#sure he tore his cheek skin off on the frozen bars but he could have stuck his shirt between lmao

[transmandayoung]

I think John put so much effort into Jeff's test and designing it to urge him into specific actions of helping people bc he sees so much of himself in him and sees what he could have become

[bakedcrispers]

Show Me How To Love You

seasons 6-7

warnings: implied smut, slight angst, big crossbow man hormones 😔✌

[ gif's not mine! ]

--

Gray smoke danced around the porch of the house as Daryl sat idle on its oak stairs, his eyes snaking aimlessly around the streets as he spiraled deep in his thoughts. He remembers every bit of detail that happened, and he couldn't seem to keep his mind out of it.

It just kept coming back.

His hands travel feverishly along warming glistening flesh, tender skin sliding smoothly among his palms and lips as he took his time in exploring a pulchritudinous figure. His head was fogged and hazed, completely under the spell of the melodic sounds bouncing through the thin walls of the room. He felt full. The buzzing of his chest drummed and pounded throughout his torso the more he bit, leaving purple marks along those lips he adored so damn much.

His mouth dragged and dragged, exhaling through the unforgiving breeze as he tried desperately hard not to shift around his spot. He could feel his body slacking the more he stared, the tiredness gradually getting to him as he sat. God, he was so worn out; yet at the same time, he didn't have the courage to go back in there, lay down, and dream about it again.

He'd go crazy.

Nails scratched his back roughly, piercing up and down at a constant painful pace. He scrutinized every move and bounce, traveling down the deliciously pinned body underneath his figure as he treated you as gently as he could. Hair sprawled, face wet, lips apart and heaving; your euphoria was greatly highlighted under the hues of the moon, and all he could do was gawk at it. Daryl couldn't help but admire it.

"Goddamnit." He could feel his cheeks heating up at the thought, and he couldn't seem to rid it of his brain. It had been preserved exclusively to torment him out his mind later on, and he fucking hates it. "Stupid attractive nurse and her stupid fuckin' smile." Daryl grumbles in vexation, but a part of him knew he didn't exactly mind it - he didn't mind the thought of you being implanted permanently inside his restless brain, residing in his mind rent-free.

Feelings have never been so hard to control.

"Can't sleep?" The tender timbre of your voice abruptly wakes him up from the intrusive images in his head, and almost instantly he sat up straight, his drowsiness disappearing altogether; though, your presence provided not an ounce of aid to his ever-lingering issues.

"I'm a'ight." Daryl grunts his usual reply, avoiding any type of eye-contact towards you. It took everything of his strength not to twist his body to face you fully, nor even look at your face right now. He just couldn't bring himself to talk to you when all he could think of was.. those nights.

And much to his fucking luck, you shuffled your way to him, making yourself comfy on the empty space beside him. "You always say that when you aren't." You snarked, a knowing grin illuminated on your face, staring at him for a little longer than he anticipated as you talked. You already had him read.

"A penny for your thoughts?"

Daryl found himself snorting quietly at your little quip, his dark tresses swaying along as he shook his head in disbelief. He wouldn't trade his thoughts even for a goddamn gold bar. He'd rather die than to expose the explicitness of his head out to you, of all people.

"You can keep yer goddamn penny, I ain't thinkin' o' nothin', sunshine." He didn't mean to snap, but the way his head felt a sudden haziness definitely contributed something to his sudden outburst.

Nonetheless, you didn't budge; instead, you pressed on with much vigor, a light expression on your face as you did so. "Are you thinking of a person?" Your eyes soften, and Daryl didn’t know whether to relax his shoulder at the sight of your face or tense them at your question. 

You wistfully continued, "Like.. you think of them so much that it just starts to be a real problem?"

Exactly his fucking problem.

"Nah. I ain't' ever think of people like tha'." He answers almost too quickly, the lie slipping down a little too smoothly to his absolute horror. Daryl, however, was completely aware of what he was experiencing — completely present on his stupid issues, and he hated that you somehow wriggled your way to be the main root of all his dilemmas. Even so, Daryl was curious.

"Who're ya thinkin' about?" He diverts the topic towards you, trying not to let his discomfort fly into view, even though it’s probably already so obvious.

You chuckle, eyes crinkling at him. "I didn't say I was thinking about someone, Daryl." You lightheartedly taunted, and he fought back the heat that rushed up to his face, caught up with words as he struggled to gather a reply. You got him tongue-tied: again. Before he could retort his defense, you were quick to cut him off, placing a hand on his thigh with a playful shake of your head.

"I was just kidding, Daryl. I was thinking about someone." The soft grin on your lips encourages Daryl to relax beside you, but his heart continues to hammer in harsh beats, surely causing a tinge of pain throughout his chest.

It sure did.

All he could do was vocalize a grunt, wanting you to continue without explicitly voicing his words out of his throat. He felt embarrassed to ask, feeling like he was being pushy about the topic — intruding, even; but fortunately for him, you follow right after, as casual as you were.

"Been thinking about this amazing guy recently."

Daryl's brows unknowingly furrowed, a swirl of discomfort residing inside his stomach. "A guy?"

"Yeah? What? I can't dream of love?" You joke with a face full of blithe, shining almost as bright as the goddamn stars in his perspective.

He snorts a reply, "Nah, ain't sayin' that." The archer then sheepishly shrugged. "Just - just didn't think you'd get worried 'bout som'n like that, 'is'all." He finishes gently, catching your eye for a second before looking back down on the ground, lips pursed and his fingers laced together.

"Really?" You raised your brow at him in an amused manner, another chuckle bubbling out of you as you playfully jabbed his side with your elbow. "Would've never thought you'd take me as a responsible and sensible type, Dixon."

He could only roll his eyes, but his lips quirked up to a tiny grin, his baby blues shining in mirth as your energy radiated even under the cold of the night. "Never said that either."

"But you hinted at it." You sang with a grin, childishly wiggling your brows at him as you swing your legs back and forth. “Ya’ big softie.“

How could he even resist the urge to fucking smile?

You were just so infectious to Daryl, and everything about you was amazing to him — a huge enigma that he wants to explore all over and over again. He’d never get tired of you; he could never.

Sure, there was a part of Daryl that screamed, cursed, and tore apart whoever this guy was that you were dazed over in the jealous corners of his mind, but he refrained himself from doing any physical reaction; for the sake of his dignity and sanity, especially when he’s in front of you.

"Wanna talk about it?" Daryl broke his silence with a quiet exhale, releasing more of the smoke to color the air around him, without much of a care in the world.

You didn't spare him a glance and continued to stare straight ahead, your lips twisting up to a content smile. The archer rose a brow, trying to figure you out, but nothing in his mind was deemed helpful to scan your thoughts; all of them ending up to be a loud meaningless static, one that he couldn't quite figure out yet.

"Ya' deaf or som'n?" He grumbles, impatient, and nervous. It took Daryl some self-control not to practically bite his nails off his hands while you just beamed at him like some damn gorgeous nymph. He felt vulnerable, and he didn't know how to feel about it. He certainly felt attacked though. 

"Not deaf, silly. I’m just surprised you don't know him yet." You finally say, your eyes glowing in mischief as you laughed. "I thought it was pretty obvious. I mean all those nights, those talks, those.." You trailed off, and Daryl almost regretted catching sight of the look that you just gave him, breath stuck in his throat as he watched your tongue swipe across your bottom lip. 

Daryl shivered as he could feel your eyes dangle from his lips down to his exposed neck, drinking every change of pigment along his skin, where all your points were made and proudly done. He could tell by the look on your face that you were seething with pride; but at the same time, you were looking at him so lovingly. Daryl didn’t know what to do, sweating and freezing under your deep scrutiny. “Those… wha’?“ He gulps the courage to return your gaze, almost immediately feeling his throat grow even drier with each second he stared at your adoring hues that maintained strong contact with his.

You huff at him, brows furrowed but your lips were quirked up. “Playing dumb, huh?“ You whistled, gently bumping your shoulders against his, electricity coursing through him as your bare skin clashed with his cold ones. “From how frozen you are right now, I’m guessing you don’t really want me to dive deep into it?“

"It’s a mistake, Y/N.“ Daryl finally takes the courage to speak up, face beet red as he looks at anything but your face. “We didn’t know the hell we’re doin’.” He grumbled, his voice drenched with every ounce of regret and shame he could ever carry from that night alone. He just didn’t think it felt right to him. Those nights were only used to pour those unwanted feelings and emotions out, Daryl thought, It didn’t mean shit.

It shouldn’t.

With shoulders slacked, the archer completely isolates himself away from you in an attempt of just shutting down from the conversation altogether. He never even thought of talking about it with you, thinking you’d just pass over him and forget about it over time; that you’d just drown out his existence after you were done using him as some fucking stress outlet.

Not that he had complaints in the first place.

“It wasn’t a mistake, Daryl.“ You murmured sincerely, your eyes maintaining that soft, adoring look that you’ve reserved for him since the beginning. “At least for me it wasn’t.“ You follow with a wholehearted grin that immediately sent his heart beating and hammering against his searing chest. “You were the best thing that ever happened to me.“

“Ya’ don’ know what yer talkin’ ‘bout, sunshine.“ Daryl scoffed, perilous eyes snapping at you with a mix of disbelief and distrust. “Yer delirious.“ He didn’t want to believe it; he refused to. You deserved more than just some filthy, asshole of a feral redneck in your life. You deserved men like Rick;

A part of him wanted to believe you — to tell you what he really felt, but as always:

He doesn’t know how.

Slightly shaking the hair out of his face, he continues in defeat, "Look, ya’ deserve someone better, Y/N.“ His words were filled with nothing but bitterness, but he knew it was true. “I ain’ tha’ someone, an’—“ He pauses, taking a long drag of his cigarette before fixating his eyes down the ground under him. “I ain’ any better.“

Daryl took a long drag of his smoke before standing up, not entirely wanting to be in this conversation anymore. He didn't want to hear you spew out any more words that would just draw him back in; make him believe that he'd ever had that honor to just call you his for the rest of his life. "You should get some rest, Y/N." He spoke softly, hating to have to shut you down so quickly, but it was for the best. Daryl couldn't bring himself to be with you after all he's been through.

"What's stopping you?"

He doesn't deserve you.

Your words were left hanging around an air of tension, the archer completely still on his track as your soft tone struck him like a rain of bricks. He nervously chewed on his lips, fighting the urge to just blurt everything out to you in one go — to tell you everything racing in his damn head.

"Stopping.. what..?" His voice was quiet and unsure, almost as if he was scared to hear what you were about to say next.

More silence came from your part, and Daryl could hear his heart moving wilder and wilder the more you remained unresponsive to his reply. Nothing but your quiet shuffles rustling through the crisp air of the night was to be heard while Daryl tries to distract himself by fiddling with the tips of his gnawed out fingers. He knew he wanted to settle back with you — be close to you even, but his brain was holding him back from even trying to; afraid that he'd end up as nothing more but a piece of meat.

You were better than that, and he knows, but a tiny part of him was doubtful of your future, and he had every right to be. With winter coming along and scarcity of resources following painfully behind, there were many more things to be worried about than his stupid high school feelings.

"What's stopping you from loving me?"

Daryl pursed his lips into a thin line. This was something that you've also asked him the night before, your bare body pressed against his chest while you snuggled under the late sky. He could barely get any word out to give you a proper answer. But even during times like those, Daryl could never tear his eyes off of you. You were drowsy, tired from the night’s activities, but you never seem to get restless of his scattered thoughts and feelings; you always tried your best to understand and communicate with him, but as always, Daryl remained nonchalant — almost as if he couldn't hear you amongst everything.

He was being unfair.

Eyes squeezed shut, knuckles white, jaws clenched — He's gotta drop and let you know.

"I.. I don' know how to love ya', Y/N." He confessed softly; ashamed that he couldn't give you the love that he wanted you to have — love that only people who weren't broken can give. "I.. I don' know how to love ya' like.. like how Glenn or Rick does." He croaks weakly. "They do it so easy, but I just fuckin'.. can't."

His frustration was evident, yet his head was facing the ground, not wanting to have you catch the longing and bitter look that he had on his stormy blue eyes.

"Daryl." His eyes slowly snaps towards the direction of your voice, lips trembling slightly as your cold palms brushed and settled on his reddened cheeks.

"I didn't follow you everywhere with the hopes of finding the same love that men like Rick or Glenn can give in you. I didn't go out of my way to be your run partner just to seduce you and jump on your lap. I'm with you because you make me happy, and you make me feel loved in the warmest way possible."

He watched your lips effortlessly mouth the words out to him as if you were reciting a ballad specially made only for his ears to reach.

"You don't have to show me or the others that you love me, Dixon, because I already know that you do." Your hold on his face tightens, and so did Daryl's heart as he watched you send a loving smile up at him. "You don't have to hide from me, Daryl. You don't have to be scared about not being able to compete with others because no matter what, you're the only damn thing I see."

It may take some time, but your words truly have impacted him more than he anticipated. There were moments where he'd thoroughly savor and indulge himself on your touch and with your words, letting himself loose within the security of your arms; this was one of those times.

"Damn it, sunshine." He curses quietly, breathless over how something as enchanting as you could ever be real — how even did he manage to capture you in his life?

He builds the courage to meet you in the eye, his heart singing at the sight of your eyes holding adoration only for him. "Hitting me with the cheesy shit again, huh."

Your grin widens, prompting his own smile to stretch along with yours. "Want to know how to love, Dixon?"

Even when his surroundings dim, you continue being a light above all things cynical in his life. You were his guide; an angel sent to him by whatever fate exist in the world. You were surreal, and if he could wish for more of you, he would do so in a heartbeat.

"Show me."

You're the only thing he sees.

--

a/n: OMG?? HI?? ITS BEEN A WHILE?MNDJEJE IM SORRY FOR THE INACTIVITY! schoolwork has been catching up and i have also been sick for the past few days! have this lil oneshot friends 💞💖 all you'll ever see in this blog is longing and yearning so kekeke prepare urself >:D

taglist: @pulplorrd @impala-1979 @twdeadlysins @greginaries @pastanest @thanossexual @taikawho

[ if you want to be added in the taglist, just send an ask baybees 💞! ]

[whump-town]

Pretending

@genevievedarcygranger and I are dorks so here is my take on the thing we did together

Fingers stretch up past his throat, a thick arm pushing at the walls of his esophagus. Stretching it until his head is pushed back, lips parting to breathe around the obstruction. The fingers find his brain, wiggling and tearing through the dura mater as if it’s nothing more than jello. His thoughts shift sluggishly to when Jack was just a baby. The beaming sun against his back as he held his son on one knee, watching in horror as Jack smacked and tore through the cake in front of him with chubby grabbing fingers. He can feel those fingers cupping at his brain, making his knees weak and his body light. Aired out thoughts as nothing lays between his mouth and his thoughts. As if he could float away.

“Daddy?”

Leaning forward on the bench, Hotch presses the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. Post Traumatic Stress, he’s sure Reid would identify easily enough, is crippling him right where he stands. In every little thing that he does. He’d just stepped outside for a book in the yard he left on the chair after watching Jack swing and been hit with such intense panic he’d fallen down into the grass. Couldn’t think or move. Jack had found him hunched over himself pressing his forehead into the warm ground, trying to think past the feeling of his paralyzed lungs.

The park had been their compromise - Jack lives in intervals and the park is a fantastic compromise to easily forget what he’s seen.

“I’m okay,” he whispers, clenching his jaw and focusing on the burn of the sun against his back. It takes an excruciating amount of energy but he lifts his head back up. Settles an unsteady smile and red-rimmed eyes on his son. With a hand that tremors, he cups Jack’s cheek. “What is it, buddy? Want help going across the monkey bars again?”

Jack frowns at him - a face Haley used to love. She’d laugh until she cried, always assuring him that he makes the exact same face. And despite the fact that he’s supposed to be making sure Jack has a normal childhood he’s crying in the park. Thinking about when Jack was so small he fit in the crook of Hotch’s elbow. Flailing asleep in the nursery counting Jack’s little breathes, terrified of what would happen if he walked away. Haley sitting in his lap, the two of them watching the boy they brought into the world together. How Haley had warned him he was going to blink and find he’d lost everything and now he’s sitting on a park bench having taken it all from her.

“Sorry,” Hotch rasps. He rubs his eyes, clearing his throat and forcing his body upright more. “Sorry,” he repeats. “Monkey bars?” He pushes himself up onto his feet, smiling as he offers Jack his hand. Waiting for the boy to grow distracted again by the overwhelming amount of options of things to climb on.

Jack looks over his shoulder to the monkey bars, envy burning his chest as he watches a girl older than him make her way across them. “Yes please,” he chirps, his small fingers wrapping around Hotch’s calloused ones. He beams up at his father, seeing only the man that takes him to the park and cuts his sandwiches into shapes that vaguely resemble dinosaurs. Past the sadness and how tired he is. “One day,” Jack says, pouring his concentration into jumping over the raised edge of the playground. He holds Hotch’s hand a little tighter, giggling when Hotch pulls him up even higher. He lands with a grunt and grins back at Hotch. “One day,” he continues, “I’m gonna be big and strong and --” Jack trips over his feet as he eagerly tears off for the monkey bars. He manages to stay upright. “One day I’m gonna be all growned up, just like you! And then I’m not gonna need no help!”

Hotch nods, following at a slower pace. Between the heat and sweater he’d chosen to wear (to cover the bruises still purpling and angry up his arms) he’s hot and the weakness of his body from too little sleep is draining him rapidly. He knows making it back to the car - a distance of only a few yards - will leave him light-headed and vision hazing. His body aches needs sleep and rest but he has to take care of a four-year-old and both of those things are nearly impossible.

“I wanna be as tall as you!” Jack says, pulling himself up on one of the bars. “Do you think I can?” Jack asks as Hotch ducks down into the contraption. “Mommy said I could,” Jack informs him. “She said I’d be just like you!” He beams at Hotch as he says this, thrilled by the idea of being just like his father. Tall and strong and nice and funny.

Hotch nods.

“But your hair is the wrong color,” Jack pouts.

Hotch smiles, genuinely, at that.

Jack doesn’t understand the amusement and frowns. “Why isn’t your hair yellow?”

Hotch bends down and picks Jack up, holding him around his hips so that Jack can reach up and grab onto the bars above his head. It makes his ribs flare up but he doesn't pay the pain any mind, it won’t stop him. “My mom and dad had dark hair. You have mommy’s hair,” Hotch says. Haley promised this constant talking phase would eventually wear off but Jessica’s theory was that it was just Jack’s way of making up for the “creepy” way Haley and Hotch never seemed to have to have verbal conversations. Haley just rolled her eyes and repeated her earlier promise - little kids just like to talk your ear off, he’d stop with age.

Hotch hopes he doesn’t.

“Why don’t you have mommy’s hair?”

Hotch smirks, “it doesn’t work like that, buddy.” They get to the end and Jack kicks his legs. “Want to drop down?” Jack makes a panicked sound, clearly not liking that idea. One of his hands leaves the bars and grabs Hotch’s wrist so that Hotch can’t let go. “Alright,” Hotch relents. “Do you wanna go again?”

“Yeah!” Jack just let's go, trusting Hotch will catch him. “Just one more time, though. Cause then I’m gonna go down the slide.”

“Alrighty.”

They begin again. Jack is light but Hotch’s ribs scream from having his arms raised up. The bones of his hand groaning as pressure is placed on them. It makes him light-headed, the sharp pain and the dull swelter of the heat. He steps forward, knee buckling, but he keeps both hands on Jack - the boy doesn’t notice.

“Good job,” Hotch praises, voiced rasped as Jack finishes. He lets Jack turn and settle down into his arms, pulled in against his side. Jack pulls both his hands down, showing his father the red patches of irritated skin. “Does it hurt?” Hotch asks. His thumb is nearly the size of Jack’s palm as he presses over the hurt. “That’s how you get callouses,” Hotch mumbles lowly, smirking at Jack’s surprise.

Jack forgets the pain in an instant. “You promise?”

Hotch hums his confirmation and Jack eagerly squirms at the idea. Hotch sets him down on his feet and Jack jumps up excitedly. “Daddy,” Jack calls, turning around and tearing off in the direction of the other equipment. “I’m gonna go to the slide!” Jack pays him no more mind and with a sigh, Hotch leans into the metal bar to his left. Knees shaking and head spinning.

He pushes himself upright, glancing at Jack out of the corner of his eye. He’s in the clear, he knows, but he’s still careful. Makes sure to keep his gait even and strong as he clears the space between monkey bars and the rest of the playground to the bench screaming his name.

“Daddy!” Jack yells from the top of the slide, waving.

Hotch stops and waves back, waiting for Jack to get distracted again before forcing himself forward. He sinks, bone-tired, back onto the bench. Scared that if he’s upright for another moment he’ll pass out. His vision swarms and dips with the heat around him, logged by his exhaustion.

He feels something splash on his pants and at first, he ignores it as just a ghost sensation. They happen and he’s anxious and uncomfortable enough he’s sure his body is just playing all kinds of cruel jokes at his expense. When isn’t it? It happens again a few minutes later but it’s not the same feeling. He looks down and he sees blood-- not just a stain that happens to be red, he sees blood far too often to mistake it for anything else-- and glances over to his left to locate Jack. The boy is obviously to him, shouting happily as he shoots down the slide. He lifts his hips enough to work his hand into his pocket to the handkerchief nearly all his pants carry. He presses the material to his nose, faking to just wipe it in case either of Jack looks over.

His nose is bleeding.

Back when he worked in Seattle, he’d seen a guy get shot in the leg. The bullet nicked an artery and he’d seen that bright blood, the way it gushed so quickly it was hard to put pressure over the flow. Frozen in fear, he’d never seen anything like that. Sitting here on this bench he looks down at the bright blood and gets lost. Frozen once again.

“Daddy!”

Hotch swallows thickly, grimacing at the taste of the blood that’s slid down the back of his throat. He clamps his hand over his nose, still smiling despite the fact that Jack can’t see it. “Hey-” Tears swell in Jack’s eyes as he sees the blood. “I’m okay,” Hotch assures. “It’s just a little blood, buddy.”

Jack whines softly, clearly not convinced. “Daddy, I wanna go home.” He tugs at Hotch’s sleeve. “Can we call Aunt Jess now,” Jack asks, anxiously. He worries the fabric of Hotch’s pants between his fingers, shifting as he waits for a reply.

He wants to assure Jack that they can stay a little longer but he sees the tears pouring down Jack’s face and Hotch nods. He leans to the side, digging his phone out of his pocket. It’s probably not his most coherent text but he manages to put together a few words - the letters all a blur - and it takes only a moment for her to respond. She’s on her way. He sags forward, head falling into his hand. “I’m sorry Jack.” He feels Jack’s hand come up to rest against his cheek, his warm palm sliding until Jack is hugging him. Even if he has to stand up on his toes.

Jack squeezing his neck. “It’s okay,” Jack assures him. “Me ‘n Jess are gonna get you a bandaid and a popsicle and then you’re gonna be all better.” Jack doesn’t let go. “It’s gonna be okay, right Daddy?”

Jack’s conviction is so strong that Hotch doesn’t bother explaining that he can’t put a bandaid over his nose and that it’s going to take more than a popsicle to fix this mess he’s created. But for now, he’ll let Jack hold onto him and “help” him walk to the car. He’ll let Jessica smother him with her worry and take it in stride because it’s important Jack understands getting help is just a part of life - even if each time Jessica touches him his stomach will roll.

He’ll choke down enough of his dinner to assure everyone he’s fine.

And, with any luck, he’ll manage to pretend his way into truly being okay.

“Yeah, buddy, it’s gonna be okay.”

[clevercxs]

Believer - Sigefrid Thurgilson [Ch 3]

[MORE CHAPTERS]

Pairing: Sigefrid Thurgilson x female oc

Word count: 7.5k ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

If you read Sigefrid’s lines in his voice… *chef’s kiss*

_______________________________________________

By nightfall a blissful silence had bestowed itself upon the mead hall. After a night of revelation, the Danes were lulled off to sleep by the sound of rain drumming against the roofs of their homes. They dreamt of what fortunes awaited them come the day King Alfred and his men set foot in Beamfleot — a momentous occasion though dreaded by a certain Dane and his princess. 

The sounds of their drunken snores were loud enough to wake the dead, had they not relished in horns of ale alongside the living, that is.

While vivid dreams of glory and great victories transpired beyond their wildest imaginations, Lady Blædswith was left wide awake to face the harshness of her reality. 

If she had been born and raised as a Dane, worshiping Odin instead of God, such a celebration would have been a great honor. However, the princess’s ailments reminded her that she was no guest of honor, but rather a bargaining tool at Lord Erik and Sigefrid’s disposal. 

Her ribs ached and groaned with each breath she drew; unsure if it would be her last. Her lungs, frail and winded, wheezed as if she’d inhaled plumes of smoke from the blacksmith’s forge. Her stomach growled like a ravenous hound starved from unsuccessful hunts despite the rations she was provided.

Her dirtied cheeks, stained with blood, sweat, and tears, were caressed by the emitted light of dancing flames, illuminating her pale skin with a golden hue of the gods. The tattered remains of her clothes hung off her limbs like those of a decaying corpse left to rot. She finger combed through the tangled knots and frayed ends of her hair, gagging in repulsion at the dirt and grime beneath her nails, and embedded in each crevice of her feeble hands.

King Alfred’s daughter looked, and felt, no better than a befouled slave girl.

Ghastly shadows were cast throughout the hall, dancing across the ceiling and hurdling over tables, chairs, and thrones alike. The shadows formed obscure shapes which taunted her weary mind, though not without providing her with a sense of calm; a distraction, even.

As her eyes adjusted, the fire became rather mesmerizing to watch; vibrant hues of yellows and oranges were a stark contrast from the cold, lifeless world around her. 

For a brief moment she lost herself entirely. She was no longer a hostage, nor in any sort of discomfort. Her worries, her guilt and sorrowful prayers that went unanswered were no more. The rampant thoughts that coursed through her mind seemed to stop entirely. 

The longer she gazed into the flames, the more her mind played devilish tricks on her... 

Within the fire pit emerged a vague image of herself: fearless; unafraid and carefree. She wielded a blazing shield and longsword of fire, fighting alongside the Danes instead of against them. In the end they were victorious, as the sounds of bone-chilling battle cries echoed throughout Midgard; throughout her mind. Sigefrid jogged up to Lady Blædswith, wrapping not one but two hands around her waist, and spun her around before tightly embracing her warmth. The two of them pressed their foreheads together; thanking the gods, rather than her God, for sparing each others’ lives and guiding them to victory against King Alfred of Wessex…

“Agh! You are not real.” She growled in a panic, squeezing her eyes shut and tugging at the roots of her hair as tears dripped down her face. “That, that will never be real.” She gulped dryly, “Not for me.” The princess ran a clammy hand over her face and wiped away her resentful tears as new ones began to fall. 

She wanted nothing more than to subside the affliction in her chest; within her aching heart that suddenly yearned for the impossible.

A throbbing pain surged through her shoulder once more, and reminded her of what she must do; the main reason she had sought to free herself from the cage that once confined her. A seething gasp escaped through her gritted teeth as she unwrapped her fur pelt and set it aside. 

The princess found herself sitting on the long, rickety bench once occupied by the Thurgilson brothers. Her fingertips mindlessly traced over carved intricacies in the woodwork, stalling, until she felt the coolness of metal beneath her palm. 

Taking the leather-bound handle in her firm grasp, she dipped the knife into the fire, watching as its blade glowed with an orange hue. Leaving it be, she ever so carefully tore away the rest of her blood stained blouse and fed it to the flames, pinching her nose at the foul smell of burning blood and sweat. With chills ripping through her exposed chest, she wrapped her arms around her core to preserve any remaining heat. 

Out of the corner of her eye she saw something move beside the cage. Craning her stiff neck around, she surveyed the limp body of the Dane tasked with keeping a close watch over her as she slept. However, his own curiosities led him to an early demise, as he had ventured too close to the cage...

She was startled by the twitching of his leg; the toe of his leather boot seemed to repeatedly nudge one of the cage’s wooden panels. 

Furrowing her bushy, unkempt brows, she steadily rose to her feet and tiptoed towards the guard to investigate while the knife heated up. When a couple of mice scurried out of his pant leg, Lady Blædswith nearly squealed like a pig, shooing them away before she could impale them, too, with the knife. 

The mice found themselves inside her cage, willingly, as they sniffed around for leftover crumbs of bread. 

Pressing a firm hand against her thumping chest, the princess sighed in relief that her foolishness hadn’t woken anyone up - and that the guard was, in fact, dead. 

Kneeling beside the Northman she had slain, she retrieved a smaller blade from his pocket and began sawing off a piece of his leather armor. After all, what good was such armor to a dead man now enjoying the company of his gods, drinking ale within the Great Hall as beautiful valkyries fly overhead?

Surely, it would not be missed. 

She then crawled over his lifeless, pale body and carved a sloppy ‘B’ into the side of his bearded cheek, before using the bars of the cage to get back on her feet.

Within her eyes was a hatred that burned brighter than the fiery depths of Hel. Lady Blædswith spat on his corpse and seethed,

“Te sunt a vili, preverted partem de stercore. Pedicabo ego vos!”

(“You are a vile, perverted piece of shit. Fuck you!”)

Making her way back to the fire, the bare-chested Saxon took a seat and braced herself for what would be the greatest test of courage and inner strength. Now biting down on the piece of leather, she retrieved the blade from the fire and took a deep breath.

Do it, God Damnit! Just do it!

Her stomach was in a queasy knot; her vision faded in and out of a blur the longer she waited.

Slowly, trembling, she raised the glowing knife to her gaping arrow wound and pressed it into her skin. The ungodly sound and putrid smell of her sizzling flesh caused her to dry heave. Her wailing sobs of agony were somewhat muffled by the coarse leather between her teeth...

She could taste hot, salty tears upon her lips as every tendon and muscle in her body strained and constricted in agony. Lady Blædswith, breaking out in a hot, sticky sweat, continued to force the blade against her skin until she could no longer handle it. When she had enough, the princess collapsed to the floor, gasping for air as she could feel herself suffocating.

“I-it’s almost over.” Lady Blædswith spat out the leather square and huffed convincingly with a breathy half-chuckle. “God damnit!” She writhed, instantly clutching a hand over her mouth to conceal her whimpers. “J-Just once more on the other side-” Just she began to hoist herself, unsteadily, back onto the bench - she stopped.

Frozen in time like a guilty thief caught in the act, she could hear a pair of quickening footsteps growing louder by the second. Snapping her gaze upright to the wooden balcony overlooking the hall, it was none other than a disturbed Sigefrid Thurgilson awoken from his much needed slumber like a bear out of hibernation.

“Dear God.” 

Her hands briskly shot to cover either of her breasts as she scrambled for her pelt, immediately wrapping herself in it to preserve what remained of her modesty. Seemingly agitated, the eldest Lord of Beamfleot descended down the stairs like a bat out of Hell. 

“S-Sigefrid.” She greeted nervously, not knowing how he would react to her newfound freedom. Her brown eyes were wide with sheer terror - that much he could see. 

What were the odds that he of all people had heard her? Perhaps he was already awake, enjoying the company of a beautiful slave girl who, to some degree, reminded him of King Alfred’s daughter.

Sigefrid’s rather unkempt, bearded jaw had plummeted through the creaky floorboards revealing sharp rows of teeth. His dark and unruly brows were furrowed tightly together and turned upright with worry and utter confusion. 

Except for a light cardigan over his arms and baggy pants hanging dangerously low on his pelvic bones, he too was without a shirt. His hand-blade, to no surprise, was strapped on tight and ready at his side. 

“Lady-” Sigefrid began in a hurry, panning around the room until he spotted his most trusted hound gnawing on the cooked, severed arm of the guard he’d instilled to watch over her. “What… did you do?!” He cried in disbelief, now approaching the cowering Saxon who seemed worse for wear. “I… I heard your cries.” Frowning, Sigefrid took a light seat upon the furthest end of the bench after making sure she was out of harm’s way.

Ever so slightly pulling back the trim of her pelt, Lady Blædswith revealed her newly charred, cauterized shoulder and the haunting imprint left from the blade she used. 

The princess watched as a look of horror overcame the Dane’s face, causing him to avert his gaze out of discomfort.

“My arrow wound became infected. It was slowly killing me so I… took it upon myself to handle it.” Peering over to the dead guard, she cleared her throat and attempted to justify herself, “Y-you should be grateful. After all, what good is a dead princess to a king? I-I had no choice but to save myself.”

