#had no idea what it even does now as it shambles along as a not-quite-dead corpse | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

spacestationdaedalus · 4 years ago

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post-canon JM but make them vigilante monster hunters

never seen a single episode but i think this might be the plot of supernatural? idk i bugged the server with this and now other ppl have to see it.

tw for general monster-related horror and descriptions of it, and very very mild injury

ao3 link here!

...

It's late. Again.

She sighs, rubbing at her eyes until starbursts dance in her vision. If her lab manager knew she was in here at god, is it already 3? in the morning, he would probably have a fit. But it's not her fault her work has been so. Uncooperative. Realistically, she could be doing some of this at home, but the lab computer already has everything she needs, and it's so much easier to focus here.

Well. Most of the time.

Her water bottle is still half full, but she decides a walk to the vending machine at the end of the hall would do her some good. She can stretch her legs and get some caffeine at the same time. Best of both worlds.

Right then, a sound cuts through the air. It's a dull roar, crescendoing to a peak that it maintains for a handful of seconds before fading away. As jumpy as she gets this late, she hardly bats an eye as she digs her wallet out of her backpack. It's a common sound to hear in the building, one that you get used to quickly once you spend some time here. The university has a wind tunnel it uses for classes, as well as research. She's seen it before, used it first hand - even down in the basement of the building, the roar of the compressed air tank when the valve is switched practically shakes the foundation. That's how you tell the first years apart from everyone else. They're the ones who jump when they hear it, looking around in confusion, and sometimes fear. But it doesn't take long for it to become background noise.

She's more concerned about the fact that it's so late. Some poor graduate student, down in the basement in the middle of the night running the tunnel instead of sleeping. Or doing literally anything else. Unfortunately, she can relate.

The door shuts with a weighty slam behind her. The silence of the building is even sharper after the echo of the wind, and she fights down the urge to shudder. The hall is long, dark - the university installed motion activated lights in most of the buildings a few years back, and the effect they create as she walks down the hall is surprisingly eerie. The fluorescents flicker on with the faintest clicks and hums as she walks below them, boots clicking against the tile floor. She's a fast walker, always had been - and the incessant sound of her footfalls in the quiet somehow puts her even more on edge.

The pale light from the vending machine reflects against the linoleum in a way that could be inviting. In theory. But it's really more off-putting than anything else, like the sickly glow of a motel sign off of the interstate, flickering a destitute "no vacancy" into the night. The selection is slim, but she punches in the code for an overpriced iced coffee that feels cool and familiar in her hand.

The scream of the wind tunnel comes and goes again, louder, now that she's outside the lab. She can't help the unease creeping down her spine in the wake of its silence. On one hand, it's a comfort to know at least one other person is in the building with her. But even then, the still quiet it leaves behind is always worse, and it sends the hair on the back of her head standing at attention.

It only gets worse as she walks, and she fights the urge to look over her shoulder. Everyone knows the feeling - when you're a kid, and you sneak into the kitchen in the dead of night to get a drink, only to sprint back up to your room as soon as you can because you're so, so sure something is coming for you.

And now that she's thinking about it, she can't not think about it, which is as futile as it is frustrating. She tries to force it down along with the beating of her heart, but the fear simmers beneath the surface like a pot on the stove, two seconds from boiling over. She's already more than halfway back, just a few more seconds and she can slam the lab door shut behind her and feel almost safe.

The roar of the tunnel, again. She can't help the jump, this time, on edge as she is. Strange, they don't usually run it so many times in so few minutes-

A thought comes to her then, without warning, the way they do when you realize you've forgotten something important. She remembers the conversation with striking clarity - Ajay, her roommate, working on a big research project. He needed to test his prototype in the wind tunnel, and he'd lamented to her over dinner the other day that a replacement part they needed downstairs wouldn't arrive until next week. Which sucked, because he has a deadline for a paper submission coming up and needed more data-

Most of this is useless. But she remembers, now, better than anything she ever has, that the wind tunnel hasn't been working all week. The lab is closed, would be until Wednesday, until the new part comes in.

The roaring shriek comes again, pounding against her eardrums in a way it never has before. Oppressive. Almost hungry. It's closer, it's louder.

It's behind her.

She turns. As she chokes on her own heartbeat and sinking dread, she turns.

And something is behind her.

Thin and wrong, inky black and too many limbs. A long torso with a long head attached, crooked on its neck. Gaping white sockets where eyes would, should, be. It has no mouth, and yet she knows with absolute certainty that it was making that sound. A mocking imitation of something so familiar.

And she knows, an anchor sinking into pitch black water, that it's going to kill her.

blood blood i need blood your blood your face you

It's in her head, a voice with no mouth to speak it. She opens her own mouth to scream, but it's useless to her. Nothing comes out, not even air. Maybe she can run, she has to run, has to get away. But she can't bring herself to turn even a sliver from the nightmare in front of her. A deep, primal fear convincing her that the second she can't see that thing is the second it will get her.

Maybe she can run, still, with her eyes on it. But one of her feet finds the other in her panic, and she falls to the floor. She thinks she feels a pain in her wrist, but it's dull and far away. Hardly a blip on the radar of fear fear oh my god what is that thing-

It's coming for her, all bending joints like limbs of a puppet, pulled by invisible strings, limping, creaking in unnatural steps and lunges. Its eyes never once leave her, glued to her in hungry determination. The roar comes again, but it's twisted and warped like scrap metal and just as jagged around the edges.

And then it stops. Not more than ten feet from her. Frozen. She doesn't breathe, she doesn't think she could if she wanted to.

"That's enough."

It's a man's voice, from behind her. She doesn't have it in her to turn around, to look away. But it doesn't matter. Whoever it is god she hopes it's a who and not a what steps up next to her, in front of her. It might not be accurate to say he's shielding her, but he's between her and it, and she doesn't feel relief, but she feels. Safer, somehow.

She's never seen him before. His hair is long, streaked with grey, half tied up in a bun at the back of his head. He's wearing a long dark coat over long dark pants, tucked into black combat boots. And that's really all she can see from the floor.

As he steps forward, the creature seems to recoil. It hisses, maybe, and then another sound follows. A sad remixing of its own imitating screech from before, not quite a howl but more of a cry. It sounds pained, almost, creaking and desperate. Limbs rear up, but amount to nothing. It's an uncoordinated movement as it falls back on something like haunches.

"I'm watching you, now. There's nowhere you can hide from me."

The man's voice sounds strange to her. There's a cracking, almost static quality to it. She has no idea what the man could possibly be doing, but it looks like it's working.

Until it isn't.

The thing writhes and shrieks again, louder. She can feel it down into her bones, scraping at her marrow, god she wants to throw up. The man in front of her staggers slightly. He mutters something like a curse under his breath, brings a hand to his head. The thing is moving again, shambling towards them. It looks weaker, shakier than before but no less threatening. No less horrifying. Maybe even more so, with the look of a sick, maimed animal as it staggers down the street.

She thinks she might be about to pass out with the sudden chill that overtakes her. But the fading of her vision never comes, and is that. Her breath? She can see it in the air in front of her, condensing like it does on cold winter mornings. With a blink she realizes there's a fog as well, come seemingly from nothing. It's thick and low-hanging, coating the floor of the hall and swirling upwards. It chills her exposed skin, goosebumps racing up and down her arms.

She assumes the thing must be doing this, a defense mechanism or something, but it's slower than before. Subdued. It's still making its way toward them, but it looks lost, like a fawn trying to walk on new legs.

Until another man comes from an adjoining hallway, and bashes its head in with a baseball bat.

It's a solid hit, and the thing goes down almost immediately. The man, the new one, gives another swing, and another, and a few more, for good measure. His bat is slick with something dark and oily. And then the thing is still.

It's quiet for a second, two, then-

"Excellent timing as always, dear." The staticy click of the first man's voice is gone. He sounds out of breath, even though he hardly moved.

The second man laughs, and the cold and the fog seems to fade with it. He's bigger than the first man, taller. He's wearing a bomber jacket over a nondescript t-shirt, fingerless gloves and jeans frayed at the edges. Like he just walked out of an action movie. Or a horror movie. With the thing laying at his feet, the second might be more fitting.

"That was cutting it a little close, Jon. We knew it was with the Stranger, that it could fight you off-"

"Yes, yes, thank you, Martin. That's what the bat is for, after all. The Lonely was probably a bit overkill, though."

"It's not overkill if we don't get ourselves maimed, Jon-"

The first man - Jon, apparently - turns to her then. His face is scarred, and dark shadows hang under oddly bright green eyes. But his gaze isn't unkind as he looks down at her.

"Sorry, are you alright? I was hoping we could take care of this when everyone was gone, but-" He laughs darkly. "Well, I was in university once, I should have known at least one student would still be here in the middle of the night, even on the weekend."

The man going by Martin walks over, as Jon extends a hand to help her up. She's lost all hope of her brain trying to process what's happening but step one can at least be get off the floor. But she can't even do that properly. The hand she raises is the same one she fell on, and the twinge from her wrist shoots up her arm almost immediately in a shout for attention.

It must show on her face too, because Jon makes a sound and then Martin's asking her, "Oh, are you hurt?"

"Uh, n-no, I mean…'s just, uh, my wrist. Kinda, fell on it funny." Her voice isn't exactly steady, but it's a far cry from where she was expecting it to be. At least she's orbiting the realm of comprehensible.

Martin crouches next to her. Up close she can see his face in more detail - his eyes are a slate grey, like the fog from before. But they're kind, wrinkled at the edges when he smiles softly at her. "Mind if I take a look?"

She's not exactly in a position to say no, so she gingerly holds her arm out. His hands are rough, calloused, but surprisingly gentle as they probe her wrist. She can't stop the trembling, now, completely unrelated to the pain.

"It's a sprain." Jon says, laced with certainty somewhere above her.

Martin sighs, long-suffering. "Thank you, Jon, I was getting to that."

"Just trying to help." She can't see him, but she can practically hear the cheeky smile tacked to the end of that sentence.

"As much as I hate saying it, he's right." Martin eyes her with something close to humor, like they're in on a joke together. He shrugs a backpack off of his shoulders, rummages through it with one hand. "I think we have some elastic bandages left for something like this…"

"Front pocket." Jon says again. He's moved closer to the thing, the corpse, it must be, now. He's turned away from her, and she can't see his face.

"Thank you, love."

"Of course."

"Um-" She cuts in suddenly, her nerves and panic getting the best of her. Martin looks up from her hand, and Jon turns back to glance at her.

"Sorry, uh, I just- what the fuck was that?"

"I'd tell you not to worry yourself over it, but I don't think that's much of an answer." Jon says, coming back towards them. He crouches down before he continues. "Let's just say this is...our day job."

"It is three in the morning, though."

"That would be the, colloquial use of the term, Martin."

"Just saying." With Martin in front of her she can actually see the cheeky grin, this time.

He uses the bandage to wrap her wrist. It smarts a bit, but the pressure helps. He's clearly adept enough to do this and talk at the same time, because he cuts in next. "We're here to make sure things like that-" he gestures with a nod of his head. "-don't hurt anyone."

Her mouth is full of sawdust. "W- what, like, monsters and shit?" She always did swear a lot when she was stressed.

"More or less."

"If it's any consolation," Jon says. "These things aren't exactly...common. You have to have a special kind of luck to run into something like this."

Yeah, luck.

He sighs, then. He looks tired. "I'm so sorry. If it means anything. This isn't the kind of thing you'll be able to just forget, or-"

"That's why we're here." Martin cuts in. He's finished with her wrist, neatly wrapped and held in place with little wire clips. "To try to stop stuff like this from happening, before it happens. Sorry we were late."

It's not a stretch to imagine what would have happened if they hadn't shown up even later, or not at all. But it's something she will try very, very hard not to think about.

She swallows. "I guess...thank you, then."

"Of course."

The adrenaline and sudden lack thereof leaves her with a jittery exhaustion deep in her core. But she has so many questions, how could she not-

A chill, and a rush of wind and waves hit her before she can get another word out. It's gone as quickly as it had come, so much so she thinks she imagined it. But suddenly, she's alone.

The men going by Jon and Martin and the misshapen corpse of that thing are gone. The hall is just as it had been before, dim lights and freshly polished tile. No sign of anything, or anyone. Except for her.

She knows with crushing certainty that it wasn't a dream. Couldn't be a dream. But she knows that's what people will tell her. So she says nothing. She says nothing, and hopes nothing ever leads her to cross paths with those two ever again.

#the magnus archives #tma #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #tma fics #my writing #wrote this at 4 in the morning and realized i actually vibed w it so here we are

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star-spangledstud · 4 years ago

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SAVE THE DAY

Pairing: Peter Parker x reader

Summary: Peter wants to quit being Spider-Man, but the reader needs saving.

Word Count: 3600-ish.

Warnings: mentions of violence/alcoholism and abuse/hostage situation. Angst with fluffy ending.

A/N: Let’s just pretend Peter didn’t turn into dust during IW. Also, this has a dark theme? I wrote this a while ago and figured I’d post it. It’s pretty bad, sorry.

Peter Parker is sick and tired of being Spider-Man.

Between hardly getting any sleep and his grades faltering miserably because of his nightly escapades, the fact that half of his friends died just three weeks ago doesn’t exactly help his case. He’s tired of putting on the suit, tired of scouring the streets in the dark of night, tired of waiting for crimes to happen when he really should be studying.

Peter lost some of the people he looked up to the most, and ever since he returned home, he hasn’t been able to stop feeling horrendously guilty over the fact that he wasn’t able to save them. He misses his friends, but mostly, he misses his coworkers, half of whom had disappeared into dust. What’s the point of being Spider-Man when you can’t even save the ones you hold dear to your heart?

Peter is seated behind his desk, black ink pen tightly gripped between his clammy fingers. His left palm is stuck under his chin, and his eyes, droopy and fluttery, shift between the clock hanging above the door towards the back of the classroom. His hazel orbs scan everything from the green linoleum floors to the yellow-stained ceiling with its flickering lights. Empty seats line the back walls, desks and chairs stacked on top of each other in a sick manner.

Desks that were once filled with students now sat empty to collect dust and termites. Most of the kids that vanished didn’t even know who Thanos was or what his intentions were. It isn’t fair, Peter thinks as he grips his pen and clenches his jaw. They didn’t deserve to die.

Several of Peter’s classes have been postponed until further notice due to the sudden lack of staff and student body. Of course, Mr. Brown hadn’t vanished, and so, Peter is sitting in his Tuesday morning math class with barely over a dozen other kids. Each one of them looks just as sad, confused and most of all defeated as Peter does, because most of them have lost multiple family members and friends in the blink of an eye without any hope of bringing them back.

James from physics has lost both his parents. Samantha from biology lost only one, but her grandparents as well. Francis from literature didn’t have parents even before the Snap, but lived with her aunt and uncle who both disappeared. The gist of it is clear; grief, hurt and anger surrounds the school like a thick, impenetrable blanket of fire from which nobody can escape and for a moment, Peter doesn’t know on which side of the Snap he’d rather be.

The seconds on the clock tick by agonizingly slowly. Mr. Brown knows nobody in his class gives a shit about potentially solving mathematical problems anymore, but life must go at the end of the day and until anyone has any better ideas, the only thing the school board knows to do is to keep teaching classes to whoever decides to show up. To be fair, even though it’s nothing like how it used to be, school remains the only constant in most of these kids’ lives.

Doubt continues to plague Peter’s cloudy mind as the day progresses. He’s already stuffed his suit in Ned’s locker - he wouldn’t be needing the space anymore anyway. The mere thought of his best friend vanishing into thin air made his fist curl and his eyebrows twitch in anger and every waking moment of his existence he hates himself for not being able to help him make it through the Snap. Then again, maybe it was for the best.

Being alive suddenly didn’t seem like such a great thing anymore with the world in complete shambles.

After class is over, most of the students slowly drag their feet towards the library or the cafeteria. With so many postponed classes, study hours are given left and right until the board has time to conjure a new schedule. Peter slings his backpack over his shoulder and, while dragging his feet to the library, absentmindedly reaches his phone from his back pocket. The latest iPhone he was given by Tony now feels alien in his hand, especially since half of his contacts don’t exist anymore. The Snap chat streak he used to have with Ned died weeks ago, and the last message Peter sent him still sits in Ned’s inbox marked as ‘unread’. Peter grips the device and bites his lip. He has to stop himself from throwing it out of the window all together. Looking at it has become unbearable.

Just as he’s about to shove it back deep inside his pocket, it vibrates. He thinks it’s just his imagination at first, but when his hand shakes for the second time, he lifts up the phone with the thumping of his heart.

It’s you, your name displayed as the caller ID across the screen, followed by blue and red heart emojis. You picked those out yourself.

“What’s up?” he asks after picking up, “where are you? You have no idea how boring math is without you.”

When the line momentarily remains silent on your end, Peter shrugs. You’ve pocket-dialed him before so it doesn’t immediately strike him as odd, and when he calls your name and doesn’t receive a response, he hangs up, finally able to place the phone in his pocket where he hopes it will remain forever.

But it doesn’t remain there forever, because less than a minute later, it rings again, once more flashing your name across the screen for his eyes to see. His groans, but picks up anyway as he stands in front of the library entrance.

“Y/N?” He asks, holding the device tightly to his ear just in case he can hear you in the distance.

“No,” you whisper finally, “he’s going to kill a bunch of people, P.”

Peter’s blood runs cold when the call is ended once again. He wastes no time sprinting towards Ned’s old locker and holds his breath when he dashes through the empty hallways. Before he gets there, he calls you back. You don’t answer.

Peter sneaks the costume into his backpack and changes into it in the empty bathroom near the physics lab. He stuffs his backpack inside the air vent and dials your number again. With his phone stuck tightly against his ear, he jumps out of the window.

You are one of the only people Peter still has left and vice versa. The two of you have been friends for ages, sharing nearly every class and you, him and Ned always sit together for lunch. The three of you would hang out together after school as well; you saw movies together and played video games on the weekends. You texted each other constantly.

The Snap wiped out nearly your entire family. Your mother, little brother and both of your grandparents and your aunt and uncle on both sides. You were left with nobody but your step-father.

Peter knows the two of you don’t get along. The man drinks too much, stays out too late even during the week and sometimes, he doesn’t even come home for days. Your mother always welcomed him back with open arms and chose to ignore the empty bottles of vodka and whiskey in the trash. She ignored the perfume on his clothes and his behavior towards you and stayed with him, a man so unstable he couldn’t hold jobs longer than a few months at a time. Her blindness to his shenanigans always angered Peter, because the relationship between your mother and step-father affected you in more ways than you cared to admit.

He knows you wish it was him who died instead of your mom and frankly, Peter wishes the same. He never liked the guy.

Peter is extremely worried about you, because he knows the drinking has doubled since your mom died. You’ve been skipping school to take care of the household and you know very well how Peter feels about your step-father’s lack of participation in and around the home. He started taking you away from your house whenever he could find the time and you’d even met Tony Stark the first time Peter took you to the tower. It surprised Peter to see how well the two of you got along, but then again, computer science is your favorite subject in school so it’s something the two of you could bond over. Well, it used to be anyway, because the class got dropped after the teacher and eight of his students got lost in the Snap.

Peter’s heart rams against his rib cage when you finally answer the phone. In the background, he can hear people screaming and shouting.

“Y/N? Where the hell are you?” He asks, using his webs to sling himself from building to building to avoid being seen in broad daylight.

“Central bank,” you whisper under shaky breaths, “gun. Can’t talk.”

The line goes dead once again, and Peter immediately changes direction.

You knew something was wrong when Hank offered to drive you to school this morning, because he’d never volunteered to take you anywhere before and you doubted he would start now. The red rims around his dull, yellow eyes made you decline his proposal at first but he insisted, and in fear of getting hurt by a man nearly twice your size, you finally agreed to have him drive you to school. You weren’t in any kind of mood to argue with him, and you sure as hell didn’t want to provoke him. Besides, the drive would only take ten minutes, while walking took you nearly half an hour, so you couldn’t exactly complain.

It saddened you to see him like this. The two of you never really got along, but at least a small part of you hoped that the shared loss of your mom and little brother would bring you some type of twisted companionship, something dark to bond over. You wanted to ask him if Peter could stay over for dinner, but the dark sweat stains on his creme t-shirt and his iron grip on the wheel made you stay quiet.

Hank never liked talking when he had a hangover. Talking too much always made him angry, and you don’t like seeing him pissed off. Granted, the only times he’d physically hurt you were when he was so drunk he couldn’t even tell you his own name, but you still fear him even now, afraid that one day he might actually do something he can never take back. With this knowledge, you typically stick to avoiding him on mornings after he’s had too much to drink. Nowadays though, it’s all he does.

Even when he deviates from the usual route to your school, you bite your tongue in fear of pissing him off. Perhaps, you think, he’s forgotten the location of your school or maybe he’s too hungover to think straight and the entire time, you expect him to turn around. He doesn’t, but wen he finally does stop, he does so in front of Central Bank.

You finally dare to speak up, asking him quietly what the two of you are doing there and fully expect him to sneer at you, to spit out that he’s only going to withdrawal money from your mother’s account again so he can support his bad habits, but instead of answering, he leaves you in the car and reaches for the trunk.

“What are you doing?!” You ask fearfully when he rips open your door and grabs a fistful of your hair.

“Shut up and don’t make a sound, got it?”

He pulls your head towards the ground when he walks, so the only thing you can see is the beat up sneakers on his feet and the terrifying barrel of a semi-automatic weapon. There’s no security guard near the entrance, but you don’t have enough time to wonder where he might be, because Hank’s already crossed the threshold and he’s shouting like mad when you realize what the hell is going on.

"Everybody sit the fuck down on the ground or I'll kill every last of one you!"

Screams erupt from every corner, and as Hank angrily waves the gun around in an attempt to scare the customers and bank personnel, people left and right begin to duck behind chairs, desks and in booths. You can hear a baby crying somewhere nearby, and your palms are sweating and shaky when you curl them into fists. You’ve always known he’s crazy, but even for him, this is fucking insane.

"Hank, what the fuck are you doing?" You scream, feeling the pressure of his grip on your neck sting like a hot iron.

"Shut up, before I shut you up myself. Don't make a god damn sound, you hear me? That goes for all of you!"

The next hour is a complete blur. Shots are fired into cream-colored walls, demands are made on stolen cellphones and most of all, you and everybody else inside is scared shitless. Hank forces you to sit in of the empty chair behind counter three, the one where people come to apply for loans. He continues to keep the gun pointed mostly at you - the hostage he uses to negotiate his demands. You called Peter when his back was turned to you, but couldn’t speak at first out of pure terror of being seen or heard.

Outside, flashing red and blue lights draw near, and the sound of multiple helicopters rounding the perimeter nearly drowns out the sound of Hank’s screeching voice when one of the clerks makes an unexpected move. You’ve never seen him this angry and doubt you’ll ever see it again. Practically all bank transfers are conducted digitally nowadays, most banks using shares on the stock market to finance their customer’s savings accounts. Sure, there’s physical money inside, but none of the desk clerks have access to the vault where they keep the big bucks. How Hank didn’t realize this is a mystery to you.

You’re starting to realize time is running out when SWAT arrives with a hostage negotiator. Peter can feel his heart nearly exploding inside his chest when he thinks of you as he slings his way across the city. He’s never run faster across rooftops, but he doesn’t take a moment to breathe until he makes it there.

It doesn’t take him very long to sneak inside through one of the top floor’s open windows. Peter ignores the news camera’ that zoom in on him while he climbs inside, swallowing thickly at the knowledge that Tony’ll probably be pissed off later.

He jumps down the staircase, swinging from left to right and balancing on the barricades until he reaches the first floor of the old building. Directly beneath him, he can hear the commotion and when he finally finds an air vent in one of the break rooms, he uses his webs to fling himself up and inside. His phone vibrates again when he’s slowly crawling his way through the dusty vents, but he doesn’t answer, because he can see you sitting in your chair shaking like a leaf when he finally reaches one of the vents that lead to the main entrance.

He notices your step-father walking anxiously in circles, his eyes wildly darting across the entire ground floor to make sure nobody tried to take him down. He needs money now that his source of income has died and the amount of debt he finds himself in leads him to believe this is the only way to do it.

Peter quickly and quietly unscrews the roster that allows fresh air to distribute throughout the ground floor and silently moves it to the side.

Look up.

He quickly texts you, but doesn’t realize your phone might make a sound until he’s already pressed send. He releases a deep breath when you check the message, and begin to search around the ceiling with a worried frown on your face until your finally eyes land on him halfway hidden in the darkness.

You sigh inaudibly but tremble when the gun goes off three times and Hank begins to shout at a mother and her crying baby.

“I'm going to get you out," Peter mouths at you after pushing up his mask you you can see his lips.

He has to get the gun away from Hank, who is now pacing back and forth on the other side of the wall. With one swift motion, Peter drops down from the vent with his finger pushed against his mask to let the people know to keep quiet. He slides behind your chair and gives your hand a tight squeeze before disappearing just in time to see the barrel of the gun followed by Hank.

Sweat drips down the man’s face and back, veins popping angrily in his neck protruding from his temples. Outside, the hostage negotiator uses a megaphone to shout at him, but it’s as if nobody is paying attention to what he’s saying. You only have eyes for Peter, who’s crouched under one of the desks, his arms stretched out in front of him so he can get a good angle on Hank.

Before you get a chance to do as much as blink, silvery webs shoot out from Peter's wrists. They latch onto the cold metal of the firearm and begin to quickly retreat, pulling the weapon out of Hank's sweaty palms. He accidentally pulls the trigger when he struggles to hold on to the only thing that’s currently keeping him alive, firing four shots into the wall before the gun clashes to the ground and drags away from him.

His eyes bulge out of his head when he sees Spider Man, now standing on top of the desk. Peter yanks his arms back, flinging the weapon towards the security guard, who was sitting near the water cooler next to the staff room. The man doesn’t hesitate to pick it up and disarm it, emptying the magazine onto the ground until every last bullet falls to the ground with a clang. They bounce across the floor and roll under desks and at people's feet, away from the man who threatened to kill with them.

Within minutes, the entire place is surrounded by SWAT and cops, their guns aimed at the man who was willing to kill innocent people for his own benefit.

You can hardly get up from your chair when you feel something warm and smooth pressed up against your body. You instantly feel your knees buckling under you, but Peter uses his strength to keep you from falling. Reporters outside try their hardest to catch a glimpse of what’s going on inside the bank, but police officers hold them back as best they can, cutting off their view with all their might while the two of you hug.

Your entire body trembles and your heart feels like it was going to explode as you shivered in Peter's arms, holding onto the boy for what felt like dear life.

"Shh," he whispers in your ear, "It's okay. I got you."

You try to speak, to thank him for coming as quickly as he did, but nothing comes out except throaty stutters and shaky breaths. You’re hurting, even a blind man can see it.

“You came,” you manage, “he just lost it.”

“Of course I did silly,” he replies, “I couldn’t let you get hurt, could I?”

People all around you gasp audibly when Peter pulls off his mask, synapses doing jumping jacks when you come face to face with him in public. He’s never taken off the mask in front of people before, especially not in front of reporters, and out of all of the Avengers, his identity is the only one that up until now remained a secret. Peter isn’t thinking about what Tony might say or what Steve might think. He’s not concerned with the gaping expressions of journalists and cops alike, or with the newspapers that will have his face plastered on the front page tomorrow. He doesn’t care because grown attached to you.

The feeling had crept up on him slowly, and he hadn’t realized it until now, when the possibility of losing you for the second time in such a short amount of time finally managed to get it through his head.

“What are you doing?” You ask, eyes wide and pupils blown out.

“I want you to see me,” he says, “not the mask.”

“But-” you stammer, “your identity. They’ll know. Everyone will know.”

“I don’t care anymore,” Peter uses his thumb to caress your cheek, “let ‘em know that spider man’s just a kid from Queens. I’m sick of hiding.”

The small smile that plays on your rosy lips makes his heart skip a beat. He’s in love with you, has been for a while now, and Peter’s pretty sure the adrenaline surging in his veins is the reason for the sudden realization. He opens his mouth to speak and the words dangle on the tip of his tongue, but he remains silent when a police officer drapes a blanket over your shoulders and asks you if you require medical attention.

He’ll tell you, he reckons. When the time is right.

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ghostpeblewrite · 3 years ago

Text

Paradoxical - Chapter 7

~~~~~~

Toast is sitting in the living room, spacing out, when he feels the shift. The air in the room seems to get thicker with impending doom, the unsettling dread hitting him like an oncoming train. He sits up straighter, looking around.

He’s home alone. Spooker and Colon left a bit ago, and are yet to return. He hasn’t seen Ghost since yesterday, the thought of that alone wringing his heart out with sandpaper. The feeling doesn’t go away though, the dread.

A sound from the other room spurs him into motion. He walks slowly, grabbing his gun from the coffee table on his way. He doesn’t remember setting it there, but that’s where he found it.

He moves towards the room. Some part of his brain finds it unsettling, walking like he does on the job where there could be a dangerous entity around any corner, but in his own home, where he’s supposed to be safe. He brushes it off, approaching the door to the room quietly. He gets into position outside, hand on the handle. He counts himself down.

3…

2…

No time for 1, he turns the handle, bursting into the room with his gun up.

There’s no one there. The sound persists.

He takes a deep breath, slowly wandering further in, keeping his guard up. He knows better than to relax when you hear odd sounds. He quietly tracks down the source of the sound, tense the entire time.

Eventually, after poking around several things, he finds it. Buried in the corner with the other outdated equipment, is the wigglegraph. Toast stares in confusion, watching the little arm dance up and down, recording readings that should be impossible in this day and age. He doesn’t understand it.

He hears a noise outside the window. His head snaps in that direction, and he walks over.

What he sees is something that makes him question his sanity. That makes that sense of dread grip him tighter, preventing his breathing for a moment.

Outside his house, slowly shambling their way towards him, is a horde of undeads. It’s not a small one, either. There’s an impossible number of them out there, all shambling towards him. Slow and easy to pick off in small groups, but a large crowd like this can be devastating.

Toast panics. He can’t deal with this number of undeads on his own. So he does the only thing he knows will help him.

He runs for the control panel of the Emergency Security Systems, aptly named by Johnny Ghost. A few years ago, when Ghost was dealing with a lot of paranoia after a particularly bad job, he insisted that he and Toast put in a security system on the house. It took forever to set up, and later on Colon helped enchant it a bit more, but eventually it was made. It’s basically a giant forcefield that goes around the house, preventing any sort of paranormal entity from getting in. It’s the only thing Toast knows will help.

He rushes a bit in his panic to get to it, nearly falling on his ass as he turns a corner, but he does manage to get there in one piece. He fumbles with the controls, his palms already beginning to sweat. The many hours of Ghost forcing him to repeat the steps until he could do it perfectly several times over escape him for a brief moment. Muscle memory takes over, guiding his shaking hands through the steps.

The sound of the system coming to life, the green lights blaring, seem so distant. So far away. The sound is muffled as he falls to the floor, his hands pulling at his hair.

He has no idea how long it will hold, if it will at all.

He does know that if it fails, he’s dead. Toast is thankful for the umpteenth time in his life for Ghost. Sure, he can be a royal pain in the ass sometimes. He’s too stubborn for his own good, and sometimes he gets right on Toast’s nerves and makes Toast feel like pulling his own hair out, but he can also be genuinely wonderful at times.

Sometimes.

Those moments are rare, sure, but that just means they’re more special. They stick out more in Toast’s memory. He remembers fondly that time he and Ghost were younger, and Toast was walking across a room in an old second story when the floor gave out. Ghost freaked out so much, he didn’t stop to think what he was doing. Toast just remembers Ghost yelling his name and then both of them were lying on the splintered remains of the first story floor they just crashed through, the dust settling around them. Ghost had meant to pull Toast up, but had moved too quickly on the already weak wood, sending them both through it. Ghost started genuinely laughing at how absurd it all was, and the sound was one of the most beautiful ones Toast has ever heard. He rarely hears Ghost genuinely laugh, especially these days. Toast had laughed too, too caught up in Ghost’s laugh to worry about their wellbeing for a moment.

Toast flinches a bit as he hears the cries of the undead outside the barrier, upset they can’t get in. He covers his ears with his hands.

Another thing he appreciates Ghost for- His ability to distract Toast, even in the most painful or terrifying moments. Toast isn’t exactly the boldest of men. He finds it hard to talk to people, which is why he and Ghost work so well together. Ghost does all the talking.

Toast remembers one time when they were young adults, just starting out in the business, when he had broken his arm. It was his own fault, really, he wasn’t quite looking at where he was stepping in a particularly rickety house. Fell down a rather large hole that he later felt really stupid about missing. The pain was searing, but he can barely remember it now. All he remembers is Ghost running over to him, his face white with panic. As the two made their way back to Ghost’s old truck, Ghost would not stop talking. Not that Toast ever wanted him to.

He talked about anything and everything. Told Toast stories from his childhood- Though, Toast knew most of them already- and from the time they spent apart. Talked about people he’d met. Stupid things he’d done. He talked the whole way home, never running out of things to say. It helped Toast to forget the pain.

It’s one thing of many Ghost is good at. Talking endlessly, to the point that you could even forget your own pain, just clinging to every word he says.

Toast thinks it’s less about the subject of the stories, and more the way Ghost speaks. He speaks with a sort of importance, demanding your attention. He has a way of sounding like he knows exactly what he’s doing even when he hasn’t the slightest clue. He’s so sure of himself at all times. Toast wishes he knew how he did it. Especially when telling stories, the demand of attention always manages to have Toast holding onto every word he says, unable to tear his eyes away. Ghost could tell Toast the sky was green and Toast would just smile and nod along, unable to disagree simply because it was Ghost, and Ghost just knows how to talk.

Toast wishes Ghost were here right now, to talk to him. Help distract him from the horror outside. Not even Spooker and Colon are here.

He’s alone.

Endlessly alone.

