#this game has lodged itself deep in my brain

[randomwriteronline]

"Sweet little one, standing upright, to me you appear dressed in white. But your red nose, what wonders it does: shortens your life the longer it glows."

"A candle," Velika smiled.

"Correct." Mata Nui replied. Then, he offered another riddle: "Which part of the bird has never soared the skies but slithers instead upon the ground, and swims on the surface of the water without ever getting wet?"

"The shadow."

"Correct. Two parents have five daughters; each daughter has a brother, and each brother has five siblings. How many members compose this family?"

"Eight."

"Correct. A beast of long legs, of strength filled to the brim - yet no eyes adorn its head, its intelligence quite dim."

"Pinchers."

"Correct. Today is the third of seven days. In seven years, which of seven will today be?"

"The fourth."

"Correct. I am that which cannot be touched, but inhabits all living things; I am what kills them, burning quietly, and through their mouths the plume of my combustion shows in the cold."

"Oxygen."

"Correct. Through my long black neck breathes my red heart, hacking out smoke as warmth from me departs."

"A stove."

"Correct. She who fights the winds and waves from the bowels of the seas to maintain her treasure so far away, thin yet heavy, weak yet invincible: who is she?"

"The anchor."

"Correct. A ship rotted upon the shore: each plank that fell away was slowly replaced, until it was remade completely new. Yet from the rotten planks, preserved adeguately, a second ship was constructed in the image of the original. Which one then is the true ship?"

"Both and neither," Velika smiled. He tilted his head in his hand, amused. "You're really not good at this."

"An 'and' is not an answer." Mata Nui replied: "Please choose."

"It doesn't matter, does it?"

"A rethorical question is not an answer. Please choose."

"The one from preserved wood."

"I see. A crow, dying of thirst, struggled to get water from a deep vase lodged in a pebbled shore. In its desperation, it began piling rocks upon one another; and so it saved itself. How?"

"By piling them in the vase, forcing the water upward."

"Correct. Swells all around you, like a glove fitting; never shall it hold you, cold embrace fleeting."

"Fog."

"Correct. An unusual farmer plows through a barren snowy field, sowing black seeds in quick succession; what he reaps is just one fruit which feeds many over the years, and never wilts, but only lasts as long as it is not burnt or faded."

"The written word."

"Correct. It is one of the visages by which we can be recognized, odorless, colorless, impalpable - and yet it can reach us far away."

"The voice."

"Correct. It is what the rich lack and poor have plenty of, what the strong fear and the weak have power over, what the happy desire and the dead need."

"Nothing."

"Correct. What am I doing?"

"Stalling me."

Mata Nui smiled: "Correct."

Velika did not move.

"It's useless, you know," he said, grin frozen upon his fake Matoran face as it struggled to hide his true one: "You can't stop me from my goal with these little guessing games of yours."

"I was under the impression you quite enjoyed making riddles."

"I made you."

"You helped. It was admirable, indeed; but it was not your labor alone. You are not one for the practical sciences, after all."

"I made you. You are a soul, a thinking brain. I allowed you to be that."

"You, and others."

"Does the fine print matter?"

"Of course it does. You would wrongfully claim full ownership over the universe entrusted to me otherwise."

"I made them. They are sapient because I allowed them as much."

"And you wish to destroy them now, as they are past their use, and for them to comply and go quietly to you, without making a mess, as otherwise it would be quite the inconvenience."

"Of course."

"Fathers owe their children as much as their children owe them."

"They're not my children," Velika laughed loudly as if that was the most hilarious thing he'd ever heard: "They are a successfully completed experiment! Archived and finished! I can't leave the mess of my previous project all over my desk if I want to start a new one, don't you think?"

Mata Nui did not move.

"You are awfully cruel in your insatiable curiosity." he noted simply. "Indeed, you are Teridax's father."

"I told you I don't have children."

"But we were your successors, were we not? A lonely god on a mindnumbingly long journey, one scientist in a team with delusions of grandeur."

"You are things I made. Things I gave awareness to. Nothing more."

"Nothing more?"

"Nothing more."

"Is this also your opinion of the universe within me?"

"Of course."

"Then you have no claim on us."

Velika raised his head from his palm and laughed. He laughed again, spitting out phonemes without a rhythm. He forced himself to laugh, because otherwise the confused wrath within him would have needed to explode in some other way.

"Pardon?"

"It brings a riddle to mind."

"I don't want a riddle. What did you just say?"

"Again, I was under the impression that you enjoyed posing riddles. At inopportune times most of all."

"Cut it. What did you say?"

"A woman bore her daughter, and decided it was not her duty to care for her: she still observed her growth over the years for sake of a morbid fancy, never intervening nor gaining any affection for her. At last the daughter found great happiness and fortune; and so her mother came, and demanded a part of her riches as compensation for giving birth to her. Was she right in requesting as much?"

"I said I don't want a riddle!"

"That is not an answer. Please choose."

"Quit that! What did you say to me?"

"That is not an answer. Please choose."

"You insulted me, is that it? You insulted me?"

"That is not an answer. Please choose."

"Shut up!"

"That is not an answer. Please choose."

"Fine! Fine, you broken piece of junk, fine. Repeat it, I didn't listen."

"A woman bore her daughter, and decided it was not her duty to care for her: she still observed her growth over the years for sake of a morbid fancy, never intervening nor gaining any affection for her. At last the daughter found great happiness and fortune; and so her mother came, and demanded a part of her riches as compensation for giving birth to her. Was she right in requesting as much?"

"No, she denied custody and has no say over her nor her belongings."

"Correct."

"So? What did you say?"

"I said the exact thing you repeated with your answer." Mata Nui replied. "You have shirked your responsability towards us, and you have no right to decide of our fate."

"You are things," Velika hissed: "Things are made!"

"We are people. People are made, too."

"People are born! They are thinking creatures!"

"Are we not, then?"

"No! You are things that I have given sapience to! You owe me life! Obedience! You owe me everything you are!"

"Are we then yours?"

"Yes!"

"By what virtue?"

"By virtue of creation!"

"By virtue of birth." Mata Nui repeated. "A virtue that we have agreed holds no water when a parent abandons their children."

Velika's eyes burned: "You are made," he insisted. "Not born."

"People are made, too. They are engineered by chance, put together by two others. The creation progress requires time and resources; afterwards, the new being needs to be programmed and taught what to do, what not to do, through trial and error."

"It's different. It's completely different. I gave you that intelligence. In people it's innate."

"From when? From the moment your cells are assembled? From the second you develop eyes? From the instant you are brought into the world, kicking and screaming? There is indeed an ability, innate, for understanding tasks and languages; but it all has to be instructed. Neither of us were born capable of speech, yet we could understand a language of our own, for that is how we were both built."

"Do not equate yourself to me. You are code, bits and pieces of electricity, the vague hint of a self."

"On that same electricity is based the neural system that is your 'I'."

"But I am your maker. I created you. Not the other way around."

"And so? You have denied custody of us. You refuse to recognize our personhood. Are you not our parent who abandons us, our creator who destroys us?"

"I have no children!"

"Then we do not owe you anything."

Velika raised his hand and grabbed the air, right where a neck should have been.

"I will kill you," he threatened: "I will annihilate you."

Mata Nui held his gaze without flinching: "That you can."

They remained still.

The room was empty.

"I had such knowledge to share... But it would have been too long to tell, I am afraid." he only lamented. "I have lived a long life, all in all - sometimes it has even been pleasant. A lousy god such as myself will not make much difference by now, alive or otherwise: my people have moved on from any whims that may have moved my requests once. Go on then, if it pleases you."

The hand twitched, but did not close.

It spasmed, clutching, hardening, but did not close.

Velika clenched his jaw, tightening his fist, but it did not close.

He tried, and tried, and tried, and tried, and tried; but it did not close.

"I will kill you," he hissed. But suddenly he wasn't sure he could.

Mata Nui waited.

Nothing happened.

His hand of thought - invisible, impalpable, barely real - grazed his creator's chin and lifted it slightly with his fingertips.

"What is it that the brilliant man standing before the machine he has made to do his bidding - to labor away endlessly in his stead, to travel where he would not, to learn what he could not, to sing and write and draw what he cannot - fears most of all?"

The Great Being did not answer.

Silence stretched over the small endless space the word should have been spoken into through his voice.

Mata Nui smiled.

"Leave." he ordered. "There is no place in this world for a god that treats its people like toys."

Velika lunged forward and grasped the Ignika in his hands.

By the time other beings arrived drawn in by the horrid noises, the body writhing and raving had lost its limbs, its bones, maybe even its skin. It clung to the golden artifact still somehow, trying desperately to claw at it, break it, unleash its wrath upon it as it continued to mutate the creature into something less and less able to function the longer it remained latched upon its surface by its own stubborn volition; it howled wordlessly, voice cawing through what was supposed to be its mouth in a garbled attempt at speaking, but there was no mind behind the gruesome wailing - just a violent, infinite, senseless anger.

It shrieked at them when they rushed to put it down, partly frightened to death by it, partly trying to spare it from the anguished existence it was bound to go on to live - screamed something, something that could have been 'obedience', or close enough.

Mata Nui did not stir from sleep.

[fruitsofhell]

Started watching one of the 10 million FNAF VHS series instead of doing homework, and its (purposeful) garbage cheap edutainment game vibes reminded me of the not garbage but aesthetically unpolished soley in the UI department and nothing else game Sheep Raiders for the PS1. And then it made me think, man I should make an analog horror series about sheep raiders cause I'm the one person on earth who cares about it. But then I actually started having these really deep thoughts about the spirit of childhood media consumption that analog horror twists into fear -- that like, 'I saw something OFF in a game/cartoon that wasn't supposed to happen and maybe I'm the only one who ever did!!' But also that can be a very comforting and fun emotion in a way...

My love of Sheep Raiders is because it incidentally intersects two things I care a lot about - early 3D game aesthetics and Looney Tunes - in a very beautiful but ultimately goofy way and it feels very made for me in that sense. Things like its dumb looking menus reinforce the fact that it is a niche unpolished project made for god knows what market that has found itself lodged in my brain. Sometimes you look at a game you never played and you just know had you the chance to play it as a child you would have lived in it effectively. And I think what makes a good creepypasta/analog horror thing appealing is that it reminds you a bit of that feeling when you've seen something unpolished enough times that its quirks and skips stand out to you more and more, and you can find something unsettling in that with reflection. I did not grow up on VHS tapes but I did grow up almost exclusively on movie disks that I would watch so many times they began to skip, or that certain oddities of tone started to stick out to me, or that I felt like the characters and I had formed a bond.

I want to find more analog horror/creepypasta revival stuff that embraces that Way Children Interact With Media Fundamentally Differently niche. I think best example off the top of my head is Angel Hare, which I recommend not cause its super scary - its actually very not - but because of that it explores fictional character bonds and nostalgia more blatantly. I own one of their kickstarter plushes cause I just think the series is neat for that even if it gets kinda corny. It uses analog horror as a framework to tell a very different kind of story about PSA edutainment characters that is dear to some ideas I want to write about myself. Namely escapism and guardianship.

I guess to bring this back to FNAF -- someone recommend me a FNAF Analog Horror that is not super bad with the scopophobia and is about Michael/some kid re-examining their relationship to the animatronics as childhood fictional friends and mascots turned living nightmare and chariot of trauma!

[yoonyia]

I find it quite funny that I use so much religious sayings in my day to day life while also believing in none of them, if anybody walked in on me talking with my friends about religion all they would hear is me explaining Christianity and Buddhism the best I can because even tho they each believe in the religions themselves they do not know the history and motives for what they do are, it's also funny seeing what they thought each others religion was, one of my friends thought baptism was getting beaten with a Bible because they saw it in a game, and that crucifixion was having the cross nailed into you, like the cross itself is lodged into your stomach. These are such interesting perspectives and it's funny how wrong they are sure, but whats more intriguing is how ideas of a religion can be misinterpreted or mischaracterized. I grew up mostly in Korea and stayed a bit in the Chinese and Indian districts of Singapore (not district but like Singapore has areas of itself where the schools are primarily bilingual in a certain language and culture) so I never really saw a lot of Hindu or Muslim culture in my life and it fascinates me. I want to learn more about it but I really don't wanna read about it alone because I have no context in what is accurate to the community and what is not. But I really want to know.

I think that we all have an innate interest in the things we do not believe in, for some it may be trust for some it may be because you think the idea is stupid or the quality is bad, but you still take interest in it because it's fascinating and beautiful. I really do like the idea of religion and genuinely would like to believe in one but my brain just can't treat anything as a higher being because it knows everything is a higher being then itself so whats the use of God or enlightens,

they are better then all humanity but I'm worse then even humanity itself so it's like the difference of a million and billion to a person who never had or wanted money.

I confuse myself with my beliefs and how I see the world, I sound like I should be the most stubborn self depreciating soul in the world but I truely am not, such a wonder of the difference between belief and believing, I want to explore the limits of my understanding, how deep my love and empathy can flow, how open my heart is to the world and everyone in it. I can love everyone of them of course, I can feel sorrow with them and be happy with them but I want to understand. I want to know them and be them and see the world through their eyes for even just a single moment.

Call me greedy for wanting to live every life in the history of life but I really don't know what a better want could be.

[loungemermaid]

The Loneliest Time Chapter Three

Hearing of love growing up, I imagined this was a snap together, joining of souls moment. This cosmic change that marked life before and after. Maybe because we had our own befores, both little and big (before the Bread, before the Reaping, before the Confession, the Kissing, before the Berries) maybe I wouldn’t have a before the Rain moment. Maybe this one would be slower, the change becoming more evident later, when I looked back at this years later. I don’t know. I didn’t particularly know how to feel about all that, a future. How we were supposed to move forward. If it was all a game, all fake, then that would be easier, right? Play for the cameras and go back home and be however we were going to be. Everything could be planned, scripted even. I would know everything, rehearse every moment. With it being any kind of real, any real feelings… that leads to spontaneity. Spontaneity usually meant bad things for me. I close my eyes and see an arrow pierce an apple, wincing all over again. Yeah, I’m better with a plan.

October is spent in alternating bursts of orange and grey, the days feeling either endlessly urgent or resigned to its own complacency. No matter the weather, I go out hunting. All the babies born in spring are hale and hardy, full of life. Not all of them will make it through the winter. It’s nature, and part of being a hunter is to know how to tell. A careful gaze can tell you more than you might think. A misplaced beat of a wing, landing wrong on a jump. An overabundance of friendliness. All these things spell danger for these new rulers of the forest, the latest princes of survival. They’re always completely oblivious of this, of course. Their fathers all survived, why shouldn’t they?

A young buck with a limp walks right into my line of sight. I’m all set to aim, remembering what my father said. I’d be doing him a favor. Something else will eat him, and they won’t be nearly as nice about it. But I can’t. He looks at me, big deep eyes, then blinks, holds his head out almost like he’s bracing for it. My arrow lodges itself into the tree instead of his neck. I spent more time foraging that day, rounding up the last of the mushrooms and roots, and bagging a few turkeys as well. It ain’t much, not really. It doesn’t fill up the deer shaped hole in my gamebag, but it’ll get food on Hazelle’s table. I can still be good to someone.

The sky burns orange that night, slipping into blue earlier and earlier. Sometime soon I want to ask Peeta what color it is exactly. Maybe he always has but he especially sees the world now in blocks of color, impossibly fine brush strokes laying each one next to each other. We’ve talked about a few of them, but they jumble in my brain. I can remember titanium and cadmium, I can picture them mixed together, nearly glowing off the canvas, but I can’t recall which one’s yellow and which one’s white. I still like hearing about it.

We spend most of our time at night, which sounds more exciting than it is. It’s mostly talking, and talking about things that don’t matter. We don’t talk about us, whatever the “us” is. We talk about baking and hunting and painting, about nightmares. If it ever is serious, sometimes about nosy and disapproving mothers.

[humantea]

A little Harry du Bois I doodled during a lecture instead of listening to my prof

[jimlingss]

Hi! Here’s a request for your Drabble game: namjoon + fantasy au + “Take this seriously, it’s a life or death situation!” Can be funny or angsty and sorry if this request is too specific haha

Anonymous said: Hello Kina! I love literally all of your works! Can I request this prompt? “That’s barbaric.” “That’s how you survive.” Any member!

Anonymous said: zombie au with any member ?

Zombies count as fantasy, right? lol

↳ The Unintended

2.5k || 50% Angst, 50% Fluff || Kim Namjoon || Zombie Apocalypse!AU

You’re lucky to have Namjoon by your side.

He’s always been the outdoorsy type. One of your first dates together was a camping trip in the wilderness. You remember being mortified then — having no place to do your makeup or properly shower or be able to make yourself look good for him. But now you look back on the memories with fondness. He didn’t care back then and he doesn’t care now.

Not to mention, Namjoon was also a boy scout for eight years. When he got too old for that, he took up rock climbing and spent hours in the gym to beef up his arms. It’s where you met him in the first place as a receptionist at the gym where you were working part-time while going to school.

He knows how to fish. How to set up traps. How to start a campfire. 

Namjoon’s saved your life countless times.

But then again, he’d argue you’ve saved him lots of times too. Years of schooling to become a nurse wasn’t wasted on you after all. And you’re the better cook than he is.

“Look what I caught!”

You look up from the fire where your dear husband is holding a usual fish. But in his other hand is a rabbit held by its ears, dead. It’s dripping of blood, limp in his grip and you feel a twinge of guilt.

“That’s barbaric.”

“That’s how you survive,” he says. “I’ll prepare it to roast.”

You hum, taking the fish from him and the pair of you fall into routine. Namjoon works alongside you to prepare the food, poking the fire interchangeably and the both of you looking up once in a while through the thicket of the forest. 

After a moment, you pipe up, “Hey.”

Namjoon glances up at you and says “hey” with a tender, dimpled smile. 

The corner of your mouth quirks without being able to resist. “I’ve been thinking we should get on the move again. I saw a cottage down the road on our way here. Maybe we could check it out.”

“It’s probably already been ransacked.”

“Yeah, but it’ll be nice to sleep with a roof over our heads. I don’t want you to stay up and have to keep watch.”

“We take turns.”

You give Namjoon a look. “You never wake me up for my turn.”

He smiles sheepishly and you put your blunt knife down, quickly growing solemn. “I’m serious, Joon. It’s not good for your health to not sleep and I can’t— I can’t have you breaking down on me.”

Namjoon softens when he recognizes your distressed tone, when he sees your expression marred with worry. “Okay,” he murmurs gently. “We’ll leave tomorrow morning then.”

You nod and the two of you fall into a comfortable silence. 

As the fish and rabbit are roasted over the blazing fire, smoke fills your nose and you cough before batting it away. You’re starving — in general, you’ve been feeling weak these days but you don’t dare say anything to Namjoon. God knows what he’s putting himself through to make you feel as comfortable as you can. 

You don’t want to worry him even more.

But you can’t hide your groan or sickly expression when the fish you’re supposed to eat comes up to your mouth.

Namjoon’s immediately alarmed and wide-eyed. “What’s wrong? Is it bad?”

You hand the stick that’s pierced with the fish over to him while cupping your mouth, trying not to vomit. “I’m sorry. It just smells really bad.”

“I made it the exact same way before.” He frowns and bites into the fish that’s still steaming. Namjoon chews in his cheek. “It tastes fine, Y/N.”

You shake your head. “I’m good. I’ll have the rabbit.”

But as you shift over, your husband’s eyes bore into your profile.

Namjoon stares at you. He gawks.

Then his mouth opens and he says— “Are you pregnant?”

Your eyes double and you look back at him. But then you scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

You look away from him, picking at the meat, but you swallow hard in the meanwhile, mind racing. It’s not possible. It shouldn’t be possible. You haven’t had your period for three months — but you didn’t think twice about it. Not when there were more pressing matters. Not when you just assumed it stopped because you haven’t had your nutrients and you’ve been starving.

Namjoon knows the gears in your head are turning by your expression. He knows after years of being together.

“Y/N.”

“I already said it’s not possible.”

“There’s a city ten miles away from here. It’ll take half a day to walk there, but there should be a pharmacy or a hospital—”

“We are not going to the city,” you interrupt in exasperation. “It’s a death sentence, Namjoon, and we’re fine out here.”

“Not if you’re pregnant.”

“I’m not.” You deflate with an annoyed sigh. “I know my body best, alright? So just drop it.”

Namjoon stays silent. 

The rustling leaves of the forest and the distant sound of the river rushing fills the growing space between the two of you. And it sinks in how harsh and upset you got. You look up towards your husband with remorseful eyes. The last thing you want is to fight out here. Who knows when it could be your last moment together. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. I was just worried.”

You nod. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

Yet deep down, uncertainty swirls and you’re green with nausea again.

...

It took a year to happen.

At first, it was called a flu outbreak. Authorities kept it contained for a few weeks until it wasn’t anymore. Within the span of another week, it was declared a worldwide pandemic and entire countries went into quarantine. 

Life itself shut down. People complained and protested, and when thousands started to drop dead, there were protests for lack of government action. Then, it was millions dead.

Developing countries fell first. It didn’t take long after that for developed nations to follow.

Chaos. Panic. Looting. The dead walking the streets.

You still get nightmares about it. Namjoon does too — when he’s holding you and suddenly jolts awake, gasping. It’s then and there that you know he’s had a nightmare of one of the many close calls.

“I thought the cottage was closer than this.”

The both of you are trekking through the forest, lugging your bags and weapons, trying to remain as quiet and elusive as possible. 

Namjoon looks over his shoulder. “Do you need a break?”

You shake your head. “I’m fine.”

“It should be up ahead.”

You hum, feeling the heat of the sun beating down on you. But it’s still better now with the canopy of the trees hiding you. It’s refreshing even. You admire the unfamiliar scenery. 

All at once, you stop. None of this should be unfamiliar.

Namjoon doesn’t hear the crunch of leaves behind him and turns around.

“This isn’t the direction of the cottage, is it?”

“Y/N.”

Your brows furrow deep enough to hurt. “I already said we’re not going to the city, Namjoon! Why don’t you ever listen to me?!”

Suddenly, there’s snarling in the distance. Namjoon, on alert, clasps his palm over your mouth and both sets of your eyes flicker over. There’s a shadow in the distance, a lurching figure amongst the trees. It snarls again, jerking a bit in your direction, but then no sounds follow. 

It passes.

You breathe a sigh of relief.

“We have to go eventually, Y/N,” he whispers. “We need more supplies and if I can get my hands on a car, that would help us.”

“But—”

Your husband gingerly takes your hand, cradling it softly. “We’ll be careful.”

You gaze at him, searching his expression as if you’re painting his features to the forefront of your mind. But you already have. Yet, it’s not enough to feel comforted. “I can’t lose you, Namjoon. I can’t.”

