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Sweetest of Exiles - One

Summary: When Oberyn Martell travels to Essos for exile, he found more than he anticipated when he first lays eyes on Pero Tovar, his brother-in-arms in the Second Sons mercenary company. While Pero is a bit resistant to his Oberyn’s overt charms at first, the Prince always gets what he wants. When the Second Sons are hired to rescue a wealthy merchant’s daughter, Oberyn learns there is much more to the grumpy sellsword. And Oberyn doesn’t mind sharing–especially when the merchant’s daughter smiles at him like that.

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Pero Tovar, (past) Pero Tovar x F!Reader (No Y/N), future--it is a surprise.

Rating for this chapter: T for mentions of blood, guts and gore...magic. My overuse of italics.

Word Count: 5k

A/N: I wrote most of this drunk (or buzzed). I am still riding my red wine high so I almost apologize for the nonsense. If you have any questions about the ASOIAF lore/geography that I’m mentioning, please send me an ask or a DM! I’m always happy to ramble about this series.

(thank you to my love, @starlight-starwrites for the absolutely gorgeous banner. I love you.)

Or read on Ao3 here!

CHAPTER ONE: The Mercenary

Oberyn had always wondered what he looked like when fucking someone. He had looking glasses set up in one of his lover’s rooms so he could try to catch a glimpse himself. But his unrelenting need to keep his partners satisfied always won out over his curiosity.

But then the gods seemed to have a sense of humor when they sent him away from Dorne after he might-have-killed Edgar Yronwood. The Citadel and Oldtown had entertained him for a moment but it soon bored him and he set off across the Narrow Sea to Essos. While the Second Sons mercenary company welcomed him and his sword arm, his eyes were firmly trained on the man toward the back of the company with the scar down his face.

His face.

And well, his time away from Dorne just became much more interesting.

It had taken almost an entire year of not-at-all subtle flirting and propositions and nearly losing their lives time and time again before Pero found himself tumbling into the Prince of Dorne’s bed. The Prince was definitely persistent, Pero would never admit that his charms—his annoying charms—had worn him down instead of Pero’s selfish desire for release while the company was too far away from any sort of willing woman and his hand just wasn’t cutting it. But the Prince had been attentive—willing to let Pero wrap his scarred and rough hand around his throat when he was pressing him into the threadbare bedroll in the quiet corner of camp.

The prince felt good—and he knew how to make Pero feel good.

It was infuriating—he wanted to strangle he smug smirk right off the prince’s face but he knew that the Prince was only capable of enjoying when someone’s hand was around his throat. But he had to admit that he had finally found a true friend (and not just release) with the man who looked strangely like him.

It had been nearly two decades since he could speak with someone as openly as he did when he was alone with the prince in their tent.

But his mind still drifted—to years ago. To his life before finding coin in the service of the Second Sons.

“You make the moon shine brighter, Pero.”

It was childish of him, stupid, to still think of her all these years later. Surely she had forgotten him. They had just been children—he had just been a third-born son of a disgraced lord from Valysar and she had been… she had been everything.

“You are pensive, Tovar.” The prince’s voice cut through his reverie.

He had thought the prince asleep—spent from a long day’s ride and a quick, near-desperate fuck as soon as their shared tent was erected. “It is dark, princeling. You cannot see me.”

Oberyn chuckled. “I know your brooding silences from your angry quiet.”

“You think a great deal of yourself, don’t you?” He grumbled, rolling his eyes despite the dark.

“I believe you think a great deal of me, as well.”

Pero sighed.

“Tell me what weighs on your mind.”

“Nothing that concerns you. Go to sleep.”

Oberyn laughed. “I will find out what has you brooding.”

“Do not hold your breath, princeling.”

He only laughed.

Pero was not sure when they had both fallen asleep but they were both woken by a frantic yell outside their tent. The prince’s knife glinted in the dimming moonlight and Pero had never let his hand leave the hilt of one of his smaller swords as they charged outside. They expected an ambush—a retaliation from the Tyroshi they had just pushed back on behalf of Lys—but instead, they found a disheveled man, bloodied and bruised and desperately limping toward their camp, frantically waving his hands above his head, shouting something in the Myrish bastard Valyrian dialect.

Pero sheathed his blade as he finally started to realize what the man was babbling. “Calm yourself, man.” Pero said, stepping in front of Oberyn.

The man nearly collapsed as he reached them, big, brown eyes shining in the moonlight. “They took her. They took her—I barely escaped.” He continued to jabber and Pero mostly listened—having heard desperate pleas from hundreds of men and women over the years of his service in the mercenary company—the man’s story consisted of being surrounded on the road to Myr by a group of religious zealots. The story was not an unfamiliar one. The Free Cities were known to erupt with pockets of violence; the causes ranged from trade disputes, claims to land, religion, and everything in between.

Pero had heard it all.

But then the man opened his mouth, blood drying on his chin, and said, “but they took her—they wanted her.” And a name pushed by the man’s bruised lips—a name he hadn’t heard in years.

Before he could stop himself, Pero reached out and grabbed the man by the collar of his tunic and hauled him to his unsteady feet. “Tell me where.”

The captains deliberated for only a few short moments before refusing to take the charge.

The fact that the woman was Qohorik had negated the fact that the Myrish magistrate who had fought his way to their camp had promised a princess’ ransom and promised that her father, a prominent merchant, would double it for her safe return. The Second Sons had been humiliated generations ago at Qohor and had not taken any bounties or contracts from the city or its inhabitants since then.

The Second Sons gave the magistrate—Orestes, his name was—some water and a bit of feed for his exhausted horse and then told him to leave. They would not go.

And Pero was an angry man. He had wrath in his blood since he was a boy, tempered only with bouts of relief and quiet. But this had sent him into a near rage with how flippant they captains had been when they had delivered their decision. Of course, he had not mentioned that the woman Orestes had pleaded to be rescued had been…her. Or how he knew her. Attachments like that were frowned upon, even by mercenaries. Soft hearts made easy targets.

But as the sun set the next day, Pero knew what he had to do. Even if he was alone. He packed his bare essentials, mostly worried about his sack of coin and weapons, and then pushed out of the tent-

-only to be met with the smirking face of the princeling. “Come, I have a surprise for you.”

“I do not have time for this.”

“Yes, you do,” Oberyn said with a broadening smirk as he turned away, leading Pero further away from camp as the moon continued her climb up into the inky sky. And why was Pero following him? He had to leave. He had to find that stupid magistrate. He had to-

There were about two dozen Second Sons, including one of the company’s healers, waiting at the tree line with their packs and mounts. Oberyn’s smirk reached its peak as he winked over his shoulder at Pero who only scowled in return. The Magistrate—Orestes—was standing with them, looking more than a little out of place with his rumpled fine clothes, now stained with dirt and blood. But he offered a tentative tilt of his head when Pero stepped up to the group with Oberyn.

“What did you do?” Pero hissed.

“I formed my own mercenary company,” Oberyn replied with a roll of his shoulders. “I know you are brighter than this, Tovar.”

If possible, his lips formed an even thinner line.

“Do not pout. We are going to save the damsel and get paid.” There was a cheer from the small band of men—both Tovar and Orestes were the only ones who did not seem to enjoy it. But soon they were on their way, each step taking them further away from the strange safety of the Second Sons and into the wilds of Essos.

Orestes, Pero found, was fond of speaking to anyone who would listen. His voice was pleasing but Pero preferred the quiet in most instances. But, he supposed it was necessary to learn just how he had ended up fleeing to the Second Sons in a desperate plea for help.

Orestes and his companion had been traveling from Qohor to Myr—and Pero tried very hard to not grind his teeth every time Orestes referred to her as ‘my lady’—to allow her to see more of Essos and to return Orestes to Myr after his year-long residency to Qohor that had been in the name of strengthening trade routes and agreements.

(“But, of course, I found myself more entranced by the city and its people than my fellow magistrates’ mandates that I was told to quickly solidify.” He sighed, the sound only a lovelorn man could make and Pero could not stop the grinding of his teeth at that.)

But on the road between Volantis and Myr, a group of heavily armed, religious zealots had slaughtered their small band of traveling companions and guards and took her and Orestes captive in a plot to gain the knowledge her father was keeping secret.

Her father, Lord Ollo, had been one of the famed smiths in Qohor who still knew the secrets of re-forging Valyrian Steel. The famed metal had become a treasure since the Doom and those who could work with the fickle and strong metal were regarded as lords and wielded their power like nobility, too. Travelers from all across Essos sought him out for new weapons, armor, and the occasional piece of jewelry from bits of Valyrian Steel and he had gained a reputation for being excessively secretive but the best at his trade. His wife was a noble woman and had raised his status with their marriage while providing her with the lifestyle on par with princesses.

But Pero knew all of this. He had seen it firsthand. He had supped with him and felt his lady-wife’s fingers tug at his boyishly poorly cropped hair with a fond smile. He knew that their home, an imposing fortress deep in the Forest of Qohor, always smelled of fire and metal and drying flowers.

It smelled…like home.

Well, it had. For a time. A long time ago.

And Orestes never needed to know that—never needed to know that the only reason he had a small band of mercenaries at his call was because the Prince knew that the woman, whose name he could not even say aloud, meant something to Pero.

For all his pride and well-earned arrogance, Oberyn was a good man, Pero had to admit. (He would never actually say this to Oberyn, his ego was big enough without the extra fodder.) And he would have to find a way to repay the prince-who-had-everything in some fashion. Pero’s pride would not allow this kindness to be left unpaid.

Orestes went on to explain that the zealots thought attaining the knowledge of Valyrian Steel would allow them the proper way of sacrificing in order to satiate the supposed blood lust of some old, stupidly named god. They hoped to trade her for Lord Ollo’s knowledge.

“But you seem to know my lady,” Orestes said, turning in his saddle to look Pero straight in the face. “Do you?”

“Is she your lady?” Pero asked in return, ignoring Orestes’ question and how his stomach turned at the thought of her being alone with a group of men as delusional as the band of zealots. Thankfully, they were nearing where Orestes said he had been held captive—less than two days’ ride from their camp but they had set their horses upon the trail with haste, cutting time from their journey.

Orestes’ answering smile was small. “No. But I am blessed to know her and I will never forgive myself for leaving her behind.”

“But she told you to, didn’t she? Told you to run and not look back.” The words were out of his mouth before he could bite them back and his ever-present scowl deepened.

“You do know her. Indeed, she told me to run as soon as I was able. But not to Myr—she told me to run west.” He paused and shook his head and Pero barely caught the confusion coloring the Magistrate’s features. “I had thought the prince was jesting when he said you knew her. I am in your debt, it seems.”

“Just pay the fee you promised.”

“Of course! I would not dream of-”

“Good.” Pero dug his heels into his horse’s side and urged the animal into a faster trot. “You will keep your head, then.” Orestes said something else but Pero had already galloped away to Oberyn’s side at the front of the group. “What have you said to the magistrate?”

“Nothing of consequence.”

“Do not lie to me, princeling.” Pero scarcely noticed the men behind them slow their horses’ pace to give them room. Their relationship—if it could even be called that—was an open secret to most in the Second Sons and some of those who followed Oberyn into this new company were also willing to indulge themselves in each other’s bedrolls if the time called for it.

Oberyn only laughed. “I did not know that your obvious reaction to a lady’s name was a secret needing to be kept.”

“What else have you told him?”

“Nothing. Just as you have told me nothing. But I have still called the men who were loyal to me and the promised coin to save this woman you have kept like a secret.” Oberyn arched an eyebrow, a look Pero knew meant Oberyn was daring him to argue. “She will be safe. The Magistrate will be on his way and our pockets will be filled.” Oberyn’s dark eyes sparkled in the growing sunlight. “And I shall meet this lady of yours. She must be a sight to behold to warrant such attention.”

“She…” The words died on his tongue. How would he even try to describe her? How childish would he sound to a prince for harboring such affections for his childhood love after all this time? “She warrants much more than any man could ever give. Including the Magistrate.”

Oberyn huffed but a smile tugged at his lips. “We are nearly there, Tovar. You can make the polite introductions.”

Night had just started to fall, painting the sky a violent shade of orange, when Orestes had announced that the ruined castle was just over the next hill.

Pero felt his chest tighten for a moment, a shot of adrenaline he had not felt as strongly since he was a new recruit to the Second Sons facing a small horde of Dothraki.

They crested the hill and Pero saw the broken remains of a once-grand castle. A single window was lit with the dim light of a candle just as the sun disappeared behind the stone, making it look like it had absorbed the red light and bathed in an inky black.

Defense of the castle was nearly impossible with its location and the small band of mercenaries quickly surrounded it, ready to drive inside when suddenly….the door, large and rusted, opened and a single man rushed out, screaming something in what Pero thought to be Old Ghiscari and covered in…blood.

Pero turned to look at Oberyn who seemed to be waffling between amusement and confusion at the sight. He waved a hand, silently commanding two men to secure the fleeing zealot—quietly, if possible.

“It is too quiet,” Pero said as he turned back to the castle after watching the screaming man be brought to his knees and a dirty rag shoved between his lips.

Oberyn agreed. “Surely a band of zealots would make more noise. I’ve been told they’re fond of chanting.” The prince slid closer to the ruined castle, staying hidden behind the rolling hill and scattered boulders for cover.

Pero watched him move, knowing the prince had an innate talent for hearing the smallest noises—whether it be from a rabbit or a sneaking assassin, and would trust whatever his judgement was.

“If anyone is left, they are not moving.”

Pero nodded, ignoring the umpteenth time his chest clenched, and signaled for the rest of their band of men to press forward. Step by step, they neared the castle and spread out to find different entrances. Orestes stumbled in the loose dirt to stay near Pero and Oberyn and Pero grimaced when Oberyn nudged him in the side, silently telling him to allow it—at least for the time being.

Closer and closer, they crept until they Pero was able to curl his hand around the edge of the door and peel it open just enough for him and Oberyn to slip inside. Orestes tripped over a loose stone as he followed.

And Oberyn had been right.

The castle was quiet. Unnaturally so.

The grip on his swords tightened as the small group pushed further into the dark ruins. Torches were scattered and burning out in their holds on the wall, casting even more shadows against the crumbling stone. He heard the soft footfalls of his fellow mercenaries coming in through the east and west entrances but it gave him little comfort. They were alone.

Alone.

His next step made a splash and he looked down to see the toe of his boot submerged in a dark puddle. He reached out and grabbed a torch from the wall and let the dying flames shine near the floor.

It was blood.

He raise the torch just enough to light the end of the hall and sighed.

“How interesting,” Oberyn said as he glanced over his shoulder.

Blood pooled between the broken stone and drip-drip-dripped from some unseen source to puddle in the corner. Bodies were crumpled along the path and Pero turned to pin Orestes with a look. “These men were the ones who slaughtered your guards and took you captive?”

Orestes looked down at a body and seemed to bite back a gulp. “Yes.”

“It looks like they put up quite a fight.”

“It looks like they were ripped open,” Pero corrected before pressing forward. “What did this? Did they do this to each other?”

“I’ve never seen a group more cohesive than them,” Orestes said. “They never contradicted each other or spoke out of turn. They had a singular mentality, it seemed. I would not believe they turned on each other.”

“Men turn on each other all the time,” Oberyn said. “Even without cause.”

They continued forward, Pero leading. He was not sure where they were going, but he knew—instinctively—that he needed to keep moving. If another person or creature had found the castle before they did, what hope did she have? Would he find her like this, too? Reduced to a bloody corpse? Would that be the last chance he would have to see her?

But they walked on, further into the dark, catching glimpses of the rising moon in the half-collapsed windows until they turned and saw the outline of a door, lit by a dim, orange light. Without a care, Pero pushed forward, hilt of his sword still in his hand as he pushed the door open and his grip faltered.

For the first time in nearly two decades, Pero let his swords fall from his grasp.

In the corner of the small room, huddled near a solitary candle, was a woman. Not just a woman—her.

Chains wrapped around her ankles and wrists and angry, deep cuts spanned the length of her legs and arms and her fine dress had been reduced to rags. He barely registered Oberyn calling for the healer as he stepped to her side and quickly knelt down. The locks on the chains were easily undone and his roughened hands carefully prodded at the broken skin.

“Pero,” she whispered, the name sliding by her chapped lips. Her head sagged and Pero moved just enough to let her forehead rest against his shoulder. “You’re here…” her voice was rough and raspy, like she had been screaming for hours. And perhaps she had.

“I’m here.”

The healer came in, arms filled with supplies, while more than a few of their company stuck their heads into the room to see their charge. Oberyn quickly moved them back and shut the door—Pero would thank him for it later.

“Look at me. Look at me, Petal,” Pero said as the healer tutted as he looked over her wounds before uncorking a bit of firewine.

Her unfocused eyes slid to him as the healer set to work. A cry broke her chapped lips as the firewine started to spill across her legs.

Pero reached out and kept her head still, gaze on him, as the healer continued. “Just me, Petal. I am here.”

“Pe-Pero.” The name was stilted on her tongue. “Please—it hurts-” a scream tore its way out of her throat but Pero held her steady even as his chest clenched.

“I know. But it will be over soon.”

Tears gathered in her eyes and slid down her dirty cheeks as her hands shot out to grab at his armor; he could feel the heat of her touch sliding and blooming warmth through his thick tunic. But he kept her focused on him even as the healer muttered about needing more wrappings.

“I’m here, Petal. I’m here.”

“This is my fault,” Orestes whispered.

The company had settled into the ruins as a camp for the night, finding the rooms (where there wasn’t blood or any bodies) more comfortable than the outside ground. Pero, Oberyn, and Orestes were the last three to retire from the roaring fire they had made in the remnants of the great hall.

Pero agreed but kept that to himself. “How?”

“We travelled by Myr weeks ago. But I could not bear to part from my lady’s side—I convinced her, selfishly, to let me take her to see Volantis, Lys, Tyrosh. She had marveled at everything Norvos and Braavos had offered—even Lorath had made her wonder like a child. I wanted to give her more of that, to show her all I could.”

“And then you were set upon by zealots. Probably followed you from Dagger Lake.”

Orestes shook his head. “Our party never neared that pirate hive. The closest we came to it was when she insisted on seeing Valysar. That little town of no consequence.”

Oberyn, only briefly, touched Pero’s back and he knew the prince meant it as a comfort at the mention of Pero’s former home. Orestes did not notice it.

“But she was adamant and refused to tell anyone why. But she all but disappeared for an entire day once we arrived and would not speak of her adventures—the little box she had procured never left her side and was never opened.”

Pero almost smiled at that. She had not changed—in that respect, at least.

Orestes yawned and stood from the rickety chair. “I must retire for the night. Please alert me if my lady calls for me.”

Oberyn hummed an agreement while Pero felt his face curl into a sneer as the magistrate left the hall.

“He certainly holds a candle for his lady, does he not?” Oberyn mused as soon as Orestes was out of earshot.

“She did not ask for him once,” Pero said before reaching forward to grab the jug of terrible wine left on the table and took a large gulp.

“But she’s asked for you? Hm?” Oberyn asked, snatching the jug from him. “And you’ve yet to introduce me. I am almost insulted.”

“She needs rest, princeling.” He had made sure she was comfortable in one of the largest rooms and was happy to find that her trunks, filled with her belongings, were still intact and made sure she received them before he had let her rest for the night, making sure to let the rest of the company know that she was not to be disturbed.

“I’m sure she does.” He took a drink. “But she has also been trapped, alone, with men who meant her harm for nearly a week. You were the first friendly face she saw—do not think that I misheard her. She called for you. Pero.”

“You could walk in there now and she would not be able to tell the difference.”

Oberyn tutted and Pero stole the jug back. “I believe she would.”

Pero nearly startled when Oberyn reached out and grasped his wrist, keeping him from draining the rest of the wine. His grip was firm but gentle and a hold Pero knew well. “I thought people in Essos were more willing to indulge themselves in matters of the heart and flesh. Do not be stupid.”

And somehow…that worked. Pero slipped into her room and found her sitting on the small bed, wrapped legs atop the thin blankets and a book on her lap. In the warm candlelight, she looked almost healthy. Like she was not covered in healing salve and he didn’t know there were long, angry cuts hidden by wrappings and her thin nightgown.

She looked…so much like the girl he had left behind decades ago.

Pero remembered Lady Daeryssa smiling down at her daughter, flowers twisted into her braids.

“You are special, my star. Like me.”

“Like you, Mama?”

Daeryssa nodded and grabbed the small, blue rose she had Pero fetch just that morning and pressed her thumb against one of its thorns until blood bloomed on her skin and started to trickle down her skin. Her face was serene and Pero could not look away. Her bloodied fingers pulled the petals from the rose and she carefully pressed them against her daughter’s forehead, sticking them to her skin with blood. Words he didn’t understand slipped by her lips as she pressed another petal and then another to her daughter’s face until she stripped the flower bare.

“You will be magnificent, my star. Your trials will be hard but you will always rise above.”

“Come in,” she said, setting her book aside.

Pero did as he was told and blindly set his hands in hers as she reached out for him, letting her tug him onto the edge of her bed. “How are you?”

“I will heal.” She smiled as if nothing had caused her pain and his chest hurt. “I brought you something.” She leaned back just enough to retrieve a small box from the mess of blankets.

The box was nothing spectacular, made from a polished dark wood with a simple latch and did not weigh more than his dagger. “How did you know we would see each other again?” He asked.

She only smiled and pressed the small box further into his grip. “Open it.”

And he could not tell her no. He unfastened the latch and felt his face crumple as he looked inside. His mother’s handwriting, still beautiful and tilted, drew his eye first. He grabbed the thin bit of parchment and unfurled it.

My dear boy- I love you more than words can say. You have saved us.

The rest of the letter was filled with anecdotes, telling Pero how the coin he had sent back home kept their family afloat and settled his father’s debts, allowing his mother and brothers to stay home and retain their titles and livelihoods. He had saved them. His mother had written it at least three times in her short letter.

But I still wish I witnessed you grow into the man you are today. Come home. You are always welcome.

He quickly let the letter curl in on itself again and shoved it back in the box, knowing she was watching him, face serene and almost unreadable. He reached into the box again and let his fingers brush against something cold and smooth. A shuddering breath pushed its way out of his lung as he pulled out a small, carved wooden wolf that fit in his palm. He raised it up to press the well-worn wood against his lips, just once, before placing it gently back into the box.

“You met my family.”

“I did,” she said. “They were very kind.” She paused. “And they smile so often. I almost didn’t believe you were related to them.”

He huffed. “You never let me have a moments’ peace, Petal.”

“You were the only peace I knew as a child,” she responded.