~~~

“Well, that sucked,” Spooker sighs as they walk back to the car.

“It always works in cop shows!” Colon frowns, bummed out.

“Maybe we couldn’t see the records because we’re not cops?” Spooker suggests.

“Maybe, but still, I’m sure it’s gotta be a storage unit. A house just doesn’t sound right to me,” Colon says as he unlocks the car for them both, getting in.

“Maybe we should come back in cop uniforms?” Spooker shrugs, getting in as well.

“That’s illegal, Spooks,” Colon says with a smile, starting the car.

“It’s only illegal if you get caught,” Spooker reminds him, also smiling.

“True,” Colon nods, starting to drive.

The two continue to talk about nonsense on their way back to the house, only stopping when Colon doesn’t respond to Spooker’s last quip.

“Colon-?” Spooker asks as the car comes to a sudden halt.

“Spooks, look,” Colon says quietly, staring dead ahead. Spooker looks, his eyes widening in fear.

All down the road are undead. All around the HQ, too. They’re everywhere.

It’s an impossible number. The few closest to them turn towards the car lazily. Colon throws it in reverse.

“Colon- Wait!” Spooker yells as Colon turns, starting to get the fuck out of there. “What about Toast?!”

“Oh- Dang!” Colon puts the brakes on again, now a lot further. “Call him??”

Spooker nods, pulling his phone out, dialing up Toast.

Toast jumps at the sound of his phone ringing, yanking him out of his pleasant memories. He fishes it out of his pocket quietly. Upon seeing the name SPOOKER displayed, he picks up.

“Spooker?! Where are you, are you okay??” Toast asks. Without Ghost around, all Toast’s worry is being directed at other people.

“Yeah, I’m fine!” Spooker’s voice answers. “What about you??? There are… So many zombies!!”

“Yes, I’m aware,” Toast says, trying to put his calm persona back on. It’s hard though, considering the situation he’s in.

“They’re all down the street- It's terrifying!” Spooker re-emphasizes.

Toast sighs. “Spooker, please- Just- Get as far away as possible, okay? Go find help.”

“Help? We don’t need help, we’re PIE!” Spooker says proudly.

Toast wishes he had the same confidence. “Spooker, please. Go. Get. Help. Do you understand me?”

“Of course, Toast!” Spooker says.

“Great! Please do hurry though, I don’t know how long this will hold,” Toast says, allowing a tiny bit of worry to slip through.

“We will!” Spooker says, hanging up. He looks at Colon.

“So, what did he say?”

“Doesn’t matter, I have an idea on how to get in there,” Spooker says, smiling.

“What’s the plan?” Colon asks.

“Well- You know how in all those movies they act like zombies?” Spooker says.

The first part of the plan was pretty unpleasant. They had to smother themselves in unscenely things. To mask their ‘human smell’, Spooker said. ‘They always do it in the movies!’

Now smelling like literal garbage, they rough themselves up a bit in dirt and mud before slowly approaching the crowd. The undeads barely acknowledge them.

They continue moving through the crowd painfully slowly, doing their best not to disturb the undeads around them. One of them actually turns to look at them as they approach, but they just stop in their tracks until it turns back around.

It’s kind of eerie, all these undead just stood calmly around the HQ. Part of Spooker thinks they should be doing something at least, but he’s glad they’re not.

Eventually the pair make it to the barrier. They went around back, in case anyone was watching the front. They can be smart sometimes.

They reach the door, opening it and rushing inside. Once the door is closed behind them, they allow themselves to celebrate quietly. The house is dark.

Their celebration is cut short by the sound of someone cocking a shotgun.

“Turn around,” a very angry brit sounds. “Slowly.”

Spooker and Colon turn ever so slowly, shaken with fear.

When Toast sees their faces, his anger dissipates. It’s replaced with utter disbelief.

“Spooker?? Colon?” Toast says, pointing the shotgun down.

“Hi,” Spooker says quietly.

Toast is suddenly full of anger again. “Oh- God da- Can’t you two listen for ONCE in your lives?!?!? I told you to go get help!! Why do you NEVER listen?!!” He yells, his calm persona cracking a bit under the pressure.

Spooker shrinks a bit out of fear. Colon takes a step back. Toast never yells, unless it’s to be heard across a large distance.

“I… I thought we’d be stronger together…” Spooker says quietly, trying a small smile, “Y’know… PIE…” “Spooker-!” Toast yells, but then stops himself. He closes his eyes, balling his free hand into a tight fist. The anger seems to melt away, and he takes a deep breath. “Spooker. That’s… Sweet, honestly, it is, but I told you to get help. Now we’re just all stuck in here.”

“Oh…” Spooker says quietly. “I uhm… Didn’t think this through.”

“I didn’t think you did,” Toast mutters, turning away. “Go shower, you two smell horrid.”

Spooker looks at Colon, the two scampering off to the bathroom. ~~~ this is probably bad but ooh welll

#cw cursing #swearing tw #this is prolly shit tbh #but i aint fixen it #paradoxical story

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qobiin · 4 years ago

Text

(he doesn’t exist now) survived by his son

pairings: lan wangji & lan sizhui, background wangxian

genre: angst, fluff | canon-compliant, post-wei wuxian’s death

warnings: grief/mourning, canon-typical mentions of violence, lwj’s punishment, the inherent agony of living without the other half of your soul

a/n #1: this is for eri, the one who got me to watch cql in the first place. happy birthday, i hope today is amazing! have 9k of dad!lwj as a treat <3 title is taken from steven universe’s “drift away” btw (:

words: 9398

summary: When Wei Wuxian falls, Lan Wangji does not throw himself after him.

part one of always come back to you

When Wei Wuxian falls, Lan Wangji does not throw himself after him.

He has no idea why at the time.

His heart and will are in shambles. His grip on Bichen’s sheath is hard enough to turn his knuckles white. His ribbon burns against his forehead. He is unsure that he is even breathing, all his air having left him when he screamed the moment Wei Wuxian pulled away.

Still, he remains standing, horror engulfing him whole. Sect Leader Jiang is standing beside him, just as frozen as he is but he does not dare look at his soulmate’s brother. His soulmate’s murderer because Wei Wuxian only pulled out of Lan Wangji’s grasp after Sect Leader Jiang’s sword struck the cliff face. Sect Leader Jiang may have pulled the blow Lan Wangji knew was aimed for their arms, but it does not change the fact that Wei Wuxian let go.

Something urges him to not follow after Wei Wuxian and he is uncertain of what it could be at first. It feels familiar, like a sensation Lan Wangji should recognize but cannot remember anymore. Almost like the notes of a song Lan Wangji memorized when he was first starting on the guqin but is unable to pinpoint where he learned it from.

(Later, he will think it felt too much like a warm hand on his chest pushing him away from the edge, pushing him away from the place his heart broke for good.

All he knows for certain is that he also died the moment Wei Wuxian took his last breath.)

He drifts - for lack of a better word - after that. Lan Wangji only recalls Brother pulling him away from the cliff, from Nightless City and the many eyes of the cultivators he just clashed swords with. He returns to Cloud Recesses with Brother and secludes himself in the Jingshi.

For the first night, Lan Wangji does not sleep. When he closes his eyes, all he sees is Wei Wuxian letting go again.

He is unsure of how much time passes but at some point Brother comes to him with the news that the Lanling Jin Sect are going to lead a siege on the Burial Mounds. Wei Wuxian’s corpse had not been recovered after the battle at Nightless City and Jin Guangshan is still vying for the Stygian Tiger Amulet so their logical next step is to invade the resentful land where Wei Wuxian had tried in vain to start a family all on his own.

Lan Wangji leaves on foot after curfew but that is the last thing on his mind as his body moves almost against his will. For a while, it feels as if he is wandering without a purpose.

Confusion, pain, and grief wrack his frame every second of the day but there is still a familiar sensation tugging him along. Pulling him in a direction that he is certain he should recognize but can’t.

It is not until the sun rises above the horizon that he realizes where exactly his body is trying to go.

Yiling.

Lan Wangji rides his sword the rest of the way there.

It is not as quiet as Lan Wangji expected it to be.

That bothers him. A graveyard should only be filled with the sounds of the living giving tribute, but there is only the dead around him. The dead are quiet. The Burial Mounds aren’t.

He walks anyway, ignoring the pain in his body. The familiar sensation is tugging him along again. Lan Wangji is too tired to wonder about where it may be leading him because he gave up control as soon as it had gripped onto him. It pulls and he follows. It would not have led him here without a purpose, he is certain of that at least.

In the cave Wei Wuxian used to call his home, there is nothing left of him except his notes, hand-made furniture that will no longer see any use, and a dirty red ribbon Lan Wangji falls to his knees at the sight of. He loses himself in grief for who knows how long but soon realizes that his gasping breaths are not the only ones echoing around him. He stands, ribbon tied around his wrist, and walks desperately in search of the source of those raspy breaths.

He stops in front of a broken, hollow tree trunk not far from the entrance of the cave. Something is lying in it, barely hidden from view. For a moment, Lan Wangji ponders whether he will be stumbling upon the corpse of someone he should know but can’t quite recall. He only visited the Burial Mounds once while his soulmate was still alive, after all, and he had never learned everyone’s names.

Lan Wangji glances inside and knows now why it is not as quiet as it should in the Burial Mounds. Lan Wangji suddenly understands why he did not follow Wei Wuxian in death.

Wen Yuan lives.

Wei Wuxian’s son lives.

Their son lives.

Lan Wangji does not wish to, but he turns his back on Wen Yuan’s prone form and returns to the cave.

Cultivators are gathering there, all of them from different sects.

There is no Jiang purple among them. Lan Wangji counts that as the blessing it is meant to be. He does not wish to hurt those his soulmate cared so much for.

It does not stop him from confronting the crowd by himself. Jin Guangyao appears, telling him his uncle has arrived but Lan Wangji is unafraid.

He knows what he stands for and it is not this. It is not this inane scramble for power the rest of the cultivation world is allowing to cloud their minds and judgment. It is standing between the power-hungry and the weak, unwilling to move aside and let this madness continue.

Lan Wangji is late in his decision, much too late to make things up to Wei Wuxian, but Wen Yuan is alive. A piece of his soulmate’s heart lives on and Lan Wangji is not going to allow harm to befall that little boy anymore.

So he fights those from his own sect, raising his sword to block blows from disciples of all ages. The Sect Elders themselves have shown up for the occasion but Lan Wangji cuts them down as well. He fights until there is no one to fight anymore, staggering and using Bichen as a crutch while cultivators lay around him on the ground in various stages of unconsciousness.

Uncle had only stayed long enough to command their sect in subduing him and bringing him back to Cloud Recesses for punishment. Lan Wangji does not wish to be punished, not when he now knows he is being righteous, but he walks back to the tree trunk hiding Wen Yuan and decides he will take them both back.

Wen Yuan needs medical attention, needs Lan Wangji’s protection from the rest of the world. Lan Wangji needs to keep him safe.

Wen Yuan is hot to the touch but he fits easily hidden under the folds of Lan Wangji’s robes. His head lies against his chest, his hair tickling Lan Wangji’s skin even through two layers of cloth.

It isn’t uncomfortable in the way that certain fabrics tend to be for him. Lace and silk are two of the few fabrics Lan Wangji can stand to have wrapped around him in six layers of robes without feeling like he is about to crawl out of his skin. Wen Yuan’s hair is neither of those but having it against him does not do anything more than cause his veins to break into song and make his heart feel like it is going to beat right out of his chest trying to follow the melody racing in his blood.

(It feels like Wei Wuxian’s hair against his neck, Wei Wuxian’s teasing grin directed at him in the face of his newest prank. Like Wei Wuxian laid across his lap in the darkness of a cave, delirious with fever, and asking Lan Wangji to play some music. Feels like Wei Wuxian meeting his gaze under the heavy downpour of rain, telling Lan Wangji that if he believes the rest of the cultivation world as right then Wei Wuxian will do everything their way instead and Lan Wangji being unable to say anything while he watches his soulmate lead the Wen remnants away.)

Lan Wangji’s eyes itch but he ignores his tears, his pain, his grief. He focuses on holding Wen Yuan securely in his embrace as he rides his sword back to Cloud Recesses, finding the strength to dredge up more spiritual power than he thought he originally had.

He remembers the little boy with a thin, dirty face who burst into tears after he settled his weight on Lan Wangji’s foot. After Wen Yuan gripped his ankle, and then looked up at him with a confused look in his almond-shaped eyes. After those villagers mistook him as Wen Yuan’s father and criticized him loudly enough to evoke shame within him since Lan Wangji had no idea what to do with a crying child suddenly invading his space. After Wei Wuxian swept in like a long-awaited dream and cleared the area of onlookers. After Wei Wuxian picked up the child and smiled up at Lan Wangji as if his heart was not doing its utmost best to beat right out of his chest and into the hands of the man he loved most.

After the boy smiled up at him and called him Rich-gege when he bought him as many toys as he wanted. After he paid for a large meal that fed both him and Wei Wuxian because their collarbones were prominent enough to tell Lan Wangji all he needed to know about their financial situation and just looking at them caused his breath to stutter in his chest. And after Wei Wuxian up and left again, taking the child and Lan Wangji’s weak heart with him, only leaving Lan Wangji himself bereft and more confused than he had ever felt before.

(“The child.” Lan Wangji remembers asking when Wei Wuxian first pulled the boy from Lan Wangji’s leg.

“He’s mine. I birthed him,” Wei Wuxian had said half-jokingly and half not at the same time.

It was obvious that the boy was Wei Wuxian’s in everything but blood. That made him Lan Wangji’s by extension. Wei Wuxian had been the one to proclaim them soulmates, more than brave enough to speak the words Lan Wangji had been holding back for years by then. Even if they would never marry or become partners in the manner that Lan Wangji desperately wished for, Wei Wuxian still looked upon him and saw Lan Wangji for who he really was.

When the time came for Wei Wuxian to have children, Lan Wangji would treat them well and spoil them in Wei Wuxian’s steed. Something he was more than able to do when he met Wen Yuan, Wei Wuxian’s son.

After all, any child of Wei Wuxian’s was also a child of Lan Wangji as well.)

When Lan Wangji first reached into the tree trunk and pulled him out, Wen Yuan’s face was still dirty, thinner than before, and flushed bright red. His little body was swathed in what Lan Wangji could only call rags and he shivered even as he sweated.

Wen Yuan still feels feverishly hot against Lan Wangji’s chest but he pushes down his panic and rides. He does not stop until he has reached the entrance of Cloud Recesses and walks briskly towards the closest healer he can find.

There he watches as Wen Yuan is washed up, dressed in a clean white robe, and given enough medicine to help ease him into a peaceful sleep. Lan Wangji’s arm pulses where his wound has reopened but his pain can wait, ensuring that the child is well and can be healed is more important. Only once Wen Yuan’s breathing has returned to normal does Lan Wangji seek out Uncle.

Fortunately, he finds Brother with their uncle in the Jingshi. They have been expecting him and finding them together makes this next part easier.

He sidesteps their questions of what he had been doing at the Burial Mounds and inhales deeply before he says, “I accept punishment. I brought a child. He is my son and innocent.”

Uncle looks like he is going to explode at the seams, fury and worry shadowing every plane of his face. Lan Wangji grips onto Bichen’s sheath, the familiar pattern and texture calming him.

It would be easy to claim the boy as his ward and adoptive son at best, but Lan Wangji needs to hide Wen Yuan’s origins or the last piece of his soulmate’s heart will be destroyed as violently as the rest of Wei Wuxian was. Lan Wangji will allow no harm to come to their son. If all that is required to keep Wen Yuan safe is the last of Lan Wangji’s credibility to be thrown away, then Lan Wangji is prepared to claim him as his bastard son.

“His name is Lan Yuan and he is ill. I will return to his bedside and await word of my punishment.” Lan Wangji bows to both men present and leaves as quickly as he appeared, not waiting to listen to whatever protests they may have.

Wen Yuan is still asleep when Lan Wangji returns and asleep still when Lan Wangji receives his punishment. Brother stays with Wen Yuan while the punishment is dealt out. Lan Wangji did not wish to leave his son alone but knowing that Brother is with him eases him.

Brother cannot interfere with his punishment after his initial attempts were drowned under the maliciousness of the Sect Elders and Uncle’s unmoving gaze. Brother would lose a lot more than just face within the Gusu Lan Sect if he denied Lan Wangji punishment altogether. As Sect Leader, Brother must be fair and unbiased, even when confronted with familial matters. Lan Wangji refuses to be the reason his brother loses all credibility in the cultivation world. Whatever others want to say or do to Lan Wangji is his business alone.

The pain of the whip is welcoming to him. Uncle appears furious throughout it all, but even through the haze, Lan Wangji knows it is not just him Uncle is angry with. Both the whip and Uncle’s disappointment are excruciating to bear and yet Lan Wangji does not find himself regretting his actions.

He knew what would happen at Nightless City when he decided he would protect Wei Wuxian despite how out of favor he was with the rest of the cultivation world. When he fought any cultivator that decided they wanted to harm Wei Wuxian. Lan Wangji thought Wei Wuxian was finally going to be safe. He believed himself capable of protecting what little remained of his soulmate’s efforts. Even after he failed in protecting Wei Wuxian, he found Wen Yuan and fought his own sect to keep this last speck of his soulmate’s presence safe. Despite the chaos, the grief, and the complete ruin of Wei Wuxian’s reputation, Lan Wangji knew whose side he would be on when push finally came to shove. He has known ever since he was first confronted with that mischievous smile at age fifteen.

He had hoped that Wei Wuxian was aware of this as well but now he will never know for certain.

When the punishment is over, Brother is summoned and between him and Uncle, Lan Wangji finds himself being dragged first to the Cold Springs then back to the Jingshi between them, their gaits and grips unsteady alike. They dress his wounds as best as they can and stay with him the entire first night. Lan Wangji lies face down on his bed, sleep evading him for a long, long time while Brother and Uncle sleep propped against his bed frame and table respectfully.

Lan Wangji withdraws from the eyes of the rest of the sect as he starts the slow healing process the healers are being forbidden from helping him with. His silence, which used to be something he took solace in, only grows as the days slowly tick by with Brother and Uncle by his side during the day. Only in the dark of night does he allow himself to hope in vain for a familiar, obnoxious voice to draw his attention away from the pain covering the expanse of his back and nestled deep within his heart.

Nothing comes except a heavy grief Lan Wangji is not prepared to handle.

Moments before Wen Yuan wakes four days later, Lan Xichen adds him to the clan registry and proclaims him as Lan Yuan, Lan Wangji’s son.

Lan Wangji is joyous even as his chest burns with the new Wen brand marring his skin and his mind struggles not to crumble under the guilt of what he revealed to his Brother the night before when he was intoxicated.

Lan Yuan doesn’t seem to notice either way as he begins to sob for his Xian-gege before his fever burns all his memories of a smiling man in black and red away.

Lan Yuan is a quiet child.

He is respectful, intelligent, and curious. He smiles more often than Lan Wangji does, but less often than Lan Wangji had expected. He does not remember anything from the time before he came to live at Cloud Recesses, only that he was hungry often and had met Lan Wangji once.

He studies diligently and accepts any praise or criticism his peers and teachers give to him. He becomes close friends with Lan Jingyi and develops a mischievous streak that none of the teachers could ever possibly trace back to Lan Yuan. Lan Wangji finds he isn’t concerned about this in the least. His son is still a child and children are allowed to have mindless fun now and again.

When Lan Yuan calls him Father for the first time, it is seven months after he has been brought to Cloud Recesses. Nevertheless, Lan Wangji feels that same sensation that led him to his son stroke the dying embers in his heart until a new flame of fierce parental love begins to burn within him. He holds his son close and cries freely. Lan Wangji is not ashamed of loving his son so severely that being called Father for the first time brings him to tears.

It is an honor to be Lan Yuan’s father.

Despite that, whispered rumors begin to reach his ears in seclusion.

At the next Discussion Conference that just so happens to be held by the Gusu Lan Sect, Lan Wangji comes out of seclusion briefly. Brother helps prop him up at various tables and leads him from event to event with the ever-present eyes of the cultivation world trailing after them. It is incredibly painful to do even this much, but Lan Wangji perseveres. He is the same stoic and cold Hanguang-Jun that he has always been but that does not seem to stop Sect Leader Jiang from glaring at him.

He says nothing to Lan Wangji, but when a fussy Jin Rulan is handed to him as they are overseeing the archery competition, Sect Leader Jiang’s glare increases in intensity. It only becomes worse when the caretaker in charge of Lan Yuan for the day appears by Lan Wangji’s side with his teary son close behind her. She quickly explains that Lan Yuan would not stop crying for him and, not knowing what to do, brought him there in the hopes that Lan Wangji would be able to calm him down. Lan Wangji gives her his thanks and nods his head as she excuses herself, holding Lan Yuan close as the boy quiets. He falls asleep not long after that in Lan Wangji’s lap, tired now that he has finished crying himself out.

Lan Wangji ignores all the eyes trained on him and merely brushes his son’s hair back absentmindedly as he looks to the archers once more. Sect Leader Jiang scoffs not far from him and Lan Wangji spares him a glance to see the annoyance and rage clear as day on his face before ignoring him for the rest of the Discussion Conference.

What Lan Wangji knows from that moment onwards is that no one would have the gall to openly say what they mean when he is near, yet still, he listens closely when he can.

They speak of Lan Yuan’s already apparent beauty and intelligence. They speak of his polite manners and soft-spoken words. They speak of how quickly he developed his golden core and how unsurprising this news was considering who his father is. They speak of his parentage and wonder who his mother could be and how beautiful she must have been to have such an attractive child with Hanguang-jun.

(They always wonder why Lan Wangji never married Lan Yuan’s other parent back when they were still alive.)

No one ever learns of Lan Yuan’s true origins in any case so Lan Wangji allows the rumors and speculations. He does, however, make a point of asking Brother to hand out mild punishments to those who have not learned how to keep their heads and voices low when he is home.

After all, gossiping is not permitted in Cloud Recesses.

A year after Lan Yuan’s arrival in Cloud Recesses, Brother becomes his Uncle.

“A-Yuan, if you continue to practice diligently with the guqin, perhaps we can acquire one for your own personal use?” Brother asks in a somewhat offhand manner that tells Lan Wangji enough of the plans his brother already has in mind for Lan Yuan’s future guqin.

Lan Yuan has been learning how to play using Wangji under the tutelage of Lan Qiren, Lan Xichen, and Lan Wangji. Many of the caretakers that watch over the younger children during the day praise him and mention his talent in passing with their Sect Leader seeing as Lan Yuan’s father is still in seclusion. Lan Wangji doesn’t mind hearing this from his brother. He is rather relieved to not have to think about the rest of the Gusu Lan Sect at the moment.

Teaching his son music and healing slowly is enough.

Raising his hands from the strings, the last notes still hanging in the air, Lan Yuan nods and smiles amiably up at Brother in response to his question.

“Yes, Uncle,” he chimes, his young, bright voice giving nothing away.

Lan Wangji politely averts his gaze when Brother begins to cry but offers him a handkerchief and presses his arm against his, silently showing him support as he has always done since they were children. He wants to do more but he is still healing and does not know how to go about it properly so he decides that this will have to be enough instead.

Lan Yuan simply stares between them, his smile falling under the weight of his confusion until his lips curve upwards again and he asks if they can go visit the rabbits.

Brother takes him every day for two and a half weeks after that.

Two years after Lan Wangji brings his son home, Lan Yuan calls Uncle his Grandfather because that is what he is and always will be.

Maybe Uncle has never been Lan Wangji’s father by blood or name, but Lan Wangji has been under the impression for a very long time that no one has to say what is already known. Lan Qiren is not the parent his nephews needed as children, but he is the parent they had and he always did his best by them. Though strict and stubborn, he taught and raised them to the best of his abilities.

Uncle oversaw his punishment but Uncle was also the one to stamp out any complaints the Sect Elders had about Lan Wangji claiming a bastard son. Uncle was the one who ordered their sect to contain Lan Wangji and Uncle was the one who demanded alongside the Sect Elders that he be punished. Uncle dressed his wounds and changed his bandages afterward, held Lan Wangji up and helped him go where he needed to go as he healed. And Uncle was the first one to arrange Lan Yuan’s fingers over the strings of a guqin.

Most would consider Uncle cruel for less than half of the things he has done to Lan Wangji in particular and Lan Wangji does, in a sense, think the same. However, Lan Wangji still considers Uncle as the father he was never allowed to meet.

Parents are not perfect and Lan Qiren is no exception to this rule, no matter how hard he tried to emulate it for himself and for Lan Wangji and his brother when they were children. Lan Wangji knows this to be true after two years of fatherhood himself.

In the beginning, Uncle did not approve of Lan Wangji’s sudden fatherhood and knew without a doubt that Lan Yuan was not biologically his. He shared this knowledge with no one though, not even Lan Yuan himself. Lan Wangji does not know if he has truly forgiven Uncle but he does know he need not worry himself about Uncle’s behavior around Lan Yuan. After all, Lan Wangji can very well see how his son softens his uncle’s heart with the mere appearance of his smile and quiet laugh.

By blood or not, Lan Yuan is Uncle’s grandson just as Lan Wangji and Brother are Uncle’s sons.

So when Lan Yuan says, “Yes, Grandfather,” Lan Wangji is not surprised.

Uncle sniffs in mock disdain, still caught up in the apparent scolding he was giving before about Lan Yuan climbing into Lan Wangji’s lap. After a moment, he realizes what Lan Yuan has said and immediately, his eyes water. Uncle cups Lan Yuan’s face gently, smiling in such a way that Lan Wangji thought was lost.

He remembers that the last time he saw that smile, he was still the child that crawled into his older brother’s bed at night to sleep comfortably beside someone who would never leave him as their mother had left them. Now he is a man with a son and scars on his body, heart, and soul for the love he lost.

It is good to see Uncle smile again.

“Stop worrying your Grandfather so much, A-Yuan. Be a good boy for your Father, Uncle, and I,” Uncle tells Lan Wangji’s son.

Lan Yuan hums and nods, smiling a grin that always knocks the breath out of Lan Wangji’s lungs when he catches a glimpse of it. Both Brother and Uncle see it but only Brother looks to Lan Wangji in sympathy as he reaches out to grasp his shoulder briefly before letting go again.

Despite the near-constant ache in his heart and soul, Lan Wangji is glad to know that those who matter are also able to see Lan Yuan’s other father in him as well.

And if later Lan Wangji realizes Lan Yuan pulled the Grandfather card simply to distract Uncle from continuing his lecture, he holds that knowledge close to his chest. Lan Yuan is his father’s son after all.

Both of them.

When the third anniversary of Lan Yuan’s appearance in Cloud Recesses is approaching, the Sect Elders pull Lan Wangji into a meeting where they ask for permission to raise Lan Yuan for him instead so he can become a “proper” Sect Heir.

Lan Wangji says no and storms out of the meeting he recognizes as another form of punishment from the Sect Elders without listening to whatever other nonsense they want to ply him with.

They do not take the hint.

What ensues is a month-long battle of wills that leaves Lan Wangji angrier and more smug each time the Sect Elders attempt to speak with him. They argue that Lan Wangji is still healing and need not concern himself with child-rearing on top of his injuries. Lan Wangji levels them with a flat look, pointedly not mentioning who gave Lan Wangji his injuries, to begin with. Brother claims their concerns are unnecessary and rather late considering how long Lan Yuan has been with Lan Wangji at Cloud Recesses already and how Lan Wangji’s injuries are mostly healed by now anyway. The Sect Elders step around their Sect Leader’s arguments with condescending ease, however, something that Lan Wangji detests to his very core.

They also claim that his grief is affecting Lan Yuan’s development. That his son could flourish under their care with no sadness for a mother he will never meet shadowing him at all hours of the day. Lan Wangji’s brows twitch at their implications, silently daring anyone to say what they actually mean before he refuses once again and strides away. Only Brother stays behind to offer the niceties Lan Wangji is certain none of the Sect Elders rightfully deserve anymore.

It does nothing to stop them from calling Lan Yuan nothing but a bastard child that could ruin their sect if he continues to remain under Lan Wangji’s care the next day. A child born out of wedlock that Lan Wangji was too ashamed to claim until he had no other choice. An unwanted child whose only redeemable qualities are the strength of his golden core, his already apparent cold beauty, and the sharp intelligence he must have inherited from Lan Wangji instead of his beggar of a mother.

Lan Wangji nearly draws Bichen, his fury so great that he regrets not hurting more of the Sect Elders, not standing by Wei Wuxian’s side, and following him until the bitter end so he would not have to deal with any of this when he had the chance.

But then he thinks of Lan Yuan, of his bright smile, and his twinkling eyes. Thinks of what would have happened to his son if Lan Wangji had not found him and pushes down the incessant ache to be with his soulmate deep down under again.

By the time Lan Wangji has released the hold he has on the hilt of his sword, Brother stands defiantly in the middle of the hall with a vivid look of disgust on his face. He loudly and firmly proclaims that as Sect Leader, they have no authority to overrule his decision of allowing Lan Yuan to remain with his father. Familial matters such as these fall under his domain, even when concerning the Sect Heir as written in their principles. That they have broken many of the rules they adhere so much to in their persistence to remove Lan Yuan from his family. That they have disgraced both the Clan and the Gusu Lan Sect as a whole.

Whatever Brother says after that, Lan Wangji does not know because he leaves as soon as his brother has begun to speak and goes in search of his son. He finds Lan Yuan with the rabbits, burying Lan Jingyi under their fur in the same way that Lan Wangji often does to him when they come by themselves. Uncle is standing nearby, watching the children play and trying not to show his displeasure over the mere presence of the animals since they remain here in the back slopes of Cloud Recesses due to nothing but a technicality.

Lan Wangji’s stride does not falter as he approaches his son and picks him up in his arms, holding him carefully to his chest. He buries his face in Lan Yuan’s hair to ignore the questions Uncle throws at him and the startled yelp Lan Jingyi makes once he notices Lan Wangji’s presence. He focuses on his breathing as the cloud ornament adorning Lan Yuan's forehead ribbon presses into the curve of his neck and his son's soft, natural scent of ash and snow invades his senses slowly.

He stands there for however long, holding his son tight and breathing him in as he wills himself to calm. He reassures himself that A-Yuan will not be going anywhere he doesn’t want to go and slowly comes back to himself. Lan Yuan, for his part, clutches the front of Lan Wangji’s robes and grips onto his father just as tightly without asking any questions.

They do not part from one another for the rest of the night. If Lan Yuan is not in his father's lap, then he is sitting close enough for Lan Wangji to keep a firm hand on his son no matter what they may be doing. During dinner, Lan Wangji takes their food in the Jingshi instead of the dining hall and plops Lan Yuan firmly in his lap as they eat quickly and quietly.

Lan Yuan does not complain once that entire night, only speaking to ask for things like a hug, his favorite lullaby, and Lan Wangji's fingers running through his hair. Lan Wangji sings to his son as he bathes him, firmly instructing Lan Yuan to change into his sleeping robes while he bathes quickly himself. Lan Yuan is sitting on the edge of Lan Wangji's bed when he returns, dressed in his sleeping robes and kicking his feet as he holds out a comb then turning around silently after Lan Wangji has taken it.

By the time nine rolls around, Lan Wangji has successfully braided his son's hair and brushed through his own before he lies them down to sleep. Lan Yuan usually sleeps in the daybed but for tonight, Lan Wangji holds him close to his chest and hums his lullaby to him again even as they both slip into the comfort of their dreams.

The day after, Lan Wangji remains within arm's distance of his son, secluding them in the Jingshi for the day. The itchy desperation he felt the day before has not completely made its way through his system but Lan Wangji is certain it will release its hold on him soon enough. Lan Yuan doesn't complain, even though he does stare at his father in wordless observation while looking much too serious for his young face that Lan Wangji anxiously reassures himself he is not turning his son into a copy of himself.

His son's smile is like the sun breaking through the last of the reluctant clouds that follow after a storm, his laugh so content that Lan Wangji feels inexplicably warm whenever he happens to hear it. Lan Yuan is happy. His son is by his side, safe and sound. The Sect Elders cannot take Lan Yuan from him. Brother and Uncle would never allow it and it is Brother's decision whether Lan Yuan continues to stay with him or not.

For the most part, Lan Wangji is certain that he has won this round with the Sect Elders until almost a month later when Lan Yuan asks to move out of the Jingshi and into the junior disciple dorms instead.

Lan Wangji hides his sadness as best as he can and allows his son to join the other disciples for the beginning of his more serious training, a multitude of feelings he cannot quite sparse through circling within him. Education is important. His son loves learning, he excels in all of his studies and he is happy. Lan Yuan is not leaving him. Lan Yuan is going to continue with his studies, strengthen his golden core, and grow up with Lan Jingyi by his side. Lan Jingyi would never allow Lan Yuan to be harmed. They are very close friends and Lan Wangji is glad that his son has someone who he can share whatever troubles he will not bring to Lan Wangji himself.