The hound began coughing and heaving until it hacked up a whole finger by Sigefrid’s bare foot, only to be shooed away out of sheer disgust. Sigefrid then grumbled with a slight grin, “Damn dog.”

“Well, I had to keep him quiet somehow.” She shrugged, now lifting a hand to warm it by the fire while the other held her fur in place so she wouldn’t reveal herself. “He prefers his meat well done.” The princess teased lightly, only for Sigefrid to sternly furrow his brows and ever so slightly cock his head to the side out of concern. At first he was unable to see the humor behind it, but as moments passed he began to lighten up. 

Eventually, the corners of his lips cracked into a bright, toothy smile. He couldn’t help but chuckle after realizing that she was, in her own way, just as crazy as he was. 

“I…” Sigefrid sighed, shaking his head in defeat as his arms dangled between his knees. “I underestimated you. You are clever, Lady.” 

After finding a sense of comfort within his soothing words, she simply nodded into the fire, “I am resourceful,” whilst mindlessly sliding the knife towards Sigefrid by its handle. “Take it. I no longer have use for Erik’s knife.” She couldn’t help but bite her tongue, knowing her emphasis on his brother’s name would likely cause trouble between them. Perhaps, even jealousy.

“Erik’s? How did you get my brother’s knife, thief?” Sigefrid roared like a mighty brown bear standing tall on his feet, all whilst nearly knocking the bench, and the princess sitting upon it, over out of anger. He found himself, now, towering menacingly over the princess. Sigefrid’s dark, piercing eyes searched her face for any signs of untruthfulness yet deep down inside, he knew better than to not believe her. 

She felt as if her heart had been startled back to life, almost as if struck by a high voltage of electricity. His sudden outburst sent her entire body into a numb, temporary state of shock. Any regained color in her cheeks had been drained out of fear for what he intended to do to her. 

Sigefrid inhaled and exhaled sharply through flared nostrils, scowling down at himself for acting so irrationally towards King Alfred’s daughter.

“How did you get his knife?” He slowly reiterated in a calmer, more civil manner before taking a courteous step backwards to distance himself.

“Well… when an opportunity unfolds before you like a blooming wildflower ripe for picking… you do just that. Pick it.” She narrowed her eyes and smirked wickedly. “And I am not a thief. Unlike you, I have never stolen-”

“Say what you must, Lady.” Sigefrid groaned impatiently, running a calloused hand over his reddened, sleep-deprived eyes. “Go on.”

“Erik gave it to me himself. It was wrapped in the fur pelt,” She flapped her elbows beneath said pelt, which remained draped over her shoulders. “The one he placed inside the cage.” She chuckled lightly, though found herself wincing at her shoulder.

“What I do not understand…” Sigefrid paused, crossing his muscular arms over his toned, exposed chest sprinkled with faded scars. He now found himself sitting closer beside her on the bench, conscious of the remaining space between them. “Why would Erik do that?” 

The princess carefully shrugged. “Your brother knew I would surely make use of it. Whether on him, my guard, or… you.” She slowly cast her gaze towards the Dane through glossy lenses. Shaking her head with a frown, she shamefully looked down at her lap. “But I-I could not have killed you. Even if I wanted to. I have every reason to, but… I can not will it.”

“And if it is not by the will of the Gods,” He quirked an eyebrow, “then it was not meant to be.” She suddenly felt the warmth of his calloused hand caressing the side of her cheek, guiding her to face him once more. She traced small circles atop his rough knuckles and closed her eyes. 

Sigefrid Thurgilson seemed unable to stop himself from rambling like a love struck boy, “I believe the gods intended for us to meet. I wish… under better circumstances.” 

To Sigefrid’s surprise, he could feel her nodding along beneath his hand. “Your gods deserve my thanks, for they have nearly saved me from marrying a stranger. They have prolonged the inevitable; given me a few final days as a… somewhat free woman.” She sighed, gently removing his hand from her cheek though it remained within her grasp. 

Sigefrid watched her every move through sparkling eyes with such awe.

Changing the subject, for better or for worse, the princess confessed, “The knife was likely to pick the lock. You have nothing to worry about, Lord.”

“Yet, you killed a man with it.” He sighed and narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing her every last word. “To get the key.”

“I did not need the key. Killing him was not my intention, truly… but he made it very easy.”

“You better start making sense, woman.” He growled as she witnessed his short temper, once more, getting the best of him. The scorching influx of pain from his cauterized hand likely contributed to his hot-headed irritableness.

One thing was for certain: It doesn’t take much to get on Sigefrid’s bad side.

Slamming her hand down on the bench between them, Lady Blædswith leaned forward and growled, “He opened the cage himself, with the bloody key, because he intended to rape me. Is that what you want to hear, Lord? How your brother saved my life, and that a man you so ‘trusted’ to protect me nearly got away with such an act?” She leaned in close to the dark haired Dane, “Ohh,” She chuckled bitterly and bore her fiery gaze into his now softening, brown eyes, “How it must burn knowing he nearly humped me before you could!”

Scowling down at himself, Sigefrid muttered, “He...he was not thinking...”

She scoffed, “There does not seem to be much of that around here, Sigefrid!” Wrapping both arms around her stomach beneath the pelt, she leaned back on her tailbone and took a deep, calming breath. With the shake of her head, her body seemed to melt to the bench beneath his gaze. “I am sorry. I did not mean to wake you-”

“Lady.” Sigefrid suddenly interrupted. “I should have been there. Not him. Me.” He pressed his thumb firmly into his chest. “I am the one who brought you here. You are mine. It will not happen again.” He leaned closer to her and placed a warm hand upon her tender shoulder, mumbling rather darkly through gritted teeth,“I swear it.”

“I believe you.” She replied softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze as she shyly looked down upon their hands - which seemed to fit perfectly together like the long lost pieces of a puzzle. “Do not make me regret doing so.”

“You will not regret it, Lady.” Sigefrid nodded to himself and repeated firmly. “You... will… not.” Sigefrid gently gave her shoulder a squeeze, causing the princess to wince in pain. Immediately removing his hand, he sighed and muttered. “Right, right. I apologize...”

“I never thought I would live to see the day when I asked a Dane for help, but...” Lady Blædswith shimmied the pelt down to her waist, turning to show him the open wound on the back side of her shoulder where she couldn’t quite reach. 

Sigefrid, understanding what she had asked of him, furrowed his brows and ran a quick tongue over his thin, pursed lips. Though he was apprehensive of causing her further pain, Sigefrid knew it needed to be done in order to save her most valuable life. 

He had no problem inflicting pain on others, but her? It was almost unimaginable. Almost.

After all, as Lady Blædswith put it: what good is a dead princess?

“I will do it...” The Dane nodded, causing her to frown when he set Erik’s knife aside, and away from the fire. “...and I will be careful. You tended to my hand,” Sigefrid drew out slowly and lifted his hand-blade ever so slightly, “so I shall do the same, for you. I do not wish death upon you, Lady.”

“I do not wish death upon myself, either.” She teased, cracking an unusually wide smile that seemed to hatch butterflies within the Dane’s stomach. Unmistakably, she could feel the warmth of her flushed cheeks beneath his tender gaze. 

The two stared into each other���s eyes as if longing for something greater; something mutually forbidden and seemingly unattainable. It was a brief moment, rarely even shared between wedded lovers. There they sat, enjoying the sound of the crackling fire and the comfort of each others’ presence. They were finally alone, with no Danes to judge them nor intrude on their subtle intimacies.

There was a comfortable silence between Saxon and Dane that just felt… right. And for the first time, the princess was able to admit to herself that she felt safe and out of harm’s way, though couldn’t help but wonder why he had rid of Erik’s knife...

It had pained Sigefrid, seeing the woman he had grown to admire in such discomfort and disarray. He yearned to rid her of her inner demons and the burdens she carried upon her aching shoulders. To see her restored to her fullest potential, fighting alongside him as the shield maiden she was born to be - now that would bring an everlasting smile to his face.

The two couldn’t be more different, yet they both wanted the same thing. They were opposite forces of nature capable of destroying the other, no different than fire and water. 

She watched as Sigefrid rose to his feet, now passing by her hunched over form.

“You said I was ‘yours’. Did you mean that?”

“Yes.” He mumbled bluntly. “I did. I still do.” Sigefrid nodded subtly before instructing her to stand up, and reposition herself so that she was facing the main doors with the fire burning on her right. There she sat, anxiously waiting for his next cue, as she straddled the bench between her jittery legs and began tapping her toes against the wooden floorboards. 

Looking down at her lap as Sigefrid’s shadow was cast upon the wall opposite of the fire, she watched out of the corner of her eye as he paced around the hall rolling up his sleeves and repeatedly, anxiously, stroking his beard.

What if I go too far? What if it kills her?

“And you still intend to give away ‘what is yours’ to my father?” She dared to ask, looking up as Sigefrid neared the bench once more after he’d convinced himself to cauterize her wound, therefore inflicting an excruciating pain onto someone who’d endured so much already.

“I… have no choice, Lady” He pouted, taking a close seat behind her on the bench. Carefully, he dipped his hand-blade into the fire. His left hand gently gathered handfuls of her soft, dark curls that draped down her back, and brought the lengths of her mane to the left side of her neck, out of his way. 

As chills ran down her spine - quite literally - she peered over her shoulder at him and whispered, “That is a lie even you do not believe.” 

Sigefrid exhaled slowly and brought his body closer to hers, slithering his hand past her waist from behind, now gently resting palm up on her thigh. 

Filling the gap between their bodies, between their hips, Lady Blædswith pushed herself backwards until her shoulder blades bumped into his bare chest. She could feel his warm, seductive breath down her neck, though she couldn’t help but feel self conscious around him in her current state of filth.

“How can you stand to be this close to me?” Sheepishly, she took Sigefrid’s calloused hand between her own and gave it a squeeze. “I am a filthy, broken, hideously burnt… sorry excuse for a princess.”

“We are not so different, Lady. My hand was cauterized, not unlike your shoulder. I, too, am ‘hideously burnt.’” He teased lightly, though not without grinning ever down at himself. “Life will go on.” After receiving a sigh and nod of approval from a very grateful princess, Sigefrid lifted his glowing, sweltering hand-blade from the fire. He could feel her hands beginning to tighten around his like a boa constrictor, although he hadn’t yet touched blade to skin. 

“This is the only way.” She hummed. “I trust you.”

And with that, the scorching blade of metal was forever branded into her skin, serving as a permanent reminder of how the Lord of Chaos, Sigefrid Thurgilson, saved her life once more.

Her blood curdling cries echoed throughout the hall undoubtedly waking everyone in earshot. 

After what seemed like an eternity of suffrage, Sigefrid unbuckled his hand-blade contraption and tossed it to the floor, before allowing Lady Blædswith to fall back against his chest - one that was panting heavily and sticky with sweat. Sigefrid wrapped his strong arms around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer to his heart as she waited for the pain to go away, and her rapid heartbeat to steady.

With heavy arms draped over his, she gently began to interlock their fingers. Sigefrid, well aware of her affections, leaned forward and gently pressed his lips to the top of her head. 

Wiping away new fallen tears with the backs of her knuckles, Lady Blædswith spoke softly, “Thank you.” she then sniffled, “You have done more for me than any man ever has.” Slowly reaching forward as goosebumps and the hairs on her arms began to raise, she pulled her pelt to her chest. With Sigefrid’s careful aid, in a matter of minutes, she was back on her wobbly feet.  

“H-how can you look at me like that?” She wept quietly, burrowing her face within the fur.

“Like what?” Sigefrid, teasingly, hummed and tilted his head to the side as she swayed before him. “You are a beautiful woman. Is it wrong, for a man, to stare?” Sigefrid, whilst still supporting her weight, moved closer to face her. “You have not seen what I have. You are a shield maiden like no other. Your grace; your beauty. It is all still there.”

“How can you tell?” She whimpered, shaking her head in disagreement, as flattering as his words were. “Look at me!” She violently grabbed a fistful of tangled hair. “I-I look as if I belong on a slave ship, o-or amongst the livestock!”

“You are wrong.” Sigefrid challenged with a smirk, chuckling in response to the naive Saxon. “You will see, soon enough, what I have seen all along.” Sigefrid guided her back to the bench, where she willingly took a seat. He motioned for her to wait there, patiently, for his return. “Do not move.”

“Where would I go?” She muttered sarcastically.

When Sigefrid returned, accompanied by three heavily armored guards and a frightened slave girl trailing close behind, the princess immediately stood up, defensively, eyeing around for the nearest weapon-like object.

“W-what is this?” She stammered nervously, watching as the menacing Danes, whom Sigefrid had alleviated from their nightly duties, surrounded her on three sides. “Sigefrid?” Frightened, she could feel her voice waver as she realized she was sorely outnumbered. Sigefrid had the power and resources to do whatever cruelties he wanted to her, yet he lacked the will.

“Shh. You talk too much.” He grinned from ear to ear, then focused his attention to the surrounding Danes.

“I want her bathed, fed and watered.” Sigefrid ordered, receiving definitive nods from those he’d chosen. “Nothing is to happen to her. Understood?” He glared from Dane to Dane, narrowing his eyes at the familiar slave girl before addressing the princess’s escorts once more. “Do not disappoint me.” He warned sternly, emphasizing the grave importance of keeping the king’s daughter out of harm’s way, seeing as he failed to do so once already. 

With a tight, supporting hand clutched to either of her elbows, she was practically carried through the main doors, unable to see past the towering Danes to where Sigefrid stood. He chose to remain inside, not wanting to overstep his bounds, and shortly after was accompanied by his sleep-deprived brother, Erik. 

Once the doors closed behind them, and the princess was out of sight, Sigefrid sighed in relief knowing she was to be taken care of. He would rather have her bathing in the lake, now, during this unusually cold night, then under the morning sun where all eyes would undoubtedly be on her bare figure. 

When the time was right, mutually, Sigefrid was to be the first and only Dane to lay eyes on her nakedness. Sigefrid believed her to be a gift sent to him from the gods, one he wasn’t too keen on sharing. Her purpose was not to be ravished and disposed of like a common whore, but loved and cherished; worshipped, even, like the goddess Sigefrid saw her to be.

“You care for her.” Erik grinned softly, placing a hand on Sigefrid’s shoulder as they stood staring aimlessly at the closed doors. 

“I do.” Sigefrid was hesitant, though accepted that he couldn’t lie to himself, much less his own brother. “The gods have played a sick game.” Sigefrid growled, walking away from his brother as the nearest fire tempted him closer. Erik, knowing better than to leave his troubled brother’s side, followed in his footsteps and sat beside him, rubbing his hands together over the dimming flames. 

“What will you do about Alfred?” Erik asked, pressing his elbows into his knees for support as he leaned forward. “You made a great promise.” Erik eyed his brother sympathetically. “Do you intend to keep it?”

Sigefrid sighed, and rested his drowsy face within his palm, “I do not know what to do. I grow more fond of her by the hour.” He admitted gravely, now teasing his bottom lip between his sharp teeth. 

“What do you truly want, brother?”

“You know what I want.” Sigefrid snarled with a distasteful glare, almost offended that Erik didn’t know him better by now. “The leaves have already fallen. I need her ransom paid in full by winter’s end. An army by spring.”

“And a king’s crown by summer.” Erik chimed in, recalling the conversation they last had. “Are you sure of this?”

Sigefrid narrowed his brows and raised his arms slightly. “Sure of what?”

“That you are ready to let her go?” Erik, trying his best to comfort his eldest brother, could see the look of hurt upon his face, therefore in his heart. 

Sigefrid closed his eyes, now fighting a bit harder to stay awake. “I am not ready. I will never be ready... to let her go. I will think of her every night in my sleep. I will see her face in every woman, Dane and Saxon. She is both.” Now staring into the flames, as his beloved princess once had, he tried to imagine the rest of his life without her. 

No matter how hard he tried, he simply couldn’t. 

“I will never be ready.” He grumbled to himself once more, turning to face his kind-eyed brother before standing up, reaching into his pocket, and retrieving Erik’s knife. Holding it out for him to take, Sigefrid spoke in a low, hurt tone, “I do not blame you.” Before retreating upstairs where he would impatiently wait for Lady Blædswith’s return. 

Erik, twirling the stained knife between his fingers, could feel guilt gnawing at his insides. Sigefrid knew he didn’t trust him around King Alfred’s daughter, and that the knife was Erik’s way of looking out for her. Erik realized, now, that he no longer had to do so. 

She was more valuable to Sigefrid than any amount of the king’s riches, regardless of the cold front Sigefrid put up. Judging by the way Sigefrid has already treated her, Erik knew his brother would do everything in his power to ensure her safety. Everything. 

Even if it meant turning against his own people.

____________________ ➴  ____________________

The night air was crisp and unforgiving. The moon, in its fullest bloom, illuminated their way through the darkness. Venturing down a steep, well worn path towards the shore, the princess aimlessly followed the glow of a single torch like a moth drawn to candlelight.

The trio of Danes waited atop a low, grassy hill, allowing the timid slave girl to lead Sigefrid’s pet the rest of the way down. Compliant to their Lord’s orders, the men turned their backs whilst the king’s daughter undressed, though not without sneaking quick glances over their shoulders with wirey, toothless grins.

Once the slave girl had staked the torch into the damp earth near the water’s edge, creating a dimly lit aura of light around them, she apprehensively stepped towards the shivering Saxon. Her hand, as it reached out to take Lady Blædswith’s fur pelt, trembled out of fear of mistreatment from her Lord. She was, very obviously, under tremendous pressure to please him. Her small, childlike hands were even dirtier and more bruised than the princess’s own. 

With her arms folded tightly against her breasts, the princess tiptoed into the cold lake water, feeling it seep into the soles of her feet, then up her calves as she waded on. A light mist sprinkled on the tops of their heads, and a deceitful breeze often toyed with the princess’s remaining warmth.

Her arms were rough with prickly goosebumps as she descended beyond the shadowy waters, clenching her jaw and fists tightly as her teeth began to chatter like rattling bones. She began to adjust, very uncomfortably, to the lake’s frigid temperature. 

There had been no words exchanged between princess and slave — for there was nothing to say. Lady Blædswith’s hot breath, like a dragon’s own, escaped through her chapped lips as did steam rising from her core.

The slave girl, fully clothed yet up to her shoulders alongside her, had dunked a piece of cloth and a metal bucket beneath the water. “I-it is time for me to bathe you, princess. Before we both freeze.” She practically whispered through a thick, Scottish accent that didn’t go unnoticed. 

It had pleasantly reminded Lady Blædswith of a certain Irishman back home. 

Sigefrid’s slave averted her gaze from Alfred’s daughter out of respect; out of fear, even. Lady Blædswith noticed this, and frowned before closing the distance between them. The young, blonde haired girl began to wash the princess’s lovely figure, mindful of her various bruises and fractured bones.

“You need not fear me.” She soothed motherly, feeling chills ripple through her entire body as the breeze began to pick up. “I will not let anything happen to you... as long as I am here. You have my word.” The blonde looked up at the Saxon, eyes sparkling with tears though her lips curled into a tight smile.

“T-thank you, Lady.” She humbly nodded, now tilting the princess’s head back before pouring a bucket of fresh water over her thick, curly locks. With their backs to the entirety of Beamfleot, Lady Blædswith couldn’t help but gaze into the distance, watching ripples along the water’s surface reflect the moon’s vibrant rays. 

The bashful, fair-completed princess

smiled. “You may call me Blædswith. What is your name?” She asked the beautiful slave out of curiosity, and by the surprised look on her face, she was the first person in a long time to ask such a thing. The girl hesitated, almost as if struggling to recall what she had once gone by, rather than the cruel insults she was called on a daily basis.

“My name is Moira, Lady.” She then squeezed her eyes shut and corrected, “Blædswith.” She hummed as she worked her way around the princess’s grotesque, multicolored torso. “I have not been asked that in some time…”

“Tell me, Moira... what is Sigefrid like? You have certainly known him longer than I have.” Blædswith grinned as Moira began to scrub the dirt from her hands and face. Though reluctant, Moira felt the princess deserved to know the truth, seeing as her Lord had taken a particular liking to her in light of recent events.

“Lord Sigefrid is… an ambitious man.” She shook her head grimly. “He gets what he wants, n-no matter the cost.” Moira sighed to herself, almost shamefully. “If I am being honest…”

“Please, do.”

“He does not think with his head. That is what Erik is for.” She tapped a finger to her own scalp. “He thinks with his cock. Well, he did… until he found you. Now I’d say things are different.” Moira rang out the cloth and used it to gently dry the princess’s face. “It is no secret how he feels about you, Lady.”

“He has been rather kind to me. I even sat bare chested before him and he did not touch me. Perhaps he does not wish to.” She shrugged.

Moira couldn’t help but grin. “I can assure you, he would very much like to. Any man with eyes would.” She then rubbed down the princess’s chest, adding, “After all, you are Alfred’s daughter.”

“Sweet Moira.” Blædswith chirped and brushed a loose curl from the slave’s face. “What... if I were to live here? You could tend to me, only, and I would care for you.” She could see herself and Moira living together almost as sisters, if not like mother and child - despite her being a slave. She felt drawn to protect such an innocent soul who, despite being sold into slavery, seemed nothing but kind and gentle. “I would protect you.”

Caught off guard, Moira nearly burst into tears of joy, turning away before Blædswith could notice. “I… I would be grateful to serve you, Lady of Wessex.” She then looked up at Blædswith with a slight frown, “Or, would you be Lady of Beamfleot?”

“I would simply be Blædswith. No titles, if I could help it.” She shrugged, and once her shoulder and the rest of her body had been washed ever so carefully, Blædswith was instructed to stay in the water whilst Moira retrieved her fur. “Do not be long!” She called after Moira light-heartedly, having thoroughly enjoyed her company thus far and did not wish to go without it. 

Aside from the Thurgilson brothers, this poor slave was all she had. 

As Blædswith mindlessly overturned rocks with her toes and sliced through the still lake water with her hands, she’d become one with nature’s tranquility in waiting for Moira’s return. 

“Sorry for the wait, Blædswith.” A distant voice rang out from beyond the darkness, though Moira was not yet visible. “Dagfinn hid your pelt in the bushes hoping to see you na-”

Moira had stopped dead in her tracks, her vibrant blue eyes wide with sheer terror as she dropped the pelt at her feet. A thick, crimson stream oozed down her mouth as she began to gurgle and choke on her own blood. Before Blædswith could react fast enough, or at all, Moira’s eyes rolled back into her head as her knees gave way, causing her body to limply topple over, revealing Hæsten with a bloodied dagger in hand and a devilish glint in his khol-smeared eyes. 

“Princess.” The Dane greeted wickedly with a haughty, half-assed bow.

As he stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight, seeming unable to stand completely still due to the excessive horns of ale he’d downed, he let out a low chuckle before walking across Moira’s body like a bridge, wiping his muddied boots against her back. Blædswith could hear the crunching of her frail bones beneath his heavy boots.

“No!” Blædswith wailed, immediately back stroking to distance herself from the drunken Dane who began stumbling towards her. As much as it pained her to do so, her arms began flailing in and out of the water in a panic. “Y-you bastard! She was just a girl!” Blædswith shrieked, unable to stop herself from hyperventilating as she swam further and further away from shore out of fear he would try to drown her, or worse. 

Hæsten could see she was very naked, and very much afraid. “Ah yes. But she was a girl you cared for.” Hæsten then placed the tip of his dagger to his lips as if telling Blædswith to hush; as if saying “there is no point in screaming when nobody will hear you.”

As loud as she physically could, Blædswith began calling out for help; for her designated guards to defend her against such a creature bearing ill intentions. 

They were nowhere to be found.

“You will freeze to death, princess.” Hæsten began walking along the water, now up to his ankles. “You can not stay out there forever.” He began to twirl the dagger between his fingers before wiping the remaining blood on his sleeve. “What a shame.” The blonde Dane looked over his shoulder at the crumpled body he’d slain. “She was a good hump.”

“Sigefrid!” Blædswith cried once more, “Sigefrid! Erik! Please! H-hear me!” The princess realized she’d swam out far enough that her toes no longer touched the bottom - they were not even close - therefore her voice would likely never penetrate Beamfleot’s walls.

“Sigefrid can not hear you. He is busy planning how to sell you back to Alfred.” Hæsten sneared, “And he has decided not to give me any of the silver.” His tone was rather accusatory as if she were to blame. “And do not forget; you humiliated me.” He proceeded to near the princess, the water now up to the soaked knees of his trousers.

“Hæsten. Sigefrid will never forgive you.” She warned breathlessly, feeling the cold waters numb her tender arms and legs. Her bruised, aching lungs felt impossibly heavier as she fought to keep her head above water. “Please,” she gasped, spitting out a mouthful of lake water. “Don’t. If this is about silver, I-I have plenty in Wessex.”

“I do not want your silver, nor Sigefrid’s forgiveness. I want you to suffer for what you did to me. You ruined me, woman!” Hæsten roared drunkenly, nearly falling over on his arse though he regained his composure.

“Anybody! Help!” She wept, forcing her body to stay afloat as long as she could.“Sigefrid…” Completely winded and moments away from slipping into the night, her voice had fallen to a mere whisper at the acceptance of her fate. 

If she were to die tonight, it would not be at Hæsten’s hand. She would not grant him such pleasure; the satisfaction in knowing he’d gotten what he wanted. If anything, it would be the water’s icy depths that would take her to the great beyond — The Great Hall of Valhalla.

She could feel a dark shadow cast from above, as if the moon itself had already shut her out. 

“S-Sigefrid I… I’m not ready…”

There was a large splash in the near distance. An eruption of violent yelling rang out in the night, as did the sounds of metal clashing upon metal. Though muffled, she could make out the loud, rhythmic grunting of someone swimming towards her. A pair of strong arms hoisted her above the water, throwing her good arm over their shoulders as they proceeded to swim her back to shore.

“S-Sigefrid!” Blædswith, once conscious, gasped as she recognized the dark haired Dane who so valiantly came to her rescue. “Sigefrid you heard me…” She slurred out of shock and disbelief. After swimming them to shore, he carried her out of the water and wrapped her entire body in an oversized fur.

“I did.” He nodded windedly, pulling her against his chest for comfort; his and hers. “I heard your cries, and I was there as fast as I could.” Sigefrid leaned his head back and caressed the side of her pale cheek with his hand. His sorrowful, glossy eyes scanned over her face as his voice faded to a boyish whimper. “I thought I lost you.”

Sniffling, she shook her head and burst into tears of joy; of relief, and pressed her pruny hand against his cheek with a weak smile. “I’m here, Sigefrid. I-I’m alive.” Almost instantly, she could feel her body regaining its heat, though that didn’t stop her from shivering in his grasp.

“This,” Sigefrid shook his head and panned around the scene, where four dead bodies now littered the shore. “This is all my fault.” He then gritted his teeth and cursed at himself beneath his breath. “I let you down. I did not protect you, I,” He paused to run his hand over his beard. “I can no longer trust anyone…”

“Sigefrid, please.” She placed a calming hand to his chest, now standing on her toes to look him in the eye. “This is not your fault. But if it must be, then I forgive you.”

“How?” Sigefrid himself began to fight back tears of his own. “How can you forgive me? Tell me. I am not worthy of your-”

Blædswith cupped the back of Sigefrid’s neck and crashed her lips onto his unexpectedly, smiling into it as Sigefrid hungrily kissed back. She could feel the sweetness of passion; a million loving thoughts condensed into a single moment. Sigefrid and Blædswith were undeniably their most vulnerable selves.

It was as if time had collapsed into one tiny speck, then exploded at the speed of light. Her universe began and ended with him. As they embraced once another, the world - Midgard - seemed to halt on its axis. There was no time, wind, nor rain. There was no fear of what their futures entailed; no physical pain nor sorrows. 

Lady Blædswith was, truly, at peace. 

She did not worry about what this would mean for them; A fearsome northman had fallen for the Saxon daughter of his sworn enemy, and a princess had fallen in love with the Dane who kidnapped her. This would not be something either side takes lightly.

Sigefrid supported her lower back with his arm as she leaned against his bare chest. When their lips parted Blædswith whispered breathlessly, 

“You talk too much.” 

Sigefrid leaned down and placed a soft, prickly-bearded kiss to her lips once more as he tangled his hand through her wet hair. 

He then whispered in her ear with a growing smirk, placing a hot kiss to the side of her neck as his thumb moved to cares her throat.

“I thought that was my line.”

_______________________________________________

A/N: I Hope you all enjoyed this longer chapter! If anyone would like to be added to the tag list, let me know :)

TAGS: @inforapound @cheapcakeripper @wildwren @metall-and-dust @eclipsedbymyheart @henrycavill19 @aesirharvorsson @finantheagile @onesaltyhunter @wessexcrown @destinysall @lauwrite1225 @lumxnously @chlomidgard @dagonet-ironside @marv-llous @littlebirdgot @curlyrat

[hazbincalifornia]

Prey

Chapter 26: Hunting is fun, right?

Warnings: Mpreg, canon-typical violence.

Likes, replies, and reblogs are all appreciated, both here and on ao3!

Ao3 link

“Why are you wearing a coat?” Moxxie raised an eyebrow as he lowered his binoculars, and Blitzo growled from low in his throat, scrubbing at his eyes.

“Because I’m cold? Seems pretty obvious to me, Moxx.” His teeth chattering together like wind-up monkeys agreed.

“It’s seventy-five degrees out. I checked the weather here before we left to be sure it wasn’t raining, and I can feel it. It’s warm out here.”

“I said that I’m cold. Can’t a man know his own body?” Blitzo tugged the coat tighter around his middle- or at least, as much as he could. The bump had, infuriatingly, nearly outgrown the coat, but that was fine, because it was the one spot on him that wasn’t frozen like a tongue on a metal pole. It was practically boiling, actually, suctioning all the heat out of Blitzo’s body like a leech in a black hole and leaving all extremities shivering in a way reminiscent of poor street orphans. Millie reached over to snap off a square of the chocolate bar that Blitzo was holding, and her eyes widened as she brushed his fingers in the process.

“Aw, Moxxie, he’s right, he is cold! He’s-” She paused, concern gathering like storm clouds. “Really cold, actually. Are you sure you should-”

His fingers tightened around the gun in his free hand. “I’m not going home. I’m not letting this shit bench me, nothing has to change until I can shove the little cretin out and figure out what to do with them, got it?” Blitzo swatted at her hand, and she pulled back with her mouth screwed to the side and lips pursed.

“Hmmph. I’m just saying, I don’t really remember Mama or Daddy going through anything like this. I don’t think it’s a normal imp thing, is all, so you don’t know-”

“I know that if I sit at home with nothing to do, I am going to fucking lose it, so chill, alright?”

“Chill is the last thing you need, apparently,” Moxxie grumbled, and Blitzo smacked him with his tail, getting a little yelp out of the smaller imp before Millie stuck a hand over both of their mouths.

“C’mon,” she muttered, “We need to focus, they’re looking our way.”

Blitzo licked her palm, but she just raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve got four siblings, Blitz, that stopped working on me when I was eight.” Her fingers dug into his cheeks before letting go and he huffed, shuffling on his haunches and stuffing the rest of the chocolate bar in his mouth. Already, his stomach was growling again- stupid kid was being even more high-maintenance than usual. For that matter, more everything.

That morning, he’d woken up half-frozen to the bed with blood practically freezing under his skin, his stomach nearly a full inch bigger than it had been the night before with his skin itching like fuck because of it and stretchmarks creeping around the edges to boot. The binge last night must have all gone to plumping the little bastard up or something, because of course it had. (He could still feel where the kid had torn up, but it was manageable now with a handful of painkillers, at least.)

Fortunately, he had a coat in the back of his closet at work from when they’d gone to the arctic to knock off a scientist who’d stolen their target’s research, and he’d gotten it a size too big just in case he’d needed to hide one of the bulky weapons inside.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t realized that until after the client meeting.

____

“So he just left me there after I checked his gun and it went off.” The client, a deer-form sinner, had raised an eyebrow, camo jacket rustling as he folded his arms with a twitch of his ear. “Hey, how come your little lackey’s in a suit but you aren’t? It’s all unprofessional and shit. You look like a marshmallow.”

Blitzo growled, tugging his (not stretchy enough) shirt down. The light pink fabric bounced back up anyway. Traitor.

“And you ended up in Hell. We all make bad choices sometimes. Just tell me where the fucking gig is, alright?”

