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intrikatie · 7 days ago

Text

The Game...

Hyunjin x Reader

🔞Minors DNI

For my love @skzdreamer13 & my darling @neverendingstay ♡ One Day ♡

✰ Pairing: Secret Boyfriend Hyunjin x Fem Reader ✰ Genre: SMUT with a bit of fluff at the end ✰ Info: MxF, FxM, Unprotected Sex, longing and desire

Word count: 3000

It’s your favourite game.

A game no one knows you play.

Not the fans. Not the press. Not even the ones closest to him.

They’re all a part of it, without realising.

No one knows.

Except your boyfriend.

You don’t have to check your phone. You already know what the message will say.

But you check anyway.

Him: Here

Just a single word. No punctuation, no flourish. But you can feel the weight behind it, the restraint wrapped in familiarity.

You don’t reply. You never do. That’s part of the game, too.

From your spot in the foyer, you watch as the convoy halts outside, dark-tinted doors swinging open one by one. The air shifts. People straighten. A hushed excitement weaves through the space, palpable even in its silence.

The members move in quickly, seamlessly. A well-practiced routine. Hoodies up, caps low. The perfect blend of noticeable and unnoticeable.

One of them—Chan—glances your way. Just for a second. A flicker of curiosity, something bordering on recognition. But then he’s gone, moving past you without a second look, laptop bag in tow.

Hyunjin is the last to enter.

He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t falter. Doesn’t even pretend to look. But his body moves with a kind of precision—an extra slowness, an awareness only you can read.

And that’s enough.

That’s all you need.

You already want him. Crave him. The cool bite of ice water lingers on your tongue as you sip, watching him over the rim of your glass. Your thighs press together, restless.

He looks divine.

The sharp lines of his buzzcut, blonde and gleaming like gold under the lobby lights. No one knows you were there when he took the clippers to it. When he stood in front of the mirror, jaw tight, eyes locked on yours in the reflection.

A moment of impulse. Of need. Of want.

God, he fucked you hard that night.

You set your glass down on the table in front of you. Smooth. Unhurried.

Then, without looking up, you return to your book.

This part of the game requires patience. A technique you’ve mastered. One Hyunjin still struggles with.

Your phone buzzes.

Again. And again. And again.

Him: fuck. You look so good.

Him: room number. Now.

Him: don’t make me wait, baby.

You don’t reply. You don’t need to.

Instead, you return to your quiet observation.

You’ve been here for two days, watching from a distance as the hotel shifted around them. Staff busied themselves, preparing. Shutting off floors. Pulling in extra security before Stray Kids’ own team arrived.

Then came the luggage. Then the staff.

And even now, the arrivals haven’t stopped.

Because Stray Kids being here doesn’t mean the world slows down.

If anything, it moves faster now.

Staff hurry to finalise details, voices hushed but urgent. A last-minute check at the front desk with the head manager and their assistant—were all the key cards collected? Were there any last-minute changes to the room requirements?

A quiet word exchanged between security—the hotel’s and the team assigned specifically to Stray Kids. Someone rushes past with a clipboard, disappearing toward the kitchens.

Your phone buzzes again.

Him: don’t make me come and find you.

You close your book and stand, making your way to the elevator.

You don’t rush. There’s no need.

Hyunjin isn’t going anywhere. He’ll be tied up for at least another hour—luggage to sort, schedules to adjust, managers to appease.

And besides, you’re under the same roof now.

The elevator doors glide open, and you step inside, pressing the button for your floor. The ride is smooth, silent, giving you a moment to settle into the next phase of the game.

Your room is just as you left it. The curtains drawn, the air cool, the scent of your perfume lingering from earlier. You slip off your shoes, padding across the plush carpet as you set your book down on the bedside table.

Hyunjin isn’t the only one who needs patience.

You take your time.

A slow stretch, rolling out the tension from sitting so long downstairs. A glance in the mirror. You already look good, but you could look better.

You undress. A deliberate choice. You dig through your suitcase, fingers trailing over lace, silk, the softest things you own.

Something easy to slip on. Something even easier to take off. You opt for a silk and lace camisole with matching underwear. The perfect amount of tease.

Your phone buzzes again.

Him: baby

You smile, reaching for your lip gloss.

Let him wait. Not too long, just a little longer.

You take your time finishing up. A spritz of perfume at your pulse points, the faintest shimmer catching on your collarbones under the soft glow of the room’s lighting.

Your phone buzzes again. And again.

You don’t check it. You already know the pleas.

Hyunjin is impatient. Maybe a little desperate. All the better.

You slip on a pair of heels— because you know he likes them. Likes the way they change your posture, the way they sound against the floor when you walk toward him.

You sit on the edge of the bed and send the room number. Then, you set your phone down and wait. How he gets to you, alone, without raising eyebrows. That’s on him. That’s his game to play.

You wait.

Not long.

A few minutes, maybe. Just enough to let the anticipation build.

And then—

A knock at the door.

Firm. Measured.

Not rushed, not frantic, but there’s an edge to it. A warning.

You smile.

Finally.

You wait, trying to steady your heartrate which spikes at the sound. You exhale slowly as you pull the door open.

Hyunjin stands before you, his usual polished look swapped for something more casual—sweats, a loose hoodie, and the same lazy confidence he wears like a second skin. His excuse is obvious, and you can already guess what’s coming: “Just escaping to the gym for a bit,” his voice low and teasing.

You raise an eyebrow, the corners of your mouth tugging upward.

I’ll be sure to give you a workout, you think to yourself, a silent challenge hanging in the air.

You don’t speak. You don’t need to. His eyes gleam, scanning you for only a moment before his lips twitch into a knowing smile, dragging his full bottom lip through his teeth. The tension thickens.

His gaze flickers down to your lips, then back up to your eyes. The silent exchange crackles, a thousand unsaid things hanging between you.

And then, before you can even manage a greeting, his body surges forward. His hands wrap around you with a force that makes you gasp as he presses you against the wall.

His lips are on yours before you can catch your breath. He kicks your room door closed, the sound a signal you are finally alone. Alone and together.

His kiss is urgent, almost desperate, with the pressure of his body against yours leaving no space between you. It’s everything you’ve been waiting for—the tension breaking, the silence snapping, his familiar heat flooding you.

You melt into him, the world outside that door fading away completely as he presses you back against the wall, his lips devouring yours with a hunger that makes your pulse race. You don’t need words right now. His actions speak louder than anything you could say.

The waiting game? It’s over.

Now, it’s just him.

His hands are everywhere, roaming over you with a sense of urgency, as if he’s been starving for this just as much as you. You gasp against his mouth as his fingers slide under the hem of your camisole, his touch hot against your skin, sending sparks of electricity through your body.

The kiss deepens, his lips, his tongue, demanding, but still soft, as though savouring the moment while devouring it at the same time. You can feel the tension in him, the way his body is wound tight with need, but there's also a careful precision to his movements. He wants this, wants you, but he wants to control it too, holding back just enough to make you crave more.

Your fingers move to his hoodie, tugging it up, desperate to feel more of him. His lips trail down your jawline, his breath hot against your skin, and you shiver in anticipation. He pulls back just a fraction, eyes dark, intense, a warning in them. A promise.

"Patience," he whispers, his voice low and rough, as if he’s barely holding on himself. As though he hasn’t been the one pleading with you for the past hour and a half.

You can’t help the smirk that curves on your lips. "You first."

Without another word, he lifts you effortlessly, his strength surprising and familiar all at once, before pressing you back against the bed. His lips return to yours in a searing kiss, and you can feel the control slipping away, his body moving over yours in perfect sync with your own mounting desire.

His lips leave yours, a soft, breathless sigh escaping him as his eyes lock onto yours—dark, hungry, desperate. You don’t give him a chance to regain control.

With a swift motion, your hands find the hem of his hoodie, fingers digging into the fabric. You yank it over his head without hesitation, the action rough and urgent, matching the pounding of your heart.

His breath catches, but it only fuels the fire between you. His gaze flickers down to your hands, then back to your face, as if in disbelief, but there’s no time for hesitation now.

Your fingers are already on his sweats, pushing them down, exposing his skin, inch by inch. His body tenses under your touch, muscles rippling as he steps back slightly to kick them off. You catch sight of his hard and glistening length and your walls clench in anticipation. Fuck. You need him. You need him now. You’re already there, pulling him closer, not giving him a moment to breathe.

He groans, a low, throaty sound that sends a thrill through you, as his hands move to your waist, pulling you closer with an urgency that mirrors your own. There’s no soft teasing anymore, no buildup. Just pure, raw desire.

You meet him halfway, your hands roaming over his chest, the feel of his heartbeat matching your own. You can’t get enough of him. His skin, the way his body moves beneath your fingertips, how it feels to have him so close.

Your lips crash against his again, this time harder, more desperate, both of you hungry for the contact, the intimacy. Every kiss feels like it could consume you whole. He groans again, his hands leaving your waist to work on the straps of your camisole. The fabric falls away, and you can see the hunger in his eyes as he looks at you, and you know—this is it.

He lowers his head, mouth tracing the contours of your breasts before his tongue swirls over your sensitive buds. Finally his hands move lower, stripping you of your underwear. Your heels. Until you are finally bare beneath him.

He pulls back slightly, settling on his knees, his gaze sweeping over you—slow, deliberate, reverent. His eyes trace every curve, every contour, as his fingers ghost over the paths he’s already memorized, mapping you like sacred ground. Each touch is featherlight, almost worshipful, like a brushstroke against your skin. A shiver runs through you.

What does he see?

What kind of picture is he painting with his hands?

You can’t take the distance, not with the way he looks at you, like he’s trying to commit you to memory. You pull him closer, feeling the firm planes of his body against yours, the heat of him branding into your skin. His length glides through your folds, teasing, torturous, and you sigh as you slide your fingers over the short buzz of his hair, smooth forward, rough back. Like golden velvet against your palm.

Fucking intoxicating.

“Hyun,” you breathe, raising your hips, desperate for him.

His lips find your throat, tongue flicking against your pulse, and his breath is hot as he whispers, “You ready for me, baby?”

“Always.”

A quiet curse slips from his lips as he sinks into you. The stretch is familiar, but no less breathtaking, no less consuming. His fingers flex against your hips, as if he’s trying to hold back, even now. He shudders slightly, forehead pressing to yours, his chest rising and falling in staggered breaths.

Your noses brush, your breaths mingle. It’s quiet, intimate. Every movement, every shift, feels like a silent promise.

You roll your hips, urging him to move, and he obeys without hesitation. The rhythm between you is instinctive, second nature, but tonight, it carries more weight, like the space between you—every second spent apart—shrinks with each thrust.

His fingers weave through yours, grip tightening. Holding you, grounding you. His eyes meet yours, dark with desire but softened by something deeper. Unspoken, but there.

He moves within you like he’s trying to carve his name into your body, like he can’t get close enough, deep enough. His chest presses against yours, skin to skin, sweat-slicked and burning.

“God, you’re so perfect,” he rasps, voice rough.

His pace is steady, deliberate, dragging pleasure from you with each slow roll of his hips. The heat of him surrounds you, his scent flooding your senses. Every thrust feels like a slow burn, and you let it consume you, let him consume you.

You reach up, fingertips brushing his jaw, and his eyes flicker closed for a moment before they open again—seeing you clearer, deeper, like he’s looking straight through to your soul.

You’re the only one who gets to see him like this.

You’re the only one.

Your knee lifts to his hip, and he moves instinctively, rolling with you, his hand flattening against the small of your back as he shifts you both. He settles beneath you, his thighs firm beneath yours, his heart beat thundering against your palms and you gasp at the new depth as you sink down onto him.

His hands find your waist, your hips, then lower, gripping your ass as he helps you move. You rock against him, pace unhurried but purposeful, each movement drawing out the pleasure, intensifying it.

A deep groan rumbles through his chest as he tilts his head back, lips parted, eyes heavy-lidded as he watches you. Watches the way you take him, the way you move for him.

“Fuck, baby…” he hisses, pressing you down harder, pulling you deeper.

Your thighs burn, but the pleasure is too much, too consuming to care. You chase more, more, more.

“Sound so pretty, baby,” he murmurs, his voice frayed at the edges. “Feel so fucking good.”

Encouraged by his words, you pick up the pace, grinding down, gasping as the friction sends you hurtling closer to the edge. His hands roam over you—your waist, your thighs, up your spine—before gripping you tighter, guiding you, coaxing you toward that breaking point.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice thick, raw.

Your eyes snap to his, and the moment they lock, it’s over.

Pleasure crashes over you in relentless waves, shattering you from the inside out. Your head tips back, a sharp cry breaking free as your body tightens around him, pulsing, trembling. He rises up, pressing his forehead to your chest, his breath ragged, lost in the way you come undone above him.

But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let you go.

He grinds you down onto him, thrusting up into you again, again, again—prolonging it, pulling more from you, until you’re gasping, your whole body quaking from the force of it.

Then his mouth is on yours, desperate and consuming, swallowing every sound as he thrusts one final time. A groan rumbles deep in his throat as he follows you over the edge, his grip tightening, body trembling beneath you as he spills inside you. The pleasure drags him under, pulling you down with him.

For a long moment, neither of you move. You just breathe. Tangled, spent, lost in the haze of each other. Your chests rise and fall in sync, pressed flush together, still feeling the echoes of what just was.

You trace the line of his collarbone bone, dragging the sweat that has gathered there.

As your breaths steady, Hyunjin’s fingers trail lazily up and down your spine, his touch featherlight, absentminded. You shift slightly, your lips grazing the damp skin of his throat, tasting the salt of his skin and he exhales, his arms tightening around you.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. The silence is easy, comfortable. But then, his voice comes, low and almost contemplative.

“One day,” he murmurs, “we won’t have to play the game.”

You still, absorbing the weight of his words. He doesn’t say it like a promise, doesn’t paint some unrealistic dream—just states it, quiet and certain, like he’s already imagined it.

Like he already knows.

Your fingers press lightly into his ribs, grounding yourself. “One day,” you echo, softer still.

Hyunjin’s lips brush your temple, the touch lingering, his breath warm against your skin. But then, the moment shifts—like he won’t let himself linger on the thought too long. Because one day isn't today. And it won't be tomorrow.

But it will happen.

One day.

A beat later, he sighs dramatically. “But until then…”

And just like that, he flips you onto your back, grinning as he settles over you, hands bracketing your waist. The sudden motion makes you gasp but before you can say anything, he smirks, voice dropping into something playful, teasing.

“You kept me waiting forever. Now, I think it’s only fair that you make it up to me.”

You giggle against his lips. “Everyone knows you don’t gym like the others. Someone will come looking for you.”

“Just part of the game, Y/N.” He murmurs trailing kisses over your jaw.

♡ If you made it this far, thank you so much for your support!

♡ please consider leaving a comment, like or reblog. I love hearing your thoughts!!

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anotherhumaninthisworld · 5 months ago

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The Committee of Public Safety being a totally healthy work environment with no issues whatsoever compilation

First, some statistics:

Leaving in the middle of a session due to fighting: Collot (1 time), Robespierre (3 times), Saint-Just (4 times), Lindet (1 time)

Starting to cry during a session: Carnot (1 time), Robespierre (1 time)

Threatening your co-workers: Robespierre (2 times), Saint-Just (2 times, one of them a death threat), Couthon (1 time)

Calling your co-workers traitors/scroundrels/ counter-revolutionaries/aristocrats/conspirators/foreign agents: Billaud (1 time), Saint-Just (3 times), Robespierre (5 times), Collot (2 times), Barère (1 time)

Accusing your co-workers of aspiring towards dictatorship: Carnot, Billaud, Barère, Collot, Lindet (1 time)

Accusing your co-workers of wishing to destroy patriots: Robespierre, Collot (1 time)

Using physical violence against your co-workers: Collot (2 times?)

Defending your co-worker against another co-worker in a way that doesn’t at all make it seem like you’re into him: Saint-Just (3 times) Barère (1 time)

Saint-Just had such indifference that, about this time (return from Fleurus), he came one evening to propose to the committee a strange means of promptly ending the struggle of the revolution against the suspected and imprisoned nobles. These were his words: ”For a thousand years the nobility have been oppressing the French nation with exactions and feudal vexations of every kind, feudalism and nobihty exist no longer, if you want to repair all the frontier roads for the passage of the artillery, convoys, and transports of our army, order the imprisoned nobles to go to work daily and mend the highways.” […] When Saint-Just had finished there was a movement of silent indignation amongst us all, succeeded by a unanimous demand for the order of the day. I thought I ought to stipulate for the national character by saying to Samt-Just and the committee that we should be opposed to such a kind of punishment for prisoners even if the law pronounced it, that the nobility could be abolished by wise laws, but that the nobles always preserved in the mass of the people a rank, a distinction due to education, which prevented us from acting at Paris as Manus did at Rome. ”Ah,” exclaimed Samt-Just, “Marius was more politic and a greater statesman than you will ever be. I wished to try the strength, the temperament, and the opinion of the Committee of Pubhc Safety. You are not fit to combat nobility, since you cannot destroy it, it will devour the Revolution and the revolutionists. I retire from the committee.” He quickly withdrew, and set out for the army, until the moment when he thought himself capable of executing vaster projects with Robespierre, Couthon, and Lebas, his associates. Memoirs of Bertrand Barère, volume 2, page 139-140.

It is the inherent vice of bad laws, and, above all, of penal laws devoid of motive, which attack a great number of innocent people, to nullify themselves. Saint-Just did not understand that. He attacked me, and accused me of having put under requisition the relatives of several emigrants whilst the law punished them in their property. The committee appeared struck by this accusation, and asked him to explain himself and name some of the relations. He named several, but they were all unknown to us. He afterwards named Mademoiselle d’Avisard, of Toulouse, whose father was abroad. Here I replied that the fate of this innocent girl, who was but sixteen years of age, and obliged by the terrible laws against emigrants to subsist at Paris by manual labour, for she was then engaged in making gaiters for our soldiers, was in the highest degree worthy of compassion and interest. […] The Committee of Public Safety thought this explanation sufficient. It saw that it was only a wicked recrimination by Saint-Just, supported by the presence of Robespierre. Memoirs Of Bertrand Barère, volume 2, page 147-148.

Robespierre murmured a lot about the forms that we had established in Lyon for the execution of decrees: he constantly repeated that there was no reason to judge the guilty when they are outlawed. He exclaimed that we had let the families of the condemned go free; and when the commission sent the Convention and the committee the list of its judgments, he was not in control of his anger as he cast his eyes on the column where the names of the citizens who had been acquitted were written. Unable to change anything in the forms of judgment, regulated according to the decrees and approved by the committee, he imagined another system; he questioned whether the patriots of Commune-Affranchie were not vexed and under oppression. They were, he said, because the property of the condemned being specially intended, by article IV of the decree of July 12, to become their patrimony, we had greatly reduced their claims, not only by not judging only a quarter of the number of conspirators identified by Dubois-Crancé on 23 Vendémiare, or designated by previous decrees, but also by establishing a commission which appeared willing to acquit two thirds, as it happened. Through these declamations Robespierre wanted to entertain the patriots of whom he spoke, with the most violent ideas, to throw into their minds a framework of extraordinary measures, and to put them in opposition with the representatives of the people and their closest cooperators: he made them understand that they could count on him, he emboldened them to form all kinds of obstacles, to only follow his indications which he presented as being the intentions of the Committee of Public Safety. Défense de J-M. Collot, répresentant du peuple. Éclaircissemens nécessaires sur ce qui s’est passé à Lyon (alors Commune-Affranchie), l’année dernière; pour faire suite aux rapports des Répresentants du peuple, envoyés vers cette commune, avant, pendant et après le siège (1794)

Billaud Varennes: […] The first time I denounced Danton to the committee, Robespierre rose like a madman and declared that he saw my intentions, that I wanted to lose the best patriots. Billaud-Varennes accuses Robespierre during the session of 9 Thermidor

Why should I not say that [the dantonist purge] was a meditated assassination, prepared for a long time, when two days after this session where the crime was taking place (March 30 1794), the representative Vadier told me that Saint-Just, through his stubbornness, had almost caused the downfall of the members of the two committees, because he had wanted the accused be present when he read the report at the National Convention; and such was his obstinacy that, seeing our formal opposition, he threw his hat into the fire in rage, and left us there. Robespierre was also of this opinion; he believed that by having these deputies arrested beforehand, this approach would sooner or later be reprehensible; but, as fear was an irresistible argument with him, I used this weapon to fight him: You can take the chance of being guillotined, if that is what you want; For my part, I want to avoid this danger by having them arrested immediately, because we must not have any illusions about the course we must take; everything is reduced to these bits: If we do not have them guillotined, we will be that ourselves. À Maximilien Robespierre aux enfers (1794) by Taschereau de Fargues and Paul-Auguste-Jacques.

In the beginning of floréal (somewhere between April 20 and 30) during an evening session (at the Committee of Public Safety), a brusque fight erupted between Saint-Just and Carnot, on the subject of the administration of portable weapons, of which it wasn’t Carnot, but Prieur de la Côte-d’Or, who was in charge. Saint-Just put big interest in the brother-in-law of Sijas, Luxembourg workshop accounting officer, that one thought had been oppressed and threatened with arbitrary arrest, because he had experienced some difficulties for the purpose of his service with the weapon administration. In this quarrel caused unexpectedly by Saint-Just, one saw clearly his goal, which was to attack the members of the committee who occupied themselves with arms, and to lose their cooperators. He also tried to include our colleague Prieur in the inculpation, by accusing him of wanting to lose and imprison this agent. But Prieur denied these malicious claims so well, that Saint-Just didn’t dare to insist on it more. Instead, he turned again towards Carnot, whom he attacked with cruelty; several members of the Committee of General Security assisted. Niou was present for this scandalous scene: dismayed, he retired and feared to accept a pouder mission, a mission that could become, he said, a subject of accusation, since the patriots were busy destroying themselves in this way. We undoubtedly complained about this indecent attack, but was it necessary, at a time when there was not a grain of powder manufactured in Paris, to proclaim a division within the Committee of Public Safety, rather than to make known this fatal secret? In the midst of the most vague indictments and the most atrocious expressions uttered by Saint-Just, Carnot was obliged to repel them by treating him and his friends as aspiring to dictatorship and successively attacking all patriots to remain alone and gain supreme power with his supporters. It was then that Saint-Just showed an excessive fury; he cried out that the Republic was lost if the men in charge of defending it were treated like dictators; that yesterday he saw the project to attack him but that he defended himself.

”It’s you,” he added, ”who is allied with the enemies of the patriots. And understand that I only need a few lines to write for an act of accusation and have you guillotined in two days.” ”I invite you, said Carnot with the firmness that only appartient to virtue: I provoke all your severity against me, I do not fear you, you are ridiculous dictators.” The other members of the Committee insisted in vain several times to extinguish this ferment of disorder in the committee, to remind Saint-Just of the fairer ideas of his colleague and of more decency in the committee; they wanted to call people back to public affairs, but everything was useless: Saint-Just went out as if enraged, flying into a rage and threatening his colleagues. Saint-Just probably had nothing more urgent than to go and warn Robespierre the next day of the scene that had just happened, because we saw them return together the next day to the committee, around one o'clock: barely had they entered when Saint-Just, taking Robespierre by the hand, addressed Carnot saying:

”Well, here you have my friends, here are the ones you attacked yesterday!”

Robespierre tried to speak of the respective wrongs with a very hypocritical tone: Saint-Just wanted to speak again and excite his colleagues to take his side. The coldness which reigned in this session, disheartened them, and they left the committee very early and in a good mood. It was at this time that the division became pronounced in a very noticeable manner, and soon after we saw it claimed in the English papers that the Committee of Public Safety was divided. For some time now we had been distrusting each other, we were observing each other, we were no longer deliberating with them with this abandonment of trust. Until then Robespierre had done little; he constantly brought us his concerns, his suspicions, his shady expressions and his political bile; he only concerned himself with personal measures; he only drafted arrest warrants, he only dealt with factions, newspapers, the revolutionary tribunal. Nothing about the Government, nothing about the war, never having either views to propose or a report to make, he spent his time destroying our courage, despairing of the salvation of the country and speaking of its slanderers and its assassins; his favorite expressions were, everything is lost, there are no more resources. I no longer see anyone to save it, he always cried. When news of victory were brought by a courier, he spoke of upcoming betrayals, he tarnished our joy or attacked the representatives of the people near the victorious army. The more triumphant the Northern army was, the more strongly he denounced Richard and Choudieu; when the troops besieged Ypres, a stronghold and the key to West Flanders, a capture which, according to the decrees of the committee, was to open and ensure the campaign; Robespierre shouted against the representatives of the People near this army and had complaints written that the troops had not taken Ostend sooner. He seemed to us to be pursued by victories as well as by furies, and he often reproached the committee's rapporteur for the length and exaltation of his reports on the triumphs of the armies. Réponse des membres des deux anciens Comités de salut public et de sûreté générale (Barère, Collot, Billaud, Vadier), aux imputations renouvellées contre eux, par Laurent Lecointre et declarées calomnieuses par décret du 13 fructidor dernier; à la Convention Nationale (1795), page 103-105.

