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bleeding blue | apocalypse au
part twenty-one âother parts
pairing:Â Simon âGhostâ Riley x fem!reader words:Â 3.5k tags:Â death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isnât here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary:Â After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: I'm sorry lmaooo nine months... hopefully we can finish this thing!
The last bed you laid in smelled like lemon mint detergent. It was the full bed in your sister's guest room. Everything was crisp and white. They rarely had guests besides you. Some of your clothes stayed in that closet, one of your toothbrushes stayed in the connected bathroom, waiting for your visits. You'd awaken that last morning not thinking you'd never sleep in bed for another five years. You left it unmade.
This bed smells like pine and warmth.
Ghost's room is small and dimly lit. The ceiling slants so that one end is not tall enough for him to fully stand. There's a dresser and a nightstand, leaving only a sliver of floorspace.
After the metal latch on the door clicks shut, Ghost lays the blanket down and grabs a pillow for himself. That leaves the bed to you. Springs creak beneath your weight as you silently slip under a heavy, rustic quilt. The years-embedded scent of him wraps around you like a drug-induced fog. You hesitate to move, frozen as he flicks off the light. You wonder if he always locks the door or did it for you, to make you feel safer.
Only when his moving about ceases do you allow yourself to get comfortable. You cocoon your body under the quilt and turn to your side, closing your eyes.
A thought reopens them minutes later. You roll onto your back and speak into the darkness. "Have you known about this Switzerland place?"
For a moment, you think he's already asleep. Then, from below the bed by your feet, he says, "Heard of it."
"That is what you guys talked about, isn't it?" you ask absentmindedly.
"Among other things."
You sit up so you can see him, but all that you can make out is a dark shadow. "Care to share?"
"Some things are on a need-to-know basis," is all he gives.
"And I don't need to know?"
"Precisely."
It stings; you don't know why. "Some team we make, huh? Or I guess we're only a team when you need me to do something for you."
You quickly realize how petulant you must sound. The shadow sits upright. "They asked me to go with them. I said no. Too far. Too many variables that are hard to predict, and she's not ready for them. Happy?"
Happyâno, but relief replaces the slight uncertainty in your gut since your conversation with Nereida. Joining them was shut down. You wouldn't tell her, but their idea sounds asinine, whether or not that commune exists. The trip will be risky at best, fatal at worst. You're tempted to ask him how many days he thinks they'll recoup here before continuing their journey, but opt for sleep instead. He seems done with the conversation, too, lying back down. Then, you have the best sleep you've had in years in his bed.
When the sun turns pink, you awaken to a room void of Ghost. He's gone. It should be expected, but you'd thought he might wake you up to train like normal. Though, the past twenty-four hours haven't been normal. You look around, the details of his room more visible now. On the nightstand, there is a stack of books and you scan the titled spines. Mostly classics. One Hemingway. All tattered and read frequently. Beside them lays a silver chain attached to a dog tag. You gently finger the engraved metal so as not to move it out of place:Â Simon Riley.Â
Snooping through his things is more tempting than you're willing to admit. You slip out of bed, socked feet padding over to the dresser. There are mostly papers. His map with the marked circle around what you now realize is Switzerland, a notepad with scribbled half-cursive on it, and then a faded photo beneath it. You freeze, breath hitching, as if you've done something dangerous just by stumbling upon it. Curiosity is thick in your chest, difficult to ignore. Gentle fingers reach to shift it out, revealing a picture that you know right away is of Blue and her mom. Blue is a baby. Maybe one year old. A woman with light brown hair holds her up, sitting on a bench in front of a playground. She's pretty and young. There is a sadness when you wonder if this is the only picture he has of themâbefore her death. Then, there is another feeling. You swallow it.Â
You quickly slip the photo back just the way you found it and leave the room. The living room is quiet, people still sleeping. Price and Kyle's blankets are empty, but Kyle is the only one you spot outside. He sits on a tree stump, using a knife and some soap to shave his beard. He looks at you the moment you step outside.
"Good morning." He splashes a scoop of water on his smoothed jaw.Â
You tuck your hands in your pockets. "Morning."
Without the facial hair, he looks even younger. Maybe in his early thirties. He pushes to his feet and you are reminded of his above-average height, though he is not as monstrous as Ghost. His form is lean, all muscle, with much less ink on his exposed skin. It is now you notice a scar across his jaw. Thick but faded. It trails halfway down his neck.
"Do you know where Ghost went?" you ask.
"Working on that truck of his. With Price."
A glance over your shoulder confirms it; you spot some movement behind the cabin where you know his truck sits. Guess that means no training. You nod. "So, um, you were in the military together, right?"
He takes a moment to look at you before answering. "Yeah. Same unit. Price was our captain."
"I kind of figured. He is... captain-y."
"'Captain-y.' Good way of putting it."
You're ready to turn away when he asks, "I hate to pry, but I admit I'm curious how you ended up here with him."
You force a smile. "It's not a very interesting story, sorry."
"I'm not looking for entertainment."
"What are you looking for, then?" You sound more defensive than you mean to.Â
He shrugs. "Just curious, is all. You're a bit young."
"I'm not fucking him if that's what you're getting at." His brows lift to his hairline, and you're almost embarrassed for assuming that is what he was thinking, but before he can speak you add, "And you're young, too. I can handle myself just as you can."
"Of course." He shakes his head, moving his hand over his chest in earnest. "I apologize if I insinuated otherwise. Though, I am older than you."
"How old?"
He hums and rubs his chin. "Let's see. Thirty-one last November. Or maybe it's just thirty. Hard to keep track, innit?" His smile is more genuine than yours, flashing white teeth. Then, his face turns more serious and he sighs through his nose, head tilting. "Look, I understand."
"Understand what?"
"I don't know your story, but I'm sure it is a gruesome one, and you have every right to feel uncomfortable. We'll be out of your hair soon enough. I appreciate you having us, though."
You want to tell him it's not like you have a choice; you're not the host here. But he already knows that. He's trying to be nice. "Thank you," you tell him honestly.Â
Kyle bends to pick up his knife, wiping it off on his shirt. "So what did you need Ghost for?"
"Oh, nothing really."
"Care to accompany me for some breakfast, then?"
You consider saying no, but you need to hunt, anyway. Besides, you don't think he'd try anything in broad daylight. In another life, you may have looked at him with a more appreciative eye. But as you wade in silence through the woods, bow cinched to your back, you study him like an opponent. He's more agile than Ghost, likely quicker. When he crests the hill, it's hard to match his strides.Â
Small conversation picks up by the pond and you find yourself easing up. You learn he's from London, too.
"What part?"
"Islington. I shared an apartment with my girlfriend. The rent was shit but it was worth it. Top floor loft with a good view and this insane Turkish bakery just below us." His tone is so casual you forget where you are for a second, until he suddenly throws his knife. It pins a squirrel to one of the trees. He bends to dislodge it and carries the dead animal, blood on his fingers.Â
You keep walking. "What happened to her?"
Maybe you shouldn't have asked, but something about him already feels easy to talk to, especially in comparison to months of Ghost's secretiveness. "I had to make a choice. Go to London and find her, or go with Price and get my nephew, niece, and sister-in-law."
The understanding hits with the force of a fallen tree, and you pale.Â
He notices your expression and continues. "I don't regret my decision. I've come to terms with it. There was no chance of me finding her in London, not with how quickly the infection spread there and the phone lines went out. I didn't even know where to look for her. At work? Home? Up north, things weren't as bad yet. I got in contact with my sister-in-law, Amelia, and told her to meet us at the small college up there where Nereida worked."
You recall what Nereida said, about Ari's mom and sister dying, so you don't pry about them. "What about your brother? Ari's dad?"
"He died before shit happened. He was in the military, too. Different unit. Multiple gun wounds while in Afghanistan a few years back."
"I think your story is more gruesome than mine," you admit.
His lips twitch ruefully. "Not a competition. Gruesome world, gruesome stories."
A more comfortable quiet settles. He is not so different than you, you realize. Only difference is he still has his nephew to look after. The sun is already high, enough to make a collar of sweat appear on your shirt. There is a small dirt ridge you have to climb and the effort reminds you of the still-healing bruises on your body. A skirt of movement catches your eye and this time, you act quick. You use your bow to kill a squirrel up on a branch. It falls to the ground.
"Damn." Kyle whistles, low and long, as you wriggle the arrow free. "Hell of an aim you got."
"I'm... alright."
"No need to be modest."
You straighten and wipe your bloodied hand on your shirt. The movement lifts it, and you hear him suck in a breath behind you. A hand touches your shoulder, gentle than firm, as he spins you around. You're confused, then follow his gaze to the sliver of exposed skin on your hip. It's a gross yellow.Â
"Twix." His voice lowers, and his friendly eyes are confused.Â
Shit. "It's not whatever you're thinking."
"I'm thinking someone has put their hands on you." He frowns and shifts closer. "I know you have no reason to tell me things, but I can tell you I am not okay with that shit, no matter who it is."
You inwardly cringe. "Ghost is not... hitting me. Well, he isâ"
"Fucking hellâ"
"No, no. I asked him to." The bewildered look on his face makes you palm your forehead. "Not like that. Jesus. We train together, okay?"
"Train together," he repeats, shoulders loosening.Â
"Yeah, like to help me get stronger." The embarrassment remains on your cheeks. "It's silly, really."
Kyle shakes his head and grins, clearly amused now that he knows you're not being abused against your will. "Not silly. Thought you two were into some kinky shit for a second there." He continues walking over a patch of dryer land, stepping onto a small rock and chuffing a breath under his nose. "Wouldn't have been surprised."
Your fingers absentmindedly tighten around the squirrel's limp neck. Your feet are frozen for a moment as you shake off a deep blush, then call out behind him. "Did you miss the part where I said I'm not fucking him!"
He simply laughs.Â
---
The rest of the day passes in languid warmth.Â
It's weird having so many people here, but you try to continue your day like usual, skinning the kill and washing your clothes. You learn more about Nereida as you eat together. You haven't had a female friend in... a long time. Save Blue. She used to be an arts professor at a private school. Sculpting, mainly. That is how she came to meet John Price, when he attended one of her galleries, buying a piece from her for far more than the listing price. He was just looking for a way to take me out to dinner. The way she speaks of him is that of a doting wife, despite everything they've been through. She tells you they were engaged before the infection. A makeshift ceremony at their old camp was the best they could do.Â
"No wedding ring, but we do both have this." She pulls up her sleeve to show you a small scar carved on her shoulderâa faint letter 'J'. Price has the 'N'.
You're not sure what Ghost needed to fix on his truck that morning, or why it was important to do it with Price, but when you returned with Kyle, something felt off. Ghost's tension was palpable. He usually seems in thought, but even more-so. When Ari takes Blue for a quick ride on the horseâapparently Cherry used to be owned by his parents on their family ranch in Newcastleâhe watches for only a minute before disappearing somewhere with Price. You pretend to need something from the cabin. You sneak around the back way, finding them again by his truck, muttering in low voices. Only pieces reach your ears.
"...through the rural parts. Not a straight path..."
"...could take months..."
"Got quite a bit of those."
Then, he's showing Price something under the tuck bed's tarp where you catch sight of that kayak once again.Â
"Find it?"
A low voice in your ear. You startle and turn around.
"Huh?"
Kyle raises a brow. "You said you needed something."
Your hand flattens against the side of the cabin. "Right. Um, I justâ"
Boots scuffle behind you. You don't need to turn to know Ghost and Price have detected your presence, making their way over. Kyle's gaze flicks to them and you feel like a child who's been caught by her parentsâembarrassment laced over your irritation. You wouldn't have been eavesdropping if they weren't so secretive.
"Everything alright?" Price's timbre is calm. Your neck prickles where you feel Ghost's stare.
You find yourself nodding. "Yes. Just fine. Sorry."
It gets cooler by nightfall. Your knee bounces slightly under the table during dinner. You listen to Blue explain the rules of battleship to Ari. You don't eat much more of the meat you caught with Kyle. With a mostly empty stomach, you enter Ghost's room after everyone else has gone to bed. His broad form hovers over his dresser. For a moment, you fear he's somehow noticed that you looked at his things earlier. But then you realize his eyes are glued to the map, and he's penciling some things on the margins.
He looks up when you close the door behind you. His brows are deeply knotted.Â
"Figured you would be sleeping out there for tonight."
"What?"
"Seems like you feel just fine around them now."Â
He looks away from you as if you're not even there. He places the map down and opens the top drawer. Without warning, he pulls out a clean shirt and changes, revealing his bare chest. His shoulders flex as he slips it over his head by the collar. Then, he moves toward you, eyes dully expectant.
"Being asleep near them is different than hanging out during the day," you finally respond. Mouth feeling dry, you swallow. "What's going on? I can tell that you... you've been thinking about something."
"You mean you've been listening." His brow lifts. He shakes his head before you can defend yourself. "I am always thinking about something."
"Would it kill you to not be cryptic for once?" You frown up at him. "I thought that we were..."
Your voice trails when his eyes glint. "That we were what?"
"Being honest with each other now."
A dark, slightly amused breath leaves his nose. He contemplates your words for a moment. "It is my plan to go there," he then says. "I'm not stupid. I know she needs more than what I can offer her here. It has always been my plan. Just not now."
"Because she's not ready," you breathe.
"Because she's not ready," he repeats, chin tilting. His eyes darken, veering to the left. "Price seems to disagree."
Your nails curl in your palms. "And?"
He looks back at you. "And I am thinking of your camp. What happened to you. I can't grow complacent."
The mention unsettles your stomach. Of course, he needn't elaborate, not when the memory is more fresh than you'd like. "But going to Switzerland would take days, weeks. And they have no idea what they might run into out there. It's not like we have inside info on the state of Spain andâand wherever the hell else we'd have to cross through to get there. They could be worse than London."
"I'm aware."
"So what, then? You're considering it now? I thought you told them no," your hushed voice edges a bit harsher, and the pulse in your neck quickens. This conversation is one you want to have equally as much as you don't. You hate what you think he's saying, even if you understand it. He has his daughter's future to think of. Even if he were to try finding some safe community when she's older, the opportunity of traveling with two other military-experienced men would be gone, along with whatever weapons and supplies they bring to the table.
The contemplation is vivid in his eyes as you study them, seeking an ounce of reassurance somewhere in their depths. Ghost's head lowers, dipping down at the same time that he emits a harsh breath, and you realize how close the two of you have become in this quiet exchange, keeping your voices safe from any awakened ears. So close, in fact, that his exhalation hits the space between your neck and collarbones, where a small patch of skin tingles with alertness.Â
His voice emerges low and thoughtful after a drawn moment. "I haven't fully decided."