____

Blitzo shook his head as the leaves rustled- he needed to focus. He could not become a liability, even though leaving the warmth of Hell for the more temperate heat of Earth chilled his bones better than any iced coffee ever could.

“Gimme the rundown, Moxx. How’s it looking?”

“There’s four of them around the fire. One woman, three men, all in camouflage clothing. All wearing hunting caps for some reason too, even though this weather’s far too warm for it for most humans, I would think. Perhaps it’s some kind of pack-bonding thing.” Moxxie adjusted the binoculars a bit. “The target is the short one with the red hair.”

“G-got it,” Blitzo said, rubbing his arms. If he any hair on them, it'd be standing up. Fire sounded good. Fire sounded really good. “When reddie breaks off from the bunch, we nab them. The client said he doesn’t care if the others get hurt in the process as long as we weren't charging extra for it, he wanted the party all back together anyway.”

“Right,” Millie said with a nod. “As soon as-”

“They’re all moving out at once,” Moxxie hissed, cutting her off. “They were talking but I couldn’t hear what, the target’s being left to guard the fire.”

“It’s almost too easy,” Blitzo said, twirling the gun in his hand and before splitting off and creeping through the underbrush, each footstep sinking slightly into the damp, muddy ground with a squelch as Moxxie hissed something after him that he couldn’t quite hear. The foliage was thick enough here that he lost sight of the fire for a moment, but the cozy, flickering warmth drew him like a snake to a flute, yellow sparks creating dancing shadows off the trees- but with no long shadows to reflect except for his own. “Wait, the hell did he go?” The firepit was still crackling merrily away, but the target had vanished. He raised an eyebrow, turning back to their hiding spot. “C’mon, where is he? You go blind in the last two minutes, Moxxie?”

“He was just here- he must have stepped out to go to the bathroom,” Moxxie whisper-hissed. “Be careful, they’re-”

“C’mon, Moxxie, I’m not an invalid.” Blitzo stuck his hand in the already-opened bag of marshmallows and stuffed one in his mouth. The pops and snarls of the fire were filling the aches of his bones with soothing jelly, and his legs wobbled a little as he swallowed down the gooey snack. “I’ll go find ‘em, just… just a second…”

“Sir…”

“Relax, it takes more than ten seconds to piss.” Blitzo reached for the marshmallows again, fingers already in the bag when-

“Blitz!” Millie called out just as pain exploded through the back of his hand, and a screech bubbled up from deep in his chest as he automatically smacked his other hand at his wrist, brain taking precious milliseconds to process whatever the fuck had just happened.

There was a knife. Impaled. On his hand. Black blood spurted out in waves over his skin and sleeve, and he yanked the fingers close to his body as shrieking erupted from the bushes.

“Ha! Thought I heard somethin’! Those horns are gonna look real pretty mounted on my wall!” Red hair fell over a tanned and freckled face, and Blitzo’s fingers twitched, nerves going haywire as his other hand fumbled for something, anything, he’d dropped the fucking gun when he’d grabbed at his wrist, fuck, shit- there! His fingers clasped a small bottle and he chucked it full force at the human. It shattered, foul-smelling yellow liquid splattering his face as he sputtered and spat. “What the fuck?” The human fumbled for his weapon to retaliate, but-

BLAM!

-That was going to be rather difficult, considering his head was now in about twenty pieces, several of which splattered Blitzo's face and slid down before he brushed them off, licking at his cheeks.

“Blitz!” Millie called, hurrying down. “Are you okay?”

“I’m-”

“Put your h-hands up!”

Blitzo whirled around, automatically dropping into a hunched crouch with his non-injured arm wrapped around his stomach. He hissed as the other humans from the hunting party of doom scrambled back to the firepit. God, his hand hurt.

“Get the fuck out,” he growled in a lower timbre than he’d ever heard himself drop to, and the one in the front froze, leading the woman to shove her way upwards.

“You killed Todd!”

A bang and she collapsed to her knees, clutching at her chest before another shot went straight through her skull. A cawing crow took off from a nearby tree, rustling the leaves.

Fingers clasped his elbow, and he could smell mint- Moxxie’s mouthwash. “The target’s down, we need to-”

“I wanna rip them to pieces, they got me,” Blitzo growled.

“Millie and I can take care of- eep!” Another shot cracked off above their heads, and Moxxie dragged Blitzo to the side as a huge branch slammed down where they’d been. “You’re in no shape-“

“I’m fine!” Sweat poured down over Blitzo’s eyes, and- were there two of Moxxie all of a sudden? When did he get a twin? He didn't have a twin. Blitzo would have found that out by now.

“No, you aren’t! You’re risking all of us, call Loona so we can clean- gah!” Moxxie kicked at the air furiously as one of the remaining hunters lifted him up like a ragdoll and dragged him away, screaming all the while as he twisted and writhed in their grip. Blitzo saw red. His tail snapped like a whip as he leaped forward and bit furiously at the mound of protesting, shaking meat, and a sharp shock grazed the side of his chest before blood gushed from the human's throat as he tore the jugular out with his teeth. Inside, the kid kicked out, doing their best to distract him, but nothing was going to keep him from-

“Moxx! Blitzo!” The head cracked mere inches from his face as Millie slammed a knife into the neck and snapped the spinal cord, and a gurgling scream cut off before two pairs of hands hauled him back from the fresh corpse. He snapped his teeth, heels digging into the damp ground as he strained forward. He needed to dismember it, he needed to tear it to pieces, he needed to fucking destroy it-

“And stay down, you fucking bastards, don’t fucking touch them-“

“It’s- it’s fine, he didn’t hurt me,” Moxxie said, dragging Blitzo back by the arm. “He maybe bruised my arms at best.”

“They’re dead, Blitzo, we can go home.” Millie agreed, and their combined strength forced Blitzo to take a breath, falling limp.

“…So sloppy, the ones with guns didn’t even get a shot in.”

Moxxie sucked in a breath. “About that…” He pressed his fingers to the side of Blitzo’s pecs, and Blitzo groaned out a ‘fuck’.

“It doesn’t look too bad, it should be fine with some painkillers and a tourniquet,” Millie commented. “The hand is much worse.”

Being reminded of that sent a white-hot flare of pain scurrying up his nerves, and Blitzo hissed. “Riiiiight.”

Millie fired off a text, and by the time Blitzo turned around, the portal had opened in front of them. He took one step before nearly eating dirt, and Millie and Moxxie grasped him under the armpits and hauled him through, the office the most welcome sight he’d ever seen.

“What happened?” Loona asked, fingers tightening around the Grimoire.

“It went badly,” Moxxie grunted. “Get the first aid kit.”

Loona didn’t argue.

________________

Well, he was definitely on too many painkillers to be fully healthy for the kid at this point considering how much it took to be anywhere near effective on him, but he wasn’t bleeding out, his hand wasn’t screaming at him anymore, and his shirt had probably gotten ruined by all the stretching out even before his side started bleeding all over it, so…

Okay, yeah, fuck trying to spin it, this just plain sucked shit-flavored asshole. Millie finished tying off the bandage around his hand as he sat in his chair and Moxxie paced around his office.

“We can’t keep doing this.”

“Come-” Blitzo coughed. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, the chills were creeping back up everywhere the blood wasn’t still rushing to, and he couldn’t help but lean closer to Millie and her precious body heat. “-Come on, getting hurt in the field is just part of the job.”

“Yes, but you’re not thinking clearly anymore, and you’re risking-”

“I am so thinking clearly!” Setting aside the fact that if he blinked too much Moxxie duplicated himself again, but he wasn’t about to tell him that.

Moxxie continued as if he hadn’t spoken, rude little shit. “You’re risking yourself, both of us, and, yes, the baby!”

“Oh, and they’re the one that matters here.” Blitzo rolled his eyes, but Moxxie folded his arms, tail swaying like a pendulum and nails drumming on his bicep.

“I know that your feelings about this are mixed, but I would never forgive myself if you went out there and got both of you killed because you’re a stubborn jackass.”

“He’s right,” Millie added.

“Don’t you dare team up on me,” Blitzo snarled, lead settling in the pit of his stomach as Millie stood up, drying her hands off with the towel borrowed from the bathroom- they were going to have to replace that. It had been white with little galloping horses around the bottom, and they were all so covered in black now that you couldn’t even see them anymore. He knew from experience that imp blood never came out of white fabric no matter how hard you scrubbed.

“We will if we have to- I’d do the same for anybody,” Millie said, balling the towel up and dropping it on the desk. “You lasted a lot longer than most people would, but there’s no shame in taking some time off so you don’t end up killin’ the little one before they even get a chance to see the world.”

“What about me, huh? Don’t I get a say in this? This is my company!” He shoved himself off the chair, but Millie pushed him back down. Her hand burnt where it touched his chest.

“C’mon, Blitzo, you need to be resting- I care about you, alright? Both’a us do.”

“Oh, sure, that's why you're not letting me make my own decisions as a grown-ass man." He narrowed his eyes.

“If we didn’t, we’d just let you go out and get yourself killed by the next target who has a gun,” Moxxie retorted. “I’m not going to let you drag all of us down with you, and I’m not going to keep working out in the field with you if you’re going to be a liability!”

“Are you threatening to quit?” Blitzo tried to get up again, and again Millie pushed him back down- far easier than she should have been able to, but if it was the blood loss or the baby weight was anybody’s guess.

“Of course not- maybe? I don’t know!” Moxxie rubbed his forehead. “I just-”

Millie shifted over to him, squeezing his shoulders. “We get what you mean, honey.” She turned back to Blitzo. “I know you wanna always do your best and work hard for IMP, and I’ve got nothing but praise for that, but-”

“But nothing! I can do this, end of story!”

Millie raised an eyebrow, taking a few steps back towards him and poking Blitzo right where she’d just wrapped the gunshot wound, and he couldn’t hold back a pained whine. “Suuuuure you can.”

“If you insist on still coming to work, just-” Moxxie sucked in a breath. “Just take over Loona’s job. Maybe she can help us, but Millie and I handled things fine when you were gone, we can keep things running.”

“Like hell you can!” Icy hands squeezed at his chest as Millie patted his shoulder.

“You don’t have to do everything alone, Blitzo.”

He smacked her hand away. “Don’t tell me I’m useless, I don’t need your fucking pity-”

“But you do need us,” Millie replied. “We want to help, isn’t that enough? There’s only another month and a half or so until they’ll be here, after all. You've got a lot to get sorted, and it's the least we can do.”

Blitzo just stared with wide eyes as his knifed hand screamed with every minute twitch of the nerves and tendons within. Moxxie raised an eyebrow with his arms crossed, and Millie considered the towel on the desk before dropping it in the trash. It left behind little splatters of his blood on the polished oak as he gritted his teeth.

“Fuck both of you.”

(Which meant, unfortunately, ‘you win for now’, and it was only because he was about to pass out in his chair.)

[gaythingliker69]

Introspection

Hey, so this is quite different to what Id normally write. It’s the old draft that I deleted I talked about a while ago. Please give feedback, cause it’s the only non fic thing I’ve ever posted. And if you like it, please reblog, I’m not really sure what to tag it and I want it to get out there.

CW: violence, misogyny, alcohol, body horror, horror themes

———

Josh woke up to a pounding headache. He tried to swallow only for that to hurt too. He tried to turn on the bedside lamp, only to cower from its feeble light. He turned it off, and rolled onto the other side of the bed, groaning. He searched back through his mind, trying to think where he’d been, who he’d been with, what he’d drunk, only to find nothing. Fucking hell, he was getting too old for this. A guy well into his twenties going and getting blackout drunk once, sometimes twice a week. But that was the only way he ever got any release. He couldn’t afford tickets for the football anymore, and he only ever seemed to see other people at work. He stayed on his side for a few more minutes, before hauling himself to his feet and dragging himself into the kitchen.

Josh grabbed a glass, desperate for a drink. He turned the tap, but nothing. The water was gone. There was always an issue - gas, electricity, water, the phone lines… always. He sighed again. Coffee. That was normally a good starter to getting rid of a headache, and some sugar in it wouldn’t do any harm. He opened the cupboard to get the coffee, only to find nothing. He groaned. To the shops it was then. Maybe they’d get the water fixed while he was out.

Josh pulled on a pair of tracksuit bottoms, an old t-shirt for a band he hadn’t listened to in years, and a hoodie. He pulled up the hood, pulled the drawstrings tight, and set off, trudging through the overcast late morning. He reached the supermarket, an Aldi situated just off a main road by his apartment building. He made his way through the doors, looking up to scan the shelves. The empty shelves. There was nothing - no food, drink, the famous middle aisle left derelict. Then he realised there was no one there either. No confused shoppers, no apologetic workers dealing with the customers’ ire. Nothing. It was quiet. Too quiet. He realised the car park was empty, and there was no noise of engines from the road. There hadn’t been on his whole walk. He’d been stuck in a hungover stupor, so hadn’t noticed, but the silence was so complete it was eerie. It swallowed up any noise he made in an instant. Josh felt his stomach pitch and his heartbeat quicken. This wasn’t right. None of it was.

His wretched state temporarily forgotten, Josh set out on a jog for what counted as the town centre. A grey area plagued by empty lots and a distinct lack of character. He ran into McDonald’s first. Nothing. No cashiers, no customers, no noise from the kitchen. Panicking, he ran into the Cancer Research UK shop, the Halifax bank, and the only sort of upmarket restaurant he could think of, an Italian called Silvio’s. Empty seats. Empty shelves. Empty desks. Empty counters. Everything was empty. There was nothing and no one left.

Josh walked toward the centre of the town, an open plaza with a statue of the town’s founder at its centre. He was some English general from hundreds of years ago, stood with his arms folded, looking over his concrete empire. He was made of slate, the only thing that wasn’t concrete or Tarmac. Yet he was still grey. Josh sat on a bench, back to the statue, and put his head in his hands. He cried. For the first time in what felt like years, tears flooded down his cheeks. They ran off his cheeks, settling on the floor below him, the only signs of life in the abandoned world he now found himself in.

“Why? Why me? What’s happening?” he cried.

“Have you been unable to make sense of your situation, Joshua Bowyer?”

Josh looked around , startled. Who was it, and why did they address him like that? The voice rasped out of the air, as if the speaker was in immense pain as they spoke.

“W-who are you? Show yourself!” Josh shouted. He sounded pathetic. His shaking voice echoed around the plaza, his weakness taunting him.

A great crash rang out. Josh shot to his feet, startled, and turned to see the slate of the statue crashing to the floor. There was the outline of a shin, as if the statue were hollow. He turned to face the slate baron, and jumped again at a finger falling, again hollow on the inside.

The slate began to flake away before him. Forearms, shoulders, the jacket he wore on his torso, and the ridiculous wig on the state’s head, all falling to the floor. Some shattered. Some lay whole. But Josh hardly noticed.

Beneath the slate was a body, but no flesh. White bone visible under layers of muscle, cartilage, and veins. Organs on full display, lungs inflating and deflating, heart pumping. All suspended in midair, not collapsing despite gravity’s best efforts. The thing stayed still for a moment, and kicked out with its left leg. Slate flew past Josh’s head. Then the right foot. It was free. The smell of blood filled the air. The final piece of the statue that remained was the face, stern, painted by wrinkles and a frown. The thing raised it’s hands to its face, muscles visibly contracting and retracting all the way. It let out an almighty scream as it tore the slate away, splitting the silence of the town. It came away, and was thrown to the ground, shattering.

It’s face was the same as the rest of its body, skinless. It’s visible teeth barely caged it’s twitching tongue. It’s lumpish and grey brain was miraculously was still atop its stem and in its skull. Its eyes rolled and spasmed in its head, suffering from the light and dust. They stopped, and bore into Josh’s. They were red. Or incredibly bloodshot. It didn’t matter. It laughed, that rasp cutting through Josh once again.

Josh blinked, and the thing was stood barely a foot away from him. He recoiled, and tried to run. But he was frozen into place, staring at the creature’s awful features. The stench of blood was overpowering at this distance. Josh retched, the smell and aight combined proving too much.

“We have much to discuss, Joshua Bowyer.”

“W-what are you?” Josh sobbed.

“Me? I am The Ombudsman. It is unfortunate we should have to meet, Joshua Bowyer.”

“What are you talking about? Where am I?”

“The Ombudsman’s duty is to hand down punishment,” it continued, as if it hadn’t heard him. “I only deal with the most… reprehensible of scum you humans produce.”

“What are you talking about? I’m not a crim-“

Memories. Flooding in, incoherent at first. Then forming a story.

The kebab house was bustling. Being over the road from a pub will do that, especially when the pub kicks out. Groups and couples stood or walked, shovelling in food in their alcohol infused daze. Cars drove past occasionally, and a Kasabian song could be heard drifting into the street from the kebab shop. A taxi pulled away, and two guys, probably not ok enough to get served, hoisted with paper cutlery from the shop. The air felt light, and everyone was relaxed.

Josh, however, wasn’t relaxed. She’d rejected him, gone off with her friend, probably just some girl she was pretending to know to get away from him. He was only trying to be nice, fucking bitch. His chest tightened, and his grip on the pint glass did too. He downed the dregs, and looked to the bar. Closed. He’d wasted all his time on that bitch.

There was a group of girls stood outside. Laughing. How could they laugh? This night was shit. The red mist descended. He’d show them, fucking show them all. He marched outside. The was a shattering of glass, screaming, blood. She stumbled backwards. A car turned the corner as she fell.

Josh fell to his knees, tears pouring down his cheeks.

“You see now what you have done?”

Josh’s tears gave the answer. Him. A killer.

“Amelia Salazar. 18 years old. She is due to go to the University of York in September to study English. Or she was.”

The rasp turned from mournful and sad, to one filled with hatred and scorn. She’d never study anywhere. All because of Josh.

“So, perhaps now you see, prison is perhaps not sufficient. So you will be left here for your Introspection. You will rot. You will pay for her life with your mind. Your length of Introspection is of no concern to you. By the time your term ends, there will be no ‘you’ to release.”

It suddenly reached out, pressing a bloody ‘palm’ to Josh’s face. It burned, white hot pain searing for a second. When the creature took its hand away, the imprint was left on Josh’s face, burning red against his pale skin.

“A marker. To let anyone who has the unfortunate fate to cross your spirit’s path know. I trust you will find your stay here enlightening.”

The creature disappeared. But Josh hardly noticed. Wrapped in crushing grief, he knew this was it. This was how it ended. He’d lie here, rot, maybe end up looking like that thing. He drowned in his misery.

[cinebration]

Choose Where (Victor Zsasz x Reader) [Part 11]

THE END. Thank you all so much for sticking around!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 

Tagged: @im-just-one-of-the-avengers, @strangeaddiction1306, @vaaalexandra​, @marvelenthusiast10​, @thefandomqueen2882​, @33rie33​, @cassiopeia-barrow​

Warnings: cutting, mutilation, blood

Image Source: directedbysnyder

The club was empty when you returned the following day. No note. You didn’t ask around to find out where Zsasz had gone. You merely threw yourself into the work.

As the only person left in charge of Roman’s operation, courtesy of the CFO paperwork you had filed months before, you took over.

The first thing you did was tear down the torture wallpaper with your bare hands.

For the next few months, you ripped out every piece of art in the place but for the big black hands and eyes framing the stage. You bought new furniture, replacing the tables and stools. The booths you reupholstered in maroon. You changed the lighting, keeping it warm but no longer seductive and red. You tore down the walls and replaced them with mahogany wood.

You went so far as to get rid of every single bottle of liquor in the place, ordering replacements for later.

Once in a while, when you were alone and everything was quiet, you swore you could feel fingertips ghosting over your scars, could hear Zsasz’s laughter down the halls. It took all of your effort and daily exhaustion to avoid thinking about him. All you knew was that Harley and the Birds of Prey were still alive.

The day before the grand reopening of the club, Dinah walked through the door.

You nearly leapt out of your skin. Smiling weakly, you waved her over to where you were sitting at the bar going over the bar food menu for the sixth time. “Drink?”

Dinah shook her head. “I’m not staying. I wanted to check it out.” She looked around the room. “It looks different.”

“That was the point.”

“Better, for sure.”

“I wanted to go for a speakeasy vibe. I even hired a jazz band,” you said. Eyeing her warily, you asked, “What’s new with you?”

You had never seen her so happy, so relaxed. She sat down on a stool beside you. “You’re some sort of money whiz, right?”

You arched an eyebrow. “Sort of.”

“I was hoping you could help me out. My friend can’t access her money. It got frozen in her accounts.”

“Ah.” You tapped the menu with your pen. “Your friend wouldn’t be Helena Bertinelli, would it?”

Dinah drew back. “How did you know that?”

“I’m a money whiz. The Bertinelli fortune is impossible not to hear about.”

“Can you do anything about it?”

You stared into her imploring eyes. “My relationship with Wayne Industries prevents me from helping out a vigilante group,” you said carefully. “I need them to protect me.”

“From what?”

“You don’t think other assholes want Roman’s empire?”

Dinah frowned. “We can protect you.”

“I need the Wayne Industries investments to keep this place open. But…I can tell you that you and your friends can get the money back if you find the banker who froze them.” You looked at her sideways. “I’m sure all he’ll need is a little persuasion. Of the ass-kicking variety.”

Dinah smiled. “We’re good at that.”

“I can get you the name. But that’s it.”

“Thank you.” Dinah glanced at you. “Are you sure you don’t want to join us? Get out of this place?”

You laughed. “I kick numbers and stock markets and investors, not ass.”

“Helena’s fortune is a lot of money to manage.”

“Thanks, but no.”

Sighing, Dinah stood and glanced around the room once more. “How can you stand it here?”

You spun in the stool, surveying the wood-paneled space. “I remade it on my terms.”

“Why did you keep the name? And those,” she said, gesturing to the sculpture on the stage.

“I figured it was the perfect ‘fuck you’ to Sionis.”

Dinah laughed, her voice swelling to fill the space. She left, the laughter trailing after her.

The next night, the grand reopening went spectacularly. The speakeasy vibe drew a different crowd. The jazz band filled the air with soothing rhythms. No man threw a tantrum and made women dance against their wills atop tables.

At 2am, closing time, you sat up in the office by yourself, hyper aware of your solitude. As though moving through water, you closed up the bar and returned to your shitty apartment, feeling hollow and hating every second of it.

Scar greeted you at the door. Sweeping him up in your arms, you threw yourself onto the couch and cradled him, hoping his purring would soothe you.

Two quiet knocks sounded on your door. With a sigh, you dragged yourself off the couch.

“Mrs. Robinson,” you called, opening the door, “I don’t have—”

You couldn’t breathe.

Zsasz looked the same as he had the last time you had seen him. Nearly. The rage and hurt were gone, his dark eyes cautious. You stepped aside, expecting him to storm through the door as was his way.

He walked past you slowly, hesitant. When the door shut, he turned and said, “You changed the club.”

You felt yourself deflate. Of course. It always came back to Roman. “Look—”

“It looks better.”

You blinked. “Thanks…” Determined to hurt yourself, you added, “Sionis would’ve hated it.”

“Not if you convinced him it was his idea.”

You wanted to laugh, but the sound died in your throat.

Scar nosed at Zsasz’s shoes, trying to place his scent. Zsasz crouched down to run a hand over his fur. “Hey, little guy. He’s so big now.”

“Yeah.”

You wanted to ask him where the hell he’d been, but you kept your mouth shut. He’d leave soon enough, you told yourself.

“Why are you still living here?” Unlike the previous times he’d asked, the question wasn’t vehement or judgmental. If anything, his voice sounded…sad.

“Look,” you said, fighting the pain growing inside you, “just say or do whatever you came here for.”

Zsasz straightened slowly. Adam’s apple bobbing, he opened his mouth to speak, hesitated. He rubbed the back of his neck, patted his hair as he struggled to find the words. Your heart strained in your chest, stomach twisting as the silence stretched.

“I had to bury Roman,” he finally said. “He was…”

“You loved him,” you said quietly. “And he loved you, in his own selfish, twisted way.”

He nodded. “One day, I will get my revenge,” he said, the words coming out slowly. He met your eyes. “But not today.”

It was a start. “I can accept that.”

Relief washed over his features before another expression overshadowed it, his gaze intense. “Good.”

He seized your face in his hands and pressed his lips to yours.

It was as though a dam within you burst. All the hurt and the worry and the frustration he caused you flooded forward, pouring itself through your lips. You wanted to hurt him and hold him and save him and be the reason for his destruction.

“I know,” he murmured against your lips, breaking away for a second. “I know.”

Backing you up against the door, he kissed you with ravenous desperation, a starved man aching to consume you. You couldn’t think past the heat of him, the taste of his mouth, the strength of his tongue. He lifted you up, wrapping your legs around his hips, his body melding to yours.

You gasped for air, lips bruised from the intensity of the kiss. He dragged his mouth down your neck to your collarbone, lathed his tongue over the scar there. Your head tipped back against the door.

“You’re getting a new apartment,” he grunted. “No argument.”

“Fine,” you answered before reclaiming his lips. Growling, he pivoted away from the door, seeking the bedroom. A few strides and you both were on the bed, his body firmly seated between your legs. Your hands skated over his belt and tugged his shirt free of his pants, searching for skin. God, did he burn.

Tugging upward, you broke the kiss to let him yank the shirt off. Your hands slid to his belt.

“Wait.”

“Don’t tell me to wait,” you hissed. “I’ve been waiting.”

Staring into your eyes, he withdrew the knife from his pocket. For a moment, you felt a tinge of panic spike through you, but it passed as quickly as it had arrived.

“Choose where,” he whispered.

“What for?”

“On me,” he said. “So I don’t forget.”

Stunned, you let your gaze drop to his chest. Your hand traced the map of scars there, feeling each ridge. Just over his heart was a wide open space of unblemished skin. You tapped your finger there.

He rolled, taking you with him. Straddled on his hips, you looked down at his reverent expression. Taking the knife, you pressed the blade against the spot you had chosen, ghosting it over his flesh. He shivered, breath hitching in his throat. His hips bucked up against yours out of reflex.

“An X,” he said, breathless.

“Why?”

“One for each of yours.”

Heart stuttering, you set the knife against his skin, cutting deep. He tensed beneath you, grunting. His hands tightened on your hips as you made the second slash across the first. He sat up, blood running down his chest, and kissed your collarbone scar and your forehead one before staring into your face, a hand cradling your cheek.

“I know who you are now,” he said.

It took you a moment to realize he was referring to the first time you had met. “Oh yeah?”

He nodded, nose brushing yours.

“Well, tell me,” you said.

“My new god,” he breathed against your lips.

You shoved him back onto the mattress. “Don’t you forget it.”

He grinned.

[kieraswriting]

Coffin Chapter Seventeen

Masterpost 

(Warning Graphic Violence)

Virgil had felt the anger practically rolling off the man since before they’d gotten in the car. The death grip on his arm did nothing but confirm the fact.

Virgil was absolutely terrified.

He was walked to a large barn, and thrown to the ground inside. Liam crouched near him. Virgil didn’t dare move. The threat and menace was already terrifying enough, he didn’t want to do a single thing to anger him more.

“I don’t know what you were thinking, picking my son to go after, but I swear I will make you regret it.”

He grabbed at Virgil’s hair and pulled his head up, trading the muzzle for one that allowed Virgil to talk.

“This is your only chance at mercy, not that you deserve it. Let go of my son. Now.”

There wasn’t a thrall to let go of. But Virgil couldn’t let him know that. If he knew there wasn’t a thrall, he’d start asking what there was. He’d learn what they’d all been doing. And Virgil couldn’t have the blood of them all on his hands. He couldn’t. Not after they’d been so kind to him. He couldn’t.

“...no…”

Almost immediately a heavy boot was rammed into his stomach. Virgil doubled over, coughing. Pain flared, and he couldn’t breathe. Another kick had him curled in on himself on the floor.

But then, Virgil realized that he didn’t have to just take it. Especially if he was supposed to have thralled Patton, surely it would be reasonable for him to fight back. To try and get Patton and leave.

Virgil pulled hard at his hands until the flimsy handcuff chain broke. Liam kicked him in the ribs, but this time Virgil was able to grab his foot and pull.

Liam yelled something wordless and angry, tipping over.

Several pairs of hands grabbed Virgil before he could do anything else, pressing silver against his skin and holding tight despite his desperate thrashing. He let out a harsh scream, which was cut off when something heavy hit his head.

•^*^••

Patton pounded on the door even after his dad left, ramming into it to try to knock it down. But it was a pretty sturdy door. Without the key he wasn’t going to get out that way. Next he turned to the windows, but his dad had long ago fixed metal bars over them.

Patton slumped to the ground. He didn’t want to believe that his dad would hurt Virgil. But he knew better now.

A ragged sob tore out from his chest when he heard the scream. But there was nothing he knew to do. Nothing he could do.

•^*^••

“I have a plan.” Logan announced. “It’s not ideal, but it will work for the moment.”

“That’s better than anything we have,” Roman said. “What is it?”

Logan explained his plan, which, in his opinion, was trading their future for the present, but he had no other way of saving the present. Not without abandoning Virgil and Patton.

“I’ll do it.” Thomas said.

Roman nodded seriously.

“I’ll talk with Remus,” Dee offered.

“And I’ll call Remy,” Emile said.

“Thank you. Let’s get started, we don’t want to leave them with Liam any longer than we have to,” Logan said.

•^*^••

The instant Virgil woke up he wished he hadn’t. His wrists and ankles burned, clamped to the wall with silver cuffs. His shirt and hoodie were gone. He cracked his eyes open, just in time to see Liam standing up from a chair nearby. Virgil ducked his gaze away.

Liam grabbed his hair to force his head up. “Release my son.”

Virgil couldn’t answer. There was no way to answer yes, but he didn’t dare answer with a no.

A silver bar was pressed against his collarbone, and he screamed, trying to arch away from the burning pain. But all that did was pull on his wrists and ankles, doubling their pain.

“I said release him.”

The silver was pulled away for a few seconds, but when Virgil didn’t answer it was pressed into his arm.

Virgil screamed. It was all he could do.

The bar was pulled away for longer this time, enough for Virgil to get some breath back.

Liam hovered the bar above Virgil’s face. “Let him go.”

“Please, please don’t. Please!”

The burning metal pressed into his cheek where the muzzle didn’t cover. Virgil tried to pull his head away, but the grip on his hair was strong enough to hold him in place. He screamed.

Finally it left. His face was wet with tears, and he was panting and trembling as if he’d run a marathon.

“Let my son go,” Liam said, holding the silver bar threateningly.

“I can’t! I can’t! Please! Please, I can’t!” The words spilled out of Virgil’s mouth between sobs. “Please don’t! I-I didn’t!”

The rod was pressed flush with his side.

•^*^••

Patton was sobbing on the floor, practically ripping his hair out. He could hear the screams, and he just knew it was Virgil. Why had he ever let him out of the door?! He should have made him stay! He should’ve— there were a million things he could have done! But he hadn’t done any of them. And now Virgil was paying the price.

Patton let out a scream of frustration as he heard another scream of pain from Virgil.

He didn’t care if he never saw his dad ever again. If he got out he was taking Virgil and leaving for good.

•^*^••

The damn thing passed out again. Liam threw the rod to the ground, growling in anger. For all it’s begging and blubbering it hadn’t released his son yet. Unless it had.

Liam stalked toward the house, trying to calm his burning anger to a more manageable smolder. Patton hadn’t done anything wrong, and he didn’t want to go in angry and make him think he had.

But before he made it to the house, a car pulled up. A car he didn’t recognize. Far too many people started piling out of it, and they were carrying weapons.

“Hey! Who are you and what do you think you’re doing?” Liam yelled.

Several guns swung to point in his direction.

•^*^••

Everything was chaos. The last of the hunters were holed up in the barn, which Remus was trying to simultaneously pull down and set on fire, aided by his group of vengeful, blood-thirsty vampires.

Not to say that Dee wasn’t vengeful, but he wasn’t blood-thirsty, and despite his support of setting the barn on fire, he wouldn’t count himself as one of Remus’s group. He went inside the house, banging open doors and checking to be sure no hunters were left inside. One door was locked, and took a much harder kick to open, but open it did, revealing a very distraught Patton.

“Dee!”

“Patton! What happened to you? Are you alright?”

His face was red and puffy, and there was streaked blood on his fingers and through his hair.

Patton nodded. “We have to get Virgil. Right now. We can’t—“ his whole body shook with the force of the sudden sob. “We can’t leave him there any longer.”

As worried as he was about Virgil, Dee hadn’t expected Patton to be anything other than trapped, and he was getting more worried for him by the second. In his moment of hesitation, Patton was already pushing past him, running outside.

