he’d ever admitted it. Or shown it. She was their vaunted hero, after all. She needed to be there. Free. Not locked up behind some misguided “parents’” cage. This story wasn’t meant for him to be at its center.

She was his center…

And now he carried them both with him. Constantly. Even if he… hadn’t told her that much. It had, at a time, just been a portrait of his fiance… His… first failure… loss. But Airi… Airi.

Naïve little princess… He drew a thumb carefully over her portrait looking back at him. How far they’d come… And how little he changed. How insistent she stayed, too, that he could… That it… wasn’t much of a change at all.

Not, perhaps, that he wasn’t fire and brimstone, ash and fury, bloodied knuckles and sharpened blades… but rather in spite of all of it, it somehow still showed that he cared about something.

The damned bloody irony of the bastard… The one thing he’d been trying to avoid and hide the whole damn time… And she’d gone and figured it out anyway.

Hopefully.

They said some loved so wholly and so purely they burnt themselves to their own ends. He, however… Sometimes he worried… he was more as a wildfire… Wholly, for sure…

But he’d chose her any time, any day. The world wasn’t worth it if he didn’t have her. What the hells was he running for, trying to save himself for, if the one person that’d bothered to even believe in the damned soul in the first place wasn’t going to be there..? To share it with him, to see this world she thought was so godsdamned beautiful despite every gaping, choking flaw it had like she-?!

What the hells would it be for if she wasn’t there to ground him..? Guide him..? Like she had for… for…

For longer than a memory… since a time before time…

Oh, yes, he’d burn from both ends for her gladly… But, sometimes, even he wondered just how willing he’d be to set the whole damn star aflame himself if it meant he could save just her.

Why would you ever let go of that which you loved..? How… How could he..? Not again.

Not. Again.

#ffxiv #ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite 2021 #ch: shay delacroix #my writing #my screens

7 notes · View notes

heartofsnark · 3 years ago

Text

Can You Feel The Sun? (Chapter Ten): Aint It A Gentle Sound, The Rolling In The Graves

Notes: Cyberpunk had consumed my brain, it is official, so have more fic. This and the next chapter are both uhhh heavy, the next chapter moreso in my opinion. So, please heed the warnings carefully.

Word Count: 10323

Chapter Warnings: Violence, gore, blood, suicidal thoughts/mentions, suicide baiting, physical assault/attacks, choking, depressive thoughts.

If you haven’t yet, you can read the previous chapter here!~

She heard him.

Doesn’t hear the breaths that rattle and shake her chest. Didn’t hear her own cries, her own curses. Couldn’t hear the thumping of trash as she climbed from the pit.

But she heard him.

“What?” It's but a whisper on her lips, staring at the man with blurry halved vision, and she can’t hear it.

Bile rushes up her throat, stomach churning as it tries to empty its contents. V rolls over to her hands and knees, retching into the mud and filth. Puke and blood heavy on her tongue, more blood than anything else. She spits the last of it out, pushing already blood matter hair from her face on instinct.

Then she moves her hand back further, to her ear, nothing in it, but she feels for a hearing aid. There has to be a logical explanation, why she heard him but not her own gagging. Why she heard him but not the wind whipping through the trash, why does she hear him.

No hearing aid, not even a broken remnant of it lodged in her ear, the other side the same. And her touching, she feels something else… The hole in her skull, part of her head open to the world. She feels the edge of bone, gore clinging to her digits and she doesn’t know what she touches beyond it, prodding at her flesh with filthy fingers. When she pulls her fingers away, she looks at the tissue, the fragment of bone, all sticking to her hand. How the hell is she alive?

And the man, she knows him, the memories and cyberspace. He should be dead too, Arasaka killed him…

“John...ny?”

She tests his name on her tongue, can feel the reverberation of it in her chest, but not hear it. V waits for a response, waits to hear him, to know she can again. But nothing. Maybe it was a fluke, maybe, an auditory hallucination. She twists to face him again.

“What the- what the fuck?”

He’s gone, was he ever there? Bullet to the brain, maybe he’s all a hallucination. Maybe the memories and cyberspace just long form hallucinations? That happens, right, why some people claim to see heaven? The brain hallucinates when deprived of oxygen...or maybe when a bullet goes through it, touching parts that shouldn’t be touched?

That’s it. That’s all it is. Hallucinations of a damaged brain. She needs a doctor, needs Vik. She gathers her strength, attempting to push herself back up on her feet, legs giving out as she hits her knees into the mud, digging her fingers into it.

Just stand up, just stand up and walk damn it. She screams at herself, then she sees something, a flash of movement in her blurry vision. At first just a shadowy figure standing amidst the trash. Focusing harder so she can make out who it is.

Dex starts to wander into the landfill, boots crushing through mud, towards her. Adrenaline spikes, anger in her center as she glares at his fuzzy figure. The man who killed her blew her brains out and threw her away like trash. She still has Yorinobu’s gun tucked into her belt.

V grabs the gun and suddenly she gets on her feet real fucking easy.

Maybe it’s adrenaline. Maybe it’s spite. But it makes her steadier and she knows if it’s the last thing she fucking does, she’s taking Dex down with her. She makes it halfway through the passageway through the trash and takes aim.

Dex’s eyes go wide, looking over her, she has no idea what she looks like. But she’s sure it’s horrifying, a walking corpse.

“H...fuck!?” her contact struggles to read his lips, but she tries to fill in the blanks, practically laughing.

“What’s wrong Dex, you come to see if you can get it right this time? Think you can manage to not fuck it up this time?”

“How...fuck...alive?”

“Bad news, apparently one of us has shit aim, Good news is it ain’t me.”

And she pulls the trigger, directly through the center of Dex’s head. Brains and blood spraying as he hits the ground, dead at her feet. And she expects to feel better, for her, for Jackie, for Bug. The man who set this shit show up is gone, the man who blew her brains out, would have Jackie’s too if he had the chance, is gone. But she just feels empty, body still a mangled mess and standing in a landfill.

Then she sees a flash of black fabric, a person. Before she can raise the gun or do anything, there’s a hand of flesh and chrome grabbing her wrist. Arm twisted and she’s yanked over, losing her balance, crying out as the gun falls from her fingers. The hand over where her blade would come out, when she tries to let it out it won’t budge under the grasp. She’s pulled back and towards them, back knocking to her chest as she struggles to fight a grip strong enough to crack bone if she let it. Their other hand is on her throat in a moment, tight and crushing as she’s pulled flush to their chest.

