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shybunnie20 · 2 years ago

Note

I think I may have already sent this request before but I can’t remember. Sorry if I already did I couldn’t remember. Please take your time and don’t rush yourself I can wait ❤️

Could you please write an Eddie Munson x reader. The reader is Eddie’s girlfriend. Please do angst and fluff.

The reader gets injured (bit) the same way Eleven does in season 3 and same wound except this takes place in season 4 episode 7 where Eddie, Nancy, Steve and Robin are fighting the bats. At the end of the fight one of the tentacles grabs and bites the readers leg and Eddie is the first one to grab onto the reader as she is lifted into the air by her leg the same way Eleven was. Eddie, Steve, Nancy, and Robin are all fighting to get the reader down and finally do but the reader is severely wounded and losing a lot of blood. Eddie carries the reader as they all rush to get to safety as they try to hide in the upside down and just like Eleven they have to cut her leg open to get what’s inside her leg out. Once they do the reader passes out from blood loss and Eddie carries her as they all rush to Eddie’s trailer to get out of the upside down. Once they get the gate open Eddie helps get the reader through the gate as she is still passed out. They are able to get her through the gate and are able to tend to her leg. When the reader wakes up Eddie is sitting right next to her holding her hand and tells reader he thought he lost her. Eddie and the reader comfort each other over the events that just happened and fall asleep cuddling each other.

Silenced Cries Under Cobalt Skies

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

★My Masterlist

Author's Note: Thank you for your patience and for trusting me with your request. This isn't nearly as polished as I'd like it to be but I don't want to keep you waiting. I changed the demobat lore along with other details from Ep 7 to better fit the circumstances. This was my first time writing anything Upside Down related, I hope I did your vision justice!

Established relationship. No use of Y/N. Moderate angst with comfort. Loosely based on events from S3 and S4.

Word count: 5k

Warnings: GORE: descriptions of physical injury (of the reader), heartache, includes swearing.

This isn’t how you planned to spend your Wednesday night. Initially, you were going to pick up an extra shift at the arcade. Instead, you’re perched on the bench of a shabby rowboat with your boyfriend seated beside you.

On the opposite bench, Nancy is sandwiched between Steve and Robin. The three of them are staring fixedly at the compass’s twirling needle. Robin relays the discovery to Dustin and Steve gets to his feet.

Nancy eyes Steve’s towering frame. “What are you doing?”

The boat bobs with the movement of Steve taking off his shoes, socks, and sweater. “I’m gonna go check it out.”

You look between him and Nancy with a furrowed brow. “Have you lost your mind? You can’t-”

“Unless any of you can top being a swim team co-captain and a certified lifeguard for three years, then it’s gotta be me.” He reasons to no one in particular.

Eddie is unbothered and shows no interest in out-doing Steve’s courageousness. “No complaints from me. I do not wanna go down there.” He angles his flashlight over the gunwale but the beam fails to penetrate the onyx-hued water.

His comment is met with a single jab of your elbow into his side. Eddie groans and shoots you a scowl, “Ow, what the hell was that for?” He scans the disapproving glare that’s formed across the features of your face.

With preparative breathing exercises, Steve primes his lungs and observes the murkiness that awaits him. The heat radiating from his unclothed chest clashes with the evening air and it sends a shiver to his core.

“There’s no way you’re gonna be able to see anything.” Eddie wraps the flashlight in a plastic shopping bag that he pulled from his jacket pocket. “It won’t be waterproof but-” He secures it with a tight knot and holds the flashlight out to Steve. “It’ll do.”

“Thanks,” Steve exhales. He pauses before filling his lungs with a half-hearted prayer. “Wish me luck.” With that, he leaps with a pointed form and plunges beneath the surface of the lake.

Droplets land on your arm and it gives you an idea of how frigid the water is. The four of you sit in utter silence. Unlike them, you’re oblivious to how the boat is rocking from the bouncing of your leg. “He’s taking forever. What if something bad happened?”

Eddie doesn’t dare face you because he knows exactly what kind of look his remark is going to earn him. “It’s been thirty seconds, I’m sure King Steve is just fine. You heard him, he’s a certified lifeguard.” He mockingly emphasizes with hand quotes as if to say “big whoop.”

Eddie is the only one who can’t grasp the gravity of what’s happening right now. He’s unable to wrap his head around what you’ve gone through with your friends over the past two years. He has a general idea because you’ve tried to explain everything to him before, but he couldn’t make sense of it. Dustin attempted to translate the circumstances through the lens of D&D but Eddie couldn’t piece it together.

He spends so much of his free time in fictional worlds that he creates. Each realm is accompanied by sketches of fantastical creatures with a myriad of thorough narratives. Despite seeing the forces at hand with his own eyes, he can’t fathom that this is reality.

Seconds tick by with the lapping waves of Lover’s Lake. It’s nearing two minutes since Steve left. Robin nudges your leg as a silent ask for you to sit still, but It’s difficult to stop fidgeting.

Eddie wraps his arms around you and guides you to his shoulder. He buries his nose in your hair and basks in the familiar scent of your shampoo. “You’re alright.”

You may be okay though he’s doubtful that Steve is. Eddie not only saw Chrissy and Patrick levitate, but he heard their limbs snap like twigs with every contortion. At this rate anything is possible.

In addition to the traumatic shit he’s witnessed, Eddie isn’t exactly in tip-top shape. He hasn’t gotten a good night's rest in days, nor has he had a proper meal. He’s beyond miserable, and yet, he’s prioritizing your needs. He can’t do much given the situation at hand, but Eddie is doing his best to help you feel safe.

Eddie’s supportive words duke it out with your perturbed thoughts. His attempt is insufficient but it calms your nerves a little. Much to your dismay, your heart rate spikes with each bated breath that you take.

Robin remains focused on the navigation device, watching it spin endlessly in reaction to the gate below. Nancy is counting the seconds on her wristwatch. They haven’t spoken since Steve took the dive. The chirping of the crickets and frogs off in the distance fails to saturate the quiet.

Because you’ve been asked not to bounce your leg, you opt for picking at the shredded denim of Eddie’s jeans instead. To distract yourself further, you zero in on the rise and fall of his chest beneath the tattered Hellfire Club tee. Your focus is disrupted by a harsh gasp and splashing.

Upon seeing that Steve is alive, your muscles are freed of tension but your stomach is in knots nonetheless. “Did you find it?”

“Yeah, it’s down there.” Steve pants as his lungs struggle to expand. His tight grip on the ridge of the boat causes it to dip. Nancy slicks back the soaked hair that’s plastered to his forehead and they share a look of unease.

Robin is less worried. “Is it a snack-sized gate?” She chirps curiously.

Steve tries to catch his breath. Beads fall from his hair and trickle down his face. “No, no. It’s pretty damn big.”

A beat passes while everyone digests his findings and it conjures varying images in all of your minds. Suddenly, Steve is tugged down. Though not hard enough to rip his hands from the rim of the boat, it’s enough to spook him. Steve peers over his shoulder and just as his eyes meet yours, he’s abruptly yanked under.

A cacophony of his name sounds off. You and Nancy lean over and look down as if you’d be able to see anything. Robin is appropriately panicked now.

Eddie shouts and points to where Steve disappeared. “What the hell was that, man?!”

Nancy doesn’t hesitate to forgo a discussion and jumps in after him. Robin is close behind, less gracefully but just as hastily.

Eddie is too busy cussing to realize that you’re taking off your jacket. When he notices, his heart drops. “Woah woah woah, what do you think you’re doing? You’re not going down there.”

“Yes I am, he needs me!” You steady yourself near the ledge. With a deep breath, you mentally prepare for the drastic contrast between the sticky summer air and the cold lake.

Eddie grabs your hand firmly. “Absolutely not! You’re staying here with me. We don’t even know what we’re messing with!” He attempts to draw you closer but you don’t budge.

You turn to face Eddie and your gaze trails from where your hands are joined until your glassy eyes meet his widened ones. “Whatever it is, it has Steve and it’ll kill him.”

Bewildered is the only way to describe the look on Eddie’s face. He doesn’t care about Steve, he cares about you. Eddie is so fucking exhausted and the tide of adrenaline is wearing him thin.

After everything you and your friends have been through, there’s an inseparable bond and you vowed to fend for them by all means necessary. For the number of times that Steve has saved your life, you owe him this much.

The tremble of Eddie’s grasp is unmistakable. You stroke his fingers with your thumb to comfort him. “Stay here and wait here for me. I love you.” You pack your lungs with as much air as they’ll allow and let go of his hand.

When you leap off of the boat, Eddie reaches to grab you but he doesn’t act fast enough. He paces with short strides to work up the courage to go after you. “God dammit, this is such bullshit!” After pulling an exaggerated inhale through his mouth, he jumps into the lake.

After climbing through the sticky crimson fissure at the bottom of the lake, you manage to recover in good time from holding your breath. You take in the new surroundings but you’re unable to ignore how irritated your eyes are from the mossy water.

Smoke-like fog hangs in the air with such humidity that it’s as though you’re still underwater. The air smells like rotten wood and white ash floats to the ground from the fire in the sky that roars behind the dense clouds. Another crack of blazed lightning strikes mere seconds after the last and is followed by booming thunder. The area is rather desolate, bearing little to dampen the thunder’s ferocity.

The distant echo of struggling gets your attention. Despite being nearly 50 feet away, you bolt to Robin and Nancy’s assistance. You snatch up an oar that you spot by the vine-wrapped boat. Robin stomps on the tail of the demobat that’s strangling Steve. Nancy bludgeons it with all of her might and you swat away the two that are flying overhead with the objective of getting a taste of Steve.

Your shoulders pop with each swing of the oar. It’s as though the curse words that are tumbling from your lips are fueling you to whack the flesh-eating demons. Nancy and Robin are making equally as much noise with their grunting and shouting.

Meanwhile, Eddie floats above the gate. He’s stunned by the appearance of the glowing portal. He wasn’t sure what to expect but this wasn’t what he’d pictured. Though time is ticking and he doesn’t have long to inspect it because the tightness in his chest is rapidly worsening. He paddles forward and crawls through the gate.

One of the demobats swoops close enough that you’re able to snag it and impale it with the broken end of your oar. In doing so, you slam it to the ground and relish the way it’s squealing and flapping its wings.

Eddie heaves dramatically but in his defense, he can’t recall the last time he went swimming so his lungs are far from used to the pressure.

These creatures are damn hard to kill, but Nancy and Robin finally slay the demobat that had Steve in a chokehold. He stumbles to his knees and releases a heart-rending wheeze. You’re all relieved that Steve is unscathed. He’s beyond grateful to have fearless pals because he’d certainly be bat food by now if you hadn’t come to his rescue.

The environment is momentarily quiet so the four of you pause to catch your breath. The strenuous exertion produces a pang in your side. Just as your breathing is nearly restored, a slimy tail snakes around your throat like a noose. Before you can process it, you’re being hoisted up and slammed back down onto the cracked earth. A shriek escapes you before the tail tautens like a boa constrictor, effectively obstructing your airway. Eddie scrambles to his feet. He sprints faster than he’s ever run in his life.

Your friends’ reactions are delayed compared to Eddie’s due to being caught off guard but he has plenty of ground to cover. Of the three bats circling overhead, one of them descends from the sky and lands beside you. It latches onto your leg by sinking its razor-sharp teeth into the meat of your calf. A scream bubbles from your throat but it has nowhere to go.

With her blood-spattered oar, Nancy stabs at the demobat that’s choking you to death. The tail around your neck won’t let up. You claw at it but your fingernails are no match for the leathery skin. Simultaneously, you’re struggling to shake the other bat off by flailing but to no avail.

Steve grabs ahold of the tail belonging to the bat feasting on your leg. Although he’s far too weak to be of much help, Steve is giving it his all. Robin swings her oar to keep the last remaining creature at bay. Every time it flies closer to get a piece of you, Robin cracks it with the paddle as if she’s batting for a home run.

Your lungs are no longer receiving oxygen and deprivation of it causes black spots to bloom in your vision. It’s occurring to you that this is how you’re going to die. With that realization, the strength to flail and claw leaves your body, causing your limbs to go limp.

Eddie arrives just in time. He snags your abandoned weapon off the ground on his way to you. All of the pent-up fear and suffering from the last few days pours out of him in the form of a battle cry while he impales the head of the bat that has your neck. The demobat’s hellish grip releases and your airway is freed of the compression.

Steve and Nancy successfully detach the other bat from your leg, though it takes a bit of your flesh with it. Robin scans the area to make certain that the coast is clear. Luckily, the sky is free of any winged threats for the time being.

Before today, Eddie thought the idea of slaying monsters was thrilling but he feels differently now that he knows what it’s like.

Everyone surrounds you and Eddie falls to his knees. As he lifts your head, he can feel major swelling in the spot where your skull had hit the ground after being thrown down. “Baby, can you hear me?”

You lay stationary as your body acclimates to the renewed supply of oxygen. Your brain kicks into gear and your eyelids open a sliver. The low-lit environment looks smudged and out of focus. The rings around your throat are pronounced as blood fills the area. Now that you’re conscious, your vision is the first of your five senses to fully return. You see Eddie hovering over you. “Am I okay?” You ask breathily.

“Yeah, you’re okay. You’re gonna be just fine.” He reassures while stroking your cheekbone with his dirtied thumb. Eddie is struggling to catch his breath but he’s far more troubled by the state that you’re in.