Robespierre, supported by the Jacobins, was the most influential member of the Committees without being the most wicked. His supporters were, however, in the minority; the plan to adjourn the sessions of the Convention had not obtained theor approval. One thought it necessary to oppose Robespierre with the masculine structure of Collot d’Herbois. A quarrel caused by the proposal of a proscription list to which Robespierre was precisely opposed (it involved the arrest of 14 deputies and citizens); this list, put up for discussion by the majority, passed to each member who added names to it, when it reached Robespierre, it had 32 deputies on it. Robespierre said: “I see five or six deputies unworthy of the character with which they are invested: it will be easy to induce them to resign: but I will lend neither my vote nor my signature to the revenge that you want to exercise.” Two friends of Robespierre were of his opinion: heads became heated, quarrels ensued: Robespierre was reminded of the fact he had voted against the Danton faction. The three opponents were treated as moderates. Robespierre, getting up angrily, said to them: “You are killing the Republic, you are the faithful agents of the foreigner who fears the system of moderation that we should adopt.” The session became so stormy that Collot used acts of violence against Robespierre. He threw himself at him and seized him by the flanks. He was about to throw Robespierre through the window when the latter's friends rescued him. Robespierre then declared that he was leaving the committee, that he could not honorably sit with executioners, that he would report this to the Convention. One saw the danger of publicizing this scene, blamed Collot's patriotic anger, and begged Robespierre, after having torn up the disastrous list, not to give the enemies of the Republic new means of attacking it. Robespierre seemed to calm down, but when Collot approached him to embrace him he refused and despite being urged not to he left. Mémoires de Barras, membre du Directoire (1895) page 349-350. In a footnote, there is to read: This argument between Robespierre and Collot is recounted in more detail in another autobiographic note by Barras: Robespierre having opposed a new measure of proscription, saying: “You are decimating the National Convention, you are arresting citizens whose republican energy you fear,” the boor Collot d'Herbois threw himself at him and, having seized him by the flanks, he was about to throw Robespierre through the window when the latter's friends freed him. This scene was followed by explanations. Robespierre observed that he could no longer sit with executioners, that he was withdrawing and that he would report to the Convention. The Committee which predicted his fall then opposed Robespierre's exit. The proscription list was torn up in his presence. The hypocrite Carnot and the honeyed Couthon told him that Collot's angry outburst was disavowed by the Committee, that the publicity of what had just happened would ruin the Government Committees and the Republic. He was implored to make the sacrifice of all resentment, and that this proof of patriotism was expected of him. Collot furiously addressed the two mediators, complained about the weakness of his colleagues and left the session. Robespierre, very affected, alternately observed his adversaries. He said to them as he left: “You would have made me look crazy if the abortive plan to throw me through the window had taken place. I see here beings more atrocious than the one who tried to execute that plan. He left ashamed of having accepted this assassination.” Robespierre withdrew and did not appear again for two months at the Committee.

At a time when the Convention was already in a high state of alarm [Robespierre] had circulated a list of five or six deputies. It was rumored that Robespierre intended to have them arrested as a little treat to himself, alleging their immortality as the motive of this proposed act of severity. Robespierre, informed of what was being imputed to him, asserted that such an idea was foreign to him, and, desirous of hurling it back at its authors, he maintained that it had originated with the majority of the committee, which, he alleged, had pushed its cruelty so far as to seek to include 32 deputies in its latest proscription-list. In vain did those who spoke in defence of Robespierre’s innocence of the idea and his humanity protest that it was he who had opposed this more than rigorous measure, that he had torn up the list with his own hands, and apostrophizing the Committee, had said: ”You are seeking to still further decimate the Convention; I will not give my support to such action.” Robespierre had indeed spoken these words just as, making an attempt to leave the committee, he had opened the door with the intention of being heard by the deputies and a large number of citizens who, attracted by the noise of a quarrel in the bosom of the committee, were waiting in the antechamber for the purpose of gratifying their curiosity thus aroused. Collot d’Herbois, furious at such hypocrisy, had sprung after Robespierre, seized him by his coat, and, dragging him towards him in order to bring him back into the room, exclaimed in his resounding voice, which, the door remaining ajar, was heard by all, both the committee and the people outside: ”Robespierre is an infamous scroundrel, a hypocrite; he seeks to impute us that of which he alone is capable. We love all our colleagues; we carry all patriots in our hearts. There stands the man who seeks to butcher them one and all!” Thus vociferating, Collot d’Herbois still remained his hold on Robespierre’s coat-collar. As I had at that very moment left the Convention on my way to the committee, I became a chance spectator of this fearful scene, whose violence was still not the greatest crime in my eyes. Behind it stood revealed the plot of premeditated vengeance, far worse than a mere outburst of anger. I was among those who compelled Collot d’Herbois to release his hold on Robespierre, who thereupon declared that he could no longer sit with his enemies, styling them a party of septemvirs, whom he would unmask and fight in the body of the Convention. He then took his departure, in spite of the entreaties of the entreaties of the committee, which, having been unable to conquer, sought to retain him in its midst. ”Let him go his way,” I said to those surrounding him. All my interest in him lay in the fact that I did not wish to see him strangled on the spot by a stronger man, and one perhaps as wicked as himself. I followed him for a short distance in order to see him safely home; he was trembling as he walked alone. Memoirs of Barras, Member of the Directorate (1895), volume 1, page 196-198. A variation of the anecdote found in the French memoirs?

Lindet has recounted that Collot d'Herbois had thrown himself on Robespierre and that he, helped by Carnot and Prieur de la Côte-d'Or, had to separate them. Councilor Carnot affirms that one day his brother threw a writing case at Robespierre’s head. Le Grand Carnot (1952) by Marcel Reinhard, volume 2, page 145. Reinhard cites ”family archives” as the source for this anecdote. Thank you for sharing @aedesluminis !

On 19 Prairial (June 7 1794), I was in the council chamber with Dumas and several jurors. I heard the president speak of a new law which was being prepared and which was to reduce the number of jurors to seven and nine per sitting. That evening I went to the Committee of Public Safety. There I found Robespierre, Billaud, Collot, Barère and Carnot. I told them that the Tribunal having hitherto enjoyed public confidence, this reduction, if it took place, would infallibly cause it to lose it. Robespierre, who was standing in front of the fireplace, answered me with sudden rage, and ended by saying that only aristocrats could talk like that. None of the other members present said a word. So I withdrew. Réponse d'Antoine-Quentin Fouquier, ex-accusateur-public près le Tribunal révolutionnaire de Paris (1795) page 52-53.

The day after the one on which the [law of 22 prairial] was issued, (June 11 1794) […] there was such a stormy scene at the Committee of Public Safety that Robespierre cried out of rage, since that time he only came two times to the Committee of Public Safety, and it was agreed that the Committee of Public Safety would hold its sessions one floor higher so that the people would not witness the storms that were agitating us. Billaud-Varennes at the Convention, August 30 1794. In fact, Robespierre is proven to have continuously signed CPS decrees up until June 30 1794.

At the morning session of 22 floréal [sic, prairial] (June 10 1794), Billaud-Varennes openly accused Robespierre, as soon as he entered the committee, and reproached him and Couthon for alone having brought to the Convention the abominable decree which frightened the patriots. It is contrary, he said, to all the principles and to the constant progress of the committee to present a draft of a decree without first communicating it to the committee. Robespierre replied coldly that, having trusted each other up to this point in the committee, he had thought he could act alone with Couthon. The members of the committee replied that we have never acted in isolation, especially for serious matters, and that this decree was too important to be passed in this way without the will of the committee. ”The day when a member of the committee,” added Billaud, ”allows himself to present a decree to the Convention alone, there is no longer any liberty, but the will of a single person to propose legislation.” ”I see well that I am alone and that no one supports me,” said Robespierre, and immediately he flies into a rage, he declaims violently against the members of the committee who have conspired, he says, against him. His cries were so loud that on the terraces of the Tuileries several citizens gathered, the window was closed and the discussion continued with the same passion. ”I know,” said Robespierre, ”that there exists within the Convention a faction that wants to lose me, and you’re defending Ruamps here.” ”It must be said,” Billaud rebutted, ”that with this decree you wish to guillotine the National Convention.” Robespierre responds with agitation, ”you are all witnesses that I am not saying that I want to have the National Convention guillotined.” He added, “I know you now,” addressing Billaud. ”And I too, know you as a counter-revolutionary,” responded the latter. Robespierre became agitated as he paced around the committee; and then speaking again with more calm, he carried his hypocrisy to the point of shedding tears. Réponse des membres des deux anciens comités de salut public et de sûreté générale… (1795), page 108-109. This very much sounds like the same session Billaud is describing above, that here got wrongly dated twice.

When Robespierre, dissatisfied with his colleagues, left the Committee – four décades before 9 Thermidor – he exclaimed while leaving: “Save the homeland without me!” ”The homeland is not a man!” R. Lindet would have replied. R. Lindet would also have energetically opposed the proposal of Saint-Just and Le Bas trying to have dictatorship given to Robespierre. He would have replied: “We did not make the Revolution for the benefit of just one person. Tell your master that I oppose this decree,” and he would have left. (Papers of R. Lindet kept in his family). Robert Lindet, député à l'Assemblée législative et à la Convention, membre du Comité de salut public, ministre des finances : notice biographique (1899). Thank you for sharing @saintjustitude !

It was agreed that the reform of the law of 22 Floréal [sic, prairial] was to be proposed in consultation with the Committee of General Security and that the internal divisions would be kept a secret as they were seen as capable of serving the enemies of the Convention and the revolutionary government. Robespierre became more of an enemy of his colleagues, isolated himself from the committee and took refuge with the Jacobins where he prepared to sharpen public opinion against what he called the known conspirators and against the operations of the committee. Only a few days he was seen reappearing at the committee, one evening it was to accuse Richard and Choudieu of the slow and uneven march of the Northern army, and of allowing Ostend to be evacuated during the siege of Ypres. He was told that Choudieu was very ill, that Richard’s conduct had always been good, that they had the confidence of the committee and that the general was carrying out the orders of the committee by securing Ypres. Robespierre affected great concerns about the operations of the armies of the North, he announced to us upcoming betrayals or even double inertia, he proposed to Billaud-Varennes to go to the North, to excite the energy and activity of the operations, but the members of the committee, being few in number and feeling the need to be reunited, opposed this dangerous measure, and Billaud remained. He had done the same thing some time earlier after a big fight (une alteration très-vive) with Collot d'Herbois, who reproached him with the fact he seemed to want to destroy the patriots, in his way of constantly denouncing them. The next day, Robespierre suggested that he go to Commune-Affranchie where royalism was regaining, he said, a frightening consistency. But this tactic of Robespierre was foiled both these two times by the very strong wish of the Committee of General Security which saw itself just as threatened as us by the maneuvers and denunciations of Robespierre. Réponse des membres des deux anciens comités de salut public et de sûreté générale… (1795), page 109-110. Note that on July 3 1794 we also find a CPS decree signed by Collot, Carnot, Saint-Just, Barère, Billaud and C-A Prieur ordering Couthon to go to the army of the Midi, an order that he never followed through with, indicating Robespierre might not have been the only one to try this tactic…

How many nights have not been fruitfully devoted to preparing everything that could strengthen the brilliant destiny of the Republic? How many battles have not been fought against the despotism of Robespierre? He had come to reject, either out of jealousy or malice, the most obviously salutary ideas. He once wanted to declare me a traitor and conspirator, because I had strongly supported the useful and wise proposal that Lindet made, to require horses and carriages in each section of Paris, in order to provide for the supplies of the armies. Défense particulière de J-M. Collot, représentant du peuple (March 1 1795)

At several times, we had seen from afar the plan to attack the National Representation, intending to resect it; sometimes Couthon, and more often Robespierre, denounced deputies to the Jacobins. One day, we read letters and information sent to the Committee of General Security: Robespierre demanded immediate arrest for the two deputies denounced in these letters: the arrest of Dubois-Crancé was discussed and rejected: that of Alquier was strongly advocated by Robespierre who accused us of softening against the culprits and thus losing the public sake; but that he would denounce these facts to the Jacobins. An arrest warrent was drafted against this Representative; but by a unanimous wish of the two Committees, without hearing Robespierre, the execution was postponed indefinitely and was never carried out. Robespierre returned to the Committee a few days later to denounce new conspiracies in the Convention, saying that, within a short time, these conspirators who had lined up and frequently dined together would succeed in destroying public liberty, if their maneuvers were allowed to continue unpunished. The committee refused to take any further measures, citing the necessity of not weakening and attacking the Convention, which was the target of all the enemies of the Republic. Robespierre did not lose sight of his project: he only saw conspiracies and plots: he asked that Saint-Just returned from the Army of the North and that one write to him so that he may come and strengthen the committee. Having arrived, Saint-Just asked Robespierre one day the purpose of his return in the presence of the other members of the Committee; Robespierre told him that he was to make a report on the new factions which threatened to destroy the National Convention; Robespierre was the only speaker during this session. He was met by the deepest silence from the Committee, and he left with horrible anger. Soon after, Saint-Just returned to the Army of the North, since called Sambre-et-Mouse. Some time passes; Robespierre calls for Saint-Just to return in vain: finally, he returns, no doubt after his instigations; he returned at the moment when he was most needed by the army and when he was least expected: he returned the day after the battle of Fleurus. From that moment, it was no longer possible to get him to leave, although Gillet, representative of the people to the army, continued to ask for him. Saint-Just awaited in Paris the determination that matters would take. In the morning he took care of the police bureau, and decided on arrests or correspondence to be signed; in the evening, he dealt with the detained persons to be judged, together with the public prosecutor, or made violent motions to the committee; he would often speak twenty times in an evening session, and would only speak out of sentence or out of anger when he was not subjecting himself to an affected and painful silence, or rather he would spy on the committee. Most often, he spoke to us about the conspiracies that were being formed in the prisons, he insinuated ideas on this point to the committee's rapporteur, and above all wanted us to refuse the help requested in the prisons. One day he wanted to reduce it to 15 sousand called us defenders of counter-revolutionaries, because we were arguing for the rights of humanity. Réponse de Barère, Billaud-Varennes, Collot d’Herbois et Vadier aux imputations de Laurent Lecointre (1795) page 101-103.

Finally one day during the meeting of the Convention [sic, Committee?], Robespierre asked if one wanted to decide to attack the new factions or to perish by their maneuvers; he attacks and indicts several deputies in turn. An impatient member of the committee, oppressed by this ever-reviving project, stood up and said to him with violent severity: “Robespierre, for a long time you have been trying to lure us with terror into the project of striking our colleagues. You keep complaining about them, attacking them, gathering grievances and denouncing them. This is what the Hébertists and other punished counter-revolutionaries did. There are six of us here who profess the dogma of the integrity of national representation: if you want more, I declare to you, in my own name and in that of my colleagues who work with me and whose feelings I know, that you will only achieve national representation through our bloody corpses. These are the obstacles that we oppose to every ambitious person.” The same member of the committee has since repeated these words to the National Convention while speaking to Robespierre himself on 8 Thermidor. (Billaud) Robespierre felt the force of this unanimous response, bit his brakes, accused us of being defenders of the factions and threatened us with denunciation to the People and to the Convention, he moved away from the committee for some time and never stopped accusing us at the Jacobins, while he was preparing the speech he read on 8 thermidor. Réponse de Barère, Billaud-Varennes, Collot d’Herbois et Vadier aux imputations de Laurent Lecointre (1795) page 103

On 10 messidor (June 28) I was at the Committee of Public Safety. There, I witnessed those who one accuses today (Billaud-Varenne, Barère, Collot-d'Herbois, Vadier, Vouland, Amar and David) treat Robespierre like a dictator. Robespierre flew into an incredible fury. The other members of the Committee looked on with contempt. Saint-Just went out with him. Levasseur at the Convention, August 30 1794. If this scene actually took place, it must have done so one day later, 11 messidor (June 29), considering Saint-Just was still away on a mission on the tenth.

In several evening sittings the two committees united to devise a means of revoking the law of 22 Prairial. After several conferences during the month of Messidor, they called Robespierre and Saint-Just into their midst to force them to revoke this law, which was the result of a combination unknown to all the members of the government. The meeting was very stormy. Vadier and Moise Bayle were the members of the Committee of General Surety who attacked the law and its authors with the greatest force and indignation. As to the Committee of Public Safety, it declared that it had no part in it, and plainly disowned it. All were agreed to repeal it next day. After this decision Robespierre and Saint-Just declared that they would appeal to public opinion, that they saw that a party was formed to assure immunity to the enemies of the people, and thus to destroy the most ardent friends of liberty , but they could warn good citizens against the united manoeuvres of the governing committees. They retired uttering threats against the members of the committees. Saint-Just called Carnot, amongst others, an aristocrat, and threatened to denounce him to the Assembly. This was like a declaration of war between the two committees and the triumvirate. Seeing Carnot, the most indispensable worker in the committee, thus attacked on account of his courageous honesty and great military talent, I rose up against Saint-Just. Carnot seemed astonished at these threats of denunciation — terrible indeed from a man who two months before had denounced and destroyed Danton. On behalf of my attacked colleague, I said to this little dictator: ”I do not fear you, I have always defended our country openly and without personal interest I will answer you in the tribune if you lay the blame on Carnot. You know that I make reports that are favourably heard by the Assembly, I will make one of those reports in favour of Carnot and against you.” From this moment Robespierre and his friends acted with hostility against us, and especially against me. One day they even sent Robespierre the younger to me, whom they had recalled from the Basses Alpes. This lunatic entered the committee under pretext of giving an account of his mission to Nice; but instead of fulfilling this duty, he addressed me in a furious tone: ”You have maltreated my brother. We missed you on the 31st of May, 1793, but we shall not miss you on the 31st of May, 1794.” He left still threatening us. Memoirs of Bertrand Barère, volume 2, page 167-169.

I obtained from Barère the following fact: During a session of the Committee of Public Safety, Saint-Just and Robespierre reproached Carnot for being an aristocrat (the latter was frightened and shed tears, Barère said) and threatened to denounce him as such at the Convention. Then Barère said: In that case I will make public that you are angry with the man who organized the victory. Testimony of Filippo Buonarroti, cited in Études robespierristes; La corruption parlementaire sous la Terreur (1917) by Albert Mathiez. This sounds very much like the same incident Barère is describing above.

Having come to the Committee of General Security three or four days before 9 Thermidor (July 23), I was told that the two committees of public safety and general security would meet between noon and one o'clock in the place where the first held its sessions, and that I had to go there. Having asked what the reason for this meeting was, I was further told that it was to mutually explain the division which, according to what Robespierre had claimed on different occasions to the Jacobins, existed between the government committees. As I did not have the slightest knowledge of this alleged division, and as I was completely ignorant of what Robespierre had said to the Jacobins, I went to the Committee of Public Safety where I found several of my colleagues who had preceded me, and above all Robespierre, walking with long strides, glasses on his nose and throwing at everyone, from the height of his grandeur, looks which marked the deepest contempt. After a few minutes of silence, Saint-Just spoke and said in his exordium that although the youngest among us, he spoke first since we had often seen young people open opinions which enlightened those who were older; he then spoke on the necessity of organizing a constitution and ended up making a pompous eulogy of Robespierre, calling him the martyr of the liberty of his country and assuring him of all his esteem. This praise having been applauded and confirmed by Le Bas, Robespierre believed that it was time to burst out and first complained in general about his numerous enemies, whom he said were too cowardly to ever allow themselves to persecute him; he then indicted Amar, Vadier, Jagot, Carnot, Collot and Billaud, reproaching them for the fierceness with which they tore each other apart, which, having given rise to explanations, was the cause of Carnot telling him to his face that he did not like him, and Billaud and Collot repulsed his attacks with so much vehemence, energy and noise, that I more than once invited Collot to speak more quietly. Now, in the heat of this explanation, I heard for the first time that Robespierre was also criticized for having intended to put on trial the 72 of our colleagues who were still incarcerated; I also heard him being told that he had complained that one had not yet made use of this infinity of denunciations which were in the Committee of General Security against others of our colleagues, that nothing had been done so as not to provoke new troubles and to maintain concord and peace between us. This storm having passed and Robespierre having seemed to calm down, one agreed on ending the session, and that Saint-Just would make a report on behalf of the two Committees to inform the National Convention that they were not divided. Philippe Rühl in a speech held March 23 1795

Robespierre bitterly reproached us, at the committee, on 5 Thermidor (July 23), for having had the statue of superstition, erected on the Tuileries basin, brought down during the night. Réponse des membres des deux anciens comités de salut public et de sûreté générale… (1795), page 96.

You (Dubois-Crancé) say that Robespierre being absent the other members of the committee therefore agreed to lose you. It was rather to save you. Twice at the end of Messidor and on 7 Thermidor (July 25 1794) Couthon wanted to have the committee adopt the draft of the act of accusation against you; twice he was rejected. The last time especially, seeing himself rejected by us with a sort of cold and firm indignation, he went so far as to request from the committee the refusal that we made to deliberate on these serious denunciations which he brought against Dubois-Crancé. We opposed him in political principle the integrity of the legislative body and the danger of supporting the liberticidal projects of the aristocrats and tyrants in coalition; in public consideration, his reconciliation with you at the Jacobins, and in principle of justice the lack of legitimate evidence. Couthon left the committee furious, and threatened to denounce or silence our refusal to the people and the Convention. B. Barère à Dubois Crancé: Réponse (1795), page 29

This decisive scene, to unmask the conspirators, happened at half past midnight, from the 8th to the 9th of Thermidor (July 26 to 27). Several members of the two committees were gathered. We worked on the ordinary operations of the committees, but we worked with that sad impatience accompanies a terrible outcome, which all circumstances told us would be imminent. Saint-Just kept a profound silence, observed from time to time the members of the committees, and showed neither concern nor rest. He had just sent to Tuilier, his creature, the first 18 pages of the report he was to make the next day; and he then told us that he could not read the report to the committee, of which he only had the last pages. Collot d'Herbois come over from the Jacobins, where he had just been insulted, threatened, proscribed, so to speak, he seemed very agitated. Collot-d'Herbois had barely entered when his colleagues ask him why people left the Jacobins so late? Saint-Just asks him coldly, ”what's new at the Jacobins?”

”You’re asking me what's new? Are you the one who ignores it? You, who are in league with the main author of all these political quarrels, and who only wants to lead us to civil war: you are a coward and a traitor: it is you who deceives us, with your hypocritical air; you're just a box of apothegms, and you're spying on us in the committee. I have just convinced myself of this by everything I have heard; you are three scoundrels, who believe you are blindly leading us to the loss of our homeland, but liberty will survive your horrible plots.”

Here Elie Lacoste rose in fury and said: “there is a triumvirate of knaves, it is Robespierre, Couthon and Saint-Just, who are plotting against the homeland.”

Barère adds: ”who are you then? Insolent Pygines? Who wants to see the spoils of the homeland split between a cripple, a child and a scoundrel; I wouldn’t give you a barnyard to govern.”

Collot-d’Herbois continues: “I know that perhaps you will have us assassinated this night, perhaps we will be hit, by your plots, tomorrow morning, but we are determined to perish at our posts; and before then, perhaps, we will be able to unmask you. Among us, you are making plans against the committees. You have, I am sure, in your pockets calumnies leveled against us; you are a domestic enemy and a conspirator.”

Saint-Just was struck by this speech; he turned pale, and he did not know what to answer. He opened one of his pockets, stammering, and placed some papers on the table; no one came to read them.

Collot-d’Herbois continues and says to him: “You are preparing a report; but from the way I know you, you have undoubtedly written our act of accusation? So what hope do you have? What lasting success can you expect from these horrible betrayals? You can, perhaps take our lives, have us murdered, but you will not deceive the virtue of the people. Do you believe that when it sees itself deprived of its defenders, of men who sacrificed themselves for it, it will not tear you to pieces? Do you believe that it will sit tight tomorrow, a quiet spectator of your crimes? No, there will be no unpunished usurpation when it comes to the rights of the people.”

Saint-Just then fell back on his report, and said that he would join the committee the next day and that if it did not approve it, he would not read it. Collot continued to unmask Saint-Just; but as he focused more on depicting the dangers praying on the fatherland than on attacking the perfesy of Saint-Just and his accomplices, he gradually reassured himself of his confusion; he listened with composure, returning to his honeyed and hypocritical tone. Some time later, he told Collot d'Herbois that he could be reproached for having made some remarks against Robespierre in a café, and establishing this assertion as a positive fact, he admitted that he had made it the basis of an indictment against Collot, in the speech he had prepared. Saint-Just, during that night, prolonged his allegations and his remarks so much, that it was quite obvious that he only dragged on in this way, in order to prevent us from taking measures against their conspiracy. Several members of the committees, impatient to so much falsehood, went into the next room and deliberated whether they would have him arrested immediately, but they thought it was wiser to refer it the next day to the National Convention, after having known the intentions of Saint-Just, in the report he was to make. It is even worth noting that when we drew up a picture of the unfortunate circumstances in which public affairs found itself, each of us looked for measures and proposed means; Saint-Just stopped us, acting astonished, as if not being in the confidence of these dangers, and complained that all hearts were closed, that he knew nothing, that he could not conceive this quick way of improvising lightning at every moment, and he conjured us, in the name of the republic, to return to fairer ideas, to wiser measures. This was how the traitor kept us in check, paralyzed all our measures and cooled our zeal. At five o'clock in the morning, Saint-Just fled and the members of the committee sought means to paralyze the armed force of Paris, which the scoundrels had in their hands. Réponse des membres des deux anciens Comités de salut public et de sûrété générale… (1795) page 105-107.

#Carnot: I DON’T LIKE YOU!!!#Collot: let’s get PHYSICAL PHYSICAL #SJ: within 48 hours I can have your head seperated from your shoulders #robespierre: why won’t you guys just let me DO WHAT I WANT!?! 😭#Billaud: bc you’re a COUNTER-REVOLUTIONARY #Couthon: no u also i’m reporting you guys to the convention #Barère: don’t worry carnot i will save you from this little dictator saint-just! 🤓#prieur prieur lindet saint-andré: just chilling in the corner hoping to survive another session #or if anyone knows any drama with them too please share!#robespierre #saint-just #collot d’herbois #barère #carnot #billaud-varennes #frev #frev compilation #toxicmeter *explodes*#french revolution

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callsign-mayhem · 9 days ago

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dancing in the dark (1/2)

Part four of the Heartbreak Feels So Good sequel series!

FIND THE ORIGINAL SERIES HERE

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female!Reader Word count: 4.8k CW: Allusions to smut, swearing, use of Y/N

Fourth of July weekend. No work. A massive lake house. The Dagger Squad have never felt so lucky. As for Bradley, he's wondering if he'll finally get lucky...