Namjoon reaches out to hug you, embracing your body, frame overtaking yours.

You grasp onto his shoulders, trying to savour the moment and capture his warmth.

“You won’t. Not if I can help it.”

You nod into his chest.

The trek to the city is completed by afternoon and you find yourself standing in the remains of what was once civilization. There are decayed buildings, abandoned tanks, and much to Namjoon’s delight, many deserted cars. You see zombies bumbling around too. They’ve infested every corner street, every line of the road, and alley, nook and cranny. 

Their bodies are decaying, some with skulls lodged in half and their brain unraveling behind them. You have to hold back a gag when you can smell the rotten odour from here.

Luckily, you and Namjoon move quickly. You throw bricks and bottles at a distance to attract them and run the opposite way together.

First, you get to the small grocery store, opening your backpacks for the spare cans of beans and peas. It’s not much, but it’s a lot at this point. Namjoon even manages to score bandages.

“This is enough,” you murmur when you’re back on the open street again.

But before you can move on out, he stops. “Wait.”

You follow Namjoon’s line of sight. Across the street is a pharmacy and a horde of infected.

You pull your husband back before he can book it and the both of you hide behind discarded crates on the road. “Wait, why?”

“You know why. There were none in the grocery store. I checked, but if there’s any place that has them, it’s there.”

If looks could kill, Namjoon would be six feet under and then crawling out of his grave as a zombie. Maybe as the first one who wasn’t bitten or infected by the virus. “You’re being an idiot.” 

Namjoon grins. “Well, I was thinking of just shouting a battle cry and running straight in there.”

“Take this seriously,” you hiss and punch his arm. It does little to even push him back, much less hurt him. It doesn’t help that his muscles are rock solid. If only his brain was as developed — but if you were being honest, Namjoon was quite intelligent too. Except for right now. “It’s a life or death situation.”

Namjoon smiles, practically from ear to ear. 

The dimples on each side of his cheek crease and before you can react or say much else, he leans in and captures your lips with his. It’s a soft and sweet kiss. Then your husband cradles your face in his hand and tilts your head to deepen the kiss. You’re rendered to complete silence, melting into his touch as he takes your breath away. 

When he pulls from you, your lashes flutter.

You’re completely dazed. 

Until he grabs a rock near your foot and chucks it. It smashes into the window of a nearby boutique, glass shattering and all the zombies turn their heads. They snarl at a high pitch, screeching out as flounder towards the noise. Namjoon darts behind them, right out of your grasps.

You’d shout his name if it didn’t mean your own death sentence.

The wait is agonizing. You feel like you’re going to get a heart attack as you watch the door, unsure if he’ll come out. Even if he does, you don’t know if he’ll still be human and the Namjoon that you love. The one that you decided to marry, that you saw on the other end of the aisle and who cried like a dork when he saw you in the dress. 

Those years feel like another world. But they’re still memories you cherish.

The five minutes feels like an hour. You’re cursing, praying, regretting.

But then the buff idiot, your idiot, comes out and runs back to you with a massive grin. Uninjured. With bottles of penicillin, some kind of allergy medicine, and a pregnancy test you grimace at.

You seek refuge at an apartment building on the edge of the city.

It’s an expensive one that was fenced in and boarded up — one of the last to fall to the ruins.

You choose a room on the second floor that’s easy to get into and easy to escape if need be. Unfortunately a zombie lurches out from one of the rooms much to your horror, but Namjoon kills it. He takes his hatchet right into its skull and checks the other rooms before dragging the corpse out when you look nauseous again.

When it’s all over, Namjoon dusts his hands off like it was just some spring cleaning.

“What happens if I really am pregnant?”

You hold the test, motionless, until your head lifts to meet Namjoon’s softened eyes. There’s an overwhelming urge not to take it, to throw the box out the window and keep convincing yourself that it would be impossible to be carrying. But Namjoon risked his life for this.

And you know he won’t let it go. Not until an answer is certain.

“Then we’ll figure it out,” he murmurs gently.

“I can’t give birth on my own, Namjoon.”

“I know.”

“If the baby even makes it that far,” you whisper and he grimaces. But what worries you far more, what’s put you in so much denial, and made you sick with terror is the fact that you know— “I’ll slow you down even more, Namjoon.”

His brows furrow, lips becoming lopsided. “You don’t slow me down.”

“How many times have you almost died trying to save me?! I-I can’t keep up.”

At once, Namjoon engulfs you with his arms. He holds you close, body flush against yours and you press your face into his broad shoulder, smothering your worries for a moment with his soothing comfort.

“I love you,” he sighs against your ear. “No matter what happens, I love you. There wouldn’t be a reason for me to keep living if you weren’t here, Y/N. I’m only trying this hard because you are. You’re my purpose now. You and this baby, if it’s real.”

Your fingers clutch onto his jacket, hanging onto your husband as your anchor. “Shut up,” you mumble against his clothes. “You know I hate it when you talk like this. Like you’re saying goodbye.”

Namjoon smiles faintly, remembering how you made him promise to never say goodbye. “Sorry.”

He lets you go and you turn into the bathroom.

The minutes that follow are excruciating. Maybe you’re just impatient, but you’ve grown to hate waiting. But still, you wait by yourself while kneeling on the cold, tiled floors, staring at the stick you peed on.

It’s faint. And you pray your eyes are wrong. But as the minutes go by, it becomes stronger and stronger in colour.

You leave and Namjoon looks at you expectedly. 

“Well?”

You thrust the stick towards him. Two lines.

[tumbleranch-dorm]

I’m a re-introduced to my fandorm again bcuz my stupid brain had a second thought of polishing my blog & redo everything from the first post so I’ll be updating my ocs bio’s and doing this again (P.S. it’s gonna be a long post)

Howdy folks an’ Welcome to Tumbleranch Dormitory! (タンブルランチ寮)

Founded by the vainglorious (自惚れた), endowed with a notorious reputation of an outlaw of the West and is inspired by the world of Home on the Range

The students are a bit unruly and sharp-witted, forcing out their rebellious behavior from playing by its rules and to the public’s critics, keening to seek thrills on dangerous events occasionally, commit dangerous mischief on their own free will but despite the overall subversive characteristics, people are industrious, dependable and as unexpectedly talented intending to boast their skills heart out. Moreover, they do possess a top-notch prowess either defensive and offensive magic also in practices in gunslinging

Of course we do need regulations if ever goes too far with an oath of head (with vice) taken the responsibilities to teach seize problematic students to stay out of trouble by any means necessary force for the sake of NRC’s well being, following a SIMPLE regulation is a BIG must! and people do be careful having them to be part of your friends circle as they’ll drag you to their buffoonery situation or rather alleviate them not to get reckless

Anyone’s social background won’t matter whether you’re noble, town folks, or farm folks because here we have liberation on our side and anyone are familiarize western culture to show off that cowboy rules in Twisted Wonderland

Once you are sorted here, each and everyone are encouraged to work in the mines

Leadership Qualification: Traditionally, a student must be industrious and sharp-witted of all their peers

The color scheme is Brown & Orange

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

Dorm Settings

The dorm itself is similar to Savanaclaw’s dry land environment but with greenery, trees, and cacti’s on the sideline. The students will be living the interior of a high rocky mountain and the dorm itself has an underground mines[1]

(just going to show bunch of pics demonstrating how the dorm presents because I’m not that best at drawing much of it’s landscape ;-; so let’s just use our imagination instead, shall we? djfjfjfjr)

DORM ROOMS

Imagine this is how our dorm rooms will look like except it doesn’t look abandoned but a nice cabin houses carried upon with supportive planks & cliffs, with stairs, bridges connecting to the other cabins, and also a minecart railway tracks[2]

COMMON ROOM

The common room inside is like lodge cabin where can people can relax and able to concentrate their studies if ever suggesting to have study groups with your friends in a quite place is our common room

MINES

The underground mines called “DARK HALLOW MINES” has few levels deep but mainly 3 levels are acceptable to mine and the dorm head will decide where the miners be held in each, depending the capabilities of the students. It’s possible the dorm head will allow them to choose willingly

First Level: Miners rather insist mining the old-fashioned way without magic but can only use regular mining tools

Second Level: Miners are permitted to use magic but also still use the mining tools

Third Level: Only miners are capable to manage small amount of explosive dynamites and also can use their magic as well

Furthur Levels: these parts are off limits to mine here. In truth, these levels are quite mystery or unknown to people’s knowledge that aren’t yet discovered but have been told it’s prohibited to go any further deep. Various rumors were spreading across our dorm telling they’re might full of surprises and mysteries: curses, evil spirits/monsters lingering around, a student step foot the forbidden area and never came back alive, many centuries people died there and etc. you guessed it! anyone couldn’t imagine what lurks down the deeper levels. Sometimes a group of students did a popular game “Kimodameshi” (test of courage) of going there. Most were well-convinced to stay out while some rather ignored and ready to see what’s beyond, nevertheless and since the mines are wide enough and has tons of tunnels, anyone could get themselves lost easily here even retracing footsteps would be futile

However there is a different way to enter & exit Tumbleranch instead of using the Halls of Mirror. Another long tunnel oddly connected to the dwarf’s mines (in the prologue chapter) but there’s a catch, there’ll be a debris wall blocking its path once reaches a dead end. But in fact, it’s not. It’s reveal to be a practical wall but in illusion where it’s made by an unknown magic user. Any outsiders nor students ever knew this path to the dwarf’s mine exists and with that, it is better not worth discovering the secret entrance to our dormitory unless you intentionally want to get to the dwarf’s mines (inferior level), facing off hundreds of ghosts and stumbled an illusional wall by accident

PRIVATE SALOON

Our dorm has its own private saloon called “THE ROWDY HORDE” and is located below the dorm cabins. The inside is lively, many students always comes here just for hangout with friends just after accomplishing their mining jobs or class as a reward for everyone’s hard work. It also does have a stage where anyone can enjoy performing, dancing, or playing music with their hearts out

Here in Rowdy Horde mainly serve root beer floats but only 18 above gets to drink root beer while other additional drinks available for minors like apple cider, milkshake, and cherry soda. Unlike what Octavinelle served, each beverages costs 50 maddols each

This saloon is supposed to be private and kept to itself. Everyone must not spread information about our saloon to other dormitories but if any other dormitory students knew & wanted to visit here at least few companions are permitted of coming here much as they like but in a condition to keep a secret from the headmaster and school staffs

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

Uniform References

Dorm:

Brown and orange cowboy hat, blue bandana around the neck. Wearing lighter orange long sleeve with yellow buttons, and suede open vest with two patch pockets both chest sides (dorm logo on the right) with orange frills and dark blue running stitches. On top of the shirt, wearing a large blaze color shawl with orange frills.

Brown chaps pants and shingle fawn denim pants with running stitches and on the waist is an ebony buckle. The footwear is brown and black tip toed cowboy boots and has light metal locks for ankle and foot.

Also everyone are allowed to costumize the uniform as you like! :D

Work:

The miners are wearing navy blue overalls with bull strap hook and deep blue running stitch, white shirt, blue scarf, black and deep blue tan gloves as well as boots. Also, in addition to wearing a navy blue mining cap for safety

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

Main Weapons

Magic Gun (Magic Pen)

Only those who sorted in Tumbleranch can shift their magic pen to a gun holding weapon than any other dormitory could. It may seem unpleasant for a mere student but this can be useful to master their aims both through magic and bullets. Moreover, anyone can customize what type of gun they wanted to look like, anything that represents them. The bullets are limitless and rest assured it aren’t just regular bullets except it does contain elemental magic (fire, water, plant) same as using the magic pen. One or two shots will make an impact of a physical pain/sting in themselves and their opponents. Students tends to practice shooting at the colosseum (TEST) in battles/duals or survival war game in a group but only Tumbleranch are allowed to fight like this but if they wanted the traditional way, they may fight with pens

Lasso

A typical weapon tend to use for capturing, tied, and taming your peers by a lasso. It’s up to students if they want to bring along with them in their dorm uniform

Dynamite/Bombs

Yes, some students may use whether small or large size dynamites/bombs useful for special counter attack at their opponents only during in battles

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

Dorm Members from left to right:

Ebenizer Blackburn — a 2nd year bison whom had called himself the strongest delinquent amongs delinquents in NRC. Throwing fits at anything by unknown reason and often involves in fights with Savanaclaw because of the “inferiority” but despite being the terrifying bad boy, he’s fully loyal and trusted to be the dorm head’s bodyguard

Clinton Hollingsbeck (vice head) — a 2nd year vice head who wouldn’t stand wasting precious time in everything often looking at his pocket watch, wishing the students of Tumbleranch would act a head of time without much slacks. He’s very serious of the responsibilities of running and taking care Tumbleranch together with his business partner, the leader also taken the position being the head’s right-hand man so everything he worked so hard to change this problematic dorm to be perfect

Ferdrick Y’Oddel (dorm head) — a narcissistic 3rd year & a leader who thinks too highly of himself and his favorite talent of yodeling sometimes would subconsciously share or praise his favorite legend non-stop to his peers and would show off how fearless “the great outlaw” was than any other legends. Most of his students were disturbed by his sadistic nature from time to time but what terrifies them most is when he’s furious while holding his favorite weapon: branding iron

Hunter McGriffin — a 3rd year who’s truly mysterious and difficult to interpret. Hardly understand emotions of himself and expressing it. He hardly speak like a normal person but slower in few words (especially hard to talk about himself) and hard to read his expression & atmosphere around him because of his bandana/mask but somehow shows intimidation and his movements is overwhelmingly quick

Cole Brantley — deranged but strangely a genius invetor of a 1st year and has the love of inventing different kinds of bombs. With a little bit of smartness & childish act, he likes to test out his inventions by decent pranks and anyone he hangs out with but when it comes to the dorm head, he shows an awkward and timid side infront of him

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

[1] The secret lair “Echo Mines” is where the villain lives in the movie

[2] This was inspired during the cart chase scene and also going to be a good idea for the rhythm game

[purplesauris]

A World In Monochrome

My brain is firing on like, almost all cylinders to pump out all of the sweet sweet ideas I obsess over. This one stemmed from playing the game and realizing that Cat causes total loss of color from Geralt’s sight until the potion wears off 

Enjoy it on AO3 here!

Geralt hated fiends. Well, he can’t say that with any honesty- for as brutal and base as they appeared, there was an elegance to them. They left people alone for the most part, content to wander their forests, caves or swamps, and only attacked if necessary. They were huge yet moved with incredible speed, and if necessary, their third eye opened, stunning and allowing them a chance to escape. To be compared to a fiend among friends was almost a compliment. 

What he hated most about them was how often they took him into caves; the dank, musty smell of old corpses and fiend dung clung to him for days after he’d finished the hunt, and he couldn’t carry a torch with him to light the cave. Not that he hadn’t tried when he was young and just set out on the Path. After too many times plunging into darkness without anything to light, Geralt prepared himself more carefully. Relict oil for his blade, Thunderbolt and Swallow on his belt, and Cat, choked down at the last minute to give himself all the time he needed. 

He hasn’t fought anything cave dwelling in a while, and isn’t expecting anything out of the ordinary when he takes his latest contract. Jaskier had wanted to bargain for a higher price, since this was Skellige and the fare back to Velen was expensive, but Geralt couldn’t. Mutation’s took all Witcher’s feelings people claimed, but his heart had gone out to Ohden, worried over his son, and he gave Jaskier a glance to keep him quiet. Jaskier hadn’t pushed, just hummed thoughtfully and thanked the man for his account of where to start. 

That was another thing that Geralt hadn’t expected. When Geralt told Jaskier he was headed to Skellige for the summer he fully expected Jaskier to disappear wherever he goes for the winter. Instead, he was met by Jaskier waiting on the docks, bag slung over his shoulder and lute clutched against his front. He’d only complained of seasickness in the first two days, and spent the rest of their trek across the sea singing bawdy sea shanties and learning new ones from the crew to delight whatever crowd he could find in Skellige. Geralt had spent his time making potions and sharpening his blade, sat atop a barrel to keep a sharp eye on the bard under his care. He tried to look casual, but half the crew gave him a wide berth and the others stared in open hostility. The only thing keeping them somewhat friendly was Jaskier and that magnetic charisma he seemed to exude. 

“Stay here.” Jaskier perked up at the sound of Geralt’s voice, then rolled his eyes. 

“Geralt, how am I supposed to tell of your exploits if I never get to go?”

“How are you going to if you follow me and die?” Geralt’s throat tightens at the thought, and his voice sounds particularly grating when he talks through it. “You’re staying here.”

“At least let me see you track. I’ve never seen that even!”

“No.” Jaskier gave him a look, blue eyes glancing up just so through his lashes, and Geralt’s heart gives a wild leap at that. He sighs wearily, rolling out his shoulders. “Fine.”

“Yes!”

“But-” Geralt silences him, eyes narrowing a bit. He hears Jaskier breathe in sharply, but finds him staring with that same eager intensity. “If I let you come, you have to promise you’ll run if I tell you.”

Jaskier grins, eyes sparkling, and bows low at the waist. “As you command, White Wolf.” 

Geralt finds someone to care for Roach while they’re away, and only has to narrow his eyes to ensure she’ll be taken care of and their stuff won’t be plundered. Skelligers are hardy, but even they know not to mess with a witcher, let alone Geralt. Geralt heads southeast, toward where Ohden had gestured to, and it isn’t long until he finds footprints. They’re from a male, that much he can tell, and that puts him on the right track. 

They hike in relative silence for a while, Geralt occasionally pointing out a footprint that Jaskier would be able to see and explaining when Jaskier seems lost on how Geralt is leading them. The dirt road becomes pebbly a couple of miles later, and it’s then that Geralt spots the crumbling castle ahead of them and smells blood. 

“Quiet.” Geralt hisses, Jaskier trying his best to stay as quiet as he can. Geralt’s silver sword slides free from his sheathe with nary a whisper, and he rolls his wrist, careful not to hit the bard behind him. He can hear breathing, heavy and bovine, and he creeps forward, Jaskier at his back. Geralt slips through a gap in a broken wall, nostrils flaring as the scent of decay and musk hits him. He holds out a hand, telling Jaskier to stop, and moves a bit further into the clearing of what used to be a courtyard. The ground near the south wall is saturated in blood, and flies buzz around it, grating to his ears. 

He straightens up a bit, casting a glance around; whatever caused the gore doesn’t seem to be here, and this is the best lead he’s gotten so far. Gravel crunches behind him and he whips around, Jaskier freezing as the sight of Geralt, pupils mere slits and nostrils flared. “Nothing then?”

“I told you to wait.” 

“Right, except I couldn’t see anything and I-” Jaskier’s eyes are pinned on the background behind him, and the hairs on the back of Geralt’s neck raise. His medallion hums angrily against his chest, and the sharp, eye watering scent of a fiend hits him hard. 

“GO!” Is all he can say before throwing up Quen, grunting as the barrier around him crystallizes and shatters, having effectively warded off the fiend’s first charge. He won’t have time for a second, and all he can hope is that Jaskier heeded his command as he dives out of the way of a second charge. It’s a narrow window at best, and Geralt rolls to his knees, throwing a plume of fire in front of him. He almost chokes on the scent of burnt fur, the fiend roaring and hopping back a couple of steps. Geralt downs a dose of thunderbolt while he has a chance, throwing the glass away. He can come back and hope it isn’t broken later.

He falls into the fighting as easily as breathing, spinning on his toes and grunting at the twinge that goes through his knee and up his thigh. So it’s going to be like that. He can ignore it for now, and a dose of Blizzard has his blood singing and muscles working double time as he whirls and dodges the blows that the fiend throws. The fiend seems slow as Geralt hacks at the black and white patterned hide, tiring with the effort of trying to hit a target that won’t stop moving. This fiend is old, Geralt can tell just by the scarred hide and brutal efficiency in which he goes after his target. 

Geralt can tell that the fiend is almost done for, blood oozing out of multiple cuts that regenerate before his eyes. He finds his opening when a well placed shot of Igni has the monster stumbling back, Geralt lunging to drive his sword through the beast’s skull. A flash of red catches Geralt’s attention, and he watches with a helpless kind of fury as the fiends third eye flares open, stopping his blow in its tracks. The fiend swings a meaty paw and sends him flying back into the wall of the abandoned keep, Geralt wheezing as the air is knocked out of him. His scabbards dig roughly into his back, sure to leave bruises later, but they might have just saved his spine. 

In the time it takes Geralt to stumble to his feet, gasping for air, the fiend has fled the field, out of the ruins. He’s off like a shot, following the scent of blood and decay and singed fur through the rest of the ruins and down the bank of the river. It’s there he finds a cave, reeking of gore and pitch black. 

“Fuck.” Of course he’s going to have to use Cat. He downs the potion as quickly as he can, not wanting to give the fiend more time to recover than is necessary. He skids down the rocky entrance as color leeches from his sight, every inch of the cave lit up in a murky haze. The fiend is crouched in the corner, tearing away at the entrails of some poor soul. This time the fiend won’t surprise him, and Geralt leaps onto the offensive, slashing a gaping wound through the beast’s left flank. It should slow the beast down enough, and Geralt is already leaping away when the beast roars and swings wildly behind itself.

Geralt dispatches it with another quick blow to the throat, silver blade digging in so deep that he lodges against bone for a moment. Geralt isn’t a fan of denting his blades, but the fiend has fought long enough, and Geralt just wants a quick end to the fight. He pants as the fiend twitches, crashing to the ground and eyes rolling sightlessly. One last blow ends the fiends suffering and severs the rest of the head- he’ll need it if he’s going to prove he killed the beast. A quick glance around the cave shows that this was definitely what was killing all of the travelers on the road, and though he can’t see it, he highly suspects that the lighter tone of the tunic he spies has to be yellow. He cuts a swatch to bring back with him, and drags the beast’s head up and out of the cave. 

                                                          -*-

Jaskier had scrambled to climb the ladder when Geralt had yelled for him to run. He’d noticed it earlier when they first came in, and figured height would be a good advantage against whatever had charged at Geralt. Watching the fight was better than anything Geralt could have described, and Jaskier takes it in with reckless abandon. The way that Geralt’s hair had flown about him as he spun, the sun glinting off his blade. The way that his shield, brilliant orange in the light had shattered after the first charge. 

He’s going to have the best ballad to write when they get back to town, and already a melody builds in his throat. He hums it while he watches, nervous to see Geralt go up against such an impossibly large foe. He trusts that the witcher knows what he’s doing, and he winces, gripping the craggy wall as Geralt crashes into it just below his hiding place. A normal man would have snapped his spine from the impact alone, but Geralt struggles to his feet and runs off, following the fiend wherever it fled to. 

