#the deadly 3 hours long map !!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dovithedarklord · 6 months ago

Text

Stucked - Part 7

You're trapped in a game and a new threat is lurking.

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Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x reader, Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader, König x reader

Tags: Mentions of death, Mentions of blood and gore, Blood and Violence, Sexual Scenes, Alternate Universe, No use of Y/N, Not Beta Read, AFAB Reader

Trigger Warning: Contains blood and gore, violence, injury, some body horror, and drugging. Please, keep that in mind!

⚠️MDNI⚠️

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Author's Note

The climax of the story is getting closer and closer, and now you meet someone who knows what kind of place you're stuck in.

Hello!

Sorry for the long delay, but I was finally able to get back to writing! The story is slowly coming to an end and the last important character enters.

Have fun! :D

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

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The eerie silence of the forest penetrates every unprotected pore of your cold body like a latent sickness, as if the ominous uneventfulness would be a precursor to a deadly disease that can push you into a sick bed festering with ulcers at any moment. And you know that this calmness is only a fleeting mirage, because in every dark corner, in every hidden hole, something terrible can be lurking, which can ruin the unsettling ease with which you fled from your pursuers. Even though you're surrounded by the soft breeze of the night, the sighs of the branches dancing in the wind passing through the trees, the frightened shuffling noises of the feet of animals coming to life under the dead leaves, and even though the owls try to lull your suspicions with their melancholic songs, you already know this horrible prison all too well. And thanks to the last few hours, you won't make the mistake of trusting in its mercy again. Because in this fever dream, there is no benevolence, no compassion, only survival. And you do everything to win, because there is no other way out.

The time you spent wandering in the woods in the pitch-black night seems endless, and even though you know you're far away from the lake and the deformed creatures that turned the water into a putrid graveyard, the dull stabbing pain in your lungs reminds you of with what hurry you managed to disappear from the watchful eyes. You were just a hair's breadth away from being caught in the violent embrace of a beast, and if you hadn't found the pearls, you wouldn't have had a chance to make that daring escape with which you threw yourself into the thick of the forest before.

If you had any hopeful foolishness left in you, you'd think the game had given up on its cruel pursuit of fun and finally presented you with a generous gift. But you know that this goddamn purgatory feeds on the sweet nectar of suffering and will do everything to squeeze every last drop of luscious misery out of your flesh and bones. And as it flashes before your mind's eye, how the red and purple stains of the damaged blood vessels drawn into the tissues disappeared from your leg following the cool caress of the beads, you become more and more certain that it was all just a morbid coincidence. Maybe even this nightmare-like torture chamber can make a mistake, because you doubt that it offered you this miracle voluntarily. Like when a bug appears in a video game, causing the world embedded in pixels to slip for a moment, and through the distorted chaos, the system reveals secrets that you should have never seen. And maybe it did. Maybe this diabolical place is finally starting to crumble under the weight of its own evil.

But you know that now is not the time to ponder how the well-known hell will turn into a completely new kind of horror, because you only need to take a look at the map resting in your hand to know what your task is. On the yellowed page, the unknown gray building stands out with such definite outlines, as if someone had painted it there with liquid metal, and for a minute the sharp lines of the rough sketch seem to dance in front of your tired eyes. While trekking through the wild vegetation, you had time to decide where your path should lead you next, and although the knife-like anxiety in the depths of your stomach relentlessly pumps the warning acid of uneasiness into your limbs, you're aware that this new location didn’t appear without purpose. There's something there that makes this place important enough to have a prominent spot on the map, and that's enough reason for you to risk another disastrous adventure. After all, you have nothing to lose, right? A new killer, a new death, another damn mark on your skin, but a chance to find an exit. And at this point, you're ready to seize anything to get out of here.

It's almost cartoonishly comical, the way a small blood-red line on the stained page traces your journey so far, like a path sketched up with a crayon in the middle of the splotch-like woods, and this small detail only makes you even more certain that you're stuck in a grotesque game. The system keeps track of your progress, and although the knowledge that you cannot hide from the invisible gaze only increases the uncomfortable tightness in your chest, for once this atrocity has at least some benefits. For the dull edge of the gray building emerges with an uncanny glow from behind the dense curtain of foliage and branches, like a glimmering fragment of the imagination that may fade away at any moment. Even though the game follows your every move, it helped you to reach this point, and you're terribly grateful for it.

You keep your eyes fixed on the slowly approaching house with an unbroken focus as you carefully thread through the thicket of dry bushes, and it’s only due to random luck that you catch on your periphery those tiny, uncertain little blobs that rest serenely on one of the nearby trees. And when your brain finally registers the stimuli, you suddenly halt in your march, as if an unknown force had severed the nerve fibers wiring your muscles. There is something sickeningly familiar in the way the small human-like figures sway between the withered branchlets, and it dawns on you a few seconds later why your mind thought it was important to stop here. Because you saw the same dolls made of sticks at the shrine, where the map was waiting for you, and no matter how much this is a sure sign that you're moving in the right direction, you're unable to banish the instinctive sinister feeling stirring in your brain cells. At first, you thought that maybe they had erected that hideous monument in honor of the tentacled creature that lived in the lake, but now you know that they wanted to pay homage to something completely different. And whatever that unknown entity is, it doesn't bode well for you if teeth pulled from jaws, brown with blood, and clumps of hair lead to its grace.

But a completely new kind of confusion comes over you when you shift your attention from the sprawling tangle of dead twigs and finally spot the boot lying on the ground, almost hidden under the dry crown of curled leaves surrounding it. Perhaps you could chalk it up to a morbid coincidence, a background element without meaning, which fades into oblivion eventually, but the game has engraved in your mind with blood and pain that nothing here is just an insignificant detail. And as you step closer and examine the forgotten footwear, you discover those tiny, white shards on the faded leather covered in muddy dirt, which shine under the filtering moonlight like glitter. However, there is something quite unsettlingly velvety in the way the crushed pieces stand out from the grimy material, and as your vision finally sharpens enough to recognize the tiny red specks between the zig-zagged edges, you know what sits so innocently on the surface of the boot. Small pieces of grounded bones, which cover the abandoned object as if someone sprinkled it with granulated sugar. And this makes your stomach turn with such an elemental force that you stagger back from the horrible surprise, as if the very sight of it could breathe death into your cells. Because however that bone dust ended up on that unfortunate shoe, you don't want to suffer the same fate as its owner.

However, you’re jolted out of your stupor by an unexpected crack, which deafeningly pierces into the motionless quite between the tree trunks, and you crumple the map deep into your pocket with reflexive panic and turn in the direction of the noise, as if someone was pulling you on a string. And a completely impossible relief ripples through you, loosening the tennis ball size knot your stomach has shrunk into, as you find yourself face to face with an old woman, who freezes with her wicker basket full of chopped-up wood clutched to her chest, her face pale with a look of horrified shock like yours. You see the fright reflected in her eyes, as she looks you over slowly, and the thought arises in you that maybe you yourself might not present a more inviting sight than the boots. Because although the mementos of your wounds, colored with bruises, have disappeared, your dirty, wet clothes clung to your battered, paralyzed body, and at this moment you're quite sure that with your eyes widened with fear, you must remind her of a trapped wild animal.

A torturous, tense moment of stillness passes, and when you see the frail, worn-out old figure relax, anxiety releases its grip on your insides as well, and you let out the breath that has been trapped in the supple prison of your lungs with painful tension until now.

"Oh my… are you all right, sweetheart?" Comes the sincere question in a strangely accented voice, and the tenderness in her words hits you completely unprepared. And although an intimate, motherly concern moves between her features, as her thinning eyebrows meet under her gray hair with worry, you still can't suppress the flicker of doubt that whispers from the back of your skull to be careful. You don't dare to trust anything anymore, and a stranger rarely means good in this damn world. Yet, your tortured soul yearns for the tiniest spark of humanity with such pitiful force, that you involuntary let your spine loosen the painful stiffness that resides in it.

"I'm lost." You answer, carefully rolling the syllables on your tongue, savoring the caution that instinctively settles in your mouth and restrains your sociability. Although the woman seems defenseless, you already know how unnoticed a beast can hide behind the mask of sweet kindness. At best, she’s an insignificant NPC, an additional character who merely fills the void, who, like Pam and Rebecca, is condemned to eternal death, and waits unsuspectingly for the killer to appear to strip her of her aged flesh. And you want to hope that she's just a helpless puppet of the storyline and not another threat, because you want more than anything to have someone else suffer instead of you finally. Because you lost the compassion that would be appalled at this thought long ago.

"How about you come to my house?" She makes the timid offer, and as her gaze catches the thick layer of mud embedded in your T-shirt, you can see how her mouth curls into a line full of doubts. As if she would understand without asking any questions, that you've been through an endless hell that has soaked itself into your pores through the soft cotton, and can't be expressed with words. "I'll find you something warm to put on." She adds, and you feel the awareness with which she tries to dispel the restless rigidity radiating from her to not frighten you. As if she were talking to a trapped fawn, which would be able to take flight at the slightest thoughtless move, even if its shackles would flay its legs, trapped between the razor-sharp metal, alive in the process. And it makes you realize how pitiful it is, that the events of the never-ending night transformed you into a raw, pulsating nerve so easily. But you suspect that this is what has kept you alive until now.

Although the suspicion of the stranger has already settled into the depths of your consciousness, you still make yourself nod, because even if you don't know the woman and have no idea what might be hiding behind the defenseless exterior, you're aware that you're serving yourself as easy prey for the monsters in the forest. And you know it's only a matter of time before they catch a scent and appear breathing down on your neck.

"Alright... Come on, I don't live far from here!" She motions towards the building resting in the distance with her head, and you immediately know where her home could be. And if you had doubts, now you're quite sure, you've become involved in a new storyline, no matter how accidental this unexpected meeting seems. The game can always surprise you with new horrors, but as merciless as this world is, it's also as predictable. Because it's addicted to its habits, and you have learned to interpret its hidden signs. There are no coincidences, only tools that lead to your doom. And if you were already on your way to another trouble, then you let yourself be lead into its open mouth.

She hesitates for a few seconds, waiting to see if you change your mind and retreat into the desolate depths of the forest, but when you continue to stare at her like statue frozen in place, she turns around with the ghost of a small smile on her face, and beckoning you with her knobby fingers, she aks you to follow her. And you join her a moment later, keeping that respectful distance that speaks more to the mistrust swirling in your belly than to the thoughtfulness you feel for her. Perhaps an onlooker would think that you're just a scared little girl tagging along with her in the maze of tree trunks, but you feel the energy slithering through your legs, ready to run off at the very first odd move. You may be a slow learner, but you could repeat this lesson even after waking up from a dream. Don't let yourself be fooled. Because you've outlined the ideal possibility, but even the whirlwind of your imagination cannot authentically paint the worst-case scenario for you.

After a few meters spent in wordless peace, as the last remnants of the wild vegetation, frozen from the autumn cold, disappears, the concrete building, for which you decided to drag yourself through the goddamn forest, emerges almost abnormally in the small clearing. It stands out from the dark foliage as strikingly as an old silver ring forgotten in a black velvet box, and there is something quite unsettling about the way the tiny windows stare down at you from the monotonous walls. Like hungry mouths, waiting for a victim that they can grind up with their glimmering glass teeth. And you notice, what grotesque similes your brain is making, but you're unable to suppress the voice in your head that tells you, that there is no one in this artificial world who would call this their home with peace of mind. Because the structure looks more like a slaughterhouse with its inhospitable, barren frame, on which the holes from the crumbling plaster and the dry carpet of faded lichens bordering them gape like scars left behind by smallpox. The building may have been standing here since the game's universe was created, and in light of this, it’s even more baffling to you why it appeared only now.

But you can't ponder on that now, because you reach the house, and the old woman hurries to the shabby entrance with an agility that belies her age, pushing in the thick wooden panel covered with flaking red paint with a light movement, and opens the door of her home to you with the same helpfulness with which she led you here until now. Even though she doesn't say a word, you still understand the gentle plea with which she invites you in, because you see the worried light dancing in her eyes, with which she examines the uncertainty glued onto your features. And you want to believe in this softness more than anything, but what helps your leaden legs move the most is the knowledge that you know you can't turn back. Because Johnny and Simon are out there looking for you, and even if you were to avoid them, you'd already delved into a new thread of events. And you fear how the game would punish you if you were to deny its generous gift. Therefore, gathering all your remaining composure, you force the faint curve of a weak smile into the corner of your mouth and head towards the interior of the house, fighting the instinctive feeling that makes it seem like you're walking straight through the entrance to the scene of your execution.

As you cross the threshold made of rickety boards, the characteristic smell of old houses snakes into your nose, the fusty stench of moisture that has soaked into the walls over the decades and the stale essence of powdery, old perfumes, which awakens nostalgia in you with an almost visceral force. And there is something extremely homely about the old chest of drawers, forgotten in the small hall, and about the lace tablecloth spread on the top of it, chewed by time, on which a bouquet of worn plastic flowers sits in a glass vase, like the last witnesses of a couple of long gone, sentimental memories. The old nick-nacks accumulated over the years rests in neat order, and even on the walls, the frames, covered with pale gold, hang with measured precision, with black and white photos of unknown people in them, testifying that perhaps, according to the story, the woman might not have lived here alone once. They looking into the camera with blank expressions on their grim faces, and you swear that they're staring into your soul with their dull, dot-like eyes.

And when the woman rushes past you towards the inside of the house, disrupts the thin layer of dust that settles on the worn surface of the furniture, and as the musty smell traveling with the tiny particles settles into your nose, it occurs to you that, despite the homely atmosphere, it's as if no more than a few stray ghosts would actually live here. And your subconscious warns you about this small intuition, which makes you sneak after your host with careful cat-like steps, like a curious child who knows she's straying into an area that adults have told her a thousand times not to venture near to.

The lamp hanging from the ceiling is the only source of light as you enter the kitchen after the the old woman, and the light bulb casts filmy, yellow rays from under the milk-like porcelain onto the battered furnishings of the little room. She’s already busying herself, and shoves chopped pieces of wood into the dilapidated stove, scaly with peeling white paint, glancing over her shoulder as she hears the shuffling of your shoes on the worn linoleum.

"Sit down, I'll make you some tea to warm you up!" She speaks up, and by now all uncertainty has disappeared from her voice, giving the impression that it was not a torn stranger, but an old friend who appeared in front of her humble abode in the middle of the night. And, as she digs out an ancient teapot from one of the cupboards, and the faucet turns on with a loud creak, as she steps to the sink and fills it with water, you wonder what will come next. Now you can't rely on your routine, with which you were able to tell exactly which breath followed the other in the cabin, and this creates an uncomfortable, gaping hole in your insides. And that sends a robotic rigidity into your limbs as you walk over to the table in the middle of the kitchen and settle down in one of the thick oak armchairs, because fear begins to twist in the bottomless pit that anxiety has opened in you, as your eyes scan the room for danger. You should feel bad that you're so persistently looking for a trap in the woman's hospitality, but you have experienced firsthand how big a mistake it is when you let yourself to be overconfident.

"A few minutes and it's done." She comments on her haste, and turning towards you, she leans against the shabby kitchen counter, finding you with her searching gaze again. Now that you have entered the scene of another dangerous mission, your consciousness automatically accepts the stimuli that your brain may have tried to push away until now. And you see the sparks of interest swimming through the pools of her eyes, but despite the soft expression still sitting on the worn face, the stress is too strong for you to let your guard down. You'd like to think that only your paranoia brings out this visceral suspicion, but you're smarter than that. "How did you get lost?" She formulates the completely legitimate question, and your ear once again discovers the accent that, despite the light tone, gives her words harshness. As if tiny little pebbles would be gurgling in her mouth, making every consonant flow out a little harder from her paper-thin lips. Maybe Russian?

