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darling-i-read-it · 5 years ago

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Hidden Gems

James Bond x reader

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: death

Author’s Note: Hi love! Sorry this took so long but I ended up liking it. All it took was some good old fashion angst to make me back in the groove. I hope you like (?) this!

Italics are flashbacks

Requested: by @bbhimbf, hi!!~ I just found your blog and I wanna ask – can you write some angst with Bond x reader?? Like, I want to read something that makes me cry and I really like your style of writing so 👉🏻👈🏻

Summary: the request!

Genre: angst

Song: the way I loved you by selena gomez

I don’t own these characters.

(not my gif)

Meeting James Bond was as everyone expected it to be. He was cold but handsome, witty and skilled. There was nothing that should have surprised you about it but you remember meeting him like it was only yesterday when in truth it had been more like three years.

Your bookshop was small. You didn’t own it or even work at it but you spent enough time there that you were pretty sure when the owners did die they were going to pass it on to you.

James was only out because he was so used to being out. Now that he was on a weird probation period he had to get out and do something. He didn’t usually sight see when he traveled but here he was, in a small looking dusty book store that he had barely even seen before. The dust made the air heavy. It was quite a gloomy day outside, the clouds hanging over the outside buildings making people feel worse than they should.

You were standing near the front, flipping through a book between two close shelves. It was pretty cramped in there and he almost ran into you because he wasn’t paying attention.

“Oh! I’m sorry,” you said, laughing a little bit as you did so. You looked up at his eyes and was nearly knocked down at the sight of them. You had always had a thing for those types of blue eyes. He shook his head.

“No worries, it was my fault. I’ve never been in here before,” he admitted. He wasn’t sure why he had said that but it was already past his lips when he thought about it. You raised your eyebrow.

“It’s a hidden gem. I’m glad you decided to come in.”

He looked at you, holding your book with an air around you that seemed lighter than anything he had seen in quite some time.

“Me too.”

You gave him your number that day and he took it without hesitation which wasn’t really a surprise. You read him as a ladies man and there wasn’t much that you wanted to be done about that so you just let whatever was gonna happen happen.

Your fingers brushed the ring that was around your finger as you looked up at the building. It was glistening in the little sun that managed to peek through the majority of the gloomy clouds. You had heard so much about it, you thought that it would be more than it was.

Just a building.

You and James had been going out for a little over a year now. He had even proposed naively and you accepted just as naively. There wasn’t even a date set because of his work but you knew that it would happen. You wanted it to happen.

You knew most of what he did because he had told you. He trusted you.

You thought he trusted you.

“It’s just another job. You don’t have to worry,” he promised. You were sitting, your legs crossed in front of you, on the bed. He was standing by the dresser, loading a gun and turned away from you.

“I have a bad feeling about it,” you muttered. James turned around just enough to see you and then fully so that he could walk over to where you sat. You looked up at him and he put his hands on your cheeks, a rare smile on his face.

“Do you know who I am?” he teased. You rolled your eyes.

“Don’t do it-”

“Bond.”

“James-”

“James Bond.” You laughed and had to admit he had made you feel a little better but he hadn’t ceased the feeling. You weren’t sure about wherever he was going. You never were but especially now.

“You’ll be safe yeah?” “Of course.” He sat down beside you and you put your head on his chest. He put his head on yours and leaned down to kiss your forehead. You hummed and smiled, moving up to kiss him.

You smiled against the kiss and he did as well, leaning you back slowly on to the bed.

You had gotten a call that morning about James. It wasn’t from James which was red flag number one.

You shook out your hair and took a step forward into the large building the phone call had directed you to go to. You walked to the front desk, your hands nervously playing with each other. She looked up at you and her face fell.

“Bonds girl?” You nodded, trying to keep your face neutral and lacking the worry you were feeling.

“Yes.” Your voice was weaker than you had intended it to be.

“Have a seat, someone will be with you in a moment.”

The look she gave you was obviously reeking of pity. You had wished it would just be dismissive.

You sat done in one of the empty chairs and thought about what James had told you about his job. You just wanted him to be alright. That was all you were allowed to think right then. He was going to come out to surprise you.

Unfortunately when someone came out of the stuffy back rooms it wasn’t James. You perked up but immediately fell back down emotionally.

“Y/N?”

“Yes.”

“You should come with me.” You nodded and followed you down the hallway. It seemed to last forever. Finally you came to one of the last rooms and wondered if you should have just stayed at home.

“We normally don’t do this but James wanted us to make an exception.” She gestured to the chair and desk in the small lonely room. There was a laptop open there that showed a black screen.

“What is this?” you asked but sat down anyway. She clicked one of the keys on the keyboard and then turned to leave. You hated how secretive it was, how they couldn’t just come at and say it.

The screen lit up and James’ face lit up the screen. He was disheveled more than usual, his suit half undone and a loud commotion going on behind the wall he was sitting in front of.

“Hey!”

You laughed a little and messed with your ring some more.

“Hi,” you muttered. It was clearly a pre recorded video but you felt better saying it, like you were having a conversation.

“I should have listened to you, I know.” He gave you a charming side smile. “I don’t know if I’m gonna make it out of this one princess.” You looked down at the ground and felt the tears well up in your eyes but tried to ignore them as best as you could. “I just wanted to record this because I wanted to tell you to buy that book store because I know you were undecided about it.” You shook your head and every time you tried to look up at him you couldn’t because then you saw his face. “And that I love you. You’re the only person I’ve ever loved.”

You looked him in his eyes as he was silent, looking into the camera as though he could see straight into your soul. You put your hand on the side of the computer and smiled meekly at him through the tears.

“And even if you’re watching this and I’m…” he paused, a shot behind him, “I’m gone. I’ll always love you. Because you were my hidden gem Y/N.”

The camera cut off and you put your head in my hands. You heard the door open but didn’t look up.

“You can’t speak of this to anyone. According to record he didn’t exist.”

You let yourself cry for a moment and just feel it. Really feel it.

“My family knew him. What do I say to them?” you asked, sobbing. The lady looked at you for a minute and then moved forward and put her hand on your shoulder.

“You loved each other and he died.”

You supposed she was right.

You did love each other.

And now he was dead.

Daniel Craig: @records-and-stardust

James Bond: @captured-memory

#James bond x reader #James bond imagines

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lokislytherin · 5 years ago

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euphoria // vampire!jungkook

pairing: vampire!jeon jeongguk x human!reader summary: you’re scared of vampires - until one saves your life one night. word count: 1988 + a/n: here’s to @jungkooksbish ! happy birthday ily 💜💜💜

chapters: prologue / chapter 1 / chapter 2 / chapter 3 / chapter 4 / chapter 5 / chapter 6 / chapter 7 / epilogue

It’s a dark and gloomy night, but you walk alone down the silent streets.

There’s not a soul in sight, save the crescent moon hanging in the sky, your only companion. Night has fallen and it’s getting late, and your friends are all gone, having just realized you’ve all lost track of time. In your haste to return to the little apartment you call home, you’ve (quite unwisely, now that you think of it) decided to take a shortcut down one the spookier alleys. You know for certain it’ll take you home – you’ve walked it countless times during the day. But this time is different, and as you walk along, you’re starting to seriously regret your decision. You never know about the creatures that thrive in the dark, after all.

You’ve been warned about them before, by the lucky few who have survived their encounters to tell the tale. Everybody knows to be wary of the supernatural nightlife, knows to lower their voices when they speak around the metaphorical campfire. You know about most of them: the witches, who escaped a fiery death at the stake long ago and now live among mankind, running amok with their magic; the werewolves, who live at the mercy of the wax and wane of the moon, at best a little worse than a man and at worst a little better than a beast; the shifters, who are experts at hiding in society, the apparent lesser of the evils.

Of course, you can’t forget about the most dangerous ones of them all: the vampires, soulless undead who lured their victims to their doom with their unnatural beauty, who fed not on ordinary food and water, but preyed on other creatures, preferring to drink the blood of humans who live and breathe as you do. You don’t think you’ve ever encountered any of them before, and you hope that you’re lucky enough never to.

But of course, as fate will have it, luck is not your friend. stomp. Your eyes widen, and you can’t help but suck in a breath. Peeking over your shoulder, you see nothing but the shadows beside you. It’s deathly silent out there. Calm down, Y/N, you tell yourself firmly, it was probably just a monster rat. If it attacks you, just whack it with all you’ve got. You’re still spooked, and you walk a little faster, hold your phone a little tighter. The battery is low, but you know that 1% you’ve got will last you long enough to get to safety. Having a mere semblance of comfort is better than nothing at all. STOMP. You whip around, suspicious. You’re certain you just heard footsteps. But once again, there’s nothing to be seen but the lonely lunar light. The peacefulness of the night should put you at ease, but today it just seems eerie. You rub your eyes with a scowl, careful not to move your contacts. You’re probably just hallucinating due to sleep deprivation.

It’s too quiet – A sweaty hand grips onto your bare arm, and you yell at the top of your arms. You know you’re loud enough to be heard by any source of help – the singer’s lungs you’ve trained so hard to achieve aren’t for nothing. You try to shake off the disgusting hand, but your efforts prove fruitless: attached to the hand is a leering middle-aged man, whose breath reeks of alcohol and cigarette smoke. "Hey, pretty girl," he sneers as he paws drunkenly at your body. "I'll show you a good time." Disgusting.

He’s not one of them, as you’d originally feared, but he’s dangerous all the same, especially when he’s drunk (but sober enough to be a pervert) and you have your, uh, assets. In the daylight, men would only dare catcall, whistling (c)rudely at your body. You crack your knuckles. Ideally, you’d avoid a fight, or any kind of violence, but at times like this you don’t really have much of a choice, do you? It’s probably time you practice your kickboxing skills anyway. Your kicking might be rusty, but you can still throw a mean right hook.

Deciding to take a page out of your trigger-happy friend’s book, you twist and punch the sleazebag in the face. He shrieks as your fist smacks squarely into his nose, which makes a sickening crack. He stumbles back, clutching his face, looking almost insulted at how you even dare to punch him. Blood drips from between his fingers. He deserves a good punch, the misogynistic jerk. You walk off: he’s not worth any more of your time. "Hey! Come back here!" He howls as he gives chase, enraged. His boots clomp heavily behind you, a dead giveaway. He’s not sober in the least, and you can hear him grunt as he stumbles and falls. His drunkenness should slow him down enough for you to make a quick getaway, but you’re wearing your favorite pumps, and cute as they are, they won’t let you run as fast as you’d like either. "You sick little bi-"

His shouts are cut off abruptly. Did somebody happen to hear your cry for help and decide to lend a hand? Did the old pervert finally collapse in a drunken stupor? You’re not sure if you want to know what happened to the crazy stalker, but terrified curiosity gets the better of you. Turning around, you regret yelling that Libras die first every time you watch a horror film with your friends – if this was a scene from a horror movie, you’d die first, and you’re Gemini. Good going, Y/N. You’re going to die.

The sight that greets you makes you stumble and gag. The man’s eyes are wide with terror, mouth open in a soundless scream. Even worse, blood oozes out from two clean puncture wounds on his neck. Behind him is a young man, looking not much older than you are. He winks at you flirtatiously, grinning and flashing pearly white fangs that look far too real to be a product of your imagination.

Vampire. "Help me!" The old pervert wheezes. You stumble back, bile rising in your throat. Your heartbeat accelerates, and your frantic attempts to slow it down only makes your heart beat faster. The vampire can probably hear your heartbeat, smell your fear. You can almost taste the metallic tang of blood on your tongue, a trail of dark red illuminated by the flickering streetlights. You smell it before it happens – the rancid odor of death wafts in the air, and the vampire cheerfully snaps the old man’s neck.

His head lolls backwards. The young man grins at you, eyeing you in a way that looks less hungry and more curious. He may be a vampire and a killer, but at least he’s not a pervert and a creep like that other guy, the more optimistic side of your mind suggests. A pink tongue darts out of his mouth, licking his lips clean of blood. His fangs gleam in the dark. One of them is a little chipped. "You’re welcome, by the way." Not gonna lie, that was kind of hot, says the voice in your head.

"Thanks." You slowly back away, sounding calmer than you really are. You don’t let your gaze off him even for a second, but avoid making direct eye contact. You never know – the second you look away from him, he might decide to have you as a midnight snack… His blue eyes glimmer red, and a small voice in your head reminds you helpfully that red eyes in vampires means ‘hunger’. Uh oh, says the voice in your head.

Uh oh indeed. The vampire opens his mouth. "Run."

You do just that, tearing out of that place like your life depends on it because it quite literally does.Thankfully, fate finally decides to be kind to you, as your beloved shoes don’t fall off and leave you with a twisted ankle, and the vampire boy doesn’t hunt you down just for kicks and giggles either. You unlock the door of your apartment, ready to flop onto your bed and fall into a long-awaited slumber, hoping that you’d wake up the next morning and realize that everything that had happened was just a dream, you didn’t really encounter a vampire. Unfortunately for you, it’s all real, and painfully so.

Life decides to give you a slap in the face in the name of your roommate and good friend Kim Seokjin, who is still awake and waiting for you on the couch with a cup of tea in one hand and a scowl on his handsome face. He looks annoyed, but you know there’s a softie hiding under that cold, tough exterior he likes to put on. "So, Y/N," he drawls with a sip of his tea and a raise of an eyebrow, "where have you been?" He places his tea down on the saucer on his lap, not breaking eye contact. He’s suspicious, but a suspicious Seokjin is still better than an angry one. You shrug with a loud sigh. "Places." He cocks his head, not sure whether you’re lying or not. "It’s been a long day." You’re not wrong. You flop onto the couch next to him, careful not to make him spill his tea. "Almost got jumped by a creepy old perv," you mutter, leaving out the part where said ‘creepy old pervert’ got killed and drained by a bloodsucker. Your lateness has caused Seokjin enough worry as it is, you don’t need to give him another reason to have a heart attack over you.

Seokjin shakes his head sympathetically. "Poor you." Both of you lapse into silence as Seokjin continues to sip his tea. You know he’s still suspicious. "It’s gonna be Saturday tomorrow, but it's still almost one in the morning. Tae’s coming over tomorrow, and you know how energetic he gets."

You laugh. Seokjin’s younger brother is one of the most eccentric people you’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting, with a peculiar fashion sense and even stranger conversation topics. You think he may have even howled at the moon, once, but you can’t be too sure. It’s all good in the long run – once you get to know him, Taehyung is a genuinely awesome guy. He rises, padding over to the kitchen to wash his teacup. He’s a bit of a hypocrite – you’re an insomniac, and you've never seen Seokjin sleep. The older man stretches, spine cracking obscenely as he makes his way to his room. "Get some sleep, Y/N. I don’t want to see you out here until morning." You fake a yawn to satisfy him, your mind still buzzing with activity after an encounter with an enigmatic bloodsucker who’d saved your life without asking for anything in return. "Night, Jin." That night, you take extra precautions in making sure that the door to your apartment is locked, and that all your windows are closed for certain. You proceed to crawl into your bed and hide under the safety of your covers, squeezing your eyes shut only to see a pair of mesmerizing blue eyes floating at the forefront of your mind, flickering red.

Your eyes fly open.

“So much for sleeping,” you mutter to yourself. Damn bloodsucker. You muffle a scream with your pillow as the vampire in your mind's eye shoots you a charming wink. “Y/N, go to sleep!” Seokjin yells from his room next door.

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soyeahitsmiddleearth · 5 years ago

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Return Her pt. 5

The Company (and friends) x Reader

Womanly charm and Laketown. The company only hates Bard more and more as time passes.

Bard had you close his jacket around you to hide your odd clothing and sat you next to him like before, telling you quietly to let him do the talking because he’s not too popular with the local authorities.

So you did just that, hanging out by the helm with his jacket covering your odd jeans and shirt while he steered into the port thing with a big gate blocking the way.

You’ve never seen anything like it. A town completely on the water that should be beautiful, only it’s dark and gloomy and reeks of poverty and hunger.

Bard exchanges a few words with the man at the gate, they glance back at you at one point before the new man suddenly declares that everything is in order.

Before the approval slip thingy can be given back, though, a slouchy, long-browed, greasy man slinks up and snatches the paper and hisses, “Not so fast."

This new dark-haired man reads over the papers, then looks up and observes the barrels lined up in his boat, "Consignment of empty barrels from the Woodland Realm. Only, they’re not empty, are they, Bard?”