Well, he can’t miss this, can he? Jaskier creeps down the ladder, stooping to pick up the vial Geralt had tossed aside earlier before plodding after where the two disappeared. He isn’t able to leap off ledges like Geralt can, so he has to pick his way down the side of the ruin and hope he doesn’t trip and fall. By the time he makes it down to the bank and follows Geralt’s footprints he can hear the dying bray and gurgle of a large animal. It comes from a cave in the hillside, and Jaskier is loath to go inside. Especially if it smells as bad as he thinks it will. 

“Right, uh, I guess I should get a bit closer…” The bard says, not moving an inch from where he’s standing, staring down into the pitch black of the cave. 

“No, you shouldn’t.” The voice has no owner for a moment, ragged and deep, and it takes Jaskier longer than he’d like to admit to recognize it. 

“Geralt? Are you alright? I’m coming in, let me just-”

“No.” Geralt’s voice is sharp enough to stop Jaskier in his tracks, and he wrings his hands together in a nervous habit. “Go back to town.”

“I can’t just leave you here, what if a-a bandit or something were to come?” There’s a rough chuckle, and Jaskier thinks he spies a lock of white hair, dyed pink at the ends by blood. “Geralt, come out? Please?”

                                                         -*-

Of course the bard had followed. Geralt had asked one thing, one thing of him, and wasn’t even granted that. He had hidden at least, because Geralt had no clue where he’d gone in the rush of the fight. He doesn’t want to step out into the sun, not while everything is too much, too bright, but the longer he stays down here the worse it’ll be to adjust. And the more likely it will be that Jaskier comes in anyway, despite the stench he knows keeps the man away for now. 

“Move.” Is all the warning the bard gets before Geralt tosses the head out of the cave, listening to the dull thud of its landing and the sharp yelp Jaskier lets out at the sight. He limps from the cave as his knee gives another sharp twinge of discomfort, hissing at the brightness of the sun filling his eyes. It blinds him- leaves everything in washed out shades of white and grey and he hates it. The wildflowers bunched around the rocky ground sway in the wind, but Geralt can’t see their true colors. He knows the stems should be green, the flowers a pale blue or white, given the local flora, but all he sees is three different shades of black and white. 

He hears a sharp intake of breath near where he tossed the head, and his body goes taut, attention snapping to the source of the noise. Jaskier stares at him, eyes wide and pupils blown wide within what Geralt knows should be blue irises. But they aren’t. They’re so pale they almost blend with the whites of his eyes, and Geralt’s heart drops into his stomach. Jaskier’s heart pounds a frantic, steady rhythm in Geralt’s ears, and his scent, usually so dominated by lavender, has taken on an edge of what Geralt can only describe as cloying spice. He isn’t sure what it means, at least for Jaskier, and he draws in another breath, trying to sniff discreetly, or as discreetly as a witcher hopped up on potions can. 

Jaskier reaches out for him then, to lend him a hand or- he doesn't know what- and Geralt flinches. He can see the hurt in Jaskier’s eyes, can smell the scent of dying roses on him, and he struggles to push words from a throat more ready to strangle him than talk. 

“Potions.” He looks at Jaskier again, eyes searching every inch of him for any sign of blood or injury, and grinds his teeth in frustration when he can’t differentiate the difference between what’s the stitching of his doublet and what’s the silky chemise underneath. They’re all the same color. 

“Oh.” Jaskier sighs out, breathy and soft, and that confuses Geralt more than his lack of color or his racing heart. “Do you need anything right now? Water, stitches?”

“Stitches?” He manages to mumble, taking a step back into the cave where it isn’t so damn bright. 

Jaskier’s lips quirk in a soft smile, and he shrugs. “I can’t see if you’re hurt. So, stitches?”

“No. White honey?” Jaskier winces, shooting Geralt a sympathetic look. 

“Back in the packs, I think. Should I go fetch it?”

The offer is tempting; Geralt’s heart is still racing and every nerve in him screams that Jaskier is an enemy and he can’t fucking see color, but he doesn’t want Jaskier to leave. Not with his humanity still crumbling within him as he tries desperately to hold himself together enough to talk. He closes his eyes, hoping that taking away one sense will help with the noise in his head, but he’s not sure anything will help right now.

“No. Gotta meditate.” 

“Well, come out of the cave then, I’m sure you’d rather not smell whatever it is that’s in there.”

“Bright.” He hears Jaskier chuckle, and the soft shuffle of fabric and leather creaking as Jaskier moves toward him. The thought makes him want to run deeper into the cave, where he can’t do anything that might scare the bard off, but something warm and reeking of lavender is being draped over his head. The light burning through his eyelids lessens immediately, and he gasps as Jaskier gently takes his hands. His grip is iron on Jaskier’s poor hands, but the bard doesn’t protest or pull away, just talks soft and low. 

“Do you trust me?”

Does he? He tries to think of all the reasons he shouldn’t trust the bard, but fails to come up with anything meaningful. “Yes.”

“How long till this wears off?”

“Couple hours, maybe more.”

“Okay. Let’s head back for the keep, it’s a bit safer I think. Can you carry the uh, head?”

Geralt nods, and Jaskier leads him over. Geralt can navigate by the scent alone, but he doesn’t want to let go of Jaskier if he can help it, and uses one hand to lug the head along by the horns. Jaskier leads him up the path he must have taken to get down, and settles him in the shade underneath a small ledge. He only lets go of Jaskier’s hand once he knows they aren’t going to move again for a while. 

“Okay, go ahead and meditate, I’ll keep watch and let you know if I see or hear something.” Jaskier goes to move a few steps away, but Geralt’s hand shoots out, gripping his wrist. 

“Stay here.” Jaskier’s heart gives a little stutter, but he laughs softly and settles down next to Geralt. It’s nice, Geralt decides, and though he doesn’t actually feel it much, he figures he has a right to complain. Blizzard has an apt name, both for making everything seem to go in slow motion, and for shooting ice through his veins.  “S’cold.”

“Fire?”

“Too noisy.” Jaskier hums for a second more before suddenly leaning against Geralt’s side. It’s near impossible to notice through the leather armor he wears, and must be wildly uncomfortable, but he can feel the heat seeping into him and his heart beats just a bit faster at their closeness. Jaskier being so close also drowns out any other scents around him, and slipping into his meditation is easier when he has one thing to focus on. It's also the closest that Jaskier has gotten to him in days, and he finds he misses the contact. He tries to shut out the noises around him, bouncing through his skull, but where Jaskier has settled them has created some kind of echo around him, and he grits his teeth. It might not be so easy after all.

Jaskier reaches for something, dragging it across the ground before the distinct sound of two metal clasps pops close by. A note is hummed, a string strummed, before Jaskier begins picking away in earnest. The song is new, one he's never heard before- or maybe he has? The melody picks at the edges of his brain, and he finds himself slipping into that trancelike state he was looking for. 

When he comes to a couple of hours later, dusk has fallen behind his lids, and he cracks an eye open experimentally. His heart and brain have calmed, and he doesn't feel nearly as cold as he did before. The potions have mostly worn off, except for the Cat, which should be gone in another half hour or so. He hopes.

For now, he'll just have to be content with the watery color bleeding slowly across his vision. Jaskier has stopped playing, lute tucked away, and has his jacket back on to ward himself from the cold. Now he scribbles in his notebook, tongue peeking out from between his lips as he concentrates on whatever he's writing.

"A new one?" His voice is rusty, and he clears his throat while Jaskier jumps, sitting up and clutching his book, cheeks red.

"You should warn a man you know, I could have done something drastic."

"Like what?" Geralt's lips quirk in a small smile, and he's glad he can somewhat recognize the teal of Jaskier's doublet again. Jaskier doesn't seem as amused, and pins him with a withering glance. "New song?"

He tries it again, hoping that showing interest will soften Jaskier's apparent anger. Jaskier regards him with suspicion for a moment more before sighing, nodding while also shrugging.

"I have a lovely new ballad coming, yes, but I was… drawing." Geralt hums low in his throat, nudging his companion and dipping his head toward the journal still clutched to Jaskier's chest. A silent question of can I see it? Jaskier hesitates, holding on a bit tighter before he sighs, holding it out for Geralt to take. "Don't laugh. Poetry was more my strong suit."

Geralt says nothing as he pulls off his gauntlets- they're covered in dried blood, and he doesn't want to ruin the page. Upon taking the journal and seeing what Jaskier has drawn, he almost wishes he had. It's a sketch of him, he can tell by the line of his jaw and the straightness of his nose, but he hates what else he sees. His eyes have been filled in with black, a spiderweb of inky veins creeping over his face and down his neck. His hands shake as he stares at himself immortalized in a state he never wanted Jaskier to see. He was too hopped up on potions to care at the time, but looking now, he feels his heart constrict. How could Jaskier touch him, sit beside him while he looked like this?

"Do you like it?"

"No." Shit, that's not what he meant to say. He glances up, can smell and see the hurt on Jaskier's face, and his throat tightens, strangling his words.

"Give it then, so you don't have to see it." Jaskier takes the book back quickly, closing it with a snap and standing up.  He grabs his lute case, slinging it across his back and pacing a few steps away. Ready to go back to town. Geralt struggles to his feet, his damn knee cracking painfully as he rises from his kneeling position. He has to take a second for it to settle before he can bear any weight.

"Jaskier-"

"Let's go, Geralt. I'm tired of being outside." He finds that hard to believe, seeing as they've only been out half the day, but Geralt doesn't know what to say and Jaskier doesn't want to hear it. Geralt follows him in stony silence, hoisting the fiends head away from the ground and wincing at the congealed blood that saturates the ground under it. It reeks. He's not sure how Jaskier could tolerate the smell, let alone sit by it for hours.

Geralt collects his reward from the grieving father and hands over the scrap of what he can now see is mostly yellow fabric. The man laments his son's fate, and Geralt can't do more than stand there and promise he was avenged. The man waves them off, wanting to be alone, and Jaskier heads off with a brisk comment about finding an inn for the night. Geralt goes to check on Roach and gather their things, wanting to give the bard time to cool off. He's brushing Roach down, sneaking her a couple sugar cubes when Jaskier comes to fetch him, leaning with his arms crossed against the doorframe. Geralt follows without complaint, refusing to let Jaskier carry his own pack despite the hand held out for it. 

The room in the inn is sparsely decorated, and there's only one bed, but a steaming tub of water waits for him, and his heart gives a strange leap. Jaskier’s doublet is off, tossed carelessly on a chair with his boots sitting nearby, and Geralt has to force himself not to stare at the dip of Jaskier’s chemise. "Bathe."

The command is rough, but Geralt complies easily, stripping himself out of his armor and the soggy clothes beneath before sinking into the water. Heat prickles uncomfortably at his skin, but he lets out a small groan and sinks a bit deeper. Jaskier perches wordlessly behind him, tugging the tie from his hair and working any blood out with whatever soap he'd managed to get from the innkeeper. It smells a bit stronger than Geralt would like, but he doesn't say anything. Maybe now he can try again, while he's relatively safe.

"It was nice." Well, that's a start at least. Jaskier's hands pause in his hair, nails digging in a bit too hard, but Geralt groans and leans up into the touch. Jaskier scratches along his scalp, nails digging in, and Geralt relishes the sensation. His vision is almost back to full color, and he stares at Jaskier's doublet, discarded on the chair. "The drawing."

Jaskier scoffs. "You don't have to lie."

"M'not. Just don't like seeing it. The monster." Geralt adds on the end, not wanting to fuck things up twice. Just saying what he feels makes his skin crawl, but Jaskier gives a soft oh, continuing to scratch at Geralt's scalp. 

"So you weren't insulting me then?" Geralt shakes his head, going still when Jaskier clicks his tongue. He begins scrubbing at the blood under his nails while Jaskier talks, needing something to pay attention to. "I thought you looked… Gorgeous, ethereal, effervescent- I could wax poetry about it endlessly.”

Geralt snorts, shaking his head, causing Jaskier to press his fingers in harder to keep him from moving. “Don’t. Don’t pretend.”

Jaskier scoffs this time, fingers tightening in Geralt’s hair and pulling until Geralt is straining to look back at him or risk his scalp. A hot wave of arousal washes over Geralt at the sensation, but all he does is grunt, looking back at the bard with a mixture of annoyance and hopefully- suppressed lust. Geralt notices, faintly, that his color is back completely as the two of them lock eyes, glaring at one another. 

“I’m tired of you telling me what to do and how to feel, Witcher.”

“What am I telling you to feel?” Heat creeps along Geralt’s spine, and oh he’s playing a dangerous game. Maybe those potions aren’t as worn off as he might have thought.

Jaskier looks at him, brow furrowed, and Geralt feels Jaskier’s grip in his hair loosen. He misses the sensation for an instant before Jaskier leans forward, pressing his lips to Geralt’s in an awkward, upside down kiss. It’s almost painful- Jaskier’s chin and nose dig into him at an odd angle, but his hands come up and out of the water instinctively to grip Jaskier’s hair, keeping him from moving away. Jaskier takes that as a good sign it seems, because he nips at Geralt’s lower lip before pulling back. Geralt doesn’t want to hurt him, ever, and he lets Jaskier go, breathing hard and pupils contracting to mere slits. He tracks Jaskier’s every moment, listens to the way his heart is hammering, that same cloying lavender scent oozing through the room.

Geralt leans forward as Jaskier moves around the side of the tub, a pale hand smoothing over his shoulder. He wants to know what’s going on, wants to ask Jaskier what he thinks he’s doing, but nothing escapes him other than a low growl. Jaskier laughs softly, almost mockingly, and leans forward to kiss the corner of Geralt’s mouth. The witcher moves faster than might be necessary, but just barely catches Jaskier before he leans back again. 

“Bard.” Geralt warns, voice vibrating with the steady growl that’s built up. Jaskier glances at him, eyes darting down to Geralt’s lips for an instant as a smug, self satisfied smile lights up his face. 

“Witcher.” 

“Say you want this.” Geralt’s mind moves slow, so slow that for a moment he fears he’s drunk off of the scent of Jaskier, so incredibly close yet just out of reach. He can’t think with Jaskier so close, grinning at him like he’s a cat who’s just gotten a delightfully fat mouse, and his fingers twitch on the edge of the tub. 

“I’ve never wanted anything more.” That’s all that Geralt needs, and he reaches out, snagging Jaskier by the hips and bodily hoisting him forward. Jaskier laughs as he slips against the edge of the tub, a hand splaying against Geralt’s chest. 

“You’ll ruin my clothes and the floor.” Geralt grunts, not caring, but Jaskier is undeterred. “Out.”

Oh, this is dangerous indeed. He groans, impatient, but Jaskier is already stepping away and tugging at the ties on his chemise. A moment of hesitation slices through the haze in Geralt’s mind, and he pauses in the water. Jaskier has seen him naked more times than he can count, but it’s different this time. This time, he’s allowed to look, and Geralt isn’t sure what to do with that thought. He’s waking up slowly from the raging of his heart, but Jaskier reaches out, fingers brushing under his chin and tipping his head up. He kisses Geralt slowly, luxuriating in the action and nipping gently at his lower lip. The small bit of pressure from Jaskier's teeth has Geralt gasping, and he stands up blindly, stumbling out of the tub as Jaskier continues kissing him. 

That one point of contact, their lips sliding against each other, is the anchor that Geralt clings to. His hands come up, fingers shaking before finding purchase on Jaskier’s shirt and gripping it tight enough that he can hear the fibers straining not to rip. Jaskier hums against his lips, hands sliding over Geralt’s chest and pushing him back and away from the tub. Geralt walks blindly, and every time he breathes, opens his eyes, the world is skewed with vibrant contrasts of color. Geralt’s calves hit the edge of the bed, and he tips back, dragging Jaskier with him and wheezing out a laugh as the bard lands on top of him. It feels good to have Jaskier’s weight on top of him, and he hardly lets him get far. He can feel Jaskier’s cock pressing against his hip, and he groans, glad it isn’t just him affected. Jaskier kisses him harder for that, and Geralt whines against his lips. 

“The potions.” Geralt hums, glancing up at Jaskier with half lidded eyes. His hair is a mess, lips red and cheeks redder, and the sight steals his breath. He props himself up on his arms, sighing when Jaskier settles astride his hips. “Are they still affecting you?”

“I don’t know.” He admits softly, humming when Jaskier leans to lay kisses along his jaw. He arches his neck, giving the man atop him more room to work and huffing when Jaskier drags his teeth lightly down his neck. “Why?”

“I don’t want to do anything if you aren’t in full control of yourself. Not unless we’d agreed upon it before, of course.” 

“It’s not like being drugged.”

“No, but how do I know this is because of sober thought?” Jaskier grinds down suddenly, and the friction of cloth against his bare skin has him hissing, hips snapping up of their own accord. Geralt chokes on a breath before glaring at the very smug bard atop him. 

“Don’t-” Jaskier laughs, kissing him in apology and lifting himself up a bit. Geralt is both grateful and infuriated, hands clenching into fists. He’s definitely more affected than he thought. “What did you mean, agreed upon?”

Jaskier looks at him, humming softly and shifting to sit back on Geralt’s thighs. It sends a shimmer of pain through his knee, but the sensation grounds him further, and he sits up fully. “Geralt, if I can be frank-”

“When aren’t you?” the bard pins him with a look and Geralt raises his hands, gesturing for him to continue. 

“I find you in all your witchery, black eyed glory incredibly attractive. I’m surprised you haven’t smelled it on me by now.”

“I don’t like to pry.” He can’t help himself now though, leaning a bit closer and taking a deep breath. He smells sweat, the lavender oil Jaskier uses, and most powerful, the sickly sweet, almost spicy scent of Jaskier’s arousal. “Really?”

“Really.” Jaskier shifts off his lap now, padding over to their packs and digging out clothes for Geralt. “So, get dressed before I decide to ravage you fully.”

Geralt catches the clothes as they’re tossed at him, flexing his thighs and steadying his breathing to calm himself down. He dresses slowly, skin hypersensitive and every sense trained on where Jaskier tidies up across the room. Now that the other man isn’t kissing him senseless Geralt takes a moment to think, and to admire him in full color. Jaskier catches him looking, but merely smiles and nods toward the bed. Geralt crawls under the covers at the silent request, and lays back, watching as Jaskier strips down to his small clothes and blows out the candles, leaving just the hearth for faint light and warmth. He crawls into bed and into the waiting arms of his witcher, pressing their legs together and grinning when Geralt loops an arm over his hips.

“Have I told you why I hate fiends?” Jaskier shakes his head before tucking under Geralt’s chin, cheek pressed to Geralt’s collarbone to feel the vibrations.

“Does it have to do with caves?” Geralt grunts, squeezing a bit tighter and reveling in the pleasant squeeze Jaskier gives back.

“Yes.” 

[rouiyan]

𝘔𝘠 𝘗𝘜𝘊𝘒 𝘐𝘕 𝘠𝘖𝘜𝘙 𝘎𝘖𝘈𝘓 [ 𝘭.𝘥𝘩 ]

⧏ hyuck’s installment of the keep your cool collective ⧐

synopsis: you’ve decided that the boy in ‘66’ is yours.

✧ ice hockey player!hyuck x (fem.) reader x ice hockey player!jeno + best friend!renjun

✧ genres : fluff, minor angst ✧ word count : 2.3k ✧ disclaimer : swearing

✧ author’s note — finally my brain had the gall to pull through with this idea but i'm left with the realization that all my hyuck fics are just him simping for u.

hyuck internally sighs, his head ringing and ankles sore, as the buzzer goes off, signaling the end of the third round. he’s almost elated, even though he’s sure his team hasn’t won, by just the fact that the game is over. hyuck is by no means sick of ice hockey but lately, the mere idea of it drives him into exhaustion. as he turns to expect the disappointed stare of his coach, he’s surprised when he’s met with a halfhearted smirk. weird, the coach should know more than anyone how lazily this game had played out. but then, as an afterthought, he checks the scoreboard and realizes with an oh shit, that they were tied with the opposing team, somehow.

his line of vision is parting from the board when he makes unfortunate eye contact with the person entering the rink. your hair is pulled back with a pale pink scrunchie and your outfit is a certified mess of oversized hoodie and sweat shorts upon white sneakers. he can quite literally feel the heat that is quick to rush to his cheeks, unfailing to hide his flustered state. he knows he looks stupid but he still can't help but stare and ogle at new and blatant eye candy as she crosses the threshold into the cold space. half your figure is  now covered by the wall that separates the stands with the rink though it doesn't matter because he's still equally enamoured by simply your presence. 

"hyuck, why you staring at y/n?"

hyuck can only wince inwardly as he stutters out, "that's- that's y/n?" it seems unfair that renjun's been hoarding such a pretty specimen to himself. "like your best friend, y/n?"

"yeah, what about her?"

"br-bro, you never mentioned that she was pretty."

"hey, don't even think about it. you're the last possible person i'd set her up with. plus, she's with jeno, they went on a date after practice last time, remember?"

there's an underlying disappointment in donghyuck's tone when he's only able to produce a soft, "oh," because frankly he doesn't know why he's so worked up over someone who he's never even met and that's also dating one of his close teammates. amidst his confused trance, he almost fails to notice his coach call for a pre-game huddle.

he ends up tuning out most of it, now distracted by how jeno keeps glancing back at you and making funny faces, you returning them with the! cutest! little expressions he has ever had the pleasure to lay his eyes upon. the rest of the game is played out with enthusiasm on his part, even going so far as scoring in two more points. he's quick to doubt the truth but donghyuck knows that it's whoever that girl is in the front seats that's making him outdo himself.

the game ends and his team wins, claps and cheers at how the game had turned around in their favor, but donghyuck reverts into a sulky demeanor as soon as he's off the rink and into the locker rooms. he notices jeno, being quick and almost feisty with the other boys that are taking too long for his liking in hogging the showers. donghyuck assumes it has something to do with the (gorgeous, wtf) girl that's waiting on him for a date. hardly fair, he thinks, if only he'd met you earlier by chance, he knows he'd definitely have the ability to charm you out of your wits. after all, he's smart, his face is undeniably agreeable, his sense of humor is top notch, and well, what's not to like?

instead of getting closer to you as he so hoped he would, he ends up becoming more familiar with the routine disappointment, and yet delight, at seeing you show up after practices, games, and eventually, team gatherings outside the rink. he's okay with it, he thinks. but it becomes frequent, even, that you show up out of the blue, with the invitation from jeno, and he's starting to lose his cool when it comes to the simplest of interactions. being included in a conversation with you was no problem, as long as he wasn't talking. eye contact? bearable, but not for more than half a second. and the utmost unfortunate luck for the boy if you ever asked him to pass you a fork, or a spoon, or a goddamned napkin. 

he's not so sure anymore, one sullen night, that he could ever make you his, even if he was gifted the chance. when you're not by jeno's side, you're by renjun's, and if that isn't telling enough about how uncomfy you feel around everyone else, he wouldn't know any better. but even laying within the deepest, darkest parts of night, the screen on his phone displaying your more recent instagram post of you on jeno's back, a sun setting beach painted behind the two of you, he finds his heart yearning to know more about you. he knows you're not one to reach out, to make friends unless in a situation that calls for it, so he supposes now is as good as a time as any to shoot his shot, at being friends.

he braves himself for this hefty task. his breaths are ragged and his heart is already hammering a deep crater inside his chest at just the thought of following through with his plan. his fingers are shaking and his pupils are twitting at about the same pace and it appears that none of his bodily functions seem to be within his control anymore. but before he can press the button, his door is thunked wide open with a hard force, the handle even going so far as to lodge itself neatly into the wall that's now been broken through. donghyuck's mouth is hanging ajar but he's barely surprised to see that the culprit of such heinous and costly action is jeno. lee jeno. 

donghyuck makes swift and subtle actions to shove his phone underneath his pillow but when he takes a good look at the boy's face, he realizes that he didn't need to be so discrete in the first place. jeno's eyes are swollen, and not in the way that suggests he got into a big manly manly fight and came out the victor, but in the way that looks as if his three cats died, all at once, and he'd taken it upon himself to cry for each of their mothers respectively. 

the same eyes rove about the room before settling on the bed, his body following suit but moving as if it were part of another entity entirely. the mattress sinks down low with his body weight and he repositions himself so that he's laying down comfortably, his legs still hung over and down the side. donghyuck can hear jeno's ragged breaths, not unlike his own a minute ago, and he wonders what hell of a day the boy had had to render him into this state of numbed consciousness. but before he can even form the question that sits at the edge of his mind, jeno's voice reverberates lowly in the silence of the room.