"We just went for a walk with my friends. I lost them." You finally break your silence with a half-truth, which is just honest enough so that your tone is not colored by the sound of lies. You have no reason to tell her what happened during the endless torture of the past hours, and you have a gut feeling that it wouldn't help you if you mentioned to her what kind of monsters this demonic place has entwined your fate with.

And when the telltale shadows of doubt creep across the old face, you become quite sure that you have made the right decision. You can tell from the little quiver that makes the corner of her mouth twitch that she doesn't believe you, but there's just enough goodwill in her not to try to inquire further. You see how suddenly her throat jumps as she swallows the demanding questions, and you're quite sure that she knows exactly what happened to you. She must have resided in the middle of the forest long enough to know its every evil nook and cranny, and you doubt that her innocent facade is what has kept her alive. Whatever the purpose of this storyline, it is not a coincidence that she lives here in the middle of nowhere, and there is even less chance that it was thanks to some harmless tricks that helped her home to stay so undisturbed. This also raises a series of dangerous assumptions in you, and you can almost feel how the buzzing of suspicion in your head sharpens as a result.

A sudden whistle interrupts the thread of your thoughts sinking into ever darker pits, and the woman, breaking your silent examination, settles back into her caring role, turning to the teapot angrily steaming on the stove amid soft curses. And you take advantage of this to explore the hidden corners of the room, searching for small signs that can reveal what you're dealing with. It’s quite obvious that another important clue will be hidden here, and you have to do everything you can to find it, because you don't know how much time you have until the two men or another killer find you, one who has been lying dormant waiting for the opportunity to play with you until now.

And now that you take a closer look at the room, you discover more and more little details you missed when you wandered in here. You can see the touch of old hands in the order that resides in the small hole of the kitchen, but you can spot the silky blanket of spider webs that weave the plates decorated with flowers on the shelves, as if no one has used them for decades. There are rich bouquets of dried plants hung on nails on the wall, but below them, you can clearly make out the yellowed newspaper articles written in a language unknown to you, on which the same black and white people you saw in the hall look back at you. And when you squint and try to observe the figure emerging from under the withered flowers of one of the herbs, you see how a little boy, dressed in old-fashioned clothes, is cut through by the unknown mark, which almost decapitates him with the edges engraved with graphite. At first, the drawing may seem like a simple scribble, but you recognize the needle-sharp points of a star in it, as if someone had carved a grotesque crosshair there…

The knocking of the mug's porcelain jolts you out of your investigation, and you wince with the surprise of a small child caught in mischief, turning your gaze back to the woman, who takes her seat across from you with a much tighter smile than before. And the tenderness on her face turns into something completely cold, as if only habit would keep the friendly curl in the corners of her mouth in place, and the softness that used to be able to inspire sympathy in your soul has disappeared from them. Now her expression transforms into sharp lines, which are deepened into gloomy furrows by the yellow light filtering down from the lamp, as if would the woman transform into someone completely different in an instant. Someone you shouldn't be around.

"Drink up. It will help." She pushes the cup towards you, and you know it's not just your ears when you feel the impatient tone in her voice, from which the offer sounds more like an instruction than a well-meaning nagging. And you don't react for a tense moment, and despite the anxiety churning in your stomach, you try to keep your cool, because now you recognize the fleeting shadow that hides under the gentle warmth. Like a hawk waiting to strike, she follows your movements as you wrap your fingers around the handle of the mug, but she can no longer deceive you, because you've seen the same expression before. Although it's not Johnny's handsome face and the sparks of his sky-blue eyes that want to divert the suspicion that is scratching your insides, the disguise of an old woman feigning cordial concern would just as effectively put anyone's doubts to sleep. But she can put on any mask, you're already able to distinguish the vileness under the sickly sweet surface. And this woman wants to hurt you, you're sure of that.

Still, you pull the steaming beverage in front of you with almost automatic movements, trying with every cell not to let her figure out that you suspect something. You need her to reveal herself, because that's how you can get her to lead you to the clues that can get you out of here. There is something hidden in this damned house, and you feel it in your bones that it’s important to find out what it is. All your fake innocence seeps into the way you touch your mouth to the porcelain, and the luscious scent of herbs and fruits snakes into your nose. And although you don't feel the sting of poison in the steamy clouds rising from the tea, it fills you with a bad foreboding when the woman leans forward with artificial benevolence frozen on her face, watching with almost intrusive interest how you start sipping the hot liquid. And you feel more and more tense with each passing second, like an ant stuck under a magnifying glass, which has just begun to feel how the rays of the sun breaking through the lens burn its legs into charcoal stubs. And you see the dissatisfaction when you hesitantly lower the cup.

"Drink it all. You need it." She encourages you, almost cooing, and her accent is more reminiscent of an impatient mother who tries to dictate medicine to her protesting child with a barely controlled temper. Gentle, but just as much as boiling water forgotten under the lid. And you feel how the little hairs rise on the nape of your neck, as her glassy eyes fixate on you with unblinking persistence.

Uncertain silence settles in the tiny kitchen, which makes the saliva in your mouth thicken into molasses as you return the woman's stare. Under the flickering light of the old bulb, everything seems to change, and out of the corner of your eye, it looks as if the flowers painted on the wall would turn into wax, dripping off the plaster dirty from grease. But you’re unable to turn your gaze away from her, as she studies you with the immobility of a predator, and you have to forcefully suppress the trembling that awakes in your hands as you raise the mug to your lips and take another small sip. And the excited light that passes over her features does’t escape your attention for a minute, as she follows the almost painfully sweet liquid traveling down your throat. And now you're sure that no matter how harmless this elderly woman seems, evil is hidden under her frail frame. Because the pearls hidden in your pockets come to life with an almost warning glow, as the strange, bitter aftertaste sits on your taste buds, which the sugar has been able to suppress until now.

Under the pulsation of the little red spheres, the light buzz, that the brew wants to envelop your brain in, has no chance of spreading, but you know you have to pretend that she was successful, whatever she smuggled into your drink. Because there's a reason why she's trying to knock you out, and maybe if you make her believe that you let her trick you like an unsuspecting fool, then she'll reveal what she's up to. That's why you let the fatigue throbbing in your limbs creep onto the fibers of your muscles, numb with lactic acid, and you let the exhausted yawn loose that, now that you're finally resting, falls through your mouth sincerely. And you hear that satisfied little hum with which the woman finally leans back, when she assesses the unexpected force of the sleepiness washing over you.

"Perhaps it would be best if you stayed here for the night." She offers, and there is nothing to unsure about the way she presents her proposal to you. A selflessly offered opportunity, behind which lies a statement to which no opposition is expected. And it’s exactly this determination that dispels the previous softness, and fills her old joints with an almost youthful energy, when she springs up and starts towards the kitchen door, giving you one last, almost painfully fond look. "You just stay here and rest." She adds, and you feel nauseous from the kindness under which the poison of cruelty ripples, and which creeps into your ear canals with snide unsolicitedness.

When, after an uncertain nod, you lay your head down on the table with languid weakness, she hurries away towards the maze of the corridor giggling, with such immense glee, as if an unexpected present had fallen into her lap. And you, closing your eyes, order every part of your body to remain motionless in anticipation, slowing your breathing to a trembling evenness, listening through your own shivering for the woman's footsteps. You have to remain unnoticed because you're sure that if she realizes that her tea has failed to relax you enough, she'll come up with something much more painful to get the desired effect. You're not sure what her goal is, but you don't have time to create unnecessary excitement for yourself.

For minutes, only the soft puffs of the air flowing through your nose fill the room shrouded in an almost disturbing quietness, but despite your pulse pounding in your ears with an almost deafening noise, you wait until all the sounds die down between the old walls. And when you decide that you have wasted enough time, you carefully push yourself away from the worn furniture and stand up with your eyes fixed on the shadows beyond the door, watching for an unexpected visitor with every move you make. But, when nothing happens, and only the low buzzing of the light bulb and the hooting of the owls filtering in from outside travel through the empty house, then you sneak towards the hallway.

As you step out onto the corridor, it takes a few uncertain seconds for your eyes to get used to the dense darkness, and when you're finally able to make out the pitch-black outlines of the furniture, you set off into the unknown. The age-old parquet floor creaks under your shoes, reminiscent of the soft squealing of a mouse, and with each step you take, the presentiment tightens its grip on your insides. Because you have no idea where the old woman could have gone, and the fact that she can appear from behind any of the doors lined up next to each other is just enough to awaken the needle-like prickling of stress in your muscles. As if a thousand tiny ants would be crawling under your skin, and clenching your teeth, you fight the tempting compulsion to escape. You know you're wading into the swampy abyss of certain danger, but you also know you have no other choice. And not finding a clue is not an option. You have to move on or you'll be stuck here forever.

You wouldn't be able to tell how deep you ventured into the uninhabited house, but everything turns into an unsettling uniformity as a dull entrance follows another insignificant door, and the pictures hanging on the walls serve as your only companions in your wanderings.The lifeless eyes following you send shivers down your spine involuntarily, because although they're nothing more than the imprints of strangers lingering in the past, yet there is something bleak in the faces of the people on them. But when you discover something familiar, you stop dead in your tracks to take a closer look at the many of photos hidden in the frames, and you don't have to think long to recognize the boy from the kitchen. Although he may be much older here, and the childish roundness of his face has already been banished by the hormones of adolescence, but the light eyes stare at you with the same stern expressionlessness as they did from the shadows of the herbs. There is something hard in them, something angry, lurking beneath the frozen stillness, waiting to strike. And the longer you stare, the more the unpleasant feeling intensifies in you, which plants the impossible idea in your mind that the next moment he will come to life and, reaching through the scratched glass, wraps his pale, thin fingers around your neck.

A thunder-like bang tears into the empty quiet of the building, and you, shaking in terror, break out of your paranoia-woven imagination to spin around and start searching for the noise with the alarm of a frightened animal. And when the sounds don't die down, but are enriched by the clanking of a chain and the murmur of a muffled conversation, then you come upon the worn door, ajar, on the tattered surface of which a star-like scribble greets you, roughly sketched up with blood-red paint, the same that someone drew on the boy in the newspaper article. And you become aware with an uncomfortable certainty that the game has finally revealed your next destination to you, no matter how much every cell of yours protests against venturing towards the source of the increasingly loud clamor.

Every single nerve of yours tenses as one, as you move closer, keeping your eyes fixed on the cracked varnish clinging to the wooden surface, considering each step before the next, and the closer you stray, the sharper the violently snapping words become, and even though you don't understand them, you can feel the simmering ire in them. You open the door with your trembling fingers wrapped around the doorknob, and the saliva crawls down your dry throat almost like shards of glass, when you try to dispel the lump that has grown there. But nothing welcomes you, only a set of stairs covered in faint light, which leads you down into the uncertain darkness, and you feel the force of fear twisting your guts, as you muster up your courage and set off to the rickety steps.

The lower you go, the wider the hidden world of the basement opens up in front of you, and the more painful the horrible smell, mixture of the sweet stench of rot and the sting of sweat, pierces your nose. With each breath, the stagnant, moldy air penetrates deeper into your lungs, and if your brain weren't occupied by terror, you would wonder what kind of disease you're filling your chest with so voluntarily. Although to your own ears, every noise your shoes mak on the old stairs is ear-splitting, you know, even through the uncontrollably roaring fear inside you, that the sounds of your arrival will be drowned out by the wild discussion unfolding on the other side of the wall bordering the stairs. You recognize the woman's voice in the furious foreign expressions, but that's not what makes you halt hesitantly on the last step. It's that unexpected, raspy male baritone that stops the momentum of your curiosity from taking you any further, because even though you can't see the face associated with it, you feel the deadly threat traveling in the growl-like rumble.

"ублюдок!" The woman erupts, and even you cringe instinctively from the caustic rage that sits in her tone. "You ungrateful wretch!" She spits in a way that you finally can understand, and you hear the crunch of the dirt and dust sliding under her shoes as she take a step forward, as if she were moving closer to someone, but further away from your impromptu hiding place. "I should have let them take you!" The end of the heated cursing snaps, and with this the stormy exchange of words turns into painful silence, as if the shadows hiding on the dirty floor had absorbed not only the rays of the faintly flickering light, but also the sounds. And from this, even you know that something came out of the woman's mouth that shouldn't have.

The basement falls into an icy stillness, and the tiny hairs on your skin rise as you lean against the wall and listen, wondering if you made a mistake by coming down here. However, as your frightened eyes wander around the dimly lit room, you discover something in one corner that catches your eye with its golden glow. And you lean forward like someone who has been mesmerized, trying to decipher through the dying light of the old bulb hanging on the ceiling, what might be hiding in one of the shelves under the piled-up, dusty mountain of junk. And the relieved joy that washes over you when you notice the lost key that leads to Johnny's attic, is almost ridiculous, and for a fleeting moment, you're sure that it's just your eyes playing games with you. But the tiny little object winks back at you with an unmoving serenity a few long seconds later, and you already know what your task is.

"Oh, my little boy... don't be angry! Mommy loves you, you know that, right?" You hear the apologetic shush, and you're filled with an ominous feeling as you lean forward from behind the wall, clinging to the crumbling bricks, to see how safe it is to get the key. And your eyebrows knot together in confusion when you're greeted by nothing more than the old woman, who, stepping towards one of the dark corners, spreads her arms as if waiting for someone to fall into her arms. Although at first, you're sure that age and loneliness have warped her mind so much that she imagines one of her loved ones in the shadows, but as your gaze falls on the mattress, brown with dirt, lying by the wall, and the plates soiled from the rotting leftover food, you dismiss your naive assumption. Someone is here, and based on the dried, yellowish stains on the torn bedsheet, they weren't forced to retreat here now. But you don't care about that. Whoever is imprisoned here, you're not here to help them.

"I found a new friend for you... She is much prettier than the previous ones! You want to see her, don't you? If you're a good boy, I'll bring her down for you... You do as mommy says, yes?" The woman continues, mumbling the kind words with an almost atoning tenderness, and it becomes painfully clear that whatever lives down here, this old bitch tried to drug you because of it. And when you remember the boot sprinkled with bone dust found in the forest, you banish the idea of thinking about what could have happened to those who were dragged down here before you. You have more important things to do than brood over the deaths of imaginary strangers… as cruel as that may sound.

But just as you finally take the first brave step and leave your hideout with careful stealth, the chain rattle comes to life again, and you freeze, forgetting about the key, when a dull crack silences the old hag. Like when a ripe, juicy melon cracks and splits into two when a knife sinks into it, but deep down you know that it's not fruit juice you hear splashing on the floor in fat drops. And you're unable to resist the pull of fear, which draws you in the direction of the noise against your will, but as soon as you see the woman slowly staggering back from the dark corner, you immediately regret giving in to the impulse. Because when your eyes find the handle of the large knife protruding from her head, you clamp your hands to your mouth, trying to force back the horrified scream that rises in your throat.

The woman clumsily stumbles backward, and you see the uncertain surprise in the trembling hands with which she reaches for her hair, slowly covered into a crimson veil from the blood, touching the wooden handle almost in disbelief. And there is something quite pitiful in the way she turns around in confusion, amidst frightened whimpers, brushing away the strands stuck to her eyes by the red streams running down her forehead. And you, swallowing the bitter taste on your tongue, take a terrified step back, as you suddenly see how impossibly tight the skin clings to the edges of the bones emerging from the sunken face, as if a parasite were about to break through a thin membrane. The pale tissues look unsettlingly papery, and you have a lingering fear that the dull, matte white of her jaw might penetrate them at any moment, as the woman's mouth opens in a silent scream. Unfocused eyes find you, and you're horrified to realize that maybe she wants to ask for help when she wobbles towards you with shaky legs, but you're frozen in terror, as you stare at her motionless, like a deer stuck in the headlights of a car. And you watch in shock, when after what seems like eternity, she, with a gurgling rattle, finally sprawls out on the dusty ground, like a sack full of rotten potatoes.

