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swan--writes · 4 years ago

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Beetlejuice’s Big Halloween Party

I thought about writing a Dewey Halloween, but let’s be real, there ain’t room for the both of these boys in this here holiday.

And listen, it is 2:30 AM and I just finished writing this. I wrote it all in one go. I’m not editing it. Please reblog though! Happy Halloween and Blessed Samhain!

Warnings: elements of horror, blood mention, eyeball mention

Words: 3,070

You screamed.

“Beetlejuice!”

Your demon laughed at you from the rafters of your barn. Ever since you had moved out to your farmhouse, Beetlejuice had been hanging around. Sometimes literally. Normally you found you didn’t mind the demon’s antics – he kept things lively when there wasn’t much going on out where you lived. Sometimes he donned an old sheet and floated around the house. Sometimes he went out into your backyard and howled at the tree line. And sometimes he dropped live bats from the rafters of the barn, directly onto your unsuspecting head.

Frantically, you waved away the little menace. All you could see were glimpses of a wrinkled snout and long teeth. It seemed to be flapping its wings as fast as you were flapping your hands, and by the time it managed to fly off, Beetlejuice was hanging upside-down in midair and cackling.

“Wow, what a jumpy breather,” he said, wiping a thick black tear from his eye. You thought you heard it sizzle as it fell to the worn wooden floor.

“Knock it off, Beej.”

“Yeah, sure I will.”

“Seriously!” You shook your head, fighting off a shiver. “There’s gonna be screaming hordes of children here in, like, an hour. I cannot still be cleaning up your messes when they get here. So, lose the bats and the bugs and the…whatever else you’ve got.” You narrowed your eyes at his tattered suit jacket.

“Relax, babes, I got it all under control.”

Without thinking, you took a step back as he righted himself in the air. “I don’t like the way you said that.”

“Hey, take the help or don’t. I’ll be here all night.” With that, he zoomed up to the rafters, dropping beetle carcasses in his wake. You shrieked and leaped back. “Beetlejuice!” you complained, only to hear his laughter.

It had been less than a year since you moved into your creepy old farmhouse. You still weren’t entirely sure if the creepy old dead guy had come with the property, or if he had followed you there. But when you found his name traced over and over again in the dust of every reflective surface in the house on the first night, you had almost left.

In the end, it was one of the movers who had summoned him. You had had two burly men helping you move your things inside. One of them had remarked on the odd name, Betelgeuse. The other had just happened to be an amateur astronomer. Before any of you knew what was happening, lightening was striking, thunder was rolling, wind was blowing, and the two big, strong movers were scrambling back to their truck. Thoughtfully, they did hurl the last of your furniture from the vehicle as they peeled out of your shaded, and winding driveway. Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse…

“Okay, Beetlejuice, fine! Yes! I do need help.” You grumbled the last to yourself, trying and failing once more to move a heavy wooden table. It had been half an hour since the bat incident, and almost all of it had been spent on this table.

“Well, I don’t know…”

“Beetlejuice.”

“I’m getting kinda tired, y’know…”

“Beetlejuice!”

“A’right, a’right, fine! Taskmaster, jeez.” The demon floated down from the rafters, snapped his fingers, and the table you had been struggling with walked itself over to where you had been trying to move it – against the wall, centered under a window.

The barn was a decent size. Average by northeastern standards, but tall as hell. Or, the Netherworld, you supposed. The structure of the thing was entirely wood, worn down and lightened with time. The posts were a richer color than the floor, which was covered in scratches and the occasional hay straw. There were windows all around, installed sometime within the last half-century, and the sun shone in brilliantly when it was up.

Now it was dark, even at 5:00 PM. As you watched, the decorations you had strewn haphazardly across the space leapt to attention. Miniature pumpkin lights snaked their way around the rafters and posts, along with actual snakes. A layer of fog coated the floor so thickly you could no longer see your own feet. What looked to be a hundred flaming tealights sprung up from every table – some with black flames, others green. The overhead iron-wrapped pendant lights dimmed and aged noticeably, some flakes of rust falling to the floor and becoming lost in the low gloom.

The jack-o’-lanterns you and Beetlejuice had carved the day before lit up abruptly. Paper bats and bloody eyeballs on strings dropped down to hang from the rafters. A soft, eerie music began floating through the room, and when you looked up you saw a greenish gray skeleton manning the DJ setup on a slightly raised section of the floor. It gave you and Beetlejuice a thumbs-up, its other decayed hand on a headphone positioned just a few degrees south of where its ear might have been.

“Thank you, I think--whoa!” Before you could finish thanking your demon, you heard a loud BANG. All the window shutters slammed shut.

“No problem, babes, but what are you gonna do for me?” Beetlejuice waggled his eyebrows at you.

You rolled your eyes. “Politely ask you to open the shutters back up, please? It’s a full moon, we should be able to see it.”

Beetlejuice bent backwards unnaturally far and groaned. “Fine.” A flick of his wrist and the shutters swung open meekly. A few thick, black tentacles with a faint green sheen slithered in at the corners of each window, not breaking the glass but rather bending it open around themselves. The demon dusted off his hands and fixed his tie. “Happy?”

“Very.”

“How’d you get roped into doing this, anyway? I thought you hated kids.”

“I don’t hate them, I just don’t like them. One of the community theater guys asked me to.” You started for the barn door. Beetlejuice followed you, the tips of his shoes dragging the fog.

“Why?” He wrinkled his nose.

“Because the new, mysterious stage manager has a big, scary house in the middle of nowhere that no-one’s ever seen, that’s why.”

“Huh. Is he gonna be here too?” You didn’t have to look at Beetlejuice to know he was grinning.

Before you could warn him not to do anything dangerous, you opened the barn door to find your first chaperone. You weren’t sure if it was a state rule that a gathering of kids under a certain age needed adult chaperones, but knowing Beetlejuice, you were happy to have the help. This one was a theater mom. You barely knew her, but she said she would bring cupcakes, so you had shrugged and given her your address.

“Stephanie, hi,” you said, only mildly startled to see her so early.

“H--oh. Uh, hi,” she replied, now openly staring at Beetlejuice.

“Hi.” Still grinning.

“Um, who is this?” she asked, barely containing her horror.

“I’m–”

“Oh, this is, uh–”

“I’m her, uh–”

“Lawrence!” you said rigidly. “Lawrence…Beetleman.” You pulled at the demon’s arm and he dropped to his feet, stumbling to your side. You knew you should have rehearsed this.

Beetlejuice held out his left hand stiffly. “Nice to meet ya.” You elbowed him as surreptitiously as you could, and he dropped the hand, holding out his right instead.

Stephanie cautiously met his hand, then dropped it immediately. “Oh, I uh…you too, Mr. Beetleman?” Beetlejuice flinched and gagged noticeably.

There was a long silence.

“So…” you tried.

“Right! Yes, I, um…well, I came to help you decorate, but it seems like you have it all taken care of?” Stephanie glanced around you, coming away looking somehow even more horrified.

“Oh yeah, we got it covered, Stevie.” You tried to elbow Beetlejuice again, but he dodged. Moving forward, he took Stephanie’s arm at the elbow and led her into the barn. “Here, lemme show you where to put those cupcakes.” He nodded to the box she was carrying.

“Oh, okay. It’s Stephanie, by the way,” she said nervously.

“Sure.”

“Beetleman,” you cautioned haltingly, frowning at him.

“Don’t worry about it, babes. Don’t you gotta go put on your costume?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but Stephanie spoke first. “It’s fine, I’ll just, um…”

“Yeah, she’ll just um. Go on,” Beetlejuice cajoled. Tightlipped and wide-eyed, you turned and stalked out of the barn, leaving the door open behind you just in case.

Surprising yourself, you managed to get into your costume in under thirty seconds. The makeup, on the other hand, was more of a challenge. There was something about the creaky sounds of wood settling and the draft through the second floor of your house that was making it more difficult than usual to keep your hands steady. But then, you had never been much of an artist.

So, you headed back to the barn in your broken shoes and your torn clothes, perfecting your shamble as you went. The door was still open. Stephanie had her back to you and seemed to be sizing up the tentacles on the far window, but Beetlejuice caught your movement as you tentatively stuck your head into the barn. You motioned for him to come towards you. He followed your lead.

Once you were both just outside the barn door, you turned fully to face him. “Hey,” you whispered.

“What’s up, babes?”

“I’m having a little trouble with my prosthetics. Could you do anything to make me look a little more…” You searched for the right word. “…horrifying?” Seeing Beetlejuice’s eyes light up, you held out a hand. “Without killing and/or maiming me.” You paused. “Or making the children cry.”

The demon gave you a look. “What, on Halloween? Huge cliché, what do you take me for?” You raised your eyebrows, but said nothing. He snapped his fingers and within an instant, you could feel your face and sections of your clothing stiffen with what you hoped was fake blood. “There: instant zombification.”

“Great, lemme just go check–”

“Sweetheart, trust me, you could strike terror into the hearts of any ghoul.”

“Do ghouls have hearts?”

“Whatever you do, never ask a ghoul that.”

You gave him a small smile. “Thanks, Mr. Beetleman.” Almost compulsively, Beetlejuice gagged again. You laughed and led him back into the barn. Stephanie turned to greet you, then turned away again. Your demon gave you a sidelong, self-satisfied look. You shook your head at him, but couldn’t force the smile off of your face.

The kids started showing up minutes later. Stephanie’s wife brought their two sons, then the community theater director came with his daughter, and on and on. Before 6:00, the barn was full. Nearly half of the children had entered the costume contest, which you had begrudgingly appointed Beetlejuice head judge of.

It wasn’t so much that you had invited Beetlejuice as it was that you knew you wouldn’t be able to keep him from staying. Short of banishing him, he would not be left out of your Halloween activities, and the last thing you wanted to do was banish the demon. He could be awfully cranky when he felt ignored, worse when he felt betrayed. Best to keep a close eye on him and leave it there. Shockingly, though, he seemed to be on his best behavior.

That wasn’t saying much, but you appreciated the effort.

He kept the live animals to a minimum, only ate one of the eyeballs hanging from the ceiling, and judged the costume contest as fairly as he could. Fortunately, there was a clear winner: a young zombie whose costume rivalled your own. The judge committee gave him a small skeleton trophy and a candy medal, took some photos with him, and you privately wondered if he had his own ghost-zombie at home to help him with his makeup. Then you shrugged it off and watched – half-mortified, half-impressed – as Beetlejuice summoned a few dead cheerleaders to sing a surprisingly smooth rendition of Time Warp. You were fairly certain a few of his bones came loose during the dance, but you let it slide. The kids were duly impressed, the parents were a suitable distance that they hardly noticed.

It wasn’t until 11:00 PM that all of the adults in the room realized that Beetlejuice had removed the clock that had previously hung on the wall opposite the barn’s door. It took the better part of a half hour to corral the kids to their parents’ respective vehicles, and most of them insisted on hugging you. Warily as ever, you eyed the ones who tried to hug ‘Mr. Beetleman,’ but he somehow managed to turn all of their affections into a high five. Despite yourself, you found yourself smiling.

Once everyone was gone, you turned from the door to assess the barn. It was a disaster. The jack-o’-lanterns had remained lit, as had the candles, but those were the only decorations at thirteen-and-under year old level that had remained undisturbed. The bottles you had placed on the tables, with their faded potion ingredient labels, were toppled over. There were drink puddles and food stains on the floor and half the fog had dissipated. Some of the eyes and bats had come down, others were tangled with the lights on the posts. Somehow, even the pendant lights were flickering slightly.

Beetlejuice did not need sleep. Maybe he could get tired, maybe he couldn’t. You certainly could, and by the time the party was over, you had maxed out your entire energy reserve. So, when your demon told you he’d clean up the next day, you agreed and gave no thought to the fact that it would take him all of two seconds to clean up that night.

Once you had seen off the last of the kids and all of the parents, you trudged back up to your big, scary house. All the light in the barn went out behind you, but you paid it no mind.

Somewhere between the barn and the house, Beetlejuice disappeared. Again, you ignored it. It wasn’t uncommon for Beetlejuice to vanish without telling you, and on Halloween night you imagined there were a hundred more fun things for him to be off doing than watching you get ready for bed. Especially when you caught sight of yourself in your entryway mirror. It was the first time that night that you had seen yourself fully zombified beyond a brief glance at your dim reflection in a darkened, tentacled window.

Your face alone had several large patches of what looked like gaping wounds, and you could see more peeking out from your formerly white collar. You had been going for Proper Academic Zombie, and you looked like you would need a degree in showering to get all this gunk off of yourself. At least you could reuse the costume, maybe disrupt a seminar or two.

Shaking your head, you flicked the light switch beside the front door to turn off the overhead light. Instead of just that light going out, however, the table lamp under the mirror went out as well. So did the hall light over the stairs to your left, the kitchen down the short hallway in front of you, and the living room light beyond that. You tried flicking the switch again. Nothing.

Suddenly, a slam. Several slams all at once. All the shutters you could see swung closed forcefully. From the sound of it, all the shutters on the house closed.

You cleared your throat hesitantly. “Okay, very funny. Beej, that’s you, right?”

Silence.

“Beej?” Though you couldn’t yet hear your heart, you could feel it struggling against the walls of your chest. There was a slight ringing in your ears – the ever-present remnants of your teenaged years. Outside of that: nothing. You took a step, and the creaking of the wood seemed to echo through the whole house. For a brief, crazy moment, you thought about going out to your car. But it seemed the porch light was out too, and being inside a dark house was better than being outside on a dark night.

So, you took another step. Then another. You cursed your shortsightedness in leaving your phone in your room. You reached the stairs. You climbed them, you turned the corner. The wood settle beneath your feet with a deafening creak each step of the way.

There must be a short circuit. There had to be, somewhere. There was no reason for you to have simply lost power. When you reached your room, you saw that your alarm clock was still lit and showing the time, and it was plugged into the same wall outlet as your dark lamp. The box was in your basement.

No way were you going into the basement.

You reached out for your phone. It was dead. You looked over to one of your windows. Of all the windows you’d passed, this seemed to be the only one whose shutters hadn’t closed. Slowly – more slowly than you had moved all night, you crossed the room to look outside. You could see the full moon in all her red-orange beauty. Then, you let out the breath you had been holding. The moon wasn’t going anywhere, even if all the other light was gone.

You should have known better.

A shadow dashed across the moon then, but not at the surface. Through the air. Close to your window. Very, very close.

There was a muffled thud somewhere behind you. You jumped and whirled around to look. When you noticed the light from the moon fading, you slowly turned your head back and saw the shutters swinging closed. Before you could reach out to even open the window, they were completely shut.

Another noise, closer this time.

You couldn’t move. Your heart was racing. You couldn’t speak, you couldn’t breathe. You thought about jumping for your bed, some childish thought of pulling the covers over your head before the whatever-it-was could reach you running through your head, but even in your fear you knew it was foolish. It was too late – too close. Your stomach dropped, your hands shook, your legs felt like splintering wood.

Yet another noise. You heard the hinges of your bedroom door waver. It was pitch dark in the room. All at once, a ragged breathing rushed at you across the squeaking floor.

You screamed.

“Beetlejuice!”

Seriously, please reblog.

Tags List: @skiddyyo @a-okay-rj @geeky-marie @darkblueeyedperson @hannah-de-lioncourt @ironmansuucks @missihart23 @ballerinafairyprincess @thewolfisapartofmysoul

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angelic-kisses13 · 5 years ago

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Claiming- Part I

Authors Note: Here is Part I I hope you enjoy!

Warning: Violence, gore, swearing, Vampire Charles Brandon, mentions the word Rape (Not described)

“Master, the treaty has been fractured. Two bound of blood plotted against the all-knowing, thus leading to a betrayal of the Children of the Night. Inevitable despair of two warring Kingdoms will befall both heads of houses. “

“How do we halt this coming demise, Mother Seeress?”

“The Treaty dictates an eye for an eye.”

Another war was close to brewing and Charles was close to just sending his men out and taking care of the neanderthals across the river. The memory of his best Generals head rolling across his throne room was forever ingrained. The trail of blood forever staining the stone. He remembered the rage and remorse that colored his person as he noticed the missing fangs. He had been dishonored by the beheading but the knowledge that someone had dared desecrate his culture and lineage would forever strike fear in his people. He would never forget the scent of the vile human carcass that dared trespass on his land. Since he was king, however, he couldn’t do as he wished, without causing massive disruption to his kingdom and the other neighboring ones.

Charles forced his tightly wound body back against the carriage wall, he was on his way to the disgrace of a kingdom now, the King claimed to have a peace offering for him. A sacrifice for the vampires so that they would hopefully look past their transgressions.

Charles was surprised at himself for the amount of rage he held for the whole notion, he was never one for sacrifices but he had to uphold the ancient traditions. It would make matters worse and as much as a war sounded fun and a great time killer, he wasn’t willing to put his people through that. He had seen enough bloodshed to last millennia.

He was dragged out of his thoughts by the carriage stopping and his footmen opening the door for him. He sighed but pulled his robes around his body carefully, arranging them neatly. He climbed down the carriage steps, dusk had fallen and he relaxed under the twilight.

A scuffle to his left drew his attention and he watched as a young woman was dragged across the courtyard, insults flying from her lips faster than he could process. A smirk fell across his lips as she turned and spat at the guard who had the gall to slap her ass in a warning. She was a plump thing, where there should have been harsh angles on her body, were instead rounded curves that screamed for him to run his fingers over. He had always had a soft spot for women who had more meat on their bones. The fact is that he had more to hold onto, more to drink from and more space to paint his mark across, making their skin his canvas.

“I REFUSE TO BE USED THIS WAY! I AM NOT SOME COMMON CRIMINAL YOU CAN DO WITH AS YOU WISH!” Her words made his eyebrows raise in surprise, now this was going to be interesting. The guards all laughed in delight,

“You’re the only criminal that no-one has claimed. The King, for whatever reason, paid your bail, therefore, you are owned by the King and he can do with you as he wishes.” Just as he was about to follow after the young woman, a stable boy came running up, he bowed before Charles, his little body shaking at the sight of him.

“Y-your Majesty, the K-King awaits yo-your arrival.” Charles hummed as he put the young woman out of mind and followed the boy into the palace. The boy left him standing in front of the throne room doors, where two guards stood on watch. He watched out of the corner of his eye, as one of the guards turned his head and glared at him with disdain.

A smirk fell on his features as he swiftly pinned the guard to the wall and bared his fangs, a glint entering his eyes as he sealed the man’s fate. He drank for a few moments before pulling away and dropping the man to the ground. He smoothed his cloaks out before entering the Throne Room. He was instantly assaulted by the familiar stench, his eyes narrowing on the three occupants of the room. He sniffed a couple of times, trying to ascertain the culprit. His senses zeroed in on the Prince. Satisfied he was the vile carcass, he then spots the trophies around the young man’s neck.

“His Majesty” stood at the top of the stairs in front of his throne overlooking his kingdom from the stain glass windows, the prince lounging behind him, drink in one hand, the fangs of his General lay nestled against his greasy portly neck. His scrawny half-Witt of an advisor stood off to the King’s left. They were whispering, but Charles could hear every word.

“King Charles’ sacrifice refuses to come out, the stupid girl is going to put us all in jeopardy with her tantrums.”

The King sighed as he reached out and patted the Advisors shoulder,

“Try and convince her one last time, King Charles will be here any second and I don’t want him to have more reasons to go to war.” The advisor bowed before turning around and halting in his tracks, Charles watched in quiet delight as the Advisors knees buckled beneath him.