He drops the papers and takes a few steps forward, a weird delighted gleam in his eye at having caught the bargeman off guard. “If I recall correctly, you’re licensed as a bargeman, not a fisherman.” As he says this he picks up a fish from the barrel that Bombur is in, sneering when Bard replies.

“That’s none of your business."

“Wrong. It’s the Master’s business, which makes it my business- Oh.” He pauses when his eyes suddenly fall on you, his facial expression shifting slightly. “What have we here?"

Bard looks over at you, then back at the man with irritation, "Who she is, is no concern of yours. But if you must know she is the sister of my past wife.” He lies smoothly and you find yourself feeling a bit impressed.

“The sister of your past wife, you say?” He doesn’t seem to believe him as he saunters over towards where you’re sitting, “She’s very pretty if you look past them bruises on her face, but I do wonder why she would live outside of the city when your wife was born ‘ere."

Oh, okay he’s attracted to you. That’s good.

Well, it’s gross, but good because you can definitely put that to good use.

You stand up and rack your brain for a fake name before you remember the name of one of the Elvish guards in Mirkwood, "Hello, sir. My name is Aerin.” Despite not wanting to be anywhere near this man, you take a step forward and offer a dazzling smile.

He seems taken aback by your positive response, but not displeased for he also takes a step forward and bows slightly, “I am Alfrid, the right-hand man of the master of this town. At your service.” After he says that he throws the fish into the water and reaches for your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles, and you try your best not to cringe.

“Bard, you did not tell me there were such n-noble men living here in your town.” Alfrid wasn’t looking at your face, but if he was he’d see that you don’t look very happy.

Bard stares at you blankly for a few moments. He knows what you’re doing, they all do except for Alfrid apparently, and he just feels so bad for your poor soul.

The slimy man lets go of your hand and steps back, smiling at you with his crooked, odd teeth before turning back to Bard with the same scowl on his face. “Anyways, these fish are illegal."

"Empty the barrel-”

Before he can finish you speak again. “Bard! How much longer is it going to be? I’m simply yearning to see my nieces and nephew again.” You put extra emphasis on the word yearning and look the creepy man directly in the eyes, smiling coyly before looking back at the dark-haired bargeman. “I know that your devilishly handsome friend here is cross with you, but I really must go see Ta-er- Tilda and the other two.” You think you got the name right.

Flattery get’s you everywhere in life, because your seductive euphemism and shameless compliment seem to make him forget all about dumping the fish out over the edge of the barge. “Handsome?” Ugh, he sounds all too happy about that.

“Aerin I’m afraid Alfrid is upset with me, so I’m not sure how much longer we will be.” Bard plays along, crossing his arms over his chest as he shakes his head, “Forgive me my dear, I pray that this won’t take much longer."

Alfrid looks between the two of you a few times before settling to look at your face, a sickly pleasant smile coming to his face, "No, no. I won’t hold you any more.” He walks back a few paces and steps off the boat, raising his arm, “Raise the gates and welcome our new guest warmly."

And just like that the gate is being raised and the lot of you are gliding through the entrance with no further obstacles.

"Until we meet again, my dear.” He says as you pass by, that same unnerving smile on his face.

You release an all too enthusiastic giggle at his words and wave with faux-shyness, turning only once you’re at least a few meters away.

As soon as you’re out of sight you collapse down on the box and start rubbing the back your hand against his coat, “Ewww, I can’t believe I let him kiss me.” You complain while still rubbing your hand in an attempt to wipe away the awful feeling.

“I can’t either. That was quite the performance.” He sounds amused, and when you glare up at him he looks it too with only hints of sympathy, “If I hadn’t known better I would’ve truly thought you were taken by him."

"Ugh, shut up.” You stop wiping your hand on the coat and look down at it as if you expect there to be something smeared all over it from his too wet lips. “God, maybe I should just cut it off."

"No need for that. Allow me.” The bargeman leans down and takes your hand in his, lifting it up so he can press a kiss in the same place. “There."

Holy shit.

Your face goes hot and when he lets go you allow it to fall back to your side, "W-Well now you’ve indirectly kissed him, so while I may be fine now you’re stuck with the knowledge that your lips have technically touched his.”

At your words there is raging that comes from inside the barrels.

Bard grimaces at your words, it seems he didn’t think of it like that, but he doesn’t allow that to deter him, “I need not worry about that for long, because once your friends get out of those barrels I’m afraid I won’t last much longer.” He pauses, then adds with a smirk, “Or perhaps you can return the favor?"

No one can hear it, but you’re screaming internally.

The raging only gets louder, so you shake your head and stutter out, "N-No way, I don’t want your blood on my hands."

He laughs at that, nodding along as he listens to the grumbles and yelling coming from the barrels of dead fish. "If I am to die anyways then surely you can make an exception.”

“You’re really pushing your luck, Bard! Your death is of when, not if anymore."

—

Eventually you did get near his house, but then one of his kids came running up saying something about their house being watched, and so your poor friends ended up having to come through their toilet.

Dwalin came in first, and the glare he threw at Bard was so withering and dark you nearly cried. Not really, but it was scary.

Bard only seemed to find it funny, though.

Everyone is inside and wrapped up in record time (since it’s the only recorded instance of dwarves and a hobbit coming in from a toilet, it’s only natural that it would set a record), and none of them seem to happy about any of this.

You get along with Bards children rather easily, his youngest is a total cutie pie, but ultimately after that fiasco at the gate you’ve got to hang out with the company a bit more so they don’t murder the poor bargeman.

They’re given some extra clothes to change into and you elect to stand outside with his daughters while everyone changes, conversing with the younger one about her hobbies and other things she likes.

Eventually their brother pokes his head outside and says it’s okay for you all to go back in, and when you do you’re met with the sight of shirt dresses and too long coats.

You feel bad for them right away and head over to where they’re all hanging out by the fire, your eyes immediately falling on the shivering Bilbo.

Right away you go to his side and sit next to him, wrapping your arm around his shoulders to share some of your own heat (since you dried off quite a while ago and changed your jeans out for a pair of leggings you had in your backpack). You pull him closer into your side so his cheek rests against your chest, rubbing his arm lightly to create some warmer friction."I hope you don’t get sick…” You mumble worriedly, looking down at his red face. “Oh god, you’re already going red. You’re not coming down with a cold, right?"

There’s some laughter from the others but you ignore it since you’re suddenly feeling very worried for the small hobbit.

He doesn’t have much body-mass or fat, so surely he’s absolutely freezing.

"Oin, maybe you should come check on Bilbo!” You call, looking up to see that they’re all laughing at you and not something stupid like usual.

You pause and look around in bewilderment, “What’s so funny?"

Nobody responds to you, instead they just keep on chuckling and laughing like they’ve just been given an entire stand-up comedy performance.

"Gosh, let the lad breath, Y/N!” Bofur exclaims between laughs, only causing everyone else to laugh harder.

You furrow your eyebrows and look back down at Bilbo, still completely confused, “What are you talking about? He’s breathing just fine, isn’t he?"

This goes on for a few more minutes, you being baffled and asking questions while everyone else takes jabs and makes jokes, before you finally realize what they’re laughing at. And the only reason you realize is because of the very inappropriate comment Kili makes (despite looking a little pale).

"Hey Y/N, I’m feeling rather cold too, can I have a turn?"

And then there’s more boisterous guffaws and unmanly giggles.

You look back down at Bilbo and see that you’ve pressed his poor face right into your breast, and while you definitely didn’t do it to be weird or anything it seems that you’ve successfully embarrassed him.

"Oh you complete idiots!” You yelp, loosening your hold on Bilbo so he isn’t pressed so firmly against you, “He's cold !” You cry disapprovingly, shaking your head at these immature and lecherous jests, “You wouldn’t be joking like that if I were a guy. Or if it were you!” You grumble, looking away from their overly humored gazes in favor of looking at the wall.

They don’t quit their laughing for another minute or so, but when they do calm down you and the poor hobbit are both successfully humiliated.

“And this is why Bard is my favorite.” You hiss at them, eyes narrowed with an irritated expression on your face.

There’s no more laughter after you say that, and you feel smug at the frustrated and angry looks that pass over their faces.

“I can’t believe you let those men kiss you. They’re all hideous.” Dwalin growls, crossing his arms over his chest like he usually does. “You could do much better."

"Kiss me? My hand you mean?” You ask, raising an eyebrow in question, “Hey, if I didn’t play up that charm y'all woulda been found out so fast. You should be thanking me."

"Wait, so it wasn’t an actual kiss?” Bofur pipes up next, an expression that looks way too relieved on his face.

“Um, no. Why would I let them kiss my mouth? I care about you guys and all but I gotta draw the line somewhere."

"Maybe not that other guy, but you sure seem fond of Bard.” Fili grumbles.

“Oh my god, this again? Are we really gonna have this conversation again?” You really thought they were over it. How foolish of you.

Nori sits up a bit and exclaims, “That was before he kissed your hand!"

You groan over dramatically and throw your head back, "Guyyysss,” you begin in a whiny voice, “It was my hand! My flipping hand!"

A few of them huff, but nobody says anything else about it. Thank god.

—

When Bard returns from whatever he’s doing the dwarves immediately bombard him about the weapons they were promised, and he leaves to go get them.

Only, when he comes back he’s met with a lot of outrage cause his weapons are pretty shitty.

You watch from the opposite side of the table as Bard, looking at the weird grappling hooks and stabby 'weapons’ he provided them with. Also some weird hammers too.

From what you’ve seen, these guys only accept the best of the best when it comes to weaponry, so this just ain’t cutting it. "Um, is this all you’ve got?” You wonder out loud, looking at the pathetic bundle of makeshift things. “Like, you haven’t got any swords or fancy things like that? These guys are total divas about that kinda stuff, so…"

The others around you grumble at your slight jab and at the poor quality of the things they were given until they start to complain about paying him for weapons and these being trash, bla bla bla.

Yeah, you totally called it.

They all continue to argue and Bard says something about an armory, but your attention is grabbed by the sight of Kili and his old man walking stick.

He’s struggling to sit down, no doubt from the awful wound on his leg, so you zoom over quietly (but quickly) and say in a hushed voice, "Hey, you’re not lookin’ very good, Kili."

The brown-haired prince doesn’t look up at you right away, but when he does you can see very clearly just how pale and tired he’s looking.

You take a seat next to him and place your hand on his non-injured knee, glancing over to make sure everyone else is distracted before whispering, "Are you okay?"

He doesn’t do or say anything at first, looking down at your hand for a moment before looking back up at your face, "I’m fine."

Fucking liar.

"Kili, come on. Everyone else might just take that and roll with it, but you’re clearly not. You need to rest more."

Your concern only seems to frustrate him, though, for he rolls his eyes and shakes his head stubbornly, "No, I already told you I’m alright. This will pass, and when it does you’re going to feel really silly for being so worried."

You fix a glare at him, not removing your hand still, and shoot back, "And when it doesn’t, you’re gonna get your ass kicked by me. If you’re not gonna rest or deal with this, then at least let me clean it up so it doesn’t get infected."

He stares at you for a few moments as if trying intimidate you into dropping it, but you return the look with a steely glare that says you’re not asking.

Eventually he sighs and drops his head back, "Fine. Do as you wish."

"Good choice."

You pull your trusty backpack off your back and open it up, looking through it quickly to see if there’s anything there that you could use. When you catch sight of some cotton balls your expression brightens. "Oh, nice.” You take the bag out and place them next to you, then grab the water skin that they gave you and some tweezers you kept in your makeup case.

Without hesitation you move onto the floor on the other side of him and kneel down so you’re closer to eye level with his nasty wound.

Ew.

You unwind the wrap slowly, glancing up occasionally to make sure you’re not hurting him, and once you’re done you drop it on the ground and crinkle up your nose at the unsightly hole in his leg. “Yikes, you’re the biggest fucking liar in the world."

He doesn’t get a chance to retort because right away you gently grab the front of his leg to add a bit of press to test just how tender it is and if it’s still bleeding.

It is.

More blood begins to well up and you barely keep yourself from gagging, and he groans quietly in pain.

You take your tweezers and cotton balls and place them on the bench next to you, then go for your waterskin.

A handful of cotton balls and a bit of splashing later, and you’ve got some wet cotton to work with.

The tweezers tips clink together softly when you close them a few times just to make sure they work right, then you grab one of the cotton balls with it and begin to gently clean up the area around his arrow wound.

Very quickly the white fluff of the wet cotton turns red and smushy, so you drop it with the gross bandaging and grab another.

This process of cleaning, dropping, and getting another goes on until it looks mostly cleansed, and once it is you begin to search for something else to bind his leg with.

You sit there and think for a moment before an idea strikes you.

Once said idea comes to your head, you sit up a bit straighter and wrap your arm around his thigh from the bottom, reaching up to touch your shoulder to see if your sleeve can properly wrap around his leg.

"Uh, Y-Y/N? What are you doing?” He mumbles, looking at you oddly.

“I’m trying to see if it’ll fit…” You say absentmindedly, slowly letting go.

He chokes on air and splutters, “What?!"

You don’t reply and instead pull both your arms out of your sleeves, lifting it a bit so your head goes in and you can get your arms out properly, and once both arms are poking through the hole for your head, you pull your head through too and secure it just above your chest. "There we go."

Once that awkward sight is through with, you grab the sleeve of the arm just wrapped around his leg and begin trying to rip it off.

It looks so much easier in the movies.

You pull and tug and even try to bite at it, but it won’t give like you thought it would.

After a minute or so of trying to rip it off with brute strength, you stop and glare at the offending piece of fabric, "Awh, freak…"

You put your arms back into your shirt properly and return them through the sleeves, standing with irritation on your face, "Don’t move a muscle or I’ll cry and tell everyone you called me fat.” You threaten before approaching Sigrid, Bard’s oldest daughter.

The two of you whisper for a moment, then disappear into another room only to appear again minutes later.

You’re now wearing a soft red blouse (one of her nicer shirts) with your long sleeved white (it’s not really white anymore) ringer shirt hanging over your arm.

With quick steps you walk over to Fili, who was speaking with everyone else, and tug lightly at the back of his borrowed shirt.

He pauses in his listening and turns to look up at you, raising an eyebrow in question. “You’re wearing something new.” He comments.

You ignore said comment and hold out your shirt to him, “I need you to get the sleeves off. It’s for Kili."

Before he can ask questions you go back to said brother and kneel back down, taking a dry cotton ball to soak up the blood that had begun to gather while you were busy.

Right before you finish with dabbing at the blood, Fili approaches with your now tattered and destroyed shirt, both sleeves held out to you in pretty good condition (though the same can’t be said for the torso…) all things considered.

"Thank you Fili.” You beam, taking the sleeves from him without hesitation.

With deft movements you tie the ends of the sleeves together tightly, pulling on it to make sure the knot is good, before beginning to wrap it around his leg. “Do I have to do it tightly, or is that not a good idea?"

"Wrap it tightly enough to where it’ll stay on and clot the wound, but not too tight that it’ll make his leg numb.” Fili responds, crouching down to watch as you begin to gently but firmly wind it around his thigh.

“Like this?” You ask, pulling on it a bit to make sure it doesn’t loosen or fall.

“Yeah, that’s good."

Once you’re done, you tuck it under one of the first coils and tie it firmly. "Is it too tight?” You ask, glancing up at him with furrowed eyebrows.

Kili shakes his head, releasing a shaky sigh, before reaching down to smooth his hand over it, “Thank you, Y/N…"

A small smile comes to your face as you get up to sit down next to him. "Where would you fools be without me?” Your voice is good natured and humorous, but he can see the worry hidden in your expression.

“Probably dead.” He jokes, looking over at Fili who laughs lightly.

“That sounds about right."

You wrap your arm around his shoulders much like you did to Bilbo earlier, looking down at the stark white of your now ruined shirt being used as a binding for his leg, "So long shirt.” You mumble.

You look back at Fili and open your mouth to say something, but you cut yourself off when you feel a weight pressing against your left boob.

Fili starts to laugh, and you don’t even have to look to know that he’s trying to be sly.

Kili elected to lean against you much like Bilbo earlier, and though your eye twitches and the thought of flicking his nose passes your mind, you allow it.

He’s wounded, but as soon as he gets better you're definitely going to kick his ass.

And you tell him as much.

“You’re so freaking lucky you got shot.”