“I wanna go home,” You whimper with a wobbly lower lip. You blink away the tears that are pooling at your lash line, afraid of losing sight of Eddie.

His heart cracks in half because he’s always been protective of you. Eddie’s biggest fear has come to fruition. For the duration of your relationship, a specific worry loomed over him. He constantly feared that something bad would happen to you for simply being associated with him and that’s exactly what happened. You got dragged into this mess to defend his name.

Screeching and yapping from behind the clouds indicates that another swarm of demobats is growing near.

Steve urges, “We gotta get out of here. It’s not safe.” He surmises that the bats are being drawn by the scent of the fresh blood trickling from the punctures in your calf.

Eddie lifts you off of the ground bridal style and frowns at your grimace of pain. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.” He shifts your position in his arms so that your head rests comfortably against his shoulder.

After trudging through the leafless woods for quite some time, the group collectively agrees that this spot should be out of harm’s way. Eddie gently sets you down and props you up against the trunk of a fallen tree. He remains crouched and cradles your face in his palms. Eddie takes note of the swelling that spans your head and neck. Just as he turns to disclose this to the others, he’s startled by an ear-splitting yelp.

You throw your head back and squeeze your eyes shut. Eddie scans your expression in puzzlement. “What is it, what’s wrong?”

Robin’s voice cracks, “Uh, guys?” She points at your leg.

Eddie peers over his shoulder and his eyes follow Robin’s finger. He failed to notice the damage done by the other demobat when all hell broke loose. He thinks he understands why you’re in so much discomfort until there’s movement beneath your skin. You scream in agony and it’s a noise that none of your friends have ever heard you make.

Eddie loses his balance and falls on his ass. “What the fuck?!” He looks to Steve and Nancy for an answer but they’re speechless. Their stares are locked on the bulge inside of your oozing gash.

A roar of thunder weaves through the bare woods that you find yourselves in the heart of. The invasive crawling causes you to writhe.

Nancy kneels on the other side of you. She inspects your wound with her bottom lip between her teeth. “We have to get it out.”

Steve scoffs, “How exactly are we gonna do that, Nance?”

Eddie reveals a pocket knife. He holds it out and Steve takes it. Steve flicks the blade out to see what he’s working with.

Robin is quick to shut down the proposal. “Nu-uh, no way. This isn’t Operation, you can’t dig that thing out of her!”

“We don’t have any other options.” Nancy looks at Robin and then at you. “It can’t stay in there.”

Robin turns her back to the amateur surgery that’s about to unfold. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Both of Eddie’s hands caress your feverish cheeks. “Alright, sweetheart. I need you to sit still.”

“No-” you sob and fist at the material of your saturated shirt. “I can’t do it.”

While tracing the curvature of your jaw with the pad of his thumb, Eddie’s eyes look back and forth between yours. “We’ll get it out as quickly as we can. It’ll be over before you know it.” The sweetest sadness is swimming in your eyes and it makes his stomach churn. You’re so beautiful even when you’re shaking like a leaf.

“But I’m scared.” Your admission is laced with a quaking whine and your eyes have turned into puddles.

Eddie takes your hand and he interlocks his fingers with yours. “I know, baby. You gotta be my brave girl. I need you to do that for me.” With his free hand, he takes the skull handkerchief from his back pocket and folds it multiple times. Eddie taps on your chin, “Open, please.”

After hesitantly eyeing the cloth, you comply and open your mouth. “Bite down,” Eddie instructs and situates it between your teeth when you do so. Your mewl of protest is deadened.

“You’ve got this.” He kisses your forehead and strokes your hair with both hands. To block your line of sight, Eddie leans forward and tilts your head so you have nowhere else to look except at him. “Keep your eyes on me.”

The stillness of the creature is making Nancy and Steve nervous. She nudges Steve with her shoulder. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

Steve clears his throat and adjusts the small knife in his unsteady grip. He takes two incredibly deep breaths and mutters, “Here goes nothing.” Steve presses the tip of the blade into the raw and inflamed skin.

Your wailing is effectively muffled by the handkerchief and it saves your tongue from being bitten off. You reflexively try to yank your leg away but Nancy holds it securely in place. Blood starts to drip faster as Steve sinks the blade deeper, aiming for the subtle squirming.

The deeper he goes, the more difficult it becomes for you to sit still. Your shoulders fly forward but Eddie guides you to lay back. His hand is starting to tingle from how hard you’re squeezing it. Your brain is so overwhelmed by the misery that you don’t taste the lake water on the hankie.

“I’m so sorry,” Steve says under his breath. He’s fighting the urge to look away from the blood staining his hand.

All of the moaning and bawling drowns out the ravenous screeching coming from afar. Eddie is trying to remain calm but his voice wavers. “He’s almost done. Just a little longer, sweetheart.”

You’re praying to god that this is nearly over, you're not sure how much more you can take. Your pupils disappear behind your eyelids as the hot tears roll down your cheeks and settle coldly in your ears. The portion of the handkerchief that’s hanging out of your mouth catches the transparent stream running from your nose.

The tip of the knife hits an incredibly sore spot and you scream through the tears. Adrenaline is doing nothing to stunt the pain. Your teeth could shatter from how hard you’re biting down on the wad of material. Eddie’s heart is shattering with every sound you make but he’s doing his best to soothe you.

Nancy is having a tough time keeping your leg in place and her grip is borderline bruising. Steve is on the verge of giving up but he spots a black tail and promptly rips it out. The squealing creature is flung aside. As soon as it hits the ground, Robin stomps it to death.

Steve tosses the knife and applies pressure to your calf with two hands. “Shit! Nance, a little help here?”

Your elevated heart rate is causing blood to gush out of your profoundly opened wound. Nancy tears off the bottom of her sweater and ties it tightly around your leg as a makeshift bandage.

Eddie pets your hair with one hand and removes the handkerchief from your mouth with the other. “You did amazing,” Eddie’s voice is broken because he’s close to tears from watching you go through all of this. “You were so strong for me, princess. Thank you.”

An excruciating ache pierces your jaw but it pales in comparison to the rest of your body. Your friends’ voices liquefy and sound as if they’re calling to you from the end of a tunnel.

Nancy applies firm pressure to your leg while Steve is preoccupied with talking Robin out of her rabies meltdown.

The air is so muggy that it’s causing you to sweat. Your body is swarmed with shuddering from the wet clothes clinging to your skin as well as from the major blood loss. Suddenly, you feel drowsy. “Is it bad?” You crane your neck to look down at your leg but your vision has gone blurry.

Eddie guides your gaze back to his face. He doesn’t want you to know how bad of shape you’re in. “You’re not bleeding that much-” He glances over his shoulder and holds his breath from seeing the concerning amount of blood you’ve lost.

The cream-colored knit is now scarlet and the blood is transferring to Nancy’s hands. You’re unable to form another sentence due to consciousness slipping through your fingertips. You can sense Eddie’s touch but it feels the way a whisper sounds. Unable to fight the weariness any longer, your eyelids droop and your chin drops to your clavicle.

“Hey- stay with me.” Eddie taps your cheek three times. “Don’t fall asleep! C’mon, talk to me.”

Your lashes flutter once but you can’t keep your eyes open or hold your head up. The reply he receives from you is nothing more than unintelligible mumbling.

“We’re leaving right now,” Eddie announces while scooping you into his arms again. He kisses your forehead and speaks with his lips against your skin. “I’m taking you home, baby.”

Ten minutes have passed since taking off in the direction of the trailer park. You’re wading in and out of consciousness. Ruby rivulets continue to trickle down the curvature of your leg, over your ankle, and soak into your socks.

Eddie’s arms begin to quiver and his back muscles feel strained from carrying you. His loud panting is getting under everyone’s skin.

Steve catches Eddie repeatedly adjusting you in his arms. “Dude, I can carry her if you’re getting tired.”

“No! I can do it.” There’s no chance that Eddie is going to jeopardize your safety by passing you to Steve. He’s going to tough it out because he can’t risk anything else happening to you.

Eddie’s clothes are drenched. The coarse wet denim vest rubs against the side of your face. His panting increases as he treks onward, though he tries to suppress it so that he can monitor your breathing.

Once you’ve all made it through the gate where Chrissy died, Eddie brings you to his bedroom. When he goes to lay you on his bed, his arms are so spent that they nearly give out.

Nancy and Robin guard the gaping hole in the ceiling by the front door. Eddie and Steve are standing in the hall just outside of the bedroom, but Eddie stays near the doorway so that he can keep an eye on you.

Steve sighs, “We need to get her to the hospital.”

Eddie shakes his head in disapproval. Not only is he being selfish but it’s extremely risky to deny you access to the medical attention that your injury requires. But after everything that’s happened, Eddie isn’t going to leave your side no matter what.

Steve rubs his forehead. “She’s in tough shape, she needs-”

“No! Are you crazy? I can’t go out there.” Eddie glances to check if you’ve woken but you haven’t moved nor made a peep.

“I’m not talking about you. I’ll take her and you can stay-”

“I said no, Steve!“ Eddie runs a hand through his curls. “I won’t let her out of my sight again, I could lose her.”

Eddie is distraught over what may no longer be. You had plans. You were going to turn the back of Eddie’s van into a liveable space and take a road trip you’ve both spent the past year saving up for.

He never mentioned it, but Eddie secretly daydreams of a youngster or two with his hair and your eyes running around the trailer. He’s never been someone who’s particularly fond of kids but the way that you love him makes him feel open to the idea. He’s thought about it enough that he knows what Star Wars or Lord of the Rings names he’d give them.

But if you don’t want children, that’s okay with him. All he wants is to be with you for as long as you’ll allow. The first day he saw you, that was it. You were the one he wanted until the very end and that hasn’t changed.

Steve sympathizes with Eddie’s apprehension. He crosses his arms and nods. “I’ll take a shot at patching her up. I learned a thing or two about first aid when I was a boy scout.”

Eddie is reluctant. He doesn’t want to trust anyone else with taking care of you but he has no clue how to help you himself. Your leg can’t be left as is. Because of this, Eddie agrees.

During the time that Steve spends rummaging through the bathroom and kitchen for supplies, Eddie struggles with your uncooperative limbs while he changes you out of your soggy clothes into dry ones. At the same time, he inspects you for other damage and he’s relieved that there’s nothing other than bruising and swelling.

You’re situated in the middle of his king-sized bed with your head resting on the pillows. Like a princess waiting to be awoken by true love’s kiss, your arms are positioned across your abdomen.

Eddie paces next to the bed, his patience is wearing thin.

“Okay, I think I found everything I need,” Steve says while double-checking the items.

Eddie stops in his tracks and examines everything that’s tucked under Steve’s arm. “Remind me why I’m trusting you to do this?”

Steve scoffs and uncaps the rubbing alcohol to sterilize the sewing needle. “Because to my knowledge, the most suturing you’ve ever done is putting weird patches on that vest. Relax, I know what I’m doing.” Under his breath, Steve adds, “I think.”

“Wow, you were a lifeguard, a boy scout, and captain of the swim team. What, were you a firefighter too? Or a secret agent?” Eddie cocks his head and crosses his arms. “You’re certainly not a one-trick pony.”

Already seated beside you, Steve rolls his eyes and threads the needle. Eddie sits on the other side and begins removing the tightly bound strip of Nancy’s sweater. He then places his hand on your thigh and rubs soothing shapes on your exposed skin. Even though you’re not awake, Eddie wants to comfort you regardless.

It’s impossible to not be nervous but Steve steadies his hand to the best of his ability. He works diligently and finishes by covering the area with an elastic bandage. Steve receives a look of appreciation from Eddie and he gives him a nod that translates to “don’t mention it.”

Steve has since left the room to give Eddie some privacy with you. Eddie gives a sponge bath to wash the sweat, lake water, and remnants of the Upside Down off of your skin. When he decides that you’re adequately clean, he lays down and watches over you. The past few days have been nothing short of a shit show and it feels incredible to finally be with you again. Feeling somewhat at peace for the first time in what seems like forever, Eddie drifts asleep.

It’s not long before you rouse. You’re immediately aware of the soreness racking your body. The rumble in your throat begins as a groan but swiftly turns into sobbing. The sound immediately alerts Eddie and he’s prepared to soothe you. “I know it hurts, I know. Breathe, baby. Deep breaths.” He takes you into his arms and you curl up to his chest.

You try to follow his guidance to breathe slowly but pain shoots through every inch of you with each expanse of your chest. Undoubtedly, your ribs are bruised from being thrown to the ground by the demobat. “I don’t feel good," You whine.

Eddie wipes away your tears although he’s crying too. ”Get some rest, sweetheart. You’re safe now. I’ll never let anything happen to you again, I promise.”

Reblogs are greatly appreciated! ♡

★My Masterlist

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tags: @nj01 @tlclick73

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lal-ffxiv · 3 months ago

Text

Prompt #11: Surrogate

The evening was warm on the Rhotano Sea. M'arianni and Foggy were sitting on deck sharing a bottle of spirits, watching the lights of Liminsa Lomisa come on as Lucien fished off the bow of the ship. A good domestic scene.

"He doesn't look much like you. Except in the eyes. The physical differences between Seekers and Keepers are misconceptions or sterotypes, I know, but does he look like his mother-father more?"

M'arianni snorted, but followed Foggy's observation of Lucien. As it often felt when she looked at him, her heart stung with regret. He did have similarites to Epohkan, but when he hummed, as Lucien was doing now, she could only see Luc's reflection in him. M'arianni briefly wondered about the other one, if they shared any qualitiies in apperance or habit with the trio that had been.