Charles grinned, the blood on his fangs glowing in the candle-light as he licked at the drop of blood on the tip of his left fang. He preened as the blood from the advisor’s face drained, an audible swallow was heard before the man kneeled.

“Your Majesty. It is a humble delight to see you.” King Indulf stiffened before turning to face Charles, a strained smile painting his features.

“Advisor.” That was the only word needed before the poor man was up on his feet and hurrying, in a dignified manner, back towards the Throne Room’s doors. It was silent as they appraised the other, looking for any tell-tale signs of weaknesses. One could only hope for a quick signal to end the other.

“Charles, how kind of you to travel and accept our gift of dinner and women. I’m sure the one we have picked out for you will be enough to appease.” His tone was bordering cordial and impertinent. Charles’s jaw tightened, just as he was about to voice his displeasure about the ordeal, the doors were opened and in walked a delicate flower, brown hair done up in the traditional braids and pinned into an intricate bun on the top of her head, her skin was painted flawlessly and her white dress left nothing to the imagination, her skin showing through the sheer fabric.

She bowed at their feet, before coming and kneeling on the second step, her hands resting on her thighs, back straight, head tilted to the right, baring her neck showcasing her pulse and vein beautifully. She was stunning, but she was meek and unfit to be the sacrifice.

“She is a fine specimen but she is unfit for the role, far too weak, Indulf.” The King spluttered, his face an ugly puce color as he refrained from shouting.

“We were just supposed to give you a woman to sate your declaration of war, Charles. As you can see, we have lived up to our deal.” Charles snorted, unable to contain his mirth for a moment longer.

“You stupid excuse of a King. The terms of the sacrifice were agreed upon when the contract was drawn up. Every detail drafted down for future generations. It outlines everything specifically, clearly, you have read it to be able to coach her on how to sit and dress. Did you honestly think I wouldn’t notice? This “sacrifice” is dying. Do you believe that this painted whore would hold the same status as my best General?” His voice became a roar by the end of his rant, his eyes a burning crimson.

“King Charles, she was the only eligible candidate we had, surely you can overlook the one rule.”

“Surely, you have noticed your ill-mannered son displaying the fangs of my fallen comrade. The contract is void, prepare for war Indulf, you have insulted me and my people one too many times this evening.” He hissed and turned on his heel, preparing to depart when the throne room doors were thrown open and a woman came in kicking and screaming. Her eyes flashing as her mouth opened in a snarl. She was tossed at King Indulf’s feet.

Charles had just enough time to move out of the way before she was up and throwing herself towards the Prince. Her screeches and wails filling the hall,

“I WILL NOT BOW DOWN TO YOU! I AM NOT YOUR CONSORT! I AM WORTH MORE THAN THAT!” The Prince quickly grabbed the little spitfires’ wrists before throwing her down and backhanding her face. She sprawled across the stone floor, a hand reaching up and brushing over her busted lip, coming away red with blood.

“THAT IS ENOUGH YOU INSOLENT BITCH!” Charles’s eyes flashed when the scent of her blood hit his senses. She was delectable, fiery, and willing to fight to the end.

Her chest heaved as she watched them, her tongue darting out to swipe the blood up. She grinned at the three men, her teeth painted in her blood. Charles had to suppress the growl that threatened to escape his mouth. He wanted to grab her by her meaty hips and pin her against the floor, his tongue diving into her mouth to lick every last drop of her blood from her teeth and tongue. Charles took a step forward only to be hit by the vile stench of the Prince. She was covered head to toe and it brought the memory of his dead General to mind.

The enraged King frothed at the mouth, “I paid your bail, you ungrateful heathen, that means I own you, I can do with you what I want when I want. You are to be my son’s consort, a high honor if I do say so. One someone like you shouldn’t get, but your parents were good people and I promised I would look after you.” A manic cackle fell from the woman’s lush lips as she rolled from her side and onto her knees.

“My parents were traitors that you honored to make yourself look good, they don’t deserve to have me as their daughter. I will never be your sons, I would rather be his sacrifice,” she angrily threw her arm out, finger pointed towards Charles, “than live in this palace and be raped by your precious prince another day.”

“You think you are worthy enough to be a King’s sacrifice?” Indulf’s body was vibrating with barely contained rage.

“I’m worthy enough for your son to be sullied over.” A laugh escaped Charles as he kneeled down in front of the woman.

“My little lamb,” He smoothed his thumb over her bruised cheek before pulling his hand back, her warmth seared his skin, she was perfect. A raging inferno waiting to be tamed. He looked up at the King, a challenging glint to his eye.

“Sacrifice accepted.” The occupants of the throne room gasped in shock as Charles bent down and swiftly picked up the dirtied and bloodied rag of a woman, before disappearing, a cool breeze rustling through the room in his abrupt departure.

Taglist: @agniavateira @cavillanche @cavillunraveled @dancingwendigo @dreamwritesimagines @ficsandcatsandficsandcats @hlkwrites @hnryycvll @honeychicanawrites @iloveyouyen @johnmotherfuckingshelby @ladyreapermc @laketaj24 @littlefreya @ly--canthrope @mary-ann84 @mrsaugustwalker @ohvalleyofplentyyy @omgkatinka @sciapod @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan @supersweetstache @thethirstyarchive @the-winter-witcher @thegreattodd @tumblnewby @viking-raider @white-wolf-of-rivia @witcherwrites

#henry cavill #reader insert #Vampire Henry Cavill

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terracottaalchemist · 4 years ago

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Merry Christmas @hexalianrebel-blackfeathers !!

I'm a little rusty with my writing but I hope you like it! Happy Squealing Santa

Special thanks to @ticklygiggles for organizing everything❤️

🎁🎄🎁🎄🎁🎄🎁🎄🎁🎄🎁🎄🎁🎄🎁🎄🎁🎄

The Grand Highblood was a name that churned every sane troll's stomach. Ruthless, unpredictable, purple blood twisted inside him, cold, fueling a strength only rivaled by the Royal seadwellers. Signless could deal with the cruelty of the Empress, handle the attacks from his voilet oppressors, but not this. Nothing could have prepared him for this.

Signless tugged once again at the sharp, iron cuffs on his hands, thick and noisy in the silent cell. He had always known that one day his luck would run out, that he would finally be captured, but there was gratitude in his heart that the subjugglers left his friends and followers alone. So long as he kept quiet, he would be executed with the knowledge of where Dolarosa, Deciple, and Psiioniic were going safely tucked in his soul.

His feet were bound in frigid chains, sharp on the bones of his ankles. A small light shone overhead, enough to glint off the rusted bars, but not the concrete floor. He could see every exhale curl through the air in white smoke. So cold.

At the very least, Signless could hear every time the guard came within 20 meters of his cell from the sheer weight of his leather footsteps. His stomach gurgled for more of the grub paste he'd been given yesterday, but his tongue prickled preemptively with the phantom taste of bitter acid and bile. The guard stepped into view behind the row of bars, but there was no grub paste. Just keys as they jangled around the lock on the door, which opened with a piercing whine. The guard grunted, motioning with his hand to come closer, clutching a familiar black cloth.

Two guards, ahead and behind him, led Signless through the halls on two chain leashes. The blindfold was tied tightly to his face, forcing his focus to the tiles under his bare soles, the rough material of the unwashed trousers he was given, and the chains. As they climbed an oak staircase, the temperate rose to a more comfortable chill. Signless sighed, but chokes on a sudden, harsh tug backwards. They stopped. A hard knock rang against wood close to his head, but he couldn't move away if he tried. The door opened with a dull click and Signless was lead inside.

Living all his life as a renegade, Signless considered his senses to be rather sharp. But he was preoccupied with the chains on his wrists being pulled over his head so harshly that his heels barely brushed the floor. Far too preoccupied to hear the even more massive boots against the floor until they were far too close.

"That's enough, motherfucker."

That voice. Everyone knew that voice. Signless shifted his weight back, but the chain holding him up was taut and heavy. He hung there, swaying, like an oink beast carcass.

The blindfold was yanked down to his neck, colours and lights striking his mutated eyes. Signless blinked into focus, and took in the sheer sight that was The Grand Highblood. Doubling Signless' height, his wild hair framed his shoulders and wavy horns, adding even more height. Blood-curling, white paint stuck to his face, applied with careful detail to resemble the teeth of a deep-sea horror. With a sway in his step, The Grand Highblood began circling around his prized prisoner.

"You're real fuckin' short, aren't you?"

Signless turned to look at him, but kept his mouth shut. There is only one reason to keep a troll like himself alive, after all, even if it's only for the time being. He would not crack. He couldn't. A sharp slap cut across his cheek, the mark flushing an offensive red. Signless hadn't even see him move.

"Let's make one thing motherfucking clear," Grand Highblood spat. "When I ask you a question, you best give me an answer. Understand?"

Signless licked his lips, his jaw pulsing from the single, half-hazard strike. "Yes."

"Good." He pulled the blindfold back up with a single claw, this time allowing more light to seep through. There was a snap of fingers, a grunt of acknowledgment, and the rough scraping of wood on stone as some sort of furniture was dragged closer, just out of Signless' kicking range.

"Now then, let's not waste any more motherfucking god damn time." The three seconds of silence stretch between them, tensing like a rubber band until it snaps around the Grand Highblood's words. "Where are your apostles?"

Signless gripped back his displays of relief. His friends had not been found, nor will they be without his help. He was the only one on Alternia that knew where they were, and he swore to keep it that way, regardless of the cost.

"Maybe you didn't hear me." He circled again, but much slower, coming to a stop directly behind Signless. "Shit, I'm feeling downright merciful today, so I'll repeat myself one more motherfucking time. Where are your fucking apostles, mutant?"

Signless forced down a shiver, tugging gently at his wrists one more time. Not a chance.

"I was hoping you'd say that. Now I get to have me some motherfucking entertainment!"

Sharp, unkept nails skittered up his defenceless sides, forcing a surprised giggle from the preacher's lips. What on Alternia?

"Honk! Look how sensitive you are! Your skin is even weaker than that of a Rustie, already turning red. What a motherfucking miracle! It must be my hatching day all up in this bitch!"

Signless squirmed, feeling 1000 times more exposed than he did before. Every memory of being tickled absolutely senseless flashed through his eyes, each filled with more tears than the last. Psi had been his most common assaulter. On the bright side, no bodily harm would come to him this way. He just had to bear it until he finds a way to escape, and said escape won't be hindered by serious inquiries. A slight grin tugged at his lips as he clenched his jaw. A little tickling never killed anyone.

Without warning, two pairs of knuckles slotted themselves between his grub scars and dug furiously. Lightning shot through his nerves straight to his spine, his sense of touch heightened by the loss of vision. A guffaw tore out of Signless' throat before he could clamp his mouth shut, as he kicked off the floor to escape the sensations. It tickled so bad, so so bad. But he wouldn't dare laugh.

"Oho, a fighter! You can try that shit for now, but once you're all burnt out, you'll break easy. You're helpless."

Signless bit his lip harder, calves and shoulders quickly protesting all his movement. The knuckles dropped to his bottom ribs, continuing their ministrations. Finally, laughter broke free like water to a dam, harsh and powerful with the pressure. Shame burned his cheeks. Signless spun sideways to throw off the attacker's hands, but Grand Highblood quickly dragged him back into place. The millisecond of relief only allowed him to regret thinking this form of torture would be easy.

"Ha! You think you can escape, bitch? You're weak. I don't even know your worst spots yet."

"Hahahahahaha, oh fuhuhuck!" Nuckles turned to claws as they traveled up and down his sides, spidering quickly. Down to his hips, up, down, up, down, and up further to his lower ribs, still buzzing and flushed. Suddenly, each trip down was a promise to explore higher and higher, until both hands slid way too high to attack his armpits.

"AHAHA! No, nohoho fuck ohofff!" Signless squealed, thrashing as best he could but failing to lower his arms at all. He curled one knee up as high as he could, but it only threw him off balance as pain stabbed at his shoulders. He was truly, utterly, trapped.

The Grand Highblood chuckled darkly behind him. "Is it too much already? How motherfucking pathetic."

His fingers skittered across his torso and sides for what felt like hours and hours, until Signless' laughs became gasps and chokes, eyes falling in and out of focus. Whenever he got even slightly used to the sensation, Grand Highblood would just switch spots.

"HAHA....ahaAA.. p.. ehehaha .pleheheease!"

"You know how to make it stop, motherfucker. Where did they run off to?"

The temptation was there, as much as it pained him. The tickling was too much, he was going crazy. "I-ahaha! C-c-ahan't!"

A rough growl cut through the air, and the tickling stopped. The hands held his ribs roughly, but he finally caught his breathe in progressively deeper inhales. The relief was short lived, however, as two more footspets got closer. Probably more guards, but he still couldn't see for himself.

Seconds later, the tickling resumed threefold. Thirty fingers danced across his skin, in his armpits, ribs, and the rest were fluttering across his belly and squeezing his hips. He heard a girl chuckling at him, and a small "oh" from a young man.

Kids, 8 sweeps at most. With renewed energy, Signless' bucked hard, shaking his head side to side as he began kicking at whoever was in front of him. The first missed, but the second came into contact with a clothes torso. Instead of launching his assaulter back, his ankle was yanked forwards and caught between their body and arm. Stupid highblood strength!

Sharp nails teased his arch skillfully and he shrieked.

"Ooh, boss! Looks like I found a good one!" She said with more giggling.

"Good work, bitch. Keep it up," The Grandhighblood repied.

With one foot in the air, Signless' struggling turned into pathetic twitches and jolts. He scrunched his toes as hard as he could, but the girl simply pried them back and continued. When she reached under his toes, tears started forming in his eyes.

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHA- AAAAA NOHOHOHO!! nOT THEEEHEHERE!"

"Not where? Here? Are your toes reeeally bad? Is that a really /ticklish/ spot for you?" She teased.

Heat dripped down his neck in embarrassment, even his back began flushing.

"Oh, do you not like that word? Tickle? But you're so ticklish! Tickle tickle tickle, I bet it feels sooo baaaddd~"

"Aha, hahaha! Dohhohoon't!" He pleaded.

"Don't what?"

"Mock meehehe!"

He could feel the venom dripping from her voice. "Mock you? If you wish!"

"Enough, child." The Grand Highblood interrupted. "He needs to focus."

She didn't respond but she dropped his leg. His hypersensitive toes barely brushed the floor before she yanked his other from underneath him, raking her nails over his entire sole hard and fast.

At the same time, the quiet boy shifted his hands down to squeeze at Signless' defenceless thigh.

"NOOOOOHOHOHOA! HAHAHAHA!"

Grand highblood continued to switch from spiders to digs and jabs at his armpits, while the other two scratched and squeezed his shaking legs and feet. After only a few minutes, white flickers of light bloomed under Signless' eyelids, head spinning as it forced his every breath out in raw, desperate laughter. His lungs began to burn.

"no- hahahhaha, nnhaha..noho more..no mohohoore!"

"You can make this all go away, motherfucker. Just tell is where they are and we'll stop."

"haha....n..no.."

"We won't stop until you're fucking dead. But it's gonna be a looking time till this gets you. Weeks, maybe even months"

Signless shuddered, body limp from exhaustion as all three of them tickled both his sensitive sides without care for his pleading.

"Or, you could spare yourself all the trouble now...and we'll make sure your end is swift and painless. You're finished anyways, and we'll find your followers with or without your help. So why suffer?"

His eyes rolled around in his skull, head pointing with blood lacking oxygen. His laugher fell quiet ages ago, but as it became silent his senses began to fail.

"Where are those motherfuckers hiding?"

Body numb and buzzing all at once, Signless forced one last breath through his aching throat, before the sweep lull of unconsciousness took him.

"..if that's what it takes, I will be their sufferer."

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sternbagel · 4 years ago

Text

Inspired by the wonderful OC lore that @charlotte-balfours-garden wrote and posted, I decided to finish this piece that’s been sitting in my drafts for months about my own RDR OC, visual references here!

Note: This takes place in canon, Chapter 3, and while everyone calls her Alberta Taylor at this point, it’s not her real name, just something she’s been going by for years because of something in her past. Professionally, she’s a bounty hunter, but has dabbled in other things.

Read This First

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Well, at least the one thing today that hasn’t been surprising is Arthur finding Al has dragged a chair over to his tent to read, one leg propped up on the chest at the end of his cot. Sometimes she’ll set up there to get ample shade from the sun, and according to her, the chest is the perfect foot rest height.

“Afternoon, Arthur,” she greets lazily as she turns the page.

“Miss Taylor. Comfortable?”

“Sure.” She cuts her eyes up at him from under the brim of her hat, seemingly just to give him a greeting glance and smile, but when she spots the shiny new accessory pinned to his vest, her head raises higher. “You steal that off a dead lawman or somethin’?”

And it begins, Arthur thinks with a snort. “No, Dutch—” he waves an arm in the direction he came from, though Dutch has long ago left that area—“got us ingratiated with the local sheriff, so now we’re honorary deputies.”

“Was Sheriff Gray drunk?”

That’s surprising. They only met the sheriff yesterday, and he’s not sure the full story of their encounter has been relayed to the rest of camp, just the orders not to cause any trouble. “How’d you know his name?”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he realizes that most likely, it was Hosea. Those two are close.

She answers with a cavalier shrug before he can say anything. “I’ve been here before. Once. Didn’t stay long.”

Arthur takes the bait she leaves out. “Why not?”

“Well, it’s Lemoyne. I don’t spend very long here if I can help it. But first time I got to Rhodes lookin’ for bounty posters, Sheriff Gray was puking in the bushes. Somehow he managed to get out that they do all the bounty hunting themselves. No reason to go back.”

“Well, that’s pretty much how I found him when I went lookin’ for Dutch and Bill.”

“Figures,” she laughs, shaking her head. “Not that I really care, but where is Bill? Didn’t see him come back with y’all. Still with the Sheriff, ingratiating himself?” She looks thoughtful for a moment. “I didn’t get that impression off him, but I wasn—”

Arthur holds up a hand and shakes his own head with a smirk. “No, no, the Grays around here don’t seem… his type. Matter of fact, I should probably warn Bill to just play it cool—“

“What, drunk, dumb, and ignorant ain’t Bill’s type? What about that guy we saw him chattin’ up at that saloon in Armadillo?”

“That ain’t what I mean,” he snorts.

“I know.” Al flashes a playful smirk. “I’m just messin’.”

“Well, anyway, no, he’s off hidin’ some wagon full o’ moonshine we stole off some bootleggers under the Sheriff’s orders. Hosea’ll know what to do with it.”

“Moonshine?” This seems to pique her interest, again to Arthur’s surprise. “You know who you stole it off of?”

“Yes…” Arthur’s eyebrows knit together. He slowly lumbers over to his table, laying down the deputy badge and watching her carefully. Al’s expression is calm, but it’s a thin enough veneer that he sees the curiosity building by the second. “What’s it to you?”

“Curious.”

“Yeah.”

The book in her lap finally closes. “I used to run with some moonshiners not too long ago.”

“Alberta Taylor. Well, I never took you for a bootlegger.”

She throws an arm over the back of her chair and lets her head fall back, exposing more of her neck. It’s then that Arthur notices she’s not wearing her usual green neckerchief. Or her green jacket. She must be really burning up to be in just her workshirt and jeans. “Not every professional bounty hunter is a staunch upholder of the law, Arthur Morgan,” she says matter-of-factly with a lift of her brow.