This is good. This is what is healthy for his son's development. Even if it hurts him, this is necessary for Lan Yuan to continue being happy as he grows up.

So Lan Wangji helps his son pack up a few of the belongings he wants to take with him, reassuring him that anything he leaves behind will be kept safe for him. That Lan Yuan can return to the Jingshi whenever he needs to. He escorts his son personally to the dorms, stopping at the door to kneel and pull his son in close for another hug.

Physical contact is still an issue for Lan Wangji but he made an effort for his son. Lan Yuan needed physical comfort when he first came to Cloud Recesses considering the fact that he was still recovering from his fever and malnutrition. Lan Wangji pushed his boundaries so he could hold his son close and rock him through his nightmares, imaging just how much better Wei Wuxian might have been at all of this until that hurt too much to think about. Now Lan Wangji has gotten so used to holding his son close that he tends to crave the simple intimacy of Lan Yuan’s small form curled against his chest more often than not.

Lan Yuan pulls back enough to kiss his forehead ribbon before he steps out of the embrace entirely. "I love you, Father."

Despite his mixed emotions, Lan Wangji smiles back at his son as well as he can manage to and leans forward to kiss his forehead ribbon in return. "I love you, A-Yuan."

After that, Lan Wangji spends most of his free time with Lan Yuan by burying his son under the soft fur of rabbits that Lan Yuan’s first father gifted to him as a teenager.

He cannot guess whether Lan Yuan now remembers the man in black and red that he used to call Xian-gege, but oftentimes Lan Wangji will see Wei Wuxian in the curve of Lan Yuan’s smile, in the sound of his laughter, in the steady grip of his sword. In the softness of his hair, the pout he rarely ever allows to grace his face when he is concentrating, the warmth in his eyes when he meets Lan Wangji’s gaze.

His grief has never left him and neither has his love for Lan Yuan’s first father but he hopes that he is doing well enough being Lan Yuan’s second father. He hopes that if Wei Wuxian were to ever come looking for his son, he would be proud of Lan Wangji for taking such good care of him and raising him as well as he ever could.

Lan Wangji had never originally planned to have children and he became certain of its improbability when he met Wei Wuxian. But then A-Yuan came into his life and the rest was decided from that point on.

It surprises no one when Lan Yuan’s courtesy name becomes Lan Sizhui.

Lan Wangji wonders if that says more about him than he has ever wanted to publicly share. After a brief stint of contemplation, he decides he does not care. He isn’t ashamed. He knows the Sect Elders are still looking for any excuse they can reasonably use to take Lan Wangji's parental rights over his son away from him. He also knows that others speak of how he behaves and looks as if he has lost a wife, how painful it must have been to lose Lan Sizhui’s mother so soon, how only his son has the power to draw him out of his heavy grief. They are wrong, of course, but they are also not.

Lan Wangji lost his soulmate, not a wife or his son’s mother.

At some point though, he ponders over what kind of impact his grief is having on Lan Sizhui.

“Do you want a mother, A-Yuan?” Lan Wangji asks one summer afternoon when Lan Sizhui is almost nine and they have just finished their noon meal in the Jingshi.

Lan Sizhui is of the mind that he is much too big to be called A-Yuan anymore but he allows Lan Wangji to call him that when they are alone. Lan Wangji uses it any time he can get away with it because his son’s first father would have and that is enough reason for him.

Lan Sizhui blinks up at him, confused. “I have a mother?”

“Yes,” Lan Wangji says because it is technically true, but then thinks better of it. “No, but you can if you want one.”

After all, Lan Wangji would set aside his vow of never marrying if it meant his son could know a mother’s love. He has never been interested in women before, especially not after he met Wei Wuxian, but he would marry one to give Lan Sizhui a mother.

He will always do whatever he has to for his son, even when it is difficult for him - especially when it is difficult for him. There are very few things Lan Wangji will not do for his son and marrying out of obligation isn't one of them.

“No. I have Father, I do not need a mother,” Lan Sizhui finally replies.

Lan Wangji smiles and reaches out to pat his son’s head, his veins burning with the force of his love and adoration when Lan Sizhui smiles back up at him. “A-Yuan is a good boy.”

Lan Sizhui leans into his touch, his smile growing until Lan Wangji feels like he is looking at a mirror image of his son’s first father in the brightness of his grin.

Lan Sizhui is eleven when he learns Inquiry on the guqin.

Lan Wangji listens to him play, correcting him when he strikes a wrong chord and does not allow his son to imbue any of the notes with spiritual power. He has played Inquiry a handful of times himself these past few years. No one has ever answered him before when he did.

Or to be simply put, Wei Wuxian has never answered him before.

Maybe Lan Sizhui honestly does not recall his Xian-gege anymore, but Lan Wangji isn't sure what he would do if Wei Wuxian were to ignore their son's questions as easily as he has ignored Lan Wangji's desperate and heartbroken ones.

No, simply playing the notes together like this is enough.

Some three years after that, Lan Wangji returns to the Jingshi after feeding the rabbits to find Lan Sizhui waiting for him on the steps.

Earlier that morning he had returned from another night hunt, his report already in Brother's hands by this point. He brought back a gift for Lan Sizhui, a new writing set since his current one was beginning to look worn and Lan Jingyi had told him that Lan Sizhui had mentioned wanting a new one. Lan Wangji had wanted to see his son immediately after arriving but Lan Sizhui was in the middle of his morning meditation at the time and would then have his lectures and sword training lessons to attend afterward. He was content with waiting until his son was free to give him his gift and kiss his forehead ribbon before returning to their regular schedules.

But as Lan Wangji approaches, he wishes he had gone to see his son earlier after all.

It takes him a moment to realize that Lan Sizhui is crying and has probably been crying for a while now if his swollen eyelids are anything to go by. The sight of this evidence alone is enough for anger to spark within Lan Wangji.

No one hurts his son.

"What happened." Lan Wangji demands, his voice searingly cold even as he tries in vain to keep it gentle for his son.

Lan Sizhui wipes the back of his hand under his eyes and stares down at his feet as he murmurs, "Hanguang-Jun."

Immediately, Lan Wangji freezes. Lan Sizhui calls him Father when they are alone or with family. He has never referred to Lan Wangji as Hanguang-Jun in private like this. His son has made it clear on multiple occasions that he heavily dislikes not being allowed to call him Father in public anymore. From time to time, he will slip up and then punish himself for it even though Lan Wangji would never try to enforce a punishment for Lan Sizhui calling him exactly what he is: his father.

Something must be terribly wrong.

"What happened." Lan Wangji repeats, even less gentle this time.

His son winces at his tone but continues to keep his gaze on his feet. Lan Wangji sighs under his breath and reaches down to pick up Lan Sizhui like he used to when he was much smaller. His son is substantially bigger at fourteen than he was as a toddler, but Lan Wangji barely acknowledges his weight while he stands back up. Lan Sizhui goes still in his embrace and remains stiff even when Lan Wangji walks into the Jingshi proper and sets his son down on the daybed he never got rid of after Lan Sizhui moved into the junior disciple dorms.

Lan Sizhui still has not met his gaze. Lan Wangji feels a terrible sensation grip his heart as his son stares dejectedly at the floor in a clear and complete silence that is too defined for Lan Wangji's taste.

"Tea?" Lan Wangji asks properly this time.

A tense moment passes before Lan Sizhui shakes his head.

"A-Yuan," Lan Wangji begins, pausing when Lan Sizhui winces. "Tell me what is wrong. Why are you crying?"

"I heard that you had returned this morning," Lan Sizhui says and it becomes Lan Wangji's turn to wince. His voice is hoarse, his pain undeniable. It hurts Lan Wangji something awful just listening to his son speak. "I was talking to Lan Jingyi about when I should come to see you and-"

Lan Wangji kneels in front of his son, his hands immediately finding Lan Sizhui's. "What happened, A-Yuan?"

Lan Sizhui winces again but attempts to speak anyway. "One of the Sect Elders... He said..."

Even though it feels as if a sword has run clear through him, Lan Wangji waits patiently for his son to continue. He has never been very patient, not exactly, but he learned how to be for Lan Sizhui. He learned a lot for the sake of his son.

"I think he thought we couldn't hear him, but he said... I-" Lan Sizhui tries again, cutting himself off with a hiccup.

Lan Wangji unfurls his son's clenched hands in his lap and looks directly into his face, relieved when Lan Sizhui finally meets his gaze. "A-Yuan."

Tears well up in the corners of his son's eyes, silently making their way down his face. The sight alone makes Lan Wangji lean in closer, holding his son's hands tight. Lan Sizhui's lips wobble, his expression on the verge of crumbling.

"You're not my father, are you?" Lan Sizhui asks, his voice as broken as Lan Wangji's heart feels.

Lan Wangji does not lie. He is incapable of lying directly. He can avoid and sidestep a question artfully, but he has never spoken an untruth. If people misunderstand his answers, that is through every fault of their own for not listening to the meaning behind his words.

"I am," Lan Wangji says simply.

If anything, this seems to make Lan Sizhui's tears increase in frequency. "No. You know what I mean. Please, tell me the truth."

Doesn't his son understand that Lan Wangji has already?

"I am your father," Lan Wangji repeats. "I am your father in everything but blood. You are my son. You are the boy I raised and love as my own because you are my own."

Lan Wangji is not good at speaking. Wei Wuxian was the one who rambled on and squeezed as many words as he could into a conversation. Wei Wuxian spoke as if he was running out of time and needed to say everything he had to say before his time was up. Lan Wangji still to this day does not know if Wei Wuxian somehow knew that he would die young, but regardless, Lan Wangji does his best to channel both what he means and what he says as he continues. Even if words are not one of his strengths, that won’t stop him from explaining everything to his son.

"Your birth parents had been dead for some time when I found you, but you were already mine, A-Yuan. I have never met either of them and yet I thank them both every day for bringing you into the world. You are not my son by blood, but you are my son in heart, soul, and everything else that truly matters. You are the shining light within your grandfather's eye and the warmth in your uncle's heart. And you are the single most important person in your father's life, A-Yuan," Lan Wangji confesses, feeling a weight he was previously unaware of lift from his shoulders as he speaks. "I love you, A-Yuan. I have always loved you. Your origins have never once conflicted with my love for you. You are my son and I will always be your father."

Lan Sizhui tips into his embrace as soon as he has finished speaking and sobs into his chest, no doubt rubbing tears and snot alike into Lan Wangji's robes. Lan Wangji doesn't mind. He kisses Lan Sizhui’s forehead ribbon and rocks him gently in his arms.

(Later, Brother will come into the Jingshi without knocking and will drop kisses across Lan Sizhui’s face. He will avoid Lan Sizhui’s forehead ribbon because only Lan Wangji has the right to touch it but Brother will silently and loudly reassure his son that he is the best nephew in the world and he loves him without fault as well. Lan Wangji will look upon this and smile in that way he only ever does with those he loves and kiss Lan Sizhui’s forehead again before Uncle sweeps into the Jingshi and joins their huddled forms right there on the floor.

But this will come later.)

For now, Lan Wangji simply holds his son close for as long as is needed and then some.

Lan Sizhui is almost sixteen when Brother orders Lan Wangji to take the junior disciples with him on his night hunt.

It is not the junior disciples’ first night hunt by far but it is their first night hunt with Hanguang-Jun. It is also Lan Wangji’s first night hunt with his son.

The night hunt is very simple. Some low-level corpses have been appearing in the woods around a small farming village not very far away from Caiyi Town. The corpses have been dragging unsuspecting villagers into the woods never to be seen again. A night hunt such as this should be relatively educating and safe enough to expose the junior disciples to.

Lan Wangji can understand why Brother wanted the disciples to accompany him, but it does nothing to dissuade the vague fear he holds for Lan Sizhui somehow being harmed.

He leads the way to the village on his sword, standing tall and stiff. Lan Sizhui is behind him to his right, Lan Jingyi mirroring his position on Lan Wangji’s left. The other juniors fan out behind them, expressions varying from excitement to deep concentration. Lan Sizhui appears calm, the corners of his mouth barely lifted upwards as they ride. Lan Jingyi is all smiles and laughter, joking around with Lan Sizhui and the other disciples alike.

(In a way, Lan Jingyi reminds Lan Wangji greatly of Wei Wuxian but now is not the time to focus on that.)

They arrive in the village quickly and discuss the situation with many of the villagers teeming about in what constitutes as their marketplace. Lan Wangji watches as Lan Sizhui suggests they make camp seeing as the village has no inn and none of the disciples object.

Cultivators from the Gusu Lan Sect are considered to be well-mannered and too overly polite to whine and complain as any other cultivator would. However, these are junior disciples and Lan Wangji knows how too often the young tend to forget themselves.

After all, Lan Wangji forgot himself and his place often enough once he met Wei Wuxian.

Still, the lack of protest surprises him but he does not allow it to show on his face. He quietly observes as Lan Sizhui and Lan Jingyi divide up the tasks between the disciples present and quickly have camp set up not too far into the woods where the villagers claim the corpses frequently emerge from.

By the end of the night, Lan Wangji is pleased to see his son and his son’s closest friend take charge and act as joint leaders while they successfully subdue the corpses.

It seems Lan Wangji has much to disclose in his report when they return to Cloud Recesses.

Lan Wangji fixes his son’s forehead ribbon and leans down to press a kiss on it.

“Remember to not wander,” Lan Wangji says as he pulls back.

Lan Sizhui’s face is flushed pink with mild embarrassment, less round than it was as a child but he is nineteen now and his smile is easy, remaining the same as it ever has been. “Yes, Father.”

The other juniors are watching, probably planning to poke fun at Lan Sizhui later when the revered Hanguang-jun is out of earshot. Lan Wangji isn’t worried about this, he knows that none of the juniors do this to hurt his son. If they did, Lan Jingyi would have done something about it already or come to Lan Wangji himself if he could not.

(No one would dare harm Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian’s son anyway for fear of torture, death, and then possession. Lan Wangji could not protect Lan Sizhui’s first father, but he will not fail in protecting their son.)

Everyone knows Lan Wangji loves his son more than life itself. There is no shame in showing what is already a proven fact. There is no rule against speaking truths when others are not present.

So he allows the corners of his mouth to hint at lifting upwards before his expression returns to blank calm. “I will be nearby. Use the flares only for emergencies.”

“Yes, Father,” Lan Sizhui repeats.

Lan Wangji holds his hand out and Lan Sizhui drops his qiankun pouch wordlessly into it. Another moment passes as Lan Wangji looks through the pouch and assures himself that his son will have everything he needs for the first night hunt he will lead without a senior disciple accompanying them. He nods in approval once he is done and returns the qiankun pouch to his son, patting Lan Sizhui’s head once.

“I await your report,” Lan Wangji murmurs before he steps back so his son may rejoin the other juniors behind him.

“Thank you, Father,” Lan Sizhui says with a bow, smiling as he straightens and walks until he is alongside Lan Jingyi.

When they first left Cloud Recesses that morning, Lan Wangji felt anxious for some reason. No matter what set of robes he put on or how hard he held Bichen’s sheath, he could not resolve the shaky feeling in his chest that gripped his heart painfully when he thought of Lan Sizhui. He had packed quickly once something tried to push him towards the door, relief fluttering through him when that same sensation led him straight to Cloud Recesses’ entrance where the juniors were readying to depart.

During the sword ride here, that feeling would not allow him to keep his gaze away from Lan Sizhui for too long. His son was flying calmly by his side, expression serene as the sun began to rise and they passed towns and forests alike under them. He was bright, filled with the gentle happiness of his life and quiet excitement to be in charge of a night hunt for the very first time. If Lan Wangji happened to glance at him from the corner of his eye, he could have sworn that he was seeing Lan Sizhui’s first father in his place instead.

Now they are here, on the edges of Mo Village, and Lan Wangji feels calm. Calmer than he has felt in a long time. Lan Sizhui looks back at him once, smiling and waving before the disciples round the bend in the path.

Lan Wangji watches them disappear from sight, feeling an all-too-familiar sensation caress his cheek gently before it leaves him be for the very last time.

Deep within Mo Village, someone wakes up in a shed.

a/n #2: thanks for reading! i have more mdzs content in the works, but in the meantime, feel free to send requests or headcanons to my inbox!

#dad lan wangji #dad!lan wangji #dad lwj #dad!lwj #wangxian #lan wangji #lan sizhui #mdzs #cql #the untamed #series #f:mdzs #g:angst #g:fluff #t:oneshot #p:lan wangji&wen yuan #p:lan wangji/wei wuxian #s:acbty #m: fic

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tradeway2 · 3 years ago

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Session 2 17 Jul 2021

Ed and Matthew are being haylords (literally - they are baling hay), so we start a little late. Also Sophie is away, so someone else will be taking Hilda for her.

Mina has been building Gundams…

We make Nature checks to see if anyone of us remember what we are. Hilda does not make a check as she is still at 0HP. Ren, Marcus and Milo remember that ‘zombies’ are made with weird food; but we can’t be zombies because we know our names. We’re amnesiacs; we’re like characters from Neighbours. Not zombies. Pshhh.

Matthew has bestowed upon us some XP for the last fight, plus some extra for entertaining him so beautifully.

Cora thinks we should try to find a way to preserve our food a bit longer. From the feet up from now on?

We make Investigation checks. Milo notices that although the surrounding area contains weapons and spoiled food (mostly what we made), etc., there isn’t much in the way of bodies. He wants to know what size the food is; he thinks they must be from the same litter. They’re all about the same size; medium. (It goes: small, regular, large, goliath, god.) He looks at his friends; we look wounded, but there are no organs or anything hanging out. Some bandages wouldn’t hurt.

After the fight, we discovered our food was carrying some money. Between us, we scrabbled together 13 gp. We remember that money is useful, so we keep it. (Ren decides to invest his in cryptocurrency.) Hilda is the strongest, so we pile to money on her still unconscious form. We also find 7 gems, and 5 bottles, and a sphere.

Bingo asks if we mind him hanging around; he gets very excited when we tell him he’s welcome to chill with us. He’s excited to get to the horde as well. “Everyone’s friends there, it’s brilliant!” Cora decides it’s a bit like Burning Man. Leslie looks us all over; he does that old people thing when they nod along with the young folk. Let young folk be young folk.

Ed joins us, yay!

It turns out that Leslie has never been to Burning Man. Or the horde. I think? He doesn’t like being around big crowds; he prefers to spend time alone. Somewhere a bit greener. Does he mean over there? (Pointing). No, it turns out he arrived by boat. Hmm. Pilfer gets a sense of salt on the air, and the movement of a ship - for a fraction of a second, and then disappeared. He burps something disgusting; this is not strange to any of us.

Leslie comes from a place what is different to the place what we are standin’ on. ‘E’d love to go ‘ome. (For the sake of argument, and the fact that he can’t keep the accent straight from one week to the next, it’s decided that Leslie doesn’t keep his own accent but takes the one from whatever body he’s inhabiting. He’s gone from West Country to Brizzle. Or it might be the Chezzy Massive.)

This sphere that we found has a smooth surface, and weighs about a pound. Ren rolls a 17 Investigation. (Matthew asks me to roll a d4; “No reason.” Uh oh. I roll a 4. That’s either really good or really bad.) The sphere is made of glass.

Pilfer: “It’s a snow globe!”

DM: “… It’s opaque.”

Pilfer: “It’s not a snow globe!”

Ren blurts out, ‘Driftglobe!” It will light up as if the Daylight spell is cast. He can speak the command word in Friends and it will light up. It works once per day and recharges at dawn. It can also float.

Milo hears some food shout, a sort of sad, whiny sound, but then it’s gone.

What’s in the bottles? They’re glass, reasonably ornate, long necked, with a rich red fluid in them. Not sauce. Ren opens one and gives it a sniff. It smells like the best food in the world. Leslie advises against drinking it, however. Marcus asks him if he knows what it is; it’s a healing potion. Two seem to be in fancier bottles than the rest. We decide to give Hilda one of the fancy ones. (We now have two remaining RHPs.)

We distribute and take various potions, and then set about deciding what to do. Bingo panics when he realises he doesn’t actually know how to find the horde; Cora manages to calm him down, and earns herself Inspiration.

Leslie seems to have more of an idea of what to do and where he’s going, so we decide to go with him and work in a visit to the horde as and when we can. Bingo thinks we might be starting our own horde. Trendsetters!

Matthew does a sound effect and drowns himself out. “Who’s playing Metallica?” “You are!”

We carry on: The battlefield scenery continues for the better portion of the day. Does it bother us that we’re walking on a carpet of the dead? Well - that’s the thing. There’s not many bodies. Sometimes flying food comes and pecks at it, but when we grab at it, it nips out the way real quick. (We know what birds are, but we are aware that these aren’t birds. These are flying food. There’s a difference.) There are weapons on the ground, but not whole corpses. There are bits, sure, and we can hear friends shouting in the distance.

“I’m Bingo!”

“Can I be Bingo too?”

“Sure!”

(Interesting note - they are all Bingo, but they are all aware which Bingo is which.)

The sky begins to clear. The carnage appears to be thinning. There are fewer weapons, less spoiled food. We snack on what bits of food are still dragging themselves along the ground. Ren: “Mmm, trail mix.”

Cora asks Pilfer if he needs his parasol - he belatedly fumbles around for it. (Also DM has added a sketch book to Ren’s inventory for his lyrics and drawings. He knows it’s his, but he doesn’t know why he’s done all those hieroglyph, squiggly weirdness in between the pictures.)

Something hoves into view as the scenery improves:

Bingo: “I know why they do it - it’s for the freshness!”

Pilfer: “Has anyone got a tin opener?”

Ren: “It’s got its own tin opener strapped to the back of it, look.”

We see the canned food shake its head and draw its can opener as it approaches us. And we roll initiative…

The food goes first; it steps forward and prepares itself to be opened. (It holds an action.)

Milo goes next. He moves forward and tries the first of his two can openers, for a dirty 20 with his javelin. Yeah! He pierces the protective container; we will have to eat this meal today, it won’t keep now. The food pulls Milo's opener out of itself, and there is sauce on the end of it. Milo is delighted.

Cora moves forward, and holds an action, as do Hilda and Marcus. (Marcus makes an INT check to see if he’s noticed he has a quarterstaff yet; he has not.) Ren shambles forward as well, and does the same, holding up his second spear. "Kebab."

Pilfer hucks some cutlery at the food, once he’s within range. 19 to hit with his dagger-spoon. Spork? Ed: “I reckon you could do some serious damage with a spork.”

Leslie shambles up and holds back for now, but Bingo can’t contain himself. He uses all of his movement to get right up to the food, and its tin opener. This is not going to go well for Bingo, as he’s now the only one in range of the food. The food now attacks Bingo.

Ren: “Poor Bingo.”

Cora: “Bingo is about to get a lot shorter.”

Matthew finds the right button and hits Bingo with a 21 and a 22, for 11 slashing damage.

Pilfer: “… Bye, Bingo.”

Luckily the food misses its second attack, and Bingo is still up. He’s only cleaved a bit in twain; he’ll probably walk it off.

Cora has a go at tenderising the suit. She swings her mace, but misses. Milo moves up and uses another can opener - but 15 misses. “This food is tricksy.”

Hilda flings her hand axe but it bounces off the can. Marcus runs up and does a Slam but misses. Ren walks up to the food for an attack as well; he pokes it with his spear, two handed. 15 misses.

You know, food can sometimes be quite dangerous. We should have a rule where we can horde up and all attack together (as in, we can flank for advantage.)

Pilfer, having run out of cutlery, hucks a ‘smol hammer’ at the food as an improvised weapon. 21 hits! Right in the noggin! 1 point of damage, awww.

Leslie stays on the outskirts a bit, but he’s making his way round. Bingo’ll have a go. “He’s so excited!” 9 misses, though. He paws ineffectually at the can, frustrated. The food has a go back, but misses Bingo. The second one hits for 7 damage.

Matthew, clicking buttons: “ Poor… old… Bingo.”

We hear Bingo say, “Ow!” He looks poorly now.

Cora is up. Open this can! She has a try at grappling the food to the floor; she makes a STR check for 14. She does not grapple the food. Milo moves up to flank it with Marcus, and does a bite by making a Slam attack with his teeth. 4 Bludgeoning damage!

Hilda moves up but can’t get near the food, so she elbows Marcus and Ren in the back of the knees. Marcus attacks, now that he’s flanking with Milo, and manages a Slam for 6 bludgeoning damage. Yeah!

Ren shuffles around so he’s flanking with Cora, and has a stabby at the unprotected side - but sadly, even with advantage, he misses. His spear skitters across the surface of the can. Pilfer wishes to Slam him. “Slam to your heart’s content.” Sadly he’s so excited he slams the floor instead.

This is standard Friend tactics - surround and overwhelm - we don’t need to change a thing. Leslie has a go as well now. He misses.

Stuff is leaking from Bingo, but he’s still up and for the first time in his career with this new horde, he scores a 20 to hit for 2 bludgeoning damage. We all cheer.

Canned food does some sword work at Bingo, hits him, and Bingo goes down.

“NO BINGO NO!!!!!”

Bingo is not dead, because he’s significant enough to have a name, we are assured. Hooray! The food takes aim at Milo, but only rolls a nine. Phew!

It’s Cora’s turn. The canned food smells worried. She has another go at grappling it, but rolls a 7 - she uses her Inspiration and grapples it.

Milo has a dim memory of catching something like this that had pinchers, so he pokes between the plates with his javelin to get at the good stuff - and gets a Critical Poke! DM: “I’m not gonna lie to you guys, you needed that.”

Does Milo get any nice chewy bits out? He’s pushed his javelin right through the knee joint; he’s separated the bones in there, and it’s all just connected by meat now. If the food survives this, it will never be knight again. He now has a long career as a meme to look forward to.

This food is now much closer to being prepared now. Milo even gets Inspiration for such a wonderfully timed Nat 20. Hilda takes aim at his other knee, cackling all the while, and hits with a 24 for 6 bludgeoning.

Marcus aims a Slam at its head with 23 to hit for 7 damage; canned food is struggling but not down. The only thing holding it up is Cora’s grapple and the fact that we’re standing all around it. (Like when you pass out at a gig.)

Ren remembers food on a stick (hazy memories) and has another poke - and misses. He realises he’s been using the wrong end of his spear, so he turns it around for next time. DM, through tears of laughter, awards Inspiration.

Pilfer takes a swing and a miss.

Duncan, OOC: “Don’t stop me now…”

Ren realises he’s humming under his breath.

This food is smelling pretty ready now. Not perfect! But close. Bingo makes an Undeath save. a 19! Canned food struggles against Cora’s grapple, but fails. DM: “It is weary, and ready for eats.” Cora wants to start sucking the juice out of the eye holes. She makes an attack but a 14 misses; she used her Inspiration last round.

Milo takes aim at the armpit. DM: “Horrible little man! I love it!” He rolls two 8s, sadly.

Hilda has been cackling since last round, and takes aim at the same spot as last time. 21 hits, for 4 bludgeoning damage and with that the meal cracks open. Underneath the can is lots and lots of lovely freshly prepared food!

Pilfer retrieves his hammer and knife, and Hilda picks up her axe. Marcus stops shovelling food into his mouth for long enough to give Bingo a potion.

Milo wants to bend some metal into a sort of cup shape, and try saving some of the food for later. He can add “Some food in home made can” to his character sheet. Matthew adds that he must note: “Not airtight.”

We all get some treats! 116XP! As we consume our meal we find 8 more gp, some more gems. Marcus asks to keep the can's can opener, as he doesn’t have a weapon; Leslie nudges him and says he might have something on his back. Marcus turns around.

We also find two more RHPs, some fancy boots. We don’t know what they are, but Leslie suggests they might be worth taking along. Pilfer claims them, and the food’s hat. The head falls out; Ren starts digging around behind the jaw for the good bits. We also find a fancy stick! Milo knows what it is - and now he has Proficiency in Investigation rolls. He and Ren both know it’s a magic stick. Not just a stick, either - a staff. It’s got a snake’s head on it. He doesn’t know the exact nature of it, due to his own nature. Marcus picks up the tin opener/greatsword.

We have a nice sit down meal. Bingo is so delighted with us and our micro-horde, he’s starting to forget about looking for the main one.

We decide to devote another week to this, as we started late. We finish with a dream for Cora:

She knows she’s asleep. She is in a pretty setting of rolling meadows; she feels at peace. She knows that she knows more now, but can’t grasp what exactly that is. It is the height of summer. A bright red comet races across the sky, and it starts to rain. The sky grows dark, and she feels a sense of melancholy. The rain grows heavier. At a table in the middle of the meadow is an old man, gorging himself on food from silver plates. His eyes turn black, and he smiles. (A midget talks backwards and is gone.) The old man becomes a figure holding a sword and speaking gibberish. A mountain crumbles to dust. The figure advances. It grasps Cora by the throat -

And she wakes up.

#dnd #tradeway2 #campaign diary

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nonasuch · 5 years ago

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i watched a star war

And I have... some feelings? mixed feelings? some good feelings? ALL of the spoilers to follow.

okay so just to start with, I genuinely thought that opening sequence with Kyle was going to end with him waking up from a nightmare. like absolutely believed that was where it was going, because the Hammer Horror of it was so over the top. but then that turned out to be the actual plot of the movie? I was pretty taken aback by that, and I’m not sure I ever 100% recovered.

that said, there were things I did like!

Finn is definitely Force sensitive, fuck yes

Finn is also not the only trooper to defect, and while what I really wanted was for him to lead other troopers to turn on their masters, I am also very happy to have a band of ex-troopers who ride majestic space horses and make Finn feel less alone.

their opening bit was very good, the whole ‘of course you’re better at chess, you're 250 years old’ slice of life part. All of the small character moments like that were nice.

CANON LESBIANS IN STAR WARS. LESBIANS ARE CANON NOW.

I am honestly super impressed by Adam Driver as an actor? like his body language in that last fight was SO different from how he’d been all along. i have no real strong feelings on Reylo either way, but ‘save her life, get one kiss, fade away into the Force’ was an acceptable ending for me.

I really liked Keri Russell’s whole deal, that was all very good

LANDO!!!

i very much liked the recurring theme of Rey being a person who is kind, who does small things for other people just because she can, whose first instinct is to heal and help. the way that was set up with healing the sandworm and then healing Kyle was very well-executed.

very good costumes, world-building, background characters etc. top-notch production design throughout.

super into the consistently diverse background casting.

the final boss-fight battle being fought by just like. everyone in the fucking galaxy who owns a ship with guns on is very satisfying.

some very good Chewie content

I actually like the idea that Leia did Jedi training with Luke and when she was done was like ‘cool, never using this again if I can help it but useful to know, here’s my lightsaber’

Hux was deployed perfectly: betray everything he stands for just to get one over on Kyle, then die like a chump. A+ use of character.

...there were also things I did not like. the biggest of which being, the entire premise of the movie was so weird and huge and insane that I never quite caught up to it, and the execution of that insane premise made it harder.

like, I think I would have actually handled it better if they had gone full supernatural horror? take away the technological stuff keeping Palpatine alive, make him just a shambling corpse animated by malign power. turn his fleet into literal ghost ships crewed by the dead of all his wars. that would have made more sense to me than having actual flesh-and-blood people sign on for any of that nonsense.

and the other big ‘wait, seriously? okay i guess we’re doing this’ thing was Rey’s identity. and again, I think there’s a way to tell a similar story without straining my disbelief quite so much. make Rey zombie!Palpatine’s chosen heir, an exceptionally powerful Force user with, in his eyes, no inconvenient family ties that might hold her back. I mean, it’s worked for him before, right? that story would hang together better for me, and make Rey’s choice to be a Skywalker more powerful -- that she was offered two legacies, had no blood claim to either but equal claim to both regardless, and chose the Light.

The other big problem, and unfortunately the least fixable one, is that they really did not do a great job working Leia into the movie. Like, I understand and respect what they were trying to do, but I think even if I hadn’t known they were editing her scenes together from unused old footage, I would have found them weird and clumsy. I almost think they’d have been better off having Leia be already gone or near death for most of the movie, with her role in Ben’s return to the Light about the same, and used the footage as more complete flashback scenes rather than chopping it up the way they did.

tbh the hyperspace skipping Poe does early on feels like a very good metaphor for the movie as a whole: an extremely wild idea that jumps from one awesome-looking thing to another, contains some bits that were v enjoyable, but doesn’t actually make any fucking sense and comes in for a landing fully on fire.

Also: NEEDS MORE ROSE.

#star wars #rise of skywalker #spoilers #star wars spoilers #star wars ep ix

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flyinbanachab · 4 years ago

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Comfortember 22: Kisses

Our first kiss was on the darkest day of my life.

Vato Falman smiled at the thought.

Read on AO3 or...

The truth wasn't nearly so dramatic, but his brain had a habit of dropping sentences like this into his consciousness. Too bad he couldn't summon them on command; he could have been a poet instead of a soldier.

It HAD been the darkest day of his life, up to that point, quite literally. His first day without a sunrise. Fort Briggs was situated so far north that the sun stayed below the horizon for the six weeks around the winter solstice[1]. And yes, this was his second winter up north, but duties had chanced to keep him south of the fort during those weeks. This was his first, as the locals called it, "nightfall." That morning, the fort had felt downright festive. Everyone walked lighter, smiled bigger, blew off their paperwork[2]. Falman's shift didn't end until 6--everyone with seniority had claimed the earlier shifts--so he missed the sunset itself. But supposedly that didn't matter; the more important event was the party, and THAT was just getting started[3].