You nod with deep breath to steady yourself, taking in his answer. "Will you tell me when you do?"Â
"I can do that."
And that's all he offersâfour words that give a minuscule amount of comfort, because now bitter uncertainty has snuck upon you once again. Your fate lays in his decisionâthat much you are fully aware of. You can't survive on your own, not even here, so if he leaves you have to go with him. The impending doom fogs your brain so much that you fail to notice his hand has suddenly moved, pinching the hem of your shirt between thumb and forefinger, and beginning to carefully lift it up. A breath hitches at the top of your throat and your eyes unfurl, only to find that he is pensively looking down at your newly exposed stomach.
"What the fuck are youâ"
You're cut off when his bent knuckles gently brush over your mottled abdomen, sweeping down the sore midline, rendering you frozen when you should be pushing him away. It is a thoughtful, slow touch. Calloused skin against a smooth, soft stomach. The his hand opens and his thumb traces one bad bruise in particular, by your hip. Your muscles flutter when an undeniably pleasant heat blossoms. For the second time today, your bruises are under scrutiny, and you swear at yourself for not putting more of that paste on them.
"They're healing well," he murmurs, more to himself than to you, and lowers the shirt back down. He steps back. Eyes find yours. "Don't get too comfortable."
You blink dazedly, then stiffen. "Um, what?"
"Sleeping in my bed. My room isn't a hotel."
The change of topic gives you whiplash. "You're the one who made me sleep here," you remind him pointedly, shaking off the flush he'd induced. "I'll just take the floor tonight, and you have the bed."
"You're a woman. Take it."
"As if you give a fuck about being a gentleman."
"You're right, I don't." A dismissive shoulder shrugs, then his back turns to you. He lays in the bed before you have the chance to even move, which leaves the blanket on the floor for you to slip onto, and you frustratingly regret not just accepting the bed when you had the chance.
Once the room is shrouded in darkness, you bury your head in the pillow.Â
"Comfortable?" he says sarcastically above you.
"Fuck off."
Then it's silent, and your head spins, unsure of where to land. You don't sleep nearly as well.
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ONE CHANCE. PLEASE. THATS ALL I NEED.
she gets hotter every time I see her.
i wish she was real đ
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A Thousand Years | Arcane Vi x Fem Leitora
After losing everything, [Name] tries to rebuild her life. But what happens when a ghost with pink hair returns?
notes:Â English is not my first language, and I initially wrote this fanfic in Portuguese. With the help of online resources, I rewrote it in English.
âI will love you âtil the end of timeâ - Lana Del Rey
You were living with your parents when the war began. Your family lived in a small house on the outskirts of the city. Your mother sold trinkets, and your father repaired them. It was a simple, hard life, but it was a happy one.
Until that dayâŠ
It was nighttime when screams and gunshots were heard. The Enforcers were committing genocide in Zaun. You woke up startled, feeling your father lifting you from your makeshift bed on the floor, followed by your mother covering you with a cloth that went over your head.
Everything happened so fast. One moment, you were in your fatherâs arms amidst the chaos. The next, you heard gunshots too close for comfort and your father shouting:
âDarling!â â a term of endearment he used for your mother.
Curious and worried, you lifted the cloth covering your head, a decision you would regret for the rest of your life. You saw your mother, bleeding, beside your father, who was crying uncontrollably as he tried to stop the bleeding. She was struggling to breathe, each breath coming with more difficulty.
âCome on, Darling! Get up! We canât give up now!â your father yelled, holding you in one arm while trying to lift your mother with the other.
âDad?â you called out, crying and scared, noticing more Enforcers approaching.
Your father turned and, upon seeing them, threw himself to the ground to shield you. More gunshots rang out, and you felt a hot liquid hit your skin, followed by a burning pain in one of your arms. Then, everything went darkâŠ
âEyes on me!â I woke up dazed, seeing a tall, bearded man in front of me holding a blue-haired girl who didnât seem much older than me.
âIt hurtsâŠâ I complained, feeling something warm pressing against my arm. When I looked, I saw a pink-haired girl with a sorrowful expression wrapping a piece of cloth around my bleeding arm.
âCan you stand?â the man holding the child asked.
âI think⊠I can.â I stood up with help from the pink-haired girl.
âWe need to move. Thereâs no time.â
âWhatâs going on? Where are my parents?â
The man sighed, his gaze saying more than his words:
âIâm sorry, child. Iâll take care of you, alright? Just trust me.â
He then held the older girlâs hand, and she extended her free hand toward me. Reluctantly, I took the pink-haired girlâs hand.
We walked for hours. Along the way, we encountered two boys: one taller and stocky, the other thin. Their expressions mirrored everyone elseâs: sad, uncertain, and fearful.
The blue-haired girl was now awake, tear trails marking her dust-covered face. The pink-haired girl tried to stay strong, but fear was evident in her eyes. The two boys looked around in utter desperation.
After hours of walking, we arrived at a warehouse hidden behind a bar.
âCome here,â the man called, making me sit beside him. He removed the makeshift bandage from my wound, which was caked with dried blood and had an irregular hole.
âThis will hurt a bitâŠâ he warned, picking up a pair of tweezers.
The bullet was lodged in the wound. Tears streamed down my face as I tried to muffle my screams in my old coat. The other children watched in shock and sympathy.
âAll done. Now keep the wound covered, alright?â he asked with a slight smile, and I nodded.
âIâm so sorry this happened to all of you. My name is VanderâŠâ
One by one, everyone introduced themselves:
â[Name]â
âClaggorâ
âMyloâ
âViolet⊠and this is my sister, Powder,â the pink-haired girl added, looking at her sister, who was clinging to her with trembling fear.
âAlright. Iâll get you water and food. Take care of each other. Iâll be back soon,â he said, leaving.
Silence filled the room. Vi and Powder sat on one of the beds, while Mylo and Claggor sat on another.
âCan I sit here?â I asked, approaching the two sisters.
âSure,â Vi replied.
âHowâs your arm?â
âIt hurts a little, but itâll pass. Do you think that man is really trustworthy?â
âI donât know, but heâs our only hope.â
âYeah, youâre right.â
The rest of the time was spent in silence. Shock and fear still held everyone captive.
After some time, Vander returned with food and water for everyone.
âI also brought clean clothes and blankets.â
After eating, I went behind a curtain Vander had set up for us to change. I removed my bloodstained clothes and cleaned myself with a damp cloth, returning to an improvised bed beside a bunk where the sisters were already lying.
Despite my sadness and fear, sleep soon overcame me.
Years passed. The new life was hard, but gradually, everyone adjusted. At first, nightmares plagued us all, and it was normal to wake up in the middle of the night to someone screaming and crying. But Vander was always there to protect us.
He taught us everything we knew about Zaun, Piltover, and the monsters who had killed innocents.
Over time, the five of us grew very close and became inseparable. Though disagreements occasionally arose, we always protected each other â whether from others when trouble found us or from Vander when we got into mischief and knew heâd scold us.
In recent months, I began to experience something I had never felt before. I didnât know what to call it, but I always felt it when Vi was near me. It was a warm sensation in my chest, as if nothing else mattered except her.
Confused, I decided to talk to the person I trusted most and who always helped me: Vander.
âCan I talk to you?â I asked, sitting on a chair in Vanderâs bar.
âOf course, [Name],â he said, sitting beside me.
âHave you ever⊠liked someone?â I asked, unable to meet his eyes.
âLiked in what sense?â he asked suspiciously.
âRomantically, you know?â I glanced at him, seeing a small smile forming on his lips.
âAh, of course I have. I lost her the night I found you all.â
âIâm sorry, Vander. I shouldnât have asked. I really am.â
âItâs alright! Why are you asking about this?â he said, raising an eyebrow.
âI wanted to know what you feel when you like someone,â I finally admitted, nervously wringing my hands.
âWell⊠you feel like you always want to be with the person, to keep them safe and well. You might feel shy around them, want to spend the rest of your life with them. You feel many different things, [Name]. Itâs not the same as liking a friend or family member. Itâs a stronger, more intense feeling.â
âI see,â I replied thoughtfully. âAnd can a woman feel that way about another woman?â
âAh, yes, of course. There are no rules for love, [Name]. Love is love, no matter what. But why are you suddenly asking all this?â
âItâs nothing! Just curiosity,â I quickly replied, avoiding the subject.
Before Vander could respond, Powder came running in:
âVander, Vi wonât give me her candy!â the blue-haired girl said, hiding behind the man.
âThatâs mine. You already ate yours,â I heard a familiar voice behind me, and instantly my heart raced and a strange feeling arose in my stomach.
âPowder, give it back to your sister. I saw you eating yours,â Vander said.
âThatâs not fair,â the younger girl muttered, sulking as she handed the candy back to her sister.
Vi then sat beside me at the table, eating her candy.
âWhat were you two talking about?â she asked.
âNothing,â I quickly replied, throwing a pleading look at the older man not to say anything, making him laugh.
âMe and Mylo are having a dart-throwing competition. Want to join?â she asked, looking at me.
âSure! Go ahead, Iâll be right there.â
She nodded and walked off, disappearing through the door behind the counter.
âItâs about Vi, isnât it?â Vander asked quietly after she left.
âWhat? Was it that obvious?â I asked, worried.
âNo, relax! I just know my kids,â he chuckled.
âThis feeling is so strange, but itâs good at the same time. Itâs so confusing, Vander.â
âYouâre still young, [Name]. You donât have to figure out what you feel right now. Thereâs plenty of time for you two to explore these feelings. Take it slow, explore themâŠâ
âI will. Thanks for listening, Dad.â
âAnytime, [Name],â he said, placing a hand on my shoulder. âNow youâd better go before Vi comes back and drags you there.â
As soon as Vander finished speaking, Vi appeared, calling for me. I got up, hugged him, and walked toward her.
âWhat were you two talking about?â she asked curiously.
âNothing important,â I replied, feeling my cheeks heat up with embarrassment, afraid she might find out.
She looked at me suspiciously but didnât insist.
We arrived in the room where Mylo, Claggor, and Powder were, and soon the competition began. The dispute became intense between Vi and Mylo, both throwing the darts with force, their eyes locked on the target, determined to beat each other.
In the end, Vi won by just two points. Powder and I shouted, running to the pink-haired girl in celebration. She high-fived Powder, still cheering enthusiastically, and then picked me up, spinning and jumping around.
As she spun me, I couldnât take my eyes off her faceâher almost gray-blue eyes, her pink hair slicked back, the small freckles on her face⊠Everything about her fascinated me. Everything about her caught my attention and awakened an irresistible desire to never stop admiring her.
Maybeïżœïżœ maybe I was starting to like her.
Hey, everyone! I hate using ây/n,â so Iâm going with [Name] instead. When Vander talked about the woman he loved, I imagined it being Vi and Powderâs mom đ, but feel free to picture someone else if youâd like. Anyway, thatâs it. Let me know if you spot any typos! Kisses!
#arcane vi x reader#vi x reader#vi x you#violet arcane#arcane#arcane fanfic#league of legends#vi league of legends
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bleeding blue | apocalypse au
part twenty âother parts
pairing:Â Simon âGhostâ Riley x fem!reader words:Â 3k tags:Â death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isnât here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary:Â After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: I'm sorry lmaooo nine months... hopefully we can finish this thing!
You land hard, elbows hitting the ground with a jolt of pain, but itâs nothing compared to the realization that someone is screamingâBlue is screaming. The heat in your veins fizzles, your heart jolting. Ghost has already sped off toward camp, pulling a knife from his ankle, and you scramble to your feet to follow.
Your movements are clumsy, your mind replaying the last few seconds, searching for any signs of trouble you might have missed. The air is clear, the trees are quiet, the ground is still. Yet, as you weave through the tall grasses that swipe at your ankles, you finally hear itâmuffled voices, unmistakably human. They grow sharper with each step you take.Â
Ghost reaches camp first, stopping in a lethal stance. You roll in just behind him, eyes snapping to where Blue stands behind the fence, alive and aiming one of her dadâs rifles at four strangers. Still dressed in an oversized sleep shirt, she juts the rifle through a gap in the fortification. Two of the strangers are mounted on a brown horse, while the other two flank their sides, backs swollen with rucksacks and chests thick with gear. There is no doubt they have weapons.
"D-don't come any closer or I'll blow your heads off! I mean it!"
âWeâre not here to hurt you,â one of them says calmly. A man.
âI donât care why youâre here! You need to leave before my dadâŠâ Her eyes flicker to you. âDad!â
When their heads turn in your direction, you waste no time arching the knife over your head. Youâre not much without your bow, but this is all you have.
In a split second, your eyes land on the burliest of the group, a man with a boonie hat and a dense, brown beard. He was the one speaking. The leader, maybe. You aim the knife for his head, but before you can throw it, Ghost grabs your wrist, wrenching you to his chest without warning, the knife falling to the ground.
"Wait," he says in your ear, his breath steady against your skin. Thereâs a detectable lilt of surprise in his voice. You try to squirm free, but he holds tight. "Stay here."
He lets go. Confusion reels through you. Everything in you screams to pick up the knife, but you hesitate as Ghost signals for Blue to lower the gun.
He calmly walks over to the intruders, heading to the man you were aiming for. The air feels thick as you watch with parted lips, stance still readied and breath racing. Ghost stops in front of him, and the two stare at each other strangely before the man smiles.
A strong hand reaches for Ghostâs shoulder.
âItâs good to see you, Simon.â
The clanking of metal against ceramic plates and the low murmurs of a fire fill the cabin.
Your spine presses into the wall.
There isnât a free chair at the table, but youâre not sure youâd sit in one even if there was. Blue stands beside you, hands laced in front of her. Sheâs silent. You are, too. The cabin feels cramped with seven people in it. It makes your skin itch.Â
You can inspect them more thoroughly now that youâre not thinking about who to kill first.Â
There are two menâthe older one you believe Ghost called Price, and a younger one you think he called Kyle. Heâs fine-looking, you figure, underneath the overgrowth of facial hair and grime smudged on his dark skin. He had a tan cap on earlier but now a head of short, black hair is free for him to slick fingers through every now and then. Then there is a woman, some years older than you. Sheâs beautiful in a raw, Grecian sort of way, with long black hair and a violet undertone to her skin. Lastly, a boy, maybe twelve or thirteen. It doesn't take much to discern he is related to Kyle in some way.