Dee checked the rest of the rooms, finally satisfied that no one else was in the house. Then he followed Patton outside.

Remus was crowing his approval of whatever Patton was telling him, and soon a group of vampires was pulling the boards right off the barn wall, creating a hole large enough to get inside.

Gunshots rang out, and then a wave of vampires piled inside the building. Dee looked around. They’d lost seven in all. But the barn was the last place the humans were hiding. They’d won the battle. Now if only they could manage to avoid being torn apart once the war came.  

He followed them into the barn. Virgil was one of the first things he saw, with Patton trying to get him down.

Virgil was cuffed to the wall with almost as many cuffs as Remus had been. His skin had many welts, raised and bubbled up painfully, and that was besides the cuffs. At least he was unconscious, separated from the pain at least by that.

Dee’s hand went unconsciously to his face, and his knees slowly gave out, dropping him to the ground. His vision blurred and narrowed, until all he could see were the marks of torture on Virgil’s body. He felt distantly that tears were streaming down his face, but he was frozen, caught in the worst kind of trance. Memories flicked over his skin, burning into his conscious mind.

•^*^••

It was almost over, but Thomas’s mind was still spinning wildly. Death and violence had swirled around him for the last hour, and he’d been a part of it. He should be used to this by now, since he was a hunter, but he wasn’t.

He was one of the last to enter the barn. Patton was carrying Virgil out as he went in, and Thomas could barely look at him, memories of when he’d found Dee springing up to torture his mind.

Wait.

Dee went inside.

Thomas rushed in to see Dee on his knees clutching at his face, a haunted look in his eyes and tears streaming down his cheeks. Thomas knelt in front of him.

The worst part was knowing he couldn’t touch him. Not yet anyway.

“Dee? Can you hear me?”

He stared past Thomas’s head, toward the wall where many cuffs were dangling. Thomas suppressed a shudder.

“Dee, listen to me. You’re safe. I’m here now. No one’s going to hurt you.”

Dee finally looked at his face, but his eyes were distant and unfocused. Thomas gave his best imitation of a soft smile.

“It’s alright now. You’re safe. And so is Virgil. They’re helping him right now. I’m here, you’re safe.” Thomas slowly held up his hands, to show that they were empty.

Dee’s eyes slowly focused. “Th—“

“Yes, it’s me. I’m Thomas.” Thomas very slowly reached his hand towards Dee’s unhurt side. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Dee didn’t move. Thomas’s hand finally rested against his cheek, cupping his chin gently.

“I’ve got you now. No one can hurt you.”

“Thomas?”

“Yes, it’s me.” Thomas fought with the tears threatening to spill from his own eyes. “I’m here.”

Dee leaned into Thomas’s hand, closing his eyes. His death grip on his face lessened slightly, but didn’t leave. Thomas moved forward, wrapping Dee in a soft hug.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you now. You’re safe.”

Carefully, Thomas shifted his position so he could lift Dee. He carried him outside, where they were some of the last to leave. Emile and Remy were waiting with the last car.

Thomas got into the backseat, not bothering with seatbelts, and holding Dee.

“Patton and Roman are doing the best they can for Virgil,” Emile said. “Logan went with Remus to handle the dispersion.”

Thomas nodded. He was glad that the plan was working, but he almost didn’t care.

He stroked back hair from Dee’s forehead. “Are you with me, Dee?”

Dee nodded slightly.

Thomas held him closer. “It’ll be ok. You can sleep. We have a long car ride ahead of us.”

Dee gave another slight nod, wrapping one of his arms around Thomas.

[jcolden]

WHILE YOUR PRAYING HANDS ARE UP

     The apartment felt emptier than it had in a long time. All the lights were off, and he was too high up for the ones on the street to really make a difference, but he didn’t switch any on as he went, first to the kitchen for a half-empty bottle of bourbon, then to his bedroom for a new shirt. He drank and paced, back out to the living room, emptying the little flask-shaped thing faster than what was probably wise. Always more shit, and maybe this distance that was growing between him and Queenie was natural. Maybe he should just stop pushing. Maybe it was God or the fucking universe trying to tell him that you’re meant to be alone — as if he didn’t get the fucking message the first time. With a furious growl, Julian whipped around and hurled the empty bottle at the brick wall to his left, where it burst into a thousand pieces, raining across his floor in a hail of shattered glass.

     Out. He needed to get out. His phone was already in his pocket. He shoved a fold of silver into another, patting himself down for weapons. Nothing big enough, nothing… his fingers curled around a grip sticking out of the waistband of his black jeans, warm where it had pressed against his lower back. Arin’s gun. He pulled it out, his hold tightening for a moment as he stared at it in the gloom that shrouded his apartment, then he smacked it down onto the kitchen counter and left it there, off in search of what he’d decided he really needed: a twin pair of karambits, ivory like tusks and even more lethal.

                                                                     * * * * *

     At first, he thought he’d gotten the wrong house. The whole neighborhood was dark, rundown, the buildings crowded closely together and largely unnumbered, so it wouldn’t have surprised him. Trash leaking from the ripped bags piled up next to cans and dumpsters had been trod flat, plastered to the sidewalk by people passing by, cigarette butts and roaches and beer caps laying out in the open. This close to the slums, it didn’t matter.      Julian knocked again, and finally the door opened, a large, bald man who filled almost the entire frame coming into view, scowling at him.      “Who are you? What do you want?”    “X marks the spot,” Julian said, indicating a red letter spray-painted on the peeling plaster on the side of the building.      “Seven-fifty for newcomers, boy. Cough it up.”    “I’m not here to watch.”      A deep rumble that somewhat resembled a laugh rose from the man’s chest, but he stepped aside, letting Julian pass into the hallway. The stranger lifted a hand, bringing him to a stop, and as he was patted down, he looked around, glancing over his shoulder and seeing that what he’d thought was a peephole in the door was, in fact, a camera. The lamp on the ceiling cast a sickly green hue over the unfurnished hallway, and the whole rest of the house was silent as the grave — not a sound from anywhere.    “Alright,” the bouncer said, handing his daggers back as he straightened. “Follow me.”

     Led through the hallway and out into a narrow, fenced-in back alley, Julian rounded a corner and descended a staircase in the bouncer’s wake, then emerged into a crowded basement. The air was soupy with sweat, smoke, and alcohol, voices filling up the space in stark contrast to the silence outside. There was no music.      “Briar!” the bouncer called out, locking eyes with someone in the crowd, near what seemed to be a bar. “Got a live one for you.”      As Briar sauntered closer, he wandered off, leaving Julian to fend for himself in a room of sharks and hyenas, none of which meant a lick to him. They were there, paying to see what he’d come to draw: blood.      “Hello, stranger,” Briar greeted, a deep alto timbre from a heart-shaped face, hair cropped close, dressed in a plain white tank and jeans, tattoos up and down their arms, piercings all over both ears. “What is your name?”    “Julian.” He was over the theatrics already, but would endure for the sake of not causing a fucking scene.      “Julian,” they repeated, popping the lid off a small compact and rubbing their thumb into the red powder there before ceremoniously dragging it down his face – from his forehead, over his eye, across his cheek and all the way to his jaw in a line. “Marked for death. A little young, aren’t we? Had enough of life? Or are we at the end of our rope in a different way? Desperate?”      He shrugged. Briar looked five years his senior at most, but he refrained from comment. After all, they weren’t the one participating.      “Either way… Drinks and favors are on the house.” They started retreating, gliding a hand over his shoulder. “Enjoy your last hour.”

     He didn’t. He had another drink — two — but fury and need were still crackling through him, forging impatience and restlessness in his bones, setting him on edge. He didn’t speak to anyone, and was approached only once, by one of the favors the host had mentioned, clad only in a sparkly thong and dangerously high heels.      “Hey, boo,” she’d said, trailing a finger up his arm. “You up for some fun?”    “Not with you.” He’d glanced at her, but she’d seemed undeterred.      “You sure? How about my friend?” She’d indicated over her shoulder at some other skinny thing with dark makeup smeared around his eyes, sporting three silver rings in each ear, one in his nose, and one on his lower lip.    “Maybe after.” His response had amused her, a trill of laughter left in her wake as she’d slipped back into the crowd, and he’d returned to his drink. Agitated, buzzing, the oppressive claustrophobia of a wall of bodies closing in around him.

     Now, Briar was coming for him, two words in passing and a faint caress across his cheek before they disappeared in the crowd again, no doubt in search of the other fighters: “Time’s up.”

     Julian could feel eyes on him as he approached the lowered pit in the center of the room, and no wonder, with the red slash of color marking him for what he was. No announcer called attention to the start of the event, no lights were flashing, no one was cheering or making a racket, and still there was no music — in fact, a hush fell over the basement, the din of voices muted to faint muttering and whispers as everyone directed their attention towards the pit.      It wasn’t deep; the rest of the floor was at about knee-height when he’d descended into it, and it was as if someone had cut the foundation away, hard-packed dirt underneath his boots instead of concrete.      Another man entered, tall and stocky, with the same red line, clutching a spiked baseball bat, and he looked about as on edge as Julian felt, but the brunet could tell it wasn’t anger, like with him. It was fear. Desperation, like Briar had said, and it made sense. For most people who signed up for shit like this, it was a last resort. Usually, they were in debt, owing people who would take their limbs off if they weren’t paid, and death was as good a way out as the payday that came with winning. A third appeared, middle-aged, tired-looking, holding what appeared to be an ordinary kitchen cleaver, and Julian almost felt bad for him. Almost. He removed the karambits from their sheaths at his lower back, hooking his index fingers into the rings. Sweat was beading on the middle-aged man’s forehead. Briar had materialized at the edge of the pit, looking down at them. There was a glint in her eyes, but she didn’t smile.      “Begin.”

     There was a split second in which the three of them looked at each other — the other two frozen, maybe, but Julian was deciding which one to dispatch first: the biggest threat, or the easiest kill. Without devoting much thought to it, he went for the latter, lunging forward and hooking both daggers into the man’s abdomen before he even had a chance to move, his eyes widening in shock as Julian wrested the curved blades upward and they ripped through flesh and skin, the force of it lifting the man off the ground. A snarl tore its way up Julian’s throat, rage and exertion, blood gushing onto the front of his shirt as he wrenched the two of them around, just in time for the spiked bat to crash into his victim’s skull instead of his own.      The nails stuck, lodged into bone. Julian yanked his karambits free, soaked in red, and the gurgling remains of the owner of the cleaver plummeted to the ground, pulling the bat along with him as he landed with a thud. The stocky man stepped onto the corpse’s chest and pulled; Julian took half a second to admire his work — parallel rifts up the torso, the flimsy fabric of the pale blue, sweat-stained button-up that covered it drenched in blood, a loop of slimy intestine, pulled out along with his blades…      Freed, the bat came sweeping at him, a single motion as it was yanked out, then brandished in a rising arch at Julian’s jaw. He dropped to his knees, dodging underneath the stocky man’s arm while simultaneously slicing his armpit with the dagger in his left hand, and, as he landed, a backhanded stab behind him that plunged the blade into the back of his opponent’s knee. It buckled under him with no resistance, a shout ringing out through the room as he knelt, followed by another grunt of pain when he landed. Julian was on his feet again, on his way back around to face the man he was about to kill when something slammed into his upper arm. Pain raced all the way to his fingertips, his grip on the karambit loosening, and he would’ve lost it if it wasn’t for the fact that it was hooked onto his finger; not that it mattered much, because his entire arm was limp with agony. Infuriated, he planted a boot in the center of the man’s chest and pushed, his right hand crossing his body to cut the underside of his arm, the bat slipping from his grip and landing somewhere behind the brunet. Another flash decision, and he’d rather kill this stranger with his own weapon, so he whirled around, not even making it a step before he felt a grip around his ankle.

     Flattened dirt flew up to meet him, and though he managed to catch himself, the impact still knocked the air from his lungs. Julian tried to crawl, but it was no use, because the piece of shit wasn’t letting go. Twisting, he kicked him in the face, then wriggled forward, ditching his knives before his fingers curled around the leather-wrapped handle of the bat. Pulling it towards himself, he used it to stand, then raised it from the ground and swung, turning around as he did.      The stranger was further away than he’d expected, in the middle of an attempt to get to his feet, and the bat collided with his jaw and mouth instead of his temple, blood and teeth flying. Julian struck again, this time where he’d intended, sending his opponent to the floor. Again. A sickeningly satisfying fucking crunch. Again, what had once been a head now a collapsed, crimson ruin of bone fragment, blood, and brain matter. He let go. The bat clattered at his feet. His chest rose and fell heavily as he regained his breath, fury burning through him like a wildfire. Slowly, he paced over to where he’d dropped his daggers and picked them up, wiping them off on his thigh before sliding them back into their sheaths. His arm was throbbing, and when he looked at it, he saw the trails of blood that had trickled from the cluster of holes in his skin, all the way down to his wrist, interspersed with the spatter from the second man to die and the gushing spray from the first. He was covered. His arms and chest got the worst, but he felt the droplets on his face, too, tasting metal when his tongue darted out to wet his lips. Over in a heartbeat. Over in two heartbeats, and yet it’d been exactly what he fucking needed.

     Now… booze? Numb the rest of his fucking discomfort. Drown it. He climbed out of the pit, and Briar was there, slipping a small memory device into his palm.      “Welcome back, and congratulations. Quite a show.”      Julian almost handed it back to them, about to say he didn’t give a shit about the money, but decided against it, dropping it into his pocket instead. “You got a bandage?”      “I can arrange that.”      He nodded, turning away and heading over to the bar, where he demanded a bottle of their strongest liquor, smacking the fold of bills he’d brought down onto the counter. The bartender presented him with sixty percent whiskey that Julian snatched by the neck and dragged off the counter. Some other goon appeared with a roll of gauze secured with a safety pin, and he took that, too, before making for the exit. Emptiness stretched out inside him, vast and dark and cold, his gaze focused ahead without meeting that of a single person he passed on his way. Out the door, up the stairs, around the corner — fresh air — back inside and down the crudely lit hallway, where the bouncer looked up from his phone to watch him approach.      “Fuck me,” he said, laughing again. Julian ignored him and pushed through the door, thinking dully as he peeled the foil wrapping off the mouth of the bottle he was holding that some homeless junkie had probably either stolen or looted his car. He drank as he walked until he reached it – surprisingly intact — and unlocked it with a touch to the handle on the driver’s side door, dropping sideways into the seat. Wedging the bottle between his legs, he rolled his sleeve up, then leaned forward a little as he lifted the whiskey, taking a breath in. Another sip for courage. Fuck. Tipping the bottle, he poured a splash over his punctures, watching the blood thin as it ran down his arm and dripped onto the sidewalk between his legs. Searing fucking agony, his teeth clamped together, but he kept pouring, just a little more, before lowering the bottle, gasping in a breath. Carefully, he set it down beside the mess he’d made, grimacing as he bandaged his arm tightly, fastening it with the same pin that had held the roll together. The burn remained. He picked the bottle up and drank, wanting it in his throat instead. In his lungs. A cigarette. His pack was in the console; he felt around for it, mostly blindly, but found it and got one lit, wondering as he sat there whether he should go back. Tell that fucking hooker with the lip ring to show him a good time after all. But he didn’t want the questions. The looks. There were sure to be more shows lined up in that basement, as unsavory or worse than the one he’d just put on, and he wasn’t interested. If he could, he would’ve sat there, half in and half out of his car until the sun rose, drinking and smoking, staring into nothing, but even in his peripheral, in the reflection in the window on his door, he could see that he looked like hell, and it was beginning to dry. His arm throbbed and stung. Julian pulled his legs into the car, closed the door, and drove.

[nurseofren]

Keeping Your Promise - Chapter 23

Read on AO3

Read chapter twenty-two

Title: Choice

Words: 8200

Summary: When one is hurt, comfort is imperative.

ST Rambles: Hello! It has been nearly a month, not quite, but I have missed you all so entirely too much to admit. This story is my heart, and sharing it means the world to me. I took my first exam of the semester this morning and wanted to finish this chapter so I could upload prior to going to my first maternal-newborn clinical rotation on Saturday.

During my time away I have had the opportunity to read many amazing works, whether they be one-shots on tumblr or ficlets right on A03. One that has evoked such a strong response in me has been Three Blind Tooke by ElmiDol. She is a beautiful soul with such a gift for storytelling. I have quickly fallen in love with this story and I hope to encourage many of you to do the same.

My plan for the semester and writing is to take one week writing and then take one week to read the stories that I want. I think this will provide the necessary balance needed for me to be successful in school while also creating and enjoying other creator's content.

[MASTERLIST]

Time has always had a funny way of making itself scarce when needed most. It seemed that you could barely remember the trial, like it had never happened and all that remained to prove that it had were the restraints locked tight around each of your wrists and your neck. Above you sounded the molten, fatal buzz of the plasma guillotine, though it was mere background noise to the riotous cacophony of the rabid crowd awaiting your final moment. As you knelt, trembling against the icy durasteel, face frozen under cold-stuck tears, you tried and failed to settle into acceptance that this would be your last act of life.

“Please,” you whimpered, unsure if anyone could hear you, “I… I saved that man’s life. I didn’t hurt anyone. I don’t deserve to die for keeping my oath.” You tried to scream but the pleads were barely whispers.

Out of sight came a bellowed laugh, full and ragged just as it had been in the past. “That isn’t why you’re here, young officer.” Snoke could hardly contain his glee. “You’re forgetting, you may have saved one life, but you took another.”

Nausea waved through you and your head started pounding; Snoke’s presence was pain, magnified with each echo of his words as the arena shook against the surround sound. An uproar of cheers and chanting came from before you, the crowd booming with enthusiasm, hanging off of every word their Supreme Leader spoke.

Through the fog of terrified eyes you saw an image appear behind the audience, scaling the entire back wall and striking you with rage. A scrollbar read something you could only assume to be his First Order given name, your focus too centered on the enormous projection of Robbie’s face, smiling while he held his helmet tight against his chest. He looked too nice, just as he’d seemed when you gave him a name. He was being renowned as a hero, his death marking you as the villain.

“I… He! I was defending myself, he was going to kill me!”

“But instead you killed me.”

This voice was angelic, familiar and welcoming in the storm surrounding you. It was accompanied by the footsteps you’d become so fond of, coming closer with every panted breath that fell from your lips. Kylo crowded your view of the blinding screen, a cape trailing in his path. He stopped when he was centered in your view and crouched so he was eye level with you.

He wore no mask, nothing to conceal his beautiful visage as the sight of him constricted your heart. When was the last you’d seen him? It felt like it had been so long, yet you could barely grasp any concept of time. It was frustrating, like you were barred in your memory. Kylo’s face gave no indication into his emotions, yet for a fleeting moment you swore you saw a tear glint over his cheek.

“Yet another of your victims, yes?” Snoke remained hidden, his voice shifting between your ears, slithering like the snake he was.

“You made me! I had no-,”

“Choice.” It was a discordant wrath of voices; at first Kylo’s, then Snoke’s, trailing off with the whispers of Robbie’s and Mason’s.

Kylo brought one hand, bare and freezing, to your cheek. It hadn’t been there before, but his face was now split with the consequences of battle, a gash – open, pulsating, and weeping – ripping through his features. A shiver sank into you, you throat tightening.

The way in which he next breathed your name made you weep, his thumb catching the tear that burned into your skin. “You’ve always had a choice, remember? You just keep making-,”

“The wrong ones.” You finished his sentence, remembering the first time he’d said it. A futile attempt was made to reach for his hand, a sting coming as the restraint bit into your wrist.

The crowd was growing impatient, hordes of screams coming from behind Kylo’s shoulders. The screen behind him shifted to present the live cast of your suffering, the view suggesting that it was Kylo’s own eyes giving view to the onlookers, your face excruciatingly close, allowing every audience member to bask in the terror that plagued you.

You sniffled, nuzzling into his hand and looking between his eyes. He mimicked you, though his gaze was empty, just as it had been one of the last times you could remember seeing him. “I trusted you,” he said. “More than anything.”

Kylo began to leave you, his fingertips lingering just before he could take three steps backwards. The plasma blade above you began hissing louder with inevitability, your eyes squeezing shut as you awaited your sentence’s completion. Pain took root in your left upper thigh, a kind of burning as you continued to kneel. A string of agony tore through your throat as your eyes shot open to see Kylo’s hand shoot up.

“No, no! Please! Kylo, no!” You could see your face twist with desperation behind him now, tears willful in their presence as each one painted creaks of pain down to the durasteel.

Snoke let out another flood of evil-tinged amusement as Kylo turned his face toward the direction the sound came. “You still don’t understand, stupid girl.” Another bark of laughter. “You might have had a choice,” he said, “but your Master never did. Never will.”

And as they were spoken, you saw that crushing glimmer of humanity flicker in the face of Kylo Ren as he turned back to you. Snoke, infuriatingly, was right, of course. Hearing it out loud, accepting it as fact, calmed you down. Staring up at him, watching his fingers twitch, you spent your last remaining second pitying him for all the control he believed he had, knowing more than he did that it was a masterful mirage. Snoke had Kylo wrapped around his finger; you had only aided in tightening his grip.

More than anything. It was the last thought before you heard the overhead blade drawing near, its volume immense until it wasn’t. The next thing you were aware of was the overbearing smell of flatcakes wafting into your nostrils. Taking a few deep breaths, your attention went to the ache twisted into the back of your skull, the dryness sticking to your lips, and the warm weight present over your right leg.

Taking one more deep breath, you coughed, lungs feeling like they’d been stagnant for a while, rejecting the stretch of air. Light was obvious even as your eyes remained shut, its overwhelming presence leading you to blink a few times before adapting.

“Where am I?” you croaked out. Answering your question, you first saw the familiar polygon meal tray sitting atop a bedside table while your watch rested next to it, next catching view of the pulse oximeter resting over your left index finger. This was the medbay.

The first thing that came to mind was your dream, remembering Kylo’s wounded face. He was hurt. Where was he? Was he okay? The monitor to your left sounded louder as your heart rate accelerated. Warmth left your right leg as you saw something move in your periphery. A person.

Mason had been asleep, his hair stuck to his face when he first looked at you with shock and relief. “You scared me!” He sprung up from the chair he’d been sitting in and flung his arms around you. “The news about Starkiller came and I didn’t know where you were.” He hummed your name into your neck while rocking you back and forth. “I thought you were… I thought you had… I didn’t know…”

“Mason.” It was all you could think to say, your arms resting at your side as he kept his hold on you. Maybe you should’ve felt relief that he was here and that he was okay, but all you could feel was regret and an overwhelming sadness. Mason was none the wiser, but his very existence was a reminder of what you’d done, undeniable proof of the choice you’d made.

He finally leaned back, keeping his hand locked around yours and staring down at you with red-rimmed eyes. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, his nerves settling more the longer he looked over your face. “I tried calling you—” a laugh accompanied the distant raise of his brows “—but I lost my commlink. I guess. I actually don’t know-,”

“What?” you interrupted his explanation, confused by his recall of events, wondering why Snoke wasn’t the focal point of his reasoning.

His face fell. “What? Did I say something? Are you hurt? Do you need water? Food? I actually ordered some flatcakes for me, but they’re all yours if you-,”

“You lost your commlink?”

His brow creased and his thumb brushed over your knuckles. “Yeah? Yeah. I mean. I guess. It’s been crazy around here today and—” his face bloomed in horror “—oh, fuck! I didn’t mean that your day hasn’t been bad, I just. Yeah. I lost it.”

He didn’t seem like he knew anything about Snoke, or that he remembered ever enduring the pain you’d heard him scream through the communication device earlier – actually, how long had it been?

“So… There was nothing… I mean, you weren’t… Summoned? Or…?”

“Summoned?” Mason looked at you with amused confusion. “I’m pretty sure they didn’t give you any pain medicine, but you’re acting a little loopy.”

He didn’t know. He was blissfully ignorant to Snoke’s involvement in your or his life. Again, instead of relief you were met with that bleakness from before. “Maybe I was just dreaming,” you brushed it off.

Dreaming. Kylo. “I need to see him,” you mumbled, moving to stand and becoming extremely aware of your left leg once more. A hiss left you before Mason could pull your shoulders back against the bed, your hand reaching down to soothe the blanket-covered wounds.

“Not so fast,” he said. “Doctor Belkar wants to examine you before you start walking.”

“Belkar?” You couldn’t remember ever hearing that name, though your memory may not be the most reliable at the moment.

“I heard my name.” A man – shorter, skinny, and dark-skinned – peered into the door before knocking and stepping in. “Oh, good! Glad to see you’re awake. You had us worried there for a moment.” Belkar took a few more steps so he was on your left, clutching a datapad under his arm and smiling down at you. His presence was comfortable and professional. He seemed to possess a bedside manner not common of many physicians, and he’d barely even spoken.

Squinting towards his badge you found his first name. “Trace Belkar.” You sounded it out, feeling a faint sense of familiarity. Looking to his face, it finally struck you. “Oh! You’re, you are the one who… You helped me with my friend earlier.” Warmth set in your cheeks when you realized you knew him.

“Ah! My first surprise patient of the day. Funny how things seem to come full circle, isn’t it? Now-,”

Further realization hit. “You also helped me that night. I was the nurse who…” Maybe he didn’t remember who you were, and maybe he didn’t need to, given your actions that night were rather infamous currently.

“Yes! I knew you looked familiar seeing you yesterday. You are the nurse that saved my patient’s life. Great work that night, by the way. Fast-thinking, resourceful. Gives me hope for the next generation of medics.” A quick smile flashed across his face before he reached into his coat pocket. “Now, if you don’t mind following my finger with your eyes.”

It probably took too long for you to follow his request as you were taken aback by his praise for that night. The only emotions you’d ever attached to that it had been pain and fear, likely influenced by the way you were being reprimanded at the moment, thinking of that night as a crime rather than the miracle that it was for that man.

“Um, yes. Sorry.” You shook your head and followed the tip of his finger as he dragged it around – up and down, right to left, and finally in a diagonal cross.

“Any nausea, pain, weakness, dizziness, headaches?” His tone was absent while he traced his penlight in and out of sight to finish his PERRLA assessment.

“I’m really fine. This isn’t necessary at all.” You couldn’t stand being treated like a patient. Even when you were one. Knowing the inner workings of every check made it difficult not to see through their purpose. “I could probably leave now and I’d be fi-ah!” You’d tensed your wounded leg without thinking when shifting in the bed.

“How’s that leg treating you?” It seemed he was psychic in his assumptions, though you knew he’d probably had a nurse do a head-to-toe assessment while you were out.

Mason was puzzled when you looked over at him. “What’s wrong with her leg? She passed out. What’s wrong with her-,”

“Mason, will you go find me some water? And maybe a warm blanket? Please.” Your eyes were locked with Belkar’s as you quieted Mason, mindlessly squeezing his hand to encourage his leave. Mason did not need to see your brand. He wouldn’t understand, and you didn’t feel like having to explain to him, that you felt deserving of it and much worse.

There was a silent moment as you watched Belkar and felt Mason’s eyes before he squeezed your hand back and told you he’d be back soon. The door shut behind him and the quiet swallowed you.

“From what I read in your chart it seemed you’d given yourself a makeshift dressing. Your nurse was actually impressed at how well it was done. I do have some questions about the scars under it, though. If you don’t mind.” He seemed to know to tread lightly; his demeanor reminded you of the one you were instructed to use on abuse survivors.

You shook your head, but this only clued you into another pain. “Jeez! Ow!” Your hand fled to your forehead, finding a bandage sealed over a large bump. It was tender to touch, flinching as you remembered Robbie banging your head into the door.

Belkar took his datapad from under his arm and tapped away as you recovered. “There.” He pressed the screen once more before returning it to its original spot. “The nurse should be in here soon with some-,”

“I don’t want it.” You swallowed, dropping your hand and staring at your lap.

Belkar paused and shifted in his stance. He clicked his tongue, put his datapad down, and pulled up a chair. He called you by your last name, professional yet with a considerable amount of concern. “Will you tell me what caused your injuries?”

He was attempting therapeutic communication. And he was succeeding. An uncomfortable laugh left you. “What is there to tell? I’m hurt. In ways that aren’t physical. Ways that are.” Your lip began to quiver before you caught it with your teeth.

Another pause from Belkar. His hand twitched and your eyes jumped to it. He noticed this. “Can I hold your hand?”

The offer was tempting, but you declined by shaking your head and finally looking up at him. There were crinkles splayed outward from his eyes and gray hairs obvious in an overgrown stubble on his cheeks. He was a kind soul, you could tell; it was evident in his eyes, clear and green yet full of warmth. Soon after setting eyes on him you felt your throat thicken and your eyes water.

“You know,” you laughed, scraping at your eyes and sniffling, “I don’t even know what I’d say to any of the questions you mentioned before.”

A kind smile, no teeth, brought his cheeks up. “How about just one, then?”

“Yeah. One. I guess.”

He made sure your eyes were on his before he spoke again. “Do you want to report the person who did this to you?”

Another nervous laugh left. And then a sob before the heels of your hands met your face. “That’s not necessary,” you said through hiccuped words. Robbie’s face flashed into your mind’s eye, the pool of blood spreading below him before the door hissed shut. Your dream, the screen presenting his smiling face. “I… I don’t even know what to do anymore! I can’t… I have… I can’t fix this!”

Belkar squeezed your hand, bringing you back to reality. His face was blurry through your tears. “Slow down. Just breathe. Shh. Slow down.” He modeled how to do so, exaggerating when he took a deep breath through his nose.

After several breaths you closed your eyes and threw your head back on the pillow, keeping your hand in Belkar’s. “I’m sure you’ve seen the scars? Or read about them at the least, right? And then I know you were the one who caught me before I passed out so you obviously know who I work for.”

“Are those two things related?” He was trying not to assume anything.

“All that matters is that this—” you gestured to your head “—and this—” you placed a gentle hand over your wrapped thigh, petting a thumb over it “—are unrelated.” Belkar knew not to speak when you choked on your tears in search of words you weren’t even sure you wanted to say. “I was… Someone broke into my residence just before the explosion. And he.” You paused again, feeling Belkar’s grip tighten and relax over your trembling hand. You cleared your throat. “I was taken advantage of. He went down with the base. It would be pointless to report when the perpetrator is already dead.” Bloodied scissors flashed into your memory before you looked back up to Belkar.

He nodded, placing his second hand over yours. The warmth was welcome, and surprising. “Should I order an emergency contraceptive or a spermicide?” There wasn’t a fraction of discomfort when he asked the question. Complete care and professionalism. He felt safe.

“No, I don’t need that. I had a chip placed last year.” You ran your tongue over your teeth, swallowing before speaking again. “But, um. I was wondering if…”

“Yes?”

“Commander Ren,” you said, searching his eyes for judgment, “is he… How is he?” Your bottom lip would need to heal from chewing it so much.

Another warm, small smile lifted on Belkar’s face. “It’s admirable, your passion for his care. Even in your current state. Even with those wounds you only care about his wellbeing.” Fire bit at your face, your eyes falling back to the bed. “It’s the mark of a true healer. Setting aside your own pain to lessen someone else’s. Your patient’s.”

“Yeah, well,” you raised your eyebrows, “do you know how he’s doing?”

“Before I came in to examine you, I was actually on my way to see Commander Ren. Would you like to come with me?”

“I should probably…” You trailed off, finally feeling relief when thinking about seeing Kylo and avoiding Mason. “Do you think I can walk? How did the nurse say I was healing?”

Belkar scooted out from the chair and stood, offering you a hand for support. “I actually would prefer you start walking now to discourage clotting. It’s likely you can leave here tonight once its officially been twenty-four hours since your admission.”

He made sure to fix your gown so you weren’t exposed while standing before you could tie the lower fastener. He kept a hand lightly placed over your mid-back, the other now holding your hand. “How long has it been since I got here?”

He started you on a slow pace and you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Robbie may have been the one to die, but death took residence in you; a bruise splotched out over your forehead, your hair flat and knotted, exhaustion shadowing your eyes. There were multiple bruises lining your arms, their origin a mystery, though you could only suspect a majority had come from the crowd of people you’d stormed through the stairwells with. The one injury you’d grown to cherish was masked by the ill-fitting white and grey patterned gown, the article most definitely shielding an additional multitude you were still unaware of.

“The Command Shuttle arrived soon after Starkiller exploded. Ren was transferred to medbay in less than a minute and began treatment within the next five upon arrival. You fainted before then.” He led you into the hall and began walking through the maze of bustling hallways. “You’ve been resting for nearly sixteen hours.”