V gasps as the hand tightens, already damaged vision blurring further as she gasps for air. Calloused fingers and chrome digging into her windpipe, tears stinging her eyes. She scratches and claws with her bad hand, but can seem to get a grip on him. Held tight to their chest, she cranes her neck, fighting the hold on it and looking up with darkening vision to see him. The bodyguard from Konpeki, brown silver ringed eyes and long graying hair pulled back off his face. Metal etched face like stone as he strangles the merc.

What bit of strength and consciousness she regained is sapped quickly under his heavy hand, body starting to go limp as she starts to pass out. Then she’s thrown to the ground, on her hands and knees as she tries to break the fall; gasping desperately for air. She feels even weaker now, adrenaline fading, pain hitting her again. Why is an Arasaka fucker here? Who the hell sent him? Did Dex drag him here?

She twists to sit down, leaning against a rusted fridge as she touches her bruised throat. The guard stalks closer, shiny shoes walking through muck before he crouches down in front of her. Her contact subtitles start in Japanese before trying to translate what bits they catch from his lips.

“Arasaka-sama….found….father’s killer,” his eyes staring her down, “...her….no...doubt. Yes. Expect… hour.”

He’s going to drag her in, throw her to the non-existent mercy of Arasaka. Flashes of those memories, Johnny’s death, if it’s even real and not just a story from her damaged brain. But she remembers his death, the pain of what they did, every neuron on fire. Is that what they’ll do to her?

“Go fuck yourself!”

She gathers all the spit and blood in her mouth, she hopes traces of puke too out of spite. And she spits on him, right in his face, all she can muster. Spittle coats his bearded face and she feels a moment of sick satisfaction, no matter how small.

“Quiet!”

He backhands her, a sharp slap that forces her head to move. Then he wipes her spit off on his sleeve. Her vision blurs, consciousness threatening to slip away as she feels his hands lifting her up. The world going dark for a moment as she’s carried away by the bodyguard.

When the world returns for a brief moment, she’s in a passenger side seat, laying against the leather. The driver side door opens and she watches as he sits behind the wheel, for a moment his eyes linger on her. His nose wrinkles in disgust as they start to drive out of the landfill.

“...smell...shit.”

She wants to cuss him out, but she can no longer summon the energy. Blood loss catching up with her. If she’s lucky, she’ll die before she ever sees the inside of an Arasaka interrogation room. They can play with her corpse to their heart’s content, as long as they don’t get anything from her. Her eyelids are heavy, the world going dark again.

It’s a sharp pain that brings her back, a choking gasp for air as her entire body convulses, pulling at raw nerves and muscles. The UI in her contact blinks system malfunction, blurring distorting, glitching already damaged vision. Every part of her seizing, she has to remind herself to breathe, tell her heart to beat.

Chrome etched fingers push an airhypo into her hand, the guard is twisted up behind the wheel, holding at his stomach. He’s hurt, but how? Why is he giving her first aid? It could be a trick, but she takes that risk, knowing she’ll die without something anyway. She wraps bloodied twitching fingers around the airhypo and punches it directly into her chest, a needle of medication plunged into her system. A brief booster of relief. Her lungs able to breathe, pain numbing for a moment, muscles relaxing.

The wind is whipping as he drives. An orange sky around them, car driving down a a highway, the sun just starting to come up. Beautiful for a moment.

tHE she goes to toss the hypo container out of the convertible, throwing it right into the face of a man driving a motorcycle up along side of them. His eyes an intense red, optic glow. Dressed in Arasaka uniform, his eyes on her. Friends of the bodyguard? The motorcycle accelerates, moves in front of them, then the man pulls a gun. Another motorcyclist races past the drivers side. Glass shatters as bullets blast the windshield. A third one weaving into the fray. The long haired guard punches the gas, ramming into the back of one of the bikes. It sparks and flames, sending it’s rider flying before the motorcycle rolls off the windshield over their head.

The hell is going on? Why is he fighting his own men? Why are they fighting him? A black and red gun is pushed into her hand, the intention clear without words. Half blind, half dead, but hopped up on a booster; she takes aim.

Its not her best work, firing at the cyclists. She focuses on the one lingering towards her side, closer to them. She aims for tires first, bullets sparking and pinging off the bike, but not quite make the impact she needs. V tries hard, tries to focus harder on his head, trying to land a headshot as the pair continue to shoot at the car. The movement of which does nothing to help.

His motorcycle starts to flame up, streaks of red flickering as he rides. When it stalls in the middle of the highway, the long haired guard hits the gas harder, catching the front of it and destroys it, sending him across the road.

They get neck and neck to the other rider, cold red eyes glaring at them before drifting off to another lane, picking up speed before he guns it back towards them, slamming the bike into the side of the vehicle. Knocking the car off course, they slam into oncoming traffic, head on into someone else's car. But the long haired man doesn’t slow down, swerving pack into their lane, too quick, as he ends up half on the curb. The side of the car scratches an NCART stop as the guard turns them around; driving in reverse to face the motorcyclist. He drives head on towards them and V starts shooting again, trying to get clear aim.

One lucky shot hits where she needs, bike combusting and rider flying. As breathing gets harder for her, her muscles start to tighter, pain in her...everything starting to come back. The boost of adrenaline from the hypo is fading. And another motorcycle comes speeding at them, riding through the dust and smoke of the former. How many are there?

The bodyguard starts to turn the car back around, a vehicle merging clips against them, sending the civilian car right into the path of the motorcycle. He hits the hood of it, motorcycle sparking and man sent flying, but he leans into the launch of it, mantis blades extending from his arms as he lands on the back of their car.

And the flames weren’t just from his bike, he’s more metal than flesh. Charred remains of skin giving way of the metal bones beneath. He sweeps his blades back and forth, the rock of the car and the heat of fire on his skin making his aim messy, just missing their heads. He flips to the front, clinging to the grill of the car as the bodyguard drives.

Mantis blades sink into the hood as the man starts trying to climb his way up and to them, a flaming metal skeleton with half melted skin. She desperately tries to shoot him off as he pulls himself forward, a turn pushing him back, but the grip of his blades through the metal stays. He just nearly reaches, swiping a blade out but a swerve of the car makes him miss. A blade hooks into the dashboard in front of her and he punches out the other, stabbing between them.

“Traitor!”

Her contact reads the words on the man’s lips, clear as day. The long haired guard, Saburo's own bodyguard; a traitor?