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apriumjam · 6 years ago

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Satsuriku no Tenshi Light Novel Volume 2 - Prologue

Satsuriku no Tenshi - Blessing in Disguise - Prologue

Story by Makoto Sanada, written by Chiren Kina, illustrations by Negiyan, translations by me.

If you want to help out with translations, feel free to contact me!

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Eddie’s Memory | Her Memory of Cathy || Index

The elevator reeks with the stench of fresh blood. The silence is so complete that Ray can hear her own heartbeat thundering in her chest – and her anxiety rises to a fever pitch.

Her calm blue eyes are like that of a still lake at the dead of night. And those quiet eyes of hers reflect only the gaping red wound in Zack’s stomach. It’s painful to look at. Ray slips her trembling hands beneath Zack’s shoulders, and attempts to pull him from the gloomy elevator.

(Heavy…)

However, Zack is unconscious, which makes doing anything of the sort extremely difficult. But she can’t just leave him there. Somehow, using all her strength, she manages to drag him out.

Blood falls to the ground like a pitter patter of rain drops as she drags the man out, the act of pulling him causing more blood to flow.

“Haah…”

(My hands are numb…)

Her body suddenly loses its energy. It’s at that moment that, at the corner of her eye, she suddenly notices a flickering light fall to the ground. Looking behind her, she can see the entire hallway has candles uniformly dispersed along the walls. The lights seem to continue on indefinitely.

(It’s different from the floors before…)

As she gazes down the rather solemn hallway, for some reason, she feels her heart jolt a little. Even throughout B3, she had felt an inorganic atmosphere characteristic of a building. But she can’t feel that at all anymore. She’s seized by the feeling that she’s accidentally wandered into some sort of dignified castle or mansion. But the elevator has, like all the floors before it, “B2” written in red letters.

B2 – they’ve finally come this far. But why did it have to be like this? Ray takes a deep breath to get her bearings, then musters the rest of her strength to take Zack to a wall.

“Zack, we’re on B2,” she whispers quietly, peering into his face as she sits on the ground in front of him.

“…” But he doesn’t respond. Ray’s heart pounds even further at the foreboding thought that this could be the worst possible situation. What should she do? How can she get Zack to open his eyes? He looks so pitiful – as if he might die—and Ray can’t possibly think things calmly like she normally does.

(…Zack.)

It seems unbelievable that after killing Cathy, they had gotten onto the elevator and simply exchanged a normal conversation. However, after falling prey to that woman’s numerous traps, and even injecting himself with strange drugs, Zack’s body is entirely hurt. It wasn’t that strange for that to happen to him.

If Zack doesn’t wake up…the promise we made…

Trying to dispel all the misgivings she feels, Ray takes a deep breath. The terrible end she imagines this coming to, so awfully vivid that it makes her want to close her eyes, is likely nothing more than despair.

(Zack, no…I don’t want this.)

You swore to kill me. You swore to God.

Please…wake up, Zack.

Praying fervently, she stares intently at Zack’s closed eyes, nearly covered by the bandages that wrap his face.

“…”

And, then as if her prayers had been heard – Zack’s eyes flutter open, his face warping in pain.

“Zack, thank goodness…!” Ray’s voice can’t help but grow strained with relief.

“…Aah? We made it…?” His voice hardly leaks out. But his vision is hazy and dark; he can’t see very well. He’s only able to figure out that they aren’t on the elevator due to the strange silence.

“Yes, we’re on B2. But…”

“B2…then let’s go.” He appears unconcerned about the state of his own body. He immediately attempts to stand.

“No! You’re still bleeding!” Ray immediately grabs at the grey sleeves of Zack’s hoodie, trying to stop his reckless movements.

“Huh? …Blood? This is nothin’.” Zack is as impertinent as a child. He doesn’t even attempt to look at his own wound, and Ray’s face pulls into a frown.

“No. The wound isn’t closed – if it opens even more, that’ll be dangerous.”

“I already told ya, it’s fine…” Though Zack attempts to appear strong, his voice isn’t nearly as energetic as it once was. On the contrary, it’s hoarse, as if he might go out again at any moment.

“…No.” Ray looks up at Zack’s face with an expression of sorrow the likes of which she hasn’t shown before. If she says “yes, let’s go” now, Zack will simply push forward, even if he has to drag himself. But that’s simply absurd in this situation. Not to mention that it’s obvious they should rest until the wound closes.

“Huh? Ray…”

In his blurry vision, he sees her making a strange expression, one he’s never seen before. He dimly feels like it might be a bit of a human-like expression. But, because of the intense pain, his consciousness drifts away once more.

“What are ya…makin’ that weird face for…”

Zack’s snakelike eyes narrow even further as he stares into Ray’s muddy blue ones. He sees himself reflected in those eyes as she stares at him intensely. He wonders why – that expression is quite odd.

(Weird face…?)

Why would he say something like that at a time like this? Ray’s eyebrows furrow slightly.

“I’m making a weird face…?” she quietly asks, turning her face away a little. She can’t exactly see her own face, but if it really does look that weird, she would rather he not look at her. But Zack doesn’t respond.

“…Zack?”

She has a bad feeling. Fearfully looking up, she sees that his eyes are closed. That sharp, gleaming golden eye is hidden beneath the bandages winding about his face.

He’s unconscious…

But she is once again assailed by distress, causing her heart to beat harshly.

“…Zack!”

She feels like if she calls that name again, he might open his eyes once more. But his eyelids don’t even twitch. It doesn’t seem he’s about to wake up, either.

Cautiously bringing her face closer to his, she notes that she can feel him breathing.

(It’s okay, he’s just asleep…)

Zack is still alive.

Relieved, she exhales slightly. But she has no time to sit around leisurely. If she doesn’t do something about this soon, Zack will die.

However, it’s not realistic for her to drag his heavy body around. She has no idea what might be lurking on the rest of this floor.

In addition, fresh blood continues to drip from the wound he gave himself. She always carries a sewing kit, with thread and needle. But there’s no point in sewing the wound right now. If she doesn’t stop the bleeding and disinfect the injury soon, the worst possible situation might happen.

(If Zack dies, that’ll be a problem…)

Dark clouds loom within Ray’s mind. However, as she digs her hand into her bag, she sees that she has nothing for first aid. Just what should she do…? She hangs her head in the face of encroaching despair.

If he dies, I won’t be able to get him to kill me…

Her emotionless eyes reflect the horrible wound on his stomach.

“When we get outta here together…I’ll kill you.”

That promise resonates within her ears.

However, she continues looking at the softly breathing Zack, expression unchanging. The blood dripping from his injury is painful to look at. But Zack had done that to himself for no one else but her.

With a soft sigh, she stands.

As she looks down at him, her heart wells up with an emotion she has never felt before. She still doesn’t understand what that might mean. There’s only one thing she knows: that she must leave Zack here to go and find medicine or a first aid kit, on her own –

“…Zack, wait just a bit.”

Seeing Zack lying there motionlessly makes it seem as if all his energy and liveliness earlier had been merely a lie. It gives her pause to leave him in such a dangerous place while he hovers between life and death. Someone might come. And it wouldn’t be strange for an ordinary person to lose complete consciousness in this situation. But she can’t just continue standing around here.

(First of all, I’ll look to see if there’s any medicine on this floor…)

The promise she had made with Zack cuts deep into her heart, as if at some point it had become a part of her.

I’ll definitely be useful to you…so, until then, please…

The words Zack had spoken to her ever since they had made the promise on B5….cradling them all, her hands form into fists.

Looking back at Zack just once more, she advances down the hall to the next room. She’s worried about him. But she doesn’t think to look back again. She only has a bit of time left –

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magioftheseas · 6 years ago

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It’s Such A Waste

KamuKoma Week Day 1: childhood lovers / soulmates

alt: hope / despair

Summary: Kamukura Izuru doesn't feel anything except resentment for everything and everyone else. Such resentment is kindled while his feelings for that wayward childhood friend of his remain. Predictably, this is a dire descent.

Rating: T

Warnings: Mentions of violence but nothing graphically described. Also some unhealthy behavior.

Notes: First fic for the new KamuKoma Week this year! And we’re starting off with a...weird one. It’s not like a certain fic from last year, but uh, considering the prompts, it *is* in a similar vein, huh. I wanted to write a “descent into despair” fic for this kind of AU, basically, and my mind was all over the place. I feel like you can tell. Well. Please enjoy anyway. :>

***Alternate Ao3 Link***

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“Kamukura-senpai, was it?”

Her smile is bright and cheerful, twisted like a carnivorous plant. Like any other predator, she flashes her teeth.

“I’ve heard about you,” she says, humming. “Quite the lone wolf, eh?”

“Why is this your concern?” His own gaze narrows. “There is no reason for our pathways to intersect, as we are of different classes and grades. And yet, here you are. Your regard is not one driven by mere curiosity, it seems.”

Her lips part.

“Ooh. Is that your talent?”

“You know the answer and yet you ask to be cheeky. How boring.” I can already see through this girl’s saccharine farce. “I implore once again. Why are you so concerned with my existence? Is there a role you wish for me to play? A means in which I can be useful to you? I am not interested either way. You are obvious. Transparent. Blatant. A simpleton. You are boring.”

Her smile twitches, just the slightest bit.

“Wow,” she sighs, inhaling. “You’re one fucking guy.”

She skips forward, placing her well-manicured hands on his chest.

“I think we’ll get along just swimmingly, senpai. After all, I think we’re pretty similar.” Her expression softens. “If there’s anyone who understands me, then surely it’s you, Ultimate Analyst, Kamukura Izuru-senpai.”

...

Huh.

He has always known that he was particularly gifted for a child. He was always told as much, always expected of as much. He supposes that someone as himself was destined to never live a normal life from the start. When one is beloved by talent, those who lack it are attracted like ticks to cattle.

He has grown used to and weary of such inevitabilities. Even those extraordinary in one regard are predictable and expectably needy and clingy. People are all the same when it comes to what they want but do not have.

Parasitic. But predictable. And boring. So very, very boring. He has no need for such neediness. It is sickening.

His childhood friend is already such a dire case.

“Ah! Everyone’s so bright! It’s beautiful...!”

His worthless, useless childhood friend who coos over their class pictures like a starving dog over scraps of meat.

“They all look so happy, they’re shining... So, so beautiful... Isn’t it wonderful that everyone’s getting along so wonderfully?” he murmurs, marveling. “Aha... Hahaha... It’s just a shame that your face is dour as always, Izuru-kun.”

“I do not see why our class excites you so,” Kamukura replied drearily. “They are all the same. Wretched and clingy. If it were not for the Class Rep, they would be utterly directionless. And...”

They are not kind to you.

“Doesn’t that just make the Class Rep even better?” his childhood friend asks, eyes wide. “Oh, Izuru-kun, you really should be more open to her. You likely won’t regret it.”

“Boring. So boring.” Kamukura’s gaze flickers to one where the entire class is posing and grinning. All of them save for two. Himself, as he was the one to take the picture. And save for his childhood friend, who had been out sick. This picture is their teacher’s favorite. “I could not be less interested, especially in regards to someone so narrow-minded.”

“Spoken like a shallow cynic,” the other sighs. “Izuru-kun, for a symbol of hope, despite being so incredible and splendid in your own right, you really are disappointing...”

There is nothing to say to that.

“Is there really nothing at Hope’s Peak that peaks your interest?”

There was still nothing to say.

“Ahhh. You might just be hopeless, then. How sad. That’s so horrible... Izuru-kun...”

Is it really hopelessness? Is it really horrible? Is it really—?

“Nagito.” It does not matter. He does not care. Not about any of that. “How are you feeling?”

He places his hand over Nagito’s flushed forehead, noting how his childhood friend’s wretched, wan cheeks darken from a rising blush.

“You are still feverish. I see.”

Nagito coughs so much that his eyes are watery. He manages to regain himself after Kamukura rubs his back.

“Aha. Hahaha. It’s not like it really matters. I’m still suspended,” he says, smile twisted. “Izuru-kun, seriously. Your school life is going to waste the longer you bother with me. Sensei wouldn’t like that.”

You always say such things. As if such matters concerned me at all. They do not.

All these years and you still don’t understand, Nagito?

“Boring. So boring. I have nothing better to do than tend to you, Nagito.”

“Aw, that’s definitely not true... Flatterer...” Nagito’s giggle is wheezy, painful, and anything but endearing. “You should be leading the world’s future with everyone else, Izuru-kun. You should be generating the Ultimate Hope.”

“Boring. So boring.”

He thinks about how easy it would be to twist his childhood friend’s thin, delicate neck where there had once been scars from rope.

This person who talks of the future is someone who draws closer and closer to death, both willingly and inevitably.

“It’s booooooring, isn’t it?”

“...”

“Upupupupu. Senpai, despite that stoicism, you’re actually pretty easy to read, too.”

“...”

“You hate it, don’t you? This world. This place. That’s why you can’t even be bothered to perk up a little. You’re so gloomy. It’s so sad. So...despairing!”

“...”

“Senpai, we’re the same, aren’t we?”

“...”

Her arms lock around his own, and she presses up close.

“Aren’t we?”

“It really is a shame.”

“Such a tragedy.”

“What a waste.”

“What a horrible thing to happen.”

“It’s unfortunate. But...”

“...what’s going to be done about the child? Komaeda-san and his wife don’t have any relatives, do they?”

The chattering was obnoxious, especially when done in pseudo quiet whispers. The only one truly quiet because they truly did not want to be heard was Komaeda Nagito, sobbing softly behind the building.

He doesn’t even notice when he’s being approached. He’s curled into a ball. He’s trembling. He’s crying after hours of blankly nodding and acknowledging every adult who attended the funeral. He does stir when poked in the shoulder, but tears continue to spill over as his breath hitches.

“I...I... Izuru-kun...”

His face is frankly disgusting. Swollen and leaking from every orifice save for those reddened ears. The red-brown strands are stuck to his skin, damp from various fluids. It’s disgusting.

He sits beside him, staring up at him. Nagito’s disgusting face buries itself in his shoulder.

“I-I’m sorry... I-I’m so...sorry...”

Without really thinking, his fingers run through those red-brown strands. The ones that are dry are also soft to the touch. It’s not unpleasant, unlike everything else.

“Izuru-kun... U-Uu... S-Sorry...”

“It is fine.”

His parents had them interact in order to impress Nagito’s parents. Now, to continue interacting was utterly unnecessary.

And yet, he had no desire to be anywhere else besides the side of this person who clearly, truly needed him. Not for any particular reason than for the general, instinctual desire for companionship.

“It’s fine, Nagito.”

“It’s so boooooring,” she sighs. “And exhausting. Watching a bunch of needy self-serving fucks tail each other. It really makes me so sick that I could just throooow up!”

She’s pressing into his side. She reeks of sickeningly sweet strawberries. He inwardly thinks of Nagito, who just smelled of sterile hospital rooms and soap. These two are nothing alike. It goes without saying that Nagito’s presence is preferred.

But.

Nagito would not cling to him like this. Not anymore. Not when he’s been deemed a disappointment.

“Don’t you wanna see it burn to the ground?” she asks. “Wouldn’t it be way fucking better if everything just burned to the fucking ground?”

“...mm...”

He thinks of how Nagito’s eyes had sparkled when they gazed upon this school for the first time. How his pale hands tightly gripped his acceptance letter. How his knees quaked and bucked.

Nagito had not always cared so much about talent. This wretched place ruined him. So, perhaps.

“Perhaps that would be better,” he murmured. “If it was just reduced to ash.”

It would not make much of a difference, that said. Hope’s Peak Academy was emblematic of the world’s follies and frivolities, but it was merely the refined product. Burning the campus to the ground would not dissipate the poison already sunken into the earth.

But it would be damn satisfying.

Wouldn’t it.

Especially with how this school had affected his Nagito and warped him for the worst.

Her smile is a knowing one. He does not return it.

She gives him another knowing smile when he sees her latched onto a certain Tsumiki Mikan’s arm in passing. He does not return that, either.

“Has Junko been harassing you?”

He twitches, but his expression remains unchanged.

“It is but a minor trifle, Matsuda Yasuke.”

Matsuda’s look darkens, but he shrugs his shoulders over it.

“If you say so. But don’t let her hear you say that.”

“It does not matter. Nothing she does will ever matter to me, Matsuda Yasuke.”

“Sure, sure.” He waves his hand. “But you have been in a worse fucking mood lately. More agitated. You’re usually somewhat complacent so what the hell’s your problem?”