Gaily clad soldiers and engineers and techs crowded the gallery, gathering around fire pits and cauldrons of mulled wine. Torches burned along the crenelations of the parapet. It was even almost warm.

Falman stopped at the nearest cauldron and had its keeper fill his thermos (500 cenz). Then he ambled around, chatting with anyone he knew, trying hard to keep his eyes on the person he was talking to instead of searching the crowd for--

Ah. There she was, conversing around a fire pit. Wearing a burgundy velvet blazer over a black sheath dress, with a black ear warmer in place of her usual headband. His brain dropped in the phrase _casually beautiful_ and his heart did a backflip in his chest.

No sooner had he spotted her than she looked back at him, eyes meeting across the gallery. She smiled and raised her thermos at him. After a second of awkward paralysis, he did the same. Had she been looking for him, too? How else could their eyes have met? Should he go talk to her? Was that wave an invitation?

The obvious course of action was... to stall. He joined a different conversation circle instead, and then a different one after that, not really hearing anything being said, always one eye on that burgundy blazer.

"Hey Falman, you ok over there?" One of the guys asked him. "You look a little preoccupied."

Oops.

"Seems dangerous, this much alcohol on a precipice. Does anyone ever go over the wall?" He asked, hoping that would provide suitable cover.

The guy laughed. "Nah. If we partied that hard the general would shut it down for good!"

The man at his right nodded. "And you know she's just looking for an excuse. Well I sure ain't gonna give it to her!"

The burgundy blazer had broken from her huddle and was headed toward a wine station. Now was his chance.

Falman made a show of looking into his thermos. "Ah darn. I'm gonna go get a refill."

He ended up right behind her in the short line. Perfect. Terrifying, but perfect.

"Hey Doc! Happy Nightfall."

Up close, he could see that her dress was subtly shimmery, reflecting the warmth of the firelight. She looked up at him-- she barely came up to his shoulder--and asked, "Where've you been? You missed the big event."

She’d noticed he wasn't there. Had she been looking for him? Falman shrugged sheepishly. "I just came off shift. How was it?"

"Eh." She tipped a palm skyward. "It was really too cloudy to see anything. Just a slow slide into darkness."

"Doesn't seem to have stopped anyone from having a good time. I've never seen Briggs cut loose like this."

"Weird, isn't it? You'd think the big party would be at daybreak."

"Or both."

She laughed at that, handing her coins to the man with the ladle. "I like the way you think, Vato."

Vato. She hadn't called him by his first name before. He would remember.

I like the way you think.

She waited while his thermos was filled, and then they drifted, together, to a corner where someone had thrown a tiny table and two chairs. She sat, crossing her legs, showing off the seams on the back of her nylons. Oh boy-- oh no, had she noticed him looking? Eyes up, Falman.

"This is your second winter here, right?" She asked.

She remembered. His heart rate jumped up an extra few bpm.

"Yeah, but last year was so..." they shared a mutual shrug; there were no adjectives that could contain last year. "I ended up down south for the entire Nightfall. What's it like?"

"Dark. Cold as hell. Claustrophobic." He nodded, remembering how frequently the road to town had been impassible.

"Do people get depressed?"

She made a face. "Of course. It's got a stigma around here, which is SO stupid. You're not weak, you're just not getting any sunlight!" She turned and yelled at the crowd, "I can't treat people who don't come in!!" And turned back to him with a such. "I try and educate them, but I might as well be talking to the wall."

"So how do you cope? People, I mean. With the dark."

"Oh, the usual. Losing themselves in work. Drinking." Doc paused to take a swig from her thermos, then looked him dead in the eyes while saying, "A lot of people pair off."

She might as well have injected him with adrenaline. Oh no. Well, oh YES, but oh NO, he's terrible at flirting. Well, audentes Fortuna iuvat.

"Are you one of them?" Hey, that was pretty good.

She raised an eyebrow. "Occasionally. I have very high standards."

"You should! You're worth it!" Damn. Back to being terrible. At least he was sincere?

But it earned him a smirk. That's not the worst reaction. She asked, "So what are your plans for the long night?"

He took a hit from his thermos before responding. Don't screw this up Vato, don't screw this up! "I don't have any. I mean, nothing different. Read a lot. Sleep a lot." Deep breath. Here we go. Look her in the eyes. Her eyes were deep and curious, looking right back at him. "Would be nice to have some company."

She gave him a full smile at that, so, naturally, this was the moment Karley came running up to them.

"Lieutenant! General Mustang calling!"

Falman turned to him incredulously. "NOW? You’re kidding." But if Mustang was calling for him, it was at very least important, and very likely urgent. With a deep sigh and an apologetic look he stood to leave.

"Sorry--"

She waved him away with an easy smile. "Go do your job, you big important soldier."

Well, what choice did he have? He trotted after Karley, hoping everything was okay.

---

Everything WAS okay, more or less, but it kept him on the phone well past midnight. By the time he hung up with the last contact, he was thoroughly exhausted.

Of course he went back to the party anyway.

And of course she was gone. He made a couple circuits around the gallery to confirm, but it had been hours. The party was manned by an entirely new crew of revelers now.

Had she gone home alone?

Sometimes his brain handed him those kinds of sentences too. He slumped over the outer wall, staring out into the darkness. That was it, wasn't it? That was the moment. And now it's gone, as gone as the sun. Falman dropped his head into his hands.

"Hey, careful!" Neil's inebriated voice sounded from behind. A moment later, a hand clapped his shoulder. "You don' wanna end up like Taylor do ya?"

Falman looked up in surprise. (At least she wasn't with Neil. Maybe she really did have high standards.) He'd seen Taylor here earlier, talked to him even; the man had seemed fine. "What happened to Taylor?"

"He wen'--" Neil, wide-eyed, made a gesture with his hands that, while incredibly sloppy, still effectively conveyed-- "right over th'wall!"

Falman looked down with a gasp, but of course all he could see was darkness. Discounting snowdrifts, it was 168 feet to the ground. A fall of 84 feet had an average survival rate of 10%. Granted, Taylor was a Briggsman, but still... this was twice that height.

"Is he..." ... a red splatter on the snow?

Neil shrugged. "Dunno. Doc took'm to surgery. Hope she had less t'drink than me!" And with that he laughed, too loudly, and shambled off.

Falman straightened up at that, a wave of guilty relief washing over him. She was in surgery. She hadn't gone home with anyone. Duty had called both of them tonight. Well... that's Briggs for you.

He pushed back from the wall and headed toward the exit. There was almost no chance Taylor would make it. But Doc was still in there trying.

---

3:23 am found Falman dozing awkwardly in one of the anteroom's small uncomfortable chairs, but the quiet click of the door latch snapped him awake. There she was. Still in her party clothes[4] and completely exhausted. Her eyes widened at the sight of him.

"...Vato?"

He stood, feeling suddenly shy. This had seemed like a good idea until just this moment. "I-- heard about Taylor. And I thought, however it turned out, you might want someone to walk you home." Whether to brag or to mourn. “Either way, that's a lot to be alone with in the middle of the night.”

She looked at him with those deep, curious eyes, and he panicked. "Of course, if you don't, that's fine, I just thought--"

But Doc smiled a small, ragged smile and nodded. "Thanks.”

They walked the corridors in silence for a few minutes. He didn't ask, and she didn't volunteer. But eventually she spoke, her quiet voice bouncing off the stone walls. "He's stable, but I don't know if he'll ever wake up."

Falman looked down at her, impulsively grabbing her hand. "I know you did everything you could."

She nodded. And gave his hand a squeeze. “I did,” is all she said.

And they kept walking like that, silently, hand in hand, down the echoing halls, until they stood in front of her quarters. She did not move to unlock her door. She did not pull her hand away.

Okay Falman. Don't screw this up.

"Sylvia..."

She looked up at him. Expectantly.

"I know it's been a weird night, but..."

Deep breath.

"...I would very much like to kiss you."

She smiled a warm, ragged smile. "Okay."

So he cupped the side of her face in his hand, and bent over, and met her lips with his. Slowly, gently, keenly aware of the sharp stubble on his face, pulling away much sooner than he'd like, but it was 4 am and they were both exhausted and the last thing he wanted was to be a creep--

But she put a hand behind his neck and tugged at him. "Hey," she said softly, "Where do you think you're going?"

So he smiled like a dope and kissed her again.

---

[1] Likewise, the sun did not set for the six weeks around the summer solstice. But Briggs wasn't known for its windows. He'd barely noticed. [2] Everyone except General Armstrong, of course. But the tradition predated her, and was rooted so strongly and deeply that even she could not completely snuff it out. [3] Okay, he HAD missed the fireworks, which they'd set off at sunset--2:26 pm. But that was fine. He'd heard them well enough, even from his station deep inside the fort. [4] Presumably she had changed into scrubs for the duration of the operation.

#comfortember #comfortember 2020 #vato falman #briggs doctor #faldoc #fullmetal alchemist #fma fanfic #my writing

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mor-beck-more-problems · 4 years ago

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Dead Things || Morgan & Kaden

@chasseurdeloup

Just two friends having a walk in the woods. Guest-starring Ashley the Zombie!

It surprised Morgan that Kaden would choose her to walk in the woods with to let off steam and vent safely. It seemed like the sort of thing to do with a girlfriend, but maybe Regan and her denial blinders were a little much for him just now. And for all the times Morgan had been driven to sign off on him with a ‘fuck you’ on her lips, she did consider them to be friends of a certain kind. He was kind at heart, kinder than he let on even to himself. He had his anger, which Morgan still couldn’t quite fit her head around, but if his life had been anything like Deirdre’s, he had plenty of reason to be. She’d wished he had suggested a place a little less spooky than the woods, but it wasn’t like she could enjoy anything from the counter at Coffee Plus. Morgan reached out with what senses she had and tried to remember the comfort they’d once given her. The sanctity of nature. Never judging, always open to her. The soft earth, ready to take her body back some day. Did it welcome them now? Did either of them know how to fit in a space as simple and open as this?

“Shucks, Kaden,” Morgan teased, “I didn’t think you’d ever ask me to meet you like this. If you’d given me more time I’d have made us BFF bracelets.” She elbowed him gently as they walked. “What’s been up with you?”

There had been a few moments of calm in Kaden’s life the past week. But something about it felt more ominous than comforting. Even though it was a new moon and it should be the calmest time of the month, something felt off. He couldn’t say what. Maybe he just wasn’t used to peace and quiet. Hell even most of his assignments had been normal. It was possible that was why he felt the need to lean into the weird of hanging out with a supernatural friend. Though, to be honest, he was short on non-supernatural friends at the moment. And no matter how many times him and Morgan went head to head over things, there was something, enough easy rhythm, especially when sharing the realities of having banshee girlfriends; a strange commonality and bond he never expected to have or share with anyone else. Leave it to White Crest.

The mention of friendship bracelets pierced through him as he thought of the stupid leather braclet on his wrist. His nose scrunched a little even though he tried to hide it. He hadn’t planned on bringing up Celeste. Or having to dwell on death for a moment. Hopefully she didn’t catch it, assumed it was an overreaction to her elbow. “Well I’d say a friendship bracelet with me is a death sentence but I guess that’s not a problem is it?” Putain. Fine. Just fucking lean into it. Why not? “I figured we could both use a non-carcass walk every now and then.” He gave a small shrug. “And nothing much. No clue what the fuck I’m doing with my life but I guess that’s just what White Crest does to you.”

“Wow. I was kidding, but I didn’t think you’d give me literal stink-eye,” Morgan said, rolling her eyes. “What, are you afraid the big bad world isn’t ready for us? Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?” She pretended to be scandalized, gasping and clutching her imaginary pearls, but she could feel herself skirting close to a kind of truth that lay between them. They couldn’t exactly gather round a foosball table with his hunter friends anymore than she could bring him to a movie night with Remmy and Skylar. Granted, her friends wouldn’t ever try to kill him, but that wasn’t a path she should be going down when they were supposed to be enjoying each other’s company critter-free. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she huffed. “Every walk I take is a carcass walk.” She turned to face him, tilting her head so far to one side it threatened to dislocate her neck. “If you have beef with the dead, you really came to the wrong zombie.” She smirked, her smile growing wider as she kept their pace along the path, backwards now. She righted her head and rolled her shoulders. That had helped with muscle strain before, right? “You’re too easy to mess with sometimes. But, I can be serious if you need to talk about big things. Life isn’t for having all the answers, though. It’s not a performance, you know? We learn things. We try. We--”

An animal roared in the distance. It didn’t sound like any creature Morgan knew, but what else could it be? She looked over at Kaden. Did he hear that too? She turned in the direction of the sound. Something was lumbering through the underbrush, something big.

Kaden let out a sigh through his throat. “Very funny. I’m just saying my quota of friendship bracelets from dead girls is officially one. Spot’s taken, you’re too late,” he said, elbowing her back. “So quit your dramatics.” If anyone was going to be okay joking about death, it was Morgan. He knew that much. Honestly, it was nice to have second that he wasn’t just fucking sad about it all. And it was only a second because he looked over to see her fucking head turned around like some kind of horror movie. “Putain de merde, do you have to do that?” His face scrunched in disgust as he turned it away from her. It definitely didn’t turn like that, thank god, but it wasn’t quite enough to avoid the fucking scene of her putitng her head right. His mind flashed to Bea’s head in a jar and if he didn’t feel sick before, he sure did now. “At least warn me before you do.” Yeah he knew that wasn't going to happen.

Unsurprisingly, she had a deep answer to his dumb question. Or he was pretty sure she would have it hadn’t stopped paying attention as soon as he heard a wail. Inhuman, for sure. His stomach dropped. Again. She wasn’t going to like this. At least not if his suspicions were correct. Without thinking, his hand reached back to the knife in his pocket and he positioned himself between her and the rustling in the foliage. Another roar and the creature broke through the bush. A decaying, hungry zombie, shambling towards them. He leapt to act. There was only one thing to do with a monster.

“I didn’t even break anything,” Morgan grumbled, pouting. “And isn’t it good for me to have a positive relationship with my new body? Don’t you want the best for me, Kaden?” But, honestly, it was probably a good thing he hadn’t become completely inured to how dead dead-bodies could be, especially hers. Positioning herself in proximity to human existence was a losing game, but for Kaden...maybe it was the best he could do right now. “I want the best for you too, obviously,” she added, more sincerely.

But the moment was shattered by the figure that leapt out from the underbrush. Morgan recognized her at once. She had only seen her ruined face a few days ago in the cemetery with Rio. “A-ashley--?” She moved forward, but Ashley’s face was too rotted and glazed with hunger to give any intelligible response. She groaned from somewhere deep in her hungry belly and shambled forward, one arm half raised with want. Animals didn’t last long on a dead stomach, even the feast they’d given her, but Stars, she’d hoped Ashley would have at least lasted longer once she was herself again. Her path was clear, but Morgan wasn’t going to go any easier on her now. “Ashley don’t--!” She jumped into her path, holding her by the shoulders and digging in her heels. But Morgan had fed too recently since the last time they’d met, and her muscles were quickly meeting their limit. “Kaden! Help me!” She cried.

There was no doubt in Kaden’s mind what was headed towards him was a monster. The decaying hungry zombie was nothing more than undead bones and decay searching for flesh and organs to tear into. His knife was ready and he was prepared to run in and take care of the situation before this became a problem when Morgan put herself in front of him and started speaking. Did she just say a name? “Wait, do you know that thing?” His stomach fell watching the shambling gaunt body. He wanted to pull Morgan away and just get this over with but she ran towards it and put herself right in harm’s way. Sure, she was a zombie, too, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t get hurt ever. Putain.

He ran over and wanted to tear her from the threat but it was clear she was fighting her hardest to keep it at bay. Which didn’t exactly bode well. Kaden ran around behind the monster and grabbed its shoulders, pulling back. He’d have to find a way to cut off its head, a knife seemed impractical but it would have to d-- Before he could even consider that, the zombie rounded on him and lunged for his neck. Fuck. He raised his hand and threw a punch in its decaying face, trying to get it away from him. But it was fucking determined. His eyes went wide as he watched the teeth come closer and braced his arm to try and keep it away. Fuck fuck fuck.

“Her name is Ashley!” Morgan snapped. What had she been doing this whole time? Sure, the animal food she’d been given wasn’t going to last long, but she’d had time to hunt or buy or even steal something. Did she not know how? Did she not feel like she could? Morgan gripped the zombie tighter, wrestling against her brute force-- and then she whirled on Kaden, teeth bared.

“Don’t hurt him!” It was the stupidest thing she could’ve said. Ashley didn’t even have enough brain cells to string together who she was. There was no way anything like pleading was going to work right now. Morgan barreled into her from the side, sending them both sprawling to the ground. She pinned her to the forest floor by the shoulder, but Ashley roared and wrenched herself up before she could make her position any more secure. The flesh from Ashley’s arm came straight off and Morgan stared helplessly as the dead limb lay in her grasp. “Shit,” she hissed, scrambling back to her feet to follow the hungry zombie. She was making a beeline right for the hunter and Morgan wasn’t sure if she’d be able to tackle her in time if he didn’t move. “Kaden, get back!” she cried.

“Her what?!” Kaden yelled as he pushed his forearm into the monster’s neck. Putain, it didn’t matter what flesh the teeth connected with, just that they did. His stomach flipped furiously. The thought of being undead was far worse than the threat of death. He may be immune to werewolf bites, but zombies and vampires were still on the table. He could feel his pulse pounding in his chest. And fuck, he’d like it to keep fucking doing so. Desperately, Kaden took his knife and rammed it into the monster’s guts over and over, intestines and rotting flesh tumbling out of its side. It was barely holding itself together anymore but all the same, he was fucking panicking just a bit.

Before he knew it, the monster was thrown away from him by Morgan’s body. Okay. Alright, He had to find something to behead it with. Something more effective than a knife. Shoe lace? No, that would take too long. Morgan could only keep it at bay so long and he had a feeling she wasn’t about to try and kill her “friend.” “I thought you said not all zombies fucking knew each other,” he grumbled as he pulled his belt from his pants. Not great, but it would fucking do.”Mo--” Kaden was about to yell at her to get out of the way but he didn’t have to, the monster was lunging at him all the same. He didn’t listen to his friend and kicked out at the zombie and went to wrap the belt around its neck.

“I just fucking asked her!” Morgan was running as fast as her legs would take her. She could do this. Kaden was bound to have something to restrain Ashley with until they could get her food again. He could hunt her as many deer as she needed. She just needed to get the two of them apart long enough for him to understand what the plan was. She grabbed Ashley from behind, tugging her back as hard as she could by her shirt and wrestling an arm around her neck. “What part of ‘get back’ was hard for you?” She grunted at Kaden. “She’s just starving!” She dragged Ashley back several paces, grimacing as she wriggled and bit at her skin. Her grip loosened as Ashley took a deep chunk out of her arm, and it was all she could do to push the zombie off her feet as she stumbled free. “Give me that,” she said, pulling on the belt in his hands. “You need to run for some fresh deer, or brains, or--fuck!” She hit the ground hard. Ashely’s hand was around her leg, pulling her down with a strength Morgan couldn’t compete against with her humanity intact. “Kaden, what are you doing?”

Kaden really didn’t give a shit if this zombie was hungry or not, but Morgan sure did. And it was hindering him from doing his job. She seemed to insist that she knew this monster and it was very hard for him to care when all he saw were teeth coming towards him, hell bent on tearing into his flesh. “Deer?! You think deer are going to solve this?!” He was just about to solve this his way when Morgan yanked the belt away and he was once again without a way to take care of the problem quickly or easily. Putain. Morgan was down and while deep down he knew that the other zombie couldn’t really hurt her, he didn’t want to risk it. But he had no confidence that Morgan could keep the zombie contained on her own. Kaden reached over and pulled the zombie away from his friend. Or tried to. All he got was a fist full of flesh that had pulled off the bones. “She’s too far gone, Morgan.” The monster turned and hands wrapped around his arm as it pulled at him, teeth coming dangerously close once again. This time he was ready and had his knife braced against its neck. The closer it came to him, the more of its head he hoped he’d sever. It was hungry alright. Hopefully starving to death.

“I don’t know, maybe two of them?” Morgan wrestled with Ashley on the ground. It shouldn’t have been this hard to overpower a woman who was falling apart, but she was still fierce enough to knock Morgan’s bones out of place every time she thought she had the upper hand. And Kaden wasn’t running. Morgan didn’t know how to get it through his thick skull that what she needed wasn’t a rescue, but zombie tofu. “You’re too far gone,” she said through gritted teeth. “Just get her something--no!” Kaden’s knife glared in the twilight around them, slicing deep into Ashley’s neck. Morgan reached out for them from the ground with her broken arms. “Stop! She doesn’t know what she’s doing!” She popped them back into place and scrambled up. Ashley’s neck had been sawed away down to the bone, so fragile and bare for all her thrashing. No one should look like that, she thought. No one’s bones were meant to be bared that way, with rotten flesh staining the surface brown and dripping over the rounded ends. The body protected the bones. All of this was wrong… “Kaden, don’t!”

The knife cut deep into her neck and the stench that came from the rotting severed neck was enough to make him gag. Kaden held it back and kept pushing the knife through. It slid and slipped through what was left of the muscle and then the bone. The monster backed off and started to crumple away. One last whack with the knife and there would be no way for it to regenerate. He was about to do it when Morgan spoke up. All of the fear he felt before was burning away with anger. “No.” It was all he said before taking that final chop to her head, the tenuous connection between the body and it finally removed. All that was left was two piles of disgusting decay. It smelled like the reverse garden in the back of Regan’s apartment, maybe worse. Even before the head was gone, there wasn’t much keeping this together.

“We should burn what’s left.” He frankly didn’t give a shit if she was okay with that or not. Now that he had a moment, he couldn’t stop thinking about what Morgan had said earlier. All of it. “Just get her something, huh? Something to eat?” He could feel the impression of the knife handle pushing into his palm as he gripped it tighter. “Like what? Me?!” He was so close to getting bitten so many times and here she was concerned about a fucking monster. “You knew her, didn’t you? Met her before? You knew her name.” His voice raised louder every fucking sentence. He kicked a lump of decayed flesh away from his shoe. He wanted to kick the fucking corpse but he didn’t feel like trying his luck. “You knew she was like this and you let her--” There was so much he wanted to scream about that he couldn’t even pick where to fucking start. He threw the knife blad first into the ground, making sure it fucking sank in instead. “Morgan what the fuck?!”

“No!” The cry was barely a sound in Morgan’s dead throat as Kaden lobbed off the woman’s head. She stared, mute and trembling, at the remains of her body. All the magic that had been holding her together was gone. There were only masses of green and purple rot and the poor bones that couldn’t hold themselves together anymore. Kaden was yelling, but Morgan couldn’t hold on to any of his words for more than a few moments. “I--I met her once,” she said faintly. “I got her some food. I fed her. It was just...a stupid faun, and the butcher’s whole stock of brains and organs. She...she was scared. I think she was scared. But I don’t know why she didn’t…” Take care of herself. Feed herself. Come up with something better than roaming the woods. Morgan shuddered, thinking of how deep her pit had to be for her to choose living this way, to run away from people who wanted to help. “She ran away before I could do anything more.” Her eyes filled with tears as she finally looked at Kaden, teeming with his hunter rage. “I wasn’t going to let her hurt you. She wasn’t even trying to hurt you, she was just...I don’t know. She was lost, Kaden. Haven’t you ever been lost and stupid?”

“You could barely hold on to her! And your fucking help before led to this!” Kaden said, pointing that the pile of decomposed flesh and bones. “She wasn’t trying to hurt me, she was trying to eat me. I was fucking two seconds from getting bit. A couple of times.” A chill ran through him. There were few fates he could imagine that were worse than being undead. Morgan had adjusted or what-fucking-ever she wanted to call it, but it was the last thing he wanted for himself. And he wasn’t immune. He rolled the muscles of his shoulder blades back, trying to ground himself, pull back. “Lost and stupid was going to fucking kill me, Morgan. If I didn’t-- She was going to eat me. You fucking saw that, right? Putain, if I didn’t have hunter strength--” He gave a small shake of his head. He was so fucking sure she didn’t see it or didn’t care. “What if she came across someone who wasn’t us? What if-- She would have killed them. That’s not some ‘lost stupid’ mistake,” he spat out. “That would be murder. Fucking murder, Morgan. You fail at rehab with monsters and it ends in murder.” He took a deep breath and reached donw for his fucking knife. He wanted to just leave. “This isn’t some fucking game you get to play at.”

“She is not a monster!” Morgan cried, her voice cracking in her stiff throat. “She was a person, Kaden. Not a ‘this’ or a thing or a--whatever else someone told you she is! She is like me, Kaden! She’s just as much of a person as me! It’s not her fault what her brain does to her when she’s starving, we don’t even know how much of a choice she had! And now we’re never going to because you couldn’t see past the end of your knife long enough to think of a better solution!” She pointed at the body, shaking her head furiously. He couldn’t even feel bad for her. He couldn’t even mourn what he’d taken away from the world. He couldn’t even see her. “That’s murder, Kaden. Not your hypothetical hunter crap. That.”

“That. Wasn’t a person. Not anymore. And it was going to kill me. I’m really glad to know a pile of rotten flesh is worth more to you than--” Kaden couldn’t even finish his sentence. It hurt too much to hear out loud. And he knew the fucking answer already. How often had he seen supernaturals value each other’s lives over human’s? It made him sick. Potential zombie life valued more than a living, breathing human. “There was no time for a better fucking solution. And your attempt at a better fucking solution however long ago your little intervention was clearly didn’t work. She ended up like this.” He was ready to walk away and be done. He was so fucking tired of being told he was wrong for fighting for human life.

“Yes, she was! Ashley was sick, Kaden! People get sick and say and do hurtful things when they’re sick all the time. And we don’t murder them for it, we put them in hospitals! And plenty of your people, your fucking humans do them stone cold sober!” Morgan backed away from Kaden, her insides crawling with disgust. He seemed to come so far and when they were joking around or having their heart to hearts everything between them could feel so nice. She always forgot that to him she was just an exception to a rule about creatures, worse than the dogs he wrangled up for his day job. “But, you know, good job. I’m sure it’ll make a great story to tell all the guys over a beer someday. You showed that starving girl who’s boss all by yourself. If you don’t mind, though, I’m gonna pass on whatever you have lined up next.”

“Sick? What the fuck, Morgan? Sick?!” Kaden was walking away when he heard that, but he turned on his heel to walk back to her. Were they even talking about the same fucking event anymore? Had she even been there just now? “A starving girl? Is that how you think of that?” he shouted pointing once again at the pile of decomp between them. “That was a zombie. Who was very fucking hellbent on eating me.” The more she spoke the clearer it was to him that she didn’t get it. That she saw no value to him or what he did, what had to happen, the reality of things. She had some rose colored zombie glasses or something, he couldn’t figure it out. “You know what, have fun on your walk with your friend there. Because it’s apparently not me. Hope she’s better fucking company. Considering she was higher on your fucking priority list.”

#dead. things #wr kaden #wr chatzy #wr kaden chatzy #wr

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kusunogatari · 4 years ago

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[ ObiRyū October | Day Eight | Full Moon ] [ @abyssaldespair ] [ Uchiha Obito, Suigin Ryū, Hatake Kakashi ] [ Verse: Of Monsters and Men ] [ Blood ]

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When he wakes, he is in pain.

The smell of dewy soil and moss fills his nose, and as he rouses back into full consciousness, he realizes his clothes are damp, body prone in the forest underbrush.

Where...what…?

At first, he can’t muster the strength to move. Every part of him is sore and stiff. But sheer will lets him curl an arm, struggling to bring it up under his torso and start pushing himself off the ground. A knee bends to support his weight, followed by another, and his other arm.

On all fours, he pants...and then notices something dripping. Foggy eyes flicker to a growing stain of crimson under his bowed head.

...he’s bleeding.

A hand lifts, gingerly prodding at his face only to cry out in pain as fingers find raw flesh. And a look reveals more wounds along his arm...and down his torso, dipping over his hip.

Something tore the ever-loving hell out of him, but...he’s alive.

...will he stay that way is the question.

Panting, he looks around. It takes a moment, but he recognizes his surroundings. The logging camp he’s been working at the past few weeks. They arrived this morning to find their equipment all in shambles. At first they thought it was the work of thieves or vagrants, but then…

Then…

In flashes, the memories cut through the mist in his mind. In a matter of moments they’d been overrun, the sounds of snarls, barks, and howls echoing all around them. Beasts tore through the site, attacking every man as they screamed in terror, begging for help as teeth and claws buried into their backs and tore limbs from their torsos. He can still remember being shoved to the forest floor, giant paws ripping at him as he tried to roll over and crawl away...and then jaws had sunk into the crook of his neck.

In a matter of minutes, it had all gone blissfully quiet.

...what were those things…?!

He can still remember the howling, but...those were no wolves. Not like he’s ever seen. Taller than a man, ambling on both two and four limbs, thirsting for the blood of men.

...monsters.

...he doesn’t want to look. Doesn’t want to see the remains of the others. But as he struggles to his feet, Obito looks over the wreckage.

The wagon they arrived in is overturned, the top crumpled and torn, wooden frame splintered. Their tools are broken and scattered. And among the stumps are the mangled, desecrated bodies of his friends, crows scattering at his movement. Several of the corpses are in pieces...and Obito shrinks as he spies one hanging limply over a tree branch ten feet in the air.

They’re all littered with bite marks and tears from claws...and his stomach turns as he notices chunks missing from legs and torsos. They...they were eaten...weren’t they…?

What kind of animals…?!

A wave of pain washes over him, and his knees go weak. He...he has to find help. The bleeding is sluggish, but it looks like he’s been unconscious at least a few hours. That is...if it’s still the same day. At this point, he has no idea. All he knows is that he’s in shit shape.

The only thing left to do now...is start walking.

The forestry trail is dotted with puddles from a recent shower. Not anything telling for a timeline, it rains here quite often this time of year. It’s a mile to the next paved road - good thing both his legs are still working.

He can only imagine the reaction of whoever manages to spot him first. He probably looks like a black bear’s chew toy.

...but that was no bear.

Breath ragged, Obito pushes himself onward. He just has to reach the main road. Flag someone down. Get a ride back to town and get patched up.

...and report the bodies.

How is he going to explain this? Will anyone believe that they were attacked by a pack of strange wolf-like monstrosities? Or should he allege it was a bear to avoid looking like a lunatic? Will they be able to tell from the wounds left on the bodies?

Too many unanswered questions, and for now he can’t begin to find the solutions. Doesn’t help his head hurts so damn bad he can hardly stand it. Feels like someone is driving a stake through the top of his skull…

And then he stops.

Trotting across the road twenty paces on, a silvery-white wolf stops in the center and stares at him. An angry red scar cuts across an eye, foggy with blindness.

...it also happens to be nearly the size of a horse.

Obito feels his heart stop in his chest. This is it, isn’t it? The monsters have come back to finish what they started, he’s going to die, and this damn headache is...is -!

A growl escapes his throat, hackles raising and staring the other wolf down. He’s wounded, backed into a corner...there’s no animal more dangerous.

But his enemy just continues to stare, no signs of aggression in their movements or posture. It’s like they’re...waiting for something.

For what?

They turn, closing the distance between them. Obito attempts to look menacing, but they both know it’s a farce. His wounds are far too severe to put up any fight. And even then, this form is too new, these instincts too untested. The last exhausted dredges of a human mind are eager to rest, to give way to the beast if it will keep him alive.

So as the white wolf stands just before him, tail cautiously swishing, he maintains a low growl but doesn’t move.

...but then they retreat, turn back, stare at him.

...do they...want him to follow…?

A confused whine escapes his newly-canine throat. Can he trust them? Why would they want to help him? Are they...are they like him?

...what is he now…?

So many questions, but they’re all pushed to the wayside as instinct urges him forward toward survival. He’s still wounded...and right now that’s top priority. Anything else can wait. Limping on his torn right foreleg, Obito follows.

They meander through the forest, white wolf in the lead giving occasional glances back, as if to ensure Obito is still there. Ten minutes pass, and they reach a river, banks slightly swollen with rain. His companion steps into the water.

Seems he needs to wash his wounds.

Wary of the current, Obito staggers into the water, watching as the other wolf stands on his downstream side to keep him from being swept away. Once he’s deep enough, he gingerly lowers to let the water wash over him. The cool, clean liquid eases at the angry heat of the wounds, blood and debris washed from his body.

In his reflection, he sees his new face: coarse black fur, pain-drooped ears, and dark eyes. So...he’s one of them now. Then...were they…?

The thought fades as the rest have, hobbling up the bank and finding a dry patch under some thick brush. Head on his paws, he struggles to stay awake.

But rest is just what he needs.

When he wakes, the sun is shining, the air crisp and clear.

And he’s alone.

Head lifting, Obito tests the air. A mess of smells reaches him, still untrained in their meaning. But the scent of the other wolf is faint. Is he gone…?

But then it spikes, and he turns to see his new friend. In his jaws is a yearling deer, dead and slack.

Unbidden, Obito finds himself panting and drooling. When did he last eat…?

Visage bloody from the kill, the white wolf drops his offering before going to wash off. Seems he’s not hungry.

More for Obito, then.

Once his belly is full, he realizes...the keen sting of his wounds is gone. A look to his leg shows the wounds already scabbed over and shrinking.