The car smashes into the bottom of a billboard, cracking and buckling. Her head slams against the dashboard, darkness swimming through her vision, consciousness fading, she’s not sure how much more she can handle. She blinks, but maybe it was more than a blink, the long hair guard gone.

Then her door opens, hands hook beneath her arms and she’s dragged out of the car, across the road. Taking in the crash. Pinned between the car and a pole, the flaming metal exoskeleton of a man convulses, mouth opened in what looks like a scream, maybe he still has nerve endings. His body is crushed, his bladed arms swinging out.

Hands leave her body, the guard crouching in front of her, his movements slow. He’s injured too, clutching at a bullet wound. She tries to focus on his lips.

“Do not pass...again.”

“No promises…” She croaks out.

“...eyes...open…”

Her eyes drift to whats left of the other man, still struggling, still pinned. She levels the gun with his head as best she can, pulling the trigger and putting him out of any pain he may be in. Or may she’s simply saving her own ass by killing a witness. She’s not entirely sure. The bodyguard takes the gun from her hand, looking at her like he’s caught a child misbehaving. She lets out a soft laugh.

Bleeding out on the highway, skull caved in, a mangled corpse. And she laughs. Maybe her and Jackie aren’t that different, maybe he’d be proud of her…maybe.

“We both...medical attention. Do...know...ripperdoc… trust?”

“Vik Vector.“

“Must...quickly,”

“He can help, he’s the best.”

“Have...get...somehow. Call...anyone.”

“He’s behind Misty’s Esoterica in Watson, you’ll get there faster without me… I’m...not...gonna…”

“Make the call.”

He speaks slow and clear enough, the contact translating perfectly. He’s got no reason to want to save her, she doesn’t know what his game is. But, she sends a call through her holo, to Delamain. She doesn’t know why that’s the first thing to come to mind, maybe the cab will tell them to fuck off, the ride paid for by Dex after all. But the taxi service is the first thing that comes to mind. The avatar comes up in her contact.

“Greetings, my scanner indicates you are outside the service area.” The contact reads him clearly, maybe the holo feeding subtitles better.

“Pick me up, please… I have to get to Vik’s clinic, behind Misty’s Esoterica,” she tells him, her eyelids starting to grow heavy again.

“Of course,” he agrees with no hesitance, “a vehicle en route. It should arrive in less than twenty minutes.”

And her eyes close, blinking and eyes going dark again. It feels like only a moment.

But when she opens her eyes again, she’s in a Delamain, stretched across the backseat with her head in the guard’s lap. He’s leaning over her, able to see through blurry vision, the heavy gray around his temples and the blood splattered across him. His hands are pushing through her hair.

“Please proceed to insert the jack below the ear, though not too deep. There should be auxiliary neurosockets between her lymph nodes, beneath the SCM muscle.”

The subtitles filter across her contact, Delamain by the choice of words, but she’s not reading his lips. Unable to look directly at his AI avatar, she's not sure how, but doesn't have the energy to question it. The guard holds a jack between his fingers, brows furrowing for a moment.

“...hit vein...mistake...die.”

“As she will if you do nothing.”

“I think I have the socket…”

“Now proceed to connect.”

The world goes dark again, V barely able to stay conscious for more than a moment. This is it, she’s really dying. So much for laughing in the face of it and making Jackie proud.

And when she opens them again she’s being pulled from the back of the car, the guard’s hands hold her. His grip is slipping, barely able to lift even her small frame, he’s hurt badly. Familiar hands interrupt, stronger in this moment, a ripperdoc glove on one hand. Vik pulls her from the cab easily lifting and holding her. He starts to walk away with her, the Arasaka bodyguard starting to follow, but his steps are staggering.

“Can’t..”

Then he’s falling, hitting the ground of Vik’s garage, his back leaning against the Delamain cab as he clutches at his bleeding arm, his face starting to go gray. V can feel the reverb in Vik’s chest, cracked open skull leaning against it as he calls out.

And it feels like a blink. Just a moment, a bit of darkness, but the world has shifted again. A bright bright white light glows over head, she’s on Vik’s operating table, the ripper doc standing over her.

“It’s neurogenic shock, she’s dying,” Delamain’s subtitles come across her contact.

Tears burn at her eyes. This is it, she’s really dying, after all this trouble. She’ll bleed out in Vik’s chair. Vik’s lips move, but the contact reads nothing, only a blip. He twists and turns her face where he needs her.

“There is risk of-”

Vik cuts the taxi cab AI off, but she doesn’t know what he says, light too bright to see anything else. Only able to catch the movement of it. And she’s been expecting this, each moment since Dex shot her feeling like her last. But this has to be it the end, heart slowing again, eyelids heavy again. Her skull has been cracked open, brain exposed to trash and air for the past several hours. She’s been bleeding out for god knows how long. She was never going to make it out of this, was never meant to.

A billion thoughts dance in her head, of Jackie, of all that’s happened. She reaches out and grabs Vik’s shirt, bloody fingers twisting into the blue of his shirt. Her grasp is weak, but Vik stops when he feels the feeble little pull on his clothes, looking down on her. And he looks so scared, green eyes wide as he stares down at her.

“I’m sorry…”

Its all she can think to say, she’s sorry. She’s sorry about Jackie. She’s sorry she didn’t listen to Vik. She’s sorry she took the job. She’s sorry she couldn’t save him. She’s just sorry.. And she hopes Misty hears it, hopes it gets back to Mama Welles. Hopes they know she’s sorry, hopes they know she tried…

And it all goes dark again, that void that welcomes her time and time again. She doesn’t expect to come out of it, truly she doesn’t. Stuck in the dark for who knows how long.

For a moment the world comes back, mind fuzzy, she can see Misty checking something. Wants to reach out and touch her, say something. But her body won’t move, her mouth dryer than the desert. That Arasaka guard is in Vik’s other chair, Vik working on him. And she blinks again.

Vik is at his work bench, watching a boxing match. Her clothes are changed, her skin cleaner than it was before, her vision glitching but no longer halved. Does she still have contacts in? The question is foggy in her brain, barely formed before she’s falling into darkness again.

The guard and Vik are standing before where she lays. How much time has passed? The long haired bodyguard looks healthier now, healed up, dressed in white. Not a trace of blood on him, no more gray in his face.

“How is she?” Subtitles form across her vision, clearer than usual, able to pick it up at a further distance.

“Slower on the mend than you, but lookin' better every day.”