"You're finally here." You hear the hoarse voice from before, and as you look for its owner in terror, you see how a strong figure emerges from the darkness of the shadows, dragging the heavy shackle of the chain hanging from his thick neck behind him with a metallic clang. But what worries you even more than the muscles hidden under the torn clothes, is the pair of impossibly blue eyes that emerge from under the mask covering the unknown man's face, which look at you with cheerful interest, as if he had found a small bird with a broken wing. And from the cruelty glimmering in them, it immediately becomes painfully clear that he is the kind of person who would rip your wings out by the stem to free you from suffering. "I was waiting for you, Bunny."

(ублюдок (ublyudok) - bastard).

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katsona-the-katsequel · 8 months ago

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Hey, I saw your persona map and found it very intriguing <3 I get the gist of it, but can you elaborate on it please 👀

Sure! I'm going to repost the map again as a reference:

The first level, the PHYSICAL WORLD, is the most basic of all. It's where all the normal, human stuff happens. Fun fact, SEES (except Minato/Minako) never ventured beyond this point until The Answer. It all took place in man-made Tartatus. Supernatural beings are blocked from ever reaching this level unless they find a door. The Dark Hour made the walls between the levels thinner, temporarily allowing shadows to cross, but being sucked back once it was over. Slurp.

Next, we have the VELVET ROOM. I should have made it overlap a bit with the Expanse, but what's done is done. Any sleeping person can gain glimpses of this place, but only those who have been invited can interact with it. Furthermore, it seems only guests can fully remember what happens there. Otherwise, you forget as soon as you leave it, just like a dream. Permanent residents of this level include Igor, Nameless, Belladonna, Theodore, Margaret, and Lavenza. Come-and-go residents include the Demon Painter, Elizabeth, and Marie. Casual visitors include Eriko Kirishima, the Velvet Room's guests, and the Velvet Room's creator: Philemon.

The real second level is the EXPANSE. This is where all the shadows, demons, gods, and supernatural beings reside. Anything that happens here has some degree of impact on the physical world, as long as the event was strong enough. It might not seem like it, but the Expanse is not entirely ruled by anarchy. Well, it is a little. But if one knows where to look, they will find that it is divided in five worlds (though the better word would be "regions"), each one dedicated to a Deadly Sin: Pride, Gluttony, Sloth, Greed, and Envy/Wrath. These worlds cover all the levels in the Expanse. Maybe Trish is in the world of Greed? As its name implies, the Expanse is huge, so we need to break it down into sub-levels.

In the Sub-Level One, we have UPPER MEMENTOS. Common shadows are found here. You know, your average joe. Not only are shadows found here, but also most Shadows. Notice the difference? The shadows with the lowercase "s" are the ones like Jack Frosts and Pixies. The ones with the capital "S" are the other selves of the sentient beings on Earth. The golden-eyed ones. The Shadows here mostly wander around, with no armies and posing little risk. They were created by small problems that could unmake and make them again in the blink of an eye. Even if you have a Shadow in this level, it is still possible for you to gain a Persona. You're just human. A little scuffle with Persona Users will temporarily dissolve all the negative feelings attached to your Shadow, giving you time to sort your issues. As for the other shadows, well, these will be found in every sub-level. The only known permanent resident is Jose. The Reaper can be found all over the Expanse, created after P2 (in my headcanon for Tatsuya-related reasons).

The next Sub-Level doesn't have a formal name, but the Investigation Team was kind enough to name it the TV WORLD. Shadows here have one main problem that has begun to define their human counterparts. Not everything can be solved with a quick fight and a pep-talk. No, the darker aspects of these Shadows attracted smaller shadows to them to help them create their Dungeons. These Shadows are going for the kill, but unlike the ones in the lower sub-level, their only real target is their other self. Anyone else is collateral damage. But even so, their end-goal isn't even to kill, but to be accepted. Since this isn't as deep as other parts of the Expanse, a little more action needs to be taken to properly eliminate a Shadow, having to drag down their human self down to accept it... or wait for them to solve everything on their own. There's still time. The only being to be known to have resided here is Teddie (whom I believe to have actually been part of another Shadow's Dungeon as a minor shadow before wandering off, thus explaining the thematic appearance).

A little bit deeper in the TV World you will find the Palaces. This is what happens when you let a specific Sin rule your way of life. The "Rulers" are Shadows with a bit more personal conscience and way more power than the ones living in Dungeons. No longer acting on primitive instincts, these Shadows want to live, and will eliminate anyone who gets in their way (possibly skipping over their human self, since this would spell their destruction). Rulers can even create cognitive versions of real people. Their twisted desire powers them. This deep in the Expanse is enough for smaller things to influence events in the physical level, so a chat post-battle with a Shadow can rework entire personalities.

Sub-Level Three has the DEPHTS OF MEMENTOS. Most of the World of Sloth is located here. This is also where the general Palace for all of humanity can be found. Anything done here has an effect on the entire population of Earth with varying degrees. Those with a Persona or with a bond to a Persona User are less susceptible to the machinations that take place in this sub-level. Since a Persona means you have a tight grip on your sense of self and aren't just following the crowd, I guess it makes sense. However if you're a being with enough power influencing this sub-level, even you can overpower the willpower of Persona Users. Power. Looking at you, Azathoth. Yaldy wishes he was you. Hey, at least Yaldy managed to chain the Velvet Room to this sub-level during his takeover.

The final Sub-Level, and the most dangerous one for the average human, is the one where XIBALBA / THE AMENO TORIFUNE ship is located. Like the TV World, it also doesn't have a proper name. Why is it dangerous? This sub-level is so close to the Sea of Souls, that just thinking about something makes it real in the moment it takes you to blink. Nyarly thinned the walls between this sub-level and Sumaru City to create the rumor system/curse. Xibalba is a nightmare for anyone with ADHD.

Overlaping with Xibalba and the Sea, is the KADATH MANDALA. In older times, it used to be referred to as the Dreamlands by Persona Users. Why? This is where sleeping would-be Wildcards meet Philemon! You could say this is his personal meeting room, except worse because everyone has to stand up. Only those with the potential for a Persona can recall their name in the Kadath Mandala. An easier way to reach it is by playing the Persona Game and getting knocked out by supernatural forces. Then its up to you to prove yourself to Philemon by recalling who you are this deep in the Expanse. If you can, then boom! You get a Persona for life with Wildcard abilities no contract required. Congrats. It's implied all Wildcards (yeah, even those post-P2) have visited Kadath Mandala in their dreams once before, since they still need to get the whole "remember my name" thing right to be offered a contract. However, even for the Wildcards in the old games its impossible to remember what happened in your dream unless Philemon specifically wants you to for reasons. Aside from Phil, only Igor and Nyarly have been known to be able to enter this place umprompted and summon humans there. Each star-point of Kadath Mandala points to a distant tower.

And so, we can finally advance to a deeper level: the SEA OF SOULS, babeyy. Every single living being (human, animal, plant, demon, god, etc) came from the Sea, and to the Sea they will one day return. Mix and match and a new soul is created to form new life. Chronos, one of the oldest beings in the Persona Universe, is in charge of overseeing that everything is running as it should in the Sea. He accompanies souls back and forth (and according to me, created the Reaper). Philemon and Nyarlathotep live here... somewhere. The only known entrances in the Physical World to the Sea is through an Alaya Shrine, which will lead to the metaphysical Alaya Cavern (possibly in the Expanse), and directly to the Sea. There might or not be a whale which might or not have white feathers, and you might or not be able to fuse with it, which might or not be a bad thing.

In the deepest part of the Sea one can find the GREAT SEAL, created from Minato/Minako to prevent Erebus from ever reaching Nyx' psyche / Nyx Avatar, like an eternal guardian of sorts. This is the deepest level a Velvet Room attendant can reach on their own. Nyx' psyche is still able to influence up to the physical world with "You crave death" vibes, but as long as you don't actually crave death, the Great Seal will remain strong.

That's all we know for now. Thanks for the ask!

#persona 1 #persona 2 #persona 3 #persona 4 #persona 5 #persona q #philemon #nyarlathotep #igor #nyx #i have connected the dots

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greyias · 1 year ago

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A Fond Farewell to Act 1

After dithering about a fashion faux pas most unfortunate, and with nothing else to do on all of the maps, it is finally time for me to bid a fond farewell to Act 1 of Baldur’s Gate 3, and via the Mountain Pass head into the uncertain transition stage to Act 2 (and presumably the consequences of my actions).

But before I go. A moment. To reflect on my favorite memories in this journey so far:

Alfira’s song and The Harpy Rock Concert

Aravyn chickening out of lying to an evil mirror, Astarion shoving her aside to show her how its done, only to fail so spectacularly on every single conversation check the mirror spits out a giant orb of molten death that starts chasing us around the room spewing deadly AOEs as I loudly scream “OH NO OH NO OH NO OH NO WHY CANT WE TARGET IT OH NO” and the entire party flees for their life, nearly locking Astarion in the cellar with the death orb he summoned

The Glitterbomb/Musical Mini-Heist

Best Quasit Girl

Ari seeing giant claw marks a dragon very obviously gouged into stone, failing her intelligence check, and then proudly declaring it the artistic statement of some mysterious person

Gale nearly dying from a concussion because I decided to put off taking a long rest and instead do a little lute concert tour around the Druid Grove, and one NPC loved it so much he enthusiastically hurled his tip of a single gold piece in the direction of my singing paladin — and straight into Gale’s skull and taking off 6 of his precious few remaining HP

Discovering the mighty cow summon spells

Operation War Drum

My dumbass Paladin talking to Minthara, and winning every single persuasion check, so that she entered into a conversation to very earnestly insist that this random forest is where the secret Druid Grove is, and have Minthara scream in frustration that they already checked there and to go FIND IT, only for us to return five seconds later and say that we totes got the real location this time and point to the same spot on the map. About five time in a row.

Halsin getting the whole party stuck in eternal combat for no other reason than he was a bear, and apparently the game took that personally

That time Astarion gleefully informed Aravyn she was unfuckable, only for a full 24 hours later to decide that he was actually jealous that she considered Gale prettier than him (but also approved of this??), and basically yelled out “CHALLENGE ACCEPTED” before flouncing off

The entirety of the Auntie Ethel adventure freaking me (the player) out so much I, the notorious loot goblin, refused to touch ANY food or beverage in the entire cursed swamp even after finishing all of the quests and clearing the area

Nearly blowing up a dwarf trapped in a field of flammable mushrooms, and somehow both he and the valuable quest item miraculously survived. Only for my dumbass Paladin to eat the quest item mid-battle for no reason at all, and me not realizing until twenty hours of gameplay in that I’ve doomed the dwarf and his unpleasant wife to a life of destitution and also preventing one of my companions from regaining precious lost memories.

Getting a TPK several times in a row from the giant landshark in the Underdark, before finally beating it with actual tactical smarts. Only to revive it with a temporary NPC ally as a spawn so it could help us in fights because we are smart and tactical now. And then forgetting to dismiss it after the temporary NPC ally turned against us, only to return to the same area several hours later where we once again nearly died to the now undead manifestation of our hubris

Smiling and waving at whoever is on the end of those scrying eyes like we’re in some sort of beauty pageant

100 Foot Sharran Walkway of Doom

Rolling a nat 1 on a wisdom save after picking up a cursed locket

Robo-Hugs

I will never forget you Act 1. We laughed. We cried. Made many poor life decisions that I’m sure are going to come back and bite me in the ass very soon. But for now, we must march onwards into the unknown, where I’m sure Ari and the Tadfools will probably almost blow up the multiverse or something, at the rate they’re going.

#shamelessly stealing the phrase ‘tadfools’ because it fits this beloved pack of weirdos so well #grey's bg3 tag #bg3 posting #bg3 spoilers #long post #NO CUTS you must scroll past all of my dumb bg3 adventures #oc: aravyn #ari's og campaign

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yujeong · 4 months ago

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Question from the Fanfic Writers Ask Game:

11. What’s something neat you’ve learned while doing research for something you were writing? Also, how much do you worry about doing research in general?

I'm extremaly curious to know what type of fandom research people do and learn about their discoveries.

Hiiii! Thank you for taking interest in this, I appreciate you sending me the ask ❤️ Hmm, I have a weird relationship with research: I always feel I do 1. No research at all and 2. Not enough, when I acknowledge to myself I had to look up at least SOME things for my fics. In general, I am ignorant about a LOT of stuff, so research feels daunting and scary and even when I discover what I want to, I don't know how to incorporate that into my stories or if it's even correct information. I feel super self-conscious about it, which is why I normally don't write fics that require knowledge I'm not at all familiar with. Cowardly, sure, but the potential mistakes are too many for me to take that risk. (I'm learning though! The next fic I'll post will include some Thai cultural stuff related to Dharma that I had to thoroughly study about. I can only hope I won't screw it up.) Self-deprecation aside, I'm going to share some of the stuff I had to research for my fics - posted or not - to help people understand what I mean:

1. I had to look up various medical facts about stabbing (how deadly it is, how much time someone needs to heal etc), due to a scene that involved one in The Knight's Pawn, 2. I looked up videos of Muay Thai sparring matches in order to be able to write a sparring match in The Knight's Pawn - as well as see the differences from western boxing. Muay Thai is also something I've researched for another fic and to properly understand Pete as a character, 3. I had to look up sooo many chess terms for The Knight's Pawn, specifically for the chapter titles and summaries. Fun fact, the title of the fic makes no sense in chess; I told my irl friend who plays chess as an amateur about it and he proceeded to lose his mind lmao, 4. This will sound silly probably, but I studied Bangkok's map in order to be able to figure out a driving path for a trip down memory lane. I specifically wanted to figure out the distance between the main and minor family compounds (fun fact, it's approximately 15 minutes by car and 1 hour via public transport). I also looked up Lumphini Park and it's how I found out about dragon lizards! Very cool creatures, I wouldn't go near one ever, though, 5. I don't know if this one counts, but for the things you can(not) change, I had to watch Justice League: The Flashpoint Paradox around 5 times in order to be able to portray the parallels correctly haha, 6. Since just a mission was based on ApoBuild's Bvlgari event, I looked up the venue it took place in, which is Icon Siam near Chao Phraya River, one of the most famous shopping malls in Bangkok, 7. For To Consume and Be Consumed's 1st chapter I had to... um... look up if it's possible for someone to not get an erection even if both the prostate and the penis are stimulated for a long period of time. The results suggested it is, so I tried to not stress over it too much 😅 The reception of the chapter was a lot better than I anticipated too, so I was happy with it, 8. Now, to start off about the fics that haven’t been posted yet and to remain in the spirit of the horny, I've looked up about autoerotic asphyxiation, if it's safe to use ice cream during sex (it isn't), if it's safe to have sex when someone is sick (it depends), the effects of GHB and how damaging a human bite can be (a lot if it's not treated immediately due to the bacteria in our mouths), 9. In the same realm, I've done a LOT of studying about La Pietà, the famous sculpture by our boy Michelangelo, so much so that for a while I couldn't escape it - I was seeing it everywhere. I'll keep the reasons for doing such research hidden for now, but it does involve smut xoxo, 10. I've only scratched the surface for this one, but I have begun studying about chronic pain for a post-canon VP fic I want to write. It doesn't involve smut and I don't think it will, but you never know, 11. Again, idk if it counts, but I've read Uzumaki for a NonWhite/TeeWhite fic I want to write one day, in order to draw parallels and whatnot. I'm very into parallels in case you haven't noticed haha, 12. Last, but certainly not least, the most difficult thing I've been researching and will probably never stop researching is Buddhism. To truly get Pete, you need to understand even the basics of Dharma and there are just so many things I don't know about it. Baby steps, but I'm getting there.