They all look starving, though not as much as you once were. Nevertheless, Ghost is feeding them more than scraps. Canned beans, rice, and rabbit. They shovel it into their mouths. The men have muscles on them, so they canât have been struggling much. Based on all the supplies they carry and the horse tied to a tree outside, youâve figured theyâve been traveling for some time. A flurry of questions runs through your brain, but your lips remain in a tight line.
Ghost hasnât said much yet. He hasn't even explained who they are. Your slitted eyes flicker to him. While the strangers fill up the table, he hovers beside it. His body speaks more than his expression. His shoulders are not tense and lethal as they'd been when you first sat at that table scarfing down food. But they're not relaxed, either; his arms crossed, still exposed from the black tee he'd put on for training, giving way to the slight flexes in his corded muscles that signal even he is thrown off by their presence.Â
But he trusts them enough to let them in here. With the way they carry themselves, and the fact that Ghost hasn't killed them, they must've been in the military together. He doesn't seem like the type to have had normal friends.Â
Kyle speaks first.
He thrums the pads of his fingertips against the wood and clears his throat, breaking your thoughts. "We were hoping you'd still be here, but it was a shot in the dark."
"Iâve never left," Ghost says, plainly.
Kyle sips from his mug and wipes his mouth, then his eyes shift in your direction. You meet his gaze with a hardened look.Â
"We're sorry for scaring you."
It takes a moment to realize his words aren't for you. Blue glances to her toes. "I wasn't scared."Â
His lips lift. "Of course not. It's us who should've been scared of crossing paths with Simon Riley's kid. You did the right thing, you know. Protecting yourself."
"I didn't realize you knew my dad." She nibbles her lip and looks up. "My name is Blue, by the way. And this is..." Her eyes flick to you. "My friend, Twix."
Your tongue pokes your cheek as you look over the new faces. What are you supposed to say?Â
"Hi," is all you settle on.
Ghost clears his throat. "Kid, why don't you clean some more water for them."
Blue nods dutifully, lingering only a second before pouring more river water into the pot over the fire.
"It's a strong setup you've made for yourself," Price speaks, one hand stroking his beard while he pushes the cleared plate away with the other. He leans back, boonie hat still cradling his head and casting a shadow over his eyes, but you catch a glimpse of warm brown irises that might've comforted you in any other circumstance.
"It's lasted me this long." Ghost shifts his weight slightly. "Where are you coming from?"
"Near the base by the border, further north."
"Last I heard you were in Manchester."
"Once the radios went out, we picked up my wife," he touches the woman's shoulder, "Nereida, and Kyle's nephew here, Ari, from Newcastle. Made camp with a few others. Served us well for the past five years."
Ghost slowly nods and then drawls, "And Soap?â
Price leans his forearms on the table. "Not quite sure. The base was falling apart, but he stayed back, saying he'd meet up with us once he could. That was five years ago."
You're not sure who Soap is, someone else they worked with, maybe. There is a brief pause before Ghost asks, "Why did you leave?"
"More and more of 'em, Simon," Price replies with a slight shake of his head, emitting a low breath. "Made it difficult to even get food."
"Too many of them, not enough of us," Nereida murmurs. Tired. Distant. Her hand slips under the table, out of view. You imagine it resting on Price's thigh as she leans into him with a weighted sigh. "They always seem to be moving. Not with a destination in mind, of course, but it was only a matter of time before they ruined our setup. We decided to leave before that could happen."
Kyles adds, "It wasn't an easy decision, but living in anticipation of the worst isn't really living at all."
Your brows lower. âWhere exactly could you be headed that wouldn't mean living in anticipation of the worst?â you can't stop yourself from asking, the question burning in your mind.Â
Price leans back, those warm brown eyes finding yours. A short heartbeat passes before he answers simply, "Switzerland."
The absurdity of that single word response forces a disbelieving, chuffed breath through your nose. Of all the things this stranger could have said, that would have to be the least expected. You anticipate an equally surprised reaction from Ghost, but he seems unnervingly unfazed. Blue, however, swivels her head from where she sits cross-legged in front of the fire.
"What the fuck is Switzerland?"
"It's another country," the boyâAriâanswers.
Blue glances between him and her dad. "Like... not in England?"
Ari snorts softly. "No, not in England. It's across the channel."
"The channel?" Blue frowns. "That's... far, isn't it?"
"Very far," Nereida confirms with a nod.
The subject is brusquely dropped when Ghost suddenly rises, reaching for their cleared plates. "You must want to bathe while you're here. There's a river nearby."
Price clears his throat. "These two can go first." He gestures to the woman and child.
Soon enough, you become irritatingly aware of what's happening; you're being shooed away, along with the kids and Nereida, so the three of them can speak privately. There isn't much room to object as you shuffle out of the cabin, carrying a handful of rags for them to wash with along with the homemade soap that you once used to wash away the grime and earth that caked up from traveling.Â
The sun beats hard, the river warmer now that spring has aged. Dried sweat clings to your spine from this morning, but bathing yourself is the last thing on your mind now, not when you're still reeling in the presence of people you don't know. You swing a glance at the cabin behind your shoulder, something in your gut twisting. Ghost doesn't want you there to hear whatever they're talking about. The thought eats at you.
"This is a good spot," Blue says, stopping in front of a shallow part of the bank where the water is warmest. She hands Ari some soap and teeters on her toes. You realize why she keeps staring at him like that; he's probably the only other kid she's met in years. She is even more shy than when she first met you. "Twix and I will look away, don't worry."
You and Blue sit perched on a rock as they wash themselves.Â
"This is weird," she admits quietly to you.
"Very," you mumble.
When they're done, you offer Nereida the only clean clothes you have at the moment: one of the oversized shirts Ghost gave you and some jeans. An annoyingly strange thought brandishes your brain... you don't like the way the black fabric sits on her bare chest, nipples poking through, and the hem hanging down to her knees as it does on you. You should've just given her the dirty blouse to wear.
She sits at the edge of the river, wringing her soaked hair with a rag. From the corner of your eye, you catch Blue helping Ari rinse his dirty clothes in the water. You want to keep an eye on him; your knife is still nestled around your ankle in case they try anything, though a woman and preteen don't heighten your paranoia as much.Â
"How long have you two been together?"
Her soft voice makes you blink. "What?"
"You and Simon."
You're confused until you recall the revelation from earlierâthe man you've known the past few months as Ghost, the one whose hard form laid beneath you just hours ago, is actually Simon. Simon Riley. You're tempted to say the name; try it out. But it is hard to reconcile with. It might taste strange on your tongue. The name fits a version of him that doesn't exist in this world now, you suppose. British. Simple. Like John or Kyle. The name of a lieutenant. The bits of his face you've witnessed crosses your mind; his nose, lips, and chin seem like Simon. The damn mask is Ghost, though.
"Jesus... I am notâ" You shake your head, the sun even hotter on your neck. "I'm not with him like that. We're just allies." You glance back at the cabin in the distance and you fight a scowl. "If that."
She runs her fingers through ravenous tendrils. "Oh. I apologize for assuming."
You offer a small smile. "It's fine."
"How long have you been staying here then?"
"Um, a few months now. I used to stay with my sister and a friend, but they died."
Her eyes soften. "I'm sorry for your loss."
You shrug. "Everyone has lost important people."
"Doesn't make it easier," she says. "Ari's mom and younger sister used to be with us," she adds quietly with a solemn downward cast of her eyes, as if a memory has taken her for a moment. "They passed two years ago during a really rough winter along with this other couple we knew. Then it was just the four of us."
You inhale through your nose and release, frowning. "No child should have to experience that."
"No," she agrees, nodding. "They shouldn't. Which is why we're looking for a better life for him."
"And you think you'll find it in... Switzerland."
Nereida offers a half-smile, as if reading your thoughts. "We'd heard of a commune there, up in the mountains."
"A commune? Like what, a town?"
"Sort of. Just... more people, living together. Protected. Greys make awful climbers, and the mountains there are much higher than anything in the UK."
This catches your attention, and the divot between your brows deepens. "How do you know it exists?"
"Well, we can't know for certain. John heard about it at the beginning of the spread, but it was too difficult to make arrangements at the time, especially when he had to help out at the medical site and then come find me. Things were a mess, I'm sure you remember."
"Yeah, I do." You reel in her words, thinking. "That was... years ago, though. Aren't you taking a huge risk going there now? What if nothing is there?"
"Staying in England would be a risk, too," she counters. "There is nothing here except death and hardship. You can't hide from it forever."
Her words burrow deep into you during the walk back.
Is that what Ghost is talking about with them? Did he know about this place, too?
You think back to the kayak you spotted in the back of his truck, and the Plan B that you know he has despite never sharing it with you. You want to ask. But it's hard to catch him alone, not with them here. It's impossible to stay out of your thoughts, not even by the time the spring sky blackens and Ghost sets up blankets for the visitors on the cabin's floor.
You offer Ari the couch, figuring an exhausted kid needs it more than you do. He knocks out the moment he lays down.
"Here. For the night." Ghost offers you a heavy blanket and nods to the only bare spot of floor left after they've all settled down.Â
You avoid his eyes and accept the blanket with a quiet thanks. The moment he's disappeared to his room, you slip outside under the starlit night, finding the flattest patch of ground to lay the blanket down, which happens to be only a few paces away from a sleeping horse. It's not the couch, but it'll do for a night or two, and you refuse to sleep in the shed again.Â
You're in the midst of standing back up after straightening out your makeshift bed when you bump into something solid. A hand grips your bicep and whirls you around, a pair of darkened eyes glowering down at you.
"What are you doing?" you breathe up at him. "I don't like when you grab me like that."
"What are you doing?" he retorts, voice low and hard.
"Trying to get some sleep."
"Out here?"
You look away and shimmy out of his hold. "Does it matter where I sleep?"
"It's not safe out here."
"You had no problem sending me out here before."
"You have since earned your keep," he mutters, as if annoyed you're even mentioning the past.Â
"My spot is taken for the night by your lovely friends, so for however long you plan to let them stay, I will sleep out here."
"There is a spot on the floor for you inside."
"I'm not sleeping in there."Â With them.Â
His tone softens perceptibly. A mere breath. "They won't hurt you, Twix."
You roll your eyes away from him. "I would just rather sleep out here by myself, okay? I prefer solitude at my most vulnerable. And it's not like my experiences with militant men have been pleasant so far." You hide a wince.
Ghost emits a low huff. He suddenly rips the blanket from the ground and turns his back to you. "What are you doing?" you gape.
"You'll take my bed."
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I,,,, I uhhh,,,,,,, ummmmm uhhhhhhh
sketch I guess!
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Guys... How are we feeling about tomorrow?? đ§ââïž
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The Rage Within (I)
Summary: you aleardy are a regular to Viâs fights, always betting on her, cheering for her, doing everything in your power to get her attention. Unfortunately, it doesnât seem to be enough⊠so youâll have to cross the line a bit.
Warnings: mean!Vi, but she is just suffering, mentions of Caitlyn, tension, angst, possible spoilers.
Word count: 2k
A/N: So this is my first time writing Vi, omg!! I hope I did justice! There will be a next part if you guys like the first
Your place was not here.
Not between addicts, thieves and criminals. This place was a complete shit hole and yet, you still came everynight when there was an illegal fight being held. But since everything here was already illegal⊠you could say this made the fights somehow legal? The point is, you did not belong in such place, where all these horrible things kept happening because the people above lost fate in restoring this place. They just decided to leave the Undercity alone and hoped the people who lived in here would burn it to the ground. And by the looks of it⊠it might even happen sooner than later. Blood is spilled at every corner and people fight for their lives to get through each day because they are not given a better option.
In order to stay alive you have to either get involved in dealing, have connections with powerful people or make people scared of you. Fear can help you stay alive. What did you have then? Shimmer? No fucking way, even the thought of it disgusted you. Fear? No one will ever take you seriously if you try to fight them, really. Then maybe connections? Not really. You were a nobody here. Even if your familiy name had weight in Piltover, here it didnât even matter.
What helped you to stay alive were your cunning mind and your charming persona. You knew how to play people without them even realizing it. You knew how to make yourself likeable enough so people would actually want to be around you, protect you. You would say you were an expert into getting under anyoneâs skin. Well, almost anyone. Even with all of your skills and charms, there was still one person who just didnât want to give in, and that was very frustrating to you since she was the only reason you even became a regular to this place.
Vi.
She was so intriguing to you. Everything about her fascinated you and you could not even explain why. You really didnât have a clue on why she atrracted you so much. Sure, she was strong, courageous, confident, and one single glance for her made you weak in the knees, but she was so much more than that. You didnât even know much about her, only from what people would wishper around you, but most of them refrained themselves from speaking about her past or her present. They knew better to keep their mouths just since Vi was someone you didnât want on your bad side.
Her misteryous persona was also another thing which attracted you. Vi kept her to herself and no one else. Even if sheâd win or lose, she would always leave after a match. She did this thing every time: she would come here, fight someone twice her size and then leave immediately, as if there was no reason for her to stay. For her it seemed like nothing really mattered anymore: it didnât matter how many people were screaming her name, how loud they were cheering, how satisfying the victory wasâŠ
You have heard her once saying that she lost something so important that not even a million victories could make up for it. Of course she was drunk as hell when she said it, but in that moment she seemed the most vulnerable sheâd ever been since you met her. Most people thst were around ignored Vi that night, but not you. Youâve realized she was talking about Caitlyn, an enforced she had a thing with⊠and by the looks of it, it ended really bad. You were not familiar with the details of their break up, but you had a few guesses on why amd how it happend.
âYour fighting tonight was terribleâ you said your as she walked past you with heavy steps.
She didinât even spare a glance in your direction and it wasnât like she didnât hear what you said to her. Even with all the noise, she could still hear you very well. But she was clearly not interested enough to acknowledge your presence nor your words. She just continued to walk straight, with a neutral expression painted over her face. You could not but roll your eyes at her childish demeanor, deciding to not let her get away without hearing everything you had to say, and began following her closely, letting your frustrations out.
âI put a lot of my money on you and you lostâ you accused as your eyes studied her back. It was all bruised and bloody, with deep scratches across her skin, but youâd seen her in a much worse state than this. Unfortunately.
You just hear her scoff at your words, shaking her head, but still keeping her silence. By the way you knew Vi, she should have already snapped at you by now, so her not instantly throwing some insults in your direction was odd. Very odd.
âWhatâs that?â You ask, reffering to the small scoff she let out.
âYour money? Or daddyâs money?â Vi finally asked, her tone clearly mocking you as she got close to a metal door, pushing it open and revealing a dirty restroom.
