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lexisfandom · 2 years ago

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( Your beloved author here with another chapter LET'S GET STARTED!!)

CHAPTER 2

Dan Cahil thought he had the most annoying big sister on the planet. And that was before she set fire to three million dollars.

It all started when they went to their grandmother's funeral. Secretly, Dan was excited, because he was hoping to make a rubbing of the tombstone after everyone else was gone. He figured Grace wouldn't care. She'd been a cool grandmother.

Dan loved collecting things. He collected baseball cards, autographs of famous outlaws, Civil War weapons, rare coins, and every cast he'd ever had since kindergarten (all twelve of them). At the moment, what he liked collecting best were charcoal rubbings of tombstones. He had some awesome ones back at the apartment.

His favorite read:

PRUELLA GOODE

1891-1929

I'M DEAD. LET'S HAVE A PARTY.

He figured if he had a rubbing of Grace's tombstone in his collection, maybe it wouldn't feel quite so much like she was gone forever.

Anyway, the whole way from Boston to the funeral in Worcester County, his great-aunt Beatrice was driving like a very slow lunatic. She went twenty-five miles an hour on the highway and kept drifting across lanes so the other cars honked and swerved and ran into guardrails and stuff. Aunt Beatrice just kept clutching the wheel with her jeweled fingers. Her wrinkly face was made up with Day-Glo red lipstick and rouge, which made her blue hair look even bluer. Dan wondered if she gave the other drivers nightmares about old clowns.

"Amy!" she snapped, as another SUV careened down the exit ramp because Beatrice had just pulled in front of it. "Stop reading in the car! It's not safe!"

"But, Aunt Beatrice-"

"Young lady, close that book!"

Amy did, which was typical. She never put up a fight with adults. Amy had long reddish-brown hair, unlike Dan's, which was dark blond. This helped Dan pretend his sister was an alien imposter, but unfortunately they had the same eyes -- green like jade, their grandmother used to say.

Amy was three years older and six inches taller than Dan, and she never let him forget it -- like being fourteen was such a big deal. Usually, she wore jeans and some old T-shirt because she didn't like people noticing her, but today she was wearing a black dress so she looked like a vampire's bride.

When he looked over to his other sister Lexi she was staring out of the window. She was 2 years older than Dan and five inches taller. She had blond hair and blue eyes that looked like sapphires she had ivory pale skin. She usually wore some leggings and shirt because she didn't really care about her appearance she was very pretty and was also wearing a black dress. Dan decided Lexi looked more like a vampires bride than Amy.

Dan hoped their outfits were as uncomfortable as his stupid suit and tie. Aunt Beatrice had thrown a fit when he tried to go to the funeral in his ninja clothes. It wasn't as if Grace would care if he was comfortable and deadly, the way he felt when he pretended to be a ninja, but of course Aunt Beatrice didn't understand. Sometimes it was hard for him to believe she and Grace were sisters .

"Remind me to fire your au pair as soon as we return to Boston," Beatrice grumbled.

"You three have been entirely too spoiled."

"Nellie's nice!" Lexi protested.

"Hmph! This Nellie almost let you burn down the neighbor's apartment building!"

"Exactly!" Dan said.

Every couple of weeks, Beatrice fired their au pair and hired a new one. The only good thing was that Aunt Beatrice didn't live with them personally. She lived across town in a building that didn't allow kids, so sometimes it took her a few days to hear about Dan's and sometimes Lexi's latest exploits.

Nellie had lasted longer than most. Dan liked her because she made amazing waffles and she usually cranked her iPod up to brain-damage level. She didn't even hear when Dan and Lexi's bottle rocket collection went off and strafed the building across the alley. Dan would miss Nellie when she got fired.

Aunt Beatrice kept driving and muttering about spoiled children. Amy secretly went back to her huge book. The last two days, since they got the news about Grace's death, Amy had been reading even more than usual. Dan knew it was her way of hiding, but he kind of resented it because it shut him out, too.

"What are you reading this time?" he asked.

"Medieval European Doorknobs?

Bath Towels Through the Ages?"

Amy gave him an ugly face -- or an uglier-than-usual face. "None of your business, dweeb."

"You can't call a ninja lord dweeb".

"You have disgraced the family. You must commit seppuku."

Amy rolled her eyes.

Dan looked over to Lexi she had gone back to staring out of the window sometimes Lexi just shut down and visited herself in her brain.

After a few more miles, the city melted into farmland. It started to look like Grace country, and even though Dan had promised himself he wouldn't get sappy, he began to feel sad. Grace had been the coolest ever. She'd treated him, Lexi and Amy like real people, not kids. That's why she'd insisted they simply call her Grace, not Grandmother or Gran or Nana or any silly name like that. She'd been one of the only people who'd ever cared about them. Now she was dead, and they had to go to the funeral and see a bunch of relatives who had never been nice to them....

The family cemetery sat at the bottom of the hill from the mansion. Dan thought it was kind of stupid they'd hired a hearse to carry Grace a hundred yards down the driveway. They could've put wheels on the coffin like they have on suitcases and that would've worked just as well.

Summer storm clouds rumbled overhead. The family mansion looked dark and gloomy on its hill, like a lord's castle. Dan loved the place, with its billion rooms and chimneys and stained glass windows.

He loved the family graveyard even more. A dozen crumbling tombstones spread out across a green meadow ringed in trees, right next to a little creek. Some of the stones were so old the writing had faded away. Grace used to take Amy, Lexi and him down to the meadow on their weekend visits. Grace and Amy would spend the afternoon on a picnic blanket, reading and talking, while Dan explored the graves and the woods and the creek. Sometimes Lexi would come with him or she would stay back with Grace and Amy.

Stop that, Dan told himself.

You're getting sentimental.

"So many people," Amy murmured, as they walked down the driveway.

"You're not going to freak out, are you?"

Amy fiddled with the collar of her dress. "I'm -- I'm not freaking out. I just -- "

"You hate crowds," Lexi finished. "But you knew there'd be a crowd. They come every year."

Each winter, as long as Dan could remember, Grace had invited relatives from all over the world for a weeklong holiday. The mansion filled up with Chinese Cahills and British Cahills and South African Cahills and Venezuelan Cahills. Most of them didn't even go by the name Cahill, but Grace assured him they were all related. She'd explain about cousins and second cousins and cousins three times removed until Dan's brain started to hurt and Lexi would just go to Graces bedroom with the cat. Amy would usually go hide in the library.

"I know," she said. "But ... I mean, look at them all."

She had a point. About four hundred people were gathering at the grave site.

"They just want her fortune," Dan decided. "Dan!"

"Well? It's true."

They had just joined the procession when Dan suddenly got flipped upside down.

"Hey!" he yelled.

"Look, guys," a girl said. "We caught a rat!"

Dan wasn't in a good position to see, but he could make out the Holt sisters -- Madison and Reagan -- standing on either side of him, holding him by his ankles. The twins had matching purple running suits, blond pigtails, and crooked smiles. They were only eleven, same as Dan, but they had no trouble holding him. Dan saw more purple running suits behind them -- the rest of the Holt family. Their pit bull, Arnold, raced around their legs and barked.

"Let's fling him into the creek," Madison said.

"I wanna fling him into the bushes!" Reagan said. "We never do my ideas!"

Their older brother, Hamilton, laughed like an idiot. Next to him, their dad, Eisenhower Holt, and their mom, Mary-Todd, grinned like this was all good fun.

"Now, girls," Eisenhower said. "We can't go flinging people at a funeral. This is a happy occasion!"

"Guys!" Dan called. "A little help here?"

Amy's face had gone pale. She mumbled, "Dr-dr-drop ..."

Dan sighed in exasperation.

Lexi also sighed "She's trying to say 'DROP HIM!'"

Madison and Reagan did -- on his head.

"Ow!" Dan said.

"M-M-Madison!" Amy protested.

"Y-y-yes?" Madison mimicked. "I think all those books are turning your brain to mush, weirdo."

If it had been anybody else, Dan would've hit back, but he knew better with the Holts.

Even Madison and Reagan, the youngest, could cream him. The whole Holt family was way too buff. They had meaty hands and thick necks and faces that looked like G.I. Joe figures. Even the mom looked like she should be shaving and chewing on a cigar.

"I hope you losers took a good last look around the house," Madison said. "You're not going to be invited back here anymore, now that the old witch is dead."

"Rawf!" said Arnold the pit bull.

Dan looked around for Beatrice, but as usual she wasn't anywhere near them. She'd drifted off to talk to the other old people.

"Grace wasn't a witch," Dan said. "And we're going to inherit this place!"

The big brother, Hamilton, laughed. "Yeah, right." His hair was combed toward the middle so it stuck up like a shark fin. "Wait till they read the will, runt. I'm gonna kick you out myself!"

"All right, team," the dad said. "Enough of this. Formation!"

The family lined up and started jogging toward the grave site, knocking other relatives out of their way as Arnold snapped at everyone's heels.

"Is your head okay?" Amy asked guiltily.

Dan nodded. He was a little annoyed Amy hadn't helped him, but there was no point complaining about it. She always got tongue-tied around other people. "Man, I hate the Holts."

"We've got worse problems." Lexi pointed toward the grave site, and Dan's heart sank.

"The Cobras," he muttered.

Ian and Natalie Kabra were standing by Grace's coffin, looking like perfect little angels as they talked to the preacher. They wore matching designer mourning outfits that complemented their silky black hair and cinnamon-colored skin. They could've been child supermodels.

"They won't try anything during the funeral," Dan said hopefully. "They're just here for Grace's money like the rest of them. But they won't get it."

Amy frowned. "Dan ... did you really believe what you said, about us inheriting the mansion?"

"Of course! You know Grace liked us best. We spent more time with her than anybody."

Amy sighed like Dan was too young to understand, which Dan hated.

"Come on," Lexi said. "We might as well get this over with." And together they waded into the crowd.

The funeral was a blur to Dan. The minister said some stuff about ashes. They lowered the coffin into the ground. Everybody tossed in a shovelful of dirt. Dan thought the mourners enjoyed this part too much, especially Ian and Natalie.

He recognized a few more relatives: Alistair Oh, the old Korean dude with the diamond-tipped walking stick who always insisted they call him Uncle; the Russian lady Irina Spasky, who had a twitch in one eye so everybody called her Spaz behind her back; the Starling triplets -- Ned, Ted, and Sinead, who looked like part of a cloned Ivy League lacrosse team. Even that kid from television was there: Jonah Wizard. He stood to one side, getting his picture taken with a bunch of girls, and there was a line of people waiting to talk to him. He was dressed just like on TV, with lots of silver chains and bracelets, ripped jeans, and a black muscle shirt (which was kind of stupid, since he didn't have any muscles). An older African-American guy in a business suit stood behind him, punching notes in a BlackBerry. Probably Jonah's dad. Dan had heard that Jonah Wizard was related to the Cahills, but he'd never seen him in person before. He wondered if he should get an autograph for his collection.

After the service, a guy in a charcoal-gray suit stepped to the podium. He looked vaguely familiar to Dan. The man had a long pointed nose and a balding head. He reminded Dan of a vulture.

"Thank you all for coming," he said gravely. "I am William McIntyre, Madame Cahill's lawyer and executor."

"Executor?" Dan whispered to Lexi. "He killed her?"

"No, you dork," Lexi whispered back. "That means he's in charge of her will."

"If you will look inside your programs," William McIntyre continued, "some of you will find a gold invitation card."

Excited murmuring broke out as four hundred people leafed through their programs.

Then most of them cursed and shouted complaints when they found nothing. Dan ripped through his program. Inside was a card with a gold-leafed border. It read:

Dan, Lexi and Amy Cahill are hereby invited to the reading of the last will and testament of Grace Cahill Where:

The Great Hall, Cahill Manor

When: Now

"I knew it!" Dan said.

"I assure you," Mr. McIntyre said, raising his voice above the crowd, "the invitations were not done randomly. I apologize to those of you who were excluded. Grace Cahill meant you no disrespect. Of all the members of the Cahill clan, only a few were chosen as the most likely."

The crowd started yelling and arguing. Finally, Dan couldn't stand it anymore. He called out, "Most likely to what?"

"In your case, Dan," Ian Kabra muttered right behind him, "to be a stupid American git."

His sister, Natalie, giggled. She was holding an invitation and looking very pleased with herself.

Before Dan could kick Ian in a soft spot, the gray-suited man answered. "To be the beneficiaries of Grace Cahill's will. Now, if you please, those with invitations will gather in the Great Hall."

People with invitations hurried toward the house like somebody had just yelled "Free food!"

Natalie Kabra winked at Dan.

"Ciao, cousin. Must run collect our fortune." Then she and her brother strolled up the drive.

"Forget them," Amy said. "Dan, maybe you're right. Maybe we'll inherit something."

But Dan frowned. If this invitation was such a great thing, why did the lawyer guy look so grim? And why had Grace included the Kabras?

As he passed through the main entrance of the mansion, Dan glanced up at the stone crest above the door -- a large C surrounded by four smaller designs -- a dragon, a bear, a wolf, and two snakes entwined around a sword .

Lexi POV

The crest had always fascinated Lexi, though she didn't know what it meant. All the animals seemed to glare at her, like they were about to strike. She followed the crowd inside, wondering why those animals were so mad.

The Great Hall was as big as a basketball court, with tons of armor and swords lining the walls and huge windows that looked like Batman could crash through them any minute as Dan had once said.

William McIntyre stood at a table in front with a projector screen behind him, while everybody else filed into rows of seats. There were about forty people in all, including the Holts and the Kabras and Aunt Beatrice, who looked completely disgusted to be there -- or maybe she was just disgusted that everybody else had been invited to her sister's will reading.

Mr. McIntyre raised his hand for quiet. He slipped a document from a brown leather folder, adjusted his bifocals, and began to read: '"I, Grace Cahill, being of sound mind and body, do hereby divide my entire estate among those who accept the challenge and those who do not.'"

"Whoa," Eisenhower Holt interrupted. "What challenge? What's she mean?"

"I am getting to that, sir." Mr. McIntyre cleared his throat and continued: '"You have been chosen as the most likely to succeed in the greatest, most perilous undertaking of all time -- a quest of vital importance to the Cahill family and the world at large.'"

Forty people started talking at once, asking questions and demanding answers.

" 'Perilous undertaking'?" Cousin Ingrid shouted. "What is she talking about?"

"I thought this was about money!" Uncle Jose yelled. "A quest? Who does she think we are? We're Cahills, not adventurers!"

Lexi noticed Ian and Natalie Kabra exchange a meaningful look. Irina Spasky whispered something in Alistair Oh's ear, but most of the other spectators looked as confused as Lexi felt.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please," Mr. McIntyre said. "If you will direct your attention to the screen, perhaps Madame Cahill can explain things better than I."

Lexi's heart did a flip-flop. What was Mr. McIntyre talking about? Then a projector on the ceiling hummed to life. The shouting in the room died down as Grace's image flickered on the screen.

She was sitting up in bed with Saladin on her lap. She wore a black dressing gown, like she was a mourner at her own funeral, but she looked healthier than the last time Lexi had seen her. Her complexion was pink. Her face and hands didn't look as thin.

Dan POV

The video must've been made months ago, before her cancer got bad. Dan got a lump in his throat. He had a crazy urge to call to her:

Grace, it's me! It's Dan!

But of course it was just an image. He looked at Amy and saw a tear trickling down the base of her nose. Lexi seemed frozen.

Lexi POV

"Fellow Cahills," Grace said. "If you are watching this, it means I am dead, and I have decided to use my alternate will. No doubt you are arguing amongst yourselves and giving poor Mr. McIntyre a hard time about this contest I have instituted." Grace gave the camera a dry smile. "You always were a stubborn bunch. For once, close your mouths and listen."

"Hey, wait a minute!" Eisenhower Holt protested, but his wife shushed him.

"I assure you," Grace continued, "this contest is no trick. It is deadly serious business.

Most of you know you belong to the Cahill family, but many of you may not realize just how important our family is. I tell you the Cahills have had a greater impact on human civilization than any other family in history."

More confused shouting broke out. Irina Spasky stood up and yelled, "Silence! I wish to hear!"

"My relatives," Grace's image said, "you stand on the brink of our greatest challenge.

Each of you has the potential to succeed. Some of you may decide to form a team with other people in this room to pursue the challenge. Some of you may prefer to take up the challenge alone. Most of you, I'm afraid, will decline the challenge and run away with your tails between your legs. Only one team will succeed, and each of you must sacrifice your share of the inheritance to participate."

She held up a manila envelope sealed with red wax. Her eyes were as bright and hard as steel. "If you accept, you shall be given the first of thirty-nine clues. These clues will lead you to a secret, which, should you find it, will make you the most powerful, influential human beings on the planet. You will realize the destiny of the Cahill family. I now beg you all to listen to Mr. McIntyre. Allow him to explain the rules.

Think long and hard before you make your choice." She stared straight into the camera, and Dan seemed to have wanted her to say something special to them:

Dan, Lexi and Amy, I'll miss you most of all. Nobody else in this room really matters to me.

Something like that.

Instead, Grace said, "I'm counting on you all. Good luck, and good-bye."

The screen went dark. Amy gripped Lexi and Dan's hand. Her fingers were trembling. To Lexi, it felt like they'd just lost Grace all over again. Then everyone around them started talking at once.

"Greatest family in history?" Cousin Ingrid yelled. "Is she crazy?"

"Stubborn?"

Eisenhower Holt shouted. "She called us stubborn?"

"William!" Alistair Oh's voice rose above the rest. "Just a moment! There are people here I don't even recognize, people who may not even be members of the family. How do we know -- "

"If you are in this room, sir," Mr. McIntyre said, "you are a Cahill. Whether your surname is Cahill or not doesn't matter. Everyone here has Cahill blood."

"Even you, Mr. McIntyre?" Natalie Kabra asked in her silky British accent. The old lawyer flushed. "That, miss, is beside the point. Now, if I might be allowed to finish -- ". "But what's this about sacrificing our inheritance?" Aunt Beatrice complained. "Where's the money? It's just like my sister to come up with some foolishness!". "Madam," Mr. McIntyre said, "you may certainly decline the challenge. If you do, you will receive what is under your chair." Immediately, forty people felt around under their chairs. Eisenhower Holt was so anxious he picked up Reagan's chair with her still in it. Lexi discovered an envelope under her stuck on with tape. When she opened it, she found a green slip of paper with a bunch of numbers and the words ROYAL BANK OF SCOTLAND. Amy and Dan had one, too. So did everybody in the room. "What you now hold is a bank voucher," Mr. McIntyre explained. "It shall only be activated if and when you renounce your claim to the challenge. If you so choose, each of you may walk out of this room with one million dollars and never have to think of Grace Cahill or her last wishes again. Or ... you may choose a clue -- a single clue that will be your only inheritance. No money. No property. Just a clue that might lead you to the most important treasure in the world and make you powerful beyond belief..." William's gray eyes seemed to settle on Lexi particularly. "... or it might kill you. One million dollars or the clue. You have five minutes to decide."