"Not much, nor the the other parent."

"It drives me mad when you say that without elaboration. Your mysteriois relationship with these past live lovers." Foggy took a deep drink from the bottle with shake of head. "If he looked more like you, it would much better for business. Customers feel such pity for single mothers."

"I'm not his mother. He has a mother. He is just my responbility until his parents come for him."

"You are a mother nonetheless. Otherwise we would be feching a pretty price for his head."

M'arianni didn't grab the bottle from his hand this time, but Foggy's wrist. Her nails like claws dug into soft flesh until he cried out. M'arianni caught the bottle in her free hand. Then twisted the wrist in her grip slightly.

"If anything happens to him, and I have even a hint of your invovlement, I will have you at bottom of the briny before you know it and I'll keep the boat."

M'arianni released Foggy's wrist. There isn't an open wound since it only a warning. Foggy was sure the red marks from her finfernails would grow into a burise though.

However, any further argument or discussion was halted by the beam of light that hit the deck. Lucien scurried to M'arianni's side on cue.

"Are you civilians?"

"Yes sir. Just the miss, the child and myself." Foggy put his hand to the back of M'arianni's waist.

The officer nodded at them. "Clear off from this area while we search it for suspcious activity."

"Oh anything we need to be worried about." M'arianni used the action of pulling Lucian closer to push away from Foggy's hand.

"Searching for a burglar. If you put into port, you will be safe."

"We will be reporting anything we see to the tower." M'arianni promised to officer as his boat was rowed away.

Once vinicity was cleared a wet sack was throw onto the deck from the sea.

Lucien went to look over the gunwale to see a head bobbing in the water.

"Pull me up already. The water is freezing." The man shouted.

"I'm checking the goods frist." M'arianni shouted back as Foggy inspected the contents.

"Plates and prisms in perfect condition."

M'arianni tossed a rope latter to allow the burglar onto the boat. "Stay below deck. And warm yourself up with this." M'arianni handled him the bottle of spirits to Foggy's protest.

"We will split the profits once you have glamoured the items. For now lets get the hells away from here before that officer circles back."

"What's my split?" Lucien asked as he played his role to perfection.

"Hah! I've taught how to read, write and arithemtic on the level of arcanist. You owe me a debt if anything! Now I'm gonna teach you how get this sail up. Grab that..." As Foggy continued to instruct, M'arianni watched.

Once again looking with her whole heart at the young miqo'te boy. Heartache rang out to her, and she felt the responbility of his life over her head that she never wanted for herself. No love could grown from that soil, so he would never be anything to her. However, much like the choice of having Lucien in her life, she could not stop him from seeing her as someone else. Surrogate nonetheless indeed.

#ffxivwrite2024 #own writing #the parents #M'ARIANNI ALHA #talking in tags #Okay cant help but ramble bit but this more for parents than luken as arianni kinda using luken as surrogate for loss love her lives #Does really work though as she cant replace that love with a parental love she doesnt feel #Then the obvious surrogacy on Luken's side with not only with arianni but foggy too. Neither is a great idea

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telemna-hyelle · 3 years ago

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A Happy Birthday Fic for Wind Waker: “If Boats Could Talk”

--they would give love advice, apparently.

“What should I write for WW’s birthday?” I asked

“Zelink fics are your go-to, so that’s always a good bet,” said Kiwi.

And so I did

and then angst happened whoops

Anyway, Happy Birthday, Wind Waker! Here’s to many more!

Link let out a heaving sigh, face twisting up into a scowl.

The prow of his boat twisted around a little to get a good look at him. “What is the matter, young Link?”

Link felt his scowl deepen. “I don’t understand Tetra.”

The King of Red Lions gave the hero a long look, before rumbling out a chuckle. “And what is so hard to understand about her?”

Link sent his boat a disbelieving look. “She shoots people through the air with catapults. Who does that?”

The King let out a louder, barking laugh. “I remember a story of an ancient hero who traveled through the air with catapults.”

Link made a face. “What kinda weirdo would do that willingly?”

The King laughed again. “Well, putting catapults—”

“AND INNOCENT VICTIMS-“

“And innocent victims aside,” The boat said, “Is there anything else confusing about Tetra?”

“Yeah!” Link adjusted the sails and frowned as he thought. “She acts all tough, but she’s actually-you know, not bad on the inside? Like she was worried and stuff about Outset, and I could swear she keeps trying to help me but she just won’t do it outright!” He flung his hands in the air, warming to his subject. “Like she let me take those bombs, and let me get a head start! And she keeps winking at me, and it makes my chest feel all funn—”

He slapped a hand over his mouth. Crapbaskets. I didn’t mean to say that bit!

The King twisted his head back to give Link another slow, long look. “Do other things Tetra does make you feel funny, as well?”

If Link were honest, yes. When she smiled (any of her smiles, really, but particularly her nicest ones, where she’s just happy and not all smirky and the like), or her voice coming through the communication stone, or when the sun made her hair extra shiny and pretty—

But Link wasn’t going to tell the King of Red Lions any of that, not for a silver rupee.

The King of Red Lions seemed to be able to read his thoughts, anyway, and let out a final amused huff. “Somehow, I’m not too surprised—” and what was that supposed to mean, Link wondered sourly, “But you’re a bit young yet to make much of it. If you still feel this way when you’re older, come back and we’ll talk about it then.”

“What does being older have to do with it?” Link made a face, sticking out his tongue. “And I don’t want to talk about it!”

“As you please,” The Boat rumbled. “But I shall always be ready to listen, no matter the subject.”

“Well, it’s not gonna happen.” Link retorted, and slouched down into a pout against the side. “Tetra’s confusing, and that’s that. No more talk needed.”

The King of Red Lions chuckled and turned his head forward again, letting his young captain stew in silence.