âDoes it matter?â You frown at her question, as you place your hands on the door to keep it open to enter as well. Unfortunately, you didnât have the same force as Vi so you felt the heaviness of the door going back against you, which made you let out a desperate yelp, catching Viâs attention.
She quickly caught the door with her hand just in time to not hit you and you slipped inside with the speed of light, being embarrased at the situation. You also expected her to say something mean, but she didnât. The brunette just let out a deep sigh at your inability to do the simplest things, as she turned her attention back to one of the sinks, walking towards it.
âIt doesâ Vi sighs at your previous answer as she takes off the bloody bandages from her knuckels. You felt a certain tiredness in her voice.
âWhy?â You ask further, frowning a bit as you lean your back against one of the stall doors. This time, you were met with silence, as the girl simply turned on the faucet and began washing her hands, completely ignoring your presence again.
Your mouth parted, ready to ask again, but you got distracted once your eyes fell on her tatted back, seeing the muscles flex with each of her moves. You could not but bite your bottom lip at the sight in front of you. Honestly you werenât even mad about the money you lost tonight. It was just a pretext to have a conversation with her, because you were craving any kind of interaction with Vi. You were so desperate for any possible touch, any look she would give you, any word she would say to you. Anything from her thrilled you.
âIf you got any complains, you can give them to Lorisâ Vi said as she turned off the faucet and quickly grabbed her bandages from the sink.
Her words pulled you out of the trance, as you realized she was getting ready do leave. This was your only chance to have more time with her before she would get ambushed by her admirers and you would have to wait again for a chance to talk to her properly. You knew how to make her stop, you didnât like it, but it was neccessary.
âYour fighting tonight was badâŠâ you began to speak as you watched her step towards the door. âBecause you are thinking about her again, donât you?â You bit your lip once the words leave your mouth, knowing you really crossed the line with this question.
Vi completely freezes at your question, suddenly stopping any further movement and remaining still in the middle of the room, her back turned towards you. You see how tense she becomes as her hands ball into fists, grasping the bloody bandages. You hear her take in a deep breath, probably to calm herself down and not completely break in front of you. And honestly, by the way you knew her, it wasnât even about you. It could have been anyone in your place. She just doesnât want to be seen crying. Sheâd rather people see her getting beat up than her shed tears.
âYou donât know shitâ she replies on a raspy voice, her tone harsh and full of rage, as you have never heard her before. You really did struck a nerve, but you at least got her attention.
âViâŠâ you softly said as you approached her with small steps. You slowly raise your arm, wanting to place your hand on her bare shoulder, but you yelp when you feel her own hand coming to your wrist, stopping your movement.
âWhat do you think youâre doing?â she asks with greeted teeth as she squizzes your wrist in her calloused palm.
âI am trying to help you!â You frown at her, already feeling yourself fed up with her stone cold attitude. âI know it might seem wierd, but I actually care for you! I hate seeing you like thisâŠâ you confess, but get cut off by her in an instant.
âNobody asked you to care for meâ She scoffes as she turns to you, finally facing you. She was so close that you could feel her warm breath against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. Her blue eyes were staring down at you so intently, making you want to get away from her, but the warmth of her body was too alluring to put some distance between you two.
âI know-â you tried speaking, but you stopped as she started walking and you had no choice but to walk back, until you feel the hardness of the brick wall behind you. You were now trapped, with Vi firmly placed in front of you, leaving you no way to escape.
âWhy donât you stop playing pretend and go back to your perfect little life in Piltover, huh? I bet you find it fun to come to these fights, right?â The brunette asks mockingly and you feel the shame creeping up in your body.
âVi, pleaseâ you whimper when she puts more pressure on your wrist.
âFor you itâs just a fucking performance you can watch, for me this is my lifeâ She spits the words in your face, making you look down because of the intensitiy of her gaze.
âLook at me when I talk to youâ Vi commands as her free hand grabs your face, her fingers digging into your soft skin, forcing you to look at her again.
âI really enjoy this place! I can be a nobody here, where no one cares about my name nor my status. I donât want to leave!â You try to defend yourself, your voice trembling under her gaze.
âThen what do you want?â She scoffs at your weak defense, rolling her eyes in annoyance.
ââŠYouâ you reply on a small voice, making her frown.
âCome again?â Vi asks as she tilts her head to the side, making you gulp.
âI want youâ you repeat yourself, this time a bit louder. âShe doesnât deserve you, Vi!â You say with frustration in your voice, making her raise one of her brows.
âAnd you do?â She chuckles mockingly, and you feel your cheeks redden.
âWhy donât you give me a chance? I can take it all away! I can make you forget her!â You say as you place your free hand on her bruised cheek, carresing it with your thumb.
âYou think so highly of yourself, donât you?â Vi replies. You see how she suddenly moves closer to you, her lips brushing against your ear lobe. Her scent was invading your senses, a mix of sweat, blood and something earthy.
âYou canât handle meâ Vi wishpers.
She finally lets go of your wrist, which now was red from how hard she was holding it. You see how Vi steps away from you and turns around, leaving you flustered and confused, with your heart beating like you just ran a fucking marathone from her sudden closeness.
âTry me then!â you find yourself yelling after her, but she just shakes her head at your answer, smirking more to herself as she looks at you.
âKeep dreaming, cupcakeâ
And with that, she leaves.
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POP ROCKS & PUNCHES MASTERLIST
finished: 1/11/22
đđđđ đđđ€đ„đđŁđđđ€đ„
WRECKED, part 1
THUNDER, part 2
FOLLOW YOU, part 3
FRICTION, part 4
BOOMERANG, part 5
MOUTH OF THE RIVER, part 6
LONELY, part 7
NEXT TO ME, part 8
SMOKE AND MIRRORS, part 9
MACHINE, part 10
NOTHING LEFT TO SAY, part 11
IT'S TIME, part 12
ENEMY, part 13, the finale
đđđ€đđđđđđđđ đŠđ€
pop rocks & punches playlist
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I'm not just a bitch, I'm a bitch with a backstory
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And I Can Only Think of You (Act II End)
Words: 5.3k Tags: Knight!Ghost x Princess!reader, Keegan x f!oc, knight fights, tournament violence, blood, love confessions(sort of), shitty dads, König being a creepy weirdo, major character injury, no beta we die like [redacted] Summary: Your stage has been set, the player take their places, and suddenly decide to improvise.
< prev part Masterlist
The flags are raised first. Tents follow. Then the knights and their squires, then the arena and brown dirt that will so quickly become darkened with blood. You watch the set up from the castle, content to think through your plans as fences are raised and benches are built. Your mind is made up, wheels in motion, and players taking their places. You have every confidence in Ghost.Â
Perhaps you should have that same confidence in yourself, but⊠one step at a time. Itâs hard to turn around a lifetime of conditioning. You have to remind yourself of your convictions, remind yourself that youâre worth the same confidence you offer your knight. Yet, too often you find yourself hoping this is a terrible dream that Ghost will wake you up from, and youâll find yourself back in the forest with him.Â
Suddenly bandits and assassins seem so much easier to deal with. âThe enemies you knowâ as the saying goes.
Youâll find your confidence when this is all over, when you have proof of your abilities. Until then you have your embroidery.
-
It shouldnât surprise you that your Ghost is popular. Heâs at least a head taller than most of the other knights, standing proudly and directing his subordinates in that lovely deep voice, of course thereâd be women that admired him. You donât know why there needs to be so damn many of them though, especially this early in the morning. Your heart clenches so tightly in your chest you think it might have stopped. You wonder if youâve made a grave mistake, a mistake of the heart that you don't know how to recover from. Until he spots you and his dark eyes lighten with a flash of warmth that may as well melt you.Â
You feel so suddenly like yourself, like that damsel heâs always been so dutiful in his protection of. A princess running from her fatherâs attempt at a marriage arrangement and leaving her slippers with a stranger. Even with that dark cloth over his mouth you know Ghostâs smile by the crinkle of his eyes. You clutch your token close to your chest, something you should have given to Ghost when he'd been taken off your detail. Youâd thought heâd be wearing your colors at least, but the cool flash of his armor holds no green besides the reflection of grass under his feet. You tip your head to look up at him, letting his dark eyes hold your gaze until he reaches to smooth his thumb between your brows.Â
âWhat are you frowning about now?â He asks, the low rumble of his voice warm and teasing. The leather of his glove under the cool steal of his armor only makes you pout more. Heâs always touched you so easily, too easily if the rumors around you two are to be believed, but itâs never warmed your skin like this. Your fingers dig into the token youâd fashioned, nearly crushing the embroidery under the weight of your nerves.
âIâm merely anxious for the tournament.â You tell him, and earn a crease of his eyes, an amused hum.
âHave I ever disobeyed an order from you, my lady?â Ghost asks, his fingers slipping from your forehead to trace your jaw.
âOf course not.â You frown. You feel strangely⊠scolded.
âThen trust me,â He tilts his head, âYou told me to win, and I intend to.â
The cold determination in his eyes washes over you like a chill. Youâve seen those eyes too many times, caught the fury in them as his sword splattered blood over his helm. Itâs the same look heâs held every time heâs saved you from certain doom, and you want nothing more than to give into it, to let him save you once more. What once held your hopes now feels burdensome in your hand. You wish-Â
No, no more wishing. You made a promise to yourself. You're not going to be that scared little princess anymore. You're not going to wait on someone to save you. You're in charge of your own destiny, and if you want something you have to take it for yourself.
âYouâre not wearing my crest,â You change the subject, leaning to inspect his cape, or lack thereof. Ghost huffs.
âNever wouldâve made it out of the barracks if I âad.â Your fatherâs doing youâre sure. Anything to keep Ghost separated from you, unburdened by responsibilities to the throne. Despite his new position as captain of the knights he doesnât wear the royal crest. Disavowed, abandoned by the throne he serves. Ripe for a new king to swoop in and claim him.
âWell,â You nod, reassuring yourself, âitâs a good thing I came around then.â Another satisfied hum from Ghost, approving. It leaves your cheeks burning. You hold up the deep green fabric clutched between your fingers, the long strip embroidered carefully with the curling ivy and white dahlias that make up your personal crest.Â
âJust in the nick of time,â Ghost makes no move to take it, âwas worried one of the other ladies would tuck theirs in my belt first.â Itâs a joke, but it stalls in your brain. His hand drops to his side, fingers tugging at the leather belt looped around his middle. Making room for you to slide the banner in.
âOh,â You stall, beg yourself not to stutter, without finding a single word to stutter on. You glance around at the other knights, house banners and loversâ tokens hang off their belts. It makes sense, capes would get in the way of combat, but something simple like a flag on their beltâŠ
You glance up at Ghost, feel his stare like a two ton weight. Heâs teasing you, youâre sure. The same dry humor that made you throw sticks at him when you made camp. Horrible jokes.Â
You look down at his belt, watch his hand raise out of your view, feel his fingers pluck at the hair peeking out from under your circlet. Your own fingers go to his belt, calling his bluff as you thread your banner over the leather, and tug it into place. He leans to press his lips to the strand heâs pulled free, his shadow makes a chill run up your spine, and you feel the tug at your scalp as you shudder. You try to look busy making the banner lay flat, picking at the forest green until itâs perfectly draped over his belt, your crest on display for all to see.
Your fingers wonât pull away from him. You will them to, but there they stay.Â
âThank you,â Ghost says, his voice a low murmur. You nod. His gloved finger traces over your cheek, tips your head up to meet his eyes. âWhere did my confident lady go?â He teases you.
âWaiting for her father.â You mutter.
Ghost hums, his distaste clear in the tone. You fidget with the banner on his belt, enjoy the nervous flutter in your stomach as his fingers stroke your cheek. You donât know how he does it, how he can be so steadfast. Thereâs never a moment where heâs wavered, never a time youâve questioned his devotion to you. Ever since you met him, youâve known that Ghost was here by his will alone and no one elseâs.Â
Maybe that was why your father hated him. The one man in the kingdom who held no allegiance to the crown. Who never would have taken his commission if he hadnât wanted to. Who told the monarchy ânoâ with as much mirth as he did conviction.
âI have to talk to the priest,â You tell him, hoping mention of your errands will help move you.Â
It doesnât help to move Ghost. His hand stays as it was, the worn leather covering his knuckles skirting over your cheek with painful care.Â
âWhat do I get when I win?â Ghost asks.
When, you remind yourself, not if.
âHopefully whatever you want,â His eyes crease at the edges, warm honey brown making your heart patter, âso start making a list.â
âYes maâam.â
You have to look away from him, your cheeks far too warm to allow for eye contact. It takes his hand from your cheek, gives you the strength to pull your hands from his belt. You canât hang around him all day. Both of you have roles to play, proverbial swords to swing.
âGood luck my lady.â Ghost mumbles. The heat of his hands following you as you hurry back to your retinue.
Your lady-in-waiting smiles at you, takes her hand off your knightâs arm. You note that her familyâs crest decorates his belt with, perhaps, too much interest. Youâd noticed them growing closer, but not that close. Your knight covers the banner with his hand, and you force your eyes from it to smile at your maid.
"You have everything prepared?" You ask her. She nods.
"Of course m'lady." She twists to unhook the pouch she'd brought, producing a scroll for you.
You'd been worried after your letter to Ghost, that she might resent you. You've known your lady-in-waiting since you were a child, but knowing who you could trust was difficult when your father's grip on your life only seemed to tighten. Still, she'd been steadfast in her allegiance to you, and almost excited to help you in your scheming. You're sure you've been too clear in your affections for your knight, clear enough to risk her as well, it's nice knowing she's in your corner. Even if you hadn't thought she'd been there.
Maybe she weighed her options. Though you're not sure how you won if she did.
"Who's with my father?" You ask Keegan. He makes a face, his nose scrunching his mask in distaste.
"Graves."
"Perfect." You take the scroll from your lady-in-waiting and turn to find the announcer.
"I'm sure he'd be chuffed to hear that," Keegan tells you with an almost audible eye roll.
You're sure he would be. Just like you're sure Graves is doing his best to shove his entire head up your father's ass with how much he kisses the damn thing. That man has his eyes on knight captain, and you're sure your father has already let him know that the position will be open shortly.
Not if you have anything to do with it.
You spot the bored looking priest that's been assigned to announce the contest. Impartial in that he seems uninterested in all of it. You couldn't think of a better puppet than one who seems so keen on staying out of the actual event. Who better than someone who won't question changes because they simply do not care?
"Priest," You wave him down, dissatisfied with the placid smile he turns your way as you walk towards him.
"Princess," He greets.