By the grace of the Almighty and whatever guardian angels looked over you, the Dagger Squad was granted a four-day weekend for the Fourth of July. Provided there were no emergencies, of course. A group trip had been on the cards for a while now, but it was almost impossible to plan anything with your busy and often unpredictable schedules. So, when Maverick mentioned the possibility of a long weekend, everyone was excited but hadn’t gotten their hopes up. The countless occasions where you’d been called in or sent on a mission during your downtime, paired with the many disappointments you’d faced during your last relationship had forced you to adopt an ‘expect nothing and you won’t be disappointed’ mindset.

The fact that you’d mentally prepared yourself to be let down only made it all the more exciting. The week before, the squad had gathered at Nat’s to plan the trip. You couldn’t go too far in case something did happen, and since you lived by the beach, it made sense to go somewhere different.

Reuben had been the one to find the lake house. Situated in Escondido, Dixon Lake was surrounded by lush woodland and hiking trails. A few houses were dotted around, but the one Reuben had found was quite literally to die for. Plus, it was big enough for the whole squad.

Without hesitation, he’d made a reservation, and that was that.

Now, it was Friday. You were just pulling up to the house and feeling good. In fact, ‘good’ was probably the year's biggest understatement.

The morning fog still clung to the trees as the Dagger Squad’s convoy of cars pulled off the main road and into the private drive leading up to the house. The sound of gravel crunching under the tyres was the only thing breaking the stillness of the early morning. Bradley’s hand rested comfortably on the steering wheel of his Bronco, the low rumble of the engine punctuating the otherwise quiet atmosphere. Beside him, you gazed out of the window, the green of the trees and the towering pines reflecting in your eyes. It was peaceful—an escape from everything.

You hadn’t realised how badly you needed this until the moment you arrived.

‘Almost there.’ Bradley said, breaking the silence. His voice was soft, but there was an undercurrent of excitement that didn’t go unnoticed.

You nodded, glancing over at him with a smile. ‘I can’t believe we’re finally here,’ you murmured, reaching over to squeeze his hand. ‘This place looks amazing.’

Bradley’s lips quirked up into a grin, his eyes briefly meeting yours before returning to the road. ‘It’s better than anything we’re used to, that’s for sure.’ His gaze flickered toward the rearview mirror, where Fanboy’s car was trailing close behind. ‘They’re gonna love it.’

When you finally pulled up to the house, the size of it was jaw-dropping. The cabin was tucked away in the woods, surrounded by towering trees that felt like they were protecting the place. Large windows gleamed in the soft morning light, and the stone and wood exterior looked like something out of a magazine. Even the driveway had a feeling of grandeur.

‘Is this real?’ Fanboy’s voice rang out from behind you, followed by the sound of his car door slamming shut. ‘This is definitely the real deal.’ Javy exclaimed, gawking at the house.

The squad started to unload, everyone laughing and bantering as they took in the scene. There was an air of excitement, as if this trip could offer a moment of peace for everyone—something most of them never really had. Bradley stayed close by your side as the group trickled inside, ensuring you were settled and comfortable. He had such a reassuring presence—one that made everything feel okay. You smiled up at him, feeling the weight of everything you’d been carrying lift just a little. The cabin was filled with laughter, teasing, and the sound of bags being dropped on the floor as everyone settled in. But despite the chaos around you, all you could focus on was Bradley. He was nearby, keeping an eye on you, the steadiest presence in the room. He always had a way of doing that—making you feel like everything was going to be okay.

It was even better now that the whole squad knew about your relationship. Something about sharing it with them made it even sweeter.

Jake had only returned from deployment last week, and the novelty had yet to wear off. His mission had ended rather abruptly—in the end, it had only lasted just over six months. Nobody but Jake, the other pilots on the mission, and the powers that be knew why, and it had to stay that way. The squad knew better than to press their friend for details.

Nobody cared about the details; they were ecstatic that Jake was home.

You leaned against the kitchen counter, notes app open on your phone. The group were shouting out different items to add to the shopping list. A group of the smartest, strongest pilots in the entire world, and nobody had thought to bring any food. It was laughable. Luckily, there was a Trader Joe’s in Vista, only 30 minutes away.

‘Oooh, you gotta get stuff for smores!’ Mickey said excitedly. ‘There’s a fire pit!’ You added giant marshmallows, Graham crackers, and chocolate to your list, as well as an eye-roll emoji next to it for good measure.

‘Anything else?’

The list was already long, but at least it was thorough. Nobody wanted to leave the lake house for the rest of the weekend unless it was to swim or hike.

‘Best to get some booze.’ Jake said with a smirk. ‘Yeah, of all the things we forgot, I can’t believe we forgot that.’ You remarked.

After finalising the list, it was decided that you and Nat would go and get the groceries. Javy said that sending the two of you was the safest option since men in a grocery store with a list that long couldn’t possibly end well. It was a rather sexist remark, but you had to agree.

‘Bobby, we’re taking your truck.’ You said.

Nat had ridden with Bob, and you weren’t allowed to take the Bronco (it didn’t matter how much Bradley loved you; you weren’t allowed to drive it), so it only made sense. Bob handed over the keys with a wince, and Nat rolled her eyes.

‘Relax, Floyd. I’m a good driver.’ She told him.

After instructing the guys to take the bags upstairs and set up the back porch and fire pit, you and Nat headed out. The fog lifted as the sun climbed higher in the sky, and it would be a scorcher—all the better for relaxing and drinking by the lake.

As you and Nat backed out of the driveway, you fiddled with the aux so you could play your music.

‘I can’t believe this is finally happening.’ Nat said excitedly. ‘Pinch me so I know I’m not dreaming!’ You did as instructed, and she squealed. ‘Hey!’ ‘What?’ You asked, hands up in defence. ‘You told me to!’ ‘I didn’t think you would do it!’ ‘Well, at least you know it’s real.’ You grinned, earning you a world-famous Trace eye roll. You managed to get your music going, and every now and then, Nat would put in a request. Neither of you could remember a day feeling so full of possibilities—and not the kind of possibilities you were used to at work. ‘So, we haven’t caught up properly in a while.’ She said as she slowed for a stop sign. ‘What do you mean?’ You asked, brows furrowed. ‘We see each other every day.’ ‘Yeah, but we’re always surrounded by men, and Bradshaw has glued himself to your hip this last couple of weeks. Is he ovulating?’ You burst out laughing. ‘He’s not that clingy!’ You insisted. ‘Oh yes he is. In the spirit of being best friends and nothing being TMI, I need to know. Have you finally put out?’ Even a subtle mention of sex with Bradley Bradshaw was enough to have you squirming in your seat. Truthfully, you hadn’t gone all the way yet. You’d been close, for sure, but despite what Nat said about you being stuck to one another, you’d been taking things relatively slow. Proper dates, goodnight kisses, and the occasional sleepover—the key word being sleep—since that’s all you did. Bradley was a gentleman, and you’d spent the last couple of years tied to a toxic narcissist who liked to use sex as a weapon. ‘Not yet.’ You admitted. Nat knew all about your relationship with Viper, which was why you knew she wouldn’t judge you. Your friendships had been put on the back burner while you were with him, but that didn’t mean she had no clue what was happening. Plus, since he’d ended things, you’d gradually told her awful, embarrassing truths that you’d kept buried to save your dignity and to save Viper from going apeshit. Because if you’d told her while you were still with him, she definitely would have said something, and it would’ve come back on you. Which wasn’t to say she didn’t want to kick his ass even now that you were broken up, but she knew that it would only set you back in your healing journey. ‘Has everything been okay with you two? He hasn’t pressured you or anything?’ Obviously, she knew the answer to this already, but she liked to be thorough. ‘No, of course he hasn’t. Everything has been so perfect that I’m scared to fuck it up. I haven’t been with anyone other than Viper in so long, and towards the end of our relationship, we stopped having sex. So, I’m a little out of practice.’ ‘And you think Bradley is gonna care?’ ‘No, but I want it to be good for him. And if it’s not, what if he changes his mind?’ Nat actually laughed. Like, loudly. ‘Y/N, Bradley Bradshaw would set the entire world on fire just to show you the light. That is not something you should be worrying about.’ She patted your leg reassuringly. ‘Besides, he hasn’t exactly been sluttin’ it up the past couple of years.’ The thought of him sleeping around made you wince. ‘How do you know?’ ‘Because I know him, and we talk. He’s not that kind of guy, especially not since he fell in love with you.’ You knew Bradley had loved you a long time, but you didn’t have an exact time frame. Also, you hadn’t actually said those three words to each other yet. He was following your lead so as not to spook you, and saying ‘I love you’ was another thing that terrified you. It was comforting to know that he would be out of practice, too. The GPS said you weren’t far from Trader Joe’s, but you had to ask Nat one more question. Her advice had never led you astray before. ‘Do you think it should happen this weekend?’ ‘If you’re ready. You’ll both be relaxed, somewhere different where there are no expectations. Just make sure you lock your door, and that your room isn’t anywhere near mine.’

Back at the lake house, chaos had erupted. Really, it should have been expected. As payback for his sexist remark earlier that morning, you sent Javy out to get the shopping. ‘That’s a man’s job,’ You’d said pleasantly. ‘So, off you go.’ Mickey had figured out that the house was decked out with a state-of-the-art sound system, with speakers in the ceiling throughout the entire house that could be controlled from an app. As he downloaded it, he was vibrating with excitement.

The iconic guitar riff from ‘Sugar We’re Goin’ Down’ by Fall Out Boy filled the house, and most of the squad groaned in unison. Mickey was a sucker for emo music, amongst other things, including gaming soundtracks that he said made him feel powerful. Out of all the things he could have picked, you were happy with his choice. Naturally, Jake was the first to complain. ‘Fanboy, I swear to God, if I have to listen to another teenage angst anthem—’ Mickey cranked the volume louder. ‘YOU CAN’T STOP THE MUSIC, SERESIN!’ He yelled. You shared a knowing look with Nat. ‘This is definitely going to be a weekend to remember.’ She said. Bradley helped put the shopping away, making a point of brushing up against you every chance he got. Your conversation with Nat sat heavily in your mind, and suddenly, every touch and lingering glance felt loaded. Bradley didn’t have a clue what you’d decided in the car—how could he? But it was as if he could sense that you’d made up your mind and that an irrevocable shift had taken place. Silently, you thanked your past self for packing pretty underwear. With everything set up, there was nothing left to do but relax. What a beautiful prospect: nothing ahead of you but chill time, a few drinks, some good food and a swim in the lake.

Reuben, Javy and Bob decided to check out a nearby fishing spot. It said online that you could rent gear, so off they went with backpacks full of snacks and instructions from you to return by dinner.

The house’s garden was just as spectacular as the house itself. A back porch complete with Adirondack chairs and fairy lights, a sprawling, sloping lawn, a fire pit, and an extended, wooden dock that went out into the lake. To top it off, the area was surrounded by lush trees and blooming summer flowers. The late afternoon sun had dipped below the tree line, so you and Nat had moved your reclining sunbeds to the end of the dock where there was no shade—any further off the edge, and you’d have fallen in the water. You were reading a tattered, old Stephen King novel that you’d been trying to finish for months, and Nat was reading Good and Mad: The Revolutionary Power of Women’s Anger. When Jake had seen it, he’d raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t think you need any tips in that department, Phoenix. You should be the one writing the damn book.’ That comment had earned him a smack around the back of the head. Bradley, Jake and Mickey were sprawled out on sun loungers at the end of the lawn, facing the lake. Mickey had AirPods in, Jake was scrolling on his phone, and Bradley was staring at the back of your head.

When you’d come downstairs in a little bikini printed with cherries, heart-shaped sunglasses and a cover-up that wasn’t doing a very good job of covering things up, he’d damn near passed out. Now, he hoped that you'd feel his gaze if he stared long enough. Seeing you in that scandalous bikini was the closest he’d come to seeing you naked, and he couldn’t distract himself no matter what he tried. ‘You’re gonna burn holes in the back of her head, man.’ Jake mused. Bradley rolled his eyes behind his aviators. ‘No idea what you’re talkin’ about.’ He replied. Mickey took an AirPod out. ‘What’s going on?’ ‘Nothing.’ Bradley said. At the same time, Jake said: ‘Rooster’s horny for Y/CS.’ Mickey grinned. ‘No shit.’ Bradley hoped neither of them noticed the heat creeping up his neck. ‘Hangman’s full of crap.’ Jake tilted his beer bottle towards Bradley. ‘Dude, you’ve literally been eye-fucking her for the past ten minutes.’ Mickey wiggled his eyebrows, still grinning like an absolute fool. ‘What’s stopping you from doing it for real? She’s your girl. Nobody’s in the house right now.’ It would’ve been super convenient if a hole could’ve opened up in the ground and swallowed Bradley, but he doubted he’d have such luck. ‘Not your business.’ Bradley snapped. Mickey narrowed his eyes, slowly putting two and two together. ‘Oh my God,’ he groaned, leaning back in his chair. ‘You're telling me all this time—after the way you look at her—you two haven’t—?’ Jake whistled lowly. Bradley wanted to punch him. He glared at them both. ‘I swear to God, if you don’t shut up—’ Jake leaned back, smug as hell. ‘No wonder you look like you're about to explode.’

Bradley was about to explode, but now it was from anger as well as pent-up sexual tension.

‘Do either of you know when to shut the fuck up?’ Bradley growled. Jake laughed. ‘Have you been reading Nat’s book?’ Jake was saved from another smack around the back of the head by you and Nat standing up. All three guys watched in amazement as you stretched, and Nat tied her hair up in a messy bun. Bradley glanced at Jake, who was staring at Nat the same way he had just been staring at you. Interesting. He filed that one away for later. The two of you sashayed up the dock, sun-kissed and shimmering with tanning oil—apparently the best way to get a tan. To Bradley, it just sounded like a fast track to melanoma, but damn if it didn’t make you look even more like a goddess. When you reached them, Bradley had to make a conscious effort to keep his mouth closed. Mickey was practically drooling, which pissed Bradley off to no end. Now he was really aggravated. What would happen if he grabbed your arm and dragged you upstairs? Would you go for it, or would it end awkwardly? The two of you had been taking things slow, but just lately, he’d been thinking that if you went any slower, you’d stop. He needed you, needed to take this next step in your relationship like he needed to breathe air to survive, but he would never push you. Many close calls had ended with him alone, breathless and spent in the shower, imagining what it would have been like if things had carried on. ‘We’re gonna make some pre-dinner cocktails.’ You announced. ‘You handsome men need anything from inside?’ Subconsciously, Bradley knew you were speaking. He knew your mouth was moving, and words were coming out, but all he could concentrate on was the miles and miles of tanned skin in front of him. Apparently, the other two were in the same boat because your question was answered with total silence. You and Nat shared one of your knowing looks. ‘Hello?’ Nat said, lightly nudging Jake’s sun lounger with her foot. ‘The lights are on, but nobody’s home.’ Jake blinked behind his sunglasses. ‘I’ll take a Texas mule.’ He said effortlessly, as if he hadn’t been on another planet. ‘What the fuck is that? Isn’t it a Moscow mule?’ Nat replied. ‘You make it with bourbon instead of vodka.’ He explained. ‘No, you do. You’re fussy as hell and I don’t want you complaining when I make it and it’s not how you like it.’ Jake flashed a grin. ‘Want me to come with?’ ‘Yeah. You can carry everything out for us.’ ‘Oh, can I?’ He teased. ‘Maybe if you say ‘please.’’ ‘Please, can you get off your ass and do something useful for once? Thank you.’ Jake followed Nat to the house, leaving you with the other two. ‘Anyone else?’ You asked, eyes planted firmly on your boyfriend. Mickey’s eyes flicked between you, although you didn’t notice. ‘I’m gonna go help those two, make sure they don’t kill each other.’ When he was halfway up the lawn, Bradley scooted to the end of his sun lounger and grabbed your leg, pulling you into his lap. You squealed in shock, which soon turned to giggles when he began peppering your neck and collarbones with gentle kisses. ‘What are you doing?’ You giggled. ‘I wanted a cocktail.’ It took all his willpower, but he managed to refrain from making an extremely inappropriate comment. ‘And I wanted a kiss. So there.’ You smiled down at him. He captured your lips in a kiss that started soft, but gradually got more heated. You were on top of him, basically naked, and he was in nothing but swim shorts. The sensation of your warm, bare skin against his made him feel like he’d already drunk multiple cocktails. When his cock started stiffening beneath you, you smirked against his lips, kissed him once more and stood up. The loss of your touch was almost too much to bear. ‘Later.’ You whispered. ‘I have a surprise for you.’ You winked seductively, and his cock twitched.

Bradley and Jake had taken charge of the barbecue after spending ten minutes arguing over who had the best skills. You had settled it by telling them to work together, and although they hadn’t seemed overjoyed at the prospect at first, they were getting along fine now. They had grilled sausages, burgers, chicken legs and onions, and the smoke that filled the garden carried the utterly mouth-watering scent of all of it. You and Reuben were buttering rolls, making salad and laying out a selection of sauces, sides, paper plates and cutlery. At Trader Joe’s earlier, Nat had found the cutest selection of Fourth of July-themed things—napkins, plates, solo cups and cocktail umbrellas. The spread you’d laid out was rather impressive if you did say so yourself. Of course, Nat had put herself on beverage duty. Javy had tried to help, but she insisted that his cocktails were never strong enough. Bob, who thought it best that some non-alcoholic options be available for dinner, was making a large pitcher of iced tea. Mickey was lounging lazily in one of the Adirondack chairs, sunshine on his face, queuing up songs. To say he was obsessed with the overhead sound system would have been putting it lightly.

‘I’m the only one without a job.’ Javy grumbled. ‘Mickey doesn’t have one either.’ Reuben reasoned. ‘Why don’t you make sure he lines up some decent songs?’ You flicked the tea towel you were holding at him. ‘What have you got against the emo classics?’ He held his hands up in mock surrender. ‘Nothing! I’m just saying this is the second time he’s played Welcome to the Black Parade.’ Javy winced as the song kicked in, and Gerard Way started belting. ‘You know what, you’re right. I’m on it.’

Javy headed over to Mickey with a determined expression, like a man on a mission. You had to admit, it was a little funny. ‘I think we’re about done, Y/CS.’ Reuben said, hands on his hips as he admired your handiwork. ‘I think you might be right, Payback. It’s lookin’ good.’

You high-fived. Jake appeared with a tray of sausages and burgers. Bradley wasn’t far behind him with the rest of the food. ‘Time to dig in.’ Jake drawled. ‘I must say, I definitely outdid Bradshaw.’ Bradley rolled his eyes. ‘Coming from the guy who tried to flip a burger and dropped it on the floor.’ ‘That was one time.’ Jake grumbled.

The fire crackled low in the pit, its golden glow licking at the chilled night air. The scent of burning wood, the sweetness of melting marshmallows, and the faint tang of lake water still clinging to your skin. You sat cross-legged on one of the worn Adirondack chairs, toes bare, still slightly damp from earlier when Bradley had carried you off the dock and into the shallows with a cocky grin. Now, his arm was draped across the back of your chair, fingers idly brushing the nape of your neck. Every few moments, he traced slow circles there, his thumb skimming over the delicate skin just below your hairline, the motion both absentminded and possessive. It sent the occasional shiver down your spine—not from the cool evening breeze but from him. Always him.

Jake was crouched by the fire with a skewered marshmallow in one hand and a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His eyes glinted with mischief as he glanced across the fire pit. ‘You know, Trace, you talk a big game about being a ‘survivor,’ but your s’mores construction skills are lacking.’ He teased, nudging her foot with his knee. Natasha, seated on the edge of a weathered log, barely glanced up as she tucked her hair behind her ear. She was laser-focused on meticulously sandwiching her marshmallow between two graham crackers and a slab of chocolate, ignoring the way it oozed out the sides. ‘Some of us don’t waste perfectly good marshmallows by setting them on fire, Hangman.’ She shot back coolly. But you caught the way her lips quirked faintly—almost imperceptibly—at the edge. Jake’s grin widened. ‘Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong.’ He shifted, leaning a little closer, his voice dipping low. ‘It’s only perfect if it’s a little burnt around the edges.’ She didn’t look at him, but you caught the quick upward glance from under her lashes. The way she rolled her eyes just a second too late, as if she needed the moment to compose herself. She bit into her s’more instead, brushing a sticky thumb along the corner of her mouth with more focus than necessary. Bradley caught the whole exchange from where he sat beside you. You felt the subtle vibration of his quiet chuckle through his chest as he exhaled softly near your ear. ‘Did you catch that?’ He murmured, his breath warm against your skin. His fingers paused on the back of your neck, his lips brushing beneath your ear. ‘Mhm,’ you hummed softly, leaning into him slightly, your temple resting against his jawline. ‘Jake’s really laying it on thick tonight.’ ‘And she’s not hating it.’ He added quietly, just for you. Across the fire, Reuben was sitting on the ground with his back propped against Mickey’s legs, tilting his head up to bicker good-naturedly with him about the correct marshmallow-to-chocolate ratio. Mickey, who was sprawled on the log, waved his skewer in mock authority. ‘Nah, man, I’m telling you, it’s gotta be two pieces of chocolate minimum, or you’re just playing yourself.’ On the far side of the fire, Bob shook his head in quiet exasperation, assembling his s’more with the precision of someone who took even casual campfire desserts far too seriously. You caught the way he squinted in concentration as he aligned the graham crackers perfectly before finally taking a small, satisfied bite.

The fire popped suddenly, sending a small spray of embers upward. You jumped slightly at the crackle, but Bradley’s hand slid from your neck to your thigh, anchoring you without a word. His thumb brushed back and forth, grounding and gentle, and you exhaled into the warmth of him. The conversation lulled for a moment, only the occasional crack of wood and the quiet murmur of crickets filling the silence. The stars overhead were fat and bright, scattered thickly across the sky. The lake beyond the fire pit was so still that it seemed to hold the entire night in its reflection. Bradley shifted slightly, his knuckles brushing your cheek as he pushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His eyes were heavy-lidded, the firelight flickering gold across his face. He was staring at you—not in a way that demanded your attention, but in a way that let you know he already had it—always had it. You smiled softly, brushing a bit of marshmallow off his bottom lip with your thumb. He caught your wrist before you could pull away, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your palm. When he lowered your hand, he didn’t let go. ‘You warm enough?’ He asked quietly, low enough that the others wouldn’t hear. ‘Yeah.’ You whispered, but you leaned closer as if drawn by gravity. The moment stretched, slow and syrupy, and you almost didn’t notice Jake pushing himself up from the firepit. He stretched with an exaggerated groan before stepping around the circle’s edge. When he passed by Natasha, he paused, bending slightly so they were almost eye-level. ‘You wanna walk down to the dock?’ He asked her, his voice casual but with just the slightest edge of something else, something quieter. Natasha looked up at him. Her lips parted slightly, as if she was going to come back with some sharp retort, but it never came. Instead, she held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary, then wordlessly stood and followed him into the darkness. Bradley let out a low chuckle against your temple, and you smiled softly, squeezing his hand in yours. ‘Caught that too.’ You murmured, voice barely above a breath. ‘Yeah,’ he whispered against your skin, his voice a warm rasp, all honey and grit. ‘They think they’re slick.’ You nestled into his chest, fingers toying with the hem of his hoodie, and listened as the fire popped and hissed softly, the scent of charred wood and sugar hanging heavy in the air. The laughter from the others carried softly, mingling with the sound of the lake’s gentle lapping against the dock. And somewhere in the darkness, just out of sight, you knew two people were walking side by side—close, but not touching. Not yet.

A/N: I'm so excited to finally share this with you guys! I've had this in my mind for a long time, and it turns out I have a lot more ideas than I originally thought. 'Dancing in the Dark' was supposed to be a short addition to the sequel series, but the original document is over 9k words, so I'm separating it into two parts. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it! Buckle up for the next part...

Taglist: @caitsymichelle13@alwayshave-faith@rosedurin@impossibleblizzardstudentposts@crowdedimagines@sadgirlgiselle@sleepy-writersblock@lovelyygirl8@my-therapist-hates-me @primeroseluna @eloquentdreamer@sgt-barnesveins@daybleedsintonightfa11 @honey-and-bi

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zvaigzdelasas · 11 months ago

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A helicopter carrying Iranian President Ebrahim Raisi has suffered a “hard landing”, state television reported, as officials said search operations were under way but were being impeded by poor weather conditions.

Iranian state media said the incident occurred on Sunday near Jolfa in Iran’s East Azerbaijan province.[...]

Raisi was returning from a visit to neighbouring Azerbaijan, where he had travelled to inaugurate a dam alongside the country’s President Ilham Aliyev.

State-linked media said three helicopters were in the Iranian president’s convoy, and the two others made it back safely. [...]

It remains unclear exactly what caused the “hard landing”, or whether any of the passengers in the helicopter have been hurt.[...]

Many of the military aircraft currently in service in Iran date back to before the country’s 1979 revolution.

19 May 24

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syndrossi · 3 months ago

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Any verse Rhaegar and Jon talking about the fact that he was Jon's biological father? If possible or Daemon seeing Restoration Jon with the twins for the first time Happy New Year

Opted to go for the latter, though it stops a little short of the reunion you were probably hoping for!

This is not necessarily how it will go in Restoration proper, but it's "a" possible reunion.

x~x~x

The yard was utterly silent as the dragon made its landing, the air still choked with smoke and the sickly sweet aroma of cooked pork that Jon knew was the scent of flesh cooked within melted armor. The surviving wagons of the king’s traveling party sat unmoving by the wall, and his father’s men stood at tense alert, but made no move to brandish their weapons at the man atop the dragon.

There was a girl with him near Jon’s age, with silver-blond hair that matched the man’s—and his brother Raymar’s. House Targaryen, he thought numbly. With their dragons of old.

What do they want? They had stopped after their overwhelming assault on the king’s company, and the man seemed to be waiting. Jon’s heart lurched in his chest as his father stepped forward, and the dragonrider’s gaze locked upon him.