Pero sat with her for hours under their tree after her mother had disappeared and the petals remained on her face, only falling one by one after the sun had set, leaving little bloody thumbprints across her skin. He tried to press them back onto her skin without success, and she only giggled at his attempts, leaning into each of his touches and letting him try and try again.

She collected all the petals as they fell and Pero had given up on trying to re-stick them.

“What are you doing?”

“Practice.” He watched her reach out and scratch her palm against the broken bark of the tree, slicing open her palm in a single movement.

He squawked and moved to grab her hand but she curled her fingers into a fist, crushing the petals against her bloodied palm. She took a single, long breath through her nose and then unclenched her fist. The petals rose from her bloodied hand and floated up into the air as if pulled by invisible strings. They swirled around the pair before, with another long breath, she let them fly away, disappearing into the thick of the forest.

She laughed then, a light sound that had blood rushing to his cheeks for a reason he could not explain or pinpoint at that moment. All he could mutter as she looked at him, eyes twinkling and a giggle still on her lips was…”petal.”

“Why did you leave?” She asked as he tucked the small box away into his tunic.

Pero froze. “I had to.”

A/N: please let me know what you think! I hope you guys like this! there will be three chapters.

#oberyn martell x reader #pero tovar x reader #oberyn martell imagine #pero tovar imagine #game of thrones imagine #asoiaf #game of thrones #the great wall

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thgreatestblue · 3 years

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hoax

➜ pairing: kaigaku x gn!reader ➜ warnings: manga spoilers, outdoor sex, toxic relationship, dubious consent, mention of death and blood. ➜ words: 4k ➜ a/n: i always loved kaigaku’s design and i would’ve loved to see more of him, but well. i had a lot of fun writing this and i hope you like it as well! (also, i highly recommend the fic breath of reincarnation) ➜ ao3

summary: Never in a million years you thought you would let him break your heart again. But here you were; not only with the broken pieces but with the one who smashed it.

When the sky turned into a greyish shade, everything lost its colors. It brings a melancholy feeling to the landscape; twisting every single tone in an ocean of nothingness besides the tinted red of your cheeks, still hot from the burning of your tears which had long disappeared, but the trail was still there. If you could, you would still be crying, but there were no tears left.

Crestfallen, you wipe your face again with the sleeve of your kimono, it was damp and gross against your skin — a cold memory of the past few hours that you wanted to wake up from. If this was a nightmare, it was the worst you’ve ever had; and you had had a quite few ugly ones. But this one takes the spot, nothing could compare to the tragedy that was unfounded right in front of you.

You could still feel the phantom sensation of Kuwajima’s blood on your hands, cold and thick, staining your skin, running down your arms and dripping from your elbows. Even after hours scrubbing, until everything was so red you didn't know where the spots of blood ended and where your skin began. The endless stream of tears fogging your vision didn't help either.

Fogged, that’s how it felt. A dense mist filled your mind, putting you in a mechanical state where you couldn't remember half of the day, half the things you had said and done - you nod to something, you hug someone, the water came out red. Although the haze clogged your mind, the image of the dead body of Kuwajima burns bright and vivid; even when you closed your eyes.

You can’t think straight; can’t bring yourself to feel anything other than sadness. As you look at his grave, the dull turquoise color of the flowers make you sick, it reminds you of eyes that you wish you had never met; that you wish you had kept closer. Does it matter anyway? If fate was this cruel, then he would’ve slipped through your fingers nevertheless.

Your head hurts just thinking about how you are going to tell Zenitsu about this — if the blow was fatal to you, it would be deadly to him.

Although Kuwajima didn't take you under his wing, he always took care of you, making sure you knew the basics and was talented enough to enter the Demon Slayer Corps. Sometimes you would even train besides Kaigaku and Zenitsu, always coming out bruised but with a content smile on your face.

However, those memories of better and easier days now sat wrong in your mind; they lost their colors, scenery becoming sinister as the faces twisted into something demonic. The shadows fell into those memories just like when clouds cover the sun, and you suspect it was going to be an endless rain, soaking every single frame until there's nothing left to save.

The necklace on your neck still has the yellow Magatama that Kaigaku gave you on your birthday, and it’s heavy — carrying the weight of treason and deception on its tiny form. Like habit, you grasp the pendant on your hand, holding it so tight it might break. It won't though. No matter how many times you threw it on the ground, step on it; it was still intact — it would always come back to your neck as well, no matter how many times you tried to let it go.

The sound of a thunder startles you, and you laugh sadly at the irony. You look up to the sky which was painted a dark grey, casting darkness upon the living — you could say it was fitting for the day. After that, It only takes a few seconds for the first drop of rain to fall on your face, cold and violent — if there were no tears left, then the raindrops would do the job.

“Y/N.”

The voice comes from a spot next to you, but you don’t look. Not yet. You can’t bring yourself to turn your head, to see what Kaigaku had become — what monster he had turned into. You had wondered for hours, for days, the whys and the reasons. It corroded your heart, eating by the borders until it reached the center.

Never in a million years you thought this was even possible. Not after everything he went through to become a Demon Slayer. Not after all the training, the scolding, the bruises and the cries - the joys and the pride. Never in a million years you thought you would let him break your heart again.

But here you were; not only with the broken pieces but with the one who smashed it.

Your lips tremble before you can bring yourself to speak, “What are you doing here?” It comes out tiny and fragile, your throat closes with the amount of grief you’re trying to hold.

The rain starts to pour more heavily, soaking you to your feet. The sound of it would’ve been soothing if you were at home, but here in the open it’s disturbing, frightening. The fat raindrops hit your skin like bullets, they run down on your cheeks, damping your clothes and leaving you shivering.

“Aren't you going to look at me, coward?” Kaigaku mocks, his voice closer now.

His words stings, injecting poison on your veins. You should be used by now, to have your insides burning with humiliation. However, it was always a back and forth with him; one day he was arrogant, enraged, almost bitter. Then, on rare days — the ones that you used to treasured the most — he would be eager, intense, almost romantic. The switch of emotion kept you on your toes; it was a lost battle though, he has always been unpredictable.

You press your lips together, taking a deep breath before slowly turning your head to the side, but nothing could prepare you for what was right before you.

“So, what do you think about my new look?” Kaigaku spins on his heels; the rain doesn't stop him from opening his arms, showing off his new clothes, baring his new sharp teeth, a devilish smile dripping from his mouth, “Much better, right?”

It is, in fact, much worse than you thought; eyes widening in disbelief. His skin that you had once touched with tender fingers was now pale and dull; the milk shade of it turned him into a ghost, and you'd have believed if you didn't know better. The dark stripes around his face were aggressive, twisting his face to a sharper and more dangerous look; and you hated seeing his beautiful face corrupted like that.

And then there was his eyes. Once a charming hue of turquoise that you had lost yourself so many times; due to anger, due to love. Now, a hideous shade of greenish blue, surrounded by black sclera. A perfect portrait of a corruption of nature, a Demon. It makes you want to puke.

Instead, you say, "You look terrible."

Kaigaku laughs, throwing his head back as if you had told the funniest joke, and you notice the many blue Magatamas he’s carrying with him, around his neck and wrist. Once yellow, now it was corrupted with evil. He still carries his katana on his back, which you thought was an outrage; an insult to the Demon Slayer Corps. You clench your hands in fists, but still don't reach for your own katana.

"Oh, Y/N. You wound me." He mocks, running a hand through his wet hair, so casually you can’t register the moment as real.

Rage sets down in your bones, even with him right in front of you, you couldn't believe it. Not a single word of apology, he doesn't show remorse, nor guilty. He looks satisfied with the turn of events, as if he had planned this all along. It’s disgusting, his pointy ears and long black nails; for once, you are glad that Kuwajima isn't here to see what he had become — you wish you weren't either.

"Do you know who found him?" You shout, eyes burning with fury and sorrow, you approach him with heavy steps, your lips tremble as you continue to scream, "When I arrived there was blood all over the room, his death was slow and agonizing because no one was there to cut his head! All because of you!"

You hit his chest as hard as you can; but you are weak — nothing was able to stay on your stomach and you couldn't even think about sleeping. He doesn't move an inch. “I keep seeing that scene every fucking day, even when my eyes are open!”

Your voice sounds shaky, but your hands clench his clothes in a tight grip. The sound of thunder is loud in your ears as the rain falls heavy between you two. He’s not laughing anymore, the grin on his face fading into a scowl.

"You're a disgrace."

Kaigaku’s eyes darken, almost pit black. Your senses scream for you to prepare to fight, but before you could even think about making a movement, he grabs you by the collar and throws you against the first wall he could find. The air is knocked out of your lungs, head spinning with the pain spreading throughout your body.

He holds your clothes in a tight grip, pressing against your frame so you wouldn't be able to move. Your hands reach to grab his; a failed attempt to loosen the grasp around your throat that is starting to suffocate you. Head still fogg with pain, the only thing you can see between dark spots are his eyes. Your eyes widen in shock as you see the indentation of a kanji in his iries, Upper Moon Six.

"I wouldn't say that ever again if I were you." Kaigaku warns, the pointed nail of his index finger digging in the flesh of your throat.

You swallow down, feeling the nail cutting just a tiny bit of your skin, but not enough to draw blood. The rain still pours unforgiven, but at least there’s a roof over your head now. You’re completely soaked and yet, you can feel his strong body against yours, his breath on your face makes you shudder.

“Why?” You cry out, not knowing exactly for what you were asking.

Kaigaku was a taker, and even though you gave everything you could and more, it was never enough. You gave him your soul, let him consume your body and break your heart as many times as he liked — And still wasn't enough. You don’t know what he wants from you anymore; there was nothing left to play with, he had shattered all your pieces.

Yet, here he was. There wasn't a single reasonable reason that he could give to you that would explain all this, that would justify the catastrophe of his choices. Though, deep down you knew it was for his own amusement, seeing you suffer for him yet again. He wouldn't let you go, eternally pulling the strings of your life.

“I’m stronger,” He hums, “More powerful than I would ever be if I continued to be just a a mediocre demon slayer.”

You shook your head in disbelief, after everything that’s all he has to say? For years you wished; no, you actually believed that underneath the tough facade he was a good man, that he in fact was just prideful and wanted to be the best Demon Slayer out there.

You saw when he would train until his body couldn't take anymore. You saw when he would let a tiny smile spread across his face when Kuwajima praised him. You saw when he was gentle when you two were intimate. You saw so many things and yet, those black eyes staring at you said the very contrary.

“I'm on the winning side.” Kaigaku whispers, licking a trail from your neck to your chin. You shiver from the feeling of his tongue dragging across your flesh.

"Let me go.” You hiss between gritted teeth. You hold his forearms in a weak grip, trying to push him away.

Kaigaku’s laugh vibrates through your body — it’s cruel and cold — leaving you trembling on the spot. He tilts his head, one hand grips your waist while the other reaches down for the pendant on your chest. He plays with the Magatama between his fingers, a vicious grin spreading through his face. Your face heats up, caught in the act.

"I don’t know why you bother to try. We both know it never works."

Kaigaku’s lips come crashing into yours, hungry and eager. You fight back, pressing your lips together — miserably trying to stop him from invading your mouth. His teeth sinks in your skin, his nails dug on your waist. Your clothes are damp from the rain, but rather than feel cold, there’s a warm heat emanating from Kaigaku’s body that you can’t ignore how familiar it feels.

You don’t want him.

Out in the open, you felt over exposed. More than that, you were just a few meters away from Kuwajima’s grave. It was a dishonor, not only for him, but for everyone Kaigaku killed to be this high in the rank. How many lives were destroyed by his treason. You try to push him away, weakly forcing him to step away. Instead, Kaigaku presses closer, making your head hit the wall.

You didn't want him — not like this, at least.

His hands travel down your body as he slides his tongue along the seam of your lips, and even though your body screams for you to open your mouth, you don't. It was a never ending battle that you fought almost everyday; wanting him, needing him more than you should. Kaigaku has always been a constant in your life, for better or for worse — you can’t see him out of it, at the same time that you need desperately to let him go.

Noticing that you won’t budge, Kaigaku moves down to violently kiss your neck, sucking dark spots without mercy; his touch clouds your head and you don't notice when his hand disappears inside your pants. It’s only when he touches your sex that your eyes snatch open.

“Don’t—” As you open your mouth to protest, he shoves his tongue inside.

And you know it’s a lost battle then. Your hands grips his shoulders as you let him kiss you, suck your tongue, run the tip of it across the routh of your mouth. It has always been like that, once he touched you, it was over. Like a drug, you could never withdraw completely. No matter what. No matter the situation.

His fingers play with you, knowing exactly how to touch you to drive you crazy. You have to grit your teeth to not make a sound, jaw stiffening as a moan threatens to escape. Kaigaku traps your bottom lip between his, sucking hard enough to bruise.

“Don’t forget, you’re mine.” Kaigaku growls, his breath is hot against your neck, “And I can do whatever I want with you.”

Shivering, you grip his shoulder as the first finger enters you. His pointed nails hurt a little, however, the feeling of his finger dragging and scratching you open is enough to make you gasp. You feel overwhelmed by his touch. It has been some time since he touched you like this — each thrust of his finger making you pulse and throb for more. He devours you, swallowing each tiny whimper you make as another finger enters you.

Kaigaku's cruel, unforgiving fingers thrust deeper, curling in the right places that makes you see stars. You bury your head on his neck, letting a shameful moan escape your lips as he hits the right stop inside you.

"That's better.” He hums in your ear. The heat on your belly is starting to burn, your body betrays you as your hips start move, fucking into his hand.

You finally give in, completely by kissing him. It’s desperate, raw with emotions you can bring yourself to say, holding into him as your life depends on it. It’s useless now, but you can’t help it. He kisses you back with the same intensity, lips crushing on another, sucking and devouring each other — and for a moment you wonder if there’s something between the lines you’re failing to see.

You feel Kaigaku groaning when you brush your thigh against his crotch; he’s already fully hard and you know what’s coming next. He sucks down your neck, and you shudder between moans — your mind starting to lose track of your surroundings, thinking only about him and his touch, how you shamelessly want to go all the way.

Kaigaku abruptly pulls his fingers out of you, and you whimper from the loss. He teases you a little, dragging his fingers over your sex, making you squirm in his arms. When he pulls his hand out of your pants, there’s a bit of your fluid on his fingers, and he doesn't hesitate putting it on his mouth. You suck in a sharp breath, watching him suck his fingers.

"Now, I don’t know if i want to fuck or eat you."

A strong shiver goes down your spine, paralyzing you in place. Suddenly, the reality of the situation hits you like a train — that what’s happening right now is wrong on so many levels — you open your mouth to put an end to whatever this is, heart beating so fast you might faint, but he stops you with a finger over your mouth.

“Hush now, we don’t want to ruin the moment, do we?” Kaigaku grins, his eyes are a shade darker now that the night took over the day, but those disgusting indentations are still there, the black sclera is haunting in this light; you can’t bring yourself to look him in the eye.

You feel trapped, the same way you felt a long time ago. And even though this time the reality is a lot worse, it was the same feeling. Before, when things were easy, it was still hard to make him hear you — it worked once or twice — but it all came down to what Kaigaku wanted in the end. Oh, you were so blind, so stupidly blind.

And even now that you can see clearly as the day; acting on it is a completely different thing.

You stay frozen in place — hands still clutching his shoulders, eyes heavy-lidded — while Kaigaku reaches past his kimono, pulling his cock out of his pants. You feel one of his hands pulling down yours just enough so he could position his cock at your entrance. He hooks his hands under your thighs, lifting you from the ground. And you wrap your legs around his waist like you did so many times before.

If your mind isn't working, frozen in a dilemma you couldn't bring yourself to come to a conclusion — your body on the other hand, knew exactly how to proceed.

Kaigaku nose bumps into yours, drawing circles around your cheek, and it’s so gentle it makes you want to cry. There was always a bipolarity to his actions, it would jump between extremely violent to insufferable gentle and you didn't know which one was worse — his true self or the shadow of what could’ve been.

He enters you quite easily, cursing under his breath. Your walls throbs around his cock as he pushes deeper and deeper. Moan muffled by his shoulder; your entire body is consumed by his fire, each nerve lighting up as he hits the deepest part of you — the fog on your mind comes back, intoxicating you for once and for all.

Kaigaku starts with smoother strokes, making you feel all of him; every inch of his cock. It’s cruel, how slow and deep he goes, almost painful how much force he puts on his thrusts, staying buried inside you for longer than necessary — as if he hasn't already left enough marks on your body, on your soul.

Slamming your body against the wall, you hold onto his shoulders for dear life, each thrust making the bumping noise of your body against the wood louder and louder; if it wasn't for the rain, you are sure that someone would have heard you two by now — the thought makes you blush even harder.

However, today the night is darker, the shadows are peach black as his eyes. Kaigaku changes the pace as he changes emotions; and since you were already stretched, he picks a roughless pace, fucking you against the wall. You moan louder when he hits you just right, you clench around him; the space below your belly asking for release.

“Ah,” You gasp as he continues to fuck you, “Fuck—Ka—ahh—” He shuts you up with his mouth, kissing you hard enough to suck all the air of your lungs.

And you desperately kiss him back, hanging into something unreal. To a feeling that would never be the same, stained by the blood he shed. To someone who would never be the same, twisted by the blood he chose to drink. This isn't him, but it looks so much like it that you would indulge yourself as much as you could — even if these mere minutes are going to leave you broken beyond repair.

Kaigaku moans in your mouth, and you drink every single one of them. Those sounds never failed to make your stomach flutter — at least he was enjoying this as much as you were, getting lost in your flesh as you always got lost on him. You kiss his neck, sucking the spot right below his ear, it wouldn't bruise but you could try.

Your hips move to meet his thrusts, not bothering how hard his nails dug into your thighs — wrongly enough you want his marks, as many as you could get, since you didn't know when you would be seeing him again, or if ever.

“Kaigaku!” You cry, surprised when tears start to form in the corners of your eyes. You thought you had drained all of them, but of course he would be an exception.

"That's right, scream my name." Kaigaku growls, sucking in a sharp breath. The sound of skin on skin muffled by the rain.

"Fu—mmph—” A white-hot pleasure shoots through your body, the first tear runs down your cheek as Kaigaku continues to thrust into you with no mercy.

"So everyone will know that I fucked you," He whispers, biting at the lobe of one of your ears. "That a Demon fucked you."

His words are harsh, making you shudder harder against him, trying to come up with something but your mouth only hangs open, breathy moans escaping as his hips snap forward, sinking so deep you cry out again. Then, his mouth finds its way to your neck, lips sealed over the flesh, he bites down, drawing blood to the surface and drinking.

On a broken moan, you terribly realize you came from that.

It pulses through you, feeling the rush reach the tip of your toes. Kaigaku continues to slam into you, thrusts starting to feel erratic and desperate as he chases his orgasm. You hold onto his shoulders, gripping his clothes so tight your knuckles go white. He growls, spilling inside you.

Kaigaku slowly stops his movements, pulling out of you with a filthy sound. Your head is still clouded with the aftertaste of your orgams — so that must be the reason why you seek for his mouth, kissing him so gently you can’t recognize what’s real or what’s not anymore.

“Now I just need to eat you for real.” His grin is twisted with something evil and cruel underneath; you can’t take it anymore.

You push him, this time he steps away and you fall to your knees. You try to cover yourself, pulling your kimono over your chest, but the damage is already done. His come drips down between your thights — you shudder from the feeling, shame settling down your bones so heavy you can’t breathe.

He squats down, gripping your chin, you try to look away but his grip tightens and you have to look at his demonic eyes, “Don’t worry, you are better alive for me, darling.”

He laughs as another tear runs down your cheek.

If he was a disgrace, so were you.

#kaigaku #kaigaku x reader #demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #kny x reader #kny #sometimes i write #this song ranked 3rd place on my spotify 2020 wrapped #i'm just a little bit obsessed with it #just a little

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blushing-starker · 3 years

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Of sleeping angels and forgetful lovers

im back y'all, enjoy

Tony slips between the billowing curtains, careful to make his arrival as silent as possible: there is an angel slumbering just a few feet away and God help whoever awakens them with anything less than a kiss and sweet murmurs.

Not wanting to be struck down by another celestial deity twice in a millennia, he carefully maneuvers around the scattered objects on the marble floor; a low table straining under the weight of scrolls, thick manuscripts and what honestly seems to be a stone tablet; a few chests clumsily tipped over, gold, silk and fragrance oil bottles spilling from them luxuriously. Surprisingly enough, Tony has to avoid staining four lace dresses thrown on the floor.

Poor thing. Any admirer of the creature basking inside this chamber should have known better. It's an insult to even suggest a holy being should disgrace themselves by wearing anything lesser than silk or pure gossamer. Ignorant gnat is probably swimming in the underground by now.

Still. It would be rude to tarnish a gift that isn't his to rip apart and incinerate. His lover would take pleasure in doing that himself. So he moves his body to the side, inhaling sharply when the wind shifts a garment closer to his dusty lower half. Oh, he'd get back at the wind god after this.

To honestly believe he's ancient and unable to persevere under the childish attack, how ridiculous. The offending yard and a half of pink lace (angels tended to take up more space than human minds could comprehend, but the ones who liked to roam the Earth often diminished their size; his paramour would never dress in something that large with an altered body. He's self conscious of his low stature as it is.) flies overhead and he muffles a snicker. Asshole wind god can't calculate how much strength to use.

Finally, he's at the bed. Home at last. And then the wind blasts through the chamber and he picks up the smell. Dried blood, decomposing flesh, something musky and tangible in the air. After that comes the sound. A deep rasp, powerful and similarly fear inducing as a lightning storm amidst the sea. It's a warning growl Tony had ignored, once, an uncountable number of years before. He counts them now, hastily and quickly, because surely his nemesis has grown tired and. Well. Not slow, but certainly slower in that long expanse of time. Just as he had. Fuck.

The beast appears, a vengeful mass of writhing smoke and viridescent ash hovering near the side of the bed he's currently trapped against. His lover disliked it when he brought war to the chamber, said it reminded him of harsher times and a dying Tony; he had left his knives and whip with his second in command, had gone so far for his beloved as to purge the poison from his body. (Listen. Listen. A shit ton of years past, a moron tried to eat him. Actually hoisted him on a spit before he woke up and strangled the fucker. So what if he has poison coursing through his veins to defend himself, it's not that nonsensical.)

From the grey and green smoke, a dark head emerges. And another. And another. And four fucking others and why hadn't his lover mentioned anything, why hadn't he warned Tony of the very amused looking, incredibly spiteful monster currently hissing at him? He has no arms here, the chamber's strongest weapon was currently dozing on a six feet wide bed, soft snores muffled against fluffy pillows. Oh, if his father could see him now, facing death at the hands of his enemy rather than bring his partner back from the golden fields of dreams.