"My father asked me to deliver this," You hold the scroll out to him, he nods once, a slow and steady bowing of his head. You detest it. Your fathers name carries God's weight. "König had some changes he wanted made to the prize." You smile. An explanation that's unasked for, short and sweet for a man that cares only enough not to crush the paper in his hand.
"Of course." The priest agrees. Inept, you think. There's no chance the man checks your switch, even less that he checks with your father about it. You won't be sad to see him go when your father decides to behead him after the tournament.
You nod, the priest bows, you part ways. You count yourself lucky that his ineptitude extends to his desire to pray for you.
Your lady-in-waiting sticks close to your side as you make your way to the sheltered seats reserved for your family. Another point of luck that you're sitting beside your mother. You father is too busy with his attempts to impress König to notice you settling in your chair, though you do see König's eyes flick to greet you. Mad dog he may be, at least he keeps track of his surroundings.
Your stomach ties itself into knots as your parents are plied with wine. You decline your own glass, too nervous to entertain even thoughts of alcohol. You may throw up. Your confidence, or lack thereof, in the priest is waning the longer you wait. Maybe he's peaked at your alterations. Maybe he'll send a page to alert your father. Maybe you'll be locked in your room for good to prevent any further scheming before you're sold to the highest bidder.
The priest takes his place, carried by long divinely purposeful strides, in the center of the arena. If nothing else, at least he's loud.
You tune out most of the drivel he spews. Artfully copied word for word by your lady-in-waiting from the real scroll, you really should ask where she learned such forgery, it's all praises for the king, the day, your god on high. Worthless. Less than worthless. At least the paper holds value, the ink, the time taken, but the words themselves? God. Get to the important part.
"The prize-" The priest screeches, "-which shall be allotted in full to the victor alone, announced to the people by their gracious and loving king, heretofore and forever regarded as the divinely appointed ruler of the land, shall be His Majesty's only daughter's hand in-" The priest stalls, stutters, stares at the parchment and finishes weakly, "-in marriage."
There's silence.
Then chaos.
The knights in their pen turn to you with such pinpoint precision you'd think they'd practiced the movement. You keep your eyes on the priest. Of all the eyes on you, you feel your father's the heaviest. He nails you in place, unable to speak a word over the raucous excitement of the crowd. The crown princess, finally to be married, and to a knight- no, the best night in the land, no less. It's like a fairy tale.
If you can survive it.
Your eyes dart to the pen, to the stoic figure of your knight, his eyes fixed on the priest as well. His hand is clenched tight around the hilt of his sword. Even with all the excitement he stands like a statue, his gaze level. If you didn't know him better you might mistake his stillness for calmness. He's thinking, calculating, weighing his odds. You told him to win, he'd already known what he had to do, but this- this changes things. Chaos is harder to account for.
He turns your way, his eyes dark when they lock onto yours. He gives you a short nod, and you feel the weight of it settle in your chest. Ghost turns back to the arena and disappears behind the helm he presses over his head.
You haven't seen it in ages. Burnished steel, the white pattern of a scull pained over the front, and his eyes flashing cold in the shadows. He cuts a fitting picture, your father's nightmare given human form. He has no one to root for now.
You turn your attention back to your family. Your mother hides her shock behind a facade of calm, her eyes fixed on her people with a placid smile. You never had a chance to truly ask her- no matter. Your father hides his contempt well. Practiced at it, you suppose. König has his cheek resting against his hand, his lips curled over his teeth in an approximation of a smile. You've seen monkeys in caravans make that expression, baring their teeth the way their human handler has taught them. Some part of you feels glad to have earned some semblance of his approval, as detestable a man as he may be. At least someone is having fun.
You wonder what human taught him to approximate a smile. You can't imagine his kingdom has many saints, but his handler must be one of them.
You'll try to enjoy yourself as well. After all, you're soon to be betrothed to your knight. You can't think of a better man to hand your future to. Ghost has never let you down, and you can't see him starting now.
That's how the first match goes.
Your knight swings his sword with such practiced precision that it sends his opponent's flying from his grip barely moments into the fight.
Not to be outdone the rival knight lunges for him, and you taste bitterness on your tongue when Ghost brings his sword down hard on his rival's helm. The poor fool is crushed, sent sprawling flat on the ground with the imprint of Ghost's hilt decorating the back of his helm. The cheers are as violent as the match-up as Ghost raises his fist to the crowd, his sword hung lazy at his side. You can almost feel the smug air radiating off of him. Similarly, you can feel your father's ire poisoning the air around you.
You care little for the other matches. Tournaments are only fun when you have someone to root for after all, and when it's your life hanging in the balance you find yourself looking away from the lecherous gazes of the other challenging knights. You can't find it in yourself to feign an interest in their matches.
If your mother is to believed you shouldn't have to.
Rumors of your attachment to Ghost are the very reason he was taken away from you. You're sure the other knights know all too well who you're rooting for. If it weren't clear from the banner on his belt, surely they'd know it from the gossip that floods the castle. It's only their own greed and lust for your crown that gives them any hope at all for taking your hand at the end of the day.
One thing is for sure. You've never seen a tournament so bloody.
The knights fight like rabid dogs. If they cannot disarm their opponent they will attempt to kill him, searching for the breaks in their armor and beating their sword into the bends. Men beat each other with their fists, they batter each other with maces, they claw for every scrape they can achieve until the priest yells for them to stop.
You watch Keegan dodge a particularly deadly blow from a larger knight, his eyes wild with bloodlust. It makes your skin crawl to think such a man might ever force his way into your bed. Your only saving grace is watching your knight swing his sword, twisting with the grace of a dancer to hold his blade against his opponent's throat.
You suppose it's good that Keegan has no dreams of the monarchy, content as he is to pull your lady-in-waiting's banner from his belt and press it to his helm. He could give your Ghost a run for his money.
One of the servants offers you lunch partway through. You bundle bread and sweet meat into your handkerchief, and pass it off to your lady-in-waiting to take to Ghost. You're sure he's resigned himself to hunger, and you'd rather he keep himself in fighting shape.
You smile when you catch your father's eye.
There is something pleasant about going against the man. Not pleasant enough to go so far as killing him, despite König's suggestion, but satisfying nonetheless. Your father has always seemed larger than life, untouchable in his judgement, but now you see him as exactly what he always has been: a man in a fancy hat. A man without half the strength that your Ghost has. A man that could crumble under the weight of a sword.
Your father has strength in his eyes, but straight backs can be broken as easily as hunched ones.
You hear the sickening crunch of yielding bones and catch the way Graves jerks and twists at his opponent's arm under the hollering jeers of onlookers. The man screams out in pain, and your father's knight releases him. Only to plant his foot against the knight's chest and kick him to the ground.
The priest calls the match, and Graves moseys to fetch his sword from where he threw it. He wears your father's --the monarchy's-- crest on his belt.
You look at your father, his smile proud beside your mother's wide eyed horror. He turns to look at you.
âA late entry,â the king tells you, âbut quite impressive, don't you think?â
You don't think. Not on your life would you think your father's pick impressive. Not with the way he saunters towards your stand and leans against the banners. His blue eyes now black, swallowed by his pupils, look you up and down like a hog for slaughter.
âY'know princess,â he smiles, âI always thought you were a pretty thing. Guess now I'll finally get to see you without the big guy staring me down.â
You shouldn't entertain that with a response. You keep your eyes firmly on the priest as he announces, silently, the next match. Your hearing rolls with the crashing of waves, the thrum of your blood circulating and rushing against your brain, trying to find purchase for some new brilliant plan. Trying to find reason against your faith in Ghost. You find nothing but your own affection.
âYou will lose.â You assure Graves. He hums, his smile unwavering. Unnerving. He pushes away from the banner covered fence and pats the knight coming into the area on the shoulder.Â
You won't let him or your father's bastard-airs dissuade you. Ghost has fought twenty men and come out unscathed. He's rescued you from far worse than Graves could throw at him. Besides, the only good Graves has done in his life is give you someone to root against in the tournament.
And root against him you do. When you aren't cheering for your Ghost(and Keegan, bless him) you're cheering on whatever poor soul is stuck facing your father's pick.
With each rung the knights climb towards your hand the matches grow bloodier. Men seem less afraid to go against the rules of combat, more willing to darken the dirt with their opponent's blood. You watch Keegan take a nasty blow to the face before managing to disarm his opponent. When he flips the visor of his helm up you're treated to crimson staining his brow, flooding his eye such that he has to call for a cloth to clear it. Your Ghost too, seems to grow harsher, his goal --your goal-- closer with each victory he achieves.
He batters one opponent with his sword still sheathed, beating the other knight into submission with a singular focus that you so rarely see. Still, he seems to be the only one to avoid spilling unnecessary blood on the field. Your sword raised carefully against your subjects, rot excised with surgical precision.
Graves holds none of the same delicacy.
Yet he turns to be sure you're watching with each man he injures. His hand raised to you --to your father more accurately-- as if to more openly show off his ruthlessness. Even the mutt king seems impressed with him.
"ScheiĂe," König hums, his smile still biting into his fingers, "What is it you English call it?" He asks your father, "Cutting the same clothes?"
"Yes I was rather brash at that age too," Your father agrees, so smug, the bastard.
"Oh no," König's smile, now at least, seems to fill with joy, perhaps he can only do that when faced with someone else's misery, "It is my clothes he cuts from."
It's the first you've seen your father hesitate. His eyes draw to Graves' grin, his helmet tossed and his cheek wearing the blood of his victory. It drags a path over his teeth, and you know you'll see the pink tinge of his spit in your nightmares. It's as if this is the first he's seen his personal guard without the blinders of stopping your betrayal.
And what can your father say? That he hopes Graves isn't? That König is the last kind of king he'd ever want to hand his kingdom over to?
He glances at you.
That he'd want to hand you over to?
He is still your father after all. It's the first time in years you've seen the same concern he held for you as a little girl. The first time you think he's looked at you as something other than a tool for his own political gains. You wonder if he's wondering: Can he really hand his daughter over to a man like König?
To a late entry?
You look away from him, and to the man your father had so cruelly put forth to win you. Not because he thought you were a particularly good match. Not because he had a particular fondness for Graves. But because he hated Ghost. You wonder if his own petty resentment is good enough reason to hand you to a man with blood in his teeth.
All the more reason to cheer for your own men.
You pay little attention to the rest of the matches. You gossip with your lady-in-waiting and do your best to ignore the rest of the world. You only know when Keegan has taken the field again when your friend stops talking. She looks so worried you'd think he was facing the devil himself. Serves you right for ignoring the matches, you suppose. You must have missed the dark lord's summoning.
Turning to the field you do see the problem. He's up against Ghost. If this were any other tournament you might feel bad rooting against the poor fellow, but as it stands you can't find it in yourself to hope Keegan wins. You have neither the desire to marry him, nor the desire to take him from your friend.
It's probably best that he puts up a lackluster fight. His grip is loose when Ghost's sword swings, and much like the knight in the first round Keegan's sword goes flying.
The two men stand facing each other before Keegan lets out a long breath.
"Oh no!" He yells, "Not my sword! God not my sword!" He makes an exaggerated showing of shrugging, "Oh well, I suppose the match is yours."
You snort. It's good that he has his knighthood to fall back on, he certainly has no future in acting if that performance is to be believed. Still, your lady-in-waiting cheers loudly for him as he exits the field. You cheer as well, falling into your friend's laughter even through the nerves that grip your stomach.
You look at the tournament board and watch your crest move to the final round. The tree finally reaching its inevitable conclusion. Ghost is going to win just like you told him to.
Your eyes flick to the other side and land on the royal seal just as Graves is announced in his own semi-final round.
You know in your heart that he'll win with the same understanding that you know fire will burn you and the sea will swallow you whole if you let it. It is a fact that cruelty like his rarely goes punished.
You stand from your seat, you can't watch this match. No matter how short it may be, you can't watch. You can't see that man win again.
You go to find Ghost.
There's a page fussing over him when you make your way to the knight's rest area. You don't recognize them, but you don't spend much time at the training grounds. Ghost spots you immediately and waves off the boy to greet you.
"Go back to your seat," He advises, though there's no push behind his words.
"I wanted to congratulate you." You grin and see his shoulders lower slightly, softening beneath the armor.
"Thank me after, my lady," You can hear the smile in his voice even behind that horrible helm, "I'm only following orders."
"You're following them beautifully." You reach to fix the drape of your banner on his belt, and see him tilt his head in your periphery. His hand raises and he brushes the steel knuckle of his glove against your cheek. Soft despite the cold, unyielding material.
"The other knights think you've fixed the tournament." He mumbles.
"I have," You tip your head back to look at him, trying to find the warm copper of his eyes through the slits in his helm, "I put you in it."
The huff of breath Ghost lets out is as close to laughter as you'll get from him, but it warms you all the same. He turns his head away from you, surveying the field of defeated knights. All men he'll be commanding as king soon, men who must envy and revere him in equal measure. You're sure how it must look to them, but perhaps it's better they think they lost due to some predestination rather than their own inability.
"You should head back," He turns back to you, "No need to hear what your father's man has been saying about you."
Your stomach churns, "What's he saying?"
"Nothing he won't pay for." Again you can hear Ghost's smile, and it settles your nerves. You nod, gathering your strength around you.
"Then I'll be waiting for you," You assure him.
"You'll never have to wait again when this is over."
You push up onto your toes, and press your forehead against his. The bend of his back must be painful under the layers of steel, but you're sure he'd agree it's worth it for a small parting comfort before you turn to hurry to your seat.
You're only too happy to see the field bare when you make it back. Your lady-in-waiting is beaming in a way that makes you think perhaps she paid her own knight a visit.
Your father's crest has been moved to face your own. An inevitability, but one that you find your confidence bolstered on. You have Ghost's assurance, what else could matter?
König leans forward in his seat, his eyes sparking with excitement next to your father. There's a tightness on your father's lips, nerves in his eyes. You've never known him as a man who shows fear, but perhaps that's just because he's never been on the losing side. You're sure to cheer particularly loud when Ghost takes the field once again. Your father doesn't even stand for Graves.
The priest gives his spiel, the knights bow before the king, and you stand to smile at the crowd when the prize is reaffirmed. Your hand in marriage, and the whole kingdom as a result. You're not surprised when the priest nearly runs from the area, not when both knights draw their sword as soon as they raise their heads.
You can't say who swings first, only that the clash of their swords is deafening. Both knights hold the other back before Ghost squares his shoulders and swings again.
Graves deflects.
Ghost swings.
Graves deflects. Swings.
Ghost deflects.