( hey guys another chapter finished see y’all next update T-T)

Word count: 3851

#39 clues #chapter 2 #ian kabra #x reader #xreader #keep an eye out #next chapter

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mega-aulover · 1 year ago

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It makes sense that she would use such an iconic day known in the United States as the Day of Freedom to begin the Hunger Games.

It was a slap to the Districts who were fighting for their freedom. Ironically the Districts were so close to winning, District Thirteen - which I have mixed feelings about - stabbed the Districts in the back. They decided to sign a treaty to pretend to be bombed and stay buried instead of fighting for freedom.

We often speak about Snow and how evil he is, but there's nothing worse or foul and unholy than being backstabbed by one of your own. That's what D13 did they double-crossed the districts and fed them to the wolf ( and yes I'm referring to both the Capitol as Rome and Panem et Circuses).

The treachery continued, District 13 stayed silent for 74 YEARS allowing children as young as 12 years old to participate in the deadly arenas for sport. I've calculated around 1728 (not sure what was done in the 25th HG if they doubled up the Tributes).

They were the catalyst that prompted the Hunger Games. Yes, they had the pox but what you sow you reap. What people don't see is the more significant play, District Thirteen was positioning itself to be the next Leader of Panem.

Thank goodness for Katniss, and for that independent spirit District Twelve had. She figured w/Snow's help the GAME Coin /D13 was playing. She took out Coin destroying years of planning with one arrow. Katniss took down two birds with one shot.

Setting the games on the day of freedom was harsh, being backstabbed and forced to fall into the hands of the Capitol was worse.

As Katniss said there are worse games to play.

“But what else could you expect on July 4th?”

Suzanne Collins gives us one of the dates we’ve always wondered about and speculated over. Many of us suspected it was this date and some have even used it in fanfics over the years.The very date the United States of America lauds as the date for freedom and independence, Panem is sending its kids off to the Hunger Games. If Panem is future America, July 4th has become a fractured symbol and reminder of the state of the country.

Tell me your thoughts! Why 4th of July?

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cherryjuicegf · 4 years ago

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a little favour

Five things Jaskier asks from Geralt and one thing Geralt asks from Jaskier.

3.2k, fluff/mild angst (ao3)

Geralt feels a pair of eyes fixed on him and he tenses. The whetstone in his hand stops its metallic sound and he’s pretty sure the sword is sharpened by now, yet he can’t bring himself to leave it aside and raise his head. He inspects the blade, or pretends to do so. His always stable hands, obligingly fit for a witcher, are now slightly shaking. He chooses to ignore it. He clenches his fists, unclenches. Sweaty. The night is warm.

Slowly, he raises his look, meeting two blue eyes piercing him from across the fire. Jaskier has a pensive smirk on his lips that makes him look stupid but Geralt would be lying if he said he could take his stare away from it. The heat, he thinks. It’s the heat.

He squints. “What?”

Jaskier doesn’t respond immediately, yet he appreciates that he’s acknowledged with a small huff. His eyes continue to peer at Geralt, up and down, like the eyes of a werewolf ready to devour its prey. Softer, though. So softer. Geralt feels bare under his gaze, swallows. Finally, Jaskier speaks. “Tell me a story.”

He can’t be asking for a story, Geralt thinks. It’s not what he wants. Before he even manages to get angry at himself, he kicks the thought out of his mind. Of course it’s not what he wants. So he raises his eyebrows, a bit grudgingly, and tilts his head. “I thought you are the storyteller here.”

Jaskier laughs and he knows he can hear this sound forever. “You know what I mean,” he says and gestures wildly with his hand. “I need inspiration and where else will I find it if not in a story with monsters of the ones you oh-so-minutely narrate?”

A small smile curves Geralt’s lips and he chuckles lowly. He never shares details of the creatures he has to kill. Jaskier knows that, thus the cunning glint in his eyes. He shrugs. “You really want to sing to people about themselves?”

“Geralt,” Jaskier huffs a silent laugh and throws a pebble at the witcher’s feet. “You know what I mean.”

How can I not know, Geralt thinks, how can I not know the reason you’re still here? He scolds himself, then. A friend. His friend. Jaskier is his friend and he never fails to say how Geralt is a friend of his. Still, it makes him afraid, afraid that the more his love grows for that man, the more desperate he will be if he leaves. And he’s not one to get attached.

He indulges him though. With a small sigh and a look in his shining eyes, he does. Do it for me, they whisper. How can he not?

“Have I told you about that bruxa in Kaedwen?”

ii.

“Can’t you just not go?”

Jaskier fiddles with the edges of his shirt and looks up at Geralt. If he listens closely, he can hear his heart thumping against his chest. Already. Geralt hasn’t even left yet. He’d be more than grateful if he doesn’t ever, in fact. By the glare he receives from the witcher, he concludes that’s not going to happen. And his heart beats faster.

“But you said it yourself!” He stands up and approaches Geralt, who’s too focused on his armors buckles to look at him. “The hunt is nearly deadly!”

Geralt snorts impatiently and glances up at him, shaking his head. “It’s deadly for you. Which is why you’re staying here.” He finishes fixing his armor and grabs his gloves, his eyes now fixed on Jaskier. “For me, it’s just dangerous.”

The way he looks at him makes Jaskier shiver. Really, he’s never met anyone before who can be so cold and reassuring at the same time. Geralt’s stare is sharp and imposing, yet he can feel warmth inside his chest as he discerns the gentleness beneath, the one the witcher is so good at hiding. He doesn’t hide it from him, not anymore. That’s what he hopes anyway. As Geralt’s lips twitch in the faintest smile, he prays he’s not wrong. Still, the force of habit.

Eleven people have been killed by a thing whose name he finds himself unable to remember. The dread that suddenly overwhelms him makes his fingers go numb. They could be twelve. They can be twelve. Today. Before Geralt turns away, he shakes his head. “Geralt, please.”

Geralt frowns at him, tilts his head, his voice gruff. “Jaskier.”

Some silver strands fall in front of his eyes and Jaskier’s hand twitches in its place in an attempt to hold from brushing them away. Instead, Jaskier bites his lips and clenches his fists. A lump is choking him mercilessly. Afraid to let him go, afraid to look away from his eyes, afraid he’s not seeing them again. He takes a breath he doesn’t release. “Please come back whole.” Do it for me.

Geralt chuckles and Jaskier cherishes the sound like the most precious stone. The witcher nods before heading out the door. “That I will.”

With a last smile, he closes the door.

In the morning there are heavy steps on the stairs and Jaskier feels his heart returning to its place.

iii.

Geralt reaches the door and stops right before he goes in. For a second, he listens. Smells. Heavy puffs of breath are heard inside the room, the faint scent of tears. He frowns and opens the door. Jaskier is standing beside the window, looking outside silent, as silent as one crying can be. Geralt feels his heart ache.

“Jaskier?”

The bard jumps and turns at Geralt. With a bright smile that doesn’t suit his flushed face, he wipes his eyes. “Geralt! You scared me, you bastard, don’t you ever knock?” He returns Geralt’s gaze and the witcher feels like he’s reading him but that’s good, it gives him the chance to read Jaskier too. He tilts his head and waits for the bard to speak, yet he just turns away again and looks outside at the night sky. Geralt lowers his look for a moment, fumbles with his words. Swallows.

He has no chance to fuck up now. “It was a good performance.”

“Yes,” Jaskier chuckles bitterly and lowers his head, still not looking at him. “Thank you, Geralt, really. It’s not that.” He takes a shaky breath. “It’s just…”

He doesn’t continue. Geralt knows he won’t, because it’s one of those silences that don’t break. He knows Jaskier’s silences well by now, even those few. Still, he can’t take it, he can’t stand watching him cry. He can’t stand watching his bright eyes hollow and his smile distant and not actually there. And he can’t stand not being able to help. So he rests a heavy hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and steps closer. “You don’t have to tell me.” He hears his breath hitching for a second, then a sigh, as if relieved. But he still doesn’t look at him. Geralt tries again. “Can I help?”

A hand creeps up and rests on his. A faint smile, now a real one. Finally, finally, Jaskier meets his eyes. His expression is dark for a moment, as if being unable to find a way Geralt could help. But then his eyes light up, just a bit, and Geralt feels his heart fluttering. “Can you…” He pauses, reconsiders. A reassuring squeeze on his shoulder takes away the hesitation. “Can you hug me, for a bit?”

For me, Geralt echoes in his head and the way his voice is now low and small, so different from what it was an hour ago in the tavern, almost brings him to his knees. And now this. A hug. As if he could say no. As if.

So he smiles warmly and pulls Jaskier into a hug, tight, and presses him to his chest as if to shoulder the worries weighing his. He feels Jaskier hiding is face in his shoulder and breathing deeply, lashes fluttering close. Geralt nuzzles in his hair, resists the urge to press a kiss on his head. Like that, just by having him in his arms, he knows he can do anything. Anything for him.

iv.

“Did you try the honey cakes?”

Geralt looks at Jaskier as he gets off his armor and frowns. “You got honey cakes?”

With a laugh Jaskier raises his head from his notebook and shakes his head. “What are you, dear, blind? I spent half an hour in that bakery today.” He sighs dramatically and stares longingly at the distance. “I crave the day when you’ll appreciate how good care I take of you.”

“Because you bought honey cakes?” Geralt chuckles and walks up to Jaskier’s bag, searching inside. Jaskier can smell the honey cakes before he gets them out but he decides to play hurt a moment longer, for the fun of it. Geralt doesn’t play along. “You’re the one who begged to go into the bakery after all, I asked for nothing.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and tries to hide a smile behind a smug expression. He outstretches his hand. “Yes, alright mister Mighty-Witcher-I-need-nothing, now bring those cakes here and finally, have something for pleasure, it won’t hurt you know.” He pouts as Geralt throws the paper bag on the table with a scoff and turns away. He knows, Geralt would prefer to fight a hundred griffins than admit he deserves small luxuries. But that’s where he comes in. He never had a thrifty life after all and travelling with a witcher isn't a reason not to indulge oneself, especially when coin is spare. So he reaches to grab a honey cake. And pauses.

“Um.” Geralt turns his head, hearing his hesitant tone, and raises an eyebrow. Jaskier squints, takes a look at the cakes, then at his hands which are painted with black ink all over. There is a solution, he thinks. He can quite simply wash his hands and eat. Still, he would need to write more afterwards. And wash again. And it really wasn’t that complex but as another thought flashes in his mind and he sees Geralt’s waiting look, he smiles to himself. Clears his throat. “Could you give me one, please? There are some,” he huffs, showing his hands, “technical problems.”

He is sure Geralt doesn’t actually think about it when he takes a honey cake between his fingers. He is sure Geralt realizes what he’s doing the moment his fingers touch his lips and Jaskier opens his mouth and secures the cake between his teeth. And his tongue brushes Geralt’s fingertips and they’re sweeter, oh, so sweeter than the actual honey. He looks up at him, feels Geralt’s fingers shake, shivers. Closes his mouth, his lips brushing once more against cold skin, slowly, daringly. Or savouring, if he’s being honest.

Geralt stares and he feels like he’s melting. The witcher’s hand hovers for a moment before he lowers it and Jaskier can still sense its tingling on his lips, their looks still locked on each other, intense. Jaskier swallows. “They’re good. You should try one.”

Try. For me. He doesn’t know what he wants Geralt to try. Only that, as Geralt’s lips brush against his fingers, exactly where his own were moments ago, he feels like burning and, breathless, he lowers his look.

The doublet is uncomfortable. The trousers are uncomfortable. The shoes are uncomfortable. His whole presence is uncomfortable and Geralt wishes he didn’t have to wear a damned doublet in the middle of July. He can’t complain though. He hears Jaskier’s voice in his head. Don’t worry, it’s thin and exactly the shape of your glorious muscles, it will fit just fine. Aside from stubbornly ignoring the bard’s comment about his muscles, he has to admit that it really isn’t that intolerable as an outfit itself. He just feels small inside it, choking. Still, he doesn’t complain.

He glances up at Jaskier, realizing he’s been talking to him all that time, but the bard doesn’t really seem to bother if anyone hears as he rambles in front of the mirror. “Gods, Geralt, the food. The food is just heavenly, as is the wine, trust me, you won’t regret a moment being at this banquet.” I won’t, Geralt thinks, if it’s to gaze at you. Jaskier turns at him beaming. “Even you, my friend, who asks for nothing, will find yourself craving for another gathering similar to that.”

“I ask for nothing indeed,” Geralt laughs at the way the bard repeats his words back at him, “and I doubt I will ever crave for something such as a gathering. Don’t be so hopeful that I’ll keep coming with you.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes with a dismissive huff and fumbles with the buttons of his sleeve. “You’re no fun. Ah, fuck.” He tugs at the sleeve and barely saves its button from falling away. With a sigh, he outstretches his hand and looks at the witcher. “Geralt, can you?”

Of all things, Geralt definitely has no fingers fit to carefully button a shirt. He has however, patience, something the bard hugely lacks of. So he moves to take Jaskier hand in his. And as their fingers slip together, he freezes. Momentarily, yes, since he continues to push the button in its hole. Still, the way their hands touch, the way Jaskier’s skin is warm against his, the way his fingers wrap his delicate yet trained wrist, make his knees weak. He brings Jaskier’s hand closer to have a better look at the button. Dangerously closer. He flips the button inside the hole and hears Jaskier’s triumphant huff, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, his eyes remain focused on the inside of his wrist, veins marking tanned skin. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he leans and places a kiss. He hears Jaskier’s breath hitch. Slowly, terrifyingly slowly, he realizes what he’s done, and immediately looks at the bard. Blue eyes wide, lips parted. Jaskier whimpers.

“Geralt.”

Stay. For me.

No.

Geralt lets go of his hand and storms outside the room, his heart beating faster that a human’s. Before he closes the door, he smells the salty scent of tears behind him. He doesn’t look back.

vi.

The bandits lay on the ground, three of them, the ones that refused to run when they had the chance. Their blood is forming puddles on the dirt. Geralt stares, panting. He can hear as the heartbeat of the last one vanishes in the wind, so at odds with the birds that are returning to their branches singing.

The birds. Singing. A heartbeat so familiar is now weak as he listens, the smell of blood so terrifying, and his heart skips a beat. He spins around. “Jaskier!”

Time is nonsensical as he runs to the bard’s side and kneels and what he sees makes him want to puke. Not because he hasn’t seen so much blood before, gods forbid, he’s a Witcher. But because the blood is too much. And it’s Jaskier’s. The bard looks up at him, still lost, panting, then lowers his eyes at his stomach, a pool of blood forming slowly. He whimpers. “Fuck.” The way his eyes fill with despair as his look returns on the witcher makes Geralt’s eyes burn. “Do something, Geralt, plea--” his voice is choked in a pained cry.

Geralt shakes his head as if to return to reality. He peers at Jaskier’s wound. It was a sword. It was a damn sword. And it’s deep. Gods, it’s too deep. He looks Jaskier in the eyes and brings a hand on his face firmly. “Listen. Everything is alright. Just stay awake.” Tears flood blue eyes and he feels his heart aching. He can’t let him close his eyes, he’s too afraid it will be the last time he sees them. So he asks, he who asks for nothing, he who needs nothing. “Can you do this for me?”

Jaskier nods frantically, his lips tight as if to suppress another cry. With one last touch, Geralt stands up and runs to Roach standing near, searching inside the saddlebags. If his hands are trembling, he ignores them. Maybe the tremble will go away like that. He returns with bandages and hears Jaskier sob at their sight. He looks at him, helpless but he doesn’t show it. “Awake,” he repeats and proceeds to tear the bard’s shirt open and clean the bleeding dark wound with a wet cloth. Bleeding. It’s bleeding and he sees his nightmares becoming real and he knows, he knows that he should stay calm, that only like that he’s not going to be late. But oh, his hands are still trembling, and his breathing’s short and every time another scream escapes Jaskier’s lips he dies a little more inside. Still, he looks up at him as Jaskier clings on his shirt, his arms, everywhere, desperate. Still, he holds him, cradles him like he’s going to break. He is. “Jaskier. Jaskier, you’re alright.” He snorts, wipes the tears off the bard’s cheeks with his thumbs. “Don’t cry, please. I’m taking you to a healer.”

He raises him on the saddle, climbs behind him, and reins Roach, holding him close. Jaskier is shaking whole, staring at him as if afraid that he’s the last thing he sees. “Geralt,” he gasps and Geralt lowers his look, almost cries when he sees his beautiful face contorted in a pained wince. Blood is staining his lips and Jaskier clings, shakes his head. “Geralt, if I-- I love you, I don’t want to die, please, I don’t--”

“Don’t be stupid, you’re not dying,” Geralt says, more for himself to believe it, and then pauses. And looks at the bard again, at the faint but still-there smile on his lips. “What…” Oh, he can’t do this now. He can’t let himself rejoice, he’s too afraid his joy will be taken away too quickly. Jaskier’s head lolls on his shoulder and his eyes roll on the back of his head and he flinches, terrified, shakes him. “Jaskier! Stay awake!” Jaskier whimpers and opens his eyes. He hurts. He hurts and Geralt hurts even more with him. But he takes a deep breath. “Can you say it again? For me?”

Jaskier huffs a wet, weak laugh. “For you, I can say it forever.” His voice is barely a breath. “I love you, Geralt.”

Geralt is trembling. “Again.” Stay awake.

A cry. “I love you.”

“Again.” Awake.

Roach runs like thunder. It’s close, it’s close.

“I love you.”

Closer, he holds him closer, and Roach runs, and Geralt bites his lips. “One last time. Say it one last time, please. For me.” Stay awake. For me.

“Geralt,” a sob, heart-wrenching, and oh, he knows Jaskier can’t take it, he knows. Only one last time. But Jaskier swallows blood and tears, and with a tired smile, he breathes, “Every time, Geralt. I love you forever.”

The trees fall aside and the town’s gates are open and Geralt lets out a triumphant laugh and finally, finally looks down at Jaskier and promises to himself to never tear his gaze from him again. So he leans down and presses his lips to Jaskier’s, bloody and quivering, and kisses him, and then as he meets his wide eyes, he knows every favour granted was for them. “I love you too, Jaskier. I love you too.” Another kiss, on his forehead, and now he’s warm. “Now hush. Hush, love.”

With a sigh, relieved, exhausted, Jaskier lets his head fall limp on the witcher’s shoulder and finally, closes his eyes. His hand, trembling, reaches to hold a firm one on the reins and if he hears a thank you, whispered like a prayer beside him, he says nothing.

For Geralt, he will have more time, more to give, more and anything, he knows. Anything for him.

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geralt x jaskier #chrysa writes #>1k #fluff #hurt/comfort #yes writing is a coping mechanism so what #i had this wip since last june #fic recs

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iphoenixrising · 3 years ago

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DickTim Week 2021: Day 5 Winged!Talon Tim au

So. another dual prompt and I really regret nothing about this one tbh. I took tomorrow’s Talon and today’s Wings and made a Winged!Talon!Tim fic. Of course, I talked to the wonderful babes on Capes & Coffee about a what if combination and this just, whew. Careful, it might break your heart a little, but damn if it isn’t an interesting idea.