Technically, he's facing the many headed beast in favor of facing his darling, a much more wrathful creature, but his father need not know that.

Death looms closer, is rearing its ugly heads and flaunting the seven inch fangs that will most likely shred him to pieces. There are ruby droplets splattered on the neck of the monster and ah, there's the ignorant admirer. At least he won't be devoured hungrily. Granted, he will definitely be devoured slowly and tortuously no matter what.

As his vision is swarmed by the huge monstrosity, Tony thinks of his beloved. Of his soft, brown hair. A little long, a little curly and always brushed aside uselessly. (There is one lock he particularly enjoys playing with because it never grows enough to be tucked back. It often annoys his lover, but he adores that stray curl.) Soft cheeks, tinted rosy during the chilly winters, a healthy tan when summer sweeps in. Lips softer and more colorful than a rose. Dimples. They appear and he's tripping in love all over, stumbling after his lover's affection just to see the two indentations on the side of his mouth.

His body is a masterpiece, graceful and as elegant as a star. Tony adores subtle, enjoys the fine curve of his paramour's neck, takes pride in making shapely thighs tremble beneath his worshipful mouth, is set on fire when the sweetest sighs and loveliest moans slip from bruised lips. All he needs in this life is to bring happiness to his companion. And, he supposes, he has, so death won't be a complete tragedy. Although, Tony would have liked to see his beloved's eyes one last time. They shone like amber, like the heady drink the humans call whiskey.

Once, when he was shy and his darling was unsure of his intentions, he had blurted out a confession under an apple tree, words spilling, spilling, going so fast that breath abandoned his chest.

"Your eyes are like star fire. Like the sun left the sky to shine inside you. It's amazing, something so beautiful I can believe in life again. How could I not when someone as lovely as you exists so gracefully?"

They had stood there, tree branches creaking overhead, leaves drifting down slowly and bees sluggishly swimming through the air in search of flowers and the ichor of life. His companion had blinked at him and then smiled, slow and sweet and pure. Whatever breath remained in his lungs was stolen, vanished without a trace. Tony had been a goner ever since.

He thinks of that time now and discovers that he is not afraid of death. After all, his lover could simply visit him in the fields of the dead, what, with being the Angel of Death, and everything.

The hydra leans back, prepares the killing blow and he thinks, Peter.

A whisper of movement, the growl of the beast; he's ready, he's going to meet his fate head on and not falter and-

A warm hand scoops him up. He tentatively opens his eyes, is met by a bleary pair much prettier than those this body has. There is amusement there, tangled with fondness and love. It's such a beautiful sight that he melts, sinks deeper into the cradle holding him up to Peter's pillow marked face. He always had a thing for his lover's hands; they could kill with just a hint of touch, but they only ever brought Tony to life.

"Anthony," oh, to hear that teasing sigh, to be given the gift of that music, "did you forget you were in your snake body again?"

Embarrassed, he dips his head, agile tongue flickering into the air to taste Peter's affection as a distraction from the flush valiantly trying to survive in his cool cheeks. The angel before him giggles, grins at him before stroking his scaly head gently.

"You forgot about your body and the fact that Milos here is, like, three inches smaller than you when you stand up?" Tony grumbles, slithers across Peter's wrist and forearm. His lover just sighs, rolls over in bed and lets him travel all the way up to the base of a long neck. He loves Peter's entire body, of course, but this is the perfect spot to settle into while he's in this form. Lightly, because it's rude to tease him, goddammit, he's the fallen angel, not a stable boy, he nips at Peter's hair, pulls at a few strands until Peter halfheartedly swats at him.

"Just because I can revive you doesn't mean I won't kill you, Tones. I've got a hundred," his beloved yawns, drags a blanket over the both of them, "and fifty four souls to pick up in the afternoon. I can squeeze you in among them and nobody would know." A lie, obviously. His best friend James would know. The rest is true, Peter would kill him if he called on him again while it was nap time, even if it was an accident.

Thing is, now that Milos is brooding in the corner of the bedchamber and some good ten feet away from him, Tony has no need to call on his angel. Why would he, when he's right by his side? Just as he always has. Just as he always will.

With snake lives saved and fates changed, the first fallen angel and the Angel of Death fall into a deep slumber; tail and hands wrapped around each other, as it should be.

#starker #peter parker x tony stark #peter x tony #angel!peter #fallen angel!tony #sweet and fluffy yall #sophie writes #i need to at least write one #snake!tony #for the giggles

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bloody-bee-tea · 4 years

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BeeTober 2020 Day 5

Forgotten - Lantern

Day 5 of BeeTober hit me with some Mo Xuanyu feels and I figure NMJ is everyone’s da-ge so let him be MXY’s as well and maybe also more

Mo Xuanyu doesn’t know if he’s making the right decision, but he doesn’t have a choice anymore. He came too far already to turn back around.

He passed the border of Qinghe a few hours ago, and he can already see the light of the Unclean Realm on the horizon.

And besides, there is nowhere else to go for Mo Xuanyu.

He didn’t chose Qinghe lightly; by now it’s his only option. There is no way Mo Xuanyu can ever return to Lanling, not with how Jin Guangyao made sure to ruin his reputation like this. Mo Xuanyu would have loved to change out of the golden colours by now, but he didn’t dare to return home, so he doesn’t exactly have a spare set of clothes laying around.

His first instinct after Jin Guangyao kicked him down the stairs was to go to Gusu; Lan Xichen is said to be a kind and just leader, but Mo Xuanyu all too well remembers how fond Lan Xichen seems of Jin Guangyao.

There is no way he will believe Mo Xuanyu’s words over Jin Guangyao.

Mo Xuanyu’s second instinct told him to turn to Yunmeng; Sect Leader Jiang might be a rough and firm Sect Leader, but he is famous for accepting strays and bringing them into his Sect. Mo Xuanyu thinks he might have liked life at Lotus Pier, but he has seen how—despite his more than apparent dislike—Jiang Cheng stays friendly and accommodating to Jin Guangyao.

Mo Xuanyu understands that Jiang Cheng fears Jin Guangyao will take Jin Ling away from him—Jin Guangyao makes it look like he’s granting Jiang Cheng a favour by allowing him to take Jin Ling to Lotus Pier often enough after all—and so Mo Xuanyu can’t count on the fact that Jiang Cheng will protect him.

If Jin Guangyao wants him back—or worse dead—badly enough, he definitely has the means to force Jiang Cheng’s hand.

No, Lotus Pier is not the place to go.

That only leaves Qinghe as his last option, and despite of that Mo Xuanyu still thinks it might be sensible.

Nie Mingjue has no qualms letting everyone know just how little he trusts Jin Guangyao, how he abhors his methods.

If Jin Guangyao comes demanding Mo Xuanyu be returned to him, Nie Mingjue might refuse simply out of spite.

At this point, it’s the best Mo Xuanyu can hope for, since he doesn’t dare to return home. He can only imagine how he would be welcomed after the shame he brought to the Mo family, how disappointed his mother must be.

So he keeps dragging his feet along, despite the bruises and aches all over his body, and the light of the Unclean Realm is getting closer and closer.

Mo Xuanyu counts himself lucky that Qinghe and Lanling share a border, because he’s not sure he would have made it much further than this.

By the time Mo Xuanyu can see the great gate, the sun is setting and he had time enough to regret his every action.

He has only met Nie Mingjue a handful of times, but he’s an imposing man, and if he’s displeased by Mo Xuanyu’s appearance, there is nothing Mo Xuanyu will have to hold against him. Mo Xuanyu can simply hope that Nie Mingjue will make it quick, instead of dragging it out and making Mo Xuanyu suffer.

When the guards of the Unclean Realm spot him and immediately leave—presumably to call for Nie Mingjue or another high-ranking officer—Mo Xuanyu desperately wishes that he was in different clothes.

Not that it would help hide who he is, but at least then Nie Mingjue would maybe not pay that much attention to him at first.

Mo Xuanyu has half a mind just turning back around, when Nie Mingjue suddenly marches up to him.

He seems even bigger than in Mo Xuanyu’s memory, and Mo Xuanyu tries to make himself as small as he can, and he falls in a deep bow.

“Rise,” Nie Mingjue orders him, and Mo Xuanyu doesn’t dare to disobey him.

Nie Mingjue musters him for long moments before he speaks again.

“Mo Xuanyu, right?” he then asks and Mo Xuanyu is honestly surprised that Nie Mingjue seems to remember him.

He didn’t think he left such a lingering impression, but maybe word of his disgraceful behaviour—however made up it is—has already reached this far.

“You have not been forgotten,” Nie Mingjue tells him, almost sounding affronted, and Mo Xuanyu wonders if he can read the thoughts right off his face.

“I didn’t dare hope,” Mo Xuanyu whispers and he fights the urge to fall into a bow again.

“You are hurt,” Nie Mingjue observes. “What happened?”

“Surely you must have heard of it,” Mo Xuanyu replies, and he wonders just how long it will take Nie Mingjue to send him away.

Mo Xuanyu doesn’t know what he was thinking when he came here.

“I want to hear it from you,” Nie Mingjue says and Mo Xuanyu can see Baxia vibrate at Nie Mingjue’s back.

Mo Xuanyu closes his eyes and then trains them on the ground.

“I made advances on my brother,” Mo Xuanyu says, because this is what Nie Mingjue will have heard no matter how outrageously a lie it is. “He kicked me out.”

“I told you to tell me what happened,” Nie Mingjue repeats and Mo Xuanyu can’t help but to look in surprise at Nie Mingjue.

“You don’t believe it?” Mo Xuanyu asks and when his eyes start to burn he tries to convince himself it’s simply because he’s tired.

“It’s a rumour spread by Jin Guangyao. I wouldn’t believe it if he swore on his mother’s grave that it’s the truth,” Nie Mingjue scoffs out, and now Mo Xuanyu can’t help it anymore.

He let’s out a sob—more from relief than anything else—and when his knees buckle, Nie Mingjue catches him.

“What happened?” he asks again, but much softer this time and Mo Xuanyu dares to lean into his large hands.

“He made it up. I stumbled upon things I shouldn’t have seen, and he made it up to get rid of me,” he admits, for the first time since he ran into Xue Yang by chance and Mo Xuanyu hadn’t known how much this weighed on him.

“And he kicked you out,” Nie Mingjue finishes for him and Mo Xuanyu lets out a hysterical laugh.

“Kicked me down the stairs, more like it,” he gives back and Nie Mingjue’s hands tighten on him before he relaxes them.

“You’re hurt.”

It’s not a question and Nie Mingjue doesn’t give Mo Xuanyu time to answer, either. He simply puts him back on his own feet, though he makes sure to keep a steadying hand on his elbow, before he leads him inside the Unclean Realm.

“Zonghui, inform the healer,” Nie Mingjue orders the man who has been standing behind him all along and he nods, before he hurries away.

The trip to the healer is quick, thankfully. Despite the long tumble down the stairs, Mo Xuanyu got away without any serious injuries. His whole body is tender, and he will most likely bruise all over, but the worst of it is a sprained wrist, which quickly gets bandaged.

Nie Mingjue left sometime during the examination and Mo Xuanyu tries his best not to read too much into that.

Nie Mingjue must be busy. He cannot possibly attend to someone like Mo Xuanyu personally. But Mo Xuanyu is acutely aware of the fact that he knows no one here, and the grain of worry sits deep.

Nie Zonghui leads him to a room, once the healer deems him ready to go, and he tells Mo Xuanyu to wait there.

There’s a fresh set of robes on the bed, but they are in Nie colours and Mo Xuanyu doesn’t dare to touch them.

Surely, they must have been left by the previous owner of the room. Or maybe they have been left on accident. They cannot be for him, that much Mo Xuanyu is sure of.

His body screams for some rest, and the bed looks more than inviting, but Nie Zonghui has told him to wait; Mo Xuanyu doesn’t know for what but he doesn’t want to be caught unaware.

So instead of laying down on the bed like his entire being demands, he kneels in front of the bed.

He tries to meditate, but his thoughts keep drifting away; he’s too uncertain of the future to allow himself to fall deeply into mediation.

The night is well advanced by the time Mo Xuanyu hears footsteps approach his room and he sits up straighter. There are enough flaws and faults to find in Mo Xuanyu and he doesn’t want to give his hosts any more reason to find additional ones.

Mo Xuanyu lowers his head when someone knocks at his door and he expects the person to simply barge in. He’s beyond confused when nothing happens.

“Mo Xuanyu?” Nie Mingjue’s voice carries through the door and Mo Xuanyu takes in a deep breath.

“Yes?”

“Can I come in?” Nie Mingjue wants to know and it throws Mo Xuanyu for a loop if he’s being honest.

No one in Lanling respected his privacy.

“Of course,” Mo Xuanyu rushes to confirm and he shrinks in on himself when Nie Mingjue frowns as he sees him.

“Why didn’t you change yet?” he asks and it’s only then that he seems to notice the untouched bed. “Did you not rest?”

“I was told to wait,” Mo Xuanyu replies and he ducks his head when Nie Mingjue sighs. “And I figured the robes must have been a mistake,” Mo Xuanyu admits, hoping to not upset Nie Mingjue further, but his words seem to have the exact opposite effect.

“The robes are yours,” Nie Mingjue tells him and Mo Xuanyu’s stomach drops when he kneels in front of him. “This is your room, Xuanyu.”

Mo Xuanyu blinks at that, because he doesn’t understand.

“You came here for protection, didn’t you? For shelter? A new home?”

“I hoped to find those, yes,” Mo Xuanyu softly says, because he doesn’t dare hope that he might have found it already.

“And this is me offering it to you,” Nie Mingjue says with a nod at the bed and at the robes. “Will you accept it?”

Mo Xuanyu blinks against the tears that threaten to fall, but he can’t believe it, not yet. He allows his desperation to take the better of him, just for a moment, just for long enough to confirm that Nie Mingjue means it.

“You can’t hand me in to him,” he begs as he leans forward to fist his hands in Nie Mingjue’s robe. “You can’t let him claim me again, I will not survive if I have to go back there.”

“If you put on the robes, you’ll be one of my disciples,” Nie Mingjue says and puts one of his large hands on Mo Xuanyu’s neck. “I’d like to see him try to take you back.”

Mo Xuanyu slumps at those words and when Nie Mingjue squeezes his neck, he nods.

“Okay,” Mo Xuanyu softly agrees and gets up. He turns around, hands already loosening the belt around his middle and Nie Mingjue makes a strangled sound behind his back.

“I’ll be waiting outside,” Nie Mingjue rushes out as he hurriedly leaves the room and Mo Xuanyu stares after him.

He got used to people always watching him in Lanling; some more obvious than others. Mo Xuanyu has forgotten what it feels like to change in privacy.

He quickly sheds his old robes, distantly wondering if Nie Mingjue will allow him to burn them, and when he shrugs on the new ones, Mo Xuanyu finds that they are almost a perfect fit.

“I’m done,” Mo Xuanyu calls out once the sash is fastened and Nie Mingjue steps back into the room, looking him over once.

“They fit, good. I had to guess your size. I’ll have more brought to you, but now, come with me,” Nie Mingjue orders and then simply leaves the room, clearly accustomed to being followed without question.

Mo Xuanyu finds himself thinking that it might be one of the easier things he has ever done in his life.

Nie Mingjue leads him into a courtyard, where Nie Zonghui is waiting for them, two lanterns at his side.

Mo Xuanyu is burning with questions, but he keeps silent, still too afraid to upset Nie Mingjue to the point of him sending Mo Xuanyu away again, and he startles slightly when Nie Mingjue turns around to him.

“You’re going to let them fly,” Nie Mingjue says, and despite phrasing it like that, Mo Xuanyu thinks he could refuse. “One, to let go of your past,” Nie Mingjue explains, “and one with your wishes for your stay here in my Sect. After this, you’re one of my disciples.”

It’s one of the stranger initiation rituals Mo Xuanyu has heard of, but he can probably count himself lucky that new disciples don’t have to fight for their place in the Sect. He would have been dead before he even lifted his sword.

“That is all?” Mo Xuanyu dares to ask and Nie Mingjue smiles at him.

“That is all. After that you’ll be a Nie, no matter if you decide to take the name or not.”

Mo Xuanyu eyes the lanterns, still waiting for a catch, but when Nie Zonghui simply offers the first one to him, he takes it.

Mo Xuanyu closes his eyes and he tries to imagine everything that has defined his stay at Lanling; the humiliation, the constant fear, the threads, the abuse, his hate and resentment for everyone named Jin and he imagines how he pushes all of those feelings and memories into the lantern.

It should be heavy—too heavy to fly—but when Mo Xuanyu lets go of it, it rises into the sky almost instantly. Mo Xuanyu feels like he’s going to fly right after it, that’s how light he feels all of a sudden.

“And now the other,” Nie Mingjue commands and this time he hands him the lantern himself.

Mo Xuanyu takes that one as well and imagines his life in Qinghe. He never before dared to hope for a good life, but this time he decides to go all out. He imagines himself happy and carefree, his golden core growing beyond the point of being too weak to even be called a golden core, and when Mo Xuanyu remembers how Nie Mingjue has smiled at him, he also dares to hope for love in this Sect.

This lantern should be just as burdened at the other one with how many good things Mo Xuanyu wishes for himself, but it goes up in the air just as easily as the one before.

Mo Xuanyu keeps following it with his eyes, and Nie Mingjue stays silent until it’s too far gone to see it anymore.

“Welcome to Qinghe Nie,” Nie Mingjue says and the words settle like a cloak of protection around Mo Xuanyu.

It seems like coming here was the only sensible choice Mo Xuanyu has ever made in his life.

Next part

Link to my ko-fi on the sidebar!

#bt writes #beetober 2020 #untamed fall fest #the untamed #mdzs #mo xuanyu #nie mingjue #hurt/comfort #nmj is everyone's da-ge #let him be mxy's as well #please

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halothenthehorns · 3 years

Text

All in the Family

Chapter 19: The Worst Birthday

While they had finally begun to accept, even anticipate, but still never quite get used to that soul wrenching feeling of being pulled through time and space because another chapter had finished, they'd taken that last one with a grain of happiness it would be their last!

Then they all groaned in misery to find themselves not back in their Potions class, not even back at Hogwarts, but back at Number Four, Privet Drive!

"What the bloody hell!" James howled in a temper at once, pulling his wand out and reducing the nearest bush to leaves and roots, then turning his wand on the next without thought.

"That should have worked, we should be back at school," Remus agreed, massaging his abused rib cage and genuinely not understanding why they'd still be trapped out here.

"Maybe, maybe we just got sent back to where we first teleported," Alice tried to offer, going to the back gate and trying it with actual hope again. It refused to swing open, Frank tried to hop it and found this impossible.

"Argh!" Lily snarled, running her hand so hard through her hair she came back with strands in her nails. "This is the last place I wanted to wind back up at, even if this bloody cycle had to continue!"

"I'm sure you're not the only one," Regulus muttered.

With a heavy sigh, though all feeling rather resounded to the fate they'd clearly be stuck like this longer, they began searching for the stupid bloody book, though honestly with no idea why. It shouldn't have anymore to say.

This was a spacious backyard, neatly mowed ruler straight and trimmed hedges all along the back fence, though now with the exception of a few smoldering and threatening to set the whole place alight. The sunlight above already made this a blistering heat of day, the grass dry despite it's clear care, even the garden shed was highly polished on the outside but seemed to gleam threateningly. James was distracted at once by stepping inside and losing track of what he'd been looking for in favor of studying all these odd tools, though this time refrained from touching anything with his fingers still sore.

Peter chose to scale the side of the houses decorative vines for a view, was unsurprised to find he couldn't get very far when on the slanted roof and couldn't even cross to the front of the property, but caught his eye on something he hadn't quite been looking for.

"I think I know what the problem is," he told them as he fished out of the gutters a book of pure green, only the little silver two on the spine distinguished it from the leaves. "We seem to be flashing through the rest of Harry's years."

"Please tell me that is a miserable attempt at a joke," Sirius groaned as he sagged onto the nearest bench, still rubbing at his bruised throat.

"Well, I've found his second year, so I'm guessing not," Peter sighed, making himself comfortable up here and reading out the chapter title to prove his point. Given where Harry was, he imagined all of the kids birthdays were the worst, but wasn't looking forward to finding out about this one in particular.

James hoisted himself up there with him for kicks, and the others just settled themselves resignedly in the grass. Evans went over to the concrete patio, but chose to ignore the chairs and instead crossed her legs on the warm ground and tied her hair up in the evening sun. Frank and Alice lounged against the wooden fences, holding hands and just hoping this one went by without anything closer to alive foliage beneath them. Remus sat himself beside Sirius on the bench and tipped his face back to the sun, closing his eyes and wishing he were back at the lakes edge rather than this place as his friend began.

Sirius couldn't help but notice how much he'd filled out this year, from the thin gangly teen. Not quite as much as the rest of them, Remus' health would always be rather stunted, but the warm light on his face actually highlighted the light brown of his hair rather than the few gray bangs he had, the scarring more shadowed than prominent for once. He grinned at just how relaxed Moony managed to appear during all of this, though his good mood wasn't destined to last.

It certainly didn't start much fun at all, no one wanted any further reminders of what those Dursleys constantly did to Harry, putting him down like this all the time. The argument was stupid, no way could they get rid of his owl, and the Marauders in particular were being restless for not even being able to wreck the Dursleys things in retaliation for it all this time. They suddenly weren't even sure if what they'd done to the inside of the house was still there, did the effect they have on the place they were in remain like it did to them?

"If they think magic is that bad a word, I've got some real headliner news for them," Sirius scoffed.

"You do need to keep in practice, you haven't had a chance to use them on your parents in ages," Remus agreed with a small smirk that dimmed the sun. Sirius couldn't help but lean in closer, grinning just the same, happily escalating this with details of what he would like to give them knowledge of.

Peter couldn't help shifting uneasily closer to James as Harry reflected back on all he'd learned of his previous year, as if they'd forgotten. It was as much news to them as learning of this boy's potential existence! He envied Padfoot and Moony down there, trying to chat their way through this bit!

Prongs, to his credit, tried to brush it off by plucking some leaves out of the gutter and enchanting them to float down on the others. He had the first few batches float down in the shape of a heart to land around Evans, who completely ignored him, which was just a tiny bit of improvement over shooting a hex back. He then spent the remainder of this recap trying to shoot them up unsuspecting noses, muttering all the while for Peter alone it was actually a shame Snivellus wasn't here, his was the largest target.

Peter managed an appreciative titter, James always had found every way to make things seem better, even helping along to ignore his own death sentence.