#sorry if this doesn't exactly answer your question #but thank you for sending me this #it was interesting to look back and see what I've researched and what I am in the process of researching #I try my best and ask my beta a LOT of questions hahah #ask game

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stormxpadme · 2 years ago

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Second entry for this ask from @scottxloganan Send me a number and two characters - get a five sentence drabble.

44 - Two Roads

"There's two ways this can go, two roads, if you like," Scott said calmly, gesturing over the map of the Shimmer they'd brought along, that had turned out to be as useful as a pre WWI drawing of Europe but along with the sun position, would at least take them to the source of this phenomenon they'd come here to explore ... if that goal hadn't been off the table the second they'd first entered and lost all memory of their first three days in or so.

"I don't fucking like, no," Logan growled, grabbing his lover by the arm before he could pass him by with an exasperated shake of his head. Determined to lead on a mission lost from the start in his goddamn sense of duty and stubbornness, regardless of the cost especially for his own damn vulnerable, mortal body. "We've lost two soldiers since we got here. We're running into some abomination of nature that tries to kill us every turn of the way. I can feel my fucking insides moving from what this thing is trying to do to us next, and I don't need to cut you open to know you're going through the same. And you don't have a fucking healing factor to put you back together. So no, we're not going in deeper. We're getting the fuck out of here."

"We knew we probably wouldn't be making it back when we go in," Scott reminded him softly, making no attempt to free himself from his grasp. He didn't need to because when he reached up to pull his VISOR from his eyes, not only was there no sign off the deadly blasts in his pupils that had limited his life ever since he'd been 12 years old, but whatever color they might once have had, had turned to an eerie yellow. "We'd be the first team to make that. This has never been about us. This is about this fucking thing having grown three times its size since it first appeared. If we don't stop it or at least try to find out more about it, it will have reached Westchester in 3 months top, depending on how long we've been here by now without realizing time passing by. I'm not sitting around, waiting for our pupils to turn into some genetic monstrosity or be eaten by some alligator with six mouths next. So you can either come with my by the river to the Shimmer's source or you can try to make it back out by yourself. Chances are, neither of us is gonna make it on their own though. So, South or East?"

Logan lowered his hand in defeat and pulled his lover close for a desperate, angry kiss, tasting copper and chlorophyll.

It didn't make a difference, probably indeed hadn't since they'd entered. But maybe - just maybe -, if they did make it to the source ... Maybe there was some way to stop this whole thing. Giving up had never been an option in Logan's life; some pretty light show in the air refracting the essence of everything it touched wouldn't change that. When they shouldered their bags and left the wrecked safe house and another corpse from their team behind, he started to cough blood and wouldn't be able to stop for an hour.

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funkypileofgoop · 10 months ago

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Small Forbidea Lore Dump

Because lore dumps are fun

Lets fucking GO

So if you don’t know, Forbidea is the name of one of the realms in the fantasy world I’ve been working on called Arinuo.

Forbidea is literally just a bunch of islands that poke up above a seemingly endless void. You can’t fall doen there and make it back up alive.. It goes down for a long while-

But these islands/countries are the only currently known spots that are flat and arent dangerously low in the void, so people can live on these island-like structures. They’re actually really far apart though, travel normally happens through portals or hours/days of flight.

So I made a shitty map just to show where the countries go

They are TOTALLY. NOT. Based off the seven deadly sins in any way (That’s a LIE)

Anyway. Short description of each place:

Pride: Pride. Holds THE capital of Forbidea. The smallest island, yet the most influential. The most technologically advanced country out of the seven, seeming even futuristic at times. Resembles an eye.

Wraithe: Wrath. A firey island, the hottest overall climate out of all of the seven, probably because of some of the active volcanic sites in the country. Mostly flat terrain.

Envi: Envy. Surprisingly cold compared to most of the other islands, with mountainous terrain. There’s snow on the ground throughout most of the year, but this is the only country you’ll commonly see it in. Famous for it’s snow sports resorts.

Foloth: Gluttony. Most of the island is wasteland, with only small areas being currently habitable. The left side of the island lays untouched, it’s resources reaped dry by generations long gone. The biggest island.

Grie: Greed. A bustling city is the main attraction here, the island with the most business culture… Think big city with neon lights and yet the streets still manage to smell like literal sewage water and you got the right place. Also, gambling. The outskirts consist of mostly farms.

Shyn: Sloth. An island that's covered in a lot of crystalline water. A lot of aquatic species live here, And undersea communities thrive. Has a surprisingly diverse climate, with the temperature ranging from cool to tropical depending on where you are.

Luven: Lust. The best place to come for fun, this is a huge tourist destination for various reasons. A popular destination for party people, rich with resorts and theme parks and vie daredevil attractions such as bungee jumping off a cliff into an infinitely deep hole.

Thank you for reading this far if you did so, I really enjoy sharing stuff like this :3

part one of possibly more in the future? idk

#Arinuo #fantasy world #oc world #worldbuilding #lore dump #fake world #fantasy worlds bring me immense joy #this is unessecarily long bro #I just really wanted to share all this #Most of my ocs are from Wraithe #So thats technically the most important island here

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gingericywolf · 8 months ago

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[Go to start] - Part 3 -

He sailed until he found the entrace to the bay he saw from the valley. A long stretch of seaway cutting right in the middle of the island. He could not see were or if it ended. Once again he hopped on Billy's saddle. It would be useless to keep on with the raft if the seaway didn't cut straight across.

He kept to the right side, nothing too noticeable going on. Classic herbivores, a few rexes, loads of pteranodons.

The weak rexes provided great fighting experience for Billy, downing one after the other. As he flew away after one of these battles a big dust cloud and a loud screch stopped him. Talons of a bird, paws of a lion. Fur and feather mixed in one creature. A Griffin. A swirl of emotions swam inside him, not helped by the dark reds and purples of the creature. He didn't want to think of it now. He didn't want to think of him now. He put a note on the map for the spot and pressed on, one small weight seemingly lifting after it.

Over the next mountain a beautiful scenery surprised him. A big lake surrounded by plains, falling down in waterfalls, in rivers ans another waterfall until it reaced the ocean on the other side. Morellatops and Maewings roaming around under the shade of sparse trees. Not too far a second smaller lake. It seemed like a paradise.

He was about to land when a loud step and a huff made him yank the reins to go back up. The terror of every survivor, a wild Giganotosaurus, had just showed up just under him. One second too late and both him and Billy would have been turned into blood mush.

He landed on a higher area, looking at the fearsome beast whose teeth would cause tremendous bleeding. Very few creatures would survive against it.

But he wanted a closer look to the terrain. See were to possibly build. Place down a sleeping bag just in case. He looked his loyal pteranodon in the eyes, a crazy-possibly suicidal idea coming up. The pteranodon subtly shook his head, not wanting to risk it, but is mind was set.

They flew down, zooming next to the dinosaur.

'Ehy big head! Want to try some chicken wings with a side of scottish tastyness.'

He didn't need to, he definitely didn't need to as the Giga roared just at their sight and started chasing them, billy's frantic flap lf wings the only thing keeping them far away enough from the deadly maws, praying to not run out of stamina.

It was his luck that the Giga got soon distracted by the easier ground preys, making quick work of them.

He circled around, back for the raft, knowing now that the inland stretch was a closed bay and he had to circumnavigate the whole area. It took him hours to get back to the same spot, a sleeping bag ready to place. He admired the view - ignoring the sounds of another Giga munching on the local wildlife- and flew back down over the waterfalls, counting the pros and cons of the area. It was definitely high on his list of places to live in, even with Giga's as neighbours and Rexe's trying to recreate the Land Before Time scene with the Brontos on a cliff.

Going on, he squeezed between the land and edge of the map, stopping as the day started to fade for a quick rest. A bright red argi caugth his attention. It was colored just like a big Ara macaw. He looked up at Bird; the feathered friend looking extremely exhausted by the travelling and the weight of the supplies. A friend would be nice for him.

While in the process of taming the colorful argentavis, a second looking stronger one got close. He ended up taming both and a passing doedicurus after a few hours.

Parrot and... he needed a name for the other one. 3 birds started to be too many to bring around.

He took the saddle off Bird to swap it on the stronger argentavis and finally laid down on his bed, resting.

His mind going back to the rex on the cliff. An high level female, if he could get her with the crazy male he saw early in the day he would be set for life. With a Giga roaming he had to be careful, while a trap started forming in his mind.

End part 3

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#beyblade #johnny mcgregor #johnny's ark adventures #ark au #ark survival evolved #ark se #ase #ark lost island #giw writes #giw sketches #implied johnny/ralph

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eponymous-rose · 2 years ago

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Now Streaming: Witcher 3 Next-Gen

This may be a super short stream or a bit of a longer one depending on how the evening goes, but hey, let's jump into a bit of Witchin', why don't we?

The Blood and Wine DLC! Good gracious, we've got: a whole new map (larger than many full open-world video games), tons of side-quests, old characters from the books, new stuff for characters from the main game, character development (does Geralt smile and/or laugh more in this DLC than the rest of the game combined?), new combat mechanics, new facial/body-language animations, new level-up mechanics, and, of course, an all-new Gwent faction. 30+ hours of gameplay, big Citadel DLC vibes. Still absolutely unreal to me.

Previously: Geralt is summoned by Duchess Anna Henrietta of Toussaint to solve a very Witcher-esque murder mystery: a serial killer who shows intelligence but also kills with claws. After a little preliminary investigation, he stumbles upon the culprit: a higher vampire named Dettlaff. Just as their clash is about to turn deadly, someone intervenes: one of Geralt's dearest friends from the books, long thought dead but also coincidentally a higher vampire. Regis owes Dettlaff a Very Big Life Debt and is convinced he can be the one to change him and show him the error of his ways. So this could get messy...

Also Geralt now owns a vineyard. It's a whole thing.

Link here

#the witcher #the witcher 3 #eponymous streaming tag #eponymous gaming tag

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phoenixiancrystallist · 1 year ago

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Okay, so if Frey arrived in Athia on 12/25, and she fought the dragon on 12/28, and if we're assuming she fought the dragon first thing in the morning, that's three days of travel—the 25th, 26th, and 27th.

Now, according to the map, the distance between Junoon Castle and Junoon Castle Town is a little over a quarter of a mile (1444 feet, give or take, from castle gates to town gates). That makes sense, honestly. Castle towns don't typically have three days of travel between them and the castle they're built around. Even taking monster ambushes into account, there's no way it would take Frey three days to travel a quarter mile. It takes me fifteen minutes to walk to my bus stop half a mile away, and I'm slow!

So Junoon Castle to dragon fight seems like a bad sample to take for my translating-Athia-to-realistic-proportions endeavor. Is that gonna stop me? No. Let's do math anyway.

We're going to pretend there's a ridiculous number of miles between castle and castle town. No I'm not accepting this as canon, I just went into this intending to do math, by golly I'm gonna do math!

Average walking speed is 3 miles per hour, and the average human adult can walk 25 to 30 miles in a day. That's roughly eight to ten hours of walking per day on the high end, and leaves 14 to 16 hours for rest, meals, and potty breaks. Seems doable to me, but let's cut the distance traveled down by half to account for monster encounters and recovering from those, because Athia is a nightmare and everything wants to eat you. So, let's say 12 to 15 miles per day.

The average medieval city (at least according to my brief research that I conducted in like five minutes on Google) would be about a mile or two from end to end, so mostly we're looking at the distance between the castle gates and the city gates.

Assuming Frey had a full day of travel on all three days she would be traveling, and that she didn't use Flow for any significant portion of that travel, that's somewhere between 36 and 45 miles between Junoon Castle and Junoon Castle town, or approximately 190,080 to 237,600 feet. Let's take the average between the two, and say 58.5 miles, or 308,880 feet.

1,444 feet in game versus 308,800 feet rough estimate real-world proportions based on estimated travel time and distance. A quarter mile versus fifty eight and a half. That's... a doozy of a difference. But also interesting!

If we accept that to be the case, or at the very least to be a rough estimate to the scaling we're working with, that would mean that at full scale, Athia (at 7.21 in-game miles from east to west at the widest point; my memory was a tad off) would be roughly 1,542.26 miles across. Assuming I did my math right.

Which is still a bit less than half the size of the smallest continent on Earth (Antarctica is about 3400 miles across at its widest), but it's more believable to me than a mere seven miles.

So basically long story short, Athia is smol but deadly and I'm going to assume miles and miles of wilderness between any towns on the in-game map, likely with tiny little hamlets scattered in between. Probably more Pilgrims Refuges in between; I kind of headcanon those are no more than a day's walk apart anyway.

...god dammit if I have to rewrite my self-insert shenanigans again because of this I'm going to laugh my ass off XD

You know what. No. There's magic in this world and I can use that to my narrative advantage.

Maybe it's my inner Tanta Cinta talking but Cipal has way too many fecking stairs. Where's the ramps? How are merchants supposed to wheel carts and wagons of goods throughout the city? Are they expected to just carry everything on their backs? Or construction materials! How did they haul around all that stone to build the place? And what about their elderly or disabled citizens? It's an accessibility nightmare.

Honestly. I'm going to go with my usual theory when it comes to game worlds: what we see is only a symbolic representation of what the actual world would be like if it was real. I mean otherwise there's no way Cipal can fit thousands of people, let alone the thousands of refugees on top of its usual population that it took in when the Corruption hit. And also if we stick with only exactly what's in the game, Athia is an island, not a continent. It's only about six or seven miles from end to end. My commute to work is roughly half that, which would mean that round trip I bus the length of Athia every day.

This is one of the reasons I wish we had a day/night cycle. If I knew how long 24 hours in-game took in real time, I could use average walking speed to get a rough estimation of how big Athia is supposed to be in-universe based on how long it takes to walk to any given location. I did this with Eos in FFXV using the time it takes to drive from the Insomnia Blockade to the Rock of Ravatogh at 60mph, I can do it again for walking speed!

...wait a minute

I know what day Frey came to Athia. And I can find out what day she fought the dragon. I can calculate from there based on average walking speed and an assumption that she didn't walk for 24 hours straight how far it is between Junoon Castle and Junoon Castle Town. The existence of Flow might throw off my math a little, though. Hmm...

Where there's a will there's a way. I'ma find out.

#bobbi's being weird again #forspoken #forspoken worldbuilding #long post #this is fun to me and I think that's an indication that there's something very very wrong with man brains XD

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holykillercake · 4 years ago

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Tap Dancer Fish

word count: 1.5k

summary: Zoro´s haramaki is falling apart and he can´t find another one to buy. You decide to crochet him one before he kills someone.

highlight: ¨You must be tired... stupid marimo.¨

notes: This was an anon request for a fluff where they have a s/o that made them a thing with crochet and how they would react. This is 1/3 of the request, we´re starting with Zoro <3

𝕷𝖊𝖆𝖛𝖊 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖘, 𝖗𝖊𝖖𝖚𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖘, 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖑𝖔𝖛𝖊!

¨Any luck?¨ you asked without taking your eyes from the city guide, even with the rowdy sound of the metal chair scratching the brick sidewalk.

¨No.¨

¨Need any help?¨ you tried to hide your smirk by sipping your coffee.

¨No.¨

¨Well,¨ you closed the map and placed it on the table ¨I still have some errands to run. I´ll take a look around, see if I can find it. ¨

¨Thank you.¨

You placed a hand on his chest and gave him a quick peck on the lips before making your way back to your tasks.

The Strawhats had docked on a Spring Island called Gardenia. It reminded you of Dressrosa, but without the talking toys and mad king. The houses and stores were all painted a shade of green or brown, but what made it extraordinary to the eyes - and nose - was the number of flowers. All kinds of all sizes and colors decorating everything around you.