“...nothing. Nothing at all.”

Matsuda, predictably, looks unimpressed.

“Sure. Nothing. Komaeda’s suspension is going to end pretty soon, huh?”

“Yes. It is.”

“Tell him to come visit me right away, will you? Dumbass still doesn’t have a cell phone, so...”

“I will. Of course. You are his doctor, after all.” He speaks the words lowly. “So of course. I will.”

Matsuda snorted, averting his gaze back to the open manga in his hand.

“No need to be such a bitch about it. I swear.” A pause. “You really, really should stay away from Junko. With how irritable you’ve been? She’ll get under your skin big time.”

“...”

“But, you know.” Matsuda flips the page. “She’s actually told me about how you more or less let her chat your fucking ear off. That’s curious.” He shuts the book. “Stay the hell away from her. For your own sake.”

“...” Kamukura tilts his head. “What an odd thing to say about your childhood friend.”

“I mean it,” he hissed. “It’d be a pain in the fucking ass if you got caught up in one of her schemes. If not for yourself, don’t get involved in something dumb for Komaeda’s sake.”

He does not dislike Matsuda Yasuke, not truly. Of all other elite students, himself excluded, he is one of the very few who tolerates and even indulgences Nagito’s rambles. Nagito especially adores Matsuda Yasuke, even compared to his adoration for all elite students. He does not dislike him, for that. He understands the kind of person Matsuda Yasuke is, and on some level, he does appreciate it.

Matsuda Yasuke is not the type to bring up sentimental matters lightly. He knows this. That said.

That said.

“She is not wrong about every little thing she says,” Kamukura finds himself saying. “Not when it comes to Hope’s Peak.”

You are not spared from any of that, kind as you may be. You’re complacent.

You have no right to talk about what’s best for Nagito when you’re complacent.

“Kamukura,” Matsuda responds warningly. “Look, I’m serious...”

“You bore me. I have no interest in furthering this conversation.”

“Urgh.” Matsuda rolled his eyes. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t fucking warn you.”

From someone like you, I really don’t need to hear it.

Truth be told, he’s never much cared for Hope’s Peak from the start.

Perhaps that’s privileged of him. But it was how he felt. It had always been how he felt.

Especially back then. And especially when ‘back then’ had to change because of it.

“Kamukura Izuru-kun, was it? That’s a pretty interesting name. How do you spell it?”

“Is there something you want?”

“Testy, testy.” The man smiles wryly, tugging down his hat. “I’ve heard things about you. So I decided to size you up for myself. Nothing wrong with that, riiiight?”

Of course, he had already known who this person was. Everyone did. To be approached was an experience most could only dream of. He is aware of the fact that his classmates both admire and resent him, and this will only fester those feelings further.

But it’s not those menial nobodies he’s concerned about.

“Hm. You seem to have a lot on your mind, kid,” the man hummed.

“You seem slightly buzzed,” Kamukura retorted. “Your collar is wrinkled, there are stains on your shirt that you have poorly hidden behind your jacket, your face is not consistently shaven. You keep tugging down your hat because you are nervous, even though your smile is so plastered that you must have been in this situation several times over already. Are you really a representative of Hope’s Peak Academy...? It seems the school is more stressful than paradisiacal if you’re any indication. Kizakura-san, was it?”

“Yep.” Kizakura’s grin widened as he held up a hand. “That’s me. And no doubt about it, you’re the real deal.”

Real deal. As if talent is something you can fake.

“With all due respect, I have no interest in enrolling,” he said. “My childhood friend is sickly and susceptible. I have no intention of leaving him to the world’s mercy.”

Nagito suffers enough as it is. But... Once he hears about this...

“I would like for you to report that I am not what you had assumed, that you were disappointed,” he said, lowly so that no one else would hear. “I am not a desirable addition. Something along those lines.”

Kizakura’s grin twisted.

“You don’t want your friend to feel guilty, eh? Remarkably loyal kid, I see.” With that, he pulls out his card. “I can respect that. But, you really do have a place at Hope’s Peak. There’s no one quite like you, Kamukura-kun.”

Adults say that all the time. What boring, worthless words.

“Besides,” Kizakura adds cheekily. “Who knows? That friend of yours might be the winner of the lottery.”

Kamukura takes the card to be polite, nodding and saying nothing more. Even with those words, he had full intention of throwing it away once out of sight.

“Izuru-kun!”

Of course, once he had the opportunity, it was as if the other had been summoned.

“Nagito.”

He hides the card expertly, in such a way that even Nagito wouldn’t notice. Nagito, who was flushed with sparkling eyes. Against his paling hair, such features stood out even more.

“I-I heard you were approached by a scout for Hope’s Peak!” he burst out. “Is that really true?”

“It is. But I may not be accepted, Nagito.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Nagito takes his hands and squeezes them tightly. “Someone as amazing as you? You belong there, Izuru-kun!”

I would rather be by your side above all else, Nagito.

He only sighs.

“We shall see. But please do not concern yourself for now, Nagito.” Nagito’s frown deepens, but he squeaks when Kamukura pulls a hand free to ruffle his hair. “You have not overexerted yourself, have you?”

“Izuru-kun, I’m not five...”

“If you collapse again, it will be worrying.”

“You worry too much...”

“You need to take care, Nagito.”

“Uu...”

Yes, regardless of what would happen, he had decided that he would remain by Komaeda Nagito’s side, always.

(And of course, when Nagito showed up on his doorstep, with both an acceptance letter and medical papers in his trembling grip, Kamukura knew his fate was sealed, and after reading through both as Nagito fidgeted anxiously at his table, he resented Hope’s Peak Academy a little more.)

“Yep! It’s pretty damn sickening! How do you think the reserve students keep themselves from rioting, I wonder?”

“...”

The reserve course...are ticks. So I do not care for them. They are not like Nagito.

“That saaaaaid, our fellow student body is so carefree that it’s mind-numbingly boring. Just pass the exams and you’re fiiiine, jeez, how’s that supposed to shape them for the future? It’s just going to make them duller and duller. We need spice! Something like—like a burst!”

“...”

A burst...perhaps that would be more interesting. As it is, there is a precarious, wretched system in place. One that Nagito is swayed by and fixated on. Something so dreary and cold...

He’s so bored by it.

“More than anything, I want to see the Ultimate Hope spring forth,” Nagito would say.

Under these circumstances? Where the strife and struggles of people are muffled and suffocated while the talented few skirt by with little to no effort? And Nagito thinks I’m disappointing?

“Even if you don’t say anything, I know you agree with me,” she says, chortling. “That’s why you agreed to meet me here, right? This is the old main building. Some students still meet up here for club activities. Right now, we’re going to meet a very particular group.”

Kamukura perks, and he can already guess.

“The student council. They do not strike me as the type to be terribly interested in what you have to say.”

“They’re not,” she said. “Which is why we’re going to play with them another way. Muku-nee should be finished setting things up. I definitely want you to see this, senpai.”

Kamukura blinked, and then, he can viscerally feel the chill brought about by the atmosphere and underlying meaning to her words.

“What are you talking about?”

Enoshima Junko spins around on her heel, and the smile on her face is something that cannot be described any more than the gaping maw of the void.

He can’t help but recall that time in middle school that Nagito had been missing. When he asked around, his classmates shrugged. There were mutters about how maybe he ran away—or maybe ran off to die. He called the police, but was shrugged off by them, as well. He wasn’t Nagito’s family, after all, and maybe he just ran away? What did it matter?

He sees Nagito on the news, and he does not hesitate to rush to the hospital he’s being held at. He is not allowed to see him at that point, either. Brushed off. Disregarded.

Worthless.

When Nagito was released, he did not wait a second before taking him into his arms.

“Sorry,” Nagito mumbled, as if embarrassed. “I’m really, really sorry for worrying you, Izuru-kun. But... Look!” He shows him the lottery ticket in his bone-white grip. “I... I-I won, Izuru-kun! Isn’t that amazing?”

“...I am just glad to see you safe and sound. We should go home, Nagito.”

Nagito giggled, clinging to him as they took the train back. He kept smiling and laughing, grinning wildly as he rambled about what happened. No one would have thought much about it, but the way Nagito’s breath sometimes hitched and wheezed...

“Oh, oh, but sometimes they’d watch TV,” Nagito would say, referring to his kidnapper. “I got to see such a wonderful speech given by Headmaster Kirigiri of Hope’s Peak Academy!”

Nagito’s eyes are sparkling.

“...”

“I’m sorry for taking to long to get back to you, though, Izuru-kun,” he added hurriedly. “Um, I wasn’t exactly fed...so I was in pretty bad state when the police finally found me...”

“...”

“I just... I didn’t want you to worry, which was why I headed off on my own...but I really, really, really messed that up, Izuru-kun, I’m sorry...”

“...”

“B-But it wasn’t so bad! I, um... It’s good, actually...” Nagito trailed off. “If you had been with me that day and if you had been kidnapped as well... That would’ve been the worst. I never would want to drag you down, Izuru-kun.”

“Have you been getting rest, Nagito?”

“A-Actually, I’ve been too agitated to sleep well for a while, but...” Nagito yawns. “For some reason, I’m super drowsy now. Maybe it’s because I’m with Izuru-kun.”

“I will let you know when we reach our stop, so it is alright, Nagito.”

“Mm...”

Nagito slumps into his shoulder. His eyelids start to droop. Tenderly, Kamukura strokes his hair. He is paler than before. Frailer than before.

“It is alright, Nagito.”

It was funny. How easily they turned on each other when it started with just one person lashing out. It had been so remarkably easy. So very, very easy.

Enoshima Junko hums as she watches, and he watches as well.

The Ultimates are meant to lead the future, but they’re so easy to misdirect. How pitiful it is. And, yet.

“Pretty entertaining too, am I right?” she asks, grinning widely before gasping. “Oh! Wow! Look at all that blood! Damn, that one was bruuuuutal.”

“How fragile harmony in this world really is,” he murmured. “Well, it is unsurprising.”

And Nagito called them symbols of hope...

He can see how twisted, warped, and wretched these beings tearing each other apart really were. His own lips twist. How deep and effortlessly this display of despair runs.

“Is that excitement, senpai?”

“It is disappointment.”

“So beautiful! So bright! So splendid, so wonderful! You are all just so...”

“Dude just shuuuuut up. No one wants to hear that!”

Nagito’s mouth shuts obediently. With a harsh ‘tch’, their classmate turns away, but he is not the only one who looks upon Nagito with disdain and contempt.

“Komaeda-kun,” their teacher says gently. “The things you say are just a little...”

“Aha. Haha. It’s because I’m trash compared to them. Right, right?”

“Oh, you definitely shouldn’t say that...”

“But isn’t it true?”

“Of course it’s not.”

Kamukura’s eyes narrowed sharply.

“Seriously why does that freak have to be so weird?”

“It’s sooooo creepy!”

“His words are akin to toxic fumes.”

“Komaeda-kun...really is uncomfortable to be around, sometimes...”

“He’s not a bad person, but...”

“He just needs to stay the hell away from us.”

“Sensei. Nidai Nekomaru and Owari Akane are fighting again.”

“Ahhh, I should probably make sure those two don’t wreck anything the gardening club made... This conversation isn’t over, Komaeda-kun!”

“Good luck, sensei.”

She brushes past them, worked up into a huff. He regards her coldly before turning to Nagito. Nagito who seems much more tired than before.

“Aha... Haha, thanks for saving me, Izuru-kun.” He offers a pitiful smile. “Sensei is really kind, isn’t she? But, she...really doesn’t understand...”

“She is willfully ignorant.”

“I wouldn’t go that far...”

“She only speaks to you in regards to how you’re treated. Not the others.”

“Well, it is more my fault, right? I’m so bad at conveying myself... I really am worthless...”

“I understand you fine.” The others are at fault. They are the truly worthless ones. “Right?”

Nagito’s cheeks darken.

“Izuru-kun’s my oldest, dearest, and only friend. That’s for sure.” His smile widens more, but it also strains more. “But, Izuru-kun... Don’t you think you’re too attached to me?”

“...”

“I mean,” he inhales. “Compared to the others, I really am a nobody. You shouldn’t limit yourself to me. Um. I’d just be happy to see you happy, Izuru-kun, even if it’s from afar.”

“...”

“We’re friends. I just want what’s best for you.”

“...”

Time means nothing. It is about effort.

“I only want you, Nagito.”

Nagito sputtered a bit, flustering.

“You really should mature one of these days, Izuru-kun...! You can’t keep saying that!”

What else should I say?

“Mm.”

How compared to you, everyone else is akin to insects and murk? How hope means nothing to me so much as the way you light up at the mention of it? How despair, too, is nothing until I see the way your gaze falls as you’re ostracized by people you love and admire time and time again? Those wretched people who fail to appreciate the incredible gift they’re given with zero effort on their part?

“It remains how I feel, Nagito.”

“Geez...” Nagito frowns. “That’s so troubling. Sensei’s right. You should make other friends.”

“...”

Other people are nothing. I feel nothing.

In the end, there’s not much to feel. These are, for all intents and purposes, complete strangers who are suffering. Is he really supposed to care?

“...boring...so boring...”

“Awww!” Enoshima whines. “You’re leaving already? There’s still a few left to go!”

“I have seen enough of these nobodies.”

“Nobodies?” She blinks, batting her eyelashes. “Oh, my, senpai, you aren’t suggesting...”

“Take from that what you will,” Kamukura said. “Are you going to stop me?”

“Noooope.” She shakes her head. “I’m happy with the amount of attention you’ve given me thus far, senpai. I hope to engage you more and more down the line. This is the start of a beautiful friendship.”

I only need one friend.

“How much despair do you plan to cause, Enoshima Junko?”

“Enough to throw the whole world into chaos, preferably!”

“...”

“My luck works in a very specific pattern, Izuru-kun! Good luck begets bad luck begets good luck begets bad luck begets good luck! So, you really should be more careful around me.”

“Understood. I will be careful.”

“Admittedly, I’m not sure what good luck could balance out the bad luck of losing Izuru-kun, but... You know, Izuru-kun, the more people struggle, the stronger they get...”

“Is that so.”

“I-It is so! What I mean is... You shouldn’t give up regardless of what my bad luck throws at you... You’re an Ultimate, now, so you should be able to overcome any despair and...bring about a bright and shining hope, right?”

“I suppose.”

“Do you understand, Izuru-kun...?”

“Of course I do, Nagito.”

“Good luck with that, I suppose, Enoshima Junko.”

“Aww, thanks!”

With that, he leaves.

There is only one place he can return to.

Because how late in the hour it is, much is obfuscated by darkness, but he knows the code to the door by heart. Even if he did not, he would be able to tell from the buttons that were the most worn under his fingertips. The door is opens. He steps inside, shutting the door behind him and locking it.

Nagito sleeps peacefully, the picture of serenity. Such a contrast to the violent exhibition of before. Nagito sleeps, unknowing and untouched.

He wishes to keep it that way. His childhood friend is one he wants to keep protected. But, above all else...

He wants to keep him close.

So much so that he finds himself crawling into the other’s bed.

“Mmm... Izuru-kun...?”

Nagito stirs from his slumber. He opens his mouth to apologize, but rather than saying the word, he just ends up pressing closer to Nagito’s meager warmth and nuzzles into Nagito’s soft hair.

“W-What...?” Nagito stiffens, but with time, he does relax. His heart is pounding. Kamukura can tell that it’s pounding. “I-Izuru-kun, um... Is something wrong? It’s so late. Why are you here?”

It’s rather ironic, he can’t help but think. I thought of Nagito on death’s doorstep, but it turns out that he is incomparable to a corpse.

“Mm...”

“Izuru-kun?”

Nagito shivers when lips brush against his nape. It’s surprisingly warm. Nagito is warm. He’s especially warm to the touch.

“Izuru-kun...? Did something happen...?”

“It does not matter. Not in the slightest. But allow me to stay here for the night, Nagito.”

“O-Oh. Um... O-Okay...”

Just like this, he can relax with ease. Nagito tense, but he, too, unwinds from careful strokes of his wrists and shoulders.

“Izu...ru-kun...”

“It is alright, Nagito.”

“Hah...”

“It’s fine.”

When Komaeda finally managed to return to class, the reserve course was rioting and he had heard some awful, wretched, despairing whispers.

Komaeda pushes open the door, heart leaping in his throat, and the only one to greet him is...who else.