“Sixteen. Stars.” The pain in your leg lessened the more you walked, seeing the faces of coworkers who last saw you that fateful night.

“We monitored your intracranial pressure for the first few hours, but it seems you were only severely exhausted and mildly dehydrated. Understandably, of course.” He took a familiar left turn and the entrance to the Elite medbay came into view. “I had entered orders to start you on oral antibiotic therapy as soon as you woke up, completely a prophylactic measure, but it won’t affect anything to hold off for now.”

Belkar swiped his badge across the scanner and the doors hissed open, your heart now thumping in your chest. The last time you’d seen Kylo, you’d assumed would be the last time. Even as you kept forward, nerves twisting your intestines, you couldn’t deny the need you felt to see him again. It scared you, though, imagining how he’d react to your presence.

“Um, maybe this is a bad idea. I don’t think Commander Ren needs any more visitors than necessary.” You stopped Belkar just before he swiped to open the door to your Master’s exclusive medbay.

“It’s a good thing neither of us are visitors.” The door shot open. “We’re his providers.” Belkar stepped past the threshold. “He wouldn’t mind either way,” you followed in after him, hesitant while you stared down at the floor, “I placed him in a therapeutic coma to keep him from disturbing the stitching in his wounds.”

This news brought your eyes up as you entered the room and felt the door shut behind you. Kylo Ren, outfitted in the same gown as you, was supine on the bed, unconscious. Peaceful. His gown was left unsnapped at the shoulders, a blanket resting above his hips and tucked under his wrists. The assessment table had been replaced, an IV pole set up on his left side, a monitor reading off the contents and status of the three current running fluids: metronidazole, normal saline, and a third – separate – line running a bag of packed red blood cells. Kylo was breathing on his own, though there was an intubation kit ready on the bedside table, you noticed while routinely scanning the room for necessary emergency intervention equipment.

Belkar rid the distance between him and Ren, your own feet stopping just before the door. The physician looked at you with a creased brow but quickly dissolved his expression as he accepted your decision. After setting his datapad down he gently peeled back Kylo’s gown, resting it over the blanket and then gesturing towards him with his hands.

“The coma was a last resort,” he began. “Commander Ren was exhibiting signs of delirium when my team began his care. After nearly two hours of noncompliance I wrote a STAT order to initiate it.” Belkar sighed, this fact disappointing to him.

“When you say delirium…” Your hands strangled in and out of fists, nervous fingers smoothing over the fabric of your gown while you looked on at your sleeping patient.

The physician’s mouth had settled into somewhat of a pout, considering your question. “Ren’s health history was scattered and scant in the archives, virtually nothing resembling a family history. It was most likely the physical trauma that caused it, but…” Belkar turned his body to you while keeping his eyes on Kylo. “Whenever any of the nurses or techs would attempt to orient him during those first two hours he kept telling us he’s dead.”

A single step took you further from the door. “Was.. Did he ever say who he was talking about? A name?” This information confounded you, leaving you to wonder whose death could possibly matter so much to Kylo Ren that he’d recount while his mental defenses were weakened?

A deeper, more frustrated sigh left Belkar. “There’s been so little time and the staff is already so overworked with all the new admissions.” He uncovered one of Kylo’s legs and checked the placement and setting of the compression device wrapped around it. “I appointed a droid to sift through the archives to find anything, to see if there was any information on a Ben.”

“Ben?”

“That’s who we assume is dead, as he kept repeating.”

“You assume? What does that mean?” Another step and your eyes shot to the vitals monitor, seeing his heart rate was in the low fifties. Bradycardic, hence the fluids.

“The two phrases came sporadically. At times he would say the name, and whenever any of the care team would ask him who Ben was…”

“They’d suddenly be at a loss for words?”

Belkar’s mouth quirked for half a second, falling quickly when he shifted the blanket back to its original place. “I suppose that’s one way to put it.” He looked at you again, contemplating, narrowing his eyes. “I imagine you’ve endured such acts. I only assume given—” he gestured to your leg.

Heat flared in your cheeks and your pulse picked up. Swallowing, you tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and crossed your arms. “Yes.” He didn’t seem to know why Kylo Ren had left his mark, only that he had. This brought you ease. “Yes, Commander Ren doesn’t have the best handle on his…anger. I suppose.”

Belkar swallowed, watching you. “Does he scare you?”

This caught you off guard, fingers biting into your arms when you took another step forward. “Does Kylo Ren scare me?” You took a few seconds to really think about it, feeling comfortable when you met Belkar’s eyes again, only a few paces from the bed now. “It would be counterintuitive to be afraid of my own patient.”

“Do you feel safe when you are working with him?” He was subtly attempting to screen you for abuse – well, further abuse – his face trying to hide the curiosity in his tone.

“Doctor Belkar, I do appreciate you’re worried for me. But it is misplaced. Now, would you tell me more about my patient, please?”

He was momentarily taken aback by your forward effort to change the subject. “I do apologize if my questions have made you uncomfortable. I noticed your hesitancy to be near him and thought-,”

“That’s unrelated, Doctor,” maybe in too harsh a manner, you bit his words off. You didn’t feel like telling the edited version of how you believed yourself to be the abuser when it came to Kylo, and you were sure Belkar, just as Mason, wouldn’t understand if you tried. “Will you please just tell me how he’s been doing?” A crack in your voice revealed how weak your defenses were.

The physician’s head nodded back slightly in understanding. Today was good for no one. Tensions were high. He knew you had just woken up after experiencing both known and unknown traumas. “Would you help me change his dressings while we discuss his care?” A truce, gentle and acknowledging.

Your shoulders fell with a breath you hadn’t realized was waiting to escape, your throat clearing when you walked to the drawers set up behind you. Activating one, you pulled out the necessary supplies and set them up as Belkar opened them. He walked you through the various monitors connected to Kylo – leeds stuck to his chest, a cuff around his upper right arm, the pumps over his legs, the IVs placed. He uncovered Ren’s pelvis and had you assess his catheter, mentioning the drainage bag below the bed. The antibiotics were prophylactic, just as yours would be; there had been too many unknowns around Ren’s injuries to not protect against potential sepsis.

When Belkar had completed his assessment – stopping to listen to breath and bowel sounds, motioning for you to do the same with the provided stethoscope to test your knowledge – you helped him fix the gown and sheets back over Kylo’s chest, your breath catching when your fingers brushed against his skin. The doctor tucked his datapad back under his arm and walked to the door, activating it before stepping out. However, you had remained at Kylo’s side, watching him as he slept.

“Doctor Belkar?” you called after him, not looking away from Kylo.

A sigh left him, this one fond. Kind. “A true healer.” He was thoughtful in tone. “Use the assistance indicator should you become faint. Should your friend inquire about your whereabouts-,”

“Tell him I’m okay—” you licked your lips as a tear slipped down your cheek “—tell Mason he can leave if he… Tell Mason he can leave.”

There was no response before the door hissed shut, allowing you to let free the whimper which had been stuck since you first set eyes on Kylo. You realized you’d never seen him asleep. The one night you’d shared his bed your focus just on that fact, not on observing him. That night had been the only time you’d seen his full heart, or at least more of it than you had. Now, standing beside him, still reluctant to get too close, you were crying just as he had. That night seemed like a separate lifetime, like a dream you’d only ever get to revisit in your memories now.

Tearing your eyes away from him, clearing your throat and thumbing away more tears, you ran your fingertips along the hanging fluids; the saline would need to be replaced soon, and the metronidazole was running at an accelerated rate. The blood, you checked the label, had been hung just prior to your arrival, the colloid causing you to stop and gently press into its plastic confines. A huff of weak amusement left you; it had never occurred to you that this blood would ever be used for its intended purpose, intended recipient. Seeing it running into Kylo’s veins, checking the transfusion sight for infiltration and redness, you felt a sort of sick irony settle into the room. This very fluid, more or less, would be your demise; it was capable of sustaining life, replenishing it, yet would be the very thing to end yours.

The monitor blinked in your periphery, catching your attention; his heart rate was improving, finally skimming the upper fifties, his respirations coming evenly. Steeling yourself, bunching your gown in your hands, you looked down at him. Kylo Ren, resting and vulnerable, lay below for your appraisal. Belkar had walked you through the proper routine to change his dressings, his abdominal wound and the one scraping across his shoulder healing well under the soaked gauze. The wound fixed along his face, however, had been created too awkwardly to be dressed as the others. A grafting patch had been placed along the length of the injury, a black stripe of the regenerative material precise in its placement.

There was so much pain etched into him, you wondered if his outward appearance now matched his inner, the thought choking you with a sob. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. It was silly to wait for a response, to look at him in anticipation, but you did.

It took several minutes of deliberation, but you eventually joined him in the bed, gently sitting on his right side as to not disturb anything. The tips of your right index and middle finger trailed along the ridges of the unbandaged wound, feeling his pulse in the raised flesh, landing on his forehead and brushing into his hair.

“Oh.” It startled you when your fingers got stuck in a mat at his ends. Rolling it between your fingers you found it to be dried, congealed blood. It wasn’t surprising; hair care was not the priority right now, the nurses already straining themselves without paying attention to trivial duties.

But you had time and he was here with no way of objecting, your hand cupping his face before you began gathering your supplies and setting them up. The silence was comforting for only a few minutes, soon leaving you to your thoughts, those which shuddered through you with images of Robbie and Snoke and Kylo.

“I don’t even know how we got here,” you mumbled while filling a basin with warm water. A bitter chuckle, a cough chasing it. “I do, actually. I know exactly how we got here.” Placing the full basin on the bedside table, carefully wheeling it to the head of his bed, you gazed over him. “Snoke. Mason. Rob-,” the name stuck in your throat. “The stormtrooper.”

Gentle thumbs tracked like feathers atop his cheekbones, your remaining fingers pushing into his thick locks and brushing it behind his ears. After admiring him for a moment longer you collected the necessary linen, grabbing three extra towels, four in total. Setting them up – one beneath him, another two rolled and resting atop his shoulders, and the last spread over your lap when you sat on a stool – you reached for the cup you’d earlier grabbed and filled it with water.

“I should’ve told you.” It seemed you would never stop crying; a tear struck his forehead as you poured the first cup over his head, ensuring to guard his eyes and ears. “I never… Snoke threatened Mason. He threatened him and all I could think was that I wouldn’t allow someone else to endure punishment meant for me.” Kylo’s hair darkened as it wet, the towel beneath him turning pink with diluted blood. “That wouldn’t be fair. Someone suffering because my own mistakes? No. No, that would be selfish. Selfish and, and… I don’t know.” A sigh and a swallow. “I don’t know.”

With a second cup you wet the rest of his locks and lathered shampoo between your hands. “I woke up yesterday hating you, wishing I was dead so I didn’t have to see you after that day. I fucking hate him so much!” Your chin trembled in anger, imagining Snoke knowing this was happening, wondering how much he really knew, if he could see while Kylo slept. “And it wasn’t even… That’s what I hate the most. You had so little say in it, so little choice and I spent a whole month, wasted so much time, hating the wrong person. Hating you.”

Rolling his ends between your fingers, you scrubbed at the mats until they became loose. “I wish you could know that everything I told you was a lie. You were right about it all. I don’t hate you.” Words came easier, tears still streaming with ease, yet your throat clearing with each admission. “Maybe in the beginning when I didn’t know so much, when I didn’t know you. Maybe then I had wanted to, but it’s an impossibility now. Today made me realize that.” A pause while you watched his chest tide, stopping to recount the apology you’d known to give him, remembering how it felt as he held you – broken, raw – in his arms. “Today made me realize a lot of things.”

The last mat had been the toughest, your fingers rolling and rubbing for nearly five minutes until it softened. “Can I… I mean, I know you can’t answer, but…” Your throat got thick again, burning as you tried to swallow a sob. Closing your eyes, you dropped the subject, not wanting to recount the event to even an absent mind yet.

Clearing your throat, you began again, instead recalling the various mentions of Kylo Ren’s history during the past day. “Maybe I don’t know as much about you as others do, though.” Water drenched the towel below his head as you massaged the soap out of his hair, your pulse quickening as you thought about your next question. “The old man. The one on Jakku… He mentioned something about a time before Kylo Ren, or something like that. How did he even know you? How did you know him?”

Working your way through his hair, you rinsed until there were no bubbles remaining. Questioning him felt foreign; if he were awake he would have surely stopped you from continuing. Or from starting at all. But you pressed on, wanting to distract yourself from the reality that lurked in the back of your mind.

“And then later, when I…” Warmth spread through you at the memory of his bed, him setting you there, holding onto him until he left. You tried to hide the pain in your throat, knowing if you allowed yourself to sob once you’d surely lose the ability to stop. “I heard you. When you were speaking to someone, talking to your grandfather. Was he in there with you? Or were you on a commlink?” You shrugged, knowing all of these inquiries were in vain. “My maternal grandfather passed away before I began university. I never met the other one. Something about family secrets and drama and blah blah blah.”

Another tear fell to Kylo’s face, remembering the pain you’d felt losing someone for the first time, remembering how helpless you were to change anything. A sigh of desperate defeat left you. “I must be cursed. A true healer? Maybe in another life. In this one it seems I can only save a life in turn for another, be it mine or someone I care about.”

After rinsing your hands in the basin, you gathered conditioner on the tips of your fingers and began working it into the now clean ends. A whimper came in place of the stuck sob, breathing becoming difficult as you denied it life. “You said that to me, remember? The night I had gone to Mason. Not exactly but, you said something along the lines of me only listening when the things I value are threatened. It seems the two things go hand in hand; I can’t help anyone without hurting someone else, I can’t make a decision without being forced into it, without being threatened should I make one wrong choice.”

A hand smoothed over the last remaining tendril of hair, soft with the new product, your chest heavy with regret and hindsight. “You wanted me to give my whole self to the First Order. I did, Kylo. And now… I have nothing. There’s nothing left and it’s my fault.” Mason’s worried expression flitted into your mind’s eye. “And if I do have anything left… It’s nothing I want.” Closing your eyes, you ran the pad of your thumb along the rim of the cup, clutching it to your chest. “I wish I could go back. Earlier when I… When I came home. I wish I had told you then. If I had, maybe neither of us would be pawns in Snoke’s game. If I’d told you, maybe I wouldn’t have been-,”

Pain speared you with daggers of rejection. There was no easy or gentle way to confront the truth. No matter if you’d briefly mentioned it with Belkar earlier; to verbalize it, to say out loud what had gone one, scared you. It made it real, gave it power and life. But this would be the only way you’d get to confess to it; soon you’d be alone, left to relive the act over and over until it would be all that remained. It would consume you if you let it.

“I was raped.” You said it before it got stuck again. Finally, after choking on it for so long, that sob broke free, cries grating against your sore throat. “It was the stormtrooper. The one you’d set out to protect me from. The one Snoke had told me you’d been thinking about.” A shaky hand collected another cup of water and let it rinse the conditioner away. “RB-6745. Robbie. Shit! I’m so, so stupid! I’m so dumb I wish I could fucking die! It would be so much easier if I could just stop…existing, if I could just stop breathing it would all be- none of this would’ve happened if I hadn’t- damn it!” A roar tore through clenched teeth before you dragged the towel set across your lap and smothered it against your face.

Scream after scream after scream left you, each one more painful than the last, more broken than the last. The towel collected what tears had set on your cheeks, your voice diminishing before you had the sense to stop yourself from continuing. With the damp cloth draped over your hands, you rested your head in your palms, heaves and hiccups unbidden and unrelenting.

“I gave him a name, Kylo. I did. I gave him a name and I started all of this,” muffled, you finally confronted the truth you had been so unwilling to acknowledge. A bitter crack of laughter left. “You will only ever be the start and end of the issue,” you echoed Snoke, voice distant and decimated. “Yeah, well. I guess he was right. I did start it.” Pulling the towel from your face, staring down at the peace painted over your Master, a cold shiver stalled your lungs. “I started it. And I ended it.”

Silence once more met you with suffocation. Studying Kylo’s face – noticing his eyelashes, the cracked nature of his dry lips, finding a fondness in the angle of his nose – you took a deep breath and settled into your new reality, accepting it as it would be, allowing yourself to begin healing as he was before you. “I killed him. I left him to bleed out just before Starkiller exploded. He’s dead.”

The last phrase reminded you as you finished your task, patting the towel into his hair, lifting his head to fully dry him. “Whoever Ben is… and if he’s dead or not –” you rested the towel over your left thigh “—I wonder if I knew him.” Another thought of Kylo’s figurative family. “I wonder if he knew you.”

Once you left here your privileges as his provider would be revoked; when he would wake and sign the proper documents, notify the necessary people, every tie you had to him would be severed. So, to indulge in one last moment, you parted a triangle of hair from the center of his hairline, separated it into three equal sections, and began the simple pattern: left over middle, right over middle, adding hair with each repetition to create a continuous, tight braid. Aside from giving you more time with him, the style would discourage any new mats from forming.

Repeating this process two more times, one more on each side of his head, you made sure that the hair that couldn’t be contained was brushed and flat beneath him. You set a towel under his head to collect any remaining moisture and prevent knotting. The clean-up process was leisurely, your focus shifting to his monitor every now and then to see he was no longer bradycardic. The last time you checked the monitor, a normal sinus rhythm tracing along the display, you found his pulse had risen to sixty-seven beats per minute.

Finished clearing the last of your mess, you sat on the stool, still at the head of his bed. No matter the new addition setting into features – though, in a way, it suited him well – you admired him; here he was at peace. Resting. Healing. The sobs had died out but tears were still liberal in their formation, another falling to hit the inner corner of his right eye. You collected it, chewing your lip before leaning down and again tracing along the outer region of the wound.

Kylo’s breath warmed over your forehead in the proximity, your own catching as it all became too much. Placing your hands on either side of his face so the tips of your fingers held loosely over his jaw, you brought your lips to rest on his. Kylo couldn’t reciprocate it, you knew, but this would be your goodbye.

“I wish I could have given you more than this,” you whispered, lips brushing against his own. “More than anything, Kylo, I wanted to give you more than this.”

Trembling lips pressed into his, your tears reviving the dry flesh, a whimper leaving when he remained still. He would never kiss you back again, the thought piercing as warmth slipped from your cheeks and onto his. However long you stayed like this, your face on his, you tried to silence the reality looming over you. But you couldn’t stay here forever, and you’d probably been gone for far too long already.

Leaning up from him your nose drew a faint line up his bridge, feather-light lips setting against his forehead in a final show of unrequited adoration. With a breath your spine straightened, eyes strict in their effort to keep forward. There was no moment of hesitancy as you passed the threshold and left the Elite wing; if you had indulged in a final glance, you knew you’d have never left.

On the journey back to your room – head hung low, teeth rooted in an effort to stop the trembling of your bottom lip – you met a stiff wall of muscle as someone exited a room, your feet stumbling back before you completely fell backwards, landing on your tailbone. The room spun when you opened your eyes after hitting the floor, a gloved hand extending down and offering you assistance. Taking it, you looked up to find General Hux.

He looked as you did, exhaustion heavy in his features before he was struck by your identity. He didn’t recoil, though, pulling you up and even steadying you for a couple seconds. Hux’s eyes darted to the bandage on your forehead and quickly over your gown, narrowing only slightly when he appraised the red rims of your own. He remained silent, retracting his hand as he nodded once.

“Officer,” he acknowledged. “I heard about your fainting spell.” His tone lacked the animosity you had come to expect.

You took hold of the wall support, looking up at him, confused at his sudden civility. “Oh.” It was the best you could do right now.

Something about him seemed off. Even as he remained more guarded than most humans you knew, it appeared as though something had him worried. Maybe it was the fall out from Starkiller that had him acting out. He had just lost men.

“Is there an official count yet?” you asked, filling the silence.

Hux swallowed, the corners of his mouth dipping before he returned to his normal façade, his shoulder going up and back when his stance shifted. “Nice work during the transport.”

“Thank…you. Uh, thank you, General.”

Another nod and he turned away from you and walked out of sight. A crease bit at your brow. How strange. Or maybe it wasn’t. The last twenty-four hours had been less than favorable for the entire First Order. Nobody could be expected to be at their best right now. Or even at their normal.

Before you started down the hall, your periphery caught view of the room where Hux had come, your heart falling. Confusion was drowned by new concern. Talia was slumped into her shoulder, asleep while she sat upright, both arms resting at her sides to reveal bruises from multiple IV attempts. There was one line running from her left forearm which led up to a bag of fluids, the contents of which you couldn’t read from a distance.

Peaking around the hall, you ducked into her room and clicked the door shut with your back, keeping the volume to a minimum as to not wake her. It seemed like a week had passed since you saw her seize, Snoke’s men abducting you before you could aid in her care. It had been less than a full day.

Walking up to her right side you noted the oxygen secured over her ears, a nasal cannula delivering two liters per minute. Nothing excessive. That was good. But still curious. The fluid bag was filled with electrolyte replacement, another bag hanging empty behind it. Looking for more clues, you found the information board to be devoid of any recent updates, only indicating her nurse and the continuation of the current fluids. There was a check mark next to a note which read sterile urine specimen, CBC, CMP.

When you kicked your foot under her bed, swinging it mindlessly while holding onto the upper bed rail, something skidded beneath your sock. In a manner which didn’t stress your wounds, you knelt to the ground and picked up the item. It was a white square, shiny material which glinted under the harsh fluorescents. Holding one corner, it unfolded to reveal a second half. Turning it over, eyes blinking back to make sure you were reading the images correctly.

Everything was in the right spot, every label and measurement and identifier correct and official. Dropping completely to the floor, your legs splayed across each other, you peaked up at your friend and back to the printed picture multiple times, not knowing what to make of the situation.

Talia was pregnant.

[katekarnage7]

The Pill

All right, so, I made a post a little while ago asking if anyone would be interested in reading a fic where I physically, emotionally, and mentally destroyed our favorite bard. Apparently, this is something that a *lot* of people want to read. So, here ya go! Here’s the original post and the AO3 link if you want to see those.

Tags will be at the bottom and if you would like to be tagged in future chapter(s) of this story, let me know!

---

The tiny pill with the opaque casing and the milky white magical substance that always seemed to glow, could fit in the palm of Jaskier’s hand and still look insignificant. However, it was anything but.

His fingers fumbled to lock the door of his inn lodgings behind him as he rushed to the bed. He collapsed onto his knees, wincing at the sting that erupted through them before grabbing the bag he had hidden beneath the bed. He tore open the bag, his adrenaline running on high and pushing all other thoughts out of his head, as he grabbed the box within. Inside the delicately carved boxed, there sat a vial, and inside that vial? An infinitesimally small pill. The substance that filled the opaque casing glowed so brightly the entire box shined with a soft, ethereal light.

He ripped open the vial and tossed the cork aside, upturning the bottle and watching as the pill fell into the palm of his hand weightlessly. A tremor ran through his body as he remembered the circumstances of which the pill came into his possession.

Tears filled his cornflower blue eyes and slipped down his frozen, tinted pink cheeks. He promised himself he wouldn’t cry. A rock tripped him up as he desperately made his way down the mountainside and he fell, hard, onto his knees. “Fuck!” tore from his throat, leaving him to double over with a hollow chest and aching heart. As soon as the aches subsided, he allowed numbness to take their place. Numbness, he decided, was far better than the fucking destroyed feeling Geralt had left him with. The worst part however, the reason why he wasn’t turning around to punch the daylights out of Geralt of Rivia was that… he had to leave. He would always give the oaf whatever he wanted, would always stick around even though Geralt was quite literally fucking around with a mage, and if he didn’t leave now, he never would.

He pounded the ground once before clambering to his feet. He would not cry over Geralt of Rivia. He would not cry over the White Wolf or the fondness his heart felt for the witcher, or even the warmth that used to permeate every single bone in his body when he was with him. The Butcher of Blaviken did not deserve his heart or his tears.

So, he walked. He walked down the mountainside, down a path that would surely lead him away from his so-called friend. He fought creatures and nearly died as they desperately clawed at his body. He escaped and walked until the muscles in his legs cried out in pain and screamed at him to falter, and yet, he didn’t. Distantly, he strummed a few strings on his lute, longing for the sound to come out as beautifully and transcendentally as it once had. Instead, it came out broken and discordant. Perhaps, he supposed, like him.

And so, the bard kept going. He wandered from town to town, desperately trying to sing happy tunes that would bewitch the masses, and yet, they fell flat. Soon, his purse became light and his stomach empty. Any new material he wrote rang out sadly and, in the midst of a quickly ratcheting war, no one wanted to hear sadness. They had enough of it and so had Jaskier.

He sighed as he threw the last coins he had onto the bar and managed to get himself lodgings for the night. The stink of piss and ale that permeated the backwater inn was nearly enough to run him out of the town entirely, but alas, the inn was cheap and Jaskier was tired.

He stumbled up to his room and collapsed onto the bed, waiting to fall into a fitful sleep. Of course, that simply wasn’t in the cards because, for some incomprehensible reason, the world of the supernatural could never leave him alone. A whoosh of dust and dirt whipped up into a frenzy, forming a circle in the middle of the room, and Yennefer stepped through. He cursed and stared at the mage, who wore a stunning black dress, which Geralt would find delicious, he thought bitterly. 

“Yennefer?” he asked, his voice broken. He nearly gaped at how pitiful it sounded.

“Hello, little bard,” Yen said with an air of disinterest. 

“What are you doing here? Not that it isn’t a pleasure to see your lovely face, but I thought you and Geralt had run off into the sunset together. Gone off to slay monsters and weave chaos.” Jaskier couldn’t help the spike of bitter pain that ran through him. After all, it used to just be him and Geralt, going off on their adventures and skirting the line of life and death. Then, Yennefer came along and fucked it all to hell.

Yennefer let out a breathless, half-laugh. “I’m not traveling with Geralt at the moment, little bard, and I’m not here for idle gossip. I’m here to warn you of certain… events that are transpiring in Nilfgaard.”

“I know. They’re having their usual; food, women, wine, and a little bit of that pleasant chaos. Causing right hell for the townsfolk and making them all tighten up their purse strings.”

“Right, well, they’ve caused Cintra to fall. I came to warn you that Nilfgaard soldiers know of any and all involvement when it comes to our dear witcher, and you might find yourself in danger.”

“Lovely. Perfect. Just another example of Geralt’s wonderful presence in my life. Now, I’m trying to get some well-deserved beauty rest and pesky sorceresses like you interrupt that,” Jaskier said, lying back further on his bed and hooking one ankle over the other. He raised an eyebrow in a silent challenge.

“My point, bard, is that if a Nilfgaard soldier gets a hold of you, your resolve to be a good little dog to Geralt likely won’t hold,” Yennefer said, stepping up to the foot of the bed and watching Jaskier with those unnervingly vibrant violet eyes. “So, if you’re captured, you’re to take this.” She opened her palm to reveal a vial, inside which a small pill sat.

“Ooh, wondrous. Is this your latest in a string of attempts to get me killed, mage? If it is, it isn’t exactly subtle. What if I don’t take your little pill, huh?” 

“Then you betray Geralt and all of the Continent. How’s that for side effects?”

Jaskier snatched the vial from her hands, not wanting to admit how, even though Geralt had tossed him aside like he was nothing more than a common dung beetle, he still recoiled at the thought of hurting him. “What does it do? Make my toes shrivel and fall off? Burn off my eyebrows and put warts all over my luscious skin?” he quipped, throwing Yen a sharp grin.

“Pray you never have to find out,” she said, turning her back on Jaskier.

“Oh, well, that’s very specific. It’s not like you could bloody tell me what would happen. No, no. You’ve got to be all ominous and darkly mysterious about it!”

Yennefer chuckled and threw Jaskier an almost smug smirk before another portal swallowed her up.

“Bloody mages.” Jaskier bit back the urge to throw the vial to the ground and smash it underneath his heel. He unhooked his ankles and relaxed further into his bed, turning the vial over in his hands. One pill, imbued with magic, most likely, seeing as a mage gave it to him. He popped the vial open and allowed the pill to topple into his hands.

It held a glow he knew right then would haunt him forever. He held it up, bringing it closer and closer to his face, until-

A series of loud thuds rang out, bringing Jaskier back to the present. His time was up. Now or never, he supposed, and brought the pill to his lips. The door slammed open just as he forced the pill into his mouth and swallowed. A blur edged at the corner of his vision as a soldier, dressed in coal black armor with what looked like veins etched into the metal, stepped forward.

Jaskier got to his feet and put on his trademark smirk. “What took you so long, you lovely, strapping young men? I swear, I’ve been lonely and utterly saddened here just waiting for you. Even had time to powder my nose and don my best fineries.”

The knight drew a small dagger, not bothering with his sword, and stepped closer to Jaskier, until they were nearly sharing the same air. He wore a smirk of his own. Though, in Jaskier’s opinion, it was far cockier. Jaskier was, if nothing else, humble. “You think you’re so funny and so damned smart, bard, but we found you,” he said, bringing the dagger up and pushing the tip of it up against Jaskier’s neck.

“I wasn’t hiding, d-darling.” The words fell from his mouth with a slight slur. He chuckled breathlessly, nervous, but unclear as to why. The knight’s face began to blur and the colors of the world began to run. Unsteady on his feet, he swayed, inky black mixing in with the unfocused world, and he fell. He crumpled to the ground and allowed the world to go dark.

---

He awoke to a splitting headache and a disabling fuzziness all over. His mouth and throat felt like they had been stuffed full of cotton. Then, the world slowly shifted further into place. He had been stripped of his shirt, leaving him in only his trousers. His wrists ached, bound by manacles he then found himself strung up by. Instinctively, he yanked at his bindings, trying in vain to free himself. “Shit,” he mumbled.

Where the absolute, ever-loving fuck was he?

His gaze flicked around the room, consuming every detail. The ‘room’ was actually a cell in what was clearly a dungeon. Puddles of disgusting water dotted the floor and the putrid stench of mildew and rot filled the air. A grate sat in the ceiling directly above him, allowing light to cascade down and bring sharp clarity to his bound form. A table sat off to his right and upon first glance, you might not see anything wrong, and yet, a cold, immobilizing feeling struck directly into the center of his chest. It made his heart beat faster and his palms slick with sweat. On the table sat a tray of knives; thin and thick, long and short, sharpened and dull - as well as whips, needles, and a small device with three metal bars and a screw on the top, presumably to tighten it. 

However, he didn’t have time to ruminate as, seconds later, the metal door directly across from him was thrown open. A man with a scraggly beard in a dark jacket with equally dark trousers, flanked by two men in black, veined armor stepped into the room.

The bearded man stepped closer to him, an unnerving smirk upon his face. “Do you know who I am, bardling?” he asked, his deep voice soft and malicious.

With his bound wrists aching and his mind still fuzzy, he could only reply, “No.” He winced as his voice cracked.

The bearded man’s brown eyes fixed on him as he started circling around him with the air of a man who had long since been a predator. “Well, I know you, Jaskier. Oh, I’m sorry. Should I say Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove instead?”

Julian? Was that his name? His fuzzy world couldn’t comprehend it. So, instead, he did the next best thing; running his mouth until things made more sense. “Is there a reason I’m strung up like cattle or are you just living out some of your deepest, darkest fantasies? Well, I can’t say I’m opposed. Though, bondage isn’t really my area-” 

“Silence. I don’t care for idle chatter. You see, I’ve heard you have some very pretty songs to sing about a certain witcher.”

Julian - Jaskier? - clenched his jaw. His head whirled, thoughts spinning in a chaotic void of emptiness. “I haven’t the faintest idea what on earth you’re talking about. If I’d met a witcher, you’d have heard about it. Trust me on that one,” he said.

The bearded man’s smirk never faltered. “Looks like the little lark refuses to sing for us. How terribly tragic.” His tone indicated, however, that it was not terribly tragic at all. Slowly, the man shed his jacket, revealing a thin, cream-colored shirt stained with dark spots of… blood. It looked like it had never been washed since its purchase.

The man crossed to the table with the tray on it and picked up a long, thin blade. He twirled it in his fingers, eyes holding contact with Julian’s own. “Tell us about Geralt of Rivia and his little lion cub.”

A spark of annoyance mixed with pure, unadulterated desperation roared in Julian’s gut. “I don’t know this Geralt you speak of or the-the lion cub! I swear it! Just let me down from these cuffs and we can have a nice chat about-”

The first cut came as a shock. Burning pain erupted from where the blade met his skin, slashing a strip just below his collarbone. “Fuck,” he hissed as blood slipped down his chest in small rivulets.