(He hadn’t always been a boat, after all, and he remembered what he had been like back then. What’s more, he remembered the ancient stories, and had a firm suspicion just as to how this particular tale would be told)

~~~

“Well, I’m older now.” Link said, folding his long legs up so he’d fit better on the bench. “And I still feel the same way. So I’m here for our talk.”

He leaned back, propping his elbows on the gunwale. “I’d be put out about how easily she affects me, but she complains all the time about how unfair the affect I have on her is, so I guess we’re even.” He snickered.

The King of Red Lions bobbed gently on the waves.

“I got her a ring. Well. I stole it. From an enemy pirate ship, cause I thought she’d appreciate that the most.” He tipped his head back, letting the sun warm his face and the familiar sea breezes tug playfully at his hair. “Nothing but the best for Her Majesty, Queen Tetra Zelda Nohansen Hyrule I.”

He nudged the gunwale with his elbow and winked. “She stole the Nohansen from you, and said she was a Pirate Queen, after all. But I know you wouldn’t mind, anyway.”

He carefully adjusted the sails, making sure they didn’t stray off course. It was only the work of a moment, however, and when it was done he let his hands emptily fall to his lap.

“I wish…”

He gulped, hard, and told himself the salt stinging his eyes was from the wind. “I wish I could hear you say ‘I told you so’.”

The waves hushed softly against the hull, and the eyes of the lion’s head stared off into nothing.

Link stood up, and carefully moved to the front of the ship, laying his hand gently across the old, weathered wood of the prow.

“You promised you’d always be ready to listen, and I’m holding you to that,” He said, and grinned. It was a little sharp and forced at first, but as the seconds slipped by it settled, growing firmer and lighter and more real. “So listen up. I asked her to marry me yesterday.”

By this time, his smile was shining like the sun. “And she said yes. So I guess I’m going to be a King, just like you.”

He patted the wood fondly, his mind back on a voyage in the past, the voyage of a boy and his boat. “I never would have expected this—but I bet you did, didn’t you?”

A sudden buffet of wind struck the prow, causing it to creak and groan a little with age—and if Link closed his eyes and listened closely, it was almost like he could hear the King of Red Lions laughing again.

So Link laughed with him, and lifted his head, and joined the King in his stare straight ahead, towards a wide, welcoming horizon.

#Happy Birthday Wind Waker!!!#loz wind waker #link #king of red lions #zelink #tellie writes stuff #my fanfics #birthday fics

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kevin-coleman · 3 years ago

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The Boomer

I looked past the bridge's stone footings to the small fishing boat crawling up the still water. An old man wrapped in a red plaid jacket against the morning chill sat in the rear, one hand on the outboard's throttle, the other on the gunwale. A loon flapped out of the way with an indignant cry as the boat's prow sliced past. I leaned back against the bench and packed my pipe.

The crossword propped on my knee was half done by the time Josephine Mackenzie showed up. She was a petite woman of mixed Japanese and Anglo-Canadian heritage. This morning she was bundled to the ears in a sheepskin coat, a purple cashmere scarf, and a white toque and mittens. Her pert nose was red and glossy from the morning chill and the Starbucks cup in her hands steamed like an angry volcano.

"Just once I'd like us to meet indoors when it's minus five outside," she said. Her lips trembled.

"Feeble."

"I beg your pardon?"

Joan's little mouth hung open like a donut hole and her sleek black eyebrows jabbed at the crinkled space between brown eyes flush with hot outrage. She said, "I am sick of you boomers constantly shitting on Millenials. If I have to hear one more time how great your generation was, I am going to scream."

We were pretty great, but I didn't dare say that to her.

"FEEBLE?!" she squawked.

I showed her my crossword puzzle. "Five Down. Weak, insubstantial."

Joan blinked. Her mouth closed, lips pressed together in a crisp line.

"I'm sorry," she said. I was unconvinced. "I'm cold and it's too early in the morning."

"I meet here when it's cold because it makes me sharp," I said. "You're right. I am part of the greatest generation. We gave you everything you enjoy today, but I'm an old man, Joan. My resting heart rate is ten and the cold gets my heart pumping and pushed blood through my dusty, old brain. You young people don't know what it's like yet to wander into a room and forget what you wanted there. But give it time."

"I'm sorry, Hank," Joan said. I believed that one. "This whole thing going on at the agency as me on edge and I don't know what to do."

I shrugged. "Nothing you can do at this point but wait and watch."

"It feels so useless doing nothing."

I knocked the ash out of my pipe against the edge of the bench and started repacking the bowl.

"Waiting and watching isn't nothing, kiddo," I said. "Observe. Collect. Cipher. It's what us old spooks do best. What have you got for me today?"

Joan bit her mitten off and her tiny hand disappeared inside her coat like a finch into a tree hollow. It came back out with a little Altoids mint box. I loved those candies.

Something tiny rattled inside the box as she laid it on my palm.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Some kind of micro dot," she said.

"Why are you giving it to me?"

"We need to know what's on it."

"No one at the agency has a microscope?"

"It's encrypted. No one at the agency has seen anything like it. Henderson fed it to the machine and it's chewing away on it, but without a key it will take time to crack the code, even with brute force."

I snickered. It tickled my funny bone how those computer nerds phrased things. The last time any of them put real brute force into anything was on the bowl after a long night of pizza and playing pretend with dungeons and dragons.

"Why give this to me?" I asked.

"Henderson said it's of your vintage," Joan said. "Give it to the Boomer. He'll love it. His words, Hank."

I glanced at the mint box and dropped it in my pocket. The old man in the boat was nearly out of sight. A lazy V rolled across the water and made the loons bob up and down as it passed beneath them.

"That guy has the right idea," I said.

Joan glanced upriver, but the old man slipped behind the overhang of a miserable willow.

"Never mind,"I said. "He's gone."

Photo by dominik hofbauer on Unsplash

Text by Kevin M. Coleman.

#writers on tumblr #my writing #writing #writinglife #writeblr #new writers corner #independent author #writers #new author #writers of tumblr #lake #fog #dawn #fishing #fishing boat #oldtimer #espionage #crime

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the-darkdragonfly · 4 years ago

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NEW Story Alert!

"Storms don't come to teach us painful lessons, rather they were meant to wash us clean." - Shannon L. Alder

AU / Multi-chapter / Captain Duckling

Captain Killian Jones has been hunting the Queen Anne's Revenge for years. When he catches sight of her far off the shores of Misthaven, he take up the chase into the mouth of a fearsome tempest. Determined to met out his brand of justice to her captain and re-take the treasure which was pilfered from him, he instead finds something far, far more valuable.

Princess Emma of Misthaven is traveling on her mother's flagship, The First Snow, when she is set upon by pirates. Taken hostage and left to drown in the brig of a ship, she finds herself once again at the mercy of lawless men, but something about their Captain intrigues her - she has never met someone like him before...

Check out my new story “Wash Us Clean” on A03 and FF now!

(Chapter One teaser below)

The rain tore down upon them in sheets.

Bellowing orders to his crew, Captain Killian Jones held the wheel, leaning heavily into the swells; sweat covered and exhausted. Waves swallowed the Jolly whole, rising from the depths of the sea to smash again and again against her hull, wood creaking angrily under the feet of her crew.

This storm was a fearsome creature. Appearing on the horizon as they chased they’re folly across the sea, it was on them in a matter of minutes. With nowhere to hide, the captain pushed hard and plowed ahead - straight into the face of it. Killian had been at the helm since the first gust of salt spray had whipped angrily across his face, signaling the start of the assault.

Lightning lit up the world, sharply contrasted the yellow painted gunwales against the black swelling waves, frothy across the peaks. Up, up, up they went again, only to crest and plunge back onto the surface again. Salt spray stung his face as he narrowed his eyes against the assaulting wind. Up and down they rode, rigging pulled taunt and straining against the wood, the sails snapping - wild and angry - at the tempest that rolled around them. The crimson flag above them snarling, curling and thrashing against the main mast like a vicious creature promising death and despair.

The sea was part of him, as much as it was part of the world. They had weathered their share of storms, the Jolly and he. But this storm was different. Never before has he endured this punishing wrath of waves, beating against the decks in a near constant drumming, drowning out his shouted commands and sending the crew into barefoot stampedes, sliding to and fro across the sodden planks; hands grappling at ropes and straps to keep from going overboard.

His Jolly hated storms; she groaned around him utterly dissatisfied with their predicament. If the sea was part of his soul, the Jolly Roger was his very own beating heart. He had loved her from the first moment he set eyes on her, all those years ago with Liam. Shipwrecked themselves, she had appeared to him, sitting docked peacefully in the calm bay, as a siren might appear to a drowning man.

He needed her, and he would follow her to the depths of the sea if fate would have him do so. She was the only home he had ever known. She has seen him through his greatest joys and his deepest, darkest, most consuming pain. The hook in place of his left hand gleamed against the dark wheel, illuminated momentary by another crash of lightning. With that hook, he carried a piece of her with him, always. She was the only thing he needed.

Another swell, the Jolly listed dangerously starboard, curling into the waves intent on drowning her. His shoulders shook, head bent low to press against the force of the storm, hook and fingernails together dug into the wood of the wheel, the leather soles on his boots sliding slightly from the pressure of keeping his ship steady; grunting as he threw his weight against the wheel once more.

Killian closed his eyes tight quickly, clearing them of the howling wind, salt stray and rain. Opening them to focus instead on the gouges he had scored in her wood, the first and only time he has ever hurt her intentionally. Navigational guides, a map of sorts which he had carved for a young lost lad who could have been his son if only...

Killian closed his eyes tightly again. Storms always made him think of Baelfire.

There seemed to be no end to this nightmare. Air darkly thick with salt and fear, quarterdeck lamps long ago extinguished to better navigate through the dim, the only light now came from the lightning guiding their way out of this watery hellscape. Their prey, a gallon, popped and bobbed ahead of them, tossed about as a childs playtoy in a pond. Sails heaving in a steady rhythm as they too rode the waves of the gale.

Fear snarled in Killian’s gut, but he would not let her go down. No matter the energy draining out of him as the seconds ticked slowly by, no matter the heavy assaulting torrent pounding down on them. No matter the fearful acceptance on the faces of his crew, many who had stopped momentarily in their battle against the angry sea to offer a prayer to a God before heaving the rigging taunt again.

No, Killian thought as he strained against the pull of the ocean, not today.

Time grew sluggish, the fingers on his right hand cold with wet and terror. Face determined, kohl darkening further the gleam in his eyes. Not today, he thought again hardened with certainly, pouring every ounce of remaining strength into holding firm against the wheel.

The Jolly seemed to shudder underneath his feet, as a dog might shake water from its fur. Sails billowing together and snapping once more against the hold of the rigging. Not today, she agreed.

Read the rest of “Wash Us Clean” on A03 and FF now!

#captain swan #captain duckling #A03 #Wash us Clean CSFF #killian jones #emma swan #new story alert

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badgerlock · 5 years ago

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He was six. Digging for clams with his mother. Calloused feet leaving prints across the cold, black sand. The comforting reek of the low tide pressed against him like a blanket. His mother’s hand was warm, rough, and she pulled him away from the sand, pointing towards a mass in the waves.

‘A whale,’ she said. ‘Just a calf. It’s beached.’

It didn’t look like a whale. His aunt had used a little piece of chalk and some slate, drawing various animals that he had never seen before. Whales were graceful things, with long lines and calm eyes.

This was just a lump in the sand.

‘Oh, you poor thing,’ his mother sighed as they drew close to it, and laid a hand on its grey hide. ‘Your mother will be worried about you.’

He looked up at his mother’s brown face, drawn with sadness, and mirrored her. Brows pulled together, and hand laid across thick, dark skin.

Help me, the little voice in his head cried. It hurts.

He blinked, looking up at his mother again. ‘I want to get da and auntie. We can push it back into the bay, can’t we?’

‘We’ll certainly try. Run and get them, then.’

•

He was fourteen, and had been thrown clear from his da’s skiff. A mess of senses and panic blurred everything together; foam and dark clouds and darker water swirling into terrible shapes, the line he had been too foolish to knot properly whipping away from his waist, and the prickling terror of cold and salt suddenly closing over his head.

His pride over being the strongest swimmer amongst his friends wouldn’t do much to help him in stormy waters. The cold and salt stung him, and the sea felt as if it wrapped about his chest, sucking him away from the surface and down, down into the unknown where he would surely die.

Something hard rammed into his back, and he knew that that was it. They weren’t far out, and this part of the bay was rocky. Above and below didn’t exist anymore -- only surface and silt -- and he’d been dragged the wrong way.

I’ll help you too, the voice in the head said, and suddenly there was pressure on his chest, and greenish light (faint but blessed) appearing on his right, and somehow he was flying towards it, sand scraping against his hide while hands little hands pushed against him, shoving him towards the light until finally he could breathe once more.

A hand tangled in his hair, roughly yanking his face out of the churning water while he coughed his lungs out. He knew without seeing that it was his da, screaming curses at El and sobbing promises to Eda as he dragged him into the skiff.

A large spot of warmth radiated from below, pleased with itself, before sinking away into the black.

•

He was fifty-four. The waters were calm, and gulls floated in the sky above him. It would be a good haul today, and he took a moment to stretch his arms above his head, reaching for the white foam of clouds above.

The other one reached with him, climbing steadily towards the surface.

‘The gulls are fine today,’ he said when a spray of mist broke the surface. ‘Not begging for scraps, for a change.’

The sky is too full to ask for scraps, today. A long pause. There’s another one in the net.

He let his arms drop, sighing. ‘There would be. Always end up getting them on days like this, don’t we? How badly?’

Get a knife, the voice said bluntly.

Another deep sigh, before pulling off his shirt and hopping out of his trews. Belt-knife between his teeth, he took his time crawling over the gunwale of his skiff, ignoring the push of foam-laden memories crawling up his back. Cold hide pressed against his bare feet, steadying him, and he pulled his head down into the other one’s world.

A shark, smaller than he was, drifted nose-down beneath his boat, fins and teeth trapped tightly in his net. Loosening the ropes and letting it swim free wouldn’t be an option; he bobbed up for a fresh lungful of air before pushing off the hull of his skiff, pulling himself along the net and reaching for the fluke of the shark.

It was too exhausted to respond much to him. Its spark was much brighter than those of the fish around them, yet it did not respond to his reaching with more than what felt rather like a mental sigh. He didn’t waste time, ripping at rope fibres and bobbing up for air until all but its tail was free.

One last dull snap of cord, and the creature sank down with the current, drifting away from the skiff. The gentlest of shoves from the other one, and it realised it was free, drawing up whatever last bit of strength it had saved and shot away into the depths.

Back to the surface, and his hands found the rope ladder while he blinked stinging water from his eyes. The other one floated up beneath him, pressing close to the skiff while he sunned his grey back.

They never say thank you. Very rude.

He laughed, pushing his hair out of his face. ‘Isn’t it? Well, rather rudeness than death, I’d say.’

Our mothers mightn’t.

He pushed away from the skiff and the other one reached a welcoming flipper to him, granting him a foothold so he could scale his hide. He scrambled and squeaked his way out of the water, feeling heavy and light all at once, and flopped down onto his back atop his friend’s snout.