However, while you felt like an enchanted character from a fairy tale, your boyfriend felt trapped in a nightmare. For starters, everything smelled like flowers; Sanji would not stop bumping into him, saying that he mistook him for a moss tree, and the flowers made every corner look the same, so he got lost all the time.

But what was really making him grumpier than usual was his haramaki, the green garment he wore religiously around his belly - well, not religiously.

He has been procrastinating to get a new one for a long time, and despite you offering to purchase it whenever you ran errands, he would always turn the offer down. The problem was that it was not keeping itself anymore. After all the battles he fought and opponents he defeated, his haramaki was falling into pieces.

In the beginning, you were able to patch it up with some simple sewing, but now he needed to get a new one. And here´s where problem number two arises, you have entered a chain of summer and spring islands where they don´t usually sell this stuff. As a result, Zoro was mad at everyone - you were an exception, though.

It pained you to see him bothered like this, despite all of your previous warnings. Everyone has their own thing, Luffy has the straw hat, Chopper always carries his blue backpack, Sanji never stops smoking, and Zoro wears his haramaki. Anyone would be bothered, although anyone would listen to your advice.

So you came up with a plan. Since you could not find one to buy, you were going to crochet one. That was an interesting fact that no one knew so far, your ability of crocheting. You would do it whenever you were in charge of the night watch, and when you presented someone with a piece of clothing that matched their personality or traits, you would say you found it in town. Reason being that you didn´t want to be swamped with sweaters and beanies to do. You knew the crew would go crazy if they didn´t have to pay for winter clothes anymore.

¨Yosh, now I just have to make it.¨ you looked at the green ball of yarn in your hands before hiding it at the bottom of your bags.

¨Oi, Luffy! Don´t steal her food!¨

¨But she´s not even eating it, Sanji!¨

¨Y/N, are you ok?¨

¨Y/N?¨

¨Y/N!¨ you almost fell off the chair when you woke up from your zombie state.

¨What?¨

¨You look tired. Are you getting sick?¨ Robin asked, placing a hand on your forehead. ¨I hope you didn´t get some deadly poison from a plant.¨

¨Oi, Robin! Don´t say these scary things!¨ Usopp cried and walked away from you.

¨I couldn´t sleep last night.¨ the girls stared at you with a malicious smirk, and Sanji stormed out on flames ¨Yeah, uhum, I wish! I couldn´t sleep because Zoro kept rolling on the bed, it felt like I was sharing a bed with a tap dancer fish!¨ you shouted grumpily.

The longer he stayed without a decent haramaki, the more jittery he got. So throughout the night, he rolled on the bed, got up to train, went back to bed because he was too frustrated to train, mumbled and grumbled, and made you go through his insanity with him. At some point, you were planning on throwing him off the ship or choke him with that stupid belly warmer.

After you finished your third cup of coffee, you decided to head to the deck. Your green-haired tap dancer fish was napping on the grass with furrowed brows and arms crossed. Suddenly, the irritation you felt was gone.

¨You must be tired... stupid marimo.¨ you whispered and made your way to your room.

He never bothered you before. Even when the other guys made him go crazy, he would always lay down, hold you close to his body, and sleep. On the days you were not so tired, pillow talks would last hours and hours, and he would tell you things he hasn´t told anyone; he would show interest in the stupid things you like and be the Zoro the other guys would never get to know.

So you fought your will to go to sleep and grabbed the wool and a hook, determined to put an end to both of your miseries as soon as possible.

With Zoro napping all day, Robin in charge of the ship, and the rest of the guys exploring the Island, you would have all the peace in the world to work.

And that was exactly what you did. You were definitely going to hear from Chopper for going the entire day without a sip of water or bathroom break. Your fingers were red and hurting, and your shoulders were stiff and sore. But it was worth it.

It was almost dark when you finished, part of you wanted to wrap it with laces or some sort of crap, but you passed out as soon as you heard the snap of the scissor cutting the yarn. You didn´t even know you had passed out until you woke up the next day, sunlight hitting your eyes.

You were alone in bed, but not the way you imagined. You expected cramps and spasms to take over your body, but all you got was a slight soreness. You were in your pajamas and tucked like a baby.

¨What the-¨ you sat and searched over the blanket looking for the crochet garment, but found no sign of it ¨Did I dream about that?¨

You threw yourself off the bed and marched - more like crawled - to the kitchen, craving for coffee.

¨Morning, Y/N!¨ everyone was already up, although Luffy was sleep eating again.

¨Morning, guys.¨ your voice came out sleepy. You grabbed a cup of coffee and sat beside Zoro ¨Good morning, you.¨ You smiled.

¨Morning, sleepyhead.¨ He kissed your temple.

¨I´m so happy you found it, Y/N. I don´t think we would be able to handle his mood anymore.¨ Nami said relieved, and Zoro yelled something when everyone agreed. You gave her a confused look, and she pointed at your boyfriend.

Your eyes scanned him, oblivious for a moment, but when you noticed him wearing the haramaki you made, a big smile grew on your face. That also explains why you slept comfortably in your pajamas, he must have gone to check on you and saw your pitiful state alongside his present.

¨Yeah, I was lucky, I guess.¨ He held your hand tighter under the table.

After breakfast, the two of you decided to stay on deck, enjoying the gentle sun and the fresh breeze before it was time to set sail again. You were sitting between his legs, against his chest, and his hands rested on your lap while you played with each other´s fingers.

¨Thank you... for making it for me.¨ You forgot about sore muscles. You forgot about raw fingers. Listen to him sounding so relaxed and peaceful made you forget about everything.

¨Thanks for not telling the guys I made it. Besides that, how are you going to protect my ass if you can´t focus without this stupid belly wrap?¨ he let out a lazy laugh, and you felt his body vibrating against yours.

¨Well, thank you again. I really liked it, and I won´t ruin it.¨

¨I know.¨ you whispered, closing your eyes and seizing the moment.

You knew he would eventually destroy it, but that was fine. You didn´t have the emotional connection to it like he had. What mattered to you was his well-being. You were not strong enough to protect him - not that he needed - so keeping him warm and loved was your internal mission. Because that´s how he made you feel.

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the-lonelybarricade · 3 years ago

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Loved your latest chapter and Im so excited to see what happens under the mountain!

I was wondering if I could request a one-shot?(up to you how long and you can do it in your own time)something along the lines of:

Feyre( from either ACOWAR, ACOFAS or ACOSF) time travels back to ACOTAR, but instead of finding herself back in her human body i the spring court, she's still in her fae body and ends up trapped in velaris, having to explain to the rest of IC who she is and why she cant go free their highlord(add some mistrust from the IC)

🙈🙈Id its very similar to what youre doing rn with your other fic but, if you find the inspiration sometime could you please do this? Ive wanted to read a fic for ages were feyre rime travels and meets pre-acomaf inner circle who dont know/trust her, but Ive never found a fic like that

Thank youuu

Hi lovely anon! It makes me so happy you enjoyed my latest chapter! I’m supposed to be working on a project for uni, but I couldn’t resist gratifying my lovely friends (because you're anon and won't be notified I was getting sad at the idea of you checking my blog and not seeing me respond) <3 I’ll admit I’m a bit scatterbrained at the moment, so I hope it’s okay!

I was having trouble brainstorming a reason for Feyre getting sent back in time because I didn't want to borrow the reasoning from ACoFD. So I was vague and twisted the pre-existing rules around the Ouroboros, and ended up getting quite carried away with the story since I don’t like not giving things a happy ending (even though it’s a little cheesy, sorry)

Anyway, I hope this is what you were looking for! I know you wanted the angst of not being able to save Rhys but... I couldn't just leave my poor bat-boy behind, you know? ;)

Also if this didn't quite scratch that itch, I'm always happy to take more requests

Word count: 4,446

The Ouroboros.

It was a massive, round disc—as tall as Feyre was. Taller. And the metal around it had been fashioned after a massive serpent, the mirror held within its coils as it devoured its own tail.

Ending and beginning.

From across the room, Feyre could not see it. What lay within.

She forced herself to take a step forward. Another.

The mirror itself was black as night—yet… wholly clear.

She watched herself approach. Watched the arm she had upraised against the wind and snow, the pinched expression on her face. The exhaustion.

She stopped three feet away. She did not dare touch it.

It only showed Feyre herself. Nothing.

Feyre scanned the mirror for any signs of… something to push or touch with her magic. But there was only the devouring head of the serpent, its maw open wide, frost sparkling on its fangs.

Feyre stared and stared, but all she saw was herself. There was nothing else. Then—

Feyre woke with a gasp, sitting up in bed to shake away the cobwebs of sleep and the strange, foreboding feeling that felt draped around her shoulders like a weighted cape, pulling her down. It hadn’t been a particularly horrifying nightmare. In fact, it was perhaps of the tamer dreams she’d had in the last year.

Yet something about it clung to her, perhaps a lingering agitation that she’d yet to retrieve the mirror the Bone Carver had requested. That must be it.

The bed space beside her was cold. The sun peaking through the window was not high, it couldn’t be long past dawn. However worrisome her own dream, her mate’s must have been worse to draw him from sleep so early. Worse still for him to sneak away.

Feyre rose from the bed, reaching absently for Rhysand’s dressing robe to wrap around herself. She always loved to steal her mate’s clothes, to be wrapped in his scent.

With gentle steps, she made her way to the study, where she could only assume Rhys had sequestered himself in the lone hours of the night. She’d noticed the weary draw to his shoulders, the dark circles under his eyes. This war was weighing on him heavily, and he was nervous. Feyre wished he didn’t insist on shouldering the burden alone.

“Rhys?” Feyre called softly as she got to the study, knocking on the door before she cracked it open.

Peeking her head around the door, she was met with the sight of Rhysand’s abandoned study. The scattered papers and war maps that had become characteristic of his desk space were surprisingly missing. In fact, the whole space had been cleared away and there was a thick layer of dust on every surface as if no one had been in here in years.

Feyre frowned at the sight, and how different it had been just the day before. Where had all the dust come from? And more importantly, where was Rhys? Perhaps he’d taken a morning flight to clear his head.

Where are you, love? She called to him through the mating bond, but was met with silence.

“Who are you?”

The voice was cold and venomous. Feyre turned, coming face to face with Mor, whose face was twisted into a threatening scowl.

“Mor?” Feyre asked, confused by her friend’s cold demeanor. “What do you mean? Have you seen Rhys?”

Mor’s face turned deadly, a look Feyre had only ever seen from Mor in the Court of Nightmares. “Is that some kind of joke?” she snarled.

Then, before Feyre could process what was happening, Mor had gripped onto Feyre’s wrist and they were enveloped in darkness. They stepped into the House of Wind, into the dining room where Cassian and Azriel abruptly stood up.

“Mor?” Feyre questioned when the blonde didn’t release her steel grip. She looked to Cassian and Azriel quizzically. “Guys? What’s going on?”

Cassian crossed his arms, assessing Feyre with a hostility that put her on edge. “Who’s this, Mor?” he asked gruffly.

Feyre frowned as she watched Azriel reach for Truth-Teller.

“Is this a joke?” she asked, flitting her eyes to each of her friends. Where she sought that friendly warmth in each of their gazes she was met with hard stares, filled with distrust, ready for a brawl. She couldn’t make sense of it. Was this an act Rhys had put them up to?

“I found her in the townhouse,” Mor said. “I don’t know how she got in there. She was in Rhysand’s study.”

“And she’s wearing his dressing gown,” Azriel noted dryly. Cassian did a double glance, his eyes going wide, then narrowing with a rage Feyre had never seen from the male. Certainly never directed at her.

There was a whisper of shadow, then suddenly Azriel was behind her, Truth-Teller poised at her throat.

Feyre startled. “Azriel!” she said sharply. Even if it was a joke, Feyre couldn’t imagine Rhysand would sanction this kind of threat. And the energy in the room was off, the tension too thick. “Stand down.”

“And who are you,” he breathed in her ear, his voice coated in shadow and nightmare, “to command the Shadowsinger of the Night Court?”

“I’m your High Lady,” Feyre answered steadily, not letting Azriel’s shadows, nor cunning voice, shake her resolve. “Now, I don’t know what is going on with the three of you, or what strange joke you’re trying to pull, but you will listen to what I say. Put. Your. Knife. Down.”

“High Lady?” Cassian repeated with a snort of disbelief. “You’ve got balls, little girl.”

Truth-Teller danced across the skin of her neck, pressing lightly enough to intimidate without breaking skin. “Do you even know to whom you speak? You should be bowing before the acting Queen of the Night Court.”

Too stunned to properly resist, Azriel kicked his feet out to knock Feyre to her knees in front of Mor. His fingers slid into her hair, gripping it tightly to pull her head back as Truth-Teller resumed its threatening position at her throat.

“Breaking into the High Lord’s personal residence, impersonating a high position within the Night Court, lying to the Morrigan’s face,” Azriel listed, increasing the pressure of the blade with each transgression. “You throw our High Lord’s generosity and protection in his face, something we as his acting Court do not take lightly.”

“Acting court? Acting Queen?” Feyre repeated, feeling as if she’d woken to a different reality. “What are you talking about? Where’s Rhysand!?”

“We’re the ones asking the questions here,” Cassian growled.

Feyre looked to each of her friends, studying their faces. Beyond their militant expression, she could see their grief. Could smell it. She repeated, “where is Rhysand?”

She felt the snarl that rumbled through Azriel’s chest behind her, vibrating against her back. When the question was once again unanswered, Feyre abandoned all sense of patience.

Darkness exploded through the room. She heard Mor gasp as the walls of the House shook from the might of her power. Feyre folded into the shadows, winnowing out of Azriel’s grasp so she stood in the center of the three of them.

“Az, Cass, Mor, you are my friends and I do not want to hurt you. But I am also your High Lady and you will answer me this instant, where is Rhys? Where is my mate!?”

Siphons gleamed red and blue through the thick tendrils of night, illuminating the Illyrian males’ faces. Cassian’s jaw had fallen open, while Azriel was studying her through narrowed eyes, wisps of shadow surrounding him. Feyre wondered what they were whispering to him.

“Mate?” Cassian echoed, the first to break the heavy silence.

Mor took a cautious step forward, her countenance completely changed. Her pupils were blown wide, twin brown depths churning with sorrow and gentle astonishment. Azriel went rigid at Mor’s approach, but no one moved to stop her as she came face to face with Feyre.

“Where did you get this?” she whispered, taking Feyre’s left hand, eye fixed on her mating band. On the sapphire-star ring that once belonged to Rhysand’s mother.

All eyes befell the subject of Mor’s attention. Cassian swore softly in recognition.

“It’s my mating band,” Feyre answered measuredly, still puzzled that the inner circle, her family, didn’t seem to have any memory of it. Nor of her. “I won it from the Weaver, as was the task set by Rhysand’s mother. But you were all there for that. I don’t understand what’s going on. Where. Is. Rhys?”

“Under the Mountain,” Mor whispered, her voice soft and pained.

The darkness ebbed away like a receding tide. Feyre felt her heart sink as she tried to process this information. “He—What?”

“He’s been Under the Mountain for the last 50 years,” Mor said, firmer this time. “And if you were his so-called mate, you would know that.”

“No,” Feyre said, shaking her head vehemently. “No, that’s impossible. We got out. We—”

This was a nightmare. It had to be a nightmare, and she just hadn’t woken up from it.

“Amarantha’s dead,” Feyre insisted, mostly in an attempt to console the unparalleled grief and panic that were raging inside her. “She’s dead, and Rhys and I got out.”

The grim faces of her friends said otherwise. They stared at her, in unbearable mixtures of pity and horror.

“I think she’s having a mental break,” Cassian said, not unkindly. “Should we get a healer?”

“Let me show you,” Feyre said meekly, casting her magic out to tap on their mental shields.