"she broke up with me," donghyuck blinks purposefully, "something 'bout how she thinks she might like someone else, fucking bastard."

"is she the bastard?" donghyuck tries to disassociate his feelings from his words and come across as...helpful in lifting his friend's mood.

jeno chuckles, "no, hyuck, she's not the bastard. bastard's the guy who has her heart. i'm glad she told me though, she's never been one to hide things."

"yeah, would've been worse if she dragged it on, huh."

"yeah, a lot worse."

donghyuck's voice almost gets caught within the confines of his rationality, "did she tell you who he- the bastard is?" he sighs inwardly, knowing that this was none of his business whatsoever, but the desire to know seeps into his thoughts. 

jeno sighs as well, "no, not really. she said it was some boy on the team though, might even be you now that i think about it."

"oh," is, yet again, the only thing he is able to produce. 

the new revelations seem to give life to donghyuck. the mere idea that there's a possibility of interest in his direction is something that he thrives off of. mundane tasks like washing the dishes are now enjoyable hobbies, no actual brain work, head empty, thoughts of you exclusively. when it comes to practice, you're no longer there, your presence reduced to hushed talk between the boys and renjun, asking him if you really are the reason jeno's been so out of it, letting easy pucks into the goal left and right. hyuck is relieved, though, that he gets a break, a step back to rethink his crazed emotions. maybe it really was just simple infatuation. maybe it was just because he hadn't gotten laid in awhile. or even just the fact that he's been hanging out with the boys too much and that the first girl he set his eyes on in days ultimately became the protagonist to his daydreams. hell, he is especially glad that you decided it wasn't worth showing your face at the rink for the time being for jeno would've been downright devastated.

that whole paragraph of feelings is bluntly disregarded and thrown off track as he enters the corner cafe a few blocks down from his house and is met with you waving your hand excitedly at him and motioning for him to sit with you. he doesn't hesitate, of course, but makes sure he takes slow and deliberate steps to the window booth you're sitting at just to make sure he at least gets in four deep breaths before he is inevitably subjected to not breathing in your presence.

"hyuck, it's been awhile, i hope this doesn't make you uncomfortable or anything," your face morphs into an expression of realization as it hits you that calling him over was entirely to satisfy your own hopes and dreams. the boy sitting across from you, smiling lightly, might as well be feigning a pleasant disposition, grossed out by the girl that dumped his friend just because she thought she was interested in someone else. by the end of this thought, your voice is reduced to a timid pitch, "you can leave if you want, it's all good."

"actually, i think that it'd be more uncomfortable for you if i left." he feels his heart constrict at the sight and the knowledge that his words enlightened your composure. you take it upon yourself to start some light conversation, not wanting to disclose the reason you'd called him over in the first place just yet. your heart picks up pace, rivaling hyuck's own, and you can't help but think of the sheer likeliness of the luck you'd just encountered. just as you decided to brave up for once and not take advantage of your best friend setting you up on one too many blind dates that were just, too artificial for you, the boy whom you had taken a liking for had shown up before your eyes, breezing through those glass doors as if it were a sign for you to just take charge. 

"and i was telling him-"

"are you free friday?"

"what? oh, what?!"

"i'm asking if you're free friday."

"i- i mean yeah, i have practice at three, but i'm free afterwards."

"let's grab dinner together then."

"oh shoot, okay, like with the boys? 'cause i could ask them if they're down."

"no, i was hoping it could be just us. like a date."

"so, hold the fuck up, you're asking me out on a date?"

"yeah, why…? am i not allowed to do that? is going out on a date with me gonna break bro code or something?"

"n- no, nothing like that. it's just...you can't possibly be serious."

"oh, trust me, i'm dead serious."

"...holy shit, i'm in."

donghyuck fucks up big time at practice, his cheeks are way too hot and he's sweating gallons per second. his jaw is clenching and unclenching in hopes that the action might make him a little more attentive while on ice but instead, he finds his eyes roving over to your figure in the stands far more often than he'd like to admit. he thinks, no he hopes, that jeno is okay with the fact that you're not here for him but rather the 'boy on the team' he'd unknowingly referred to a few months back. hyuck knows, though, that renjun is definitely not okay with it, the aforementioned boy throwing just as many glares at hyuck as hyuck's many glances towards you.

practice is over long after he hoped it would be but you're patient and supportive nonetheless. his eyes crinkle and his smile widens as you sidle into him for warmth in the cool air of the ice rink. hyuck solves this by removing the hoodie from his own, accustomed body, and gently tugs it over your shivering one. he thinks he handles the wave of adoration that consumes him pretty well, even able to ease the corners of his lips down a tad bit. "you're cute," you pull at his cheeks and suddenly things are not so easy to handle. 

donghyuck does eventually get used to all the sneaky shit you pull just to get his ears red and shy smile blossoming, but he knows he'll never get used to the sight of you in the stands, adorning his spare 66 jersey with everything else fading, and fading further away until it's just you and him, and him and you.

copyright © 2020 rouiyan all rights reserved.

✧ end note — i hope you find someone that holds you in such high esteem as hyuck does in this fic, i'm sure you deserve it <3

[heliads]

Didn’t You See

Y/N feels heartbroken after she walks in on her longtime crush, Race, kissing some girl while they’re supposed to be selling papes. Her best friend, Specs, is there to cheer her up, but she may come to care for Specs more than she first realized.

masterlist

You can see him just a few feet in front of you. He’s disappeared around the wall of an alleyway now, roughed up shoes flashing past a corner. A shock of blond curls and blue eyes is the only identifier, but you’d know him in a heartbeat. Race, who’s finally returned to sell the last of his papes. The two of you have always been selling partners, but he said he had to slip away for just a second, leaving you alone on the streets with a bag of curled newspapers selling like hotcakes. He’s back now, although you’re not sure why he’s running away again.

You follow him, of course you do. You’ve known Race for what feels like forever, and you’ve noticed that he has a way of playing games, of wanting to mess with people’s heads. By people, you mean newsies like yourself- whether it be stealing cigars or tossing witty jokes back and forth, Race loves to feel like he’s winning in some grand competition. You’re not sure what the goal is right now, and so you follow him. Your feet are silent on the dusty cobblestones, and you don’t make a sound, even when you see the real reason for Race’s disappearance.

He’s kissing some girl, his hands tangled in her curls. Their eyes are closed, their worlds shut out to anything that doesn’t involve the two of them, and so they do not see you slipping away, back out of the dark of the alleyway and into the sudden blinding sunlight. You’re grateful for the rush of light, though- it forces you to squint, to stop in your tracks and remember to put on a brave face. A plaster mold of a smile that allows you to rush through the remainder of your papers until your bag is finally empty and you can leave the bustling city center. Once you exchange the crowds of Manhattan for dim, empty alleyways, you finally let your cheerful demeanor crack and fall away.

Your hand finds your mouth, holding in a sob. Surely you had seen something wrong, surely you hadn’t just walked in on Race kissing that girl he’s been making eyes at all morning. Yet your brain refuses to let you forget the scene, and every detail is forced before your eyes with all the clarity of those newfangled photographs you see in the papers. There were his arms, pulling her close. There was his smile, sweet as a drop of melting candy, intoxicating as sugar. There was that girl, the only recipient of his feelings. That girl, who was not you.

You had been in love with Race for a while now, too long for your own good. You knew better than to fall for Racetrack, everyone did. He’d flirt with a nun if he thought it would get him another cup of coffee, and he moved on from a brokenhearted girl faster than a steam engine headed west. You’d known better than to fall in love, and yet you did, letting your heart plunge down the well only to break upon impact. 

You’d fooled yourself into thinking you had some chance with him because you sold papers together. He always picked you as his selling partner, surely that meant something? Yet it doesn’t, does it? He chose you because you were easy to lose when he wanted to slip away, because he knew you would sell papes and wouldn’t rely on him too much. You were like a little wind up toy that he could set out and ignore, someone who wouldn’t get him into trouble and make up excuses like clockwork. He had played you for a fool and you had believed every honey-sweetened word.

The jealous, bitter sadness is washing over you in waves now, and you manage to stumble through the doors of the newsies’ lodging house and exchange forced pleasantries with Jack and the others before hurrying upstairs and out of sight. You keep climbing those rickety wooden steps, up past the rows of bunks until your head is practically scraping against the roof. There’s a little attic up here, a small crawl space that everybody else overlooks. It’s practically perfect for you- nobody knows it’s here and so you can finally be left alone.

It is only now that you finally allow the tears to run unbidden from your cheeks, that your shoulders shake with the pain of a century. Jack used to joke that you were always able to sell papes so quickly because you had a good heart and people trusted you. Well, that earnest, full, stupidly trusting heart had finally gotten itself in too deep and now you were paying the price. Your head jerks up as you hear footsteps echoing up through the space behind you and you hurriedly turn away from the stairs, wiping the tears away from your face with the back of your hand.

There’s a knock on the wooden slats near the opening to the stairs. “You alright, Y/N?” You recognize the voice and the rhythm of the footsteps- it’s your best friend, Specs. If you’ve known Race for a long time, you’ve probably known Specs for even longer. You wave a hand at him, still keeping your back turned to hide the last remnants of your tears. “Yeah, I’m fine. No worries.” You do your best to keep your voice strong, and feel pretty pleased when it doesn’t crack once.

Yet Specs doesn’t go back down the stairs. Instead, he pulls himself into the room, sliding into a seat a few feet away from you. “That’s not true and we both knows it. You never come up here unless you’se feeling awful about something.” You give him a quick, curious glance over your shoulder. “I didn’t think anyone knew I came up here.” Specs grins. “No one knows ‘cept me. I’m your best friend, you can’t hide things from me that easy. Now, are you going to tell me what’s wrong or do I have to start guessing?” You sigh. “You’ll laugh at me.” Specs shakes his head. “I would never. Promise.”

You think this over for one last second, then relent and turn around. You lean your back against the wooden walls of the attic. “I saw Race kissing some girl early today.” Specs winces. “Ouch.” You nod, covering your face with your hands. “I was stupid enough to set my heart on him and look where it got me. Crying in the attic.” Specs leans over and slings an arm around your shoulders. You lean in to his embrace, feeling the echo in his chest as he speaks. “Well, I thinks he’s an idiot for not choosing you. You’se ten times the goil of anyone here, and you can sell papes like nobody.”

You smile bitterly. “I don’t think Race’s thinking about pape selling when he chooses a goil.” Specs makes a scornful sound in the back of his throat. “He should. It could pay for his cigars.” You’re taken by surprise by this and laugh, already feeling your worries start to slip away. “He’s losing out on business. Shameful.” Specs laughs as well. “Shameful is right.” You look up at him. “Thanks, Specs. I mean it. I’m doing better already.” Specs stretches and stands up, extending a hand to you to help you up. “Of course. We’se friends, aren’t we? We got each other’s backs.”

When morning rolls around the next day, you can feel the easy happiness of yesterday’s talk with Specs starting to drain away. You’re waiting in line to get your papes when Race bounds up to you, a cheeky grin already resplendent on his lips. “So, Y/N, you ready to go?” You feel your smile start to freeze on your face. Shoot- you forgot you always sell with Race. You’re still crushed by the sight of yesterday’s encounter in the alleyway, and you realize that you can’t take another day of watching Race pretend you don’t even exist. He’ll probably slip away again, and you’ll have to ignore it like you have no idea what it means. You can’t do this, not again.

Then there’s a voice from beside you, and Specs is standing next to you. “Sorry, Race, but Y/N already promised she’d sell with me today.” Race raises his eyebrows. “Is that so?” You nod. “You barely sold fifteen by sunset, I was getting bored. I thought you’d be better from all your talk, you know.” Race stares at you and your joking grin for a second, then breaks out into laughter. “Damn, Y/N, you killed me. Murdered your own friend. Well, I can get that. See you later.” He waves a goodbye and heads off down the streets.

You turn back to Specs, who’s doing his best to silence his own laughter. “Thanks for the rescue. I didn’t really want to spend all day with him again.” Specs shakes his head, still grinning. “Thanks for that. I don’t think I’ve seen his ego so wounded since Spot Conlon said he wasn’t all that good. I’ll be happy for a week.” You smile as well. “It felt good. I should insult people more often.” Specs snickers. “Absolutely.”

You end up having a great time selling papes with Specs. Honestly, you should do this more often. The two of you compete to see who can shout the strangest headlines and still get people to buy your papes. You think you won with ‘Bank floods and kills eleven orphans,’ although Specs had a good one after he yelled out about a ‘Real life ghost sighting in California, ghost made out of gold, you heard it here.’ 

You’re leaning against the a brick storefront, glancing at the papes in the hopes of finding material for another particularly phony headline, when your eyes are caught by a smaller article in the back. You walk over to Specs, nudging his arm to get his attention. “Hey, look at this. A meteoroid is supposed to be seen in the sky around midnight tonight.” Specs’ eyes light up. “That’s so cool.” You frown. “Absolutely. Uh, what’s a meteoroid?” Specs laughs, but not unkindly. “Scientific name for a shooting star.” You nod, face brightening once more. “Makes sense. Want to look for it with me?” Specs smiles at you. “Sure. It’ll be amazing.”

This meteoroid had better be amazing, because staying up until midnight is not. After a long day out on the streets of Manhattan, you want nothing more than to curl up in your bed and go to sleep. But no, you’re out on the roof in the middle of the night because you thought it would be cool to see a shooting star. Specs, on the other hand, seems to be having a great time. The two of you are lying side by side on the roof, and he’s pointing out the different stars. You have no idea how he knows that many, and your eye follows his hand as he seems to mold and shape the very night sky itself.

After a while, he falls silent. “That’s really all I know.” You stare up at the sky. “It’s more than I know. The only thing I know about stars is that they’se bright and far away.” Specs chuckles. “That’s all you really have to know. I don’t think knowing about Ursa Major is helpful for the papes.” You glance over at him. “Not everything has to be about the papes. You can do a lot of things that I think would make anyone here jealous.”

Specs laughs. “Like what?” You shrug, shoulders bumping up against the cool roof. “Always having answers to things. Being able to find your friend when she’s hiding away in the attic and knowing just how to make people feel better.” Specs looks back towards the sky again. “And where has that gotten me? I’m not Race, I can’t find a dozen girls to dance with each week.” You grin. “That’s because they’re all idiots. Any girl with half a brain would consider herself lucky to dance with you. ” Specs’ gaze drops. “All except one, I guess.”

For some reason, this makes your heart sink in your chest. There’s something else he’s trying to tell you, but you can’t seem to figure out what that is. All of a sudden, Specs sits up, finger trained on a star growing brighter by the second. “There! I think that’s it.” You straighten up, and a beaming grin rises unbidden from your lips as you watch the streak of light flash across the sky. “That’s amazing.” Specs stares at it. “Make a wish.” You snap your eyes shut for a second while you think, and then open them once more. Specs glances over at you. “What did you wish for?” You shove his shoulder playfully. “I’se not supposed to say. It’ll ruin the wish.” What you don’t tell him is that the wish was a quiet, inner plea for this night to happen again, for this same feeling of unburdened happiness to come over you once more. Being able to stay out late at night with Specs has somehow made you feel happier than you have in a while.

You’re out selling papes with Specs the next day when you see a figure walking casually towards you across the street. You pocket the last few cents a customer had given you and turn to see Race beside you. You hesitate for a moment, seeing Specs make eye contact with you from a few feet away. He furrows his brow, as if asking a question. What is he doing here? You shrug almost imperceptibly. I have no idea.

Race tilts his head back slightly, hands shoved offhandedly into his pockets. “D’you want to walk with me for a little bit? I’se been wanting to talk to you about something. I think I’ve been missing something that’s right before my eyes.” Your heart leaps into your throat. This is what you’ve been wanting all along, for him to finally see you. When Race turns into a nearby alleyway instead of staying in the sun-drenched streets, you realize what he’s going to talk about. This is it- he feels the same way about you as you always have about him.

Specs is still selling papes when you burst out of the alleyway a few moments later. He tucks a newspaper back inside his bag, turning to face you with forced indifference. “I thought you’d be talking to Race for longer. It seemed, uh, important.” You shake your head, a determination lighting up your eyes. “I don’t want him. I don’t want to kiss him once and then have him forget about me a couple of days later. I want you.”

Specs stares at you. “But you’ve been crushing on Race for forever.” Your breathing is coming hard in your chest, like it’s taking you everything to finally say this and realize the truth you’ve been hiding from for a while now. “I shouldn’t have been crushing on him. I should have been crushing on you. The second he pulled me into that alley, the only thing I could think about was how he didn’t know me at all. The person who knows me, who cares about me, is you. I should have seen that a long time ago.”

Specs laughs now. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to hear you say that? All this time, I’ve been in love with you.” Your eyes widen. “You have? Why didn’t you say anything?” Specs tilts his head in emphasis. “Would you have listened at all?” You wince. “Not really, no.” Specs smiles for a second longer, and then leans forward and kisses you. His hands find the small of your back and you lean into the kiss, feeling like you’re lighter than air. This is what it’s supposed to feel like, falling in love. This is what you’ll feel like every day, from now until forever.

[orphic-osamu]

Moon [01]; Dazai Osamu

wc: 1.6K

warnings: angst

synopsis: Dazai saw you as the moon.

prologue

lmk if i should do a part two 😗✌️

The summer night had a breeze that brushed against Dazai’s neck, cooling his wounded skin, and causing the pinpricks of goosebumps to trail up his skin. His head was craned upwards as his chocolate orbs studied the specks of stars against the black of the sky.

His heart grasped the last glimpses of the setting moon eagerly, in search for reassurance and space to fill the empty void in his heart. His eyes looked over the dips and darks of the moon, a habit of his when his brain worked for solutions.

Unfortunately, it only brought more questions to the distressed executive.

The moon was his only companion. Something he could spill the bottle of his thoughts to, without having to mutter a word. The white light washed over his heart, a sense of cold comfort filling him to the brim. However, his mind worked differently now.

The moon was quick to provide anyone with security, no exceptions. But who was there to listen to the moon’s troubles? Dazai imagined the celestial body to be the loneliest in the universe, unable to speak and open the valve to the endless stream of words it had.

It has only been an hour after Dazai received your confession, and remorse wrapped itself around his throat, leaving him gasping for freedom from the constricting feeling.

And yet he couldn’t help his heart drumming against his chest excitedly, crooning at the idea of a date with you.

I wonder how long she’s thought of this.

It wasn’t right. It wasn’t right for Dazai to feel this way. There wasn’t going to be a happy ending for the both of you, and the faster he understood that, the better.

But he couldn’t help dreaming of a future with you. Going on little dates, celebrating anniversaries and escaping the screaming world together for a while. He couldn’t help his mind wandering to the moments he shared with you, the loud ones when you felt silly, and the quiet ones where he could sit and tell you about his troubles, wordlessly.

Just like how he could with the moon.

Soon, day turned to night and he found himself with his vision spotted a reddish orange from the tiny lanterns hanging in each stall. How you both ended up there was a mystery to him. Your hand, smaller than his, clasped around to pull him along the booths containing food, games and trinkets.

He wondered if it was happiness, or the moonlight that made your eyes twinkle when you looked at him. Despite the sky not having a single star, your orbs were littered in them, irises as the moon in the galaxy of your eyes. With each smile you showed, the hole of despair in his heart only hurt more and more.

He was going to lose you. He could tell from his body being buzzed with joy. Nothing was ever this happy without a price.

But Dazai was selfish, he wanted to savor every last second with you before you slipped from his grasp, even if it meant ugly tears and numb hearts.

He was fixated on every little move you made, immediately noticing when you took interest in a stall nearby. The said stall had a table littered in jewelry. You were magnetized as you tugged him towards the stall. Your hand let go of his, aiming to pick up some of the gems, carefully selecting some that suited your taste.

After a kind smile and a teasing remark from the man working, he handed over the items to you, throwing a sneaky wink at Dazai when you weren’t looking. Your hand reached for his again, but not to intertwine it with yours. Instead, you pushed his hands open and dropped a turquoise pendant in his hands, beaming in excitement.

“For you!”

Innocence surrounded your figure, proving your intentions to be good. Dazai returned the smile and kept the gift in his pocket, deciding to admire it later on.

A dull ache settled in the bones of his legs, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask for a break. You were shining as bright as the moon was, he knew you put your entire heart into planning the night, in hopes of changing his mind.

A pang of guilt nipped at his heart. You were hopeful, however his heart was already set on his answer. He wasn’t going to change that, for his sake.

And for yours.

This was the last night he could ever spend with you. The last night before you’d have to stop and force yourself to stop loving him.

Dazai told himself he was going to try.

If he wasn’t going to experience this again with you, he was going to at least show you he loved you too.

Too absorbed in his thoughts, he failed to notice drops of water falling on head.

You pinched the edge of his sleeve, “It’s raining, Dazai.”

He hummed and pulled you under a tree, a small smile creeping on his face, at the sight of the pout on your face.

“My plans are ruined.”

His hand inched towards yours, enough to brush your knuckles against his. You tensed up as you pretended to not be affected by the gesture. He found it amusing, you’ve been grasping his hand the entire night, but when he’s initiating it, you become increasingly flustered. Nonetheless, he intertwined his pinky with yours before giving a squeeze.