“I never said that. Didn’t mean it neither. I mean, look who you fell in with, I know better. I just ain’t seen you drink much moonshine.”

“Sure. Always been more of a beer and tequila woman.”

He plops down on his cot and lights a cigarette. “Then what you doin’ runnin’ with moonshiners?”

“Tell me who you stole the liquor off of first, cowboy.”

Arthur concedes. Al is stubborn. “The Braithwaites. And those fellers that run around here with those yellow bandanas. Sadie and I ran into ‘em a few days ago. Uh—”

“Lemoyne Raiders?” She sneers. “I’d hoped someone had snuffed ‘em out by now. Hijo de putas.”

He takes a long drag of the cigarette before answering. “Yeah, that’s them. You’ve had some run-ins with ‘em, huh?”

“Like I said, just the once. Three of them stopped me on my way into Rhodes. Brought ‘em into town, dead, which is when I met Sheriff Gray. They didn’t have any bounties on ‘em, so all I got outta one of his deputies was five dollars. I know they weren’t even worth that much, but he coulda paid me more,” she grumbles. Her light Cuban accent comes out more the lower her voice goes.

“Sounds about right. Least ya got paid somethin’.”

“I guess.” She picks at the spine of her book for a moment. “Wasn’t long after that I met a… moonshiner legend, so to say, through a mutual friend. Though friend seems to be pushing it.”

He gets the sense she’s not fully sour on the “friend,” so his shoulders shake in amusement.

“He was a lot like Uncle, actually.”

“Lord.” Arthur snickers, smoke billowing out of his mouth.

“Yeah. Not as lazy. Probably younger, but who knows.”

“I reckon Uncle ain’t as old as he wants folks to think. Besides just bein’ too lazy, it’s probably why he don’t trim his beard.”

Al laughs, rougher than usual until she coughs and clears it up. “Damn humidity.”

“Tell me about it,” Arthur agrees, leaning forward and propping one elbow up on his knee. “So, this… moonshiner legend.”

“Ever heard the name Maggie Fike?”

The name isn’t familiar, but it isn’t unfamiliar either. “Don’t think so,” he settles on.

“Well, she’s been mostly out this way rather than out where y’all been running around. Revenue Agents caught up to her a couple years back, tried burning her alive. Didn’t work, but gave her a nasty scar and bad eye. Almost puts Marston to shame. Almost,” she adds with a grin as he walks between Arthur and Strauss’ tents.

“Take a look in the mirror, Miss Taylor,” he grumbles back. Then he chucks a cigarette butt at a chuckling Arthur. “You too, Morgan.”

John disappears around the side of the tent as Arthur brushes off the butt. “Cranky cause he ain’t had his midday nap.”

“Pick better material.”

Al chuckles and presses the palm of her hand on her hat, affixing it more securely to her head. “Anyway…”

“Anyway…” Arthur sighs lightly. “You said she survived?”

“Yeah, went into hiding for a while. Somehow got a hold of my ‘friend’, who then asked me for help gettin’ her business back on its feet. Easy work at first. Finding a good location for the shack, gettin’ her some supplies, that stuff.” She waves a hand around. “Most folks don’t pay much mind to a bounty hunter buyin’ supplies in bulk like I was or destroying illegal stills. Sometimes I brought in the other moonshiners to the local town to collect on a bounty. Made for a better cover for what I was really doing.”

“Takin’ out the competition.” Arthur chuckles.

“Exactly. Then came—”

“What the hell are you two talkin’ about anyway?”

Al puts her hand back on her hat before tipping her head back, almost touching the back of the chair, and looks at John, upside down. Arthur leans forward more to get his own look and the rangy outlaw, who’s circled back around to the other side of his wagon.

“And what the hell is that?” John asks. He’s looking directly at the badge on Arthur’s table, disgust etched into his features. As if it’s some rotting, maggot infested carcass Arthur’s using for decoration.

Arthur sighs and briefly explains again.

“So this is just another excuse for you to play dress-up, eh? Guess I need to tell Hosea you’re itchin’ to go scammin’ with him again.”

“You do that, it’ll be your pecker in the stew pot next meal.”

Al’s crossed her arms over her chest and is watching them with barely contained amusement. “Playing dress-up? I don’t think I’ve seen that side of you yet, Arthur.”

“And you won’t,” he growls. “Only reason Hosea takes me on those jobs is because he knows I hate it. Just once I’d like him to take Marston instead.”

“You sure about that?” Al studies John as if she’s a talent agent in the big city. “Doesn’t he like to avoid mayhem on those jobs?”

John snorts indignantly. “Yeah, well, I’d like to see you try and follow Hosea’s lead. I swear even he don’t know what he’s doin’ half the time.”

“But it works.” Her eyebrows raise pointedly.

“But it works,” John concedes.

“Well, next time you go, let me know. I’d love to watch y’all work.”

“Whatever,” John grumbles as he waves her off and saunters away. Apparently he’s given up on butting into their conversation.

“I ain’t pullin’ that type of job with Hosea again. What we had set up in Blackwater, sure, but not...” Arthur wags a finger in the air, then unfurls the rest of his fingers and waves his hand once before letting it fall back in his lap. “Not that. The girls and Trelawny are much better’n me anyway. Safer that way.”

Al shrugs. “I won’t argue that.”

“So, back to what you was sayin’?” Arthur’s not willing to let the moonshiner story drop. It’s not often she lets down her walls and tells stories of her past that don’t directly involve some bounty she’s nabbed. He knows what happened to her family, but that had been a moment he wasn’t meant to see, and neither of them have ever brought it up again.

“So after we get a shack set up, she gets word of where this old buddy of hers is, go rescue him so he can make our moonshine. Not long after that, her nephew’s gettin’ moved from Sisika, so I go rescue him.”

Arthur pulls the cigarette from his lips and folds his arms across his chest, leaning back against the wagon. “Just you against a bunch of lawmen?”

“Don’t sound so surprised, Morgan,” she drawls, lolling her head to the side.

“Suppose I shouldn’t be,” he chuckles.

“No, actually, I had a couple friends with me, cashed in on some favors. I’m not stupid or reckless enough to take on an armed prison transport.”

Arthur just shrugs. “Woulda believed you either way.”

“You’re too trusting,” she remarks. There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, but her eyes sparkle with something else.

“Perhaps you’re right.”

“Well, we bring them back to the shack, get the business up and running. Enact some revenge on a rival of hers in the meantime, I get to kill the agent who tried to burn her. Spent about a year with them. I didn’t do a lot of the actual running of moonshine, one of those friends who helped me break out Maggie’s nephew, Lem, did most of that. I focused on taking out the competition, clearing out Revenue Agent roadblocks when we were sure we couldn’t sneak past them. The real dirty work. But I didn’t mind, kept me moving, out of the government’s crosshairs enough that I could keep killin’ those damn agents.”

Arthur cocks his head curiously. But she isn’t done talking, so he lets her continue, holding onto his question for now.

“Couple months before I ran into y’all, I told them I’d have to leave. I’d spent so much time in this area, couldn’t… Needed to get out and go back out west. See some old friends, see some open country. They reckoned they’d be fine without me, but threw them the name of another friend I knew’d be able to help them, pick up my slack.”

“So… you think they’re still runnin’ that shine?”

“No reason not to. Never heard anything about her being captured. Got a letter from them while I was in Blackwater, actually. They’re doin’ well.” She gives a fond, reminiscent smile. “That friend is working with Maggie now, too. Dunno how she stands him, but…”

“Good. Since we’re over this way, you plannin’ on seein’ ‘em?”

“They’re north, Roanoke Ridge territory. Might, if I feel safe leavin’ you fools by yourself for more than a week.”

Arthur chuckles and shakes his head. “I reckon we can survive without ya for that long.”

“With all the trouble you been causing lately? I don’t think so, Mr. Morgan.” Al fans herself with her book, smirking at Arthur pointedly.

“I actually got another question for ya,” he diverts.

“Shoot.”

“I been thinkin’ about this since you got here, but now, knowin’ how much you seem to hate the Revenue Agents, how come you’re a bounty hunter, takin’ payouts from the government, but runnin’ with a bunch’a outlaws? After a year of runnin’ shine, that is.”

A simple shrug is her reply, and the pause is so long Arthur isn’t sure she’ll actually give him an explanation, until, “You have your code, I have mine.”

“Huh,” he grunts. They watch each other casually for a long moment, then he asks, “You gonna explain?”

He can see her weigh her options, and eventually she relents. “You know…” Her expression immediately tells him what she means: her past, what happened to her.

“Yeah,” he offers quietly.

“Well, nobody’s born a seasoned gunslinger. When I first started bounty hunting, I had to take the easier targets. Most big pay days, or the jobs that are good start for those of us that’re green, they’re people who rob banks with a pen, rich people doing rich people crimes. They’re soft, easy, and all it really takes to catch them is knowing the land better and being tougher than city folk. Which ain’t hard at all. So, until I could stand on my own, those were the only kinds I took. Then I started goin’ after the bastards I really wanted to. People like the Johnson Brothers.”

She nearly spits the name. Arthur feels the sting in her soul.

“I never take those soft bounties anymore,” she continues after a deep breath, seeming more like herself again with every word. “Unless I need a break. But it’s been a while since I have.”

“Been a while since you took a bounty at all.”

She must notice the question in his voice. Not judgement, but question. “No. You’ve been kicking up too much fuss. Wouldn’t be smart for me to be seen around town here more than once or twice.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. While it is mostly true, it’s about all he’s going to get out of her, but he knows the real reason why. Even if she won’t admit it to herself. “Got me there, Al.”

“Not hard to do, Arthur.”

#also we're going with the bill is gay theory. but like. half the gang is gay so she's not making fun of that.#she hates bill. so she's making fun of HIM directly.#hope that comes across lol.#also i hope it's okay to tag you in this!!! I can fix it if not #rdr #alma tejada #my fics #i guess that's gonna be a tag. i mostly just share this shit with friends and post my much bigger projects elsewhere

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noladyme · 5 years ago

Text

The Frog Princess. Chapter 12

She had no wish to be bound down to anyone, but Y/N none the less found herself being dragged across the continent; to marry King Foltest of Temeria. Instead of pomp and spectacle; she was accompanied by the witcher, Geralt of Rivia. Their travels would bring both monsters, lust, love; and heartache. All sound tracked by an endearing buffoon of a bard, named Jaskier.

TW: Violence, language, sexual themes. Rated M.

We began moving north again, taking care to avoid roads; but yet staying close enough to them; so that Geralt could hear any potential threat. I was finding it difficult to lead Bayrd forward properly; and at one point; I even had to let Jaskier sit in front of me; so I could hold on to him. I was tired and constantly needed breaks.

On one of these breaks, I fell asleep against a tree. I didn’t wake up until I realized I was sitting in front of Geralt on Roach. He had lifted me into the saddle, and was now holding on to me; so I wouldn’t fall off while we rode. I rubbed my eyes. “Careful. My fiancée might get jealous”, I said, and gestured towards Jaskier, who was riding Bayrd alongside us. Geralt didn’t say anything. “It was a joke; Geralt”, I said. He groaned. “You can’t get angry over a stupid joke…”. “Save your breath, little frog, I’m not angry”, he muttered behind me. “Then what’s wrong?”, I asked. “Nothing”, he grunted.

I looked towards Jaskier. He looked worried. “What’s going on?”, I asked. None of them would answer. “Geralt?”, I demanded. “You’ve been out for three days…”, the bard said. “Jaskier!”, Geralt growled. “What? You were going to pretend she slept for a few minutes?”.

I began feeling dizzy. “Put me down”, I said quietly. Geralt grunted, and didn’t slow down. “Put me down, I said! I’m not feeling well…”. Geralt halted; and helped me of the horse. I stumbled to the ground; and he quickly put his arm around my waist, to lead me to a tree I could sit against. My knee was throbbing with pain.

“I need water”, I said; realizing I was very thirsty and hungry. Geralt handed me a waterskin, and helped me uncork it. I drank the entire content. “Food?”. Jaskier handed me an apple. “Just promise you won’t throw it at me”, he chuckled; before meeting Geralts angry eyes.

Chewing on the apple; I looked at the witcher. “Three days?”, I asked. He grunted; and crouched down in front of me. “Since that tree outside Mayena”. My heart dropped. “Are we almost in Vizima?”, I asked. He tried to smile. “We’re at least a week away, little frog”. I exhaled in relief. I would have at least a week before I had to say goodbye.

Taking a large bite of the apple; my cheek hurt, and I put my fingers to it. “Is it…?”, I began. “Still bruised, from where Filivandrel hit you”, Geralt snarled. “But that was days ago!”, I yelped. He nodded. I tried for my neck. The cut from the nilfgaardians knife was healed; but the skin was sore. I wondered about my knee; but didn’t want to remove my pants in front of Jaskier.

“What’s happening to me?”, I asked. “I don’t know”, Geralt answered. “But we need to find out. You’re not well”. “And you don’t look so good either”, Jaskier added. I threw the apple carcass at him. “Hey!”, he yelped, and jumped out of the way.

Geralt stood back up. “We’re going to Maribor”, he said. “There’s a sorceress there…”. “A sorceress?”, Jaskier and I said at the same time. “She’s a friend”, Geralt grumbled. “She can tell us more”.

Jaskier walked over to Geralt. “Geralt; in the history of bad ideas, this is probably your worst one yet!”. The witcher grabbed a hold on the bard’s collar; and bared his teeth at him. “She is dying!”, he growled. My face went white. “What?”, I whispered.

Geralt let go of Jaskier; and went to crouch in front of me again. “You’re sick”, he said. “You’ve been unconscious for three days. Every wound on your body from the past few weeks have reappeared. You need help”. I shook my head in disbelief. “I’m fine”, I said; and tried to stand – falling instantly into his arms from the sharp pain in my knee. “You’re not fine”, Geralt snarled. “You are dying. And I won’t let that happen”.

He picked me up; and deposited me on Roach’s back again. “We’re going to Maribor”, he said; and saddled up.

—

It was another half days ride to the city of Maribor; and I spent most of it in front of Geralt, who held on to me with one arm, while leading Roach with his other hand. I tried to stay awake; but was in and out of it for most of the journey. My knee hurt, and I had begun bleeding from the cut on my neck. “Stay awake, little frog”, Geralt kept repeating behind my back. “Stay with me”.

We arrived at the gates to the city at dusk; where we were halted by four guards in temerian colors. It had begun raining; and I was shivering – both from cold, and from trying to remain conscious. “Who goes there?”, one of the guards called. “A witcher”, Geralt answered. “I am transporting this bard to King Foltests wedding”. “And the woman?”, the guard asked. “She’s my… fiancée”, Jaskier answered – almost choking on the word.

“He’s lying!”, another guard said. “You heard reports; there will be no wedding. The Lady Y/N was killed in transport to Vizima”. Geralt growled behind me; trying to keep his temper. “You heard wrong”, he said. “There was an attack; but the lady survived. She is being transported by one of my colleagues”. “Who?”, the guard demanded. “Vesemir”, Geralt answered. “Lies again. That old fuck was killed at the sacking of Kaer Morhen; everyone knows that!”.

Geralt tensed up in anger behind me “He was not”, he growled. “The witcher is telling the truth”, Jaskier said, trying for stern. “I saw the lady myself three days ago. In Brugge”. The guard seemed to ponder his words. “She pretty; the new queen?”, he asked. Jaskier twisted his face. “She’s all right”, he said. The guard smirked. “And the tits?”.

“We need to see Triss Merigold!”, Geralt snarled. “The bard’s fiancée is ill, and needs healing”. “The court sorceress arrived this morning; but she’s busy with preparations for the wedding”, the guard barked. “I thought you said the wedding was called off”, the first guard said. “She’s a sorceress; she must have known it was false news”, the second answered.

“Just let us in!”, Geralt yelled.

“Let them in”, a woman’s voice called from the top of the wall. “I know him”. The guards looked up at her. “But mistress Merigold…”, one of them tried. “Do as you’re told!”, she said indifferently.

The gates where opened; and we rode inside.

We were met on the street just inside the walls; by a young woman with auburn hair and a kind face. “Geralt”, she said. “Welcome back to Maribor. I’m told you’ve been here before”. “Not now, Triss”, Geralt said. “I need your help”.

He got of Roach and helped me down; instantly having to pick me up in his arms and carry me; as I had no strength in my legs. “Who is this?”, Triss asked. “My… fiancée”, Jaskier answered; once again having trouble with the expression. “Zaba”. Geralt wouldn’t meet the woman’s eyes.

“Hmm…”, Triss answered, and walked up to Geralt and me. I looked at her weakly. When our gaze met; Triss’ eyes widened. “I see…”, she said, and frowned. “Follow me”.

—

We went down several smaller streets; and every step Geralt took was a jolt through my body – causing me pain. I whimpered. “Almost there”, Triss said softly. “Stay with me”, Geralt muttered.

It seemed Triss had taken us to a back entrance to the city keep. She opened a small door, and led us up several flights of stairs; until we we’re in what seemed to be an attic room. It was clean; decorated meagerly but sufficiently, with a few mirrors and wall hangings depicting trees. Against one wall stood a bookcase with leather-bound volumes, and multiple flasks and crystals. Over a large table hung herbs drying; and on the table laid scrolls and maps. It smelled like Thrudes cabin.

“Put her down there”, Triss said; and Geralt carried me to a small bed – probably Triss own sleeping place. I cried out in pain and exhaustion when he placed me on the mattress. He quickly stroked my cheek, before moving back to give Triss room to see me. The sorceress sat on the edge of the bed; and put her hand on my cheek. “Zaba?”, she smiled softly; before lifting my frog pendant to examine it. “A little on the nose, isn’t it witcher?”. Geralt grumbled. “Can you help her?”, he asked. Triss sighed. “Well, I suppose I have to, seeing as she’s my new queen”. I opened my mouth to speak. “Sshhh…”, she smiled at me. “Don’t speak, your highness. You need all the energy you can spare to breathe right now”.

She was right. It was taking everything I had, just to keep my lungs working, and I had to force every breath.

“What happened?”, Triss demanded. Geralt went to stand by my head on the other side of the bed. “She… did something”, he said. “There was a half elven girl. She was dead…”. Triss’ face seemed to drain of blood. “And now she’s not…”, she sighed. Geralt nodded.

Triss walked over to her table, moving around some papers on it. “So it’s true”, she said. “If Foltest knew… he would have never agreed to this union. He’s having trouble enough accepting me – I am forced upon him by the Brotherhood”. She came back to me; carrying a small crystal in her hand. “I’m going to have to look”, she said. “In your head. I can’t promise it won’t be painful… but in your case there’s a chance it will be no more than a small irritation behind your eyes”. I nodded; and she smiled warmly at me.

Placing the crystal on my chest; she then put her hands on either side of my head. “Close your eyes, your highness”, she whispered. My eyes fell shut.