They trade blows that make your ears ring. Their swords swung with such force you can almost see the flex of muscle under their armor. You can see why your father has kept Graves close, he's a talented swordsman, but he isn't Ghost. Graves is fast, following the momentum of his swings. It's flashy compared to Ghost's technical perfection, hollow with wasted movement.
Ghost takes a step back and you watch him switch his grip. In all the years you've known him you've never seen him change hands, but when he twirls the blade you see an ease of movement that seems supernatural. It's enough of a display to make Graves lunge forward.
You remember Ghost telling you once that the only true rule of combat is to win at all costs. That chivalry is for those that can afford a loss. There's no weakness in the way Ghost moves, and you have no doubt in his ability to win.
He side steps Graves' attack, his sword raised to bring the hilt down hard on Graves' shoulder, and stops as his armor's straps pull tight
and snap.
You watch with the rest of the helpless audience as Graves flips his grip and plunges his blade deep into Ghost's side. Slicing the metal clean through through the back of him dark with the sheen of blood spattering onto the dirt like a waterfall.
It's not the cling of swords the rings in your ears as you leap to your feet, but your own shrieking. It follows Ghost to the ground as he settles hard onto one knee. The shouting of the crowd is a deafening cacophony of "Blood! Blood! Blood!"
And your world crumbles into a single point as Ghost's helm tips to stare up at your father's victory.
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Everyone has at least one character whoâs death you ignore and pretend it never happened.
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I was supposed to be doing real work today and instead this happened. She's going to climb him like a tree
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red ochre [1]
part one -> minium || part two -> tbd
pairing: viking goap x fem! nun reader summary: you become the unlikely treasure of two vikings who raid your convent looking for gold w.c: 4.3k tags/warnings: religious themes (DLDR), minor suicidal ideation, mention of viking raids (slavery, violence, death), kidnapping, threats, dubcon bathing + touching, mean simon (ish), established goap, reader is underfed and beaten in the convent (corporal punishment), difficult travel, some food description
Near the coast the wind scratches at you when it blows, full of sand and salt.
Once, you'd imagined this as your calling; committed to asceticism, married to God, serving under the abbess. Enclosed, you find yourself stifled more than devoted, pressing your face to the stone barrier that blocks the convent from the outside world.
Isolation, never being quite full, the slow and steady stripping of your identity. This is your life - hollowed out, like meat sucked from a crab, cracked open and used and hollow.
You couldn't have predicted Christ to be such an inconsiderate husband.
"Girl!" the voice is the crack of a whip in empty air. You don't jump, but the hair on your body raises, the welts on your thighs sting.
"Yes, mother?" you put your chin down to your chest, turning, pressing your back to the wall. Demure, submissive, utterly devoid of fight. And still, her grip finds you hard as iron and rough as the rock you'd just been touching, pulling you hard enough to make your shoulder ache back toward the heavy wood doors of the dormitory.
"You shirk your duties again, child? Leave your sisters to pick up your slack?" you didn't mean to, truly. It's only that you ache so deeply you're afraid you might never recover from the feeling.
"Please forgive me, mother, I lost track of time," you murmur. Your uniform is damp from the spray outside, and you relish in the scent and feel of it. Freedom, that's what it is. "Allow me to make up for-"
"Hush!" spit touches your cheek. You don't wipe it away. "You'll finish the tapestry tonight. No matter how long it takes you."
Desperately, you wish for God to strike you down. If you're there, father. You close your eyes. Please, please kill me now.
He doesn't listen, and the abbess pushes you to supper.
Dark bread, boiled turnips, fish and wine. Average, filling, but you'd hoped for more of the crumbly white cheese from yesterdays supper.
You know not to complain. And truly, you are grateful. With your family, it had been gruel upon gruel, often bear, and rarely flavour. Salt kisses your tongue now, and the wine makes your sore muscles relax.
The monks have it harder; you'd visited them once as a girl with your father to pray, but there was still labour to be done here. Cooking was often your job, as was doing the washing and the tilling for the vegetable garden.
Today sister Colette had assigned you weaving so that you wouldn't be out of practice. The muscles in your back and fingers ached from it already, and dread made your stomach sour to the food you ate at the thought of more work.
Mealtimes were quiet, as required. The other women eat mousily, looking down at their plates and pulling their food apart into small little bites, trying to make it last. Obedience, poverty. How silly it was now that you'd dreamed of this.
"Sister?" a whisper, next to you. Margaret was almost a friend, too pious to really confide in but so kind it was impossible to ignore her. "What were you doing?"
"I felt compelled," you shrug, lips oily from the fish. "I felt confined."
"Oh sister," Margaret pushes her bottom lip out, dark eyebrows pulling up. "You should never feel confined here."
You knew, and yet you did. It was like living in a stone coffin. All the work felt pointless since your heart had strayed from God. Even now, touching Margaret's elbow to comfort her in her worry for you, you're sick to death of even clearing plates.
There was one secret they hadn't found. None of the sisters, not even the abbess, had found your secret booklet.
Paper was more valuable than gold since the church needed so much to copy and produce texts. The writing room at the very top of the convent, where you were so seldomly asked, was full of it and guarded by lock and key.
Over months, you'd scrounged, stealing enough to make a booklet. In it, you felt sustained. Free. Titillated, sometimes, when your hand found its way beneath your soft worn blanket under your shift and you drew indecent drawings of men coming to save you. Of the farmboys from your village.
They were nothing like real art, not so detailed, but they lit inside you a spark of life. Without them, you'd be snuffed out.
Candles line the hallway toward the workroom, where you'll likely spend the rest of the night. It's near the very entrance of the convent, so that visitors may see the sisters hard at work and find reason to donate.
Really, it's a temptation. Those massive doors, ready to open and let you free.
But what could you do, really? If God were a kind man and Christ a good husband, they'd turn you into a horse so that you might run, might feel your hooves beating the earth and the coarse air on your skin.
Regrettably human, you sit to work on the tapestry. Curse the abbess and let the holy father hear your thoughts. This is worse than hell, you think. Your fingers cramp and the chair is hard, flat wood. It's made to be uncomfortable on purpose, everything is. After you finish you only have a thin mattress to look forward to, even thoughts of drawing hunky carpenters doesn't draw you out of the misery that is embroidery in the dark.
Is this string strong enough to hold you, should you hang yourself? You're being dramatic, but you feel you've earned the right.
Footsteps walk down the hall towards you. They're sure, heavy. Maybe sister Catharine, tall and splendid, is coming to release you from torment?
"Hello," you say jovially. Please be sister Catharine.
"Look what we've got here, Ghost," it's a male voice. You freeze. The accent is unfamiliar. Had you missed the visit of a monk, an abbot, a priest? "Darlin' little lass, all by herself."
Shivers overtake you. It hurts to straighten from your hunched position, but you have to do it to see properly.
You come face to face with a skull, towering over you from the doorway.
A scream builds, filling your chest, hanging off the tip of your tongue.
Stopped only by the glint of candlelight against a blade, and the quickness of the another man reaching you.
You shake, all sound stuck in your throat, feeling arms as strong as petrified wood circle your arms and pull you toward the door. The pressure, the scrape of rock against your feet, it's unreal and barely registered against the terror that builds when you look to your left and see the skull, sewn into cloth, with the soft clank of bones hanging from his waist.
His eyes find yours, dead and mellow in the eyesockets, piercing through you. Blood rushes through your ears, deafening you, until you leave the room and reality sets in.
Devils, come to sack the convent.
Who will likely kill you and all your sisters. Even the abbess, with her punishment cane and severe face, doesn't deserve that.
You shriek, finding your voice, twisting like a cat in a bag. Their hands tighten against you, growling orders at you to be still, girl.
It's then that you hear the cries, the crashes. Sounds of chaos, a cacophony of harsh voices and the search of the convent. Some of the women weep, some pray, you scream.
"Hey!" Skull snaps, shaking you hard. "Behave and we won't kill you." You comprehend that, but the animal urge to struggle for your life still has a grip on you.
The other man twists towards you, lips snarling. "Ye want to die, then? I'm not opposed to slitting ye open throat to cunt, if that's what ye prefer."
You still, sag, mouth turning downwards in misery. Sweat sticks to your skin, from fear and exertion.
"Good girl," Skull says.
The nuns have been crowded back into the dining room, cowed and cowering, trembling lambs against the storm of awful armoured men ravaging the sanctity of the space.
Some have already found gold, crosses and busts of saints and reliquaries. The abbess weeps to see the bust of Mother Mary, thrown so roughly to the ground that baby Jesus snaps off.
You watch it all happening, eyes wide, shaking despite yourself. Adrenaline makes your legs cramp in their position, curled, back to back with another sister.
"Cap," a younger man runs up, hands full with an ornate chest. "What'cha think of this one?"
"Lookit this one," the man from earlier is giddy, slapping the young one on the back. He holds St Augustine, gilded in gold and jewels. "Not too shabby, eh, Gaz?"
"Not too shabby at all," Gaz grins back at him, turning towards the third man.
"Good job, boys," he says. He's mustached, tall, steadier and calmer than the rest. A leader, clearly.
It smells of smoke, or blood, but you can't see anyone bleeding.
Maybe that's their natural scent, violence clinging to them cloying like they'd bathed in it before coming.
"Soap," Gaz calls. He's run through the library, tossing shelves to the ground, taking one or two books. Walked through the dormitories, throwing open the chests at the ends of each bed. "Take a look at this one!"
A little booklet. Your booklet, tiny in the hand of the devil.
Anxiety crawls up your spine. There's no way they'd know it was yours, but you're still afraid of another kind of raiding, should they discover your sin.
The men laugh, looking with hungry eyes, glinting, mouths stretched and wet.
Look at the ground, be quiet, be still. You want to survive, you want to draw again and feel the air against your skin. You're scared of these men, huge and muscled as they are.
They wear furs, leather, clinking chainmail, wrapped shoes. Weapons hang by their sides and are clutched firmly in hands, though no nuns nor abbesses have been harmed.
Yet.
"Gold ain't the only treasure, eh?" Soap looks down at you while others use pillowcases for bags, stuffing their bounty inside with loud clangs.
His foot nudges your thigh, and you shift away as much as possible, still looking away, still scared.
Skull comes back. Soap calls him over and calls him Ghost, so you switch the name in your head.
Ghost is big, but he glides through the air.
"See that, Ghost?" Soap nudges him, the way he nudged you. Eyes crazed.
"Mm," Ghost grunts. He hasn't looted, not like the others. Just walked through the halls and gathered one or two other stray nuns shuddering in various corners. "You want 'er?"
You blanch, breath leaving you.
"Can we?" He looks back at you and leans down, thick fingers finding your chin, tilting your face up. "Pretty little hen, so scared, aren't ye?"
"Take 'er."
With Ghosts permission, Soap moves his fingers from your face to the meat of your arms, dragging you up, using your stupor to help him.
"Dinnae worry, hen, we'll take good care of ye," it's not reassuring. You think you feel your knees hitting each other from the force of your shaking. "Awe, don't cry."
Two rivers have sprouted form your eyes, tracking searing hot salt down your cheeks, hands twisting in your habit.
The men regroup. You were right about the mustached man being a leader, and learn his name is Price. He commands them like any armyman you've ever seen, clearly holds a lot of authority.
You're the only nun that's a part of the spoils.
The only one tied with coarse rope around the wrists, chafing, tossed between Soap and Gaz through the convent until you reach those big wooden doors.
Those doors you'd dreamed about opening, those doors that you dread opening now.
"Keep walking," Gaz says. He's mellower than the others, but you'd be a fool to underestimate him.
Or ask him for help.
Reality hasn't set. You're in purgatory, stumbling across the wet grass in just wool socks, growing wetter by the minute from mist and dew. The men hoot and cheer and clank their gold, throwing fists and weapons in the air.
A bloodless victory, unless they change their mind and decide to kill you.
Soap jumps, accidentally pulling you forward in a jerk that brings you to your knees. The tears come back, and the pebbles nearing the beach digging into your knees makes you sob.
"Careful!" Ghost barks. Behind you, he reaches under your armpits and helps you up. His hands are still rough, but he lets go of you quickly to yank the rope out of Soaps hands. It doesn't help that it's still near-pitch outside, not yet morning, hard to see.
"Ach," he rubs a hand behind his head, watching you cry and walk like a deadwoman. "Got a little over-excited, darlin. Forgive me."
"I'll be better to ye, don't worry," he falls in beside you, using a knuckle to brush away your tears.
When you reach the beach, you see a few boats, supplies, but that's all. No camp, nowhere to sleep. Did they jump straight from the boats, marching up the hill to the convent to pillage?
God, they're so big. Warriors. Why just you?
"Right," Price calls them to attention. You're stuck next to Ghost, sniffling, shivering a little, praying mentally for the first time in a long time. Dear God, please help me, please strike these men dead and let me run back up the hill.
You miss what Price says, whispering under your breath with your eyes closed and palms together until Ghost puts his hand on your shoulder and pushes you forward again.
"Walk, then get on the boat," his voice is a growl.
"Dinnae worry," Soap chips in. "We brought meat."
They did - dried fish hangs like your laundry across each boats. The gold is loaded alongside you, stuffed to one side, and you're left trying to avoid the men tossing things in your direction.
Ghost ties your wrists to a wooden loop on the side of the boat.
It was built for this. For prisoners, slaves, taken in conquest.
"Ready?"
"Ready!"
Price shouts, the men answer. It's loud, a cacophony of voices and waves and the scrape of the boat against the sand.
You're going, going, gone. Floating. Adrift. Tied to the side of a viking ship with nothing but your thick, woolen habit and woolen socks. At least they provide some warmth, the air colder over the water.
Eyes look you up and down, not just from the two that took you. Gaz smiles to himself and punches Soap in the thigh, then they play wrestle.
You wonder what will happen to you- are you being taken as a slave? A prize?
The positive side to your time spend as a nun is that you know how to work, and you know that if something awful happens, you could find a way to meet God early and put yourself down.
Blood rushes in your ears again.
You register from somewhere outside of yourself that you're panicking again, caught wanting to run and having nowhere to do it. Tied down.
A hand touches your nape, and you turn with wild eyes and desperation all over your face to Ghost.
"Take a breath," he says, low enough that only you hear it, firm and commanding. "In and out, girl. Do it."
You do, if only to save yourself passing out. In and out, in and out, you breathe.
"That's it," he leans down, brown eyes finding yours. The skull is bleached yellow, old, but you try to ignore it. "You're alright."
"No I'm not," you shock the both of you by speaking, voice high and wavering. "I'm not, you're going to kill me or worse-"
"You think we'd take you just to kill you?"
"You're a heathen, aren't you?" you gasp again, wiping your face on the fabric of your sleeves. "Sister Catharine says heathens sacrifice virgins. Please don't."