“Mm, how ‘bout I take you somewhere?” Your face lit up in excitement, evoking a smitten chuckle from Dazai.

The place he spoke about was foreign to you, tucked behind a small alley and a rustic feeling radiating as you read the words on the blazing sign.

“Lupin, huh?”

The clouded eyes and nostalgic smile was enough to tell you that this place meant a lot to Dazai.

No words are exchanged, comfortable silence hugging your shoulders as he pulled you to a bar stool, sitting right next to you. The bartender showed a polite smile, with hints of surprise, seeing Dazai with someone who wasn’t Odasaku or Ango.

Dazai ordered a drink for you, completely unaware that once you started, it was hard to stop.

He learned that you were quite the lightweight. Your lips were pursed in effort to stay sober, but alas you were far too deep. An adoring look on his face was fixed for the rest of the night as your drunk habits surfaced. And every single word, every single breath was imprinted in his mind.

And with another glass downed, your hands came up to cup his cheeks. You looked dazed and in love.

“Zaizai.” You mumbled, caressing thumbs feeling like hot fire pressing against his skin.

He tilted his head to the side as his eyes met yours. His lips puckered in a soft kiss to your palm, smiling gently.

It was all he could have, memories of your hopeful eyes and dazzling grin. The way you held his hand, and the little gift you had bought for him.

Soon, the clock hit 11, and while it was considered early for the both of you, Dazai did not want you to wake up with a strong hangover the next day. His arm wrapped around your waist in a firm hold, waving the bartender goodbye.

Going to your place was quite the challenge. It was farther than his, and exhaustion weighed heavily on his shoulders. However your well being was all that mattered to him at that moment.

“Did you enjoy our date?”

Your words weren’t slurred, and for a moment Dazai had to check if you really were drunk. The red cheeks and hazy eyes confirmed that you were still intoxicated.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t do everything I planned.” You mumbled, kicking a pebble on the sidewalk.

‘It was perfect.’ He wanted to say.

Looking at you with soft eyes, he wished you’d hear the words that were lodged in his throat. How he had fun today, and adored all your drunk habits. Everything that made you the imperfect human being.

He wished you’d see how much he loved you.

Before he knew it, he was dropping you off and putting you to bed. You didn’t allow him to leave, clutching his clothes in a silent plea.

“Stay for the night, please.”

Who was he to resist?

He slid under the covers with you and held you close, pressing you against his chest. His heart soared wildly, he could’ve sworn you could hear it.

His hand rested on your hip, drawing hearts and tracing words over and over again, almost as if he wanted to burn them into your skin.

I love you.

Sleep lured you in, your breathing slowed at your embrace around him softened. You were ethereal in his eyes. Eyelashes caressing your cheeks, lips slightly parted to release quiet huffs of air.

His fingers absentmindedly traced over your flaws, love flowing from the tips. He wished for you to never change any part of you, even the ones you thought were ugly.

Because Dazai Osamu fell in love with all of you.

And yet, as the light painted your angel like body, his heart twisted in guilt. He drank in the sight of your figure desperately, while pain built up in his chocolate orbs.

Dazai thought you were like the moon. Warm but chilly at the same time, for your eyes lit up his world, and your love leaving an impending sense of doom inside of him.

Dazai saw you as the moon, caring and aware of what he needed to say, yet no one bothered to listen to you.

And Dazai knew he left you like how the moon was that night, alone and cold with no one by your side.

[lemonlushff-iy]

#4 and 11 for olr please 😊

Oh My God. Number 4: What’s your favorite line of dialogue?

HNNNNG...Ok. 

Chapter 4

"You and your causes," he tsked. "They still make the best damn truck I've ever been in. Doesn't mean I gotta like the man."

"As I recall you don't like a lot of people."

His eyes filled with sorrow and he stuck his hands into his pockets, shrugging.

"Probably 'cause a lotta people don't like me."

"I did," she whispered softly, and he looked away from her.

"You always were the exception to the rule, Kagome. All of 'em."

...

"Why dontcha give it a go?" he prompted, and the engine rumbled to life again. He quickly closed the hood, backing away from the front and walking over to the side. "Sounds like ya should be fine. You got real lucky this time. Don't you start doubting Fords," he smiled weakly, and she returned it.

"I won't."

"Listen," he breathed slowly, nervously. "I...I just want you to take care of yourself. Ok?"

"This sounds a lot like goodbye again, Inuyasha," she mused, and he lowered his gaze.

"Ain't it?"

Was it? Did she want it to be?

"I guess it is…" she whispered, glancing away from him. "Goodbye, Inuyasha. You take care of yourself too. I hope you're happy. Truly. With Kikyo or any of the others. You deserve to be."

She turned her head away from him and pulled her car out of park, shifting the gear into drive. She was about to step on the gas when she felt two clawed hands gently grab her face, pulling it out of the window.

She gasped and her eyes widened in surprise before closing when she felt his lips tenderly press against hers in a soft, lingering kiss before he pulled away. The feel of his lips against hers...it was just as she remembered it. Only she didn't remember this painful aching in her chest when they had kissed in the past...Or this horrible need to grab ahold of his neck to bury her face into his chest and just cry.

"Just wanted to do that one last time," he whispered just loud enough for her to hear, almost as if he were ashamed of himself. Of still wanting her. Of wanting what they once had. What they could have been.

Chapter 17

"You're fine."

"That's not the point," she snapped through gritted teeth, smacking his pectoral.

"Why don't you give me what for on Bessie then?" he grinned cheekily, and she just rolled her eyes, still simmering.

"You think I won't? I'll give you more than what's for. I'll give you a whole fucking dissertation on how big an ass you are."

"Complete with a cover page?"

She went to smack him again, but he just caught her hand and placed a finger over her lips. She tried looking at it, going cross-eyed in the process.

God, she was adorable. And sexy as hell when she was angry.

"Don't wanna wake up the whole town, remember?" he teased, and she glared at him as he removed his index finger.

"I'm not that loud."

He bit his tongue, trying - with great restraint by the way - to not comment.

He failed. Only a little.

"Sure ya ain't," he smirked, offering her a hand as she mounted Bessie.

"I'm not!"

"Ok then."

"Inuyasha!"

He just shook his head and climbed on after her, pulling her flush with his body as he encouraged the mare to start trotting in the direction of the cliffs.

"So...How loud are ya then? I've always wondered."

He could feel her confusion before understanding settled in over her and she began yelling indignantly at him. He didn't really care though. He loved teasing her. Loved seeing her get all huffy and flustered. Ruffling her feathers...He'd missed it.

...

"Kags," he whispered, staring into her eyes. They were filled with so much emotion. Desire. Want. Desperation.

"Yash," she murmured, biting the inside of her lip ever so slightly.

This time neither of them rebuked the name. He didn't want to, and it shook him...and neither did she.

He watched her eyes search his face, looking for something...and he couldn't help but wonder if she would find what it was. He supposed she must have, because her hand gently pulled his head down to hers, and she kissed his forehead. The place between his eyebrows. The tip of his nose.

She pulled away from him, biting her lip in thought.

"I feel like I'm playing a dangerous game," she mused, her words no louder than a whisper. "And I know I should stop, but I can't."

He wanted to ask her what she meant, but the gentle press of her lips against his cleared all of his thoughts from his brain in a matter of milliseconds. It was lighter than the flap of a butterfly’s wing - so faint a part of him wondered if he had imagined it…

But if he had, how come he could still feel her lips? How come the sensation of her kiss still lingered?

"Kagome?" he murmured, his eyes dancing across her face, trying to figure out what was going on with her? What was happening inside that head of hers?

"Just wanted to do that one last time," she whispered just loud enough for him to hear, echoing his same words from that fateful day.

"One last time?" he breathed, his heart lodging itself in his throat. "We seem to have a lot of those, don't we?"

"It's because we keep saying goodbye…"

...When really they should be saying hello.

Chapter 24

Oh god…

She was telling Inuyasha to do this, wasn’t she? She was giving him all these signals that she wanted him and now he had gone and wrecked everything and—

“Ladies...maybe you should take a step back from this...”

“No. There’s no need for that, Hojo. I’m leaving. She got what she wanted...and I...I won’t begrudge you of doing whatever the hell this was, but I want to make something clear. I’m going back to California, so whatever the hell Inuyasha did...It wasn’t for me, and he knows that.”

She picked up the bag of alcohol on the counter, holding her head as high as she could, and walked towards the exit. 

“I hate you, Kagome Higurashi. I wish you never came back!”

She paused, her hand on the door, and turned to look at Kikyo. 

“And I pity you, Kikyo...Waiting years to make a move on a man? You should have just taken what you wanted long before now.”

Chapter 25

“Did you ever think about it? Over the last seven years?”

Her heart broke at his strained tone. Like he was afraid of her answer, but needed to know all the same. 

“Think about what…”

“Come on Kags,” he sighed in frustration. “You really need me to spell it out?”

“I…”

“Us,” he replied crisply. “What it could have been like if...Things had been different. If we hadn’t been scared, stupid kids who were more understanding.”

She swallowed back her anger at the implication that he could really believe that she could wrap them up so neatly and bury their past away in the back of her heart.

“Yes. I thought of us. Every time Garth Brooks comes on the radio or I look at a can of Budweiser...I can’t eat a pancake anymore without thinking of the times you would sleepover at our house. I can’t look at a man with amber eyes without seeing yours for just a split second. Every new moon, I wonder how you’re holding up. I never stopped paying attention to the cycle because it made me feel a little closer to you, and I can’t…”

She paused, taking a deep shuddering breath before turning to face him, making sure she held his gaze as she poured her heart out and reopened old wounds. 

“And I can’t think of home without thinking of you. What happened between us haunted me and I wondered what it would be like if we had been different. I wish things had been different. You were my world. The only man I ever truly had feelings for, and sometimes...Yeah. Sometimes I wonder where we would be now if...If things had been different, and we hadn’t…”

She sighed, shaking her head. 

“It doesn’t matter now though.”

“Don’t it?”

His whispered words were so quiet, if she hadn’t been looking at him, she might have thought that she hadn’t heard it. 

“If you could...Could have a second chance at it all...Would you take it?”

Her throat was closing up. It was hard to swallow. She wished she knew what he was thinking, but she could see how scared he was. He was terrified of her answer, because she knew that he was asking himself the same damn thing. Had probably been asking it for a while, and she knew he had his answer. 

But hers…

Hers scared the shit out of him, because he knew what he wanted her to say, but the possibility that she wouldn’t...What then? What would happen to them then? Once she said it, there was no way to unring that bell. 

So she had to be sure.

But the thing was…

She didn’t even have to think about it. She knew the second he asked what she wanted to say. So, she mustered up what confidence she had, and looked him right in his scared, desperate, pleading eyes so there would be no mistaking her when she replied.   

“Wouldn’t you?”

As for  11: What do you like best about this fic....

I like that it has so much of ME in it. I never knew how passionate I would become about this one when I started writing it, but I’ve never felt this way about a story before. It’s just so healing for me on so many levels...and it’s allowed me to pour so many feelings I’ve felt about different things over the years into a story. There’s no jilted lover in my past...No Inuyasha...But there is a lot of pain and loss and I think this has been a way for me to release some of that from within my soul. @clearwillow had NO idea what she was doing when she drew that picture, but I’m forever grateful to her for it. I never thought I’d be this into writing a western rancher fic since I know NOTHING about that, AND YET..... 

Thanks for the ask @liz8080!! 

Writer asks

[welllpthisishappening]

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. 

With bright lights and beeping machines and out-of-date magazines. Roland’s career was supposed to end with confetti. Maybe a parade. At least some sort of cheering, because if there was cheering then it wouldn’t be possible to hear how difficult it was for Matt to catch his breath and if he started crying in the waiting room he was never going to forgive himself. 

Or: Roland Locksley gets hurt and Matt Jones doesn’t handle it very well. 

----

Rating: Teen, but like with a heaping side of angst Word Count: 5.2K or so AN: This story has been living rent free in the back corner of my mind that I reserve for angsty hockey head canons for as long as I can remember and last week I finally sat down and typed it. Anyway, this is as angsty as advertised, is basically just original characters at this point and I had no intention of actually posting it anywhere, but I thrive on forcing hockey words at the internet so here we go. Also, probably important to remember that Roland and Lizzie are together and that Taylor is Phillip and Aurora’s kid. I was not kidding about this really being mostly original characters.  

----

“Where is he? Is everything—”

Matt cut himself off. Nearly bit his tongue in half in the process too, but he also couldn’t quite come to terms with the overall circumference of Lizzie’s eyes or just how quickly Peggy had slid in the chair she was draped across. 

Both of their mouths dropped open. 

Audibly. 

“What are you—” Lizzie breathed, shaking her head slowly and she didn’t blink. Matt wasn’t sure she was capable. That was fair. Every time he blinked he saw the play all over again. In slow motion, even. Like his brain was trying to remind him of the wholly inhuman angle Roland’s leg had taken when he slammed into the boards and no one was supposed to slam into the boards like that. 

“MD,” Peggy said when the rest of Lizzie’s sentence drifted into the low hum of an exceptionally packed waiting room. “What are you doing here? How are you here?” “They do have cars, Mar.” “Was that supposed to rhyme?”

“And he doesn’t know how to drive,” Lizzie mumbled. Matt ignored that. “Where is he?”

Taking his time on every word felt like overkill, even as Matt was saying them, but he was also at least passably familiar with the accepted resting heart rate for professional athletes and his appeared close to beating out of his chest. 

Someone was walking towards them. 

And Lizzie still hadn’t blinked yet. 

“They took him to pre-op twenty minutes ago.” Matt startled at the new voice, not entirely surprised to see Taylor turning the nearest corner with three cups of undoubtedly shitty coffee clutched in his hands. “I didn’t get you any of this. Did you fly here?” “I don’t want your garbage coffee anyway. Probably burnt.” “You’re something of a snob, you know that?” Matt shrugged, trying to ignore the exact way his stomach continued to clench. Although when that same organ had spent most of the rented car ride from New York to Philadelphia trying to lodge itself in the middle of Matt’s throat, he supposed this was a step in the right direction 

Metaphorically speaking. 

Now that he was in the hospital, he wasn’t doing very much literal stepping. His legs felt like they’d frozen. 

Locked up. Particularly in the knee-type area. 

Knees were not meant to bend like Roland’s had. 

“What’s the kid doing here?” Matt nodded towards Taylor, who only grumbled a few choice words under his breath while he doled out garbage coffee and he must have bailed on his classes that afternoon. Apparently none of them could operate without at least a few of the others, because no one was entirely surprised when Taylor decided to go to school in Philadelphia and Temple didn’t have a hockey team, but that probably wasn’t really all that important. 

The Mills-Locksley plastered across the back of Taylor’s t-shirt looked bigger than usual. 

Peggy made a face as soon as she took her first sip of coffee, the expression quickly evolving into a glare. Directed entirely at Matt. That didn’t seem fair, honestly. He’d spent a lot of money on that car. “Does front office know you’re here? Or Henry?”

“Those two don’t go together.” She rolled her eyes. While Matt’s kept darting towards Lizzie — who, it seemed, was trying her best to bite her lip in half. Wringing her fingers together wasn’t doing much to help the anxious energy practically falling off her, the kind of pale that made it look like she hadn’t seen the outside world in several decades. 

She kept tapping her right foot. Five quick movements, the bottom of her heel colliding with the tiled floor, and a sharp inhale on every third tap. Her gaze had a distinctly glazed edge to it.

“Henry didn’t have any idea Matt was going to be here,” Lizzie muttered, not taking her eyes off him. It felt like she was staring through him. Or at whatever was directly over his right shoulder. 

Looked pretty interesting. 

Distracting, maybe. 

Matt could have used a distraction. 

“Didn’t say anything, at least,” she added, “neither did Gina or Robin. But, they’re uh—I mean they’re kind of preoccupied and—” Something wasn’t right. 

Less right. Than the piece of shit situation they were in now. 

He really hadn’t thought when he’d left New York. Just told everyone that he wasn’t going to be at skate that morning and made a few phone calls, sent a text to his parents and his brother, and the whole thing would probably end with some sort of lengthy discussion about priorities that Matt wasn’t particularly interested in hearing, but he really had lost track of how often he watched the video and people knew. 

What Roland meant. To him. To the game. To the way Matt was when he played. 

So, he’d sat in the backseat of that car, twisting his phone and resisting the urge to torture himself some more and maybe he should have told someone he was coming. Seemed almost redundant though.

People knew. 

Everyone knew. 

Something was incredibly wrong. 

“Lizzie,” Matt said, unable to stop himself from stretching the name out into some sort of reprimand. She blinked. He was suffocating. 

Shaking her head slowly appeared to be the only answer she was capable of giving at the moment, which wasn’t so much frustrating as it was a little overwhelming and Matt was going to set records. For self-inflicted oxygen deprivation. 

His mind raced. 

Tried to understand options and recovery periods and—this wasn’t the first time this had happened to Roland. Matt licked his lips. Several times. Didn’t help. Lizzie blinked again. And he kept trying to think. Because ACL injuries were common now, the inevitable cause behind most of the NHL’s publicized “lower body injuries,” and surgeries were relatively quick, but multiple issues with the muscle that basically allowed skating couldn’t have possibly been good or healthy and—

“No,” Matt exhaled. 

Lizzie closed her eyes. Lightly, as if she were giving into the feeling or everything she hadn’t said yet and it was Matt’s turn to shake his head. 

In disagreement. 

Of the strongest kind. 

“No, no,” he chanted. “That’s—c’mon, you guys are kidding me.” Peggy’s mouth twisted, as far away from a smile as the movement could be. “No one said anything, MD. Seriously, are you going to get in trouble for this?” “Fuck that.” “An irresponsible mindset.”

Something flew out of Matt — loud and wholly inhuman, like it was scratching its way from the depths of his soul and some deep, dark part of him where disappointment lurked and unfair things festered and this wasn’t fair. Nothing about this was right. 

He wanted time to freeze. To stop and give him a chance to understand, for his pulse to settle and his legs to move because he needed to move and Matt couldn’t move and there were tears on Lizzie’s cheeks. 

Machines beeped at the other end of the hallway. Outdated magazines moved as other people who did not have several worlds crashing around them at that very moment looked for something interesting to read in Philadelphia’s most brightly-lit waiting room. Orthopedic shoes squeaked on the floor. 

Voices drifted. Calls and pages and a slew of other words Matt couldn’t begin to think of or even pretend to care about. 

Taylor downed the rest of his coffee. 

“Might not be good, Mattie,” he mumbled. 

And that was it. Of all the things that could do it, Matt wasn’t entirely surprised when a decades-old nickname was the thing that pushed him over that metaphorical edge. Directly into what felt like a never-ending chasm of knowing and understanding and Peggy really was very quick on her feet. 

Moving into his space, her hands on his chest were most of the reason Matt didn’t fall over right there. Plus his knees. Which refused to function, still. She had to press up on her toes to curl his t-shirt into her fingers, saying things he didn’t hear and didn’t want to understand and the feeling of weightlessness on his descent into that metaphorical chasm was oddly pleasant. 

He figured that would end relatively quickly. 

“What—” Matt’s voice didn’t sound like his. Rasped out of him through lips that were quickly turning chapped, and that didn’t make sense either. It was April. Playoffs were just starting. 

It was so goddamn sunny out. 

He resented it, honestly. 

“What, uh—what have the doctors said so far? That’s...I mean, I know it was shitty, but Rol’s come back from—” “—Yeah,” Henry said, appearing out of seemingly nowhere with neither one of his parents nearby, “that’s not really what he wants to do anymore.”

“Be more specific, old man.” “Ah, that’s just rude.” “It wasn’t just last night,” Lizzie whispered, and Matt genuinely did not know where to look. He had to pick somewhere. He couldn’t glare at all of them at once. 

He tried anyway. 

“What does that mean?” “Something about a camel and last straw, I think.” “Grandma is not here, Elizabeth.” Narrowing her eyes only made the red in them more pronounced, a thin line across her face that Matt was sure had, at one point, been her mouth. “You know better than anybody, Mattie. Teams don’t disclose injuries like that. We—” Lizzie huffed, another quick shake of her head that only served to make her hair flutter against her cheeks, “He’s been playing banged up all year.” “Banged up? That’s what we’re going with?” “What would you like?” “Hurt?” Matt snarled, marginally disappointed when he couldn’t control the volume of his voice. Anger mixed with fear, manifesting itself into a weird tightening around his core and possibly the general area of his spleen. 

He wasn’t ever sure what the point of his spleen was, exactly. 

“It’s....it hasn’t been easy,” Lizzie explained. “This season, at least. Playing so long last year didn’t help with his knees and skating isn’t—” “—Easy?” “If you’re going to be a dick about this, you can get back in a car I know you paid way too much for and go home.”

Deflating wasn’t exactly a word Matt wanted to think about in that moment. But for as quickly as the fight had risen in him, it disappeared even faster. Leaving nothing more than a sharp emptiness in the very center of him. 

None of it made sense. 

“I really paid way too much to get here,” Matt admitted. 

Lizzie sniffled, dragging her hands down either one of her cheeks with enough force that she left angry red streaks in her wake and it didn’t look like she’d slept in several days. Possibly this whole season. 

“How bad was bad, then?” “Bad,” she echoed. “He’d kill me if he knew I said this, but getting to the Conference Finals took a lot last season. All those extra games and that triple overtime was a fucking disaster and...you know, there’s something about the way he plays. Never the biggest guy, or the most physical, but it—” 

Lizzie tugged her lips behind her teeth, another inhale that affected Matt’s respiratory system and this was why. Why he didn’t waste time thinking. Why he wouldn’t look at a single newspaper article the next day. Why he had to be here for a surgery he’d spend sitting in a mass-produced plastic chair. 

Because he knew. What this game meant to Roland. And what losing it would do to him. 

“Spent half his mornings in PT this year, and never really said anything, but I—” 

Lizzie always had exceptionally straight teeth. 

When they were kids, Matt thought it was entirely unfair that she hadn’t needed braces or a retainer or anything. She simply existed and everything was great. That had been some sort of trend for most of their lives. Lizzie knew. She had a plan and a list, and she got shit done. No matter what else was going on or who else said it was impossible, and when people had started muttering and questioning, whispering about how much older Roland was than her, she’d flashed them that kind of hundred-watt smile that usually distracted opposing counsel and, quite easily, told them to go fuck themselves. 

Lizzie never broke.

She never wavered. She believed and she knew and she fixed everything. 

None of this could get fixed. 

At least not entirely. 

And every one of her perfectly straight teeth was on display when she grimaced. 