“Nagito.”

“I-Izuru-kun.” He stiffens and then he swallows. “Where is...everyone else?”

“They are out. I volunteered to stay behind, of course, because I knew you were to return today.”

Something feels...wrong.

“Izuru-kun, I heard murmurs of something strange. Of Ultimates...killing each other? For despair? And also...murmurs of other...things...that this school is doing.” Komaeda hesitates, but his childhood friend only draws closer. “Where is the rest of our class? What could they possibly be out doing under these circumstances?”

“They are out because I had them leave.”

Something feels wrong, but it’s Izuru-kun...right?

“Ah. I suppose we should have you visit Matsuda Yasuke.” His cheeks are cupped. Kamukura Izuru’s hands are gentle and warm as always. His gaze, however, seems strange. The tone may not be perceptively different to the untrained ear, but to Komaeda, who has known him for most of his life at this point... “How inconvenient. But I do think he would be rather busy at this moment.”

“I... I don’t really want to bother Matsuda-kun.” I’m more worried about other things. “Sensei, too? Where is she?”

“Nagito, what would you say marks a true hope?”

Komaeda snapped up at that.

“An absolute good,” he answered immediately. “Something that overcomes any darkness or despair and engulfs the world in a dazzling, blinding light. Something that only grows stronger and blooms more beautifully in the face of adversity.”

“Adversity. So if one is unchallenged, they are not true hope.”

“Pushing forward in spite of obstacles or hindrances is part of being human,” Komaeda found himself murmuring, now self-conscious of the way Izuru’s thumbs traced his cheeks. “I’ve told you all this before. Why do you ask? Is this because of the reserves rioting?”

...rioting because...of ridiculous audacious things that couldn’t possibly be true...right?

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it? Adversity to overcome.” Izuru tugs him forward, letting him see out the window. “Obstacles and hindrances. Let us see how others will persevere. That might be interesting, for the ground beneath the Ultimates to crumble and for them to still crawl out on top over the withering masses.”

“Symbols of hope...would never lose to deception and despair.” Komaeda shivered. “These impertinent beings are but mere stepping stones... They’re also being misled. How miserable...despairing... They could never ever reach hope like this. Not that they were capable from the start...”

“Despair. Hope.” Izuru exhaled. “So boring. But it might be something you want to see, Nagito. And that is all I care for.”

“Izuru-kun...” Komaeda grimaced, and squeezed his eyes shut. “You haven’t...fallen into despair, have you?”

“Nothing about me has changed, Nagito.”

Izuru takes his hand, and he squeezes.

“Nothing at all.”

Trembling, Komaeda squeezes back.

#KamuKoma #izuru kamukura #kamukura izuru #nagito komaeda #komaeda nagito #KamuKomaWeek #Yeah I'll tag it that #Even though I'm not running the week lol #junko enoshima #yasuke matsuda #koichi kizakura #Magi fics

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royal-writer · 6 years ago

Text

In the Claws of Death

I don’t like the rushed pace of this one. But I’m busy, and don’t feel like fixin it.

We’ll camp here for tonight, he’d said. Yes, because there was nothing better than climbing out of a rickety wooden carriage ride and into the soggy mud as a downpour came down upon them from the heavens. No thunder, no lightning; just a waterfall of rain that appeared to have no end. Luke warm and sticky as humidity clung to the night as it had to the day. It no was no longer leaving a refreshing odor of a summer rain and now reeked only of dirty people and one very soaked dog.

There would be no fire tonight. Setting up the tents would be a nightmare, and even if they managed to hold them together where they wouldn’t collapse from the storm they were going to get wet inside. It was like a monsoon, and they were going to float away with it.

“Can we not ride on until the rain settles?” Essätha whined. She huddled herself into a ball, with raindrops dripping from her hair and down her cheeks and chin.

“I don’t wish to be washed off the road,” Abernathy disagreed, encouraging the sodden ponies to follow the trail towards the campsite.

“Perhaps we should rest in the wagon? And try pitching cover of it then?”

“You afraid of getting more wet?” Penimra moped. “We’re already practically sitting in filthy bathwater, in our attire. What’s the point?”

“The point is that I don’t want to get off this, and into that,” she declared, jabbing a figure down into the liquid soil that was engulfing their wheels. No longer able to budge, and their horses beginning to huff and snort with exhaustion and agitation for all their hard work.

Caesar’s tail began to slap against her leg in a spray of water. With a grumble of displeasure, she held an arm up to cover her face as Maestro trudged through the muck over to the side of the cart. The reason for the large dog’s excitement sitting astride the dark beast.

“We should try to take shelter beneath the trees,” Amon advised. “Their foliage will offer us some protection and the root systems will have firmer ground to keep the cart from washing away.”

“Alright,” Abe relented. “I guess that’s the best we can do for now.” With a click of his tongue and flick of the reigns, the two horses surged forward. Straining themselves as their hooves sank into the dirt, trying their hardest to haul the cart and all its weight from the sludgy terrain. The cart did not move, nor did it rock in its immobile state.

“I’m still not getting out of the wagon to sleep on that,” Essie muttered, crossing her arms in front of her chest as the mastiff leaned over the edge and into her; reaching out his snout to his master.

“Well it looks like we’ll all have to get out, and give the cart a push,” Abe suggested.

“Wonderful.”

Amon offered a sympathetic smile. His facial hair and dark lock drenched, and hanging limply. He extended a hand to stroke the side of Caesar’s face as Maestro shifted closer to the wagon. His one free hand gripped to his cloak; pulling up the edge until it held over Essätha’s head.

She offered him an endearing smile of gratitude. No sooner then she did however, heavy drops of water dripped through the dense fabric, and upon her nose and hair.

Her face soured.

A raspy chuckle emitted from the Illiad Lord. He tried his best to cover it, clearing his throat as he pulled back cloak to let it fall with a wet, sloppy sound against the fabric of his jerkin. One leg swung over the dark mare’s side, as he made to slide off into the river of brown beneath.

“I was trying my best, my dear.”

“I know you were; I’m not making the face at you,” she sighed, placing one leg over the wheel of the wagon. She swallowed tentatively, looking down at the mud sure to swallow her up the moment she stepped off.

Amon patted his equine's side. The gentle mare gave a shake of her wet head, and stepped aside with a whinny. It provided him room to maneuver around her, and reach out to place his hands on Essie’s waist as she lurched forward uncertainly.

“No Caesar, stay.”

The great hound whimpered, having been leaning over the edge of the wagon in a manner that intended to launch himself off. Instead, he ended up sinking back down into the cart with an unpleasant huff. His ears heavy with water, drooped lower than normal as he pouted pitifully up at his master. The mud-river was clearly made for dogs, and he was being punished without reason.

Ignoring the sulky pout of his pooch, Amon held a soft smile as he cradled her close. His hands careful steady as he murmured: “Just hold on to me, I’ve got you.”

Offering a meek little nod, Essie wrapped her arms around his neck and slid off the edge of the wagon.

Just as promised, Amon kept a firm but gentle grasp to her waist. He was a solid wall. Confident and proud; knowing his strength and lacking the arrogance one could easily fall into owning it. His arms were reliable and safe. Protective and trustworthy. And as her boots sank into the mud he held her still; soft breath close, dark gaze hovering just above her lashes. Gloomy clouds may lie above, but the stars came out tonight regardless in his eyes.

His smile curved broad. Distractedly handsome. She had to fight off her own desires with more will then she thought herself capable not to fall into his chest. Let the night melt away with her problems and the storm, and they would be shielded and happy, together.

The nobleman held his secrets on his tongue. Feeling stronger; more understanding, more sincere; he credited it all to her. The world felt different beside her. Tasted of hope and joy all anew, and gave him his fortitude.

Essätha slid her arms timidly from around suitor and cleared her throat. An undeniable heat burned her face as she dropped her hands awkwardly at her side, standing a bit stiff.

“No lovebirds canoodling on the cart!”

“We aren’t on the cart!” she hissed, tossing a glare Adela’s way.

The tiefling shrugged, curling her tail around like a sly cat at play. She kept an impish smile even as she dragged her attention away from them, and stepped around to the back of the vehicle.

With a roll of her eyes, Essie turned around to brace her hands against the corner and side of the cart. A glance over the shoulder, and she spotted Amon taking Maestro’s lead. He spoke calmly to the mare as she braved the slide of swamp-like earth. Trudging on, the pair headed off the path and to the dense treeline.

“I’ll be back to help out once I’ve got Maestro tethered.”

“He’s just leaving all the hard work for us,” Rava accused.

“Between all of us, I think we can manage,” Sulhadur encouraged.

“When do we push?” Pri’cha squeaked, their tiny little hands resting to the bottom of the cart.

Essie smiled, speaking gently, “Pri’cha I don’t think you have to-”

“Push!”

Essätha let out a yelp as flecks of heavy mud flung up from feet and tires, and on her clothes. At least she wasn’t wearing anything worth much, but her lower lip pouted regardless. Her feet sank into the mud, and she shoved hard as she could.

The carriage slid and rocked around in the muck. To her astonishment, Pri was doing an exceptional job with four little arms at boosting the wagon around. Caesar seemed to be far from enjoying the ride however, panting heavily as he paced alone atop the cart. His tongue lolled. He maneuvered around, snuffling and trying to check anyone he could before he’d flatten himself out. Claws scrapping wood, whining as he was tossed about like cargo in a ship’s haul on a stormy night.

“Push!”

The wagon jolted and jumped up. The wheels unsticking from the mud, and rolling forward.

Aylin lost his balance, and face-planted in the mud. Sulhadur followed him, sinking to his knees as many of them went sliding gripping to the edge. Caesar let out a bellowing woof, and fell down before the cart came to a stop.

Still holding to the edge, Essätha shuddered with relief as it stilled. Her hand moved over her face, muffling her voice as she mumbled, “That could have gone smoother.”

“Not as smoothly as this is gonna be.”

A splash of boots carved through the mud. Looking up from where she leaned over the cart, tired and wet, Essätha looked upon the group of men approaching them. Of the bunch of them, two were armed with rapiers, one with a sword, two with bows, three with various sized axes and daggers in each hand, and the remaining dozen seemed to have nothing at all.

“Oh, hello there!” Abernathy greeted. “Are you stuck out in this deluge as well? Perhaps we could help push your cart-”

Barking with laughter, one of the men held up his arms, glowing with pinkish hues.

“We ain’t here for your help, old man,” they sneered. “We here for your charitable donation of all ya money.”

Thank the fates, their luck tonight had just gone from dreadful to disastrous.

“I don’t think so,” Essätha snarled, holding up her hands as plumes of a deep plum purple began to encircle her fingers. She tried to take a step forward and faltered as her boots stuck to the thick, wet ground.

Her eyes darted across the rest of her friends. Sul was struggling to get up from the ground and helping Aylin, and everyone else seemed to be having just as much difficulty standing or even plodding through the goop. Rava alone had her weapon ready. Adela was busy trying to scale up the side of the cart, hoping for a steady surface to work from.

Penimra began to spit out a series of words, and an arrow snapped off someone’s bow and pierced into his hand. He gave a sharp yelp as Pri’cha bounded awkwardly for him.

“Don’t look like you’re gonna have much of a choice now miss,” another sang, curling their green glowing digits in their direction. “Now how’s about you hand off the money, right quick.”

Snarling, Abernathy reached for his axe. He only slid it part of the way from the holster when the nearest man jumped at him; their blade piercing into his foot as he gave a pained shout.

Whispering a few words, Essie launched a series of magic projectiles upon the men standing in front. A mirage like a shield suddenly flickered across the ground, and her very same spell came hurtling back around towards her. She crashed back into the wagon wheel, gasping.

The fur along Caesar’s spine and neck rose despite being drenched. He bared his sharp canines as wrinkles formed upon his muzzle, placing a paw upon the cart’s edge before leaping off.

A spray of mud went flying in every direction. One of the archers raised their bow, aiming for the massive dog as he plowed through the slime.

The arrow missed, and his teeth clamped down upon the individual who stabbed Abe in the foot.

Shaking his leg with panic, the man yanked his weapon free of Abe’s boot as he screamed, “Someone get this fucking dog-”

A mighty roar tore through the last of the man’s words; drowning him out. The ground shook, and brush parted as a bulky mass of matted brown came thundering out from the trees.

“Fucking gods-”

The massive paws of the grizzly bear cut through the wet ground like a till. It snarled as an arrow skipped over its hide, but didn’t slow as it crashed into the closed person. Jaws parted to reveal the length of its teeth as it howled once more, and the beast came crashing down with both forepaws upon the man.

“Run you bloody fools, run!”

As the people began to scatter and run as hard as their feet would allow in the marshy dirt, the bear tossed back its head; victim still pinned beneath its claws. They struggled and squealed in the top note of their voice as the grizzly leaned down close to their face. A deep rumble in their chest, and intelligence gleaming off beady dark eyes.

Essätha watched as it raised its limbs, and made to lunge. Its haunches were not coiled to spring however; a half-hearted facade. It slid forward instead. Mud splashed up upon its underbelly as the cowering man took what he thought to be a streak of luck, and claws himself from beneath the beast with tears streaming down his face.

“Help me please, someone help me!”

The bear snorted, leaning down. Its teeth gripped upon the back of the man’s hood, and raised him up slowly as he cried out. It gave a shake of its head, tossing the man back and forth like a ragdoll before releasing him. They went rolling through the slick sludge, coated from head to toe in mud.

Smirking to herself, Essätha murmured a few words, curling her hand up into a clenched fist. A ghastly skeletal hand formed in the air before one of the men notching an arrow, and latched on to their bow to pull upon the weapon.

They dropped it in alarm, chasing after the others.

A braver soul charged the bear, their sword held in their hand even as they shook. The blade whistled in the air before the beast. It tracked the movement lazily as it stepped back, before raising a paw dripping wet to smack the blade from the man’s hand. It bellowed in their face, still raising its leg to show the large beans of its toes.

The man ripped free a dagger from their side, and threw it.

With a snarling rumble, the grizzly’s claws ripped through the front of the man’s clothes. Shreds of fabric tore away, and blood welted beneath the leather beneath their apparel. They sobbed with pain, back-peddaling as quick as their feet would allow them.

“I said run you morons!” someone screamed. “Leave the lost idiots to the creature!”

A final burst of magic light flashed through the sky; blinding. Essie winched, covering her face for a moment. As the starbursts faded in and out of her vision, she realized that the crowd of men appeared to be gone. Though their bickering could still be heard, rolling down the lane.

“What nonsense,” she muttered, watching as the dog galloped through the mud over to the enormous grizzly. It sniffed along its legs as it plodded on all fours through the mud. Grunting and whining, the flaps of its mouth moving as though it was speaking without words to understand.

Essätha marched through the oozey ground towards the grizzled creature. It circled around in her direction, panting and grumbling as she reached out to it.

“Oh m’lord look at you,” she scolded, lightly grasping upon the bear’s face. “You’re absolutely filthy. You’re going to smell of wet fur and hair. Caesar and you are going to be one in the same tonight, stinky.”

Wrinkling up its muzzle, the bear seemed to grin at her as though mocking.

“Don’t give me that look,” Essie reprimanded. “Looking so proud of yourself. ‘Well you’re going to stink like me later anyway’, I bet that’s what you’re saying. Who says I’m going to lay with you, anyway?”

Blinking its eyes, the bear exhaled roughly against her cheek. She wafted her hand before herself as the beast moved forward, resting its head over for shade from the rain as it breathed heavily.

“Dirty man,” she sighed. Her fingers ran along the side of the beast’s face. To its ears, against its chin and around the muzzle as it closed its eyes in contentment.

Caesar gave out a bark. She inclined her head, spotting the animal bent low against the animal’s belly where a stain of red colored fur and mud.

Her eyes narrowed. Leaning back, she tapped a finger against the bear’s dark leathery nose as it gruffed a few unpleasant sounds.

“Change back, so we might have a look,” she ordered, her face a mixture of worry and authority.

It sniffed loudly upon her fingers for a moment. The rough texture of its tongue ran against against them and she stuck out her own tongue with a short sound of unpleasantness. The bear’s saliva was sticky on her digits as she wiped them to her shirt, watching from her peripheals as the formidable animal began to shrink and reshape.

Eagerly, Caesar bounded around the bear as it changed into a man. He circled around them a few times as they tugged upon their fur-lined collar. They gave a wince, reaching down to the bloodied patch of his soiled clothes.