...seems he heals fast.

...what else can he do…?

Another day of rest, and then he decides to test his limits. It’s a change, walking on four legs. But within minutes, he’s bounding through the forest, heart pumping and lungs burning with fresh, cold air. Besides him, the white wolf does the same.

Lessons are passed. How to hunt. How to stalk. Where to find water, and a dry place to sleep. And finally...how to Shift.

Like the ones that attacked him, he can take a bipedal form. Hulking and massive, trees topple at his urging, throat issuing a howl that echoes for miles.

He is, indeed, a werewolf.

But so too can he retake his human form. Scars pepper his body, healed over and jagged. Looking into a puddle, he traces the marks along his face.

“...so...think you can handle yourself now?”

Looking up, Obito spies the other wolf, also human. Like Obito, the wounds he bore in his other form follow him here. The scar and blind eye remain.

...but one thing that doesn’t are clothes, the pair of them bare as the day they were born.

“...are you leaving?” His voice is coarse, Obito swallowing at the sound.

“I am.”

“Why?”

“I have my reasons. Ones that can’t involve you.”

Obito’s face falls, but he knows better than to take it personally.

“It’s not easy being a lone wolf, but you’re clearly strong. You’ll figure it out. Find a place to call your own, and defend it. And maybe our paths will cross again.”

“...what’s your name?”

“Kakashi. And you?”

“Obito.”

“...well, good luck, Obito. Try heading south.”

“Why?”

“Because the last thing you want is to run into the ones who Turned you. It’s not safe for you here.”

Obito’s stomach drops. Leave Québec...? But it’s all he’s ever known…! Where he was born!

...yet it also squirms at the thought of seeing the other wolves again.

...Kakashi is right.

“...I will...try.”

“Just stay out of anyone else’s way. Not everything is worth a fight. You’ll stay alive longer that way.” In the blink of an eye, Kakashi Shifts back to his wolf form. He gives the man a farewell lick to his hair, leaping aside playfully as Obito swats him away.

“Eugh!”

Grinning as only a wolf can, Kakashi then slips between the trees...and disappears.

Scowling and wiping the spit from his face, Obito sighs. South...what, into the US? Well, he supposes a wolf won’t need papers...but he barely speaks English. Is he meant to stay a wolf forever, or try and settle himself back into society?

...seems that decision is up to him.

Either way, it’s too cold to remain human long, his hairless skin shivering in the breeze. He too becomes a wolf once more, consulting the sun before picking his direction...and heading off.

Avoiding roads, he travels instead through the wilderness, catching his fill and finding water whenever he needs it. It’s not so bad, this life. His own merit keeps him fed and sheltered. In truth, he wants for almost nothing.

...and yet…

Sitting on a rock outcropping one evening, Obito can’t help but realize...he’s awfully lonely. Kakashi’s company, however brief, had been...nice. Perhaps it’s his human side...but maybe also a longing for a pack. But as he howls into the fading light, hearing nothing in return...it seems to echo hollowly in his chest.

By now he’s surely made it past the southern border of his homeland. But otherwise, he has no idea where he is. The thought of approaching humans after so many weeks as a wolf makes him...nervous. As though the longer he abstains from taking that form, the more frightening they become.

The less human he feels.

But while his freedom and wildness is something to relish in...Obito realizes it’s not what he wants. So the next time he finds a road, he follows it.

It’s barren at night, his paws trotting along the surface in search of where it ends. As for what he’ll do when he finds it, well...he’s not sure.

And that uncertainty grows as the weather starts to change. A cold northern wind picks up...and then flakes of snow start to fall.

Snowstorm.

Hunching his shoulders against it, Obito keeps on, too stubborn to instead veer off in search of shelter. The snow becomes so thick, it takes him over a block to notice that he’s crossed into a little town.

The houses are dark, humans asleep during the witching hour, safe in their beds under their roofs as the snow swirls. Chest tense at being so surrounded, Obito realizes he doesn’t know what to do next. Following the main street, he eventually pauses at a pleasant smell. His nose leads him to a little shop door.

He can smell...bread...when was the last time he smelled that? It brings about thoughts of home, something...comforting about it.

So as the storm keeps passing, he curls up atop the stoop, thick fur impervious as he tucks his paws and snout.

Soon, he’s fast asleep.

For some, the day begins bright and early...or even before it gets bright. Coming down the stairs, a young woman twists her pale hair up into a bun, a kerchief smoothed over it to keep the waves from her face.

One must be an early riser to make bread.

Fires are stoked and ingredients gathered, and she takes a moment to look out the snow-frosted windows. Street lamps glow in the haze of white, the sun not quite yet risen.

But what catches her attention is the odd amount of it piled against her door. Well that won’t do...people will be hard-pressed enough to be out and about today. If she wants them to come in, she’ll need to clear that away. Fetching a broom, she opens the door and makes to brush it aside.

...only to hit something solid.

Greys blink in surprise. What…? Her brow furrows as she keeps dusting the powder off her front step.

...and then she feels her heart leap up to her throat.

As she watches, some kind of beast is unburied, not moving despite her prodding. It...looks like a dog…? But far larger than she’s ever seen. Midnight fur is still dusted with white.

...what should she do…? Is it -? Is it dead?

Despite the potential danger, Ryū feels her heart clench. Did it freeze to death out here? And...how did it get so far into town? “Oh...you poor thing…” Taking a knee, she carefully lays a hand on the creature’s pelt.

...and then falls back with a gasp as it fades away. In the beast’s place...is a man.

Shock holds her hostage for a long moment before she realizes he’s bare and shivering. Scrambling back up, she manages to haul him in with hands under his arms, flushed pink at his nudity. But there are far more important things at play here.

Anything else aside, this is a person.

Making up her mind, Ryū keeps going, bringing him into the now piping-hot kitchen of the bakery to warm him up. She folds a blanket in a corner, arranging him atop it with another over his form to make him cozy as she bustles about her daily routine. Once everything is ready and stocked for the day, she delays opening for a time, knowing few will be out early with all this snow, anyway. Instead, she hauls the man upstairs to her living quarters. From an old chest of her late father’s belongings, she pulls a spare set of clothes. A bit big on him, but...better than nothing. Then into bed she tucks him.

During her dressing, she can’t help but note the rugged scars along his side. Curiosity burns at her, but...well, there’s no asking questions for now.

Certain that he’s safe, dry, and warm...she retreats back to the shop to begin her day.

A few hours later, roused by inviting smells and the steady noise beneath him, Obito manages to peel his eyes open. A minute passes of him dazedly staring at the ceiling before panicking.

Thrashing, it takes a moment to realize he’s not trapped, but...in a bed. In a room. In a house. Breath elevated nonetheless, he stops and takes it all in. The same smell of bread that warmed his dreams is even stronger now. He’s no longer out in the snow, but inside and dry.

...who…?

Dragging himself out of bed, he stumbles, not used to using only two legs. A few French obscenities escape him, clinging to the wall to avoid falling over.

A door lets him into the rest of the living space: a kitchen, small dining area, and a little living room are all one room. Another reveals a loo. And at the far wall is a set of stairs, where the smell is coming from.

Carefully, he slinks down the steps, one at a time.

He emerges into a large room filled with sacks of flour and sugar, as well as spices and cartons of eggs and bottles of milk. One box is filled with nothing but chocolate, making him salivate. And as he peeks through yet another door, he spots the kitchen. It’s massive, with several stone ovens for making bread, fires crackling and embers glowing. It’s incredibly warm, and immediately makes him sleepy again. But he finds one last door.

Through the open crack, he spies a...shop? Large windows along the front give a view into the little town, completely caked with snow. People mill in, clearly eager to get a fresh loaf of warm bread, or perhaps a sweet. And behind the counter is a young woman, bustling busily and juggling them all with a smile.

Something in Obito’s chest clenches at the sight of her, and he recoils in surprise. Sure, he’s not seen a woman in months, but is it really so entrancing?! Yet as he considers it, Obito realizes...this must surely be her shop. He’d fallen asleep on the doorstep. Then...it must be her who dragged him in here out of the cold.

...did she see…?

Flinching as she walks past the door, he almost falls over backward in his rush to escape, body still unused to this form after so long. What is he supposed to do now…?

Lingering in the kitchen and soaking up the heat, he watches as the crowd slowly thins, and the woman locks the shop for a midday break. Seems it’s time for her lunch.

...which means -!

A yelp gets caught in his throat, managing to stay silent as she comes back into the kitchen, her own form coming to an abrupt stop at the sight of him.

“...oh! You’re awake!”

Eyes wide, Obito stares at her, feeling ready to bolt as the half-known language reaches his ears

“You frightened me half to death you know, all curled up on the stoop. I thought for sure you were dead! Oh, but you must be starving...here, come with me.” Seemingly unaffected otherwise, she strides past him toward the stairs, pausing halfway up as he remains frozen. “...well come on! We need to get you fed!”

Feeling chastised as he figures her meaning, Obito can feel the ghosts of his other ears pinning in submission before he hesitantly follows.

By the time he’s up, she’s already rummaging around for something to eat. As expected, there’s plenty of baked goods...but his mouth waters at the smell of dried and salted meat.

“Come, sit! I’ll fetch you a plate.” She pats the chair invitingly.

He doesn’t need telling twice. Obito takes a seat, looking over all the food with a gurgling stomach. The woman fixes him a piled-high plate, and before he can think, he starts tearing into it with a growl.

Across the table, her eyes go wide, staring in surprise.

“...seems you’re still a beast even when you look like a man.”

The words, only partially understood but enough to ring true, make him go still, teeth still buried in a hunk of dried venison.

...so she did see.

But rather than look afraid, she gives him a weary smile. “...I thought I’d been dreaming or lost my mind. But it’s true, isn’t it…? You’re some kind of...half-man, half-beast.”

Eyes flickering over her, Obito struggles to remember the English he knows. “I was...er…” He mumbles the French equivalent before adding, “Bitten. Wolf.” In explanation, he tugs at the shirt she dressed him in, revealing the scars of teeth sunk into the crook of his neck.

Before she can help herself, Ryū grimaces. “...that must have been so painful...how did you survive…?”

“Another wolf. Friendly. Taught me...survive. Had to part. Came here. From Québec. Je viens du Québec.”

Her face alights in understanding. “Canada, then…! You’ve come a long way, we’re a few hundred miles south of the border. No wonder you were so worn out…”

He nods, catching most of her meaning. It’s easier to understand than speak it himself.

“So...like those scary tales of wolfmen. Werewolves. You can...change from wolf to man and back again?”

Another nod.

For a long moment she just...sits and digests that information. “...then you are...alone? No place to go?”

After a hesitation, his ears go red, glancing aside. “I...wander. Had to leave. Not safe to...to stay.”

“...I see.” Her arms fold, thinking. She has yet to touch her own food. “...then you’ll have to stay here, instead.”

“Wh-?!”

“As it turns out, I could use a little help.” Her lips lift in a smile. “I have to move a lot of heavy things. Chop wood for the fires. Hook up the horse to my wagon for supplies. If you do these things for me, then you can stay here. A place to live, food to eat, clothes to wear. That is...if you want. But the snows are deep this time of year. I don’t want you out alone with nowhere to go. Does it sound like a deal?”

“But…!” His mind scrambles to translate his thoughts. “I am...danger! Stranger! I could -?”

“I think if you wanted to kill me, you could have done so by now,” she counters softly, cutting off his rambling. “It would take just a moment to turn into a wolf and tear me apart. Am I wrong?”

He blanches at the thought.

“...but you didn’t. You know I helped you. And I think you’re an honorable man. One who would agree to help me if I helped you.” Reaching across the table, she puts a hand on his own, feeling him flinch. “...take some time to think about it. I won’t make you stay. But we could help each other, you and I. At least until the snows melt, and you can be on your way. Now...finish eating. You’re thinner than I would like.” Smiling coyly, she adds, “I’ll expect you to work hard if you stay, and you can’t do that on an empty stomach. Now...I better get back to work. You stay here and think, and rest.” She picks up her plate, taking it with her back down the stairs.

Flabbergasted, Obito can’t counter her, too surprised. She...she cannot be real. She is too kind…! To offer such help to a stranger, a man she doesn’t know, who she knows is a...a monster…!

He’s not a man of faith, but...surely she’s an angel.

And he fidgets as he realizes the heat in his face at such a simple touch. It’s...clearly been far too long since he’s been around other humans. While he knows he would not - could not - ever hurt her...he has to wonder at his level of self restraint.

...but he’ll do it. He’ll stay. Whatever she needs him to do, he’ll do, and do it well! She saved his life, just as Kakashi did before.

He doesn’t let debts go unpaid.

So he downs the rest of his meal before doing his best to tidy up after himself, wandering back down to the main floor. Business has opened again for the afternoon, more bread to be sold for lunches and suppers.

And as Ryū comes back to fetch more loaves, she comes up short at the sight of him. “Oh!”

“Can...I help?”

“Certainly! Here, grab that tray there, and carry it in for me. I need to put out more on the shelves.”

Taking up the indicated sheet, Obito packs it through the last door, obediently holding it for her as she works.

...it takes him a moment to notice the strange silence that overcomes the room.

The patrons stare, some in horror and some in surprise. Only after a bit of thought does Obito realize why.

It’s not often someone has as many scars as he does.

Ryū, once she’s finished, also notices. But she sets her brow and addresses them openly. “My new hand, Obito. A recent immigrant from the north. He’ll need help settling in, so I do hope you’ll all make him feel welcome.”

At once, everyone turns sheepish at her words, gazes averting and coughing small apologies.

Obito just looks at her in wonder.

A routine then develops. Every morning Ryū wakes before dawn to start her baking, and Obito handles whatever she needs. He chops the hauled logs for her fires, carries heavy sacks of supplies from her wagon, and even helps do repairs on the building as the weather wears it.

And all the while, she keeps up her same gentle manners. Every meal is a hearty one. She patiently mends any holes he tears in the garments she gave him, and patches the wounds his hard work earns him. She takes him out to do her shopping, buying him anything that catches his eye he doesn’t voice, but she still notices.

And Obito realizes he’s growing dangerously fond of her. Any man that eyes her too closely gets glowered off, his height and bulk an adequate intimidation. His work before saw him grow strong, and he’s done so again working under her roof.

His English grows in leaps and bounds. Soon he’s just about perfectly fluent, going pink whenever Ryū offers a patient correction to his grammar.

And then...Spring is upon them. And he has a choice to make. Stay where he is...or strike out once again on his own now that the weather is fair.

...it’s not much of a choice, honestly.

Instead, he has another quandary.

After a time, Ryū started paying him, much to his embarrassment. But he’s been saving every penny beyond what he absolutely needs. And after confirming to her that he would like to stay...he takes his meager savings into town.

It’s a small one, so the shops are limited. In fact, there’s only one jeweler. So he steps through the door nervously, glancing around as his gut swims.

...he’s here to buy a ring.

While he’s hardly known romance in the past, there’s something sure in him about this. All through the long Winter, the pair of them kept so close and working hand in hand, he’s come to know that there’s no comparison to her kindness, to how cared for and respected she makes him feel. She doesn’t mock his appearance, didn’t sneer at his broken English. Didn’t even balk at his dual nature. To her, he’s a man like any other: nothing to be feared, to look down upon.

And he wants nothing more than to stay by that kindness. To keep it safe.

...he wants to marry her.

...but will she have him? It’s one thing to treat him this way, but...does she love him as he so ardently loves her?

...he doesn’t know. But he has to try.

So he emerges from the shop once again penniless...but with a simple silver band dotted with an opal. Nothing flashy, but...he can’t help but feel she’ll like it all the same.

But before he can give it to her...he has to be sure of something.

“Can I...ask you something…?”

Closing down the shop for the day, Ryū turns to him curiously. “Of course.”

He fiddles with his shirt. “...are you…? Do I…? Er…” A pause to gather his thoughts. “...does my...nature frighten you…?”

She blinks, considering him. “...you mean...what you are?”

A nervous nod.

“Of course not. I have no reason to be afraid of you, Obito. You’re the gentlest, most gentlemanly man I know. Even if there’s a wolf under your skin, that doesn’t frighten me.”

“Even if you...never see it?”

Since his arrival, Obito has never Shifted back. He’s been human since he woke up in her bed.

Ryū heaves a small sigh. “...go on, then.”

“Wh-?”

“Change. I’ll prove I’m not afraid of you, Obito.”

He balks, not expecting this. “...er…” Looking around, he slips past a door and disrobes, not wanting to tear his garments. And then he changes, maintaining an upright form. Peering around the doorframe, he manages to squeeze through, tail tucked nervously between his legs.

As she promised, there’s no fear in her eyes. Instead, Ryū approaches, considering him curiously. Over his scars, white fur has grown rather than black. A hand reaches and brushes along it, making him shiver. “...now why would I be afraid of this?” she murmurs. “You’re just an overgrown pup.”

His ears pin down in embarrassment.

That earns a warm smile. “...I’m sorry, that was uncalled for. But...you’re still you, y’know. What you look like doesn’t change that. Though I think my ceilings are a little low for you this way, aren’t they?”

A pause, and then he nods as she chuckles.

“Does that ease your worry, then?”

Another nod.

“...good.”

He has nothing left to fear.

Still, he waits just a little longer. Until a beautiful night with a full moon.

Going out the back door in the dark to toss some rubbish, Ryū comes up short with a gasp. In his four-legged form, Obito stands just outside the light.

“You startled me!” she chastises with a laugh.

He just stares.

“...what?”

Obito gives a dip of his head, shifting a bit in place.

Her brow furrows. “...you want me to see something?”

Closing the gap between them, he gives her a nudge, turning his side to her and crouching.

Understanding makes her eyes go wide. “...oh…” Carefully, she slips up over his back, marveling at the feeling of his fur. “...well, now wh-?”

Standing, he turns...and then runs.

A surprised cry gets stuck in her throat, hanging on for dear life as Obito races through town, a shadow in the moonlit street. But once the shock fades, her heart grows light and giddy.

Well this is...new…!

Out into the countryside he races, grinning wolfishly as she laughs into the wind. Miles disappear beneath him. And he only stops once he reaches an old, looming oak tree he remembers from his travels.

Ryū slips from his back, legs jelly-like as she giggles. “Wow...that was…!” But as she turns...he’s gone. “...Obito?”

“H-here!” Finishing redressing with clothes stashed behind the trunk, he gives a sheepish grin. “The one downside, heh.”

She just laughs again. “So...what possessed you to make off with me in the middle of the night?”

...okay. It’s now or never. Obito’s expression sobers, and Ryū’s head tilts curiously. Gently, he takes both her hands in his own. “...for a while, I was more beast than human,” he begins, trying to remember the speech he’s formed in his head for weeks. “I was...alone. Without a home, or a family. My heart ached. It was sad. So I...I started looking for...something. I wasn’t sure what. When I collapsed on your doorstep, I was so lost. But, you brought me in. You gave me kindness. Gave me everything I had lost the day I became what I am. You never flinched. Never wavered. And I...I have found a home in you. I never want to leave. I…”

All the while, Ryū listens silently, her expression slack with surprise. And as he reaches to a pocket, descending to a knee, her stomach bursts with butterflies.

“...will you let me stay...forever?”

Unbidden, tears bead along her lids, staring as he holds aloft the little silver band. “Oh, Obito…!” A smile blooms across her face, so wide her cheeks protest. “Yes…!”

...he can barely believe it. Shaking hands take her own, carefully putting the ring in place before yipping in surprise as she launches at him, knocking them both over into the grass under the moon.

Before he can react, she presses her lips to his, a pent-up desperation in the act. Face blooming red, he reciprocates once the shock wears off. Arms lift to pin her to him, smiling against her as she giggles giddily.

He swears his chest might burst.

Only once their mess of kisses ends does she sit up, looking down at him with boundless affection. “...seems you’re not a lone wolf anymore, are you…?”

A hand reaches up, burying into the waves at her temple. “...no. Not anymore.”

The sounds of their laughter ring out in the dark, relishing in the newfound joy of their engagement.

And on another hill, watching silently, a silver wolf then slips back into the night.

...this turned out SO LONG and I didn’t even include everything I wanted to kdjfhgkdjhg I have a Problem xD Anywho, this is actually a plot Meg came up with (for the most part) like...months ago that I finally get to write! I’d actually like it to be more fleshed out BUT I’m out of buffer drabbles, so I can’t be getting TOO out of hand (I say when this is almost double my goal word count for these drabbles >w>) I really like this concept and honestly I wanna RP it really bad now! I’m a sucker for monster AUs (as evident from yesterday’s piece, huehue) so I couldn’t turn this one down xD But for now I have some irl things to get done, so I’ll try and start work on tomorrow’s when that’s done. Especially since I’ll be gone half of tomorrow. The universe just does NOT want me to write kjdfhgkjdfg Thanks for reading!

#obiryū october #abyssaldespair #uchiha obito #suigin ryū #hatake kakashi #of monsters and men [ au ]#blood //

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syvanna · 5 years ago

Text

for @goldenites/@rawmeknockout, a very long read I wrote and forgot about.

nsfw moder/reader

You wake, lying in the dirt. Under your palms the earth is soft and pliant; your fingers flex, and bury into the soil. Its coolness is a soothing satisfaction. The old, brittle oaks hang high above you, disappearing into the night - but so does something else.

From the foliage it emerges, in all its massive grandor and spindly limbs, stooping down low to regard you. You aren’t prepared for the way it crowds and occupies the empty space above you; its torso hangs heaving, its breath a loud, deep rasp that shakes the air as it expels it. You are keenly aware of the way its long arms drape like dead weights, their hands resting heavily against your thighs.

It whispers something you can’t quite catch, and you are unknowingly tricked into moving closer to the hood of it so you may hear. But when it speaks again it is so foreign and incomprehensible that it leaves your mind reeling as it tries to grasp onto something it can make sense of. One of its arms curls around your neck in an attempt to brace you, its knuckles gently pressing into the back of your skull as it continues to whisper in your ear. Each word feels like a scrape against the back of your teeth, and your mouth tingles sickly.

It seems sympathetic to the disoriented state it leaves you in, treating you as tenderly as it does. Its hand comes to cup the swell of your cheek and dirt smears against your skin where its fingers brush against. When it grows quiet, you turn to look back at it. Its attention is currently caught by its own calloused finger tracing the shape of your lip, an almost ghost of a touch.

It utters a single word and suddenly you’re at a loss of breath, air rushing out from your lungs as something sharp burrows into your chest. Your hand comes to grip at a wrist, finding that the fingers of the other hand have dug deep into your chest and are only digging deeper. As you keel forward, it tips what might have passed for its head against your own, free hand coming to rest as a present weight on the back of your neck as you wheeze harshly, gasping for breath. It murmurs, croaks conveying sympathy, but urging you on through the pain.

You wheeze, struggling to suck in enough air, but nothing sticks and your lungs feel like they’ve been rung out dry. All you can do is try to steady yourself as you heave, but it's put you in a vulnerable state.

The creature’s hands are on you, stern and reprimanding. Shaping you into a form that it finds fitting. It guides you into a proper kneeling position until you are hunched over the ground, shaken and sick with the thought of the foreign puncture into your chest. It tucks your arms underneath you and cradles your hands within its own.

Blood pours from the open wound on your chest and pools in the cup of your palms. But where you think it should be a rich colour, it is dark and brown, dripping with some form of excrement, and your throat stings with the unpleasant taste of bile.

You keen, a trembling noise escaping you as you cry. The creature is quick to cover you with its pseudo human form, arms draped along your back, enveloping you in it’s embrace. It mourns with you, its sound a devastating intensity that quakes through you--

You’re thrust awake and that mourning sound wails into the night, engulfing you in its bellow. Someone’s screaming, crying out, but the noise is drowned out by the other, the one that pinches your eardrums.

When it finally ends, you lay in your sleeping bag, too shaken to move, each sound emitted by the woods around you suddenly too loud for the sensitive state that you’ve been left in. There’s nothing but the shambling sounds of people scrambling against the restraints of their tent, calling out to anyone who would answer. Only four voices respond. There should be seven of you.

You don’t leave your tent that night. The group you are with spend a couple hours acting frantic, before settling down into hushed arguments. Someone comes and checks on you, but you say your fine, though you spend the rest of the night huddled in the corner of your tent, simply listening to yourself breath. It sounds a bit laboured, you think.

You don’t move until the morning, until you see the paper thin walls around you brighten with the light of day. But it never comes. When you finally force yourself to peer out of your tent, it’s still dark out, a rolling mist passing through the sparse trees surrounding your encampment. It almost feels too heavy, the fog, and you settle to swallow the sick that threatens to pour out of you.

The group decides to leave the tents behind and set out as early as possible. You’re just given enough time to gather what supplies were left behind, but there’s nothing useful. You’ve maybe gained an extra snack bar and a walking stick. At least you’ve got something to swing.

Both of the guides that had brought your group into the woods on this excursion were dragged off during the night. None of you having any actual hiking experience - there was a trail that you were supposed to stick to. How did you even end up in the woods, you wonder. You’re surrounded by a bunch of young adults whoever never spent a night in the woods by themselves. Which doesn’t bode well for you, because you certainly haven’t either.

The rest of the day is spent wandering through the woods, trying to get the smallest amount closer to the lodge. Every so often someone will call out the name of one of the missing party members. Their voices don’t echo, though- the moss and shallow bark seemingly swallowing up the sounds. Every so often you think you might hear something. A sound that shouldn’t be there. You try to concentrate, listen to how many footsteps you can hear but it doesn’t make any sense when you really think about it, and you can’t hear over your own breathing.

Someone you don’t remember the name of glances back at you at one point, then stops. They’re worried. You’re bleeding, they say. You’re bleeding? You look down, noticing that underneath your coat you can just make out the sign of something that doesn’t match the colour of your shirt. Unzipping your jacket, you find that the entire front of your shirt is matted with a giant stain of dried blood.

Someone asks what happened. You had a dream, you say, but it was just a dream. There appears to be a couple of holes in your chest, however. They aren’t small holes.

Where there was once a festering wound of broken emotion, nursed for years, now gone overnight- the hollow ache finally abated. In its place, this mark, five open wounds for the hurt to pour out.

The thought is a comfort.

You can’t remember when the woods started to become more dense, but the number of trees has certainly increased. The group has decided to take a moment and squabble over the next course of events. Someone wants to climb a tree, try to get a better idea of the area, maybe throw themselves off and end their misery in the process. Whatever’s more convenient.

You’re eyes ache as the tree lines blur, becoming one long wall of peeling bark. You weave through the trees, trying to space them apart. You’re bored, and the group is near. You won’t lose them easily.

Rounding on one particular tree, your eyes catch a break to the pattern. Someone stares back at you.

You just about wretch.

Someone from the group finally hears you calling out and they come to gather alongside you. They don’t understand at first- the trees are a disorienting illusion. They’re silent at first, not sure what they’re looking at. Someone starts to cry. One of the boys actually does wretch.

We need to leave, someone finally says, frantic. Someone responds by shouting, as if it wasn’t obvious enough, and then they’re all yelling at each other. The seventh hiker stares on blankly, and you think there’s no way anyone could have impaled them that high.

The shouting comes to an abrupt stop as everyone’s heads snap in the same direction, and suddenly there’s an overwhelming hush that falls over the forest. Something had snapped, too loud over the voices. The woods remain unmoving, however, until they’re not.

It’s almost as though a tree has uprooted itself and surged forward, but you don’t stick around to find out. Everyone’s broken off into a sprint, crashing against trees as they scramble to get away from whatever is in pursuit. A deafening, garbled sound rings out, shortly followed by the sound of trees that come crashing down. Someone screams ‘Fuck off!’ in response.

You pick up speed once the forest hits a decline, and suddenly you’re flying down a hill. Someone screams, only to be cut short by a rough, guttural squelch and then there’s a body that goes sailing high above you. Your step falters and you almost come to a complete halt at the display, but then you happen to glance over and your eyes lock with a creature of massive size that’s currently matching your pace. Your heart falters, and your legs threaten to give out.

Distracted, you lose your footing as you trip over a mangled root. You’re weightless only for a moment before the ground comes rushing to meet you. You collide hard, body aching on impact. The world continues to spin as you lie motionless on the ground floor. Something comes trotting into your line of sight, stooping down low to get a good look at you as it passes by, but you can’t make it out properly as your vision continues to swim. In the distance, you hear someone scream.

It takes you longer than you’d like, but you make an effort to drag yourself to safety, even if it’s slow and dirty and there’s not really anywhere for you to go. As long as you keep moving you can save yourself, you think.

The forest floor levels out, and not too far away the ground dips into what looks like a creek. It’s not much, but it’s cover.

The cliff side is shallow and the dirt crumbles underneath your weight, letting you ride down easy into the cover of the creek. You sit on the bank, trying to catch you breath but it’s wheezing and even more laboured than it was when you first woke up earlier that day. Your coat is covered, your sleeves are full of dirt, and you’re just about ready to cry. But you have a moment to yourself and you try not to lose your mind despite everything.

It’s quiet again. You don’t hear the struggles of the people you once knew, nor do you hear the creaking of broken bark. It’s just the stream and your own breathing, now. You know you can’t stay here forever, but you’re just about miserable and shaken enough to try.

The dirt that’s collected in your coat has driven you to your wits end, and you shed the layer of clothing in a fit. Your shirt’s been ruined since you started bleeding on it, but the fabric and dried blood scrapes against your skin, leaving you uncomfortable and agitated so you remove that as well.

As much as the thought of what might be in the water makes your stomach churn, you also wouldn’t mind a quick rinse of cold water. You submerge your ruined shirt in the stream and use it to wipe away the blood and grim, taking care around the wounds on your chest. You don’t think you can feel better after what happened today, but you feel just the slightest bit refreshed.

Once you’ve finished wiping yourself down, you wring out the piece of fabric before pocketing it in your coat. You doubt the thing hunting you is going to care for human decencies.

You wear your coat open as you follow the uneven embankment, trying to quietly navigate loose stones and pebbles. The sound of your own footsteps makes you wince, and you try to quell your rising anxiety. But every movement has you on guard and you eye the trees overhead fretfully.

You break out of the shelter of the shallow bank and rejoin the rest of the woods, toeing the rubble of upturned roots and dirt that have been torn up by whatever’s been tearing through the forest. If you’re careful, its tracks might lead you to what might remain of your group. If you can avoid finding the creature instead. The thought is incredibly stupid, but you don’t have any other.

When the sun finally breaks through the clouds, it’s setting. You’ll only be allowed a few minutes of golden light before it’s dark again, and you’re not sure what the night might bring this time. It can’t be any worse than what you’ve already experience, you think. It’s a pathetic attempt at hope, but you’ve been walking for hours on edge that you just want it to finally be over with.

If everything had gone according to plan, if nobody had gotten lost or stirred whatever ancient and malvoyant creature that resides in these woods, it would have been a lovely hike. At this point you think you might just be avoiding the inevitable and enjoying just wandering through the woods.

Something rustles behind you and your heart stops as something ghosts past your ear, tangling with your hair. And that’s it, isn’t it?

And just for a moment, you see how the creature looks in the sunlight. For all it’s jutting spines and mangled limbs, it has all the natural grace of a predator and regality only reserved for the most ancient and tried creatures. And here it holds you steady, its hands cradling your face, forcing you to gaze upon it in all of its might and wonder. You want to speak, to tell it that it has you from here to forever, but you feel like you lack the means to properly communicate it.

It’s knuckles graze softly against your cheek in parting as it rises to its full height, limbs creaking and bristling as it assumes a very particular stance. You stand at a lost, neck straining as you try to take in all of the creature. It bristles, and you think that you might be trying its patience. But than you think you’ve seen this all before, and that it’s shown you how to pay tribute with guiding hands.

Kneeling down, you curl into yourself, hands held out in supplication and head rest against the mossy earth. It chitters joyfully, letting loose a bellow of grating thunder that shatters against the surrounding oaks, shaking the foliage overhead. You tremble as it passes through you, delighting in the rumble that follows. Soon there are hands urging you to sit back so that they can roam your face, caressing each curve inquisitively, toying with the length of your hair.

You let out a breathy laugh, delighting in this new found appreciation. They are massive and deserving of so much love, such as you are.

Its hands smooth down the length of your neck, brushing past the open jacket and suddenly you’re anxious, but not unpleasantly. You don’t know how much to expect from this god being, how foreign and familiar the two of you might be. They knuckle idly at your ribs, fingers curling around to hold your torso in hand. You try to ignore the fact that your core clenches slightly at the mere brush of a thumb against your perk nipple, but as it doesn’t retreat, instead focusing on toying with your breast, you think its behavior might be intentional after all.

It leans forward, crowding the space between you and firmly pushes you until you’re lying back against the ground. You feel the hot, damp breath of the creature against your cheek and instinctively bare your neck. Lips ghost your jawline and a thick, steaming appendage draws a wet line against the pulse point in your throat. You gasp, turning back to look at them with a heavy gaze. One of your hands has come up, brushing against the hood of its face before you stop, remembering your place under it.

It makes a noise of encouragement as it leans forward and you are eager to press your lips against its own. It huffs, delighted, teeth grazing your lower lip in its haste. You know no harm will come to you. Your lips part, tonguing playfully at their teeth and suddenly something even larger than your own comes pressing forward. It is, to say, a mouthful, and you let out a small whimper as their tongue curls against your own. You find that it is delighted when you attempt to suck on the much larger appendage, eagerly pressing further in to the point of overwhelming. Whether it's aware of your own limitations or not, it certainly pushes them and you nearly gag on the length of them.