“Where are my sons?” the man demanded, the rage in his voice accompanied by a low rumble from his great red dragon, powerful enough to make the ground shake.

His father’s head turned to Jon, and he squeezed his brothers’ hands reflexively. He means them.

The man’s gaze followed, rapidly shifting from Jon to his brothers and back with raw relief. “You will return them to me.”

It felt as though every stare in the yard was fixed upon them now.

“First I would have the name of the man who slayed our king,” his father responded, with a calm in his eyes that told Jon he already knew.

“I am Daemon Targaryen,” the man said, his own eyes narrowing in challenge. “And such is the fate that awaits usurpers and all others who would call themselves enemies of House Targaryen. How declares the North?”

His father looked toward the charred remnants of the king’s convoy, where low moans could still be heard of men not yet finished dying. “Do you lay claim to the Iron Throne, then?”

“Claim?” Daemon Targaryen echoed, seeming to scoff at the suggestion. “It is mine by blood—and fire, if need be. Who else would the North call king?”

Joffrey Baratheon was cowering with the rest of King Robert’s children, while the queen stared at Daemon Targaryen with a wildness that verged on wonder. His father studied them, and Jon realized that he did not know what he would do. He had yet to comprehend what it even meant that his brothers might be the stolen children of a Targaryen prince, claimed by his father instead.

“What of the king’s family?” his father asked.

The dragon gave another low growl. “I will not have his wife raped and his children slaughtered,” Daemon Targaryen said, hand coming to rest upon the hilt of his sword. “Which is a mercy that was not afforded my own kin when Robert Baratheon stormed the Red Keep.”

His father’s mouth tightened, and then he bent his knee. “The North welcomes you, King Daemon.”

#resonant nye2025 ask game #up next: wedding of vet!jon to laena

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houserautha · 3 months ago

Text

These Destined Ends

Part Twenty

Summary: Jessica fulfilled the wishes of the Bene Gesserits to produce a daughter. You’re now burdened with the task of not only marrying the na-Baron, but also bearing his child — the Kwisatz Haderach. Will you take your fate into your own hands? Or will it always belong to those who control you?

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x f!Reader

Word Count: 5.3k

Warnings: MDNI, 18+, lots of violence, some of it graphic, blood, p n v, some dirty talk

A/N: Here it is, folks. The big one.

Perhaps it was fate, or some divine coincidence, that the worst sandstorm in recent memory happened to transpire on the wedding day of the Emperor's eldest daughter. You couldn't help but consider it as approval from the universe, that the fabrics of your world were convening to grant you success. And so, with thinly veiled delight, you watch the wedding guests descend from the sky in their lavish ships, framed by the whorls of sand and storm beyond the Shield Wall.

The storm was a perfect cover for your attack. You had planned it all down to the most finite detail -- the moment the storm arrived, Fremen soldiers would take out the noses of the Emperor's defense convoy, rendering them useless, and then Gurney would shortly after deploy the Atreides family explosives to break open the Wall like an overcooked egg.

"It's not truly an act of nuclear warfare against one of the Houses," Feyd pointed out in the midst of battle strategy, sensing your hesitance. The last thing you wanted was to incite a universe-wide war.

Nerves tremor just beneath your skin. Using your oil lens binoculars, you observe the last of the wedding guests filtering into the Emperor's Hutment, an impressive, pyramid-shape structure that contains legion of Sardaukar. You hoped to interrupt the whole affair before the marriage could be made official, for Irulan's sake. Although she had been the leading force behind the disruption of your failed coup, you still wanted to spare the golden-haired princess from your brother-in-law's beastliness.

Beside you, your husband remains perfectly still. You know from the small flicker of muscle under his eye that he's less than pleased about the next part of your plan -- at your signal, the Fremen would summon the sandworms and lead you into battle. "They're too large and unpredictable," he tried to argue before. You suspected that he just hated relinquishing control to them. Glancing at Feyd from the corner of your eye, you needle your elbow into his side.

"Remember our wedding?"

Truthfully, it hadn't been that long ago, though it felt like centuries had since passed.

"Of course," he replies, dark gaze sliding to you.

"A lot has changed."

"I disagree."

You let your amusement color your voice. "How so?"

"We're still together, still exacting revenge against our enemies." Feyd's attention returns towards the distance, but his fingers brush over yours. "Only the circumstances have changed. But never my devotion to you."

"A comforting thought," you sigh.

"Whatever happens today, you do not face it alone. You'll never face anything alone again."

Proper etiquette be damned, you capture his hand and give it a squeeze. If the Fremen wanted to complain about the affection between their commanding officers, then you would answer. They still didn't trust you anyway, so what did it matter? The ghost of a smile forms on Feyd's lips.

Just then, a voice crackles in your earpiece. "Storm is predicated to arrive in approximately five minutes." Stilgar. He was part of your forces laying in the sand. Waiting.

Above the howling wind, you swear you hear the notes of a wedding march. There's not much you can make sense of, however, especially when the storm finally does encroach upon you. You're decked in protective gear and safety goggles, but they do little to deter the whirl of sand and tiny pebbles scraping over the exposed skin of your face not covered by fabric. The storm consumes you, envelops you completely. You signal to the Fremen and moments later, in your earpiece, you hear them confirm that they've taken out the noses of the Starship Lighter and it's convoy.

"Gurney," you say, raising your voice.

At the Shield Wall there's a fleeting, pregnant pause as you wait for the explosives to ignore and, when they do, you're in awe at the display of power, blowing a hole in the Wall wide enough for your forces but not large enough to immediately garner attention. And certainly not with the storm raging, masking your efforts.

Overwhelmed by the sight and sheer weight of your intentions, the cry that leaves your throat is not any word but rather a rallying scream. It gets your point across all the same. Dum. Dum. Dum. Around you the Fremen summon the sandworms with carefully spaced thumpers, a heartbeat beneath the sand.

And then a thunderous rumbling joins the sand and the storm, and the sandworms crest over the dunes, answering the calls of the thumpers. Like the fins of shark slicing through rough waves, the sandworms announce their approach, and soon you're rising unsteadily to your feet and squashing the alarm in your head. You've never ridden a sandworm before, but you were thoroughly vetted by the others. Disbelief spirals in you as you burst into a sprint, arms pumping. You might as well have been running into the abyss. You can't see anything in the pummeling storm but you sense Feyd nearby. Without warning, the rumbling grows louder and the ground disappears beneath your feet and you've crossed the point of no return. You're flying, weightless, until the sandworm's segmented body rushes beneath you and you crash into it.

Distantly, you know that you need to grab hold of it before you fall. Gloved fingers scramble for purchase, but the rough skin slides away from you. You panic. You should've insisted upon practicing, you should've listened to Feyd --

A strong arm wraps around your middle, tucks you closer. Filled with relief, you manage to tilt your head up and catch Feyd's profile amidst the howling storm. He holds you tight.

The sandworm forges ahead, carries you over the shattered Wall. You manage to your feet as you pass the barrier, and notice several things all at once -- the Starship Lighter stalling, then the flight tiny black specks in the sky, Sardaukar transport ships.

"There's so many," you breathe. It looks like a swarm of flies over a corpse, attracted to the promise of violence and death.

On the ground, expertly dodging the path of the sandworms, Feyadkin slash through the Emperor's defenses. There's only a handful of his soldiers, a predecessor to Sardaukar ships, but you're proud to see the Fremen holding their own. It was clear from your time during field missions that they fought extremely well, but you had never seen it unfold at such a grand scale. Even with the surge of Sardaukar landing they never falter, pushing closer and closer to the Hutment.

"There's fights for us yet," Feyd yells over the cacophony of sound. You're both holding on for dear life as you're catapulted over the outskirts of Arrakeen.

You yell back, "I want to be down there with them!"

He nods but doesn't respond. Feyd is in rare form -- completely focused on the task at hand, every fiber of his being concentrated, tense, waiting to strike. It emboldens you. A jolt of adrenaline pulses through you, heady with the knowledge of your flawless execution. You would not fail this time. You had no other option.

The army of sandworms arc for the Hutment. Lasgun blasts ricochet off their tough outer shell. You brace yourself for the impact of the Hutment's flank, the rapid-fire sound of battle joining the terrible crunching of the worms through metal. Squeezing your eyes shut, you flinch as debris scatters, the soldiers within crying out in surprise. But you're unharmed. You exchange a glance with Feyd as you both disembark, weapons bared, sliding off the massive sides of the creatures and landing with a thud on the ground.

There's something sickeningly sweet about the release of energy, of months and months of pent-up anger. You waste no time launching towards the closest Sardaukar. It's a dance, really. You lead, aiming for his leg, then dancing back when he tries to overpower you. The feel of your blade slicing through his armor and into his abdomen shouldn't delight you as it does. Mind singing, thrilled, you remove the blade and whirl it on the next soldier. Bodies moving, pushing and pulling, the coppery smell of blood heavy in the air, all underscored by a symphony of blades and flesh. Despite yourself, you grin.

The plan is to forge a path to the main ceremony. You and the Fremen carve through the Sardaukar, artists in your own right, cutting through stone, through bone, years of injustice the instrument of your work, the brush in the hand of the master.

And at the center of it all, Feyd-Rautha.

The former na-Baron fends off his opponents with a preternatural grace, enacting his violence with deliberation. Blood splatters his alabaster skin. There's not one footstep that he misplaces, not a trace of hesitation, as if he anticipates each move of the Sardaukar before then can even decide it for themselves. Your chest swells with affection as you catch glimpses of him in the frenzy. You've never been more grateful to have him by your side, at your command.

Your blade finds the throat of an enemy, retracts, finds the heart of another. There's a faint protest in your muscles -- it's been too long since you've fought this intensely. If you ever had. No amount of training could prepare you for this slaughter.

As if sensing this, Feyd draws closer until you're back to back, his twin daggers slicing. His presence is like the warmth of the sun. There's no need for words. If he lunges, you feign; he cuts, and you thrust. It's quite romantic, how he handles this, not a lapse in faith but rather a reinforcement of your combined strength.

You strike out with your boot to the closest soldier, connecting with their solar plexus. He crumples and you've just reached out to slam the handle of your dagger into the back of his head when his companion snatches your wrists and twists viciously. You cry out. The dagger clatters to the ground. Without missing a beat, Feyd sweeps closer, bending nearly into a curtsey. You grab his thigh to steady yourself and lean back into him, lifting up your foot and kicking it into the soldier that unarmed you. He stumbles, surprised. Feyd dispatches his current opponent in a series of well-placed jabs, then spins you around to give you enough time to recover. You reclaim one of the fallen soldiers' weapons. While he takes care of that soldier, you attack the others flooding towards you.

You fight with everything in you. You're not only fighting for the Fremen but for yourself, your family.

When there's finally a lull, you catch Feyd snarling into the face of a Sardaukar before stabbing his blade into its eye. The man spits out a splash of blood, the collapses into his arms. Feyd, cradling the man like a sleeping child, murmurs something in his ear. He lays him down and once he's back to his normal height, flicks out a tongue to wipe away most of the blood from around his mouth. Noticing you watching, he flashes you a rare grin.

"Red is your color," you tell him. The Fremen fighters pick over the bodies, waiting for your command.

"It's a nice change." His are bright against the carnage on his face. "Are you ready to ruin a wedding, my jewel?"

The upper levels of the Hutment are mostly vacant. A team of Fremen clear the area and eliminate any lurking Sardaukar. Music swells as you climb. When you reach the enormous double doors at the topmost floor, there's a line of soldiers waiting for you.

You bristle. The soldiers aim their weapons. "Turn away now," one of them command, "and we won't kill you all."

"We didn't come all this way just to be frightened by you," a Fremen hisses in reply. The soldier fires a blast that strikes the Fremen in the shoulder. Anger flushes you. The rest of your army charges the soldiers at the door.

While they exuded confidence, it hardly took any time at all to have them all on the ground, either dead or moaning in pain.

Surely the ceremony had heard the fighting outside. The doors are fortified, but it only takes a few carefully placed shots from one of the soldiers' lasguns to blast it open. Metal creaks and slides across the floor, heralding your entrance. You step through the rubble.

As expected, it's a beautiful ceremony, dripping with elegance. There's swaths of white lace around the hall and candles flickering in the golden braziers. The guests are dressed in their finest, suits and expensive dresses rustling as they whirl around. And, at the far end of the hall, stand Rabban and Irulan. The sight of Irulan stuns you -- she looks ethereal in her white gown and intricate veil and headdress. Rabban, on the other hand, looks like a monster stuffed into a suit.

His face morphs into one of pure rage. "WHAT?"

You can't imagine how you all look, bloodied and sandy, tanned by months in the sun. Feyd steps to your side.

"Hello, brother. Uncle. I'm afraid that you forgot our invitations. We didn't want to miss out on such a...joyous occasion." Feyd dips his chin to Irulan like this is all incredibly normal. "You look beautiful."

Irulan stifles what you imagine is a smirk.

"What is this? What are you doing here?" From near the front of the guests, the Baron floats into the air, a menacing image in all black.

"We've come to take back what's rightfully ours," you reply.

"Guards --" the Baron begins to order, but he's interrupted by the man at his feet.

"Stand down."

The Emperor doesn't look at all like the oil paintings you've seen of him. He's surprisingly small, hunched over like he's trying to fold in on himself. White hair sparsely covers his head. But it's his eyes -- deep-set and fiercely intelligent that startle you.

"You must be Leto's daughter. I've heard many things about you," he says, voice measured. "You're very brave, coming here today."

You hiss. "What do you know about bravery?"

You didn't need to explain yourself. He had been the one, after all, to orchestrate the fall of your House. Your father. In your chest your heart pangs, but you don't let the emotion translate onto your face.

"It's flattering, that you've done all of this just to speak to me." The Emperor sweeps out his arm, cloaked in a sleeve that drags on the floor. The silence in the hall is suffocating.

"It's not like I had any other opportunities," you say, "you were strangely absent at my wedding and any other function. You prefer to control everything from the shadows, don't you?"

"Why haven't you had them arrested for treason?" The Baron cries, huge form quivering with anger.

"We just want to talk," Feyd speaks up.

"Talk," the Baron spits, "you could've sent a message."

The Emperor turns his gaze to his daughter, who's staring at him expectantly. She drops Rabban's hands. He motions for her. "Irulan, my darling, come here. The ceremony will be...postponed."

Rabban storms down the altar's stairs after Irulan. "You can't ruin this wedding! I was going to be next in line for the Emperorship!"

"Don't put me in the ground yet, Rabban," the Emperor growls.

Rabban doesn't even have the decency to look ashamed.

"If you want to talk, then," the Emperor says, "talk."

You don't see any reason to mince your words. You thrust your chin into the air as you demand, "Step down from the throne."

Silence follows. A thin, brittle laugh leaves the Emperor, who's regarding you with a newfound interest. The guests chuckle nervously in return.

"And why would I do that, child?"

"We've dismantled your ship. You can't leave until you agree to our terms."

The Emperor's smile is lethal. "If you haven't noticed, we have an entire armada pointed at our ship. Unless you want to risk the lives of your men and everyone on Arrakeen, then you will stand down."

"I wouldn't do that if I was you," Feyd growls.

Your secret weapon.

"We've seized control of the spice mills. Of your spice sources. If anything happens to us, I'll give the signal to destroy them all."

This time, an uneasy rumble descends over the crowd. Not only would you deplete an export of spice, but the Guild Navigators wouldn't be able to pilot the ships without sufficient spice. The entire armada, including the Emperor and his Hutment, would be stuck permanently on Arrakis.

The Baron glares at you. "You wouldn't."

"I would." You shrug. "I do not obsess over it such as you."

"And what do you propose? That I just hand my crown over to you?"

The Emperor stands calmly besides his daughter, whose facial expression you can't quite read. You regard him thoughtfully. "Yes."

"This is absurd," he seethes.

"Just say the word, and I'll destroy the spice mills. All of them."

A moment passes, the few seconds before your world tilts on its axis. You don't see the poison dart, or hear it. It buries into your shoulder with surprisingly subtlety, cementing it's existence with a rush of heat in your bloodstream. You look at it, shocked. You waver.

Chaos explodes in the hall. The Emperor whips around to the Baron, "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"

It's been too long. You haven't dosed on poisons since your accident, not the kind embedded in the dart's needle-like tip.

You have just enough clarity to see Feyd transform in an instant, the image of a dignified soldier ripped away into the face of a beast. His face crumples. He roars, the sound tearing through the ruckus. Darkness floods the edges of your vision. As you stumble back, one of the Fremen catch you in her arms. Chani's voice washes over you, your name, over and over. "Stay awake!"

You have a feeble hold on reality, teetering in and out of your grasp. The hall erupts with screams. Flashes of Feyd dominate your fading vision. He's slashing through the wedding guests, snarling, effortlessly working his way towards the front of the hall. You squeeze your eyes shut. You try to focus on the poison, swimming in your veins with an unrelenting ferocity, and imagine yourself directing it out of your body. It can't end. Not like this.

All of your anger, you desperation, bubbles to the surface. In an effort to rid yourself of it, you push all of these feelings towards the poison, a defensive measure that feels too absurd to work.

The Fremen have joined Feyd in his rampage, shouting about Muad'dib -- about you. Violence swirls all around.

You can feel the poison retreating, shrinking in on itself like a cowering animal. A terrified shriek rings out and your attention wavers slightly, redirected towards the front of the hall, where Feyd is locked in combat with his brother, who is trying to defend the Baron. The Emperor and Irulan have been seized by two Fedaykin, the former who thrashes angrily. Irulan's eyes are on you.

Her fingers twitch and, even in your drugged state, you understand what she's telling you. You mean to bring peace.

Let me, you sign back, please.

She nods, delicate chin dipping. Irulan shrugs off the Fedaykin, suggesting that she had just been letting them restrain her, then raises both of her hands. "CEASE!"

The Voice reverberates through the hall. Such a powerful display -- you had never seen anyone command so many at once. But the weapons all clatter to the ground, the movements stilling. Everyone but one, it seems.

Feyd steps around Rabban, who has frozen in place. He leaps onto a pew and pushes off the back, launching himself upward onto the Baron. The Gom Jabbar glints in his fist. The sound of the needle jabbing into his fat neck echoes, the subsequent fall of the patriarch, crashing onto the floor and twitching with great enthusiasm until he finally lays still. Feyd steps away from the mass of his uncle.

"Irulan!" The Emperor yells, horrified. "What are you doing?"

"He sent the call for the poison dart. There didn't need to be more violence," Irulan hisses in reply.

The Emperor growls at the Fedaykin. "Unhand me!"

"Father, stop." She's not using The Voice, but her tone is powerful enough without. "No more fighting. No more betrayal. Whatever she has to say, you will listen."

Residue of poison still lurking in your veins, you do your best to pull yourself into a respectable position. Feyd relaxes slightly. You fix a stare at the Emperor. "You will revoke your claim on the crown."

Irulan glares at her father. He sags, defeated. "I...I relinquish my control to you."

"Not to me," you say, "but your daughter." The golden-haired princess startles, blinking at you. You continue, "She is deserving of the title. And my husband and I will work in tandem with her as the Duke and Duchess of both Arrakis and Giedi Prime. I appoint Stilgar as the Governor to rule in our place when we are away."

It's not something you've talked about before, but you know in that moment that it's the right decision. You find his face in the gathered crowd and he nods his agreement.

This proposal surprises the Emperor, but he softens as he looks at his daughter. She nearly shines in her white dress, a celestial being, a slant of light falling over her. "Fine," he says. His shoulders shake slightly. "And what will you do with me? My supporters?"

"They will either swear their fealty to Emperess Irulan or die. As for you," you say, anger flaring, "you will be taken prisoner to answer for your crimes against the House Atreides. Against Arrakis and it's people and everyone else you have ever impacted."

“Prisoner.” The Emperor’s upper lip curls.

“Unless you want to die with the others who won’t swear their fealty?” You ask.

“Just go with them,” Irulan tells her father. The words for now go unspoken. You ignore this. Unlike the Baron, whose body lays at the altar, he won’t get such an easy escape.

The Fremen start collecting the wedding guests, herding them through the hall and back into the Hutment. You informed them earlier to lead any resisters to the palace — you looked forward to reclaiming it again. The last few people are escorted from the hall when the chanting starts.

“Muad’dib! Akrab! Muad’dib! Akrab!”

Hope buoys inside you. The Emperor brushes past you, and you shout, “Empress Irulan!”

The chant shifts to her name, until all three of your names are lifted to the sky like an offering.

Feyd eventually orders them to leave, to prepare the palace for your arrival. They don’t question him, which leaves you both alone in the hall. It’s the first time that you’ve really looked at him since this morning. He’s soaked in blood, and there’s a bruise forming on his cheek, but you’ve never seen him look so beautiful before.

He’s a physical manifestation of everything you’ve done, what you’ve done for each other.

“Jewel —”

You run to him.

Feyd crashes into you, arm coiling around your middle and pulling you into him, his mouth bruising yours. He’s damp with blood, the smell of copper flooding your senses. Despite it all, you groan, clambering to get as close to him as you can. His hand moves to cup the back of your head as his tongue drives past your lips, hungrily seeking you out. Desire pulses through you. When he crumbles to his knees, he takes you with him, lowering you onto him.

You straddle him. Beneath you, he is a righteous angel, the smears of blood on the floor like crimson wings.

“Take these off,” he rasps, tugging at your clothes, “now.”

It’s not easy, but you manage, hovering over him as you peel off your armor and underclothes, then finally your underwear. Feyd watches intently as you pull the material down your hips and over your thighs, his calloused hands grabbing at you, gaze roaming over every new inch of exposed flesh. Impatient, a growl rumbles in his chest, and he pulls you down onto him. He smears streaks of crimson on your breasts as he works his thumb over your stiff nipples, taking the other in his mouth and sucking, teeth grazing.

You inhale sharply. With fervor, you grind your hips into him, desperate for friction. Feyd pushes up into you. His cock, straining at his pants, rubs against your center. Eager, you roll with him, his pupils blown as he watches you, fingers digging into your hips and guiding your movement.

There’s something wild about him in this moment. Feyd is laid bare, bloodied and violent, plush lips parted. And you somehow love him more like this than you ever have, stripped of any pretenses or expectations, just dangerous and ugly and raw — and he’s seen every corner of your own darkness and never flinched away.

Suddenly aware that he’s overly dressed, you begin tugging at his armor until he gets the hint and helps the process, muscles flexing as he pulls it over his head and discards it nearby. You can’t help it, you slide your hands over his chest and down his stomach. When you reach the waistband of his pants, he inhales through his teeth, cock twitching and sending a pulse to your cunt. “Such a dirty whore,” he teases you, “so eager for my cock, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathe, fumbling for the latch.

“You want it inside you?”

You squirm in anticipation. “Yes.”

Feyd pushes your hands away. He manages to shed his pants in a single movement and kick them to the side, revealing his long, thick cock to your gaze. Your cunt clenches. Feyd rocks you forward slightly then fists his cock, giving it a few languid strokes before guiding it into you. You sink into him, shivering with the pleasure of him, warm and filling, and crying out when he drives impossibly deep inside you, splitting you open.

You rock deeper, pain erupting in your knees from the hard floor as you spread your legs to take him. And he fucks into you with blinding intensity, slamming into you up to the hilt, drawing out an embarrassing amount of gasps and squeaks from you. You feel as if you might be on fire, seared by his passion, body aching with every thrust, trembling with the force of him. He hisses and a look of pure lust, pure concentration, crosses his handsome face, brows furrowed, breath sawing from chest with the effort. Feyd snarls — actually snarls — and pumps into you harder, faster, hips snapping at a speed that dizzies you.

“Fuck, Feyd,” you hiss, “you feel so good.”

“Shut up,” he growls. As if in punishment, he throws you off him and now you’re beneath him and he’s looming over you, burning fiercely with passion. Feyd grabs each of your ankles and lifts your lower body so that you’re exposed to him, then spears into you fully. You cry out.

Pleasure shoots through you with each jolt. Overcome with it all, with him, your head rolls to the side. Only a few feet away, the body of Vladimir Harkonnen lays in a heap. You stiffen in shock — how had you forgotten?

A rough hand grabs your face, forces you to look straight into the eyes of Feyd-Rautha. “Keep your fucking eyes on me.”

He’s adjusted your position to do this, to keep you staring at him even as your emotions surge and tears spring to your eyes, propping one of your legs onto his shoulder. Feyd applies pressure to your clit, smearing more blood on your lower belly, massaging and rolling your most sensitive spot as he ruts into you over and over, building with his own desire.

You lose all sense of time, of yourself. You might as well have been spiraling out of control, stuck in weightless suspension. All you focus on is him. Feyd-Rautha. Former na-Baron. Your husband. He’s the center of your world. And when you come you wail his name like a prayer, Feyd follows shortly after, pumping his seed inside you.

You lay like that for some time, entwined, panting and trying to catch your breath. Once you’ve mustered enough clarity, you ask, “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” There’s no trace of turmoil or regret in his dark eyes. “Are you?”

“Fine,” you repeat back to him. You touch the spot at your shoulder where the flip dart had been embedded. “I don’t know what happened.”

“Perhaps it was leftover tolerance.”

“Perhaps.” Admittedly, you don’t want to think about how you had practically willed the poison away. You don’t want to think about anything. Frankly, you just want a hot shower.

As if reading your mind, Feyd says, “There’s a celebration waiting for us at the palace.”

“I know,” you sigh. Both of you collect your clothes, leaving your armor where it is. There’s a strange calm that’s settled itself around your shoulders. When you finish dressing, you catch Feyd glaring at the Baron. You touch his arm. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He tears his gaze away. “It happened so…easily.”

“I can’t say that I’m sorry you did it.”

“He hurt you.” Feyd’s face closes like a fist. “After all this time, I thought — nevermind what I thought. He can’t hurt anyone again.” He starts towards the door, leaving you to scurry after him. You know he’s more anguished about the situation than he’s willing to share, but you’ll wait to wrest the truth from him.