Essie reached out for him, lower lip trembling.

Lord Amon gingerly caught her hand, a soft smile on his face.

“I’ve got it, he reassured her softly, placing a hand against his chest. A brim of white-light coiled down his body, stitching along fresh patches of skin.

Grabbing the edge of his jerkin instead, she leaned in to kiss the underside of his chin.

“Be more careful.”

“I was. I can handle the bear.”

“I meant be more careful about not getting stabbed,” she muttered, trying to smooth out the wrinkles in his clothes. “I know you can handle the bear. I always knew.”

Amon grinned. An edge of wildness still in his black eyes, and hair in dispensary. He leaned in swiftly, pecking a kiss to her forehead.

“If you two would be so kind to quit snogging over there, we’d like to get out of the rain sometime tonight!” Penimra called out, hands on hip.

“Yes, an old feeble man like me could use some help with this cart,” Abe called out, pushing the squeaking wagon a few inches through the mud.

“Come on,” Amon snorted with amusement, placing an arm around her waist.

They trailed for the carriage, struggling not to slip the whole town as the rain came down with new force. Almost as if the gods themselves were laughing at their misfortune. And though the rain came, the group didn’t truly feel that unlucky, after all.

#eci artz #Essie rw #amon illiad #essamon ship

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former-chamaeleonic · 7 years ago

Text

Death picked up my Life

Summary: If Sanji were to die, Zoro picks up a habit of his. What had irked him all the time is now the last thread connecting him to the one who left him.

Warning: Mention of Character Death

You can also read it on ao3 here.

Inspired by @zosanheadcanons. Check out their tumblr, they’re lovely! Quite inactive, but really lovely!

Also check out this post, it’s based off this one!

Thank you so much for the inspiration, I will pick up more of the headcanons at some point!

Fic starts below the cut!

In nights like these, closing your eyes and drifting to sleep was as unthinkable as ever letting go of life itself.

The impossibility of allowing mere dreams to force memories back into consciousness would feel like a much greater sin than the fact of having gone down onto his knees for prayer during the last moments of life.

He regretted it. Having thought that something as unreal and yet eternal like god would hear him out after his whole life of deadlocked denial.

He had never believed in greater existences, even during the time he had prayed. But before everything ended, his hope had resolved to this aimless action.

Praying.

And naturally failing.

The bitter taste of burnt tobacco smoke irritated his throat. The smoke made the mucosa not only feel sore and dry, it was also driving him mad how easily the tobacco relaxed him. …as if relaxing was reasonable at a time like this…

But Zoro still wasn’t used to it, so the effect was probably way stronger than on chain smokers who did it for years on end.

What a day…

Remembering death as if it was a continuous experience. Over and over again. It would never let him go, would never let him sleep. These memories had clawed themselves into Zoro’s head for good. Minor situations brought back the lively, yet deadly memories. But reliving them in dreams, that he would not allow anymore. If it was the pain that was to return, he’d rather remember it on his own accord, than letting his subconscious handle it while he replenished his energy in something as sweet as sleep.

No. He wanted to be the one to handle it for 100%. Fully aware. Fully conscious.

Zoro set down the cup of poorly made coffee. Watery. Detestable. He still hadn’t gotten the hang of how to use this thing. It felt like it had been ages since he had had good coffee. The brand that he used was expensive, but that did not compensate his lack of skills that kept him from brewing it properly.

When it came to the household, he was a good man, suitable for chores. But kitchen work on the other hand, that just wasn’t his territory. That showed in him burning the toast every morning, wasting eggs by dropping them or frying them on such an incredible heat that they turned from clear to black without going through the stage of hardening and becoming white. Yup, that was the way he did things. Being together with a cook was one of the causes he never got practice into preparing meals. He simply never had to.

Sanji had always said that being such a failure in the kitchen in itself was a unique skill and they had fought over it a lot. But truth to be admitted, it was a miracle indeed how useless, or rather helpless Zoro acted in a kitchen.

Zoro felt like a typical good for nothing person when it came to these things. Yet he always happily cleaned it all. Taking care of the dishes was the only kitchen related chore je was useful at. Nowadays cleaning up the dishes gave him a nostalgic feeling too. It reminded him of old times.

…When life was still present in his existence.

He shoved the ashtray aside to get it out of his sight and picked up the empty cup of coffee.

Dark clouds hung low in the far away sky and fine drops drizzled from high above to down below onto the earthly grounds outside the comfortably warm room. They were veiling the air with their wet filigree texture that was preventing Zoro from seeing too far beyond the world he lived in. A world that expanded from where he was and on the inside of the cage that was in fact his own room. Everything behind the glass barrier in form of his window, it wasn’t part of his world anymore.

Just when he wondered what he might be able to see behind the mysterious curtain of rain, he shook his head and pulled his eyes away from the glass dispersing him from here and there. …dispersing his grief inside from the other world outside.

What should he look at anyway? True reality only happened within these gloomy walls…

He had not opened nor closed the curtains in… what was it now? Three and a half weeks. White sheers hung aimlessly before seemingly glass that mirrored his pitiful frame, the thick opaque curtains as the next layer were half closed. One of its ends hung sloppily over the couch’s back rest. It seemed untidy, yet unfixed based on sad intentions.

Lightning flicked outside and shortly made the world seem bright, but darkness fell upon the man once more as the auspicious growl of thunder knocked him out of unthought skies.

Dim light flickered for the blink of an eye and a cigarette was lit. The lighter got thrown back onto the table carelessly and landed with a clacking noise.

A familiar smell engulfed the man and his muscles relaxed a little bit as the first deep drag was done. The emitted fragrance was a comforting smell.

Again his throat felt a bit irritated by the unhealthy smoke. He had to cough, but he kept inhaling persistently as deep as he could.

Almost as if it could save him.

Him and his damned soul.

He took his sweet time enjoying the deadly bliss that fogged his system with false comfort. He had leaned back, his head was placed securely on the back rest with his neck exposed. He faced the ceiling when he threw his right hand over the rest to have it spread out to reach the curtain that still hung there. With a pang of guilt he clutched it, tried to imagine what it was like to panic at the lack of air, to hold onto anything to feel secure.

The left hand reached to bring the filter of the cigarette to his lips and while his gaze was still fixed to the ceiling – looking, but not seeing – he allowed another set of smoke to enter his system.

Without a second thought he pulled the curtain towards his cheek and he leaned against it. It smelled unwashed, reeked of old and cold smoke. Someday he would wash it. But not today. Not tomorrow either. Only when he was ready to let go. But when that was ought to happen, that was something God only knew. And God would never tell him.

Ashes dropped onto his clothes and he sighed annoyed. His tense fingers loosened and let go of the curtain without putting it back into a tidy position. It was essential to keep them the way they were.

He brushed it off, accidentally rubbed it into the texture of his shirt and sighed again. Time to stub the cigarette out and keep on cleaning. Sanji disliked dirty dishes more than anything. He would make him happy by keeping the kitchen in perfect condition. Happy Sanji was all he wanted after all.

After he had put out the remaining smouldering stick, he grabbed the cup and matching bottom plate and walked over to the counter where the sink was.

Zoro stared down at the metallic grey sink that shone brightly from all the wiping he did every single day to make the house look pleasing. For when Life should be ready to return into these walls. With a bright smile and the welcomed smell of delicious cooking and burnt tobacco.

Monotonous clattering of the cup hitting its bottom plate resounded in the otherwise silent room when he put the porcelain inside to get them washed. Zoro’s brain had the storm’s thunder blocked out. To him, the outer world didn’t exist anymore.

Another lightning strike. The unlit room got bright with an instant flash.

For a moment he had seen Life before his eyes. He had felt it as if it were back with him. In shock he had whipped around to see, but there was nothing but monochrome darkness in plain sight.

…what a huge house to possess when you’re alone.

What a mercilessly huge living room it was for nobody to be alive in here.

With a deep sigh, Zoro turned back to look at the stained cup containing a small remnant of the tasteless liquid he called coffee. It couldn’t be helped. He reached for the faucet. The water immediately flowing from it had a similarly hollow sound as the water coming from the sky had. It resonated quietly but it sounded so painfully hollow to him…

As he applied the dish soap onto the sponge, he felt himself getting dizzy for the first time since a few hours. The smell of the so called apple-citrus soap insulted his nostrils with its obtrusive smell.

The cup matching plate were all clean again quickly. He set them down onto the kitchen counter to let them rest there shortly so he could reach for the dishtowel to dry them. But when his eyes closed for a brief second, the heaviness of his lids tried to force him to pass out in order to recharge. He fought well to open them up again. Because he lost his balance for an instant, he staggered back and felt his hand brush something. At the immediate glance, Zoro saw the cup about to fall.

Quick reflexes helped him to rescue the valuable piece of porcelain. A part of a set to be precise. A set that was never going to be used again.

He went back to the couch. Another cigarette. Another drag.

Tobacco. Smoke. A pain in the ass. Washing clothes and curtains regularly, how much had he hated it. He had always done so much to get that ugly stench out of the fabrics so it would not bother him. How much had they argued about Sanji to quit smoking in favour of their belongings? In favour of both of their lungs too…

Countless times. All of them in vain anyway. The world would go down before Sanji quitted smoking.

Hah… how much truth these words held… So very brutal truth…

The world had ended after all.

Zoro scuffed back into the living room and grabbed the pack again to retrieve one of the long sticks and lit it right away. However after some time, he set the halfway smoked cigarette down and put it into the ashtray. It was in his way. It was an ugly habit that killed people. But Sanji had probably been too young, too narrow minded to understand. It was Sanji’s way of living and Zoro was the one who had fallen for the whole cook, bugging, pretty and smoking too.

He remembered it clearly. Whenever Sanji had set it to his lips, Zoro had been all worked up. Mostly because Sanji knew exactly how to make something so disgusting look so shamelessly sexy. When the cigarette hung between his lips and Sanji leaned against the kitchen counter, chest pushed forward and legs slightly apart. When he’d expose his neck so voluptuously, sigh and then inhale and when the smoke would come out again with this particular blowing sonority or sometimes with a teasing moan. It had always worked on Zoro. Without failure up to the very day.

When he called it back into mind, he felt himself getting aroused. Shame and disgust washed over him when he could feel his tired loins tingle and his centre of lust fill with blood. He groaned as he put his palm up to cover his eyes to evade grappling with awkward reality. How stupid was this, exposing himself mental stimulation in a situation like this.

To distract himself from the unwelcomed stimulus, Zoro leaned forward to grab a bunch of wrinkled papers and studied them for a second to pick the right one. Another mark was added to the tally chart he had. One of three he had.

One for the days since Life had left – 24.

One for the hours he kept himself awake at a stretch by force – 55.

One for the times he cried – It was blurred with tears.

The one he made was a mark for the hours awake at a stretch. He had managed another hour. Altogether that made 56. His limit was soon to be hit. Those marks and tallies helped him to keep himself focused and sane while being engulfed with Death.

He checked the watch and eventually got up silently. The smell of burnt tobacco and poisonous smoke got left behind. He needed a change of atmosphere.

With slow, yet determined steps the overly exhausted man walked down the stairs to where their basement was. He was barefoot, he was cold and it probably did harm to his health, but that wasn’t important. Someone who was already dead wouldn’t have to worry about getting sick, right?

He put on a pair of boxing gloves and walked up a punching bag installed in the corner of the room. The light was dim, the light bulb he had put into it a few months back had been too weak, but Zoro had never reacted to Sanji’s nagging. “It’s fine, as long as we see, why bother exchanging a good bulb?” was what Zoro had always replied to Sanji’s complaints.

If only he had listened. That would have made their last moments brighter. Not only in a way of light, but also in a way of fun. Less tension, less quarrelling. If only everything had been smoothed out before their forceful separation…

Truth to be told, even their fights have always been harmless and more of a gentle pestering than serious hate. Zoro probably did not have to worry about anything. …but he did. To the very end, something hadn’t been perfect.

But parting ways would have been so much nicer with everything the way it should have been.

With no flaws left and no room for regrets like these.

Zoro punched the bag hard. He had not warmed up before but he told himself that he would get warm enough eventually while training. The caffeine would eventually kick in as well and even though it had been a tasteless brown brew of more water than anything else, it would show effect at some point. He knew by experience.

Another push.

The loud sound of the leather gloves colliding with the heavy punching bag got covered by another thunder.

Another punch. Another. Another. Another! Another!

He swung more and more punches, faster with every coming hit, harder with each strike. His breath became ragged while he let out all the aggression, tension and also desperation that had built up inside him and that had nowhere else to go.

Time passed, sweat began to build up on his forehead and finally his circulation got spurred on sufficiently to pump warmth back into his hands and feet that had felt like frozen for the last few hours.

During this, Zoro felt more alive again. When he moved and trained, it was like he was a different person living in a different world. Like this he could let go for a little while, could forget about what had happened. It was almost as if he could just leave the house and greet everyone on the street the next day. He imagined the clouds being gone and Life would show up just like Life normally did, to whirl around him in all the usual energy and brightness.

The hits became harder. Harder and harder, stronger and fiercer still.

Nonsense. Death was Death. Never would he be able to greet this once so beautiful brightness again! Those hopeful thoughts were pathetic bullshit!

Waving to your neighbours on warm spring days... Staying at home through summer storms and getting out for sun bathing, swimming, walking or just plain for work during the nice days, it was all a dream. Left to be an illusion. Past and gone.

He hit even harder at these thoughts. Nothing could bring anything back to life. Let alone a human.

Gone meant gone. Gone for good. And gone forever.

God had no mercy for those who wished for something.

God was cruel for taking the most precious from him that he ever had.

Down in the basement where the light of lightning could not reach, his lungs cleared up, far away from Sanji’s constant smoking. To Zoro, it still felt like it was Sanji who was the one doing the smoking after all. Sanji’s habit had always enforced his presence in the house by spreading through the familiar smell. Whenever Zoro had entered the house and the smell of burnt tobacco had invaded his nostrils, it had always given off such a nostalgic atmosphere.

…Zoro missed it. He missed it all so much that he couldn’t even focus on the training properly. All he did was to try and go harder with each delivered smack and went even far enough to lose his cool and to scream out gutturally with each and every single hit.

Then it happened. He hit in a bad angle and heard a cracking noise. It was in an instant that Zoro pulled back with a gut-wrenching roar as pain comparable to the spot being hit by lightning pierced his wrist mercilessly. His first instinctive reaction was to retreat his damaged hand towards his chest where he cradled it for a little comfort in the hope that would ease the pain somewhat.

The wrist was definitely damaged, that was for sure. Sanji could patch it up for him. … if he were not dead that is… Why had he thought about Sanji again right now? His throat tightened. What a bad timing for getting sentimental…

Zoro tried to push off the boxing glove to check on his injury, to make sure it was still whole, but taking it off just like that proved to be a task of impossibility. The pain was way too excruciating.

He took the glove of his healthy hand between his teeth and pulled it off roughly until his jaw hurt, but with that he now had his good hand to use to pull the second glove off as well.

When he gave it a sharp tug to get rid of it in one go he screamed out again, the pain numbing his heated up body again in mere seconds.

Zoro panted heavily.

It had come off, but that wrist was definitely broken.

Curse life.

Curse death.

These two were the perfect lover’s couple.

While Life sends over countless living beings, as soon as they arrive, Death keeps them forever.

They must really love each other. Otherwise the constant dynamics of give and take wouldn’t work so flawlessly. But if they knew what love was, then why did they destroy the love of those alive in such an ineffably cruel way?

Zoro bit the inside of his cheek as he felt his eyes burn up.

Another stormy day with tears.

He roared out in so much pain that was caused from so much more than just his wrist.

Keeping his emotions in check was no longer a possibility at the point of brokenness he had reached by now. His voice rose to a staggering pitch as he smashed his head against the wall violently to feel something, just something! He did it once. The brutal impact distracted him from his wrist, but the noise it made held such an unhealthy sound.

The head got slammed against the dry brick wall again with another animalistic roar that just needed to leave the tense body and something wet dripped from his eyebrow down his eye. It felt cold. Apparently a tiny rivulet formed in his face and ran down next to his eye, along the cheek where the collected blood of a freshly open wound dropped from his chin.