The creeping memories of the deep water slid away while he watched the gulls overhead. There had never been anything to fear, so long as his friend was with him. The skiff would drift, but would not be lost; the tattered remants of the net below did not mean hunger, not when his friend was so adept a hunter himself.

They drifted, feeling the sparks in the blue above, and the sparks in the blue below.

[x]

#babblelock #creative writing #...I don't know if I should tag this as RotE or not #but writing them was cathartic.

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radiojamming · 5 years ago

Note

Terror prompt: Irving and Jartnell meet

hello yes can i say i love the fact that irving canonically put up with jartnell for two years before the terror

- - -

The Cove of Cork is about as dismal of a sight as any Irving’s seen thusfar. A far cry from the sun-baked plains of Maneroo, to be sure—and he would weep only less at the thought of returning there. He watches some of the little skiffs bob on the grey waves and the frigates bob at anchor, then follows the brown line of the shore up to the smoke-black chimneys rising up like broken ribs from some sorry piece of carrion. Fortunately, the wind comes off the sea, freshening the air with the bright tang of salt.

Still, he’s quite miserable at the whole lot and wonders of ships headed to the Mediterranean, or if he can suggest to Captain Dickson that this has all been a magnificent misunderstanding and he’s due in London for new orders. That may reflect poorly on him, given that he’s only been on the Volage three days.

At the thought of a year of patrolling the Irish coast, Irving leans on the gunwale and heaves a sigh.

“Pining for a lost love already?” comes a voice from somewhere over his head.

Irving blinks and tilts his head up, expecting many things but somehow not anticipating the strange creature above him.

The man is completely angular in all regards, long in leg and sharp at all corners from jaw to knee. He’s perched on the mainmast shroud, grinning down at Irving in a way that reminds him strongly of a cat. He’s a seaman by the judge of his uniform, with a fringe of coal-black hair peeking out from under his cap and a black tie loosely knotted at his throat.

Irving frowns at him, and feels something curdle in his chest as the man smiles just that much wider.

“Pardon?” Irving asks.

“You’re sighin’ at the Cove like the love of your life is waitin’ at the dock for you,” says the man, gesturing loosely toward the shore. His accent is the clipped drawl of a faraway dockyard. Then, he tilts his head like a gull. “Irving, wasn’t it?”

Irving narrows his eyes. “Lieutenant Irving,” he corrects. Honestly, he’s not in the mood for any lack of respect. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d not speculate, Mister...”

An expectant silence.

And absolutely no response but a smile.

The seaman suddenly perks up and exaggeratedly points at himself with the hand not occupied with holding his place on the shroud. “Oh. Am I to introduce myself?” he asks. “My apologies, Lieutenant. I’ve only been at sea well nigh on a half and a year. ‘Mister Hartnell’ gets my attention just fine.”

This Mister Hartnell goes on grinning in a way that makes Irving feel like he’s the object of a joke, although not in a cruel way. There’s something lighthearted in his expression.

“Mister Hartnell,” Irving repeats. “Surely you have some occupation at the moment.”

“Not at all, sir. I’ve been at watch, done some paintin’, washed my clothes and Mister Derrick’s clothes as he’s come away ill, and participated in Mister Halloran’s lesson on flag signalin’.” Hartnell makes a quick flag-waving gesture before drawing his hand up in a mock salute. “An’ this Englishman will do his duty, as expected.” His hand drops to the netting and it’s only a second more before he bursts into laughter.

Somehow, against every odd, Irving feels some muscles in his face twitch into a smile, and somehow the Cove of Cork seems just a bit less miserable.

#amc the terror #or terror adjacent i guess #prompt fill #irving's just looking at this beautiful moron and is too shocked to do anything about him

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monstersandmaw · 5 years ago

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Here's July's story. Back to a defined gender for this one, so I hope that's alright. The poll for the episodic story is now closed I think, but the naga came in second (when I last looked!) and a traditional fantasy setting was the runner up, so I present you with 6232 words of badass female pirate reader and one gentlemanly naga boy for your delectation :). No real content warnings for this one, I don't think.

Enjoy! And don't forget that the Discord is always open for all Patreon supporters, so come on over and say hello if that's something you fancy doing too!

Preview:

“Cheer up, sweetheart,” the lizardfolk sailing master grinned, slapping you on the back hard enough to make you stagger. “Only another few days til we make port.”

“I’m not glum because we’ve been at sea for weeks, Jaran,” you said, easing the tension out of your neck with a side to side motion and leaning on the gunwale of the small, agile schooner. “I don’t mind that.”

“Then what’s bothering you?” he asked, shifting to lean his back against the side of the ship beside you and crossing his arms.

With his lime green colouring and startlingly yellow eyes, Jaran cut an impressive figure. You’d always found yourself leaning towards non-humans when it came to attraction, and the reptilian folk fared better than most in your estimation. Jaran had more than caught your eye, but he had a sweetheart back at port that he was unwaveringly loyal to, so you made no efforts to flirt with him. That didn’t mean you couldn’t admire him, discreetly, of course. The canny bastard probably new it, but he never mentioned it.

You sighed and looked up at him with a wry and sidelong look. “You’ve got someone waiting for you, and half the crew will probably head off and spend the evening with their favourite ‘companions’ ashore… but…” you shrugged. “I don’t have anyone, and I don’t want to pay for a night of intimacy, you know? I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it, but it’s just not me.”

Jaran reached over and patted you fondly on the shoulder. “I know,” he said. “I worry about you, you know? You’re always on your own…”

A sad smile tugged at your lips and you looked down at the scrubbed timbers beneath your boots. Your hands were rough and coarse from years at sea, and you were hardly the most traditionally ‘feminine’ creature, with strong shoulders, lean muscles, leathery skin, and wiry hair that had to be constantly constrained or it sprang out everywhere in a wild halo around your face. As one of only two humans, both female, on the ship, you couldn’t help but feel the sharp sting of inadequacy whenever you disembarked and Anna got catcalled and you got ignored or sometimes even jeered at. None of the others stood for that, which was a comfort, but it still happened.

You shrugged and pushed yourself back off the gunwale and turned to stare the length of the deck. Fingal, a sea eagle aarakocra, chose that moment to soar down from the crow’s nest - which you’d all affectionately renamed ‘the eyrie’ since he spent so much time up there - and landed not far from the pair of you.

“Alright?” he asked, cocking his head to one side and staring at you both with unusual, ice blue eyes. “Oh, and land ho, by the way…” he added with a joyous ruffle of his feathers.

“What? Already? Where?!” you gasped, whipping round and squinting at the horizon where you saw nothing but the endless, pale blue sea and the haze of the horizon. After the storms of the previous week, this fair wind and gentle sailing was a boon.

He chuckled hoarsely and shuffled, dancing slightly from one taloned foot to the other. Extending his wing and pointing with flexed flight feathers, he said, “One point off the port bow, but you probably won’t be able to see it for at least another hour,” he said. “I’m off to inform our lovely captain.”

That evening, just before the change of the watch, the captain summoned you all on deck, a letter grasped in her hand. Half triton and half gargoyle, your captain had acquired the nickname ‘Sea Devil’, and she took it to heart. Six feet tall, with green-grey skin, a tail like a bullwhip, and leathery, bat-like wings, she surveyed her crew with a wry smile on her inhuman face. “Listen up, listen up!” she yelled, striding back and forth on lean, avian legs which ended in long, onyx claws. Her fanned, triton’s ears, almost like fins, twitched, and her mane of thick, pale hair swung freely in the breeze between her slender, backwards-curving horns. “I’ve got good news for you!”

“Land ho, Cap’n?” one of the crew yelled.

“No, you upstart little fucker,” she laughed. “I wouldn’t gather you all here like a flock of clucking chickens just to tell you that! No, we’ve got a very special invitation!” she said, waving the rolled up paper in her clawed hand and adding a playfully patronising emphasis on the word ‘special’.

A hush descended on everyone and you all leaned in a little closer to hear her above the constant creak of sails and stays and deck timbers. She was always fair and kind to her crew, but this was something new.

“Now that I’ve got everyone’s attention,” she said, hopping easily up onto a tall barrel with a little help from a flap of her wings. “The Governor of our dear little haven,” she said, “Is holding a ball in honour of some landlubbers’ midsummer festival or whatnot, and since the gods have chosen to smile upon me and my crew, and since we have dutifully paid our dues to the Governor to keep those pesky naval warships off our tails, he has seen fit to invite every last bilge-rat on this ship to his fancy dance! Oh, and you lot get to come too,” she added with a wink, and a cheer went up.

Captain Solveij let you all have your moment of excited chatter before giving an ear-bleedingly shrill whistle and calling your attention back to her.

“You’re gonna need to dress nice,” she growled. “Not expensive, but at least nice, and we’ve made enough with our last few captures that we can all afford that. If you don’t have something nice to cover your filthy hides, I’ll send you to a tailor once we make port.”

Jaran dug you in the ribs. “You got anything?”

You cocked an eyebrow at him. “Do I look like I’ve got anything other than these tatty old trousers and a few shirts?”

His lizardy smile stretched wide and he grinned. “Better go ask the captain for that tailor’s address then…” he said.

The tailor that Solveij sent you to was in a back street of Black Sands Bay, a rambling old town that had long been a notorious stopping point for pirates from the world over, but which was untouchable by any royal navy because it was privately owned by the Governor. A huge, black-coated minotaur with one horn supposedly made of solid gold, and a reputation for ruthlessness, Governor Aatlak ruled his corner of the seas as the world’s wealthiest prisoner; if he were to sail off the islands, those same naval warships that circled his archipelago of islands like vultures would descend on him. So he had established himself as a broker of goods, money, and information, and settled down.

Black Sands Bay, so named for the unique colour of the beach from which the town had grown up into the hillside, was his capital. All around you, the port bustled and thrummed with life. Before you had even left the dock where your schooner had berthed in the deep waters of the harbour, you glanced down into the water and glimpsed perhaps the strangest looking merfolk that you had ever seen. Jellyfish-clear skin fringed a tail, top and bottom, that was twelve feet long, with opalescent scales gleaming in the clear water. Their face was humanoid in shape, but they had enormous, milky, bulging eyes and a bobbing lure that hovered in front of a mouth full of spiked teeth. Floating beside them was a small raft with extraordinary looking shells and objects which could only have come from the deep.

You didn’t linger long, but you enjoyed some of the sights and sounds of the marketplace before turning to bid Jaran and the others farewell, and heading up into the heart of the old city with a definite weight in your chest. The captain wouldn’t care if you wore trousers or a dress to the dance, but honestly, dressing up like this made you feel as out of place as a mermaid on land. You wished it didn’t. You wished that you could feel something different; comfortable. Still, you were attending in the formal capacity as a member of Captain Solveij’s crew, and she was expecting you to be there.

The tailor’s shop, when you eventually found it after nearly an hour of wandering in the hot, tropical sun, had an attractive, dark, bay window at the front, showcasing outfits and accessories for a number of species, and as you pushed the glass-panelled door open, a brass bell trilled above you.

“Jusssst a moment!” a warm, tenor voice called from the rear of the shop. “I’ll be with you in jussst a moment!”

“No worries…” It wasn’t exactly as if you were keen to get started. Besides, you were more than a little sweaty. Perfect.

You had just put your hands on the inviting arms of a nicely upholstered chair and had been about to sink gratefully down into it, when a figure popped up in the doorway at the back of the room and made you jump. Leaping back up onto your salt-crusted boots, you watched, intrigued, as a naga slithered out to greet you.

Read the whole thing right now over on my Patreon, and gain exclusive access to hundreds of posts, lots of stories and character profiles, sketches, polls, and our Discord server

#naga #male naga #exophilia #monster x reader #naga x reader #male monster x female reader #pirate #pirates #patreon exclusive #monthly story #patreon only

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dcvw · 5 years ago

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REVOLUTION: Bottom Time: Seiko Prospex Marinemaster 1000M

Islote means “small island” in Spanish but the dive site of that name off Cabo Pulmo, on Mexico’s Baja peninsula, is hardly more than a large guano-covered rock jutting out of the Sea of Cortez, buffeted by an endless march of waves. Our boat captain manoeuvres the small panga boat as close to the foamy chaos surrounding it as he dares and we prepare to splash in. I give a final puff on my regulator and nod at my dive buddy on the opposite gunwale before we simultaneously backroll into the water. Bobbing on the surface, I spin the bezel on my Seiko Prospex Marinemaster to align the zero mark with the minute hand and release the air from my buoyancy vest to descend.

In 1965, the reference 62MAS debuted; it was a modest timepiece, not unlike the other diving watches of the era, with a narrow rotating bezel, thin lugs and a mere 150m of water resistance. While the watch was relatively unremarkable, it was the patriarch of what is arguably the finest, and most beloved, lineage of diving watches in history. Unlike Switzerland, which is as well known for its Alpine splendours as it is its watchmaking heritage, Japan is an island nation with a centuries-old tie to the sea and a history of diving. This heritage has not been lost on Seiko, whose diving watches have long had a reputation as true instruments more than collectables...

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chiauve · 5 years ago

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Aquarius 13

With the tourist crowds choking Raccoon City and its bay, it was hoped that the regular criminal unsavories would quiet down for a bit and STARS could focus on drunks and stray fireworks. Unfortunately the excess people made spotting these crimes more difficult and drug dealers ran rampant. Further protection lay in the fact STARS had been instructed that any risk to civilians was to be avoided; better a few drug dealers got away than innocents get shot and their local dealers knew this.

Arms dealers, on the other hand, were an entirely different matter. Aside from any immediate threat these men posed, catching them meant a link to the arms ring that plagued the coastline. A tip from a fisherman made its way through the RPD and landed on Wesker’s desk and the entirety of STARS was pulled from their mundane patrols to tracking down where and when the exchange was occurring.

Tuesday, in the middle of the day under a bright sun and on a public dock in the marina, surrounded by civilians. A quiet arrest and extraction would be best, if possible.

Possible it was, but their luck was not with them. Bravo team won the coin toss and moved in, Captain Marini approaching the smugglers as a marina manager come to point out they’d been docked in a temporary space too long and requesting their permits while Forest and Kenneth had taken up posts on two boats docked nearby, ready to jump in on the arrest or cover Enrico should things go sour. The rest of Bravo wait just out of sight. Alpha was in their patrol boat, drifting by the breakwater should things really go wrong and the dealers made a run for it.

Chris watched through his binoculars as Enrico and Forest made their move, hopefully catching their prey off-guard. The dealers put their hands up as Bravo drew their pistols and calmly led them up into their own boat to unlock the door to the interior.

“Good so far...” he breathed, adrenaline simmering beneath his skin in concern for his teammates.

There were gunshots and then the smugglers’ boat leapt from its mooring and plowed through the marina, its wake sending docked crafts bouncing. Chris didn’t see Enrico or Forest. The Bravo patrol boat swung in behind it, pursuing.

“Shit!” Wesker yelled, tossing his own binoculars aside, “Cut them off!”

The Alpha patrol boat roared to life and surged towards the escaping vessel, but despite its size the arms dealers’ boat was faster an more maneuverable than it appeared. It swerved past them as they reached the end of the breakwater and sped out into the bay.

Joseph spun the helm and the patrol boat cut sharply to starboard and followed, pushing the engine as far as he dared, coming in just behind Bravo.