Day… has it been days? Her eyes are drifting shut again, unable to keep them open for long. But the void doesn’t greet her this time, instead fuzzy dreams...memories. Being on a stage, being at a nomad camp. Sometimes she’s her. Other times….

Her eyes open again. And this time the Arasaka guard is closer, hands fussing with something. Touching her shoulder, her skin. He pulls away after a moment, then taps her shoulder, a heavy pap against her flesh. Then she’s gone again.

Dreams and memories drift into each other.

Drinking in some shitty bar with Misty and Jackie, capping the night off with booze as they talk let loose after a week of shitty jobs and annoying customers, She throws back her favorite bourbon and cherry coke, but it turns to tequila in her mouth. Shot glass hitting the table, Misty and Jackie replaced with Kerry and Rogue, snickering as she grabs another shot.

Vik repairing a knife wound in her gut, teasing her nose for trouble, but when he goes to turn he becomes Milt, a man she knows, though she doesn’t know why. He’s replacing her liver for the third time that month, tells her she needs to cool it on the booze.

Entangled in the sheets with Sabrina, a short lived flame. But when they twist to roll over, its not Sabrina looking up at her. A blonde with freckles across her nose and soft green eyes instead of the dark haired woman V thought she could love.

She’s on stage, screaming lyrics into a mic and the noise doesn’t bug her, she screams her rage, her message. But fingers meet guitar strings and the world shifts, electric axe becoming acoustic. A dirty club becomes a tent and instead of playing to a crowd she’s in her mother’s lap, mom humming Rhiannon as she teaches the young nomad to play.

Busting through the doors to Arasaka tower, nuke on her back, but the doors open to Yorinobu’s suite, Jackie shushing her to stay quiet. As if she’s ever struggled to be quiet.

She’s got a blade in the side of Konpeki Plaza, grabbing Jackie, but the moment her hand wraps around his wrist she’s the one dangling, holding onto Rogue as she dangles above Arasaka Tower.

Sometimes who’s in what memory switches, changes. Sometimes it’s her setting off the nuke in Arasaka, painted nails clicking against the bomb. Sometimes it’s tattooed and silver hands softly correcting Jackie’s sign language.

It all blurs and blurs and blurs until she’s not sure who did what. Who’s the deaf merc and who’s the rocker who nuked a tower? And her head aches to keep track, to know who she is, the pain building and building which each twist of it, each change in those dreams that muddy the waters of who she is and who he is. Until the pain is overwhelming.

“Argh ahh, fuck!” She gasps and screams out, waking up in agony. She grabs and clutches at her head, trying to soothe it.

Hands come and touch her face, looking up at Vik, eyes kind as he slides a spare pair of hearing aids on her. Able to hear her own panicked breathing as Vik soothes his hands across her jaw.

“V? You in there?” he asks her, his wording strange, who else would she be?

“Vik..” she speaks and signs, hands trembling and voice rough, her vision still glitching and distorting. Her torso is wrapped in bandages, a pair of pajama pants on her for modesty. There’s more bandages wrapped around her head, down her forearm. There’s no markings of the mantis blades on her right arm.

“How you feeling?”

“Everything hurts...visions...do I have contacts in?”

“Yeah… lots to discuss, kid,” he says, swallowing hard and crossing his arms, “had to install optics on you…”

“What?” Her eyes are gone, replaced with tech, just that easily. The eyes she sees through no longer the ones genetics or her father gave her, but corp created metal.

“Bullet damaged the optic nerve, I had no choice, I-”

“I know,” she says, arm and hand too sore to sign, Vik would never install them if it wasn’t necessary, she trusts that.

“On a brighter note, switched you to the projectile launcher.”

“Huh?” She checks her left arm, indentations of chrome, similar but slightly different from the mantis blades.

“The blades work best together, I would have just repaired the right and spruced up the left, but… when the blade ripped out, the muscle was damaged beneath it. It can’t support anymore cyberware, to install a new blade in it, I’d have to remove the full arm. Figured, be better to give you the tech you wanted more, anway.”

“I owe you, a lot, seriously. May...take longer to pay you back than I thought.”

“That’s, uh, that’s not the most important thing right now. V, what do you remember?”

“Dex… shot me and then I started seeing things…” She explains, sitting up a little straighter and pulling her knees closer, body aching at the movement.

“These...hallucinations, describe ‘em to me.”

“There’s a lot, it’s like, I’m someone else, but still me. Seeing someone else’s life. I’m on stage in some grimey little club, bright lights. I start playing, screaming into the mic, letting out my hatred...screaming out a message. Got something to say, desperate for anyone to listen. Then I finish the set and… head my ass to Arasaka Tower, nuke the whole damn place… I don’t know if it was a dream or. I know it sound’s ridiculous.”

“Not ridiculous at all, kid,” Vik tells her, nodding along and sitting down, fiddling with his glasses, a nervous tic she’s rarely seen.

“Night City looked different, older and I hated it. Then… they killed me, Arasaka scorched me with something, every nerve frying. It felt real, so- so fucking real, I knew it wasn’t me but it felt like it. Never had a dream like that…”

“You weren't dreaming, V. Those were memories. There's a personality construct on that shard, Dreams you had were from his past.”

She blinks, processing the words for a moment. That makes sense, when she thinks about it. Commercials for the relic advertised it as a storage for a person’s engram, something akin to an imaginary friend. It didn’t cross her mind in the moment, but logically Jackie and her should have seen someone with the chip slotted in… Right? But either way, she had a chip with someone’s intel, she got fucked up and maybe the chip activated, triggered, and showed her whoever was on it. Johnny… who gives a fuck.

“Okay, so, it was just the chip… Where you put it?” It may be too hopeful, but if the chip is in good enough shape, Vik is savvy enough, he may have had a container that would work. If so, she may be able to get in contact with Evelyn. Close the deal, for Jackie.

“V… I…”

“Did it get destroyed?” She reaches up to her chip slot, without thinking, touching her fingers against it.

“Don’t touch it,” Vik yells out, calloused fingers wrapping around her wrist just as she feels the edge of something in her chipslot. He didn’t pull it, which is odd enough, but why is he so worried of her doing it?

“Why? Something wrong, if the chip is fucking with me, I can just pull it out, right? No harm, no foul.”

“It’s not that simple, V.”

“What do you mean, it’s not that simple? Its just a shard, a chip like anything else.”

“Not quite, you two're connected in a way I can't make head or tail of.”

“Connect- what do you mean, me and who?”