“I’ll ask again, bardling,” the man said. “Where is Geralt of Rivia?”

“I don’t know!” Julian cried again.

And so it repeated. The bearded man would ask a question, Julian would reply with the only response he had, and a cut was made. Over and over, it happened until blood spilled down his chest, painting it into a stomach-turning portrait. 

Eventually, the man grew tired of his knives and turned to whips. The loud crack came and pain burst across his skin. Tears spilled down his face, mixing with sweat. “Please!” he would beg and cry, and still the pain would not stop. With every moment, his world became sharper, and things began coming back to him.

Then, the man set down the whip and grabbed a butcher’s knife. “Tell us about Geralt of Rivia, or I will start cutting off your fingers. You need those to play your precious little lute, don’t you, lark? Don’t you need them to play your tunes of mutants and monsters?”

Julian’s throat had long since been filled with razors and had been made raw by hours - or was it minutes? Days? - of screaming. “Please,” he croaked. 

The man simply sneered and came close to him; close enough for Julian to feel the other man’s hot breath on his face and he allowed his eyes to slip closed. “Disgusting witcher’s whore,” the man spat. Julian winced as he felt the spit land on his cheeks and chin.

Seconds later, a fist made contact with his face, and his eyes filled with stars. The tangy copper of blood permeated his mouth and he coughed it up, allowing it to dribble down the sides of his mouth. He kept his eyes closed, not wanting to see his fingers get mutilated. Then, the tell-tale sound of footsteps rang out, then a clatter of metal on metal, and finally, the thud of a heavy, metal door slamming closed.

His eyes opened and he found the room to be empty. The tray had been left on the table, tools stained with blood. His blood. Bile rose up his throat and, before he could stop himself, he threw up all over the stone floor. He couldn’t even wipe his mouth for god’s sake.

Blood still oozed down his chest and pain overwhelmed him. His throat and wrists shared the same raw ache and his torso screamed in agony. Whoever Geralt of Rivia was, he had condemned him to this.

It wasn’t long after that day that the dripping started.

---

At first, it felt good. A nice drip of water that was a welcome change from the pain that riddled his body. It fell from the grate above his head and he reveled it in, enjoying every moment. However, the torture continued. Julian wasn’t sure how long it went on. He just knew that, when the sun went down, one single meal would be brought to him and he would be fed. Beyond that, he ate nothing and drank nothing. Sometimes, he almost thought the knight giving it to him looked… sympathetic. However, that simply couldn’t be true, even if it was always the same man. The days soon blurred together in a flurry of screams.

He found it easiest to repeat a couple of words over and over.

“My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. I am a bard by the name of Jaskier and I don’t know who Geralt of Rivia is.”

Soon, the bearded man whose name Julian did not know, brought red-hot brands. They burnt his skin, melting it and sending waves of fiery pain through him. The knives and whips seemed to be on a rotation, but the one constant was that little drip of water.

Every few seconds, a small drip would land on the crown of his head. Even during the hours when he was mutilated. 

His body shook from exertion, every muscle wanting to give up, to give in. He wished he knew the answer to their questions. He just wanted it to stop. 

“My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. I am a bard by the name of Jaskier and I don’t know who Geralt of Rivia is.”

His mind became clearer and more fogged at the same time. That once welcome drip became insufferable. His skull ached with it until it became a pounding instead of a drip. Over and over it would come. 

“My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. I am a bard by the name of Jaskier and I don’t know who Geralt of Rivia is.”

Soon, white-hot pain became a constant. He learned to live with it. Even when they broke his fingers with the barred device, apparently called a thumbscrew. He simply lived with the pain. 

“My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. I am a bard by the name of Jaskier and I don’t know who Geralt of Rivia is.”

After that, every few days, a dark-skinned woman in long, flowing robes would come in. She would chant and whisper in his ears and feed him herbal mixes. Every once in a while, she would curse and say a feminine name under her breath. It was familiar and yet completely foreign. His mind became more splintered on those days and after she left, he would have a pounding headache.

“My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. I am a bard by the name of Jaskier and I don’t know who Geralt of Rivia is.”

Sleep came in fitful moments that never truly left him feeling rested. His mind sunk into a desperate state of confusion. 

“My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. I am a bard by the name of Jaskier and I don’t know who Geralt of Rivia is.”

The words he kept repeating to himself slowly started to slip through his fingers. They melted into a flurry of ‘pleases’ and ‘don’ts.’ 

He just wanted it to end. Why wouldn’t it end? His eyes itched and his throat burned from the power of his sobs. The tears reminded him of that omnipresent drip that haunted him.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

“Somebody help me,” he whispered, in the dead of night, when he was absolutely sure no one would hear him.

---

Sweat poured down his back as he raised the axe, swinging it down in a brutal swipe. The log split down the middle, coming apart in two neat pieces. Monsters never came apart this easily, Geralt thought absent-mindedly as he split another log.

The wood would be good for making fire and would be desperately needed as the chill in the air increased with each passing day. The cold autumn sun shone down upon the little cabin in the middle of the vast forest. Ciri sat upon the small steps leading up to the door, humming a soft tune and twirling a small dagger as a breeze swept through the trees, making the grass dance and the leaves shake.

All in all, it should have been peaceful. It was peaceful, except for… well, except for his nightmares. Geralt couldn’t get the image of two bright blue eyes, ringed with gold near the center, and the way they shone with unshed tears. The picture of a face usually lit up with happiness falling into something unrecognizable and cold. A mouth so fond of words becoming nearly speechless. 

“That’s not fair.”

He brought the axe down, ripping the piece of wood in two.

“See you around, Geralt.”

Geralt tossed the axe aside, not caring where it landed. A gentle hand appeared on his bicep and tugged on his arm. “Come on, Geralt. It’s getting cold out here,” Ciri said, tucking her dagger into a sheath on her hip. It was no colder than it had been earlier, besides the gentle breeze, which made him realize her true angle. He recognized the act of kindness for what it was and gave her a tight smile and a pat on the head.

Ciri smiled and slapped his hand away. “Your hands are so filthy,” she complained with no real heat behind her words.

“Hmm. Only because I’m cutting wood to keep you warm,” he said, his lips quirking a little.

Ciri scrunched up her nose. “You know you get cold too, Geralt. Now, can we please go inside?” 

He patted her head again and Ciri giggled, hitting his hand once more then gathering some of the wood into her arms. She trudged into the house, light blonde hair streaked with the tiniest bit of dirt. Geralt picked up the rest of the firewood and carried it inside, humming a soft tune to himself. It took him a moment to recognize it, to really hear what he was singing, and immediately, guilt filled him and he froze on the doorstep into the house. His chest clenched and a familiar voice came into his thoughts, unbidden.

“Toss a coin to your witcher, oh Valley of Plenty.”

He bit back a curse, remembering the deep, lilting tone with ease. In fact, he couldn’t get that damn voice out of his head. Not for a lack of trying, though. He shook his head and headed further into the abode. The bundle of wood in his arms felt heavy, even though he knew it couldn’t be. 

He set the wood down and took to making a fire, Ciri sitting next to him and observing his movements. For a while, the pair stayed quiet, not a word being spoken. Geralt used to pray for that, used to pray for his blessed silence, yet when he got it, he wanted to throw it away in exchange for soft smiles and endless chatter.

“I love the way you just… sit in the corner and brood.”

“I’m here to drink alone.”

“Good. Yeah, good. No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance, except… for you. Come on. You don’t want to keep a man with… bread in his pants waiting. You must have some review for me. Three words or less.”

The fire began to spark and catch on the wood as he used Igni to light it. Ciri’s eyes shone with wonder as she gazed upon the flames that quickly swallowed the logs before them. A warm, fuzzy feeling spread through Geralt’s chest. Even though he would never admit it, he had come to rather care for the child that destiny thrust upon him.

Ciri brought her hands up and let the fire warm them, rubbing them together every so often. “When is Yennefer coming back?” she asked, eyes still focused on the flames dancing in the hearth.

Geralt sighed, sitting back and allowing the fire to mesmerize him. “I don’t know.”

Ciri stared at him, as if waiting for him to elaborate or provide a longer answer. “Ever the conversationalist,” she mumbled, going back to admiring the fire created by magic. A pang jolted through Geralt and his chest constricted, making it feel ten times too small for his heart. Why on earth did she have to be so similar to… to him? Destiny and its endless taunting, he supposed, and internally cursed it once more.

The day soon fell into a cold, suffocating night and inky blackness filled the sky. Still, he stayed sitting on the hard, wooden planks in front of the fire. He knew that, in the morning, the stars would be drowned out by a frosty dawn and a new sun would rise, then he would regret his lack of sleep, but that was the problem of tomorrow’s Geralt. When did he become a poet anyway? Scratch that, he knew exactly when, but knowing and admitting… well, they were very different things.

The absence of endless, mind-numbing chatter and the strumming of a lute as a soft voice worked its way through countless renditions of the same song…

It hit him harder than he expected.

What are we looking for again?

Blessed silence.

Yeah, I don’t really go in for that.

Ciri, thick blanket in hand, made her way over to Geralt and plopped herself down next to him. Without a word, she moved his arm and curled into his side. Instinctively, he pulled the girl closer, his heart warming at the lack of fear in her scent. He hated constantly being able to smell emotions. It made him feel unnatural and freakish, though, he supposed that was true. After all, if enough people scream something at you whilst also spitting on you and cursing the very ground you walk on, you begin to believe it.

However, the little lion cub of Cintra never had a hint of fear in her scent. Not in regards to him, at the very least. The essence of daisies and petrichor clung to her, filling the air. The girl had come into his life like a storm, so it was only fitting that she smelled like one, he supposed.

He held her that way as the fire crackled steadily in the hearth and the night continued on. Soon though, he heard those soft, tell-tale snores coming from Ciri and chuckled. A gleeful, fond feeling filled his chest and settled in his stomach as he lifted the girl into his arms and properly stood up, carrying her to the room they shared. She liked to sleep close to Geralt because, like him, she had nightmares. Companionship eased the pain.

He laid her down on one of the two beds in the room and tucked her in beneath the blankets. That fond feeling grew as Ciri, usually so strong and unshakable in her resolve, curled up and finally allowed herself to be at peace. He tucked a strand of light golden hair behind her ear and retreated to the other bed. He rid himself of his boots and socks then slipped under the thick wool blankets. A sigh escaped his lips, unbidden, as he sunk into the comfort of the bed.

Luxuries such as baths and beds were things he wouldn’t have even considered before a certain bard entered his life. Simple human things usually went unnoticed to Geralt, but Jaskier? Jaskier insisted on showing him the finer things in life, chattering on about how grand life could be when you decided to truly live it. He wondered what it would be like to truly live life, as Jaskier had said. What ifs plagued him. What if he had never made a wish with the djinn? What if he had gone to the coast with Jaskier? What if he had kept a lid on his damn temper and not blamed the innocent bard for every single thing that went wrong in his life?

And that’s how he laid, thoughts of bards and the possibilities of a world where he himself wasn’t such a cruel freak running about his head, until he finally fell into a restless sleep.

---

The bard stood before him, and the inn that had been bright with color was dull in comparison to the man. Geralt couldn’t speak as those blue eyes tore into him, stealing his words, his breath, and his reason. Jaskier took a step forward, his lute cradled in his arms, and his eyes full of… friendship and love. Geralt didn’t deserve either.

Jaskier stood there, silent as the night, until the inn faded away, replaced by a mountaintop and framed by a gray sky. “See you around, Geralt,” the bard said, turning on his heel.

Geralt opened his mouth, and a desperate cry for Jaskier to stay, to never leave him, died on his lips as the air swallowed the memory. Then, the bard turned back around, his eyes dull, cold, and lifeless. “Geralt,” he whispered and blood began to wet the front of his doublet in a quickly growing stain.

Jaskier fell backward, hitting the ground with a resounding thud. The air had been punched out of Geralt’s lungs as the world slowed around them. “No, no, no,” he yelled, rushing to the bard’s side. He fell to his knees and shifted the other man into his lap, his hand rising to cup his cheek and when he did, the skin underneath his fingers melted into dust. Then, slowly and with building speed, the rest of Jaskier disintegrated into nothingness, the remains of his body caught in the wind.

Geralt longed to cry, to weep for the loss of his bard, and yet… he couldn’t. His body wasn’t capable of shedding a tear, not even for the obnoxious, kind, sassy chatterbox that had clung to Geralt for over two decades. Had it really been two whole decades? Time flew, especially for mortals.

Geralt slowly got to his feet and then, he heard it. The screams of townsfolk calling him a butcher, a monster, a freak, and no one came to his defense. No bard raised his lute and yelled back, drowning out the voices.

Though, Jaskier did speak and his words were carried by the very same wind that had swept him away, “Geralt.”

Geralt turned, hand outstretched.

“Geralt,” the voice shouted, this time with more urgency.

He grasped at the wind.

“Geralt!”

Geralt gasped, cold air filling his lungs as the world slipped back into place. Ciri shook his shoulder from her place in his arms. She must’ve crawled into bed with him at some point during the night. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice soft and gentle.

“I’m fine,” he managed. Having an audience for his nightmares unsettled him and anyone seeing his weakness made him want to toss up his dinner. Had he even had dinner the night before? He couldn’t remember.

Ciri’s eyes shone with a thinly-veiled concern, something he had only truly seen in… “Jaskier,” she said. “You kept saying his name in your sleep. That’s the bard that used to play at my birthday banquets, you know.”

Geralt lifted his head off the pillows in alarm. “He what?”

“He used to play the sweetest, most lovely songs. I adored him. How do you know him?” Ciri asked, looking up at him with those frosty blue eyes.

He realized he wasn’t going to get out of this with a simple ‘oh, just a friend from back when.’ He would need to fully explain and so, he did, “We met in a tavern in Posada...” After those first words, the rest came flowing out more easily. He wove a tale of their two decades together that he liked to think Jaskier would’ve been proud of, even if the words were halting and didn’t come easily. 

When he had finished, Ciri’s eyes danced with emotion. “After two decades, you just… pushed him away like that?” she whispered, not daring to break the soft calm that had fallen over the room. “Please tell me you went after him and apologized.” Geralt stayed silent, not meeting Ciri’s gaze. He didn’t want or need her judgment, but he knew he would get it anyway. 

Ciri’s little exhale sent daggers of guilt flowing through him. As if he needed another reminder of how badly he fucked up. She cleared her throat. “Geralt, as much as I love you, I think you need to talk about your actual feelings more. You pushed away the man who had been in love with you and following you around for the better part of twenty years and-”

“He wasn’t in love with me!” Geralt sputtered, a tinge of growl seeping into his tone.

Ciri fixed him with a stern look that slowly melted into something almost… pitiful. He hated it. “Oh, Geralt, you must be joking. He tagged along on your adventures, sang your praises—quite literally—and somehow stuck around even though you punched him in the stomach and made jabs at him at every possible opportunity, if your account is accurate. So, if that’s not love, then I don’t know what is.”

Geralt stayed still, shocked into silence. Then, slowly, as if the stars were finally aligning, everything clicked into place. “Fuck. He was… and I… Fuck.”

Ciri nodded. “Exactly! We need to find him, Geralt.”

“No. We can’t. We have to keep you safe, and Yennefer wouldn’t know where we went. Anyway, we don’t know where Jaskier is. Even if we did, why would he hear me out?”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop as Ciri glared, her brow furrowing. “It sounds like a bunch of excuses to me, and you know what? He would forgive you. I just know it.”

Geralt bit the inside of his cheek, thinking. Then, finally settled on a few words. “We’ll talk about this in the morning. Go to sleep.”

Ciri pouted a little bit but snuggled into his chest all the same. He held her close and ran soothing fingers through her hair until her breathing evened out and her body went lax and peaceful. Moments where he could just protect this girl, the one who had wriggled her way into his heart and who truly became his daughter, those moments were what made running from Nilfgaard worth it.

Geralt sighed, allowing himself to relax, and sunk into thoughts about Jaskier. When sleep finally took him, he dreamt of warm hands, soft smiles, garish clothes, and songs sung at far too high of a volume.

---

The slamming of a door broke his fitful sleep. Geralt sat straight up, Ciri groaning slightly as he jostled her. He leapt out of bed and grabbed his sword, which was leaning against the wall, then carefully crept over to Ciri and shook her awake. As her blue eyes fluttered open, he held a finger to his lips and pointed at the door.

She nodded and slowly slipped out of the bed. Her dagger and its sheath had been placed on the dresser the night before. Geralt kept his eyes on the door as she grabbed the dagger. He motioned for her to stay put and readied his sword as he heard approaching footsteps. The door stood five yards away from his place by the bed. He could easily rush forward and take down the attacker if need be.

The door swung open and an irritated feminine voice filled the room along with the scent of lilac and gooseberries. “Geralt!” Yennefer said, pausing in the doorway. Her eyes swept over his defensive form and the blade in his hands. “Glad to see you’re already prepared to fight. We have to go.”

Geralt frowned, tilting his head slightly. “Go where? Are we in danger?”

“No. Not yet, in any case,” she said, crossing over to him. Her long, gray dress complimented the vibrant purple of her eyes and the stark darkness of her hair. “The siege on the Nilfgaardian fortress near Novigrad is happening today. Right now, in fact.”

Bells started ringing in Geralt’s head, warning him that something terrible had happened. A deep unease settled into his bones. “Yen, what’s going on?”

Yennefer bit her lip and glanced at Ciri. “Our… informant within the base sent word that someone of import has been captured. They couldn’t provide much more for us to work with, but it spells dreadful news for the resistance. The raid has been moved up to today for that reason. I got here as soon as I could to tell you.”

That deep sense of unease worsened, curling in his gut and twisting in his heart. “Why do you need me? Ciri needs a guardian and you don’t usually call for me.”

Yennefer hesitated. “Listen, Geralt, I… We’re working with a third of the forces we would have had if we could’ve waited. We’re in dire times and we require a strong fighter. Ciri can stay here on her own. We… I need your help.” 

Even though the romantic aspect of their relationship had died out long ago, Geralt still felt helpless to refuse the mage anything. “Lead the way.”

Yennefer smiled, small yet grateful. She turned on her heel, sparing Ciri one more glance, before heading out of the door. Geralt donned his armor, fastening the straps and sheathing his sword across his back, then followed her. Ciri trailed behind them. By the time he had made it outside, the air had already begun to whirl at Yennefer’s demand, and soon a portal formed.

Geralt took a single step towards the portal before Ciri launched into his arms. She buried her face in his chest and clung to him. He patted her head, his movements stiff and halting but still comforting. At least, he hoped they were comforting.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Ciri slowly raised her head and looked him in the eyes. “You’d better. I’ll never forgive you if you die. Oh, and don’t forget that we’re going to find Jaskier after this!” she said, drawing away from him and doing her best to put on a smile.

Geralt sighed, trying to act put out by her, but they both knew he loved her. “I would expect nothing less.” He gave her a small smile of his own and turned back to the portal. Yennefer raised an eyebrow at him, but he simply shrugged her off.

The two stepped through the portal and got whisked away to the battlefield.

---

His boots connected with mud and immediately, he sunk into the ground up to his ankle. A loud squelch rang out as Yennefer’s fine shoes also connected. “Ugh,” she groaned. They had stepped directly into a muddy area in the midst of a rainforest. His sensitive hearing picked up chatter from somewhere deeper into the forest. Yennefer began walking and beckoned for him to follow. Soon, they were traversing a maze of trees, vines, and roots intended to trip them up.

The pure ice cold chill in the air was enough to make Geralt regret coming with her.

They finally reached a small camp of tents. Men were milling around, carrying odds and ends. Some were sharpening swords and taking practice swings with them. A balding man marched up to Geralt and Yennefer. He had a scraggly beard and a scar across his jaw. “Ah, you’re finally here. I take it this is the infamous White Wolf?”

Geralt internally winced at the name. Yennefer smiled in her polite fashion, that little hint of danger just beneath the surface. “Indeed it is, Marko.”

The man, Marko, stretched out a hand for Geralt to shake. “I’m glad you’re on board.”

Geralt regarded the outstretched hand for a moment and was about to shrug it off when Yennefer elbowed him. He shot her a look then grasped Marko’s hand and shook it. “Hmm.”

Marko, seeming to think nothing of it, began to lead them through the camp. A small, very unwelcome breeze swept through the trees. The biting air was enough to chill even him to the bone. Soon enough, the air would be cold enough to cause hypothermia for the entire army. How delightful. Well, perhaps that was an exaggeration, but still.

Marko led them in between scores of tents, talking to the odd soldier as he went. His voice carried a tiredness that you only truly found in those who had fought tooth and nail to survive and now carried those memories like a weight on their shoulders. He glanced back at Geralt. “As Lady Yennefer no doubt told you, this raid has turned into primarily a rescue mission. We’ll need you on the front lines, taking down the Nilfgaardian knights.”

Yennefer placed a gentle hand on his bicep. “You won’t have to take them on alone.”

Geralt shot her a look and shook her hand off. “I wasn’t worried.”

Eventually, they reached an area with a small path cut in between the trees and vines. Marko gestured towards the path. “You’ll have to hurry. The first group of our men have already gone out.”

Before Marko could say another word, Geralt headed off down the path with Yennefer trailing behind him. His keen senses picked up on the hiss and slither of a snake somewhere in the forest and the pitiful cry of a hare being struck down by a predator. These were sounds he had become accustomed to in his many years of life.

They walked in silence for many minutes, stalking through the trees with purpose. Then, with enough strength to curdle the blood of any living thing, a scream rang out. It ripped through the trees along with the clash of metal on metal and the racket of battle cries. Hooves beat down on the earth somewhere ahead of them. He broke out into a sprint, hand flying to his sword instinctively.

Yennefer was hot on his heels as they tore through the forest. Finally, finally, the trees broke into a grassy plain, stretching to a mountain where a black stone fortress sat. On that grassy plain, no more than twenty yards away, the blood of fallen men stained the ground. It seeped into the earth and soaked it.

Niflgaardian warriors with their blackened, wavy armor clashed with resistance soldiers. Men fell to the ground in heaps of blood and anguished cries. The heavy stench of sulfur, body odor, and that unmistakable sour tang of fear filled the air. The sulfur clung to many of the resistance warriors and he knew the meaning well: righteous anger.

The sun, slowly making its way higher into the sky, began to chase away the cold of the late morning as it became early afternoon. Geralt pulled his sword and charged into the thick of battle, ignoring Yennefer’s calls behind him.

A Nilfgaardian knight ran at him like a bull seeing red and swung his heavy blade. He was fast, Geralt would give him that, but not quite fast enough. He easily sidestepped the attack made by the warrior and drove his blade into the man’s back, who collapsed like a felled tree. Moments in the heat of battle were the ones he was good at. A battle - no matter how bloody - was like a dance. Keep light on your feet and move with precision or else you’ll fall.

One by one, he struck down warriors who dared approach him. Their screams and the stench of spoiled milk filled the air as they crumpled, blood staining the earth. He didn’t know how long it took for the battle to end, but by the time the last Nilfgaardian man had fallen, the sun was high in the sky and beating down on them with remarkable force. A breeze, now feeling pleasant after the sweat and exertion of battle, swept across the field.

Blood had managed to work its way into his boots at some point, and he was certain his socks would be stained. More to the point, they had been soaked through. He grunted and ignored the minor inconvenience. As the resistance warriors began their march to the looming, ominous fortress on the mountainside, he followed. They made their way across the grassy plain and to a thicket of trees around the base of the mountain.

They crept through, low-hanging vines being chopped off swiftly. He wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead. Strange, all things considered. He didn’t usually sweat, but he had a hunch the sense of unease lingering in his bones had something to do with it. This feeling of utter wrongness clung to him, and he couldn’t shake it. Not for a lack of trying, though.

They came across a small gate hidden in the trees that led to the grounds beside the fortress. It had been built partially into the mountain but still had outside entrances. He glanced around at the men who were making their way to the gate. Somehow, he had lost Yennefer in the scuffle. No worry settled inside him, though. He was certain she had found safety.

One of the men managed to get the gate open and cheered in success. The rest of them filed through the new opening and marched forwards, coming face to face with a new bout of guards.

---

Geralt wasn’t sure how long it took them to finally infiltrate fully, he just knew it had happened. At that moment, he stood in the midst of a long hallway, the bodies of fallen warriors left in his wake. He continued down the dark path that was only lit by windows off to his left. As he reached the end of the hallway, he saw a series of doors. Not just simple doors either—these were made of heavy metals and designed to be impenetrable.

He turned to one of the doors and gave it a push. It slowly swung open; strange, all things considered, but he brushed it off.

The sight he saw next would haunt him forever.

---

Tag list: @cirillafromcintras

[split-n-splice]

Here’s me pretending I genuinely forgot to update here and wasn’t just too lazy. To whom it may concern, TCYK updates first on FFn!

[Chapter Guide | FFn | Ao3]

41. Whose Side – 4

Distraught as she was, Drakken’s accomplice didn’t seem surprised to learn of her ex-friend’s treachery. By a few choice words she muttered, he gathered it wasn’t even the first time the bubbly blonde had given away Shego’s medication for her own gain. He didn’t dare question the effects or purpose of the drug for fear of inciting her ire once more – he’d already learned more than she’d wanted him to know anyway, and pushing her tonight could prove to be a mistake.

Needless to say, staying to watch the movie to feign some semblance of normalcy wasn’t a priority anymore. Shego held herself, denying his offer of a warm mug of soothing cocoa moo, and requested instead she be taken home.

Drakken didn’t object her decision to leave.

The van, however, did.

After several long minutes of troubleshooting the busted old van that refused to sputter to life, Shego climbed out and grabbed Drakken by his now-stained shirt and tugged him back to his quarters in the depths of the lair.

Though her glare was still heated, she’d cooled off enough he wasn’t so fearful she’d hurl a ball of plasma at his head for looking at her wrong.

Fries and dinosaur chicken nuggets sufficed for supper as they finally watched the movie in brittle silence. And despite Priscilla Kimbley otherwise wrecking the evening, Shego still obstinately managed to inch closer to Drakken’s side of the couch, until she was leaned against him, though Drakken convinced himself it was merely for easy access to his crimp-cut fries as she’d already polished off her own plate.

Cute and cuddly came back to mind and after some time he risked extending an arm around her shoulders, ignoring how tense he himself was and how much warmer she felt beside him the second he did. Shego said nothing and took another fry from the plate in his lap. Whatever wild and witty antics the detective on screen was up to was bound to be lost on Drakken as long as his partner in crime was snuggled up next to him.

It didn’t last long, which was both a relief and a disappointment. Within minutes of finishing off his fries, she pealed herself away, snatching up a pack of smokes from the coffee table and moving to the far end of the couch before lighting up. Drakken tried not to watch her puff each time she brought the cigarette to her lips, half expecting and half hoping she’d offer it out to him.

Before he could ask for a drag to sate his own reawakened craving, Shego blew out a long plume of smoke and croaked out, “I’m gonna kill her.” She held the cigarette out his way, but Drakken was hesitant now to take the meager peace offering.

He had to assume she meant her old friend. He nodded as he filled his lungs and then licked his lips, wishing he could taste her on the filter. He swallowed back whatever tried to rise from the pit of his stomach then and hummed. “I offered to help you the other day,” he said. “That offer still stands.” Although offing anyone together lacked a certain appeal at the moment.

Shego let out a small sad chuckle. “Yeah. Thanks,” she muttered. “Glad to know you’ve got my back, dude.”

“Any time, sister.”

Shego froze for a beat as she took the cigarette back – and it was all the warning he had that he’d said something wrong. In one swift motion, she snuffed out the smoke in the ash tray and crossed the space between them, wearing a glare that read she had a point to make.

Drakken’s view of the television was blocked out suddenly as her weight landed on his knees, and his eyes flew wide at the warm hands meeting his skin from the neck up. That was as far as she made it before her momentum petered out, her fizzling palm cupping his cheek gently as she sat frozen before him. The television fell entirely on deaf ears now, as all he could hear was the thud of his heartbeat – hell, he barely even heard her call his name, equal parts hesitant and harsh.

He tore his eyes from her almost panicked face and her teeth sinking into her lip, though letting his gaze wander down the rest of her wasn’t much better.

One hand gingerly rested on her thigh, carefully as though testing a pan he wasn’t sure wasn’t hot, and he felt the reaction of her hand warming on his cheek as her other squeezed his shoulder. Drakken understood then just how literally he was playing with fire as his roaming touch came to a pause as her waist. “Uhm,” was the most competent thing he could utter, too slack-jawed and stupefied to brave looking her in the eye.

He was practically forced to regardless as Shego stooped forward.

Time began moving again in a hurry and Drakken snapped out of his daze the instant he felt her breath on his lips. Before she could close the distance, let alone object to the rebuff, he’d swept her up and deposited her on the couch in his spot instead, dropping his surprised accomplice like a sack of rocks.

“You should get some rest,” he decided, tousling her already-tangled hair if only to push her down for a split second longer as he made his hasty escape.

“Drakken!” she snapped over the spine of the couch after him.

“I’ll ask to borrow the Beetle in the morning,” he announced, his own voice a little too shrill for his liking, as he retired hastily to his bedroom and locked his door behind him.

If she was determined enough to force her way in after him, she wouldn’t let a mere lock stop her. He was well aware that Shego knew how to pick locks. Hell, one of his first encounters with her – since she’d assumed the alias Shego anyway – had been when she’d picked the lock to his motel room back in Go City. It really hadn’t been that long ago. He barely knew her. Certainly not well enough to allow her into his lap to – to do whatever it was she’d planned to do with him. Not tonight – not ever – and he squeezed his eyes shut tight to swear by it. Besides, she was too invaluable to risk treading into that territory.

A shower was in order. A cold one, preferably.

Drakken was, admittedly, relieved Shego did not sneak her way into his bedroom. He must have laid awake half the night waiting for something – or rather, someone – uninvited to reach out and touch him, but no hands haunted him tonight, ghostly or otherwise. Still worried for his accomplice with the invisible trespasser at large, he did sneak out into the living room once or twice to take a peek. The first time, Shego was just barely awake watching a late-night rerun of Scamper and Bitey. The second time, he had to guess she was asleep as paid programming was droning on when he flicked the television off, though he tried his best not to look too closely at her to be certain.

He awoke before her of course, as per usual. Soon enough, the aroma of coffee pulled her from her beauty sleep and she slumped into kitchen and plopped herself down in a bar stool. He slid her a mug of coffee – creamed and sweetened to perfection – and Shego flashed a sleepy crooked smile at him.

“Buck’s hiring, you know,” she jibbed, eyeing her coffee, and Drakken arched his brow at her. She sighed and reiterated, “You’d make a good barista.”

Drakken said nothing. He merely scoffed and rolled his eyes as he returned to frying up a simple breakfast of scrambled eggs.

He heard her slurp from the mug before slamming it down with a loud clack that made him jump. For a fleeting moment he feared he’d gotten their cups mixed up, but a glance back at the sheepish look Shego wore, and he was sure it wasn’t the case. “Sorry,” she muttered meekly. “About last night. I-I don’t know what I was thinking. Uhm…” She took a long sip from the mug then, looking anywhere but at him.

He could have made a wisecrack and asked what part of last night she was sorry for, but he kept his mouth shut. He grunted instead. After a moment of poking at the scrambled eggs with the spatula, he gave a short answer, “It’s alright. Happens to the best of us,” and cringed inwardly. If their roles had been reversed – Drakken squeezed his eyes tight at the possible repercussion of that.

Shego was quiet for a moment before he heard her breathy snort that sufficed for laughter. “Yeah. Whatever.” Another pause. He dished out two plates and set one before her, taking the spot across from her. “I already have some things here, so you don’t have to drive me home first,” she declared.

Remembering it was Tuesday and she was due to spend the better half of her day at Buckley’s Brew, Drakken’s shoulders fell a little. “Good. Saves me the trouble,” he said, finding the silver lining.

Her gaze strayed down from the clock. “We have a little time to hang.” It sounded like an offer.

Drakken tore his stare away from the strained smirk on her lips and stabbed at his eggs instead. “Not enough time for a game of foosball, I’m afraid,” he said, staving back the disappointment.

Shego’s eyes narrowed before she snatched up the shaker from in front of him to dump an obscene amount of pepper onto her breakfast. “You don’t need me for anything today, do you?”

“No—”

“Good. I’m not coming over tonight.”