… warm. I’m in bed, and Tootie is telling me a story about a boy named Mouse, and a girl named Toot. I’m eating honeyed toast; and giggling, because Tootie is tickling my feet… … it’s so big! It’s screeching; and diving for one of the lambs in the field. And now there’s so much blood… … Eist is yelling at me because I climbed the tree in the courtyard; and I’m crying because I fell down. And now he’s hugging me and apologizing… … music, and laughter. I am carving my name into the table with my new knife… … my hand hurts, and Crach and Craites nose is bleeding. Serves him well for calling me a stupid girl… … Eyrick is taking too long to finish, and his breath smells like herring… … “bloody kiss my ass! There isn’t a chance in Hel I’m getting on that ship!”… who is that whitehaired man?… … “So you will do it?”. Eist is talking to the stranger. “I will. On my terms”… amber eyes… … screaming, and a sword slashing into mist. He’s yelling at me. “I should have let her have you!”… …”The foulmouthed princess of the Skellige isles!”… … he’s naked in front of me. I want to touch him. I want him to touch me. Now his lips are on mine, soft. His thrusts, making me quiver… … a knife, sharp against my neck… I killed him… … deeper than I thought was possible, and his lips on my breast… again… please don’t stop… hold me… I’m coming!… … “have not even begun to scratch the surface”… … “Not my foe”… ... “But I have you until then?”... “And we’ll be written on each other’s lives after”... … “Her heart is beating!”… mandrake root… “You brought her back”… she was dead… … I’m dying… Geralt!…

“Geralt!”, I screamed. I was back.

Triss was looking at me with pained eyes. “I’m sorry you had to witness that”, she said. “Saoirsheen. It shouldn’t have happened”. She smiled at me. “But you saved her. She will live”. She removed the crystal from my chest; and Geralt sat next to me, holding my hand.

“Geralt, I need to speak with you”, the sorceress said. I held on to his hand. “I’m not leaving”, he said. “I’ll be just over there”.

I could hear them talking; but could not make out all the words. I was still heaving for breath. “… but her? Geralt, are you mad?”. “… happened, Triss. I didn’t plan it. She’s not…”. “… idiotic… not some whore you can…”. “I care about her!”, I heard Geralt growl. “She’s more than anything…”. He sighed. Triss shook her head, and walked back to me.

“Y/N”. It was strange hearing my real name from her lips. “I saw inside your head. I know”. I opened my lips. “It doesn’t matter to me. But it will matter to someone very important to both of our futures”. Foltest, I thought. “So it will stay between us”.

She went to the bookcase and pulled out one of the volumes. “Right now, we need to focus on what’s wrong with you”, she said. “I had heard from Eamon that there was more to you than just a title and a dowry. I didn’t know whether it was true, until I saw what you did for Saoirsheen”. She began gathering ingredients – herbs and roots – in a bowl. “You gave your life for her; quite literally. Everything you need to heal yourself, and keep yourself alive; you gave to her, when you wished her back. And you used some very powerful words, that you didn’t know how to control”.

She began unlacing my jerkin to undress me. “Uhmm…”, I heard Jaskier from the corner. “Should I really be here for this?”. Triss sighed. “Go to the kitchen, bard. You look famished”, she said. “And leave the kitchen-maid alone. I am treating her for… something”. Jaskier winced; and scuttled off.

“Help me”, Triss said to Geralt, and together they removed my clothes, until I was laying naked in front of them. Geralt focused on my face; and I could tell there wasn’t a lewd thought in his head. Only worry. “I need to give you back the life you lost”; the sorceress said. “Saoirsheen…”, I gasped. “It won’t hurt her”, she answered. “You could have been a sorceress; if Eist hadn’t hidden you from Aretuza. Had you gone there; you would have learnt to halt your aging. That means draining from the source that place has. A source of life”. Grabbing the bowl of crushed ingredients; she used a brush to paint symbols on my chest and my limbs. “I cannot tap into that from here; but I can attempt to recreate a weaker version of it. One that will give you what you need to survive”.

“Attempt?”, Geralt muttered. “I can’t make promises, witcher”, Triss said earnestly. “But I will do my best. You should probably leave”. Geralt shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere”. She looked at him, and nodded. “In that case; you need to stand back”, she said. “No matter what happens; you cannot touch her. She will be a… the best word I can think of is sponge – for any life that comes into contact with her skin”. She sighed. “Speaking of which…”, she said; and went to a covered glass bowl in the corner. “We need a life-source”.

She put her hand into the bowl; and fished out a large frog. “I’d rather have used a mouse or a dove; but this is all I have handy”, she said. “Croaky here will give you its life-force. It does mean he will die; but he’ll have sacrificed his life for the future queen of Temeria”. I frowned. “You don’t have to feel sorry for him. He’s the most stubborn and annoying one I have”, she smiled. “Then it’s a good fit”, Geralt mumbled. I sent him the angriest eyes I had the energy to muster.

Triss lifted the struggling frog to her lips, and kissed it. It instantly froze.

“M-may I see it?”, I whispered. The sorceress narrowed her eyes at me, and then looked to Geralt. He nodded. She walked over to me with the frog; and held it next to my head, so I could see it. “Thank you for your sacrifice”, I breathed. Triss looked at me in wonder. “You are very different than I thought you would be…”. She placed the now motionless frog on my chest; and gestured for the witcher to step back.

Lifting her hands in the air, she spoke a series of words in a language I didn’t understand. Suddenly it felt like all air left my lungs. My limbs grew stiff; and I cramped up; my back arching from the bed. All life was gone from me. There was an eternity of darkness. Then my chest began to burn. The air returned to my lungs; and I felt a pain; like a glowing red iron rod being punched into my heart; and streaming boiling hot fluid throughout my body; through every vein; waking every nerve. And I screamed. I screamed louder than I ever had. When the air left my lungs, I drew in a new breath; and I screamed again.

“Triss!”, I heard Geralt shout. “Don’t touch her! She’s draining life!”, the sorceress yelled back.

I kept screaming. There was such pain. I felt every inch of my body – skin, organs, bones – and then it stopped.

—

“… but when will she wake?”. “Her body died and has been resurrected. She needs rest to find herself in it”. “Triss…”. “She’s strong. She could have been even stronger, had she had training”. “She’s not a sorceress”. “No, she’s not. But she has something inside her… She is so strong willed. I saw it”. “And that will bring her back”. “I’m quite sure it will… Geralt… you two…”. “I know. She knows as well. But I will not leave her until she asks me to. I can’t”.

My mouth was dry. “Water…”. Someone held a cup to my lips; and I drank the content. It wasn’t water – it was chamomile and honey tea. I opened my eyes. Triss was smiling at me. “Good morning, your highness”. I blinked. “How long?”, I asked. “Only this last night”, the sorceress said.

I looked down my body to find I had been cleaned of the strange symbols; and was wearing my pants and my shirt. The rest of my clothes were draped over a chair. Geralt was standing at the foot of the bed; his brows furrowed. “How do you feel?”. I had to consider the question. “Good, I think”, I said. “Pain?”, he asked. “No”, I answered. “No pain. No… nothing. Just hungry”. He seemed to sigh in relief.

Triss went to put away some books and pieces of cloth, it seemed she had used to clean me off. “Witcher; go get her something to eat. Fruits and meats. She needs energy”. “I feel perfectly fine”, I said. “I’m sure you do”, she smiled. “But you haven’t had a proper meal in days; and magical lifesource or not; you are human, and need sustenance”. I smiled at her.

I like you, I thought. “I like you too”, she said, and smiled. I chuckled in wonder. “Don’t worry”, she said. “I can’t read your mind anymore. But after all I’ve seen, I know you enough to read your expression”. “Well; if you are the court sorceress for Foltest; we should probably try to get along”, I laughed. She grinned at me; before looking at Geralt. “Run along. The lady is hungry”.

Geralt looked embarrassed for a second; before nodding, and walking out the door; closing it behind him.

I sat up in the bed; feeling none of the pain I had the night before. Triss came to sit on the edge of it, next to me. “You will be a good queen”. I couldn’t help but frown. She smiled. “You guide kings, heal elves. And make witchers feel”, she said. “If you didn’t also have a natural inkling of sorcery; I would still call you magical – and a good addition to the court”. I sighed. “And spells?”, I asked. “Chaos and destruction”. She frowned. “It’s there”, she said. “You need to be careful with those things; you don’t have the training to use it”. She seemed to ponder her words, before finally making a decision. “Y/N”, she said. “Just like you gave your life to that woman; you can also drain the life from someone else. It will make you more powerful; but like with the frog…”. “It could kill them”, I muttered. She nodded.

I looked down. “Succubus…”, I chuckled. “What?”, she asked. “It’s… something Geralt… never mind”. Her smile turned sad; and she took my hand. “The witcher”, she said. “He cares for you deeply, but… As a queen, once Foltest has had what is his; you can take any lover you want. I will even help you hide him in your closet for you…”, she laughed. “But Geralt…”. “Won’t be able to stay. Won’t age. Will live long after I’m dead; and have lovers after me”, I said. She looked at me questioningly. “But you don’t care”, she said.

I sighed. “I care. But what he is to me – what I think I am to him – that won’t become… less”. I looked into her warm eyes. “We aren’t each other’s, but we are one”. She nodded, and squeezed my hand; before standing up.

“I am off to Vizima. I will use a portal, so I will be there when you arrive”. She looked at me with nothing but tenderness. “I won’t tell the king I saw you. He’ll wonder why I didn’t just bring you back myself. It will give you some time”.

The door opened, and Geralt came back into the room with a plate of food, and a bottle of what looked like wine. Triss smiled at him meaningfully. “Take care of her Geralt”. He grunted and nodded. “Your highness; I will be glad to call you a friend, if you’ll have me”. I smiled. “I will”.

She walked out the door, leaving us behind.

Geralt sat down on the edge of the bed, next to me. He handed me the plate. “Are you really all right?”, he asked. “I have frog energy now”, I jested. He laughed softly. “You always did, little frog”, he said. “Now eat”.

—

Insisting that I needed to rest more; and that he needed to have a real drink for the first time in days; Jaskier convinced us that we should take some rooms in a tavern. It wasn’t a hard sell for me, as I desperately needed to be alone with Geralt.

Once in our room; I wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed with my lover; and have him to myself. I slid my hands behind his neck; and pulled him down to kiss me. He stopped me. “No”, he said quietly. A chill ran over my body; of pure embarrassment. “I’m…”, I said. “Of course. You don’t… wouldn’t want to now”. He frowned. “No, Y/N. No…”, he said. “Nothing is different. I still want you more than anything”. I frowned. “Then, I don’t understand. What’s wrong?”, I asked.

He went to look out the window, his back turned to me. He was quiet for a long time; and it felt like all air left the room. “Geralt?”, I whispered.

“You were in so much pain”, he said, still not turning around. “You screamed for hours”. I looked down; suddenly reminded of the anguish streaming through my body the night before. “I didn’t know it was that long”, I whispered. “It was”, he grumbled. “You were screaming, and you reached for help. You called my name so many times I lost count”. He turned around, and his expression was so pained; I couldn’t help but want to hold him – soothe him, somehow. “Before you; I never felt that… agony when someone was hurting in front of me”, he said, his amber eyes sincere. “But you… They say witchers have no emotions; but it felt like torture to see you like that. And then you screamed my name”. He walked over to me; still not looking into my eyes. “And I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t even touch you”. He clenched his jaw. “I have never been so… afraid. Helpless”.

I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry”, I whispered. “I wish I hadn’t…”. “What?”, he asked. “Called my name?”. “I didn’t know I did that”, I said. “I’m not sorry”, he said quietly. “I know it’s because you…”. He sighed.

We could never say that word. It would ruin everything.

“You haven’t touched me since we left the keep”, I said. “Is that why?”. He grunted. “It was so painful”, I said. “I have never felt anything like that, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. I want to forget it”. He met my eyes. “May I… touch you? Now?”, he asked. I nodded.

He put his hand on my cheek – carefully; as if I would break if he wasn’t gentle enough. I exhaled, and closed my eyes. His other hand found the back of my head, and he put his forehead to mine. “All that pain”, he breathed. “Help me forget”, I whispered. “Help us forget”. He smiled. “As you wish, little frog”.

I wrapped my arms around his neck; and he lifted me up to straddle his waist, as he carried me to the bed. His hand behind my head; he gently laid me down. “This is better”, he smiled. “What is?”, I asked. “To see you like this. Warm and smiling… And wanting”. Putting his lips to mine; we melded together.

He began unlacing my jerkin; and when it was off, he lifted himself off me, stood up; and quickly discarded his own, followed by his shirt. I smiled at him. “What?”, he said. “I’m beginning to forget already”, I smirked. He took my hands and pulled me into a seated position. “Then it is your turn to help me forget”, he said. He took a hold of the hem of my shirt, and pulled it over my head; leaving my torso bare.

He exhaled satisfied. “I want to see all of you”. I stood up in front of him; pulled off my boots; and then unlaced the sides of my pants. Geralt hooked his fingers into the waist of them; and then pulled them down my legs; crouching in front of me in the process. Once he had gently lifted each of my feet out of the pants; he looked up at me, and sunk his face into the apex of my thighs; then took a deep breath. The sensation of his warm breath on my folds made me moan; but the moan soon turned into a squeal, when Geralt – with a firm grasp on my buttocks – lifted me into the air; face still buried in my core. I laughed; and put my hands on the witchers shoulders to keep my balance as he held me up there.

“Mmhmm, that scent”; Geralt said into my warmth. “And the taste”. His tongue slid between my labia; and flickered over my clit. I shivered in pleasure. “Geralt; I’ll fall”, I breathed. He lowered me slowly; inhaling my scent all the way. “I’ll never let you fall”, he groaned; and lowered me gently onto the bed.

He stood over me; taking in every inch of my body. “Take of your breeches, witcher”, I demanded. “I have a whole new lifeforce to spend up; and I intend to take advantage of it, with you inside me”. He smirked. “I know”, he said. “But I will decide which part of me will be inside you; and in which order”.

My breath hitched; and he grabbed me behind my legs; pulling me towards him, and sinking to his knees. “First…”, he said, “… my fingers”. He slid two digits between my folds, and into me. I gasped. “Then my tongue…”. His tongue slid over my nub; and my body jolted. “And finally – if you are a very good little frog…”. He crawled over me; without removing his hand from between my legs. “… I’ll let you have my cock”. As he said the word; he crooked his fingers; and pushed hard and deep into me – making me see the sun, moon and the stars all at once.

I had all three things inside me that night. Multiple times.

—

Thanks for reading.

Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list.

- no lady

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@ayamenimthiriel

#geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia #the witcher #the witcher netflix #the witcher fic #jaskier

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pianomanblaine · 4 years ago

Text

Unmasked

What in heaven’s name had possessed her to take off his mask? Honestly, she had always believed that he wore the mask to hide his identity from her. Never had the thought crossed her mind that maybe he wore it to hide something else entirely.

Written for @timebird84's Spooky Phantober 2020 Day 21 prompt: Fear

AO3 FFN

Her father had always told her that her curiosity would get her into trouble one day. As it turned out, he was right. What in heaven’s name had possessed her to take off his mask? Honestly, she had always believed that he wore the mask to hide his identity from her. Never had the thought crossed her mind that maybe he wore it to hide something else entirely.

Her first reaction when she had revealed his face was to scream. Not because she was scared of what she saw – although admittedly, it really wasn’t a pleasant sight, it might even be called grotesque – but because it was so unexpected. He had called himself her Angel of Music, and she had imagined he had a face that befit that title, so when she realized that was far from the truth, she had been shocked, certainly, but not afraid.

What did frighten her more than anything was his reaction. The moment his mask was removed he was on his feet, screaming at her like a madman. In all the time she had known him, he had never been this violent towards her. True, he had been a stern teacher and never hesitated to chide her if she wasn’t performing the way he expected her to, but he had always treated her with respect, never speaking harshly. How could that Angel be the same person as the one who was now chasing her around the room, calling her names and threatening her?

She had never known fear like this before. Her heart was hammering in her chest, her blood pulsing rapidly in her veins as she tried to escape from him, but it was no use. There was nowhere to go, and with his tall, lithe frame he was faster than she was, stumbling over her dressing gown in her hurry to get away.

She tried to make her way to the boat – although she had no idea what she would even do when she got there – but as she ran past him, he grabbed her by the arm with one hand.

‘Is this what you wanted to see?’ he roared at her, pulling away his other hand, which had until then been covering the distorted side of his face. Before she even had the time to respond, he threw her face first to the ground. For a while she just stayed there, motionless, her eyes closed, too scared to move a muscle.

The seconds ticked by and nothing happened. The only sounds she could hear were the blood rushing in her ears, the Angel’s heavy breathing somewhere behind her and the steady dripping of water in the underground lake. Eventually, she found the courage to cast a glance at the man behind her. If he was going to hit her, she would at least see it coming.

She expected him to be standing, towering over her, but instead he had fallen to his knees. When he noticed her watching him, he started slowly crawling towards her, dragging himself forward with one hand, the other back on his face, covering the mangled flesh there. He was talking now, but she couldn’t focus on what he was saying, fear still ringing in her ears. She only picked up a couple of phrases – ‘loathsome gargoyle’, ‘burns in hell’, ‘monster’ – his voice a dangerous growl booming through the room. She instinctively moved away from him, begging him with her eyes not to come any closer, and when he saw this, he froze, as if he was only now realizing that he was frightening her.

The rage that had previously been burning in his golden eyes suddenly disappeared, making room for a look of utter despair. He made a sound that almost sounded like a whimper, whispering her name like a plea before looking away from her.

It was then that she finally understood. She had betrayed him. This was the man who had breathed new life into her voice, who had finally made her feel alive again after her dear papa’s passing, and she had repaid him by forcefully revealing the one thing he so desperately wanted to keep secret. She knew now that he was not an Angel, nor a Phantom, but a man of flesh and blood, who hid away from the world because he had no doubt encountered reactions like hers countless times before.

She sat up on her knees and reached for the mask, which had landed on the ground along with her when he had thrown her down. The least she could do was hand it back to him, and she truly intended to do just that, but instead she gave in to the impulse to touch his shoulder. Although her touch was gentle, he flinched and jerked back immediately, and she couldn’t help but wonder when this man had last been treated with any kindness.

‘Angel, please –‘

‘Don’t call me that,’ he growled. ‘Use my name if you must. It’s Erik.’

Erik. It seemed like such an ordinary name for such a unique man, but she kept the thought to herself.

‘Very well, Erik,’ she replied in barely more than a whisper, as if afraid that she would anger him again if she spoke any louder. She thought she saw a shiver run through him as she spoke his name, but it must have been her imagination.

‘Erik, I am so sorry.’

He finally looked at her then, although she could only see one eye as he was still covering the deformed side of his face with his hand.

‘As well you should be. You should not have removed the mask. I’m sure you’ll have nightmares about this horrible sight for months to come.’ Some of the anger had returned to his one visible eye, although she couldn’t make out if it was still directed at her, or at himself.

‘That’s not what I meant, although I’m terribly sorry for that too.’

His eyebrow rose in confusion.

‘I’m sorry for the way I reacted,’ she continued. ‘I should not have screamed like that. What I saw was not what I was expecting, but I could have handled my surprise better and I apologize.’

‘I don’t blame you. After all, who wouldn’t run away screaming from such a repulsive carcass as myself?’ he snarled, pulling his hand away to once again expose his deformity. It was clear that he was purposefully trying to scare her now. However, this time she was prepared for what she saw and it didn’t frighten her.

When she didn’t run and didn’t look away, trying to keep a neutral expression, the jeering look on his face gave way to one of bewilderment.

‘Oh Christine’, he whispered, and the sparkle of hope that shimmered through in his voice was devastating, as if he couldn’t believe anyone could ever look at him without fear. She did hand him the mask back then, hoping he would in time understand that he didn’t need to hide from her anymore.

As soon as the mask was on again, he seemed to transform into another person. His commanding presence and graceful movement returned, and as he stood up, he was once again the Angel of Music who had lured her through her dressing room mirror with his intoxicating voice.