“It hurt to skate,” Lizzie breathed, “every time he got on the ice. But he’s an idiot, so—” Matt chuckled, a sniffle of his own and eyes that couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of him anymore. “Anyway, uh...we’d talked about it, a little. What would happen after the season, but that always seemed like such a far away thing and then there’s playoffs and that’s just another season, isn’t it? I’m rambling. Aren’t I?” “A little,” Matt agreed. 

“You really came down here.” “That wasn’t a question.” “More a slightly stunned observation.” Matt’s smile felt carved onto his face, nothing more than muscles that weren’t all that inclined to move the way he wanted them to. “Was he playing on the tear?” “No, no, no,” Lizzie promised quickly, but Matt lifted his eyebrows and Taylor snickered into his empty coffee cup. “Might have been strained.” “Likely,” Peggy amended.

Widening his eyes, Matt hoped he didn’t look as deranged as he felt. “You might have been right about the camel and the straw.” “Is that two different cliches?” Lizzie asked. “Yeah, absolutely. Grandma really would be impressed.” Another less-than-impressive laugh fell out of Lizzie at the same time her chin dropped to her shirt. “You play through the pain, Mattie. As idiotic as it’s always been. That’s the game, isn’t it?”

“It’s a dumb one.” “Yeah, it is. A good one too, though. Sometimes. Most of the time, really. All those cheers and the people and every stupid opinion on TV shows and tweets. You play for that chance. To be something bigger than yourself. To leave it all behind, for people to remember you by. You play for the possibility of it all, and sometimes you forget what losing that will mean.”

Matt’s hands moved. Darted, really. Onto Peggy’s shoulders and she grit her teeth at the force of his grip, but she didn’t tell him to move and he was going to have to take her to Serendipity for that. 

“You’re going to dislocate something in her,” Taylor chided lightly. He dropped into Peggy’s forgotten chair, catching one of Lizzie’s hands when she started wringing her fingers again. She didn’t pull away, either. 

Matt shook his head. He wasn’t sure what he was objecting to anymore. “I don’t think I have that kind of dexterity in my fingers, actually.” “Good word,” Henry murmured. 

“How long have you been here?” “Since last night. There was some talking and,” he shrugged, “planning and discussion. Now, Luce and Ella are back at the apartment trying to make sure no one starves after this operation—” “—Awfully pointed,” Lizzie interrupted. Taylor squeezed her hand. Her head fell to his shoulder. Which couldn’t have been very comfortable with the armrest looking like it was poking rather prominently into her ribs. 

“What have you eaten since the game?” “Uh, like...some saltines.” Peggy groaned. “Liar, you took at least two bites of my egg sandwich this morning. Please stop spreading rumors like that.”

Lizzie’s answering laugh sounded far too watery. 

“And,” Henry added, “Mom and Dad are outside talking to El and Liam who just got here and had to park several miles away, or so they claimed.”

“My parents are here?” Lizzie asked. “Probably texted you several dozen times.” Without letting go of Taylor’s hand, Lizzie threatened to dislocate her own shoulder as she yanked her phone out of her back pocket. She let out a low curse at the number of messages she’d missed, and Matt was getting a little frustrated that no one had actually confirmed anything to him yet. 

He also didn’t object when Peggy curled against his side. 

Made it easier to rest his chin on top of her head, anyway. 

And none of them flinched when the automatic doors slid open, four more sets of footsteps and muted discussion in obviously worried tones — but Lizzie wasn’t much more than a blur when she moved, launching herself into Aunt Elsa’s outstretched arms. 

“It’s ok elskan, it’s ok,” Aunt Elsa said, one of her hands coming up to cup the back of Lizzie’s head as she pressed endearments into her temple. None of the words were in English. Peak Jones comforting techniques. In addition to losing track of how often he’d watched the video, Matt couldn’t even begin to guess how many times his parents had done the same thing to him, quiet assurances and guarantees that worked when he was young, but might have rung a little hollow now and maybe he was just some sort of pessimistic asshole. 

No one had said the word actual yet. 

He wouldn't believe it until Roland told him. 

“C’mon MD,” Peggy said, tugging him back towards a pair of empty chairs on Taylor’s other side. “I can’t support your weight forever.”

He let her direct him, not sure if his lack of fight was a reaction to Lizzie or how blotchy Gina’s face was when she followed Robin into the waiting room, or how at some point in the next three hours he’d become the de facto contact point for anyone not in Philadelphia. 

Dad texted him and Mom called him — another round of those quiet assurances that Matt tried desperately to believe, but the growing lump in his throat made it difficult to respond and time was going backwards, he was sure. Chris FaceTimed. Four different times. 

“Nothing to report, kid,” Matt said, for at least the seventy-sixth time. Peggy was pacing a lopsided circle in front of him, Lizzie’s head resting on Aunt Elsa’s leg and her feet propped against Uncle Liam’s knee. 

“That’s bullshit.” “Saying it over and over is not going to help, Toph,” Henry muttered, not bothering to open his eyes. It was the middle of the afternoon. 

Matt couldn’t imagine any of them had slept the night before. What with life-changing conversations to have, and everything. 

“Lizzie eat yet?”

Matt’s eyes darted towards his cousin, but she didn’t so much as move — let alone show any signs of hunger, and he very much doubted she’d even tasted those so-called bites of sandwich she’d taken that morning. 

“Gets in her own head,” Chris mumbled, “can’t think about anything as human as sustenance.” Sliding down in his chair wouldn’t help the covertness of a conversation that should have had headphones, but Matt was getting more desperate the longer he sat there and he was even more convinced Lizzie wasn’t paying attention to him. “At some point, I’m pretty positive Aunt Gina’s just going to take over and start doling out rations to everyone and—”

He cut himself off. 

Suddenly. Sharply. As soon as he processed the specific squeak moving towards them and how quickly it stopped in front of Lizzie. 

She swung her feet back onto the floor. 

“Got quite a party out here, don’t you?” the doctor asked, like that was a joke and he was allowed to smile and both Peggy and Chris clicked their tongues knowingly. At Matt. Who couldn't see his face, but knew all too well the glare it had almost immediately shifted into. 

His shoulders rolled forward too.

“Like he’s going to check the goddamn medical professional,” Peggy muttered conspiratorially. Chris rolled his eyes. 

“Get fined, suspended and arrested, maybe?”

“That’d be a fun distraction.” “I will kill both of you,” Matt hissed. Peggy scrunched her nose when she nodded. For added effect. And obnoxiousness. 

And he was so busy doling out threats that Matt barely heard the updates. Something about feeling good and still a little groggy, but coherent and Lizzie nodded in what could only be described as understanding and possible hope while the doctor listed post-op plans and medicine schedules and then they were moving and squeaking and Matt was back to waiting.

Impatiently. 

He picked up Peggy’s route, ignoring the lingering looks from Henry and Taylor and Aunt Elsa caught his hand before he was entirely ready for it. 

“You’re making me dizzy,” she smiled, pulling him next to her. Still no fight. The lump in Matt’s throat was enormous. 

“Sorry.” “Ridiculous.” “Is that a compliment or an observation?” “Eh, little of column A, little of column B. How’s your breathing going?” Blushing was stupid, all things considered — but Matt suddenly felt like he was ten years old and getting caught for shoving Peggy into the pool because of course the Vankald-Jones’ moved into a house outside of D.C. that had a pool. Perfect family life demanded such things. 

“That’s what I thought,” Aunt Elsa nodded, “you know, sometimes you are so much like your dad it is amazing.” “Oh, that didn’t sound like a compliment either.” “It wasn’t,” Uncle Liam said, a soft laugh clinging to the words. “Nice shot the other night, by the way. When you guys start the next series?” “Once Carolina and Pittsburgh finish. They’re probably going to go seven, though.” “Carolina’s a better match for you guys, right?” Matt shrugged. “Both of ‘em have their strengths, but—” He desperately needed to finish his sentence. That proved impossible when he heard Henry’s smile stretch across his face, and Uncle Liam didn’t bother to hide his own look, a distraction that almost took root in the form of a politically correct and PR-approved answer and—“It’d be fun to fuck up Pittsburgh” Matt finished. “That center of theirs is a bastard.” “That’s the spirit.”

And, really, it didn’t take long. For Lizzie to come back and Aunt Gina to pretend like she hadn’t been crying, and Uncle Robin’s hand appeared cemented to the back of his neck, but then Matt was standing and Henry was standing and neither one of them double checked. They went in at the same time. 

To a room that was also questionably bright, bouquets of flowers already dotting a variety of flat surfaces. An IV wire ran towards the bed, the same one Roland was propped up in with more pillows than the hospital could have ever provided. 

“Your mom bring those?” 

Roland's grin threatened to split his face. The ache returned to Matt’s chest. “Don’t act like you aren’t jealous. And it smells like a goddamn rose garden in here. They’re going to have to drag me out.” “Don’t tell Lizzie that, she might not ever forgive you.” “She likes all those sweet smells at home. Vanilla, sugar cookie, cinnamon, coffee house whatever.” “Is a coffee house inherently sweet?” “Yes,” Roland replied, “and it’s our biggest disagreement ever.” Matt stopped short, not sure when he’d crossed so much of the room or how close he was to the bed and more beeping machines. “That so?” “Huh. You want to do this now, then?” Anger really was the most ridiculous reaction. It wasn’t Matt’s knee. Wasn’t his career or his legacy — which was stupid in its own right because Roland was this team and this city and the only reason they’d even gotten to the fucking Eastern Conference Finals the season before was because he’d set up the game-winner the series before and it had been a seven-game series and if Matt actually started crying in this overly bright hospital room he was never going to forgive himself.

“Is that the reason for the face?” “You cannot hold a conversation by only asking me questions,” Matt argued. 

Roland smiled. Asshole. “Can’t I, though?” “He’s going to have a coronary in front of you,” Henry chided, hooking his foot around the only chair, “and it will be your fault.” “Ah, well we’re in the right spot for it. And that wasn’t a question, Matt. Means I’m winning.” “This isn’t a competition,” Matt objected. “Are you serious about this?” And for half a second Roland almost looked like he regretted it. What could have been. What hadn’t happened. What had happened. Losing in five in the Eastern Conference Finals. But then it was gone. Replaced with something far closer to resolve and an understanding Matt couldn’t begin to wrap his mind around. 

“The first time sucked,” he said. “Getting back and trying to get my speed again and—” “—You are not a fast skater,” Matt interrupted. “Yeah, well you’re some freak of genetic nature. So we can’t all be like you, can we?” “‘Nother question.” “Conversational marvel, you are.” Matt huffed, blinking quickly and biting down on his lip until he tasted blood to keep himself from unraveling over something that didn’t belong to him. “It’s ok,” Roland said, “all of it is, really. It’s—this is the end, kid. And I’m not as freaked out as I thought I’d be, honestly.” “No?” “No. My knees are fucked. Even if I came back, it’d take months. I wouldn’t be ready for the start of next season and I don’t want to be that guy, Mattie. Showing up in fucking January, like some replacement. Clinging to something that’s passed me by already. Taking a spot from some other kid. Playing fourth line.” “But that’s not—” “—I’m not playing fourth line minutes, Mattie.” Twice. He’d said it twice, that nickname and all the meaning that came with it and Matt didn’t think. Again. Thrusting his hand forward he held onto Roland’s with enough force that someone’s knuckles cracked, but he could not begin to guess whose and that was probably some sort of metaphor. 

For the way they grew up and how much the game had twisted its way into both of their lives and—“Gotta be the star, huh?” Roland’s laugh echoed around them. Nothing about it was watery or disappointed, but rather certain and confident and Matt’s dad had always been his favorite player, but he’d been a kid when Killian Jones was captain of the New York Rangers and there was something different about now. About watching Roland come into his own in Philadelphia, a spotlight that was his on his own, not because of the name on his back, but because of how good his wrister was and how much those kids did look up to him. Matt included. 

“Face of the franchise, Mattie Jones. So, uh,” Roland continued, “this is it, kid. Not quite perfect. But you know I hate those farewell tours anyway.” “Could have gotten some good gifts,” Henry pointed out. “Bringing home some garbage merch from a bunch of Eastern teams that hated me every other day of the year really would have driven Lizzie insane. Plus, think about all the networks that’ll be clamoring for my face on their pre-game shows. Retirement’s got it’s perks.” There it was, kind of. 

One word and one decision and Matt was briefly worried about the blood flow to Roland’s hand, but he figured one of the machines would alert them to any problem before it happened and— “I’m going to retire,” Roland said, like he knew Matt needed to hear it. “Announcement coming in the next couple of days, probably. I’m almost looking forward to the tearful goodbye videos.” “God, you’re an ass,” Matt grumbled. “One who’s going to rake in that TV money.”

Smiling continued to feel more than a little unnatural, but it was some sort of innate reaction in that moment and Matt didn’t have to say anything. Roland didn’t expect it either, which felt like a bit of a twisted reward, but then he was walking and moving and Henry was still in the room. 

No one was in the hallway. 

Made it easier, that way. 

To quickly and completely go to pieces. 

Sliding down the wall, Matt’s legs tangled in front of him, tears on his cheeks and oxygen staging some sort of revolt in his body and he wished his girlfriend was there and he wished his dad was there and Peggy still had his phone and— “Hey, hey, hey, at least get your hands out of your hair.” The words didn’t connect immediately, another noticeable knuckle crack as Matt’s fingers dug into the strands he’d started gripping at some point. Uncle Liam groaned when he crouched, stymying the threat to Matt’s scalp as he ducked into his eye line. 

“If you tell me it’s going to be ok, you don’t have to. I—” Matt’s inconsistent breathing was even more annoying than his sentence structure. “I know it’ll be fine. Rol’s choice and for the best and...God, fuck, shit, damnit.” “Last one wasn’t very impressive.” “I ran out.” “Ah, don’t lie to me, kid. I know we taught you way more creative words.” “Mostly use that on the ice.” Uncle Liam hummed knowingly, finally letting go of Matt’s hands when it seemed he trusted him not to start yanking on his own hair again. “It absolutely isn’t fine. None of it. It’s bullshit and unfair and knees are worthless joints anyway.” Matt blinked. 

His neck ached with the force of his head jerk, gaping and staring and Uncle Liam’s smile shifted slightly. Into something almost like understanding. He knew. 

He knew. 

“Game like this, it...it sinks into you, doesn’t it? Has to, that’s the only way you can get through it. Because it’s not like other ones. No grass, no court, no sunshine. Fuck, any sunshine just makes it even harder to see on the ice. And that makes it worse and even better. Because for every time you’ve managed to sweat through your pads while shivering at a shitty rink, there are game winners and brekaways and hitting some bastard who thought he was better at faceoffs than you.” “They measure things like faceoffs now, y’know?” “I’m giving you a motivational speech.” Matt nodded. 

“Point is, a sport like this, it...for as much as it gives, it takes a little bit too. Because you’ve got to give yourself to it. Understand that the bumps and the bruises and the incessant cracking of your joints is payment in kind.” “For?” “For the way it felt. The way it’ll always feel, even when it doesn’t end the way you planned.” Letting out a shuddering breath, Matt barely felt his head when it dropped against the wall. “He never won. That’s—of all the things, that’s the worst.” “Sure he did. You don’t think so?” “Unless I forgot about a parade.”

“That’s not how this stuff works, kid,” Liam sighed. “All those runs when you were growing up, even before you were born, those were Rol’s as much as they were Locksley’s. As much as they were your dad’s. And anything you do, that’s his too. Not just because you stole his wrister. Which is kind theft four-times removed, actually.” “How you figure?” “Well, Rol stole it from your dad who ripped it off me, so. You’re welcome.” He might need oxygen sooner rather than later. And a tissue. More than one tissue. “The point I’m getting at,” Uncle Liam said, “is that there’s no perfect way for this to go. Happily ever after isn’t guaranteed, but it doesn’t wipe out everything else that happened. Doesn’t change how good this game is or how good it will keep being. You play with a team, right?” “Sounds like a cliche.” “You grow up in that house, some things become entrenched.” “Yeah, I get that.” “I know you do. Your sister was talking to your parents before, I’m sure they’re waiting for you to get back out there.” It wasn’t the dismissal it sounded like, especially when it came with a hand clasped on his shoulder — but Matt nodded all the same, muttering a quiet thanks and Uncle Liam had been right. Mom had totally been crying too. 

And it wasn’t perfect. Wasn’t the ending that Roland deserved, but eventually Matt started to wonder if it was actually the end and as the years went on he started to know it wasn’t. Not with weddings and kids and a whole subsection of the internet that was decidedly preoccupied with the cut of Roland’s suits on postgame television spots. 

They kept going. Games and hits and a few more injuries, and, eventually, when the Stanley Cup came back to New York and back to that brownstone downtown, Matt didn’t hesitate. He handed it to Roland. 

And took a picture. 

With both of their kid sitting in the goddamn thing. 

[grither55]

Brain Surgery for my Pineal Tumor

Hello,

This is different than my usual posts, it is much more personal and it is something that I do not usually talk about. I am not that good at opening up with people. However, I am going to try and give it a go. 

I have had a debilitating intractable migraine for 1100 days since October of 2017. Just recently I found out that I have a pineal tumor, and that it is the almost certain cause of my indescribable pain.

And now I need to go across state lines to get a craniotomy to remove it. There are only a handful of surgeons who can have the experience needed to remove such a tumor located deep within the brain. And there is no surgeon that can do it for me in my home state.

Because I have to go so far to get it removed, there are thousands upon thousands of dollars of cost that I would not have if I could do it locally.

The pain has gotten so horrible that I could no longer hold my job, because I exhausted all of my leave time. My condition got to a point that I couldn’t even speak to customers because the pressure in my head had gotten so terrible.

Despite my condition, I tried to stay in the work force. I lasted at the job for a year and a half like this. Until it got to the point that I was almost blacking out at work, I would slur and stutter from the heavy pressure that was always over my skull. I ended up reaching a point where I developed interruptions in my equilibrium. I started to sway when I walked, and I would get intense vertigo at work. And that was when I could no longer go into work because it was no longer safe.

I have had to abandon everything in my life in the face of this permanent pain, I can’t speak to people in person. Because my face vibrates from the sound of my own voice and the vibrations increase the pain in my skull. I am always nauseous, and the more sound I am around the worse it becomes.

I have spent the most of these 1100 days sitting in a dark room, with almost no light and casting aside all things that make a permanent migraine worse. Which is basically everything and everything.

Bike rides, hiking, video games, TV, having a drink, hanging out with friends and so much more. I have given all of that up because I have to constantly stay in complete silence and darkness. And ultimately, that meant giving up most of life’s pleasures.

As time went on, I noticed that every six or so months the pain would reach a new threshold. And then once it went up, it would never lower back down to what it was before.

I saw six neurologists, a handful of other doctors, tried over thirty praised migraine medications. I did Botox injections, occipital nerve blocks and cortisone shots all to no avail. I was in and out of the hospital for infusion therapy three times to break the migraine cycle. One hospital trip I even stayed there seven days straight.

Despite all of this, I never got even the slightest bit of relief. And doctor after doctor would eventually become baffled and push me away. Nobody could offer any kind of explanation for my pain.

That all changed however, when I found out that I had a pineal tumor. The surgeon is confident that there is a ninety percent chance that the tumor is the source of my problem.

I am both relieved and incredibly overwhelmed. Relieved because there is hope that I can finally get better and live a normal life. And overwhelmed because there are still many hurdles that I must cross.

Because it is out of network, there are immense out of pocket costs that I cannot afford. There are also expensive travel costs, such as airfare and lodging to stay in the area before and after surgery.

And because I have been physically unable to work during this time. I have accumulated a large sum of debt during these last three years. And on top of all of that, I no longer have a working car that can make the two thousand mile round trip.

I was left with only one option, I created a GoFundMe. This is the first time that I have ever created a fundraiser, so I am not sure if I am even doing this right.

I have almost no social network, and I am not having much luck in getting my GoFundMe circulated.

All that I am asking is that if there is anyone out there reading this, if you could please give my GoFundMe a share at the link below. That would mean more to me that I could ever put into words.

If you are interested you can read more on my GoFundMe page.

Thank you so very much for your time and for hearing what I have to say.

gf.me/u/yxzfhb

Note: The tumor is on top of my pineal gland and it is bigger than the gland itself. My MRI images seem to be of terrible quality. I am still going through my MRI discs to see if I can find a clear image.  

[let-it-raines]

Catch Me If You Can (37/40)

298 days. That’s how long Killian Jones was away from a baseball field. It’s less than a year, only part of a season for him, but it might as well have lasted a decade as he alternated between physical therapy and spending an excessive amount of time sitting on his couch.

But then he came back and won the World Series.

It’s something no one saw coming, and it’s certainly not something anyone who knows about his arm would predict. Now it’s a new season with new possibilities, and anything could happen. On-field reporter Emma Swan will be there to cover it all even if she is not his biggest fan right now.

Asking her out live on-air will do that.

Rating: Mature

a/n: A thanks to all of you for genuinely being the most wonderful people who are so kind in however you do or do not interact with me, and a special thanks to @resident-of-storybrooke​ for being my beta and @imagnifika​ for making this cover ❤️

Found on AO3: Beginning | Current

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A car horn blares ten floors down before the sound of two more follow, and Emma groans before twisting her head and burying her face in her pillow, hoping to drown out the noise. It’s the middle of the night, darkness surrounding everyone and everything, and the only sounds Emma should be able to hear are the quick turn of the ceiling fan above Killian’s bed and the steady pace of Killian’s breathing behind her as his hand flexes over her stomach while his breath comes out warmly against the nape of her neck.

Instead of those noises, however, she hears the sound of cars blaring outside, and while this place unfortunately has the moniker of the City That Never Sleeps, Emma certainly wishes to.

Groaning at the reverberation of yet another horn sounding, Emma tucks her face further into the softness of the pillow, hoping that her mind can somehow will the noise to go away, and she puts all of her energy and focus into falling back asleep since there are still hours until the sun will rise high into the sky and her alarm will blare much like the horns outside to tell her that the day ahead of her as finally arrived.

Rough fingers press into the skin of her stomach once more, stretching out before coming back together, and Emma shifts back into Killian’s embrace from where they had separated while sleeping. He twitches slightly, and since she’s not sure if it was unconscious or not, Emma tentatively rolls her hips back into Killian’s so that his hardened length settles between her ass while heat begins to flicker across her body. Killian’s fingers flinch once more, but this time they tug her body back into him while his hot breath once again brushes over her neck to cause her skin to break out in goosebumps.

And then there’s the soft kiss right over her pulse point.

“Bloody car horn,” Killian grumbles into her skin, kissing her again. “What could possibly be that annoying that they have to wake everyone in the building?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

His nails start tracing along her stomach underneath her sweater that she put on before bed to combat the chill that always moves through Killian’s apartment, even more so now that it’s cold outside and there’s no escape from the crisp late October air. The patterns are nonsense, and Emma smiles to herself at the thought of Killian and his usual penchant for writing his love for her into her own skin.