[bloodys44]

Silence and Cigarette Smoke

Decided I should create a space to share my content and interacte with people more :) I love Nalu, and writing about them brings me so much joy, I hope you enjoy my story :3 I have a few more chapter’s published on if you follow the link below :)

Full Story: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13289933/1/Silence-and-Cigarette-Smoke

I don't own Fairy Tail. All rights reserved to Hiro Mashima.

Silence and Cigarette Smoke - Prolog: Wings Of A Guardian Dragon

785

Nothing in Lucy Hearfilia's life had ever felt comparable to the excruciating twinge her lungs were currently experiencing. Shuddering in her chest, begging for a sliver of relief. The soles of her feet were raw, split and bloody. No doubt leaving a trail of unforgiving red in her wake. Never had she run so far, the reaper lapping seductively at her heels. The comfort of the town's protective stone walls growing farther with every step, leaving her hopelessly lost in the rather daunting forest crowning the edge of the county. Not that finding her barrings would be worth anything if she couldn't outrun the overly persistent officers shredding apart her shadow. The ferocious sound of metal horse shoe's connecting with the rocky earth eating away at the quiet of the evening. The chances of slipping away from trained men on horseback were less than slim, but she couldn't bring herself to stop pressing her heels against the dirt. The thought of rotting away, hidden under the cold earth was grotesque, to say the least. Death being a frosted window she couldn't peer through, she could only distinguish terror at the uncertainty. Her energy was growing as thin as the forest around her, a murky clearing fast approaching. Panic began to bubble through her chest as she watched the shrubbery dissipate. Her cover in the branches would be lost, they would spot her instantly, thus ending their little game of cat and mouse. The last nail of her coffin, scorching down from the heavens. She supposed she should be grateful that she got as much time as she did, it was only a matter of time until fate would have caught up with her. Only she had hoped for a little longer. Hoping to eventually earn a life worth living, something beyond the aged brick of ally ways and cheaply rented rooms.

The clearing was vast, shades of green mixed with the unusual appearance of sakura trees. It would have been rather breathtaking if she had any oxygen left donate. She glanced over her shoulder, watching as the officers began streaming through the trees and into the void space. Lucy screeched and reared forward, sprinting with the last ounce of her strength. They were fast, encroaching on her like a swarm of starving vultures to prey. Howling with pleasure at the sight of their feast. The unmistakable whip of an arrow snaked by her head, leaving a gash embedded into her left cheek. She whimpered at the sting, swallowing the cry that crept up her throat. Another thwak emits from the taut string of a bow, metal connecting with the flesh of her calf. A piercing shock pulses through her skin, causing her to plummet towards the rocky earth. Her wrist emitting a sickening crack with the ground. She wailed pathetically, pulling her shambled body into more of a sitting position, trying to hold herself together. Her eyes darting towards her leg, assessing the damage. It hadn't pierced through the front of her shin, arrowhead lost somewhere between muscle and bone. Using her good hand she tore the serrated metal from her skin with a revolting squelching sound that split through the vast emptiness. She cried in desperation, holding her injuries as the foul men approached. Five heavily ironclad officers surrounded her, the moonlight glinting off their numerous badges. Their faces all masked by the royal guards' signature helmets. Silver and engraved with the crown's unique seal. The man she assumed to be the captain dismounted his horse first, removing his helmet to reveal a shaggily cut mop of brown hair. His eyes a shade of hideous green that matched the rotting mirth of his teeth. His cracked lips curling into a cruel smirk that succeeded in flipping her stomach. He crouched low, his gaze matching hers before trailing over her figure.

"I believe you owe us some compensation for all the trouble you've caused little Miss." His voice was shrill and dripped with freezing intrigue. "The King has all kinds of folk out searching for you, even after all these years. Really makes a man wonder what makes you so special?" He leaned closer, folding his fingers around the delicate edge of her chin. "A nameless woman with hair that could rival that of real gold. Reminds me a lot of our dearly departed princess." He continued, eyes in a focused search for any reaction she could sprout at his pointed words. "I always found it fascinating that her execution wasn't public like that of her worthless mothers. After all the King's ravings about purging the enchanted blood from the royal line, one might think he would have paraded her corpse as a trophy to pair with his Queen's." Lucy could feel the beat of her heart thrumming against her ribcage, rage at the blatant disrespect for her Mother clouding her judgment. She pulled her lips back in a half-hearted sneer before spitting into his face.

"Queen Layla was the best ruler this kingdom has ever throned, and all of you were so entertained by your sick sense of ethnocentrism you failed to see just how much she truly loved her people." She drawled, keeping the disgusted expression plastered across her features.

His smirk twisted into a gloating rage, eyes sharp in a glare. He reached a leather-gloved hand forward, grasping a thick handful of her golden locks. Lucy wailed as he pulled her forward with a cackle, her face stopping mere inches from his groin. Her bloody leg dragging across the rocks heavily. The other men began to liven up, sick laughter and snide comments filling her ears. She tried to squirm out of his grasp but he overpowered her easily, his laughter building with every shift, growing into hysteria."I suppose spitfire is a good name for you." He leered, tightening his grip around the dirty strands of her hair. "Not many can say they've had their way with a princess, what a lucky day indeed." Another man approached from the side, shooting his heavily booted foot forward to strike the side of her stomach. The air in her lungs slipped past her lips forcefully. She tried to regain her composure but the man wasted no time in continuing his assault, straining forward to tear the remains of her gown away, leaving only her structured slip.

"Oh captain, I hope you plan on sharing." The second man leered, excited eye's bouncing around his skull as he took her figure in. He shoved his gloved fingers between her lips, prying her mouth open as the captain began to unclasp the metal fastening of his uniformed bottoms. Lucy clenched her eyes shut, holding back the bile swarming her throat. This is not how she pictured going out, violated and broken. Hot tears stung the pale skin of her cheek. She tried to clear her mind, focusing on anything but the reality that was about to be forced upon her. The greedy fingers that tore at the skin of her cheek twitched and without a moments thought Lucy bit down with all the force she could muster."You bitch!" The man squealed like a lost child, flinging her head back as he forcibly removed her fingers. She peeled her eyelids back, only to be met with a metal-clad knee connecting with her vision. Only the gods would ever understand how comforting the blackness that melted over her was.

The world she awoke too was nothing like the world she had closed her eyes on. The earth twisted and warped by demanding flames. The once beautiful clearing masked by a thick layer of black smoke, eating away at the sky. All the stars hiding in terror behind the blackness of the galaxy. She couldn't move, frozen in time. Her vision a compilation of stop-motion images. The air around her twisting violently out of lungs reach. There was no pain and despite the conjuring of hell around her, she felt almost content. Letting the earth swallow her. Her head lulled to the side, taking in the remains of the ashy coffin around her. A shadowed figure obstructing her view of the scorched sakura trees. Movement's fluid as he approached her, kneeling at her side. A deep navy cloak washed over his shoulders, a lazily folded hood capped over his collar bones. Her eyes trailed over him, trying to distinguish if he was real or a figment of her dishevelled mind. Lucy had never seen something put together so carefully, so beautifully. His skin was a deep tan that matched nothing of the town's folk she was usually surrounded by. It melted over the sharp features of his face, dripping gracefully under his overly defined jaw. A wash of pink atop his head, blending with the blossoms of the tree line. And god, the most mesmerizing onyx eyes captured her soul, gleaming against the firelight. Eyes that could only be that of an angel, for no human soul would ever be deserving of them. Her fingers shot up, grasping the face above her, a disturbing gasp tearing from her chest. Surely the lack of oxygen was meddling with her mind, but she tried to ignore the thought. Focusing only on the man that was now clumsily stringing her against his chest. His perfectly sculpted lips were moving slowly, whispering against her cheek. She couldn't make out any words, but it was comforting none the less.

"An angel...?" She felt her lips mumble. She truly must be dead, a god sent from the heavens to retrieve her. His chest shuddered underneath her amusingly. Was he laughing her? Her mind working tirelessly to find an explanation for what was tumbling around her. Surely he couldn't be real. No real human had ever been graced by the stars in such a way. She couldn't concentrate, the heaving of her chest far too distracting, as it continued to beg for air. His arms were rigged yet gentle against her frame, holding her securely as he pushed forward through the raging sea of red and orange. His movements were hard to distinguish through her dazed state but she was almost certain the flames were parting for him, leaving an ash-glazed path for them to pass through. She shifted in his arms slightly, causing the man to tense against her. She rested her head against the hard planes of his chest, an uncomfortable pounding working its way to the front of her skull. She let her eyes fawn upwards, trying to concentrate on the focused expression the man was wearing above her. Black was seeping into the sides of her vision and despite her best efforts it was becoming extremely difficult to make out the delicate features of his face. She hummed out an exhale of disappointment eyes shifting upwards, not wanting to retreat into a sleeping state. His neck moved rigidly, sparing a glance down towards her, noting that she seemed too pre-occupied with the sky over his head. And she was, mesmerized by the flames cascading out behind him. Figurative wings blistering against his back. An angel of death carrying her off into the shadows of the night. There was no fear looming through her, her mind simply astonished by the wonderous view before it faded into nothing.

Thanks for reading, Let me know what you think!

[allie-mcginn]

Who do you belong to? | Nolan Patrick Smut

A/N: requested by anon (also I’m on mobile, so I have no clue how to do ‘read more’ sorry) sorry for any errors!

THANK YOU to @lizzywow for helping me to finish this! Love you!!

Word count:2393

Warnings: SMUT!!! Don’t read if you’re under 18! Choking. Alcohol. Jealous!Nolan. Nolan grabs the readers wrist tightly, idk if that’s triggering.

——

So you and Nolan were out at a club in Philly, celebrating the teams win tonight over the Penguins. You had dressed up a bit more provocative than usual and were planning on having a fun night with Nolan. However, your night was not going as planned.

Nolan was standing at the bar with Ivan and Oskar, in no mood to be with you on the dance floor. Luckily, TK was in the mood to let loose and was more than willing to dance with you. As you and TK danced to the beat of the music, you couldn’t help but continuously glance in Nolan’s direction. Only to find him laughing at something Ivan said instead of looking at you. It may have been the alcohol talking, but you wanted nothing more than to send Nolan into a jealous rage. Simply because when Nolan is jealous, the sex is so good, you can’t walk straight for days afterwards.

So, you moved yourself closer to Travis, who was pretty drunk and just looking to have fun at this point. As a rather sexual song started playing over the speakers, you found yourself turning around and leaning into Travis’ embrace, your back pressed against his chest.

“Y/N, what do you think you’re doing?” Travis slurred in your ear.

“Dancing, what does it look like?” You said as if it was obvious while moving your body against his in a sinful manner.

TK just shrugged and pulled your body closer to his trying to match your rhythm. Both of you knew TK would never push things too far. Nolan was his best friend and he respected you and the relationship you two had, that didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy flirting with you to rile Nolan up occasionally. You and TK danced for a few songs, with you occasionally glancing over towards the bar to see if Nolan was reacting the way you wanted him to. You met his eyes as you moved your hips a bit more seductively and ran your hand through TK’s hair, Nolan just looked back at you with a rather unreadable expression. If how you were moving was not getting him jealous, then you’d have to step it up a notch. You pulled TK’s head down, moving your mouth to his ear.

“Time to turn it up a bit, Konecny.” He smirked and spun you around so your fronts were pressed together. You moved against each other, with his hands roaming around your body and yours tangled in his hair. He maneuvered one of his legs between yours, giving you something to grind against. He smirked at you and tilted his head in the direction of your rosy-cheeked boyfriend.

You looked over your shoulder to see Nolan holding his drink with white knuckles. His jaw was clenched and his pupils were blown in either anger or lust, you couldn’t tell, you didn’t care. You got the reaction you wanted.

You winked at him as he chugged the rest of his drink and stalked over to where you were, leaving Ivan and Oskar confused at his sudden departure. By the time Nolan reached you, you had turned your attention back to Travis, successfully ignoring the fact that your boyfriend was now standing behind you. You only acknowledged him once he grabbed you by the shoulder, forcing you to turn and face him.

“What do you think you’re doing, angel?” You smirked and reached up to run a hand through his hair.

“Dancing with Trav. What does it look like, babe?” You looked up at him with an innocent look playing across your face as he looked down at you in disbelief. By this time Travis has disappeared off the dance floor and over to Ivan and Oskar at the bar.

“You think it’s okay to dance like that with TK? I think you forgot who you belong to, angel.” He rasped in your ear and the hand he had on the small of your back moved lower and pulled you closer to his large frame. The grip you had on his hair tightened while your free hand found a home on his broad chest.

You smirked up at him, “Oh yeah? And who is that?”

You knew that you were making him mad by the way he gripped your hips with more pressure, but that just made the wetness in your panties even more noticeable to you. You could feel other people bumping into you and Nolan, obviously annoyed that the two of you weren’t dancing but instead just standing still in the middle of the dancefloor. Nolan just growled at your response, frustrated that you were playing games.

“Hmm, no answer? Guess I’ll just go find Trav and see if he’ll tell me who I belong to.” You remove yourself from Nolan’s hold and start to walk over to where the other Flyers players were. Nolan was quick to react, grabbing your wrist more aggressively than he should’ve. He yanked you back into his chest, grip not loosening in the slightest. Honestly, you’d only seen Nolan this aggressive on the ice and weren’t sure how to react; so, you froze.

“Oh, angel, you’re gonna regret that. We’re leaving. Now.” He dragged you out of the club into the chilly Philadelphia air, you struggled to keep up with his rapid pace as he walked back to your shared apartment.

“Nolan, please slow down. I’m in heels.”

However, your pleas fell upon deaf ears. The tall, brown-haired boy didn’t utter a single word in your direction until the two of you were in the privacy of your apartment. As soon as the door was locked, Nolan turned to you, eyes dark and filled with lust, he circled your frozen figure. He stopped behind you and moved your hair behind your ear, leaning closer to you.

“You’ve been playing a dangerous game all night, angel. One that you had no chance in winning.” His lips trailed along the exposed skin on your neck, your head instinctively leaning to the side to give him more access. You moaned in pleasure, finally getting what you had wanted all night long.

“Oh I think I've already won,” you panted out as Nolan continued to suck on your sweet spot. He bit down harshly on your soft skin to mark you, then pulled back to look you in your eyes, hands coming up to tangle themselves in your hair.

“What was that angel?” He grabbed your hair at the roots and pulled your head roughly to the side, the pain felt nice on your scalp. “You think that you get to dance with TK all night long and think you've won?”

“Oh Nolan,” you sighed, leaning into his hand pulling at your hair. “You can be such a stupid boy sometimes, you know?” You pushed Nolan up against the wall and bit his bottom lip before kissing him deeply, Nolans hands came down to grip your ass, fingertips pressed up under your skirt to feel your skin.

Next thing you knew, Nolan had picked you up by your thighs and pushed you up against the wall next to the door. The two of you make out against the wall, hands roaming as far as your position would allow. It wasn’t long before he walked you to the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed with you in his lap. You quickly got between his muscular legs and unzipped his jeans, which were certainly much tighter than when he had put them on earlier. You pulled his pants down his long legs, leaving him in just his boxer briefs. You look up at him with innocent eyes as you start to palm him over the strained fabric, Nolan watching your every movement, carefully. You placed an open-mouth kiss over his cock before pulling his briefs down his legs, letting his cock spring up and slap against his lower stomach.

Hesitantly, you reach out and wrap your hand around him and bring your tongue out to lick a broad strip along the underneath of his swollen cock. Nolan lets out a sigh of relief as you wrap your lips around his head, sucking slightly. You knew you were being a brat and teasing him much more than you should be, but you just couldn’t help it. You took as much of him into your mouth as you could, relaxing your throat as you take more of him deeper and deeper.

Nolan’s demeanor changed as soon as he felt himself hit the back of your throat, his cocky attitude had quickly made a comeback.

“Yeah, angel, that's right you're mine. You couldn’t suck anybody as well as you suck me. You may be a brat, but you’re always so good for me.”

You moan at his words and reach a hand up to start playing with his balls, Nolan lets out a guttural noise, throwing his head back in pleasure. You know then that even though he’s been acting cocky all night, you’ve still got him wrapped around your finger.

Nolan could tell he was getting close to his release, so he pulled you off of him and tossed you back onto the bed. He couldn’t seem to get your clothes off fast enough, you’re pretty sure he even tore your skirt. He quickly removed his shirt, leaving you both naked, before he attached his lips to your neck. Leaving hickeys on any available skin he could find, you would certainly struggle to cover these marks for the following days to come.

Nolan worked his way down your body, any skin his hands touched, his lips followed shortly thereafter. His fingers reached your dripping core, easily inserting two fingers inside you, curling up into your sweet spot, making you moan out. Your nails found a home in the skin of his back, scratching enough that you know there will be marks tomorrow. He isn’t quite ready to finish teasing you yet, but he knows that he won’t last much longer.

Nolan removes his fingers from your core and with his other hand, he opened your mouth so he could place the fingers that had just been in you into your mouth. You moaned at the taste of yourself on his fingers, sucking harshly while looking into Nolan’s eyes. He groans at the sight of you sucking on his fingers and moves to place your legs over his broad shoulders, while lining himself up to your core.

Nolan pushes in and bottoms out in one swift thrust, moaning at how tight you are. He gives you a moment to adjust before pulling out almost entirely, and thrusts back into you at a rough pace. Nolan sets his pace rough and deep, you can feel him hitting your cervix in the best way. You can hear Nolan telling you to keep your eyes on him, but you can’t seem to be able to even see anything as your eyes roll back. Nolan’s hands are holding onto your hips with bruising force, while you’re fingers leaving crescent-shaped marks in his biceps. You are close but you need more, something new, a new angle.

“Nol, please, please, fuck me from behind. Want you to pull my hair. Want to move with you.”

Nolan is quick to comply, pulling out of you and turning you on to your hands and knees. Sliding back into you, Nolan moans out, loving the feeling of bottoming out inside of you from this angle. He goes to start thrusting and you begin to move your hips in time with his thrusts, meeting him halfway. The sensation has you dropping your head down against the mattress, but Nolan is quick to wrap his hand in your hair, pulling you up so your back is flush against his chest. He removes his hand from your hair and wraps it around your neck, squeezing until he could feel you start to struggle to breathe slightly.

You brought a hand up to wrap around Nolan’s wrist, moaning as he flexes his fingers even more. You were too caught up in the change in the angle and his hand around your throat to even notice his other hand moving down to rub the bundle of nerves in between your thighs. The sensations quickly became too much and you couldn’t even find the words to let Nolan know you were cumming.

He released his grip on your throat, letting you fall forward on to the bed, as he fucks you at a relentless pace through your high while chasing his. You turn your head to the side to look back at him as he fucks you.

“Yeah, baby, that’s it. Use me. Show me who I belong to.” you rasp out, voice all scratchy from your vocal cords being restricted.

Nolan could never get enough of your dirty talk, especially when your voice was raspy from either him fucking your throat or choking you. So, hearing you coax him towards his high, sent him over the edge. He stilled as he came inside of you, both of you moaning at the feeling of his cum filling you up.

“Fuck, angel, look at you. Filled with my cum, you look so pretty like this. All mine.”

Pulling out of you slowly, admiring the sight of his cum mixed with yours dripping out of your swollen cunt. Nolan collapsed next to you and you both laid there for a second before he got up to get a towel to clean you off. Nolan rolled you over to lay on your back so he could clean the mess between your legs. He tossed the towel into the hamper then crawled into bed with you, pulling you into his arms, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips.

“You okay, angel? Not too rough?” Nolan was always very tender with you after sex.

You nodded and murmured a soft “yes” as you pressed a kiss into his chest as he rubbed his hand up and down your back, holding you close to him.

“Angel, that was amazing but please don't ever dance like that with TK again.” Nolan whispered into your hair.

“Next time make sure I don't have to find somebody else to dance with first.” you said while smirking up at him.

“I think that can be arranged.” He kissed your forehead and just as your about to fall asleep, Nolan asked, “Wait, what the fuck did you mean by ‘you can be such a stupid boy?’”

[bts-b18]

Impuissance - Chapter 1

summary ⇢ Even before you saw his face, you knew it was him: Staring down at you with cold eyes was the guy you had seen earlier. Black hair framed his face with a prominent chin and red full lips. When your eyes came to his, you felt like you couldn’t move. They seemed endless and pitch black, like a sky without stars.

pairing ⇢ Taehyung x Reader  

word count ⇢  8k

genre ⇢   supernatural!au | angst | smut

chapter warnings ⇢ violence, kidnapping, emotional abuse

parts ⇢  01 | …

a/n   ⇢ All my Tae feels needed an outlet, so this is how this story came to be...

01 - Heartbeat

The music was loud in your ears. You had to concentrate on Lyn’s voice, telling you about her last concert experience. She was sitting in the stool in front of you, at your favorite bar. Your friend Cara, who was sitting next to you, suddenly poked your side.

“Hm, what is it?” you turned around to face her. Furrowing her eyebrows, Lyn stopped irritated, mid-sentence. Ignoring her, Cara leaned forward conspirational.

“That guy over there, with the black hair and hella expensive looking cloths has been staring at you the entire time Y/N.” she whispered. All your heads turned into his direction and indeed he was looking at you blatantly. When he saw that you noticed him, he even had the audacity to smirk. Heat rushed to your cheeks and you turned back to your friends quickly.

“He doesn’t even fucking care that we caught him!” you exclaimed flustered.

“Why would he tho? Have you seen him? He is extremely good looking.” Lyn observed.

Cara let out a low chuckle. “Careful Lyn, your drooling.”

Making an offended sound at the back of her throat, Lyn tore her eyes of him. And with that, the topic was off the table and your friends continued talking about the concert. You however, couldn’t quite concentrate on the conversation. The prickling sensation of someone’s eyes on you made you nervous. You were sure that the black-haired guy in the back was still looking at you, but you also didn’t want to check. Because he was indeed ridiculously handsome. You felt drawn to him and it would probably only get worse if your eyes were to find his.

You somehow successfully managed to keep your eyes of the mysterious man until your friends and you left the bar, a few hours later. It was late and the only thing you wanted right now was your warm and cozy bed. You parted ways with your friends on the next street corner. You didn’t live far from the bar, but you had to walk a few sketchy alleys in order to get home. Like always, you had agreed with your friends to text each other as soon as each of you got home safely. This gave you at least some sense of security.

Your thoughts still hung at the guy from the bar. The way he had looked at you with those dark eyes of his. He unnerved you and at the same time you felt like you wanted to see him again, to hear what his voice would sound like. Being lost in your thoughts, you didn’t notice the group of drunk men who were lurking at a bench you passed. Unluckily, they did see you. As soon as the first whistle sounded you tried to make yourself smaller, hurrying down the street to leave them behind you as fast as possible. Drunk men scared you, they were unpredictable and in most cases idiots. It seemed, however, that you couldn’t get rid of them so easily. You could hear them following you, yelling for you to stop and to talk to them. Of course, you had no intention of doing so. Your heart was beating fast in your chest and you could hear them coming closer.

Ahead was a small and dark alley, the last one and then you would be home. You sped up even more and just as you wanted to exit the alley, a hand came around your wrist, pulling you back in the shadows. You spun around, panic tightening your chest. But the firm chest you bumped into, didn’t belong to any of the men who had been following you. Slowly you lifted your head. Even before you saw his face, you knew it was him. Every single nerve in your body was prickling at the proximity you were in with him. Staring down at you with cold eyes was the guy from the bar earlier. Black hair framed his face with a prominent chin and red full lips. When your eyes came to his, you felt like you couldn’t move. They seemed endless and pitch black, like a sky without stars.

A shudder went down your spine, ripping you out of your trance. Averting your eyes, you found the bodies lying on the floor behind him. They were the noisy guys who had followed you earlier. Now however they lay perfectly still. To still. It was then that you realized something that made you cold all over. Their eyes were wide open, staring at nothing. Their hands clung to their throats as if something had been choking them. And indeed there were red burns visible all around their necks. You felt nauseous. What had happened? You hadn’t heard anything behind you, but then again you had been very focused on getting away.

“Are… Are they dead?” you whispered.

“Yes.” The man in front of you stated. “I killed them.”

His voice was a deep baritone. Cold and soothing at the same time. You wanted to run. Run home. Hide in your bed and hope that all this had just been a bad dream when you woke up the next morning. But you felt frozen to the spot. Unable to move, unable to tear your eyes of the disturbing sight. “But why?”, you whispered so low that you weren’t sure he could even hear you.

“Because they wanted to hurt you.” He stated like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Your eyes snapped to his face in surprise. He was still looking at you intently. He looked like he didn’t understand why you made such a big deal out of it. “They talked about what they wanted to do to you. They were disgusting little creatures.” His voice was calm, but it had a dangerous edge to it. And for a moment, so short that you weren’t sure if you maybe had just imagined it, his eyes flashed a deep ruby red. His hand was still around your wrist. His skin was cold and yet you felt like your skin was burning were his touched yours. His grip tightened and you winced in pain as he threw back his head studying the roofs above you.  “You are not safe here.” he muttered. “I will take you with me.”

Before you could voice any protest, he spun you around. Your back coming flush against his chest, as his other large hand came to your mouth, successfully muffling any sounds you made. Trying to free yourself, you threw back your head, only resulting in exposing your neck to him. His grip on your face tightening. Tilting his head his eyes ran over your neck, eyes slowly changing color.

“Please, don’t make this difficult.”, he warned. This made you panic even more. You dug your heels into the ground, trying to get away from him. But it was impossible. He was ridiculously strong with little effort. However, you had no intention of making this easy.

The black-haired male seemed to notice your defiance as his hand quickly dropped from your mouth to your pulse point. His two fingers pressing into the site of your neck, was the last thing you felt, before everything went pitch black.

________________________________________________

Light behind your eyelids was what woke you up. Slowly, you opened your eyes. They were heavy as stones and the light was so bright, it was almost blinding you. Lifting your arm, you tried to shield your face. Different things came into view: You were in a large room. Windows so tall that they reached the high ceiling, lined the walls on both sides. They were only covered by white silk sheets, which did little to block out the sunlight that was streaming through them. You were sitting in a large double bed, clad in only white as well. The bed was comfortable, and you were sure that, never in your live you had slept in such soft covers. The floor was made from old looking, polished wood. Besides a round fluffy carpet and the bed you were sitting in, the room was empty. This was most definitely not your bedroom. You tried to remember how you got here, but everything was hazy. Different images popped up in your head, all so blurry that you didn’t know if they were dream or reality.  Freeing yourself from the warm covers, you stepped out of bed. On the bedside table, you noticed your handbag. You reached for it, hoping to find your phone in order to get some clue as to where you were. Everything was in there, except for your wallet and mobile phone. Letting out a deep sigh, you stood up. You were wearing, what you identified as, your cloths minus a jacket and shoes. The t-shirt and jeans were wrinkled from wearing them to bed. You could feel a light headache pulsing in your temple. Maybe something to drink would help. Next to your bed, on the floor you noticed a pair of fluffy slippers. Putting them on, you walked towards the massive double door that stood at the far wall to the bed. The last thing you remembered was being at your favorite bar with Cara and Lyn. Maybe you had gone partying afterwards and somehow ended up at the place of some extremely wealthy dude? You should probably be more worried, but the only thing that worried you right now, was finding something to drink and maybe to eat.

The wooden door lead into a long hallway lined with other doors and expensive looking rugs and paintings. Whoever the owner of this mansion was, he had a good taste in art, you noted. The delicious smell of pancakes grazed your nose and you found yourself following it down the hall. The room you entered was almost larger than the bedroom you had woken up in. Here as well, large windows lined the one side of the room. Behind them you could see lush green forest. The forest stretched onto the horizon, making you wonder once again where exactly you were at.

“Enjoying the view, are we?”

The sudden voice made you flinch.  Turning around you came face to face with a very good-looking, black haired man. He was wearing a green suit with a white shirt underneath. The green complemented his dark hair just perfectly, giving them an emerald sparkle. The first few buttons of his shirt stood open, revealing the perfectly smooth skin of his chest underneath. His posture was relaxed but attentive. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes, seeing your reaction.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to startle you.” He offered, amusement layered in his deep voice.

Somehow you felt like you knew him. His voice and face giving you and odd sensation of familiarity.  But if this was the guy you had gone home with last night, you should know him, right? You should ask what had happened. Ask where you where and where your phone and purse were. It was embarrassing really, but you needed to know. You could feel the blush creeping up your cheeks. One-night stands weren’t something you normally did. Being way too shy and careful to go home with a random guy.

“I’m sorry, but I must have had too much to drink last night, so I don’t really remember anything that happened. Could you maybe fill me in?” you asked hopefully. You hated how your voice sounded so small and insecure. You couldn’t help but feel intimidated by the whole situation. By the guy in front of you.

Seemingly, enjoying you being flustered he stepped closer, one of his large hands coming up to play with a strand of your hair. You felt a shudder running down your spine. Something inside you was screaming at you that this man was dangerous and that you shouldn’t be here. However, you felt yourself unconsciously leaning closer.

“Nothing much happened. You passed out and I took you home with me because I was worried.” He answered. “That- That’s all?” you wondered. A smirk appeared at his handsome features.

“You sound disappointed.” He grinned. “Wanted something else to happen?”

If it was possible to get even more red, now was the time. “NO! That’s not what I mean!” you hastily tried to explain. “It’s just.. Why would you take me home with you? Weren’t my friends with me?”

A low chuckle escaped his throat. Letting go of your hair, turning around to walk towards the huge table which was set up in the middle of the spacious room. “You were alone at that time.” He brought up one hand, signaling you to follow him. “Well not exactly alone. There were some drunk guys following you. You probably tried to run from them, bumped into something and fainted. Also, the place you were in didn’t strike me as a place that was suitable for a lady alone in the middle of the night. That’s why I brought you here.” He elaborated further.

Slowly following him you opened your mouth, another question at the tip of your tongue. “Shush! First have some breakfast, then you can ask me more questions.” he interrupted you. Reluctantly, you pushed back the chair at the far end of the table. In front of you, various kinds of fruits, pancakes and fresh coffee greeted you. You hated to admit, that you actually were quite hungry and that the delicious food in front of you made your stomach grumble violently. A quick glance to your left produced the handsome guy sitting comfortably in a chair at the head of the long table. He nodded encouragingly. “You don’t need to wait for me. I already had something to eat.” He clarified. It was as if he knew what you were thinking. But in this moment, you didn’t care. You just wanted to eat.

You had been so focused on the food that, only after some time you noticed him staring at you. He was watching you with interest and amusement. You wriggled in your chair uncomfortably.

“Uhm… Could you stop looking at me while I eat?”

“No.” he answered simply. Seeing the color blooming in your cheeks, resulting of his straightforward answer, a smirk grazed the right corner of his mouth. “My name is Taehyung; in case you were wondering…” he trailed off.

This made you feel even more embarrassed.

“I’m ...”, you started to say but Taehyung interrupted you: “Y/N. Yes, I know. Unlike you, I haven’t forgotten anything.”

You flinched, letting your gaze drop to your plate. An uneasy feeling settled in your stomach. You should go. You had no idea who this man was, and a moment ago you hadn’t even known his name.  It just simply hadn’t crossed you mind to ask him, feeling so drawn in by his appearance and voice. One reason more you shouldn’t trust him.

“I should go now. I’m very sorry for any inconvenience I may have cause. If you could give me back my phone and purse, I will be on my way.” You bowed, pushing yourself out of you chair. You started walking towards the door without looking at him again. You wanted to get your bag and then you would be out of here.

You stumbled down the corridor, trying to remember which was the door to the room, you had woken up in. Luckily you had left it standing wide open. Since you hadn’t looked back when you left, you had no idea how the outside of the room looked, and you would have to check all the doors. Before entering the room, you gave a quick glance over your shoulder. But there was no Taehyung following you.

Letting out a breath, you didn’t know you had been holding, you stepped forward. You had no idea what made you so anxious. He didn’t even do anything, and yet you felt like you needed to be careful around him. You turned around to close the door. It fell shut with a bang that was echoing down the hallway.

But what made your freeze wasn’t the sound. No. It was the person standing next to the door: Taehyung, looking at you with ruby red eyes.

And it was at this very moment, that you knew you were screwed thoroughly. Even though his pose was casual, leaning against the wall, his set jaw gave him away.

“How- How did you get here? You were there and now you are here and..” you trailed off. As much as Taehyungs appearance unnerved you, the fact that he had come here from the dining room so quickly was sparking your curiosity. He said nothing, instead an amused smirk grazed his features. His smugness pissed you off.

“You had to pass me in order to be here earlier than me, but you didn’t. So, why the hell are you here. How is this possible?!” you tried again. But Taehyung remained silent, watching you with his red eyes.