‘Come, we must return,’ he said, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her to her feet, although his grip was not as hard and unforgiving as it had been before, ‘those two fools who run my theatre will be missing you.’

#phantom of the opera #potofanfic #phanfic #phanfiction #timebird84 #spooky phantober 2020 #eline writes #my fic #e/c

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constantfluxx · 5 years ago

Note

FAREWELL WANDERLUST BY THE AMAZING DEVIL FOR THE TUNE CRUISE * SCREAMS *

HI I AM THE ONE WHO REQUESTED FAREWELL WANDERLUST AND FORGOT TO SPECIFY WHICH SHIP. OF COURSE. GERASKIER OR JASKIER POV WHATEVER REALLY, OK? THANKS. ILU.

🎶The Evening Earworm Tune Cruise: The SS 200🎶

Port of Call: Geraskier! 🐺👨‍🎤Itinerary: Farewell Wanderlust by The Amazing DevilCaptain: @kiomaya 🧜‍♀️

Farewell Wanderlust, you’ve been oh oh so kindYou brought me through this darkness but you left me here behindAnd so long to the person you begged me to be

He took in a deep, steadying breath. His fingers trembled around the neck of his lute. Eyes closed, he mentally coached himself, willing his nerves to settle at least long enough for his voice to sing true. It’s just another performance. How many times have you done this before? It’s no big deal.

Except he knew he was lying to himself.

This was hardly “just another performance.” Far from it. It took him forever to finally write a song sharing Geralt’s “defeat” of the dragon with the world. Even longer to perform it. And, when he finally did, it was… not his best work. One could hardly expect him to sing such a tale with such passion and intrigue when its epilogue was laced with a pain he couldn’t bring himself to bare. It was technically perfect, as his work of late usually was, but the emotion was missing. He was missing.

This song… This performance… This is where it had run off to. Where it’d been hiding ever since his return from that mountainside. It took him longer than he’d like to admit to finally recognize it as the problem - or perhaps he’d known all along, but refused to acknowledge it because it would reopen too many wounds, resurface too much hurt. Finally, the lacerations across his heart had begun to scar just enough for him to look, to examine, to embrace.

All that had happened… It was an indisputable part of him now, no matter how much pain it caused him, and would continue to cause him. He couldn’t move forward while leaving a part of him in the past - it was all or nothing, and he understood that now.

He doubted the unsuspecting townsfolk filling their bellies at the local tavern particularly cared to hear about his heartbreak. Songs of joy and adventure and triumph tended to draw far more coin than songs of misery and suffering and defeat. But this wasn’t for coin, not primarily anyhow. For this one song, this one performance, it wasn��t about the job.

It was bout reclaiming himself. About owning his life. About declaring his agony so irrefutably that he would have no choice but to recognize it as his own and finally, finally, start to address it head-on.

And wasn’t that a kind of personal victory, in its own, awful way?

He opened his eyes. He gazed out upon his feasting audience, upon their grumbling banter and stomping feet and clanking flagons. And he saw hair of white, and swords of silver, and eyes of yellow.

Delicate, flitting fingertips plucked away the beginning notes, deceptively light and whimsical. His voice followed in sweet accompaniment, painting the first syllable in a long, arcing embrace before twirling into its prancing opening measure.

“You look like I need a drink he winked as he slipped from my grasp to the barAnd you are?”

As he rounded out the opening lyrics, the catchy, playful tune drew those listening ears into a light nodding alongside his rhythm. Just as he’d once been distracted by Geralt’s splendor, so too were they taken by his light sing-song, and even as something more sinister began to sneak between his words they sooner suspected the start of some grand tale than the foreboding of tragedy.

Sooner just evidence of the Witcher’s social neglect than a pattern of distancing dissent.

“Every time that you fumble, I’m the laugh from the backWhen you think about him, my wings start to flapWhen you make a mistake, my feet lift from the floorAnd when you lie there awake every night love, I soar”

The notes were turning darker. The words weren’t turning towards a new tomorrow. Rather than circle back, they basked in their darkness, reveled in the furrowed brows and wary glances. His pace built, the ebb and flow of his song’s tide swirling into a tumultuous churning from shore to shore. Too late to swim to safety, the listening hearts searched for the sun - surely it was just around the corner, just after the next typhoon?

Surely, he’d come to his senses and warm up to the company?

“I’m the heartbreak that aches far too much to be shownAll those letters unsent and that garden ungrownI’m the captain of courage you’ve eternally lackedI’m the Jesus of wishing to Christ he’ll come back”

The wave crashed down upon them. Hope of survival glimmered in its wake, breaking free of the surface for a vital breath of precious air. A single ray of sunlight touched their faces… but it proved only to be the eye of a surmounting storm, one which raged more furiously than anything before it. It dragged them back down into his suffering, and like troublesome dogs their faces were forced to behold his wretched distress. But rather than recoil away from the filth, they stared, held in place by the voice that wrapped around their necks like nooses. They witnessed the unfolding of his wounded heart, the casting aside of the love that had poisoned it, and the thrashing of his despair in this pit he’d been left in.

How could someone so beautiful be capable of something so cruel?

“Come devil come, she sang, call out my nameLet’s take this outside cos we’re one and the sameOur god has abandoned us, left us, insteadTake up arms, take my hand, let us waltz for the dead”

The notes of his lute had slowed once more, heavy and trudging. Where once had been whimsy now there rang spite: a lesson learned, and with it the reckless abandon of love’s unburdened prisoner. Only here, at the very depths of his sorrow, could all his emotion at last gather into a crude ladder he could use to pull himself out. Because Love had cast him down, he stood up. Because Love had said he couldn’t, he did. Because Love demanded he stay, broken and defeated, he threw Love away, put himself back together, and reached for something new.

He didn’t know what kind of life could possibly come after Geralt, but he knew, at least, that he’d rather search and know than never even look.

“Farewell Wanderlust, you’ve been oh oh so kindYou brought me through this darkness but you left me here behindAnd so long to the person you begged me to beHe’s down. He’s dead.Now take a long look at what you’ve done to me?”

It was hardly a happy resolution. It was ugly and gritty and tormented, but then what else could have ever come from this war? Nonetheless, as he led his audience into this final arch of their journey, his song blossomed into a kind of vindictive triumph, one that dared the world to try, just try and drag him back into the darkness. It would not, it must not, they collectively swore.

Perhaps, one day, Geralt would come back. It’d be splendid if he did - truly. For then, he could see the rotting carcass of the man Jaskier had to shed in order to forge himself anew. Then, maybe, he’d realize the sins he’d committed, recognize the way he’d sheared Jaskier’s heart to shreds and cast them off the mountainside.

But whether or not he ever did would no longer be a thing Jaskier concerned himself with.

“He’s down, He’s deadHe’s gone, He’s lostHe’s flown, He’s fledNow take a good long look at what you've all done to me”

As Jaskier declared his final words to the crowd, his fingers flew along the strings of his lute, releasing its last, swelling vibrato through the small tavern. The sound grew and grew, until at last it burst into an abrupt silence that swept in and suffocated what few lingering embers might still yet burn for the captivating Witcher.

For a suspenseful moment, not a soul dared disturb it, and even when the daily rumblings of the tavern began to creep back into place no one offered applause - such a thing just didn’t seem right after such an emotional experience as the one which had just unfolded all around them. Not even Jaskier himself offered any levity to the situation, trading his usual bow and playful quip for a simple nod of his head, more for himself than his audience. A small, silent affirmation of his deed, a thanks he afforded himself for finally releasing his pain to the winds of change.

He turned from them and retreated back to his sparse belongings, joining the rest in the tavern in a strange normalcy that pretended like nothing had ever happened. Not but a single soul challenged it, stepping towards him so quietly he hadn’t noticed them until a tiny, trembling finger touched the sleeve of his doublet. Startled, he turned to regard his visitor, a now-distant corner of his mind wondering if he’d find a calloused hand gloved in black.

Of course not. The touch had been too small, too flighty, too careful.

She stared up at him with a round, teary-eyed face, mouth hanging slightly ajar as she still searched for something to say. Studying him, seeing her own shaken state reflected in him, her brow furrowed, and in her eyes he saw an approaching understanding. At last, she murmured, taken with frightful awe, “That... was miserable... ?”

His eyes flickered down, catching the glint of a small trio of coins sequestered in her upturned palm. He knew well what her drifting, questioning inflection reached for, but he only smiled and shook his head, folding her fingers closed around her coin.

“Sometimes, my dear,” he whispered, voice still shuddering from lingering passion, “life is miserable.”

He paused. Chuckled. Hoisted his lute upon his shoulder by the strap of its case.

“And that’s okay.”

#The Witcher #Geraskier #Geralt #Jaskier #The Amazing Devil #fanfiction #writing prompts #fluxx fics #The Tune Cruise #The SS 200 #kiomaya #lmaoooooo #love you too boo ;*

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bone-wolves · 4 years ago

Text

Wolvember: 11/8 - Scary Story

can I be honest? I’m not sure how scary this story is, but I hope you like it!

“Tell us a story, Ruta!” The young pup said, pawing at her leg where she’d settled. The evening was coming and Ruta, Aala and Theora had gathered the pups into the Nursery to prepare them for sleep.

“A story, huh?” Ruta smirked, crossing her paws and eyeing the pups around her. Most of the time Aala didn’t let her tell stories - saying they were too crass or too outrageous and filled the pup’s heads with ridiculous ideas. But Aala wasn’t there, having gone out to get some snacks for the pups, and Theora - well, Theora was busy rearranging and fluffing the pups’s nests, humming a tune to herself and seemingly not paying attention to them.

“Well,” Ruta said, leaning her head towards the pup while the others crowded up alongside. “I might be persuaded...depends on what kind of story you want to hear.”

“A SCARY ONE!” One of the pups yipped, a dark-furred young one with traces of white on her neck and feet and a bright cream patch on her back. “A Super Scary One!”

The other pups wiggled with excitement, not even one disagreeing.

“Well!” Ruta chuckled, just a little mischievously, “Well, I just might have a story that is spooky and scary enough for you....”

She lowered her head again, eyeing each of the pups in turn.

“It happened a long time ago, before you were born, before I joined the Rowan’s Shade pack...”

The pups waited with bated breath, some sitting, some flopping to lay down, but almost all with tails twitching in excitement.

“I had left my birth pack months earlier, and was traveling to find a place of my own. But I had made a bad choice,” Ruta shook her head at the memory, “And left my pack just as the seasons where changing, and now winter was coming. The air had turned cold and the wind was biting. Snow began to cover everything, and I got so turned around I didn’t know where I was going!”

The pups whimpered at that - winter had reached the Rowan’s Shade pack, and the pups were becoming more and more aware of the dangers the cold weather and blanketing snow caused.

“The hunting was bad, and I spent my days hungry and exhausted and alone, trudging through snow drifts up to my shoulders and only catching the smallest of prey when luck struck,” Ruta went on, “Sometimes - sometimes! - I’d get lucky enough to find a mostly-eaten carcass frozen in the snow. I’d have to dig until my paws were ragged to get to it but it often was the most food I could find for days!”

“The nights grew long, the darkness surrounding me everywhere I went, and even when the sun shone it was cold and gave little warmth. As I traveled I could hear voices on the wind, distant howls that I couldn’t quite understand - they weren’t my old pack,” Ruta nodded, “But no matter how I tried to find them, I couldn’t! I’d run in the direction they’d come from hoping that I’d come upon some other wolves, but there’d be none.

“Sometimes,” She whispered, and the pups leaned forward, ears perked, “Sometimes I’d find wolf tracks in the fresh snow, light as if they weighed almost nothing at all, and so-so many of them. I’d follow them as they twisted and turned among trees, and out onto the near-barren taiga, until they’d just...disappear.”

The pups gasped.

“Disappear? How?” The smallest pup asked, eyes wide and tail tucked close to her side.

“Why, they’d just be gone!” Ruta laughed, “Gone, just stopped suddenly in the middle of a trail, like the wolf had lifted off into the air!”

The pups yipped with wonder, one even whimpered.

“But that was only the precursor to what was about to happen,” Ruta continued.

“Pweecuwsow?” The youngest pup asked, forehead scrunched in confusion.

“Just the beginning,” Ruta clarified with a snort, “Because, in the dead of winter, when I thought I’d only survive by the skin of my teeth and the few unlucky mice I’d catch every few days, something happened.”

She eyed the rapt pups, raising her head above them, “The day started like this -

- I’d spotted the ragged trail of an obviously injured animal. There was no blood, but the tracks were ragged and wobbly, and it took a great deal of sniffing and eyeing them to figure out it was a deer. A small one, by the size of the hoof prints, but in the dead of winter even a small one was worth it’s own celebration! So I stalked the deer, following the tracks quickly, but carefully, so that it wouldn’t notice me as I got close. The wind favored me as I caught up to it - the scrawny doe didn’t even notice me creeping up on her as she tore at the bark of a lone scraggly pine. She had a bad leg - broken at some point, and healed all wrong so that it dragged behind her as she walked. She hadn’t been able to keep up with her herd, no doubt, and they’d left her to her fate - and to my fortune!”

“The doe, preoccupied with the bark in her mouth, never saw me coming. I dashed through the snow with all the remaining energy left in my limbs and launched onto her weak hindquarter. She cried out in fear, trying to pull away, but I’d caught her tight with my claws and paws and my teeth dug deep into her haunch, and dragged her down to the ground.”

The pups gasped, some of their tails wagging with the excitement at just the mere thought of the hunt.

“I, hm, dispatched her quickly,” Ruta said, licking her lips and grinning down at the pups, “But I knew I couldn’t stay to eat. Her cry would’ve alerted any other predator in the area, and if I wanted to keep her to myself I’d have to move her to a safer place. So I dragged the doe to a thicket a ways off, and exhausted from the strain I lay down next to her to rest a little before eating.

“By then the night had grown deep and dark, and though the moon had risen it was only a waxing crescent, shedding barely any light. I perked my ears, watching the edges of the thicket, expecting a predator of any kind to appear at any moment!” Ruta said sharply, and pups gasped again. “All was quiet, very, very quiet. I finally thought it’d be safe to begin eating, and turned my attention to the doe. Just as I ripped into her skin and felt the first, warm juices run into my parched throat - something out of the corner of my eye moved.”

“Oh!’

“What was it?”

“Was it a MONSTER?”

“Ha!” Ruta barked a laugh, “I still don’t know the answer to that, pup, but I can tell you this, whatever it was - when I looked at it, it looked like a wolf. A scrawny, none too intimidating looking wolf. All pale, as pale as fresh fallen snow, even paler than Alnitak! Their nose was pinkish pale bordering on blue, and their eyes were so white it was almost hard to tell where their pale fur ended and their eyes began. They stood at the edge of the thicket, eyeing me with head and tail held low, and made no sound.”

“They snuck up on you?”

“They did,” Ruta admitted with a nod, “I’m not sure how - the thicket ground was covered in dead leaves and branches that hadn’t quite been covered by snow. When I crossed I made quite a racket - but they’d somehow appeared without making a single sound.”

“Spooky.” A pup said, a sentiment shared by the others with quite whimpers and nods.

“I was ready to guard my kill - I was starving and the doe was more food than I’d seen in weeks! But-“ Ruta paused, eyes widening, “But, something about the strange wolf moved me. I don’t know what it was - their scrawniness, the way they obviously held themselves to not look like a threat, they way they didn’t eye the doe but instead looked at me, directly, as if waiting for the move I’d make. Like they were trying to tell me that I was the one making decisions here, and they wouldn’t put up a fight....”

“Well, I knew what it was like, wandering the cold, empty taiga by yourself, scrabbling for food and hoping the next day would be better. And even though I wanted - I really wanted - to growl at the wolf, snarl at them and chase them away from my kill, I fought those urges down, and instead I offered for them to join me.”

“They accepted with a wag of their tail, and in the softest voice I’d heard, soft as a gentle breeze, as the beating of a moth’s wing, as the twinkle of stars,” Ruta wasn’t known for waxing poetic in descriptions, but - but she didn’t know how else to explain, “They thanked me and settled at a respectful distance from me to begin eating, taking the less desirable portions and leaving me the best. I noticed that, don’t think I didn’t! I was going to gobble down all the best parts for myself - the lungs, the kidneys, the liver, all of it. But this stranger, they seemed worse off than myself now that I could see them better, and they seemed to accommodating, so respectful and kind, that I thought it would be wrong to leave them with the absolute worst of the meal.”

“So, with a heavy heart - because you know this is my favorite part of the prey - I pulled out the liver and set it next to them.” Ruta said, her voice filled with the heavy tone of self-sacrifice at the memory of it. “It was such a nice, juicy, large liver, too...”

“And what-what did them do?” A pup barked eagerly.

“Well, they looked as surprised as you all do!” Ruta chuckled, “They looked at me and at the liver and back at me as if to ask if I’m sure, so I nudged it closer to them and turned back to my meal. We ate in silence, and no other predators or scavengers bothered us, which was odd, you know. There had been crows following me when I dragged the doe to the thicket, but even they were silent, if they were even around.”

“At one point, after we’d had our fill, the pale wolf turned to me and said, “Friend, the wind grows outside this thicket, cold and fierce, but here we are safe from the chill. Maybe we can spend this night together, here where it is safe?” I didn’t even think it strange at that point, having eaten well and feeling comfortable and pleasantly tired for the first time in a long, long while, so I agreed.” Ruta nodded, “And so we slept, agreeing to take turns on watch, but somehow I managed to sleep the whole long, dark night through to the morning, waking only when the sun’s rays broke through the thicket’s branches.”

“And when I woke,” Ruta said, lowering her head to meet the pups eye’s again, “The pale wolf was gone!”

“GONE?”

“Gone!“ Ruta nodded, then admitted, “But not far. Their tracks led out of the thicket, into a large clearing where the sun shone brightly on the snow covered grown. All around them were wolf prints, dashing this way and that, pitting the snow as if they had run round and round and round for hours. I was going to ask them what had happened, why they hadn’t woken me during the night, but before I could they turned to me and my voice caught in my throat at the sight of them.”

Ruta shuddered suddenly at the memory of that day, the chill of the wind and the warmth of the sun and the sudden vision of the wolf before them.

“Their eyes, they were the bluest blue you’d ever seen - bluer than any eyes you’ve seen, and they SHONE in the sunlight like jewels!” Ruta said, working herself up with her own retelling and pushing herself up into a half-sit. “Their fur glistened like the purest fallen snow, so white the glare hurt to see, and they were no longer scrawny or ragged but firm and strong and sleek. They looked at me with a great smile on their face, and while I stood there in shock at what I saw, they suddenly raised their head high and howled into the sky.”

“The howl, pups,” Ruta’s eyes were wide, her tail twitching on the ground, “The howl seemed to go on, and on, and on, reaching all the edges of the world, and it echoed around me as if were were in a cavern and not an open, near empty stretch of taiga. I backed away, shocked and unsure of what I was seeing and hearing, and then, I realized something...”

The pups crouched before her, ears pricked, eyes widened, some hiding behind others but peeking out from behind shoulders and backs.

“I realized...That the howls coming from around me weren’t echos,” Ruta said quietly, head lowered and inching closer to the pups with each word. “I looked, and all around me, surrounding me, were rows upon rows of wolf-shapes. Some were dark, like the shadow of a wolf, and some were pale, like a wolf bathed in brightest sunlight, but all stood as if they were four legged, and solid and real, and all had their muzzles raised in chorus of howls to join the pale wolf before me-”

“Ghost wolves!” A pup yelped, jumping up and running to hide behind another pup.