Hand gripping the bow rail, Chris balanced on the gunwale and watched the dealers’ boat through his binoculars. There was a tussle on the deck, and with relief he saw Enrico and Forest jump from the boat into the water.

“Marini and Speyer overboard, they jumped!” he yelled over the engine and spray to Wesker, who ordered Bravo to pick them up over the radio while they continued pursuit.

At this point, their only goal was to chase the dealers out to the ocean. Brad was circling overhead at a distance in the helicopter, and once the enemy vessel had cleared the mouth of the bay he would stay with them and guide the Coast Guard, already on their way, to their location. They were more equipped to deal with the criminals once picked up.

But they had to ensure the dealers actually left; Raccoon Bay had far too many inlets, coves, marshes, and other such places in which they could easily hide and escape. They had to be pushed, and with so many civilians on the water, Alpha turned on their sirens and emergency lights, hoping to keep other boats out of their way.

It was the final straw and knowing they couldn’t slip away without losing the patrol boat, the smugglers opened fire.

The patrol boat swerved, not only to avoid the gunfire but to gain distance between themselves and the many civilian crafts. Chris cursed as his foot slipped on the gunwale and he repositioned himself. Behind him, Wesker swung up, pistol drawn.

“Redfield! Time to put those skills to use!” he shouted, then fired, free hand gripping the rail, his knees bent to keep himself as steady as possible while the boat leapt over the waves.

Chris hesitated. “What if we hit the gas tank? The whole boat could blow!”

“Better them than us, they chose that when they fired on my team! Do it, Chris!”

Chris drew his STARS issued pistol and took careful aim. It was nothing like the range, or even the military as his whole body slammed up and down, just out of sync with the boat under him, trying to aim at men doing the same. He fired and one of the men on the enemy boat spun, clutching his arm.

“Goddamn, Chris!” he heard Barry laugh, leaning over the windshield and taking a shot while Jill slid in behind him.

“Cease fire!” Wesker yelled as Joseph steered the boat around some anchored crafts who had no hope to getting out of the way. They swung wide, allowing the dealer’s boat to gain some ground. Glancing behind them Chris could see Bravo returning to the chase.

Suddenly Joseph yelped, loud enough Chris heard it before the boat lurched to the side so hard the gunwale simply disappeared from under his feet. He fell, body slamming into the hull before he lost grip on the rail and dropped. He briefly saw Wesker’s shocked face as he too was thrown from the boat before cold, dark water enveloped him.

The loss of gravity and air disoriented Chris for a moment before equilibrium returned and he kicked towards the light. He surfaced with a gasp and floundered a moment before his senses returned and he tread water.

The Alpha patrol boat’s stern sunk into the water as it’s engines cut down and it came to a halt a little distance away. Barry was on the bow, waving Bravo past to keep up the chase. The other patrol boat surged past, siren shrieking. Their own boat swung around and Chris waited for them to come to him before paddling to the swim platform and accepting Jill’s hand to be pulled up onto the deck.

He coughed some water out of his mouth and nodded in response to Jill’s pat on his shoulder, silently asking if he was alright, then she disappeared to the side, scanning the water.

“What happened?” Chris gasped.

Joseph was on his feet, climbing up where Chris had been before he fell. “Some idiot wasn’t paying attention and nearly drove right into us, I had to swerve. Sorry, man.”

Chris shook his head, getting water out of his hair and ears, and noted in dismay his pistol was gone. Fuck, a lost weapon’s report was in his future, Wesker was going to be pissed...

Wait.

“Where’s Wesker?” he asked, knowing the answer as his team continued to lean out over the edge of the boat, searching.

“We didn’t see him surface,” Jill said.

“What?” Chris climbed up past the driver’s seat to the bow, looking around. Wesker had been thrown clear, he should have surfaced and waited for them to retrieve him...

“Was he wearing a life jacket?”

“Are any of us?”

“Damnit!”

Chris felt panic begin to rise up. The arms dealers were completely forgotten.

“Captain!” he yelled, as though by simply being summoned Wesker would pop up like a buoy. “Where did he fall in?”

“Near where you were, right over there,” Barry said, pointing.

“Where the hell is he?”

“Wesker!”

The bay was calm, and save the civilian boats bobbing some distance away, watching them in interest, there was nothing on the water.

#resident evil #chris redfield #albert wesker #jill valentine #barry burton #joseph frost #aquarius #mermay #fanfic

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vladimir-nabokov-official · 6 years ago

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In long lassoes from the Cock lake the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand, rising, flowing. My ashplant will float away. I shall wait. No, they will pass on, passing, chafing against the low rocks, swirling, passing. Better get this job over quick. Listen: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. Vehement breath of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks. In cups of rocks it slops: flop, slop, slap: bounded in barrels. And, spent, its speech ceases. It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling.Under the upswelling tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in whispering water swaying and upturning coy silver fronds. Day by day: night by night: lifted, flooded and let fall. Lord, they are weary; and, whispered to, they sigh. Saint Ambrose heard it, sigh of leaves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. To no end gathered; vainly then released, forthflowing, wending back: loom of the moon. Weary too in sight of lovers, lascivious men, a naked woman shining in her courts, she draws a toil of waters.Five fathoms out there. Full fathom five thy father lies. At one, he said. Found drowned. High water at Dublin bar. Driving before it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells. A corpse rising saltwhite from the undertow, bobbing a pace a pace a porpoise landward. There he is. Hook it quick. Pull. Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. We have him. Easy now.Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. A quiver of minnows, fat of a spongy titbit, flash through the slits of his buttoned trouserfly. God becomes man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomes featherbed mountain. Dead breaths I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour a urinous offal from all dead. Hauled stark over the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his green grave, his leprous nosehole snoring to the sun.A seachange this, brown eyes saltblue. Seadeath, mildest of all deaths known to man. Old Father Ocean. Prix de Paris: beware of imitations. Just you give it a fair trial. We enjoyed ourselves immensely.

James Joyce, Ulysses (p. 49–50)

#how beautifully the man writes!#james joyce

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castellankurze · 6 years ago

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FSF: As per your request (and the fuuko no miko drawthread): a White Scar on a Jetski. Polearm optional, but welcome.

An ask inspired by White Scar on a jetski by @boltertokokoro

“He wrecked my bike.”

The words came out in a hoarse, stunned rasp as Suvd stared at the burning wreck that had moments ago been her precious attack bike. Space marines did not know fear, but they could know a kind of horror, they could know loss, and a hollow pit opened beneath the White Scar’s twin hearts as she gave voice to the sudden and tragic end to her beloved steed of steel and chrome.

A moment passed and that horror was replaced by a sudden and all-consuming rage. She kicked a foot and leapt to her feet, already sprinting as her soles hit the ground, heedless of the danger. Her pursuit of the ork dok had already brought her to the entrance of the harbor and it was not impossible that even on foot she might catch him before he made good his escape.

The orks had transformed the better part of the coastal city into a fortress for their kind, and the harbor was no exception, ramshackle contraptions tied up at one brutal iron pier after another with no seeming regard for order or purpose. Their sloppiness became her advantage, however, as Suvd cut across the harbor itself by leaping from the sidewall onto one of the empty boats, jumping from one to the next as she made her way towards the pier where the warbike had stopped.

Smoke was pouring from one of the boats, announcing its immediate departure, and Suvd could see a coterie of greenskins ringing the craft in small one-person (one-ork?) craft that likewise chugged and coughed and belched smoke. Some of the cyborks were so heavily augmented that it was hard to tell where the creature ended and the watercraft began.

Even as the dok’s boat pushed off and began to make for open water, Suvd angled in towards one of the more fleshy ones, leaping from one tied-up barge to close the gap. By the time they saw the White Scar coming and began shouting and pointing various bladed appendages it was too late. She jumped from the gunwale of the last ship between her and her prey and kicked out with both feet, slamming the ork bodily from his seat. The watercraft bobbed dangerously, but Suvd managed to grab the control bar and leaned hard against its angle to prevent its overturning.

The machine had controls not unlike the bikes used throughout the Imperium by Astartes and mortal humans alike, and within a moment Suvd found the throttle, and the patchwork thing’s engine roared like an enraged squiggoth and kickstarted beneath her, nearly slipping the White Scar’s grip. She shot forward as las- and gunfire filled the space where she had been, and flung out an arm to bounce a projectile off the nose of one of the other craft she passed. The ork howled and hurried to abandon his steed, but the grenade went off before he could jump, flipping ork and craft alike through the air.

Someone on the boat must have been watching because a whoosh of flame exploded from nozzles attacked to the thing’s hull, and the escape craft threw out a massive wake as it accelerated. Suvd gunned her engine, crouching over the handlebars as the watercraft picked up speed, bouncing over the waves like a frightened horse. In her own wake, the cybork bodyguards whirled their craft about as they recovered from the sudden ambush and jetted in pursuit of the lone Astartes.

Gunfire continued to stitch the waves around her, and though her bobbing craft made a difficult target she was not content to leave such things to luck, and snapped her bolt pistol from her belt, twisting to keep one hand on the controls as she fired at the ork closest to her. The first shot went high, but as she adjusted to the motion of the jetcraft as it tore across the water her second and third shots punched the ork from his saddle.

Another came in from the opposite side, gunning his throttle and the two vehicles bucked sharply as they collided, nearly throwing Suvd into the ocean. The cybork grabbed her wrist as she tried to bring her pistol to bear, and the two of them struggled for a moment before the White Scar reared and slammed her helmet into the greenskin’s face. Her left-side eyepiece cracked with the force of the blow, but the alien went slack as he reeled, stunned, and toppled from his watercraft.

The collision had cost her speed, and one of the orks had used the opportunity to circle around in front of her, and as a result she had a perfect view of his fate as the ocean exploded and a massive, thrashing beast, a full ten meters of scale and sinew overturned his craft, enormous jaws hyperextending to grab the hapless ork in mid-tumble. It vanished a moment later, leaving Suvd no time to contemplate its miraculous appearance, and so she opened up the throttle to full to resume her pursuit.

It was as the last of them was closing in that the sudden, gut-level warning to veer starboard hit her. Suvd had not lived to the age of seventy as an Astartes by ignoring such instinctual warnings, and hastened to alter course. A moment after she did the beast reappeared from the depths, rising from the waves to cross her wake, and a flash of white was visible from its back. The Stormseer Charakha rode the beast by gripping its dorsal fin with one hand, the other swinging his lance out to decapitate the shocked ork. With a swing of his head, the celebrated Charakha pulled the beast into a turn, driving it with his telepathic powers, and such was the beast’s speed that it actually brought him alongside Suv’s own roaring jetcraft.

“He’s mine!” Suvd snarled at him through the kick of ocean spray, and the Stormseer raised a warning finger from his lance, waggling it at her to warn against hunting another’s prey. Suvd slammed a hand against the control bar. “He wrecked my bike!” she protested. This brought the Stormseer short, and she saw his helm turn from her to look at the ork boat and back. Then, with a shrug, he threw his spear into the air and hauled back on the fin of his improvised steed, turning the create back towards the harbor to hunt the remainder of the ork waveriders.

Suvd caught the proffered weapon and swung it out to one side. Now there was nothing to get between her and her target, and she rapidly closed the distance between herself and the boat. At the last moment, she gave the watercraft a gentle pat of apology. It might have been a haphazard nightmare borne of alien minds, but it had served her well. With that she leapt, letting the jetcraft slam into the back end of the boat, while the White Scar herself landed on the rear deck and quickly made use of her lance to begin spearing the orks that manned the craft, the energy weapon cutting them down as if she were harpooning fish in a barrel.

The dok himself was waiting for her one the bridge, but rather than raise a weapon the greenskin raised a hand control, thumb poised over a bright red button painted with a skull and crossbones. “Fuggedit, ‘umie,” it cracked in a voice augmented by vox-feedback. “I press dis button, an’...”The dok trailed off, looking down at the decking where a severed hand lay alongside a spatter of black ork blood, then back up at the severed stump of his wrist where the lance had passed through it.

Said lance clanged to the deck as Suvd pulled off her damaged helmet to reveal her braided topknot and the ritual scars of her chapter. A moment later and she’d grabbed the ork’s head with both hands and, before he could do more than struggle, slammed his face into the boat’s instrument panel. “YOU!” she roared in tandem with the blow. “WRECKED! MY! BIKE!” Each word accompanied another blow of the dok’s face against the controls, until finally the last of them slammed his head into the circuitry all the way up to the shoulders, and the alien’s body jerked spasmodically with the sudden influx of electricity.

She was sitting on the boat’s aft deck, spear in hand, when Charakha and his maritime mount surfaced, the fearsome predator sidling up to the drifting ship as tame as any cart horse. “Is all avenged?” he asked as Suvd rose.

“All is,” she confirmed, tossing the borrowed lance back to him.

“Come,” he said, patting the beast’s dorsal scales. “Let us away from here, then.”

She eyed the proffered conveyance with a moment’s distaste. “Are you sure you couldn’t commandeer me another one of those watercraft?” she asked.

#40k #White Scars #kurze writes #fanservice friday #FUCK YEAH #this was fun to write #female space marines #ivorytowerblr

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hookaroo · 6 years ago

Text

A Captain’s Heart (27 of 33?)

Chapter 1 Chapter 26

Rated T for language and graphic descriptions of injuries.

Also on FF.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12937105/1/A-Captain-s-Heart

Tagging @therooksshiningknight & @killian-whump by request :) Also @zippidyzany for the “hello” ;)

Killian was unaware of the point at which the Jolly Roger sailed out of the volcano’s reach and beyond Zeus’ invisible shielding. He stood frozen in a daze, mind completely disengaged, sailing by instinct alone. Oblivious to the lightening of the sky, the clearing of the air, the softening of all ambient noise. Something buoyed him up, preventing his logical collapse, and were he asked, the weary captain would probably have credited the living spirit of the vessel beneath his feet. And maybe that wouldn’t have been so far from the truth.

But he blinked, and he was somehow still standing, and somehow beyond the threat of death, and he could feel nothing but an overwhelming exhaustion in every corner of his soul. He examined the ship stretched out before him, barely registering the beautiful rose-gold highlights cast by a late evening sun.

It should have come as no surprise when three beings materialized on deck just meters away. But Killian had forgotten all but his own name and the name of his ship, and he gawked through bloodshot, burning eyes.

“I knew you were the man for the job!” came the grating voice of a crowing Eris. Killian grimaced at the noise, which was just familiar enough to hammer vague awareness into his reluctant brain. The goddess stalked closer, trailed by her two shadows - bodyguards, worshippers, whoever. Killian knew she was after something, but couldn’t remember what.

“Where is it?” she growled, holding out her hand impatiently. Killian responded with a slow blink, a clumsy shifting of his weight, noticeably out of sync with the gentle rocking of the deck.

“Bugger off,” said the pirate thickly. His tongue was as slow to react as the rest of him. Uncoordinated. Raging, Eris began to close the remaining distance between them. Then she spotted the crystal phial, tipped sideways on the deck, having rolled almost the whole way to the gunwale. She hissed as she waved her hand. The vessel appeared in her grip and she shook it lightly. A scant mouthful remained; the rest had flooded out onto the boards when the potion had fallen forgotten.