“Johnny Silverhand. A terrorist - real talk o' the town back in my day,” he lets out a heavy sigh, leaning forward , “ Anyway, that's not what's important right now….”

And there’s something in the way his body language changes, the shift in expression. She’s seen him worried to death, seen him nag her time and time again. Tell her in a thousand different ways she had to stop knocking on death’s door or it’d start knocking back. But he barely meets his eyes now, face drained of color, like he’s the one who took a bullet. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think he was about to cry.

“So, new eyes, new chrome, and reliving a terrorist’s life; none of that's important. So, what exactly is?”

“You, uh, don't got a lot of time left, kid,” he tells her, voice cracking in a way she’s never heard.

“Wha-what do you mean?” She’s hurting sure, that’s to be expected, but she doesn’t feel like she’s on death’s door, not anymore. She should be out of the woods now.

“ The biochip… It's basically a bomb, fuse lit already. You don't have much time left, much… life. A few, maybe six months tops. Silverhand's construct is overwriting your consciousness - gradually taking over your body until one day you'll just be… gone”

He can only meet her eyes for a few words at a time, blinking and looking away each time his eyes start to look watery. V’s breath catches in her throat, Vik’s words pinging around her skull. She believes him, no reason not to, he’d never lie about something like this. Hell, she doubts he’d ever lie at all. Death has teased her relentlessly all her life, but never so much as it has in this past...day, weeks? Since Dex shot her, moment after moment of thinking she’d met her end. Each time convinced it was the end, that she’d bleed out in a motel, thrown away in landfill, die in Vik’s chair.

But this… this isn’t what she imagined. A bullet, a knife wound, a quick hack, someone’s chrome; all things she could see taking her. Bleeding out in an alley, in a car, shot point blank dying before she hits the ground. Those are merc deaths, the kind of death that’s been awaiting her. Culled at the hands of her family, a quick clean captive bolt shot to the skull.

Becoming someone else, mind twisted and warped, a terrorist taking her place. Her brain and being carved away to let someone else take root. Is it even a death? Or just ceasing to be? Rewritten, reworked, turned into someone new. A terrorist, a rockerboy; taking her place, wearing her like a cheap suit.

Vik rubs at his forehead, refusing for another moment to make eye contact, giving her a moment. Letting this settle in or maybe he’s just trying to collect himself, after another beat of silence he meets her eyes again.

“V. It's important you get all this,” he tells her, but, Vik can help her. He’s the best, pulled miracles out of nowhere, for fucks sake, he pieced her head back together. The fact she’s here right now means…

“That’s okay, you’ll fix me up. Right, Vik?”

And his face falls, a quiver in his jaw, “If I could, I would, V, believe me. But this is… Way beyond what I know how to do.”

“You're the best of the best, Vik,” her voice is higher than she wants, shakier than she’d like, as he puts his head in his hands again, “Why can't you help me?”

“Want the long story or the short?” He sits up straighter, takes in a deep breath, trying to pull himself together.

“I want- I need to know everything, Vik, what’s happening to me?”

“OK. There was, is, a construct, a psyche on the chip. That of Johnny Silverhand. You jacked it in your chipslot. Nothing happened, right? Until you died.”

“Shot point blank by Dex Deshawn...how…”

“Low caliber - you lucked out. Not least thanks to another poor decision by Mr. DeShawn. The nannites off the chip started fixing the damage. Biochip revived and... short-circ'd you. Started uploading data into your head. As far as it was concerned, your brain was an empty vessel that needed to be filled by the engram it was carrying.”

“But-but, I’m here, this is me. I’m me, I-”

And he nearly breaks, she can see it in him, A grown man, old enough to be her dad, looking down like a kicked dog. Like he’s about to break down in tears and when did she start crying? Her eyes stinging, tears running hot down her cheeks, she doesn’t know when the dam bursted, when her voice started sounding so pathetic. But...this is her, she’s here, she doesn’t want to become someone else…

“The shard doesn't read, it writes. Headache of yours? It's the biochip rewiring your neural pathways, building new neural structures, doing away with the old. From the biochip's perspective, your brain cells are a tumor that needs to be scooped out, while your body's an empty shell to hold the construct. You’re….just a cancer, an intruder.”

An intruder, a cancer in her own fucking body. It’s almost poetic, if it wasn’t so infuriating. Her body trying to destroy itself for years and now this chip is joining the fight, like her body was never meant to be her’s. But it is, this is her. Years under someone else's thumb; she fought for the right to herself, her body, her life. And now some wannabe rockstar is out to ruin that?

“So, that’s it? Johnny What’s His Fuck is out to kill me? Booting me out of my own damn body and taking my place?”

She tries to turn it into anger, blaming him, because who else does she blame? Anger is easier, safer, she can work with anger better than the anguish in her chest, the tears soaking her face.

“It's not willful on his part. It's automatic, inevitable. And neither of you can stop it.”

The finality makes her choke. Nothing to do. Nothing to stop it. This is happening. All she can do is wait to rot inside her own body, wait for the moment where Johnny claims it as his own. She’ll be gone, wiped, the world forgetting she was ever part of it. Just a weak little merc killed by her own body, never truly meant to be here in the first place.

“Ca-can’t we just take it out? Turn it off-I, something?!”

“Either way's out of the question. You'd die, immediately.”

“What do you mean?” “Chip saved you… it’s killing you, but, it’s also the only thing keeping you alive. Without it keeping your brain going… life support and a death sentence, all in one. “

“Vik, you’ve always come through for me, there’s nothing you can’t do. If-if you can’t help...what-what the hell do I do? Please… I,” Vik stands up, looks at her like she’s already gone, arms crossed over his chest, “Vik?”

“I wish I knew, kid.” And he turns his back to her, walking away.

“Vik?”

“Misty!” He calls the woman’s name half in a yell and half in a sob, breaking down.

For a moment she’s left alone, wiping tears from her eyes. The look on Vik’s face trapped in her mind, looking at her like she’s already dead and this is her funeral. Looking at her like a wounded dog. Like her mother and sister did when she lost her hearing. Pity, despair, mourning what’s been taken. And she cries into her hands, because this time it’s not her hearing. It's her everything. Years of trying to feel like she had an ounce of fucking control, just for it to be taken. Years of searching for a place in this world, for the world to tell her one never existed. Her own brain reworking itself to be anyone else, even a terrorist.

There’s a creak of wheels against the floor, a wheelchair being pushed into her peripheral vision. Misty’s pushing it towards her, V doesn’t lift her head to make eye contact, just watching the chair wheels spin.