“Ghost wolves,” Ruta agree with a wide grin that showed off her teeth. All the pups yelped then, though some did so in excitement instead of fear. “And the pale wolf looked at me, and their eyes danced like blue flame, and they said to me, “You are still on your path to find your true pack, but I promise you this - whether that day comes soon or is still far off, you will never walk the lands alone until you find your place in this world.”

“And wh-what happened then?” A shaking pup asked.

“What happened is exactly what the pale wolf said,” Ruta said matter-of-factly, settling back to lay down, “Wherever I went, pale and dark shadows followed, until I found my way to Rowan’s Shade pack.”

“Although,” She said in a musing tone, “Sometimes, it feels like they are still around. Sometimes, it seems like I can still see them...like...”

She focused her eyes on the entrance of the den then, widening them and painting a look of surprise on her face, “THERE!”

The pups yelped in unison, jumping up and whirling around to face the entrance of the den with fur bristling and tails standing rigid.

“What have you been telling them this time, Ruta?” Aala said around a mouthful of rats from where she stood at the den entrance, eyeing Ruta disdainfully as the other pupsitter rolled over onto her back, laughing.

“Oh, nothing much,” She said, tongue lolling out of her mouth. Her eyes met the gaze of the pale shape seated at the far end of the den, nearly invisible unless you knew just how to look to see them. “Just a story.”

#wolvden #cryptid wovlden #wolvember #ruta tag

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psychoticgirl · 4 years ago

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Sifki Friend!! Ask meme time! Pick three fics you have written, post a favorite section of each and explain why it is your favorite. Then, pass it on! :D

I’m months late to this, I’m sorry!!

From Punch Drunk

When Thor had left the room. Loki stood above her in silence for a moment looking absolutely lost. Her head spun trying to keep up with everything that had just happened, everything that Thor had just said. Loki opened his mouth and Sif put a hand up to shush him. Her aim was off and her hand ended up partly in Loki’s mouth. He calmly removed her fingers and she wrapped her hand around his, trying to anchor herself.

“Don’t worry about Thor,” Sif tried to pat him on the shoulder with her free hand and ended up kind of pawing at his chest instead. Loki bore it stoically.

Honestly, this fic was fun to write! I had a great time making poor, high-on-pain-meds Sif act foolish and have Loki try to react in a dignified manner.

From Token

Gently, Sif pulled back a corner and opened the handkerchief. Wrapped inside with a curved blade and a dual handle was Loki’s dagger. Sif recognized it as one that frequently graced the prince’s hip.

“It is my most beloved,” Loki stepped closer once more. All sounds of commotion around them seemed to disappear from her ears, focused only on the confidential, intimate voice he now addressed her with. “I would be utterly distraught if any peril befell it.”

Loki reached up, dragging a finger along the blade, over the handle, and down to wrap long fingers around Sif’s wrist. The shieldmaiden found herself to be the breathless one.

“I would hate to cause any anguish, my prince,” her eyes flicked up to meet his with sincerity.

"Promise me then,” he leaned forward, earnest. “That you will see its safe return back to me.”

“I swear to you,” Sif lifted one hand and brought it to cover Loki’s hand, still encircling her wrist, with a slow, steady touch. “I will do everything in my power to ensure it finds its way back to your side.”

I’m a big fan of these two not being the best direct communicators, and I just enjoyed creating a way for them to talk about something deep, that was too big or too fragile to name outright, and the gift standing in for their feelings.

From Silhouettes

Sif felt the satisfying pull of her blood-slicked sword dislodge from the fallen Cu-Sith, just one of the giant wolves that were terrorizing the craggy, fog drenched lands of this planet, when one of Loki’s knives went sailing over her shoulder. With a yelp, a wolf fell from the misty air and collapsed just feet from Sif, its giant paw aimed for her neck.

She whipped her gaze across the rocky field to Loki, his teeth were bared in a feral, self-indulgent grin and his hair was wild in the wind. Sif ignored the deep, animalistic pulse inside her that responded to his hungry eyes, his show of power.

“You’re welcome,” he purred. Sif spun her blade, shedding the steaming wolf blood into the grass. She took her bothersome passion, and turned it to familiar annoyance.

“Don’t think that makes up for anything,” she glared at him.

“Keeping score, are we?”

“Yes,” Sif grunted, slashing at the next beast that lunged out of the mist. “And you are still operating at a loss.”

“What, exactly,” he asked with gritted teeth, driving his blade into the back of the wolf’s head, “are you not letting me atone for?”

“You know damn well,” she stepped over the carcass and jutted her shield against his chest. “You kept me from my sworn duty. You robbed me of my glory!”

“Another!” Loki called, stepping around her to throw green magic at the next foe, the same instance a large wolf charged from the opposite side. Sif covered his back and the beast met its demise at the tip of warrior’s blade. They stood back to back for a moment, shoulders bumping as they regained their breath. Loki spun to face her. He pushed his hair back from his face, the dark green Cu-Sith blood seeping into his locks, and shook his head.

“There are many things that I would undo if given the chance.” His gaze burned into her, some anguish flitting across his face. “Assuring your survival is not among them.”

“It should not have been your choice to make, to take that from me.” Sif pointed her blade at him. Loki spread his open palms and shrugged.

“If you’re looking for an apology, for keeping you alive, I won’t give it.”

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” she sighed.

Loki turned from her, then laughed over his shoulder, “I do.” His daggers whistled before finding purchase in the throats of two more wolves.

Battle couples who bicker while 100% having each others backs? I don’t know about anyone one specific thing...I don’t feel particularly skilled in writing battle scenes or dialogue tbh, so I felt pretty happy with how this turned out!

I have no idea who has already done this, so i won’t tag anyone, but if you’re reading this and haven’t participated, please do!

#norationalthoughtrequired #ask meme #i wrote words again #long post

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yourdeepestfathoms · 5 years ago

Text

Lick Your Wounds (part three)

[Breakaway]

Part 1 Part 2

TW: Vomiting, blood

——————

These Shark-Infested Waters

Joan’s sick of being injured.

She’s currently laying on her cabin bed, looking out the window at the sparkling ocean stretched all around the ship. She’s hot and clammy, despite it being rather cool in the room. She takes her drugs on time, or at least she thinks she does. She can't really remember what she does anymore. Her mind is so fuzzy and disjointed that she can't even seem to remember her own name at times.

She peers at the vibrant sea, blinking her eyes into a squint as the light from the setting sun bounces off the glistening water, blinding her temporarily. It’s the evening of the third day out of seven and she already feels the effects of isolation setting in deep. It didn’t help that the day before was spend completely alone, since there was a double show, which meant Maggie or anyone else was too busy to visit her. It’s the first time since she got on the ship that she didn’t see Maggie in twenty-four hours.

And it did not feel good.

“Dammit,” Joan muttered under her breath as she feels her mouth go dry.

She hated this feeling. She felt hopeless and insecure and forgotten and useless. She’s always had issues with her confidence, but right now she’s at an all time low. She can’t sleep alone. She can’t write or work or perform or lift anything too heavy. She can barely go to the bathroom without smashing herself into the wall! Hell, she doesn’t even know what she’s going to do when she has to start bathing herself! She’s been wearing the same thing for three days- the clothes are probably now permanently saturated with sweat.

Oh how she ached to get back out to the world, to explore the boat and try all the things it offered. She has music director work to go through, still. Being cooped up in a cabin was not something that she had on her to-do list.

Joan let out a low, pained groan as she slung her good arm over her eyes. Isolation was digging in deep, now. Not even the pretty houses on all the house hunting shows she’s watched could distract her from the gnawing sense of loneliness that ate away at her.

She misses Maggie.

Joan rolled over suddenly, sending pins and needles up her left arm. She ignored it and grabbed her phone.

[Mag-Dog]

Joey: I miss you

Joan waits thirty seconds after the message is read.

Nothing.

She tries again.

[Mag-Dog]

Joey: I miss you

This one isn’t read this time.

Maybe she’s coming off too strong? Or maybe Maggie just doesn’t care...

[Mag-Dog]

Joey: When are you gonna come over again? I wanna see you

Joey: Please

Joey: I’m so bored

Joey: And I miss you :(

Nothing.

Joan whimpered softly and put her phone back down, then buried herself in her blankets. She clutched her stuffed tamarin, Sunny, close to her chest, feeling like it was her only friend.

“At least I have you, Sunny...” Joan whispered, her voice shaking slightly. “You’ll never leave me, right?”

God, how pathetic could she be? She’s talking to a stuffed animal.

Sudden rage bubbled up in Joan’s chest. Maggie probably forgot about her. She was probably just waiting for something like this to happen so she could get away from her.

Maggie didn’t care about her.

Maggie never cared.

In a fit of anger, Joan threw Sunny at the wall and then slammed herself back into her blankets, crying. And she hates that she does this because- because she can’t- because it all-

It just-

It didn’t start like this.

Like her lungs are full of water and her chest is thick and heavy with sludge and mud. Like each breath is razor sharp and threatens to drown her with the muck bubbling up in her throat. Like everything and everyone is against her.

It started out slow. First the whispers, then the doubt, and then the nausea. Slowly, she feels more like a corpse and less like a human, and she wishes things could go back to being good again.

Things are just changing so fast and Joan can’t keep up. The queens told her to dive, but every time she tries to swim forward, she’s battered by the waves and slammed back against the jagged rocks along the shoreline, where her cries are muffled by salty green water and her skin is torn. She barley gets time to breathe before she’s dragged back in by the undertow, whipping her around in the current until she’s a broken carcass lying upon the sand.

The only thing that keeps her up is the violent spray of the sea was Maggie. Maggie keeps her sane when she’s tormented by her insecurity, keeps her waking up in the morning instead of wallowing in bed, keeps her functioning even when mockery degrades her, keeps her from throwing herself over the edge of the ship when everything feels like it’s too much, keeps her from completely shattering when the deaths of Anne and Jane and Katherine flash back to her because THAT’S still a thing to break her down.

But not anymore. Because Maggie doesn’t care.

And then the cabin door’s locking mechanism clicks and the door pushes open.

Joan froze.

“So...you miss me?”

Maggie is standing in the doorway, eyebrows raised. Joan snaps up instantly- well, after she scrubs her face in her blankets to rid it of tear stains.

“Maggie!” She cried in relief.

“That’s my name, yes.” Maggie replied. She looked down the stuffed tamarin lying tail-up near her feet. She picks it up and dusts it off. She might have even straightened out some of its stupid fur. “What’d your tambourine do to get banished to the floor? Say something mean to you?”

Joan blushes and looks down at her lap, which is quickly situated by Sunny, who Maggie sets there.

“Nothing.” Joan mumbled, hunching she shoulders in. This action makes her left arm ache, but she really didn’t care.

“Hm.” Maggie isn’t convinced, but she doesn’t press. “Alright.” She moves on. “So...wanna watch a movie?”

“Actually,” Joan fidgets slightly. “I was wondering if I could go out.”

“Out of the cabin?”

Joan nodded

“I don’t know...”

“Please, Maggie?” Joan is giving the guitarist her best puppy dog eyes. “I won’t do anything! I’m just getting cabin fever. Literally. This is a cabin! Can we just walk around?”

Maggie tries to avoid the pianist’s big, soft, glistening eyes, but it’s impossible. She sighed.

“Fine.”

“Yay!!”

“But if I see you try to do anything with that hand I WILL drag you back to this room by the ear.”

Joan giggled. “I won’t do anything, I promise!”

And that’s how Joan and Maggie ended up on the front of the ship during the middle of one of its routinely evening dance parties, which were mainly for kids, but they both knew Bessie and Maria were guilty of jamming out during a few (and ultimately being the best dancers there- Maggie had no idea how they managed to control their long limbs so well). Strobe lights were flashing maniacally, the speakers were pounding with the volume of the music, a mass of dancing people were writhe on the deck, and Joan’s left hand was throbbing with the beat blaring through the air. At first, it brought her a sense of thrill to be out of her cabin, but then the pulsation in her hand grew stronger and felt like it was going to rip in two, or maybe just explode, with each intense hum of the bass. What makes it worse is that Maggie keeps glancing at her, her form of worry glinting in her eyes, and she knows that this fun evening is just going to be a chaperoning experience.

Her first time out of the cabin since the incident is going great, really. Yes, Joan loved being spotted by the boy with the scraped knee from the medical wing and then getting pointed at- or, rather, her bandaged hand getting pointed at. She could already hear the stupid rumors the children would start- would they ding dong ditch her cabin door and if they didn’t run away fast enough she would drag them inside and cut off their left hand to use as her new replacement? Would they dare each other to break inside the room and take a piece of her “cursed bloody bandages” to prove their courage? Would they try to unwrap it completely to see what horrors lied beneath? Would they say she hunts down people to peel the skin off their hand to use to cover her own? Would they call her the “One-Handed Siren” or “Juana the Degloved” or “Ripskin”?

She didn’t know.

But then it just got worse. Some jerkoff thought that Joan, despite her, and he quotes, “fucked up hand”, was cute (which she is) and that she was a vulnerable target (which she most certainly is not). He’s currently twelve feet away, nursing his wounded ego and muttering to his other jackass friends. Props to Maggie for that one.

Maggie is sharing a side table with Joan, now. It may seem like she’s shielding Joan from the other cruise patrons, but honestly, she’s shielding the rest of the cruise patrons from Joan. The girl in question is slumped against the railing, listlessly watching the black waves below roll by.

“God,” Maggie eventually sighed. “It’s gonna be a miserable fucking night tonight with all this noise.”

Joan snorted. “You can say that again.”

“God,” Maggie got out before Joan slapped a hand over her mouth. After a moment of contemplation, she sticks out her tongue to lick it.

“Maggie, gross!” Joan exclaimed, jerking her hand back and wiping it on her sweat pants (the same sweat pants she’s been wearing for the past three days...she had refused to change, just put on a grey hoody over her wrinkled bumblebee shirt). She’s smiling, though, which Maggie takes as a victory. “What are you, five?”

“Yes,” Maggie told her flatly. “But I’m very mature for my age.”

Joan snorted and affectionately bumped the guitarist’s shoulder with hers. Instead of returning to the ocean, she allows herself to slump against Maggie’s shoulder. She bumps her cheek against the top of her head in return.

Maggie never saw Joan interacting with her queens or anyone else in a normal context before the ship, since they had only really saw each other at rehearsals, so she doesn’t know if she had always been so touch-starved. She’s certainly never liked touching people very much, in her past life the only exception to that had been Anne and her brother (even her husband hadn’t been included in that...and yet they still had so many kids), but after reincarnation and Joan’s obvious need for human contact, she’s gotten used to her friend using her as an all-purpose piece of furniture. It’s nice, she’ll admit. She wouldn’t put up with it from anyone but Joan, but if her little sister friend suddenly stopped, she’d miss it.

She wiggled out her arm from the side of the chair to drape it across Joan’s shoulders and pull her closer. She can feel the gaze of some of the other people on the deck on them, but she doesn’t give a fuck.

After Anne’s execution, she hasn’t been able to give a fuck about most things.

They spend thirty minutes on the deck playing stupid games like I Spy, and then, when those get boring, trying to guess details about the other people from their appearance or behavior. Joan has to hide a laugh in Maggie’s hair when she mutters that Jackass is likely related to lemurs (“no, really, Joey, you saw his eyes when I flipped him off”). There’s a song playing again and again by some annoying kid requesting it on repeat like a wannabe John “Salt and Pepper Diner” Mulaney and the screams and laughs of the more rowdy boys, and normally Maggie would be so irritated that she’d pick a fight just to make it all stop, but Joan is here, and that makes it all bearable.

And then Joan tugs Maggie’s sleeve.

With the deck light and multicolored flashing strobes, Maggie is able to see that Joan is significantly paler than she had been thirty minutes ago. Her eyes were glossier, too. And her breathing was definitely much more shallow.

“What’s up?” Maggie asked.

“Can we—” Joan swallowed hard. “C-can we go? I-I don’t feel so good...”

Maggie’s eyes widen slightly (not fully, but even halfway was enough to show that she was genuinely shocked) and helped Joan to her feet instantly. The girl is wobbly and unsteady, so she lets her lean on her.

“Yeah, of course. Come on.”

As they’re leaving, Jackass makes one final comment, begging Joan to stay a little longer- that he wanted to know what it felt like to get a handjob from her “gnarly, fucked up hand”, and that’s what made Maggie finally snap. She told Joan to wait one moment, snatched a cup of lemonade from an unsuspecting woman, and threw it directly into Jackass’ face. She didn’t speak a word to him and quickly marched back over to Joan, hearing the guy yowl over the sting of lemon juice in his eyes.

There were two main reason that she had done that: 1) Nobody treats her little sister best friend that way ever and 2) she was hoping the action would cheer Joan up a little. But Joan wasn’t smiling or giggling or even giving her a grateful look. In fact, she didn’t seem to be seeing at all. She looked...blind.

“Joan-”

Maggie gently touched Joan’s good shoulder and the girl blinked. She looked up at Maggie and her eyes were so glazed.

“Wh-what? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you...”

“Shit,” Maggie whispered. “Okay, come on. Let’s get you back to bed, alright?”

Joan just nodded wordlessly.

The walk back to the cabin was painstakingly slow, punctuated the entire time by Joan’s whimpers and shallow breaths. And then a sharp breath.

“M-Maggie-”

“What? What’s wrong?”

Joan is doubled over slightly, face ghost white and shimmering with sweat. Her good hand is now groping at her stomach.

“I don’t- I don’t think I can—make it.”

Maggie knew what she meant.

“Okay- Okay, come here.”

Maggie steered her over to the railing of the ship, since they had been taking the outdoor passage to avoid more people, and held her hair out of the way. It didn’t take long for Joan to start vomiting over the edge of the boat.

Maggie was never queasy around vomiting. Anne had an abundance of pregnancies as queen, which meant for lots of morning sickness and throw up, so she just got used to it. The sight, the smell, the sound- none of it bothered her. But when it was Joan violently ejecting her stomach contents, it genuinely hurt to watch.

After a minute or so, Joan pulls back, gasping for breath. Her knees are buckling, but Maggie is able to catch her before she crumbled to the ground.

“You can’t lay here, Joan.” Maggie said.

“P-please,” Joan begged weakly, and her pleading, desperate tone of voice sent cobwebs of cracks sprinting through Maggie’s usually-stoney heart. “I just— C-can I please sit down for a moment?” She’s bracing herself against the railing, teetering over it slightly, like she can’t decide if she’s going to vomit again or not.

“You can sit down when we get back to the cabin.” Maggie told her. “You can lay down, even! Doesn’t that sound so much better?”

Joan looked at her with glassy eyes and nodded.

“Let’s go, then. I’ll help you.”

It took five minutes to get back to the cabin, with odd stares from passers and murderous glares from Maggie along the way, but they eventually made it there. Joan immediately sat down on her bed, taking deep breaths. Maggie grabs a water bottle on the bedside table for her, which she takes gratefully. The ingestion of water seems to clear her up a little.

“M-Maggie?”

“Right here, Joan.” Maggie said, gently touching her right shoulder. “I’m right here.”

“I’m sorry...”

“Don’t apologize. It’s alright.”

“Th-that was a stupid idea. I should have listened to you.”

“Probably.” Maggie said bluntly. “But I got to throw lemonade in that asshole’s face. So that was cool.”

“You did?”

“Yup.”

“F-for me?”

“Mhm.”

“Aww...” Joan nuzzled Maggie weakly. “Can we lay down now?”