"Rotten, filthy Muggle, locking that kids things away," Regulus grumbled as he watched his brother and friend on the bench. The two had been quite chummy lately ever since they'd made up, leaning so close together they looked as likely to brush hands as Longbottom and Smith over there. Regulus had almost hoped for just a second Sirius would pull his head out of his arse and remember to agree with him back in this place what a waste the whole species was like he had last time.

It was clearly not going to happen, the two conspiring over there for possible further torment of them or anything else Regulus just hadn't a care to listen to. He burnt an incoming leaf to cinders and thought Potter should count himself lucky he didn't turn the spell on him next.

"I think at this point they don't even know Harry has a birthday," Alice scoffed in disgust of these people treating a kid like that. "I've heard of happier child hoods from-" she cut off when something went whizzing into her mouth, and she spat a leaf out in disgust.

"You arse Potter," she snapped, having already batted away three of them and quite done with his antics, ready to raise her wand in retaliation by now.

He merely hooted with pleasure and wound up for another one.

"You do realize you're only helping the Dursleys, cleaning that out for them," Frank pleasantly called back, at least causing him to freeze in his actions before finally lowering his wand and muttering in disgust.

"Thank you," Alice sighed, leaning back and giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "Maybe we should spend the rest of the time reading around these places, there must be a way to continue to throw that logic at him."

"One can only go so far in tutoring before it ends with beating their head against a desk," Frank disagreed.

"Also sound advice for him, so there's really no down side," Alice concluded lightly.

Lily couldn't help but crack one eye open curiously as Vernon announced it an important day, not that she could ever delude herself by now thinking he'd actually grown such a thing as a heart, let alone a brain about what should have been important that day. It didn't stop her wondering what he could deem important and how she could make sure it never happened for that disgrace on the animal kingdom. A ruddy business deal? She closed her eye again and tried to pretend that Pettigrew's nasally voice was non-existent again, just trying to enjoy the sunshine and not relate to how miserable Harry was feeling. How alone he seemed to feel all the time at this place, and it was all his own family's fault- no! She couldn't think about that now, or she'd burst into tears in front of these people, most of whom she couldn't stand. Sev wasn't here, so she'd just have to tough it out on her own and refuse to let her mind revisit her own summers in a place disturbingly similar to this one.

Those leaves were actually helping, though she'd never admit it to Potter. If she concentrated very hard, she could just be back in her forest, surrounded by trees, waiting for the world to return back to normal at school, just like Harry, where her real friend was...at least while she could still hang around with him, when he wasn't also trying to chat up with so many other terrible people, and she just couldn't understand how he-

"They what!"

She sat up so fast she created a mini-whirlwind of the leaves around her and barely noticed, wand drawn on Lupin's outraged face. "Hermione and Ron forgot his birthday? That's ridiculous, they'd never, not after all they'd been through!"

She almost would have laughed at his personal offense to this if she didn't honestly agree, and had to backtrack a bit to really hear what she'd been trying to block out, and then couldn't even blame him for the outburst. Merlin, no mail all summer, what had gotten into Harry's friends?

"Surely we're missing something," the elder Black pacified, looking more confused than anything. "Hermione wouldn't have an owl most likely, and maybe Ron's parents have to use theirs too often to let him borrow it..." the excuses were flimsy at best and they all knew it. It truly made no sense, and the swell of pity around all of them for this poor kid having no one to acknowledge his birthday, even worse humming the tune to himself! Even her home had never gotten so bad!

"Oh good, I needed a distraction," Potter said from above in an all to familiar tone, but for once in her life Lily couldn't even blame him. She detested the little birks attitude of taking his problems out on others, like her friend, by hexing anyone he felt like. Yet in this instance, she got it. She wanted to curse Dudley to, for being the embodiment of all Harry's troubles! She'd restrain herself of course if the little ponce was put in front of her, drawers dropping or not, but it was almost as much a revelation to her to feel empathy for Potter as to still wonder what Harry had seen in that bush.

Then the real jaw dropping moment came in for everyone else, that poor kid nearly getting his head bashed in with a frying pan. Regulus couldn't give it a second thought but for a bit of empathy, maybe that kid would learn to keep his mouth shut like he had. Instead he remained focused on the inconspicuous, lone little bush behind his brother, the only one Potter hadn't destroyed upon first arriving. Regulus had well learned his lesson from the last book, and he wouldn't again let himself be so easily distracted as everyone else so clearly was, throwing all kinds of abuse around about all the chores Harry was to do. Regulus would have thought at least Sirius could blow the whole thing off as well, they may not be doing chores at their own place but the treatment wasn't unfamiliar to the two, but no, he was just in much of a temper as everyone else.

It was pathetic getting so worked up over something that wasn't even happening, leaving Regulus alone to wonder what had almost happened to the young Potter in that bush. Another attempt at return of the Dark Lord? If so, should he even say anything about it, but instead actually try to find a way to help it along. After all, if this future did happen, if he found a way to help someone so powerful in fact gain another strength in a sooner return to glory, maybe he could stop little boys from ever again feeling afraid in their own home, because there wouldn't be any fear left. The Dark Lord would make everyone an equal, and filthy Muggles like this would be a thing of the past.

Pettigrew finally warned that the first bit of this ending was nigh upon them, and Regulus did all he could to brace himself for whatever good that wouldn't do, admittedly as intrigued as anyone by the final line telling him he may not be far off. Who would be in Harry Potter's bedroom in a place like that?

#Harry Potter #fanfiction #Marauders #Wolfstar #CoS #James Potter #Sirius Black #Remus Lupin #Peter Pettigrew #Regulus Black #Frank Longbottom #Alice Smith #Lily Evans

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writingthrones · 5 years

Text

the northern dragon- part 5.

PART 5: LOSSES.

TAGS: @psychosupernatural , @xleviiiix , @ashtronomyyyy , @starkbelova,@5aftermidnight , @makapaka11 , @mxxkscreate-write , @scorpiosmalfoy,@harrison-shot-first , @art-flirt , @jessyballet , @vaexvictis ,@callmeconceited (feel free to shoot me a message if you’d also like to be tagged!)

DESCRIPTION: the world thought that just 2 dragons survived, that house targaryen was missing its third head. but there was another– the youngest, the final child of the mad king and queen rhaella. of course, she was almost part of the near extermination of her house. but the honorable ned stark, unable to watch a babe be murdered for crimes she did not commit, rescued her from an awful fate. instead, she grew up amongst wolves within the walls of winterfell.

NOTES: here’s a bit of a longer one for you all! i really enjoyed writing this part and i hope you guys really enjoy reading it. as always, i’d love to hear all feedback and suggestions. thank you to everyone who’s sent nice messages or left comments and just anyone who has read at all. i’ve had so much fun with this and seeing how much people really like it makes me so happy :’)

WARNINGS: mentions of sexual violence.

The rest of the day, you didn’t see him. To be fair, you didn’t see him all that often as it is. He easily could’ve been with his advisors... still, you couldn’t help but to wonder if he was with her. Jealousy was not a good look on you and you did all you could to hide it. You spent the rest of the day trying to assist the men with minor wounds. Some of them stared and even commented on the fact that you sustained a few bruises but commended you on your ability to hold your own. They’d never seen a woman fight at all, but seeing one fight well was quite shocking. You didn’t let them see, of course, but you were rolling your eyes. Women could be just as capable if only the men gave them a chance.

As the sun began to set, you sauntered over to your tent. You hadn’t seen any sign of him since this morning. Sighing, you attempted to get your mind off it but performing mundane tasks. There was setting aside an outfit for the next day, polishing off the weapon that had been given to you, even making your bed. It was a stupid thing to do considering you’d be asleep in just a bit but you needed to do anything that held your attention away from your racing thoughts. It wasn’t clear how long you’d been awake at that point, but it seemed late. You couldn’t hear much noise anymore.

It was about time for you to get to bed when someone grabbed at the back of your head. They just managed to get at your wrap, the force of their pulling ripping it right of. Sucking in a deep breath, you didn’t move an inch, fearing that anything could set the attacker off. Then you could swear that you lost all ability to feel, absolutely paralyzed with fear. It had your heart racing— you tried to convince yourself that they just tugged hard enough to pull the hair underneath but you couldn’t fool yourself. The silver locks had fallen down your back. The person had their arm wrapped around your waist and they held you close while the cold metal of a blade rested lightly upon the skin of your neck. Part of you wanted to elbow them, attempt a fight but you needed to figure out who you were dealing with first. You would have to take the person out. They would put it together.

“Ah, so that’s why.” It was unmistakable, this was the voice of Jaime Lannister. You stood absolutely no chance against the Kingslayer, the one who had killed your father. In fact, it was his family who made sure that yours was taken care of. House Targaryen would be eliminated here and now but you supposed that was better than having your identity revealed to the world. You accepted your fate.

His free hand went up to your face, grabbing you by your cheeks in order to make you face him. He looked deep into your eyes and you just sighed. You quickly took note of the way the once dashingly handsome knight was now covered in dirt, his teeth unbrushed and hair knotted and dirty, no longer bare faced but instead a beard was beginning to grow. He looked awful. Inside, you rejoiced. They had given the man hell. Of course now, he would be free. He’d slit your throat, toss you aside and run into the night, finding his family in no time.

THIRD PERSON BREAK.

Jaime’s eyes went wide as he studied the young woman’s valyrian features. It was true, she was in fact a Targaryen. It was confirmed that Rhaegar’s children had been killed. Not only that but he could see Rhaella in her face and he knew there was absolutely no way for the woman to mother bastards-- so, she was certainly Aerys’s child. The more he looked, the more of her he saw. It made him feel weak. He hated Aerys, maybe the man had been good once but Jaime had watched him do awful things. Often afterwards he would take Rhaella into his bed and all that Jaime could do was stand outside and listen to her cries. He tried to burst in once, but the other men wouldn’t allow him.

They were meant to protect her too, he protested, but the men said they couldn’t from him. It left the young knight fuming. Each night it happened, he felt worse and worse. Rhaella was a good woman, she didn’t deserve the trauma he was inflicting upon her. So as he looked into this girl’s eyes, seeing Rhaella looking back at him, there was a strange feeling in his chest. It was like he couldn’t hurt her. It didn’t matter that half of her was the Mad King. Despite what many thought and even what he portrayed himself, Jaime was deep down a good man. He dealt with the disgrace that came along with slaying the king he had been sworn to protect because he knew in his heart he was right. He saved the people of King’s Landing from her father’s wrath and now he would save her from all those that would try to harm her should her identity be revealed.

The girl said nothing so finally he spoke. “So here’s how this is going to go: you are going to let me go, say nothing and I will let you live.” There was a pause before she spoke up, shaking her head to get him to release her face. “Kill me,” she said, her voice projecting confidence while her eyes told another story. He couldn’t. He failed to protect Rhaella, stood aside as children were slaughtered, he wouldn’t do it again. He paused for a long while. “Huh, strange. Loving your captor,” he said, flashing his familiar smug smirk. He couldn’t help himself but also, he needed to give reasons as to why he wouldn’t slit her throat right there and be done with it. “Wha— Just kill me, do it. I won’t just let you go. I’ll— I’ll scream but I won’t do this.” She went to open her mouth, and Jaime tightly clasped his hand over it. “Now why would I do that? You’re far more valuable to me alive. You scream and I’ll sneak into your king’s tent just as easily as I did yours. I’ll show you why they call me Kingslayer.” His voice remained threatening, but he was losing his patience. He wanted to let her live, maybe he’d even be able to use her later because staring into those eyes, he just wasn’t able to finish the job.

The girl tried to speak, but whatever it was had been muffled. “You’ll be of great use,” he added. He then placed his hand over her nose as well, meaning to send her into unconsciousness. After some struggling, she was out cold and he laid her onto the furs, covering her up as best he could and slipped out into the night.

BACK TO THE READER’S POV.

You awoke to men yelling and you were able to almost immediately pick out Robb’s angry, frantic voice. You were certainly alive which meant that Jaime Lannister had escaped. There was a sick feeling in your stomach, you just couldn’t help but feel like it was your fault. No, it was definitely your fault. You should’ve screamed right away, if he killed you then so be it but at least then they would’ve had a chance to recapture him. Then you began to wonder how many would’ve been killed in that effort, causing you to only feel worse. No matter what, this was a huge loss. The Kingslayer was a huge bargaining chip for Robb.

It was then that you remembered that Jaime had seen you-- the real you. He had served your family once, so it was obvious that he knew exactly who you were. It made you wonder if he had ever known about your birth or if it was just easy to put together. You held all the distinct valyrian features, making it abundantly clear that you were not a bastard. What could you do now? He had sworn to let you live but what did his word really mean? The man was known to be an oathbreaker. The anxiety was starting to make you feel truly sick so you hurried out of your tent and into the madness outside.

All of the men were frantic as you walked through the crowd, listening to bits from each person. Summed up: Jaime was gone, both of the men that had been guarding his cell were killed as well as two others who must’ve seen him. Obviously there was no way for any of them to know that he had visited your tent. It felt wrong to not say anything, at least not to Robb but what would really come out of it? He’d surely be suspicious of the fact that Jaime left you alive. You were still very confused but it felt as if all you could do was wait for it to blow up. You hoped it wouldn’t but there’s no way your secret, a secret like that, was safe with a Lannister. Even if he didn’t broadcast it all across Westeros, Jaime had made it clear that he would hold this over you in one way or another.

Wading through the dense crowd, you finally found Robb. He had been a little ways away from the crowd, presumably to get some air and calm himself down. Hesitantly, you reached out your hand to tap his shoulder. It clearly startled him, as he immediately took out his sword and made a move to put it towards your throat, but quickly retreated when he realized who you were. You breathed a sigh of relief, as did he. “What if this is all over, Y/N?” he asked, his gaze falling to the ground. The words sounded defeated but his voice projected only anger. “It’s not. I know this is devastating but you’re smart-- smarter than them. You’ve bested them at every turn. You swore to give these people their freedom back, you need to.” He sighed, “...I just-- I haven’t lost a battle but I am still losing this war.” You took a risk by stepping forward and thanked the gods that he didn’t recoil away again. “I believe in you, Robb. Your people believe in you.” You reached out, fingers just barely brushing against his as you attempted to take hold of his hand. He allowed it, but his hand hung loosely in yours.

Just like all the others, the moment wasn’t very long. “Thank you,” he said softly before walking past, shoulder lightly brushing against yours. Squeezing your eyes shut as to not let even the slightest tear fall, you gave yourself a bit of time before turning and walking back. Why did you continue to break your own heart? No amount of quiet moments alone would amount to anything between you two. You surely wouldn’t ever be a mistress even if by some odd chance he ever wanted that. It was in your best interest to serve him as best you could while remaining distant. In the back of your mind, though, you thought about leaving again. It was a dreadful thing to imagine but considering what happened last night, it could be in not only yours but Robb’s best interest to disappear. Robb did not need to be caught harboring a Targaryen princess-- albeit unknowingly.

When you made your way back, you found that Catelyn had returned with terrible news as well. Renly Baratheon was dead and the large army he held had left to support Stannis. The hits just kept coming, didn’t they? Still, you were happy to see her again, though you dreaded telling her the news that your secret was now in the hands of the enemy. As soon as you laid eyes on her, you hurried over, watching her face form a smile, although it was weak. As soon as you reached her, you opened your mouth to speak only to be cut off. “Let us speak in private,” she said softly, voice tired. The woman then lead you into her tent, sighing as she sat down on her bed.

“This is bad, Y/N,” she said, motioning for you to come sit next to her. “We’ve lost the potential alliance of the Reach, Jaime Lannister has escaped and I have a terrible feeling about this business with Balon Greyjoy.” You swallowed hard, nodding. You didn’t feel very good about the whole thing either. Theon may have loved Robb like a brother but Lord Greyjoy wasn’t exactly trustworthy. Theon was held as a means to keep the man from rebelling again but with the boy returned to him, who knows what he might pull. “Lady Catelyn...” your voice trembled, unsure of what you could possibly say about what had happened. The woman looked over at you, head tilted as she waited for you to speak again. How could you give her even more bad news? Possibly the worst of all, even. The reveal of your identity would be the final nail in the coffin. “Something--”

Just then, Robb burst in, breathing heavily. “Mother,” he sounded relieved and she quickly stood to embrace him tightly. You bowed your head, avoiding any eye contact with the king. Surprisingly, Robb did not dismiss you while the two talked but it’s not like he said anything of importance. They filled each other in on things you already knew then he left to see his advisors once again. Catelyn sat down once more, giving you an inquisitive look. “What was it you wanted to tell me, dear?” Your heart began thundering in your chest all over again, gaze quickly darting to the ground. “I...I don’t know how to say this. But...” the little you ate today was threatening to make its way back out, but you swallowed it down. “Jaime Lannister escaped after leaving my tent. He pulled my cover off and told me he would let me live because I’d be of use to him. I--”

“He what?!” She grabbed hold of your shoulders, causing you to jump. Her eyes darted around before she looked back, clearly trying to calm herself. “I-- I was about to go to sleep and he came up behind me, held a knife to my throat. I should’ve screamed, Lady Catelyn, I know but then suffocated me until I was unconscious... I’m sorry,” your voice shook terribly and tears began to spill down your porcelain cheeks. Her mouth hung open, the frustration, even anger, rather obvious as she searched for words. “Did he hurt you?” she finally asked softly, placing on hand on your cheek. “No,” you shook your head before looking down.

Catelyn sighed, “I don’t know what we’re going to do, Y/N.” Meeting her gaze, you did your best to be strong. “We send someone to recapture him. Hells, I’ll go-- I don’t know if it’s such a good idea that I’m here anymore anyway. But he couldn’t have gotten all that far just yet, at least there’s no way he’s found anyone he can tell or something would’ve happened already. We need to do it now, though, before he does.” The older woman looked deep in thought, so you simply awaited her response. “You can’t go. I don’t know if it’s the most wise decision, but I’d rather know where you are than not. Besides, I know someone who would be able to find him.” For just a moment, you thought about what Jaime had said-- calling you the Stark pet, that they were your captors. But he was just trying to get into your head... you couldn’t let his terrible words get to you, that was the point in saying them.

“I’ll go speak to Robb,” she said as she rose to her feet while you hurried out of there, thinking of ways to make yourself useful around camp. It was difficult seeing as things could not be more chaotic. By the end of the night, you had gotten almost nothing done but on the bright side, the camp had calmed to an almost normal state. You had absolutely no idea what Robb or Catelyn planned on doing next but you trusted that they would figure something out and whatever that was, you would help them with it.

Understandably, it was impossible to sleep that night. Leaving your tent, you went for a stroll through the fairly quiet encampment. Most of the men were asleep, save for those who stood guard who ignored you like they usually did. It was as you made a pass by Robb’s tent that you heard something that made you stop dead in your tracks. It was the giggle of a woman and instantly you knew who it was. As much as the thought made your heart ache, you couldn’t fool yourself into believing that it wasn’t her-- Lady Talisa. So this is where she was staying. In the moments you stood there frozen, rain began to fall in sprinkles that quickly turned to a downpour. Coming to your senses, you ran for your tent but you were already soaked. Falling to the ground, breathing heavily, you managed to stave off the tears. It was stupid and pointless and there were much bigger problems to be worried about. All you had heard was a bit of laughter, that didn’t have to necessarily mean what you feared, you told yourself.

The next morning, you felt absolutely awful when you woke up. It was like you hadn’t slept at all even if your eyes had been shut tight. But you needed to get up and face the day, so you forced yourself out from under the furs and got dressed quickly.

Just as you went in search of something to eat, you were ambushed, with the person clasping their hand over your mouth before you could make a sound. Managing to pull yourself from their grip, you pulled away to find a man you did not recognize, now pulling out a weapon and pointing it in your direction. “Listen, darling, the way this war is looking I’m not quite sure that I’ll be seeing home again..” he stepped closer, pointing the knife at your throat. “I don--” you tried to speak. “Shut the fuck up!” he barked at you, poking the cold steel at your neck. “Just make things easy, okay? I bet you’ve never even had someone look at you this way...” he stepped closer, reaching out and grabbing hold of your hip and pulling you closer.

Your blood ran cold when it became clear what he wanted. Without thinking, you spit directly into his face, causing him to recoil and curse at you, giving you time to run. He managed to grab at your dress, yanking it and causing you to fall and so he fell down on top of you. “Just relax you little bitch!” Pining you down by your wrists, he leaned down close to your face. Fear turned quickly into anger as you head-butted him with all your strength. It hurt but the adrenaline kept you from feeling the full extent of the pain. It startled him and gave you an opportunity to shove him off and start running for it again. Of course, he still managed to grab you again and so you turned to punch him as hard as you could square in the jaw. Only, you missed and instead he got one in on you. The throbbing pain radiated through your face and your eyes widened as you saw him grab hold of his dagger, so you immediately went to grab it in an effort to pull it away from him. Unfortunately, you grabbed hold of the blade, feeling it immediately make a deep cut to your palm. It hurt like hell, even with the adrenaline pumping through your veins. Holding tight, you somehow got the weapon away from him, switching your grip to the hilt instead. Knowing that this was surely between life and death, you did the only thing left and drove the knife through the man’s chest, screaming as you did so.

It was a little late, but men finally came rushing over. Your attacker had pulled the two of you off into the woods but it wasn’t too far. Then it wasn’t long before Robb made his way into your tent, rushing over to look at your wounds. “Shit,” he huffed as he leaned in close to look first at your bruised face, dried blood all over your nose and mouth. Next, he gently took hold of your hands and winced at the sight of the deep cut that had thankfully been stabilized. “I’m so sorry,” he said, looking up to you with a furrowed brow.

When you looked up, you noticed that it was not just him in the room. Talisa had accompanied him. At first you were upset, angry, jealous. Why in gods’ name was he just bringing her along wherever he went? But then she stepped next to him, speaking to you with concern in her voice. “Here, let me help you.” Unable to find your voice, you simply nodded and sat back on your bed while she assessed the damage done to your face and hands. “I’ll be back to check on you, Y/N, okay?” Robb said as he stepped backwards. Wincing, you nodded.

“Try not to move, okay?” Her voice was gentle. She meant well, you knew that. You also knew that you had absolutely no reason to be upset with her. If Robb fancied her, that wasn’t her fault or anything. Why wouldn’t he? She was beautiful and from what you could tell, quite kind.. and smart, as well. It’s not like your injuries were devastating or anything but you had seen what she was able to do before, the woman was a talented medic. You were lucky to have her helping you now. “I’m going to do my best for now. We don’t have much supplies left and you’ll need to keep that wound thoroughly clean if you want to avoid infection.” It felt wrong to harbor any ill-will towards her but it was hard to not feel upset, even as she was doing all she could to help you now.