He’s stupid romantic.

“We should go back to bed.”

Emma rolls her hips again, her eyes adjusting to the dimness of the room that is only lit by the moon and the lights of the buildings across from the apartment, and she wakes up that little bit more at the feeling of Killian moving behind her.

“Are you sure about that?” she teases.

“Oh, absolutely,” Killian says even as his hand moves up her stomach to lazily fondle her breast while his scruff scratches across the cords of her neck. “We’ve got a bit of a big day today.”

“And what’s that?”

Emma can practically feel the smile in Killian’s kiss on her shoulder, and she twists the slightest bit so that the back of her head rests against her pillow while Killian adjusts to press his hips further into her. His cheek rests against the palm of his hand that’s propped up by his elbow so that he’s looking down at her, a ghost of light flickering across him so that she can clearly see half of his face and the grin on his lips as his hand still continues to palm her breast.

“Well, you know what it is, my beautiful darling.”

Emma feigns innocence. “Do I?”

“You do.” His head dips down to lazily guide his mouth over hers, and Emma could practically melt and become one with this bed for Killian to keep kissing her like this.

“It’s the beginning of the World Series, I know.”

Killian’s brow arches high on his forehead, those little lines in the middle appearing. “Well, that is true, but it’s not why I think today is a big day.”

“You’re a shitty baseball player then.”

Killian chuckles and pinches her nipple, and heat continues to curl between her thighs so that there’s a growing ache there. “It’s your birthday, my love,” he whispers as he smiles down at her before giving her a tender kiss. “I know you haven’t forgotten about that.”

“I haven’t, no. I’m simply a bit more concerned about the game than me getting older.”

Killian hums before he’s kissing her again, his tongue beyond sinful, and by the time that he pulls back she can scarcely breathe. He’s always been able to have her panting and wanting more within minutes, and suddenly the teasing isn’t enough. Suddenly she needs much more of him, every bit of him, and she needs it soon.

The cars beeping their horns outside don’t seem so bad now.

“Let me make you forget for a little while, yeah?” he whispers as his hand trails down from her breast to beneath the elastic waistband of her pajama pants so that his fingers are running over where she’s slick with want for him. His voice is still gritty and hoarse as it always is when he’s just woken up, and Emma will forever be fond of him in the mornings with his deep voice and sleep-rumpled hair. “Fuck, Emma,” he groans as his fingers continue to move exactly where she wants him. “It’s ridiculous how much the thought of you wanting me still drives me insane.”

Her hand reaches back to cup the back of his head, fingers curling into the soft strands so that she can push his face a little bit closer to hers. “You must be on the verge of going insane then because I always want you.”

The heel of Killian’s hand presses into her bundle of nerves, and Emma lets out a pathetic whine. She doesn’t care though. She’s long stopped caring about any awkward noises or ungraceful movements that come when she’s with Killian. It’s part of life and being human, and there’s no one in the world who she is more comfortable with than Killian.

No one.

And she knows that he enjoys the noises she makes in response to his touch even if it’s a groan from him elbowing her.

“You’re right,” he mumbles, as his fingers continue to work at her, the deftness of them causing a heat more sweltering than the summer to move over her skin in waves as her brain begins to float away with thoughts of anything other than how good Killian makes her feel. “I’m simply mad about you.”

Killian pulls his hand back, and the whine Emma releases is even more pathetic. “What the hell are you doing?”

He shifts behind her as his hands pull down her pajama pants. Emma has to help, tilting her hips up and kicking away the material so that nothing separates her from the blanket resting over her. Soon, though, the heat of Killian’s skin and the trickle of the hair on his legs is pressing into her, and Emma bites her bottom lip as she feels the smooth heat of his cock press into the slickness of her folds.

Killian’s grin is wicked, and Emma’s stomach muscles quiver in anticipation of what’s coming next. She loves him so damn much that it’s ridiculous.

A year ago, he was nothing more than a cocky baseball player inadvertently determined to ruin her life. No part of her could have imagined that this is where they’d be now. She would have laughed and resisted and done everything possible to be as far away from Killian Jones as possible.

Now, though, she wants to be joined with him in every single way so that they are as close as humanly possible.

There’s a roll of his hips behind her, his heavy length teasing her, and her moan is nothing compared to the gruntled groan that Killian lets out behind her. Killian’s hand comes to wrap around her stomach over the metal of her ring once more while the other rests behind her head to bring her more comfort while her back is pressed to Killian’s front, and he nuzzles his cheek into her neck while his lips move just behind the lobe of her ear as she lifts her leg over his hip so that he can slowly push inside of her, settling deep inside of her with a pleasurable stretch that has her heartbeat quickening and her breath catching at how good the drag of him feels.

“Fuck,” she whispers, the sound escaping into the swirl of air from the ceiling fan. “You feel so good.”

“Not as good as you. I can assure you of that.”

“It doesn’t have to be a competition.”

“Oh, darling,” he sighs with a deep chuckle into her ear, “you do know that I like winning.”

And then he’s rocking his hips into her, pressing himself as deep inside of Emma as he possibly can, and Emma’s stomach flips while sweat forms at her temple and emotion lodges itself in her throat.

It’s a funny, over-emotional thing, but nights like this are her favorite. It’s the middle of the night, most of the world asleep despite the people outside who woke them up, and no one exists outside of the two of them. It’s them against the world, two people who are undeniably different and yet certainly well-matched, and as Killian moves within her, Emma wonders if she’s ever felt so entirely whole in her life.

Her blood thrums hotly within her while Killian finds a rhythm that might as well be the most beautiful music ever written, and Emma listens to it as heat and need and that continuing want pools between her thighs and over her entire body. Emma shifts her leg once more, letting Killian thrust deeper inside of her so that he is hitting the spot that would allow her to see stars even in the middle of Manhattan, and she loses any sort of composure that was hanging on by a string.

Killian is going achingly slowly, taking his time as if seconds are truly minutes and minutes are hours, and she’s perfectly fine with that until his tongue starts moving hotly against the crook between her shoulder and neck and she’s desperate for more.

“Beautiful,” he groans into her ear. “You are so beautiful. I could stay joined with you for hours if our bodies would let us.”

A shudder runs through her, and she imagines through Killian as well if the way that his movements falter is any indication, and she’s that much closer to the edge. Then Killian’s hand is moving from where it’s pressed against her stomach and down to where they’re joined, and she loses it, tumbling over the edge with a sigh that Killian captures in a fierce kiss once she’s craned her head to the side.

“I love you,” she gasps out against his breath. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

His movements inside of her still for only for him to start thrusting again with purpose, obviously ready to chase his high as well now that she’s found hers. Nothing truly seems real, everything blurred except for what she feels with him, and there’s another dizzying rush of heat that comes with an overwhelming sense of love as Killian heavily pulses between her thighs while his mouth still against hers.

“I love you more than anyone I’ve ever known.”

The words are spoken into her mouth, but they settle down in her heart. Emma is so incandescently happy in this moment that she cannot help the smile that lazily stretches from one side of her lips to the other. His chest is still pressed into her back, hair coated with sweat that sticks to her skin, and she’s pretty sure that she can feel his heartbeat with the rise and fall of his chest. That may be her own. At this point, she’s not sure where she ends and Killian begins.

“Hi,” she giggles when her eyes flicker open and she’s struck by blue.

“Hello, love,” he sighs in response, holding her close a little longer as she feels him begin to soften within her. “Happy birthday.”

“Hmm, happy World Series day.”

“I see that our priorities are still vastly different.”

“However will we make this thing between us work?”

Killian chuckles before regretfully pulling out of her, and she misses the heat of him immediately before he’s rolling to the side and opening his bedside drawer. Then there’s a cool touch as he cleans her up, and Emma snuggles back into her pillow, sated and happy and not at all caring that she’s wearing a sweater and nothing else.

Emma turns around so that she can tuck her feet between Killian’s calves and wrap her arms around his stomach while his hand curves around her waist to rest on her ass, fingers playfully squeezing like he hasn’t gotten enough of her.

She can understand that.

“I think,” he sighs in response to her question, “that we will figure that out. Remind me to find whoever it was that blared their bloody horn in the middle of the night and thank them for that.”

“It may be a bit difficult to track them down.”

“I am up to the task because I think I may be walking around with a goofy smile all day after that.”

Emma tilts her head up and rests her chin on his chest as she stares up at him, the lights from outside catching the blue in his eyes. That blue will never not be ridiculous.

There is, indeed, the goofiest smile on his face. She imagines it matches the one on hers.

“We should probably go back to sleep.”

“Eh.”

“What?”

His hand moves from her ass up to her back, tracing those patterns again. “I’m not playing today. It’s all on Rob. I can stay awake with you as long as I want. I want to soak in as much time with the darling Emma Swan as I can as she begins her twenty-eighth year.”

She scrunches up her nose. “Please tell me you’re not going to make a big deal out of today. Like, I want as lowkey as possible.”

“Damn. I’ll cancel the one hundred bouquets of roses and the crowd-wide singing to you.”

“Shut up. I’m serious.”

“As am I, love. I know that you don’t want a big deal out of today, so no big deal will be made. However, I do know that Mary Margaret did not get the memo, and she’s arranged for everyone to meet in a suite before the game so that you can have a cake and not be forgotten among the mess of today.”

Emma curls her finger around the hair on Killian’s chest that’s matted together with sweat. “Are you going to be able to be there?”

“Maybe,” he shrugs. “It depends on if Al lets any of us go. He’s a little bit more high strung than usual, and I don’t think even him having a new girlfriend is calming him down.”

“He probably wants to impress her by winning the World Series two years in a row.”

“Well, I can certainly understand that.”

Emma quirks a brow while her finger continues swirling around. “Do you try to impress me, twenty-nine?”

Killian’s smile falters before it’s back, and his hand falls back down to her ass. “Every damn day.”

Emma chuckles as she presses forward to kiss his collarbone before shifting once more to lazily kiss Killian so that she can taste his warmth. “You do a very good job at impressing me even though you definitely don’t have to.”

“It does come rather naturally to me. I’m a pretty impressive guy.”

Emma rolls her eyes and rests her head against her shoulder as sleep starts to catch up with her again, the lids of her eyes clothing. “There’s the Killian I know and love.”

“At your service, milady.”

When she wakes, Emma knows that it’s hours later from the way that sunlight filters through the windows. The shades have been pulled down since the middle of the night, but only halfway as the glow of the late October sun reaches through the room. Emma’s thighs ache, something, she notices immediately, but it’s a pleasant soreness that makes her mind flashback to a few hours ago. Immediately, she turns to seek out Killian in bed, but he’s not there. In his place are simply a card and a small box that has her heart pounding in her chest so loudly that she’s surprised all of Manhattan cannot hear it.

Emma reaches over and grabs the card first, her name written out in Killian’s sprawling script, and she smiles to herself as she reads his message.

Happiest of birthdays, my love.

Leaving you a card and a gift (and it is not your only gift, I promise) on the bed while you sleep does not count as “making a big deal out of things” so you best not complain. It’s been quite the year for you, a rollercoaster without a seatbelt some would say, and the only thing I can wish is that this year is somehow better for you than the last and that a smile continues to grace your lips.

You are the best part of my day every day, even on the ones where we’re arguing, and I cannot thank you enough for loving me even though I am the man who pressed start on last year’s rollercoaster ride.

I am where I am today because of you, Emma Swan. You are everything.

All of my love,

Killian.

Sweet, stupid, sentimental fool.

Emma sits up in bed and adjusts the plush comforter over her legs. She needs to put pants back on, the chill in the room too much for her, but she’s far too curious as to what’s in this box. Slowly, she opens it, and inside rests a slim silver chain that glistens in the sunlight with a small circular pendant at the bottom that has the number twenty-nine inscribed into it.

“Elsa assured me that it wasn’t an asshole move to give you a pendant with my number on it.” She looks up to where he’s standing in the archway of his bedroom, already dressed in his clothes for practice and holding a mug of coffee in his hand. “I probably asked her at least sixty-seven times. And it’s also, you know, for the ring. The chain you have it on now is a chunky old thing, and you deserve something a little more delicate.”

Her hand drops reaches down into her sweater and pulls out the chain so that it and the ring rests on top of her sweater. “There is nothing wrong with this chain.”

“Yeah,” Killian smiles, “there is. You deserve a nicer one.”

Emma doesn’t know what to say to that, so instead of speaking, she pulls the chain off of her neck and undoes the clasp before hooking the ring onto the new chain so that it falls down next to the pendant. “Can you put it on me?”

Killian nods in affirmation before walking toward her and putting the mug of coffee on the side table before gathering her hair up and moving it to the side so that it’s not covering her neck. He softly smiles at her, obviously nervous over his gift, before his hand brushes over hers to take the chain so that he can wrap it around her neck and clasp it together so that the ring and pendant fall just between her breast. Then there’s a soft, lingering kiss against the nape of her neck, and all Emma can do is smile.

“Thank you, Killian. I love this.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she confirms, kissing his cheek. “It’s perfect.”

The smile that stretches across his face warms her heart, and she swears that she sees blush gracing his cheeks. “I didn’t want to wake you since you don’t have to be at the fields until three, but I’ve got to go to practice.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to pay the fine and stay in bed with me? I’m feeling very motivated for a repeat of earlier.”

Killian groans and moves to rest his forehead against her shoulder, his intake of breath audible. “Please don’t tempt me like that. I have paid the fine many a time before for you, but I can’t do it today.”

“I know,” she soothes, squeezing his bicep. “I know. Go to practice. It’s a big day for you and the guys, and I don’t want anything to come between that.”

“I know. I love you, and I’ll text you later, yeah?”

“Absolutely. I love you too.” Killian kisses her shoulder before pulling up and standing from the bed so that he can walk over to his bedroom doorway. “Aren’t you forgetting your coffee?”

“That’s for you, love.”

Emma groans in appreciation. “You are the best man in the world.”

“I can’t wait to tell Dave that he’s lost his title.”

And then he’s gone and she’s left in the glorious softness of this bed with a new chain around her neck and a warm cup of coffee in her hand.

It’s day one of the World Series, and there’s absolutely nothing better than this.

Nothing.

-/-

Emma adjusts the faux leather of her skirt as she walks down the hallway to the suite where Mary Margaret’s text instructed her to go. Apparently, she didn’t think through her outfit choice today because no matter how cute she looks in a tight skirt with high suede boots and a black sweater, it’s a little bit difficult to walk at her normal pace. Jeans would have been a better choice, but she was saving that for tomorrow since the temperatures are dipping down a little further despite it being a day game.

ObviouslyObviously, all of the choices she has to make on a daily basis are the most difficult.

Regardless of her limited movement, Emma keeps walking, flashing her ID badge to the guard, and steps inside where she’s immediately bombarded by blue and white balloons as well as two giant gold ones of the numbers “two” and “eight.”

This is exactly what Killian meant when he had no control over whatever it is that Mary Margaret was doing to celebrate today.

“Happy birthday, Emma,” Addison squeals as she runs through the balloons to reach Emma, her arms going around Emma’s waist and squeezing so hard that Emma’s intestines likely shift.

“Thank you, sweetie,” she laughs, hugging Addy back and taking a deep breath when she lets go. “Did you get me all of these balloons?”

“Nope. Mommy and Mriss s. Mary Margaret did.”

“Oh, well, that is certainly nice of them.” Emma awkwardly bends down and picks Addy up even if Addy is getting far too big for her to do that, before walking through the balloons to where everyone Emma knows who doesn’t play baseball is waiting for her with bright smiles on their faces. “Hi, everyone. Thank you for the balloons and the cake that I’m sure is in the fridge and will make it hard for me to stay in this skirt.”

“It’s your birthday,” Mary Margaret sighs as she walks forward to give Emma a hug. “Calories don’t count. You look fantastic, by the way.”

“Thank you, Marg. You’re so sweet.”

Emma has to put Addison down before she makes the rounds to hug everyone in the room. Anna and Elsa squeeze her far too tightly, while Liam and Kris hug her like a normal person. Leo gives her a half-hearted hug, too distracted by watching TV to pay too much attention to her, and David hugs her like he always hugs her with his hand cupping the back of her head as he wishes her a happy birthday and shares just how much he loves her.

She hates that Ruby is downstairs working and that Graham is still at the precinct, but she’ll see both of them later today. She still can’t believe they’re getting married.

“Has Killian given you your present yet, Emma?” Elsa asks her once they’ve all settled down on the couches, plates of cake in all of their laps.

“Yeah, he has.” Emma pulls the chain out from underneath her shirt and shows Elsa. “Did you help him pick it out?”

“No, it was all on him. He asked my advice on it, though, because he wasn’t sure if it was an appropriate gift.”

“I love it. It’s very me, I think.”

“Killian too,” Anna sighs as her hand reaches over to touch the chain. “He’s never been one for big gifts, even for himself. His apartment is the most extravagant thing that he owns. This is so pretty. I think I might have to steal it from you.”

“Over Emma’s dead body,” David laughs. “She misplaced that ring last week, and I have never seen her so frantic. She’s not letting anyone touch it.”

Her cheeks flame up. “It’s not something that can exactly be replaced. Need I remind you of the time we had to do some special plumbing to get your wedding rink back from the sink in the men’s bathroom at the office.”

“You had to do what now?” Mary Margaret asks, a high-pitched squeak to her voice.

“Nothing, honey,” David promises even as he cuts his eyes at Emma. “I’ve still got my ring, and that’s all that matters.”

“If it makes everyone feel better,” Kris adds in, “I’m on what hast has to be my fifth wedding ring. I swear I lose one every Christmas season when I’m working.”

“The guy at the jewelry store has the information on file so that it’s always the same ring.” Anna shrugs her shoulders, like she’s used to it. “I have no idea how he loses them like that because it’s, like, pretty much glued to his fingers.”

“I’m a man of many talents.”

“Losing your ring doesn’t qualify as a talent, Kris.”

“Shut up, Liam.”

“That’s not a nice word,” Lucy yells out, chocolate icing spread across her lips. “You’re not supposed to say that. You’re supposed to ask him to please lower his voice.”

“Yeah, Kris,” Emma teases as she scoops up another bite of cake. “Ask Liam to lower his voice.”

“You get too much joy out of this.”

“I just like that the four-year-old is in charge of you.”

“I have been married to Anna for five years. You have been dating Killian for half a year. And yet you’re the one with the girls wrapped around your finger.”

Emma waggles her fingers in the air and winks over at Kris. “I learned all the best tricks at how to make children like me with Leo.”

“And by that,” David explains, “she means that she gave him candy even when we told her not to.”

“I think it really started when I gave him icing when he was ten months old. Leo’s never looked back. Right, kid?”

“Yep,” he sighs. He’s got icing all over his lips too, and it makes Emma laugh. “And now I get really cool seats at baseball games.”

“Hey,” David scoffs. “I have taken you to baseball games for years.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Ungrateful, I tell you. Completely and totally ungrateful.”

“Last week,” Liam starts, “I braided Addy’s hair, as I do quite frequently so I’m not a novice, and there was a small loop out of place that she went on about until I dropped her at school. I swear, sometimes it’s like life really is paying me back for every dumb thing I’ve done through the kids.”

Emma’s phone beeps, and she looks down at it to see a message from Ruby that she needs to come downstairs and get prepped for the game day introduction. Emma closes down the screen on her phone and takes several quick bites of her cake before standing up from the couch and placing her plate down on the coffee table.

“Thank you guysyou, guys. I love you, but I’ve got to go to work. Do your magic and pull the guys through, okay? If not for our sakes, do it for Killian so we don’t have to deal with him being all moody.”

“Amen,” they all echo from around her.

They all know Killian far too well.

-/-

There’s a roar in the stadium, one that Emma doesn’t hear that often, and it sends chills down her spine and over every inch of her skin so that each individual hair is raised on pebbled skin.

That’s the thing about starting the Series with the home field advantage. The entire crowd is around you, cheering on your successes and bemoaning your mistakes, and that momentum doesn’t just stick around for the home game. It stays with the players when they inevitably have to travel to California and have their every movement booed and their every breath criticized. Killian has told her time and time again that when it gets to be too much out there, the lights to bright and the jeers too loud, he closes his eyes and thinks to one of those moments where he was floating on cloud nine lifted by the fans so that he can remember that what’s happening right now isn’t going to be what’s happening every single time.

Each game is different, and sometimes it takes looking back on a good moment to have things be a little less lonesome out there.

For as much as these guys are a part of a team, they’re also standing in solidarity with thousands upon thousands of eyes on them, each person waiting with baited breath.

Emma’s heart has nearly burst from her chest fifteen times tonight alone, and she doesn’t know how she’s going to make it through more games than this.

How is she going to make it through Killian pitching tomorrow when he’s only pitched two games in two months?

This was easier when she was simply a reporter and not a girlfriend.

Damn.

“You look like you’re about to hyperventilate,” Ruby says through her earpiece.

“Rubes, you have spent this entire game commentating the fact that I look like I’m going to hyperventilate or pass out or do something else equally ridiculous.”

“Some people are entertained by the game. I’m entertained by you.”

Jeff rolls his eyes next to Emma, obviously listening in to Ruby talking too. That poor man did not sign up for the two of them when he applied to be a job as a cameraman. He probably thought he’d just get to film a few baseball games.

“It’s sad how little you can be entertained by.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of this huge ass diamond ring on my finger.”

“Oh my God,” Emma mutters under her breath, and now Jeff is the one who looks like he’s about to hyperventilate. “Are you ever going to stop saying that?”

“Nope,” Ruby sighs. “I’m engaged and in love, and it’s only been three days. I have at least two weeks to be an obnoxious bride-to-be, remember?”

“Okay, but after two weeks, you’re done.”

“Please, in two weeks you and Jones are going to be holed up in his apartment fucking each other’s brains out because neither of you are smothered with work for the first time since you started dating. Baseball mating season in its truest form.”

“Ruby,” Emma shrieks, and some of the other reporters that are sitting next to her back behind the bullpen look over to her. “You can’t say that over the earpiece.”

“I’m sure Jeff doesn’t mind.”

“I mind,” he pipes in. “I definitely mind.”

“Strike three,” the umpire says, flashing the signal as Lorenzo walks off the field and back to the Dodgers’ dugout.

And game one goes to the Yankees.

“Go ahead and get ready to do interviews, you guys,” Ruby instructs them, her voice mellowing out back to the voice she uses when she’s seriously working. “Roseman has done a hell of a job closing out the game, but they want you to interview Scarlet and King.”

“Are you serious?” Emma groans.

“I know, I know. King is an asshole, but he hit the triple that gave us the lead. You’ve just got to do it.”