For now, you just want to be with him.

As he expected, the celebration is raging at the palace, Fremen and other Arrakeen residents brimming out in the heat-scorched courtyard and within the corridors. They congratulate you and pat you on the back as you pass by, their previous animosity forgotten in the post-battle victory.

You smile warily at them and do your best to appear as ecstatic as they are. You can’t believe that you’ve done it, that you’ve found an unlikely ally in Princess Irulan. Without her, you’re not sure that you would’ve achieved what you did — taking control of the Known Universe, seating its positions of power with those that you trust. The first thing you do is seek out the golden-haired princess who, despite having just been crowned Empress, is found by herself nursing a drink.

“It’s about time,” Irulan says with an inkling of amusement. She takes in your disheveled state, smeared with blood, but thankfully doesn’t comment on it. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“It was the right choice,” you say, sidling beside her.

“My Father won’t go down without a fight.”

“So we’ll fight.” You lift a shoulder. “Thank you. For what you did.”

“I owe you, from before. I’m sorry —”

You reach out and squeeze her hand. “Don’t be. We’re allies now. Friends.”

Irulan smiles. “Friends.”

Speaking of friends. You hear a familiar voice call your name, prompting you to whirl around in surprise. “Asha?”

“You’re here! You’re alive!” Your old friend sweeps you into her arms. She looks thin, thinner than you’ve seen her, but her eyes are glowing.

“What happened to you?” You ask. You can’t properly parse out all of the emotions that are crashing into you. When you left her behind —

Asha withdraws, holding you at arms length. “I was taken by the Baron. They kept me prisoner here. They released us, though, once they found us. The Fremen.” She smiles. “I can’t believe it. I didn’t think I was ever going to see you again.”

You hug her again. “You can’t get rid of me that easily. I’m glad that you’re okay, Asha.”

And, for the first time in a very long time, everything seemed to be perfect. At least, as perfect as they could be. Asha joined you at the table beside Irulan, who you promptly introduced; across the room Feyd kept his gaze trained on you, winking when you catch his eye.

You wanted to preserve that moment, contain it to later be marveled. You had done so much to get here — if only you knew how much more you would have to endure.

A/N 2.0: Did anyone catch my TLJ reference?👀 Also, Jewel's brief happiness before her life falls apart

Taglist:

@moonsoulk @heartarianagran @torchbearerkyle @taleah @mamawiggers1980 @jovialeggsbailiffsoul @avidreader73 @unicorntrooper @beebeechaos @kamcrazy123 @wo-ming-bai @m-indkiller @sp4ceboo @dacreshoney @stopeatread @therealslimshady-1 @aoi-targaryen @psychoffin @lauratang @austinswhitewolf @bloodyziggy @aleemendoza2425-blog @forgedfromthestars @lovemyselfyay

#feyd rautha #dune #feyd rautha harkonnen #feyd x reader #feyd x you #fanfic writing #feyd smut #writers on tumblr #writing #fanfic #I DID IT #part twenty #these destined ends

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meldy-writes · 7 months ago

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Stupid Games

Summary: Takes place during S2 You’re the eldest of the Greene sisters (about 10 years older than Maggie). You’re mean, overprotective of your family, and overall just kind of a mythic bitch. Daryl can’t seem to keep his eyes from wandering over you whenever you’re around. One day you run into each other in the woods while hunting down the same deer and Daryl finds himself being toyed with. Maybe you’re not as cold and forbidding as you let on, but then again, maybe you’re just luring him into playing a stupid little game with you.

A/N: This is an excerpt from a fic I want to post to AO3 but don’t have anything substantial enough to post a full chapter yet so I wanted to post this here and see if it was good enough to keep working on. Might post another part I have written as a companion piece if people like this enough.

The first time Daryl laid eyes on you, you were just a distant figure on the roof of the Greene family farmhouse as he rode in at the head of the convoy on his bike. You were sitting on the porch overhang, looking out over your father's land with the vigilance of a grizzled soldier on the front lines. He watched you stand up as they drove up your gravel path. You put out a cigarette you'd been smoking in an ashtray resting on an open window ledge before climbing into the house. He and the rest of the members of his group that had stayed behind at the highway the night previous had made it up to the path and met up with the people who were already working on something judging by the pile of rocks they were collecting in a wheelbarrow by the time you reemerged on the porch. You surveyed him and the others with a set and piercing stare, arms crossed defensively over your chest as if daring one of them to cause trouble and give you a reason to beat their ass. You were followed out of the house by an older man in his seventies and the rest of Daryl’s group. You took stock of the new arrivals, starting with him and working your way over everyone, scanning them like you could see everything there was to know about them on their skin and didn't like it. When you were done you fixed your gaze back onto Daryl as if you'd identified him as the biggest threat. He hated the feel of your suspicious stare, though he told himself it was typical of people to see him as nothing but trouble and to treat him like dirt so he should be used to it. The way you tilted your head from your elevated position on the raised porch—like you were looking down at an ant and trying to decide whether it was worth the energy to squash it—made him fidget.

“How is he?” Dale asked after Carl when Rick and Lori came out of the house looking like they’d just been through hell and hadn't slept a wink.

“He'll pull through,” Lori responded, relief clear in her voice, “Thanks to Hershel and his daughter, (y/n),” She said motioning towards you, “and their people, and–”

“and Shane,” Rick added, “We'd have lost Carl if not for him.”

Daryl watched your already cold eyes darken and a snarl twist across your face at the statement, failing to suppress an eye roll before you yanked your head away from the group and the conversation like it disgusted you, choosing instead to stare off towards a barn at a distant end of the property. He wondered what your problem was, but he wasn't wondering long. It was revealed soon after the group arrived that someone had gone with Shane when he went to retrieve medical supplies for Carl and that that person did not return with him. Someone you and your family cared for.

If it wasn't made clear by the way Lori recognized those living at the farm house as not just your father's people but yours as well that you were the oldest child, it would have become obvious by the way your sisters looked to you for comfort at Otis's funeral. The little blonde one bawled her eyes out and clung to you like a child clings to their mother while Maggie, the woman who'd rode up to them on a horse the other day, leaned down to your height to rest her head on your shoulder. You tucked the sniffling teenager under your arm protectively, rubbing at her shoulder and pressing a kiss to her forehead and then turned to bump your head softly against Maggie’s in a comforting way. Your lips pursed like you were sucking on a lemon as you tried your best to stay strong and not start crying like your sisters, pinning Shane with a frigid and accusatory glare that he expertly ignored as he told the story of how he and Otis were ambushed by a group of walkers while retrieving the medical supplies for Carl and that Otis had valiantly stayed behind to cover his retreat, shooting into the herd with a pistol before ultimately being swallowed up by the swarm and getting torn to shreds. Daryl found it miraculous that Shane managed to recover the gun but not the man that had supposedly been firing it in his daring escape—and by miraculous he meant shady. You didn't seem to be buying Shane’s story, either.

After the service your father motioned toward you and told you to show the guests where to set up their camp, as he graciously agreed to let them stay until Carl recovered and they had located Sophia. You nodded dutifly with a muttered “Yessir,” motioning to Rick with your head, beckoning him to follow as you untangled yourself from your siblings and began marching off in a direction with purpose, not looking back to check if anyone was following you. If the group couldn't keep up with your quick gait that was just too damn bad. They did their best to match your pace, some, like Daryl, breaking off to fetch the vehicles and bring them over to where they were meant to stay. When you got to a spot under some particularly shady trees a good distance from your house you stopped, looking around as you waited for the group to congregate. When everyone was grouped up again you addressed them directly for the first time that morning. Your voice was down to business and detached as you pointed out where the boundaries of the camp would be and where the well they could use for water was. “One more thing,” You said with the same rural twang as your sisters, your tone changing to one of warning as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other, jutting out your hip and resting your hand against it. Daryl followed the movement, your curves drawing his eyes in a way that made him itch and blush. “My daddy believes we should be good christians—help our fellow men and give ‘em the benefit of the doubt, but I don't share his blind faith. I don't know you people and I don't trust you. I can’t afford to, I have a baby sister to protect. Beth is sixteen, you understand? She's a child. If I catch any of your men lookin’ at her, talkin’ to her—sniffin’ around her in any way, I will rip their balls off like I'm takin’ a part off a Mr. Potato Head.” You made a popping sound with your lips that had Daryl's stare fixing on them instead of your hips, and gave a motion with your hand as if grabbing at something and yanking it down. “Clean off,” you reiterated, staring Glen down who swallowed thickly and tried to give you a friendly and disarming smile that did not change your attitude in the slightest. “Maggie can take care of herself but still, if someone upsets her, with God as my witness there will be hell to pay.”

There was a loud silence from the group after your blatant threats of bodily harm that was broken by Dale, ever the peacekeeper. “We understand where you're coming from, you have nothing to worry from us. We're good people, you'll see. Thank you for letting us stay on your beautiful property while Carl recovers and we look for Sophia.”

You scoffed, “You're only here because we shot your boy,” you reminded bluntly as you turned to leave for your house, “don't thank us.”

Daryl’s first impression of you: You were a bitch, but a bitch who loved her family. The only times he ever caught you cracking a smile or being anywhere close to kind during those first few days was when you were with them. You seemed to disagree with your dad on a lot of things, but it was clear you both respected and loved each other and that you had a bond that had been worked on and cultivated to be strong enough for you to argue and debate and still look at each other with love. After every tiff he’d catch you having in the windows of the front room, spitting and pinching the bridge of your nose and tossing your hands up while your dad calmly spoke back you would sigh, relax your gaze, and kiss his cheek or his forehead before stomping off with a storm cloud over your head. You’d grin wolfishly as you and Maggie laughed conspiratorially on the porch in the afternoon, teasing each other as you ate cherries together, trying to hit each other with the pits you spat out. Your whole face would soften when you looked at Beth, practically glowing with unconditional adoration as you played on the guitar Dale had originally found for Glen and accompanied the little blonde girl as she sang her heart out. Your voice was low, bluesy, raw, and filled with vibrato. There was an untrained authenticity to it that was almost hypnotic. It paired well with your sister who sang like a songbird, pretty and light as if she’d been taught by actual birds. You were happy to let her take the center stage, supporting her through harmony while your fingers strummed frets with a clumsy sort of charm, like you were taught to play at one point but never practiced, and were now making all sorts of mistakes that were going to become bad habits without a proper teacher. It was later revealed that Otis had taught you the basics a few years back and you’d only bothered to pick it back up now that he was gone and Beth needed someone new to perform with. You softened for Patricia, as well, helping her in the kitchen and going out of your way to assist her with her chores on the farm despite having plenty of your own responsibilities to fulfill.

Daryl’s group, however, you continued to treat like shit on your shoe. You made no effort to hide that you wanted them off your property as soon as possible, only showing a hint of compassion when it came to Lori and Carol, the mothers of the group who were distraught over the perils of their children. They were the ones you supplied the group’s meals to, giving them bushels of produce and bottles of milk and sending your sisters over to hand them baskets of eggs, even going so far as to offer Carl some of your late step-brother’s hand-me-downs to wear, but you still had a cold sneer on your face when you handed things over and you didn’t speak to them unless it was to ask how Carl was recovering or if they were making any progress finding Sophia. You were only asking to try and gauge how much longer you’d have to wait before kicking them out, and you grew more and more agitated the more the group settled in. Every time Rick or Dale or anyone tried to appeal to you or your dad about staying longer or staying permanently you’d bristle like a cat being pet the wrong way. You made a point to avoid them most of the time, which was just fine with Daryl because every interaction he did have with you pissed him off, and only fueled his own frustration when it became harder and harder to ignore you or look away.

For instance, the first one on one conversation he ever had with you was out in the woods while he was looking for Sophia. He was about to give up the search for the day and head back when he picked up the trail of a deer. He stalked it through the woods, thinking it’d be better to provide the farm with some venison than to return empty handed again. When he finally found it, he took aim and shot it at an angle that had it sprinting off with a limp in the direction of the farm. That’s when he heard a startled gasp and watched as you rushed out of the nearby foliage with a rifle, taking aim at the retreating deer before realizing you couldn’t get a clear shot on it. You then turned to where he was, gun dropping in your arms as you pinned him with a furious look. “Congratulations, Numb-Nuts, it got away.”

“The hell are you doing out here?” Daryl snapped, face red at the way you were treating him like a dullard with no idea what he was doing.

You seemed flustered by the question, looking down and kicking at the dirt with your horse-riding boot. “Came out to hunt and figured I’d look around for the missing little girl while I was at it,” you said with a casual shrug, avoiding his eyes until you seemed to remember you were pissed at him at which point your head snapped up and that signature sneer of yours was back. “Saw the deer and was gonna take it out but somebody went and scared it off.”

“I shot it in the leg on purpose,” Daryl explained defensively, getting angry and up in your face, “see that trail it left? It’s carryin’ itself back to the farm, less effort this way.” He looked you up and down and scoffed, nodding towards your gun. “What's with the rifle, Annie Oakley? You shoot that thing, every walker in a five mile radius is gonna come here to tear you and that deer apart.”

You slung your weapon over your shoulder and crossed your arms defiantly, “It takes a buck down in one clean, quick shot. The animal feels little to no pain if you know what you’re doin’ so it’s not suffering with an arrow in its ass for half a mile. Plus, I woulda been outta here with the buck slung over my shoulder long before anything came over to check out the noise.” You were confident, clearly convinced you knew better and that your methods were best. Daryl couldn’t have that. He had a good decade’s worth of experience on you and he hadn't had his hand held the whole time he was taught to track the way you probably had. He licked his lips ready to knock you down a peg.

“Yeah, but you’d be so exhausted from caryin’ it the whole way that if a walker came up on you, you’d be too tired to fight it off. Maybe you’d be able to drop the deer and fumble for your rifle, but that’s as far as you’d get. It’d be on you in a second. Would a little thing like you be able to fight it off? You even got a weapon other than that big ol’ Elmer Fudd gun?” As he was talking he saw your expression shift. You tilted your head like something had just occurred to you and you were sizing him up.

Suddenly, you brought your right leg up, bent at the knee so you could lift a jack knife from your boot, and flicked the blade out so it pointed at his chest. That shut him up for a second. He really hadn’t expected the quickness with which you had it drawn on him. “Believe me,” you let out a bored, breathy sigh, a smirk on your face like you knew you had the upper hand, “I’ve got some experience dealing with ravenous things that want to pin me down and devour me, I can handle myself just fine.” …were you still talking about walkers? You were, right? The way you poked the tip of your knife against the skin of his chest peeking out from under his open collar and gently dragged it down until it caught on the button of his shirt had him feeling goosebumps on his flesh and hearing innuendo in your words. You took a step towards him, looking up at him through long lashes with your chest puffed—either in pride or in an attempt to get him to look at your breasts. Regardless of the reason, It was working. “What about you? You sure you can catch up to that deer before somethin’ else does? You said it yourself, it’s hurt and slowing down—a biter could take it down in a matter of moments. Then what, tough guy?” Daryl had nothing to say in defense of that. Partly because your slightly seductive shift in demeanor had his mouth going dry and partly because you had a point and he knew it. He remembered the last time he’d hunted a deer like this, it’d carried itself all the way back to the quarry camp before getting caught on the fishing line of the perimeter alarms they put up and then it’s stomach was ripped apart and it’s innards devoured by a walker that followed the sound of a wounded, frightened animal and jingling cans. You must have seen in his eyes that you’d caught him because your slight smile spread into a full-on Cheshire cat grin. You retracted your knife and returned it to your boot, turning and sauntering off in the direction the deer had run off in. “guess we’d better go find it, huh?”

Daryl stalled for a second, stunned by your behavior. One second you’re spitting venom at him and making him feel like he’s two feet tall, the next you’re purring like a kitten and being the biggest fucking tease he’d ever had to endure. He mentally smacked himself when he realized he’d been so focused on the sway of your hips as you walked away that he wasn’t following you like he should be. He began jogging to catch up with you, falling into step easily as you both picked up the deer’s trail again. “You even know how to track?” He couldn't help but keep trying to pick a fight with you—he didn’t even know why, but as much as bickering with you pissed him off, he also found it fun. You didn’t treat his meanness like something you had to quell or cry about like his group did, you stood your ground and tossed your own barbs right back at him. It was like a game. A game he seemed to be losing, but that didn’t mean he was going to stop playing.

You looked over to him, a brow raised as you scanned him up and down. “Yes, I do. Do you own a shirt you haven’t ripped the sleeves off of?” You nodded to the button down he was wearing. He’d torn the sleeves off a few days ago because it was too hot to wear them and he needed the fabric to tie markers off on trees to denote what parts of the woods he’d already searched through in case the others ever decided to get off their asses and help look for Sophia. He had a few other shirts that had sleeves at some point but no longer did that he wore in a common rotation. He must have had a sour look on his face at your retaliating comment because you shook your head and chuckled under your breath, “don’t play stupid games if you don’t wanna win stupid prizes.”

You walked through the woods mostly in silence after that, not wanting to make an abundance of noise and end up accidentally spooking the deer. That became a competition as well, with you both smirking in triumph every time the other stepped on a twig or kicked up a bit of dirt in your effort to leave as little evidence of a trail as possible. Eventually, as you were coming up on a clearing near the edge of your property where the tall grass almost completely covered the view of your home in the distance, Daryl stuck his hand out to stop you and put a finger to his lips, pointing towards the buck you’d both been after peeking out through the foliage, whining softly and doing its best to lick at the wound in its back leg. You took cover behind a honeysuckle bush and Daryl nodded at you and your gun, “I got the last shot, your turn.”

You hesitated a second, scanning the woods and warily looking towards your farm. “Too close to home to use the gun now, it’d attract the dead to our property. Lemme borrow that crossbow of yours.” You held your hand out for it and Daryl clutched it away from your grasp. You looked at him first confused by his reluctance then annoyed, “please?” you said petulantly. After a beat of studying your face he eventually relented, but only after you’d started pouting a little. The second it was in your grip you hefted it up, remarking that it was heavier than you expected.

Daryl watched you handle it a bit clumsily as you got used to holding it and his fingers itched to show you how to aim it right. In the end, he couldn’t help himself. He came up behind you and put his hands on your hips, angling them the right way so you had a solid stance. He felt you stiffen under his hands and could hear your breath catching in your throat. “You wanna stand like this,” he coached, his arms coming around you to adjust your elbows and help you aim the weapon straight. You leaned back against his chest a little, maybe unconsciously, maybe on purpose. “Then just use the arrow tip like a sight and pull the trigger.” He could feel you shift as his breath brushed against the skin of your neck. The way you acted made you so big and imposing, but actually having you in his arms made you feel so small and demure; like he could envelop you entirely and keep you all to himself if he wanted. The way you’d been acting the past half hour made him feel like you might want that, too. The idea sort of excited him a little—made his pants and his chest feel tight. There was a quiet moment where he expected you to aim and fire, but it passed and the arrow still hadn’t been shot. He turned to look at you and see what the hold up was. Surley, you weren’t that unsure of your aim. He flinched back a bit when he moved his head in your direction and almost brushed noses with you, as you were not looking at the deer and had instead shifted to look back at him, a look on your face reminiscent of a cat playing with a cornered mouse.

“You really are just like any other man, aren’t you?” you crooned out in a teasing tone.

“What?” his mind went blank in his dumbfoundedness and that was all he could manage to utter.

“In my experience, I’ve found that any man who’s attracted to a woman is always willing to believe two things about her: One, that she doesn’t know anything about anything and needs him to help her, and two, that she’s just as attracted to him as he is to her.” Daryl’s mouth opened and closed like a fish at that statement, unsure what you meant or how he was supposed to respond. In that time you yanked yourself out of his grip, redid your stance, took aim with perfect form, and let loose an arrow with absolutely no hesitation. The deer let out a sad bleat as it was shot in the eye and then it crumpled into the grass, dead as a doornail. You handed his crossbow back to him with a nasty, shit-eating grin. “Do I really strike you as the type of person who’d ask to borrow somethin’ I didn’t know how to use? Honestly now, all I had to do was bat my lashes and push up my tits and you were all ‘here, let me get up close behind you and show you how to hold this big heavy tool’.” You said those last three words in an erotic and over dramatic moan, getting close to press your breasts against him as you ran your hand up his chest.

He pushed you away, a heavy blush heating his face while you began to cackle maniacally at him. “How the hell was I supposed to know you knew how to use it when you were fumbling with it like a toddler?” he barked out angrily as you stepped out from behind the bush you’d both been hiding behind and began walking towards the farm, still laughing. “Hey! Ain’t you gonna take the deer? It’s your kill!”

You turned around with mirth dancing in your eyes and a wide happy grin on your face. The light of the setting sun bounced off your hair making it look so shiny as the light summer breeze ran through it, making it float and sway around you in such a pretty way. Daryl felt his heart pound hard in his chest as he glared over your retreating figure. You were walking backwards, tucking a few strands of hair that had flown into your face back behind your ear as you said, “Who, me? But I'm just a ‘little thing’ who’d get tired if I carried it all the way back. You’re the big strong man—use those big strong muscles to carry it back for me. Oh, and since you’re the big strong provider, you can go ahead and string it up, drain it, and skin it, too. Thanks for your help,” you sing-songed sarcastically, “I just don’t know how I ever woulda done it without you!” Daryl began to huff, storming towards you for a second, unsure of what he’d even do if he caught you, but he felt like you’d just tricked him and he didn’t like it. You held your hands up in your defense as you saw him coming. “Stupid games, stupid prizes,” you reiterated with a shrug as you giggled and turned, running back towards the farm and leaving him in the thicket with the dead buck.

Daryl got the sudden sense as he watched you slow your pace to a jog then a brisk walk once you’d gotten far enough away that this had all been a test of some kind. He couldn’t tell if he passed or failed, but you certainly seemed pleased about the results either way. He kicked at the ground, a clump of dirt launching into the air as he did so, and moved to heft the buck over his shoulder. He didn’t know if or when you’d ever come looking to play again, but if you did, he’d make sure he won.

As he strung up the deer in a tree a little ways away from the group’s makeshift camp later that afternoon, cutting at its arteries and letting the blood drain out of it, he imagined what you might look like when he got the upper hand on you. What would you look like when the sneers and the smirks were wiped away and you were pinned down, completely at his mercy—all flustered with your cheeks flushed, trying to squirm your way out from under him. He bet you’d still have bite. He bet you would still spit venom, but maybe he could get you to purr for him, too. Maybe he could get you to look at him the way you looked at your family, all sweet smiles and gentle touches. The thought made him eager to play another one of your stupid little games.

#daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl x reader #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon x female reader #twd fic

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gingerteawrites · 9 months ago

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BY THE HEARTH: Prologue

A/N: Hey guys, I’m finally working on a longer piece! I’m so excited to share this with you. Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you stick around for the rest!

Content: Royalty!AU, Nanami x female reader, king Nanami, Princess Y/N, Widower Nanami, kid Yuuji, hurt, angst.

Next part here

banner from @cafekitsune

ACT I:

You had always thought that your wedding would be a joyous occasion, with flowers fluttering in the air, cries of joy, warm smiles, and cheering from onlookers. But as you trudged slowly to the altar, the clicking of your shoes echoed in the quiet church. The pews were filled to the brim with silent gazes that lingered on you, holding pity, sadness, and even disgust.

Thunder struck outside, and you squeezed your father’s arm, your steps almost faltering as he led you down the aisle. He squeezed back, but continued his steady pace, pulling you along. You closed your eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply. The pale blue light from the stained-glass window behind the altar caught your attention, depicting a woman with her arms wide open. Thick drops of rain rolled down her pristine face like tears, and you felt your chest tighten despite your efforts to calm down.

You reached the altar, your head pounding and breath growing shallower. The groom stood in front of you, his blonde hair slicked back elegantly, and his posture straight. The priest started reciting the ceremonial words, his droning voice lost in the background of your thoughts. You stole another glance at your husband-to-be, only to find the brown of his eyes almost dulled as his expression remained impassable, and your gaze fell to the floor in defeat.

So when a smooth but gravelly voice resounded in the room, you were deeply startled, only to find that it came from the man standing in front of you, the life seemingly returning to him "In the name of God, I, King Nanami Kento, take you, Princess Y/N L/N, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish…” His eyes bore into yours, tension evident in his brow as he paused slightly. “...until we are parted by death. This is my solemn vow."

You shivered, unsettled, but proceeded to recite the same words with a resolve you were not sure you could muster.

The moving candlelight cast soft shadows on your face as a fleet of servants escorted you through the hallways. The ceremony had ended uneventfully, and the wedding banquet after was marked by the absence of your now husband and the quick departure of your convoy. You sighed deeply.

Maybe his indifference is a good thing, you mused.

There were worse fates than indifferent husbands. But that did not help the ache in your heart. The rain had also grown more intense, as if the earth mirrored your sorrow, flashes of white lighting occasionally illuminating the dark stone of the castle. Marrying into a foreign kingdom was not going to be an easy thing. Your ladies-in-waiting had warned you, but you had tried to be optimistic. Now, you shivered in these cold hallways, devoid of decoration except for the occasional white Lily bouquets.

After what felt like an eternity in your thoughts, you finally reached the door to your wedding chamber. You inhaled deeply, trying to calm your racing heart. You had read enough romance novels to know what could happen tonight, but the thought did not bring the excitement that your heroines often described. Bracing yourself physically and mentally, you watched as the servants pushed the door open and urged you in.

Flush to the northern wall of the room was a massive bed, complete with a thick velvet green canopy and emerald-colored sheets. You did not have time to appreciate the beauty of the intricately woven carpet and carved furniture when the head maid called you over, trying to muster a small smile. You quickly refocused your attention on her, and along with the other servants, they helped remove the heavy white wedding dress. You watched the opulent material and accompanying corset where they lay it in a case for storage, feeling nothing at the sight of the embroidered flowers and the encrusted crystals.

You changed into a silk night dress, lace trimming delicately laying against your collarbone, and the maids started to leave quietly, but the head maid lingered behind. You sat at the edge of the bed, and turned towards her, her tired features seeming more prominent in the dim lighting.