They all tensed, clearly not aware they’d been in the presence of a daemati. Trained well by Rhys, they all cracked their shields just enough for Feyre to send her conjured memories through. She showed them going Under the Mountain as a human, winning the trials and being resurrected, falling in love with Rhys, and eventually becoming High Lady of the Night Court. In turn, the three of them pushed back their own memories, of the current state of the world. Of Rhysand sacrificing himself so that his Court and Velaris would be safe.

A sob broke out of Feyre. “How is this possible? How am I here?”

It was Azriel who immediately went for the jugular. “More importantly, if you’re here as a High Fae, how is Rhys going to get out? How do we stop Amarantha?”

Feyre fell to her knees, grief-stricken by this realization. She was no longer human. She couldn’t stride in as Tamlin’s human lover and undergo the trials. Feyre had her powers, but they were untested. Would she be able to take on the whole of Amarantha’s court?

“What do I do? How do I save him?” she whimpered, staring in mute horror at her mating band.

Mor tentatively reached forward, laying a comforting hand on Feyre’s shoulder. “Rhys sacrificed himself to keep the people he loves safe. He wouldn’t want you getting yourself killed trying to save him.”

“I have to try,” Feyre answered desperately. “Amarantha she’s…” Feyre couldn’t bring herself to say the word, rape. Not to his family, who wear his sacrifice for them like an open wound. “She’s doing unspeakable things to him. He’s suffering so much. I can’t leave him to that fate. I have to try.”

With renewed conviction, Feyre accepted Mor’s outstretched hand and picked herself to her feet. “Rhys said it himself once. Amarantha’s biggest weapon is that she keeps the High Lord’s power contained. She can’t access them herself. But I… I have access to all the High Lords’ powers. And that bitch has my mate. My wrath will be plenty to take her down.” She faced her friends, who watched her warily. “You have my word as your High Lady,” she swore to them. “The High Queen of Prythian is going to fall by the night’s end.”

⟡⟡⟡

Winter had not yet fallen in the Mortal Lands. Feyre wondered if across the world, there was a version of herself curled in a bed with her sisters, clinging to any shred of warmth and survival.

That version of Feyre was very different from the version who strode up the sloping hills of the Spring Court with Azriel by her side. Rhys would be furious that Feyre had allowed him to accompany her. Should anything go wrong, it would destroy her mate to know his family had been put in harm's way after everything he’d done to protect them. Which was why it was only Azriel who came with, the only compromise she could reach with his Inner Circle, who insisted on coming with.

Who better to sneak into the Mountain with than the very soldier who taught Feyre the art of stealth. He was the obvious choice, since Mor needed to stay to rule the Night Court and Cassian was too heavy-handed to handle such a delicate task.

Their footfall was silent. Feyre wrapped them in the shadow of Night as they winnowed through the cave network. Her heart hammered in her chest, panicked to be back in the source of so many nightmares.

But Rhysand was more important than her fear. For him, she would not falter.

With the Shadowsinger by her side, Feyre snuck through the winding tunnels until she came to a familiar passageway. They slid into a massive, dark bedroom, lit only by a few candles.

To attack Amarantha in the throne room would be too messy. Too many variables to contend with, should Amarantha have enough wit about her to use any faeries as a shield. Especially Rhysand.

After several hours of waiting, the lock on the door clicked and swung open. Darkness swirled around the room as Rhysand took in the sight of Feyre and Azriel on the bed.

Immediately, the door slammed shut.

“No,” he whispered, voice dripping with horror. “No.”

“Rhys—” Feyre started, but her mate wasn’t paying any attention to her. He was looking at Azriel as if his whole world had shattered.

“Leave,” he said, his voice cold and commanding. This was no happy reunion between brothers. This was Rhysand’s worst nightmare. “Leave this instant, you stupid fool. That is, if you’re lucky enough to have avoided detection when you passed under her wards.”

“I took down the wards,” Feyre said. They weren’t particularly strong, either. Amarantha had gotten lazy, perhaps thinking herself secure with the only spell-cleaver under her control. Or so she believed.

Rhys turned that quiet fury towards her. “And who are you?”

“Your mate,” Feyre answered steadily, tipping her chin up.

Rhysand laughed. A desperate, humorless sound. “Then you are just as foolish as my idiot brother. And you have both sealed your deaths by being here. Do you understand that?”

Feyre scratched along those familiar adamantite shields. Rhys’s eyes flickered in surprise, but otherwise he looked unruffled as he cracked a sliver open for her.

It would be unwise to underestimate me, mate.

I wouldn’t be going around boasting about such a thing, if what you claim is even true, came his icy response. And I wouldn’t count on a few party tricks to save you, either.

And what if I told you, she purred, that I possess the power of all seven High Lords?

That, at least, garnered a reaction from the stoic male. He narrowed his eyes in disbelief, studying Feyre carefully. His gaze caught on her hands, at the lace tattoos that flowed to her fingers. And the mating band she still wore.

Feyre watched those violet eyes go wide, the silver constellations dancing in astonishment at the sight of his mother’s ring.

Where did you get that?

It’s a long story, love, but you’re going to have to trust me. She lowered her mental shields completely. Have a look for yourself. I’m telling you no lies. I am your High Lady, and I am here to free my husband.

She felt those familiar talons wrap around her mind. A foolish thing to do, to give a daemati unrestricted access to her mind. And if it were anyone but Rhys, it would have been. But his touch was gentle, and he took only the information he needed.

“I don’t understand how this is possible,” he whispered, breaking the silence of the room. Azriel had been waiting patiently, but looked relieved to be included in the conversation once more. “And I hate that you’ve put yourselves in danger for this, but it could work.”

Rhys considered for a long moment, then he looked between Feyre and Azriel and said, “do it when she’s sleeping. That bitch has been playing dirty for 50 years, you might as well level the playing field to give yourselves the best chance. Let’s do it tonight. I’ll leave the door unlocked, wear her out, and signal you once she’s asleep. Her spell prevents me from harming her, but I’ll make sure she’s restrained. All you have to do is drive the ash dagger through her heart, but have your magic ready for damage control.”

⟡⟡⟡

Feyre and Azriel waited in Rhysand’s bedchambers for his signal. There was a revelry tonight, as there was every night Under the Mountain, and Rhys was expected to be in attendance. Afterwards, he’d join Amarantha in her bed and make sure she was, in his words, “thoroughly exhausted”.

It was torturous for Feyre. To know exactly what the implication in those words were, to have to use her mate’s body in such a way. She wanted to roar at the Mountain, at the Cauldron, at anything that would listen, but instead she was next to the quiet, brooding Shadowsinger, and lamented in silence.

She’d begged Rhys to reconsider, to perhaps help them stage a more physical encounter that didn’t rely on his own suffering. But he’d denied any plan but the one he’d proposed, insisting it would cause him more anguish to but Feyre and Azriel in harm's way.

So they waited the long, agonizing hours until she felt a delicate pull at her chest. She’s asleep, Rhys called. Be on your guard.

He sent her directions to Amarantha’s bedchambers. There were guards outside, but Feyre and Azriel winnowed past them, cloaked in night and shadow.

Amarantha’s bedchambers were huge. Feyre had never been inside them before, but she was unsurprised to see they provided any luxury a High Queen could wish for.

Atop a large bed of red, silken sheets, lay her mate and Amarantha, both stark naked. The smell of sex clung to the air, Rhysand and Amarantha’s scents intertwined. Feyre thought she might be sick.

Even more sickening was the sight before her, of Amarantha’s arms restrained to the headboard in cloth. A clever way for Rhys to restrain her under the guise of sex, but horrifying nonetheless, to see the proof of what they’d been up to. The female was fast asleep, so convinced of her authority that she could fall asleep tied-up and not feel vulnerable doing so. How satisfying, Feyre thought, that such arrogance would be her downfall.

Feyre warded the room, putting up a shield of darkness so that no sound would break through to alert the guards. Rhys watched their approach warily from where he perched beside Amarantha, so still Feyre was convinced he held his breath.

He wouldn’t risk moving to wake her up, which terrified Feyre. Should something go wrong, her mate would be susceptible to Amarantha’s wrath. Naked, vulnerable, and completely under her control. It was such a dangerous game they were playing.

The room was as quiet and still as the bewitching hours of the night, their footsteps silent as they picked across the room. Azriel held the ash dagger. If Rhys could not kill Amarantha, his brother wanted to do it on his behalf. Meanwhile, Feyre summoned tendrils of night that carefully wrapped around Amarantha’s legs, slithering up her body like a snake, ready to constrict and restrain.

The female stirred in her sleep, perhaps feeling the ghostlike touch of Feyre’s magic. But she did not wake. Not as Azriel raised the dagger over her chest, and not as he plunged it down.

Amarantha’s eyes shot open as the dagger pierced her chest. She let out a shriek of agony and ire, moving to claw at her attacker. She raged against the restraints, spewing obscenities until they died at her lips as the blade sunk into her heart.

Rhysand’s chest was heaving as he watched the female still, then slump. He looked from her dead body, to Azriel and Feyre.

Feyre’s heart sank as she watched her mate process that it was truly over. There wasn’t a trace of elation in his eyes at being liberated, but she understood why. Rhys would finally be returning home, but as a much different man than the one he had been. He’d survived, but not unscathed, and he’d need time to process this.

Feyre came to him, reached towards her mate with the hand that bore his mother’s ring. Rhys looked to it, then up to her. His eyes were clouded with sorrow, with a melancholy she could only hope to chip away at in time. But she could see stirring beneath it was a breath of hope, perhaps the first he’d allowed himself in a long time.

“Let’s go home, Rhys,” she said gently.

Slowly, Rhysand nodded, moving to grasp her hand. She felt him jolt at the touch and, as she glanced at him questioningly, she saw his lips part in wonder.

I suppose you weren’t lying about being my mate, he whispered, the words a sensual brush in her mind. Thank you for coming to rescue me, High Lady.

Feyre grasped onto Azriel, and together the three of them stepped into darkness.

Then, they were above the House of Wind, tumbling through the night sky. Feyre unfurled her wings before Rhys could move to catch them, worried that her mate would struggle after 50 years without flight.

Both males stared in astonishment at the sight. Rhysand’s eyes danced in awe as Feyre, albeit clumsily, carried them to the training ring on the roof.

Rhys snapped his own wings open as they landed. Feyre watched him tilt his head back in rapture as he felt the wind against his wings for the first time in decades. Then he opened his eyes, his expression shifting to reverence as he beheld the night sky.

“I was beginning to think I’d never see it again,” he whispered, his voice a heartbreaking blend of exaltation and disbelief. “And for this gift… for my salvation to be courtesy of my mate and of my brother… I’m a bit overwhelmed,” he admitted sheepishly.

Feyre hesitated. If this was the Rhysand from before, the one to which she was mated and married, she would come to comfort him. But this version of Rhys had only just been freed from enslavement, and she didn’t know what he needed.

As though sensing her hesitation, Rhys cast his eyes back to the sky. “I know they’re all waiting for me downstairs, but I’d like a little bit of time with the stars. Will you let them know, Az?”

Azriel nodded, though he seemed conflicted. His reunion with his brother was perhaps not as merry as the male had expected. But right now, she knew the Inner Circle would hardly deny Rhys anything. Perhaps for a long while yet. So Azriel headed downstairs to inform their friends, who were sure to be anxiously awaiting their arrival.

Rhysand regarded Feyre carefully once the two of them were alone. “Mate and High Lady,” he mused. “You seem to wear many hats.”

“You forgot ‘wife’,” Feyre said lightly.

“Yes, and ‘Salvation’, ‘Queen Killer’, ‘Most Beautiful Female in Prythian’, it seems there’s many things I could call you. Could we start with your name, perchance?”

Feyre was shocked. She’d assumed he’d taken such information out of her mind earlier, but it seems he’d been even more respectful than she’d expected.

“Feyre,” she answered. “My name is Feyre.”

He looked wonderstruck. “Feyre,” he repeated, testing the name on his lips. A gentle smile curled at the corners of his mouth, the first she’d seen from him yet. He extended his hand towards her. “Would you like to watch the stars with me, Feyre?”

It was an offer she couldn’t refuse. Her hand found his with all the casual grace of a dancer, as if it were a routine they’d been perfecting their whole lives. Their fingers interlocked and as one, they stared up at the dazzling night sky.

This reality wasn’t perfect, Feyre thought. This Rhys was different from her own, and he still had a lot of healing to do. But if she could be there for him, to help him in a ways she hadn’t before, then she would be grateful to the strange eddies of the Cauldron for bringing her here. For allowing her to end his torment early. For giving them this extra time.

She watched a shooting star dart across the sky and smiled as it passed. There was nothing she could wish for except that her mate find peace in all that he’d endured the last half century.

His deep, velvety voice cut through the silence. “Do you often wish on stars, Feyre?”

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He was watching her with a heart-wrenching wistfulness.

“Only when I have a wish worthy of the stars.”

“And do you?”

Feyre looked to the northernmost star, which shined brightest in the sky. “I wished for a light in the darkness,” she told him. “I don’t think the stars would ever begrudge such a wish.”

Rhysand nodded solemnly. “It’s true that they would be begrudging themselves in doing so. But I see no need for you to wish for such a thing.”

Feyre looked to him. He was still watching her, but something in him had shifted. He was smiling at her gently, that lingering sadness already receding. “Why’s that?” she asked cautiously.

That gentle smile widened, showing off his brilliant teeth. “Why, Feyre, to find such a thing, all you’d need to do is look in a mirror.”

#prompt fill #anon request #Feysand #Feysand fic #Inner Circle #Feysand fluff because I can't help myself #mentions of rape #Mentions of SA #acotar #acotar fic #time travel

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aelingalathyniusrailme · 3 years ago

Text

If you find me on the edge, we’ll jump together.

Gwynriel Pirate au pt 6

this chapters a little long and fluffy but I really like it and I finally gave it a name

Here are the other parts if you’re interested :) pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4, pt 5

what had azriel’s life become? In the past 24 hours his ship became infested with dangerous females, he had given up his most prized possession, and he was on his way to find a being that still haunted his nightmares.

Berdara was a fine persuader but money was even better. Too bad they seemed to come in tandem. The captain of the shadowsinger needed this hall and there was no way in hell he was loosing a dime to the cutthroat redhead he now lived with.

He stole a glance toward her to find her staring intently at the map. Her mind, her calculating, cold, ruthless mind at work. Her eyes shot up to his and she gave him a smirk, flashing the whites of her teeth and winked. he knew others would see a friendly smile but all he saw were fangs

Infuriating as she might be, she had not said one word, in the past few hours about his meltdown or the other thing he had yet to let himself dwindle over. He was caught between appreciation and the feeling that he wasn’t worth a second thought to her.

“so where will my crew and I be sleeping” her voice was light but there was a slight edge.

“The room next to mine.” He grit his teeth in preparation for the comment that was sure to follow that statement. “now you’re going to say something crude”

at the same time gwyneth said with a wink, “want to keep me close, captain? all you have to do is ask?”

The slight shock on her face elicited pure joy from azriel. While hidden, a practiced eye saw the way her mouth slightly parted and her eyes flare. It was his turn to smirk as he responded, “Your majesty is becoming quite predictable.”

gwyn smiled her psychotic smile and stepped closer to him. too close. “wouldn’t want that,” she whispered into his hear as if she was telling him a secret. Her voice wrapped it’s claws around his throat and squeezed, pulling him to her.

Azriel coughed “You’re all going to have to share a room.”

“it’s quite alright, my crew and I have shared beds before.” There was a suggestive glint in her eyes. and blood rushed to his face faster than this girl could threaten and flirt in the same breath.

“I don’t believe I said anything about sharing beds.”

“Oh I know, but sometimes, shadowsinger, we must learn the difference between necessity and pleasure.” Azriel’s pupils dilated and his skin felt tight and hot.