“You’re quite strong, aren’t you?” she said softly as she patted alcohol on the cuts to your hands. “You fought and killed a man all while in a dress.” As she looked back into your eyes, she offered you a reassuring smile. “I did what I had to do,” you replied quietly. Things became awkward then as neither of you had anything left to say to the other. “Everything should be okay for now. I believe there’s going to be an effort to get more medical supplies tomorrow and I’ll make sure to come visit you when I have what I need,” she said, stepping back from you. “Thank you, Lady Talisa,” you said, voice raspy from all the strain. She nodded, “You should get some rest now.” With that, she was gone. In no time, you fell into a deep sleep, understandably drained.

The next morning, you woke up later than usual-- but hey, you were nearly assaulted yesterday. And can anyone really blame you? When you finally exited your tent, you were soon greeted by Catelyn who informed you that Robb had gone to negotiate with The Crag... and he brought the medic woman along with him. You felt your heart drop into your stomach as she spoke. You wanted so badly to believe that things weren’t the way you thought but you weren’t stupid. Neither was Catelyn.

“He’s going to make a mistake, Y/N,” she said, visibly nervous. “What do you mean...?” You wondered what she thought this mistake was. Clearly, she had the same ideas you did. “I see the way he looks at her-- he fancies her. She’s a beautiful girl, I understand but he made an oath and I don’t see Walder Frey just.. dismissing that. Westeros doesn’t care much for true love.” Marriages were nothing but politics. Even her and Ned’s relationship had started that way-- sure, they’d found love along the way but it didn’t change the fact that the arrangement between them had been strategic. “I don’t want to believe that he would do this after how important that crossing was..” her voice trailed off. It seemed that she had more to say but stayed silent nonetheless.

It remained that way for a bit before she finally perked up. “Oh my-- I’m so sorry, Y/N! I should’ve asked right away; are you okay? How are you feeling?” She reached for your hands but once she saw the bandages, she took hold of them very gently. “I wish I could say that I can’t believe one of these men could do something like this but...” her gaze cast downwards. “Yes, I’m fine, Lady Catelyn,” you replied, forcing a smile. “Everything feels sore but I’m alive. I suppose that’s what counts, yeah?” you allow yourself to chuckle just a bit, which causes her to smile. “I suppose it does,” she says softly as she pulls you into an embrace. For just a moment, you let yourself forget about the absolute mess that had become your life.

#game of thrones imagine #robb stark imagine #catelyn stark imagine #robb stark x reader #targaryen!reader #OOP this is a big one

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bnhaoptr · 4 years

Text

Undisclosed Desires - Killer X Reader

Fanfiction: Killer, Reader

Word Count: 2.915

Original Version PT / BR: https://www.spiritfanfiction.com/historia/undisclosed-desires-18335196

Killer, the masked supernova. His long, wild blond hair, his muscular and briefly tanned body, his arm with war marks, his hoarse voice and his face never revealed. It all prompted him.

[You] remembered him and his hot friend Eustass Kid very well. Both were from the same city as you, sharing in addition to their hometown in south blue some memories of their childhoods.

A brief smile blossomed on his painted lips [the color of his choice], just by looking at that sheet of paper attached to the newspaper. The wanted poster of him and his companions, a brief increase making him even more famous; not everyone would be proud of it besides the pirates, but you were proud of it and hoped it would continue to have your reward increased.

Walking through the streets while watching that leaf, he stopped at a small cafeteria on the main avenue of his island and ordered a [drink of his preference]. His eyes [their colors] watched the street and the sun slowly set while hiding behind the low-rise buildings.

Then, a memory came to mind. A memory of more than ten years, a hard and bitter memory.

[...] You were in your ten years, Eustass was eight and Killer was twelve, the oldest on that block. Unlike Killer and Kid, you had been born into the family [your surname or whatever you want], a family known for the legal profession; it was clear that the poor boys were often hungry and that problems were around them. Both his relatives and the parents of his friends did not approve of their children's friendship with him, probably because they were always in fights or confusion. However, something prompted him. Kid always had that authoritarian, arrogant, explosive air among other rude adjectives. Killer was like that when needed, perhaps because he was older and took care of his friend, he was patient and almost never raised his voice; somewhat aggressive when needed. It was more than common to see them training with metal parts, improvised swords and other weapons that they assembled with their contraptions. You always watched them through the living room window during your [your favorite instrument] classes, always imagining a date with them and what games they could play together, devising a way to get closer without them being surprised and their parents not finding out. In reality, you wanted to get close to the blond boy, maybe it was the beginning of your hormones surfacing and wanting to feel his touch. Their mentally prepared meetings never happened. The first meeting between you was by a monkey that passed in the street, while you walked and watched them from the other side of the street, you managed to hit a pole and fall on your butt. Everyone laughed at you, including him. He curled up on the floor, with red cheeks, tears in his eyes and bruises on his knees. Children could be mean, and they didn't hide it, especially when it came to pointing a finger and laughing. Then the sounds of laughter stopped and when you looked up, you could see those two boys fighting with each other, because of you, at the end of that day you rewarded them with ice cream and created a friendship. When they were hungry, you didn't bother to bring your food to them. If they were injured, it was not uncommon to help them make dressings. They talked, joked and approached. More and more, you wanted to get closer to Killer. Maybe because of the positive energy he was going through, the shy and welcoming way, or just the pure, innocent feeling that was blooming in his chest. You liked him the way he was: shaggy blond hair, an exotic laugh, a passion for pasta with lots of sauce and peppers, the way he talked about his dreams of being a warrior and going to the sea. He was fascinating and charming. Until that day. After your eleventh birthday, the following week you had taken courage from the depths of your chest, at a time when you considered yourself alone with him, you quickly sealed your lips against his. In a timid whisper that sounded between your lips [the way they are] slightly red from the pressure: "I like you", you ran off to your residence while the boy was stunned by that display of affection. Not knowing how to react, Killer, at his height of joy, started to laugh. Loud and without shame. Unfortunately, one of the boys he and his friend had taken away when you fell, was around and heard his laugh. Without thinking too much, he told all his friends that, out of vengeance for various confusions, they went to make fun of the boy who still looked like a fool. Between a chorus of "Killer likes [his name] -chan" and "Killer weird laugh" among other mean nicknames, without help from Eustass Kid, the blond-haired boy beat them all until they were unconscious. Some people even say that the children were on the verge of death with such violence from the orphan boy. Ashamed of his laughter, his face hurt by a few blows he had taken and because he no longer wanted to show his face to [his name], he hid behind his mask. [...] You barely felt the tears streaming down your slightly flushed cheeks, until the waitress who brought your drink and [appetizer you like best] asked if it was "okay" with you. Robotically, his lips released: "Yes, everything is fine", even though he is not.

Deep in your heart, guilt was slowly consuming you. Maybe if he hadn't been in such a hurry to want to give his first kiss, there wouldn't have been such sadness and disgrace with Killer. You really liked him, to the point that years later you could still shake all your feelings with just a photo and little news, and you didn't want anything bad to happen to him. What saddened him most was seeing him hide the face you admired so much behind that iron mask, which Kid helped choose. You wanted to appreciate the sight of his face more, see the lips you had touched, see through his expressive eyes what was going on in your mind. And not a piece of iron. Between a sip [of your favorite drink] and bites of [your aperitif], those memories seemed even stronger and more real. The memory of styling that distressing mask was still fresh in his mind, since no one, in any way, was able to convince him to take it off. As if it were a refuge. With two cans of paint, blue and white respectively, brushes and some stencils; both you and Kid convinced him to decorate it. The indigo tone that so pleased the boy took over the mask and small details that followed the blank stencil. I didn't know how, but he didn't choke on the smell of paint that was around him. You just wanted to cheer him up and get him back to how he was before, and not a shy bush animal as he looked. When Killer took the mirror and started to visualize how his mask was, even without seeing his reactions, you felt that he was grateful and a little more cheerful. And when his voice, slightly muffled by the mask, sounded thankful, his heart turned to melted butter. It cut into his heart, all he wanted to do was see that feature again.

As soon as you paid the bill for the cafeteria and followed the path to your residence, your fingers groped your own face, wiping away some tears that were streaming down. All those memories moved you. Step by step, you tried to think of anything else that was possible to forget, not even shopping for your dinner and your [favorite pet]. But, the image of the poster was present. And when he looked at his final purchases, there were the ingredients for making hot peppers accompanied by pasta, just the way he liked it. - Ai, Ai, [Your name]. Only you yourself, never change - He spoke to himself. Smiling, you followed the path to your residence, cutting the path through a square. The flowers were in full bloom and with their perfumes roaming the air, it was a pleasant and welcoming climate. The darkness of the night was already spreading across the slightly bluish-purple sky with pink tones, the streetlights started to be lit, little by little bringing beams of light to their path. Deep down, you wanted him to see how the city was evolving. I wanted the scent of flowers to invade his nostrils and to be able to talk about what happened during the years they were apart. It was then that his gaze, wandering among extremely flashy and colorful flowers, stopped on a small, shy white flower. Snowdrop. In an impulse caused by nostalgia, you bent down, approaching the little flower and taking a seedling from it. You brought the plant close to your nose and breathed in the pleasant aroma that resembled honey.

It was normal and even his habit to make comparisons with people and plants. In your mind, you were a [flower of your color and preference], Eustass was a red tulip that was born in the mildest climates, while Killer was that little flower. Your mother used to tell some bedtime stories when you were a child, one of the stories you liked most was exactly the meaning of the flowers. This simple flower had a certain ambiguity in its meaning. It had an extremely suggestive name, snowdrop appeared after the winter thaw and the beginning of spring. It could mean hope and comfort for showing that winter was over and the plantations would be prosperous, in addition to being considered the flower of doom for the same reason, snow. However, this was not his vision. It meant transition, from a state of pain to a state of well-being. In the case of Killer, it would be vice versa.

Even the smell of Killer reminded you of the plant, you knew that very well. You remembered that odor that, before leaving for the sea, was cozy in you. At the age of sixteen, a very pretty teenager with one of the best educations on the island, she was far from them. Occasionally, they met occasionally on the street and few words were exchanged. And his feeling never changed, even though his kisses were stolen by another boy. Rumors were rife in the city that the group of hooligans that Killer was involved with Kid would leave the sea in a few days. You could feel your heart breaking in several tiny fragments, for the first time you had slept after a lot of crying, the pain in your head irritated you and your eyes burned accompanied by a throat irritated from crying. I just didn't expect to see him in his room at night, a few nights later. Sitting on your white dressing table, watching your face covered with that iron mask, until you enter the room after dinner. His body was paralyzed by that presence and how he had entered there, on the second floor. "Some pirates are sneaky," he commented, his voice muffled by the mask. - I see - your answer came out automatically. As soon as he rose from the dressing table stool, his feet guided her to him. Killer was much taller, his hair was longer and more wild, he smelled of soap mixed with rum, his body had more defined muscles, his skin looked more tanned. You wanted to touch it, but your shyness inhibited your desire. He approached you, his clothes brushed, you wanted to know what he was doing behind that wall that separated them. His hands lightly touched her body and she began to trace him gently, as if drawing a map of every inch of him. Killer always loved the way you moved, your hair [color and cut], your eyes that seemed to reflect your soul, your body [his type]. Everything made him feel comfortable, welcomed. - Oh Killer, forgive me - you finally got to say what you wanted after so many years. The eighteen-year-old blond wrapped his arms around his body in a tender embrace, you could feel the warmth that his skin emanated and the gentle breathing. Anyway, you leaned your head against his chest, enjoying that moment and his heartbeat. - I missed you - his outburst came with a brief tear. He whispered "Me too". Then he broke away from the embrace and made her sit on her comfortable bed with those thick, fluffy covers that her parents loved so much. "I will be leaving in a few days, I needed to come and see you," he confessed. That speech only confirmed the rumors and he felt his chest tighten with that confirmation from him. It was as if they both knew what was coming, without needing to ask or suggest something on either side, Killer removed his mask and left it on the dressing table. You loved his face, it was unique. Thin nose, large amber eyes accompanied by long and thick lashes - which you have always envied - the lips a darker tone and your face with a well defined jaw under the epidermis layer. His hands [as they are] lifted and touched the boy's cheeks, falling slightly to the base of his neck, causing little chills. How many years passed before you could have that vision again? And how many years would it be before I could review it? This time the initiative was not on his part, but his. Killer approached slowly with closed lids, as if he could smell the damp hair [their length], his large, callused hands were holding his waist. Without your noticing, your eyes were closed while your lips received a serene kiss that deepened as they were both looser. It wasn't long before the kisses were moving to a more heated phase. Killer removed his own black blouse with white polka dots and threw it on the floor next to the bed, you who were lying down found yourself undressing for the first time in front of a man, without an ounce of modesty. Being naked, both physically and emotionally, they exposed themselves without any fear. Killer's warm hands explored his body, he loved every detail of his skin and the features of every reaction he caused in you. Everything was new to both, like a treasure hunt that would end in pleasure. The feeling of having his skin sliding against yours, caresses scattered, the light burning of his purity being taken away by him, the pleasures of the flesh, the fear of being caught by his parents. They were indescribable. It seemed that their universes had collided and become one, a union of galaxies and thoughts. A sparkle appeared in both her eyes and his, the pleasure she never thought existed was being tested night come in with pauses and small conversations. You were never able to erase the memory of that night, even the fear that passed over the next few days before his departure. The fear of having generated a life in its moment of greatest pleasure, without having used any adequate protection. Whenever they exchanged a look, no matter where they were, it was like a spark that it was impossible not to pass unnoticed by those who accompanied them.

When friends leave for your life of piracy, you don't feel complete for long. Even her parents adopted her dejected or more unsympathetic and the days went on until she was able to overcome her lack. The only ray of hope that keeps her heart warm and a sparkle in her eyes every time she had a brief news about Kid Pirates, was a promise that he was done with her the first night while saying goodbye. Already with the helmet in his hands and properly dressed after helping with a small spot of blood between his legs and sheets, he places a last kiss on his lips and forehead. Before he showed the window and each one to his reality, Killer stopped for a few moments, hesitating about something. Then he turned and took her hand. - [Your name], I'll go back to the search. As soon as Kid conquers One Piece, knows the world and becomes world famous with fortunes in our rewards, I will come back to you - He holds your hand tightly, with a serious look. You knew when someone was lying or trying to trick someone. And at that moment, I was being as sincere as possible. - I waited, please don't delay - this time you place a kiss on his hand. One last look and so he jumped out the window, going back to his makeshift shelter with Kid. Since then you come or wait, follow your news and follow Eustass "Captain" Kid to get One Piece before anyone else. And, like rare letters that Killer, sent from time to time, was kept under seven keys in his yard. When you are late, you walk to a point that is close to your home, it is in the middle of half an hour after the sea or with the hope of returning before, and while this is not happening yet, you enjoy terrestrial life.

#eustass kid #killer #one piece #fanfiction #fanfic #one piece scenario #one piece headcanons #massacre soldier killer #killer one piece #killer massacre soldier #one piece imagine #one piece hc

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faveficarchive · 5 years

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Appetite

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Xena/Gabrielle

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: Post-FIN, Gabrielle lands in a cell in Judea with Salome. If you aren’t familiar with Salome, here’s a tl;dr:

She was the daughter of King Herod’s (tetrarch of Judaea) second wife, and she was known as a great dancer, and when she danced for Herod one night, he was so jazzed he granted her any one thing she desired. So as per her mother’s request, she asked for the head of John the Baptist. That eventually lands her in jail because of the request and the outcry that came of it.

Salome: …I am athirst for thy beauty; I am hungry for thy body; and neither wine nor apples can appease my desire. What shall I do now, Iokanaan? Neither the floods nor the great waters can quench my passion.

—from Salome, Oscar Wilde

When I danced that night, I imagined dancing only for him. I knew that if he saw me move, if he saw my body set in motion purely by love of him, then he would renounce all his beliefs, his God, his savior, his comrades. If only I'd had the opportunity. I would have tied my scarf around his throat, tethering him to me, yoked in an impossible bond. He would gorge himself on my love. I would be his only appetite.

This passion I felt when first I saw him was so deep that I imagined it had no real beginning. It emerged—fully formed, monstrously born—as Athena from the skull of Zeus (if I may be forgiven in using the barbarian gods of the Greeks in this analogy); one would expect such love to prove all-consuming. And yet, I would have been content with a mere kiss, a mere touch. He glowed, holy and pale, slim as an exotic figurine, unlike any man I had ever seen. And when I did touch him, the world suffered in comparison. The silk that I revered was no longer the expensive clothes I wore, but his skin.

But he resisted me, he rejected me. Ridicule curled from his tongue. The root of it all proved to be the sickening sham of his religion. I wanted to kiss him. I begged him for that. Begged. Had I ever begged anyone for anything before? Did I even need to? Still, he refused.

I didn't know what else I could do. And thus, here I am.

* * *

There is a great deal of confusion as to what my fate will be. My name embraces infamy but the woman behind it all is forgotten. They remember the dance and the act that followed. That's it. Many assumed I was killed immediately afterward; of the stories that circulate, that is the most prevalent ending. Perhaps it would have been better that way, because right now I sit in a cell, alone, clothes drooping in filthy finery from my body, youth falling from my bones.

Herod comes to me at night. No, I am not imagining it, and no, it's not what you think. Even though I would give it to him now if he wanted it, I would give it to him because it doesn't matter any more. In fact, it seems fitting somehow; why else did he ask me to dance for him? It all began with his appetite for me, which mocked his marriage to my mother. It seems only right that it would end with him taking what he had wanted. And while I am now like spoiled meat to him, his hunger remains. It brings him back to me. He wakes every morning because of it. He can't solve the riddle of his appetite. So he comes to me, always surprised that he is drawn to me, always surprised that I am still the same woman he detests. He speaks with me from behind the safety of the cell door; he asks what he should do with me.

Admittedly, it is rather considerate of him to ask.

"Set me free," I said last night, as I always do.

His thick, nervous swallowing was the initial response. "I can't," he finally replied.

We go through this every time he visits me. As usual, I grew bored and exasperated with him. "Well," I sighed, curling the edge of my tattered skirt in my hand, "whatever you do, don't kill me." As if this off-hand reminder will guarantee my life. Yes, Tetrarch, meet with your advisors after breakfast, review your troops, sign some bits of paper raising taxes, oh, and by the way, make sure you don't kill me today. All right? Fine, that's all then. Have a good day.

Herod was silent for a while on the other side of the heavy door—as vast a boundary as another country—and I would have thought that he left, except that his torch remained flickering outside the cell.

Then he spoke. "You'll have a surprise later."

He almost sounded pleased with himself, like a wife who has arranged and planned an elaborate dinner for her husband. "I must go."

The light vanished, and I could hear the sound of his soft tread trampled underneath rattling keys, clanking armor, and thumping boots.

It is still dark when I see light dappling the hall outside once again. The door opens quickly and a figure is tossed in, like a sack of potatoes. In the flash of light I can tell it's a boy, wearing a gray cloak. He grunts as he hits the floor. Does he think that he's alone? He must, for he says nothing. His heavy breathing is pinched into silence like a candle's flame extinguished between thumb and forefinger. Is he dead? It occurs to me I could check. It also occurs to me that I could be run through with a dagger for such curiosity. I decide to wait for morning.

The night dances for me. Every minute passed is a veil falling away from my sight.

In the clarity of morning, which makes everyone look older anyway—thank God I don’t have a mirror— I see that my boy is actually a woman—small, sturdy, well built. Obviously a warrior of some kind, who has lived hard. I see it now in her face. Even in her dirty, disheveled state, her short blonde hair gleams like grain under the sun. There is a wound upon her thigh, deep and slashing, like a bloody mouth. Her open cloak reveals a bare midriff mottled with fresh, darkening bruises the color of plums.

She breathes.

However, she does not wake when the door is opened and food brought in. Water in a jug, half a loaf of bread, two bowls of thin broth. The broth, I know, is a special treat.

I nibble at some bread and watch her. Her lips, dry and cracked, move a little as she sleeps. It occurs to me she might be Amazon, even though word has been that the Amazons are a dying nation, decimated by the Romans and any man who hates women enough to kill them. And the world has never seen a short supply of those. Perhaps the surprise here is that the Amazons have existed for as long as they have. I think of Herod and what he might still do to me. It occurs to me, sometimes, to wonder why I live, why I want to live. Force of habit? Fear of the unknown?

No. If I die, I will lose him somehow. And even though there are moments when I can't bear to even think of his name—like right now—the thought of this permanent state of oblivion is even more unbearable.

Lost in these morbid thoughts, I nearly relieve myself when she sits up, feral and panting, apprehensive as a panther. Her hands claw the earth floor, muscles ripple along her torso and neck.

Her eyes are an extraordinary color. They take in me, the cell, the door, and finally, the food.

She looks at me again. It's tempting to knock over the food, the water, and dance about the cell in a frenzy. If I doubt her mercy now, then surely such an act would see my neck snapped with bare hands; her savage look impresses me that much. But a laugh—short, terrified, defiant—escapes me. She stares at me curiously. What shall she do? Beat me? Rape me?

I squirm across the cell, the disgraced hem of my dress trailing me like a mute supplicant—and when I open my mouth, expecting mocking, laughter, or even a simple protest at this invasion of my hovel, nothing comes.

Her eyes, softer now—there is a tint of hazel warmth in them—never leave me. Slowly she picks up the water jug and drinks from it. Her lips, now damp, look better—I can focus on their softness. I will kiss you, Iokanaan, I will bite your lips like ripened fruit. And I did. I kissed your lips. No more.

No more.

She rips a hunk of bread, and attacks the broth as well, dipping the crust into the bowl. She starts off eating greedily, quickly, then becomes aware of this and paces herself accordingly. Nonetheless she finishes off most of the loaf and a bowl of broth.

Food is a civilizing influence—or so I hope. Gradually I creep back to her. But she is still as blasé as an untamed cat, barely tolerant of preliminaries in a combat that she is certain to win.

I've never been what one would call a nice person. I don't do things just out of the goodness of my heart. I've done things to achieve my own goals, to keep happy those who will keep me happy. How this might benefit me, I don't know, but I find myself pushing the second bowl of broth in her direction, cautiously navigating the bowl with the tip of my finger as if she were my north star, the highest point in my compass.

She's suspicious, of course, and raises an eyebrow. After all, I've done nothing thus far to indicate I'm trustworthy.

Does she think it's poisoned? I dip my finger in the bowl, then lick it. Her brow furrows but she accepts the bowl. This too she drinks slowly.