“You're askin' too much from an old-timer like Vik,” Misty speaks softly, touching V’s hand and the merc finally meets her gaze, “C'mon, V, let's get you home.”

Misty helps V into the wheelchair, the merc’s legs shakier than she expected, and she curses under her breath. She hates it, needing the help, needing Misty’s hands to steady her. Feeling weak. But Misty helps her happily, wheeling her out the garage of Vik’s clinic to a car. Misty tucking her into the passenger seat and helping buckle her seat belt when the merc’s hands are too clumsy.

V watches the world go by as Misty drives, looking at the city that passes by. A world, a city, she wanted a place in. That she wanted to respect her, to know her. A world she wanted to matter in, to prove she was strong, to feel like she meant something. And now she’ll just vanish from it, with no one caring. A world that will never miss her, because it never knew her to begin with.

And a part of her wants to climb across the console and into Misty’s lap, to throw her arm around the older woman and sink there. To hug someone who to some extent, if only because of Jackie, cares about her, who maybe, just maybe she matters to. But for a billion reasons, ranging from the fact Misty’s driving to the fact she can’t imagine why Misty would ever want to hug her. While kind, V can’t imagine anyone wanting to curl up with the person who got their boyfriend killed. V promised to keep him safe and couldn’t.

“You wanna talk, V, about what happened?”

V doesn’t respond right away, unsure of what to say, there’s so much swimming in her head. So many words that just die on her tongue. Does she talk about Jackie, does she apologize? Does she act selfishly, talk about what’s happening to her? It’s all a mess. Then they’re pulling into the parking garage of V’s building. Misty gets the folded up wheelchair out of the back of her car, holding a bag with V’s belongings in it, bringing them to the passenger side. The older blonde opens V’s door and helps her into the chair, wheeling her to the elevator.

The doors to the elevator close, ads playing across the screens, V fiddles with the fabric of the sweatpants that Vik put her in. She tries to speak, words don’t come out. She tries to sign, her fingers clench but don’t move beyond it. The elevator shaking as it takes them up to V’s floor.

“Its-it’s all so hard to make sense of…” she finally says, just being honest, as the doors open and Misty wheels her down those dirty halls.

“I know it is, sweetie, you’ve been through so much.”

“We were just stealing the chip and then everything… went to shit…. And, and, then he died and I thought I was gonna die too with him in my sleep...if that’s what it was, like I was dreaming but...not.”

“Sleep's a… Small hint of death, the inevitable,” Misty tells her as they reach V’s door, the older woman scooping up a box by the door as the merc unlocks it.

Memories of her door fucking up flicker around her head, Robert Linder… No… that’s not possible. They hadn’t even touched Konpeki yet, but she swears she knows that name. That it’s him, his birth name. Robbie, Robert, before finally settling on Johnny. Her throat feels tight, chest constricting, how is that possible. Then Misty is pushing her through the doors.

“I-I can't actually tell if I'm awake now, right now. Nothing feels real, I mean, I could be dead already, right?”

“Not something to think about right now, V,” Misty tells her, stopping the chair by her bed, before coming to stand in front of her, “Here, got some meds for you.”

There’s two pill bottles in Misty’s hands, blue and orange. She crouches down in front of V, meeting the merc’s eyes without looking down at her. Misty rattles the blue pill bottle.

“Omega blockers - taken regularly, they'll keep things from progressing too quickly. Also, they should keep that guest of yours calm, quiet.”

Quiet. Because she’s going to see him, going to hear him, already has. The memory of hearing his voice, seeing him above her in the landfill. She’s not alone in her own head and putting him in a chemical straight jacket is all she can do. She takes the blue bottle from Misty, shaking the pills around inside, her only hope of squeezing out even six more months of life… before she becomes someone else.

“Pseudoendotrizine's from me,” Misty shakes the orange bottle, “Effect'll be opposite. It'll speed things up, free the demon, so to speak.”

V takes the second bottle from Misty, shaking them around, as the older woman stands. Suicide pills… Misty is giving her a way to kill herself, only instead of getting to go to sleep and never wake up, it will speed him up. Rewrite and rework her. Death without the dignity of a true end, one day she just won’t be her. She’d rather bleed out, rather have been left to rot in that landfill. At least then she would have died as herself. Least she wouldn’t have to watch and feel as she becomes someone else, as she loses everything that makes her, her. And Misty wants to speed it up… wants to watch her die quicker…

“Giving me a pill to kill myself… so I can die faster…” V’s broken little voice comes out and she see’s Misty’s eyes go big for a moment, soft and looking at V like a dying animal. Just a sad little thing to be pitied.

“Listen, you're likely to be fine for a while. But some time down the road. It could turn into pure agony. I'm givin' you options, honey.”

“I have painkillers...I-”

“Your psyche's gonna die, V. You'll feel… your old self slipping away. At some point, you won't recognize yourself. It'll be terrifying. It'll be painful. But it doesn't have to be.”

V nearly cries, but forces it back, thinking of the road ahead of her. The finality in Misty’s voice echoing Vik’s. So, why is she here, six months of suffering? If she’s lucky. She should have been left to die, least then it’d be a quicker one. A real one, instead of just becoming a stranger in her own body, instead of being rewritten, replaced.

“Might as well just blow my brains out, be easier.”

Misty shakes her head, “Well, that way you'd kill two souls. Is that what you want?”

And maybe she does. Maybe she doesn’t. V isn't quite sure of the answer, herself. She just doesn’t want to hurt like this, doesn’t want to be here in this moment. Doesn’t want this. A clean death is easier, instead Vik pieced her back together just so she could suffer. She thinks of laying down in the landfill, before she saw him, and wishes it back. To lay down in the muck, a bleeding mess, and never get back up.

“I think...I need to lie down,” she says, her bed never looking so tempting. V pulls herself from the wheel chair and sits down on her bed, legs over the edge as she just feels herself sink into her mattress for a moment. After a moment, she feels Misty sitting down next to her.

“Here,” Misty holds something in her hands, soft green eyes looking at V, “got one more thing for ya. Vik pulled this outta your skull.’

Misty gently pulls on V’s wrist, touch gentle as she makes the merc roll her hand over and presses a necklace into her palm. A circular pendant on a chain, wires suspending a bullet in the center of it. The merc rubs her fingers over the metal, the bullet that killed her.

“Wha-?”

“A lucky charm?”