Not beta read, so don't be a hater :D

Previous Talon!Tim universe posts: The initial idea, Babe and I talking it out, Talon Training Ask, Ra’s vs the Court, Talon and Ra’s, Talon and Ra’s take 2, Talon and Shiva short.

Watching B take on the new and improved Talon is really the entertainment of the year.

Once upon a time it had taken all of them plus more to take down as much of the Court of Owls as humanly possible. Of course, like rats, the Bats knew there would be no way to get the entire Court or all the Talons, not when the upper echelons of Gotham had spent the better part of 200 years creating, storing, training, and obtaining more.

Politicians were investigated, corrupt cops removed, and criminals burrowed underground once word of what the capes did to save the day got passed around.

For the first time in years, crime in Gotham was at an all time low.

But, as the coin flip dictates, nothing good lasts forever. Trouble is always brewing below the surface to eventually rise to the top and try to take over.

Case in point:

The Bats of Gotham have come up against a new threat wearing the signature Talon armor, and the call goes out to all available capes for help taking on the undead mercenary before another crime family ends up in the Obituaries rather than Blackgate.

The fact the Court is still up and running after the Batfamily took them down in a fiery blaze that ended with all their Talons gone, Sensei exposed, and most the ruling families imprisoned or poisoned by Lincoln March, is like a kick to the abdomen after they closed that particular book. Worse, with a new Talon soldier is sighted running around Gotham, another circus kid has been kidnapped and turned into the right hand of the Court of Owls. Dick, with his absolute survivors guilt, is the one to make going after the Talon and whoever is still behind the scenes a top priority.

Which is how they find themselves in the middle of Knight’s Stadium facing down a Talon that is too short to be March. Red Hood, Nightwing, Robin, Batgirl, and Black Bat pretty much got their asses handed to them in the first twelve minutes. Pretty hard to understand until you take into account the new and improved Talon facing them now is terrifying in a completely different way than most undead assassins are.

He knows them.

He knows them in ways that lets him fight fast and furious with vicious accuracy, striking at weaknesses few of the vigilantes of Gotham realized they even had.

He isn't as big as Lincoln or even Cobb, not nearly as old. He hasn't been kept in cryostasis waiting for the next generation to need his skills. He doesn't have creaks in his joints from being put on deep freeze too many times.

This one is silent and efficient, obviously trained in multiple types of martial arts, is highly proficient with or without the standard Talon knives, is a master tactician, counters the majority of their moves with alarming consistency–

and the fucking Talon has wings.

Honest-to-God wings.

Everyone had assumed the metal monstrosities on his back were weapons of some kind, but the glint of steel in the streetlight flash a warning before the lumps moved in an arch, extending far out past his shoulder blades, slicing into Red Hood’s body suit with a razor-sharp edge, shredding the armor like paper.

It’s not enough he’s got weapons obviously made specifically for his skill set, it’s not enough he’s an assassin and doesn’t hold to the same standards of non-lethal combat, it’s not enough that he can use his wings to fly or to fight like he’s using another limb to kick the shit out of them, and it’s not enough that he effortlessly counters so many of their attacks that he has to have some kind of inside information on all of them and their fighting styles.

The knives are definitely a thing when the Talon can throw them hard enough to penetrate parts of their suits in between armored plating, which further drives the theory that this is a person they’ve dealt with before. Intimately. Few people in the world know how their suits are made. Even more, few people know particulars enough when their suits are constantly reconstructed.

The only thing on their side that tipped the scales in their favor–

–the Batman.

The wings threw him off his game, obviously, but not enough to stop B from holding his own with swift and merciless force.

It's like watching a dance of fast and furious fists, blades in Talon's hands glinting deadly in the night, finding B's suit over and over and over until he's made it to blood and bone. He takes every hit the Batman can dish out, head snapping back, left, and right with the volley of jaw-breaking blows and bone-shattering kicks.

None of it gives the Talon pause. When a move makes him drop a blade, another is already in hand, cutting into their body suits, wings flipping out to defend or distract, sweeping moves and well coordinated attacks.

The unnatural appendages are like another arm, another leg, an extension working on the same central nervous system, regardless as to how the Court managed to make it happen.

A jump kick off a trash can is a lucky shot as a wing catches B in the ribs hard enough to knock him into the wall of Mike's Famous Hotdogs. The only thing saving the Dark Knight from a concussion or permanent brain damage is the plating in his cowl.

It gives the Talon enough time to make a final bid for a battered Nightwing, Red Hood, and Robin struggling to their feet again, eyes for their fallen mentor.

Before he can lunge forward to start the attack yet again, the Talon just stops, pauses like he’s stuck or something, and in the span of a breath, both wings extend fully, flap powerfully once to propel him up into the Gotham night.

O tries her best to track his flight through the city, but no one’s arms are working well enough to toss a tracker on him.

She loses him over Cape Carmine, slams her palms against her system in frustration, makes sure she gets as much footage from the confrontation as possible.

After some sleep and a whole lot of bandages and ice packs, the Bat family meets in the Cave to watch the footage, breakdown the Talon’s fighting style, his weaponry, and make theories on his identity.

O helps out with readings she has of electronic pulses she managed to capture coming from the armor over his wings. She thinks she might be able to use it to track him if they can get close enough for her equipment to ping the signal again.

B makes a trip to Arkham since Freeze apparently hasn’t stopped producing the formula used to put Talons in cryostasis.

It’s not until Gotham’s power grid has a massive surge that O and the Bats can pinpoint a possible location, all of them invested in one hell of a fight to get the last rats still scurrying in the underground.

The plan of attack comes together smoothly once they’ve scoped out the location, seen the shady activity, and together, they make one hell of a plan.

And because, you know, Gotham, it is completely normal for the Court of Owl's headquarters to have a skylight.

Natch.

For this one, they've got Batgirl and Black Bat, Red Hood and Robin, Nightwing and B, a real family affair.

O's quiet voice over comms leading them through the maze of traps and empty rooms, abandoned libraries and spooky ball rooms. The laboratory isn't the most horrific they've all ever seen (because the Joker's summer place is literally the stuff of nightmares), but a few of them do gag on the smell alone.

The plan, however, goes horribly awry when the clear sounds of tormented screaming echoes from right under their reinforced bootheels.

Black Bat's fists clench hard, her breathing wheezes out when the tone, the utter agony goes right through her.

A shudder slides up Robin's spine as all of them turn toward the noise.

Without a flicker or a word, the Batman moves, strafing in the shadows toward the sound. He can't assume it's an innocent civilian with something the Court wants, but he's betting on the fact that scream will lead them to whoever is running the show.

The medieval room has bars and reinforced locks, implements hanging on the wall. The cement brick is stained rust colored with old blood, the vestiges of training, and the awful realization they've found another hidden niche in the city that always existed right under their noses is punctuated with the abrupt drop in temperature, with the sudden charge in the air, with the zzzzcrack snapping beyond the door, replaced with a muted buzzing Robin can feel in his back teeth.

B is already on his way to the roof, Batgirl down through the floor vent while Nightwing picks the locks with fast precision, knocking the tumblers around.

Robin and Red Hood stay close to the reinforced door, balancing on the balls of their feet, katana and .45s at the ready.

Black Bat takes the high road, ceiling tiles giving way under her Bat-a-rang. She gives a sharp nod before she's up and gone.

"All right. Ready?" Nightwing stands, cracks his neck, flips his escrimas in both hands, works his shoulders to prepare for the strain of each blow he plans to give.

"Ya betcha ass," Hood murmurs low, a cut figure with both guns at his sides, gloved fingers on the trigger guard.

"Don't disappoint," Robin snarls, "either of you."

"Nice pep talk, squirt," Nightwing snickers.

"Tt, back up your mouth with action."

"Better shuddap, Demon. Golden Boy ain't fuckin' 'round. Neither is the Bat. We get one more chance a' this asshole. We ain't gonna blow it again, ya feel me?"

"Finally, something we agree on, Hood."

"Other than N's shitty mullet?"

Nightwing swiftly glares at them both over his shoulder, unconsciously putting himself front and center of the trio, ready to be the first in once they get the signal.

– which is the sound of the glass raining down from the heavens.

Three booted feet kick the door hard enough to take it off the hinges, lying against the faded stains like a fallen body.

First step in the room is the complete opposite to what they'd all been expecting.

The two Owl masks aren't the usual, but a perversion of the originals, crudely drawn yawning mouths complete with fangs dripping blood.

But.

The boy on his knees, arms in a binder holding the appendages hostage at a painful angle, is dripping the real thing. Rivulets down his chest and where his back is partially visible. Some from the base of the wings going into the back of his shoulder blades where the skin is torn and raw.

The bar gag shoved in his mouth doesn't take away from the splatters on his chin, the bruising on his face, the swollen eye. But it's his wings that makes the Bats falter from the initial rushing attack.

His wings are without the armor, are bound straight up above his restrained body with hooks grotesquely puncturing through the downy softness, desecrating the beauty with blood and gore. The angle makes the pull to his back where the wings are part of him just another agony on top of atrocity.

"Fuck," from the first Owl mask, and a swift move frees the Talon's bound arms, the appendages flopping uselessly to the floor, only his trapped, tortured wings keeping him up on his knees.

The second Owl shoves the first back, "let him take care of them. Let's get out of here!"

The first Owl snarls out something low and foreign, the phrases rolling off his tongue.

The words lock into place, and the Talon's head snaps up, snarling around the gag in his mouth.

When his face is finally, finally visible, the protectors of Gotham are frozen in their tracks.

Familiar violet-blue eyes, too-long blue-black hair, cut jawline and pointed nose. Tiny scar on his right cheek from the time he caught Ra's al Ghul's ring across the face.

"Jesus Fucking Christ," is barely heard through the Red Hood's synths and in no way fully expresses his utter horror at what these dirty motherfuckers have done.

Robin wretches, bile burning the back of his throat once those eyes swing up to the masked parody of the Owls and his bare upper body is visible through the blood and sweat on his chest, when the scars peeking through on his collar bones form a half-visible Y-incision, when the coloring of the bared wings now makes sense (robin's wings, Damian Wayne thinks with his heart beating pitter patter fast, and his stomach in knots, they put robin's wings on him...).

And the hurt, agonized noise coming out of Nightwing's chest is the only noise he can make when those dimmed, dazed eyes swing from the Owls back to the vigilantes frozen in their spots, when there's no spark of joy or fondness or stubbornness he's so used to seeing staring him down.

The errant thought, the first instinct, is the only humane way to deal with this new Talon is to put him down for good wars with the man behind the mask that only wants to reach out, wants to pull the Talon into his body and curve over, to scream at the injustice of it all, to rail at himself for not even suspecting.

Another switch flipped and the hooks release his wings, blood splattering on top the old stains.

"Get them! Don't fuck it up this time or you won't get another chance," the second Owl shoves the Talon's injured shoulder in the direction of the horrified vigilantes.

They don't even bother to take the gag out of his mouth before setting him on his target.

A flap of wings, and the Talon is on his feet again, swaying only slightly. He's in the boots and pants from earlier, the rest of his uniform tossed carelessly behind him by his tormentors. A sweep of his feet and the knives glint in bare palms, a whisper of a sound.

The curved, clawed blade glints in the overhead light when the Talon raises it and cuts the strap of the bar gag in his bloody mouth, turns his head to spit it out without looking away from the vigilantes.

The Batman, grim and stoic in the face of this surprising turn of events, gives the barest nod. From her hiding spot behind the complex machinery, Black Bat takes off after the running Owl members, leaving the rest of the family to deal with their former third Robin.

The wings flinchingly flare out and their former bird hunches over, ready for the attack.

“Wait! Wait, wait, wait,” the Red Hood removes the helmet, leaves the domino underneath. He keeps one hand out in peace, slowly dipping down to put his helmet on the ground. “Is us, Tim. Timmy. Baby Bird. Is us. Yer family. Gotta lookit us, yeah?”

For the first time, the Talon speaks, “who’s Tim?”

And then he lunges.

The fight happens very differently this time.

The former power behind the punches is obviously dulled with the Talon’s identity reveal. He doesn’t hold back, is utterly ruthless with his attacks. He takes out B’s right knee, puts Hood down on the stained floor, knocks Robin into the wall with crushing force, and slams Batgirl’s head off the operating table.

He stands over Nightwing, wicked blade in hand and robin’s wings spread wide. He takes a knee, the sharp edge right above N’s adam’s apple, staring down impassively into the whiteouts.

“Timmy,” N spits blood, grunting when one knee pins his arm down. “Timmy, please. I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. I love you and I’m sorry they did this to you.”

Those eyes don’t change in the slightest. “You should not have tried to oppose the Owls.”

“We beat them once,” Nightwing gasps, “and you helped us, Baby Bird. You were with us then, don’t you remember.”

“I was nothing before the Court perfected me,” the Talon replies emotionlessly.

“You were perfect before they ever touched you.”

“No,” and the Talon leans down, puts them a breath away. “The only thing you and those others do is put the criminals back in prison, back in Arkham for them to escape again, for them to kill and destroy over and over again. Like this, I can stop them permanently.”

“Oh Timmy,” and behind the whiteouts, Nightwing’s eyes spill over, his vision wavery. “Timmy–”

“Don’t call me that. Stop calling me that.”

“You know me, you know us. You have to remember–”

“Lies. All of it lies!”

Nightwing’s chest stutters, his fist clenching, “it’s not. None of it is. Not even this–”

And he’s fast enough to grab the back of the Talon’s neck, to lean up enough against the blade pressed against his throat, can bring their mouths together, can kiss him like he’s dying and the Talon is the only thing that can save him.

It’s sloppy and awkward because the Talon doesn’t know what’s happening, gasps against the vigilante’s mouth. The tongue sliding over his, the muffled moan in his mouth sparks something in the back of his brain where the Court of Owls could never touch.

When Nightwing pulls back, stares up at wide violet-blue eyes, when the blade falls away to clatter against the block, when the Talon’s mouth trembles and tears fill his eyes, when his wings flutter and falter, fold in on them both, when his voice goes hoarse with, “D-Dick?” Nightwing throws both arms around his waist and holds on.

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ggukkieland · 4 years ago

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📕CURRENT READS (2020 October)

🌹 Fics I’ve enjoyed reading this October, with some few unread ones (still have 4 to 5 days to finish!). Waah I have read a lot 😲 I can’t believe I’m almost complete with this list 🥳. Usually when I post and organize the list, half of it are still on #toread status. I thought of curating Halloween-themed fics 🎃 but I ended up reading any genre anyway😁.

Again, credit goes to these awesome writers! Sending them lots of love and virtual hugs 🥰🤗💜🥰🤗💜🥰🤗 .

✅ - done reading | S (smut) F (fluff) A (angst)

🥕[Ongoing Series - to check weekly]

Still reading the ongoing series from last month’s reading list, whenever there is an update 😊

I Feel You in my Heart by @purpletaecup - MYG | exes au, second chances, some chapters have smau elements | A, S, F (really good story development 😭)

[7/?] nearly 2 months after their divorce, yoongi and y/n wade through the aftermath of the fallout by themselves. yoongi is moving on with someone else while y/n finds herself stuck in waves of anxiety and depression. soon enough, they are brought together again by an unfortunate accident

If it Harms None, Do What You Will by purpletaecup - JJK | smau, comedy, supernatural au, fantasy au, witch!reader, demon!jungkook | F, S 🎃

[6/?] it’s the beginning of October and green witch y/n has been preparing for all of the spooky activities she needs to do for all hallow’s eve. one of her older friends gives her a ritual candle for protection. a couple of drops of blood and a wonky magic circle later, there is a high level demon sitting on the floor of her living room.

We Live with a Ghost by @smaubts - JJK | smau, comedy, ghost au, roommates au | F 🎃

[6/13] when jungkook convinces his roommate, y/n, that their house is haunted by an evil ghost, they decide their best option is to contact with it and make it leave but end up summoning an actual ghost by accident.

Swan Black by CharWrites [AO3] - JJK | fantasy, supernatural, enemies to lovers, dark fantasy, apocalypse, Fae!Jungkook, Fae!Yoongi, Fae!Taehyung, LOTR/Mortal Instruments/Labyrinth vibes | A, S (I love this! It’s like watching LOTR 😍) 🎃

[10/?] So's twin brother, Jimin, has been kissed by darkness: an evil that has spread across the land and has claimed many souls. They only have weeks until the darkness consumes him. Once consumed, he will be governed by the unsullied: a powerful race of Dark Fae that has overtaken the world.

So seeks out a rogue Fae Prince, Kook, who is her only hope, if she can survive his deadly charms and irresistible lure especially when he is much more interested in possessing her, mind body and soul.

Third Wheeling by @taetaewonderland - MYG | strangers to lovers au, ceo!yoongi | A, F, S 🥰

[1/?] Min Yoongi is a strict man. Time is money to the CEO of Kisung Connected. He isn’t interested in conventional things or wastes of time. He’s an asshole. But, you didn’t realize until it was too late. Until you met him at the club and it changed your life forever.

Bad Friends by @hollyxqx- MYG | friends to lovers, enemies to lovers, neighbor au, college au, fwb au | A, S, F (what a good angst 😥)

[1/3] hooking up with your childhood best friend was never your plan, but neither was falling in love with him either. he’s troubled but his heart is gold. when you move away for college, things start to take a turn.

House of Lilies by @suqakoo - JJK | mafia au, arranged marriage au | A, F, S

[3/?] Jeon Jungkook is the only heir to Dal Gurimja. He is the poster child for mafia bosses. He’s a feared hit-man among the underground world, and a successful CEO among the socialites of Seoul. Pair him with a castaway girl who’s been out of society for twelve years, and… what do you get?

Your Eyes Tell by @njkbangtan - JJK | soulmate au, enemies to lovers au, roommates au, sugar baby (but not really), slow burn | A, F

[5/?] You live in a world where people see in black and white. The solution to finally see the colors? It’s simple. You need to meet your soulmate and look at him in the eyes, but what if the person bound to you is already contented with the monochromatic world? What if…Jeongguk, your soulmate, is already in love with someone else?

I hate u, I love u by @bbangpanmen - JJK | fwb au, friends to lovers au, smau | A

[17/23] he uses you to forget her; you let him because you love him.

Puzzle by @kimvvantae - JJK | fwb au, friends to lovers au, college au | A, S, F (I’ve read this before, around 2018-19 and I thought it was discontinued. Glad there’s an update ^_^)

[7/?] the line between friendship and something more has never been crossed - but that changes after a break up and a drunken night, when you not-so-accidentally cross this line to something much more. what happens when after this accident your non-matching puzzle pieces seem to match in a way you’ve never imagined?

The Lesson/Min Boy by @adventuresinwonderlust - MYG | bad boy!yoongi, dom-sub elements, enemies to lovers, brat!reader | S, A, F

[6/8] No summary provided but it’s the twisted story between bad boy Yoongi with angsty backstory and this brat/rich kid. I really liked how it was written though. I made a mistake of reading part 4: Two Months Too Long, which should’ve been the 6th story to read if you follow the author’s sequence.