“Careless fool!” she screeched. Killian flinched instinctively as she flung a blast of furious magic in his direction. But it passed harmlessly around him, and he sighed a single, mirthless laugh.

“Immune,” he reminded, unable to keep the taunt from his voice, tired as it was.

“Is that so?” Eris poofed the remaining distance, and when she reappeared, she drove a vicious fist into his middle, directly in the center of Excalibur’s damage. Killian crumpled to the floor, too winded to even cry out, feeling himself being gored all over again despite the blade’s absence.

Apparently deciding that he wasn’t worthy of any more of her time, Eris turned away from the half-dead pirate. As she held up the phial, she gave it another wiggle and heard the small splash of its contents.

“You had better pray there’s enough left for me to use. I may not be able to shield my handiwork from Zeus and his minions, but I can at least protect myself.”

With that, she tipped the potion down her gullet. And though Killian was expecting the outburst that followed, he hadn’t imagined it would be quite so dramatic. Curled into a ball, eyes streaming, still struggling for breath, Killian could just barely make out the goddess’ agonized writhing that preceded a ripple, then a literal explosion of unrecognizable elements. The shards swirled, coalesced into a brief whirlwind, repelled each other and scattered to the heavens.

The clatter of phial against deck was followed by a stunned silence as Eris’ henchmen tried to process what had just happened. They appeared more surprised than aggrieved. When one of them spotted the fresh droplets of potion on the wood, he began to back away nervously. The other quickly followed suit, and an instant later, they both vanished. Doubtless off to instigate their own brand of mischief, or perhaps find another deity to serve. And Killian lacked the strength to rise from his fetal position, much less celebrate their departure.

In his misery, Killian missed seeing the setting sun cast a brilliant red glow over wave and cloud, mimicking both the dried and fresh blood staining his bandages. He missed the first stirrings of a breeze caressing the sails above, the gentle pulse of the moving ship below. He even missed the first hint of a portal parting the waves ahead, but as the whirlpool gathered strength and its roar increased in volume, Killian finally collected the gumption to raise his head, discern what was happening, and realize that he should probably find something to hold on to.

With a quiet whimper, Killian made it as far as his knees. He was less than two meters from the wheel, but that distance felt like miles. The portal loomed closer, the ship began to quake, and Killian forced himself forward. One knee. Then the other. Brace clutched tightly against his abdomen. Hand not taking his weight; crumpling to elbow, forearm. Gasping. Waves increasing in intensity, the deck bobbing. Another knee dragged forward. The wheel just out of reach.

There came a violent splash as the bow split the final watery hill before beginning its descent into the tunnel. The dramatic tilting of the deck was enough to send Killian sliding the remaining few feet, and he caught the wheel with a grunt just before the portal’s corkscrew path took hold. The Jolly Roger tumbled into the void, everything topsy-turvy for far too long, especially when each shudder sent a jolt of anguish through the pirate's battered body. But if Killian let loose with a cry of pain or two, it was impossible to hear over the deafening rush of water and magic all around.

The spiral tightened. Even for a seasoned sailor, the dizzying effect bordered on nauseating. And then, just when Killian’s weight had tripled and he felt as if he would smash through the floor, the ship leapt from the portal's exit. Its crash back onto a residual churning wake tore the wheel from Killian’s grasp. He toppled forward, stopping his fall with protesting arms, hissing as different kinds of pain raced up each one. But at least he was still on his knees and hadn’t hit the deck yet again.

It was lighter here, midday at most. Killian’s exhausted brain and eyes couldn’t handle it. He knew he ought to take stock of their surroundings, look for danger, and check the ship for damage. He also knew it was hopeless to make even a token effort. So when a familiar figure appeared on board, he was hunched on his knees, clutching his abdomen and rubbing his eyes with a quivering hand, and he didn’t notice. Not until that figure spoke.

“Killian? What the hell!”

The pirate managed a strained smile of relief, genuinely happy to hear the alarm in Emma’s voice. It meant she was here. More than that, that she was okay. Killian’s hand dropped to his thigh in a moment of rest while he worked on peeling his eyes open. By this time, despite her shock, Emma had teleported to his side, and as she crouched, he reached a feeble hand in her direction.

“Emma.”

Emma surrounded his hand in hers, all the while taking in his appalling state. Countless wounds - a number haphazardly bandaged, others exposed - decorated his person, oozing blood. Some dripping it, if he moved a certain way. He hadn’t appeared so close to keeling over since his rescue in the Underworld. Gaze slightly unfocused, butterfly bandages askew on his cheek and forehead, Killian fixed her with the saddest eyes she had seen in quite some time.

“Killian. What happened?”

At a loss where to start, Killian eventually just pulled her closer, intent on bringing her into his embrace and never letting go. Emma inched gingerly forward, apparently more concerned about protecting his injuries than he was. And then she stiffened.

“The hell?”

She sounded so thrown that for a moment, Killian forgot his physical complaints and quickly twisted to check what had her so rattled. When he saw, his pained groan was cut off before it could fully form. Frantic, he attempted to rise to his feet with muscles too injured to respond, reflexes dulled by exhaustion and blood loss. Swearing softly, Emma moved to help him; she knew it was useless to try and stop the mad scramble.

“Marvel,” breathed Killian, listing wildly, clinging to Emma but shuffling forward all the same. “You’re here.”

The human figure shimmered before them, not quite solid. The faint outline of the stern railing could be seen intersecting her torso. She wore a melancholy smile, and when she spoke, the words had an ethereal echo about them that sent a chill right down Killian’s spine.

“We’re here,” she amended. “We made it, dearest.”

Killian stopped a few paces away. With her hand a support behind his back, Emma halted as well. Killian’s arm tensed, his fingers twitching as he wrestled against the urge to reach toward the apparition. Finally, both shoulders slumped, and he leaned more heavily against his wife.

“How long?” was his plea, in a voice so low and tremulous that it broke Emma’s heart. Marvel’s expression stiffened.

“Not long.”

In the silence that followed, the waves caressing the hull became a heartbeat, the rippling of sails a repeated sigh. Ghost Marvel took a step forward, and Emma squeezed her husband's arm in solidarity.

“I only wanted to say-” began the ship’s soul, but Killian cut her off.

“Don’t. Please. Don’t say goodbye.”

Marvel’s lips twitched in a sly smile. “Hello.” Her next breath was half chuckle, half sob. “Hello, Captain. It’s so very nice to meet you.”

Killian echoed her strangled sort-of laugh and raised his hand in an automatic gesture. “Likewise, my darling.”

Marvel drifted closer, taking steps that seemed unnecessary as no friction propelled her along the floorboards. She lifted her own hand - her right hand - and rested it gently atop his, feeling like nothing so much as the faintest of breaths against his palm, the lightest of flower petals. Killian bent to kiss it anyway. And then he found he could not let her go.

“Stay?” His voice was hoarse, thick with emotion. “Can’t you just… stay?”

“Oh, Captain.” She brushed her free hand along his cheek, a mere wisp of sensation. “We’ve had such wonderful adventures. And we’ll continue to do so. But this… this is when we talked.”

Her ghostly thumb caught a teardrop before it fell. For an instant, her gaze turned to Emma’s, and they shared a silent conversation, their mutual love for the man between them providing effortless understanding. Then Marvel gave Killian a soft smile.

“Go back to your big, beautiful house, with so many people to love and be loved by. Run around, be human. Live. And know that I will always be here when you need me, ever happy to see you, but rejoicing when I don’t. Because I understand things better now. Sorrow and fear and shame… and joy.” She withdrew her hands, placing one on her own chest and the other on his. “Human or not, this ship’s heart belongs forever to her captain. And all I will ever want for you is total happiness. For the rest of your days.”

Trembling, Killian tried to reach up, to place his hand over hers, but she seemed less solid than before, and his fingers grasped nothing. He gulped a breath and began,

“Marvel, I have to say… and… and I had hopes of…”

The words caught in his throat. He couldn’t finish either thought. As tears flooded his eyes, Emma tightened her embrace and caught his lonely wandering hand. Marvel smiled softly through crystalline tears of her own.

“I know, my love.”

And then she began to glimmer. Little stars of light flickering in a random dance within her image. She seemed to almost revel in the sensation, giggling as she watched and turned her palms this way and that. Then she met Killian’s despairing gaze with one of excitement, almost glee.

“Watch this,” she winked.

The stars drifted apart and multiplied as they slowly lifted higher into the breeze. The greater the number of lights, the fainter Marvel’s image, and Killian was torn between watching the spectacle and keeping his eyes trained on the last glimpse he would have of the ship incarnate. For her part, Marvel kept her head thrown back, delighting in the beauty above.

Slowly the stars began to outcompete the cloud-covered sun in brightness. There were just so many, and each burned with a ferocity that made looking directly at it painful. Between one heartbeat and the next, Marvel’s form dissolved into a final spattering of lights, which hastened to join the others, noticeably playful in their movements.

The constellations migrated toward the bulk of the ship, and reflexively, Killian pivoted to keep them in sight. He leaned almost his entire weight against Emma now, but for a moment, neither of them noticed. Then, with a blinding flash and a crack of displaced air, the stars raced to line every inch of the ship’s perimeter. It only served to make the normally-beautiful Jolly Roger even more breathtaking.

Killian and Emma lost track of the amount of time they stood dazzled by the sight. But then, one by one, the twinkling lights started to flicker out. And as they faded, so did the remainder of Killian’s strength. His knees buckled and he sank to the deck, pulling Emma down with him. Still watching the sparkles, silent tears tracking down his face, he allowed himself to settle back on his haunches. Emma knelt beside him and gently lay her head on his shoulder; after a moment, he rested his cheek against her.

They stayed that way until the lights winked out, the waves were water once more, the breeze no longer breath. And the Jolly Roger, marvel that she was, floated inert.

#ouat fanfiction #killian jones #the jolly roger #emma swan #borrowed dialogue #hehe #angst #back in the land without magic #but at a high cost #portals #wounded killian #a captain's heart #one of these days i'll finalize the chapter count #doctor who 6.4 #the doctor's wife

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andersunmenschlich · 2 years ago

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Chapter VII

A REPELLENT SIGHT

The cruiser Vanator careened through the tempest. That he had not been dashed to the ground, or twisted by the force of the elements into tangled wreckage, was due entirely to the caprice of Nature. For all the duration of the storm he rode, a helpless derelict, upon those storm-tossed waves of wind. But for all the dangers and vicissitudes they underwent, he and his crew might have borne charmed lives up to within an hour of the abating of the hurricane. It was then that the catastrophe occurred—a catastrophe indeed to the crew of the Vanator and the kingdom of Gathol.

The women had been without food or drink since leaving Helium, and they had been hurled about and buffeted in their lashings until all were worn to exhaustion. There was a brief lull in the storm during which one of the crew attempted to reach her quarters, after releasing the lashings which had held her to the precarious safety of the deck. The act in itself was a direct violation of orders and, in the eyes of the other members of the crew, the effect, which came with startling suddenness, took the form of a swift and terrible retribution.

Scarce had the woman released the safety snaps ere a swift arm of the storm-monster encircled the ship, rolling it over and over, with the result that the foolhardy warrior went overboard at the first turn.

Unloosed from their lashing by the constant turning and twisting of the ship and the force of the wind, the boarding and landing tackle had been trailing beneath the keel, a tangled mass of cordage and leather. Upon the occasions that the Vanator rolled completely over, these things would be wrapped around him until another revolution in the opposite direction, or the wind itself, carried them once again clear of the deck to trail, whipping in the storm, beneath the hurtling ship.

Into this fell the body of the warrior, and as a drowning woman clutches at a straw so the fellow clutched at the tangled cordage that caught her and arrested her fall. With the strength of desperation she clung to the cordage, seeking frantically to entangle her legs and body in it. With each jerk of the ship her hand holds were all but torn loose, and though she knew that eventually they would be and that she must be dashed to the ground beneath, yet she fought with the madness that is born of hopelessness for the pitiful second which but prolonged her agony.

It was upon this sight then that Gatha of Gathol looked, over the edge of the careening deck of the Vanator, as she sought to learn the fate of her warrior.

Lashed to the gunwale close at hand a single landing leather that had not fouled the tangled mass beneath whipped free from the ship's side, the hook snapping at its outer end. The Jed of Gathol grasped the situation in a single glance. Below her one of her people looked into the eyes of Death. To the jed's hand lay the means for succor.

There was no instant's hesitation. Casting off her deck lashings, she seized the landing leather and slipped over the ship's side. Swinging like a bob upon a mad pendulum she swung far out and back again, turning and twisting three thousand feet above the surface of Barsoom, and then, at last, the thing she had hoped for occurred. She was carried within reach of the cordage where the warrior still clung, though with rapidly diminishing strength. Catching one leg on a loop of the tangled strands Gatha pulled herself close enough to seize another quite near to the fellow. Clinging precariously to this new hold the jed slowly drew in the landing leather, down which she had clambered, until she could grasp the hook at its end. This she fastened to a ring in the warrior's harness, just before the woman's weakened fingers slipped from their hold upon the cordage.

Temporarily, at least, she had saved the life of her subject, and now she turned her attention toward ensuring her own safety. Inextricably entangled in the mess to which she was clinging were numerous other landing hooks such as she had attached to the warrior's harness, and with one of these she sought to secure herself until the storm should abate sufficiently to permit her to climb to the deck, but even as she reached for one that swung near her the ship was caught in a renewed burst of the storm's fury, the thrashing cordage whipped and snapped to the lunging of the great craft and one of the heavy metal hooks, lashing through the air, struck the Jed of Gathol fair between the eyes.

Momentarily stunned, Gatha's fingers slipped from their hold upon the cordage and the woman shot downward through the thin air of dying Mars toward the ground three thousand feet beneath, while upon the deck of the rolling Vanator her faithful warriors clung to their lashings all unconscious of the fate of their beloved leader; nor was it until more than an hour later, after the storm had materially subsided, that they realized she was lost, or knew the self-sacrificing heroism of the act that had sealed her doom. The Vanator now rested upon an even keel as he was carried along by a strong, though steady, wind. The warriors had cast off their deck lashings and the officers were taking account of losses and damage when a weak cry was heard from oversides, attracting their attention to the woman hanging in the cordage beneath the keel. Strong arms hoisted her to the deck and then it was that the crew of the Vanator learned of the heroism of their jed and her end. How far they had traveled since her loss they could only vaguely guess, nor could they return in search of her in the disabled condition of the ship. It was a saddened company that drifted onward through the air toward whatever destination fate was to choose for them.

And Gatha, Jed, of Gathol—what of her? Plummet-like she fell for a thousand feet and then the storm seized her in its giant clutch and bore her far aloft again. As a bit of paper borne upon a gale she was tossed about in midair, the sport and plaything of the wind. Over and over it turned her and upward and downward it carried her, but after each new sally of the element she was brought nearer to the ground. The freaks of cyclonic storms are the rule of cyclonic storms, demolish giant trees, and in the same gust they transport frail infants for miles and deposit them unharmed in their wake.