You are very aware of how much tongue withdraws from your mouth and your mind wanders to other things as it moves to your neck, grazing your collar with its teeth. It proceeds further until its breath is on the swell of your breast, its tongue toying with the nipple. An arm wraps around under your waist as it takes it into its mouth, sucking lightly while its other hand creeps into the waist of your pants.

You squirm as you feel a digit press against your core through your underwear, only to realize that it struggles with the barrier. It grumbles as it continues to toy with your sex through the fabric, thumb brushing against your clit before it does away with the execution of tact and digging the heel of its palm to grind against your core. You push back, its harsh grazing giving you more than enough substance to find your pleasure from and you sigh, just basking for a moment in the relief it brings you as it presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

You gently drape on arm over the back of its neck as it goes about sucking on your breast and rubbing your clit. You would ask, politely, if it may give you more, but you’re unsure of how much more you’re actually prepared for. Instead, with what restraint you can muster in this sort of situation, you lean back, hoping to detach yourself from its embrace, only for a quick moment.

It dogs your retreat by smothering its face further into your chest, sucking harshly at your sore peaks as it arms wind themselves around your waist. You try to communicate your intentions, but even they are incomprehensible, words stumbling into one another as you falter under its sensations.

It peels back enough to regard you with an interested stare, and when your hands move to unbutton your pants it becomes even more engrossed. You don’t make it far as you attempt to shimmy out of your pants; once it’s discovered the gained ground its received, it already moves in to claim it. Hot breath washes over your core, heating it in turn as you squirm at the implication. The first brush of its tongue is hampered by the thin fabric that still clothes you and you can’t help the frustrated and startled moan that leaves you.

It is insistent with its inquisitive scenting, enough that you struggle to pull the fabric aside for it to access what its after. When its tongue finally brushes against your flesh you can’t help but cry out, involuntarily letting go of the fabric before it can proceed further but this time it knows.

Its teeth briefly scrape your skin before it snaps the cradle of your underwear with a swift, harsh snap of its head.

Its tongue is immediately on you soon after, so hot on your slit that you let out a cry, hips tilting to get away. It doesn’t let you get far, however, taking hold of your still trapped legs until they have nowhere to go except tangled over its shoulder. The fur on its stag like body tickles your feet, and you squirm, but they hold you down. It doesn’t take its time with this; rather, you’re overwhelmed by its eagerness as it drinks all of you in. It is unyielding to your involuntary jerking, tongue pressing hotly against your clit before enveloping it with its lips to suck and wonder at its flavor. Its arms have folded over your stomach and weigh heavy as it buries further into you.

Its tongue creeps between your lower lips, dipping its tip just shy of your opening. You make soft noises at it, hips squirming as it discovers something it might dip into. You’re unprepared for the way it proceeds, a cautiousness that begets the burning need that pains you as the thickness of its tongue stretches you open, slow as it presses forth. When it discovers its safe to proceed without worry, its exploration doubles in its effort.

The length of its tongue slides in easily, and your body careens in response. It holds you steady, pressing in heavy strokes as it tastes you. It’s thick enough that it fills you, but it yields when your walls try to clutch at it. The tip curls against the upper wall, dragging on its way out and you can’t help but cry. It isn’t dissuaded from its task and you’re soon sobbing as it maintains the rhythm it takes you at, sloppy and burning with a delightful intensity that turns your core to molten.

It is unsympathetic to your desperate rutting in release, one hand holding you hard to the forest floor as its tongue presses even harder into you. You choke on your sobs, wailing into the night as you continue to cum under its care. When it finally withdraws, its to press one forearm under the croak of your knees and press them further back as it licks the mess that's become of your pussy, tongue lapping continuously at your clit as you cringe at another building climax. Through gritted teeth you can do nothing but endure the way your core clenches on nothing but your crux of your pleasure sings with euphoria.

It continues long after you’ve been sated. Continues until you’re a hampered, quivering mess, laid to rest on the forest floor. You don’t even realize when it's finally relented in its hunger, lying limp with your legs still tangled haphazardly in the sleeves of your pants. When its hands finally come to brush the hair out of your face, you merely flinch before finding comfort in the caress that follows. Your vision is hazy and you are exhausted, but when its arms come to help you stand, you allow it, only conscious enough to fix your clothing before you lean into its embrace, sleepy and sated. There’s a pleasant rumble from the creature and without realizing it the grounds slips away as you’re scooped up into its arms and it carries you away.

#the ritual #moder #self insert #my writing

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foolishlovebugbaby · 5 years ago

Text

he loves me, he loves me not. | part 1

hanahaki-disease!au / highschool!au

Summary: it’s hard watching your bestfriend hack up brilliant yellow tulip petals as a result of being the apple of someone’s eye. it’s even harder, however, to fess up and admit that you’re the cause of his respiratory ailments.

Genre: fluff, slow-burn.

Word count: 3.8k

The Hanahaki Disease is an illness born from unrequited love, where the patient’s throat will fill up with flower and will then proceed to cough up the petals. One of the only ways for the disease to ‘disappear’ is if the said person returns the feelings.

AU where the person you love is the one coughing up your favorite flowers.

There are many defining moments in a person’s lifetime.

Some have the day they turned double-digits as one. Many have the death of a loved one alter them for life. Others choose their most spectacular adventure as the moment of their transformative ascend.

Yours, however, came in the form of a freckle-speckled brunette and bright green scissors.

“T-teachew! Teachew! Fe-Fewix cut my haiw!” you wailed, your tears spouting from eyes that were too big for your face. 4-year-old you was in complete and utter shambles- what once was your pride and joy (long hair that you had been growing out since you were 2- albeit it only reached your shoulder blades, it was a lot for your wanna-be Rapunzel dreams) was now a sad excuse for a very asymmetrical bob cut. And it was all because of that grinning, moon-crescent-eyed boy with a hefty handful of your snipped hair clutched in his left hand and a bright pair of apple-green scissors in the other.

“You shouwd thank me! Youw haiw is awways annoying you! You keep fwipping it off youw shouwders.” He retorted, brows coming together and huffing as he crossed his little arms over his chest. Poor Felix really did have good intentions- he really wanted to help you out of your predicament; he’d always seen you brush your thick hair away from your face and decided that enough was enough. He wanted to be the prince in shining armour that freed you from your cage- or, in this case, your hair. And anyways, he’d always wondered what it would be like to cut hair.

You shrieked louder.

“Now I can’t be Wapunzew and it’s aw youw fauwt!” unending tears flowed as you flailed your short arms around helplessly, throwing a tantrum at the nursery. The teachers did their best to shush you and coax you into calming down, but you wouldn’t have it. Felix was public enemy number 1, and you were merciless.

Well, merciless for a 4-year-old.

“He shouwd be in time outsies!” you declared, pointing an accusatory and humorously chubby finger at the boy. He gaped.

“No! I won’t get to pway wif my fwiends!” He argued, his big brown eyes widening at the teacher as they pleaded his case. Luckily for you, she wasn’t one to crumble at cute puppy-dog eyes and pouts that could send authoritarians in a heart-fluttering outburst.

“Lee Felix, in the naughty chair right now!” she pointed sternly at the naughty corner that held the most dreaded seats in class. Granted, they were just step-stools spray painted black with the words “Time Out ☹️” written in bold white letters surrounded by an infant safety cage to keep you locked in- but in your world of rainbows and blissful ignorance, that corner was the world’s worst prison cell and Felix was about to enter a world full of hurt.

His eyes brimmed with tears as he slumped dejectedly and dragged his feet towards the naughty corner. You laughed menacingly.

“Losew! Muahaha, that’s what big-bums wike you get!” you watched too many cartoons with evil geniuses, and that definitely showed in the way you smiled wickedly and rubbed your hands together like you were gargamel and Felix was the first smurf you caught. You stuck your tongue out at him and made an L shape with your fingers that you planted firmly on your forehead.

Boy, were you one mean 4 year old tyrant.

“Y/N! What did I say about foul language and teasing?” The teacher had her hands on her hips and a disappointed glare written all over her face as she stared down at you. Foul language was an... interesting concept in nursery.

You stared up at her towering figure and shrinked back. “Off to the naughty corner for you.” She sternly held onto your chubby wrist and dragged you to the prison. Your small, growing mind could not comprehend why you were the one being punished when you were the victim of this ruthless attack.

“B-b-but-!”

“No but’s!” Felix snickered immaturely at that. “I want you both to reflect on what happened today and make up, got it? No playing or moving until I get back!” The teacher scolded and they nodded submissively, eyes glued to the floor with arms crossed on their chest as she sauntered out of the room.

You glanced at Felix out of the corner of your eye and huffed. The bitterness was eating at you, so you scooted as far away as you possibly could in the small confines and let out a very angry hmph. You fiddled with your hair- or, what was left of it, and began feeling an overwhelming sense of misery. My poor poor hair...

Your sniffles broke the rather tense and awkward silence between you both. You cried softly to yourself, and little Felix could feel the guilt swallow him whole. His little heart softened at the sight of you.

“H-hey, d-don’t cwy,” he cautiously scooted his stool closer to you and placed an arm around you. “I-I’m weawwy s-sowwy.” His full lips pouted when you only looked away.

“I-I just wanted to hewp you,” His doe eyes glassed over with tears of guilt as his arm retreated from your shoulders and onto his lap where he fiddled with his thumbs.

You hated to admit it, but your fickle heart didn’t like being so harsh on the pouty boy next to you. But he took it too far, so you stood your ground even if you did want to go back to making unshapely flowers with him.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Felix move to the edge of the pen and stand on his time out stool, his small arms stretching as much as they could towards the table directly in front of you.

“What awe you doing?” You asked curiously as you turned to him. He placed a finger on his lips as he successfully grabbed a marker and piece of paper. You only looked more confusingly at him as he turned his back to you, scribbling something on. You pouted.

First this punk cuts my hair, then he hides-

“I-I know it’s not weal, b-but I just wanted to say sowwy.” He held up the paper right in front of your face. The once blank pink sheet now had a bundle of haphazardly drawn yellow flowers- if you could call it that. The petals were scribbled on and the stems looked more like waves, but hey, what more could he have done with no table and a limited colour selection?

His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were hopeful, “M-maybe if you agwee to be fwiends then I could tew mommy to get you weal ones?” You stared at the paper then at him, joy fluttering through you.

Picasso? Rembrandt? Michelangelo? Who were they? You only knew Lee Felix, and he just drew you the greatest florals you’d ever seen.

You giggled loudly and hugged him. “Ofcouwse we can be fwiends!” You shook him around in your tiny arms and he giggled along with you. “But you have to pwomise not to cut my haiw ewer again,” You looked him dead in the eye, your hands planted on his shoulders as you held him at arms length. He nodded vigorously.

“I pwomise.” He held a pinky up to and you gladly intertwined your own.

So maybe you did end up with shorter hair- but then again, you also managed to end up with yellow tulips and a best friend.

“Gosh, I feel so bad for her.” Felix grimaced next to you as you both sat in Math class. “She looks like she’s about to cough up an entire rose meadow.”

“Tell me about it.” You mumbled and looked pityingly at the girl in question. She was coughing up a storm right at the front of the class, red rose petals littering her desk and covering her math work. It was sad, really- news went around that she had dumped her boyfriend just a few weeks ago, and while she was able to move on and tear herself away from the animosity of teen love, he clearly wasn’t. Lo and behold, she had come down with a case of the nasties- the one disease that showcased your desirability while also managing to turn you into an other-worldly sort of TB patient on acid. The Hanahaki disease.

Or, hacki-hacki, as Felix liked to call it. “Get it, because they hack up a florist’s dream?”

What deity out there decided that bestowing this cruel respiratory ailment was a good idea? You had no clue. But the pitfalls of highschool had made it especially arduous to face. Sure, love was fickle, and true love even more so at this age, but that didn’t prevent any cases from whizzing through the hallways ready to grapple it’s next victim mercilessly. Privacy for dealing with unrequited love was a luxury that no one could afford.

“As antagonistic as it seems, I’m so glad no one’s in love with me.” Felix declared. “I wouldn’t be able to stand having petals clogging up my oesophagus.”

“I have a feeling the universe is going to wreck you sideways just for saying that.” You snort.

“Well, after today there’ll be absolutely no school for the next two months which means neither of us will have to face the horror that is High School Hormones,” He puts an arm around you and looks up, as if envisioning something in the air, “and we’ll be able to bask in the glory that is Summer.” A few beats pass with you in utter confusion over what it is you both were staring at until you snort and flick his forehead.

“You are so dramatic, Fefe.” He scowled at the nickname. “Summer is going to be so boring since everyone will be out the country except me.” You huffed and pouted, slumping in your seat.

He sat up straighter, “Hey, I’m still going to be here!”

“And what about it?”

He gasped loudly, quite dramatically, too, and held a hand up to his chest. The whole class shot their heads up like meerkats and looked towards your table, Felix’s ears turning crimson from embarrassment as you tried to bite back a laugh. You were amused at the boy, really, at how he’d manage to turn everything into a melodramatic screenplay if given enough inspiration to do so.

“Your heart is on the other side, genius.” He glared at you and rolled his eyes.

“Whatever. You’re such a spoil-sport, you know? But, being the generous person that I am, I’m willing to forgive your disrespectful ass.” You scoffed. “Baby, you and I are going to have the greatest summer ever, and I won’t allow anything less.” He leaned back, all smug and proud as if he had already planned the greatest holiday itinerary to ever exist.

You glanced at him, skeptical, but accepted the idea nonetheless. What’s the worst that could happen, right?

“If we don’t have the City Girl Summer of our dreams, then I’m blaming you.”

“You burnt the cookies.”

“I did not burn the cookies,” Felix reaches over and grabs one straight out of the tray, instantly dropping it due to it’s scalding heat. It flips over on your countertop and topples, landing on its face looking like a sad excuse of a choco-chip- which, in retrospect, it was.

“Okay, so maybe I did burn them.” he defends poorly, scratching his temple.

“Maybe? It looks like the sweat stain on Mr. Song’s brown button up whenever he demonstrates where the axillary lymph nodes are.” You snicker and he scowls at you, shoving your arm.

“I get it, I get it, geez. But in my defense I wouldn’t have burnt them if you,” He points his small index finger at you. “Had reminded me to check on the cookies every five minutes. So, really, this is all your fault.” He waves the same finger around the messy kitchen, which looked like a tornado had raided it’s contents in an unsuccessful attempt to find hidden treasure.

“Are you kidding me?” You gasp in disbelief of his accusation. The nerve of this boy was insurmountable, and you’d think more than a decade’s worth of friendship would have taught you that his juvenile ass was always ready to pick a fight out of thin air. But, just like his ego, your contentious self would not go down without a fight.

You gaped like a fish, having a flurry of obscenities ready to spew out and lash at him, but all failing to make it past your lips as a result of your vexation. So you growled, like a damn beast, and stuck your hand in the flour bag. His eyes widened, “You wouldn’t.” He huffed, squinting his eyes at you so as to call your bluff.

Wordlessly, you fisted the flour in your hand and hurdled in straight on his face, which became somewhat of a nuclear white, the flour covering his hair all the way down to the neck line of his sweater. They really weren’t messing around when they called this thing ‘all-purpose’.

You giggled, the hostility in you practically vanishing like the puff of flour that wafted through the air between you both. His eyes were shut tight and his lips were pulled in a straight line. “You think that’s funny?” He says lowly with his head tilted to the side as he rubs the flour from his eyes.

“I think it’s hilarious.” You squeak, the humor in your voice obnoxiously apparent and he bites the inside of his cheek, nodding and looking around.

Within and split second he has you in a headlock, your back against his floury chest and his arm around your neck as you squeal and squirm. You see his free hand reach over for the egg carton, and you can’t help but think your mom would kill you once she gets home.

“Woah there buddy, let’s call a truce, why don’t we? C’mon, you know I love ya.” You humor, trying to appeal to him so as to not get egged.

“Pro tip; dousing an egg spillage with salt makes for easier clean up.”

“Why do you say tha-” Oh.

You gasp; the feeling of eggshell cracking against your skull wasn’t one you were... accustomed to, to say the least. You felt the slimy and cold contents trickle down your forehead and you swore you could summon the wrath of a thousand gods in that moment.

Felix lets you go as he laughs boisterously, enjoying your distress a little too much. “Oh shit,” He breathes out wheezing and doubles over in laughter. You angrily wipe your face and glare at him, “Oh shit is correct.”

Now, if anyone were to walk in on the whole debacle, they’d be in for a treat. It was like watching a rerun of Tom and Jerry- only Tom was a freckled brunette wheezing in laughter and Jerry was a 5-foot-something girl clinging onto him in a chokehold.

“What in heaven’s name...” Your mom stood at the entrance of the kitchen, mouth agape and absolutely astonished by the sight before her; flour scattered all over her granite island, egg shells cracked on the floor, a tray of sad cookies turned over on the counter top, and “Is something burning?”

She has yet to lay eyes on the pair of you- which was a good thing, since the sight would have sent her into cardiac arrest. But that momentary save was short lived as it was quite hard to not notice the fact that her daughter was grasping her best-friend’s son like a baby monkey clinging onto its mama.

You and Felix stare back at her, mouth opening and closing like goldfish. “It’s all his fault, I swear.” You point a finger to his head below yours with the hand that, only a few seconds ago, was clawing at him.

“Are you kidding me?” He whispers-yells at you, “I swear, she started it.” He shrugs you off of him harshly and you trip but regain your balance. You snarl at the back of his head.

Before you could pounce on the boy again, you hear your mom harshly tsk your way and you freeze. “One day you kids are going to give me a heart attack,” She shakes her head and sets the grocery bags at the foot of the entrance. “Luckily, today is not that day. Now start cleaning up, both of you.” She points a finger at the pair of you and begins to walk away.

“Is it okay if i stay the night aunty?” Felix quips before she completely disappears and you make a face.

“What? No wa-”

“Of course you can sweetheart! Our home is your home~ I’ll call your mom and tell her.” You gag. Your mom always adored Felix and there was nothing you could do about it.

“You know, sometimes I get the inkling that my mom loves you more than she loves me. She coos sweetheart at you and calls me by first name, like what is up with that.” You huff once she disappears out into the hallway. Felix turns to you, a proud look in his eyes, “Of course she loves me more. Have you seen this face?” He makes a sickeningly cute face but fails to get his point across due to the layer of flour covering it. You only roll your eyes and throw a wet towel at his face.

“Get to cleaning, flour boy.” You snicker at your joke.

“You’re really not funny.”

You both move through the kitchen, wiping down the countertops and floor with the occasional quips of disgust over the mess you made. Covering spilt egg heavily with salt did, surprisingly, help get rid of it as you came to find out, but patting Felix on the back for his ‘pro-tip’ and boosting his ego was not something you were up for.

“Why are you sleeping over, by the way? It’s been ages.” You aggressively wipe the dried up chocolate on the top shelf- how it managed to get there was still a mystery to you.

“Precisely! The last time we did, it was winter break,” He scrubs at the burnt crumbs that melded themselves on the baking tray, “It’s only fitting that I take refuge in your humble abode for a few days, so that I can kidnap you and make you stay over at mine’s.” He grins at you and you chuckle.

“I have to see you everyday this summer, don’t I?”

“You can count on it, baby.” He winks

You whine at his pet name, “Stop calling me baby- do you know how many people think we’re an item?” You finish up cleaning, walking over to the sink to wash your hands. “I swear, so many people at school are convinced we’re dating and I can’t help but want to vomit each time.” You lean onto the counter next to him, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Oh shut up,” He scoffs and shrugs. “Besides, we both know that I’m single, and you’re a wild beast incapable of love.” He jokingly cups your cheek and pouts and you smack him on the arm.

“Okay okay I’m sorry, stop assaulting me geez.”

“So are you feeling Jaws or Clueless tonight?” Felix holds up the two DVD’s in his hands and contemplates, shaking his damp hair from out of his face. You had just come out of the shower, taking longer than expected as a result of having to scrub out a myriad of baking ingredients from your body and hair. Dressed in your grizzly bear onesie, you wanted nothing more than to cuddle up in your sheets and knockout. But clearly Felix had other ideas.

He sat at the foot of your bed, shuffling through your Dad’s old DVD collection in attempt to pick out a movie with your hoodie on. Well, it wasn’t exactly your hoodie per se; it was his that he had left a couple sleepovers ago and you had officially claimed domain over it, refusing to give it back. But it was so soft and warm and cuddly, how could you let it go?

“Just pop in any.” You said and flopped onto the bed on your stomach.

“That does nothing to help me.” He looks up at you and you shrug. “Jaws it is then.”

You scroll on your phone while he shuffles through your room, turning off the lights and lamps before making his way towards your bed.

“Jesus Christ!” You wheeze out when you feel his weight on top of you. He had jumped onto your body, smothering you into your bed and you wanted to rip the freckles right off of him one by one. Gruesome? Yes. Necessary? Absolutely.

“Your hair smells nice.” He giggles into the back of your head and you squirm.

“Get off of me!” He pouts and rolls over next to you.

“Forgive me for wanting to be affectionate.” He huffs.

“So your definition of affection is doing a WWE smack down?”

“We’re all a little different, okay!” You snort at him. How you managed to put up with him was a mystery and a half.

After constant uncomfortable shifting on your bed with a few kicks at each other here and there followed by a “Is this my bed or yours?” “Practically mine, since I picked it out for you.”, you both settled comfortably in your sheets with him sprawled out horizontally while you used his tummy as a pillow. Try as you might, but you couldn’t help but feel the muscles on his abdomen.

“Someone’s been going to the gym.” You poke at his middle and he giggles, “That tickles!”

His fingers run through your hair instinctively, combing through the tangles and layers and massaging your scalp. You hum at the feeling.

You two definitely had your shared moments of chaos with each other daily, but you forgot how nice it was to not want to slit his throat every time he opened his mouth.

“I’m glad you’re here this summer, fefe.” You say sleepily and he chuckles.

“Just say you’re in love with me and get it over with.” You pinch his sides.

It had been so long since you last spent your summer together. It was always either him travelling outside the country with his family or vice versa the last few years, and he was glad that he got to keep you all to himself this time, even if he wouldn’t admit it. High school was breezing by too fast and sooner or later you both would have to part ways, so he convinced himself that it was okay to be selfish this time.

“Do you think we could go see a sunrise soon?” You mumble drowsily into his middle. His fingers moving through your hair was doing wonders to lull you to sleep, but you weren’t complaining.

“Anything you want.” He replies sleepily.

“And maybe learn surfing and get .”

He smiles down at you, “Sure thing, baby.”

a/n: god, i wanted this to be a oneshot so bad but lord knows i wouldn’t be able to put it out for months if it were. so here’s another multi-chapter fic from me- no bullet points this time n better slow burn (hopefully) :) stick around for more <3

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onwesterlywinds · 5 years ago

Photo

Tikhomir Ajuyn: Say, do you have an idea how to get to ... what was it, the Keane house? Ashelia Riot: ...One of the old houses. It's in the city proper. Ashelia Riot points north, and up, to where the palace lies behind its walls. Tikhomir Ajuyn: Thank you, Miss. Tikhomir Ajuyn squints at her face a little closer, and tilts his head. She looks vaguely familiar, but he can't quite place it. Something about the ears. Ashelia Riot is already tense from hearing someone asking about the Keane house - her own destination, of course. Her unease only grows to find the man looking at her from behind - but if there's one thing she's grown skilled at in politics, it's hiding her emotions. Ashelia Riot: The market's just up this way. Tikhomir Ajuyn gives her a smile, careful to keep his fangs hidden for the moment. Tikhomir Ajuyn: Thank you. I met an older man who directed me to the place, and it's a bit too late to journey out to the wilds to my camp tonight. Ashelia Riot stops walking at that. Ashelia Riot: ...Did he tell you it was haunted, by any chance? Tikhomir Ajuyn almost bumps into her. Tikhomir Ajuyn: H-Haunted? Er, no. He said it was his family's house. Tikhomir Ajuyn looks vaguely discomforted by the idea of ghosts. Ashelia Riot runs a hand through her hair, tucking a lock behind her ear... exposing that ear further. Ashelia Riot: Fuck. ...Then in truth, you met the ghost of that house himself. Ashelia Riot gives a somewhat wry smile. Tikhomir Ajuyn: ...Don't tell me Rosenheim is an ashkin. My life is already strange enough. Would that make you his daughter? Ashelia Riot: Close: he's former Kingsguard, so some would call him a Corpse. But yes, I am his daughter. Ashelia Riot. And you are? Tikhomir Ajuyn looks to the side like he can't quite believe it: Rosenheim said nothing about being Kingsguard himself, the weasel. Tikhomir Ajuyn: Tikhomir. Ajuyn, if you've a preference for last names, but I do not use it much. Ashelia Riot's eyes grow wide with awe. Ashelia Riot: ...Ajuyn?

Ashelia Riot takes a step closer. Tikhomir Ajuyn: Aye, my wife's name. I took it when I married her. Ashelia Riot: She wouldn't have happened to be a Keeper Miqo'te? Tikhomir Ajuyn blinks and takes a slight step back from this intense looking woman. Tikhomir Ajuyn: Er... Yes? Well. She was. I laid her to rest some twelve years ago. Ashelia Riot sees it too, finally - in the ears, of all places; her mouth falls open and she covers it with a single hand. Tikhomir Ajuyn flicks said ear nervously. Ashelia Riot: I know your daughter. Nivelth. She's... she's never mentioned... Tikhomir Ajuyn blinks rapidly, his pack slipping from his shoulder. Tikhomir Ajuyn: You--My Nivelth? That's impossible, she died-- Ashelia Riot shakes her head. Tikhomir Ajuyn staggers. Ashelia Riot: She's been a Riskbreaker for years. And one of my dearest friends. Tikhomir Ajuyn covers his mouth, eyes wide and unseeing. Tikhomir Ajuyn: But-- But I -- Tikhomir Ajuyn has to sit down. Tikhomir Ajuyn: Twelve have mercy, she--she's alive? Ashelia Riot hopes at first that Nivelth Ajuyn did not conceal her death from her father for some reason - but she sees from his abject shock, and his lack of any other emotions, that that doesn't seem to be the case. Ashelia Riot: Yes. Ashelia Riot kneels down slightly, places a hand upon his broad shoulder. Ashelia Riot: She's alive. And she's one of the fiercest fighters we have. Certainly one of the smartest. Tikhomir Ajuyn wipes his face, and Ashelia Riot can see a dusting of lighter spots along his cheeks, almost like freckles. Tikhomir Ajuyn: I ... I had come back from a hunting trip, and the homestead was in shambles. I ... our clan dead. I couldn't find her, so I had assumed... Ashelia Riot: I'm so sorry. I'm so... so sorry. Ashelia Riot knows, almost as well as anyone, that there's no wishing away that hurt, that sense that so much time has been wasted. Tikhomir Ajuyn: I ... Thank you. For telling me. I ... Tikhomir Ajuyn coughs slightly, and wipes his eyes again. Tikhomir Ajuyn: I realize you must've been doing something important, I -- Tikhomir Ajuyn is clearly trying to deflect, and not be the center of attention. Ashelia Riot: No. No, there's nothing more important than this. Tikhomir Ajuyn smiles at her, though it's a little watery. Tikhomir Ajuyn: You said she was one of your best fighters? And a good friend of yours? I'm ... I'm so glad. Ashelia Riot nods. Ashelia Riot: I've no doubt she would make your wife proud. Tikhomir Ajuyn: Una would always be proud of her. Tikhomir Ajuyn sniffles a little but seems to get himself under control. Tikhomir Ajuyn: She lives at the Sandsea? Rosenheim had mentioned it. Well, he mentioned it to see if I knew any old Kingsguard that might come by to visit. Ashelia Riot: Yes, she does. In Ul'dah. I'm afraid I don't know her exact whereabouts at present, but she's not like to have gone far. Tikhomir Ajuyn: Right. I ... I suppose I'll have to start making my way there. Gods, I .... what do I even say? Tikhomir Ajuyn runs a hand over his face. Tikhomir Ajuyn: Thank you, truly. Ashelia, was it? Ashelia Riot: Ashelia, yes. Ashelia Riot stands, holding out a hand for him. Tikhomir Ajuyn takes it, and hauls himself to his feet. His grip is strong and calloused, from years behind a bow. Ashelia Riot: But you are most welcome at the Keane house tonight. As you may have guessed by now, it's the Riskbreakers' base in Ala Mhigo. Tikhomir Ajuyn: Thank you. I ... daresay I should even set up shop, with... everything. Might you and yours need furs or supplies? It's the least I can do. Ashelia Riot shakes a head. Ashelia Riot: We can sort that out later. I've only recently returned from a long journey, and I've yet to fully take inventory. Tikhomir Ajuyn: Rosenheim mentioned you were a busy lass. If you need an extra set of claws, I can help. Ashelia Riot: He /mentioned/ quite a bit to you, it seems. ...But I would appreciate the help nonetheless. Tikhomir Ajuyn: Admittedly I kept him captive and talked to him a while. He was the first conversation I'd had in weeks that wasn't my chocobo. Ashelia Riot supposes she shouldn't be complaining about her father when his interference is about to reunite Nivelth Ajuyn with her own. Ashelia Riot: I'm certain he enjoyed the company as well, truth be told. Tikhomir Ajuyn smiles, this time not bothering to hide his fangs. Tikhomir Ajuyn: He was an interesting man to talk to. A bit dry, but I get the sense that he doesn't talk much for fun. Ashelia Riot: He's as joyful as a funeral, you mean. Ashelia Riot doesn't admit that she's seeing more of that trait in herself now that she's older. Or perhaps it's her mother's influence making her see it more. Tikhomir Ajuyn chuckles despite himself, his eyes crinkling happily. Tikhomir Ajuyn: I knew it was a good idea to give him a lunch with a sweet or two in it. He could do with some. Ashelia Riot: You gave him /food/? And he accepted it? Tikhomir Ajuyn: Stubborn old man tried to decline, but I told him to pay it forward if he wasn't going to eat it, Tikhomir Ajuyn shrugs, then stammers as he sees her look. Tikhomir Ajuyn: He's thin! Ashelia Riot: If you married a Miqo'te, you should know full well that that counts for precious little. Tikhomir Ajuyn doesn't know how to reply to that. Tikhomir Ajuyn: ... I try to help out where I can. Sharing some food is easy enough. Ashelia Riot: I... I'm sorry. I'm grateful for it. And I'm certain he is too. Tikhomir Ajuyn: Bah, it's alright. It's a common enough affliction in these parts, I've noticed. Many villages treated me with suspicion when I offered to hunt for them. Ashelia Riot: If you'd care to- Th-That is, you'd be more than welcome to take up cooking tonight at the house. Tikhomir Ajuyn: I wouldn't mind it. I've more than a little experience with cooking and the like, and a chance to work on something would... be helpful. Ashelia Riot: I understand completely. I'll take you to the Keane house, then. There's plenty of space for whatever you have. Tikhomir Ajuyn nods at that. Tikhomir Ajuyn: Thankfully I do not have much, just what I can carry. Do you have a preference for dinner? I know Ala Mhigans are partial to meats on the rarer side... Ashelia Riot: No preference. Though I do opt for well-cooked meat when possible. Tikhomir Ajuyn: Of course. Would you mind terribly telling me about the Riskbreakers? It was the name of an order I'm sure you're familiar with, some twenty five years ago, and that's quite honestly my only experience with it. Ashelia Riot: That is going to be a very long story. Would you mind if I tell it to you on the way back to the house? Tikhomir Ajuyn: By all means. I'm in no hurry. Tikhomir Ajuyn reaches down and hefts the pack up back onto his shoulder, bound thick with rough rope, and Ashelia can see all sorts of furs and beastkin parts that might fetch a good price. Ashelia Riot: ...Ironically... I remember hearing about Nive asking similar questions around Rhalgr's Reach. Even after she'd been among our number for years. Ashelia Riot: Ever curious. Tikhomir Ajuyn chuckles softly at that. Tikhomir Ajuyn: ... That she is. She stuck her nose into a wasp's nest when she was four summers because she 'wanted to see how the honey was made'. Ashelia Riot bursts out laughing, despite herself; if that isn't a metaphor for what happened in Dalmasca, she thinks, nothing is. Tikhomir Ajuyn: Poor kit's face was puffy for a week, and she pouted so terribly. Ashelia Riot: Then it seems little's changed! Ashelia Riot is relishing the chance to swap embarrassing stories while she has the chance. Tikhomir Ajuyn: I had hope she grew out of it, but it seems I was mistaken. I was sure she was going to send me into an early grave with heart palpitations alone.

#Tikhomir Ajuyn #Ashelia Riot

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nortromthesilencer · 4 years ago

Text

Repercussions (Compile)

The Next part of the Madinni story... Started with an ask meme prompt about one falling asleep on the other and we decided to carry on the story.

NortromtheSilencer

As the sun slipped behind the rocks and night came to be, Nortrom sat in the orange glow of the camp fire and yawned. How long had he been awake, traveling on foot, without a break? By this point he didn’t know or care, instead glad he had encountered Rizzrack before the sun set once again.

What a strange concept: being happy to see this strange pink Keen. it meant he was finally back out of enemy territory, no longer at risk of ambush, and able to relax for once. Another yawn as he pondered this, intently staring into the flames.