Emma would release a breath of relief, but she doesn’t even get a chance. She’s too busy trying to navigate the field that’s full of players and coaches and even a few family members that have somehow stuck around. Then it’s a mess of interviews, and thankfully, Will and Arthur do a joint one so that she doesn’t have to interview Arthur alone. Their voices are giddy, Will’s Boston accent far thicker than usual, and it’s infectious seeing the joy in their faces and hearing the cheer of the crowd as Frank Sinatra’s voice plays over the stadium.

They really did just win.

One game down. Hopefully only three more to go.

“Swan,” Killian yells out, and she turns around on the field to see him walking toward her. He’s changed clothes since she last saw him, and she had no idea that he was still even near the field. She kind of figured that he would have gone up to the suite after practice.

The smile on his face is huge, his eyes crinkling, and she fully expects him to pick her up in his hug when he gets to her.

He does.

“We won,” she laughs into his embrace while he slowly spins her around the field.

“YesYes, we fucking did,” Killian chuckles right back as he puts her on the ground and moves his hands to cup her cheeks before fiercely kissing her. She guesses him kissing her during the last game kind of blew their policy on separating work and home in public. “I have no idea how I’m going to go to sleep tonight.”

“Yeah, well, you better. You have to pitch tomorrow. This isn’t over yet.”

“I know, I know, but I can feel it in my bones. We’ve got this.”

“Yeah,” she smiles as hope starts building up in her chest, “we do.”

Or at least she hopes so.

-/-

-/-

Tag list: @authorarsinoe​ @stunningswan​ @eala-captian @galaxyzxstark @xellewoods @mariakov81 @ultraluckycatnd @royalswan @shey-starsfury​ @superchocovian​ @sals86 @iam2307 @ashley-knightingale @karenfrommisthaven @scientificapricot @captswanis4vr @ultimiflos @jamif @idristardis @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke @tiganasummertree @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @mayquita @captainsjedi @teamhook @notoriouscs @kmomof4 @ekr032-blog-blog​ @cs-forlife @andiirivera @jonirobinson64 @qualitycoffeethings​ @carpedzem​ @tornadoamy​

[ilguna]

Whist - Chapter Four

summary: you can’t protect her forever.

Word Count; 4.3k

Warnings; swearing, murder!

NOTES: not a finnick odair x reader. it’s a ‘what if’ series

–

When they raise the tributes above the ground, you’re finally able to get a good look at the arena. You get up from where you’re sitting on the couch in the apartment, planting yourself mere inches from the television.

The sun is bright, you watch as the tributes squint and place their hands above their eyes at first to try and get their eyes adjusted. Alyssum gets her footing on the podium, and it makes your heart skip two or three beats. Just the idea of her running into the cornucopia… but she has an alliance, it’s okay.

The cornucopia that they have in the clearing is really similar to the one you and Finnick had. However, they have a good ten or more feet between the podiums and the trees. For you guys, the trees were really an inch above your heads. All of you could have reached up and at least touched a leaf from the nearest branch.

The cornucopia is full of so many goodies. There’s a few backpacks scattered around, for the brave souls who don’t want to go all the way to the cornucopia, and instead want to settle for halfway. Those backpacks likely carry iodine, a little bit of food, rope. You can see the sleeping bag clearly on the outside.

The countdown finally hits ten, and you’re watching Alyssum bend, arms ready to run. There’s a determination in her eyes that you haven’t seen in forever. All the times you played pretend with the hunger games, she never looked like this. But now that she’s hunched over, adrenaline running through her body--she looks older. She looks to be fourteen instead of a measly twelve.

“She’s about to go against her own number one rule.” Finnick says.

You can’t help but to crack a smile, “I know, right?”

Rigg also prepares to run towards the middle. You watch as Alyssum’s mouth drops open, her determination faltering. You worry, reaching out for the screen, but she snaps her mouth shut just in time, clenching her teeth. Right when the gong goes off, she takes off running towards the middle.

You place one hand over your mouth, watching her legs and how she’s clearly exerting as much energy as she can to run, “Come on, baby.”

The tributes are clearly scattering. A lot run to the woods--like Peeta--but others like Katniss and Thresh head right towards the middle, where the bloodbath is. In no time, the older careers have secured their special weapon, and they’re turning on the first person they see.

There’s a lot of blood, and you’re worried for Alyssum’s sanity. But she slides right into the cornucopia, grabbing a hold of a machete and clutching it in her hand tightly. She reaches up for her tanzanite necklace, whispering something. Then, her eyes catch a movement.

It’s her reflexes that she has to thank. The machete is flying through the air before she has time to think about who it is exactly. The weapon lodges itself in the chest of the girl from ten. The girl looks down, reaching for the handle, dropping to her knees.

Alyssum is reaching for something new immediately, not worried about retrieving what she had just used. She turns straight to see what else is happening, allowing you to see too.

Clove is digging through a backpack for something. Marvel has moved onto stabbing a girl with something that vaguely resembles a spear, but it’s much smaller. Cato has a machete similar to the one Alyssum just used on the ten girl, and Glimmer is nowhere to be seen.

Alyssum doesn’t catch the movement near her, but it’s Rigg, sneaking into the cornucopia.

“That’s going to get him killed.” you say.

“Not if he moves quickly.” Finnick leans forward on the couch, onto his knees.

“No, not even then.” you say, “Alyssum or someone else is going to catch a glimpse of him, and then it’s all over.”

“You think Alyssum will kill Rigg?”

“Without a doubt.” you say, watching as Aly moves on.

She doesn’t know what to do, and that’s just fine. She’s already got one killed, and the other careers are taking in a lot at once. Glimmer already moved onto her second victim by the time Clove had started for the boy from seven. The knife she throws hits the boy in the back, and when he’s on the ground, it reveals Katniss next to a backpack very clearly.

Clove throws a second knife, Katniss uses the backpack as a shield, getting up. Clove heads for her.

There’s a commotion inside of the cornucopia, Thresh against some other kid--you can’t tell who it is. All you know is that Rigg is still back there. Thresh finally breaks free, leaving. On the way out, he kills the boy from nine.

Cato moves for the boy from six, tripping him so he’s an easy stab. Alyssum’s able to catch the District Nine girl heading for her. Alyssum squares her shoulders, and instead of letting the girl go to her, she moves in.

Nine thinks it’s comical, until Alyssum is fixing the heavy sword in her hand, getting ready to swing it. Then, it’s not funny anymore, and nine is trying to escape. But the second she turns to run, she slams right into Glimmer. Glimmer grabs a hold of the girl’s shoulder, shoving her knife as far as she can into nine’s stomach.

One simple push later, the girl’s guts is spilling over the grass, and she’s falling to her knees, intestines in hand. Glimmer gives Alyssum an impressed look, and then she’s moving right on to the next person to look at her.

“Alyssum--” Cato has his hand out for the sword, and she passes it over. Then, he looks her dead in the eye, “Kill your friend in there.”

Alyssum’s eyes shift to the inside of the cornucopia, seeing the top of Rigg’s curls, just peeking above a crate. She then looks to Cato, gives him a hard look and a nod, moving to retrieve her machete from the ten girl, and then she’s moving into the building.

“His parents are going to hate this.” Finnick says, he’s getting to his feet to join you now.

“It’s the kid’s own fault.” you dismiss, eyes glued to your little sister, as she marches into the cornucopia, the determined look resurfacing, “It’s not our fault that he couldn’t survive.”

Alyssum finds Rigg. His lips form a word, but she’s already got the machete behind her head, getting ready to bring it down. Then, he screams just as the blade lodges in his head. She lets his body fall, stepping on his face as she yanks out the machete. 

She must know there’s a camera in the cornucopia, because she looks in a general direction and mouths, “How did I do?” with a small smile on her face.

Finnick’s laughing, and you’re gripping onto his arm, shaking him from side to side a little, “Fantastic, baby. You’re doing great.”

Alyssum moves back out to join the other careers, they’re all forming a circle together. Blood on their clothes, face and hair. Alyssum uses the jacket sleeve to wipe the blood off of her cheek, but all it does is smear and make it look like battle paint.

She stops right next to the others, running the machete over her jeans to try and get off some blood and chunks. It works, looks as shiny as ever. Then, she’s looking up to the others.

They’re discussing some sort of game plan about what they’re going to do. Alyssum mostly listens, and then she suggests grabbing a few things, leaving the cornucopia to allow the hovercrafts to come in and so they can find water. Then, they can return and count their belongings.

It takes a few more minutes of debate before they’ve all agreed on Alyssum’s plan. 

“So how many did you get?” Glimmer asks.

“Two.” Alyssum says, she doesn’t care for the conversation, you know that it’s not easy for her. Her brain is probably processing it all, she can picture all their faces right before their deaths, especially rigg, “What about you?”

“Three. One of them being from the help of you.”

“Two and a half for the both of us, then.” Alyssum is picking up a backpack, digging through it.

Glimmer gives Aly a smile, even though she can’t see it. Glimmer doesn’t dwell long on Alyssum, though. She heads right towards Cato, Clove and Marvel to discuss some things.

This is when Alyssum takes a breather. You watch as she crouches down, placing her head against the round corner of a crate, taking deep breaths. It’s a while before she appears again, looking just fine.

“You alright?” Marvel asks.

She forces a smile, “A little dizzy was all. Are we ready to go? I’m thirsty.” she swings a backpack over her shoulder.

The others agree, and the five of them head in a random direction. As they’re walking through the trees, they’re all talking about the bloodbath. The hovercraft comes in, picking out the tributes as the cannons begin to go off. There’s eleven. Eleven dead, with thirteen alive.

Subtract the five careers from the thirteen, there’s only eight to hunt. Most of them will end up accidentally killing themselves in some way. And because they’ll also be sweeping the forest, the careers will stumble upon somebody.

“So (Y/n) Gallows really is your sister, huh?” Clove asks, looking down at Alyssum.

“Yup.” Alyssum says, “And Finnick Odair is my brother-in-law.”

“How much did they teach you?” Cato asks.

Alyssum looks at them through the corner of her eye. She has to know that it’s just curiosity fueling them, but she must catch an undertone that you don’t, because she phrases her sentences carefully after that question.

“Well, different techniques on how to win.” she says, avoiding a log on the ground, “They made me study how other victors won. Like Enobaria, Cashmere and Gloss, them, Annie Cresta.” you doubt that they’ll know much about Annie, but Enobaria, Cashmere and Gloss are their mentors, so they have an idea, “Most recently, Johanna Mason.”

“That’s it?” Marvel asks, he’s sharing a dangerous look with Cato.

Alyssum stops, turning to look at all of them. She might be small, but her words are much bigger than she is, “From what I’ve learned throughout these years, is that the worst thing you can do is underestimate a person. Look at my sister, Finnick and Johanna for example. They were all overlooked because people thought they were useless. And what are they all? Winners.”

She turns right back around, “I know I can’t win. But I won’t be underestimated. Had I not messed up during my private training session, I would have gotten a nine.”

Alyssum disappears through the bushes, leaving her alliance to decide whether or not she’s bluffing. She likely is. Her scoring an eight was huge, because it’s unheard of. Everyone was probably expecting her to get a seven or lower, like the other twelve year olds, but she got just one point more. The same score that Peeta had, and he has four years on her.

“I’m a career, not a moron.” Alyssum mutters, swinging the machete in her hand slightly, “I hear water!”

“We’re coming.” Glimmer assures her, “Do you think it’s clean?”

“Maybe, but we have to use the iodine just in case.” Alyssum says, not looking towards Glimmer, but paying attention to where she walks instead, “If we don’t, we could end up with a load of illnesses that could kill us.”

“You taught her well, (Y/n).” Finnick tells you, “She could play the long-game. Look at her hands.”

You do, the camera just barely gets them in shot. She’s moving them around, but there’s nothing in them. For a second, you’re thinking a knot, until you see that her lips are moving. Reciting how to set animal traps.

“Yes.” you agree, finally relaxed enough to move away from the tv, “We should go to the betting room.”

“You think?” Finnick looks at you, watching as you start to grab a few things.

“My sister has two kills under her belt, and she’s teamed up with the careers.” you look at Finnick, “She’s got people lined up around the block.”

--

Something bumps into your arm, making you readjust where you sit to move away from the thing. It’s a long moment before it happens again, and a whisper accompanies it, “(Y/n).”

Your eyes open immediately. The world is a little blurry, so you blink, but your eyes are on Finnick, “I’m awake.”

“Look.” Finnick motions.

You turn to the tv, squinting at it. Leaning forward, you try to process what’s going on. Your brain is hazy though, and you can’t seem to focus all that much. Finnick must understand, because he’s filling in the gaps.

“They’ve been on the move all night looking for other tributes. Aly just barely made friends with Cato and Clove, and now they’re coming right up on Peeta.”

He’s right. With one camera on Peeta, curled up at the base of a tree with only a knife in his hand. The other is focused on the careers, who are still moving just fine despite it’s been hours. Alyssum doesn’t even seem phased just yet, still gripping her machete tightly in her hand. 

Cato leads with Clove, the two of them talk up a storm. Every now and then, Glimmer will pitch in with some things about herself. Alyssum is behind them, and Marvel takes up the back.

Marvel says something to Alyssum and she nods, passing off her machete to him. You watch as she fixes the backpack on the front of her body, unzips it, and pulls out a canteen. She zips the bag up again, puts it back in place, and trades the canteen for the machete.

“At least she’s made friends.” your voice is scratchy, you lean over for the cup of water on the table.

“She seems closest with Marvel, to be honest. The two of them are a lot calmer than the other three.” Finnick says, giving a look to you.

You glance at him, thinking that you’re just going to find him giving you a loving look, but you have to do a double-take when you realize it’s the opposite. You gulp down a mouthful of water, coughing at how quick you drank it, “What is it?”

“Reed called.”

You’re confused for a long moment, waiting for him to say anything else. And then you remember you were supposed to call him yesterday after the interview, “Oh shit, I totally forgot.”

“He wanted you to call him immediately when you woke up but--” Finnick’s motioning to the tv again.

“Yeah, right.” you look back at the screen to see that the careers are literally in front of Peeta now.

Alyssum hangs back, canteen and machete in hand. She watches how the others circle Peeta, how he’s scrambling to try and come up with a reason to let him live. Every now and then, his eyes will dart to Alyssum--obviously curious as to why she’s there. She raises her chin a little, and then turns her head to look around.

They’re taunting Peeta, Cato is getting in his face with the sword that he has. Peeta then makes a wrong move, making Cato act quickly, bringing the sword down onto Peeta’s upper arm.

Alyssum winces, “Cephalic vein.”

They pay her no attention.

It goes back and forth for a while. The taunting, beating Peeta up--until he finally says the golden words.

“I can help you kill Katniss!”

Finally, a hush falls over the trees. Alyssum has a smile hinting at the corner of her lips, but it’s so very subtle. The way she looks at Peeta lets you know that she thinks he’s smart for saying something like that.

And it stalls the careers long enough to make them think.

“Watch him.” Clove barks at Alyssum, and without a second thought, she moves forward and stands over Peeta, fixing the machete in her hand, and then placing the blade beneath his chin.

The careers step away.

“Nice one.” Alyssum says to him, the smile is still on the edge, “Quick thinking.”

“Please.”

“I’m not in charge.” she says smoothly, “If you think about running, we’ll just get right back to you. I can track.”

She’s bluffing, she has no clue how to. But he doesn’t know that. She’s just using the lies to her advantage.

Alyssum takes a look over her shoulder, looking to see if they’re in earshot. They’re close, she can see them through the trees. She can’t hear what they’re saying though, which means that they can’t hear her either.

Looking right back at Peeta, she smiles now, “If I were you, I’d try to prove that you’re useful. ‘Cause the second that we find that Katniss girl, you’re next.” There’s a snap of a stick after that, and she looks back at Cato and the others, “What’s the plan?”

“We take him with.” Cato says, “But one wrong move and we kill him.”

Alyssum looks back at Peeta, lowering the machete, and trading it for her hand. It takes him a moment--probably thinking that she won’t carry his weight--but he reaches out anyway. With teamwork, he’s on his feet, and she’s moving on to pass the useless canteen off to Cato to drink.

Right after this, they’re back to hunting. Peeta begins to list off all the ways he could think of what Katniss would do out there. It’s a long moment before they decide to find some place with water nearby, and they go from there.

You get up from the couch, heading towards the phone.

You dial the number to the house, turning to watch the tv in the meantime. There’s no Caesar at the moment, it’s really just the gamemakers tracking the tributes. It flashes between the careers and their newfound friend, Katniss Everdeen, a girl who’s just started a fire--and it’s a bright glow too, not very smart--and all the other tributes. Like Rue, Thresh, a redhead, and more.

It’s a while before the phone picks up, “(Y/n)?”

“You got her,” you say, leaning against the wall as you watch Alyssum. Her and Glimmer are talking about something, but you can’t hear it, “Sorry about not calling last night, I was spending time with Alyssum.”

“Did you tell her to team up with the careers?” Reed asks.

“I gave her plenty of options, I even talked to Haymitch about Katniss and Peeta.” you tell him.

“But you encouraged her.”

“She picked them herself, Reed.”

“(Y/n), that is the exact same mistake you made, and you nearly died.” he says, “She--”

“Reed, she’s got the trust of every single one of them. If you were watching, you’d know that.”

“She ran towards the cornucopia.” Reed finally snaps, “She got caught up in the bloodbath, she--”

“She killed the girl from ten, trapped the one from nine and killed Rigg. She proved her loyalty and ruthlessness to them, and now she’s one of them.”

There’s a long moment of silence between the two of you. Finnick is turning to look at you to see what the two of you are arguing about. You shake your head slightly, rolling your eyes.

“I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job, Reed. I’ve been doing this for years, and trust me when I say that she’s in the perfect place right now. She’s made friends out of Glimmer and Marvel, Cato and Clove has just begun to trust her, and she’s got a friendship on the way with Peeta, too. She’s got more sponsors than I know what to do with, and the betting only raises more every hour.”

“You could have chosen anyone for her to have an alliance with--her own district mate--” Reed’s voice is measured, but he’s on the verge of losing it again.

“Rigg wasn’t a good candidate from the beginning.” you hiss, “He didn’t know anything, he ran away from the careers after the tribute parade, he didn’t do well inside of the training center and his score proved it. And he blew everything at his fucking interview! Rigg would have killed her, Reed!”

“(Y/n)--”

“No, I’m done talking about this. Alyssum survived past the first day, and she’s in the second. As far as I’m concerned, she’s golden.” you pick at your nails, “If you don’t have anything else to talk about, I’m hanging up.”

“I don’t.”

“Good.” you snap, slamming the phone against the box as you move back towards the couch.

You take a seat next to Finnick, crossing your arms. He places his right arm over the back of the couch, and the two of you watch the games in silence for a while. He’s probably giving you space and allowing you to talk whenever you feel like it.

A couple of hours go by, before you’ve finally decided that it’s time.

“I don’t understand why he thinks he knows better than me.” you say, Finnick looks over, “He acted like I don’t know the dangers of being with the careers. As if either of us hadn’t experienced what it’s like. How so incredibly delicate and easy to break it is.”

“Had I known he was going to yell at you, I wouldn’t have…” Finnick shakes his head.

“It’s not your fault.” you reach over, patting his thigh, and then leaning into his body, head resting on his shoulder, “He’s probably so worked up over Mox, he just needed to blow some steam. And since I had allowed her to be a career, I was the best thing for him.”

Finnick holds you close to him.

“Alyssum is safe.” you say, “She’s safer with a group than if she was alone. If she had been without an alliance, and the careers still hunted around--she would have been found just like Peeta. And unlike Peeta, she would have been killed.”

It’s no secret that the careers are holding Peeta just for his information about Katniss. Plus Clove is worked up over the fact that Katniss had scored an eleven, outshining her ten. It’s jealousy that’s fueling her, and she wants to kill Katniss because of it. She’s probably pissed that Katniss had blocked her head like she did.

And now that Peeta offers a solution, Clove’s going to take it. But none of them are going to keep him around for much long, after. Just like Alyssum had said. Her even being there is a bit shaky. You’re sure that they’re keeping her because she had gotten two kills--or two and a half, as her and Glimmer have been saying--which is quite the feat for a twelve year old.

She might not win, but her name will be one to remember.

“She is.” Finnick agrees, “If I had any objections, I would have said something by now.”

You laugh.

At some point, the group begins to work in the direction of the red glow. They’re all laughing, taking bets that it’s Katniss or some other dumb tribute that doesn’t know any better. By the time they get there, the girl is completely passed out next to the fire.

You watch as Alyssum stands back, but Peeta moves forward. She reaches out with one hand, grabbing his sleeve, “You don’t have to.”

Clove nudges the sleeping girl with her foot, Cato has his sword an inch from her face. The girl stirs, wanting to roll over, but she must sense that there’s something wrong in the air, because her eyes snap open and her body goes rigid. 

“Hi.” Clove’s voice is taunting.

“Please.” the girl starts, “Please don’t kill me--please--” tears fill her eyes quickly, “Please, please--”

Glimmer’s already slammed her knife into the girl’s stomach. The girl screams, Alyssum winces slightly at how loud it is, no doubt it can be heard around the entire arena. And right after Glimmer comes Cato, sword through the chest.

The girl isn’t dead yet, but there’s blood dribbling down the side of her face, the tears running. She tries to say something, but eventually stops. That’s when they all start celebrating.

They leave the area, going to move on since Peeta’s caught sight of Katniss’ snares. But they stop literally feet away from Katniss--who’s up in the tree, weaponless--when they realize there wasn’t a cannon.

For a moment, they debate about it. But then Peeta volunteers to go check by himself. Alyssum doesn’t move from her spot, and the second that Peeta’s disappeared through the bushes, the other careers all huddle next to her.

“Why don’t we just kill him now and get it over with?” Glimmer asks.

“Let him tag along. What’s the harm? And he’s handy with that knife.” Cato says.

“Besides, he’s the best chance we have at finding her.” Clove agrees, looking to Glimmer.

“Why? You think she bought into that sappy romance stuff? Glimmer rolls her eyes.

“She might have. Seemed pretty simpleminded to me. Every time I think about her spinning around in that dress, I want to puke.” Clove says, she fakes a gag which gets a laugh out of them.

“Wish we knew how she got that eleven.” Alyssum finally pitches in, they all nod. 

“Bet you lover boy knows.” Marvel says, and then they all quiet once they hear Peeta coming through the bushes, he’s not very quiet, “Was she dead?”

“No, but she is now,” A cannon follows what Peeta says, “Ready to move on?”

They all seem to agree on heading back to the cornucopia now, since the sun is just beginning to rise. Katniss lets out a breath of relief, and the camera focuses on her as she readjusts back onto the branch--since she had nearly fallen off.