Popular-ish by @hansolmates - JJK | popular!jungkook, college au, fwb to lovers, shy!oc | F, S, A

[9/?] drabble series: you are way out of jungkook’s league. Or is it the other way around?

Date Me by @latetaektalk - JJK | enemies to lovers, fake dating au, rich kid au | A, F,

[prologue + 1/?] when obnoxiously rich and spoiled frat boy jeon jungkook comes up to you one day and asks you to fake date him for money, you definitely should have said no. because before you knew it, you were going on insta dates with him and having lunch with his equally obnoxiously rich and spoiled friends.

All Over You by @zibermuda - JJK | enemies to lovers, nerd!jk, fuckgirl!reader | S, F

[2/?] you don’t usually go for the quiet, nerdy type, but Jungkook’s by far the best looking guy in your year. You just can’t help yourself. You have to have him. Small hiccup; he hates you

Effortlessly by @gyukult - JJK | friends to lovers, neighbors au,

[8/?] “Reciprocate feelings?” Jungkook crosses his arms before he continues, “They should know that you’re the only girl in my life.“ Jungkook has been your best friend and neighbor since you could remember, but what you can’t recall is when your feelings began develop for him.

HEI$T: A JJK Fic by lucidly [AO3] - JJK | heist au, action, bangtan are thieves, vigilante au | A, S

[3/?] Six years after being thrown into the world of forgery, espionage, and heists, Mona and her team face competition like never before: The Bulletproof Boy Scouts, a fabled Korean gang of thieves that everybody seems to know, but no one has seen. When she comes face to face with all 7 of them, Mona knows: they're real, and this job won't be like the others. For years she has followed the money, but could it be time that she follow her heart instead?

🥕[Completed AUs/Series- to read]

✅ - done reading (also there seems to be a lot of JJK fics)

Creep @xjoonchildx - MYG | S, pwp, yandere ✅

Guilty @xjoonchildx - KNJ | A, S, mafia au, second part of Guarded AU (an awesome JHS series)

Chapter One: How Odd Chapter Two: Incheon Mall Tube Tops Final Chapter: Is Something Burning? Epilogue: Better Than Okay

Paddle with Me @yoongs-jeontae - JJK | A, S, enemies to lovers, camp counselor au, pwp ✅

Hate Me @themfchase - JJK | S, collegel!au, enemies to lovers au, fuckboy!jk, pwp ✅

Devil in a Blue Suit @yeojaa - JJK | F, S, idiots to lovers, established au, good boy!jungkook

main story ✅ + drabbles ✅

Sweetest Crush @minjoonalist - JHS | F, S, brother’s best friend au

Fake Love @aquaminwrites - JHS | F, S, A, fake dating au, enemies to lovers ✅

Faded Love @jamaisjoons - PJM | A, S, marriage au, infidelity ✅

Brown-Eyed Baby @vinterjeon - JJK | A, S, F, exes to lovers, single dad!jk

01 02 ✅

Why We Got Married @ktheist - KTH | F, S, arranged marriage au, slow burn ✅

Lonely Hearts Club @dovechim - JJK | S, F, enemies to lovers, wedding au ✅

Come to Me @jeonsweetpea - JJK | S, A, F ,friends to lovers, college au ✅

Satan on the Strip @noir0neko - JJK | S, A, demon!jungkook ✅ 🎃

No Face @seokoloqy - MYG | A, S, F, demon au, supernatural au ✅ 🎃

Take a Chance @crystaljins - JJK | A, Hanahaki au, co-workers, very angsty but Seokjin provides comic relief

01 02 03 04 05 06 07 ✅

The Lottery Offering @skswriting - JJK | A, F, S, werewolf au, sort-of arranged marriage au ✅

A Beautiful Epiphany @onherwings - JJK | A, S, F, friends to lovers, unrequited love, artist!jungkook ✅

Au Naturel (sequel) - drabble, established au ✅

Broken Dreams @ddaenysus - JJK | A, soulmate au, unrequited ✅

And Mended Hearts (sequel) - A, S, soulmate au, college au ✅

Coin Toss @yoondoze - JJK | A, mafia au, detective au, exes au, plot twist 👀 ✅

I Knew It Was You @hoseokmylovesworld - JJK | S, F, werewolf au, college au ✅ 🎃

Little Blue @pars-ley - JJK | F, S, friends to lovers, college au, with TW ✅

Little Blue Pill @dreamescapeswriting - JJK | S, pwp, friends to lovers ✅

Smitten @megahwn - JJK | F, S, arranged marriage au, strangers to lovers au ✅

Hit Me with Your Best Shot @namfine - JJK | S, pwp, martial arts, friends to lovers ✅

Slow and Steady @yoonia - JJK | S, A, artist!jungkook, infidelity, established au ✅

Cockblocked @mercurygguk - JJK | A, S, F, friends to lovers, roommates au ✅

everything I ever wanted (drabble) - morning after ✅

What are you Afraid Of? @cupofteaguk - JJK | F, avatar the last bender au

Part 2 (prompt: if you keep looking at me like that we won’t make it to a bed) - avatar au, F, S

demon-etized @jungkxook - KNJ | S, youtube au, ghost hunter au 🎃

Spellbound @jeonseok - JJK | F, slight S, demon au, crack, romcom ✅ 🎃

Raising Demons (sequel) - fluffy, smut, established au, crack ✅ 🎃

What’s in a Name? @minsimagines - JJK | A, F, demon au, soul selling scenario, romance

01 02 03 ✅ 🎃

The Big Yellow School Bus [15k] fringesofsanity [AO3] - JJK | S, A, F, noona, fwb au ✅

once bitten, twice shy [5.6k] obiwrites [AO3] - JJK | A, F, implied S, exes au, parents au ✅

Lose Somebody [26k] @kooala - JJK | A, F, slight S, exes au, camping au ✅

Oh What a World [100k] @taestybae - PJM | A, S, F, fake marriage au, fallen idol au (been wanting to read this since July (!), will finally get to reading this 🥰)

series masterlist [18 chapters + epilogue]

🥕[Drabbles]

okay I just realized they’re all JJK drabbles 😅

Incandesce @eunoiabliss - 544 words | JJK | fantasy au, fluff ✅

Forgetful Confession @suhdays - 991 words | JJK | fluff, slight angst, college au, friends to ??? ✅

Club @taleasnewastime - 2k | JJK | fluff, bestfriends ✅

JJK Reincarnation drabble @ktheist - 571 words | JJK | F, reincarnation (?) | love love this 🥰 ✅

Pup @whipped-for-kpop-fics - 1.5k | JJK | F, humour, werewolf au, established au | this is cute and funny 🤣 ✅

A Line Crossed @underthejoon - 723 words | JJK | A, bodyguard au ✅

Rousing Rendezvous @rookiegukie - 1.5k | JJK | smut, frenemies with benefits, modern royalty au ✅

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jazzistolkienfanfics · 4 years ago

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Stress - Fili x reader

May I request a Fili x Female!Reader where the reader is starting to get really stressed and it's starting to get to her and Fili makes it all better?

@dark-angel-is-back of course! i tried to give this one an actual plot rather than centring it around romance 😅

Type: Imagine Pairing: Fili x reader Summary: being the only financial support of one’s family isn’t easy Warnings: ‘shit’ Word Count: 1338 words

Y/N let herself stare wistfully at the stall of pastries in the marketplace. She was sure that her siblings would love the sweet breads and treats, and the beautiful smell overwhelmed her.

But the Dwarrowdam shook her head, slipping her fingers into her pocket and feeling how few coins were there. To put it quite simply, she didn’t have the money for such luxuries. Y/N needed to save that money for necessities.

She wandered around the marketplace, doing her best to buy the cheapest things - a new dress for her little sister, as her old one had been frayed to pieces, meat for dinner, some fruits and vegetables, and one tiny bag of sweets for her siblings. There were four people in their family - Y/N, and her two younger sisters and one younger brother. She figured the kids deserved a little something.

Y/N’s basket was becoming heavy, but she didn’t complain. She was all her siblings had - their father had fallen in battle and their mother died of a deadly disease. Y/N could never complain, because it wasn’t about her. It was about them.

They got smaller and thinner every week, and they were suffering from it, though they tried to hide it with their chins up and happy smiles. Y/N was so proud of them, but they were too young to help her. Too young to work, nor to understand the intricacies and rules of their unfair world.

She ventured out to the edge of the forest, bending to pick some athelas for the medicine cupboard, some herbs for dinner, and some flowers for her little sisters (she also collected one for her brother, though he didn’t like them much). By now, her basket was almost overflowiit ng, and lugging it several kilometres back home would not be an easy task.

But she thought of her poor siblings, alone at home, hiding behind the barricaded door, missing their older sister. Y/N felt so guilty for leaving them alone - she’d left for her first job far before dawn, and she’d finished her third one at sunset.

It was now dark, and Y/N’s arms were trembling with the weight of the heavy baskets. She pulled it along, having long given up on holding it in her arms, and now dragging it along the cobblestones.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

It had been a hard day.Y/N had been beaten in her second job at the forges, for dropping a hot sword on her overseer’s foot.

“You stupid girl!” he yelled, hitting her across the face/ “Why did I hire you?“

Y/N was so hungry and exhausted that she almost gave up, but she saw the wooden door of her house ahead of her. She knocked on it, whispering to her siblings, “I’m home, guys. It’s Y/N.”

They opened the door - a girl of twelve, a boy of nine, and another girl of six flying out from it, immediately taking her basket from her.

She saw the hunger in their eyes, and the familiar tear tracks.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Y/N whispered. “Here, help me make dinner.“

They did so - slicing the meat off the bones and putting them into stale bread as sandwiches. The bones would be turned to soup later.

Her siblings took the gifts, thanking her profoundly, and they ate hungrily.

“You guys get into bed, okay?” Y/N said, faking a smile. “I’ll be right there.”

The three children ran into the only bedroom, laughing and talking about the lollies they’d be able to eat tomorrow. Y/N opened the door cautiously, sitting outside on the steps.

She lowered her head into her hands and began to cry soundlessly. Of course, making any kind of whimper would single her out as a target - and she had to be strong for her brother and sisters. How they could be so happy every day was beyond her.

Everything was getting to her. The stress, the lack of money, how alone she felt. The night was the only time when she could fall apart - because at the mercy of the darkness, nothing could hold her together.

“Excuse me? Are you alright?”

Y/N bolted to her feet at the voice, having not heard the footsteps of its owner, drying her tears with two quick swipes as she took in the asker of the question.

He was a handsome Dwarf, with long blond hair in several braids. Y/N noted that his beads were plain silver - he courted no one. He seemed the sort with a persistent ready smile, though now there was only kindly concern in those blue eyes.

“I’m fine,” Y/N lied. “Sorry you had to see that.”

“Don’t be sorry,” the Dwarf said. “And don’t apologise. What’s wrong?”

Sometimes, telling things to a stranger, who had no preformed opinions or knowledge regarding you, was far easier than telling things to your family. Y/N found herself telling him about the hardships of her life in the recent years. He listened well, and showed such believable worry and empathy that the darkness faded away.

He stared at the ground for a moment after she’d finished talking, evidently thinking about something of great importance.

“I’m so sorry,” he said finally. “I know what it’s like to lose family. I haven’t been in the situation you’re in, but I can at least understand some of your pain. I have a younger brother, like you do - you understand how we’ll do anything for them.”

“Yeah, I do.” Y/N found herself smiling at this stranger.

He dug his hand into the pockets of his large coat, and pulled out ...

“Holy shit,” she gasped, in a display of cursing that she didn’t normally use in front of strangers, but somehow, this man didn’t feel like one. “That’s-”

“Mithril,” he confirmed, handing over the stone. It was definitely larger than her palm, though not too big to hold with one hand. The metal was silver, but hints of all the colours imaginable were also woven through it, sparkling in the firelight of the street. “Sell it to the wealthiest vendor you can find - they will give you a lot for it. Enough for you to not have to worry about your siblings again. I can find you a better job, and another home, if you wish.”

He nodded towards the dilapidated structure they stood outside of - one storey, practically falling apart.

“Why-” Y/N stuttered, confused. “Why would you do this for me? I am but a stranger.”

“Because I believe in kindness,” the Dwarf said. “I know its effect. And I know what loneliness feels like - when all you have are your younger siblings. You deserve better than this.”

“Thank you,” she said, tears swelling in your eyes again. “Thank you so, so much.”

She leaned forward, kissing the handsome Dwarf on the cheek, blushing furiously as she pulled back. His cheeks were also dusted with red, and a wide smile had stretched across his face.

“You know,” he said, studying her, and really taking in how beautiful she was for the first time. “I’m going on a quest. 13 Dwarves so far, but they won’t mind if you joined. I’ve got a good feeling about you.”

Y/N laughed. “Oh, I’m not the adventure type. Besides, I need to look after my siblings. We’re all we have left. I’ll wait for you, though ...?”

“Fili,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it in an adorably gentlemanly fashion. “And I promise I’ll come back to you ...”

“Y/N,” she said, with a smile.

Fili stepped forward, and gave her a warm hug. “Don’t let the stress get to you, okay? Do things for you, not for them.”

He scribbled a quick note of recommendation for a better, higher-paying job, kissed her cheek, and left, humming a low, sweet song under his breath.

Y/N watched him go, clutching the mithril in her hand. And she couldn’t stop herself from grinning.

Maybe life isn’t so bad after all ...

@dark-angel-is-back i’m sorry if this isn’t what you wanted! i kinda got carried away ...

EVERYONE REMEMBER THAT YOU CAN SEND ME ANY QUESTION AS PART OF THE 100 FOLLOWERS CHALLENGE!

#fili #fili x reader #the hobbit #x reader #you #the hobbit x reader #request

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aye-write · 4 years ago

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Mindless - WIP Introduction

Basic Details

Genre - YA Fantasy/Mystery POV - First person Status - Drafting (First Draft) Themes - Identity, belonging, wlw, equality, making the right choices even when it’s hard, overthrowing corruption, and found family.

Synopsis:

In the walled off kingdom of (REDACTED), where magic is heavily restricted and regulated, disobedience is punished with a fate worse than death. To become “Mindless” - stripped of soul and will by the kingdom’s Erasers - reduces a person to no more than a walking corpse, doomed for a lifetime of menial labour.

When Mindless start turning up dead, in increasingly brutal ways, apprentice Eraser Ysabell is plunged into a deadly game of cat and mouse as she tries to find out who is murdering her kingdom’s “lowest of the low”.

And the answer might just change the lives of all those who live in fear inside the city’s walls.

Characters

Ysabell (above) An apprentice Eraser in her final year of studies before sitting the mastery exam. Naïve and studious, Ysabell begins the story simply wanting to get through her final exams so she can leave the Apprentice Tower and start integrating into a wider city life with more freedom than she is currently afforded.

When she is tasked to perform the Erasing ritual on a young man convicted of stealing bread, she accidentally botches it. Terrified of the repercussions, she flees the tower and stumbles into a sinister murder plot.

Aiyona (above) With nearly three years to go until she is a full-fledged Eraser, Aiyona is resistant to all the teachings of the Tower and all who dwell within it. Fiery and hot-headed, Aiyona wants no part in the “barbaric” ritual she is forced into performing. As such, she spends most of her living moments intentionally flunking her studies and trying to orchestrate an escape to get home to her beloved family She has never yet succeeded.

A chance meeting with Ysabell motivates Aiyona further and together, the two of them join forces to escape the tower - permanently - and work out who is killing the kingdom’s Mindless. Along the way, Aiyona finds herself caught at a crossroads between her burgeoning friendship (or something more??) with Ysabell, and the family she left behind.

Tip (above) An ordinary citizen of the Kingdom, Tip is the eldest son of a innkeeper. He takes in Ysabell when she flees the tower, feeds her, and helps her along her way, despite the protestations of his father, who, much like the majority of the general population, greatly fears Erasers. Barely twelve years old, Tip fluctuates between deep and sincere maturity, and childish good humour like a spinning coin.

He later joins Ysabell and Aiyona in their search for the person murdering the city’s Mindless. However, he seems to be hiding something... something that may have terrifyingly dangerous consequences for him if it was to ever get out.

Excerpt Under the Cut

In the early morning, when the sun isn’t even so much as a thought in the velvet sky, Brother Elies brings me a robe of wine-red and tells me to put it on. I’m to meet him in the apprentice’s study chambers at first light. He leaves, silent as a dream, and I am filled with the fleeting, yet certain, notion that something in my life is about to change forever.

The others still sleep, undisturbed by Brother Elies’ intrusion. It’s probably for the best. I light the smallest candle I can find and sit by its waning light at the mirror, running a brush thorough my hair. Then, I step out of my nightdress and pull the robes over my head. The fabric is heavy and weighted, like I’ve been dunked in a bathtub still fully clothed. The colour doesn’t suit me.

As I stand by the window, sunlight rouses the monochrome sky – a smudge of tangerine, a flash of pink – and though the world still has the black look of night, the horizon is tinged with more colour than charcoal. On a good day, you can see all the way past the dwelling-houses, past the farms, even up to the inner wall. Danheile once boasted she climbed to the attic, above our chambers, and looked out over the whole city “right up to the outer wall!” Of course, Sister Neoni chastised her. No-one ever sees the outer wall.

It’s time to go. I mutter some words of encouragement to the reflection of the strange girl in the mirror, close the door softly behind me and descend the stone stairs.

I don’t know how much of this I may post as I don’t think I plan to traditionally publish this one, but if anyone wants to know more, I’m happy to share more! Please let me know if you would like to be added to a tag list!

#wip introduction #fantasy wip #my writing #Mindless #fantasy wip introduction

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henry-cavill-baby · 4 years ago

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Mark of the Witcher ┃2

Chapter 2: Djinnefer

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Original Female Character

Length: 3k

Warnings: Some smut

Taglist: @lowkeyofsassguard (it’s not letting me tag you, sorry!)

Summary: Bottled Appetites and Carnal Desires

Sleep, it seemed, was an unattainable star in the vast night sky.

And this assumption was proved by one Geralt of Rivia; a Witcher who hadn’t been blessed with a good nights rest in… how long had it been? Two weeks now?

And this wasn’t to go without saying that Geralt had tried hours of peaceful meditation aside Roach, honing in on the wafting breeze through the loose fall leaves ready to fall to the forest floor. The birds in the nearby bushes tittering to one another did nothing but irritate Geralt.

It seemed everything annoyed the Witcher these days.

Monsters seemed to be far and few as of late and the lack of villagers screaming for help and tossing him their coin left him nearly penniless. The utter silence and animal chatter of the forest was no good for Geralt, it took his mind to the memories of his youth in Kaer Morhen—ones he could live without reliving.

Huffs from under the large wicker tree had Geralt turning to Roach, golden eyes squinting with sleep at the companion. “Can’t sleep either.” His voice is gruff and caked with drowsiness, his legs nearly weary as he hefts to stand.

The sun had cleared the misty sky and it burned his eyes.