But it wasn’t enough. Far from enough! The good had got elevated up high and the damaged one was placed on the floor, underside facing up. He hit the broken spot brutally and yelled out in so much pain that he wasn’t able to contain. He was shattered. Purely shattered, smashed into pieces, broken by life, mangled by himself! He hit and hit so hard, as hard as he hit the punching bag and blood went spraying everywhere at the fierce movements he did during the ordeal. Tears accompanied the red liquid and dizziness washed over him, blackness fogged his sight, concealed his mind successfully so even Zoro had no other choice than to stop. Or his body would eventually give in and he’d collapse. He didn’t want that to happen.

His breath was fast and irregular, the heart was racing in its cage of ribs. Inside his empty chest. Down on his knees he tilted over and cried so bitterly over the loss that he couldn’t handle.

Minute after minute rolled by and let him age without him noticing. Every passing minute brought him closer to where his true Life was right now. To the other side, where there was likely to be a doorstep and if he’d pass it, it would smell like perfectly prepared food and tobacco.

He inhaled deeply a few times, tried to get the better of his consciousness. And when he had regained control he sighed one more time as deep as he could before he got up.

“Sorry, Sanji… I got the wall a bit dirty…”, he murmured purposelessly while carrying himself up the stairs.

When he reached the main floor, he faced the sheer blackness of the night. Another lightning strike.

The couch was in plain view for an instance and the flashback of the young blond hit him hard.

Sanji on the couch…

During night.

After a long day of work.

Zoro had returned home.

And lightning had it revealed.

The dead body.

White in this short light.

Eyes wide open. The curtain pulled halfway closed and since then never to be rearranged again. Probably grabbed in desperation by the breathless Sanji.

A lung infarct.

That was what they had told Zoro.

Due to excessive smoking.

That day Zoro’s Life had been taken.

When he had been back home, he had sat down right where Sanji had died.

He had taken out a cigarette from the pack that had still been there and he had taken the lighter.

Right now, Zoro had sat down right where Sanji’s corpse had been.

The trauma was endless.

Zoro took a cigarette and lit it. The 129th since he had stopped sleeping now 57 hours ago.

The smell was so nostalgic.

The smoke was still irritating though.

But it was the last bastion that connected him to Life.

To the Life of his husband that had made him whole.

Now his existence had been ruined.

-End-

#zosan #zoro x sanji #character death #fanfic #fanfiction #one piece #tragedy #coping with loss #zoro is smoking #oneshot #zosanheadcanons

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ellanainthetardis · 7 years ago

Note

I love the dynamic you write between Effie and her parents and how she usually uses the friends with benefits thing/sex with haymitch for comfort afterwards! I was wondering if you could do something where they're a bit more established and she goes to him actually showing that she's upset? :)

Here you go! [x]

Kiss It Better

Haymitch made the whiskey twirl in his glass,watching the amber liquid changing hues in the sunlight.

The penthouse was silent and he was bored todeath. He had no idea where Effie was, she had been gone when he had gotten upand since Twelve was already out of the Games, chances were he wouldn’t beneeded until later that night when his escort would insist on dragging him towhatever party they were supposed to attend.

It was a little after noon and he had justwoken up. He hadn’t slept well at all the previous night. He had woken up twicedrenched in cold sweat and had tried to drink the memories of the nightmareaway. All he had to boost for it now was a huge hangover and a weariness thatwent down to his bones. He figured it would help if he could find the strengthto order some actual food from the Avoxes. Whiskey was all well and good but hecouldn’t live on that alone unfortunately.

Or maybe he could go to the mentor lounge andfind someone to have lunch with. Eleven’s boy was still alive so that ruledChaff out but there might be another bored lonely victor around… He dismissedthe idea as soon as it arose. He had a small headache and he wasn’t up forconversation, not with someone who didn’t know him inside and out and wouldrequire him to actually do more than grunt his answers anyway.

All in all, he was glad the elevator chimed inthe surrounding silence.

“That’s you, sweetheart?” he called out, morehopeful than was probably necessary. He really needed to get a hold on that. Sex was all well and good as longas it didn’t develop into something more. And while Chaff and Finnick mighthave been having a field day mocking him about having feelings… He was uncomfortable looking too closely at thewhole thing. When Effie Trinket was concerned, he denied everything. It was safer.

The clicking of heels answered his question.Effie strutted in the living-room in a horrible ball of blue and purple fabricthat immediately prompted him to make a face. Her wig was styled in anintricate equally puffy mess of braids and she was wearing so much make-up shelooked as if she had fallen in a can of paint.

He opened his mouth to comment on her uglyappearance and promptly closed it again when he noticed her pursed lips and thedejected look on her face. It was hard to tell under the make-up but he could see it. Besides, her steps were lackingtheir usual spring.

“You trulyneed to stop wandering around like this.” she commented flatly, giving him aonce over. “It is unhygienic, not to mention improper.”

He rolled his eyes. It wasn’t like anyonecared. Avoxes knew to make themselves scarce in his presence and she was theonly one who would come and go from and to the penthouse at random so… Really, who cared if he walked aroundnaked? He slept in the nude and he didn’t always remember to get dressed beforeleaving his room. So what? He lived alone for practically tento eleven months a year, a little less if he got roped into visiting the cityfor the duration of the Tour… Nobody was ever around to complain in Twelve. Andit wasn’t like she had any reason toprotest when they shared an apartment.

It wasn’t the first time they had thatparticular argument either but there was something to the flatness of her tonethat prevented him from pursuing that familiar line of banter.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Because something was clearly wrong. She usually got a lot more angry when she caught hisnaked ass on the leather of the living-room’s couch.

She tossed her purse on an armchair without thepoise or the care she always showed. She was avoiding his inquisitive gaze buthe didn’t need to meet her eyes to realize they were shiny.

He frowned, placing the glass of whiskey on thecouch’s armrest to give the situation his whole attention. “You’re upset. Whathappened?”

She looked up in surprise, clearly not havingexpected the protective growl in his voice. He could have kicked himself in theass for being so transparent. He was slipping.He could feel himself slipping. Andhe couldn’t allow that to happen. He couldn’t… The clever thing would have beento make some sort of mocking remark and flee.

But he couldn’t.

Not when she looked that bad.

“Nothing, really.” she sighed, snatching theglass from the armrest and downing its content with a small face of disgust.“This is awful. I will never understand why you insist on drinking it.”

“And yet you keep stealing my booze.” hesnorted, coiling his fingers around her wrist, above the numerous silverbangles, and giving a little tug. “Right before lunch too. Not like you.” Shedidn’t even try to resist the pull. She just flopped on his lap, lookingentirely miserable as she stared at the bottom of the empty glass. He pluckedit from her hand. “What’s up? Aside from the obvious…”

Her pursed lips turned into a small pout ofamusement that didn’t survive for very long. “That innuendo would have beenmuch more effective if you had actuallybeen hard.”

“Just wriggle a little. That should take careof things.” he winked.

She snorted and leaned against his chest,resting her head on his shoulder. She reeked of that expensive pungent perfumehe hated. He liked her sweeter ones much better. He knew that perfume though.It was the one bottle she had told him he couldn’t touch upon pain of death – and she had been serious too. Itwas rare, didn’t come cheap and it was reserved for big occasions… Or meetings with her mother.

It wasn’t really hard to put two and twotogether after that.

“What did the harpy say now?” he sighed. For awoman he had never met, Elindra Trinket had a gift for hitting on his lastnerve. Every time she was mentioned, Effie seemed to shrink on herself.

“Which one?” she asked, distractedly playingwith the silver bangles around her wrists.

“You tell me.” he prompted, poking her in theside.

She batted his finger away but didn’t protestwhen he encircled her waist with his arms.

“I did not have the best morning.” sheadmitted. “I had brunch with my mother and then we bumped into Viola. It wasnot exactly a pleasant combination.”

“I bet.” he scowled, tightening his hold onher. She completely relaxed against him and he was torn between feelingpanicked about the casual cuddling and being happy she just seemed to feelbetter.

“I thought you would offer to kiss my bruisedego better…” she hummed after a few minutes of silence.

There was a familiar playful edge to her voiceand he smirked despite himself. That was one of the things he loved aboutEffie, she never stayed gloomy for long, she always strived to feel as cheerfulas she could and while it often frustrated him, he also could recognize it forthe show of strength it was – and he didn’t lovelove it, of course, it was just… something he liked.

“It’s probably a good thing you’ve got a bigone… Can’t be hurt too much.” he teased.

“Are you implying I am arrogant?” she huffedbut it was more for show than because of true irritation.

“Not implyinganything.” he retorted, earning himself a slap on the chest that stung alot more because of the absence of fabric. Her fingers lingered in a caress. “See,now you’re not complaining about me already being naked…”

“I still maintain you parade around naked inthe misguided hope I won’t be able to help myself and that I will jump on you.”she accused.

“Not my fault you’ve got no self-control.” heshrugged, his fingers running on her back in search of the zipper that wouldget her rid of this monstrosity she called a dress. “So… Where should I kissyou to make that bruised ego better, sweetheart?”

She guided his hand to her right side where hecould feel the neat line of little buttons under his fingertips. That wouldn’tdo. Too long. He would have to rip the dress off once she would be distractedenough. Good riddance as far as he was concerned.

“Between my legs, I would say.” she nodded veryseriously.

“Really?”he chuckled, pressing his lips against her throat. “You’re sure that’s whereyour ego is?”

“Well, that iswhere I am throbbing for you…” she grinned.

He pushed her on the couch and spread her legswide, forgetting all about getting that puffy dress off her. All in good times.

She laughed when he grumbled about pantiesbeing in the way but she didn’t try to stop him when he tore them in two.

“Now…” he breathed against her inner thigh.“Let’s kiss it all better, yeah?”

#hayffie #effie trinket #haymitch abernathy #prompt #games time #coconuts friends #hurt comfort #no wig no make-up #teapot #cuddles #about e past

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trustyourpartner · 7 years ago

Text

so a while back i tripped over and then fell in love with @cafecliche‘s yuri on ice fics, and then while i was checking out her tumblr i found out that she co-writes the bridge podcast with @alextriestousetheinternet, and i was like “oceanic eldritch horror alternate history with lesbians? sign me up!” and binge-listened to it all in like two days. and then i started writing this. at this point it’s probably going to waste away in my wips folder because i have so many other projects i’m working on, but i thought i’d let the stuff i have written see the light of day? so. enjoy.

The labels are nearly worn off of the switchboard at this point, by decades of fingers sliding over the words on their lazy way to the keys and buttons and knobs, but Viktor doesn't need the labels to boot up the broadcasting system. He could do this in his sleep by now; undoubtedly has, at some point over the last several years, during one of the periods when the coffeemaker was acting up, or maybe on a particularly gloomy day where the iron gray sky bled into the sea, turning the world outside the window into one huge dome of half-light, broken only by the long line of the highway stretching over the waves.

He waits for the static to clear from his headset, then takes a swig of water from the bottle on the floor and switches the microphone on.

"Good afternoon, travelers," he says. The chipper tone isn't even ironic, at this point; just a reflex. "This is Viktor broadcasting from Watchtower Eight, your halfway marker on the journey across the Transcontinental Bridge. It's just a few minutes until the top of the hour, but I think we can get a head start on our traffic report. Current Bridge conditions are the same as usual, which means—" here he leans forward to glance out the window again, just to be sure "—no traffic near Watchtower Eight. So all of you nonexistent drivers will have a pleasant cruise across this particular bit of the Atlantic."

A bright chime bursts out of the tinny intercom speakers on the console, and the light labeled Inter-Tower Channel flashes green. Viktor flips the switch that connects his personal headset to the public frequency.

"Fucking moron," is Yuri Plisetsky's greeting, somewhat obscured by the normal static from the line. "There is literally never any traffic, Viktor. You don't have to do your annoying-ass reports."

"Good to hear from you too, Yura," Viktor says. "How are things over at Eleven?"

"Dead. There is nothing here. Oh, no, actually, a seagull brained itself on the signal beam this morning, and I got sent up to chuck its body into the sea. It's the most exciting thing that's happened in months."

Which probably isn't true, Viktor thinks, but he'd believe that it's the most exciting thing that can be broadcast on the airwaves. The intercom chimes again, and a new voice chimes in.

"Maybe the seagull was just bored out of its head," the new voice—Viktor has to think for a second to place it as Leo, from Watchtower One, all the way back on the American coast—says. "The ones back here just try to steal my lunch."

"And how is the ground traffic on your end, Leo?" Viktor asks, so that he can at least sort of pretend to be doing his job.

"Two skateboarders practicing their grinds on the guardrail," Leo reports. "For the record, this is inadvisable. It's a long drop, kiddos."

"'Kiddos'," Yuri scoffs. "How old are you again, Iglesia?"

"Older than you!" Leo says.

"Ah well," Viktor says. "I'm afraid that's it for our afternoon traffic report. So, listeners who may or may not exist, I'm afraid I'll take my leave for now. Lunch won't make itself!"

He leaves Yuri and Leo to their bickering and ends his broadcast. The equipment makes a shuddery, wheezy sound when he powers it down, but Viktor's not terribly worried about it. He's fairly sure everything in this Watchtower could survive a war. It might have already. He doesn't know about that, but he does know better than to ask. He's been threatened more than once for snooping in the Archives, and not by his supervisor, but by strange people who called his personal cell phone and whispered reprimands that sent shivers up his spine. Never mind the fact that he hadn't charged his cell phone in years, or that he didn't get reception in the middle of the Atlantic.

The spiral staircase that leads down to the main floor is situated in the gap between the broadcasting room and the guest cabins. The steps rattle under Viktor's feet. He passes Georgi on the second floor, tinkering with something in the ceiling—hopefully the vents, because none of the crew cabins have been getting decent air circulation in months. Viktor ignores him and continues down to the first floor, turning into the kitchen. Yakov is sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and a dour expression.

"Vitya," he says, "how many times do I need to tell you to do your damn job?"

Viktor waves him off with a lazy sweep of his hand. "There's nobody to make traffic," he says, "and nobody to hear the traffic report. Quit being such a fusspot, old man."

Yakov harrumphs into his coffee, but doesn't respond; this is an argument he and Viktor have had dozens of times over the last few years. "As long as you do your other job," he says.

"Yes, calm down, I'm going to feed Makka now," he says. "Where's the bucket?"

"It's outside the containment area," Yakov says. "Georgi filled it earlier. Honestly, Vitya, that stuff reeks."

"Makkachin likes it!" Viktor says. "I'll get going. I'm sure he can smell his food already."

He takes the stairs down two at a time: past the Archives in Submare One, the storage rooms in Submare Two, all the way down to Submare Three. This far below the water, the walls creak and groan with the shifting waves. There are no portholes—best not to think about what's outside, Yakov had said, on Viktor's first day—but even so Viktor's bones ache with the knowledge that the sunlight is dim down here. The rivets hold steady, but Viktor can still imagine them shaking loose, the walls buckling inward, crushing the Watchtower like a tin can.

Viktor shakes it off when he reaches the vault door in Submare Three. He taps in the twelve-digit code on the keypad with one hand and picks up the bucket of severed fish heads with the other. When the lock beeps, he presses his thumb and all of his fingers against the scanner in turn; only then do the hydraulics hiss as the door unlocks with an ominous clunk. Despite the thickness of the steel, the door opens easily at Viktor's touch.

The vault door opens up into the containment area: a huge circular room that takes up nearly all of the lowest level of the Watchtower. Despite this, the only floor is a narrow metal walkway around the edge, just over a foot wide. The rest of the chamber is open water: deep, dark, and washing back and forth in small waves, despite the fact that there are no direct water lines between it and the ocean outside.

"Makkachin!" Viktor trills. "Where's my good boy? Did you miss me?"

He drops the bucket and claps his hands over his ears: just in time, as a hellish SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEE echoes through the chamber. The water boils. Three long, brown tentacles, each nearly as thick as Viktor's thigh and easily long enough to brush the towering ceiling, burst through from below, the suckers pulsing. One of the tentacles begins slithering over the walkway by Viktor's feet, slinking, searching.

"I've got your dinner here, boy," Viktor says, and reaches into the bucket. He picks up a fish head and tosses it, watching as one of the other tentacles snaps down lightning-quick to snatch it out of the air and drag it below the water. "Is it nummies?" Viktor asks. "Nummy fish for the good Makkachin?"

The resulting chainsaw-on-chalkboard noise doesn't make Viktor's ears bleed, thankfully. The seeking tentacle near his feet winds around his leg, slick mottled brown, and Viktor leans down to give it a gentle pat.