When she is done, she looks at me again, then clears her throat. "Thank you." Her voice is soft and husky. If it were a fabric, it would be worn linen. She sits the bowl on the tray and fixes me again with those eyes. "Who are you?" She is wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. I knew it—a peasant girl. But could this be a rhetorical question, a metaphysical question that I hear, unfurling from the tongue of this solid Amazon peasant-warrior-whatever she is? Is she a great philosopher in disguise?

No. She clarifies her question: "What's your name?"

"What's your name?" I counter almost playfully, quite a radical departure from the piss-inducing fear I experienced earlier and so I heartily congratulate myself on it.

She smiles a little, which goes a long way in sloughing years off her face. "I asked first," she reminds me gently.

"Yes, you did, didn't you?" I stare at my hands, watch the fingers of my right one twirl and gavotte upon the stage of my left. "I danced for the King of Judaea." I pause, allowing her to take in this information. "That's all you need to know, really."

Her lips part, and the shadow of recognition falls upon her face. Was she informed of my act before she was placed in here? Or did she know my story before setting foot in our country? Has the news of my deed spread across the known world? Perhaps it's not surprising; a severed head is always a good story. No. I will not think of this. I will not think of this now. No more, Iokanaan. As they severed your head I severed my lust. The moment I took your head was the moment I threw it all away—freedom, desire, you, the whole bitter entanglement of it.

I am a little disappointed in my guest: She is neither enraged nor repulsed. She pities me, I see. So this grand gesture of love earns nothing more than a small, petty emotion? And it was wasted, so marvelously wasted, upon you as well, was it not, Iokanaan? From which simple-minded tribe does this blonde barbarian come from? "Are you an Amazon?"

"Yes. An Amazon Queen," she adds quietly.

Runt of the Amazon litter, most likely. "You?"

She smiles again. "That's not an uncommon reaction."

I cannot control a snort of laughter. It's really undignified, but I am sitting on a dirt floor in a prison with some barbarian who has the audacity to lie to me, so I feel no shame in it. "Well! How shall you prove it to me?"

"I don't know. If my word isn't good enough for you, what is there? Do you expect a tiara?" She gestures at her lithe body, her cracked boots, her dirty cloak.

"They should give you something." A piddling act of kindness for the day: I am outraged for her.

"There's a mask, a staff...." She trails off, shrugs, as if she can't be bothered to even mention them. These things—marking her as royalty, distinguishing her from the mud and blood of the masses—are apparently unimportant to her. It confirms that she is either a liar or a madwoman.

"And what is your name, Amazon Queen?" I struggle not to sound mocking; obviously, behind those alert eyes, is a quick mind. And the smarter the barbarians are, the quicker they are to anger.

Yes, I see she is not amused. "Gabrielle."

But this is too much. I burst out laughing. Initially she appears quite angry, yet just as rapidly as that anger appears it's gone, replaced by some sort of rueful resignation. "Named after the great Greek bard, then?" When I was young, my mother told me stories of the Warrior Princess and the Battling Bard. Sometimes ambition got the better of me and I had mother’s slaves enact various scenes from the scrolls she read to me. My directing career ended after a somewhat disastrous attempt to stage the famous ladder fight between Xena and her nemesis Callisto; my Xena—a portly eunuch named Ashurbanipal—fell and broke his neck. Mother was quite cross. Ashurbanipal was one of her favorites.

No matter.

But now I have a real live Gabrielle! How exciting! Her jaw shifts, and she speaks carefully. "I suppose you wouldn't believe it if I told you I am that Greek bard."

"No, I wouldn't. I'm not that foolish, dear." I pick up the water jug—a disgusting old stone pitcher—and try to sip from it without the foul rim actually touching my lips.

Again, she shrugs.

As if I am some idiot in a tavern, confronted with an even bigger idiot who refuses to see common sense, I cannot resist her indifference. I slam the pitcher down on the ground. "So you would have me believe you are the Gabrielle of Potidaea, chronicler of the Warrior Princess, Amazon Queen and warrior?"

"Yes. Believe it or not."

"Oh—and I neglect to mention—also the lover of the same Warrior Princess." I throw out that salient little fact, to see if she really has the stomach for this charade, even though all Amazons are said to go in for that sort of thing. The stories my mother told me, of course, were not explicit in that manner, but only a fool couldn't see what was going on, threaded in the lines of the stories.

"Yes." This she affirms emphatically, without hesitation, obviously caring that I believe, more than anything else she has said, that she is the beloved of the great Xena.

"I see."

Her eyes flare at that. But as she shifts her leg, she winces. There is a small shoulder bag—a pouch, really—visible from under the cloak. She pulls a piece of cloth out of the bag and sloppily binds the thigh's wound.

"So where is she?"

She must know her task is useless; she needs stitches. Nonetheless, she is immersed in it. "Hmm?"

I know the "hmm" so well—its artifice of stalling, like a note grotesquely trilled by a flute, cloaked as absentminded condescension. Does this intense, focused creature really have no idea of whom I speak? Dear Gabrielle, I am fond of you already. I will play along, I will trail behind you, pied piper of oblivion. "Xena. Where is Xena?"

"She will come for me."

"But you don't know where she is."

She is pulling tightly on the bandage, lips pressed together in fierce concentration, strangling her own flesh—the skin around the bandage is whiter than the cloth itself.

I cross my legs daintily, suddenly demure in front of this woman. Her animal vitality seems to drain me of my own sensuality; I am unsure of my own beauty, clumsy and plain as a cow, thinking that any man in the world may very well pick this unwashed savage over a princess, a daughter of Herodias. "Are you so sure?"

"Am I so sure of what?" Her voice is harder.

"That she'll rescue you. Maybe she's—"

She looks up—quite effectively silencing me—and suddenly I believe everything. There is so much in that one glance—more than I have ever been spared by anyone close to me—that I see the story of her life there, the story I became so familiar with in my youth. She is the child in love with words, the girl who wanted adventure, the misfit who wanted love, the seeker of a divine truth, the woman who found her soul, the survivor who lost it all. As water becomes snow, mist, torrential rains, she is all these things, yet fundamentally, elementally, she remains herself. If I can see this, then anyone who has ever loved her will recognize this.

"No."

She is stretched over the wounded leg, poised like a diver in some strange position, pouring her body, her belief into that one syllable.

The sun mimics this gesture; light gradually fills the cell from the high, barred window.

"She will come for me."

* * *

A healer arrives later in the day. He cleans her wound and stitches it. She bears it with the stoicism of someone who has not only been cut with a sword many times, but has also repeatedly tended to such injuries in others. She is given some sort of medicinal tea. Then she falls asleep.

She sleeps into the evening, as darkness layers itself upon us. Usually I wait until the cell is black with night before I waste lighting the meager candle that I possess. Herod permits me to have this light; it's a liberty that I don't take lightly. I roll the candle between my fingers—cold, white, almost glowing in the dark.

It reminds me of his skin. When I first touched him he flinched, as if I were the Whore of Babylon. In fact, he called me that—daughter of Babylon. To her credit my mother was amused. But I wasn't. I was a virgin. I suppose I still am, though I feel he took something away from me. He soiled me with his rejection. He, who fought desire, who hungered for nothing but his God, ruined me. I want to tell him that. I want to tell him how ironic it is, how, even in death, he is not pure of flesh. He corrupted me.

But I can't do that.

The shift of her breathing—from pacific calm to jagged wave—startles me. She is awake, perhaps escaping from a dream that, surprisingly, is worse than the black reality of a prison cell.

"Are you still there?" Her voice is plaintive, childlike, and divorced from the image of the commanding, dangerous woman I first saw this morning. Who does she think she speaks to? Me? Her lover?

I could say nothing. But I don't. "Yes."

She says my name with a beckoning softness.

He never said my name in this manner. In fact, he never said my name. If your beloved never speaks your name, do you cease to exist? "What?"

She asks one simple, horrible question: "Why?"

My voice is my only shield, my only protection, but she will be relentless, I know. "What do you ask?"

"Why did you do it?" she croaked.

A dangerous question. It makes me think. I detest that.

"You killed what you loved."

"No."

"But yes. You did. You did not perform the act itself, but it was your wish, your desire which brought about what happened to him."

"No. I don't believe that."

"Your desire had consequences."

"No."

She sighs. I clear my throat and grope for the water pitcher, almost empty. "I did not kill him. I merely asked for his head. I killed my hunger for him, for his love."

"But don't you see, it is as if you took the sword and"—she falters, choking on the mere thought of it—"killed him yourself. Don't you see? Do you think it's what he really wanted?"

"But I could have given him everything he ever wanted, everything he ever needed."

"Do you really believe that?"

There is such yearning in her voice as she tries to convince, to blanket us both in her confusion. She pretends that she does not comprehend the mysteries of appetite and the lengths a woman will go in order for satiety.

Or does she? "But it didn't really—stop, did it?"

His lips were so thin. And—when I kissed them—so cold. I wanted to taste his holiness.

It was too late that I discovered this amaranthine aspect of appetite, its constant renewal, unbending, unyielding, undying. And she too knows this. While I am grateful for the mask of night that hides my face, I cannot help but believe that she sees me with total clarity. Like an arrow her voice seeks out my heart and pierces it; she touches my shame.

I don't light the candle.

* * *

The days and nights blend as if I am dancing, faster and faster, out of control, helpless, spinning wildly, a dervish of time. The black of night and the glare of day are swirled into a fine gossamer web of gray. This world is perpetual twilight to me; I will always remember it as such.

At the behest of the healer—presumably in the interest of keeping clean the wound—she is permitted an opportunity to bathe. In privacy, away from the cell. When was the last time I saw my own bath chamber? My attending slaves, the water sheeting down my body, the glint of bath salts upon the water like the finest jewels?

I thought—since her arrival—that perhaps my nocturnal visits from Herod had permanently ceased; this is not the case. He capitalizes upon her absence to visit me in my enduring twilight. So clever, Herod! And so needy. I have poisoned your heart, clouded your mind, sickly sweet, with forbidden honey.

"So what do you think of her?" His whisper is as thick as fog. I can taste his breath in the air: a ripe susurration of wine and fruit dangling before me, a mockery of the life I once had, all of it just out of reach, as if I am Tantalus. (Ah, again, the barbarians and their legends. They do tell a good tale.)

"Interesting."

He laughs. "And is that it?"

"Well, she is mad, Tetrarch, surely you see that. You must feel that."

"Oh. Oh yes. Of course."

"Yes. You know."

His mocking, almost jovial tone dissipates quickly. "I know nothing anymore," he hisses. "Love is hate, pleasure is pain, life is death, fidelity is sin. You have changed everything—everything. Surely you see that." He flings my words back at me. "The omens. I should have heeded the omens that night. There was blood upon the floor. I slipped in it. Do you recall? No, of course you don't. But I slipped in it. I was marked by blood. And there was the moon, so full, so clear, so—wanton in its movement across the sky, like a woman seeking a lover. And then the wind, like a terrible beating of wings, like a bird struggling for freedom—"

He goes off like this every once in while. It's tedious.

After a while, he comes around again to the subject of Gabrielle. "So you think she's mad?" He is incredulous.

"Madness is other people, Tetrarch."

"Yes," he replies slowly, "it is true, is it not?" He grunts as he stands; I can hear the click of his jewelry as he moves. "You should enjoy her company then. And she will enjoy yours. I make a gift of her to you. She is your companion. For as long as you both rot in that cell."

"Until I die?"

"Until you die."

"Do you give your word? Your oath?"

Talk of oaths—like talk of omens—will bring him back to that night, the night that I danced for him. He swore he would give me whatever I wanted. Could a king break an oath? I found out. "What is it," he begins—the wonder of it all spills over in his voice—"that I ever saw in you?"

I want to hack through his simple, stupid neck with the dullest knife I can find.

"Give me your word, Herod, as you did the night I danced for you."

"No, you filthy whore, not again."

"Give me your word."

"You're a cunt. He was right about you. And the Nazarenes, they were right about him. For he knew. He knew right away what you are. You are as common as mud, every inch of you is corrupt."

"Give me your word."

"Why does it matter so much to you?"

"Give me your word."

He stops, breathless, then releases a cry; it’s a crack of lightning across a humid summer sky—clear, aching with promise, all too brief. He speaks as a broken man. "I give you my word."

"How kind of you," I reply. "How very kind."

* * *

The heat of the day is lost upon us. From the barred window, so very high that only a trio of tall acrobats could reach it, there is morning, clear and strong, offering only a stingy benediction of light.

She stares up at the window. Then she paces in a circle around the cell, looking at corners, touching walls, and once again gazes to the window.

What follows is even more peculiar, and performed with such astonishing quickness that I wonder what I missed when I blinked. She begins to run in a circle around the cell, faster and faster, gathering speed until she leaps onto one wall, ricochets to another, and from there launches herself at the window.

Her hand, splayed against the dun-colored wall, narrowly misses the ledge by a scant inch.

Then she is sliding down the wall and crashing to the ground, where she lands before me, awkwardly on bended knee, like a suitor from heaven.

But my suitor bleeds! Is this how the Amazons romance one another, dear Gabrielle? Opening their wounds and revealing their hearts floating upon a river of blood? Her stitches are ripped, her mangled flesh oozes red into the dry dust upon her leg. Her expression trembles as she struggles to maintain her warrior demeanor, her cherubic lower lip quivers endearingly.

Of its own accord, my hand reaches for her hair, but then wavers, battling the foreign sensation of compassion. Of course, it is not so far removed from mercy, and that is what I gave to you. I saved you from a lifetime of loving me. From the filth, the banality of a day-to-day life, of flesh touching, of time passing, of watching my beauty dry up like a dead flower. You had nobler goals in mind.

The blonde hair is thick, coarser than I imagined, yet my fingertips create eddies upon its bright surface. "I did give him what he wanted."

Her beautiful eyes, glazed with pain, cannot quite focus on me. "What?"

"It is easier to die than to love."

She close her eyes to this. I drop my hand.

I fetch the water pitcher from across the room, and dump the contents on her wound. She growls and hisses as the water extinguishes the fire of her pain.

"There are bars up there, in case you hadn't noticed," I inform my madwoman.

She tilts her head back, eyes still shuttered against the world, against me. This cell is her world now, I am the prominent star in her cosmos, and how I pity her for that. "I know," she murmurs. "But I wanted to have a look at the window. The bars could be loosened. No prison is perfect."

"It depends on which prison you speak of."

Now she looks at me.

Perhaps I will tell Herod to release her. For what is inside her mind is worse than this cell, worse than being here with me.

"I know," she begins slowly, "that you think I am insane, that I'm a fool."

"I have never said that."

"You don't need to. I see it in your face. I may be insane, but I'm not an idiot."

"If you believe she will rescue you, then why do you attempt escape?"

"I can't just sit here and do nothing."

The exertion has left a sheen of sweat upon her face.

"If you're hot, remove your cloak," I suggest. She has worn it, like armor, since her arrival.

She shakes her head.

"No?" I prod, as if she is a recalcitrant child. The back of my hand grazes her slick forehead. "You're burning up."

She moistens her lips, then swallows. "Good."

"No. You can't want that."

Her voice cracks. "Don't I?" The tone of it defies me to contradict her. Like a stubborn drunkard hopelessly outmatched in a tavern brawl, she staggers to her feet. She touches the sleeve of her cloak to her face. That's when I notice her face shines with grief and bright tears shake in her eyes, like jellied stars.

It was foolish of me to dump the entire pitcher upon her leg. But I'm certain if I ask for more water, it will be given. We must be kept alive for this—the continual hunger for what we do not have. And do we deserve that? If we are not insane yet, when will it come? This appetite is the path that leads into the madness. To want a truth other than what we see in front of us, to crave a life or a state of being that is irretrievable, lost. Still, we go on. We wake every morning because of it.

I may hate myself for it later, but I rip two strips of cloth from the already ruined hem of my dress. I press one against her wound, then I dab at her eyes with the other. "We—can't have you getting ill. You don't want to be ill when she comes for you, Gabrielle. I will have them bring the healer again. Take off your cloak. Rest."

Her face softens, her anguish slackens. She is somewhere far away. "Yes."

"Yes?" With brazen intimacy I cup the back of her neck and push at the heavy wool covering her.

"All right."

I smile. The cloak puddles at her feet like gray mud and my hands slide from her. She smiles too, but uncertainly, as if she were a child unsure of reward or punishment for dropping her clothes on the ground.

When she turns around to look up at the window once again, I see it. The tattoo covering her back is monstrous in its beauty, it appears to leap from her flesh, as if a vision torn from a dream, a dance spiraling into the unknowing, blind excesses of ecstasy. As I danced for you, every movement a different gradation of my desire. Even when I close my eyes the colors, hauntingly indelible, remain in my mind.

My eyes are still closed when she speaks, her gentle voice and firm belief entwined with the burning image of her flesh. "She will come for me."

We wake every morning because of it.

Finis

#xena #xena warrior princess #xena/gabrielle #xena/gabrielle fanfiction #author: vivian darkbloom #mature #femslash #fanfiction

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grundlr · 5 years

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in for the kill - a miragehound playlist

“In for the Kill” on Spotify, a collection of metal, punk, alternative, and a smattering of dream pop—hard and fast, soft and slow.

enjoy this entirely too long miragehound playlist, based half on TerokNor’s Mirage: An Optical Illusion Caused By Atmospheric Conditions, half on my inability to not be a sappy angst-loving POS.

cut for track list and lyrics:

1. game of survival - ruelle

who's in your shadows? who's ready to play? are we the hunters? or are we the prey?

2. cover my face - miranda sex garden

cover my face do not watch my eyes as I run freely i will leave your world behind carry me further do not seek my lie

3. clear the area - imogen heap

cry give up it's okay you've just got to trust me you'll find your way back down and i'll keep the area clear

4. bury a friend - billie eilish

what do you want from me? why don't you run from me? what are you wondering? what do you know? why aren't you scared of me? why do you care for me? when we all fall asleep, where do we go?

5. mama - my chemical romance

and if you would call me your sweetheart i'd maybe then sing you a song but there's shit that i've done with this fuck of a gun you would cry out your eyes, all along

6. many of horror - biffy clyro

i still believe it's you and me 'til the end of time when we collide we come together if we don't we'll always be apart i'll take a bruise, i know you're worth it when you hit me, hit me hard

7. don’t you dare forget the sun - get scared

well, i know you lay in bed contemplating your own death well, just look at what you've done don't you dare forget the sun, love

8. wires - the neighbourhood

you knew the game and played it it kills to know that you have been defeated i see the wires pulling while you're breathing you knew you had a reason it killed you like diseases i can hear it in your voice while your speaking, you can't be treated mr. know-it-all had his reign and his fall at least that's what his brain is telling all

9. i can hold a grudge like nobody’s business - adam jensen

welcome to the wasteland just another broken man tangled in the words that i cannot say living just to say goodbye save me from myself, this ride can you see the words written on my face? you got me actin' like the old me but you don't even know me

10. little pistol - mother mother

today i coo, today i caw i have a pistol party and i kill ‘em all i think i might be scared of the man and the men with their hands inside and the women, oh, the women all they do is cry and i, well i lose my mind

11. in for the kill - billie marten

i'm going in for the kill i'm doing it for a thrill i'm hoping you'll understand now let go of my hand don't let go of my hand

12. you’re the one that i want - lo-fang

do yall really need help on this one

13. ashes of eden - breaking benjamin

are you with me after all why can't I hear you are you with me through it all then why can't i feel you stay with me, don't let me go because there's nothing left at all stay with me, don't let me go until the ashes of eden fall

14. i’ll keep coming - low roar

wipe those tears off and make your heart proud soon i'll come around lost and never found

15. coxcomb red - songs: ohia

the world is so pale next to you your hair is coxcomb red, your eyes are viper black you said every road is a good road between the next road and your last road every love is your best love and every love is your last love and every kiss is a goodbye

16. wolf - first aid kit

when i run through the deep dark forest long after this begun where the sun would set the trees were dead and the rivers were none and i hope for a trace to lead me back home from this place but there was no sound there was only me and my disgrace

17. uprising - muse

interchanging mind control come let the revolution take its toll if you could flick a switch and open your third eye, you'd see that we should never be afraid to die

18. know your quarry - biffy clyro

because tonight we raise the sun and we shine it over everyone if we want a gradual hush our lips should kiss each other so i just want to feel your body i want you to know your quarry

19. nobody loves me like you - low roar

settling is the sign of a dying man comfort in exchange for the promised land waiting for the other to break or bend oh baby, sometimes there's no such thing as more than friends let's save what we can before it ends

20. love is a battlefield - wrongchilde feat. white sea

we are strong no one can tell us we're wrong searching our hearts for so long both of us knowing love is a battlefield

#apex legends #fanmix #miragehound #apex bloodhound #apex mirage

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sidpah · 5 years

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Glory! 2

Ending up here again I wonder, why is there never any light? By light I don’t just mean brightness, I mean color, levity, Sun… Where are you, you beautiful hot-blooded creature? Why do you run from me? I won’t turn my back again, I promise… Tenderly eased into a state of approximated pleasure,I’m nearly carried away somewhere fantastic when that one-legged preacher starts his maniac call sending shivers through my blood-packed eardrum… “Oh, but don’t you see how they’re wasted! And they’ve tasted the sweet vagrant sin… The fragrance of entropy bleeds from their skin as it touches other warm bacteria-riddled skin! And how my bile riiiises soon as they set about it… Never forget: the most pious man’s the one who claims to have forgotten all about it... Animals needn’t be animals! Beasts, cast your burden off! And kneel down before you eat, before you sleep, before you leave this temple you walk in, the hair and the skin are all nails in your coffin, tell me, must we return there again and again to remind yourself how dreadful the whole cursed cycle truly is?”