He startles you by laughing, a ragged thing ripped from his chest.
"Not gonna sacrifice you, lamb," his hand squeeze your nape, his thumb rubbing the edge of your jaw where he can reach. "Gonna be a long journey, you'd better settle now."
It's hell. You were mistaken before, and you'd do anything now to go back to embroidery. You'd let the abbess cane you bloody, you'd kneel and pray with the passion of Christ himself if it meant you could come off the boat.
The boat, the men. The godforsaken fish, too-salty, not much better than the biscuits Soap insists on feeding you by hand.
"Your hands are tied, pretty lamb, how are ye gonna feed yourself?" He breaks it up, wiping crumbs from your cheeks.
You hope Ghost will step in, but he doesn't. He watches, a specter, still wearing that mask on his face. You wonder if it's because of you, or if he's just like that. Private, hidden. Intimidating.
"Open wide," Soap seems fond of holding your face, squishing your cheeks and puckering your lips. He's extra zealous since catching a sea-bird, keen on making you taste it.
The thought makes your stomach roil, despite being sick of the fish and biscuits. You turn your face, trying to avoid him, whimpering when he squeezes a little too hard.
"Come on, hen," he leans closer. "Fresh meat is good, no?"
"Johnny", Ghost saves you again, finally. Pulls on Johnny's shirt until he's sitting back on his heels. "Let her be."
"Awe, just wanna giv'er my catch, Si," if a heathenish, kidnapping devil could whine and pout like a child, it would look like this.
Horrific, is what it is. You tuck your face into your elbow and close your eyes.
You've been doing that most of the journey, closing your eyes and breathing deeply like Ghost taught you. Or Simon, what you've heard Johnny calling him.
Dread sneaks in every once in a while, wakes you up from fitful sleeps or seizes your ability to speak. Nobody else has spoken to you, not even Gaz who keeps glancing at you. Nobody but Simon and Johnny.
"Here," Simon says. You look up.
In his hand, an apple. Your eyes go wide, prickling, and you look even further up to him.
His eyes reveal nothing. Brown, flat.
"For me?" you ask.
"You see me offering it to anyone else?" from the corner of your eye, Soap is staring at you, smiling.
"I can have it?" an apple. You could dance. Days and days of travel after living in the same town and then the same convent to taken by force on a boar. An apple.
"Take it before I give it to Johnny," he grunts.
Suddenly, you feel a kinship with Eve.
Seasickness luckily doesn't affect you, and the melancholy is kept at bay by the apple. You think of it when you think you can't take anymore, remembering it's sweetness.
Simon becomes the safest person, and often if you feel scared your eyes find him.
When a minor storm rocks the boat, pelting rain, waves beating against the front, you tuck yourself close to his side and let Johnny take your hands into his.
Too easy to lean into them, to accept Johnny wiping your face gently with a cloth and eat fresh fish from Simons fingers. You're exhausted, and Simon doesn't push.
He just remains steadfast against chaos, even when Johnny fights with another one of the men and he has to pull them apart by their shirts.
"Si'down!" he barks, the loudest you've ever heard him. It makes you flinch, hiding again, until he sits heavily down beside you and you scoot as close as possible again.
"Not the smartest, are you?" he looks down. That hurts. You're just scared, is all. "Doesn't matter who's there, you'd cling right to them, wouldn't you?"
No, you want to say. But you just hide your face in your arms and cry again. You want to tell him the apple was special, that you know nobody else has one or got one, but you don't.
Your heart beats hard against your ribcage, that dread coming back again, feeling heavy and small under the weight of your predicament and his judgment.
"He didnae mean it," Johnny croons. He strokes your hair away from your face, thumbs finding your tense brows and smoothing them out. "We know you're a good girl. S'why we took ye."
You sniffle. The rocking of the boat has become both maddening and soothing.
You wonder when this journey will end.
Your clothes are stiff with salt, wetted and dried and re-wetted. Your skin itches, wrists burning, welts unhealed from before when the abbess has caught you sneaking mead.
She had accused you of indulgence, of trying to get drunk. Truthfully, you'd just liked the taste of honey and missed it.
Nuns didn't eat honey, at least not there. Cheese and wine were already over the top, God forbid anyone ate anything sweet. That's why you loved the apple, had held each bite long on your tongue, letting the sugars sit there a moment to savor them.
"Hey," someone nudges you, bringing you out of your half-sleep. Easier to be less conscious, less aware, trying not to feel your anguish and your physical pain. "Come on, get up. We're here."
"Hmm?" You're so tired, hissing and whimpering when your wrists are jostled.
Untied. They're being untired. Your head lifts too quickly, making you dizzy. Gaz is squatting in front of you, holding your leash.
"You awake?" he squints, tilting his head. "You look rough, sorry 'bout that. You good to stand?"
Too many questions. You're forced to lean on him heavily to try to stand. He's as solid as the others, just leaner. Kinder, honestly, as he mostly carries you off the longboat.
Muscles like a new foal, you take a seat on the soft wet sand and slump onto a crate. It's a struggle to walk on solid ground.
Men move around you, dumping and lifting and talking. Less excited than the last time they were on the beach, but there's still a buzz aflutter.
"Can I bring'er up?" Johnny is looking at you, his hand on Simon's forearm. Their affection is the quiet kind, something you only noticed the last couple days of the journey. Small touches, murmurs.
"Go ahead," Simon touches him back, moving towards Price when Johnny comes towards you.
"Awe, lamb," he coos, hauling you up with an arm around his shoulder. His other arm goes to hold your waist, squeezing. "Dinnae worry, I'll get ye in a bath soon 'nough."
He's not lying - after a painful, difficult walk, you make it to a wooden cabin. Looking around, there are a few of similar make, a little town.
"Go on in then, sweet hen," he pushes you just enough for you to shuffle your feet in the door.
Modest wooden furniture greets you, a one-room house with a large bed, fireplace, and table. The rest is beyond you once you spot the tub.
"Sit, let me get it ready for ye."
You nearly fall asleep, or maybe you do, because when you open your eyes Johnny has steaming water filled to halfway in the tub, wooden slats fragrant. He's crumbling a dried flower in as well, humming to himself.
"Alright, s'ready," he helps you up again. Modesty is forgotten, you're too tired and weary to care when he slips the woolen habit off and leaves you in a plain shift, finally untying your wrists. "Pretty girl." He says it under his breath, like he can't help it.
The water is better than the apple. You hiss when it touches your wounds, your sore muscles.
You're tired to your marrow, could weep about it, eyes still opening and closing. Around you, Johnny searches through various bags and chests until he finds a bar of soap.
The soap is better than the water.
"Feels good?" he whispers, dipping his hands in and lathering up. How he's up and about, you have no idea. Even his hands near your bare breasts don't phase you - that's how wiped you are.
"S'good," you mumble. "Thought I ws'gonna die."
"We wouldn't've let that happen, sweet girl. Too precious, our treasure," a kiss, on your shoulder. He rubs the soap on your skin, your arms and down to your fingers, washing them each one by one.
"N'ver want to do that again," and then, because you forget he's your captor. "Please."
The attention is soft, patient. The soap washes away salt and dirt and sweat, even tears when he wipes your face with a rag. This is a second baptism, a better one, with gentle hands massaging your scalp and the barest brush against your nipples.
"Sit up," he pushes you forward, rinses your hair, washes your back while you're there.
The rag swipes over your cunt when he gets there, once, twice, eyes boring into you. Your exhaustion mutes the squeeze of anxiety in your chest, closing your eyes to avoid his gaze.
"Right, all done," he helps you back out and into a long, thin shift.
The bed is soft, so soft, covered in furs and actually stuffed enough to cradle your body. You sink into it immediately, just barely registering the door opening again.
"She asleep?" It's Simon, carrying luggage.
"Aye," Johnny says. You hear them kiss, wondering if they think you're asleep. "Anything else?"
"No," he's gruff, to-the-point. Drops bags in the corner with a clank and a chest by the door with a thud. "She give you trouble?"
"Sweet as a lamb, our girl," he sounds proud.
You open your eyes, one last attempt at self-preservation, and see them looking down at you.
Simon swipes a thumb over your cheek, under your eye, still wearing the skull.
"It's alright, go to sleep," he murmurs. Johnny leans his head on Simons shoulder. "Perfect girl, knew we did good takin' you."
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I always feel like that bitch whenever a fanfic writer i follow and get inspo from likes my post. Itâs like winning an Emmy.
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Simple Math / Part Seventeen
Simple Math masterlist
Ghost/Soap/female reader - AO3 - 4K words Tags: 18+ mdni. nurse!reader. PTSD, references and descriptions of domestic violence , grooming, manipulation, pregnancy. Simon's back story. Trauma. Bun opens up a bit more. Domesticity, feelings of anxiety, self doubt. Simon is a nervous dad. Emotional confessions.
âItâs Beth.â Simon wipes the countertop, chasing little dirty fingerprints with a wet cloth, before fixing a hesitant set of eyes on yours.
âThatâs pretty⊠I like it.â Thereâs something odd about his expression, something haunted almost, a deep, dark well filled to the brim with rancid, stagnant water. You sense it immediately. âWhatâs wrong?â
He motions to the chair and slides your mug into your waiting hands. âSit.â
âSimon?â
âIt was my sister in lawâs name. My brotherâs wife.â Was. Your throat goes dry, muscles tensing.
âWas?â He pulls your fingers into his, cradled in the palm of his hand, thumb rubbing circles into your skin, over and over on a loop. A mechanism of comfort, connection. A thread stitch into the fabric between your heart and his.
âThey died, sweetheart. My family⊠I lost them.â Grief, a shared experience you know now, froths in the pit of your heart. You tremble, he holds you steady, though it should be the other way around.
âWhat⊠what happened?â He sighs, dragging your palm to his lips.
âLetâs sit down on the couch.â
He holds you as he talks, diaphragm rumbling against your ear. Youâre laid on his chest, unable to see his face, watch his expressions, but for this, you donât feel the urge to dissect each one.
Youâre content against him. Listening. Mourning.
Thereâs a swath of silence afterwards, and then he clears his throat. âSo, I was dead. Dead until I met Johnny, I think. And then everything changed.â Johnnyâs words from weeks and weeks ago make more sense, Simonâs actions and reactions rapidly gaining clarity. âWhen we found you, I saw it, the look in your eyes. It was the same one that used to haunt my motherâs.â
âYou saved her.â He burrows his face in your neck and shakes his head.
âI did what I could to piece them back together. Helped get Tommy clean and on his feet, got rid of the old man for good, but the damage⊠the way she suffered, it was irreversible. The best I could do was be there as much as often as possible.â You comb through his hair, short strands of silk like Pennyâs, and hold him close. âI promised myself, when I met Johnny, when we fell in love, Iâd do better by my own family. For him, and then by Penny. And now you. Promised I wouldnât become him.â Your heart clenches, squeezing in on itself. âViolence may have been a part of my job, but it wasnât a part of me.â His fingers dance along your spine until they reach your chin, tilting you back to meet his gaze. âDo you understand?â
âYes.â You whisper, leaning into his touch. He doesnât need to ask for your trust, he already has it.
âJohnny thinks Iâve got a bit of a savior complex now, but I want you to know⊠thatâs not what this is, bunny.â
âI know,â you clear your throat, fighting through the thick of emotion building there, accumulating in heaps, âI know that.â Â
âBut we do need to talk about him, you know that?â Darkness creeps along the wispy, dream-like cocoon the two of you built on the couch, and you push it away, try to banish it, basking in the comfort of his arms instead.
âI canât, I⊠right now it feels like Iâm in a dream where nothing hurts and nothing can scare me or hurt me, and I donât-â
âYouâre not in a dream, bunny. Thatâs your reality. This is real. Nothing can, or will, hurt you, scare you. No one will ever touch you again.â
âI need more time. Please.â Simon sighs, but doesnât push, and the two of you lay there, together, suspended in comforting silence. For another moment, your world is a dream. A safe, beautiful dream, where happy endings are real, where love stretches on for eternity, unconditional, limitless, unbreakable.
Youâre so different now, stark changes shocking to the girl you once knew, the one who doubled back on her routes to and from work, the one that walked everywhere with her hackles up. Little pieces of black rot now turned a blinding white, a brilliant beam seeking to shine on the whole of your life.
Itâs a dream.
One you wonât easily surrender.
âI was really young.â It comes during a lapse in conversation, practically a blurt, an interruption pushing heat to your cheeks. Expelled from your mind, your body without choice, cracks appearing in the preservation that youâve so defiantly clung to. You have to tell them, eventually. You have to break it all apart, let them see. Johnnyâs mouth opens, and Simonâs hand darts to his wrist faster than a snake could strike, a clear signal. Donât speak. âObviously now, looking back on it, I realize I was groomed, or I guess, easily influenced. He was older, and I graduated early, started college early. I was in my second year when I turned eighteen. My mom,â the lump in your throat nearly chokes you until you swallow it down, âmy mom busted her ass for me. I went to college on scholarships and her hard work.â Metal clanks against ceramic, forks settling on the edges of plates. âAnyway, everyone always thought I was a know-it-all and pretty awkward. We werenât officially like, together right away but it was pretty serious from the day I met him. Eventually⊠he started to change me. Change my goals. He even manipulated my career path.â
âWhat did you go to school for?â Simon asks casually, head tilted.
âBioscience. I wanted to be a doctor, so I thought it would transition well for med school. Thought I could become a surgeon.â You were a girl then; you know that now. NaĂŻve, misguided by a hand that sought to control you, not love you as you hoped. Itâs embarrassing, baring this, showing these broken bits and pieces to them, shattered shards of a mirror never glued back together.
âWhat happened?â
âHe did.â Johnny squeezes your hand. âMade it to pre-med but ended up leaving and starting a nursing program instead. Itâs what he wanted, and by then, I couldnât say no.â
âBut ye didnae want it, to be a nurse.â
âNo. I didnât. I love my job now, of course, and Iâm happy in it, but originally, I wanted something else. He tricked me, in all honesty. Showed me something that wasnât real, reeled me in, and then revealed his true colors.â You shudder. âThe first time⊠the first time it happened, I shook it off, forgave him. I-â the memory is still so strong, it stuns you. The blood from your busted lip is fresh on your tongue, sting on the side of your face turning to a blooming ache.
âBunny?â Johnnyâs grip moves to your elbow, strong, but not too tight. An anchor. You shake your head.