Gwyn leaned in once again and teased, whispering, “Predictability is worth seeing you blush like a school girl.” She threw her fiery hair over her shoulder and walked away leaving him gaping like an idiot.

cassian and rhys walked out from his room and rhys said with a chuckle “she’s something alright.”

cassian looked at him with mock sincerity “promise me I’ll be the bridesmaid at your wedding”

“and will it be a double with you and that second of hers?”

He held his hands to his chest and tilted his head, “only in my dreams”

Rhys swung his arm around him laughing, “You’re pathetic.”

————————————————————————

5 days passed and every one of them was torturous. His crew at their wits end with hers. Apparently the two blondes were causing quite a bit of trouble. It had seemed one had wiped the floor with his entire crew when it came to the cards while the other was a bit of a thief, a petty thief.

His sharpshooter had made the mistake of whistling at Emerie, she tossed him into the ocean without so much as batting an eye. Thankfully they got him out in time and rest assured there were no more comments or touching.

He hadn’t seen Berdara much as she had been holed up in her room barely leaving beyond the occasional meal. Though every time she did grace his presence, she was sure to leave him flustered beyond relief. What about this girl make him loose all of his composure, he wasn’t sure. But avoidance was a useful tool.

Don’t think about it, don’t care azriel thought as he watched Cassian and Rhys spar on the deck of his ship. HIs two best fighters, facing off until suddenly rhys was knocked to the ground from behind. The culprit, the silver majesties second, Nesta.

There was a determined look in her eyes, cold ambition.

Cassian laughed, unfazed.

“my turn.” her voice was one of mock innocence, venom drenched in sugar.

“don’t be so eager sweatheart.”

“Eager to knock your arrogant ass down a few pegs”

“Ooh she’s feisty.” And with that Nesta attacked. She wasn’t graceful but she fought as if her life depended on it, a sure sign that at one point or another it did. She swerved and jabbed with a desperate urgency, one you could only learn on the streets. Cassian dodged and deflected, though he was working much harder than usual. It seemed he also had something to prove.

Azriel turned, knowing this fight would not be over any time soon, to find Berdara walking right towards him. “Nesta will not loose this fight.”

“funny, neither will cassian.”

Gwyneth gave him a serious look. “She does not loose, she never has and she never will.”

“hmm. It’s never too late to try new things.”

gwyn rolled her eyes before a glint appeared in them. “care for a rematch?”

“fists or swords?”

“Let’s spice it up, swords.”

“double or single?”

“A sword and a dagger.”

“Surrender or mercy.”

“Seeing you kneel to me will be sweet.” she paused. “Surrender.”

“You’re on.”

“Pirates oath?”

“A gentleman always plays fair.” She unsheathed her sword and dagger holding one in each hand and smirked. “too bad I am no mere man.” she lunged but azriel had been expecting that and side stepped pulling out his own sword and dagger.

Where nesta had been brute force and aggression, Gwyneth was all grace and speed. She fought with the efficiency of someone who trained with the queens guard themselves. It was like fighting a tornado, she was fast like lightning and when she struck she struck hard. Every move was beautiful and deadly, just like her.

————————————————————————

“We dock in 15 minutes.” Azriel called out to his crew.

“What no, we need to keep going.” Gwyn replied.

“What we need is to restock supplies so we don’t starve to death before we’re richer than the queen herself.”

she gave him a confused look, as if he was speaking a different language.

“We’ve been sailing non-stop for almost 2 weeks and we are out of supplies.”

gwyn mumbled something that sounded like “pathetic.”

As soon as Azriel dropped the anchor his entire crew rushed off the shadowsinger, desperate to be away from the insane women. With of course the exception of Cassian for he was leaning against the rails of the ship bothering Nesta while she was pointedly ignoring him.

“Hey, enough with the heart eyes we’ve got shit to do.” Azriel barked at Cassian who then frowned and sulked off the ship while nesta stared at him with her cold, blank expression. “You too sunshine. Let’s get moving.”

“Order me to do something again and I will cut off your limbs one by one and feed you them for breakfast.”

“I’m counting down the hours.” Azriel narrowly missed the dagger she threw at his head.

“Don’t call me sunshine.” and nesta walked off the ship, katanas at her hips glinting in the cold sun of the winter court. She looked right in her element.

Before he called these women insane but that was far too gentle of a statement, the females that had found their way onto Berdara’s ship were absolutely, completely batshit crazy.

Az was sure everyone was off his ship, everyone was accounted for and yet something was nagging at him.

A flash of red caught his eye and he turned to see the captain of the silver majesty sitting on the railing, one misstep and she would fall. Though there was no doubt in his mind that she would survive the deadly drop. This women seem to defy all odds, why not death? Her smile was wild and just a little bit mad as the wind swept and curled through her hair pushing it back from her face. As if it wanted nothing more than to be flowing through her her fiery locks that mirrored her spirit. Gwyn closed her eyes, feeling the breeze, the sun lighting up the freckles that spread across her cheeks. She was

“Are you done gawking?” she said without even opening her eyes.

horrible, she was absolutely unquestionably horrible. “If I may, what are you doing majesty?”

She turned toward him, in the sun the blue of her iris’s had a twinge of green as if she was born for the sea. “I am simply reminding myself why I left.” Her eyes gazed hungrily over the vast sea as though she saw a challenge, one she had to conquer. “who could resist all this?”

It was unlike her to offer such a raw statement with no ulterior motive and while it was entirely possible she did have one, Azriel believed her. Azriel believed her because he shared the exact feeling. The longing for freedom, the found solstice in constant change and motion, and the occasional guilt for leaving that ultimately fades because it will never not be worth it.

“I pity them.”

“Fools.”

“Utterly.” She offered no more as she hopped down from the railing.

They walked in comfortable silence as they both took in the beauty of the winter court. It was all ice and snow with a slight aura of loneliness.

Together the two captains arrived at the inn. It was cozy and warm and was placed separately from the rest of the town. His eyes shifted and he saw what had to have been the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. It was a bar. Thank fucking goodness. Azriel knew without a doubt that they all desperately needed some liquor.

In the bar he immediately found both their combined crew. A crowd of men and women had surrounded Rhys, hanging on every word he said while he soaked it up flirting to his hearts content. Azriel was going to have to give him a limit on the number of people he could fuck at once, this was getting ridiculous. Next he found Cassian, Tarquin and Viviane doing shots at the bar. But he noticed every time his glance shifted to a certain girl in the corner of the room. Nesta was in a booth with Emerie sipping whiskey, talking in low voices. Cressedia and Drakon were in a heated drinking game and-

Azriel knocked into a body he immediately recognized as Lucien and he held out his hand at once glaring.

“Hey captain.” He said cheerfully.

“empty now.”

The kid dumped a pile of jewels, wallets, and id’s in his hand.

Azriel smirked approvingly “get me a ruby, an Id of a man who could pass for the high lord of the winter court, and 500 more dollars.” Lucien nodded greedily and ran along. It had been a game between the two of them for Azriel to give him outlandish challenges to sharpen his skill as a thief.

But before Lucien could leave the bar every lamp extinguished and the bar turned quiet.

Strangers gasped and knives were drawn.

Moments later the lights reappeared and once his eyes readjusted he saw a women holding two daggers to the throats of Tarquin and Viviane. They struggled against her. But she just laughed and scolded. “No no no. shhhh” Before she looked up again.

“We need to have a chat.” every word was clipped and short. “Put your weapons away and these two might get to live to see another day.” It was an order, and a threat. Azriel didn’t take kindly to threats.

Gwyn looked to the 3 remaining who followed her and nodded at them to listen. He nodded to his own crew.

Nesta sneered but dropped her katanas to the ground. She opened her mouth to speak but Rhys beat her to it, pushing away the women he was flirting with as he drawled to the women in front of them.

“It’s been a long time Feyre, darling.”

tag list: @imsointobooks @meher-sumedha @himadrij @gwynrielsupremacy @ipsa-est-lux-plenae @flora-shadowshine @allthebooksunderthemoon @valkygwyn @bookish-isha @lattristantketchup

#gwynriel #gwynriel pirate au #feysand #nessian #emerie #gwyn berdara #azriel #nesta archeron #cassian #feyre archeron #rhysand #I finally gave it a name #if you find me on the edge we’ll jump together #and btw that’s supposed to be like villain lunatics in love and not suicide #just wanted to make that clear #I love this chapter tho #even if shes a little lengthy

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tiedyemillenialbullshit · 3 years ago

Text

Blind Trust

Bucky x Fem!Avenger

Set to: As the World Caves In (Cover by: Sarah Cothran)

Warnings: Main character death, blood/violence, betrayal, fluff

It was meant to be a simple recon mission. Steve didn’t like sending the two of you on missions alone. He didn’t like the thought of not just losing both of you, but you two losing each other. But you both had so many successful missions under your belt, you insisted.

You and Bucky had loved each other from the moment you met. Steve was always worried his pal wouldn’t find true love after everything he’d been through. When SHIELD recruited you, you were the perfect fit. Just as skilled as Black Widow, no family, no real friends, fluent in English, French, Russian, Spanish, and Italian. You were ready to serve something bigger than yourself. You quickly made your way up the ranks and became an integral part of the Avengers team. Your super powers were your trusting physical features, your ability to blend in anywhere, and your deadly, but easy smile.

Those things made you a good agent, but they also stole the heart of the infamous Winter Soldier.

Love became second nature between the two of you. Attached at the hip, always training together, reading together, eating together, and sleeping together.

Now, you both found yourselves at what you thought would be a recently abandoned Hydra base. Your mission: collect any data left, scavenge for any remaining files, maps, and plans. This base was rumored to be abandoned recently and hastily. Your inside man said his Hydra unit had received notice that the Avengers had been made aware of their latest site and experiments.

You trusted this agent. He never gave you false information, he never allowed your team to go in blind. Until now. He had started at SHIELD with you, in your graduating class of new agents. That was 10 years ago. A few years after that, he was sent off to be recruited by HYDRA, or attempted to be recruited. It was difficult for agents to make the transition. You were sad to see him go, you liked Jake. He liked you. But you were grateful to know a good man would be on the inside.

When you entered the facility you found it very much not abandoned. You were ambushed. Bucky barely had time to react before 3 agents were on him. You felt yourself go deep down and into survivor mode. Your throwing knives were out of your hands and into the throats of the closest two agents that came for you before you knew you were moving.

You both made your rounds, fighting side by side for what felt like an hour. Once you knew no more agents were coming, you glanced at each other panting and exhausted. He didn’t look too beat up, you’d seen him in worse shape. He gave you a slight nod and you made your way to retrieve your knives before searching the remaining parts of the building.

You made your way to the basement levels and found Jake beaten and bloody, barely alive. You ran to his side and called for Bucky. You had an eerie feeling while assessing his injuries. Why was he here alone?

“They found me out! They thought they killed me and left me here for you both to find me.” Jake half screams to you.

Bucky has moved deeper into the cell with you. He didn’t like this either, but didn’t know why. You helped Jake to his feet, turn around and place him on a chair. You and Bucky exchange glances, and that’s when you realized what was off.

Turning back around you ask “Jake, how did they know it would be just me and Buc-“ but it’s too late. Jake is up and out of the cell, locking it behind him.

You can’t believe it. Bucky can’t believe it.

“It had to be you two first. We need Steve Rogers nice and emotional when he comes to find you. Mistakes will be made. This is the end of the line for the Avengers.”

You begin pleading with him. Never in a million years would you think that Jake would allow himself to be influenced by such hate. But that’s how it starts isn’t it? Hydra has brainwashing down to a science. You should’ve seen this coming.

After Jake laughs and walks away, you hear him trigger a timer not so far away. Just enough time to get himself out, you assume.

When the end came, you stripped off your gear. Bucky took off his leather jacket, his gun holster, you removed your knives, your jacket. You wanted to hold each other as Bucky and Y/N. Not as Avengers.

You wanted to say everything ever left on the table. Instead, you just held each other stared into his soul. You’re memorizing each other’s features. His strong jaw, your big eyes. He pushed some bloody hair out of your face. You held his waist. You both tried to not cry, always strong for each other.

As you heard the first bombs go off in the distance, he finally spoke.

“Y/N, I have never not loved you. You saved me after I left Wakanda.” His eyes are glossing over. You tried not to mirror him, but you realized your tears were already falling thru the gun powder stuck to your cheeks. You wondered if you looked as beat up as he did. A black eye forming over his perfect face. You didn’t care. You had the privilege of seeing him laugh, smile, cry, be pissed off, and feel loved up close for 5 years now. That’s what you thought of in this moment as the next round of bombs went off. You realized that that they were leveling the entire facility.

“Buck, you’ve kept me going through my darkest moments. Let’s do it one more time.”

He studies you for a moment more. It seems like his life is flashing before his eyes, but he’s staring at you.

“So how would you rather die? Poison or electrocution?” He asks.

Ah yes, the game you’ve played for as long as you can remember. It hits a little different right now.

“Hmmm” you say, “I think electrocution. Short and sweet, nighty night.” He laughs even though he’s holding you a bit harder, as the noises around you become more violent. “A knife fight or drowning?” You ask.

“Damn, that’s a hard one. Seeing as I’m more of a skilled knife fighter than YOU are, I think drowning would be my downfall. Never enjoyed swimming that much.” You giggle at his taunting, even as you're both looking death in the eyes.

There's a long pause. Both of you not really wanting to continue the game you both so loved playing during your free time.

“Y/N, I only have a few regrets in my life, but the main one is not making you my wife.”

“Really, Bucky? That is the most 1940’s shit you’ve ever said to me” you laugh. “What matters is that I can say whole-heartedly that I’m grateful in my short life that I got to spend it with you.”

You hear the ceiling in the cell you’re trapped in start to crack. You both look up and at then at each other one last time.

“I love you, Y/N”

“I love you, Bucky. Thank you for being in my life and choosing me.”

“There’s no one else, Y/N. No one else.”

He smiles at you one last time as you hear the ceiling start to cave in. Before everything goes black, you hear him say “Goodnight, love.”

You lean in one last time to kiss him. You’re holding on to each other with every last ounce of energy you have. “Goodnight, Bucky, I’ll see you soon.”

#bucky barnes #bucky #bucky x you #bucky x reader #avengers #bucky oneshot #bucky barnes fanfiction #james buchanan barnes #bucky x y/n

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disgruntledspacedad · 4 years ago

Text

The Rules of Engagement (3/5)

The Better Love Series

pairing: Javier Peña x fem!reader/ofc (Ears)

summary: (slow-burn, sexual tension, angst, a little bit of h/c in later chapters) He’s a DEA agent. You work for Centra Spike. Peña’s not your boss, exactly, but you’ve been fwb long enough that certain people are starting to think of you as An Item, and that just won’t do.

words: 3.4k

warnings: 18+ for alcohol, language, smut, violence, body horror, general trauma. Please, please heed the warnings on this chapter, guys. It gets pretty intense.

a/n: Unbeta’d. I know I said this was going to be three chapters, but I lied. Sorry, my dudes - this one got away from me. Inspo credit goes to @tiffdawg, as always.

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five

MASTERLIST

Well, fuck. You bite back a massive sigh.

You really, really don’t want to walk through that door.

It’s been a month, and you life has changed profoundly.

For one, you’re not at the office as much anymore - Stechner had made good on his promise to consider you for more flyovers, and boy, has Centra Spike been busy. Some new vigilante group is terrorizing Medellín, and while it’s not Search Bloc’s priority to go after them, they’ve undeniably kept Pablo and his sicarios busy. The radio frequencies are hot right now, and you’ve been doing eight, sometimes ten flights a week.

You absolutely love it. The hours are less predictable and definitely more shitty, but listening to a radio from the cockpit of a plane is much more fun that listening to a radio in a stuffy basement office, so you consider it a fair trade.

It keeps your brain busy, too.