The ground is muddy near the water bank as Geralt tries to plant his steps and stalk by the river, golden net tight in his fists. Creatures and Demons—the occasional horde of Drowners pried on livestock, and killing a one of them was more work than worth the coin. There were no sounds that would give way to a hiding spot for a scrounging demon to try to take him by surprise.

“Lovely ladies from Nilfgaard… and their ladies can kiss my—Geralt?”

Geralt almost stumbled in his step as a voice known all to well permeated through the air, a frowned expression overcoming his tired face. Of all the things he did not need, this would be the second.

Geralt turns and sees Jaskier—the bard is dressed in a blue and white tunic better fit for a court bard, with that cursed lute still cradled in his arms, pants puffy around the thighs in an obnoxiously fashionable manner—and turns back to the river with a low growl.

“What’s it been? Years? Months?” Jaskier pondered aloud, smiling at the sight of his friend, Geralt. “Does time even matter anymore, really.”

Geralt grunts as Jaskier goes on, still following like an overgrown pup. “I heard you were in town, you know, and while I have missed you dearly—I do think it’s time you got a hobby. You know, get out and see the world.” A thought popped into the Bards head. “Speaking of seeing the world, have you stopped by Cintra?”

The name Cintra nearly chills Geralt’s bones, but he just grunts out a hard, “No.” Continuing on the path along the riverbank, Geralt listens as Jaskier talks to himself.

“How am I, I hear you ask; I’m good, thanks for asking.” Jaskier huffed as his shoes sank slid on a patch of dry mud. “You see, I recently bedded the sweetest Countess and then, right after our fifth round of passionate love making, she sends me away. Can you believe that, Geralt?”

Geralt ignored him in favor of throwing his net in the water… and pulling it back empty. Fuck, he thought, and continued.

“Still a man of few words,” Jaskier hums, taking a swig of watered down ale that seemed a to be on the hotter side. The taste nearly turned his tongue.

“What are you doing, Geralt?” Jaskier nods to the empty net, finally deciding give in to his curiosity.

“Fishing?” He speculated with a frown. “You may be good at many things but I doubt that fishing is your forte. That is unless you catch one and are willing to share with an old friend?”

Geralt grunts and continues along the water line, next in hand as mud cakes everything up to his ankles. Shaking his head, Geralt throws the net again.

“You are still a Witcher right?” Jaskier hums. “I see you haven’t changed your outfit… or hair… or anything really. Why—What are you fishing for, exactly?”

“Is it carp? Is that your favorite?”

No answer.

“Or trout, do you like trout?”

No answer.

“Pike?”

Still no answer.

“Zander? I’m just listing fish now—is that a fish?”

Geralt sighs deeply in his chest, turning to Jaskier with the empty net in hand. “I’m not fishing.” The net is tossed back into the river. “I can’t sleep.”

“Ah.” Jaskier mutters. “That makes complete sense in the sense that it… makes none.” Jaskier stepped as close to the Witcher as was comfortable. “Geralt, talk to me.” Finally, a hint of concern etches into the Bards voice. “What’s happened? Is it about…you know.”

“No.” Geralt snaps. “She has nothing to do with this.” He spits with venom, eyes blazing with unadulterated rage. “I’m looking for a djinn and it’s somewhere in this lake, and I can’t fucking sleep!” He spits before stomping farther down and throws the net, trying to relax his shoulders.

“A djinn—a floating djinn—like a genie?” Jaskier questioned while ignoring the outburst.

“The bad tempered fellas who trick you with the three wish nonsense.” Jaskier nodded to himself, “And pray tell, how will this djinn help with your little problem?”

Jaskier answered himself: “And I’m not one to tell you how to live your life, Geralt, believe me, I don’t want to know what you get up to in your free time. But have you even considered that maybe this has to do with what you’ve been avoiding since last I saw you, currently still are?”

The words were unspoken between them: Child Surprise—Law of Surprise; destiny and what have you.

“No,” Geralt grunts. “It’s not about that. Not everything has to do with her, Jaskier.”

It was a lie he’d been telling himself for all these years now. The dreams never stopped, the cravings never quelled, and the urge to run to Cintra and take what was his boiled beneath the surface, like a pot of stew on the brink of spillage.

“Well, you could be right.” Jaskier hummed, leaning against a shady oak, watching Geralt hock the net back into the murky waters. “But you could be wrong. How old is she now, ten? Twelve?” Jaskier took a sour tone, “Do you even care, Geralt?”

“You know, a lovely Countess told me that Destiny only works harder when those enthralled by it resist its call. And that the harder you run away, the more desperate you become.”

Geralt moves closer to the water and throws in the net again, bending down to see if he’d caught anything and turning to raise a judgmental eyebrow at Jaskier. “Did you sing to her before she sent you away?” He grunted, glaring at the empty net.

“Yes I did.” Jaskier proudly answered then paused, stomping to his friend and crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m sorry, are you trying to tell me something, Geralt?”

Chucking the next into the water once more, Geralt turned to Jaskier, raising one white brow with lips in a thin line. The voice of the bard is only making his agitation worse, and he prays for Roach to chase him away.

“No, really—Geralt, be honest with me,” Jaskier bellows into the empty forest. “How is my singing?”

The trees are silent and the bird flutter in anticipation, watching with beady eyes as the Witcher stands tall with a wet empty net, throwing it back into the watery depths once more.

“It’s like eating a pie and finding it has no filling.”

Jaskier stumbles back in shock at his friend’s horrendous insult, sputtering, “You—need a nap!”

Hands planted firmly on his hips and a scowl deeply etched on his soft face, Jaskier waited for his lug of a friend to turn and apologize for being rude. Instead—

“Hm.” Geralt hummed as he pulled the net from the waters, finally having caught his treasure. It was the size of a jug of ale, corked tightly with the symbol of the wizard who’d sealed it away. There was no certainty as to how long it had been down there, and djinns tended to veer towards to malevolent side the longer they were trapped.

Jaskier had been right in that they tended to play tricks when tempted by the faults of men, but Geralt was no man.

“What is—is that it? You found it?” Jaskier asked whilst coming to stand before Geralt. “Can I just—“

“Jaskier—“

They were in a standoff; Jaskier grasping the handle as Geralt refused his hold on the seal, staring at the bard with his deadly gaze. Neither was willing to let go.

Geralt’s attempts at tugging were moot, “Let go.”

But Jaskier was adamant in his grip, “Take back that bit about my filling less pie, and then you can have your sleepy little djinn.”

The urge to simply rip it from Jaskier was more tempting as the seconds passed. But at least the djinn was finally found and he could wish for a batch of well needed rest, though as long as Jaskier was around it wouldn’t be a peaceful sleep.

The Wizards seal popped off the top of the djinn’s previously captive state, and with that, all hell broke loose.

Aleira huffed from her windowsill, looking down at the children playing down below in the streets. None of them had nice clothes, clean faces or fussed up hair. They had no cares in the world outside of games and survival within the protected walls of Cintra. It was such an easy life to live. Guards stand posted by any door leading into the castle making it nearly impossible for anyone to sneak in or out.

The sky was cloudy above the looming Castle, and she prayed for the rains to fall.

“Princess?” the druid Mousesack calls from outside the door, his head poking in to see the eldest child in the line of the throne.

Everything in the young girls room is beyond cleanliness, aside from the stacks of parchment on the wooden desk, a dried up ink quill abandoned. Frown lines mar his face as she turns, showing off her defeated face. “And pray tell, what is the cause of your unhappiness?”

Aleira sighed, palm holding her cheek as she gazed out the window once more. “Nothing, Mousesack.”

He hmm’s and steps into the room, shutting the door behind and falling to his knees before the small princess. “I can’t fix what you won’t tell me.” Baby blue eyes watered before him, and he reached up to cup her cheek, “Please, Aleira.”

Her voice trembled, “Why can’t I go outside like Cirilla?” One finger pointed outside the window, smashing against the glass. “I hate being inside these walls everyday. I despise the lessons at every hour and having dinner with Grandmother every single night. I want to be out there with everyone else, Mousesack. I want…”

I want to be like everyone else

Mousesack let forth a deflated sigh, patting the silk clothed knee of the princess. “Believe me when I say that I want nothing more than for you to be happy, Aleira.” Unspoken words lay lodged in his throat, as he stands tall looking down upon her.

“Grandmother wants to keep me locked away.” Aleira let the words flow. “And I’m beginning to think you would have it that way as well. “

Mousesack shakes his head, grey hairs flying. “That isn’t true and you know it. Every choice the Queen makes is to protect you—“

“Protect me from what?” Aleira demands, standing up and glaring up at the Castle Druid. Her eyes are ablaze with fury and her hands clench at her sides, nails digging into soft skin.

“Our Kingdom is well protected and there hasn’t been an attempt on any of us in years. There’s no reason that a child like Cirilla can prance around with the other children but I’m locked away in here like a monster!” Her voice is trembling with anger, staring up at the man who raised her more than her parents.

Yes, they’d died two years ago, but even then, Mousesack was the closest she had to a father; Calanthe was no mother.

“You’ll understand one day, I swear to it.” Mousesack tries to reasons, moving to leave the girl to her juvenile rage.

“Is it about Geralt?” The name slipped through her lips like a curse. “Is he the cause of all this? Is he to blame for my suffering?”

Aleira wrenched back as Mousesack darted forwards, pulling her close and staring with pursed lips and dark eyes, “Who told you that name?”

His reaction is enough to cause a tendril of fear to flutter up her spine. “No one.” She mutters, trying to move away.

“Aleira,” Mousesack murmurs, trying to calm his racing heart. “This is a matter of your safety, as well as this Kingdom.” She can feel the Druid’s magic haphazardly swirling in the air.” I need you to tell me who told you that name.”

Regret boils in her veins; she should’ve kept it to herself.

That name had sounded like a curse on the tongue of Calanthe, and truly, Aleira had no clue whom this Geralt even was. She’d tried to hear more of the conversation from the hallway, but it had taken a turn to plans concerning the invasion of a foreign forest, and those plans were of no importance to her. The memory of lying in bed and wondering why the name Geralt sparked something deep in her was still a mystery.

“Grandmother.” She muttered while meeting Mousesack’s eyes. “I was eavesdropping and I heard it, I swear.”

That seemed to be enough for the Druid to pull back whilst nodding to himself, hands wringing and eyes darting about the room. Uncertainty whirled around his mussed hair, and she barely had a moment to watch him flee the room.

Subconsciously, she reached back and rubbed the tender skim on the back of her left shoulder, eyeing the salve gifted to her by Mousesack. It was cold on her skin but the aching fled easily, and Aleira collapsed on her bed, listening to the sounds of the children below.

Sunlight poured in through the cracked windows lining the near decimated castle walls. The floors were scattered with crumbled pieces of granite walls and mountains of pillows littered the floor.

The grunts and moans of Yennefer of Vengerberg—one of the strongest witches known to come from Aretuza with a proclivity for chaos and self mischief—echoed around the room as Geralt hefted her hips up higher in his grasp, bottoming out in her wet cunt.

He hadn’t come in to help her expecting a fuck, hadn’t intended for her to try and be a host for the djinn like a madwoman, and the strange desire to not see her die had cost him a wish. This third wish had nearly involved the Witch. Kindness was not a Witcher’s strength. But she had saved Jaskier—even if for her own preposterous reasons—and though kindness was not his forte, paying back favors was.

A life for a life, something along those lines.

Wet slaps of skin echoed as Geralt shut his eyes, nails digging into the soft flesh of her tanned thigh. His pace grew erratic and punishing as the walls of her cunt deliciously drew him in, his own moans joining hers. Ecstasy flooded his veins—carnal desire rising to the surface of his warm flesh.

It had too long since he’d felt a woman’s flesh. It was all too intoxicating for him to bear. When Geralt opened his eyes, expecting to gaze into the lilacs of Yennefer, he saw the ocean blue of his child Surprise.

The girl from his dreams was bare under his naked body; her full round tits bounced with each thrust and he could not resist the eager desire to take one into his mouth and suck like a newborn babe, biting the sensitive flesh. She still smelled of peaches, ones fresh enough to kill a man for, and he would—kill a man for her, that is.

Geralt would burn worlds for this girl, and he didn’t even know her name.

His curls fanned out on the surroundings pillows, and he longed to kiss the full lips that begged for his attention. His thrusts grew erratic and his hold grew tight, wishing this were real.

The mirage of her was gone all too fast and Yennefer screamed to the high heavens and flopped back onto the pillows, cunt walls fluttering around the cock buried deep inside. She was limp as he pulled his soft wet cock slowly out, collapsing next to her. There was no sound but the chattering outside from Jaskier, who’d definitely gotten an eyeful.

“If I’d known Witchers fucked like that, I would have gotten one myself a long time ago.” Yennefer turned and smirked, reaching forward to pin a piece of his white hair behind his ear.

“I’m sure my brothers would make a fine harem.” He grunted, keeping his hands to himself. It felt wrong to want to caress her, so he didn’t.

“Do you have a lover, Geralt of Rivia?” She asked with a raised brow. “I won’t be jealous, promise.”

He grunted but shook his head, “Having a lover would take time away from hunting monsters.”

“I find that hard to believe.” She hummed while twirling a piece of white hair. “I will admit that you are not as scary as you think.”

“Really?” A chuckled rumbled in Geralt’s chest. “You would be surprised how many people throw me out of their town once I’ve done their bidding.”

“Humans are dull, Geralt. Never get entangled with one, they will only disappoint you.” She laughed, “Or die, or get sick.”

“None of us are immune to death, Yennefer.”

Chuckling, Yennefer sat up and stretched. “You would be surprised what tricks a mage like myself can do.” A look of curiosity overcame her beautiful face, “Who were you thinking of? When you were rutting into me like a dog, Geralt?”

There’s no chance to deny it, “I know you saw someone else.”

Telling her about his Child Surprise feels… wrong, so he doesn’t.

“A woman I knew in Blaviken who didn’t see me as a monster.” He recalled, turning to look into her wide lilac orbs. “She was kinder than any man I’ve ever know.”

The two of them laid back and basked in the days sun, not touching but not far apart. They both knew they would need to rise soon and face whatever was to come, but this moment of peace was too good to pass up. And Jaskier singing much to loud outside would be best avoided.

“Aleira.” Yennefer declared, not looking away from the sun. “You called me Aleira; was that her name?”

Chapter 3... eventually, don’t rush me plz

Hope you enjoyed!

#the witcher fanfic #the witcher #Geralt #geralt of rivia #geralt x oc #geralt imagines #geralt of rivia x oc #henry cavill #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill imagines

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ericsonclan · 3 years ago

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The Lure of Adventure

Summary: The lure of adventure and treasure has drawn many a man to their doom. Now Mitch has fallen for the temptation, creating a path filled with memories both bitter and happy.

Word Count: 2967

Read on AO3:

“So, when were you going to tell me that you had found a clue to the treasure?” The mercenary looked up with annoyance at Mitch.

“I was planning to tell you once lunch was over. I was fucking hungry so I guess it slipped my mind,” He cautiously moved closer towards his younger brother, trying to block him from the gun.

“Just put the gun down, Tomas,” Justin stepped forward with his hands raised. “We’ll come up with a new agreement, right here, right now,”

Tomas studied his supposed ally with a wary eye then slowly placed the gun back in the holster. “Half,”

“Excuse me?”

“Half of the treasure. That's what Mary and I get,” Tomas’ eyes challenged the three of them.

“That’s not fai-” Willy was cut short by Mitch who glanced back at his younger brother.

“Ten percent,” Justin spoke calmly as he kept moving closer to Tomas. His sudden movement made the mercenary rest his hand on his holster,

“Forty percent,”

“Twenty five,” Mitch looked at Tomas. “That’s fair. Split it four ways,”

“Yeah, four hundred million gets split up pretty well four ways,” Willy gave a toothy grin.

Tomas silently thought on the matter. “Alright, I’ll talk this deal over with Mary,”

“Sounds good to me,” Justin smiled and leaned against the table right next to Tomas. Tomas frowned over at Justin, his eyes studying him carefully.

“You better not pull any shit again or else-” Tomas froze, his words caught in his throat as the cold taste of metal pierced his side. Glazing down he noticed that Justin had plunged a shiv into his side. Tomas blinked in confusion for a moment then tried to get his gun but Justin quickly stabbed him again and again. In a desperate last ditch effort the mercenary sent out a warning shot before collapsing to the ground. Justin smirked, spitting on Tomas for a moment while Mitch shielded Willy.

“Justin! What the fuck was that for?! We had it handled!” Mitch growled at his ally; he was beginning to doubt it was ever a good idea to pull him in as a partner for this treasure hunt.

“No, Mary wouldn’t have agreed to that. But now it's handled. All we have to do is-”

Suddenly the booming sound of footsteps appeared nearby followed by the voices of mercenary grunts. Moments later the door was opened up with two armed grunts.

“Shit!” Mitch sprinted forward, taking on the grunt on the left while Justin took the one on the right. “You fuck everything up!” He threw a punch at the enemy’s gut then uppercutted his jaw. The grunt groaned as he fell backwards, his gun flying through the air. With a well-timed catch Mitch reloaded the gun.

“I just made us all richer, so you’re welcome!” Justin heartlessly stabbed the grunt repeatedly until a pool of blood gathered around his limp form. Motioning for the two brothers to follow, Justin led the way down the hall. “Don’t be pissy with me because you brought your twelve year old brother along,”

“This job was fucking safe until you brought in these mercenary assholes!” Mitch snapped back, pushing through the hallway.

Justin seemed annoyed at those words. “Stop your bitching and focus on surviving!”

Mitch grew quiet. As much as he was pissed at Justin at this moment he was right. So he worked to clear a path to a hopeful safe escape. Sprinting through the courtyard, Willy took down a mercenary after some close calls then caught up to Mitch who had shot a grunt through the hand, disarming him before knocking him out. Justin, meanwhile, was the most lethal of the trio, gunning down any mercenaries that got in his way then stabbing those he could when in close range.

“This way!” Justin yelled, gesturing over to a wall. Mitch followed closely behind, vaulting over a collection of crates before positioning himself by the wall. Justin placed his foot in Mitch’s hands and got up to the top of the wall. Reaching out his hand, he helped Willy then Mitch.

There was no time to rest though as more gunfire filled the area. Bobbing and weaving, Mitch and Willy made sure to keep each other safe at all costs while Justin led the way. It was a crazy escape from this potential deadly encounter when suddenly Justin spotted the exit. Sprinting forward on the rooftop, he leapt over a large gap and rolled onto the grassy hill that held promises of safety.

“Hurry up! Move your asses!” Justin motioned with his hands, his eyes impatient. Mitch ducked his head from a hail of bullets and with a war cry vaulted himself through the air and onto the other side.

“Jump, Willy! I’ll catch you!” Mitch held out his arm for his brother who nodded and dashed forward. With a deep jump Willy launched himself through the air, his limbs flailing about before his hand snatched onto Mitch’s. “I got you. We did it!” Mitch smiled down at Willy then noticed the shocked pained expression on his brother’s face. Looking down, he saw that he had been shot.