“Do not fret, your majesty,” she said tentatively “The king is not a bad man.”

“Thank you.” You nodded, smiling gently at her attempt to reassure you “Pray tell, what is your name?” You asked, quickly getting up as she was about to leave.

“Alma, your majesty.” She paused

“Good night, Alma. And thank you”, you repeated, and she bowed softly as she closed the door.

You returned to sit on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on the now closed door.

Is he going to come in soon? Your mind spiraled It’s okay, Y/N, it’s okay. He doesn’t seem like an aggressive person, that’s already a win. I just need to try. Breathe, breathe. You repeated in your mind a mantra against the sounds of rain hitting the large windows. The thick curtains stopped you from seeing the outside, but you imagined angry bolts of thunder striking the ground, causing everyone to cower in the warmth of their homes.

The thought caused you to shiver again. This castle was way too cold. You pulled your feet from the ground, burying them in the bed’s heavy covers. You gently ran your fingers over the velvety material, and sat up against the headboard, and waited, staring right at the door. And you waited and waited. Until the insistent lullaby of the pouring rain carried your mind into the world of dreams. Dreams of a smiling groom, floating petals and happy first dances.

A/N: Please comment if you want to be added to the taglist!

#jjk nanami #husband nanami #nanami kento #nanami x reader #jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu nanami #jujutsu kaisen #yuji itadori #angst #anime #royalty au

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immortalbumblebee · 4 months ago

Text

Chapter 22: Weakest Link

Happy Christmas Eve to all!!

I’m actually writing this on my phone because I left my laptop at home while visiting family…but inspiration hits!

I hope you all enjoy, and have an excellent holiday season, no matter what you celebrate!

Masterlist

One of the traders, a stout man from Shurima, leaned forward, speaking through clenched teeth, a lit cigar dangling from his mouth. Each word was punctuated by a puff of acrid smoke curling around his face like a dragon. “We’re the ones risking our necks here, gents. Sneaking supplies past Piltover’s checkpoints? It ain’t just dangerous—it’s suicidal.” He twisted the cigar to the other side of his mouth, a fresh plume of smoke spilling into the air. “We need more coin up front, or the shipments stop. End of story.”

Sevika was on her feet before anyone else could react, the dull thud of her fist hitting the table echoing in the dimly lit room. “And what? You think we’re swimming in cogs down here?” she snarled, her voice sharp enough to cut steel.

You couldn’t help but groan quietly, the weight of hours spent in this stalemate grinding against your patience. Exhaustion tugged at every muscle, but what else was new? From your spot at the table, you watched the scene unfold, arms crossed, eyes boring into the line of traders opposite you. Next to you, Benzo’s posture was tense, his weariness written as plainly on his face as on his rumpled shirt—usually crisp and professional, now missing a button and sporting deep wrinkles. You move to speak, but Benzo motions for you to stay back.

“Enough,” Benzo snapped, his voice carrying the authority of someone who had been in these trenches too long. Sevika froze, her hand still planted on the table, fingers twitching as if daring someone to challenge her.

Benzo leaned forward, the dim light catching the early creases forming on his forehead. “We all know what’s at stake. If this deal collapses, Zaun suffers—everyone suffers. Your risk is real, Urhak, no one’s denying that. But don’t act like your supply chain doesn’t depend on us just as much as we depend on you. We all bleed when Piltover milks us dry.”

Urhak, the Shuriman trader, removed the cigar from his mouth with a slow, deliberate motion, his narrowed eyes glinting like polished amber. “And we’re just supposed to bleed a little more for your rebellion? Hah.”

“Rebellion?” Another trader, a wiry man from Bilgewater, cut in with a bark of laughter. “We don’ give two shites about yer rebellion. It don’t feed our men. And wit’ Enforcers blockin’ every dock in Piltover, we’re startin’ to wonder if yer deals’r worth the trouble.”

Benzo didn’t flinch, his tone steady but urgent. “We need compromise. Protection for your shipments—more bodies on the ground to make sure they get through. In return, you cut back on the money demands and prioritize essentials: food, medicine, guns. The bare necessities.”

Another trader, a green-haired woman, scoffs. “Protection? Against Piltover? That’s a death sentence.”

“That’s what this revolution’s all about.” Felicia stepped forward, her voice calm but firm, the glint of determination in her eyes unmistakable. “We know what we’re doing. Smaller convoys. Decoys to draw the Enforcers away. It works—we’ve done it before, and you’ve seen the results.”

The Bilgewater trader snorted. “Aye, and look how far it’s gotten ya. Vander and Silco’ve been eatin’ Stillwater slop for what—two years now? Is that the kind of security you’re sellin’ us?”

Alright, you’d had enough.

Before anyone could react, you flicked your wrist, sending a razor-thin shard of metal slicing through the air. Urhak’s cigar split cleanly in two, the lit end tumbling to the floor in a hiss of ash. A tense silence followed as some of the traders instinctively reached for their weapons, but you were faster. A wave of your hands, and their firearms clattered to the floor, skidding out of reach.

You stood, your presence commanding, your voice cutting through the room like a blade. “My associate has been incredibly patient,” you said, the words slow and deliberate. “But I’m done wasting time. Let’s be real—Zaun makes up two-thirds of your trade profits, even with the dock blockades. If you think you can do better elsewhere, go ahead. Pack up your mediocre goods and hawk them to some backwater village. We’ll find traders who don’t waste our gods-damned time.”

The weight of your words settled over the room like a storm cloud. One by one, the traders hesitated, their bravado dimming under your glare.

Benzo turns to you, his movements measured, his eyes narrowing as he leans ever so slightly in your direction. “I thought I told you I had this,” he mutters, voice just loud enough for you to catch.

You meet his gaze briefly and roll your shoulders, the gesture as nonchalant as it was deliberate.

“Urhak breaks the lingering tension, his voice rumbling through the room like distant thunder. “We’ll need guarantees,” he says, his words deliberate. His gaze flickers to his colleagues, who murmur in low tones, their unease palpable. “If the patrols catch us, there won’t be a second chance. No excuses, no do-overs.”

Benzo exhales sharply, but his frustration is aimed squarely at you before he turns back to the table. His composure is a mask, slipping on just long enough to face the traders. “We’ll rotate our people to guard the shipments,” he says, his voice steady. “Small teams, low-profile. No risks we don’t need to take. You hold up your end, and we’ll hold up ours.”

The traders fall into another bout of quiet deliberation, voices hushed but sharp. The Bilgewater representative eventually shrugs. “Don’t be expectin’ miracles. You don’ give us what we need, don’ blame us when it all falls apart.”

Sevika finally lifts her fist from the table, the faint outline of her knuckles still imprinted in the wood. Benzo straightens his shoulders, reclaiming his usual air of authority, and folds his hands in front of him. “Nobody’s blaming anyone,” he says firmly, his businessman tone smooth but grounded. “We’re all in this together. That’s the point.”

The meeting concluded with a fragile patchwork of strained agreements, punctuated by supplementary deals to placate the traders’ endless demands. As they filed out, heading toward the ships that awaited them at the docks, your inner circle lingered. Quiet murmurs filled the air, the tension from the negotiation still simmering in their voices.

You sat apart from the others, your focus buried in your worn notebook. The faint scratch of pencil against paper was a welcome distraction as you tallied the promised inventory of firearms, mentally accounting for time and resources. They’d need inspections, repairs, and modifications—because they never arrived in workable condition.

With a sharp snap, you closed the book and rubbed a hand over your face, dragging your palm down to stifle the mounting frustration. Your new bandana lay limp around your neck, black and distinctly free of bloodstains. You were nearly 25 now… Two years. Two years since they were gone, and it already felt like a lifetime. In their absence, the weight of Zaun had pressed heavier on you than ever.

Piltover’s interference had worsened tenfold. No crossing the bridge without papers. Mandated curfews. Power outages that choked entire districts in darkness. The blockade at the docks was a vice on your trade, tightening every day. And the promenade? A ghost of its former self, crawling with Enforcers. The fighting rings were shut down. Businesses folded under the strain.

Zaunites had always been resilient, but now they were desperate. And desperate people fought back—often recklessly. Without resources, without backup, rebellion wasn’t a fire—it was a spark struggling to catch in the damp.

You adjusted the oversized vest draped over your shoulders. It hung loose, three sizes too big, and though his scent had long since faded, you still found comfort in wearing it. A small fragment of the past. A piece of a world that no longer existed.

“I told you I had this.” Benzo’s voice cut through your thoughts, sharp with annoyance. His frustration lanced through your skull, worsening the pounding ache that had been building all evening. You really needed coffee.

“Do you have any idea how sideways that could’ve gone?” he continued, his tone rising just enough to set your teeth on edge.

You snapped your gaze to him, already irritated. “They still think they can push us around,” you shot back, stepping closer, your voice rising to match his. “And you let them!”

Benzo’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding audibly. “We don’t have the luxury of throwing our weight around without consequences,” he said, his voice low and hard. “And we can’t afford another enemy right now.” He turned abruptly, his eyes landing on Sevika. “Go keep an eye on them. Run security on their ships if you have to.”

Sevika lingered, her gaze flicking between the two of you, as though calculating whether to push back. After a moment, she sighed and turned toward the door. “For what it’s worth, I’m with Min.”

“I don’t recall asking,” Benzo shot after her. His voice was sharper than necessary, and it drew a pointed look from both you and Felicia.

Before tempers could flare further, Connol stepped in, his calm, even tone cutting through the tension. “Fighting between ourselves isn’t fixing a damn thing,” he said firmly, stepping between you and Benzo. His broad hands rested lightly on your shoulders, as if grounding both of you. “In case anyone’s forgotten, we don’t have the manpower to be a divided force right now.”

Benzo exhaled sharply, his shoulders dropping as his anger softened into resignation. He looked at you again, and you met his gaze.

For a long, silent moment, the two of you simply stared at each other. His exhaustion mirrored yours, the weight of Zaun evident in every line of his face. His eyes, usually sharp with purpose, were dull—drained beyond recognition. You understood the feeling all too well.

Neither of you was Vander. Neither of you was Silco. They had been an unstoppable force, even when they were at each other’s throats. You hadn’t fully understood the weight of their positions until they were gone, ripped from Zaun and sent to rot in Piltover’s cells. Now it was on you and Benzo to pick up the pieces, to hold together the tattered remnants of a revolution that sometimes felt like it was bleeding out faster than you could save it.

The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken words, until Benzo finally looked away. He turned to the others, quietly issuing instructions as Felicia stepped forward to lend her voice to the plan.

And you? You tightened the vest around you again, steeling yourself for what came next. Because there was always something.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly once the others have filtered out, leaving just the two of you. The room feels heavier without the murmured discussions to fill the space. You glance at Benzo, guilt threading through your voice. “You’re right. I was reckless. Stupid.”

Benzo doesn’t respond immediately. He leans against the table, his arms crossed, staring at a spot somewhere past your shoulder. Finally, he exhales and shrugs. “You got the job done,” he says simply, though there’s no accusation in his tone. After a moment, he unfolds his arms and extends a hand toward you. “I know you miss him. I do too.”

“I miss them both,” you admit, your voice cracking as you clasp his hand. But instead of the firm handshake he seems to expect, you use the gesture to pull him into a tight hug.

Benzo doesn’t hesitate. His broad, stocky arms envelop you, grounding you in a way that words never could. He’s thinner now than he used to be, you knew you were too, the stress of the past two years carving its toll into both of you, but his hugs still feel like home. They always had, since that first day in the dump.

You press your face into his shoulder, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this without them, Benz…”

His arms tighten around you, a protective squeeze that’s equal parts comfort and reassurance. “I know, Fishie,” he murmurs.

***

One might imagine that living in a warring nation would be a constant thrill, every day a unique and dangerous adventure. And in some ways, they’d be right. But when every waking moment is consumed by survival, by the relentless grind of uncertainty and danger, the days begin to blur together.

Nights are spent patrolling the crumbling streets, ducking under shadows to avoid the cold, watchful eyes of curfew enforcers. By day, there’s the ceaseless clatter of tools as you work on gun engineering and mechanics in the dim light of your makeshift livingroom workshop. Taking care of your parents took considerable time, even with Mikaels improving health. Not to mention actual shift work at the factories you were still employed at. The bridge barriers made it impossible to continue working at Morichi’s, but you still had to make a living. So you took what you could on this side of the bridge, toiling in the suffocating heat and deafening noise of the factories, each shift bleeding into the next.

The loss of Vander and Silco’s leadership wasn’t the only major impact of their incarceration. The loss of income was a huge hit to your day-to-day lives. You managed to scrape by Mikael’s treatments, but food was steadily more expensive, funds were running dry. Numbers were already tight, but now you almost felt strangled.

And then there was the tunnel.

The one project that felt like you were finally doing something that mattered, something right. In a world that seemed to be crumbling at the seams, the tunnel was your proof that not everything had to fall apart.

Engineering the damn thing had been an endeavour. You and Connol had spent countless sleepless nights over that past 24 months slogging through its damp, claustrophobic depths. Every leak you patched, every weak point you reinforced, felt like a small victory.

The leaks were relentless at first. Water seeped in from all sides, turning the tunnel into a slick, treacherous path. You and Connor worked in knee-deep muck, sealing crack after crack until your arms ached and your fingers felt raw. And then there were the weak points—entire sections that seemed one heavy step away from collapse. You reinforced them with steel sheets that you bent and shaped with your own hands.

Months turned into years as the project evolved. It started as a desperate plan to bypass Piltover’s stranglehold, but it became something greater. A lifeline. A sanctuary. It was Felicia who had the brilliant idea of connecting the tunnel to a long-abandoned mining cavern nearby. She and a few of the older minors had mapped the area, their experience with the mines proving invaluable. The cavern was vast, its winding corridors a maze that could confuse even the most determined enforcer. With the connection established, the tunnel transformed into a network—a hidden artery for Zaun. Connected to the mines, but far enough away as to allow for passage without much air corruption.

Slipping into the manhole that led to the tunnel, the muffled sounds of labor greeted you before your boots even hit the ground. The faint echo of crates scraping against the floor, grunts of effort, and low conversations filled the air. It didn’t surprise you to find Felicia already there, gesturing sharply as she directed a small group maneuvering heavy-looking crates toward the mining hub.

“How’s it looking?” you asked, sliding down the ladder and brushing the grime from your hands. Your eyes quickly scanned the wooden crates stacked against the damp tunnel walls.

Felicia turned to face you, her expression softening the moment she saw you. In her arms, a familiar blue-haired toddler bounced excitedly, letting out a piercing screech when her wide, blue-grey eyes landed on you. Powder squirmed and made grabbing motions with her chubby hands, her little braids bobbing wildly.

“Everything’s going smooth so far,” Felicia replied, her voice heavy with skepticism. She shifted Powder on her hip with practiced ease. “Although, little miss over here has been trying to make mischief. As usual.”

You couldn’t help but grin. “Mischief? Her? Nah, not my Pow-Pow,” you said, holding your hands out. Powder immediately launched herself at you with an excited squeal, her tiny arms wrapping tightly around your neck as if she hadn’t seen you in months. You pressed a kiss into her hair, the faint smell of damp tunnel and baby soap filling your nose. “Perfect little angel, you are,” you murmured, gently swaying her in your arms.

Felicia scoffed and rubbed a hand over her face, exhaustion carving lines into her features. “Easy for you to say. She’s been trying to climb the crates all morning. Nearly toppled a stack of rations.”

You chuckled, the sound dry. Powder babbled in your arms, reaching for the pen you always kept tucked into your pocket. You let her grab at it, her tiny fingers closing around the object with triumph. She brought it to her mouth, and you caught her hand before she could start chewing.

“How’s the moving going?” you asked, shifting Powder’s weight onto your hip while you glanced back at the crates.

“The firearms are heading to the mining hub, like you wanted,” Felicia said, motioning to the group lugging the heaviest crates. “I’m splitting the rations and water supply—half near the residential opening so they’re easier to access if things get tight.”

“Smart,” you said, pulling out your notebook one-handed. You jotted a quick note, using Powder’s squirming form as a makeshift desk. Her hand reached for the page, and you tilted it out of her grasp just in time. “And you? How are you holding up?”

Felicia sighed, her shoulders slumping as though the question alone carried weight. “The chem-barons are brutal, Min. You should see the factories down there. People are working longer hours for less pay—and those are the lucky ones who still have jobs.” She ran a tired hand through her hair, her thumb brushing over Powder’s cheek. “It’s hard. Really hard.”

Your chest tightened. You glanced down at Powder, who had abandoned the pen and was now tugging at the frayed edge of your vest. “I know,” you said softly. “You’re not alone in that. If you need a break, come by for meals. Seriously, Fel, we’ll make it work.”

Felicia let out a noise that was half-laugh, half-scoff. “Oh, sure. And when exactly are you finding time to cook for me, Nanny Min? When was the last time you had a proper meal? Or some sleep? No offense, sweetheart, but you look like death.”

You shrugged, the motion heavier than you intended. “What else is new?” you muttered. The exhaustion was bone-deep, clinging to you like the dampness in the air. You weren’t sure you even remembered what it felt like to wake up rested.

Felicia placed a firm hand on your shoulder. “Min, I mean it. You can’t keep burning yourself out like this. We need you. Zaun needs you. But you’re no use to anyone if you collapse. After Niya…we can’t lose you too.”

“I’m handling it,” you said, the response automatic and hollow.

“Are you?”

You hesitated, your grip tightening slightly on Powder. The toddler hummed, oblivious to the tension, and grabbed at your face with sticky fingers. Her palm landed on your nose, making you sigh and shake your head.

“Trust me, Fel. You’re not going to say anything I haven’t already heard from Benzo, Sevika, Mikael, Babette, or my mother,” you said, flicking the pen from Powder’s grasp and sliding it back into your pocket. “I’m handling it.”

Felicia didn’t look convinced, but she let out a low sigh and dropped her hand from your shoulder. “Just… don’t let it break you, Min,” she said. Her tone softened, but the concern in her eyes remained sharp.

You didn’t respond, instead watching as she turned back to the crates and started issuing instructions again. The room settled into a familiar rhythm: the scrape of crates, the shuffle of boots, and Powder’s soft babbling filling the space. But Felicia’s words lingered, heavy in the air.

When had you last eaten a real meal? Or slept more than a few hours? The question tugged at the edges of your mind, but you pushed it away. There wasn’t time for that. There was never time.

“Come on, Pow-Pow,” you murmured, brushing a hand over the toddler’s braids. She looked up at you with a toothy grin, and for a moment, her laughter broke through the weight pressing on your chest.

The echoes of shuffling crates and the rhythmic commands of Felicia's voice faded as you continued to sway Powder in your arms, the hum of the tunnel now a steady background. For a fleeting moment, everything felt almost... normal. As if this could be a day not haunted by the weight of survival or the ghosts of lost leaders. But the crackling tension in the air wouldn’t let it last long.

You glance over at Felicia, her tired yet determined expression etched into your memory. As she coordinates the laborers, directing them with a precision that only comes from years of doing what’s needed to keep Zaun's pulse alive, you feel a surge of admiration. She was right—we need to do this, but at what cost?

Suddenly, the muffled clatter of boots approaching breaks the fragile silence. A figure steps into the tunnel’s dim light, the shadows catching on his messenger uniform–like the one Silco used to wear. You recognize him as a regular, one good at his job. His presence shatters the illusion of calm.

“Min,” his eyes lock onto yours and immediately, you set Powder down, although she stays latched onto your leg. “Been trying to track you down for ages.”

You cross your arms, straightening your shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

“New notice from Topside, get a load of this.” He reached into his vest, pulling out a crumpled piece of parchment that he thrust toward you without hesitation.

You took the note, unfolding it with a quick snap of your fingers. The seal was unmistakable—Piltover. Your stomach churned as you scanned the words.

“In light of the escalating unrest within the Undercity, Piltover’s High Council has decided to implement a tax on all businesses operating in the lower sectors of Zaun. The tax will be enforced immediately. Failure to comply will result in fines, asset seizures, and the possibility of further punitive actions. Tax rates will be determined based on business size and output. Enforcers will begin inspections at once.”

“For fuck’s sake!” The words tore out of you, raw and jagged. You hadn’t meant for the rage to bubble over so violently, but once it started, there was no stopping it. The crumpled parchment landed on the ground with a dull thud as you hurled it, your chest heaving.

Your hands shot up, threading through your short-cropped hair, pulling lightly at the strands as if the pain might somehow ground you. You clenched your jaw, trying desperately to keep the flood of frustration from overwhelming you completely. But it wasn’t working. Every breath felt sharp, shallow, like it wasn’t enough to fill your lungs. The metallic hum of the tunnel around you—normally a distant comfort—felt suffocating, oppressive, as if the walls themselves were closing in.

Why does it feel like everything is falling apart?

Your thoughts spiraled, one after another, crashing like waves in a storm. The tax, the factory work, the constant surveillance, the dwindling resources—it was relentless. No matter how hard you worked, no matter how much you sacrificed, it was never enough. Zaun was slipping through your fingers, piece by piece.

Then you felt it—a tiny hand resting gently on your thigh. It was a touch so light, so soft, that it pulled you out of your storm like a lifeline.

You looked down to find Powder gazing up at you, her big, round eyes shimmering with concern. Her expression was earnest, her little brows slightly furrowed as if she could feel the weight pressing on you, even if she didn’t fully understand it.

“Min-Min,” she cooed, her voice soft, almost like a dove’s call. She stretched her arms up toward you, her small fingers opening and closing in that familiar ��grabby hands” motion. It was a plea for comfort, but it felt more like she was offering it.

Your heart cracked at the sight. The tightness in your chest, the pounding in your head—all of it eased, just a little, under her gaze. Powder had always had this uncanny ability to cut through the noise, to remind you of the parts of the world still worth fighting for. Still worth protecting.

You glanced at Felicia, who was now carefully unfolding the paper you had crumpled and tossed in frustration. She scanned the words, her lips moving slightly as she read them to herself. Her nose wrinkled in disgust as the weight of the decree sank in.

“Can they do this?” she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.

“They’re Pilties,” you spat, the venom in your tone sharp enough to cut. “They think they can do whatever they damn well please.”

Felicia shook her head, slipping the paper into her pocket with a grim expression. “Nobody’s going to be happy about this. The businesses are barely hanging on as it is.”

You turned to the messenger, who shifted nervously under your gaze. “Who knows about this so far?”

The young man shrugged, his wiry frame taut with unease. “Notices are being sent out all over as we speak. Won’t be long before everyone hears.”

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, exhaling sharply. Your hand instinctively found Powder’s head, your fingers ruffling her messy blue-tinted strands. She babbled contentedly, oblivious to the tension simmering around her.

Your eyes stayed on Felicia and the messenger. “Alright. Time to play crowd control. Spread the word that I’ll be on the Promenade if anyone needs to talk. And tell folks that if anyone’s going hungry tonight, I’ll have a soup on by dusk. Empty bellies are welcome.”

You made a move to leave, already thinking ahead, but the messenger stepped forward, his words rushed and urgent. “There’s something else, ma’am.”

You froze, your stomach tightening. “What is it?”

“A barge,” he said quickly. “Big one. Seen docking from Stillwater.”

The mention of the prison made your heart leap into your throat, your mind racing to places you didn’t want it to go.

“Dropping off or receiving?” you asked, your voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through you.

“Not sure,” he admitted, shaking his head. “Didn’t get close enough to see.”

You clenched your jaw, nodding sharply. “One emergency at a time,” you muttered to yourself before addressing him again. “Keep me updated. The moment you hear anything more, you come find me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the messenger said, giving a quick nod.

Without wasting another second, you turned and headed off. There was no time to dwell on the possibilities—not with a city on the verge of uproar and lives that needed saving. Your boots echoed against the damp tunnel floor as you strode forward, determination hardening your expression. Zaun had always been a place of resilience, and no decree from Piltover—or mysterious barge from Stillwater—was going to change that.

***

“I’m not cut out for this, Benz,” you mumbled, sliding down the door until you were sitting on the floor, your head resting against the cool surface.

The weight of the night pressed down on you as you shut the door behind you, the muffled sounds of the city outside faded into the background, leaving only the quiet hum of the apartment. It was almost dawn, and exhaustion clung to you like a second skin. People had filtered in and out all night, seeking reassurance, venting frustrations, or just looking for a hot meal. Now, a kitchen full of dirty soup bowls and spoons awaited you, each one feeling like another hit to your dwindling energy.

Benzo, sprawled out on the worn couch, was mid-way through unbuttoning his shirt. The fabric hung loose around his frame as he glanced at you, his expression heavy with his own exhaustion. “I know, Fishie,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “But what are you going to do?”

You groaned, rubbing your hands over your face. “…Cry?” The word came out half-serious, half-desperate as you stumbled forward, collapsing onto the dusty carpet. The coffee table—your makeshift workshop—rattled slightly, its surface cluttered with dismantled trinkets and half-repaired pistols. You curled up on your side, feeling the sting of your aching muscles as they protested the movement.

Benzo let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he leaned back into the couch. “Nah, not you,” he said, glancing over at you with a faint grin breaking through his exhaustion. “You’re too damn stubborn for that.”

You let out a low groan, flipping over onto your back. The musty ceiling above you stared back, a blank canvas for your frayed thoughts. You didn’t even have the energy for a half-decent clap back. “Says you, asshole,” you muttered, your voice barely more than a grumble.

“Hey.” His tone shifted, drawing your attention. You lifted your head slightly to meet his eyes, finding his expression unexpectedly serious. “You’re doing just fine, Fishie. Honest. We’ve got this. The guys would be proud of you—of us.”

His words hung in the air, filling the silence that followed. You stared at him for a long moment before letting out a loud sigh, letting your head fall back against the floor. The ache in your body felt heavier, but his words planted something small—a flicker of hope you didn’t have the energy to acknowledge just yet.