Feeling cued, I stand, not sure whether I can walk, but goddamn it, it’s gotta be an easier death on those sand dunes the next block over… I’ll fall on the trunk of a cab, hook my fingers into its wheel wells and hang on to get gone… But as I stand and my head dips down, long gobs of half-clotted blood oozing from perforated skull, I get the woozies and trip those three deadly feet from curb to the middle of the street and I hear a screeching of tires on pavement and curl to protect my already shotgunned head and I’m gone to that sandy shore, that mythopoeic desert surrounded by a million others who tried to fail so completely that they were honored as true pioneers… Bloody swamps made by dead fellahin in deserts collecting their prizes for dying in the heat of gunpowder and fury. The hour struck zero and they all braced themselves for the bitter memorial homage to their Great Omnipotent Delusion…

Curtain rises, protagonist slips on stage, no merchant peddler wiser than tourist mark – snapshot lens glare a wide dusty American grin – Even he isn’t sure if he’s acting or being acted – Green fatigues eye each hunched extra with gated suspicion – A finger twitches, nearly setting off a thick wave of gunfire – Everyone breathes a heavy sigh – muscles relax – A vengeful hallelujah, a bright flare, a second burning Sun, an eruption of visceral smoke and red dust of the lurid town snows all around…

Or it’s red ambulance lights, a curse driven into my ribs. Jerry’s still yelling… But it’s not his voice anymore. It’s Kalday Suglaj, that god-healer in rags… It’s the cloying rhythmic cadence of the street-evangelist, but it’s a ragged pagan voice drilling them directly into that eighth hole in my head…

“Two-thousand years come and gone, and just how many more before the dawn’s shot down from its seat in the sky and laid sacrificially upon the ground feeding buzzards all tradition-bound?… Tradition bound us to the fabled lives of men who’ll never again walk the earth, as if they ever truly did, and weren’t just legends, deified by mouths hungry for heroes – A plague, a god, a fraud, just who are we kidding? Leave it up to the merry men, those denizens of disgrace! Every one of them’ll sell you a book for your soul, all the while impaling you on their devoutly righteous pole. They all take to survive, but greed makes survival so much more palatable. So every time, mark my words, my friends, ev-e-ry time, they’ll steal more flesh than the pound they tell both you and themselves they need as they take a dull butter knife to your love-handles!

Let me tell you ‘bout a man… a man I met recently who lived through the horrors. He is a hero, and yet no one would listen to a word that came out his mouth… I listened, I listened and I’m here to tell you all of his harrowing account… Lie yourself down on a street at night...”

I’m there, waiting as the red lights close in, the siren deafening… I push my good ear to the pavement to drown out the noise…

“Somewhere in the uncharted boondocks lit up by the full Moon and pickup headlights… Around him the gravel shatters and then shatters and then shatters into pieces of pieces of pieces while dark blood splatters steel-toes and asphalt meteors gouge his cheeks, scratch his eyeballs. Heavy links of chain yank tight round his neck bruised purple black, grated and fired by stone rockets and torn apart on streets on the outskirts of right fuckin’ here.”

I hear the loud squeals as ambulance doors open and a collapsible stretcher unfolds its wheels with a clang... There are hands on my body turning me right side up, but I refuse to respond.

“His wrists, impotent, roped together grinding spine since he was kidnapped and shackled like four hundred years refused to pass after one night stepping out of a bar with no words to drunken strangers who were looking for a scapegoat on which to vent their ancestor’s frustration…”

“Pack his head…”

“Support his neck… don’t lift him yet…”

I feel the rough hemp digging into bony wrists… I’m rolled onto the low stretcher, lifted, strapped, thick velcro gripping my arms and chest, legs and ankles, and I’m yelling at them, “Just get me to the next street! Get me to the dunes, man! Get me to the dunes!” But they don’t seem like they can hear me.

They keep shining a light into my eyes and that’s okay, I’m feeling warmer already…

Face of a young Tibetan boy looks down on me. He’s scratching “Liberate Tibet” on a mud wall… Before he can finish, he’s swarmed by drab military uniforms dragging him to a brutal tortured death… This is the land that Mercy forgot…

I feel the burn of my face peeling off grinding against the raging asphalt…

He dies nameless and noble…

Who am I to receive their misguided anger? Am I representative for any in-group? I’ve always been the meekest of outsiders…

Ghosts are gathering in the streets… pale generations clinging to each other’s waists… They all know what’s coming, but no one dares say it aloud… As the truck doors slam shut and Chinese guns flood the thin markets and alleyways… Cell doors shriek embracing robed prisoners, raped and cut…

Sirens wail from the scene but words, manic words, Jerry’s words, still bounce inside the confined little cell, wires and tubes across my face…

“…Reverently they severed that black devil man with the cane in his grip from the white woman at his hip – They did this to him so they did this to me! Tell me it didn’t happen! You know it did! Those dreary soldiers rushing, marching, folding their hands at their hearts… set on getting back the nothing they once were so quick to dismiss! Well they can dismiss us and while they’re at it, they can kiss us a fine ‘fuck you too’ as we pray to be freed from their blessed tyranny – The prince in his finery was shameless. Now we are stones laid before his merciless feet. We threw mud into their faces, on their uniforms, across their eyes and hair, but ended up wearing their mark on our bare chests... You know, I will change what I hate but it will not change me… And I may hate what I change but it will never change me… I will say it a-gain. Say it with me! I will change what I hate but it will not change me… And though I will hate what I change, it will never change me…”

If I could talk, I’d love to tell him how wrong he is… that we must grow and be flexible, that hate versus hate never succeeds… I can’t even pretend he’d be able to listen… Words never matter to someone who’s caught in his own perpetual rut, so full of righteous fury he thinks he can alter a course of events he himself helped to instigate… Prejudicial anger has an inertia that’ll steamroll even the most skillful and best-intentioned humanitarians. And what use are these thoughts speeding at seventy miles an hour away from the very man I wanted to meet? And what would he know with the likes of a case, and like that, I remember the scaly tote… I yell at the medics, “Give it to me! It can’t fall in the wrong hands. Are my hands the wrong hands? Whose hands are yours? Bring me back! I must speak with him!”

But they make like they don’t understand. Those sly bastards. They know the sides we’re on. I will get away, though, I will get away… I vow without a breath. And the strange thing is, in this careening ambulance taking me not to a hospital but to an underground blacksite prison, for a moment I really believe it’s possible…

#fiction #revolution #anarchy #Tibet #oppression #atheism

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rattmemes · 6 years

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Shayfer James: The Owl and the Elephant Album Starters

words in [ ] are interchangeable/changeable

Life is Beautiful

“ I think I found a passage out of here ” “ Maybe we could make our great escape ” “ You didn’t think we’d make it, did you, dear? ” “ Somewhere in this dark you lost your faith ” “ ‘Cause life is beautiful ” “ Save all your prayers while [we’re] gone ” “ I think I see some sunlight peeking through ” “ It won’t be very long until [we’re] done ” “ I will be a hero, so will you ” “ Just look up and scream ” “ Hey- can any one- can anyone hear me? ” “ If they follow us, you go ahead, I’ll meet you there ”

Bayonnettes

“ Her lies match her dress ” “ His eyes speak his past ” “ Oh, this bed and this mess were both made ” “ These broken promises fix Bayonnettes ” “ This is your nightmare ” “ This is your fairytale love ” “ That look in your eyes is certain to try and divide us ” “ This is your night ” “ How will I get along? ”

Siren Song

“ [She] got the mystery of a masquerade ” “ [She] make a meal of crow and watch you beg for it ” “ [She] got the wisdom of a whispered scream ” “ [She] build your prison in a dirty dream ” “ [She] got the beauty of a thousand ships ” “ [She] break your body with her bag of tricks ” “ Surely as the moon will rise, [she’ll] fasten daggers to your eyes ” “ [She] waited for her prince to come and shot him with his royal gun ” “ Look who’s laughing now, baby ” “ Big hunter man become the prey ” “ The siren song begins to play ” “ Got the kind of love that’ll call you back ” “ It’ll bleed you there and watch you crack on the floor ” “ This has got to be the end ” “ For all this outwitting there is no forgiving ” “ You can’t go on living when Heaven’s forbidding ”

When Heaven Closes

“ We’ve a chain of bloomless roses ” “ Drink disdain in double doses ” “ Dig my grave when Heaven closes ” “ Picture me in painted poses; incomplete and out of focus ” “ And if I’m already dead, this heavy weight upon my head, a simple stone that bares my name; above, the words: himself to blame ” “ The words plead dig my grave when Heaven closes ”

Tombstone Road

“ The air in here is getting thick from all the dirty cigarette tricks ” “ I can feel my inside turning black ” “ If words were dollars I’d want mine back ” “ Everybody gather ‘round ” “ Better head for higher ground ” “ I’m gonna burn this building down ” “ You know for every Tombstone Road they pave, they're gonna throw a ticker tape parade ” “ Every thousand years that trickle by they’ll find another prophet to crucify ” “ I’m gonna burn this village down ” “ When they’re warm and cozy in their beds ” “ We’re gonna paint ourselves black and red ” “ We’re gonna batter down the gilded doors ” “ Writing on the walls and the ceilings, and the floors ” “ Anywhere we fancy the truth belongs ” “ We’re gonna burn this city down ”

Your Father’s Son

“ Wielding words like aimless arrows ” “ You should be careful where you stand ” “ It could be days, it could be hours ” “ Every arrow’s got to land ” “ If you’re any good at riddles, you should take a crack at this ” “ If every second has a fiddle, does every razor have a wrist? ” “ It fits so well, what you’ve become ” “ Your father’s son, which will never be much of anyone ” “ Stealing time in raids and riots, now you’ve more than you can hold ” “ You’re gambling with a giant from some fiarytale you told ” “ If you’re any good at bluffing, I suggest you do it quick ” “ Everyone is next to nothing and every tock will have a tick ” “ It fits so well ” “ Your father’s son ” “ What you’ve become cannot be undone ” “ You’ll never come to much of anyone ” “ God help you if you ever need a friend ” “ God help you if you ever... Ever... ”

Every Fallen Feather

“ My angel didn’t fall, [she] landed ” “ In sprite of what Gods commanded ” “ [She] nourished my eyes wearing only [her] wings ” “ We stayed up all night doing Heavenly things ” “ [She] told me they would come find [her], that were wasn’t any way to hide [her] ” “ I bolted the doors like the fool that I am ” “ I cried in [her] arms, I am only a man ” “ That might be true, but I think much more of you ” “ For seven days I walked beside [her] ” “ For seven nights I slept inside [her] ” “I woke up with a cold on my skin and a space in place where [her] face should have been ” “ I knew that they had come to get [her] ” “ So I gathered every fallen feather ” “ [She] had warned me of this but I always refused ” “ [She] said I’d move on, because that’s what men do ” “ As the years go by, I’ll be looking to the Heavens ” “ I went to search the sky one morning ” “ I saw [her] on the ground before me, with a tear in [her] eye and a bruise on [her] chin, and a wound on [her] back where [her] wings should have been ” “ I knelt down at [her] side to touch [her] ” “ [She] told me that the fall had crushed [her] ” “ In exchange for [her] sins I’d be damned for all time ” “ [She] gave them [her] wings if it meant I’d get mine ” “ I held [her] as the sun was rising ” “ I whispered as [her] heart was fighting ” “ I’ll pray for the day that those fools follow through, ‘cause I’ll make them all pay for what they’ve done to you ”

Grind My Bones

“ I am a moment slowly dying ” “ Soon I will only cross your mind from time to time ” “ I’ll be the pattern in your ceiling cracks as you resist another glass of wine ” “ I am a solitary sentence ” “ I share not poetry or prose and everybody knows ” “ I have no marvelous inflection; just random letters grouped in lines and rows ” “ I’m waiting for the Lord up above to grind my bones ” “ The walls around us crumble ” “ Watch all the idiots and hypocrites rebel ” “ You are two dashes and a number ” “ All of your complaining couldn’t save you from yourselves ” “ You’re prayin’ to the ghost in your blood to save your soul ” “ Luckily I’m not alone, there’s many here around me ” “ In every fist there is a stone that’s set to cast ” “ Once upon a time I was lost and nothing found me ” “ You better know that when I go, I’m going fast ” “ I’m waiting for the Lord upon above to guide me home ”

Insincerely Yours

“ I do appreciate your concern ” “ I never met a match I couldn’t burn ” “ I’m designed for the strike, and inclined to ignite ” “ It’s a fact I often hesitate to tell ” “ Like a window at the bottom of a well ” “ It resides out of sight, but it shines pretty bright ” “ When you face the reflection of how far you fell ” “ Oh, the fun we’ll have ” “ I’ll be yours, with exceptions of course ” “ I’ll be insincerely yours ” “ I’ll indulge in every story that you tell ” “ You’ll be waiting for my love to keep you warm ” “ You’ll choke with remorse when my ship changes course for a port with a harbor more sturdy than yours ” “ Please believe I never meant you harm ” “ If you believe that, dear, you’ve got a lot to learn ”

For Now, Goodbye

“ There is a wall through which I dare not step ” “ Mahogany and stone ” “ We have been warned time and time again ” “ There is a lantern shining dark upon this winters day ” “ I am equal parts a criminal and a king ” “ I would steal to be the master of a thing ” “ But for now, goodbye ” “ For now ” “ For now, goodbye ” “ There’s a riverbank we sinners must descend ” “ Perhaps I’d rather be a man who burns than one who hesitates ” “ I have memorized the lines of our repose ” “ The fragrance of each mystery we compose is in my skin somehow ” “ I would tremble in the hands of my disgrace ” “ Lick the sweat of our salvation from your face ”

#shayfer james starters #rp starters #rp sentence starters #role play meme #rp meme #rp sentence meme #role play sentence meme #rp starter meme #lyric meme #rp lyric meme

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toxic-lucky · 6 years

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There.

He stood in a circle made of dull coloured mushrooms that outlined the divide between the grass of the forest, and the brighter, healthier grass inside. In the circle, the grass seemed, if it was not already, burgeoning, flourishing, especially when in contrast the frosty yellow-green grass that made up the trampled forest floor. He was there in the circle everyday, or at least whenever you passed by. Every night, for around a couple of weeks, you would walk through the forest and find him sitting there in that ring of fungi. He always seemed lost in thought, eyes staring at something not quite there. Without daring to approach him, you hid in the forest flora. Occasionally checking to see if he was still there every time you would pass him. In your village, those like him were well warned against. Tricksters, trouble makers, Sìthichean, Fa-

His eyes met yours. Your gut convulsed in apprehension and uncertainty. A smirk splayed across his face as if he knew exactly what you felt, standing up and walked to the edge of the ring. “Are you going to stand and stare all day? Come on, hiding behind a tree doesn’t suit a lass of your status.”

The silence you gave him caused him to frown, as you stayed rooted in place. “I know you’re there hummingbird,” his tone was sing-song, obviously seeing this as some kind of joke with his eyes narrowing as he placed his hands on his hips and leaned forwards towards where you hid. “It’s rude to ignore someone when they’re speaking to you.”

Your body started up again similar to a cold engine, though instead of stepping forward as one might have been compelled to do, you turn tail and ran. Bare feet thumping against the chilly forest grass, heart set on getting back into the warm home and never coming back outside into the forest ever again. You knew it was a bad idea to check on the mystery stranger, but did you ever listen to your common sense? No.

Then the moon rose again, and you found yourself sneaking out once more and walking back to where he sat under her guidance. Pixie ring, that’s what the circles of mushrooms were called. Asking mother about it is how you learnt, giving you a weird look and a warning. ‘You better stay out of those, they are made by the witch and her spells. Do you want to be trapped?’ though it didn’t deter you as hoped, instead a flimsy excuse of ‘I read something like that in a story book my tutor brought. I’m sorry for the worry caused.’ and you were back to disregarding common sense.

“I thought little ladies were taught better than to peep.” He smiled as he easily found me staring back at him, in hiding once again, “tut, tut, little hummingbird. So troublesome.”

“I-” face flushed out of embarrassment, “you- you have no right to speak to me like that!”

“Oh? And who do I speak to? Would you give me your name? I’d love to have it.” There it was, the sly smirk again, as if he knew what tricks were being played.

“I shall have you know, I am-” you immediately clasp both your hands over your mouth before you could even think about uttering another word. Lady Aphria, the stupid little girl that gave her name to what seemed like a fae. He didn’t need to know your name. Names held power after all, the ability to become, control, and order the other around on a whim by simple knowing a word. “I... am no one. No one at all. My name, It is of little importance, you should not bother with such things. I should not be speaking-”

“Yet you don’t seem to hold your tongue?” The smug grin was clear on the red-haired male’s face, voicing his mockery, “so, ‘no one’, why come back?”

You stare at him, silently. He huffed and crossed his arms, “you do know the trouble a Hummingbird like yourself can get into when found, so why come back? Better yet, if you’re going to stick around giving me the silent treatment you might as well sit down. I can speak of many things for many hours.”

“Are you a storyteller, fae?” The question came out of your mouth in such an innocent tone, it seemed as if he was surprised, or at least confused.

“So you know? Smart Hummingbird, very smart. No, I am not one of these ‘storytellers’ you speak of. I merely enjoy sharing my experiences-”

“That’s the same thing.”

“So be it, I do not stoop to such, uh, mortal titles.” He waved his hand as if to disperse the idea from the area around him.

With the silence hanging in the air, you sat down on the grass using your black jacket as a blanket to sit on. You had time before sunrise parted the inky sky, before you had to run home, and nothing better to do with the time spent awake. Any fear you felt previously seemed to have dissipated for the moment, giving way to your curiosity.

“So you wish to listen?” At the prompting of the question, you nod. The fae sat down in front of you with a soft sigh, remaining in the ring like always. He soon filled the silence with wonderful stories of a world where time moves slowly and was filled with joy. Where people never aged, nor felt discomfort. Painting worlds filled with colours and life through words and hand actions. You found yourself quickly engrossed in the tales. Despite his claims of not being a storyteller he certainly knew how to spin an entertaining tale. Perhaps it wasn’t tale at all, but truth. Your brain didn’t get much thinking done on that though, becoming fuzzy with the new information attempting to be understood as the tale continued you closed your eyes- just for a moment- in hopes that it would help.

Then you woke up at home, tucked into the warm and cozy blankets that covered your bed. It was your house, though you didn’t remember falling asleep or walking home at all. There was a small thought in the back of your head, questioning if what happened last night was truly real and not part of some elaborate dream your mind made up. No, on the chair in the corner of your room was your jacket, and to the touch was still damp and smelled like the forest. There were also leaves in your unruly bed head along with a small purple scabiosa tucked behind your ear. It all stood out against your black hair, and brought a small smile to your face. Sneaking into the washroom was easy, brushing the tangled leaves that decorated your long hair and messy braids were another thing. Slipping the flower in a nightgown pocket, a jarring knocking on the door invaded the silence and brought you back to reality.

“Give me a moment!” You made sure your voice was loud enough to be heard through the wooden door, the only response was a loud groan of irritation from your older brother, Owyn. Older by three years, he acted like he owned the place- and he did to some extent as the oldest and only son. A baron wishing to be a knight, what kind of dreams did he hold? Always training, always studying, always having to be at the top of everything. You knew it was just for him to get a chance at being a knight, though the feeling of inferiority still wormed into you now and again.

Stepping out, braids tightened and done proper this time, though still in the nightgown you give Owyn a strange look, “up a little early, are we?”

“Up a little late more so,” He pointed at you accusingly, “you’re always awake before me, yet not today. Why is that?”

“Is it so wrong for a lady to wish for more beauty sleep?”

“Beauty sleep? Then you should need more, have you broken the mirror taking so long?”

That reminded you of something the fae said a while ago. ‘The moon is not meant for those who thrive in the sun, you should rest under her protection instead of being foolish.’ or, more accurately, it was probably meant something more like ‘go to bed, you have to be awake in the day. Stop being a moron.’

You let out a small gasp of fake offense, causing him to grin and push you out of the way, closing the bathroom door behind him. “You cannot outrun such a scorn, ‘tis disgrace!” pounding the door once for good measure before retreating back into your room to get changed. You could hear mother from downstairs, yelling something. Probably for the both of you to be quiet, or to come down for breakfast and behave.

Glancing at your desk, you notice the work that used to be a small pile had condensed into a much larger pile, taking up more than half of the working space. Normally you would work on it at night, but lately you were busy. Reprimand after reprimand, it never worked to focus you. It was boring, and painful sometimes to go through such daily motions. Sometimes there would be bruises on your wrists from the tutor’s irritation.

A week passed and the flower stayed with you through the days. Every single time the moon rose, you found yourself yearning to escape into the forest and your body forces you to follow such a silly desire, almost against your will. You would sit in silence listening to the stories of the otherworld, land of promise, Tír Tairngire. You would either walk back home after cutting him off after a sentence, or find yourself waking up in your bed, wondering if your mind went to far once again. Just for a moment.

That night, wearing the withering scabiosa tied around your pinkie finger, you found yourself taking steps back to the forest. With no attempt to resist, you easily found your way back to the pixie ring along the now compressed and winding trail. By extent you also found the fae who remained in the circle.

“Ah, Hummingbird!” He actually seemed a little startled when you simply sat down outside of the ring instead of hiding and waiting for him to call you out. Though, maybe it was because of something he said last night? You couldn’t recall. “Feeling more bold today than usual it appears. Why do you come back?” That question, ‘why did you come back?’ seemed to be a favourite of his, every time you came back that was your greeting. You never bothered to respond, giving a shrug and a noise that didn’t carry any weight before you sat down and he continued with his stories of home. Not this time though.

“I have an unanswered question actually.” You announce, sitting down and crossing your legs looking at the taller fae.

“Oh? And what is it? Should I be concerned Hummingbird?” The fae, as usual, seemed nonchalant and relaxed. Raising an eyebrow as he eyed you like one would read a book, looking to see if he could figure it out before it was spoken.

“It has been a while, and I think calling you ‘the fae’ is not the nicest-” “no duh.-” “ and I was wondering, if you would give me the honour of knowing one of your names, what should I be calling you?” The red-haired fae seemed shocked, his expression hardening as he squinted at the ground.

“You wish to call me a name?” He asked, “but why? Wouldn’t giving me a nickname be so much more easy?”

“We are friends, are we not?” The question was met with silence from him, your gut clenched thinking you had said something wrong. “ I wish for the name to be comfortable to you. You can call me Aphi in return if it makes things better.”

The pregnant pause lasted longer than you wished, unable to read his thoughts you were left to sit in silence for a little longer. His face was unreadable, emotionless despite the fact he was obviously feeling something. “I’m sorry that was out of line.” You apologized as it seemed he wasn’t going to speak anytime soon. He was still silent, looking at the ground. His eyes had the same look that you observed prior to talking to him. Looking at something far away, that could never be possessed. “I shall take my leave, I apologize for being a bother tonight.”

With that now what was left hanging in the air, you stand up and brush off your dress. Glancing once more at the sitting fae before turning around and walking back to your home while the night was still young.

“Beagan…” You didn’t turn around at the quiet voice of the fae, but did halt.

“You can call me that. Beagan.” A little louder this time, no doubt the fae- er Beagan was the one speaking. Glancing behind you, he still stared at the ground in front of him but with a tiny smile on his face now.

“Goodnight Beagan.” You smile at the boy who looked embarrassed, walking back and breaching the pixie circle for the first time. It felt warm. Messing up Beagan’s red hair, you smile down at him, “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

The shocked look on his face was priceless, as you turn to walk away you couldn’t help but smile.

You finally had something to call him by.