“Haven’t you heard, I got a terminal case of bad luck.”

“Don't be silly. As long as you're alive, there's hope. And don't let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Misty says that and a part of V believes she believes it. But she said not moments okay, with that same confidence that V is going to die. And the merc can’t help but wonder if Misty even knows which one she believes more. How could V possibly stop this? Vik doesn’t even know what he’s looking at, how the hell could she? Her brain is destroying itself, turning itself into someone new. How do you stop that?

“Really think I can survive this?” V asks, just wanting to know how Misty really feels, if there’s any hope in this situation.

“'Course you can. I mean, you did already die and come back once, didn't ya?”

“Technically...I guess.”

“Promise you'll try to get some sleep?” Misty pats her thigh and starts to get up.

“Misty, wait, um I, about Jackie...” She tangles her fingers in Misty’s sweater, voice catching, she can’t let her go without saying something about him. Misty sits back down.

“Yeah?”

“I’m, I’m...I’m so fuckin’ sorry, I…”

“V… “

“I can’t believe he’s gone… It doesn’t feel real…” Tears burn at V’s eyes, falling down her cheeks with a blink.

“Jackie… was special. Really spiritually rich. He touched so many people with his love. Don't worry, he'll be around. I don’t think… we ever truly lose the people who meant something to us, a part of them always stays with us, ya know?”

“Maybe… he… talked about yout lots, you know that? He loved you to pieces.”

A soft smile starts to pull at Misty’s black painted lips, before it falls again, fingers messing with her hair as she weighs what V’s said.

“We got into a fight right before he went off to do this job.”

“He wasn’t mad at you. I hope you know that, loved you more than anything.”

“I know. I just… wish our last moments together could have been… different.”

“Sure you'll be okay?”

Misty is too good for all of this, truly, she deserved so much better. And V just wishes she could have brought Jackie home to her. Misty chews her lip and after a moment she nods, looking up to V.

“Life is so beautifully powerful, so much more powerful than death, so yeah, I’ll be fine. Not today and probably not tomorrow, but I’ll get there. And so will you.”

“Maybe…”

“But right now,” Misty squeezes V’s shoulder, “you need rest. So sleep, please sleep.”

With that desperate plea, Misty stands up, pushing the wheelchair out through V’s apartment. She only stops once, casting a final somber look at V, as if checking to see if the merc has moved at all. Then she leaves. And V is left alone with her thoughts, with her worries, with her guilt, and fear.

Body and mind heavy with the weight of it all, she takes out the loaner hearing aids that Vik gave her and pushes herself back into bed. She lays down, feeling the soft of the mattress sink underneath her. V takes another look at the bullet pendant, holding it over her head as she stares at the thing that killed her. Pried from her head and now in her hand, it seems surreal. Everything feels that way lately.

She lays her head down on her pillow, holding the pendant close as she lets herself just relax for a moment. To just let this all go if only for a few hours, to let her mind and body rest, to figure out what she’s going to do when the morning comes. Her eyelids grow heavy, slipping into sleep.

There’s an odd, almost electric sound that starts to gently stir her from sleep, like a tv glitching. Followed by a soft thunk, thunk, of something hitting something else. Her heavy eyelid slowly pull open. A man against the wall between her bed and window. Overgrown dark hair, aviators hiding brown eyes, dressed in a bullet proof vest and leather pants. He thumps his head back against the wall, a pent up energy drawing every muscle in his body tight, like a tiger about to pounce.

“Gotta get out of here, understand? And I kill anyone who gets in my way.”

And he’s on top of her, in a flicker, a flash, he’s suddenly crouching over her body, staring down at her. Close enough to smell cigarette smoke and a hint of sweat, close enough to see the dirt that clings to his skin, scratches in his flesh. His silver hand presses against the mattress beside her head,

“You included.”

She flinches and kicks out at his warning, the gravel of his voice promising to end her if he has to. And he’s gone, just as easily as he arrived. A dream? Her heart hammers in her chest, breaths shallow as she tries to calm down.

Her mind is still foggy as she starts to sit up in her bed, then she hears the glitching sound again, the thumping noise of a head hitting the wall. V swallows a lump in her throat, blinking at the man who’s back against the wall, thumping his head.

“Need a smoke,” he demands, seemingly annoyed he has to say it, “where’d you stash yours?”

A stranger in her apartment, in her mind, trying to bum cigarettes. Her hearing aids still tucked away, yet she hears him clear as day. It’s all surreal. She can’t bring herself to answer immediately, still half out of it, her vision seeming to glitch as she moves. A cyan fuzz to the world as she slowly sits up on the edge of the bed and brings herself to stand up, looking at him. He’s not real, she has to remind herself, even though he looks and smells like it. Just a figment in her head, threatening her life and demanding nicotine.

“D-don’t smoke.” Is all she can think to say, as stupid as it is, thankful for a moment she can’t hear herself say it, can’t truly take in her own idiocy. As if that’s the most concerning part of this whole mess.

“Then go out and get some! Just need one last one!” He screams at her, making her flinch, head hurting already.

“Jesus christ, man, calm the fuck down.”

“The fuck kinda joytoy are you s'posed to be?” He sneers at her, looks down his nose at her. Heat and anger rush through her, face warm, asshole. Snide, fucking prick. Not worth it, though, just some asshole rattling around her skull.

“No, I- I’m not dealing with this.”

She shakes her head and turns to go to her closet; grab some clothes, pop the pills, take a shower, and figure out what to do from there. Then he’s in front of her, before she’s even made it past her desk, hands slamming into her chest as he pushes her back. She cries out as she hits the ground, pain shooting through her already injured body. He stands over her, right hand pulled back, ready to strike and his left in front of him.

“Who you work for? Start talkin'!”

He points a chrome finger at her and her left finger points back him, moving without her consent, world glitching with cyan fuzz around her. She tries to clench it, to pull it back, to control her own body. But nothing and behind his eyes, she sees him looking. Testing it, he unclenches his hand and her own mirrors the motion. He twists his hand around and hers does the same in turn, in perfect sync, like she’s just a puppet. She tries to pull her hand down, but nothing.

His right arm moves and her own follows the motion, no matter how much tries to pull it back, as muscles aching from her rebellion. Her body listens to him, not her. This can’t be happening, he can’t control her, he can’t make her do things. Vik said six months, it's barely been hours and she already can’t move her own body.

“Fuck…” The man above her curses, turning his palms to his face, her hands doing the same.