“No! Hold on, Willy! We’re gonna get out of here!” Mitch tried to encourage his brother who spat up blood. Willy’s hand was slipping through Mitch’s despite how desperately he was holding on. “No, fuck, stay with me!” Mitch begged but Willy’s hand went limp and he fell down, back into the mercenaries’ camp. “No! Willy!” Mitch tried to move to search for where his brother had landed but the copious amount of gunfire stopped him from doing so.

Suddenly Justin’s hands gripped his shoulders. “We have to leave!”

“Fuck that! Willy-”

“Is dead and you will be too if you don’t move!”

Mitch gritted his teeth and spun round, punching Justin square in the jaw. “He’s fucking dead because of you!”

Justin frowned deeply as he brushed blood from his nose and threw a punch of his own. The two soon broke out into a fight until the gunfire made it impossible to stay there. Reluctantly Mitch ran away, the guilt in his heart tearing through his body as his eyes blurred with tears. In just one moment he had lost everything.

Mitch’s eyes stared at the golden coin in his hand, a trinket that he had made with Willy all those years ago when they had foolishly hoped to find pirate gold. His heart stung with memories as he looked at the fake pirate coin in his hand. The matching trinket was now bloody and gone, just like his brother. Mitch angrily tucked away the coin then downed his drink in one swallow. Placing the empty glass on the table, he was about to head outside to meet up with Tripp on the potential latest lead he had for treasure when suddenly a conversation happening a few tables down caught his attention.

“Listen, lady, I’m not letting you in on this hunt. I’ve focused too many years on tracking it down; I’m not gonna let some uptight reporter get her mitts on it,” a man grumbled as he finished a drink, his body swaying a bit to the side afterwards. He had clearly had too much to drink. That didn’t seem to stop the auburn though.

“I’m not trying to steal your treasure. I just want to document it. The tales that surround it-”

The auburn reporter was cut short when the man slammed his glass down on the table, causing a hairline crack to appear on it.

“Back off. Now,” He stood up. “Or I’ll make you,” His hand reached out towards the auburn who flinched.

“Leave her alone,”

Mitch’s voice caused the man to look back at the treasure hunter.

“What did you say?”

“I’m saying to walk away. You’re being an asshole. If you don’t want her to stick her nose in your business, then just fuck off out of here,” Mitch picked up on the man’s anger radiating off of him.

“I can do whatever I want. If I wanted to pick a fight here I could,” The man strolled over towards Mitch. “In fact, I think I will.” He grinned as he curled his fist and threw it at Mitch. Mitch dodged the attack then grabbed the man’s arm. With a small grunt he used the man’s weight to throw him over his shoulder, causing him to crash into the floor.

“You piece of shit!” The man coughed and tried to attack again. Mitch sidestepped another attack but got hit with the next. Soon both of them were exchanging blows until Mitch finally got the upperhand and with a sharp punch to the jaw knocked the man out. With a shaky breath Mitch turned around to look at the reporter. “You okay?” “Yeah,” She reached into her glass, picking up the ice cubes, and held them up the bruised side of Mitch’s face. “Sorry you got dragged into that,”

“Heh, it's no big deal - he was begging for a fight. Better it be with me than you,” Mitch winced at the cold sensation on the side of his face.

“Brody Anderson, reporter who will follow any interesting adventure or story she can find,” She smiled and held out her hand.

Mitch returned the smile and grasped her hand. “Mitch Baker, treasure hunter and badass,”

“A treasure hunter,” Brody’s eyes grew large. “Then I want to hire you!”

“Hire me?” Mitch quirked an eyebrow. “That’s right. I’m trying to find this lost city supposedly hidden in the mountains not far from here. So how about it? Up for an adventure?” Brody’s eyes danced with anticipated excitement; she had a good feeling about this treasure hunter.

“Sure, why not. You better get ready though. When it comes to me, everything is a hell of an adventure,” MItch smirked confidently.

Brody challenged that smirk. “Oh yeah? Well then I’ll hold you to it,”

“You weren’t kidding!” Brody gasped for air as she sprinted down the mountainside, the sounds of angry mercenaries growing louder behind them.

“Nope, there’s two things I never bullshit about,” Mitch caught up to Brody as the two were desperately trying to escape from their enemies. After months of searching for this lost city they had finally found it only to learn that a group of mercenaries had been following them in hopes of stealing the treasure for themselves.

“Oh yeah? What are those two things?” Brody looked over at Mitch and noticed his mischievous smile.

“One, my adventures always turn out like this,” Mitch ducked when he heard the sound of gunfire.

“And what's the second one?’ Brody asked as she weaved left and right. “That I’m really, really good at blowing shit up!” Mitch grinned and held out an explosive. Brody’s eyes looked at it then back at their enemies before she noticed the snowy mountainside.

“Mitch…”

“Let’s get this fucking started!” Mitch lit the explosive and threw it at the snowy mountain.

“Mitch-” Brody’s voice was getting tenser when suddenly the explosive went off, causing a small avalanche that swallowed up the mercenaries that were following them. But it didn’t stop there; the snow was barreling down towards them.

“Hold on,” Mitch took out his rope and tossed it at a tree stump with a sturdy looking branch. The rope curled around the branch and the hook at the end of the rope locked it securely in place. Without warning Mitch wrapped his arm around Brody’s waist and pulled her closer to him as he jumped off the cliff.

“Miiiiiiiiitttttccch!” Brody’s voice rang throughout the mountainside as the pair swung on the rope. Mitch guided their direction and aimed for a small cave that stood on the side of the mountain. With a rough landing Brody stumbled about, her back hitting the wall while Mitch couldn’t get his footing right and ended up slamming his hands by either side of Brody’s face. The two of them stood there, frozen, their lips inches apart as each of them felt the romantic tension they had with each other overwhelm their sense. Brody stared at Mitch’s lips for a second before her eyes wandered up to his. A moment passed like this then another until Mitch broke the silence.

“Fuck, sorry,” He took a step back and sat on the cold stone floor.

“It’s okay,” Brody soon sat beside him. “How the hell are we going to get out of here though?” Her eyes searched round them for anything to start a fire so they could get warmer.

“Tripp will come through. Just gotta get a signal with this fucking thing and we’ll be set,” Mitch whacked the walkie talkie and tried to turn it on again but it was no use.

“Guess we're stuck here for a while then,” Brody sighed and let her head rest on her knees. “That city was so amazing - all those artifacts, all the buildings. If I could just have gotten my hand on some of the items then I could convince Aasim to get his museum team up here,” Brody gave another sigh; this one sounded more defeated.

“Well guess you better call him when we get out of here then,” Mitch had a confident smile on his face as he emptied his pockets, revealing a few small trinkets from the lost city. “”Because I was able to snag up some shit,”

“Mitch,” Brody whispered, then tackled him with a hug. “This is amazing! I’m so happy right now I could kiss you!” Her statement made the auburn’s cheeks grow a bright red and she immediately pulled back, noticing that Mitch’s were just as red. An awkward moment passed between the two of them before Brody cleared her throat and tried to switch the focus. “You definitely got some cool stuff, like this coin,” Brody held up the coin with a smile.

Mitch’s eyes grew dimmer for a moment and he immediately grabbed the coin back.

The sudden movement alarmed Brody, making her wonder if she had done something wrong. “Sorry,” The auburn mumbled. Based on how tense Mitch’s body had become she had accidentally struck a nerve.

Mitch was quiet for a minute. “I didn’t find this in the city. It's mine,” He wondered if he should say any more. After a moment he went for it. “My brother used to have a coin that matched it,”

“Used to?” Brody’s curiosity caused Mitch’s eyes to shimmer with painful memories.

“He died a few years ago because of me. I trusted the wrong person and-” Mitch’s voice caught in his throat and he changed his sentence. “This is one of the few things I have left of him,” Mitch felt his eyes sting with unshed tears. He tried to swallow away the sorrow but it was no use. He focused his gaze on the ground, trying to get away from his emotions when all of a sudden he felt Brody’s hand on his shoulder.

“I’m really sorry to hear that. No on should have to got though that loss,”

Her kind words made tears slip down Mitch’s face. Immediately he worked to brush them away, not wanting to let his emotions overwhelm him but he soon stopped as Brody hugged him. The gesture made more tears stream down his face and in that moment Mitch threw away all cares about how he appeared. His arms wrapped around Brody tightly and the two allowed themselves to become lost in that moment. Mitch felt his shoulders relax, his exhaustion quickly consuming him. With how much running and fighting they’d done in these past days no wonder he was tired. Soon Mitch felt his adrenaline slipping away and within moments his eyes closed.

He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he had fallen asleep but he quickly realized that Brody was fast asleep in his arms. Mitch’s heart pounded in his ears and he felt his face heat up as she stirred slightly. It didn't take long for her to realize the position she was in and the two instantly moved apart. The awkwardness stood in the air, neither of them knowing what to say when they heard Tripp’s voice appear on the walkie talkie.

“Hey! Mitch! Mitch! Kid, pick up if you can hear me,”

Mitch pressed the button on the walkie talkie and held it close to his mouth. “I’m here,”

He heard Tripp sigh in relief. “That’s good, I was about to start shitting my pants if I didn’t hear from you in the next half hour. I’ve been trying for ages. How about the lady, she alright?”

“Yeah, she is,” Mitch smiled over at Brody who returned it although hers was somewhat more shy.

“Well, just tell me where to pick you up and I’ll be there,”

“You better have some wings then because we’re pretty fucking high up, stuck in some cave in the mountainside,” Mitch peeked outside while he heard Tripp sigh deeply.

“Luckily I do have wings, I’ll be there soon so sit tight,” Tripp’s voice disappeared from the other side of the walkie talkie and left the cave in silence again. “He should be here soon,” Mitch looked over at Brody who nodded.

“Okay,”

Another long pause was created between them when suddenly Mitch heard a few footsteps and felt Brody’s pinky twist around his. With large eyes he looked over at her to see that her face was just as red as he was sure his was.

“How about you tell me some of your adventure stories while we wait,” Brody suggested and noticed Mitch’s smile grow at that.

“”Okay!” His pinky held on tighter to hers. “I’m gonna start with a classic. So it all started when I found the coffin of Sir Francis Drake….”

#twdg #twdg mitch #twdg willy #twdg brody #twdg justin #twdg tripp #mitch willy brotp #twdg moody #fanfic #I am a man of fortune au

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musetta3 · 4 years ago

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Revka Cadash and the Great Nug Hunt

It’s done! Thank you to @jarakrisafis, who sent me the writing prompt of ‘Carta, twelve injuries, and a greased nug;’ this was so much fun to write. Introducing Revka Cadash, my new Dwarven OC; she’s Jarak’s Inquisitor, Edric ‘Dasher’ Cadash’s, cousin.

PS: @cartadwarfwithaheartofgold, you said that you wanted me to tag you when completed, so. Tada! <3

When Revka Cadash had agreed to a ‘Wicked Grace night with the crew,’ she did not expect this. She leaned back in her chair, half in the air as she balanced perilously between tipping backwards or slamming into the table. Perhaps the latter would’ve been the better option; she’d seen funerals livelier than this iteration of ‘Saturday Night with Cousin Edric.’

“Ed,” she said, “I’m bored.” He arched his eyebrow over his Wicked Grace cards.

“Go get another drink, then,” he replied, discarding a drake and picking up another card. “Although you’re already tipsy.”

She huffed in outrage, “am not.”

“You are; you can’t keep a straight face. Your cheating’s sodding obvious.” Revka’s mouth twitched in amusement. No one in the Cadash clan—not even Edric ‘Dasher’ Cadash, himself—could touch her when she played Wicked Grace. Sober, that is. When tipsy… Everyone, it was said, had their vices; Rev Cadash’s was being unable to keep a straight face when drunk.

Well, that and sweets. She fished around in her belt pouch and popped yet another nougat in her mouth, toying with her cards. She fumbled through the fuzziness enveloping her for an idea to liven the evening. Drinking alone wasn’t much fun—she rarely drank with the crew on principle, to prevent overfamiliarity. Besides, half-drunk Carta were more trouble than they were worth. They already broke up a fistfight earlier over a card game. She needed something to distract everyone. Revka slammed her (losing) hand of cards on the table, causing several heads to turn.

“Mordhau, Verdin: break out the grease and a mud splasher. Let’s live a little.” She smirked at her cousin, pushing herself away from the table.

“You’re either bored to death, or slightly mad,” Edric replied, clearly amused. “Can’t tell which.”

“Both, sweet cousin, both… and perhaps the slightest bit tipsy.” She sauntered across the back room of their warehouse on the Docks. ‘Greywater Imports,’ it said on the door, which was true—the Cadash clan did deal in import/exports—but their merchandise’s origins were murky at best, and downright illegal at worst. Didn’t stop the Cadashes, however. Nothing did, not even the room spinning as Revka crossed it.

Mordhau and Verdin reappeared, bearing a squealing nug and a pot of grease. The men cheered when she slathered the nug with grease and made a raunchy joke concerning the last occasion she’d used that much grease for something… something tall, horned, and incredibly muscular. Her hypothetical night with a greased qunari earned her some whoops and laughs.

“Five sovereigns to whoever catches this slippery bastard,” she called.

“Eight sovereigns say you can’t do it,” Edric declared from his seat in the corner, brow arched in challenge. “Too far in your cups, you are. The lot of you!”

She flashed a grin and let the nug loose. It squeaked, scurrying away. It was almost cute, if she ignored the creepy paw-hands and those beady eyes full of indignance. Her niece might like it for a pet, maybe. Her smile fell off her face as several Carta came barreling towards her and the nug. Revka stumbled back. “O-Oi,” she said, “oi! Slow down, you hear? Slow down—”

Alas, that she had forgotten the chair behind her. She backed right into tripping over it, and the others? Tackled by four hulking dwarva was not how Revka thought she’d die. She probably broke ribs from those fools, those squabbling, drunk fools too busy pommeling each other to focus. She crawled out from beneath them and rolled to her feet, jaw dropping.

It was pure chaos. Grown men and women—assassins, smugglers, deadly mercenaries alike—ran about the room like shrieking children, jumping over benches and faceplanting into the floor as they scrambled after the nug. Crawling under tables. Slipping on spilled drinks. Trampling fingers. Edric simply cackled from his corner, of course: the ‘Boss’ was far too reserved to join in the fun.

A flash of pink darted across her periphery. Revka dove under the table, pouncing on the nug with a triumphant ‘aha,’ but her grip was tenuous. The creature wriggled away, leaving her and her favorite gray shirt grease-stained past salvation. She cursed under her breath.

“Come back,” Revka exclaimed, crawling after it. It ran under the keg table, towards the wooden bars partitioning the rest of the room from the back office. If she hurried, Revka could catch it before it reached the bars. She reached out to snatch, it wriggled away. She tried again, but to no avail. She nearly had it when the nug slipped through the bars to the safety of the office.

“Damn it, get back here,” Revka said, reaching through the bars, her groping hands grasped for the nug cowering just out of reach. She looked about the room. What had begun as a nug hunt had devolved into a wrestling match in one corner, several discouraged dwarva drinking off their sprains, a few sleeping under the tables, and an earnest search in another part of the room. If she stood and opened the door, it would alert the others, and that wouldn’t do, not at all.

Revka eyed the partition before her: the bars seemed wide enough apart for her to fit. She prided herself on her curves, but she wasn’t large; she could’ve squeezed through these bars, back in her twenties, and she hadn’t changed that much…

Revka Cordelia Cadash learned the hard way that she had, indeed, changed much more than she had realized over the years... and all the sweets she’d eaten had gone to her hips.

Her eyes went wide, the size of platters. The curves she had been so proud of not five minutes prior, it seemed, betrayed her in the worst manner imaginable. Revka sucked in her gut and shimmied, pulling herself through the bars inch by inch. She tripped on her own feet on the way out, landing on her broken ribs.

“Agh!” she bit her knuckle to stifle the shout. “Son of a nug-humping bastard, that hurt.” There was a soft coo above her head; Revka craned her neck to see the poor nug, trembling pitifully. Her heart softened.

“Frightened you well, didn’t we?” she asked, slowly extending her hand. The nug flinched.

“Shh, I won’t hurt you,” she whispered, “I think you’ve gone through quite enough in the name of fun.” The nug slowly crept towards her, nuzzling her fingers. She scoffed a laugh.

“Come on, you lucky nug,” she said, gently scooping it up and making for the door. “You’ve made me a nice bit of coin; no soup pot for you.” She balanced the nug on her hip as one did a toddler while digging her key from her belt pouch. She unlocked the door and sauntered into the fray.

“Alright, pay up, fun’s over,” she called, mounting a chair and holding the nug aloft. “Wounded against the wall for treatment. The rest of you, clean up this mess. Verdin, fetch the healer, we have…” Her eyebrows rose in surprise. Fourteen dwarva leaned against the heavy wooden crates and shelves, with injuries ranging from black eyes to sprained wrists and loose teeth.

Revka shook her head and sighed. “Make that two healers, Verdin. Come on, Lucky: you’re getting a bath.” The nug squirmed as she filled a bucket with water and found a mostly in-tact bar of Antivan soft soap she’d ‘borrowed’ from their stock. She plopped down in her seat at her cousin’s table.

“Did I hear you right? ‘Lucky?’ You named it?” Edric asked. “You broke your ribs for that thing.”

She shrugged, scrubbing the nug with a rag. “Won me eight sovereigns, though. Which, ahem…” she tapped the table expectantly. Edric grumbled and tossed the coin on the table, rolling his eyes at her glee.

“Lucky the Nug,” he mumbled. “You’ve definitely drunk too much.”

“Now, now: don’t bad-mouth your nephew, he’s a good little nug—” no sooner had the words left her mouth, did the nug upset the bucket and send a deluge of water cascading across the table and onto the floor. She grimaced when Edric picked up a sopping Wicked Grace card.

“Hang them up to dry,” she said, scrambling to salvage the situation. “They’ll be good as new—oh dear.” The poor Knight of Wisdom’s eyes had run, gray rivulets meandering down his cheeks as though he was in tears.

“‘Lucky.’ He’s lucky he’s not my sodding dinner,” Edric groused, collecting his soggy cards and departing for the office. Revka fell back in her seat, blowing out all her air.

When Revka Cadash had agreed to a ‘Wicked Grace night with the crew,’ she most certainly did not expect this.

#writing prompt #dragon age #dragon age oc #dragon age fanfiction #carta #revka cadash #nug #edric cadash #dasher cadash #my fanfiction #musetta writes

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the-darklings · 5 years ago

Text

—𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒔;

pairing: john wick x f!reader

word count: 6.5k+

summary: “Tell me a story with a happy ending.”

warnings: strong violence, blood, swearing.

notes: oh wow, it’s been a hot minute, huh? I miss posting my writing on here but life has been hectic and pretty unkind this year so apologies for the inactivity. All I can say is that I got an urge to finally write for Mr Wick. This is set pre-first movie so any spoilers will be up to that movie only. For now, I decided to split this into two, so expect another part some time soon and enjoy!

children of ares series: .. | 02 |

“Tell me a story with a happy ending.”

“I can’t. People like us don’t get happy endings.”

. . .

The first time you meet him, he points a gun to your face with a sharpness that makes your pulse race.