With each passing thought his eye lids grew heavier, fatigue winning a lawn drawn out battle of attrition now that his guard was down and destination mostly reached. Without even realizing it the Silencer had tilted to the side and fallen asleep, fallen to his side, head pushed up against Rizzrack’s legs.

Rizzrack

It must be close to the end of times, because for once Rizzrack was the cleaner of the two (having finally made use of that gift of soap). What a sweaty dirty man to have stumble upon the keen during the last few days of putting ol’ Timbersaw back together. What had the Silencer been up to? The man didn’t share much probably because he was quite tired, but Rizzrack assumed he wasn’t GOOD enough to be told of such things!

Ah, no, just tired then it seems.

“Erhm, y-you’re on my…” Rizzrack’s legs are held hostage, pinned between Nortrom’s head and the log he sits upon. His expression twists, unsure whether to be annoyed or worried. The latter wins over as he finds it uncharacteristic for Nortrom to be this lax. Something must be wrong.

Very lightly he pokes the man’s forehead. “Nortrom?” No response. Maybe he’s been drugged. Lightly the keen jostles his legs. “Nortrom…?”

Rizzrack looks past the flames, past his little shamble of a shack and to the outer edge of the woods. Trees stand bare, branches leafless so that the unknown may not be hidden during day, but at night… at night the darkness is just as untrustworthy. The shadows creep closer and the light recoils away from the edge, leaving the two eventually on a small glowing island in a black sea.

His holiday was coming to an end, and with that the inevitable return of fears. Spring isn’t far away, and when there’s spring there’s…

The keen’s breath goes still and he listens intently. What was that sound? It was just the fire right? Does it ever crackle that loudly? He was so lost in his thoughts that anything could have ambushed them!

“Nortrom, wake up…!” Hopefully a harsh whisper and some nudging would be enough to get the man to wake up.

NortromtheSilencer

Jostled and spoken to, the Silencer snorted, slowly stirring from his slumbering state. As he moved to right himself his balance faltered, the log they were resting on betraying his tired state and causing Nortrom to abruptly roll to the ground in front of Rizzrack. Groaning and muttering an assortment of curses under his breath as his hands moved to clear dirt from a few days worth of unshaven stubble, Nortrom shook his hair out in an effort to regain composure.

“W-What? Is there something wrong?” The man didn’t even notice he had been lying on Rizzrack, instead combating embarrassment from falling and trying to keep his eyes open once more. The task was made easier when he saw that look of worry across the Keen’s features.

“What’s the issue?”

Rizzrack

Using his hands to motion at Nortrom to be more quiet, Rizzrack keeps his eyes on their surroundings. “There’s something… out there…” He leans over ever slightly, feeling his every movement being tracked. “…watching…”

A glint in the darkness.

That was enough to get the small-keen to frantically jump to his feet. At this point he’d already be climbing up into his suit, but alas, it’s still within his little hut and not quite completely put together yet. Should he run? No, he’d be lost in the darkness along with that thing. Stay with the fire. Oh right, fire.

Without another moment’s hesitation, he yanks out a piece of burning wood. Mustering up all of his strength, he lobs it out into the darkness at his hidden foe. It lands with a crunch in the thin snow, cinders bursting out and faintly sizzling until the orange glow dims down into darkness behind the campfire once more.

The small-keen crouches closer to his fire. He’s just over reacting. It’s too cold, too soon it to start, isn’t it?

NortromtheSilencer

Following the Keen’s gaze, Nortrom squints in an attempt to see just what it was that made him so jumpy. (Besides everything) About to comment on the fact it was most likely just some random critter foraging for food, he instead had to jump back as cinders sparked in protest to being jostled in Rizzrack’s make shift weapon attack. The trail of orange flares up, illuminating the ground and barren brush as it flew, only to pathetically douse itself in the snow upon landing.

Still staring, the Silencer yawned quietly. Again he brushed his face with his hands, the faint blue glow of his eyes visible on his skin in this dark hour. With a frown the man continues to watch, silently. If something was there, it would have since changed position seeing as Rizzrack gave away the fact that they saw movement. And if it was nothing? Then it was a waste of good fire wood.

Rizzrack

How can he act so calm about this?!

Because he knows you’re just hearing things, Rizzrack. It’s all in your mind! Not everything else obviously, just this… It can’t be the trees, they’re dead still. Maybe it’s a wolf or, or a yeti… No no, it’s probably just clumps of snow that fell. If it was either of those other two they’d have been attacked by now right? Right! What’s he getting so worked up over for then? Silly silly Rizzrack.

… It still wouldn’t be such a bad idea to finish getting his suit together.

“Heh… G-guess it was nuthin’ after all? Hmph, it’s still got me worried though, I should get the suit up and running before it’s too late.”

There’s another audible snap that makes the keen flinch. Chuckling at his reaction, he scoffs and waves a hand through the air to dismiss his nervousness. It’s just the damn sn-

A shred of the shadows tore from the darkness and clung itself to Nortrom’s back. Before Rizzrack could even register what he was witnessing, the black figure lunges a dagger into the man’s back. With a yelp the keen falls back onto the ground, staring fearfully at the large cat-like being kneeling on top of Nortrom.

“Move, he dies.” The blood-dipped blade is moved dangerously close to Nortrom’s neck.

Rizzrack looks as if he’s just seen a ghost.

“M-Madinni?” He killed her, and now she’s back for revenge.

NortromtheSilencer

Nortrom nodded, feeling on edge from being suddenly woken up and believing that having the timbersuit operational would be a wise choice.

“A good idea. I will attempt to stay awake just in ca—” Cut off by having the air forced from his lungs by a sudden weight pressed into his back, the Silencer twisted to see what had landed on him only to snarl in pain and fall forward, chest hitting his knees and weight pressing him even further down. Teeth clenched he hissed, the thing on top of him only further aggravating the now stabbing pain pulsating from the fresh wound, blood staining the back right side of his clothing as it seeped out.

Still confused due to just how fast this all went, even after hearing the vaguely familiar voice, it wasn’t until Rizzrack spoke that name, that forgotten yet distinct name, that Nortrom remembered just where he had heard it before.

A pawed hand tangled into the man’s hair, wrenching his head back at an uncomfortable angle in order to gain better access of the throat she so threatened. Wasn’t this the very damned thing he was attempting to avoid by staying at Rizzrack’s camp?

“What the hell do you want?” His words were pained, yet ever defiant. Did she even know who he was, given their encounter was during a period of time when Nortrom was a youth, a spell she knew nothing about? More than likely Madinni was merely after Rizzrack and he had the unfortunate fate of being stuck in between her and her prey.

Thinking on that options were present, only a couple came to mind: He didn’t doubt his strength was much more than her own, and able to still stand and perhaps throw her off. There were a few issues, however, given the grip on his head and the dagger at this throat that would make this a very risky venture. Another option was to throw a curse on her, the pain known to cripple all but the strongest of wills. Again, the dagger left this at less than desirable odds of getting out from under her. Damnit.

Through all of this, Nortrom thought less on his own well being and more on the fact that if he were to be killed it would leave Rizzrack alone with this crazed feline out for blood and revenge. For now, the best course of action would be to wait and see, and just breath through the pain.

Rizzrack

“I-I’m so-” Rizzrack stops himself and rethinks his response. “I’m NOT sorry for what I did! You evil untrustworthy thief! You deserved to die! Now back off or I’ll kill you again!”

Sharp eyes reflected fire and gazed upon the keen. “You did not kill myself. You killed another. You *murdered* my sister.” The feline harshly yanks Nortrom’s head back even more, displaying his throat to Rizzrack and her intention to spills his blood in front of him.

“In turn I take the life of your friend. Or you submit to me yours. Choose, keen.” She makes her statement pressing the blade roughly to his neck enough to draw a line of blood.

Rizzrack stammers, unsure of how to process her statement. He is lost in his refusal to believe he killed an innocent, and self-preservation makes him hesitant to answer immediately. Who knows if he would have agreed to or not, but Madinni did not wait for an answer. She was going to kill the keen either way. His answer would have only decided how quick his death would come.

The blade is buried into the base of Nortrom’s neck and forgotten as she lunges as the shrieking Rizzrack. She won’t need the dagger, only her claws.

Such a fragile race the keenfolk are without their machines.

NortromtheSilencer

The stinging feeling of even more pierced flesh brought about another small hiss from the Silencer. He glares towards Rizzrack as best he can at the odd angle, and motions with his shoulders, “Rizzrack, run.”

Obviously not liking this instruction, Madinni chaotically stabbed the knife into the man and lept off him towards the keen. Nortrom was shoved into the ground, gasping in pain and reaching up, feeling for the wound, expecting to be choking on blood or exsanguinating at a rapid pace. Instead, the odd angle and rushed stabbing forced the knife downward, through his muscles and more towards the collar bone at the base of his neck. It hurt like hell, greatly overshadowing the previous stab wound from behind, and the Silencer feared that removing the blade would rupture something important. Leaving it in however, would most definitely cause more damage if he ended up moving too much.

One hand held the skin between his hand and the blade, and despite the ringing in his ears and throbbing pain, his other hand reached out towards the lunging Madinni. Using the last ounce of concentration he had, Nortrom cast the curse of “Last Word” on her before rolling on to his back and fighting to keep pressure on the wound.

Rizzrack

Claws dig deep into the side of his face, dragging and drawing blood that runs hot and cold in the winter air. Even by the light of the fire he can’t make out her features except for her eyes filled with rage. Another hand smothers Rizzrack’s face some more into the snow, covering his mouth and nose with intent to suffocate him and muffling his cries for help. Believing Nortrom to be incapacitated, she focuses all of her attention to him.

“I will cut you to ribbons and string your entrails across the woods.” She trails off with a hiss. A phantom hand seizes her throat and strangles not only her breath, but her mental focus as well.

The keen kicks and struggles beneath her, finding opportunity to slip away while the feline grasps at her neck. Desperate to survive, he runs into his shelter and hopes that the feline is distracted long enough for him to get his suit running.

The curse fades. That damn man getting in the way. Apparently he’s not dying fast enough.

“The keen is your friend? So quick to abandon, yes?” The lithe figure casually kneels down beside his head as she rubs at her sore neck. “Expected of such a coward. Hmm.” Her gaze hardens as she turns Nortrom’s face towards her own, caring not if her claws marked his features. “Se’ami, have we met?” Her senses picked up something subtle about this man. Not just somewhere in his looks, but in his scent and voice as well.

“Tell me, where are you from? Maybe Madini will leave you for dead instead of killing you now.”

NortromtheSilencer

Heavy, heaving breaths continued as he lie there, the Silencer being exceptionally careful not to move the blade at his neck as he rummaged in his gambeson for the salve he knew was stored within. He felt it, the smooth vial tucked away, and slowly pulled it free, holding it concealed at his side once hearing the approaching steps. Not enough time; Never enough time.

Nortrom winced as he head was turned, muscles bending where he had been attempting to avoid strain, her claws scrapping against his course stubble. Eye to eye with this conniving creature, his brows knit.

“Don’t act like— like your sisters death was unprovoked. You knew what you were doing by deceiving and selling that child into slavery.” Each word, strained. Each breath, tortured. Hopefully this distraction gave Rizzrack a chance to run, to get away, “I’m rather glad you failed, or else I wouldn’t have been able to see your most lovely face once more…” His words were seeping in sardonic venom.

Rizzrack

Madini’s pupils slit so thinly her stare could cut. She won’t know by what means a child became a man so quickly, but she couldn’t deny it was him.

“Silence your tongue before I take it.” She roughly lets go of his jaw, tossing his face away from her own and aggressively retrieves her blade from his neck. “Si’ak lamtef. It is the way of this world, but Madini only want gold, not death for child.” One foot following the next, she steps onto Nortrom’s chest and casually sits, caring not if he struggled to breath. “But that is no longer.” Paw meets cheek and claws rake across Nortrom’s face. “There is a price to pay for taking Lijuni’s life. Gold is not worthy, and now Madini demands more than just the keen.” She leans over slowly, body curling and resting her paws on his chest until her breath meets his ear. “Mont ahgo.”

Fuses in. Lights checked. Engine cranks. The rumble kicks in and immediately a blast of noxious thick smoke fills the shelter causing the keen to cough and squint from the burning smoke. Metal squeals as stiff joints bend and swing to break away the shack. Rizzrack didn’t know what to expect when he got back out with his suit, but he never would have imagined he’d see the feline with her fangs dug deep into Nortrom’s neck.

There was a taste of blood she found to be delicious. Spilling life garnished with revenge. Jaws closed ever tighter, ensuring he’ll never take another breath. So absorbed in her killing, she mistakes the Timbersaw for her own delighted purring and is nearly shredded by the swinging saw.

Utter horror. At first glance the keen was fooled to believe Nortrom had been decapitated by how much blood there was. Rizzrack looks to the feline, noting the way her smirk glistens by the light of the fire.

“How does it feel, Rizzrack? Enjoy living with the blood of the innocent on your hands. Until playing is over, then you die.”

The saw swings again, and again, each time missing Madini as she dodges with ease. The suit staggers and stomps about with each attack, bringing the Keen to follow her away from the light and towards darkness, refusing to let her escape with her life.

The night’s darkness masks all but the buzzing saw. She is nowhere, yet everywhere in the black that surrounds him. Rizzrack continues but his attempts are fruitless. She is gone.

Back to the camp the suit returns, the pilot’s breath fogging in the cool air. Hands on the dashboard, he admits to defeat. Madini has gotten away, and Nortrom… There’s no way he’s alive.

NortromtheSilencer

It’s funny how people tend not to think about how amazing breathing is until something or another hinders them in some way. We take it for granted, the breaths we take, just how important each gulp of air really is, and continue about our day forgetting that we give ourselves life out of pure reflex; That is, until the task no longer becomes easy.

A dagger lodged in the base of your throat and ripped out again so that every breath is a pained, dangerous affair? That will make you remember the feeling of breathing again. An adult sized figure pressing up against your chest so that you can’t fully inhale? Yup, each labored breath will be fought for and savored. But, when faced with the prospect of not breathing at all, this all changes. We no longer think about how lucky we were to breath normally in the past, or about every breath we force ourselves to take during the time. No. Only one thought enters into our minds as we choke and gag:

The battle for just ONE breath.

Nortrom had no mind to care about the past or the future as the strong feline jaws compressed his windpipe and shredded his throat. He only thought about the single breath he couldn’t take, and put all his effort into that one focus.

When Madinni finally did jump off him, it wasn’t by any effort of his own, limbs too weak to push her off, but something else that occurred beyond the slowly retracting range of his sensory perception. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter: he could breath. Sort of. At this point it was pure adrenaline keeping him going, forcing bubbling gulps of air through blood drowned tubes, coughing, sputtering, that circle of perception growing smaller by the second.

He felt the salve, remembered it there in his hand. Nortrom found himself nearly too weak to even lift the thing onto his chest, both hands shakily fumbling with the smooth glass bottle in an attempt to uncork the top. Precious seconds ticked by, breath in, breath out, but with so little blood and the lack of feeling in his extremities only getting worse, the cork wasn’t moving.

Breath in. Breath out.

It hurt less and less with every forced breath. His limbs felt heavier with each half coughing gasp that splattered more blood from his torn flesh. The bottle wouldn’t open: He just didn’t have the strength left to do it.

Rizzrack

Timbersaw groans and the engine halts, leaving the keen alone to his thoughts. If he could think at all. His mind is blank. He can think of nothing, and can barely take in the events that just happened. Why?

Before he can begin to answer himself, he hears a strange sound. Raspy, slow and labored breaths without rhythm. Where is that coming from? Is it…

Rizzrack’s head twists around and he stares wide-eyed at the supposed corpse. He’s still alive?! “O-oh God.” He nearly falls out of the cockpit not getting to the silencer fast enough. “Oh God Nortrom I-I thought… I-its okay now j-just…” Gloves are yanked off and trembling hands are pressed to the throat. Quite a futile attempt for so much blood was already lost.

What do I do what do I do-

Eyes catch sight of the salve. What a beautiful green glass orb of salvation! There’s relief and a chance for Rizzrack’s thoughts to organize themselves as he retrieves the object from cold fingers. Everything is going to be okay! He just needs to…

The paste is applied to the wound, mixing with thickening blood on the keen’s fingers. The effect should have been immediate but there was none. Why?

“Why… Hehe… Why isn’t it… ” Words scatter in between rapid panicked breaths. “Why isn’t it working?! It…. Please… Nortrom help me I can’t….”

Death was not new to the keen, but it was a reality he feared to face. Through many years a perverted sense of Justice may mask the truth of his destruction, but it cannot lie to him now.

Rizzrack breaks down, being left nothing more than a child alone in the wilderness once again.

NortromtheSilencer

A salve can heal many things, but it cannot heal the dead. Eyes no longer faintly glowing, they instead store ahead blankly, their light gone in both a literal and metaphorical sense. Blood soaked into the Silencer’s clothing and began to slowly feed the ground, and as if by some mocking sense of irony the night had gone silent. No wind, no creatures, no birds; Even the fire was eerily quiet now that Madinni had fled.

Her revenge was far from over, for there would come a day when she would return for the Keen’s life. For now, however, she thought best that he wallow in his own vision of death, and feel loss as she had.

#compile

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ask-these-fantrolls · 5 years ago

Text

Hunger, or something more?

Summary: Perigees before Quaver and Grrist officially become matesprits, a peaceful evening’s lunch date doesn’t go quite as planned.

Rating: T

Warnings: Violence, blood, idiot concussion talk, idiots to lovers, organized crime mention

Words: 10,821

It was a pleasant night out, crisp and fresh after a rain, with only a few small clouds here and there. A perfect night to be out and about, and after contacting Quaver on his phone, Grrist and his new friend had picked it as their next meeting date. The purpleblood was content, bordering on excited as he stepped out of his hive with his guitar in hand. He was dressed a little nicer than he'd been the day he'd run into Quaver; purple stained jeans with polka dots, a baggy, long-sleeved grey and black striped shirt with his symbol on the front, and the usual clownish neck ruffle. His fluffy, wavy hair was tied back into a loose ponytail.

There was a small park he knew of near the market that he'd suggested as a meeting spot. It was a nice place if one wanted a little quiet, and if they felt like grabbing a snack (which Grrist always did), then they would easily be able to. The big juggalo ambled into the area close to the designated time, strumming softly on his guitar, and humming a little tune.

Grrist found Quaver sitting on a bench, happily plucking away at their kalimba. It had become a certain favorite of theirs to play while their arm was still healing. A small… disagreement between themselves and a certain member of their gang over plans that had been made and set into motion- nothing too serious, just a few stitches necessary after putting him in his place. It was difficult having to be their own muscle for the time being… but there was no helping it! Their previous bodyguard bless her heart had been harmed beyond repair. A stupid wall of purple that was willing to give her life for them… She was useless to them now. Though, the Purple neither new of this happening nor needed to at the present. After all, it was far easier to bring the small instrument along rather than their favorite violin which couldn’t even play at the moment.

The bard offered a wide smile as they stood to meet their friend. This night, they wore a pair of boots and puffy shorts over violet tights, a long sleeved shirt, gloves, and a comically over sized hat which resembled that of a wizard. In most cases, this would probably be seen as especially dressed up... but for Quaver, it was just another outfit.

It had not been too terribly long since they'd last seen the juggalo, but a lot certainly had happened. Conflicts between themself and a certain moirail to their kismesis were riding high, but it was nothing a little manipulation couldn’t handle. Obelus had always been far too soft and naïve- but that’s what made him a perfect match for them! Inciting a fight between him and his pale wasn’t hard in the slightest... things would have been almost totally positive in the tealblood's life if not for a small stirring happening within their group. Small disagreements here and there- ostracized and belittled members who had questioned their motives were nothing to be too worried over... hopefully. But, that was a topic for thought on another night! This outing with Grrist was just what they needed to ease their troubled mind.

"Well eve, my good friend I hope you are well!" They greeted in their usual cheery sing-song tone, "To see you again does make my pusher swell,"

A smile lit up Grrist’s painted face as he hurried to greet his new friend, uneven fangs on display. As before, he was delighted by Quaver's clothing choice, visually ridiculous and pleasing to his juggalo sensibilities. And what a sweet hat.

"Hello Quaver!" He rumbled in reply, shuffling up to the tealblood's bench. He was entirely unaware of the happenings in Quaver's life, though by a strange twist, one was closely linked with Grrist's current worries. "Happy to see you, too." He moved to sit down on the opposite side of the bench. "Good night for playing. Nice fresh air. Thanks for meeting up." He bit back a sigh. It was nice to be out, instead of back at hive, sulking.

"How are you tonight?"

"Quite well I would say among other things," They responded happily and scooted a little closer to the larger troll. Their size difference wasn't all that great, but it still amused them to have to look up at the other troll. They could probably stand before the other and be at eye height! "Yes, truly a night perfect for picking our strings,"

They punctuated their sentence with a small tune, "Well- strings for you would be just fine. For me, however, I'll make due with tine," A laugh escaped them. A stupid joke, yes, but still amusing to them. It was nice to be around someone whom they didn't have to keep up appearances with. Someone they could have fun around and not be ridiculed or expected to act in a more proper way. Heading their Merry Men was growing irritating to their patience.

"Good to hear." Grrist nodded. Simple as he was, he still had no idea of Quaver's vicious doings, and viewed them as little more than a friendly songwriter. He still loved Quaver's rhyming, endlessly endeared by the tealblood's creativity and dedication. "Especially in such rocky times." He finally let his sigh go, but instead of focusing on dark thoughts, he was immediately distracted by Quaver's instrument, which he somehow hadn't noticed before.

"Oh! What is that?" He asked, cocking his head and scooting a little closer. "I've never seen an instrument like that before..." His purple eyes seemed to glimmer as he watched Quaver play. It was such a funny looking object, almost like a little xylophone, but Quaver was still plucking the pieces that made sound. How fun!

The bard offered the small instrument to their friend, allowing him to try playing it if he wished, "It's called a Kalimba, though 'Mbira' is another name," they smiled and looked Grrist over. He seemed slightly... off, as compared to the last time they met, "they come in many styles, though the sound's quite the same," Their brow furrowed slightly. Whatever could be troubling their bearish friend?

"Sorry to ask, please tell me if I'm off in my sense," They leaned closer, looking to Grrist through their always lidded eyes, "But is something on your mind? You seem quite tense," These times would seem rather nice for those not keeping up with what happened in the shadows. Unless something was directly affecting the juggalo, they could hardly imagine what had the jovial clown down!

Grrist gasped a little as Quaver offered it to him. He set down his little guitar, carefully, and accepted it, seeming amazed. It was so small, so good...made nice little sounds. It didn't take him long to figure out the key and pluck out a quick, clumsy little song. It wasn't exactly a perfect fit for his big chunky hands, but neither was his guitar, really. He made do. "This is good. Good sound. Thank you!" he nodded, and gently offered it back, before a look of anxious surprise crossed his face.

"O-oh. Mmmm..." Grrist looked away guiltily. "I don't mean to bring the mood down." He murmured, and reached to rub the back of his neck. He also didn’t want to lay his troubles out willy nilly, especially not with someone who he was unsure may have a moirail or not. Grrist didn't have one, but that didn't mean the same for Quaver, "Just some...stuff, happened in church, and it's distracting. Someone got hurt and we don't know if she'll be okay." He explains it as simply as possible. "But the Messiahs will surely work a miracle for her. Somethin'." He huffed a little sigh.

Their smile twitched very slightly. Oh, no, it couldn't be, right? His poor juggalo bodyguard who was put out of commission in their last spat? It wasn’t Obelus’ fault, really! He was delightful, but an idiot when it came to Quaver’s efforts. His brain was just too small to understand… but, in the end, Quaver supposed they had been the one to agree to meeting his friend who was curious about their Anti-Church scrawlings! Who would have guessed the troll would make himself their enemy… and further who would have guessed he would decide to try and take their life. It was a selfish act- one that no doubt left their poor kismesis in shambles.

Quaver took the instrument back and plucked out a little sting, "How dreadful a thing to have happen to your equivalent kin! But, with time and faith, I'm sure she'll pull through and win,” it was honestly good to hear that she was not dead - if it even was the same girl. What had her name been? Cereal? Cecile? Whatever the case, her being "hurt" meant that she was most likely still living!

The bard leaned against Grrist slightly, a small sigh escaping their lips, "A grave thing it is when a friend comes to harm," Cercie? No... that wasn't it... She never really spoke up much- how were they supposed to memorize her name if she never made an impression? It wasn't even as though they felt guilt over her coming to harm... but... Seeing Grrist torn up over it did make them feel a little displeased, "I do hope she'll be alright and this happening isn't cause for alarm!"

"I hope so too." Grrist moped quietly for a moment. "I heard she was shot, in the back no less. How does that even happen? She was really nice." He inhaled a calming breath, and then let it go. He'd prayed for her plenty, and she was strong besides that. He had to believe in her strength and the mercy of the Messiahs. Quaver's sympathy, and the way the bard leaned against him, is really nice, too. He fell for it entirely.

"Thank you Quaver. I won't let it cloud up our fun tonight, though. Juggalos are strong. I have faith." He did want to relax a little, and get to know Quaver better too. No sense in being sad when this was supposed to be a much more mirthful occasion. Quaver's well wishes warmed his pusher though, and he was incredibly nice to even be willing to listen.

"Mmm. What have you been up to since we last met?" Grrist launched a new and hopefully less sad topic.

Quaver thought for a moment in silence. Okay, yeah, he was definitely talking about Celine. OH- That was her name! They would have to agree- she was very nice. Gullible, quiet, but nice. Though... her life did pose a possible issue to the safety of their group... they'd have to look into the possibility of her being a tattle tale at a later date, though.

This date was slightly more important to their pusher, "Not terribly much I am afraid to say," the bard hummed as they played a small looping tune a few times, "I've been working on songs and sleeping through the day," Quaver chuckled lightly at their own half-truth, "Taking things easy and spending time with some friends. Although..." they settled further against the larger troll, "it would be a lie to say it's all been smiles on my end,"

They felt strange around him. Certainly not like they could tell him their every life's woe, but they felt compelled to comfort Grrist. Strange. Quaver smiled, starting to play a gentle song and humming lightly along with it, "Though one thing that I have to admit: I've been looking forward to meeting with you quite a bit!"

Grrist allowed a tired little grin to cross his face. "Mmm, that sounds nice. Rest is always good. Naps make everything better." The juggalo quickly took to matching Quaver, easily following along and switching his key in order to harmonize. It was a little clumsy, since they were just riffing, but he seemed happy to experiment with a little matching bass line to Quaver's looping tune.

Quaver's comment had Grrist's face heating up bashfully. Thank goodness for face paint! Had the bard really anticipated their meeting? Being a humble sort, Grrist had elevated Quaver in his mind after learning about their status as a professional musician. He was just a simple church helper. He didn't even have a proper vocation lined up yet.......

"Ohh? I hope nothing too bad?" Grrist left his inquiry open. If Quaver wanted to elaborate, they could, but the purpleblood didn't want to pry.

It was strange how at ease Quaver felt with him. Even out in the open in the middle of the night, while most other trolls were working or off doing their own necessary activities... they felt strangely at home beside Grrist. Wow, that was a stupid thought! They made a strange face at their own pan, glad that they were facing more away from him than toward, "Oh, it's nothing I'd want to worry you about. Suffice it to say that we've both had our share of associate clout"

"Mmm." Grrist rumbled in agreement, trying not to look too somber. "May mirth return to our lives again soon." He said, missing out on Quaver's funny little expression. He had no idea how the tealblood was feeling, but ironically, he was experiencing something similar. Except??? He could not remember the last time he had felt this way himself. It was something of a problem for the juggalo, that he simply could not seem to hold onto a quad. Many trolls, even those in his own caste, found his lack of direction a bit pathetic, even though he was content enough for himself. He liked his simple responsibilities in maintaining the church and contributing to song and praise. For a while, he'd stopped trying altogether.

The tunes they were creating already were serving to soothe Grrist’s previously frazzled nerves, and he took a deep breath, relaxing against Quaver. This was...really nice. "I've really been looking forward to this too. I...wrote something new. For our trade." He admitted, blushing worse than before. "Probably not as good as what you can do, but I tried."

They sat up strait, whipping around to look up at him as best they could, "You wrote me a song?? For really and true?" Their genuine excitement was evident in their voice, masking the twang of pain which shot through their shoulder at the sudden movement. Damn stitches- they needed to be more careful. Any more excitement and they may find themselves bleeding through their shirt. Moreover... they hadn't expected him to take them SERIOUSLY about trading music! Their pusher beat just a little faster, "I'm sure it's wonderful! Please, share! After, I'll do the same for you,"

Perhaps it was the fact that he was the first other musician they' been able to befriend in a long time. After all, nobody else from their old troupe really wanted to associate with them after the... incident. They wouldn't blame them- who would want to risk also incurring the anger of a highblood that would publicly tear someone's eye out over a silly little ditty? They certainly wouldn't if in a similar position... The humiliation of being bumped down to a mere street performer really lost its sting after the sweeps began to pass. And, even so... with their professional career over at such a young age... They somehow felt complete sitting here with Grisst- the troll who managed to fill the other half of their absent tune.

Quaver absolutely captivated him. They were the very image of whimsy, and incredibly kind when many in their position might act very snobbily. And they were also pretty cute. It had just...taken Grrist a while to realize he felt that way. And then he'd written a song. "Yes, I did." He was blushing under his make up again, and cleared his throat. It certainly wasn't a love song of any sorts, but something cute and simple.

"Okay. I hope you'll like it." He hadn't really written very many songs in his life, or ones with lyrics at least. A lot of his music outside church hymns and religious raps was improvised, and he found he fretted too much when planning a whole song out start to finish. Grrist cleared his throat and began to play, a playful, upbeat tune about meeting new friends and holding onto hope during hardship. It didn't go too much longer than a couple of minutes, but he strummed a little flourish once his was done.

Even the tips of his ears were flushed at that point, giving him away. The notes weren't flawless, as always because of the size of the instrument juxtaposed with his massive hands and claws, but he managed. He looked up to Quaver shyly as he finished, almost afraid that he might disapprove.

When he looked, Grrist would find them bouncing excitedly , hands clasped together in front of their mouth and the faintest flush over their cheeks. That was adorable??? A dopey grin spread over their mouth, "Oh Grrist my dear, that was simply superb!!" They scooted closer to him, hanging off his arm slightly. Sure, it was a little rough around the edges, and it was relatively juvenile in terms of lyrics, but they adored it. He wrote this song specifically for them.

"O-oh??" Grrist was pleasantly surprised as Quaver proceeded to shower him with praise, suddenly getting a very fluttery feeling in his stomach at the little grin that flashed across the tealblood's face, and the way they cozied up to him. His pusher pounded at the fact that Quaver, a practiced and professional musician themselves, would be kind enough to give such praise for his simple offering. But he'd put a lot of effort into it...so this felt very nice indeed. "Thank you...that means a lot. I'm so glad you enjoyed it..."

Wow- why did that make their bloodpusher beat so fast? Why did they feel like they might cry from elation if they were a slightly weaker troll? Suddenly, they realized how close they'd gotten to the purpleblood, gasping ever so slightly. What had gotten into them? "Ah- my apologies- I didn't mean to disturb," They bit their lip lightly before sitting back, now facing sideways on the bench with crossed legs. They smiled to him, "Such a kind tune... I'll cherish it always," They picked up their kalimba, holding a hand over their heart, "It reminds me of nicer times- Sweeter and more gentle days,"

Deep, delighted laughter bubbled from his chest shortly after Quaver scooted away. "That's alright." He'd barely noticed at first...but the sudden proximity hadn't bothered him. Unfortunately, while Grrist had great respect for the tealblood, he held no fear of them whatsoever, as a threat. Too small, too cute. An unwise outlook. "Yeah. Maybe those will return to us someday. That would be nice. Gotta be optimistic."

Grrist hummed a short, happy hum, and watched Quaver expectantly. Now it was his turn to wiggle in anticipation and excitement, because he would get to hear the bard play a song now. He was absolutely ecstatic to hear Quaver play, honored they'd even consider such a thing. He'd been half tempted to watch out for them on days he went out to the market, to see if they might be out playing, but he'd waited until their meeting instead.

Quaver chuckled lightly. What an embarrassing display. However, it was not nearly as embarrassing as their following realization: They hadn't actually prepared a song for him in return. They never thought he would take the offer to swap songs seriously!! How could they?

This was silly. He was the same as any other troll that the bard had ever met! And stupider than the average one, too... Why did there seem to be a haze over their mind right now? It worried them and made them feel sick... but sick in a way that didn't upset them. Fuck- what was wrong with them? Oh, well. They would have to figure that out a little later. It was their turn to sing. Unfortunately, though, they did not keep many songs that they hadn't already played in public! He'd never been to one of their shows- why were they worried about it actually being one that nobody else had heard? Oblivious.

There was... one song that they had just finished a while ago. There had been no reason to play it for anyone until now! After all, who would play such a forlorn love song to a crowd on the street? The bard began playing a small tune before piping up with their voice. The song was, if anything, definitely one of romance. Just as short as his own, certainly less upbeat and a little pessimistic, but with a hopeful ending. It was personal to them... and they were honestly very worried about what he might think of it. Why were they so worried... Why had their face flushed completely while singing it? Eugh- these feelings swimming around inside them were foreign and confusing and GROSS. Anything that hindered their performance was a nuisance.

They finished out the song- much less of a flourish as just an abrupt end, hesitating before looking back to him through closed eyes. Why did it feel like it meant so much for him to like it?