“Let’s get you into fresh clothes first, okay?” Maggie said, standing up.

“No,” Joan whined pitifully. “Please no, Maggie. I’m too tired...”

Maggie pursed her lips, then sighed.

“Fine. But can you at least brush your teeth? To get the taste of vomit out of your mouth.”

Joan agreed to that, although Maggie was the one who ended up doing most of the work with the brushing part, while Joan just swayed and stared at her corpse-like reflection in the mirror.

When the two eventually got into the bed, Maggie noticed Joan hugging her midsection, so she tentatively reached out and rubbed her stomach gently. It got a small gasp from Joan, but no complaints or pleas for her to stop, so she continues kneading in soothing circles.

“Who knew pianist’s liked belly rubs,” Maggie mused into the dark cabin. Her answer isn’t in words, but rather a grumble. She takes it as a sign of annoyance. “Oh, that’s too bad.” She pulls her hand back. “Guess I was wrong. Goodnight, Joan.”

“Mmm..?!” Joan whined (she was far too weak to speak, so she could only make little noises like that. She would be embarrassed about it later). She found Maggie’s hand in the dark, grabbed it, set it back onto her stomach, and made it rub herself. “Mmm.”

This got the smallest chuckle out of Maggie, who resumed massaging Joan’s aching tummy.

“Goodnight, darling.”

“Mmmm...”

———

It’s just past three-fifty in the morning when Joan starts moving- digging her face into the pillow, flexing her legs, shaking so much it rattles the mattress. It’s a few more minutes later before Maggie up to a stifled whimper.

“Joan?” She whispers, propping herself up on an elbow in the darkness and rubbing her eyes. She squints when the only response she receives is the creak of the mattress, Joan curling further into herself, and another whimper. “Joan?”

No answer, but Joan is definitely still whining and keening, although it’s much softer. Weaker.

Maggie reached over and flicked on the lamp on the bedside table on her side. The sudden burst of radiance illuminates the room and the small pool of coagulated vomit Joan’s face is sitting in.

“Shit!”

Maggie is out of the bed in an instant and racing around to the other side, which has a puddle of bile below it.

“I’m sorry,” Joan just barely manages to squeak out. “I-it hurt t-too much... I-I couldn’t g-get up...”

“Hey, hey, it’s alright.” Maggie calmed her. “But you gotta get up now, Joan. To go to the bathroom. Alright?”

It was very obvious that Joan did not want to move, but she obeyed anyway. With Maggie’s help, she managed to get up from the mess and stagger into the bathroom, where she promptly collapsed to her knees in front of the toilet. She doesn’t throw up, but she does rock over the bowl treacherously. As she does that, Maggie wets a flannel with warm water and began wiping off her face and neck.

“I’m sorry,” Joan whispered. Her voice was so weak and hoarse. “I-I didn’t m-mean to, Maggie. I didn’t mean to...”

“Shh,” Maggie hushed her fearful babbling. “I know, baby. I know you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry...!” Joan whimpered out again. A few tears slip free from her eyes and Maggie wipes them away.

“Don’t speak.” Maggie said. “Just relax. Take deep breaths. Think you can do that for me?”

Joan nodded. Maggie’s eyes crinkle softly at her efforts.

“Good girl.” Maggie praised. She examined the shirt Joan was wearing, which was soaked with vomit at the collar and right shoulder. “Can you take your shirt off or do you want me to?”

“I can’t-”

“Alright. Just hold still and...”

“No, Maggie, I can’t—” Joan swallowed thickly through a wave of nausea and took a few more quick breaths. “I can’t raise my arm. I-it hurts too much.”

Maggie cussed softly under her breath. Joan must think it’s directed towards her because she cowers away.

“I’m not mad at you, Joan.” Maggie told her. “I understand. Your hand...” God, the bandages are so dark. “...it must hurt a lot.”

Joan nodded with a pitiful whimper.

“Okay, just-” Maggie got up, despite Joan’s pleas for her not to leave, and found a pair of scissors. She returned to her weeping music director and began cutting off her shirt, making a note to buy her a new one after this was all over. “There we go.”

Joan isn’t even embarrassed over Maggie seeing her without a top on, which means she was really far gone. If the thick glaze over her eyes that almost made her look blind didn’t give that away already.

“I’m going to go get the water bottle for you and try to fix the bed.” Maggie pressed a kiss to Joan’s soaked, sweaty hairline. “I’ll be right in here, darling.”

Maggie being more than a foot away was disagreeable. Her being in the room was like she was halfway across the world. Joan couldn’t handle it.

“Maggie,” Joan drawled out languidly, but it sounds more like a muffled groan.

She sunk to the ground, almost landing on her bad arm, but she manages to sprawl out on her poor stomach instead. The floor is so cold and nice beneath her heated flesh. She presses her burning forehead against it.

“Maggie,” Joan coughed out, feeling dizzy again.

She can't move as bile rises up once more. Her body shakes harder and she felt vision cut out faster. Everything is growing dark as she fidgeted and thrashed on the bathroom floor, the electrifying agony surging through her veins like liquid fire.

Joan is just barely able to kick the bathtub as hard as she could before acid curled up in the back of her mouth and she choked violently, unable to breathe as she is unable to purge it out. The acid trickles back down her throat, leaving a burning trail down her esophagus. She can hear Maggie yelling and running to her side as she spasmed weakly.

In her daze, she barely felt Maggie shove her fingers into her mouth and scoop out the liquid.

Joan coughed and barely managed to regain herself enough to drag her head up and vomit into the toilet. Her stomach aches with the force of her heaves- she’s throwing up so hard she feels bile trickle out of her nose and eyes.

“Maggie,” Joan sobbed after she finally got everything out. The nausea was gone for the moment, but the pain it caused lingered. Her eyes and nose were stinging so badly- the blood vessels in her eyes were ruptured. Her hand hurt so much, too. Like it was on fire. “Maggie, it hurts... Make it stop, please...”

She slumps sideways and ends up with her head in Maggie’s lap, the rest of her body curled around her like a kitten seeking heat. A warm cloth wipes down her messy face again.

“Oh, my poor girl...” Maggie murmured. “I’m so sorry, Joan.”

“Nng...” Joan gurgled weakly. She shivers against Maggie’s thighs, screwing her eyes shut. “Hurts... Hurts...” She mumbled again.

For the first time in her life, Maggie was genuinely stunned. She didn’t know what to do besides stroke Joan’s hair or rub her back or massage her stomach or whisper loving things to her. What could she do? It was now four in the fucking morning. She was sure the nurses weren’t awake by now. And even if they were, they’ve already proven to be completely useless.

Maggie looked down at Joan, feeling a freezing cold chunk of ice stab into her gut, and realized that they still had three more days to go.

And that Joan had gone very still in her arms. Too still, considering just a moment ago she was shaking so hard it vibrated both of them. Maggie loosened her grip, only slightly, and she sees that Joan’s form is completely limp in her grasp.

Panic like she has never experienced invades all of Maggie’s senses, filling her with searing lava. A hundred thousand butterflies flap violently in her gut, swimming into her throat, into her blood.

“Joan?” Maggie lifted her chin up to get a look at her face. Eyes closed, lips parted barely. Joan’s chest isn’t rising and falling to way it should be. “Oh shit- Joan!”

When shaking does nothing, Maggie laid Joan back on the bathroom floor and loomed over her frail body, an ear pressed to her chest.

She can’t hear anything.

Maggie is up and out of the cabin in an instant. She sprinted down the hallway, not giving a shit about how loud she was being, and began pounding on Anne’s bedroom door, screaming and yelling as she did so, and she didn’t stop until Anne pulled open the door.

“Maggie-?”

“You have to come with me. It's Joan. Something’s wrong. She’s-” Maggie’s voice falters. Anne caught it. “She’s sick. Not breathing. Just- come on! And get Jane!!”

A few people were peeking out of their rooms from the commotion, but Maggie just ran right past them, only looking behind her to check if Anne and Jane were coming (they were. Thank god their cabins were right next to each other).

Joan’s laying just as she was left when Maggie enters again. She dives down to her side instantly, quickly followed by Jane and Anne, who take turns feeling Joan’s burning forehead.

“We need to cool her down.” Jane said firmly. “Anne, fill the tub with cold water, please.”

It takes six agonizing minutes to fill the bathtub. Jane quickly lowered Joan’s shockingly lax body into the water, clothes and all, but kept her left hand out. Maggie watches with her normal blank expression, but her eyes are significantly wider than usual and she’s quite pale. Anne gently touches her shoulder, causing her to jump.

“She’ll be okay, Mags.” Anne whispered as Jane was wetting Joan’s pale face with a rag. “She’s got a heartbeat.”

Maggie perked up. “She does? Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” Anne nodded. “She’s breathing. It’s all okay.”

“Thank god,” Maggie whispered. Her persona was starting to crack. “I…I thought she was already…” She bit her lips together.

Don't say it. Don't jinx it.

“She's a strong girl,” Jane said. “She’ll make it through this. However...” She casts a grim look at Joan’s left hand. “We need to redress her bandages. Flush the wound out, too.”

“She said it was too painful, which is why she hadn’t done it yet.” Maggie said. She grabbed all the necessary items the nurses had given them- gauze, disinfectant, bandages, swabs, medical tape, painkillers. “But I agree.”

It was at that moment that consciousness decided to return to Joan- something they all dreaded and knew would make the process of cleaning much more difficult.

Maggie went to Joan’s side instantly as Jane pulled the drain out and began emptying the bathtub. Joan looked dazedly at the lowering water she’s reclined in.

“I’m...water?”

“Yes, darling, you’re in water.” Maggie said, brushing wet hair out of Joan’s tired eyes.

“Water...” Joan whispered to herself and then lolled her head backwards. The poor thing was completely exhausted. She could barely even think straight. “Annie...? And Jane?”

“Hey, sweet girl,” Jane cooed, brushing Joan’s flushes cheek with one of her fingers. “You’re going to feel better soon, alright?”

“Feel...better?” Joan didn’t seem to understand what was going on. She anxiously looked between all the women, then focused completely on Anne, who was preparing some bandages. “M-Maggie?”

“Let’s get this over with.” Maggie said. She climbed into the tub behind Joan so the girl was pressed against her. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, holding her securely. Joan thinks it’s some kind of hug, so she snuggles into it. She can’t see the dark expression on Maggie’s face. “I’ll hold her.”

Jane nodded, then motioned for Anne to pin Joan’s arm down to the edge of the tub. This immediately elicits a whimper from Joan, who’s squirmed slightly.

“Ow,” She squeaked. “A-Annie, that hurts...”

Anne gave her a sad look, but didn’t say anything as Jane began to unwrap the stained bandages around Joan’s hand. It immediately made Joan flinch in discomfort.

“Ow, ow...!” She whined. “J-Jane— Please don’t—”

“We have to clean your hand, darling.” Maggie told her. “Please, try to sit still. It’ll be over quick.”

Joan nodded reluctantly and held her breath as the bandages were unraveled. She did good at not moving up until the very end of the unwrapping and she flinched hard. The last of the bandages appeared to be...stuck to her palm.

“Fuck-” Jane breathed. “Anne, hand me the scissors.”

“What’s wrong?” Maggie asked as Jane is given the scissors. She looks down at the dark red mess that is Joan’s slightly uncovered palm and realizes what the dilemma was herself- skin was scabbed over and clotted in the bandages, with dried blood additionally acting as glue to plaster the mesh in place.

Or, to put it more simply: flesh had grown over damp parts of the bandages that sunk into the wound and practically fused to her hand.

Jane cuts away what she can, but there’s still patches remaining that she won’t be able to slice off without possibly jabbing the wound with the scissor blades.

“Alright,” Jane said. “Anne, Maggie. Hold her still.”

“Wh-what?” Joan squeaked.

Jane searches for a give one last time, but couldn’t find one, so she grabs the edge of the remaining bandage pieces and pulls. They come off successfully, as does a fresh layers of flesh.

Joan shrieks and began to thrash violently. She slammed herself back against Maggie and kicked her legs in the tub, screaming like she was being gutted alive.

“Stop it!!” Joan sobbed. “Stop it, stop it, please! Please! Maggie, make her stop!!”

“I’m sorry, baby girl,” Maggie whispered, holding Joan tighter. “I’m so sorry. You gotta clam down.”

Joan doesn’t. She continues to spasm and writhe violently.

“Please-!! It hurts! IT HURTS!!”

Maggie has to cover her mouth at that point, but she continues to howl and cry and beg for Jane to stop and just leave her alone. She struggles more, too, absolutely terrified. Maggie’s murmurs don’t reach her ears. In fact, she doesn’t even know if she can trust Maggie at this point, so she bites down on the woman’s hand.

“Fuck-!!” Maggie hissed. She grits her teeth tightly.

“Maggie?” Jane looked at her in alarm.

“I’m fine,” Maggie grunted. Thin trails of blood are running down her hand from where it’s still in Joan’s mouth. “Keep working. She’s distracted.”

Jane nodded hesitantly, then continued...only to stop and stare at the gaping red horror that was Joan’s hand. If being able to see through her palm or watching bubbles of blood belch from the wound or just seeing the frayed, mangled flesh that was so dark it was black in such a bad state didn’t make any of their stomachs churn, then the smell of drooling discharge and dripping pus did.

Anne and Maggie had to hand it to Jane (no pun intended). Despite the smell and the sight and the sound of Joan crying and screaming, she worked diligently: flushing out the wound with water and disinfectant, cleaning the dirty edges, not flinching when blood or pus splatters onto her, plucking away the peeling medical tape and replacing it with new pieces, wrapping the hand up carefully. The entire process still took around fifteen minutes, but she did a good job. And, by then, Joan was unconscious again.

“Poor little thing,” Jane murmured after washing her hands and throwing away all the dirty remnants of the former wrapping. “I think her wound is infected.”

Maggie swallowed hard. Anne paled.

“But...she’ll be okay after you cleaned it, right?” Anne asked.

Jane pursed her lips together. “I hope so.” She steps over to Joan, who’s still being held by Maggie, feels the area just below her ears on both sides, her brow knotting slightly as she went.

“What is it?” Maggie asked.

“Her lymph nodes are swollen. Means her immune system’s getting kicked into overdrive.” Then, after a moment of hesitation, “Her hand is definitely infected. But she’s fighting it. So that’s good.” She looks back into the bedroom. “I’m going to go clean that mess up.”

She walked out, not really caring about her new mission to clean up vomit. Perhaps it was her way of repaying Joan when she had been sick after giving birth to Edward. She was sure it was just as messy, if not messier.

Anne and Maggie are left in the bathroom with an unconscious Joan. The girl is starting to shiver, so they take her out of the now-empty tub and tag team dressing her in fresh clothes. When they’re finished, Joan has come back to them slightly, now mumbling incoherently, but not awake enough to stand, so Anna carries her trembling body back to the cleaned bed.

“Do you need us to stay with you tonight?” Jane asked.

“No,” Maggie shook her head. Joan is curled up in her arms, sleeping peacefully for the first time that night. “We’re okay.”

“Alright.” Jane nodded. “We’ll be up for the rest of the morning, so call if you need anything.”

With that, she and Anne walked out and Maggie is left with her unconscious girl shivering against her. She wraps her arms tightly around Joan and pressed a kiss to her sweaty forehead.

“I love you, my darling.”

For the first time since she was reincarnated, she felt tears well up in her eyes.

#six breakaway #six the musical #six the musical fanfiction #six the musical fanfic #six fanfic #fic fanfiction #breakaway joan on the keys #breakaway maggie on the guitar #breakaway jane seymour #breakaway anne boleyn #jane seymour #anne boleyn #tw: vomiting #lick your wounds

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splat-dragon · 4 years ago

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heavy is the head that gets no sleep ~Cold is the Night, Oh Hellos

Whumptober 2020, #23: What's A Whumpee Gotta Do to Get Some Sleep Around Here?: "Sleep Deprivation" "Exhaustion"

Arthur couldn’t remember the last time he slept.

He’d tried, but no one would let him. Every time he so much as looked at his tent, Miss Grimshaw or Dutch was there, nipping at him for not contributing enough, or Pearson was there, heckling him to go out hunting.

@whumptober2020

Arthur was so, so tired.

He couldn’t remember the last time he slept.

Every time, he wanted to scream. ‘Look at the ledger! Look at my goddamn name!’ he was contributing more than anyone else, but they acted like he was just sitting on his ass. Like it was him getting drunk, sitting around the campfire, night after night, instead of skipping sleep to bring in supplies and money and provisions. Last time he’d lost his temper - once Dutch walked off, of course, he was no fool - and nearly thrown the ledger when he’d found he was right, his name had been on the page thirty nine out of the fifty times on the front-back spread, all jewelry or decent amounts of money or carcasses, not goddamn bat wings (really Marston?!) or nickles and dimes.

And it was another one of those nights.

He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d slept.

Three nights?

Four?

Five?

His stomach was growling but he was too tired to eat.

He finished signing his name on the ledge - Arthur Silver Pocket Watch $8.00 - for the ninth time in a row, making sure his satchel was empty before turning on his heel, sending up a small prayer before beginning to make his way to his tent.

“Arthur!”

Oh no.

“I have a lead I need you to follow up on.” Dutch. Why was it always Dutch.

He looked longingly at the cot he could see beckoning at him from his tent,

“Please son, I need you to do this for me. It’s very important.”

He sighed, knew Dutch wouldn’t let it drop. “Alright, Dutch.”

The man’s face lit up, and he clasped Arthur on the shoulder. Arthur wobbled, had to catch himself, but Dutch didn’t notice, already digging through his pocket, shoving a piece of paper in his hand. “Here, there’s a man named Jackson Ricketts at this address, he’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

“...okay Dutch.” but he was already walking away, picking up his most recent book off the table he kept near the flaps of his tent.

For a moment, all he could do was stand there. Stare at Dutch, plopping down in his chair and leaning over to start reading with Molly. Turn to stare at his cot, then at the ledger. Had he put in what he’d brought back that evening? He was pretty sure he had, but he really couldn’t remember.

Arthur took a moment to fumble through his satchel.

Either he’d put in the jewelry and money he’d brought back, or he’d been robbed.

He was so tired he couldn’t find it in him to care.

But then Javier’s guitar started to play over at the campfire, and he did care. Anger, indignation, started up bright hot in his stomach, how was that fair? He could see Bill sitting near the campfire, and he hadn’t even seen Bill’s name on the ledger!

But just as quickly the anger flickered out, what was the point? He’d just get told he needed to pull his weight, do his part, and then he’d get shoved towards the horses even if he demanded they check the ledger, get told to stop acting like a child, ‘you’re too old to be acting like this, Arthur!’ and then the others would laugh at him, and Micah was over by the fire too, and nothing infuriated him more than seeing that smug bastard laughing at him.

So he threw a last, longing look at his cot, could have sworn he heard it say “Sleep?” though that could have been his subconscious telling him something, and trudged over to the horses.

Stared blankly at his mare - the O’Driscoll had untacked her.

He had to tack her up.

Fuck, he had to tack her up.

The O’Driscoll had left her saddle on the post right next to her.

Small blessings.

He picked up the saddle, grunting beneath his weight, took a step and proceeded to drop it.

Heard someone laugh - looked up, but no one was looking at him. Scowled, very funny Micah, stooped down and picked it up again, struggling, couldn’t remember the saddle ever being this heavy before. John was laughing, but when he looked up the man had turned away, was staring at the campfire as though he’d never moved, and irritation boiled low in Arthur’s stomach.