âSorry.â
âYeâre alright, ye can stop if-â
âNo, I⊠I want to share these things with you. It feels like Iâm supposed to, like you should know me⊠like this.â
âWe already know you, sweetheart. Donât push yourself.â Simonâs tone is serious, and you nod.
âItâs embarrassing, looking back on it and realizing how bad it was, how bad I let it get. How I let him cut me off from everyone, change my career, squash me like a bug.â You laugh, but itâs empty.
âYe did nothinâ wrong,â Johnnyâs lips press together, muscles in his jaw straining, âwas never yer fault.â You donât answer, just trace the woodgrain of the table, texture moving beneath your fingers. The conversation is draining you, leeching light away like a horizon swallowing the last of the sun.
âHeâs rich. Like, fuck you money rich. Rich like make problems go away rich, and his jobâŠâ your head shakes again. Itâs the most youâve ever said, heavy buried secrets finally dug up, resurrected, the truth trembles through your bones. âHe has resources. Has chased me across the globe more than once. My only saving grace is that when he has to work, he has to work, and itâs usually for long chunks of time.â
âI know youâve said youâre not really sure, but did he ever tell you what his job entails?â
âHeâs in the military. Some sort of security work, department of defense, or something. He never really talked about it.â Johnny shifts in his seat, antsy, and you shrug. âHe kept that part of his life very, very private. There was even a room in the house that was always locked.â Your head is heavy, lead upon your shoulders, and Johnny tucks his arm around you, pulling you into his chest.
âI know this is hard bun, but yeâre so brave for us. Lettinâ us know ye this way. Iâm proud of ye.â He murmurs, lips to your forehead, and you fully relax, wrapping around his middle.
âIâm tired.â You whisper, eyes closing, and he rubs your back.
âLetâs get ye to bed then.â
âYour child is too big for me to carry!â You announce, hand on your hip, little backpack straps looped around your arm. Simon closes the door behind you, chuckling, and Penny plops onto the floor. She goes to a nursery day program now a few days a week, something that was a contentious subject in the house for far too long, opinions and arguments ping ponging over your head until the decision was finally made.
âItâs not safe.â
âYe cannae keep âer locked up here forever, love.â
âWhy not?â Simon bounced Penny against his chest, unimpressed look on both their faces, so alike you almost busted out laughing.
âBecause sheâs a child. She needs to be wâother children, not just us.â Johnny brings his free hand to his lips, squeezing Simonâs wrist. âI know yeâre scared.â Simonâs not the only one whoâs scared, you thought. Phillip lurked at the edge of your mind, worry that he might find Penny plagued you, even though they both assured that wasnât their main concern.
âSheâs too little.â
âSimon. We agreed on this,â Johnny gives him a sharp look, âdo yer research, find the best one. Ye know this needs to happen, for her. She needs to make friends, learn how to interact with kids her own age. Ye know this.â
âFine.â
âShe cannae be, not mâwee lamb.â
âShe is.â You rub your shoulder. âSheesh.â Pennyâs stomach gurgles at your feet, and Simon grimaces.
âThereâs a bug goinâ around the kids, teacher told me today.â
âNot surprising. Nurseries are little petri dishes.â You straighten your back, rolling your shoulder, and wince.
âHurts?â Simonâs thumb digs into the soft spot there, and your lashes flutter.
âMaybe ye need a hot bath,â Johnny suggests, and Simon ushers the two of you up the stairs.
âIâve got Pen. Go relax.â
âThis is nice.â Johnny soaps your back, lavender and vanilla steam swirling around in the bathroom as you lean against him, his chest to your back.
âAye.â The cloth drags across your chest, teasing your nipples, and you revel in his touch, soaking in every second he gives you, the brush of his cheek against yours, his lips on your neck. âLike havinâ ye all to myself sometimes.â You blink.
âDoes it bother you? When weâre not all together?â
âNo. Ye have a relationship witâ me, and witâ Simon, and we have a relationship all together. No one is the same. I like it.â
âMe too.â You settle again, loose and tender in the bath, soaped hands running up and down your back, kneading your shoulders, releasing the tension coiled in your bones. You groan.
âFeel good then?â
âYeah.â He presses a hand over your heart with a deep breath, before he takes another.
And then one more.
âWhatâs wro-â
âI love ye bun. Wholly. Think âve loved ye since the day I opened my eyes to ye leaning over the bed in hospital.â You turn, twisting to face him, and he dabs your nose with his thumb. âI dinnae have any expectations of ye, or yer feelings, but I had to be honest. I had to tell ye.â The confession fights its way forward, begging to be let out, to be freed.
Tell him. Tell him the truth. Tell him you love them, that theyâre your light, that theyâve chased the darkness away and replaced it with the sun.
You canât.
Instead, you rest your forehead against his, syncing your breathing, sharing the moment, holding onto him so tight in case he slips away.
âI canât say it.â You whisper, and he nods. âBut that doesnât mean⊠it doesnât mean itâs not there. Iâm just⊠I donât know if Iâm ready.â
âAnâ thatâs okay. Iâll wait, Iâll wait for ye as long as ye need.â Thereâs no pressure, no demands, just Johnny and his arms, his understanding and patience, his love.
You blink back tears and crash your lips to his. âThank you.â
Your stomach is what wakes you. Â
Something it in is burning, tossing bile around, the sensation strong enough your lips curl, and you try to draw a deep breath through your nose.
You wriggle, trying to pull free from where youâre tangled up in Simon and Johnny, carefully and slow, hoping to avoid waking them though you know even in their dreams, they sleep with one eye open.
 Still, you manage to make it to the bathroom before feet are padding across the carpet on your heels.
You sink to your knees in front of the toilet, stomach bubbling, sending the scorching remnants of dinner up your throat.
The door clicks open. âNo, get out. I donât want you to see-â you gag again, tap turning on at the sink, a cold washcloth folding over your neck.
âShhh,â Simon murmurs, rubbing your back, âget it all out.â
âOh god,â another wave swells, and your muscles tense, body expelling bits of bile and not much else.
âThatâs the way, good girl.â
âThis is gross.â You gasp. âYou should go back to bed.â
âIâve seen way worse than you puking, sweetheart.â
âShe alright?â Johnny half yells from the bedroom and you groan. The guilt of him having to maneuver himself out of bed, still not one hundred percent healthy, still not back to full strength, draws a shiver from your spine.
âIâm fine, donât come in here!â Your stomach pitches, fingers tightening against your thighs, but nothing comes up, again and again, until everything settles and youâre breathing deeply, steady, back straight.
âLetâs get you some water.â Thereâs no point in arguing with him. Heâs going to do what he wants to do when it comes to taking care of you, you know that now. Itâs painfully clear as he tries to help you drink from the glass, and then puts toothpaste on your toothbrush.
âIâm fine.â You assure weakly, but he only watches you, concerned.
âThink itâs the nursery bug?â
âProbably.â You sag, energy drained completely, and he steadies you, cupping your cheek. His touch is cool, and you lean into it, savoring the reprieve it brings against your throbbing temples.
âWant to go back to bed?â
âWhat if I throw up again?â He presses a kiss to your forehead.
âIâll jusâ clean it up.â
âCan I ask you a question?â You glance up at the timid mouse of a nurse, brand new, fingers clutched around a tablet like sheâs drowning and itâs her life vest.
âWhatâs up?â
âCan you⊠can you look at these orders for me?â She looks terrified, and it tells you everything you need to know. Sheâs probably caught a mistake.
Baby nurses begin their careers in a delicate position. Theyâre overwhelmed, fresh off a whirlwind of orientation, overloaded with policy and procedure, and depending on their preceptor, either somewhat prepared or completely lost. Pitting a baby nurse against a provider, even a first-year resident, is like sending a lamb in to confront a lion. The result is usually tears.
She hands you the tablet and you spot it immediately. Incorrect dosage.
âGood catch.â You reassure, coaxing a small smile, and she nods.
âWhat do I do?â
âWe go find the provider and clarify the dosage.â Youâre not going to leave it up to her, alone, hang her out to dry and probably get run over by whatever moron ordered it in the first place, who happens to be-
Marshall.
Your eyes couldnât roll any harder. âThe pharmacy is also very on top of seeing errors like this, but itâs good youâve noticed too, for the patient and yourself. Liability for things like this can be very tricky.â She nods again, trailing behind you, brand new squeaky sneakers echoing your own steps.
You canât stop the sigh that escapes you when you find him, leaned up against a wall, arms crossed, smirking, cocking his head at your companion. âWhatâs up?â
âCan you take a look at this for me?â You purposefully zoom in on the meds tab, practically painting a bullseye around his error. He scoffs, defensive immediately, dismissive, before he takes a closer look, jaw clenched.
âThatâs my mistake.â You blink. Marshall rarely ever takes responsibility so gracefully. Your eyebrow lifts.
âCare to fix it?â
âOf course.â His agreement is punctuated with a smile, though itâs off kilter.
âYou can go,â you nod to the nurse, âgood job.â Her eyes dart between you and Marshall, and without another word, scampers off.
âSheâs new?â His usual interest in new nurses is less enthusiastic than ever.
You hate Marshall. Heâs a scumbag. But heâs also been your coworker since day one, and you canât help yourself. âWhatâs up with you?â Â
âWhat do you mean?â
âYouâve never owned up to a mistake that quickly, and you didnât even make some smart-ass remark. Or berate her. Or give me an attitude.â He winces.
âItâs nothing.â But it doesnât seem like nothing. It seems like something is wrong, like heâs sad, or depressed, and try as you might, your bleeding heart canât walk away.
âWhatâs wrong.â You phrase a statement, a demand, instead of a question, and he blows a frustrated breath.
âItâs⊠Iâm seeing someone.â Your eyes go wide.
âWho?â Please donât say a nurse, please donât say a nurse, please-
âAnna. From radiology.â
âOh my god. The cupcake girl?â Anna was a fan favorite. Not only was she kind, but she was also quick with her reads, and baked cupcakes for the entire floor almost once a month. As far as radiologists go, she was better than most.
âYeah.â
âOkayâŠâ
âI really like her but⊠sheâs always been aware of my reputation and is trying to take it slow. Too slow.â You could lecture him with a million reasons why sheâs in the right, but it doesnât seem like heâs got the resolve to handle it.
âWhat do you mean?â
âSheâs dragging her feet. Doesnât want to hang out more than once a week, rarely stays the night. Iâve been to her place a handful of times, but thatâs it.â
âHow long has it been?â
âTwo months.â You laugh.
âThatâs it?â
âItâs a long time for me!â You hold your hands up in surrender.
âOkay, okay, but seriously. Two months is no time at all. Have you discussed the⊠reluctance with her?â He seems uneasy, and for the first time, youâre not sure if you enjoy watching him squirm.
âYeah. She says sheâs happy, but isnât trying to jump into anything,â his air quotes carry a whiff of the condescending asshole you know too well. This conversation couldnât be timelier, and you think back to what you told Johnny the other night.
âJust because sheâs taking it slow doesnât mean her feelings for you arenât there. You have to respect that. If sheâs still putting up with you after two months, Iâd bet sheâs just being cautious. Getting hurt sucks.â He nods thoughtfully. âGive her the time sheâs asking for, and donât give up.â
Donât give up.
The sentiment twists a knife lodged deep in your heart. Is that what will happen to you? Will they give up? Get tired of waiting for you to spill all your secrets, get tired of waiting for you to take the final step? To tell them you love them?
Get tired of waiting for you to let them use your real name?
âI didnât expect her, didnât expect to feel this way.â The mask comes down, revealing a hopelessly lovesick heart, the depth of it shining in his eyes.
âI donât think anyone ever does expect it. Thatâs the surprising thing about love, I guess.â You sway, a palm pressed to the wall as your hand flattens over your stomach.
âYou alright?â Marshallâs voice is far away as you breathe through your nose, trying to fend off the nausea tightening your throat.
âSorry, Iâve been a bit under the weather. Think Iâve got a bug or something.â Your stomach roils in warning, and you barely grit out an apology before dashing away.
Just in time to toss your breakfast up in the toilet.
âIâm fine.â
âI heard you in the toilet. You didnât sound fine, and you shouldnât be working if youâre sick.â Your manager shakes her head like sheâs disappointed, and you glare. You both know if you had called this morning talking about a stomach bug, she would have told you to suck it up unless you were actively vomiting.
âLook around. Do you see an excess of nurses on the floor?â
âWeâll manage. Or call someone in.â You shake your head.
âWeâre already way past policy ratios.â You bite your tongue when safe nearly slips out, not wanting to piss her off. Thatâs the unionâs job.
âAt least go sit down or something. Take a break. Come back in twenty minutes and let me know how you feel.â
Your closet is cozy, and for once during the day, unoccupied. The nausea has subsided, for now, and you shoot a text to the guys, asking about Penny. If you feel like this, you canât imagine how she feels.
You curl up and imagine youâre home instead, maybe in bed with a sleeve of crackers and some soda, warm chest at your back, a hand stroking over your hip. Maybe youâd have some soup, maybe the three of you would watch a movie after Pen went down for bed. You start to drift in the domestic fantasy, sleeping curling itself like a blanket over your shoulders, until youâre startled by the vibration of your phone, foot kicking forward in a jolt against a shelf.
A box falls to the floor.
HCG strips.
You stare at it for a long time, numbers and dates and weeks mashing together, calculations getting lost in the fray.
Youâre notâŠ
No.
Ridiculous. Not even possible. Youâre on the pill. Religiously.
You have the nursery bug that Pen brought home. Get a grip.
StillâŠ
You use the fifth-floor bathroom, one of the only single occupant toilets in the whole damn hospital, nausea now coming from a completely different source.
The timer on your phone is incredibly slow, or maybe itâs just time itself, the world turning in slow motion, every second elongated into turbulent silence, too many thoughts, too many feelings, too much of everything to tell where one ends and the other begins.
Fear.
Anxiety.
Panic.
Sadness.
Grief.
Itâs grief that is the strongest. Grief for something that Phillip stole, mourning for something that was once so close, so real, and then gone in an instant.
If you close your eyes, you can still feel his boot in your stomach. The press of a steel toe, jammed beneath your ribs, wild, deranged eyes staring down at you in a rage.
But-
Buried so, so far beneath the crushing weight of it all, there is a bright little pocket of sunshine. A small little sliver of light, beams of hope stretching for the sky, warmth spilling over until your hands tremble with the conflict warring inside you.
Nothing has changed, but everything could.
The timer goes off with a shrill chime, and you lean over the sink to where the small strip sits on top of a cup.
A bold pink line.
And then another, more faint, but certainly there. A simple equation, one plus one equals two. Simple math.
Tangible. Present.
Pregnant.
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