For a moment, she considers begging him to release whatever control he has on her, if he even knows how to do it but stops herself before the broken plea can be heard, nothing but a soft noise dying on her lips. Disgusted she would ever have to beg to have control over her own body, cursing herself as his right hand pushes back into his hair. Her hand does the same, pushing through her hair to rub over her chip-slot.

“Fucking chip,” her fingers pry at the biochip without her permision and she’s reminded of Vik’s warning, “Rip the thing out myself!

Let him, let the dumb bastard kill them both; she decides just before he tries to rip the chip out. Fingers prying at the damage tech left in her skull, And she screams, like a shock to her brain, a bolt through every nerve as her vision glitches. Her body tenses, seizes, and somewhere she hears him yell too. World going dark for just a moment.

Then red dances across her vision, world and sense slowly returning, she’s somehow twisted to face her window. Not sure how she ended up there, if she had a seizure, if he dragged her. But it looks like he gave up on prying the chip out, because shes’ alive, she thinks. There’s that blue fuzz and static floating around her vision again as she starts trying to get up.

Before she can get both feet under her, there’s a hand wrenching into her hair, twisting the strands around his fingers and yanking. She cries out as she’s pulled up to her feet by her hair, freshly stitched together scalp being pulled on. V presses her hands to the window sill and glass, trying to get her bearings as she’s pulled back back by the hair. Her reflection stares back at her, her pitiful face wincing in pain, Johnny behind her pulling her around like a ragdoll.

“I’ll take control!”

It’s a snarled yell into her ear, his breath on her neck as he slams her head against the window, the a heavy sound of flesh cracking against glass.

“I’ll find a way!”

He reels her head back and does it again, glass starting to splinter and break apart under the force. Then he pulls her back, twists her around to face him, moving fast. Hands quick and harsh, tearing at her skin as he wraps both around her throat. Flesh and metal cutting off her air as he slams her against the window, head bouncing against it as she claws at his hands. Finally in control of her limbs, but unable to do anything as he cuts off her air, leaning close enough for her to smell the smoke on his breath.

“You hear me?!”

He screams in her face, brown eyes glaring over his aviators, harsh and burning into her skin. She can feel the hatred, the anger, all coming off of him in waves. It swims in her head and chest, pressing against her own fear as he strangles her, a snarled look on his face. He wants to kill her, to see her go limp and die under his hands right then and there. She knows that, can feel and read him, knows it as well as she knows her own name.

Just as darkness pinpricks her vision, she feels the air return, rushing into her… just a moment before he lets go, letting her slide down the window onto the ground. She’s in no place to question it, sucking in deep grateful breathes, lungs burning for it as she watches him pace.

Haphazardly, she pulls herself to her body, sitting on the edge of it; putting more distance between herself and the window he seems so fond of. She digs through her pockets, finding the omega blockers Misty had given her. V needs him gone like yesterday, to vanish like a bad fucking dream.

“Not like that!” He yells and smacks the pill bottle from her hand, metal fingers stinging her skin and sending the medication across the room.

“Fuc-ah!” V yelps as his right hand wraps tightly into her hair, again, yanking at the roots as he forces her to look directly at him, unable to see his eyes through his aviators.

“Stick some iron in your mouth and pull the trigger!”

He lets her hair go to reel back his hand, it cracks across her cheek in a heavy smack that sends the merc reeling to the ground. Sharp pain pinkening her cheek as she braces her hands against the floor, everything hurts. Her scalp torn at, her cheek struck, and her throat bruised. She feels it all, a brutal assault as real as anything she’s ever felt.

“I can feel it,” he talks as he walks across the room, glitching with her vision, “our minds… touching…”

Across the room, she sees it, beneath his pacing feet is the bottle of pills knocked down. Every muscle seizing, legs refusing to work as her body seems determined to shut down on her. But if she can just get to the pill she can shut him out.

“I'm like mold on fruit… creepin' into you… Nothing I can do about it,” he rambles to himself, voice tight and angry as she drags herself across the floor, trying to reach the blockers.

“You hear me!?” He yells, crouching to one knee just over them, taunting her before he flickers across the room again, “I'd puke if I fuckin' could!”

She focuses on the pills, he’s irrelevant, not even real. Even if he feels like it, even if every strike and yank has left her hurting, he’s not real. V is nearly there, stomach rubbed raw at the drag of her body over the floor. She just needs him gone, far far away, put into whatever corner of his mind she can lock him away in.

“It's just a copy of the engram - I'm out there somewhere, gotta be…” He keeps talking, keeps rambling, won’t shut the fuck up.

“Just leave me the fuck alone! Get the fuck out, just go!”

“Lead to the head is the only thing that’ll fix it,” he points his fingers like a gun at her head, before dropping to a knee in front of her sneering, “hear me bitch!? A bullet to the fuckin’ brain!”

She grabs a pill from the floor, cramming it in her mouth and swallowing it try, rolling over onto her back as she begs for it to work. And he flickers into view, standing over her, looking down at her like she’s less than filth. Before he glitches out in a mess of static, cyan fuzz erasing him.

And there’s a moment of relief, left in silence, safe from his hands. Safe from a touch too real for a brain supposedly only in her mind. Him being gone brings a moment, a glimmer of hope, the merc able to breath. To know for however long the pill lasts, she won’t be struck, or taunted. Won’t be plagued with his voice, the rough boom of it still ringing in ears that shouldn’t have heard it.

This whole thing, the chip, her inevitable death… Vik said Johnny couldn’t help that, had no choice. And she knows from his memories he was put in the chip against his will.

But this was a choice. The hair yanking, the choking, the screaming, the threats, all of that was his choice. And he made it clear, if it was up to him she’d just die faster. If it was up to him, he’d get the satisfaction of killing her with his hands rather than the chip. A stranger in her body, in her mind, able to control her and he wants her dead, he wants to hurt her.

She cries, because what else can she do? Tears rushing out anew, it seems to be all she can do lately. V has no idea how to handle this, no idea how to stop it, how to keep him from getting control back. She doesn’t even know how long the pills will last, no clear dosage or instructions, just ‘regularly’. It feels pathetic, crying and weeping with no idea of how to fix it. But she allows herself that much, laying on the floor surrounded by pills, a new intruder in her body; she cries and curls into herself, hugging herself like a child.

#cybepunk 2077 #cp2077 #johnny silverhand #silverv #female v #original female character #original female v #goro takemura #vik vector #misty olszewski #fem v #aidan becker #aidan v becker

8 notes · View notes