And so it was with Gatha of Gathol. Expecting momentarily to be dashed to destruction she presently found herself deposited gently upon the soft, ochre moss of a dead sea-bottom, bodily no worse off for her harrowing adventure than in the possession of a slight swelling upon her forehead where the metal hook had struck her. Scarcely able to believe that Fate had dealt thus gently with her, the jed arose slowly, as though more than half convinced that she should discover crushed and splintered bones that would not support her weight. But she was intact. She looked about her in a vain effort at orientation. The air was filled with flying dust and debris. The Sun was obliterated. Her vision was confined to a radius of a few hundred yards of ochre moss and dust-filled air. Five hundred yards away in any direction there might have arisen the walls of a great city and she not known it. It was useless to move from where she was until the air cleared, since she could not know in what direction she was moving, and so she stretched herself upon the moss and waited, pondering the fate of her warriors and her ship, but giving little thought to her own precarious situation.

Lashed to her harness were her swords, her pistols, and a dagger, and in her pocket-pouch a small quantity of the concentrated rations that form a part of the equipment of the fighting women of Barsoom. These things together with trained muscles, high courage, and an undaunted spirit sufficed her for whatever misadventures might lie between her and Gathol, which lay in what direction she knew not, nor at what distance.

The wind was falling rapidly and with it the dust that obscured the landscape. That the storm was over she was convinced, but she chafed at the inactivity the low visibility put upon her, nor did conditions better materially before night fell, so that she was forced to await the new day at the very spot at which the tempest had deposited her. Without her sleeping silks and furs she spent a far from comfortable night, and it was with feelings of unmixed relief that she saw the sudden dawn burst upon her. The air was now clear and in the light of the new day she saw an undulating plain stretching in all directions about her, while to the northwest there were barely discernible the outlines of low hills. Toward the southeast of Gathol was such a country, and as Gatha surmised the direction and the velocity of the storm to have carried her somewhere in the vicinity of the country she thought she recognized, she assumed that Gathol lay behind the hills she now saw, whereas, in reality, it lay far to the northeast.

It was two days before Gatha had crossed the plain and reached the summit of the hills from which she hoped to see her own country, only to meet at last with disappointment. Before her stretched another plain, of even greater proportions than that she had but just crossed, and beyond this other hills. In one material respect this plain differed from that behind her in that it was dotted with occasional isolated hills. Convinced, however, that Gathol lay somewhere in the direction of her search she descended into the valley and bent her steps toward the northwest.

For weeks Gatha of Gathol crossed valleys and hills in search of some familiar landmark that might point her way toward her native land, but the summit of each succeeding ridge revealed but another unfamiliar view. She saw few animals and no women, until she finally came to the belief that she had fallen upon that fabled area of ancient Barsoom which lay under the curse of his olden gods—the once rich and fertile country whose people in their pride and arrogance had denied the deities, and whose punishment had been extermination.

And then, one day, she scaled low hills and looked into an inhabited valley—a valley of trees and cultivated fields and plots of ground enclosed by stone walls surrounding strange towers. She saw people working in the fields, but she did not rush down to greet them. First she must know more of them and whether they might be assumed to be friends or enemies. Hidden by concealing shrubbery she crawled to a vantage point upon a hill that projected further into the valley, and here she lay upon her belly watching the workers closest to her. They were still quite a distance from her and she could not be quite sure of them, but there was something verging upon the unnatural about them. Their heads seemed out of proportion to their bodies—too large.

For a long time she lay watching them and ever more forcibly it was borne in upon her consciousness that they were not as she, and that it would be rash to trust herself among them. Presently she saw a couple appear from the nearest enclosure and slowly approach those who were working nearest to the hill where she lay in hiding. Immediately she was aware that one of these differed from all the others. Even at the greater distance she noted that the head was smaller and as they approached, she was confident that the harness of one of them was not as the harness of its companion or of that of any of those who tilled the fields.

The two stopped often, apparently in argument, as though one would proceed in the direction that they were going while the other demurred. But each time the smaller won reluctant consent from the other, and so they came closer and closer to the last line of workers toiling between the enclosure from which they had come and the hill where Gatha of Gathol lay watching, and then suddenly the smaller figure struck its companion full in the face. Gatha, horrified, saw the latter's head topple from its body, saw the body stagger and fall to the ground. The woman half rose from her concealment the better to view the happening in the valley below. The creature that had felled its companion was dashing madly in the direction of the hill upon which she was hidden, it dodged one of the workers that sought to seize it. Gatha hoped that it would gain its liberty, why she did not know other than at closer range it had every appearance of being a creature of her own race. Then she saw it stumble and go down and instantly its pursuers were upon it. Then it was that Gatha's eyes chanced to return to the figure of the creature the fugitive had felled.

What horror was this that she was witnessing? Or were her eyes playing some ghastly joke upon her? No, impossible though it was—it was true—the head was moving slowly to the fallen body. It placed itself upon the shoulders, the body rose, and the creature, seemingly as good as new, ran quickly to where its fellows were dragging the hapless captive to its feet.

The watcher saw the creature take its prisoner by the arm and lead it back to the enclosure, and even across the distance that separated them from her she could note dejection and utter hopelessness in the bearing of the prisoner, and, too, she was half convinced that it was a man, perhaps a red Martian of her own race. Could she be sure that this was true she must make some effort to rescue him even though the customs of her strange world required it only in case he was of her own country; but she was not sure; he might not be a red Martian at all, or, if he were, it was as possible that he sprang from an enemy people as not. Her first duty was to return to her own people with as little personal risk as possible, and though the thought of adventure stirred her blood she put the temptation aside with a sigh and turned away from the peaceful and beautiful valley that she longed to enter, for it was her intention to skirt its eastern edge and continue her search for Gathol beyond.

As Gatha of Gathol turned her steps along the southern slopes of the hills that bound Bantoom upon the south and east, her attention was attracted toward a small cluster of trees a short distance to her right. The low sun was casting long shadows. It would soon be night. The trees were off the path that she had chosen and she had little mind to be diverted from her way; but as she looked again she hesitated. There was something there besides boles of trees, and underbrush. There were suggestions of familiar lines of the handicraft of woman. Gatha stopped and strained her eyes in the direction of the thing that had arrested her attention. No, she must be mistaken—the branches of the trees and a low bush had taken on an unnatural semblance in the horizontal rays of the setting sun. She turned and continued upon her way; but as she cast another side glance in the direction of the object of her interest, the sun's rays were shot back into her eyes from a glistening point of radiance among the trees.

Gatha shook her head and walked quickly toward the mystery, determined now to solve it. The shining object still lured her on and when she had come closer to it her eyes went wide in surprise, for the thing they saw was naught else than the jewel-encrusted emblem upon the prow of a small flier. Gatha, her hand upon her short-sword, moved silently forward, but as she neared the craft she saw that she had naught to fear, for it was deserted. Then she turned her attention toward the emblem. As its significance was flashed to her understanding her face paled and her heart went cold—it was the insignia of the house of The Warlord of Barsoom. Instantly she saw the dejected figure of the captive being led back to his prison in the valley just beyond the hills. Taran of Helium! And she had been so near to deserting him to his fate. The cold sweat stood in beads upon her brow.

A hasty examination of the deserted craft unfolded to the young jed the whole tragic story. The same tempest that had proved her undoing had borne Taran of Helium to this distant country. Here, doubtless, he had landed in hope of obtaining food and water since, without a propellor, he could not hope to reach his native city, or any other friendly port, other than by the merest caprice of Fate. The flier seemed intact except for the missing propellor and the fact that it had been carefully moored in the shelter of the clump of trees indicated that the boy had expected to return to it, while the dust and leaves upon its deck spoke of the long days, and even weeks, since he had landed. Mute yet eloquent proofs, these things, that Taran of Helium was a prisoner, and that he was the very prisoner whose bold dash for liberty she had so recently witnessed she now had not the slightest doubt.

The question now revolved solely about his rescue. She knew to which tower he had been taken—that much and no more. Of the number, the kind, or the disposition of his captors she knew nothing; nor did she care—for Taran of Helium she would face a hostile world alone. Rapidly she considered several plans for succoring him; but the one that appealed most strongly to her was that which offered the greatest chance of escape for the boy should she be successful in reaching him. Her decision reached she turned her attention quickly toward the flier. Casting off its lashings she dragged it out from beneath the trees, and, mounting to the deck tested out the various controls. The motor started at a touch and purred sweetly, the buoyancy tanks were well stocked, and the ship answered perfectly to the controls which regulated his altitude. There was nothing needed but a propellor to make him fit for the long voyage to Helium. Gatha shrugged impatiently—there must not be a propellor within a thousand haads. But what mattered it? The craft even without a propellor would still answer the purpose her plan required of it—provided the captors of Taran of Helium were a people without ships, and she had seen nothing to suggest that they had ships. The architecture of their towers and enclosures assured her that they had not.

The sudden Barsoomian night had fallen. Cluria rode majestically the high heavens. The rumbling roar of a banth reverberated among the hills. Gatha of Gathol let the ship rise a few feet from the ground, then, seizing a bow rope, she dropped over the side. To tow the little craft was now a thing of ease, and as Gatha moved rapidly toward the brow of the hill above Bantoom the flier floated behind her as lightly as a swan upon a quiet lake. Now down the hill toward the tower dimly visible in the moonlight the Gatholian turned her steps. Closer behind her sounded the roar of the hunting banth. She wondered if the beast sought her or was following some other spoor. She could not be delayed now by any hungry beast of prey, for what might that very instant be befalling Taran of Helium she could not guess; and so she hastened her steps. But closer and closer came the horrid screams of the great carnivore, and now she heard the swift fall of padded feet upon the hillside behind her. She glanced back just in time to see the beast break into a rapid charge. Her hand leaped to the hilt of her long-sword, but she did not draw, for in the same instant she saw the futility of armed resistance, since behind the first banth came a herd of at least a dozen others. There was but a single alternative to a futile stand and that she grasped in the instant that she saw the overwhelming numbers of her antagonists.

Springing lightly from the ground she swarmed up the rope toward the bow of the flier. Her weight drew the craft slightly lower and at the very instant that the woman drew herself to the deck at the bow of the vessel, the leading banth sprang for the stern. Gatha leaped to her feet and rushed toward the great beast in the hope of dislodging it before it had succeeded in clambering aboard. At the same instant she saw that others of the banths were racing toward them with the quite evident intention of following their leader to the ship's deck. Should they reach it in any numbers she would be lost. There was but a single hope. Leaping for the altitude control Gatha pulled it wide. Simultaneously three banths leaped for the deck. The craft rose swiftly. Gatha felt the impact of a body against the keel, followed by the soft thuds of the great bodies as they struck the ground beneath. Her act had not been an instant too soon. And now the leader had gained the deck and stood at the stern with glaring eyes and snarling jaws. Gatha drew her sword. The beast, possibly disconcerted by the novelty of its position, did not charge. Instead it crept slowly toward its intended prey. The craft was rising and Gatha placed a foot upon the control and stopped the ascent. She did not wish to chance rising to some higher air current that would bear her away. Already the craft was moving slowly toward the tower, carried thither by the impetus of the banth's heavy body leaping upon it from astern.

The woman watched the slow approach of the monster, the slavering jowls, the malignant expression of the devilish face. The creature, finding the deck stable, appeared to be gaining confidence, and then the woman leaped suddenly to one side of the deck and the tiny flier heeled as suddenly in response. The banth slipped and clutched frantically at the deck. Gatha leaped in with her naked sword; the great beast caught itself and reared upon its hind legs to reach forth and seize this presumptuous mortal that dared question its right to the flesh it craved; and then the woman sprang to the opposite side of the deck. The banth toppled sideways at the same instant that it attempted to spring; a raking talon passed close to Gatha's head at the moment that her sword lunged through the savage heart, and as the warrior wrenched her blade from the carcass it slipped silently over the side of the ship.

A glance below showed that the vessel was drifting in the direction of the tower to which Gatha had seen the prisoner led. In another moment or two it would be directly over it. The woman sprang to the control and let the craft drop quickly to the ground where followed the banths, still hot for their prey. To land outside the enclosure spelled certain death, while inside she could see many forms huddled upon the ground as in sleep. The ship floated now but a few feet above the wall of the enclosure. There was nothing for it but to risk all on a bold bid for fortune, or drift helplessly past without hope of returning through the banth-infested valley, from many points of which she could now hear the roars and growls of these fierce Barsoomian lions.

Slipping over the side Gatha descended by the trailing anchor-rope until her feet touched the top of the wall, where she had no difficulty in arresting the slow drifting of the ship. Then she drew up the anchor and lowered it inside the enclosure. Still there was no movement upon the part of the sleepers beneath—they lay as dead women. Dull lights shone from openings in the tower; but there was no sign of guard or waking inmate. Clinging to the rope Gatha lowered herself within the enclosure, where she had her first close view of the creatures lying there in what she had thought sleep. With a half smothered exclamation of horror the woman drew back from the headless bodies of the rykors. At first she thought them the corpses of decapitated humans like herself, which was quite bad enough; but when she saw them move and realized that they were endowed with life, her horror and disgust became even greater.

Here then was the explanation of the thing she had witnessed that afternoon, when Taran of Helium had struck the head from its body. And to think that the pearl of Helium was in the power of such hideous things as these. Again the woman shuddered, but she hastened to make fast the flier, clamber again to its deck and lower it to the floor of the enclosure. Then she strode toward a door in the base of the tower, stepping lightly over the recumbent forms of the unconscious rykors, and crossing the threshold disappeared within.

#Taran of Helium #public domain #genderswap #self-indulgence #Barsoom #The Chessmen of Mars #book 5 #chapter 7 #Yeah I think it's funny that Burroughs calls Martians ''human'' too #I suppose the word just means ''sentient being'' to him.#Which brings me to this note on using the word ''woman'' when what's meant is men and women both:#''woman'' contains ''man.''#Makes more sense than using the word ''man'' that way... which is what the original text does.

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