You’re just a second behind him, but you know perfectly well that it would have been a second too late.

“Oh, for goodness sake,” Tarasov grumbles under his breath, waving his hand in irritation. “Will you two lower your weapons, we aren’t in the zoo.”

The man clad in all black does so immediately, and you idly wonder just how tight his leash is if he obeys so seamlessly.

You watch him warily as you lower your arm as well, hesitating just long enough for Tarasov’s gaze to slide your way. While you don’t want to piss off your new boss, the man in black stands beside him with a stoic sort of calmness that makes your instincts prickle with unease.

You know who he is.

You’ve heard stories about him.

Soft, terrified murmurs of his infamy—of his terrifying skill. You would rather not meet him at all, truth be told.

Even amongst killers, John Wick’s name is spoken with a degree of reluctant respect and fear.

“John, this is our newest associate. I wanted to introduce you personally,” Tarasov explains easily, pouring himself another glass of vodka. “I was rather hoping you will be able to look after her for a bit. Show her how we do business.”

You rather he didn’t. Truly.

John Wick is tall, calm, and deadly focused on every twitch of your body.

Underground world has some certains you can find in any corner of the world: money, blood, drugs, and high egos. The latter goes hand in hand with an inflated sense of self-importance and posturing.

You’re used to that. You know how to handle people with egos. Know how to communicate with those who like the sound of their own voice a bit too much.

Yet, John Wick somehow manages to be the most fear-inducing thing in the room without so much as making a sound.

His dark eyes appear almost black when they finally connect with yours. There is nothing but polite coolness to be found in his gaze.

“Sure.”

Tarasov grins wider, saluting you both with his glass, “Excellent,” he intones in smooth Russian. “I do believe this is the start of something rather beautiful.”

. . .

Three months down the line, and you’re still unsure what to make of John.

Anyone who kills people for a living should be easy to pindown. Sure, everyone has their own reasons, but at the end of the day, they’re all a little twisted.

John is a walking contradiction.

He’s cold, he’s stoic, he’s frighteningly efficient in his field. John rarely speaks, and getting more than a few sentences out of him at any given time seems like an incredible feat.

But he’s also kind in the most subtle ways, thoughtful, and always—unfailingly—has your back on the field.

Tarasov originally wanted you to do three missions together before he sent you on your own. But somewhere along the way, he seems to have concluded that you work better as a unit.

It’s odd at first. You’re not used to working with someone, and you’ve never heard of John having a partner with him either. He’s the man they send when no one else wants the contract or they simply can’t finish the job. So working with him is as bizarre as everyone's reactions when they see you together.

Most of the time, you’re not sure if he even likes you because most of the time, it’s near impossible to read him.

On paper you should never work, you know that much.

He’s older. His name is known. He’s earned the respect of some of the deadliest in the world.

You’re a nobody from nowhere. Sure, your skills are finally being utilized and by merely associating with John and Tarasov, people are starting to take notice of you, too. But doubt still lingers in your mind as you go through one job after another.

Truthfully, you’re still unsure if there’s a place for you here, in this shadowy circle of Tarasov’s gang. Though all the alternatives are so much worse you can’t even entertain the idea of a different life right now.

“A stick of gum?”

John is silent for a long time, and for a second you worry that he may not have heard you over the sound of the wind, but you don’t dare to lift your gaze from the scope in front of you.

Patience you know well. It’s one of the very few areas where you and John are equals.

“Realistically, one,” he finally mutters, his voice low to a point you have to strain to hear. Blinking, you suppress a grin, adjusting your position as you wait for your target to appear.

“Just the one?” you repeat with obvious disappointment. “Huh.”

John’s breaths are quiet next to you, thoughtful, “Sorry to disappoint but choking is the only viable option,” he points out a little dryly.

You hum contemplatively, trying to think of your own spin on this scenario. It has become a bit of a game between you. When you first started working together, John’s company was near painfully boring, especially on long jobs. So you came up with the idea of challenging him with ordinary objects and drilling him on how many people he can realistically kill with them. Of course, he has to fully justify his reasoning for each casualty—that’s half the fun right there after all.

He still likes his space and peace to this day, but at least now you get him to talk with you regularly on jobs.

“See if it were me,” you begin in an unhurried drawl. “I would put slow-acting poison in the gum. Maybe even add a dispersing agent into it, so anyone the target comes into contact with would die as well. Multiple dead, I won’t even have to break a sweat.”

“Sounds dangerous,” he points out idly, but the challenge in his voice is clear. “And highly volatile. How can you be sure it won’t accidentally kill your partner or anyone else that needs to be kept safe?”

“Antidotes, John, c’mon now,” you shoot back playfully, your finger moving to rest against the trigger when you spot slight movement in the building opposite to you. “Oh, the party is a go. Target twelve o’clock.”

You both watch as the men file into the room, chatting and pouring drinks as both parties sit themselves down around the room. A typical setting for deal negotiations. Of course, Tarasov doesn’t want any negotiations to happen at all—hence why you and John are here, and ready to rectify that.

“You have a clear shot,” John speaks beside you after a long pause, and it still unsettles you how composed he is during jobs and outside of them. It’s like nothing can ever affect him. With every job, every interaction, you begin to understand more and more why the nickname The Boogeyman is starting to catch on. “Take the shot.”

You do.

Inhaling deeply, you line the shot and it pierces the air with a deafening whistle that shatters the hotel window to pieces.

Panic reigns and the men scatter like cattle. Some try to find where the shot came from, but by the time they come anywhere near the window, you and John are already walking down the fire exit in a calm, unhurried fashion. The target is dead, and that’s all either of you care about.

“You’ve gotten better.”

It’s not praise, not exactly, more of a tepid assessment. But you take what you can get with John nowadays. In the beginning, it unsettled you, but now you just know that’s how he is.

“Marcus is a pretty nice guy once you break past that prideful demeanour of his,” you joke with a slight laugh as you both get into his car. “I think he tolerates my pestering because of you, to be honest.”

You feel John’s curious gaze on you, and when you turn to glance at him one of his eyebrows is arched slightly. “That so?”

“Drive on, Wick,” you say instead. “I’m starving. I wonder what it is about doing this job that always makes me so damn hungry.”

. . .

“You’re a pain in my ass, I hope you know that.”

John only grunts in reply.

You half drag him with you through the front lobby of The Continental as you slowly approach the reception.

Charon welcomes you with his typical placid smile and a polite nod of his head.

“Mr Wick and Miss Vipress,” he greets politely, unfazed by all the blood covering you both as you stagger to a stop in front of his desk. “Pleasure as always. A room for two?”

You nod your head briskly, shifting on your feet till more of John’s weight is leaning against you. “Thanks,” you mutter, sliding the golden coin across the smooth wood. There’s still specks of blood on it, but Charon takes it without batting an eye.

“Will you be needing a doctor tonight?” he questions with a tilt of his head, ever the helpful hotel concierge.

You’re shaking your own head before he’s even finished speaking, and glance at the still dazed John beside you. He’s already looking better than he did fifteen minutes ago—less pale and clammy—meaning that the poison is slowly but steadily leaving his system.

“We’ll be fine,” you say wearily. “But if you could send us up some X7 and Aspirin later, I would appreciate it.”

Charon hums, noting your request immediately in a notepad in front of him.

“X7 will take a bit longer but consider it done,” he responds pleasantly, sliding your room key across the table. You grapple for it, clenching it tightly between your bloody fingers. “Enjoy your stay,” he adds as you turn to go.

You grunt some vague pleasantry back but your mind is only focused on getting John to the hotel room before his legs decide to give out on him.

By the time you make it to your room on the third floor—Charon has mercifully put your room only a few doors away from the elevator, and you make a mental note to thank him for it tomorrow—your arms are trembling from the strain. John falls on the couch heavily, a harsh groan rattling free the moment he does, indicating just how bad he must be feeling.

His dark, half-lidded eyes track your movements as you stumble towards the bathroom, grabbing the complimentary first-aid kit found in every room. A certain, intent sharpness you’re used to seeing is missing from his gaze and you snap your fingers in front of his face a few times.

“Hey, you still with me?”

John nods his head and groans as he sits up, leaving you once again impressed with his silent strength. It seems like things that would kill ordinary men ten times over barely leave a dent on John. Some part of you can’t help but be slightly envious of the fact that he’s really as brilliant and as unstoppable as everyone makes him out to be.

He shrugs off his jacket under your command, leaving him in only a shirt and a tie and you loosen it, hurriedly wrapping it above his bleeding forearm.

“See, poison is a bitch when it’s not done by yours truly,” you mutter under your breath, carefully tracking his breathing patterns. “Aren’t you a lucky boy to have me on hand?”

His answer to your poor attempt at a joke is a half-hearted glare, and you smile weakly, grabbing a small blade from your boot to cut off his shirt sleeve. The white material flutters towards the ground and you grimace at the deep gash running at least eight centimetres down his arm. It looks angry and inflamed; a side effect to the potent poison the blade to make that cut was laced with.

You brush the damp strands of loose hair away from his sweaty forehead, and press your palm against his skin. A pleased hum escapes you and you nod your head, satisfied, before turning to sanitize the needle you’ll be using.

“The fever is going down,” you tell him when you feel his silent question hang in the air between you. “That means the antidote is working. You should be back to normal in another hour or so. Gelsemine though? Jesus. I miss the days when people used Thallium and thought they were efficient poisoners.”

You grab your belt, taking it off with a hurried jerk as you offer it to John who looks up at you in confusion. “For the pain,” you supply, shaking your hand a little.

“Just get me something strong,” he grunts, pointedly shifting his gaze to the table where a bottle of something that looks like whiskey sits untouched.

Clicking your tongue, you shake your head, “Not if you want to start vomiting blood. The poison is still in your system. Alcohol will make it worse and likely kill the antidote too. Take it.”

John looks away and you roll your eyes, dropping the belt to the ground as you step between his legs to get better access to the wound.

“Right, okay, this will hurt.”

John doesn’t say anything—not that you expect him to. You start with cleaning the cut first, and John’s fingers sink into the couch but he remains stubbornly silent. His eyes focus on a spot just above your shoulder as you work quietly. Cleaning wounds is meticulous work, and your line of work assures that you’re always meticulous. By the time the needle finally pierces John’s skin, it already looks better.

His jaw clenches tightly as you move the needle in and out of his skin. You know it’s excruciating but he makes no protests aside from occasional soft grunt of pain. His blood is warm on your fingers and you work as quickly as you can without messing up, a slight tremor shaking your hand.

“How,” he begins before clearing his throat. “How did you get involved in all of this?”

You make a small sound at the back of your throat, unsure if he’s trying to distract himself from pain or truly asking because he wants to know.

“How does anyone get involved with this sort of thing,” you answer dully, not taking the bait. “We’ve known each other for almost a year and you’re only asking about my tragic past now? Tsk, tsk.”

You feel his eyes focus on you, and pull on the needle harder, tightening the stitches much to John’s clear discomfort.

You’re both silent for a long moment after that, and much to your surprise John doesn’t push further. Most people would.

But John Wick is not most people, you’ve come to find.

He’s the type of man who never tries to make passes on you, never makes unnecessary comments about you or your appearance, and always insists on two beds. If there’s no spare bed, he always offers to sleep on the couch or the floor—the only exception to this rule is if he’s injured himself.

“My parents,” you speak softly before stopping. There’s a sudden tightness in your chest and throat as you swallow, gripping John’s arm tighter so you don’t slip with all the blood coating your hands. You feel his attention turn to you, and work to control your breathing. “They worked for Tarasov when he still ran his drug operation in Moscow. Everyone owned him. He practically ran the city. People were watched, police bought out. I didn’t know about any of it. My father was tasked with the export of drugs from and into the country. My mother worked directly in one of his drug houses. Keeping the books.”

You pause, breathing deeply, and grab the nearby towel to wipe away the blood on John’s arm. Hesitating, you glance up at him. He looks alert again, sharp, and you wonder if you should continue.

This man is already lethal—the last thing he needs is leverage over you.

But—

You move towards the desk where the bottle of whiskey is sitting while you wipe your own hands on a towel, hiding the visible trembling of your fingers as you resume your story.

“They decided that it would be a good idea to have a side gig on the side,” you continue, your words flat, emotionless. By now, you don’t feel grief when thinking about your parents. Just anger. The destructive, bubbling sort of rage that festers under your skin every day. “My mother started adjusting the numbers. Little by little. Nothing Tarasov would notice. Never more than thirty thousand rubles per shipment. That may sound like a lot but actually, it’s less than five hundred bucks. Seems laughable now when I think about it. For us, of course, every month that kind of money made a big difference. We didn’t need many luxuries. But they say your greed grows as you eat.”

You turn back towards John, bringing the bottle over to him. Sitting down on the table in front of him, you pour some of the whiskey on a fresh towel and press the soaked material against his arm. John’s expression twists slightly but you can tell from the way his eyes focus on you seconds later that he’s listening intently to your every word.

“They started taking a bit more every month,” you whisper, swallowing your anger, “More and more. Just a bit. But penny after penny and it all adds up. Tarasov eventually found out, of course. He gathered everyone who works for him and had my parents shot in front of them. That’s how you keep sheep in line. You scare them till they’re too afraid to do anything, even help. I don’t blame them though. Those people had nothing. Elderly. Orphaned kids. Immigrants. Fear and hunger are all they’ve known. And well, after...”

Your head dips, and you nibble on your lip for a second, tasting blood. For the first time in a long time, the coppery tang makes you feel queasy.

“Tarasov came to our flat that same afternoon. Had me make him dinner practically at gunpoint,” you explain further, a sardonic smile twisting your mouth as you meet John’s steady stare. So far, he hasn’t made a sound. “We discussed my parents' debt to him. He could have just had me shot too of course. But he said he didn’t want that. He said that my talents with chemistry were too valuable for him to waste. So he gave me a choice. I work for him until my parents' debt is paid off or….”

For the first time since you began your story, John speaks, “Or?”

You chuckle under your breath, removing the towel from his arm, and lightly press your fingertips against the tender flesh.

“There’s many uses for a healthy, young woman, John,” you state flatly, your lips stretching into something that could never pass for a smile.

You can’t exactly pinpoint his expression, but you know it’s not pity. Perhaps it’s sympathy or even compassion. Some deeper understanding that can’t be expressed with words alone. But for once you feel like John is looking at you openly and without that uncrackable armour he usually wears like a second skin.

“I’m sorry,” he says, at last, his voice almost gentle. “About your parents.”

You scoff, taking a swing from the bottle and wince at the stinging burn the drink leaves in its wake. “They were stupid idiots,” you deadpan harshly. “I love them dearly. But they were fucking idiots.”

John nods once because you both know you’re right, and you swallow shakily, blinking your eyes rapidly.

For a few minutes, it’s quiet between you. You expect it to be awkward yet somehow it isn’t. In fact, it’s almost peaceful.

“Anyway, I made my choice and here I am,” you mumble, carefully pouring him a tiny amount of the drink. He should be fine to drink it by now. Probably. “Tarasov said that once the debt is repaid, I’m free to go.”

“And you believe that?”

Your eyes meet as John takes the glass from your hand.

“No,” you reply frankly, your smile pained. “But when you have nothing, you have to believe in something.”

. . .

You settle into an odd little routine, you and John.

Tarasov gives you a mission, you go, accomplish the impossible somehow and get to go on breathing for another day.

The longer you work together, the easier it becomes to correlate. Your only weakness—if one can even call it that—is that you’re both stubborn individualists. He’s a brute, relentless strength to your sly, vicious subtlety. That’s what makes the fact that character-wise you couldn’t be more different so stupidly hilarious to you. The only real arguments you have is the way in which the job should be approached.

That thought makes you chuckle and you wince in pain immediately after. The ice pack against your jaw shifts slightly, and you shift in your seat, trying to get more comfortable. Most of your body aches painfully, but your jaw feels especially sore. One of the idiots has managed to get three heavy hits in before John splattered his brain all over you. In return, you’ve been forced to kick John out of the path of a bullet hail.

He’s the one who pressed ice against your jaw while you were busy cleaning his bruised and bleeding knuckles.

Then you sat in silence, digesting another job well done, and basking in the tranquil air of the hotel room while the pain-reducing solution you’ve made works its magic.

And odd routine indeed.

“Hey,” John’s voice breaks the soft tranquillity, and you jerk up, realising that you’ve come dangerously close to dozing off. “Do you ever think about getting out?”

You blink slowly, clearing your head as his words register. Then, confusion blooms, “Out? Get out of what?”

John doesn’t look at you though. His heavy gaze focuses on something outside, out of your sight. The slopes of his profile have become familiar to you—the raven hair, dark eyes, the small crinkles that appear around his eyes on the rare occasion he does smile. He’s not standoffish in the way others often accuse him of being now. If anything he looks softer somehow, more human than a weapon Tarasov boasts of so smugly. More than a living nightmare so many fear.

He looks like a man. Simple as that, and when he finally turns to face you, you see the fresh cuts and bruises on his face. Just a man.

“Getting out of this life,” he replies slowly, his voice rougher from the lucky hit one of the guards managed to get into his throat. “Getting away from everything. From Tarosov.”

It strikes you then that John is asking from a genuine place of interest—something he rarely indulges in with you, considering nine out of ten times all conversations between you are started by you.

The second thing that strikes you is a genuine surprise. John is not the person you would ever expect to hear this type of question from. It’s private, it’s raw; he knows about your debt, about the chain around your neck. Better than most, perhaps better than everyone. But because you respect him enough to at least give it actual thought, you consider his question for a long time.

It takes at least five minutes until you finally speak and when you do your voice sounds hollow in your own ears, “I never wanted this life,” you begin softly, your voice thin. “I never asked to be involved in any of this. I didn’t ask for my parents to take me from country to country, never allowing me to settle down anywhere or make friends. When they kept secrets and were barely home. I didn’t ask for adventure, or danger, or even wealth, John. But—”

John stares at you, considering you, no doubt analysing your words, and you swallow the sudden lump in your throat at his show of keen interest.

“But,” you repeat again, your tone harsher. “I’m here, and I have to make the best of it. I’ve never been good at anything in my life. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about myself in this last year is that I’m very, very good at this. I’m starting to think that violence is in my blood, and I don’t know what that means just yet but…”

You exhale, eyes fluttering shut and you only open them after counting to ten inside your head. Slow and steady as you meet his gaze straight on. “So to answer your question: no. No, I don’t think about it. Even after I’m finished dealing with Tarasov, I don’t see another path for myself anymore. It was taken from me.”

John peers at you for a long, long time after you fall silent. You’re not sure what he discerns from your expression or what he’s searching for, but you doubt he finds it as his obsidian eyes eventually slide away from you and towards the window.

The sun is rising in the East.

Milan is beautiful this time of year.

You sit together through the sunrise, not saying a word.

Years later, you would look back on this as the last true moment of peace for an interminable number of years.

. . .

Separation comes only two short months later like a punch to the face.

Tarasov’s argument is simple: he needs two jobs done on different sides of the world. One requires the lethality John is infamous for, another requires the most subtle of touches; a snake’s slyness.