Instead, you turned your gaze back to the ceiling, letting the stillness settle over you both. You didn’t respond, but Benzo didn’t push. The quiet understanding between you spoke louder than words ever could.

“You ever wonder,” you begin, your voice uncertain, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “What would’ve happened if we hadn’t met that day? Back in the trash pit?”

Benzo pauses, his hand instinctively digging into his pocket for a cigar. “Not really,” he says, voice casual as he fishes it out. “Why do you ask?”

You shrug, drawing your knees to your chest as you sit on the carpet. “I mean…it completely changed my life. I was a nobody, some Bilgewater rat fresh off the boat. And now…”

The soft click of his lighter cuts through the stillness as he lights the cigar, the faint glow flickering in the dim room. He takes a long drag, exhaling a ribbon of smoke that curls lazily into the air. The familiar scent fills the space, oddly comforting.

“You’re on our island of misfit toys. Closest thing our people have to a council.” His voice is steady, almost teasing, but there’s a weight behind it. He hums thoughtfully, the cigar bobbing slightly between his fingers. “You should be proud, Fishie. This revolution wouldn’t be the same without you.”

You frown, resting your chin on your knees. “I don’t know about that,” you murmur.

Benzo’s gaze sharpens as he leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re the smartest out of all of us, Fishie,” he says firmly. “Even with my charm and Silco’s head for strategy. You think any of us have anything close to that engineering brain of yours?”

“I’m good with gears,” you reply, shrugging again. “But…I don’t think I’m supposed to be a leader. All this responsibility? Everyone relying on me, looking to me for answers…I don’t know how Vander and Silco do it. They make it look so…effortless.”

Benzo leans back again, taking another drag from his cigar. He watches the smoke swirl for a long moment, as if searching for the right words. Then, he reaches out, extending the cigar to you.

“Well then,” he hums, a small, reassuring smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I guess it’s a good thing you’ll always have one of us to help you along the way, right? We’re in this together, Min. I can promise you that much.”

You stare at the offered cigar for a moment before taking it, holding it delicately between your fingers. The warmth of the ember radiates against your skin, grounding you. You look at him, his steady presence like a lifeline in the chaos, and for the first time that night, you allow yourself to breathe.

“Thanks, Benz,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, but he nods anyway. It’s a quiet understanding, a bond that doesn’t need words to be felt. In this crumbling world, you weren’t alone. And for now, that was enough.

The apartment was silent, save for the faint crackle of Benzo’s cigar and the occasional groan of the pipes in the walls. The world outside was stirring—Zaun never really slept—but for a moment, here in this little bubble of exhaustion and cigarette smoke, everything felt still.

Benzo stretched out on the couch, head tipped back, his eyes half-closed as he murmured, “You’re gonna burn out that brain of yours, Fishie, if you don’t sleep soon.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” you replied automatically, the corner of your mouth twitching into a faint smirk.

“Don’t tempt fate,” he muttered, a hint of humor slipping into his voice.

Just as the quiet began to settle in again, a sharp knock echoed through the apartment. It wasn’t hesitant or unsure like the knocks you’d been getting all night—it was firm, deliberate, almost impatient.

Benzo glanced toward the door, his brow furrowing. “Someone’s got timing, I’ll give them that.”

You sighed, pushing yourself up from the floor with a groan. “It’s probably someone from the Promenade,” you said, brushing off the dust from your trousers. “Maybe they didn’t get the memo I’m done playing soup kitchen for the night.”

Benzo waved a lazy hand, settling deeper into the couch. “Your circus, your monkeys.”

You rolled your eyes and made your way to the door, rubbing at your tired eyes. “Alright, alright,” you called as you turned the latch. “I’m here, I’m here—”

The door swung open, and your words caught in your throat.

Standing in the doorway were two figures you thought you’d never see again, not outside of Stillwater’s cold, suffocating grip. Vander, towering and solid as ever, his broad shoulders nearly filling the doorframe. And Silco, sharp and composed, his eyes glinting with that calculating gleam you’d never forgotten.

The world seemed to tilt for a moment, your mind struggling to process what you were seeing. They weren’t supposed to be here. They couldn’t be here.

“Minerva,” Silco said smoothly, his voice a razor’s edge of familiarity. His lips curved into a faint, sardonic smile as if he was amused by your stunned silence.

But it was Vander who drew your attention, his warm, familiar presence anchoring you to the moment. He stepped forward, just enough for the dim light of the apartment to catch the edges of his worn face. His gaze softened as it met yours, and he smiled down at you, that same reassuring, unshakable smile you’d longed to see for two years.

“Hello, Minnie,” he said, his voice rumbling low and steady like the earth itself. “Miss me?”

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blueikeproductions · 4 months ago

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The Matrix of Leadership is pry one of the most important aspects of Transformers, that it was pivotal in TFONE…

Buuut as usual these things don’t have a straight path.

The Matrix didn’t appear in the cartoon until the original animated movie, with its purpose largely being to destroy Unicron. Naturally the movie never really explained why we never saw the Matrix before or what it truly is. The succeeding third season would establish it as a very ancient relic with surprisingly mystical qualities that conflicts somewhat with the mechanical characters we follow.

Most of what we know is all past Autobot leaders had carried it up until Rodimus Prime, and that it’s potent enough to kill Unicron. Why it affected Unicron is never explained, but the Primacron episode would show the Matrix escaping the dead body of Primacron’s ape-bot assistant.

Which is confusing as the story suggests this wasn’t supposed to BE the Matrix, but a separate entity that would later summon Grimlock and the other Beast Mode Transformers to fight Unicron’s successor, Tornedron.

The Matrix’s final feat in the original cartoon was to vanquish the Hate Plague as its eons long accumulated wisdom was more than enough to cancel out the rage affecting the galaxy.

The funny thing is the Matrix wasn’t even part of the original scripts for the 80’s movie, which instead had Optimus’ “Life Spark” be the object passed down, upgrading Magnus to Ultra Magnus and ultimately be unleashed inside Unicron to kill him.

Megatron’s Life Spark was also a plot point originally, in that it was supposed to be entombed in the Decepticon crypt on Cybertron, but Megatron’s Spark and the Sparks of other dead Decepticons would be released accidentally, where these ethereal beings would come across Unicron who would instead encase them in new bodies as Galvatron and company.

The Matrix originally was featured in Marvel G1, a “Primal Program” housed in the current leader of the Autobots that allows them to bestow life on new Transformers. This was to explain how the Transformers reproduce in the absence of doing it the human way as the race (originally) wasn’t intended to have female characters.

Eventually the comics would retcon it that the Creation Matrix had a physical form similar to the cartoon, with the Matrix described as being the life force of Primus itself passed down to his creations.

This version of the Matrix would be transferred into Buster Witwicky’s brain by Optimus in an attempt to keep it away from Shockwave, which would temporarily give Buster Lawnmower Man like mastery over other machines, to the point he was able to disassemble (a non living) Decepticon Jetfire with his mind.

Buster, after Shockwave was defeated, was able to return the Matrix back to Optimus, with this concept loosely adapted in RotF years later when Sam Witwicky would be given the power of the Allspark in his brain by accident. Later the Matrix would need to be found once more, as the Autobots sent Optimus’ dead body to space, not realizing the Matrix still physically existed in him evidently, kick starting the Matrix Quest. The Matrix would be tainted by Thunderwing, creating the Dark Matrix Creature that served as the final antagonist of Re: Generation One, but the Matrix otherwise would be purified by Optimus and used to destroy Unicron.

G2 would see the Matrix restored, and later abused by Starscream briefly, while ReGen One would ignore this, instead having the Matrix completely gone…. Until Hot Rod was able to get an intact copy from another universe and evolve to Rodimus Prime. Yea it’s convoluted but this is Transformers, it’s always kinda convoluted.

After this the Matrix stopped having a major influenced for awhile, though the Japanese Beast Wars era would introduce the Energon Matrix, a personalized Matrix unique to different Maximal leaders from Optimus Primal, Lio Convoy, Big Convoy and Fire Convoy.

Other series like the Unicron Trilogy would include the Matrix, but it was just kind of there, mostly included just because G1 included it. The Matrix would instead become more of a religious concept during Beast Wars, and later become Transformers heaven in Beast Machines, and while it didn’t exist in Animated, the Allspark would later be contained in a container resembling the G1 Matrix.

Because of the life giving Allspark introduced in the Bay films, the Matrix, along with Vector Sigma, became somewhat redundant, with this being a problem Hasbro and other creatives haven’t been able to properly adapt. The Allspark became a sort of catch all for wisdom and life baring abilities the other two relics were known for, though modern media, albeit not successfully, has tried to make each relic distinct. Vector Sigma in Prime would be a repository of wisdom, while the Matrix was merely the symbol of leadership passed down by Primus to various leaders. Confusingly the Matrix would still display some holy power filled with wisdom, as using it shut down Unicron, but reset Optimus back to Orion. Vector Sigma’s back up data was necessary to reboot Orion into Optimus again… Cyberverse would see Vector Sigma and the Allspark used in conjunction in creating life, while the Matrix was a repository of wisdom from the past Primes as before, but its power could also be used by Megatron and Megatron X, showing the writers’ favoritism towards the Decepticons when they shouldn’t be able to be use it otherwise.

IDW would bring back the Matrix more prominently, but rapidly downplay its mystical nature to the point it was practically described as an advanced light up toy, and could easily be replaced with a fake or have multiple versions be created by Rung’s gizmo mode.

It still held religious significance and was thought to be part of Solomus, the god of Wisdom.

Tyrest would be revealed to be Solomus, so uh… take that as you will.

It’s not clear if Tyrest ever held the Matrix, but in his civilian life, he did work with it, being tasked with extracting life energy from it to make new Sparks after the life giving Hot Spots on Cybertron began to fade. This started the Constructed Cold Transformers, robots whose Sparks were housed in pre-built bodies rather than emerging from the metal of Cybertron naturally. Tyrest would later come to believe the Cold born Transformers were evil and try to kill them all, yeah wisdom my actuator.

After various trials and tribulations, the original IDW Matrix would be split in half, one half claimed by Rodimus the other Optimus, with each one being destroyed in order to fix a problem of the hour. Optimus’ half survived longer, being used as a means to sway the religious colony worlds into Optimus’ goals to have a Council of Worlds, Earth among them.

Despite downplaying the mystical nature, sometimes it would crop up to somewhat demean Optimus, implying he wasn’t worthy of it. Optimus would complain having the Matrix hurt him, while Rodimus instead felt like he just harmed the power of the Chaos Emeralds. The Matrix also temporarily was held by Thunderclash, and had to be surgically removed from his chest because apparently the Matrix didn’t want to leave Thunderclash.

SkyBound seems to meet in the middle, having some general rules with its Matrix, but not being embarrassed by its mystical nature like IDW was.

This Matrix seems to be more of an advanced machinery that has a finite power source, and while it can heal, it can’t reactivate the dead. It is tied to the barer’s life force, and exerting too much energy can kill the barer. Optimus’ selflessness saw him wanting to use what power was left to revive all the Autobots, but when talked out of it, he instead used the power to reactivate the Decepticon damaged hospital Spike was recovering in. Later when Sparkplug merged with the Matrix by unexplained means, the Matrix was re-energized, but also caused Optimus to be given flashes of Sparkplug’s memories and trauma, often seeing a memory of Spike as a baby, one that became increasingly distorted (a fan theory as of typing connected it as a side effect of wearing Megatron’s arm) when Optimus was pushed to his limit and killed Shockwave, and later, possibly due to Sparkplug’s PTSD from his own war, accidentally blew up a tank when the Autobots tried to respond to a Decepticon attack on another city.

Who originally bore the Matrix differs from series to series… Japanese media would try to expand on it in modern manga borrowing ideas from the 80’s cartoon and Beast Wars where appropriate.

The Matrix was originally owned by a survivor of the Big Bang, Primacron, who sealed his master Primus within to use his godly power to bestow life to his robots, eventually creating Unicron. The Matrix would escape and later bestow organic life to a barren planet, but early Quintessons would discover this planet and reformat it into Cybertron. The Quintesson leader of the era was the first leader to bare the Matrix, the being the 80’s cartoon would only describe as “It”.

Netflix War of Cybertron would state Alpha Trion was the first recorded barer of the Matrix, contradicting modern lore which states Prima, who originated from Marvel G1, was the first inheritor of the Matrix.

The modern lore with Prima was contradicted again in One, where Zeta Prime originally held the Matrix.

Who holds the Matrix before Optimus isn’t really nailed down as much as Hasbro wants it to be, as their intended idea is that the Matrix was originally part of the Star Saber, adorning its hilt, but the cartoons and comics tend to be a bit more resistant to this, preferring to to their own direction. Other leaders post Rodimus tend to not have the Matrix either, with Star Saber, Fortress Maximus, Ginrai, Dai Atlas, and RiD15 Bumblebee not using it.

Other Matrix variants are shown to exist here and there, most unusual is a Sharkticon Matrix briefly held by Megatron in Aligned media, and a Mini-Con Matrix held by Over-Run in the Dreamwave Armada comics. A Decepticon Matrix was said to exist in the G1 cartoon, but while it was a fib by the Quintessons to trick Galvatron into their servitude, an actual Decepticon Matrix probably DOES exist somewhere given all the variants I haven’t mentioned for simplicity.

Who can wield the Matrix varies, but for the most part it’s a heroic paragon of justice, hope, and goodness like Optimus who is considered worthy to use it. Hot Rod would also be shown to possess these qualities as would Optimus Primal, all being able to open up and use the Matrix. Ultra Magnus was unable to open it, with him even having to adjust the relic to better fit into his chest. Decepticons, according to the old cartoon, can’t use it. Galvatron tried to both open it and install it as a power source for his cannon and was unable to do so. Scourge and Starscream experienced mutations that did make them powerful when they installed the relic… but had side effects. Scourge was in inconstant pain (possibly, but never confirmed, to be the ancient Autobots retaliating when the Matrix wasn’t returned to Rodimus), while Starscream was instead slowly turning good by the Matrix’s divine power, something the jet was repulsed enough by to surrender the relic, as he loved being a dick.

The Cyberverse Matrix seemed more open minded to Megatron and Megatron X for some reason, despite their own atrocities, with the show implying Optimus wasn’t worthy. Remember kids, villain worship to this extent is unhealthy. Megatron being able to use the Matrix misses the point, something TFONE fixes. When the greedy Sentinel made a grab for the Matrix, it evaporated in front of him, only later reforming when Orion proved worthy of it. This version also attempts to be both a symbol of leadership and a life giving relic, as it controls the flow of Energon on Cybertron. What this means when Optimus goes to Earth has yet, if ever, to be explored…

The long and short of it is the Matrix typically is just an ancient ball that’s a symbol of leadership that occasionally can grant life depending on the demands of a particular story. The only object that’s similar in reverence is the Animated exclusive Magnus Hammer, with it able to generate intense storms and tremors by its user, but is carried around like Thor’s Hammer (never been shown if they need to swing throw it to fly with it tho’).

#transformers #blueike #blueike productions #maccadam #transformers one #the thirteen primes #the matrix of leadership

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penvisions · 4 months ago

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return the favor {chapter 25}

Pairing: Post-Outbreak! Joel Miller X Smuggler! Reader

Summary: Your intentions are to spin a web of lies to protect Ellie, but Marlene doesn't seem to mind and is willing to trade one body for another. Her righteousness knows no bounds and you realize she's set her sights on you.

Word Count: 5k

Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical language, cursing, insults, blood, minor injuries, fighting, physical fighting, guns, use of guns, minor character death, end of the world politics, end of the world rhetoric, misplaced heroism and hope, degrading language, marlene needs her own warning, talk of infection, talk of infected people, cordyceps is scary, reader is described as having red hair, reader has a nickname, please let me know if i missed any!

A/N: this was so fun to write, i hope y'all are ready for the last stretch. these two mean so so so incredibly much to me, which i will gush about in each chapter and the epilogue notations from here until the end. this is where the fic gets away from canon a lil bit but it's all for the best, please believe! love y'all

ao3 link || series masterlist || main masterlist || ko-fi

“I can’t believe you made it all this way alone.” She’s stepping close, almost as if she wants to inspect you from head to toe. But you both know there are no teeth marks or infection to be found. Her men would’ve already had you in cuffs and retrained. Condemned to a room with no sunlight until they were ready to deal with you, the Infected something Marlene was rightfully afraid of. But not so much so that she wasn’t cautious to the extreme, to the cunningly meticulous. “Thought you were lost in the aftermath of the convoy we lost outside the QZ.”

“I was scavenging nearby when that explosion went off, FEDRA was all over it within an hour.” You can feel the way her eyes rove over your body, from the simple, dirty clothing you donned to the pack that had seen better days and better loads. It was pretty sparse, you and Joel back to milling through every house or building for the chance at a next meal for Ellie. You two had taken to hunting again, on the way up here, the season warming up and spring allowing for some game to be caught. But you were all tired, this entire journey felt like it was coming to an end.

The energy of your trio something palpable, tense currents underlying every move and every day. The anxiety of Joel leaving you behind to go your own way underlying each conversation. Each interaction when the two of you were alone or Ellie was sleeping. He was trying, so goddamn hard, to make her feel okay. To bring out her manic giggling, her snorting laughter, a wide and gummy smile to her face. But none of it reached her eyes quite the way that it had before.

Marlene must mistake your silence for submission, because she heaves a great sigh and shakes her head.

“I sent Joel this way months ago with a girl in his charge. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of them as of yet. They were supposed to meet up with the convoy, the best protection we could offer for the journey.”

“I ran into them just outside the QZ, there had been an explosion. Too much noise, too much ruckus, it attracted a lot of Infected before FEDRA got their asses out of their heads.” You reach into a pocket, retrieving the map you had torn from the campus grounds so far away now. Well, that Joel had torn from the remnants of their lab. He had told you that nearly everything had been destroyed, no telling how long since they had packed up and moved on. But he had found a scrunched up map, a trail outlined to here.

Her mouth is a thin line as she regards you, her plush lips taut as she mulls over the recollection and sees evidence that her people weren’t as thorough as she had intended for them to be. Her eyes cut up at you, meeting your own and her next words are a statement, not a question. “You’ve been travelling with him.”

“For a little while, we parted ways in Kansas City. The city was in the middle of an insane civil war once FEDRA was taken out. A hoard took over, from the underground tunnels when someone made the stupid decision to open fire on a crashed vehicle. We got separated.”

“And the girl?”

“Regular infection. From the chaos of getting away from the hoard.” You nodded your affirmation, you recalled the panic in her eyes. The weight of her as you tried to carry her out of that insanity, the pain of your broken arm. The desperation and heartbreak that turning off of the blocked freeway instead of backtracking had ended in. It could’ve been worse, it could’ve ended up the way you’re spinning the facts, an exaggeration of what actually happened.

But there was truth to your words. Ellie had indeed lost something that night, it just hadn’t been her life. It had been her hope in finding a cure, when her blood hadn’t worked on Sam. It was the beginning of her realizing the pedestal Marlene had placed her on with ill intentions.

“She’s dead.” It wasn’t a question. Just like you weren’t asking for her forgiveness for the loss of the young girl and acceptance for your sudden appearance. Your working relationship had always been just that, business. Straight to the point and no nonsense.

“Didn’t survive the infection she got. From trying to save a kid younger than her. Got bit, got clawed. Didn’t turn, but it took her down all the same.”

Marlene sees the challenge in your eyes, the truth of what you know she had been hiding from everyone involved in the convoy. The very reason Ellie had grappled with the meaning of her life for the past six months. The reason she had been so conflicted over whether or not to meet up with the woman before you as you finally caught wind of her whereabouts.

“I see.” Hands that are clasped in front of her go to her hips, a stance you know conveys the way her mind is working to process the false information you’ve brought her. “Well, come on. Let’s get you looked at a little closer. I see that nasty scar on your arm, bone broke through I’m assuming?”

“Yeah, happened in Kansas City. Did what I could for it too, hurt like a bitch when it was healing, it nearly took me out too.”

“Must’ve been rough, dealing with it all alone.”

“Hunkered down for the winter, found a cabin in a state park somewhere in between here and there.”

It’s nerve wracking, not being able to turn your head and see the form of Joel. Hovering on the outside of your eyesight, his presence something you were so used to even in the time you had spent apart. A time you hadn’t wanted to repeat in such extreme parameters. But the situation was dire, Ellie’s well-being at stake. The threat of someone looking for her, tearing apart earth and ash for her blood if they even suspected she was alive. If Joel so much was glimpsed himself, Marlene would make you both recount your stories over and over again, to find the flaws, to find the lies she would suspect were there.

The “doctor” that looked you over was nice enough. But he lacked cognitive skills, the ability to read someone the second he came in contact with them.

Jerry Anderson.

His only credentials happened to be a bachelor’s degree in science, yet he called himself a trained surgeon. Which makes sense to an extent, he worked alongside Marlene and the Fireflies. Tended to them, took care of them medically, he had on the job training. But to say that he was their best, that he was the one leading the research team trying to concoct a cure?

That was absolutely absurd.

You knew more than him, something he was quick to gauge. Asking after your own schooling, stating you were too young to have a degree, too young to have the knowledge he had.

“Doesn’t matter if you think I’m as skilled as you. I’ve got my EMT and Paramedic certifications while in high school, used them to get the upper hand at my own university, and managed to get an associates in two years. Medical anthropology. Granted its not science proper, but it’s still in the medical field.” You crossed your arms, not willing to be talked down to by the man currently looking over the chart he had filled out during your physical, it was paired with the diagram of injuries Marlene’s soldiers had asked of you when confronted outside the building before being let inside.

“I just don’t understand why Marlene thinks I need your assistance, you said it yourself that you didn’t want to stay too long.” The man is stocky, even as he stands at his full height and leans against a small desk he’s got set up in what had once been an administration office. The medical bay is just beyond the door, the rooms shoddy but clean enough to treat and house people. They’re using the hospital as their ground zero, their home base.

“I’m helping her to fine tune her set up, that’s all. She knows I worked under FEDRA in the Boston QZ, even if it was all just to stay alive and hide my own smuggling. But they paired me with a trained ER physician, and he taught me everything he knew.”

“Still doesn’t equate to a higher degree.”

“No, but it does give me a better understanding of modern day solutions rather than dated procedures we’re unable to conduct anymore. Sparse or surging power, outages, lack of equipment, lack of relevant medication, different ways of sterilizing tools and bandages. All of that is adaptive, regardless of proper education on the matter.”

“She wants you to go over my notes, the ones I had for the girl.” He levels you with a harsh look, eyes narrowing as he catches your own fiery ones. “But it doesn’t matter if she’s not alive, right?”

“Might not, in terms of immediate experimentation. But perhaps she wants a second opinion on the logistics of what she’s trying to do.”

“Cordyceps infects the brain, takes over. We both know that. That’s why the girl would’ve been on the table as soon as she was delivered. To ensure it could be looked at and studied. The way her brain connected with the infection instead of succumbing to it.”

“Seems like a waste of a human life if you got your way. How would you like it if someone wanted to cut your kid open and take their brain on the off chance it could tell you something more than just testing their blood and live responses? It’d feel pretty shitty, wouldn’t it?”

“How do you know I have a kid?” The man’s eyes narrow at you, color rising from the collar of his shirt to show the affect you were having on him. Calm and collected he was not, but you knew that the second he had refused to shake your hand when first meeting, even with Marlene standing beside him.

“I didn’t, not until you confirmed it. But you don’t act like it. Bringing her into the mess of the Fireflies, of having her housed her in the middle of Infected city, protected and patrolled even as it is.”

“And what do you know about being a good parent? Marlene says you’ve been alone for as long as she’s known you. No family, no friends, just parasocial relationships that depend completely on your skill set and what you smuggled into the zone for trade.”

“Mr. Anderson, there’s no need to insult me. I’m simply having a conversation with you, truly. I’m not the one tearing apart your every word, you’re the own who seems pretty self-righteous. But you have to admit, studying someone who is immune, that would surely give you more data than just immediately cutting out the part of them that houses the cordyceps?” You try to appease him, to appeal to the way he seems to want to be talked up and not talked with, switching from outright denying his plan of action to merely suggesting he could learn more than anyone else knows about the infection instead.

“I suppose it would, but simply running tests and gathering data wouldn’t make the cure. That could only be made from the fluids housed in the brain, the part of the body that is working in tandem with the infection.” He heaves a deep sigh, rubbing at his eyes as he thinks over your words. “Marlene wants a cure, the sooner the better. And then some semblance of normalcy can begin to be restored.”

“Do you really think Marlene has the resources and authority to distribute a cure on a scale large enough to make a difference? That she’s not going to use it as leverage in her challenge to whatever is left of FEDRA and their governing forces?”

“Are you questioning her intentions?” He freezes, eyes jumping to the window pane in the cracked open door. That alone tells you he’s thought the same before, but perhaps not dared to voice it lest it get to the wrong person. That he doesn’t want to be associated with the thought.

“I’m questioning the effectiveness of a farfetched cure for something that left humanity to its own devices for far too long. Do you realize that it won’t be able to undo the sheer lawlessness nature that’s taken over the world? Not to mention the adaptability and incredible evolutionary advantage the mycelium has over us? It’s older than most life itself and you think we have the ability to combat it on such a large scale so long after it’s ruined everything we’ve created as a society?”

The man is quiet, taking your words and mulling them over. You can see the shift in his shoulders, tension easing and then building taut again. He gestures to the notebooks and textbooks scattered over the surface of his desk, and you see a small photo peeking out from beneath a chart.

“I have to try, for my daughter. She deserves a better world than this.”

“To save your own daughter, you’d willingly kill another’s?”

“It’s a means to an end, one loss for the survival of many.”

“And that’s exactly what I’m talking about- the life of one that needn’t die doesn’t justify the small possibility of creating a cure.” You’re shuffling through the faded and water spotted pages, trying to see the man who in the words transcribed there and compare them to the one standing across from you and preaching his knowledge as something that could change the world. But he was a man of science once upon a time, that shows in his words that you skim over. But when you look back up at him, he’s not the one you see before you.