Finally managed to fling the saddle onto the horse, throwing it more than setting it down, apologized under his breath and stepped forward, tried to tighten the cinch and

“Even after all these years, can’t even tack up a horse.” Dutch scowled in his ear and he whirled about, bared his teeth the man was going too damn far! but what the hell? He was still sitting over with Molly, showing her something in his book, and he blinked - he must have been more tired than he thought, goddamn was it even safe for him to ride out?

Probably not, but it wasn’t like anyone would listen if he tried to say anything, so he shook his head, ‘Just imagining things,’ and fastened the cinch.

Or, at least, tried to.

He couldn’t get the damn cinch fastened.

His hands were shaking too badly, and the world was doing a funny swirling thing. He took a deep breath, found it oddly shaky and then he wasn’t even trying, was just clutching the cinch in his hands and taking deep breaths, then not even those.

“Arthur?” Hosea’s voice was loud in his ear, too loud, and he flinched, “Arthur son, what’s wrong?” and oh, he’d thought he was imagining things again but then there was a very real hand on his arm, one grasping his chin and forcing him to look up, he hadn’t even realized he’d leaned over, grinding his forehead into her saddle, and wow Hosea was whirling wasn’t he?

“Arthur, you’re crying,” and huh, he hadn’t even realized that, reached up to wipe his face and was startled to find his hand wet, “Son, are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“...I can’t do this.” his breath hitched, and he looked at Hosea pleadingly, “Hosea, I’m so tired, I… I can’t… I just want to sleep.”

Hosea couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Arthur so distressed. He was looking at him with nothing shy of sheer desperation. Looking at him as though he needed permission to sleep, tears streaming down his face, breathing becoming more and more labored, hitching as though he couldn’t catch it, “Okay Arthur, okay, you can sleep, just calm down.”

But Arthur’s nostrils flared, face flushing red as he tried - failed - to raise his voice “No I can’t! No one… no one will let me! I-I just… I want to sleep. I haven’t slept in days. Everyone else is… is drinkin’ and partyin’, and I haven’t slept.”

Fury settled, cold as fresh ice, in Hosea’s stomach.

He wanted to storm over to the men that he could see drinking around the campfire. Beginning to slur along to Javier’s singing, celebrating nothing at all, costing them money in beer while bringing in nothing. Wanted to wrench Susan and Pearson and Dutch by the ears - Arthur hadn’t named names or pointed fingers, but it didn’t take a fool to guess who’d caused him to work himself to the edge.

Shit, but he wasn’t blameless. He’d spent the last few days with Arthur when he was in camp (which, he realized with a sinking stomach, wasn't many) and hadn’t seen him sleep, didn’t think he could remember him eating either, and how he had missed how awful he looked he didn’t know. His eyes were bloodshot, his face sunken in. His eyes were so dark he’d thought, when he’d first walked over, that he had had a pair of black eyes, the bags beneath them so heavy even his bags had bags. Even as tears dripped down his face his eyelids sagged as though he were about to fall asleep right there, “Hosea, please, I’m so tired.” but he was fumbling with the cinch again, failing to secure the strap by a mile.

Hosea’s throat clicked on a swallow - what had they done to their son? what had they done to make him think he had to work himself to this point? - and he nodded, “Of course Arthur, come on, let’s get you to bed.” but Arthur didn’t move, instead wavered on his feet, and Hosea’s heart leaped into his throat, lunging to grab his arm and steady him, called out “Mr. Smith! Help me please!” and Charles jogged over from where he’d been on watch, leaning his rifle against a hay bale as he shrugged Arthur’s arm over his shoulder, the man’s head lolling against him.

Arthur was vaguely aware of his arms being thrown over people’s shoulders, of being carried-dragged-a small distance. Of being laid down on something that seemed impossibly soft, wanting to surge up because I need to work! no one else will! but he felt so heavy so surely he could lay down for just a second?

“‘Night Arthur,”

A hand ran through his hair, “Sleep, son,” and his blanket was tucked up to his chin, but he was already long asleep.

Hosea nodded to Charles as they stepped out of Arthur’s tent, rolling his shoulder, protesting at having supported Arthur’s heavy weight, the young man frowning in concern even as he went back to take up his watch.

The older man sighed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose, remembering what Arthur had been mumbling as they carried him back to his tent - most of it had been too nonsensical to make out, but he’d definitely made out one word.

But he didn’t dare risk waking Arthur, so he waited until he was flinging open the man’s tent to boom,

“VAN DER LINDE!”

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mostlycompetentwriter · 6 years ago

Text

I Am You: Chapter 3

Pairing: OC x Bang Chan x Han Jisung x Seo Changbin

Genre: Romantic Fantasy

Warnings: Smut, some mentions of blood and gore

Previous Chapters: (chapter 1), (chapter 2)

Note: Just to clarify, in the scene where Myah and Changbin are both wolves, they use a special mind link to speak to one another. All pack members can communicate while they are wolves. However, mates can speak to one another no matter what form their partner happens to be in. This is how human Changbin is able to communicate with wolf Myah.

“Have you seen Changbin?” I asked Felix, watching the younger alpha absent-mindedly skin the deer laid out on the table in front of us.

“I think he’s hunting,” Felix replied, frowning as he let out a disgusted sound. “It would be nice if he could skin his own kill every once in a while.”

“He’s always hunting,” I huffed in frustration.

Felix shrugged, “He’s probably not far out. He just left like fifteen minutes ago. You can probably catch up to him if you need something.”

I immediately heeded Felix’s suggestion, shifting forms carefully, as it had certainly been a while since I last allowed my wolf to takeover. However, I knew it would be much easier to catch up to Changbin with a better nose, relying purely on smell to find my tsundere mate. And I picked up on his trail fast, following his scent slowly while I still felt unsteady on the four legs replacing my usual two. I really needed to run more with Jisung when he offered. It was almost embarrassing how out-of-touch I felt with my hyper-active wolf, especially after experiencing yet another clumsy fall along the mountain rocks.

I was fully committed to shifting every day.

Thankfully, I found Changbin quickly, distracted by the small doe grazing a hundred yards or so away. I waited patiently, making sure my scent was down-wind so that he couldn’t possibly blame me if he missed this kill. But Changbin was the pack’s best hunter, and he tracked down the unsuspecting creature with startling astuteness.

It was as he was dragging the doe back down the cliffside that he spotted me. His dark brown wolf let out a grumpy growl as he walked over to where I waited. He let the prey fall from his mouth, regarding me with a look that I could only describe as reprimanding.

I heard his voice speak clearly through our mind-link. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

I refused to back down. “You’re always hunting these days. How else was I supposed to talk to you?”

Changbin’s wolf was imposing as he stood over me. He was bigger than most wolves, and he exuded power and dominance. “Go back to camp.”

I watched as he leaned back down to pick up the doe. “Will you talk to me tonight?”

“I’m hunting late.”

I let out a sharp bark, racing ahead to block his path. “Why are you ignoring me?”

“Don’t act like this, Myah.”

“I don’t understand why you can’t talk to me. Are you really going to punish me for something I already forgave you for?”

He bullied his way past me. “It’s dangerous up here. Now go home.”

Stung by his disregard, I obeyed his order, starting back down the path with much less spring than I had before. I glanced back over my shoulder at the big alpha, wondering if Changbin knew how much he was hurting me.

But distractions were never a good thing on the mountain, and I heard the switch before I felt its claws. Unfortunately, I had failed to keep an eye on the path in front of me, as Changbin had constantly warned me about, but that didn’t make it any less shocking. Which is probably why, at first, the pain from the trap didn’t register over my surprise. But then I felt it deeply when I saw the blood. I let out a pained howl, instinctively trying to pry my leg away from the source of my pain. It only worsened the situation, the sharp edges digging brutally into my flesh.

“Don’t move!”

I heard his command before I could scent him, but Changbin was suddenly there, burying his head into the side of my neck, releasing soothing alpha pheromones even as the pain grew to an unbearable level. I fell to the ground, craning my neck around to look at my mangled leg, bits of flesh and blood amidst the silver trap. I saw fingers next, faintly realizing Changbin had shifted to his human form, working at the trap.

Then I heard the mountain lion’s growl.

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“I think Channie hates me,” I complained to Jisung, watching the alpha move about his room, a towel wrapped messily around his waist.

“Chan doesn’t hate you,” Jisung chided gently, digging for a pair of sweatpants out of his closet.

“What did I do?” I asked, ignoring Jisung as I rolled onto my back, looking up at the ceiling.

“Chan’s just stressed,” Jisung said. “He’s got a lot of decisions to make.”

“Mating shouldn’t be a difficult decision,” I muttered because it was true. In fact, mating should be easy with the person you love.

“Don’t be impatient,” Jisung said, suddenly appearing above me. “Chan always thinks about everything too much, you know how he is.”

“It shouldn’t require any thinking,” I said, letting out a whine of protest when Jisung moved onto the bed, crowding me into the mattress. I broke off only when I was wrapped in Jisung’s arms, secure against his strong chest. His vanilla scent surrounded me, and I could tell he was releasing calming pheromones, which I appreciated.

“Everything will work out in time,” Jisung whispered, pressing a tender kiss to the side of my temple.

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“Changbin!” I cried out through the bond, watching the mountain lion creep closer, likely smelling my blood in the air.

Changbin managed to open the trap and I whined as I pulled my leg free. “Can you shift?” he asked me, but I was in too much pain to concentrate so I shook my head, desperately trying to push myself onto all four legs, but collapsing back down each time. The mountain lion growled, haunches raised in an attack position. Changbin shifted back easily, his intimidating wolf forcing the lion to briefly reconsider its plan. “Don’t worry,” Changbin said, using the mind link to offer me calming reassurances.

I threw back my head to howl, hoping our other packmates could hear the call. Unfortunately, it also prompted the lion into action and it launched itself at Changbin. I watched in horror as it wrestled Changbin to his back, exposing his soft underbelly and tender throat. The sound of its claws slashing through fur and flesh was revolting and my stomach churned dangerously. Changbin fought back, using his hind legs to push the lion off, reclaiming an upright position before chasing after the lion, nipping at its weaker tendons. The lion stumbled on the loose rocks and Changbin brought it down, tearing into whatever flesh his teeth could sink into.

I looked away from the gruesome scene, calling out for Chan and Jisung through the mating bond, but they were probably too far away to hear my pleas. Instead, I let my wolf take control, and she slowly started limping us over to the coverage of the bushes, hoping to disguise the scent of our blood. However, the lion did not like her decision, losing sight of its easy prey. He managed to throw Changbin off, and I winced as his body crashed into the side of the rocks. I tried to throw myself forward but let out a pained yelp when I felt the lion’s teeth dig into my leg, pulling me away from my destination.

I whined loudly, panting hard against wave after wave of pain, my flesh wound reopened by the lion’s unforgiving teeth. We started down the slope and I knew I was going to die. The lion would easily drag me somewhere it was familiar with, ripping into my throat before using my carcass as its meal for the next several days. I was poisoned with fear, watching my life slowly drain out onto the rocks around me.

But Changbin hadn’t given up, and the lion was unprepared for Changbin to attack again. My mate managed to wrestle the lion into a precarious position of weakness, immediately going for its throat and locking his teeth around its pulse point. I faintly observed Changbin pulling back with a large chunk of flesh between his teeth, my vision swimming in and out of focus. I did register Changbin’s dark scent, and his familiar voice trying to reach out to me, even as the blackness finally claimed me.

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I knew Chan was going to break up with me.

I could tell by his posture, by the distinct way he was hunched in on himself, doing no favors to his taller height. He was also unusually quiet, taking me by the hand to lead me to the meadow where we always played together as children. The one his mother had taken us to for the very first time when we were barely five years old. It was a special place full of meaning and Chan knew how important it was to me, how I always felt calmer when I was surrounded by the familiar daffodils.

He wanted me to be comfortable because the news he was going to deliver would likely break my heart. This was all I could think about when Chan finally turned around to face me, eyes distant and sorrowful. “Myah,” he said my name, and my heart reached out to him. “Do you love Jisung and Changbin?”

I was thrown by the unexpected question. “Of course I do.”

“You know they’ll always take care of you, right?”

Chan’s questions seemed misplaced. “What are you talking about?”

Chan sighed, stuffing his hands into the pocket of his jacket. “Jisung and Changbin are starting their own pack, you know.”

I nodded because it was usually all Jisung talked about. He was beyond excited to lead his own pack, and Changbin was relieved to get away and start his own family. Felix would be joining, along with several of their friends: Seungmin, Minho, Hyunjin, Jeongin, and Woojin. I was excited because I adored the idea of starting something new, especially with my mates by my side.

But that needed to include Chan as well.

“My father wants me to stay here,” he finally said. “He wants me to lead his pack in the future.”

I immediately shook my head. “You have to come with us, Chan. Jisung and Changbin are your best friends, and I-”

“I’ll get in the way,” Chan interrupted. “You already have two mates, Myah. They both adore you.”

“But I need you too,” I protested, squeezing our intertwined hands. “You mean so much to me, Chan. We’ve known each other since we were kids.”

“I know,” Chan agreed, pausing to look around, a nostalgic smile on his face. “We got into a lot of trouble together, but that was a long time ago. We both have to start considering our futures.”

I stepped in closer, eliminating more of the space between us, even though it still felt like it wasn’t enough. “My future means nothing without you in it.”

Chan’s expression softened. “I can’t do that to you.”

“You’ll break my heart,” I warned him. “You’ll hurt me and you promised you wouldn’t.”

“Not if you don’t let me,” Chan countered. “You deserve a long life, Myah, with Jisung and Changbin.”

“With you,” I insisted earnestly. “Chan, if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have Jisung or Changbin.”

“But you do have them,” he said. “You’ll always have them.”

He tenderly reached out, thumbing his way across Changbin’s mark on my neck. “But I need your mark.”

“It’s too much.”

“Not it’s not!” I disagreed, clutching even more tightly to him, feeling like he might vanish at any moment. “Chan, you made a promise to me! You can’t say these things...Please don’t leave me.”

I was starting to panic and Chan picked up on it, releasing more of his soothing scent which I consumed greedily, faced with the possibility of never having it again. “I’ll visit when I can.”

“It won’t be the same,” I trembled, disregarding the space he tried to maintain, collapsing into his arms.

“You’ll move on.”

“No, I won’t,” I insisted, leaning up to scent him. “Why are you doing this? Why bother even promising it to me if you never planned on keeping it?”

He winced as if my comment caused him physical pain. “At one point, I did intend to keep it, but then you mated with Jisung and Changbin. I could see the change in you, the way you looked happier around them. You really don’t need me anymore, Myah. It’s just hard to let go of the past.”

My tears were soaking through his t-shirt, but I knew Chan didn’t care. “If you leave me, I’ll miss you every day. You’re my best friend, Chan. My soulmate.”

“Be good for me,” he whispered into my hair.

“Stop it!” I harshly interjected, abruptly pulling out his arms, startling both of us. “Stop saying that you’re leaving. If you really loved me, then you would stay.” Chan was at a loss for words, opening his mouth before closing it again. “I don’t care about your father’s pack now,” I continued, “I care about the one I’m building, and I refuse to be a part of it without you. How can you not understand how much you mean to me? I don’t just want you, Chan, I need you! I depend on you for so much and if you left, I’ll be completely empty, because you won’t be there to fill those places anymore.”

I was incoherent, tasting my salty tears as I shook my head vigorously, refusing to acknowledge Chan’s words. Empty threats, that’s all they were. Chan had been mine from the moment we met, and nothing would ever tear us apart. No matter how many people came between us, or how many fights we got into, or how he could ever think we’d be able to live without one another. Chan caught me in his arms before my knees gave out and he brought us both to the ground, holding me close as I cried against his chest. “What can I do to convince you?” I pleaded with him. “I’ll do anything.”

For a while he was quiet and I continued to sob those terrible soul-wrenching cries that jarred the places inside of me that was frightening. Dark places I tried to hide away, like the evil voice that sometimes whispered that I wasn’t good enough for any of them. That voice might be right, but I always did my best. I would always fight for them.

Finally, Chan gently encouraged me to lean back, drying my tears with his sleeves. He picked up my wrist, brushing his lips across the blue-colored veins decorating the surface of my creamy skin. “Shall I do it here?” he asked, glancing up at me with eyes that reminded me of home.

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I could only smell Changbin when I woke up, dizzy with the after effects of restless sleep. His scent was spiked with fear. It was enough to pull me back to consciousness, and I blinked against the blinding white light infiltrating my line of vision. “Ah,” a familiar voice spoke. “You’re finally awake?”

I glanced over at Woojin. “How long have I been out?”

“A day or so,” he replied, “But I think it was the trauma. Your leg will take some time to heal.”

I sat up slowly, listening to Woojin’s advice while leaning back against the bed frame. “Is it really bad?”

“I’ve seen worse, but that was back during my training. You’re the first real injury we’ve had in the new pack.”

“That sucks,” I said, and Woojin chuckled.

“Your mates have been worrying all night,” Woojin informed me. “I couldn’t get Changbin to leave. His scent was everywhere.”

“I can smell it,” I acknowledged. “But when you say mates-”

“Felix freaked out,” Woojin said, rolling his eyes. “He and Seungmin ran all the way to the border, and I’m sure they made it sound far worse than it actually was.”

“That was an important meeting,” I said. “They shouldn’t have done that.”

“Well, Felix is young, and it’s hard to be in your right mind when the third in command is running around nearly hysterical. I had to give Changbin some morphine, his body was halfway between wolf and human. It wasn’t pleasant to see.”

“Great,” I muttered because I didn’t like the idea of everything falling apart over me.

“They can return to the northern lands later,” Woojin said as if he knew exactly what I had been thinking. “I’m sure Taeyong would gladly welcome back Chan and Jisung. He has a mate of his own and understands how it feels to be away when they’re hurt.”

“I can’t really move it,” I said, frowning at my immobile leg. “Is that normal?”

“It’s the cast,” Woojin explained. “Do you feel well enough to talk to your alphas?”

I groaned at the idea of dealing with their high-strung whining, mothering me to the point where I felt suffocated. Woojin grinned. “I can tell them you’re still sleeping.”

“Maybe for tonight,” I agreed.

Not because I didn’t love them, of course, but because they could turn into an absolute nightmare when their alpha instincts insisted I was on my deathbed as opposed to a sterile hospital cot frowning down at my new cast.

It would be a long recovery.

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I could feel Chan everywhere.

I tried not to wince at the pain, instead focusing on the growing bond, ignoring the way his teeth sank into my wrist, eyes bright with a vivid orange color. Instead, I only thought about Chan and it made the pain bearable. I thought about his lovely hair, naturally curly, thick strands soft between my fingers. I thought about his gorgeous eyes or the wicked slope of his nose. I thought about his handsome features, and how his smile completely eclipsed even the lowest of my moods. I thought about his warm voice and familiar scent, the rich smell of pine that reminded me of my childhood.

I thought about the way Chan made love to me, treating me like I was fragile. His body covering mine, sheltering me under his protective form. His soft kisses drawing small moans, encouraging him to give more. His pulsing cock inside of me, filling me to the brim with all the love he could give. A special kind of love incomparable to the way I felt with Jisung or Changbin.

Because Chan was encompassing. He was everywhere, present at all the points in my life I could remember, good or bad. And he filled all my empty places, the darkest parts of myself that I hated, but he managed to bring light to them all. He was everything I needed to feel complete, marked by three alpha wolves who would do absolutely anything my heart desired.

I was finally me.

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