Then suddenly: “You can’t leave.”

“Wha-“

Something about the simplicity of his statement, the way he said it so casual made you angry. Not only had he ignored you questions completely, he also had no right to determine where you went and what you did. Clenching your fists, you straightened yourself. “That is not your place to decide.” You nearly yelled, barely able to hold your voice down.

“I make the rules here, Y/N.” Taehyung growled.

The sound was so deep that it nearly sounded inhuman. He pushed himself off the wall. His movement made you flinch backwards. You felt like a helpless prey waiting for its attacker to make a move.

No.

You will not be that stupid prey waiting until it is to late! You needed to get out of here, screw your phone and purse. You made towards the door. Before your hand even could as much as touch the doorknob, Taehyung grabbed your left wrist, spinning you around. He pushed you backwards until your back slammed against the door. The sharp pain shooting up your spine made you dizzy and before you could register anything else, Taehyungs large hands came up next to your head. His body was close yet not touching yours. Not that it made any difference as you felt like your heart would jump out of your chest any moment. You could feel him leaning in until his breath was ghosting over your ear.

“Listen carefully princess: You’re mine now and you will stay where I can protect you.” He whispered and you could hear the edge to his voice as if he was holding himself back. Wanting to object you opened your mouth. But then you noticed Taehyungs eyes: They were wild, shining with such a deep red that they seemed like a raging fire. He was furious, you could tell. It probably was not a good idea to object, but you where way to proud to back down now.

“I can’t recall ever agreeing to be yours, Taehyung.” You whispered, trying to keep your voice from shaking. He didn’t need to know how scared you were.

Partly, you had expected him to get even more angry, maybe even wanted to test what he would do. But what he did next definitely took you by surprise: You felt his long fingers curving around your chin tilting it upwards slightly. The grip was light, and he leaned in until his lips where hovering over yours. His lips were soft and gentle when they touched yours, a stark contrast to his previous behavior. Your eyes fell shut involuntarily and you could feel yourself giving in to the kiss. You wanted to punch him for his audacity to just kiss you like that, but instead the kiss felt right. Like you had wanted him to kiss you since you saw him this morning.

“You don’t need to agree. Deep down you know that you became mine already.”  He murmured against you lips. You felt like in a daze, trying hard to rummage your brain for something smart to say.

When he leaned back you swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to upset you Taehyung. I am going to stay for some more time, okay? “

Taehyung examined your face for a moment. His thumb caressed your cheek softly.

“I know baby.” He hummed. With that he stepped back, reestablishing the space between your bodies.

“You can change your cloths and wash up if you want. Maybe you will find something you like in the wardrobe behind your bed.” He gestured towards a plain door on the wall next to the bed you hadn’t noticed before.

“The bathroom is opposite of your room. You will find everything you need in there.”

Halfway opening the door, he halted, giving you a hard look. “If you try running again, let me tell you that I have been nice until now.” Gulping, you nodded. He didn’t need to tell you twice. You had no interest in finding out what an even angrier Taehyung would do.

________________________________________________

The room behind the bed was indeed a huge walk-in closet. It contained various cloth in all different kinds of styles. The only thing they had in common was that they looked extremely expensive.  You had settled for something you felt most comfortable in: a blue ripped jeans and a oversized gray sweater.

Opposite of the room you found the promised bathroom. It was spacious like all the rooms you had seen in this building so far. Furniture and decorations were of a warm crème and the floor lined with sandy marble. In one corner of the room, a bathtub was let into a platform. Pillars supported the slightly narrower celling above the tub. Two mirrors lined the walls: one above a marble panel with a sink and the other in front of a table with a chair. Another door led into a tiny room with a toilet.

Not trusting Taehyung and his sudden appearances, you found yourself checking if the door was locked three times before you let the water run into the tube. The steady flow of the water and your breathing were the only sounds filling the room. Sitting down on the rim of the bath platform, you let your thoughts wander.

The kiss had been so sudden.

Absently, you let your finger run over your lips.

After his aggressive behavior you hadn’t expected him to be that gentle. Still, he shouldn’t have that kind of power over you. Your old anger flared back up along with a feeling of deep disgust about how easily you had given in. You should have continued to fight, pushed him away as he tried to kiss you. Instead you had let him, worse even returned the kiss!

Also, what had happened with his eyes? Somehow you felt like you had seen the change of color in them before. This deep ruby red color, and the sound he had made when you had said that he did not own you. In addition to that, the way Taehyung had appeared in the bedroom, suddenly. You had no logical explanation for that. Well, at least no other than that this man was indeed not human.

Despite the warm temperature in the room, goosebumps rose across your skin. What were you doing here? You should run, get away from this place and even more importantly, from this man! He was dangerous, this much you could tell.

“Deep down you know that you that you became mine already.” Taehyung had said. You started shaking and brought up your arms to hug yourself. He had to be wrong, right? There was no way you would stay. Even if you had said so, that had been only to calm him down, right?

Yes! It had to be! You would play his game, as long as you needed to, in order to figure out how you could get out of here. Right now, you had no doubt that he would do something terrible if you tried to leave. You would have to be patient and wait for the right moment.

The burbling noise of the water hitting the spillway ripped you out of your thoughts. Maybe a hot bath would ease the nausea in the pit of your stomach. You dove into the tub so fast that the sudden difference in temperature almost burned you. The light sting, however, was a welcome sensation that halted your thoughts successfully. The shampoo that stood next to the bathtub smelled neutral with a hint of macadamia nut. It was a pleasant smell and you found yourself wondering if Taehyung knew about your shampoo scent preferences or if he had just been lucky with the selection.

You almost didn’t want to leave the warm water. It was so cozy and when you closed your eyes you could pretend you were at home, soaking in your own bathtub. You lived alone so most likely nobody would miss you there. But your friends must be worried sick. You were not sure how much time had passed but most likely they would go to the police sooner or later. At least you hoped they would. Even though nothing bad had happened to you yet, besides Taehyung losing his temper, which could happen again anytime. Pushing yourself upwards you exited the bathtub. Off the chair next to the platform you grabbed a towel. As soon as you started to dry yourself, you could not shake the feeling that someone was watching you.

You were getting paranoid.

Still, you turned around. And flinched: A man was leaning in the doorway, his dark eyes fixed on you. Hurriedly you tried to wrap the towel around you as best as you could. He seemed a few years younger than Taehyung, round doe eyes of a soft brown color featuring his face. His black hair was the same length as Taehyungs, falling over his forehead in slight curls. If it hadn’t been for the disgusting smirk that graced his lips, you would have described him as cute. He was wearing yeans and a simple black t-shirt. The tight fabric of it, highlighting every muscle on his upper body. You could feel yourself staring. Tearing your eyes of the sight you exclaimed:

“How the hell did you get in here?!” You had locked the door. You were sure of it. But right now, it was standing open, the gap letting in a draft of cold air.

“I do live here. And as far as I’m concerned, I can go where I want in my own home.” He grinned, his eyes running up and down your body. You felt awfully exposed in front of him. Pulling your towel even tighter you gave him a hard look.

“So, you are Taehyungs new plaything I guess.” He noted looking unimpressed. “I don’t really understand him sometimes. You are not even that pretty.”

“What the-“

Anger came rushing back to you, replacing the shame of standing nearly naked in front of a total stranger. “Who do you think you are, that you can talk to me like that?!” you snapped.

Raising an eyebrow, he chuckled lowly. “You’re a sassy one, huh? Well, that’s a first.”

“Name is Jungkook by the way. And don’t feel too special just because Tae choose you. He will grow tired of you pretty soon.” he continued. “Also, when he does, I’m pretty sure we can have some fun together as well.”

That was it.

Your frustration over the situation that you were in, how powerless you felt against Taehyung, all coming together. Causing your last string of patience to tear. You turned to your left, grabbed one of the porcelain shampoo bottles and threw it.

“Shut Up!” you cried.

However, the bottle didn’t hit him like you had hoped. Seemingly effortless Jungkook caught the bottle with one hand. For a brief second his eyes flickered red, annoyance passing through them.

“You are definitely more interesting than I first thought.” Jungkook mused. Leaving the doorway, he took a few steps into your direction. You, on the other hand retreated further into the room until your feet hit the platform of the bathtub. Realizing you could not put any more distance between you and Jungkook you swallowed nervous. You still were angry, but your senses also tingled with a hit of fear.

Before Jungkook could close the distance between the two of you, a hand came around his shoulder stopping him.

“Leave her alone Kook.”

Whoever was behind Jungkook had the voice of an angel you concluded. Or maybe it was just your relive about someone stopping Jungkook from coming any closer.

The raven-haired man shrugged off the hand. Jungkook stepped to the side, revealing a man, at least a head shorter than him. However, he was no less attractive than Jungkook. Bubblegum pink hair framed a round face with full lips and warm, kind eyes. Those eyes were fixed on Jungkook with a hard look of disapproval.

“If Tae finds out you are here, you will be in trouble.” he warned.

“As if I care what Taehyung knows. He can’t tell me what to do!” Jungkook scoffed.

Pulling a grimace, he turned around and started to stalk out of the room. He stopped shortly, placing a hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. Leaning in, Jungkook whispered so low that you could barely hear him: “Better be careful with giving me orders. I will not hold back just because you are older, Jimin.”

Without waiting for a reply Jungkook left. You blinked a couple of times, trying to comprehend the weird tension that had just crackled between the two of them. Jimin also seemed spaced out for a moment before he turned towards the door, giving you privacy.

“I’m sorry about Jungkooks behavior.” He apologized. “I will be leaving now and don’t worry, nobody else will bother you. I will see to that!” and so Jimin left as well, closing the door after him.

You waited for another minute before you let yourself relax. Even though Jimin seemed nice, you didn’t trust him. Nobody in this house seemed to be trustworthy at this point. You wondered how many other people were living here.

Your body had already air-dried, thanks to the time spent with Jungkooks and Jimin’s sudden appearance. Only needing to rub your hair a couple of times, it was dry as well.

After slipping into the new cloth you looked around for a hairbrush. Finding one on-top of the mirror-table, you tried to tame your long hair. It was difficult to brush through since you had only ruffled it dry with the towel.

Even though you hadn’t taken Jungkooks comment about your appearance too personal, it made you check your appearance in the mirror a couple of times. Only after you felt like you looked some-what presentable, you gathered you old clothing and left the bathroom.

________________________________________________

Already on your way across the hall, faint piano tunes grazed your ear. You hurried back into your room to drop off your old clothing.

It was not even a minute later, that you found yourself following the music down the hall. On your left, a huge hall with two broad staircases winding along opposite walls, opened up. Landings on either side were connected to other corridors, indicating that the hallway spun over at least three levels.

Slowly you went down the stairs on the left side, letting your hand run over the ornate black iron fence that railed them. Everything seemed old but so well intact that you wondered how long Taehyung and the others had been living here.

The white walls were decorated with sculptures and pillars. Two large chandeliers hung above your head, casting shimmering dots of light on wall and floor. You were mesmerized by the sight, the low music only adding to the feeling.

On the ground level you realized that the music was louder now, coming from behind a heavy wooden door. The tall door was located directly beneath the top of the stairs and measured at least twice your height. Reaching for the handle you hesitated: were you allowed to go in there? And if not where else should you go? Taehyung had not said anything about where to go after you were done with washing up. Also, Jimin and Jungkook had given you no clue about what to do or were to go.

Gathering your courage, you shoved the door open.

The room you found yourself in was cozy despite its size. The walls were decorated with dark wooden panels, the one opposite of the door showcasing a huge window looking out onto the park. Heavy red curtains framed it. The marble floor was a mix of white and black tiles, visible where the ancient carpet did not cover them. In one corner of the room stood two sofas with red cushions. In comparison to the hall, the air in the room was warm and smelled of old wood. In the corner opposite to the sofa, a piano was placed. Behind it sat Jimin, completely absorbed in the music. His hands were dancing over the keys with great speed. The situation gave you the chance to study him more closely. His skin was perfect and smooth, just like Taehyungs. He was slim, almost fragile looking. With each move he made the black silk shirt he wore flowed down his body. Jimin was beautiful. Compared to Taehyungs cold and proud beauty, Jimin seemed to glow making a smile tug at the corner of your lips.  How was everyone you had seen in this house so far, prettier than any other male acquaintance of yours? Was it because they were wealthy? No, you weren’t that shallow. Also, Jimin had the same dark eyes as Jungkook and Taehyung. Would they change their color as well when he was annoyed or angry?

Unknowingly, you had wandered into the room, now standing right next to the piano. Jimin had finished the piece and beamed at you. “You’re here!”

Jumping up, he took your hand squeezing it gently. “I’m Park Jimin! It’s so nice to meet you!”

Reluctantly you curved your fingers around his, returning the squeeze. If Jimin had registered your hesitation he didn’t show it. Instead he continued to smile at you so warmly that you started to relax slightly. “My name is Y/N.” you replied slowly while letting go of is hand.

“Okay, Y/N it is. I want to show you something.” he continued lightly.

His hand coming back to your wrist, he tugged at it slightly. “Follow me.”

The sudden touch on your wrist reminded you of what had happened earlier. Taehyung slamming you into the wall, caging you with his tall body. The fear you had felt before rushing back to you with such intensity that you felt yourself flinch. Jimin’s face dropped and he frowned.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you. I don’t know what Taehyung did to you, but I promise you I’m nothing like him.”[HR1] 

The sad expression on his face made you feel bad in an instant.

“No no, it’s nothing like that!” you tried to clarify. “It’s just… You surprised me, that’s all..”

Furrowing his brows, he nodded. “Okay, but if he does anything bad, tell me. I can talk to him, we are friends.”

“Thanks, Jimin.” You said, smiling a little. “So, what did you wanted to show me?”

Being reminded of his previous idea his face lid up again: “Oh right! Follow me! Its right behind this door!”

You chuckled lowly to yourself. Jimin was adorable. There was a light bounce in his step as he turned towards the door next to the piano. He seemed so excited to show you what was behind it.

And what was lying behind the door indeed made your jaw drop: as far as you could see were books. Stuffed into shelves, climbing up to the high celling, in piles on the floor or opened on a specific page on one of the desks. The musty smell of old paper filled the air. You felt your cheeks burn with happiness.

“Can- Can I look at them?” you blurted out.

“That’s kind off why I brought you here. Just don’t touch any of the ones on the floor. Taehyung is spending a lot of time here and I wouldn’t want to mess up his organized chaos.” Jimin giggled. He seemed almost as excited about your reaction as you felt towards the books.

You started walking along the shelves, each of your steps making the old floorboards that covered the floor creak. Lifting your hand, you let it trace over the spine of the books: Some of them were old, being leather bound and the gold lettering on them faded into nothing. Others were brand new.

“How is it possible for one man to collect this many books?” you wondered out loud.

“Well, Taehyung had a lot of time at his hands.”

That sounded like a lot if he had that many books. Slowly you turned around to look at the other boy.

“How much exactly? How old is Taehyung, Jimin?” you breathed.

The pink haired boy shot you an apologetic smile: “I fear, that is not my secret to tell Y/N.”

His response didn’t reassure you at all. Quite the opposite.

“Come on Jimin, you can’t leave me hanging like that!” you tried to joke.

Jimin was visibly uncomfortable, shuffling his feet. “I’m really sorry Y/N, but I really can’t tell you more.”

You let out a long sigh while checking Jimin’s face for any reaction. His lips were shut in a tight line while his gaze was fixed on the floor. His abjective posture made you change the topic:

“Is it okay for me to take something to read?”

Lifting his head Jimin’s eyes found yours. “Sure, choose anything you like! You can take it to the living room with you.” He now beamed. “If you need anything just find me at the piano.”

You nodded absently, attention already returned to the books in front of you. A few words creating whole worlds you could lose yourself in. Ink on paper, coming to live with nothing more than your fantasy. Looking at the shelves you were overwhelmed with the choices. There was basically everything from science over novels to poetry. You tried looking for a title that sparked your curiosity.

You settled for a thin volume of poems by an author called “The Raven”. The cover was of a simple black with white bold letters reading “Eclipse” and the pages were worn out in the corners.

You noticed that Jimin had indeed resumed playing the piano. The soft tunes floated into the library, getting lost in the high celling. You followed them back into the living room. Jimin acknowledged you with a smile and short nod before he concentrated onto the piece again. Cuddling into the plush sofa-cushions you opened the book and began to read.

A few pages in, a door on your left opened revealing a grim looking Jungkook. You tried not to pay him any mind. The handsome man however had other plans: he gave you a once-over, quirking one eyebrow. “Huh. If you had to change your clothing it could have at least been something nice. You look like a bum.”

His remark stung but after all you hadn’t tried to dress up but to feel comfortable. “Jimin, is he always that charming?” you mused.

The pink haired boy gave a low chuckle. “Pretty much.”

“I can be charming if I want. I’m just not in the mood to play nice.” Jungkook shrugged, letting himself drop onto the sofa next to you. His eyes then fell onto the book in your lab. “U reading?”

You shot him a hostile glance: “I was, before you decided to get on my nerves.” Sure, that he would have a petty remark you looked at him expectantly already plotting a smart reply. But there was no remark coming from Jungkook. Instead his gaze had snapped to Jimin who’s face had taken on an awfully pale color.

“He- He’s back.” Jimin whispered. You could feel Jungkook balling his hands into fists next to you, his whole body tense. While Jungkooks posture screamed anger, Jimin had made himself so small that he seemed like if he wanted to disappear. You looked between the two of them.

“Who-“

Before you could finish your sentence the large door that lead into the hallway swung open. Coming in with large steps was a tall man. A big grin showed on his beautiful face that was framed by short brown hair. The man’s clothing looked even more expensive than Taehyungs had earlier. His long shelved dress shirt was the same color as his pants, a light crème that was glowing on the satin fabric. In the V-shape of his shirt multiple tightly wrung necklaces were visible. They were gold, complementing his brown hair and white skin. On each finger he was wearing a ring, one looking more exquisite than the other. Opening his arms wide he stepped into the middle of the living room, twirling around himself once.

“Hello my friends! Have you missed me?” he smiled so broad that it made a shudder run down your spine at how fake it all looked.

“Welcome home Hoseok.” You heard Jimin’s quite voice coming from behind Jungkook, who had at some point positioned himself between Hoseok, and Jimin. The raven-haired boy however remained quiet, following Hoseok’s every movement with watchful eyes.  

Hoseok’s gaze swept over the two of them with a belittling smile until it settled on you. The gaze was so intense that you felt yourself getting up from the sofa.

“Well who are - you?”, he inquired, a small smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. His eyes shone of a longing you couldn’t quite place. Not knowing how to reply to that you just stared at him stupidly. His eyes were glued to your face, or was it your neck? You tried to suppress a shiver.

You wanted to tell him to stare elsewhere but you didn’t trust your voice. Instead you pressed your lips together not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing them tremble. Because even if you didn’t want to admit it, you were scared. Not only Hoseok’s appearance itself was intimidating, no, also the effect his arrival had on Jungkook and Jimin was so immense that your instincts were screaming at you to keep it down and to not attract any more attention to you then necessary.

“You smell so delicious darling. Where did you come from?” he whispered in awe licking his lips. Crooking his head to the side he came a step closer.

“I would leave her alone if I were you.” Jungkook’s sharp voice drifted to your ear. 

Your head snapped to the side looking and the raven haired with wide eyes. Hoseok stopped dead in his tracks as well. Slowly he turned around, eyes fixing on Jungkook. Now that he had the newcomer’s attention, he raised his chin defiantly, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly as if he was trying to suppress a smirk. You drew in a breath, waiting for Hoseok’s reaction. Hoseok’s face was expressionless, but his fingers were playing with his rings absently while he was looking and Jungkook. Then he lifted one of his hands, draping over his mouth as he gasped dramatically: “Oh no! I’m so scared, what will happen to me if I don’t! Please spare me great master Jungkook!”

Seemingly being the only one who found the situation funny he tripled over with laughter. You blinked, irritated. Jungkook had tensed even more while Jimin was staring holes into the ground, his small frame barely visible behind the tall and strong raven-haired man. His left hand was fisted into Jungkooks t-shirt so tightly, that his knuckles had turned white.

Fake wiping tears of laugher out of his eyes Hoseok turned back towards you. Amusement still played on his face. “You guys are so hilarious. I will go and see Taehyung to give him the new scoop.”

Waving his hand, he turned around to leave: “Have fun without me.”

And with that he was gone, leaving only the three of you standing in the room. Your heart was beating fast, adrenalin still rushing to your vines. You stared at the door that had just closed unseeingly. When Jimin exhaled loudly, the sudden sound made you jump, dropping the book you had still been holding onto the couch.

Jimin’s stiff posture had relaxed slightly. Jungkook turned to the side so he could look at the pink haired man. “Are you okay?” he inquired, eyes searching Jimin’s face. Worry was laced in his voice. The smaller man just nodded, letting his hand drop from Jungkooks shirt. Lifting his head Jimin and Jungkooks gaze met.

You knew you were spying in on an intimate moment, but you couldn’t avert your eyes from the two other men. The way they were looking at each other was so intense, their proximity closer than you would have felt comfortable with either of them. From your previous impression you wouldn’t have guessed that Jungkook would be so worried over Jimin. Maybe he wasn’t such a bad person after all.

Gripping Jimin’s shoulder Jungkook leaned forward until his forehead leaned against the smaller man’s, almost closing the space that was left between them. Jimin had closed his eyes, leaning into the touch.

Suddenly you felt alone. This wasn’t something you were supposed to see. You turned away, silently making your way to the library.

“Y/N wait.” Jimin’s soft voice called.

Apparently, you hadn’t been quite enough for them not to notice you. Jimin was walking towards you, while Jungkook was still next to the piano, leaning against the wall. His eyes were watching you, slightly narrowed.

“Are you okay, Y/N?” Jimin questioned.

“Me? Well, yes I’m fine.” You lied smoothly. Something inside you was sulking like a child. You didn’t want Jimin to know that Hoseok had scared the shit out of you. Didn’t want him to know that their intimacy had made you feel like you were all alone in this world. But you couldn’t bring yourself to snap at Jimin. This wasn’t his fault after all.

So instead, you added: “But what about you? You were white as a sheet earlier.”

“Uhm.. you see…” Jimin stuttered, his small hands playing with the fabric of his silk shirt.

“He is fine. There is no need to worry.” Jungkook chipped in. He was strolling towards the two of you now, his posture casual but gaze disapproving.

For the love of god, couldn’t he leave you alone for one second?

“Bu-“ you opened your mouth to tell Jungkook to shut up, but Jimin interrupted you. “It’s okay Y/N. You really don’t need to worry about me. Hoseok is just a bit difficult sometimes.”

Now Jimin refused to talk to you as well? Being all trusting and lovey dovely with Jungkook but lying straight to your face? That stung, harder that you had expected.

“A bit difficult?!” you exclaimed loudly.  “Are you guys all nuts? You were fucking terrified of him! He looked at me like he wanted to eat me as a whole and you call him a bit difficult?!” You threw up your arms.

“You know what Jimin? Fuck this. You guys don’t want to tell me shit and I am so done playing your stupid games. I’m out!”

Jimin’s eyes widened at your outburst and hurt flashed over his face. His bottom lip quavered. “I-“

A low growl made your gaze flicker to Jungkook.

“Don’t. You. Ever. talk to Jimin like that again!”, he hissed as his arm came up to give your shoulder a hard shove, away from Jimin. Stumbling backwards you were able to take a hold of the library door, successfully toning down your fall. Still, the impact made you flinch, reminding you of who you were dealing with. That you were not Jimin, who he would play nice with. No, Jungkook was towering over you, his gaze cold and calculating. Your previous anger was slowly replaced by fear and despair. You stood no chance against him.

“Come on Jimin, let’s go...” Jungkook snorted. He grabbed Jimin’s wrist, walking towards the door Hoseok had vanished through earlier. Yanking on the pink haired boy’s arm, Jimin stumbled after him while he shot you one last sad glance.

The door fell shut with a loud bang, leaving you alone on the cold marble floor. The sound echoing in the library behind you.  You brought up your legs, draping your arms around them. Letting your head fall on your knees you closed your eyes.

You were stupid.

You had just squandered your one chance to get out of here. Jimin had been the only one friendly to you so far and you had yelled at him. And for what? A stupid sense of envy.

Who would help you now?

Nobody.

You were all alone…

[lostinthewiind]

Hey there! I honestly love your writings, I'll literally stop doing whatever I was doing to read them. Your fluff is the best fluff ever! So I was wondering of you could do any Martin fics maybe? Lots of love - x

It makes me so happy to hear that you enjoy my writing! Thank you so much for reading. One Johnny Martin fic coming up :)

Nothing More to It

Your feet ached something fierce as you reluctantly trudged through the large, never-ending field with the rest of Easy Company. You couldn’t remember how long you had been walking for, and much to your dismay, you had no idea how much farther you had to go.

“I’m gonna scream,” you muttered lowly, more to yourself than anyone else.

“Don’t scream.” Bull tapped the butt of his rifle against your helmet. “Don’t need to alert the Germans when we’re so out in the open like this.”

You rolled your eyes and swatted at Bull with your free hand. “I wasn’t actually going to scream…but now that you mention the Germans, do you think if I were to yell they would come and shoot me? Because an eternal dirt nap doesn’t sound too bad right about now.”

“Why are you talking about eternal dirt naps?” Martin piped up from his position behind you and the large man from Arkansas.

“Because my feet hurt.” you shrugged.

“All of our feet hurt. Stop joking about getting shot.”

You turned to Bull and shared a wide-eyed, amused look with him. “Sorry Mama Martin.” you chuckled, causing Bull to let out a snort.

“Mama Martin is about to whoop your ass if you don’t shut the hell up and pick up the pace.”

“Yes Mama Martin.” you and Bull sing-songed at the same time, giggling silently among yourselves as you lengthened your strides. 

Time passed by at an excruciatingly slow and tedious rate, the only thing keeping you distracted from your boredom being the occasional banter between Luz and Perconte. You tried to keep quiet for as long as possible, knowing full-well that Martin was still watching you from behind, but after a while of zero talking among the company, you just couldn’t take the deafening silence any longer.

“You know what I could really go for right now?” you posed the rhetorical question to anyone within earshot. “Chocolate. I haven’t had chocolate in…well, I don’t even remember how long. I know we were supposed to have some in our bags, but someone snatched mine before we jumped.”

George let out a small whine. “Oh, don’t talk about chocolate. I’m already starving as it is.”

“Skinny gave me some of his Hershey bar last week.” Frank thought back to the last time he had gotten to taste the delectable combination of cocoa and various other sweet ingredients. 

“Guys, I’m serious.” George’s stomach let out a gurgle. “You’re making it worse. Stop talking about food.”

You felt bad for George, and although you did plan on switching the conversation topic, another side thought branched off of your previous one and before you knew it you and Frank were talking about how you would kill for a big bowl of true Italian spaghetti. 

Every minute or so George’s stomach would rumble in protest, but he pretty much stayed silent otherwise, his pace steady in between you and Frank. 

You were thankful for George’s patience with the two of you because the conversation made the remaining leg of the hike fly by much faster than it would have regularly. When you arrived at the dense, small grouping of trees where you would dig in for the night, you sighed in relief. 

Picking an ideal spot a few meters away from the front of the line, you dropped your gear down onto the dirt, relishing in the absence of the weight weighing down on your shoulders and spine, and began digging out your foxhole. 

The hard work made your muscles sting and your body sweat, and by the time you had finished, you really did just want to sit down with a bowl of spaghetti and chow down.

As the men eventually began sliding into their holes for the night, the sun had almost completely dipped behind the horizon. The once cool, refreshing breeze had turned bone-chilling and unwelcomed in a matter of minutes and you could feel the cold seeping into your bones as you settled in for the evening.

Wrapping your arms tight around your body, you closed your eyes and attempted to locate some sleep. However, Mother Nature had different plans. First, it was just a single drop on the bridge of your nose, then one on your cheek, but before you could even really register that it was raining, it was pouring down hard.

The canopy of trees provided some protection from the weather, but after a while, everyone was soaked completely through and it didn’t matter one way or the other if the foliage had been there or not. 

Hearing footfalls behind you, you craned your neck up just as a body jumped down and sat down next to you. “How you holding up?” Martin yanked his helmet off of his head and tossed it to the side before propping his rifle up beside himself.

“My feet still hurt.” you brushed the accumulated water droplets from your eyelashes. “And I still want spaghetti.”

“Well, I can’t do anything about those things…” he trailed off as he started rummaging around in his pockets. “But, I do have this.”

Fishing something out of his jacket, Martin held out a single chocolate bar toward you. Your mouth nearly started watering at the sight. “Where did you find this?” you snatched the treat from his hands as if he would retract the offer if you were too slow.

“I have my ways.” he shifted slightly and leaned back against the dirt wall. “That, and Penkala keeps a stash at the bottom of his musette bag.”

You narrowed your eyes at the thought of that grubby-handed little mortarman being the culprit behind your own missing chocolate. “Penkala.” you huffed. “He would hoard candy like a goddamn squirrel.”

Martin let out a small chuckle at that, his eyes closing as he folded his arms across his chest. You watched as he let his guard down ever-so-slightly and attempted to locate even the smallest bit of sleep. 

The rain was still coming down in sheets, slowly filling your foxhole and creating small puddles where the dirt sunk in more. It was looking like it was going to be one miserable night, but on the bright side, you had chocolate.

Your hands trembling from the cold, you slowly tore open the wrapping and broke the bar in half. “Martin.” you nudged him with your elbow. 

Cracking open one eye, Martin looked to you. “Hmm?” he grumbled.

“Here.” you passed him back half of the sweet candy. “Consider it a peace offering for always annoying you.”

Slowly, Martin reached out and took the offering. “Thank you.” he flashed a quick smile; a sight you rarely saw from him.

“Thank you for finding it,” you told him as you took the first bite of your half, the familiar and greatly-missed taste making you forget about the cold, dirt, and rain for a brief moment. 

Breaking off a smaller piece, Martin popped the candy into his mouth. “I do like chocolate.” he sighed. “Haven’t had any in quite a while myself. Probably since before the war.”

“That’s no way to live life.” you quickly downed the rest of your portion before the rain got to it. 

Martin didn’t respond to that, but you didn’t mind. Together, the two of you sat in content quiet and semi-enjoyed the sound of the rain splattering against the ground; a sound that would be much nicer if you were listening to it from the interior of a warm, dry house.

As the final glimpse of the sun disappeared, you felt the temperature drop even lower. You tried to keep from shaking, knowing that it would only use up energy that you couldn’t afford to lose, but you couldn’t help it.

“Not to complain again, Sergeant.” your teeth chattered as you looked over at Martin. “But I’m goddamn freezing.”

“Yeah, me too,” he admitted, his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them. Martin looked back at you, the thought that crossed his mind doing loops as he mulled it over. “Come closer.” he finally suggested.

You weren’t sure how to respond at first. Was this a test? Was he going to reprimand you for being weak and cold as soon as you moved? Or was he serious?

Martin furrowed his brows at you when you made no attempt at moving. “Jesus, don’t be weird about it.” he held his arm out for you. “This is about sharing warmth. Nothing more.”

“Oh.” you nodded as you scooted closer. “Oh, okay.”

As you pressed your body into Martin’s side, he wrapped an arm around you, the gesture making you feel safe and secure. For a little bit, you just sat there, frozen and unsure of what to do. You focused on your breathing, paranoid that the rise and fall of your chest would disturb his rest.

Martin had tried to get some shut-eye, but your tense figure beside him was much too distracting. “I’m not going to eat you when you fall alseep.” he muttered. “Relax a little, will ya? Try to get some sleep.”

“Right.” you exhaled and let your body melt into his, the minuscule warmth he radiated drawing you in even more. As you laid your head on his shoulder, your cold nose gravitated to the nape of his neck and you gently pressed your freezing skin into his warmer skin. 

Martin shuddered at the touch, but he didn’t make you move. Instead, he pulled you even closer and let out a soft sigh.

As you closed your eyes and tried to will yourself to sleep, a thought crossed your mind and you let out a small giggle. “You know, with the chocolate and cuddling…” you whispered into his flesh. “…this could count as our first date.”

“Shut up.”

“Shutting up.” you complied, keeping your mouth closed until you eventually managed to drift off into a light slumber. 

You probably wouldn’t admit it to anyone who asked, and neither would Martin, but in each other’s arms, you both had the best sleep you had had in weeks.