He was enraptured as Quaver began, sitting completely still as the tealblood started. The sound of the kalimba was so soothing and charming, it fit the song perfectly...and he started to blush a little at the theme of the song. Oh. He hadn't expected a song that touched on romance, and like before, he could feel little butterflies fluttering around in his stomach. Now that he didn't have to focus on playing and remembering words, the way he was feeling and reacting was much more noticeable to him....and it almost made him a little panicky.

No! He wasn’t willing to let his gay thoughts interrupt his enjoyment of Quaver's gorgeous work. When the song came to an end, the purpleblood beamed down at Quaver, and then set his guitar down to clap a little, and clutch his chest. It was a sad sounding song, but sweet all the same. "Oh, Quaver. That was wonderful." He hugged himself a little, unable to stop smiling. In truth, he was a little speechless. "I loved it...what a lovely song, and performance." Welp. He wanted to gush, and felt tongue tied at the same time. What the fuck? "Thank you so much..."

The bard's face grew hotter as he complimented them so earnestly. What was happening??? Why did they feel so happy about him liking the song??? They'd received praise for their work plenty of times in the past- they'd gotten standing ovations in theaters, roaring applause at the town square from dozens of trolls more simpleminded than even Grrist! This should be no different. "Thank you, my friend! Your applause warm my chest," They chuckled. What the fuck?? "Seeing you so elated makes me feel as though I've done my best," Hey? Quaver? Why was this feeling of their bloodpumper pounding in their ears so wonderful?

They leaned forward again, patting him on the arm gently, "Sometime soon we simply must together write a song. With our shared love of music, what could go wrong?" Oh- touching him had been a mistake. They felt the urge to keep doing it. To keep in contact with his arm- to move their hand to his hand and hold it.

He sighed a dreamy sigh, and then swallowed a little as the bard leaned forward to pat his arm. The gentle contact, and especially the suggestion, made the juggalo's pusher skip a beat.

"R-really??" He couldn't even be bothered to feel dumb as he stammered, his purple eyes widening with excitement. "We could do that? I'd love to write a song with you! Wow..." He peered down at Quaver, falling into the same little awkward pause, even though it was mostly just him, once again, trying to process confusing feelings. He didn't even know Quaver all that well yet...but that wasn't always the case when crushes struck. Quaver's company was so kind, so refreshing. He had his circle of church friends, and other juggalos, but none of them had ever made him feel this way. But ugh...what would the bard think if he knew? Grrist gulped. He was not experienced with this sort of stuff...

Quaver absently leaned forward slightly more. Why did they want to be close like this? Why did they want to run their nimble fingers through his hair- to take off his silly face paint and look at him... To press their lips to his and-

OH sHIT. They suddenly shot up from the bench, turning away from the juggalo with a laugh, "This night is QUITE pleasant, wouldn't you agree?" Wow- did their voice just crack?? That wasn't a good sign. "I think there are food stalls just down the way if you're hungry?" So, that's what was wrong with them. They couldn't say they'd ever experienced it before- they'd written countless songs by commission, written poems and made art of it... They'd always been possessive over their prospective Quad mates before, but this? This was a new feeling.

The fluttering in their chest, the warmth of their face that they were now forcing away, the reason his words meant so much to them... They had a crush. Why for this buffoon of all people?? Why would they feel the need to like someone like him? Someone big and dumb and dopey and muscular and soft and gentle with a nice voice and a wonderful smile wAIT- No, bad. They shook the thought from their pan. Disgusting. Juggalos were big and gross and they absolutely did NOT need to like one- especially not one so close to the church. "I myself am famished- I could just eat a bunch!" They turned back to him with a warm smile. These feelings weren't real. They were just fake chemicals made in their pan because he was a musician like themselves!

He meant nothing to them.

"Shall we go find one and grab some lunch?"

The juggalo nearly startled as Quaver suddenly hopped up from the bench. "Oh, yes," he hardly even noticed Quaver's quavering, "Sounds good!" He took a deep breath, and picked up his guitar, offering an easy going smile. No need to make things weird, he repeated to himself in his head. Grrist had only limited experience with quadrants, in his past. A couple of red crushes that hadn't gone anywhere; puppy love. A violent kismesissitude that had ended badly. Feelings like this were scary...he almost felt shallow for it. Was it just because Quaver was nice? They were good company? Come to think of it...

Grrist squinted as his pea brain worked over why Quaver would want to spend their time with an amateur like himself. Ulterior motives? He had smarter, more cunning juggalo friends who were always harping on that kind of bullshit. But what use could he possibly be to someone like them? No...no. They just wanted music friends! Trolls can be friends, Grrist reminded himself.

"You oughta choose, this time." He grinned, looking down at the tealblood. "What do you feel like having? I like just about everything...I'm not picky."

That fact didn't surprise them in the slightest. Grrist really did seem like the kind of guy that would go along with whatever happened around him- be it the meal choice, or something more serious. Quaver's initial motives weren't all bad; someone to play music with and hash out tunes against was a luxury they were mostly unable to come by at this point! But the appeal of replacing their old, now hospitalized, juggalo with a new one was appealing in it's own right. Now the only real obstacle was to get their weird feelings under control!

Quaver hummed in thought, walking a few steps ahead of Grrist, "As far as food goes, I too am not horribly picky," a lie, but a white one. They continued playing that little looping tune from earlier, occasionally pausing at it's end to try a different note or two. Were they writing a new song? "As long as it tastes good it can't be too tricky!" They chuckled, leading him down the still rain-dampened road. The rain... it was such a perfect muse for lyrical scribing! Picking out patterns in the pitter-pattering of droplets and listening to notes against the roaring sound of a storm... the scent plants gave off after the rain had stopped and the cold humidity it left behind! They twirled around effortlessly on the balls of their feet as they walked, reveling in the delightful atmosphere.

Just because they were the head of an ever growing band of anarchists didn't mean they had to give up their whimsical delight, after all! If anything, it seemed to make the relationship they had with their subordinates stronger! They were approachable, but still entirely dangerous. How many people were capable of laying out a troll two castes higher than themselves and twice their size with such simple acrobatics? On-lookers in their meeting place were astonished by how easily they squelched the navyblood who dared to question their leadership, and that's how it should be. Terrify with a smile, and none shall question! Or, at least, that's what they thought.

Entirely unaware of Quaver's wicked intentions, he smiled lopsidedly as the tealblood replied, trying not to become too distracted by the pleasant sound of their kalimba-playing. "True! Mmmmm...what's your favorite kinda food?" He grinned as he asked, figuring he would allow that to help make their decision. The market had so many nice choices to pick from that he knew he wouldn't mind what it was, one way or another.

Grrist was certainly enjoying the night himself. There was nothing nicer than the fresh air after a good rain, and though he was glad it had let up for a while so that they could be out and about, he felt similarly to Quaver. The emotions one could draw from the world around them were vast, and the rain always served to put him in a relaxed, soothed state of mind. Even if thunder could be a little scary, who could deny the excitement of a thundershower? Thankfully, the recent rain hadn't become that intense. Before he knew it though, the atmosphere of the peaceful park had vanished, giving way to something new...

The sound of the bard's kalimba helped to fill the otherwise silent street with noise. It all had a sort of eerie feeling to it with dim and flickering lamp posts and the light of the moon being the only thing to guide the pair. Quaver followed the same route they they'd become familiar with using- dank back alleys provided security from most prying eyes and listening ears, after all, "I am quite serious though, about what I said before," The bard finally spoke up, words echoing slightly in the tight corridor as they walked backwards in order to face Grrist properly. Their face was no longer flushed finally, "To make a song with you is something I'd truly ado--"

The juggalo chuckled softly as he followed after Quaver, watching their fanciful spins and steps, ever charmed by the bard. Grrist was undaunted by the emptiness of the street; rather, he was captivated by Quaver instead, and set to plucking his own instrument every so often, to harmonize a little, or provide a bass line. Even though he was far from the perfect example of his caste, or a juggalo, Grrist still possessed that deep seated notion that he was Strong and Untouchable as a highblood out on the streets. Nevermind that he was following a near stranger into the alleyways of town. He was confident...and quite dumb to boot. What could possibly go wrong?

Everything, it seemed. His face had begun to light up as Quaver brought up their previous suggestion again, their words were cut short as something came in contact with their body, sending Quaver's lithe form careening into a nearby brick wall with a sickening crunch. Teal blood splattered to the ground as they coughed, opening their dazed eye to see what had done the damage. To see who had done it. Three trolls stood in the alley after revealing themselves from various corners and branching paths- a Jade, another Teal, and the Blueblood who they had put in his place just earlie that dayr. Quaver tried to speak, but found they could not from the lack of air in their lungs. They tried to get up or move forward, but found their body too pained to move any further.

The Navyblood's laughter filled the space as he taunted them, "You thought you could just get away with it? Thought you could just FUCKING humiliate someone better than you and not have to pay?" He flipped the large club in his hands a couple times, not seeming to have really taken much notice of Grrist just yet, "You're pathetic. How's it feel, being the one treated like you're nothing for a change?"

Grrist could feel a fit of rage coming on. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes at the sight of his hurt friend, and he charged forward, uncaptchaloguing the thick branch of a club that served as his weapon. He roared at the three trolls, and stepped between them and Quaver. All too quickly, his eyes were beginning to fill with red.

"GET AWAY!!" Grrist warned loudly, and slammed the club against the bricks with a menacing thunk, his chest heaving as he showed them his uneven fangs. He was angrier than a whole nest of hornets, but inwardly, his confidence flagged for the briefest of moments. Could he take three trolls if it came to it? What did they even want with Quaver? It didn't matter. He couldn't stand by idley and risk them getting hurt any worse. Barely able to control himself, he only waited a split second before advancing on the three.

Because fuck it. That navyblood was going to pay for what he'd done.

A pained, groaning, whine came from the teal as they watched Grrist charge at the group of assailants. Their mind was foggy from the way their horns impacted the brick wall- like a tuning fork that lead directly into their pan. God- fuck, they definitely had a concussion and a few fucked up ribs... the corners of their vision darkened as they struggled to sit up from their place slumped against the wall. This was... this was too much. Grrist was a wall of meat that was very nicely doing his job to keep their attackers away- he was doing exactly what they wanted him to do! So... why did they feel such a disgusting weight in their chest? Why did their pan scream for them to have him leave them behind and abandon this unbalanced strife?? The bard tried to vocalize their worries, but all that managed to come from their mouth was the juggalo's name groaned pitifully as a small trickle of blood came from the corner of their mouth. Maybe they'd bitten their tongue...

The Navy lunged back as his partners scattered out of the way. They, at least, didn't seem to have weapons, "Oh braaaavo," He mocked in the semi-conscious Teal's direction, almost as if ignoring Grrist's actual presence save for dodging his charges, "you've already replaced your body guard, huh?! Should've expected nothing less from out brave and fearless leader!"

The other two trolls seemed much less gung-ho about attacking Grrist or even Quaver. They kept off to the side, watching the fight and waiting for their time to strike. A juggalo with a club was dangerous... especially one as enraged as this one seemed! "Our beef isn't with you, choir boy~" the enemy Teal called from the sidelines. The Jade hopped up on a nearby dumpster as she watched her Navy leader barely evade the Juggalo's swing, "Just leave the little shit with us and walk away! There's no need for more blood to spill tonight than needed,"

Grrist was quickly becoming too enraged to comprehend much of what the opposing trolls were even saying, the image of his crumpled friend stuck in his mind, gasoline on the fire of his rage. The tidbit about a replaced bodyguard sort of went in through one ear and out the other, and he read it as some kind of weird taunt. He loosed another fearsome roar, and even though the navy's two helpers scattered to the sidelines, he'd already made a decision about what he wanted to do next.

Wrought with inward desperation, the juggalo had started to activate his chucklevoodoos. The atmosphere of the alleyway began to simmer with the terror he was trying to project outwardly, enhanced by his raw minded state. His powers might not have been as effective on the navyblood, but his accomplices, and even Quaver, would no doubt feel the abject fear begin to seep into their thinkpans as it radiated off the juggalo.

"FUCK OFF!!!" Grrist took another angry swing at the navyblood as he lingered in one spot...he wanted to charge, but was afraid of leaving Quaver unprotected. He stomped a booted foot, challenging the navyblood to come close enough again.

The fear did indeed begin to take hold of the lowerbloods, first starting with the Jade. She became visibly on edge with the whole situation- she already seemed to be the least sure of the current event, and now it was even more severe. What were they thinking? They couldn't survive against a juggalo! She was going to die- oh hell she was going to die and have to watch her friends perish all the same!

The atmosphere of the already creepy alleyway shifted and seemed to roil under with Grrist's rage. The cocky tealblood was taken aback by the feeling of dread welling up inside of them. Maybe attacking like this had been a bad idea. Quaver, similarly, was absolutely terrified. Why the fuck were they so scared? Were they scared that Grrist would be hurt, or were they frightened of the enraged juggalo himself? They couldn't actually tell... but nevertheless they found themselves recoiling away from the fight, pushing back further against the wall as tears formed in their eyes.

Grrist panted heavily as his eyes darted between the three, never once backing down from his battle stance in front of the bard. They'd picked a bad spot, because even if they did try to tag-team, the tight quarters of the alleyway would make it hard for anyone to get around behind Grrist. They would all have to attack from his front, and even if he hadn't had a weapon, Grrist was still a force to be reckoned with. He wasn't about to let his new friend be pummeled by some fuckfaced highblood.

Finally, the Navy was affected by the chucklevoodoos. He still felt a terror in his chest, but he could still fight! He uh.. he could still... his legs shook and he was seemingly frozen in place in fear for the shortest of seconds. He watched Grrist taunt him, anger welling alongside the tingle of fear. The navyblood took a hesitant step forward, biting his lip in thought for a hot minute. You know what? FUCK this.

The highblood raised a hand to his mouth, sending a shrill whistle through the alley that signaled his companions to retreat. The Jade was the first to abscond, followed quickly thereafter by the other Teal.

"FUCK!" the Navy snarled, stepping backwards from the massive juggalo, "You won't always have that GODSDAMNED DOG with you! You better fucking pray we never cross paths when he's gone." He boasted and tried to sound assertive, but that's just a little hard to follow through when you're retreating, huh? "And YOU." the blue finally acknowledged Grrist, his same snarl on his lips, "You better watch your back for the day they put a bullet through it."

Grrist finally started to descend from his wrathful state of being as the navyblood began to bark empty threats. He still saw fit to snarl in response, largely confused by what the other troll was saying, and uninterested in trying to puzzle anything out. By this time, he'd stopped trying to use his chucklevoodoos, allowing the fear to vanish once he saw that the bluff had worked.

"IF YOU EVEN TRY TO HURT THEM I'LL BASH YOUR SKULL IN!!!" Grrist roared after him, still panting as he waited for his opponent to fully retreat. He snarled and growled and kicked a trashcan after the blueblood, his adrenaline still going, pusher still pounding. Had to get some of that energy out, until the bastard rounded a corner and left Grrist's sight. Shaking, he captchaloged his club and turned to Quaver, terrified of what he'd see...yeah, wow, it was even worse than he thought.

Teal soaked through their shirt, the stitches from their own wound having been torn open from the impact.

"Q-quaver?!" The tears that had formed in his eyes began to flow now, and he hated himself for it. Of course Quaver was going to find out that he was a gigantic cry baby the very first time they hung out. Very uncool. Very unjuggalo. But, fuck, where was all the blood coming from? The purpleblood nearly stumbled as he knelt down at the tealblood's side, panic gripping him as he reached down to set a shaky hand on them. "F-fuck, fuck, gods, are you-- oh fuck, please be alive..." He babbled, "Did you get cut, w-what the fuck is this..." The shirt had no holes, there was no wound, so why was Quaver bleeding there???

"Gotta get you to the medicullers..." He shifted to start to lift the tealblood into his arms. No time to waste.....

They groaned in pain as he took then into his arms. It felt nice and relatively secure, even if the lingering fear from their agitated nerves was making it impossible for them to actually settle against him. Why was he crying? What a big idiot... shameful, really! ... they reached a hand up to cup his cheek, tears from pain and the sudden shock falling from their own eyes, "N-no medicullers nghhh-no need, I'm fine and alive," the bard kept their voice steady, making their pain behind a strained sing-song tone. Why did they care about him worrying anyway?

"J-just old wounds- medicullers... ask too much... just t-take me hive," thinking of rhymes was growing difficult with their hazed over pan. There wasn't much a hospital could be able to do for them- they could stitch their own wound up again... you can't set broken ribs without surgery, and a concussion just needs to be observed... They would be fine if they could just climb into their recooperacoon for a few hours.

The Teal cringed in his arms, gripping at the sides of their shirt out of pain. Goddamn something was NOT right in their abdomen, though... they grit their teeth, the large knick in their tongue causing more blood to seep from their mouth. Okay- okay... maybe they should call someone- one of their lackies that could be trusted... but for now, being vocal hurt too much. Quaver buried their face into his chest, a small whine escaping their throat. At least they weren't alone when this all happened... they... they would be dead if Grrist hadn't been here.

Grrist, in true idiot fashion, had not even considered that Quaver might have been affected by his powers; only that he'd been desperate to get those other trolls to fuck off without a prolonged struggle or a fight that ended up injuring him as well. He was surprisingly gentle as he gathered the tealblood up, sniffling and trying to staunch his stupid tears. Gods, Quaver looked horrible, so fragile and sad and hurt -- and still rhyming. If he weren't so upset, he might have laughed, but he was frightened as they argued.

"You gotta. The hospital's not far....it'll be okay." Grrist swallowed at the nervous lump rising in his throat, not sure if that would be the truth or not. They had hit that wall so hard, he could still hear the sound it had made, threatening to bring on more tears to his eyes. No, he told himself. Gotta focus. Gotta get help. He moved surprisingly quick for such a big troll, doing his best not to jostle Quaver as he held them close to his body.

Now that Grrist was somewhat calmer than before, the questions had begun to surface in his small pan. Who had those trolls been, anyway? What had they meant by some of those things they had said? The thoughts swirled in with the rest of his panic. He couldn't ask now, not with Quaver in the state he was. The purpleblood forced himself to focus on the way to the hospital, turning onto a more populated street (worried they might be followed), and hauling down the walkway as quickly as he could. They were only a few minutes away from the clinic he visited infrequently...

"Nonono no no noo don't- please," they pleaded with him. Rhymes were impossible by this point. The IDIOT didn't know what he was doing- the questions that professional medicullers would ask, the lengthy treatments that would keep them from doing what was needed... it was too much! But... they weren't really in a position to easily protest, now were they? Quaver moved a shaking hand to grip into the front of his shirt, opening their good eye to look pleadingly up to him.

"N...no hospitals...Grrist, please..." it sounded like they might cry. He just needed to listen to them- he didn't need to think for himself here. Wait... what about thinking for himself? Strange, their past trail of thought seemed to be completely deteriorating. Their head was getting foggy and foggier... where exactly were they going tonight? Their vision seemed to be in a long, deep tunnel... Why were they suddenly so tired? The bard's hand fell from Grrist's chest and back on to their own battered torso. They felt warm and safe here... surely it would be okay to close their eye for a while... right?

"It'll be okay, the medicullers are good where we're goin'. Promise." Grrist panted softly, determination overriding grief as he managed to staunch his tears and focus on getting there. The blood dribbling from the tealblood's mouth had Grrist's stomach sinking sickly. Did they have a cut...or was it something worse? Sweeps spent scrapping and fighting during his younger days had leant him some knowledge about injuries. Mostly from getting them himself.

They sounded so scared. Grrist hated it, hated this had happened, but what else was there to do??? He had almost no medicull experience himself, so he couldn't just take them hive like they wanted. He blinked after a moment, and glanced down. "H-hey....hey!" He shook Quaver gently, his voice low but insistent. "Uhhh...where is your hive, anyway?" He tried to get Quaver to stay awake, to keep talking. They were so damn close...

Quaver let out a pained groan as they were jostled. Medicullers... They didn't need any stupid medicullers! Why was he being so insistent? Why was their pan so fogged up again? nothing was making sense... They just wanted to sleep. "Your arms feel... nice," The tealblood spoke weakly, looking up to him with a wavering smile. It looked like they might pass out at any second- Oh, they definitely needed a hospital.

They chuckled lightly at his question, sounding in the twilight between awake and asleep.. Why was he asking for where their hive was again? They didn't care. The pain in their chest was growing more and more distant as they fell farther and farther from consciousness, "How scaaaandalous~" They crooned up to him with now fully closed eyes, "We barely know eachother and you want an invitation to my hive?" Their words were slow and slurred. Not thought out, certainly not rhyming. "You're lucky... that... you'..re...cute," The bard's voice grew quieter, before words stopped coming altogether. Grrist was taking care of them. They were safe... sleep was calling to them, and they were giving in to that call.

Grrist had always been told you weren't supposed to let people with potential head injuries go to sleep. Was that a real thing, or just some silly rumor? He couldn't remember now, and it scared him worse. Quaver's babbling was scaring him too, cluing him off to the fact that someone was definitely wrong. Yeah, they were going whether the tealblood wanted it or not. Maybe they were scared of hospitals? Grrist would stick around...make sure they would be okay.

Now he was being called cute?! He found himself blushing at his new friend's delirious babbling. Yeah...definitely delirious. How anyone could find himself cute was beyond Grrist. "You asked me to take you hive." He tried to respond teasingly, even though his voice was tense and still choked with leftover emotion. He was never going to forgive himself if the bard fell asleep and never ended up waking again. Grrist trashed the thought. They would be fine...

Finally he turned onto the right road...and there it was, all lit up. There were only a few trolls drifting up and down the sidewalks, and Grrist couldn't care less that they'd caught a few looks along the way. "Almost there, hold on!!" He sped up toward the mediculler office, and practically exploded in through the front doors.

"MY FRIEND IS DYING, PLEASE HELP!"

Various mediculler nurses looked to the door as Grrist stormed in, carrying the battered and bloodied body of the small bard. He was rushed in an instant, helpful trolls here to ask what had happened, why they were unconscious, and how they had been hurt. They assured him that they would do everything they could for his small friend as they had Grrist place Quaver on a stretcher so that they could be properly seen to.

The ocean of noise was muddled in the Teal's pan. Why was everything so noisy? Why were people prodding at them and bothering them so much? Was is so much to ask just to have a nap?? They snarled at the nurse who shook their shoulder whenever they seemed to get too comfortable. Bitch. A small bit of fear welled within them- where were they right now? What was going on? The sound of Grrist's voice was the only real assurance as their surroundings began to fade away...

It would be a few hours at the very least, the nurses had told him after a while. Grrist was crestfallen but hopeful. It had been hard to quell the awful emotions that roiled in his chest, and finally he was starting to care more about the why. Why had that all happened? Quaver had enemies? Enemies willing to kill them. It was a hard concept to handle, given that Quaver was so outwardly sweet. Grrist spent the rest of the evening lurking in a waiting room, eating vending machine snacks and letting his thoughts chase themselves in circles. He'd ended up trying to remember what the navyblood had said. Something about bodyguards? Something about being shot in the back? He wished he hadn't been so riled up. The harder he tried to remember, the more confused he became. Eventually...he gave in and napped.

And then… Quaver woke up. Their eye fluttered open and they looked around, taking in the scenery. White curtains, the sterile scent of medicine, and the unmistakable hushed murmur of other patients and doctors that lie just beyond their currently secluded bed. Ah, the hospital. They tried to sit up, but sucked in a hiss of pain as their muscles moved, "ffffuck-!" It wasn't often that they cursed, but this was certainly the time to.

The nurses had taken him up to Quaver's room once the bard had been stabilized and admitted to a bed. He'd taken a spot in a chair in the corner, and had promptly dozed off again, even though he'd meant to 'guard' the room. Would the bad trolls come looking for them here? Grrist certainly hoped not. He'd been slumped over in his chair, until the sound of the tealblood's voice woke him with just the slightest jump. Shifting to stand, he peered behind Quaver's curtain. "H-hey...you're awake..." He grinned weakly. Hi. "I uhh, stuck around...wanted to make sure you were gonna be okay."

"How long have I been here?" They grimaced, but were happy all the same. He'd stayed with them, at least... Quaver wasn't sure whether or not they should be furious with him for ignoring their wishes, or if they should be thankful that he'd gotten them seen to anyway. In any case, they couldn't bare to spare a glance in the juggalo's direction, instead turning to unbutton the night shirt they'd been put in to survey the damage. Their shoulder was stitched back up and covered, and there looked to be compression bandages on their ribs. fuck... They sighed, letting their head fall back on to the pillows.

"Almost all night." Grrist replied. It was nearly morning now, though it was hard to tell with the heavy curtains pulled. He looked away for a moment out of politeness as Quaver opened their shirt to look at themselves, before scooting the chair just a bit closer so they could speak properly.

"Sorry for all the trouble, dear," The bard's usual melodic tone was replaced with one of seriousness. They were still too tired to try rhyming, "We'll have to have our date another time," it was difficult to speak- not from their injuries, but from the thoughts racing in their pan. What exactly had happened after they were knocked silly? They barely could remember the exact sequence of events... they were hit, they felt terrified, and then they were somewhere warm... They'd been carried here, right? Oh goodness- did that mean Grrist had carried them all this way?? Their arm moved to cover their face as a small flush formed over their cheeks, ears drooping. This was embarrassing. So fucking embarrassing.

"Not your fault....I'm sorry too." Grrist drooped. "You begged me not to bring you here, but I didn't know what else to do. I'm sorry if it was scary."

Grrist sniffled. The juggalo was something of a sight himself. His face paint was smudged in spots, and his clothes had splatters of dried teal blood here and there. "I'm really sorry if it's weird to even still be here. Those bastards mighta followed or something...I didn't want to risk them, uhh. Getting you again." His ears drooped apologetically, though when Quaver mentioned a do-over for the date, he was inwardly elated. "I wanted to play some and say a few prayers but the nurses said it would be too noisy for the other patients." He wrinkled his nose. "Are you okay?" He tilted his head as Quaver covered their flushed face.

They looked over him from under their lidded eyes, slightly skeptical. Why... why did he care so much? It was weird. They barely knew him, and yet they distinctly remembered him standing between them and their attackers! What kind of idiot even does that?? It was... it made their cheeks warm.

"I'm glad you stayed... waking up here alone would have been worse," they chuckled, taking the arm from their face in order to gently touch his cheek. It was fine. They still had the excuse of being on pain medication if he thought it was weird, "Thank you for watching over me. I'm sure your prayers would have been lovely," the bard chuckled, immediately regretting it as pain shot through their abdomen. Goddamn they hated broken ribs. They tended and squirmed slightly, having to take a moment before they were able to talk again.

Grrist was thinking along the same lines...here he was, having stuck around for some troll he was only meeting for the second time. Part of him was terrified Quaver was going to think he was weird. But, how could he have lived with himself if he'd left them in the alleyway to be bludgeoned to death? It just wasn't something he could do. Especially not after they'd traded songs...made plans to write music together. Even if they didn't end up being friends, Grrist felt it would not be very mirthful to let someone with such talent perish so horribly. It was a good deed in the eyes of the Messiahs, and something he'd have done anyway. The navyblood and his lackeys were filthy cowards for going three against one, regardless of the reasons they had for attacking.

"I'll be fine once I have time to heal... you, on the other hand..." they smiled, smudging his already ruined paint with their thumb, "look like you could use a good meal. Tell me, Grrist dear, you stayed with me all night? I'm so terribly sorry... that must all have been quite the sight," There we go, they were back to their rhyming self again! ...sort of. They found that they couldn't stop the teal hue that was spread over their cheeks and at the tips of their ears any more. Maybe he wouldn't notice... damn, why was their pumper being so fucking stupid? He only saved their life- that wasn't something to be set aflutter about! ... right...

Quaver's touch pulled the juggalo right out of his thoughts, and he looked startled for a moment, trying desperately to stop himself from blushing. "It was nothin'. Figured it woulda been rough, not knowin' what happened. I can't believe those motherfuckers cheap shotted you like that." His lip curled slightly in disgust, before he melted back into worry as Quaver squirmed. "Careful..." he murmured, encouraging the bard not to strain himself.

"Yeah, you gotta rest and take it easy." The juggalo reached up to take Quaver's hand and squeeze it gently. "N-no worries, I got some hospital food. The nurses here are real nice." He managed a toothy grin, and realized that oh no, Quaver was blushing again. Cute? Or maybe he was hurting...Grrist couldn't quite tell. "You okay? I should probably get goin' and let you rest some. I could come back later, if you wanted..." Grrist wasn't sure how long they'd actually be in the hospital.

"No!" They squeezed his hand, recoiling at the force of their own words. They grimaced, "You should stay here... I mean to say," They shifted painfully onto their side. It was selfish to keep him here- if he wanted to go, they should- Wait, since when did they care about being selfish? God, whatever medication they were on was fucking with their pan more than they thought! Still, though... They smiled at him, winking open a glassy blue eye to see him properly. Was this the first time he'd really seen their eye open? Oh, well... They didn't exactly care about hiding them... though, they would keep their empty socket shut and hidden, "I like having you near. Having a friend around would really brighten my day?"

They were in pain. Their chest hurt from the blow they'd taken, but their goddamn pumper hurt for some other reason. They didn't like this crush they'd developed, and it'd only gotten worse with Grrist stepping in to rescue them... just like some knight in a fantasy novel or something, only bigger and more lumbering with stronger hands to hold theirs with nO STOP. They sighed, screwing their eyes closed tight. They needed to get a hold of themselves... this was stupid.

"Please, If you would stay with me while I sleep..." The bard's flush lessened as they spoke earnestly- straight from their pusher, and not through any attempts to suppress how they felt, "It would make me feel... good. safe. to be under your watch's keep," They anxiously clutched the starchy bed sheets. God, he was going to see how desperate they were acting and laugh in their face. Pathetic.

A little startled look crossed the juggalo's face as Quaver protested suddenly, arguing with him over leaving. He was even more surprised as the bard opened their eye, and Grrist realized; had they been squinting all this time? The little details one failed to notice at times were strange, but Grrist didn't call attention to it, not wanting to sound impolite. As the bard went on, Grrist began to blush again. They liked having him around. That, combined with Quaver's anxious tone...how could he even think of leaving?

"If you want me to," Grrist offered an anxious grin, "I can stay. I just didn't wanna intrude, or be a bother or whatever." The heat was rising to his face again. He couldn't help but think about how Quaver had called him cute last night, too....but no no, they'd been delirious with the pain of their injuries. Surely they hadn't meant it?? The juggalo squeezed the tealblood's hand in return. "You don't got anyone else comin' to see you?"

Grrist tilted his head some, obviously referring to possible quadmates. Did Quaver have any? Surely they had to have a moirail at least...the juggalo hated to be nosy in that way, but it was so sad to see the little bard in such a state. They needed all the support they could get.

"Not ...anyone that I would trust," they shifted uncomfortably. Maybe if Obe was off work... no nono, they couldn’t let their kismesis see them like this! Quaver always taunted him for being so weak- inviting him to their hospital room was just a recipe for disaster! "Besides, with you at my side, to this bed I don't feel trussed,” They didn't need anyone else watching over them. On any other day, the bard would detest the idea of anyone seeing them in such a weakened state! But... the thought of Grrist keeping watch over them... it didn't make them as nervous.

Their face felt hot as they turned away from him slightly. They were acting like such a fool. Needy, desperate, desiring any and all attention that he would give them- this crush having thing was disgusting. They should be encouraging him to leave! They should push him away so that they could focus on what was important in this moment! ...But, what was important? This was a lot to take in. They... they almost died Last night. Was all this- this "cause" and this idea of theirs really worth that? Was it worth putting the people that they actually did feel something for in danger... The tealblood's hand hesitantly shifted to lace their fingers together with his, still with their gaze averted, "Call someone else if you feel that you must- healing is better in company, they say... but there are very few people I trust. Right now, it's just you where that faith lay..."

Grrist listened intently, his head tilting a little as they declined. What a shock. Was the charming little bard really without anyone else? The juggalo found this revelation surprising, to say the least. Then again...he didn't know Quaver. There could be plenty of explanations for why they had no one else to come see them, right?

"O-oh, no, I meant more...your quadrants. But, I'm sorry, I didn't mean--" The juggalo stammered a little, and trailed off. He felt impolite, to be saying it out loud, but really, he'd only meant well. He chided himself inwardly after a moment, because if Quaver had anyone, they'd probably have found a way to call them by now anyway. Or the hospital would have contacted them. Something. This realization made Grrist's pusher twist sadly for the bard. He couldn't imagine being all alone, beat up and hurting and stuck in a hospital bed...even he had a few stupid church pals who would come cheer him up. But since when had he felt this protective of anyone? He found himself blushing as well, and it only got worse as Quaver laced their fingers with his. He squeezed softly.

"Of course I'll stay. Make sure nobody bothers you." He gave Quaver a big, dopey grin. "It's no fun to be stuck in a place like this. I could even play for you a little, maybe."

“I’d like that a lot, if your playing is allowed,” they smiled, their eyes closed once more. It was strange how at ease they felt… They were in a great deal of pain, and they could barely stand to keep awake, but having Grrist by their side like this? “I want to keep you to myself, so try not to be loud,”

#narrative #quaver #this is an edited version of an old RP between me and Grrist's mun!#i got permission to post so here we are #long post #this is 10000+ words so be warned

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