You see a man willing to do whatever it takes to save his family and while you understand that, have done just so to ensure the safety of your own people- it’s a vastly different scenario that you don’t want any part of.

“I just don’t want you or your daughter to end up dying for a future that’s impossible.” And with that you push away from his desk and walk past him. You can only hope that your words made him see things a little differently. Otherwise, it would be his demise, it would be his daughter’s. Both susceptible to the manipulation of Marlene and the Fireflies, at the whim of those who couldn’t be trusted. “You’re a man of science, see the truth to what can’t be and what is.”

You eat in the cafeteria with everyone else, the twenty or so people that are left of the faction. Military freeze-dried food is all they have left, but it’s crates and crates piled up in the kitchen. The power working off a generator they’ve rigged up. But there’s no tour for you, you don’t pass the security check to warrant one.

You can feel eyes on you as you insist on making your own pack, on boiling your own water and supervising each step of the food you’re about to consume. You aren’t taking any chances with them, not ever again. You had been trusting once, had fallen into the trap of hospitality and false narratives before. But not this time and not ever again. Maria had seen in it you, when you refused to eat the food placed in front of you in the mess hall back in Jackson.

They leave you be, for the most part. Attention half on them surrounding you in their own little pairs and trios, half of Jerry’s notebook open in front of you. The textbook he references multiple times beside it. A low hum of conversation permeates the air, and you know you’re presence is a part of it.

But you focus now, on the words in front of you. The notes a man who has given his life and skills to Marlene deems important enough to write down.

And it’s all utter nonsense.

Regardless, Marlene would never stop looking for Ellie. For her replacement.

You’re unsure exactly how Ellie gained her immunity, but you know it can’t be replicated without grand risks of not only being Infected yourself but your morality.

It’s dark by the time you seek her out, her room one of the many used as personal quarters in an upper floor. Her room is the only one occupied at the end of a hallway. Armed men at the front of it and surely one at the bottom of the stairwell for the floor just beyond the doors that lead to it.

“What questions do you have?”

She knew you were approaching, and her stance tells you as much.

She’s not allowing you into the room, but greeted you at the doorway. Left open just a smidge.

“The immunity. Depending on how it’s gained, would affect the research.” You try not to cross your arms but you regard the notes you’ve taken in your own small, palm sized journal. “If it’s gained as a child, it would explain the symbiosis between the brain and the mycelium. It could be entirely dumb luck, the timing of the bite, the type of blood someone has, their immune system, bloodlines, potential exposure to the mycelium in a different setting and an almost…”

“The girl, she was born with the immunity.” Seeing that you need some sort of answer or confirmation, the reasoning being Ellie’s immunity only one you had theorized about. Staying up many nights when you first met her and you spied the scarring along her forearm. She hadn’t needed to tell you she was immune, you had dealt with enough bites in the QZ infirmary to know. That she was alive, that she was her own person and seemingly healthy- it may not mean a cure is possible but it meant that adaptation was possible. Even on such a small scale as to affect one, very important person.

“There’s no way. If the mother had been bitten, the infection would’ve changed the baby too.”

The thought of being clawed open from the inside out terrifies you, it steals the next question from your mind as you picture a woman who looks faintly like Ellie holding tight to a swollen belly and tending to an angry wound rung in teeth marks.

“Amnio fluid is a miracle worker, but it’s not able to cure something like this.”

“Tell that to my dead friend. To the baby I had to protect.”

“Marlene…”

Suddenly shifting, her arms uncross and land on her hips. If you weren’t on immediate alert for the change in her demeanor, you would laugh at the comparison of Joel doing the same stance so often.

“Had some men come back from a trip to the old sight, they had left weeks ago.” Marlene keeps her voice even, but you already know. The web of lies you concocted; they’ve been spun around the end of a broom. The bristles of it catching your silk and turning it into an ugly failure.

“Seems that a settlement had quite the run in with a man matching Joel’s description and a young girl he was traveling with.” The muscles in her arm give her away and you take a few steps back only to feel a sting in the soft part of your shoulder. Looking down, all you see is the butt end of a dart sticking through your shirt. “They also said there was a woman with red hair. Scared the hell out of them as she tore the place apart.”

The lines of the tile and the marking along the walls drip, whatever was in the dart steals your center of gravity and you’re suddenly landing harshly on your knees. The metallic snap of handcuffs around your wrists has you struggling to hold your head up and meet Marlene’s glare.

“You fucking lied to me.”

“Want to fess up and tell me where they’re hiding? I’ll send every person I have at my disposal, Ellie is key to the cure. You have no fucking idea what you’re messing with.” Marlene is standing in front of you, your body sore and muscles twitching as the contents of the dart wear off. The door slams behind her, lock engaging.

“I took out a fucking bear and you think you’re gonna be the thing that traps me? You have no idea what it’s taken to get this far! You think you had a rough go of it, with your crew protecting you and your fucking vehicles? Your military meals and your steady supply of fresh water? You may have been strong once. Hell, you may have been the one to bring hope to people but right now you’re nothing more than a body in my way.” Struggling to stand, as if you’re a newborn foal, Marlen doesn’t bother to stop you or force you back down. She’s reading the weakness you’re displaying and it’s going to be her downfall.

The cuffs are tight, wrists sore and red even with how you had tried to avoid the irritation. But hours had gone by, it was surely well into the night if not the next day now. You wondered if Joel had grown worried, if he had left the post even with your plea to stay put, the last words you spoke with him.

“You’d rather risk your life out there than lend us a hand here? You’re more delusional than I thought, you have nothing to go back to. The QZ is a fucking mess, even worse than when we left. It’s only a matter of time before it falls like so many others before it. You have nothing, your life will have no meaning if you have to fight to survive everyday in endless travel.” Her anger flares, breaking her cool demeanor and showing you a glimpse of the woman she really is.

“I have my integrity.” You spit at her, crouching down to contort yourself easily. Not at all the shaking mess of limbs you had just been moments ago. Shoulders protesting the movement, you’re able to step over the links of the cuffs. With them now in front, you stalk toward her with intent. “I refuse to be a pawn in your ill-conceived endeavor. I refuse to be a part of your plan to kill innocent people on the off chance that your ignorant doctor can actually make something with deadly fluids and decaying brain matter.”

She doesn’t seem to realize that you aren’t going to hurt her, that your intention isn’t to get your hands on her. You want to rattle her, to scare her. To make her see that the way she’s going about keeping you here, forcing you to work with her, for her is never going to work. Her arms come up, one to ward you off from coming any closer while the other goes to the handle of her gun.

But you don’t want the gun and you don’t want her. You shove at her with your shoulder, feet quick after those first few slow steps across the room. The keys skid across the floor when she lands, the clasp keeping them secured to her beltloop breaking from the force. Swiping the belt of grenades you had found in the room earlier, you scoop them up and are out the door just as two shots break the glass panel. Cursing, you pull the door open and slam it shut behind you, the lock automatically engaging.

You wave at her through the crackled glass before running off down the hall before her men can close in.

She needed you, your knowledge, your skill set, your determination. She needed you to find Ellie, the girl she claims to have raised in honor of her friend, only to turn back on that promise and take her life. But you had other people who wanted you. And after being alone for so long, that’s all that mattered. They are the only ones that mattered and you’d be damned if someone tried to keep you from returning to them. You would do anything to protect them, even take out an entire faction of self-righteous mercenaries.

Joel and Ellie both jump when the explosion echoes out, the plume of smoke that billows up into the morning sky as the smell of ash permeates the air. Even as far away as they are, deep suburbs of that surround the city, almost on the cusp of total wilderness they’re witness to it all. One of the tall buildings crashes loudly, the bottom floors caving in and it collapses in on itself. They can only assume it was the hospital that was marked on the map Joel had found but given over to you for your solo excursion into the depts of the city.

Brow furrowing, Joel watched as a wave of birds take to the air and flee, his attention focused on the erratic way they scatter in an attempt to escape the dark smoke pluming up endlessly. Movement out of the corner of his eye has him aiming the shotgun in his arms towards the source, but it’s too late. There’s a man and a young girl facing him, a gun aimed at him as Ellie scrambles to hide behind his frame.

They’re a mirror image of each other. A man shielding a young girl behind them with a gun cocked and ready to fire. But Joel can see the panic and hesitation in the man’s eyes, in his stance. He knows with just a glance that the man has been protected, has had people doing the shooting for him, keeping him safe, keeping him alive.

Ellie’s hand reached for the back of his jacket, gripping tight but he doesn’t dare take his eyes off the pair in front of him. But the man does, his glance behind him, landing on Ellie before he lowers his gun.

The girl behind him clings to him much the same way as Ellie does to Joel, even as the man holds his arms up gun above his head. It’s quiet in the street as he begins to slowly step back, making space between them. He sees Joel tense, the metal of the gun creaking in his grip as he keeps it aimed at the moving man.

They don’t exchange any words as they pivot, always facing each other even as the distance grows longer. Once they’re at the opposite end of the street, the man turns around an overgrown hedge that’s swallowed a picket fence lining the corner house and then they’re gone.

Neither of them knows what to say, the explosion and the pair of them too unique a set of events in your absence. Joel feels his stomach lurch at the thought of you being either trapped by Marlene or being in the vicinity of the explosion. His mind plays memories of each of your injuries:

The fall that you had taken in your haste to get them to safety after the explosion that started this whole journey, the way your head had bounced on the broken asphalt in a way that throbbed atop his head now. Forehead lighting up where his own injury scars the skin.

The way your voice echoed as a guttural, animalistic scream tore through your chest. Up in that house and too far away to do anything to help, the sight of you holding your arm tight to your chest, white bone peeking out from the fabric of your shirt and the bloody mess of your exposed skin.

The roars of an angry bear as it barrels towards him, Ellie tripping and you shoving her into his arms. The sight of you standing up to the great creature despite fighting off an infection.

The crack of ice that plunged you deep into freezing water, a man tangled with you as he tried to end your life. Joel frantically fighting off the last of their group and jumping in after you. The way it took forever to get you to wake up, your lips ice cold and your body shivering fiercely.

The way your voice was hoarse as you shouted out threats an swinging your machete at anything that came within five feet of you. Blood and spittle flying off of you with every move to stain the snow around you. The crazed and unhinged look in your eye when you finally honed in on him, his own state not the best.

No.

He dares to clench his eyes shut for a second and takes a deep breath, centering himself and forcing the thoughts back.

And then his memory plays each time your eyes found his after everything calmed down, how you would reach for him with such small, strong, capable hands. Time and time again, even after he failed time and time again to keep you safe.

That explosion was because of you, not something you would fall victim to. He believed that with everything in his soul.

He was still watching the far end of the street when the distant sound of tires squealing as they pivot meets his ears. The sound so rare now paired with the rev of an engine. And then he sees it, turning toward the other end of the street. A dark SUV, headlights off and windows down, with you in the driver’s seat.

The vehicle stops a few feet away, closer to the other curb lining the street. Despite the blood that stains your exposed arms and the dirt marring your face, your smile makes his heart skip a beat. You look beautiful and his chest swells with warmth where it had just been anxiety, your presence melting it away.

“Need a ride?”

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mistyresolve · 1 year ago

Text

| His Foresight - Simon “Ghost” Riley X Medic!Reader (Part 6)

Word Count - 3k

Summary - TF 141 has regrouped at their safe house, and in the past two weeks they have been of trying to figure out their next move. Doc and Ghost finally have a little talk about their night together.

Tags/Warnings - Blood and Injury, Depictions of war and violence, Explicit Language, Character Death, Slow Burn

A/N - hi

Part 1 ❤︎ Part 2 ❤︎ Part 3 ❤︎ Part 3.5 ❤︎ Part 4 ❤︎ Part 5 ❤︎ Part 7

Masterlist

The two of you were back in the garage the next morning. Ghost getting up significantly earlier than you did; leaving you to wake up alone and slightly chilled from the morning air.

There was also a delicious ache between your legs that wasn’t normally there.

Ghost was servicing one of the armoured vehicles to make sure it was ready to go when the squad needed to move. It’s matte tan painting normally nothing significant but you couldn’t help but feel some sort of familiarity with the vehicle. While taking stock of your medical supplies you stared at the lettering on the side of the vehicle trying to pinpoint where you had seen it before.

“Riley,” you called out, eyes still locked on the bolded lettering on the side of the hood. He paused what he was doing to look up at you. With narrowed eyes, you said, “Why do I feel like I’ve read about this ATV before?” You recalled reading about a vehicle being swiped from a convoy a few months ago in one of the weekly newsletters the military put out.

“Uhh,” you could’ve sworn there was a slight blush underneath that mask, “Yeah, we stole it. Wasn’t our intent at first, but figured it would be a waste of an opportunity if we returned it.”

You made your way to the stool beside him, “‘We’ as in?”

“Soap and I…” he thought for a second, searching for the right word, “commandeered it on our way into an active combat zone. In the report, we said it was a hostile.” he shrugged. Everything here was stolen, sure, but it was mostly little things like rations and ammo; which he had mentioned took forever to compile. The other vehicle was just a modified truck. This was an Oshkosh MPAP; equipped with a turret, and bulletproof windows, and was worth a million dollars.

And these goons just took it.

Despite his seemingly nonchalance demeanour, there was clear pride in the set of his shoulders. You also knew he and Soap chuckled about it on their way here to stash it.

“What did Price have to say about it?” you inspected the manual for the ATV to see all it came with. There was a hesitance from him and you lifted a brow at him, “What will Price have to say about it?” you reworded the question, getting the sense that Price doesn’t know.

“I doubt he’ll even notice,” Simon set back to work, reaching for something and tightening it with a wrench.

The rest of the squad arrived later in the morning and Price undoubtedly noticed. In fact, he pointed right at it, eyebrows raised but didn’t say a word.

Soap pretended to be just as shocked, “How did this get in here?”

Ghost did a good job of redirecting everyone’s attention, “We’ve got almost a week's worth of food reserves.”

Gaz swung his gear over his shoulder heading towards the makeshift barracks, “You leave any hot water for us?” he asked Ghost.

“Nope,” he shot back dryly, failing to mention there was never any hot water to begin with. He shoved a finger in Soap’s direction, “You better get in there next. I can smell you.”

“It’s a musk,” Soap retorted, feigning offence.

“Go stand downwind of me,” Ghost strained as he looked an ammo crate into one of the trucks.

You couldn’t smell Soap from where you sat but you were sure every one of them smelt like a little ripe from all the traveling. They looked weary from it.

A strange feeling of unspoken uneasiness hung overhead all of you. Everyone was purposefully avoiding the obvious fact that we didn’t have a solid plan.

When Gaz returned from his shower, he had a strange look on his face. A mix of annoyance and embarrassment. He had pulled a a pack of cigarettes from his pocket throwing them to Soap, “You win,” he said bitterly.

“Really?” Soap caught the pack, immediately putting one in his mouth. He turned to Ghost, “You’ve just made me a very happy man.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Ghost looked genuinely confused. He glanced at you with questioning eyes, wondering if you had any insight into their exchange.

You offered him a subtle shrug.

Price was talking quietly with Laswell outside the garage. With dark bags weighing down his eyes, accompanied by a frown, Price looked uncharacteristically tired. Knowing him, he probably didn’t get the best sleep last night. It was us against the world right now, and since he was our captain every single one of us was looking to him for direction. It was a lot of pressure for one man. But there was a good reason he was Captain. He was level-headed and experienced. This probably wasn’t the first time he found himself in this situation either. This was just another Wednesday for him. For all of them.

Except you.

You don’t belong on a task force like this. You weren’t even sure you were meant for the medic life anymore. Lord knew you couldn’t save anyone when it mattered.

Your teeth sank into your lip as you pondered your life choices so far. The hair on the back of your neck began to tingle and when you looked up to see Ghost watching you from across the room. His eyes revealed nothing before he dragged his attention back to Soap.

Price called for a meeting after everyone was a little more settled in, “We’ll need to lie low for the next few weeks. Keep our footprint to a minimum,” Price took a seat on the bench next to you, swiping a hand down his face, “Laswell said that the brasses have been keeping it tight-lipped about our situation. So either they don’t know and someone is working on this alone or they do know and don’t want it getting out,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Which one is worse? I don’t know.”

If they do know we risk giving ourselves away by trying to make contact. This was going to be a waiting game.

We were in this alone and the thought of the world being completely oblivious to our disappearance was frightening. The idea of your family never knowing what happened to you left just as fast as it came.

“Until we come up with a plan?” Gaz sneered, his eyes hardening making it evident it was hardly a question.

“How long will that take?” You asked, your knee bouncing in a clear show of anxiety.

Laswell cleared her throat, eyes peeking over the laptop she was sitting in front of, “I’ve got a few contacts on US soil who are doing some internal investigations. I won’t be able to exchange information with them as often as I’d like but they’re good at what they do,” She assured, this usually perfect braid falling loose down her shoulder. “I trust that they’ll be able to find some leads.”

“How long with that take?” Ghost repeated your question.

Laswell huffed, “I have no idea.”

“Let’s aim for a few weeks at the very least,” Price said, lifting a fresh unlit cigar to his mouth.

“We’ve only got a week’s worth of food,” you exchanged a look with Ghost, who was already looking at you, his dark eyes unreadable. Before the rest of the team got here he had donned his mask, making it all the harder to gauge what exactly he was thinking.

“Ahh,” Laswell flipped her laptop to face the rest of us. You leaned forward and squinted at the bright screen with multiple windows pulled up, “There’s a little townlet three hours from here with no military presence. We can go into town to stock up when the time arrives.”

Two weeks. Two whole weeks passed and Laswells weren’t any closer to finding out who Specter was, and everyone was getting antsy. She did, however, discover that we have all been flagged as deserters.

Price and Gaz were out doing recon every morning, and every time they came back with the same news. Which was no news.

You and Ghost had gone into the little town Laswell aforementioned nearly every day since that first week. You spent most of your time at one of the schools there. It was a symbiotic relationship where you were providing medical services wherever you were needed in exchange for more medical supplies. All the while Ghost went off on his own sometimes coming back with food other times with information on the movements of the military. “For your safety” he wasn’t able to tell you who exactly he was meeting with for this information.

You were cleaning the wound of a smaller child, her dark hair and wide glassy eyes flitting to everything that moved. Considering how her wound looked a week ago she was healing well. In a few more days there will be nothing left but a pink scar. You couldn’t understand each other because of a language barrier but there was mutual respect between you two. She couldn’t have been older than 10 but her eyes showed she had seen more than her years. Her eyes would sometimes glaze over and would stare far beyond what you could see. Her mouth would loosen and she would murmur to herself. A prayer, you were later told by a woman who spoke English. It was unsettling to see someone so young so grown.

That’s what growing up in a warzone will do to you. You chastised yourself, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip.

“Here,” you secured her bandage showing off your work to her. Her delicate hand grazed it, her face void of emotion. With a slight bow of her head, she left. You watched as she disappeared back out the school door.

You felt someone take a seat beside you, her identity easily discerned by her scent of pepper and rosemary. “Her mother would have been so devastated to see her like this,” she spoke softly, her accent almost undetectable. She was one of the teachers at the school, and also the one who let you use her classroom as a makeshift station when she didn’t have any classes.

She seemed like a great teacher, artwork and previous school projects lined her classroom walls.

It didn’t go unnoticed that she was using the past tense. Your mouth opened and closed as you fought to find the right words, “She’s too young,” too young for this kind of life. Too young to be seeing death. Too young to be this broken.

“Is anyone ever old enough?” She began helping you pack your supplies, offering you a new medical kit for today’s services, “We are having trouble getting shipments in so this is going to be the last time we’ll be able to pay you back.”

You tilted your head at her, “What do you mean by troubles?”

She smoothed out the wrinkles from her shirt, “They’ve put up checkpoints at every roading leading in and out of eastern borders. It is almost impossible to get transport trucks through,” Her blue eyes had grown tired in the last few days.

You placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, “Thank you. For everything you’ve done for me. If there is anything I can do to repay you, anything at all, let me know.”

She smiled and shook her head, “You’ve done more than enough,” she leaves you to turn her attention to a group of students coming in for her next class.

Ghost returned to the school a few hours earlier than he usually did, his pace hurried, “Grab your stuff. We’re getting out of here,” he panted like he’d run the entire way back to the school but he was already moving to pack your supplies back into your pack.

You looked up at him, eyebrows knitting together, “What’s wrong?”

“A convoy was sighted three hundred kilometres to the east,” he didn’t wait for your reply before he slung ur pack over his shoulder and strode for the door, “And they aren’t insurgents.”

Which means they’re American. And they couldn’t know we were here. They would take us all back in, and the last thing we wanted was to be getting into gunfights with our own.

Ghost opened your door for you, “Get in.”

You gave him a side glance before stepping up into the truck and letting him slam it shut behind you. Apart from the sound of the rocky road underneath the wheels and the whir of the engine the ride back was silent. You watched out your window, turning thoughts over in your head, debating whether the conversation you’ve been wanting to have with him but never the time, was worth it.

Since that first night, nothing more has happened between you too. There hasn’t been the time for a conversation about it. Let alone actual sex. Still, a conversation needed to be had at some point. You wanted to know what he was thinking. He was always difficult to read and never shared his thoughts and feelings with anyone.

“What’s on your mind?” Ghost spoke first, sensing your hesitation, his eyes flickering between you and the road.

“A lot,” you tried laughing but it came out more like a sigh, then shrugged, “I guess mostly…about that night,” you started off.

His eyes widened before he quickly turned to face the road again, “Go on.”

“We haven’t discussed it, or… haven’t really had the time to explore what it means. If it does mean anything. Don’t get me wrong,” you caught yourself, “There really isn’t a worse time for something like this,” it wasn’t like things had grown awkward between the two of you in the last few weeks, but you weren’t sure how you were supposed to be feeling. Or how he was feeling. Doubt had crept into the corners of your mind in the last few weeks.

Maybe it was just a distraction for him.

Your breakfast soured in your stomach at the idea.

The clouds overhead began to turn a sombre grey, bringing with it the threats of a storm.

Beside you, he’d grown impossibly still. His shoulders were taut with discomfort, “If you’re going to say it was a mistake just do us both a favour and say it.”

Your heart dropped into the pit of your stomach, “Was it–” you swallowed, “Was it a mistake for you?”

“No,” he spoke with conviction, “No, it wasn’t.”

Just as fast as the air left your lungs, they were filled, “Ohh,” you released a sigh, your head falling back onto the seat.

“Once we get ourselves out of this we can talk about it all you want, but–”

“But, now isn’t a good time,” you finished for him, agreeing with the statement.

“I don’t want you to think I used you like some sex-crazed caveman,” he shifted, the light of the day dwindling as we rolled down the road, the shadows from the trees creeping closer and closer to the truck.

“I dont…” you started but he was already pulling the truck over to the side of the road.

“I need you to know that the moment we get back to society that this,” he unbuckled his seatbelt and gestured between the two of you, “Isn’t going to end. I care for you but I need you to stay alive. So, I’m deciding for us to put things on hold because neither of us needs the distraction. It wasn’t a mistake. Do I wish I had waited until I was able to fuck you in a real bed? Kinda.”

The first few drops of rain splattered onto the windshield, fat and heavy.

He released the strap on his bulletproof vest to his chest and reached for my hand, “Feel this,” he brought my hand, dwarfed in his, to his racing heart. The heat radiated off his body, “That is what you do to me. Every time you look at me, or speak, or enter a room. I feel like I can’t breathe around you. I’m terrified of you, and the possibilities that come with you,” he squeezed your hand, and he took in a shuttering breath, “And when you look at me like that,” his voice dropped and his eyes searched yours before bringing your hand lower, where you felt his member hardening.

Your cheeks heated and you felt your own heart quicken its pace.

The sounds of the rain became a rhythmic beat as it began to downpour, and without the windshield wipers to wipe away the downfall it was nearly impossible to see to the outside.

He let out a low, agonizing sound when you gave him an experimental squeeze

His attention flicked to the clock on the dash, his eyes darkening, “If I had been a smart man I wouldn’t have told Price we were leaving early. So if we take much longer it’ll raise questions,” he pulled away from you, slowly, like it was taking every sane part of him to do so, “And I’m sure you don’t want that.”

You shook your head. You did not want to talk with Price about your extracurriculars.

He took one last look at you, “Fuck sake,” he lifted the bottom half of his mask and pulled your lips to his. It was a chaste, desperate, open-mouth kiss. One where his hands dipped your head back to gain better access. His thumbs cradled your jaw, his fingers curling in your hair.

It was just like the last time you kissed him. He was all fire and heat. He was explosive.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were wet and rosy, his eyes half-lidded, “Promise me you won’t go anywhere?” he said lowly.

You couldn’t help the sheepish smile, “I’m here.”

His Foresight - @thychuvaluswife ❤︎ @shuttlelauncher81 ❤︎ @lostinsideourminds ❤︎ @v1naco ❤︎ @konig-breedme ❤︎ @wolfyland07 ❤︎ @cumbersome-robes ❤︎ @adelaidai ❤︎ @ddioriez ❤︎ @johfaam0 ❤︎ @marytvirgin ❤︎ @stickygumchewer ❤︎ @lauraliisa ❤︎ @jungcoccc ❤︎ @lovelyladymayyyy ❤︎ @lululandd ❤︎ @chrissyfishywissy ❤︎ @naxxsstuff ❤︎ @sididakra-jo ❤︎ @yukisawer ❤︎ @q8852p ❤︎ @kat-nee ❤︎ @meganoreid ❤︎ @thewoodenarcade ❤︎ @kaghost ❤︎ @shadowcldx ❤︎@mymommmy ❤︎ @crunchlite ❤︎ @mychrysanthemums ❤︎ @xheera ❤︎ @lockleywife ❤︎ @ryethebrokengae

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley fanfiction #cod fanfic #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #modern warfare fanfiction #task force 141 #simon riley x reader #cod ghost

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