Tarasov needs the Boogeyman and the Vipress but for vastly different things this time.

John must sense your unease—this will be your first solo mission after all—and he stops you as soon as you’re both out of earshot of any prying eyes.

“You’ll be fine,” he says so simply, effortlessly, with enough confidence in his low voice that for a second you believe him too. “It’s the perfect job for you.”

“Of course I’ll be fine,” you shoot back with forced nonchalance. “I’m not that helpless.”

Your smile is forced, and John knows it too.

He doesn’t point it out because deep down John is kind—no matter how ironic it is for a deadly assassin to be that.

For once, you expect him to say something else but he doesn’t. One of Tarasov’s men shouts him over because his flight is leaving in three hours. John’s gaze lingers on you for an insignificant second but he still walks away, leaving a cold kind of silence in his wake.

His name burns at the back of your throat as dread bubbles in the pit of your gut.

But you don’t call his name out.

. . .

It doesn’t go bad.

It doesn’t go well either.

It goes thoroughly and wholly to shit.

You grasp at your shoulder where blood is still pouring freely, and your eyes sting with tears of pain as you make your report to the silent Tarasov over the phone.

They have known.

They have prepared.

The target got away at the last moment.

You are lucky to still be alive.

“Better you weren’t then,” Tarasov purrs in Russian, the letters curling like a death grip around your throat. “Report to me tomorrow.”

“But—”

The line goes dead.

You pull the bullet out yourself. Through gritted teeth and sweat dripping down your forehead. You cry twice and throw up once before you pass out from pain and terror. Still, you manage to patch yourself up.

The lack of John’s presence stings in an unexpected, violent way when you wake up, bleary-eyed and shivering.

You have gotten dependent on him and his help.

Now it feels like a weakness.

Now, you hate yourself for shaking in terror as you make your way to Tarasov’s new office in New York.

You’re strong (but not strong enough), you’re smart (but not enough), you’re—

You wonder if you should pray, or perhaps plead for help from some higher power. Tarasov as good as admitted that you will be dead by the end of this meeting. There is no helping you now.

Sickness cramps your stomach and you dry heave in an alleyway behind his office. Your vision swims, your blood rushes in your ears and for a second you consider simply lying down on this cold, dirty ground and letting the world consume you.

You failed, you fucked up. First solo mission and you failed in the most spectacular way possible. The target got away. There’s no one to blame but yourself.

You’ve considered poisoning him, but that seems so unlikely to succeed now. His lackeys will never allow you to walk through the office door without ransacking you, nor would Tarasov be stupid enough to let you anywhere near him.

Death, now more than ever, seems like an inevitably.

John will save me.

A harsh bark of laughter tears from your throat at the sudden, invasive whisper of your mind. How pathetic. To mess up is one thing, to know that there’s close to nothing you can do to rectify the situation is another, but to actually hope someone else will save you…

Even if you are to allow yourself the overly indulgent thought, that still doesn’t change the fact that John is in Europe right now. Half a world away—too far away.

John.

Knees quaking, you stand up.

Squaring your shoulders, and ignoring the burn of pain in your left shoulder, you start walking.

John would face this with dignity, with that same cool detachment he does most things.

John would not quiver in some dingy alleyway. He would not cry like some pathetic idiot because of his own mistake. He would face it, and he would fight back.

Your forehead presses against the freezing wall of the building as you pull yourself together piece by piece.

You are no longer that same girl who wept over your parents because you have no idea where they are buried, or if they even had a burial. If perhaps their bodies have been thrown onto the streets, or woods, or simply fed to the dogs.

That girl has been killed by your parents' stupidity.

Now only the Vipress remains.

Vipress who is a master poisoner, whose name is no longer whispered with mockery but with reluctant respect that’s starting to rival John’s.

With every step, you stand straighter, walk with more confidence. Your shoulder throbs terribly but you step into the building as through a fog.

Tarasov greets you with a glass of vodka and a wide grin.

The hardness of his gaze is chilling though, and you try to keep your cool demeanour, emulating John as much as possible. Two other guards lurk in the dark corners of the room, and you still entertain the thought that you can take them if it comes to that.

Your heartbeat is so deafening in your ears, you barely catch Tarasov’s words.

“Sorry?”

His grin stretches even further, and he tuts, “My, my, I almost forgot. How’s the shoulder?”

He doesn’t sound like he cares. But not answering would be a stupid thing to do. “It’s fine, sir.”

Tarasov makes a small sound at the back of his throat before his fist strikes your shoulder with enough force that you crumble to the floor. A cry of pain manages to escape before you bite your cheek, hot blood flooding your mouth as you tremble on the floor before him.

“Oh, my,” Tarasov comments in sharp Russian as if surprised by your predicament while one of his guards hands him his glass. “Seems like you’re not as ‘fine’ as you say. You’ve disappointed me, (Name). Greatly.”

Tarasov pats your head, the contact heavy and patronizing, as he jerks your head up. He stares at you with a hum, shaking his head as his powerful features rearrange into a look of genuine disappointment.

“Stand up,” he orders sharply and lets go of you, allowing you space to stagger to your feet. “It would be undignified to shoot you like this. Believe it or not, my hopes for you were high and you’ve been rather useful to me. I at least respect that.”

The two guards shift in the dim room, and you bare your bloody teeth on instinct, lowering your blood-covered hand from your shoulder. If they want to fight...

Tarasov laughs genuinely this time, loud and booming, suddenly reminding you of your father. “You’ve got fire, little viper. I will need that ferocity for our expansion. But you also fucked up. Badly. But you will never fail me again, isn’t that right?”

You don’t answer, staring at him through a pain-fueled haze. Tarasov ‘tsk’s and the back of his hand strikes your face with numbing force. Your lip splits on contact, one side of your face tingling with raw pain as your head snaps to the side.

Few droplets of blood hit the pristine floor, and you stare at it dumbly, breathing harshly through your mouth.

“I grow impatient,” he mutters coldly in clipped Russian. “Isn’t that right? I expect an answer. What did you think I will kill you? No, no, my dear. Not yet. You’ve made a mess but it can be sorted. How severe your punishment is going to be, however, is entirely dependant on you.”

Swallowing thickly, you lift your eyes to his, “I won’t fail you again.”

Tarasov laughs again, and salutes you before drowning the half-full glass in one gulp. He exhales, looking rather pleased with himself.

“Of course you won’t,” he hums pleasantly, and pats your injured cheek with heavy intent. “Because if you do, I will have John himself put a bullet in your pretty little head. Now get out of my sight and don’t come back till I call for you.”

. . .

The knock on your door comes two days later.

You aren’t expecting guests so the first thing you do is grab your poisoned needles and your gun.

Gripping the familiar weight in your palm, you cautiously approach the door, levelling the gun against the wood. “Who is it?”

“It’s me.”

Your hand drops instinctively, and you crack the door open, only to find a familiar pair of dark eyes already staring at you. Your fingers tremble slightly as you open the door fully and John’s familiar stocky frame comes into view.

He, in turn, takes a good minute to no doubt take in your bandaged shoulder and bruised face. Even though you added ice the moment you left Tarasov’s office, one half of your face is still swollen. Ugly, blotchy bruises litter your skin and you swallow shakily upon noting the hard, near frightening intensity in which John is taking in your injuries.

“Why did you come?” you finally force out, and clear your throat when your voice cracks a few times. “Didn’t you have—”

“What happened?” John speaks instead, and there’s an icy undercurrent to his words you’re unused to hearing from him.

Turning away, you walk deeper into the room, and John follows you silently.

“I figured you would know. I’m the talk of the town,” you mutter dryly, and feel a stab of anger at the thought.

When you turn to face him, John’s expression is still oddly severe though his demeanour appears as calm as always. You’re not quite sure what to make of it.

“I do know what happened on the mission,” he replies, his mouth a tight line, and voice dropping into almost whisper. “I want to know about this.”

He reaches out and for a stupid—purely idiotic second—you think that he’s going to touch your face; maybe run his thumb over your tender jaw to soothe the pain.

But John stops halfway and allows his hand to drop back to his side, patient and quiet as he waits for your explanation.

There’s an odd tension in the air that you can’t quite pinpoint. The relief of seeing him, at knowing he cares enough to at least come and see you, is already enough. Which doesn’t explain why you feel a distinct stab of disappointment at the realisation that he’s not going to hold you or comfort you, regardless of how naive it would be to expect something like that from him. That hard demeanour of his is near impossible to crack through most of the time.

“Tarasov wasn’t happy,” you settle on the easiest explanation you can give him. “Reminded me that I will never fail him again or he will have you shoot me next time.”

John’s expression twists. “I—”

He cuts himself off and you smile sadly, wincing when you scabbed lip stretches too wide. You know what he was about to say. That he wouldn’t do it—that maybe he simply couldn’t. Even in the world of killers, there are grey areas no one likes to tread on. Friends, family, associates.

But you also know the truth.

You both work exclusively under Tarasov’s contract. John would have to do what he’s told regardless of his own feelings on the matter. And maybe even if he does care, even if he considers you an actual friend, it won’t be enough to deliberately place himself in danger by showing disobedience.

“It’s okay,” you say softly, and you wonder why you sound so sad without even meaning to. “We do what we’re told. We don’t ask questions. We just pull the trigger, right? It’s who we are. We’re made for violence and isn’t that fucking sad? We don’t even question it anymore, John. Do you think—”

His head tilts, his loose hair brushing against his forehead. “Do I think what?”

You exhale slowly, shaking your head, and give him another tiny smile. Somehow even ignoring pain is easier with him beside you.

“It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

For a moment, it looks like John will say something else but he stops himself at last second and nods his head as if accepting your words.

The distance between you feels like a ravine even while you spend the entire evening in the same room, breathing the same air. But perhaps that’s just the endless paradox between you.

. . .

It doesn’t happen overnight. Or days. Or even weeks.

It’s slow. So much so that you don’t notice for a long, long time and by the time you do, it’s already painfully clear that there’s no going back.

Much like the name John wears, much like the man himself, it creeps up on you. Little by little. Bit by bit.

There’s no groundbreaking moment, there are no fireworks. There’s just the knowing that sits deep in the pit of your stomach. It’s a foolish, idiotic thing. You brush it aside because you know better. Because you’re not naive enough to hope for anything in a world like this.

Hope is a dangerous thing, and you’ve had yours broken too many times to rely on it anymore.

So you don’t.

You know not to expect good things anymore, to never try and rely on anything or anyone. Every good thing you’ve ever had has either died or been taken from you.

So you really should have known that this would never last.

. . .

Tarasov’s imposed “time out” lasts for three months.

It marks the beginning of the end.

And it starts with an accident that turns into a tragedy.

. . .

an: wooo, I hope you all liked that. I’m sooo rusty it’s not even funny but I hope you found some enjoyment in this. Also sorry for the very slowburn relationship I suppose? This isn’t super romantic. But considering the type of man John is (and the fact that he’s younger here) I actually don’t see him falling for someone immediately? Also, I love angst so....this is gonna be exactly that! Thank you for reading everyone!!

#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick imagine #keanu reeves #john wick fic #fic: children of ares

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monstersdownthepath · 4 years ago

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Spiritual Spotlight: Irez, Lady of Inscribed Wonder

Neutral Good Agathion Empyreal Lord of Cards, Scribes, and Spells

Domains: Good, Luck, Magic, Rune Subdomains: Agathion, Fate, Language, Wards

Chronicles of the Righteous, pg. 15

Obedience: Neatly inscribe six identical pairs of runes on 12 separate cards or squares of paper. Shuffle the cards facedown and draw two. Alternatively, carefully shuffle a Harrow deck for the majority of an hour, then draw two cards. Benefit: If the drawn cards match (or the Harrow cards have matching suits), gain a +4 sacred bonus on saves against spells cast from two schools of magic of your choice. On a mismatch, gain a +4 sacred bonus on saves against spells cast from scrolls.

A single sheet of paper cut to twelve pieces and a bit of ink a day is basically nothing for an adventurer, making this one of the simplest, cheapest, and easiest Obediences to commit to among all of Pathfinder’s myriad deities. If anyone raises an eyebrow (such as if you’re the only Good character among Evil, or if you’re somewhere Evil), you can claim to be practicing your calligraphy. Or, you know, just your memorization skills. A game of chance. Testing your luck. Any number of things!

Having a good old Harrow deck makes this Obedience so easy to do that it’s effectively a non-issue, though it does require the one-time investment of at least 100gp (or a small sidequest) to obtain a full Harrow deck. This Obedience is adorable through and through! And that BENEFIT, though! Having a +4 to resist two entire schools of magic is HUGE, and the ability to pick and choose which ones you gain is INCREDIBLY powerful when compared to benefits which usually give you resistance to a single school you cannot choose. If you have methods of gauging what sorts of spells your enemies will use, all the better! You can also safely call Necromancy, Enchantment, or Transmutation as your schools and have additional protection from most common Save-or-Sucks.

Mmmbut it does have one rather significant downside: There’s a very large chance it will be useless throughout the day. Only your first attempt at a match determines what your benefit is during the day, and mucking that up essentially lands you with a blank feat. Yes, yes, there IS a small chance that your enemy will lash out at you with a scroll, but I’ve personally never experienced an enemy who used scrolls offensively rather than simply gearing all their spell slots for combat and using scrolls to shore up their defense or escape. It’s rare you’ll ever have to make a save against a scroll, making the benefit essentially nonexistent. Hell of a coin flip, if you ask me.

Boons are gained slowly, typically achieved once you reach 12, 16, and 20 Hit Dice. Followers of the Empyreal Lords, however, can enter the Mystery Cultist Prestige Class at level 8, which grants them their Boons much quicker! Entered as early as possible, you gain the Boons at levels 10, 13, and 16 instead. Mystery Cultists MUST take the Celestial Obedience feat, NOT Deific Obedience.

Empyreal Lords do not grant the typical Evangelist/Exalted/Sentinel spread (and cannot enter those classes), instead having only one set of Boons granted to their followers regardless of their class.

Boon 1: Calligrapher's Talent. Gain Divine Favor 3/day, Augury 2/day, or Glyph of Warding 1/day.

If you’re a martial type character, Divine Favor is a spell that’s always nice to have. It lasts only a minute but grants a +3 luck bonus to attack and damage rolls, with luck bonuses being valuable due to their rarity and the fact they stack with everything. Due to their rarity, it’s unlikely enemies will be able to cancel them out, too! The biggest problem, however, is that it still only lasts for 1 minute and takes a standard action to apply, so you’ve got a very small window in which to use it before combat begins.

Which makes Augury and Glyph of Warding good for their own reasons. Augury is... not a very good spell, possessing a 1/5 chance of failing outright and giving only vague answers about events occurring within 30 minutes. However, if you have a minute to spare and you’re in a situation where you need the universe’s (the DM) guidance, it’s a decent way to get an answer to guide you down a path you can take Right Now Immediately, long-term consequences be damned. If you’re stuck and unsure where to go, it’ll point in A direction.

Glyph of Warding as a non-caster is more or less just a quick blast of damage, but without the need for its material components, you can scrawl Glyphs on every surface in your home base to your hearts content... provided you have a home base. While many campaigns nowadays have locations a party can return to, most adventurers are nomadic by nature, and a Glyph is less useful in those cases. Despite this, the Glyph’s ability to sort through creatures by alignment or creature type and even maintain the ability to detect the invisible, means that using it as an especially deadly alarm or ward against infiltrating fiends is but one of its functions.

Boon 2: Divine Inscription. 3/day when using a scroll to cast a spell that deals hit point damage, you can change half the spell’s damage to holy damage. If you lack the ability to cast a particular spell from a scroll, you may attempt a Use Magic Device check with a bonus equal to your HD plus your Charisma modifier (or your regular Use Magic Device bonus, whichever is better).

Unless you find yourself up against misguided Good creatures, this ability allows you to bypass all forms of Resistance and Immunity a creature may have to whatever form of energy you’re blasting them with. Holy damage is not an officially recognized damage type, but unholy damage IS described several times as “dealing no damage to Evil creatures or creatures with the Evil subtype, but dealing double damage to Good creatures or creatures with the Good subtype.” If your DM agrees that holy and unholy damage work in the same way, that means your scroll spells deal 150% damage to Evil creatures, which makes this ability crushing if used on high-damage spells that are already difficult to resist or dodge, such as Fireball, Disintegrate, or Heal/Harm.

Even if your DM rejects the double-damage interpretation, it still means half of the spell becomes impossible to resist, which is still decent and lets you pry just a bit more use out of your scroll-based offense... Which, as I mentioned before, is not what most casters will be doing with their scrolls. Most casters I know (myself included) spend their time on emergency defensive or healing scrolls, with offensive magic left to their spell slots. This ability gears you towards using offensive scrolls, which cost time and money to produce or procure, and thus this power wanes in use if you don’t actively keep creating scrolls (or ask the DM nicely to include more of them in the loot piles), draining party resources.

I do appreciate that because Use Magic Device isn’t a class skill for Mystery Cultist (or Cleric, or most Divine casters for that matter), Irez gives you a way to use scrolls that aren’t in your spell list. The way the ability is written implies that the UMD cheat only applies to the 3/day times you use the ability, which in my opinion is a needless restriction that only makes this ability weaker; I’d say you’re allowed to use the bolstered UMD at any time you use a scroll you’d otherwise be unable to.

Boon 3: Lucky Cards. 1/day as a standard action, you can summon 2d6 shimmering cards that trail in your wake. The cards dart around you during combat, intercepting deadly attacks. At your discretion, each card can absorb a single damage die from either a sneak attack or a critical hit that would normally hit you. For example, if you would be hit by a sneak attack dealing an extra 3d6 points of damage and you had two cards remaining, you could reduce the sneak attack damage to 1d6 (these dice are removed before being rolled). Once a card absorbs a damage die, it disappears. Unused cards disappear at the end of each day.

Having a card cape is cool, but what they do is not. Blocking the damage dice of a critical hit is usually less useful than blocking the flat damage they get from enchantments and modifiers, which is where the real beef is more often than not. It CAN also help against natural attacks--which usually rely on larger dice, rather than larger modifiers--but being critically hit in the first place means you’re in for a world of hurt... And you can’t even block all of it. 2d6 averages out to 6~7, and while blocking 7 dice worth of damage SOUNDS nice, there’s no way to know if the incoming 7d6 Sneak Attack would have done 7 damage or 42 and thus you’ll likely end up blowing all of them on the first critical hit or Sneak Attack you would have taken and leaving you with an empty Boon.

And then there’s the utter disappointment with the possibility you’ll roll 2. Perhaps once in a blue moon you’ll get the lucky 12, but you’re just as likely to roll snake-eyes. The ability may as well read “you gain 10 temporary hitpoints” at that point, below par for the 1st level False Life, let alone a final divine Boon.

Yes, it can potentially block a good portion of an otherwise fatal attack, but it only works once and isn’t even guaranteed to stop all of it. At least the aesthetic is cool!

You can read more about Irez here.

#Spiritual Spotlight #Saintly Spotlight #Pathfinder #Dungeons and Dragons

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