Your social life has taken a massive kick to the nuts. Ana is back at university, and you miss her more than you thought you would. You’ve reverted to communicating with Emilio with gestures and smiles more than words. It’s nice because he’s nice, but you miss actual conversation, stilted as it was. Ana wasn’t all that bad, either.

And then there’s Javi.

You haven’t spoken to him since That Morning, not even a polite 'how are you?' in the hallway. Granted, you’re not seeing him as often anymore, given your new position and hours, but then again, you haven’t exactly sought him out, either.

The memory claws at you every time you relive it - and you relive it often. That anger, that wounded expression. The slammed door, his retreating footsteps. Each time you’re in that building, the walls seem to close in on you, and you have to stop yourself from looking for him, actively keep your gaze from roaming straight to his desk.

God, as if you could make it more awkward.

You’d had one nasty conversation with Murphy about a week after the incident - you’d told him in no uncertain terms that he could either mind his own business or fuck right off, you didn’t care which. He’d left you be, throwing his hands in the air and muttering something about how “you two deserve each other.”

Asshole.

Still, that aborted conversation haunts you - so many aborted conversations haunt you - and you wonder what would have happened if you’d just taken the bull by the horns and addressed the issue with Javi head on.

I’m sorry you caught me rubbing one off on the morning after you almost died, Peña. I can assure you, it won’t happen again. Your friendship means the world to me.

Yeah, right.

God, though, but you miss him.

You miss him so much it aches, a gaping hole that reaches right down to the core of you, but there’s nothing to be done about it. You’d fucked this one completely and thoroughly - any chance of restoring your friendship had drained away with the shower-water, and the more time you spend fretting over it, the more awkward - and pathetic - it would be to say anything.

So, you’d cut your losses, held your head high, and tried not to waste too much time wishing you’d have just kept your fucking fantasies to yourself.

Now, though, you’ve got no choice.

You’d been on Centra Spike’s early morning flight, just another routine scan over Medellín. The shift wasn’t intended to be more than a training run for you, but as luck would have it, the Medellín cartel’d had a busy night, and you’d been caught in the crossfire.

Your plane had just touched down half an hour ago, and now you’re standing on the front steps of the embassy building, fingering a shoebox cassette player loaded with a freshly taped recording full of juicy intel destined for the desk of DEA Agent Javier Peña - an entire, private conversation featuring none other than Verdugo himself.

You’d know that voice anywhere. You’ve studied it for hours, what few snatches you’d been able to glean from the embassy archives. It’s almost as if Verdugo is smart enough to steer clear of the city, or to just avoid phone conversations all together, the absolute fuckwad.

Until early this morning.

On the plane, you’d intercepted a new signal and tapped in on a whim, intending to practice your Spanish more than anything, but what you’d overheard was a fucking gold mine of information.

Verdugo is in Medellín. The sicarios are getting ready to move Escobar. He didn’t say where - fucking bastard knows not to spill all of the beans in one conversation - but apparently the plan requires a rendezvous in El Centro first. Verdugo is en route, and will be there until the next morning.

You’d worked frantically all night, tracing and retracing the signal, triangulating potential addresses, then back-tracking to account for environmental distortion. Each calculation had led you to the same place - an unassuming little house right smack in the middle of Medellín.

Bingo.

“You take it in, Aarons.” Torres had declined your offer to do the honors. “It’s your intel.”

So here you are, bleary-eyed and running on less than two hours of sleep, cassette player clenched tightly to your chest, summoning up all of your courage just to go speak with your ex... well, ex whatever-the-fuck Peña is.

‘This is your job,’ you remind yourself fiercely. ‘You can do this.’

As pep-talks go, it isn’t very effective.

Fuck it. You toss your head back, wishing you’d had time to at least grab a cup of coffee on the way in, and breeze around the corner.

“Agent Peña.”

He glances up lazily, thoroughly uninterested in whatever you have to say. When he realizes it’s you, he blinks once, dropping his cigarette in the ashtray and sitting up to eyeball you with a wary expression.

"What can I do for you?” he asks cooly.

You remember him saying that once before, but the context was totally different.

You shake it off. “Centra Spike has new intel that you’ll want to see right away.”

He purses his lips, tilting his head to indicate the growing pile of bullshit on his desk. “You can leave it here.”

Oh, so that’s how it is, then?

“I can’t.” You pin him with a stare, and he meets your gaze evenly, raising his eyebrows in silent challenge. You clear your throat and clarify. “I won’t.”

He scoffs as you carefully rest cassette tape on his desk, along with a map of El Centro. “We intercepted a four minute conversation with Verdugo this morning. He’s here.” You point to the safe house on the map, which you’ve already circled in red ink. “Feo and Limón are with him. They’re leaving early tomorrow.”

Peña frowns down at the spot where your finger rests. “And can you corroborate that information?”

Oh, the motherfucker. “I verified his voice personally, Peña,” you say carefully, doing your damndest to keep the annoyance from your tone. It’s well within his right to ask questions, after all. “It’s a direct match for the audio samples we have.” You tap the tape for emphasis. “You’re welcome to listen for yourself.”

He doesn’t make a move for a long time. Something hot and painful burns in your gut as you wait.

God, he knows you, knows you better than anybody else in on this goddamned continent. He knows that you know your shit, that you want to catch Escobar as desperately as he does. And this evidence that you have spread across his desk, recorded on tape and marked plainly in red ink, is irrefutable, undeniable - it’s a huge break. He knows that, too.

His apathy is palpable, and it’s driving you up the fucking wall.

When he finally glances up at you, it’s with a doubtful little smirk on his face. “Hmm.”

And oh, wow, you’re shocked by just how much that hurts.

All your life, from the moment you were born into a family of brothers, you’ve had to fight tooth and nail to be taken seriously. It was a fact of life as early as you can remember - ‘look after your sister,’ or, ’she’s just a girl,’ or ‘wow, you’re really great at math, for a woman!’ You’d settled on your career as an analyst because you’d wanted it, not because you’d had something to prove, but still, the military is a male-dominated field, and from the start, the odds had been stacked against you. Landing this CIA gig had been the achievement of a fucking lifetime. Still, the bar is set high in the Colombia, and it’s set that much higher for a woman. You’re well aware of this; you’re reminded every single day.

Point being, you’re used to defending yourself and your abilities; it comes as natural as breathing.

But until now, you’ve never had to fight this battle with Peña. He’d taken you at face value from the moment he'd laid eyes on you, treating you like just another operative. Sure, he might take a crack at you every now and again, but that's all in good fun, and you’ve never been one to shy away from a laugh.

Christ, you never realized just how much that respect meant to you until suddenly, it’s gone.

“If you have something to say about my skills and qualifications, Agent Peña, then I suggest you say it.” You lean over his desk, speaking quietly, enunciating each syllable with deadly precision. “Otherwise, I think we both know that it’s in the best interest of Search Bloc and the Colombian people that we collaborate quickly, so we can put boots on the ground and land this motherfucker behind bars where he belongs.”

Peña’s eyes narrow, and he cocks his head, studying you. You meet his gaze, biting back a snarl. You won’t back down. You won’t allow him to intimidate you.

When he nods sharply and reaches for his phone, you know you’ve won.

♠

Ten minutes later, you’re situated in a conference room with Peña, Steve Murphy, Martinez, and a couple of the other higher ups of Search Bloc whose names you haven’t memorized. Your maps are spread over the table, your tape displayed for all to see, and every eye is on you.

“Verdugo is here,” you say, leaning over the map to indicate the marked house. “He and his entourage arrived late last night, and they’re planning to leave early tomorrow morning.”

“Plenty of time to get a team together.” Murphy interjects, glancing between you and Peña with open curiosity.

You narrow your gaze at him. Drama-mongering bastard.

Peña’s not moving. He’s standing with his hip cocked toward the desk, frowning down at the map with his fingers curled to his chin like he’s totally oblivious to everything happening around him.

You know he’s not, though. That’s Javi’s thinking face, the one he makes when he wants people to shut the fuck up and forget about him until he can work something out. You’re pretty familiar with that one.

The others are babbling in Spanish, discussing logistics and the likelihood of this being another trap.

It’s not. You know this deep in your bones. You’d heard that conversation in real time, had translated, triangulated it.

This is legit.

You’ve just decided to leave them to it when Javi snaps his eyes open.

“I agree with Aarons,” he announces out of nowhere. You’re startled by the confidence in his tone. Curious, you glance up, but it’s difficult to get a read on him. He’s pinning every person in the room except you with a hard stare. “We need to move out now.”

Several of the others make noises of protest, but Peña shuts them all down, one by one. Finally, his eyes flicker up to meet yours, just for a brief second, but there’s something different in his gaze, something new and heavily guarded.

You think it might be an apology.

“Let’s end this.”

♠

He’s on a plane to Medellín within an hour, wearing that stupid bullet proof vest. For just a split second, you wish that you were going, too. You don’t have enough experience, though - you’re not an agent; you haven’t handled a gun since basic. You’d be useless in a real fight, a liability, even.

Still, you feel some ownership in this operation, today more than ever. You don’t even try to kid yourself about Javi anymore, either. Those fucking feelings haven’t faded in a month, not a bit, not even after the awkward conversation you’d had in his office.

‘But he stood up for you, too, afterward,’ something whispers in the back of your mind. You replay that little glance in the conference room over and over as you watch Search Bloc board the plane.

He’s looking for you this time, standing on the ramp with his eyes shaded like he knows you’ll be waiting. He doesn’t nod and you don’t wave, but you make eye contact for a lingering moment, and again, there’s something in his expression that you don’t recognize.

Then the plane takes off down the runway, and you feel as if your heart is swooping away with it.

♠

You volunteer for the late shift at work, monitoring the radio lines in case something comes up. It’s an unusually quiet night, as if all of Bogotá collectively holds its breath, and you mostly spend it watching the clock, calculating the hours in your head.

One to land in Medellín. Two more to mobilize the men. Another half to get in location.

From there, your speculation gets fuzzy. There’s no way to predict the outcome once Verdugo is engaged. Javi’s told you a million stories, each more unbelievable than the last - car chases and rooftop shootouts, standoffs in the street, a fistfight in a church sanctuary, bodies of children littering dark alleyways… you cut off the recollections. They aren’t doing you any favors.

Verdugo is a dangerous man. Anything could happen.

By seven am, your brain is mush and your eyes are hyper-focused in that bleary way that happens when you’ve gone too long without sleep. Your third cup of coffee has gone cold, and people are starting to trickle in. You wave half-heartedly to Torres as you slip out of your headset, rubbing your fingers over your scalp to ease the tension that comes from wearing heavy earphones all night. A shower sounds nice, you decide, and maybe a quick nap afterward.

Somebody will page you with news.

Getting out of the building does a lot to wake you up. There’s something oppressive about the CNP headquarters that seems to abate when you step into the streets of Bogotá. The city buzzes with life even in the early morning, and air is warm in a way that seems to energize rather than sedate. Optimism is easier to invoke as you walk down the street in broad daylight.

Javi had looked at you, at least. He’d listened. He’ll call in to the office as soon as he can. Your intel was good, and they’ve flushed out the rat, he’d promised you that.

Everything will be okay.

You round the corner of CRA 70 and Circular, waving to Emilio, who is working the register of the pharmacy today.

“Orejas!” He shouts, reaching below the counter to hold aloft another bottle of aguardiente. “¡Mira! Solo para ti!”

You grin back at him, raising your voice to shout a greeting, and then, with absolutely no warning, the store explodes.

A loud boom.

A whoosh of impossible heat.

A massive orange fireball billowing from the windows.

Your body flying, flying through the air.

Bright blue sky, and then darkness.

♠

You find yourself lying flat on your back in the middle of the street. Your ears are ringing. There’s a pat-pattering in the air, soft like falling rain.

You blink hard.

It’s not rain, you realize dizzily.

It’s fucking ash.

The air is dark with it, hot and heavy. It coats your tongue and stings your eyes. It’s hard to catch a breath. Your throat hurts, your chest aches. You cough weakly. The smell is terrible, acrid and bitter like burned metal. You can taste it on your tongue.

Slowly, you tense your muscles. Your chest is still burning, but there’s nothing sharp to suggest a serious injury. Your back is sore, your head fuzzy.

You sit up, wincing a little, relieved to realize that you’ve just had the wind knocked from you. You’ll have some bruises tomorrow, but that’s all.

Sound slowly filters in. The hiss and crackle of flame. A shout in the distance. Further away, a wailing siren.

Reality slams into you all at once.

Emilio!

You stand, wobbling more than you think you should, but you push past it. Reality seems to pitch and roil, as if the ground is hitching its breath beneath you. Rubble coats the street, dust clouds the air.

Oh god.

A gaping, smoking crater is all that’s left of Emilio’s pharmacy. The windows are blown out of the businesses on either side, their outer walls bowing under the pressure. Your apartment on the top floor is demolished, the roof caving in, flames licking at the the collapsed floors.

You gasp one long, shuddering breath, taking it all in, and then you’re running, sort of, picking your way through hunks of concrete and twisted metal.

“Emilio! Emilio!”

Your voice is hoarse, the world hushed. Nothing sounds quite right. Your legs are shaking and you can’t catch your breath. Some of the rubble is hot to the touch, and you feel like you’re moving underwater, slow and awkward and stupid.

You approach what’s left of the store, and the smell hits you first. Like cooked meat - charred, greasy, heavy.

You press your hand to your mouth to stifle a scream.

You found Emilio. He’s pinned beneath part of the collapsed roof. You look away quickly, but not before you catch a glimpse of blackened flesh, of bone, blood, and pink frothy tissue.

Acid rises in your throat, and you stumble to your knees, stomach clenching painfully into your ribs as you vomit onto the street. It goes on and on, over and over for an eternity, tears and snot and bile and ash leaking mingled down your face until there is nothing left in you to expel.

The encroaching wail of a siren draws you to your senses. You glance up, suddenly painfully aware of your situation. The ceiling is arching above you, just to your right, and it’s creaking ominously. The fires are still burning, and your shirt is clinging painfully hot against your back. You stagger to your feet once again, dizzy, almost drunkenly. A small crowd has gathered, pointing and gawking, calling out to you in Spanish that you are far, far too overwhelmed to translate.

Gasping, you raise your hands and side-step away, careful of the debris that litters the street around you.

A firetruck arrives on the scene, squalling to a stop between you and the onlookers, and you leap at the opportunity, ducking down the nearest alleyway before anybody can follow.

♠

You aren’t sure how much time you waste in the alleyways of Bogotá.

Seconds?

Minutes?

The time after the explosion is all a blur, and you run until you literally can’t anymore, until you’re doubled over and wheezing, coughing, hacking, panting.

Some primal survival instinct clicks in your brain then, and suddenly, your mind is clear. You glance around, swiping at your cheeks and brushing the ash from your shirt.

Now what?

You take a shaking breath and think.

Okay, first order of business, you’re absolutely disgusting. You need a shower before you can even think about doing anything productive.

Your bathroom just went up in flames, along with all of your clothes. Your heart clenches as you think of Ana - she’s at university, so that’s out. The embassy has a nice bathroom, but no showers that you’re aware of.

There’s only one place you know to go, and that’s Javi’s apartment.

You glance up at the sky. The sun is still pretty low - it can’t have been more than an hour since you’d left work, and that was around seven am. Javi obviously isn’t home, and you don’t have a key, but if you hurry, there’s still a chance that you could catch Murphy before he leaves his flat.

It’s a long shot, but you decide there’s nothing to lose for trying.

#Javier Peña x reader #javier peña #narcos #javi x you #javi x reader #javier pena x reader #narcos netflix #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fandom #narcos fanfiction #Javier Peña imagine #pedro fandom #the rules of engagement #better love #angst #slow burn #friends to lovers #hurt/comfort #smut

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