"I missed you too, buddy," Viktor says. "Open wide, okay? Food incoming!"

He throws the rest of the bucket's contents out into the water and sits on the edge of the walkway while Makkachin's tentacles pull the fish bits into the depths. He's just tall enough that he can point his toes and tap the surface of the water with the soles of his shoes, so he does. During his first month at the Watchtower he taught himself Morse code in a fit of over-enthusiasm, so he uses it now, tapping and swishing the water, a secret message just for him and Makka: tap-swish-tap-tap-swish-swish-swish-swish-tap-tap.

Makkachin probably doesn't know Morse code. So maybe it's just a message for Viktor. Fitting.

"I'm sorry it's so lonely down here," he says. "I don't mean to stay upstairs so long. I'll come visit more often."

Makkachin gurgles.

"Yeah, just me and you, buddy," Viktor says, and reaches out absently to scratch a passing tentacle.

Before he’d been a Watchtower crewman, Viktor Nikiforov had been a legend.

He’d been on the top of the figure skating world for nearly a decade. His undefeated streak spanned five years: five years of gold at the Grand Prix, at Nationals, at Euros, at Worlds. Multiple world records tucked under his belt. Two Olympic titles. Russia’s hero, they called him; a god among men. Undefeated, unattainable, untouchable. His shadow from atop the podium was monstrous in the flashes of the cameras.

He’d just won his fifth Worlds gold in Boston when the kennel called. His dog—Makkachin—had just died. In his sleep, the woman said. Surely he hadn’t been in any pain. A gentle death for a gentle dog.

Viktor hadn’t seen Makkachin for nearly three days before he’d actually left.

So he’d told his coach that he was going to rent a car and drive back to Europe. Time to clear his head, he’d said, and the coach had agreed. The Transcontinental Bridge still had a lingering reputation as a tourist attraction, albeit one that Viktor had experienced before. Even half-abandoned it was a marvel of engineering. There were hotels, restaurants, museums, little Bridge-side towns with kitschy mom-and-pop shops. Viktor had ignored these; for just under a full day of driving it had been only him and the ocean. He’d driven and driven and then stopped for the night at Checkpoint Eight, the Transcontinental Hotel: the pride of the Bridge, a glittering palace over the sea with a glass ballroom, fresh-turned silk sheets on every bed, and a string quartet that turned sea shanties into sweeping waltzes for guests to float along to under the stars.

He’d emailed the Russian Skating Federation his resignation notice the next morning. By that afternoon he’d unpacked his single carry-on in one of the empty crew cabins in Watchtower Eight, his handful of spare shirts and underwear tucked neatly inside the chipboard drawers, the concrete walls bare, the fresh cotton sheets scratching his bare skin.

And…well. Why would Viktor ever leave?

“Good afternoon, Bridge travelers,” Viktor says. “It’s another slow day here by Watchtower Eight, and so, your traffic report: there is no traffic. I’m sure if you questionably-extant listeners wait for a few minutes, one of my colleagues from elsewhere on the Bridge will chime in with commentary.”

Viktor waits for a beat, then repeats himself in Russian and in French, just because he can.

The intercom beeps, and Christophe’s voice comes through, amused and slurred—likely hungover, or maybe just being Chris. “Your accent is horrendous,” he says by way of greeting.

“Good afternoon, Christophe,” Viktor says. “How are things?”

“Oh, fine, fine,” Chris says. “Light traffic down here at Fifteen, come stop by the Gold Doubloon casino for a fun night of games and revelry, gamble responsibly: don’t wager anything you aren’t willing to lose, don’t play for anything you aren’t willing to live with, et cetera. Word on the wire is that there’s a big closure down by Checkpoint Nine—do you know anything about that?”

“Hmm? No.” Viktor absently shuffles the stack of letters from mainland headquarters. He should probably read them at some point.

“Ah, there’s a little Bridge-side town that’s closed its access road. The Travel Agency sent out a notice that the road won’t reopen, so drivers should plan their stops around it, what’s it called…Hatsetsu?”

Viktor frowns. The name tickles at the edge of his memory, but nothing concrete comes to mind. Possibly he just remembers driving past the sign, if it’s really so close to his own domain. “Any idea how the residents are going to get around?”

“Well, that’s just the thing,” Chris says. His voice is low, now, conspiratorial, as though they weren’t having this discussion over public airwaves. They could be huddled around a campfire, sharing ghost stories. “You didn’t hear this from me, but a little birdy”—meaning, Viktor thinks, Phichit—“says the town’s abandoned. Everyone vanished overnight. Poof.”

Before he can respond, someone else on the Inter-Tower line squeaks out a small “Ah.” This is followed by a gust of air and a smacking sound. Viktor thinks, suddenly, of a small child clapping a hand over their own mouth, afraid to be caught listening.

“Hello?” he says.

“Oh,” the new voice says, strangely muffled, and then clearer: “Oh. Uh. This is Watchtower Nine—sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Nine!” Chris says. “I don’t recognize your voice.”

“Oh, yes,” the man says. “I’m new. I just started here.”

Viktor smiles. It’s been a while since any of the towers have gotten new crewmen. “What’s your name?” he asks, propping his chin on the desk.

“I’m…I’m Yuuri Katsuki,” the voice says. “It’s nice to, uh, meet you?”

“Welcome to the Bridge, Yuuri,” Viktor says.

Yuuri—laughs? It’s hard to tell over the crackling line. “I’ve lived here all my life,” he says, “but thank you.”

“Your whole life, huh?” Chris says. “Very interesting. Not many Bridge natives come to work at the Watchtowers. What brought you to us?”

Yuuri is silent for a few heartbeats too many. “…change of scenery,” he says finally.

“Well, we’re a good bunch,” Viktor says, over Chris’s questioning noise. “And Chris will only bite if you ask nicely.”

“It takes more than a bite to scare me away,” Yuuri says.

Despite the static noises, Chris’s purr of “Is that so?” comes through crystal clear.

And Viktor makes possibly the most disgusting noise he has ever made in his life, like a pig with a cold, directly into the microphone. He hears another few sets of tinny laughter, probably other Watchtower radio hosts lurking on the line, and over that Yuuri sputtering, “No! I didn’t—not like that!”

“Welcome!” Sara says through the ruckus. “Once Chris has hit on you, you’re really part of the family.”

Viktor’s own laughter trails off a bit at that. He doesn’t know Sara well—mostly snippets of information passed from Mila or Yuri in conversation—but he knows enough to think about the reason she’s on the Bridge at all, running from home and a brother who refused to let her out of his sight. She’d come because she’d had nowhere else, and then she’d stayed.

Family might be too strong a word for what they are, a collection of outcasts strung across thousands of miles. Viktor already knows he will never see most of these peoples’ faces. But after all, it’s not as though he has anyone else.

“Vitya!” Yakov’s shout echoes up the stairs.

“Oh, dear,” Viktor says. “My supervisor’s calling—I have to go. It’s been a pleasure, Yuuri.”

“Ah—likewise, Viktor,” Yuuri says. Viktor indulges himself in a lazy smile as he powers down the equipment.

It’s not until after he’s fed Makkachin that he realizes nobody ever told Yuuri his name.

Here was a secret that Viktor had sworn he would take to his grave long before he came to the Bridge: the podium was his least favorite place to be.

The rest of it had a certain thrill to it. The routines, of course; the costumes, extravagant and beautiful and designed to make him irresistible and ever-so-slightly inhuman; the plane rides to faraway countries, the sponsors and the fancy dinners. The hotels with silk sheets and crystal chandeliers that glinted like little chips of stolen starlight.

The podium, though—somewhere along the way it became a pedestal, or a display shelf. He looked good and he worked hard to stay there until he thought maybe his feet would fuse to the top spot and he’d be frozen there forever, the rest of the skating world clawing at his ankles, tearing at each other for a chance to send him crashing down.

He was Viktor Nikiforov, the legend. The singular. There was no room at the top for anyone else.

Perhaps the move to sea level did some good. But now here he was, sitting at the top of the Watchtower, just him and the radio and the empty road.

#callie writes #the bridge #yuri on ice #CUT BC I WROTE...WAY MORE THAN I THOUGHT I DID #oh well

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daimonic-clown · 8 years ago

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Stones Left Unturned

Dear Sister, I–

Xird had immediately planted his face into the letter. Ink had stained his face, not fully dried out. He always found this too difficult, writing to home. Though his younger sister had been his only person to reply, he still wanted it to be absolutely perfect.

“I�� I… I what, I’m babbling like an idiot in a tavern room? Paaaah!” Xird had leaned on his hand with his forehead, and rubbed. It’s not a song, he had thought, maybe that’s why this is so difficult.

His thoughts loomed overhead, knowing they had to be acknowledged at some point. Truthfully, it was a bit of dread; perhaps his own parents would up and read this. He had never known if they even read his letters beforehand, for he never received a response. Due to that disappointment, he had given up sending letters years ago. Well, at least to them. There was a pressure in his mind to word things almost… scholarly. Maybe he could convince them, subletly that his studies of music held the same effect as it might have if he remained in Dalaran.

It had not, though. He knew that. Training was slow, and today his idea had not been the best. He had another attempt at something more tangible, but still it was not guaranteed. He knew that he would take pride in mastering that which was not certain in being possible, but his parents?

He was convinced they had disowned him. In truth, it was not helping him make this letter any faster. He was in a rush, and had to send it on time.

Dear Sister, I am sorry once again for leaving you behind in that most dull place, but adventure calls, you always understood that. Today was most odd, if I do say so myself. You know how I have told you stories of odd clients and their misadventures; you used to tell me: ‘do not indulge such things to me, Xirdnath, tell me your misadventures!’ And so, I will attempt to the best of my abilities in explaining what curiosities I have been exploring…

—————————————————————————————————-

It was a warm day in Redridge, and the sun had risen nearly an hour ago. The land was basked in fresh light, the dawn of a new day, with new trials, new opportunties, and new strife. The simple people here had faced much: orcs who sought to burn their land and kill them, ettins who cared little for society and boundaries, and murlocs with little manners and reeked.

From where Xird was, though, he could not see the scars left by the antagonizers. A series of paths led to an overlook, but it did not overlook Redridge, but its connecting land – once belonging to Redridge, but now its own entity – the Burning Steppes.

Black, gloomy, and it looked almost as if Xird were to slide his way down the perch, the temperature would be horrid even more so. Was it even warm in Redridge, or was it just the proxmity to such a charred location? He sighed heavily.

“What an uninspiring place,” Xirdnath had mumbled, more to himself than to his companion with him at the time.

A rough scoff was heard, just that simple sound made Xird’s spine shiver. Such a simple sound, yet it rang of a crudeness he had been unfamiliar with.

“You say that because you do not know your surroundings,” replied Deldaroo, an old pandaren shaman.

The shaman was covered in mail armor, not an inch of him exposed. It did not seem to affect him that the occasional warm breeze traveled from the Steppes. His head was uncovered and not an ounce of sweat was on his brow.

Xird on the other hand, he was coated in sweat. He felt like he was baking. Even with a simple cloth tunic, linen pants, and only his heavy, enchanted gauntlets on his hands, he felt as though he’d become a cooked meal for a horrible denizen to the overlooking area in a matter of time.

“It is your nerves,” Deldaroo spoke without any sort of context.

“Huh? Oh, no… it’s boiling here! Can’t you feel it?”

“Focus, or we both get smashed here, get it?” Deldaroo narrowed his eyes at Xird. “Find your balls and we’ll begin.”

“My what… my gaun- oh you– that was… metaphor, got it,” Then the bard nervously laughed. He stood up and started controlled breathing. His hands raised, as if to conduct his music, and he nodded frantically at Deldaroo.

The pandaren was not entirely convinced he was ready, but he figured there was no real danger. If things had gone wrong, he would step in. So, he planted the totem into the ground. His padded feet lifted to the top of the totem and pressed it in further. He then nodded at Xird to do his part.

It was when he began his playing. His gauntlets glowed, and the sound of heavy drums sounded. Pebbles jittered about from the force – it was a hell of a sound, that was for certain. But even with this, Deldaroo yelled out in a language that Xirdnath did not, at first, understand. It was when he realized it was kalimag: he made him practice this line, in an attempt to call upon forces he was unfamiliar with.

'Spirit of earth, come to me.’

Deldaroo had only said it once, then had spoken more quietly when he saw that the totem – or his music perhaps? – had worked. Rocks from below climbed themselves up the perch, and gathered into a form.

Not in front of Deldaroo, but in front of Xirdnath. Xirdnath had been muttering spells, muttering sweet soothings to what he had been warned would be an angry elemental. But as the rocks gathered, it seemed they had taken their time. Xird had let his guard down, and believed for certain that it was a showing that his music calmed them, made him trusted to this elemental figure.

It became a partially-humanoid form. Glowing eyes, and three large rocks smacking along the ground below it to represent a sense of mobility. Truth was, it floated about. When it was fully formed, Xirdnath puffed his chest and continued. Other instruments joined his symphony: violins competing to roar above the drums, bass instruments too forcing their way through this warring of sound.

The element hesitated. Deldaroo tensed up at this, and looked to Xirdnath, only to see him smiling largely at the shaman. He mouthed between words.

'I’ve got it!’

That was when the elemental bounded towards the bard. Deldaroo bolted himself towards what was turning out to be a horrifying display. Its rocky arms lifted to the air, and when the bard looked back at the elemental, he realized the mistake in letting his guard down. The music became more… and more… and more frantic, until finally… it stopped.

Xirdnath was on the ground, huddled up. The light returned to his gauntlets, and he was breathing heavily.

“Xird…” Deldaroo had not even touched, nor tried to command the elemental. “Xird… move away. Come on, dammit,” The shaman’s voice was careful, quiet. And most importantly, in common.

“I… is this what death is…? Is that the voice of the Light… sounds so… old… so bitter… like ol’ Deldar–”

“Xird! Move!” This time, Deldaroo grabbed Xirdnath and pulled him away from the elemental. Xird had taken a few seconds to compose himself, then look onto the earth-born creature.

“Uhhh… I… I did that?”

“It seems so,” Deldaroo said dryly.

The elemental was locked, frozen in an attacking positon. The fist had been perhaps only a couple of feet from where Xirdnath’s head would have been. As it was locked in this position, the stones seemed to rumble, and jitter, as if unstable, and unable to hold itself.

“So, what if I…” And Xird returned the original sound once again. Gauntlets glowing, no source of illusionary representation to his sounds.

“What are you do–”

The element turned itself around, and would have swung its arm directly at Deldaroo’s gut, but Xird was faster. His music stopped.

“Wh– What… What did I do?”

Deldaroo held out a paw to stop Xird’s chatter. He observed the element closely, how it scrambled to stabilize itself. Soon, it fell apart, and the stones were nothing more than stones. They were not longer the odd creature that had nearly battered them both.

“Delda! What. Did. I. Do?!”

“What the hell do you think? You did it. Not precisely how you might have anticipated it to be, might be no value in doing that, but you did it.” Delda seemed unsatisfied. His arms were crossed, and Xird despised that his gaze looked like one of his would-have-been mage teachers.

“But what is it! Tell me, elaborate!” Xirdnath was excited, however. He would not let the cranky bastard ruin this for him.

“You connected to an element through music. Through that connection, a brief influence altered the element’s state. So, it attacked you.”

“Well…” Xirdnath looked to the ground, and sighed. “Why did it attack me! I thought I did it?”

“You think I’m a fruity musician, my boy? I don’t know, maybe you played a song they didn’t like. Maybe it was just a bad day. Or maybe you just aren’t meant to be fiddling with the elements.”

—————————————————————————————————-

… and so, I left that day a bit disappointed. It was not as I envisioned it, you see. I imagined myself having an ability that may be capable of avoiding the mage’s way of harnessing certain elements. It wasn’t precisely that, of course. Still, there could be a way to find some use to attracting elements. But, that’s literally playing with fire and trying not to get burnt – well, assuming I try messing around with fire, hah.

I leave today to try something new with another one of my patron’s allies. Beasts – surely they’re more simple, yes? Maybe nothing too crazy. A wolf, a bird of prey, something that has a soft spot for humans in some way. Oh, well, I will be sure to write you the moment I finish that, so prepare for a part two to this, sis!

Your loving brother, Xirdnath Burbridge

#wow #rp #take that fuckin rare post from me #Xirdnath

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