#writings #dave writes #fantasy #yes this was for class. yes I am proud of it. Yes these are new characters

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crazyclouds5281 · 3 years

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Unnamed Naruto fic 2

Sasuke was perplexed. No, scratch that, he was flat-out flabbergasted. Uzumaki had just snatched one of those bells without a second glance from their sensei, a fucking Jounin, then left. He left! Who does that!? It wasn’t like Kakashi had allowed it to happen, either; the man looked just as confused as Sasuke felt. Eventually, though, Kakashi just shook his head, apparently determined to put that little incident out of his head.

Sasuke decided now was the time to test the waters, when Kakashi was unbalanced due to Uzumaki’s stunt. He grabbed a handful of kunai and shuriken, then shifted on the branch he was hiding on. Breathing deeply, he focused himself, then threw all eight projectiles at once. They curved towards the Jounin, and much to his surprise, actually hit him. Then, in a puff of smoke, a log replaced Kakashi. A Kawarimi.

Sasuke swore, then took off running. There was no doubt Kakashi had traced the trajectory of the projectiles, so staying still wasn’t an option if he wanted to remain hidden. Bouncing through the trees as fast as he could, Sasuke wondered if he might actually make it to a new hiding spot, when the next branch he stepped on was sliced off the tree. He fell to the ground in a tumble, rolling to his feet, then whirling around, trying to spot Kakashi. The Jounin appeared right in front of him, thoroughly startling the boy, but Sasuke didn’t show his surprise. Instead, he pulled out two kunai and sunk into the Taijutsu stance of the Uchiha Interceptor Style, and waited for Kakashi to approach- it was called the Interceptor Style for a reason.

It was not often that an Uchiha took the initiative in battle. It might seem like a death sentence to other shinobi, but the purpose of the style was to conserve stamina and chakra. The Uchiha may tend to have slightly larger than average chakra reserves, but the Sharingan consumed most of that, so they had to be very frugal in combat. The Interceptor Style mainly focused on redirecting blows, using the enemy’s strength against them to unbalance them, then getting in quick, lethal attacks with a bladed weapon when the opportunity presented itself.

The standoff continued for nearly a minute, and a bead of sweat trickled down Sasuke’s forehead, right into his eye. He blinked to clear away the slight burning sensation, and when he opened his eyes, Kakashi was upon him. The Jounin was fast. Logically, Sasuke knew that he had to be, and had expected it, but actually dealing with this kind of speed was even more difficult than anticipated. He had a feeling the only reason he could even see a blur was because Kakashi was holding back significantly, and he had to beat down his pride and concentrate.

Sasuke managed to keep Kakashi’s fists away from certain parts of his body, such as the throat, face, and kidneys by holding his kunai in front of those areas, and relying on the fact that the Jounin likely wouldn’t punch a blade with nothing but cloth covering his knuckles. Still, the areas that he’d left unprotected were getting steadily more battered by the second. Staying on the defensive was not an option. He’d just end up as a giant bruise like that. Taking a risk, Sasuke swiped at Kakashi, only for the man to leap back several feet. The boy quickly threw his kunai at the man, then flashed through hand seals.

Snake, Ram, Monkey, Horse, Boar, Tiger. Katon: Gokakyu no Jutsu (Grand Fireball)!

A stream of fire flowed from his lips, enveloping Kakashi in a ball of fire nearly three times larger than him. Sasuke held the jutsu for five seconds, before cutting the chakra flow. At his current level, he only had enough in him for maybe two more of those. When the flames dispersed, Sasuke saw nothing except the blackened ground. Either Kakashi had been burned to ashes, or the man had escaped, and he had a feeling it was the latter.

His hunch was only proven correct when hands burst up from ground, grabbing him by the ankles, and dragging him into the dirt.

Doton: Shinju Zanshu no Jutsu (Double Suicide Decapitation)!

A moment later, Kakashi crawled out of the earth, and crouched in front of him. The man flicked his hitai-ate with an aggravating ping!

“You’re about what I expected. Taijutsu’s decent, you were able to block a good number of my hits, despite my speed. You Uchiha have sharp eyes, even without the Sharingan. The katon jutsu was a bit of a surprise, but I guess it shouldn’t be. You’re Fugaku’s kid, after all. It’s a shame I had to cut things so short.” Kakashi pointed up at the sun, which was almost directly overhead. “Time’s a wastin’, though. Hope you can understand.” With that, he patted Sasuke on the head, then disappeared into the forest. Moments later, a bloodcurdling scream echoed through the trees. Looks like he’d gotten to Haruno.

Sasuke’s attempts to move his body were all met with failure, and he had no choice but to wait until the shrill beeping of the alarm clock reached his ears. Sasuke sighed- his father was not going to be pleased.

-----------------

“So, looks like your exam’s over!” Kakashi said cheerfully to his two Genin. Haruno was tied to one of the training logs, while Sasuke sat slumped against another. A combination of fatigue and shame made his shoulders heavy. “Now, normally, I’d tie you both up, but I figured I’d make an exception for Sasuke, because he at least tried. Watching as your comrades do all the work is hardly befitting of a kunoichi, Sakura,” he said sternly. The Jounin picked up the plastic bag he’d brought with him, and pulled out two convenience store bentos. He handed one to Sasuke.

“Anyways, both of you failed. You may as well eat that, since I bought it for you, but make sure you don’t give any to Sakura. She doesn’t deserve it. Hell, you can eat the second one, too, if you’re still hungry. Now, I’m gonna go find Naruto since he’s the only one that actually got a bell, and the brat thought it would be funny to leave with it like that… God, what a pain. You two have fun!” Kakashi said brightly, then walked off the training ground, leaving Sasuke alone with Haruno, something he very much did not appreciate.

With a sigh, he opened the bento and grabbed the pair of disposable chopsticks, quickly picking his way through the meal. If he was gonna be lectured for hours about being a disgrace, he would at least have a full stomach while doing it, dammit! A second later, Sasuke choked as Uzumaki poked his head out from behind the log Haruno was tied to.

“...You're not very good at this whole shinobi thing, are you?” he asked quietly. Sasuke was too busy trying to hack up the rice in his esophagus to answer, so Haruno screeched at the blond in his stead.

“Don’t act like you’re any better, Naruto! The only reason you got a bell is because you cheated! I bet you grabbed it before Sensei even said start!” the pink-haired girl spat.

Uzumaki tilted his head. “Does it matter how I got the bell?”

“Of course it does!” Haruno yelled. “You can’t cheat like that!”

Uzumaki’s eyes narrowed. “We’re shinobi. It’s what we do,” he said flatly, before puffing out a tiny sigh. “I guess that’s why you failed at something so simple,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Sasuke finally managed to catch his breath. He scowled at the blond. “What do you want us to do? He’s a Jounin. Even with all three of us, we wouldn’t have been able to take him on, and then you left.”

Uzumaki blinked at him. “You know, he only said you to get a bell. Not that you had to steal one from him.”

Sasuke scoffed. “So, what? We’re supposed to go buy one from the store?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“As if that would’ve worked, idiot!” Haruno shouted. “There’s no way Kakashi-sensei would’ve let us leave the training ground!”

“He let me leave pretty easy,” Uzumaki retorted calmly.

“Yeah, and because you left, we got picked apart,” Sasuke accused. He set aside his bento and stood up, noting to his satisfaction that he was taller than the blond by an inch. “Don’t stand there acting all superior just because you’ve got sticky fingers.”

“You’re really intent on blaming me, huh?” Uzumaki asked blandly. “Then, let me ask you; did you two even try to work together?”

Sasuke rolled his eyes. “As if. Haruno’s got no skills as a shinobi. She would’ve just gotten in the way.”

“Wha- Sasuke-kun!?”

“Maybe,” Uzumaki acquiesced with a shrug, “But you didn’t try, so you don’t know that for sure. At the very least, you could’ve used her as a distraction. I know I did.”

Sasuke’s eyes widened. “Wait, when-?”

“When Haruno was yelling at Inu-sensei? Yeah.” Sasuke turned to the tied up girl, an appraising glint in his eye. He pointedly ignored how she blushed under his gaze. Mind made up, Sasuke pulled out a kunai and cut her ropes.

“Sasuke-kun?” she asked hopefully. He just thrust the extra bento into her hands, and passed Naruto the remainder of his.

“Eat,” he commanded. “When Kakashi comes back, we’ll convince him to give us another try, and this time, we’ll do it together. Until then, though, you need to regain your strength.”

Uzumaki looked at the half-eaten bento, the barest trace of an amused smirk on his face. “What makes you think I’ll help you? I already passed.” Sasuke gritted his teeth at the reminder of his inadequacy. He forced his hands, which were clenched tightly, to relax.

“...We’re teammates,” Sasuke said with conviction. “We should be able to rely on each other. I won’t try to force you to work with us if you really don’t want to, but… I’m asking you. Will you help us?”

Uzumaki bared his teeth in the facsimile of a smile. “Sure. It might be fun.” He gave Sasuke the bento back, causing the boy to look at him questioningly. “I got ramen when I left. I’m pretty full.” Sasuke rolled his eyes, but finished off the boxed lunch quickly. By then, Sakura had also finished, and they stacked the empty containers next to the alarm clock Kakashi had left, and waited.

-----------------

“You disobeyed my orders.”

Sasuke couldn’t do anything but nod in the face of the Jounin’s rage.

“Tell me, what were you thinking when you decided to completely ignore what I said and free Sakura? Your answer won’t make your punishment any lighter, but I’m just curious.”

Sasuke inhaled deeply. “I was thinking that you might allow us to try again.”

Kakashi’s visible brow raised. “And why would I do that, when you’ve already proved how inadequate you are? It’d just be a waste of my time.”

“Because this time will be different. This time, we’re gonna work together to take you down.”

Kakashi’s eye narrowed. “Together?” he asked, voice dangerously soft. “As a team?”

Sasuke took a shuddering breath, before nodding shakily. “As a team.”

The Jounin loomed over the three children, staring down at them menacingly. “Then… You pass!”

“...What?”

#naruto #naruto fanfiction

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swanfrcst · 6 years

Text

the love found in the spaces between us

summary: there’s a something between them, but ryousuke wants to give it a name and kuramochi lets himself be pulled along.

to: @wamuura for @fydaiyanoace‘s secret santa exchange! i combined the stargazing + winter date prompts, hope you enjoy!

read on ao3

“Hi,” Ryousuke says, voice muffled by his thick scarf but intention sharply clear. “Get dressed, we’re going out.”

On any other occasion, Kuramochi would have sprung into action, eager to give Ryousuke his full attention. But right now, it is four in the morning with an inch of fresh snow on the ground and Kuramochi is still blinking sleep from his eyes, so dazed that the cold hasn’t quite registered yet, even as his shoulders tremor unconsciously.

Of course, Ryousuke simply stands on his doorstep like nothing is wrong.

“Ryou-san,” Kuramochi begins in a scratchy, sleep-thick voice. Then, he falters, letting out a sigh as he rubs his face tiredly.

Ryousuke responds with an expectant tilt of his head, but says nothing.

“Ryou-san,” Kuramochi tries again, and this time his voice is firmer. “It is very nice to see you again and I would love to hang out with you, but not when it’s four in the morning and ten million degrees below freezing.”

“Is that what they call it these days?” Ryousuke asks, grin still betraying nothing, “Hanging out?”

The sudden change in topic leaves Kuramochi a little bit lost, his drowsy brain attempting to catch up to the twist of Ryousuke’s words.

“I mean,” Kuramochi says, and now he is more awake and absolutely feeling the heavy winter chill seeping through his skin, “What else…?”

With infinite patience, Ryousuke takes a step forward, and Kuramochi instinctively shuffles backward to let Ryousuke in. Once he’s stepped through the threshold, Kuramochi hurriedly shuts the door behind Ryousuke to keep out the cold.

“I am asking you on a date, Kuramochi Youichi,” Ryousuke says, lifting his head up with that slow, curling smirk.

All at once, Kuramochi feels like he’s been dunked into an ice bath, chilled water sending electric jolts through his brain and down his spine. He’s awake now.

“Oh,” Kuramochi ends up saying, because he hasn’t seen Ryousuke in months and the last time they did see each other was an awkward goodbye at the train station, Ryousuke returning to college all the way across the country and Kuramochi staying behind.

But today is the first day of winter break they both share, and Kuramochi’s shared apartment is thankfully devoid of roommates.

“You should’ve called,” he murmurs. As the cold air fades, Kuramochi begins to feel the flush on his face, and he drags a hand down his cheek in an effort to cover up his blush. Ryousuke, of course, notices, but thankfully stays silent.

“I could have,” Ryousuke hums, lacing his fingers behind his back, “But that would have ruined the surprise, wouldn’t it.”

Saying so, Ryousuke meaningfully sweeps a critical gaze over Kuramochi, taking in his tattered black sweatpants and young and pretty t-shirt that he’s had since forever. While Ryousuke’s expression doesn’t change, Kuramochi has known him long enough to recognize the amusement glimmering beneath that calm smile.

“It’s four in the morning,” Kuramochi whines, but he’s not angry at all. He doesn’t even try to keep himself from grinning like a fool.

It’s good to see Ryousuke again, and Kuramochi really, really wants to hug him, bury his face in the crook of Ryousuke’s shoulder and simply breathe.

Instead, he wipes his sweaty palms on his sweatpants and says, “I’ll –I’ll get dressed.”

“You do that,” Ryousuke agrees, and his soft laughter follows Kuramochi all the way to the bedroom.

The summer break of Kuramochi’s first year in college, Ryousuke shows up, uninvited, at Kuramochi’s house. Kuramochi doesn’t find out until a few hours later, when he’s yelling I’m home and stomping through the door like a bull, drenched in sweat from the gym and smelling like something close to rotten meat.

He is very much not expecting company, but his mother sticks her head in from the living room and sweetly says, “Youichi, you have a guest!”

“What?” Kuramochi shouts, pulling out his earbuds.

Patience snapped like a tense rubber band, his mother yells back, “RYOUSUKE IS HERE.”

Kuramochi, in the midst of pulling off his shoes, freezes, one foot in the air and the other on the ground, hand hovering just above the wall. He doesn’t reach out in time and lets out a string of quiet swears as he stumbles over his own feet and stubs his toe on the steps. Eventually, he ends up crumpled in a disgraceful pile on the ground, the world spinning lazily around him.

“You look like you’re having a good time,” a voice says, laden with schauenfraude.

The worlds slip silky smooth over Kuramochi, sending small shivers down his spine. Wincing slightly, Kuramochi opens his eyes to see Ryousuke standing over him, mouth curled in an enigmatic smile. Immediately, Kuramochi’s heart flutters and his face grows red.

“Oh my god,” he whispers, and covers his face with his hands. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Please,” Ryousuke replies without a hint of shame, “I’ve seen you in more embarrassing situations.”

“We don’t talk about those.” With a breathy laugh, Kuramochi pulls himself up, rubbing sullenly at his bruised elbow. “A-anyways, Ryou-san, you gotta give me a heads up if you’re visiting! Did I make you wait long?”

“Yup. Three hours.”

Having finally kicked his shoes off, Kuramochi leans over again to pick up his bag. “Very funny. I’ve only been gone for an hour and a half, and you definitely weren’t here when I left.”

“Oh!” Ryousuke mockingly places a hand to his mouth. “Youichi, college has changed you!”

“Shut up!” Kuramochi scowls, but there’s no venom behind his words. “I’m going to go clean up, ok? I probably smell like a pile of moldy cheese or something.”

With a tilt of his head, Ryousuke says, “You do.”

Laughing, Kuramochi begins to walk up the stairs. “Thanks!” he calls down, and Ryousuke shakes his head in exasperation.

“So? Why are you here?”

Kuramochi finally lets Ryousuke into his room after a hasty bout of cleaning. Steam still lingers from his shower, but Kuramochi has cracked open a window and the gentle summer breeze slips in through the cracks.

With a quirked eyebrow, Ryousuke steps around a pile of boxes haphazardly stacked together before seating himself on the only chair in Kuramochi’s room. He doesn’t say anything, simply swings his leg over the chair so he sits backwards, arms propped on the chair’s backrest.

Here’s the thing: Kuramochi has not seen Ryousuke in months, hasn’t played with him in over a year, but Ryousuke laces his fingers together and flattens his lips together in that one specific way and Kuramochi knows that whatever Ryousuke is about to say next, he will say it at his own pace.

It is a little startling to realize how easy it is to slip in next to the familiar, comfortable presence Ryousuke brings.

A few moments later, Ryousuke breaks the silence. “I was in the area for an internship,” he says, “But I have to leave tomorrow.”

There is a question burning on the tip of Ryousuke’s tongue, something hesitant, ready to unfurl into the empty space between them. Kuramochi, however, is not known for patience, much less his subtlety. If Ryousuke won’t take that step forward, then Kuramochi will take it for both of them.

Even if he has no idea where that step will lead to.

“Do you want to go stargazing?” Kuramochi blurts out.

When Ryousuke regards him with a flat stare, Kuramochi rushes to finish his thought. “I mean – we’re an hour away from the beach and the sky’s supposed to be super clear tonight and the stars here are really beautiful during the summer and – “

Kuramochi pauses to inhale a lungful of air, stream of consciousness stuttering as he tries to find the right words to say. But they get stuck in his throat as Ryousuke’s shoulders start to shake.

It takes a moment for Kuramochi to realize that Ryousuke is laughing, eyes creased in genuine amusement.

“If you’d like,” Ryousuke says, once he’s collected himself again. “You’re the host, after all.”

With a wicked grin, Kuramochi says, “Then, that settles it.”

He leans over to snatch a keychain off his desk and dangles his keys in front of Ryousuke.

“Did you forget?” he asks smugly. “I got a car for my eighteen birthday.”

With a scoff, Ryousuke turns his head to look out the window and down the street at Kuramochi’s car, parked at the curb. “You mean that rattling death machine? The one that nearly broke down the first time you drove it?”

Laughing, Kuramochi jumps off his bed, swinging his keychain in a circle. “You worry too much, Ryou-san. The sun will set if we don’t hurry!”

The awkward tension finally broken, Ryousuke easily stands, shaking his head in fond exasperation as he follows Kuramochi down the staircase and out the door.

Once they reach Kuramochi’s car, he waves a covered basket at Ryousuke.

“I brought food,” Kuramochi says. “We can have a picnic.”

By the time they get to the beach, the sun is already beginning to set. When Kuramochi pulls up next to the beach front boardwalk, easily maneuvering into a parking space, his hand stills over the keys. The fading sunlight has thrown the sky into a glimmering orange-red, streaks of sunlight dissipating into the open sky.

A slight movement in the corner of Kuramochi's eye catches his attention. Ryousuke has begun to unbuckle his seatbelt, one hand on the clasp and the other on the door handle. When he catches Kuramochi's stare, he smiles.

"Let's go," he says. "The sunset will look a lot more impressive from the beachfront."

Of course, Ryousuke is right. So Kuramochi laughs and kills the engine, clambering out of the seat.

"See?" He says with glee. "That wasn't a terrible experience. I'm a pretty good driver if I say so myself."

The resulting chop to the head is entirely expected, but Ryousuke's fond expression is not.

"Your driving is fine," he remarks, "but if I had to listen to you song along to terrible pop songs one more time I would've hijacked the car."

With a bark of laughter, Kuramochi opens the rear doors and reaches in to grab the picnic basket. "Well I think I sounded wonderful."

"Sure," Ryousuke says agreeably. "If wonderful sounds like the screech of a tuneless violin."

"You just don't appreciate beauty, Ryou-san," Kuramochi scoffs, even as Ryousuke throws him a scathing look.

When they reach the beach, picnic basket in Kuramochi's hand and a blanket tucked under Ryousuke's arm, Kuramochi lets out a yell of excitement. Leaving Ryousuke behind, Kuramochi takes a running jump over the edge of the boardwalk and lands right in the middle of a small sand dune.

"If you messed up your mother's homemade meat loaf I'm never forgiving you!" Ryousuke calls out, meaningfully eyeing the basket thrown carelessly to the side.

In lieu of an answer, Kuramochi's kyahaha reverberates across the sand. Ryousuke gingerly takes a step onto the beach, frowning at the way his feet sink.

"Come on, Ryou-san!" Kuramochi shouts, having already climbed out of the sand dunes.

Without a backwards look, Kuramochi bounds forward, snatching up the basket as he runs toward the ocean. With a slight shake of his head, Ryousuke slips off his shoes, holding them in his free hand as he follows Kuramochi down the beach.

They lay the blanket over a smooth stretch of sand. By now, the sun has mostly disappeared, leaving behind a faint red glow over the flat ocean horizon. When Kuramochi cranes his head backward, he’s met with the purple-blue sky of twilight.

“I hope you’re not substituting this for dinner,” Kuramochi says after Ryousuke’s settled down next to him.

With a noncommittal hum, Ryousuke opens the basket. “You think I would give up a fulfilling dinner for a taste of your mother’s meatloaf? You are absolutely correct.”

“Don’t hog all of it, Ryou-san!”

“You can have the crumbs.”

The resulting scuffle continues for a few minutes, and Kuramochi pulls away in success with half the meatloaf squirreled away on his paper plate, laughter rolling off his tongue as easily as the wave onto shore.

“I win,” Kuramochi says, proudly waving his fork.

Ryousuke stares at his own plate. “Acceptable,” he deadpans, even as Kuramochi cackles in victory.

Then, they fall quiet, the infinite sound of waves crashing into the beach filling the comfortable silence between them. Kuramochi thinks he can hear the steady in-out of Ryousuke’s breathing over the rumble, but when it fades out he doesn’t chase after it. Instead, he finally tilts his head up and backwards. The sun no longer sits on the horizon, but the sky still hasn’t darkened yet to prime star-gazing time.

Yet, Kuramochi’s breath still catches in his throat, and in his stupor he gently sets down his plate to turn around fully.

Far, far above them, the stars gleam dully, partially obscured by the city lights in the distance and partially dimmed by the fading sunset. But Kuramochi only has to stare for a few moments before his vision clears – and oh.

There are no clouds in the sky tonight, and even hindered by place and time the stars still shine against their vast, vast canvas, as if someone had dipped a brush into a can of stardust and spattered it across the sky. Kuramochi traces the brightest pinpricks of light with his eyes, filling in the familiar constellations with a fond, nostalgic smile.

Beside him, Ryousuke shifts, and Kuramochi can feel the brush of Ryousuke’s bare arm against his as Ryousuke also tilts his head up.

They are sitting so close that if Kuramochi only needs to lean slightly for their arms to be pressed against each other, for Ryousuke to comfortably lay his head against Kuramochi’s shoulder. In fact, Kuramochi can feel the faint pulse of Ryousuke’s breath on his bare skin, a warm contrast from the night air, chilled by the ocean breeze.

Close enough that if Kuramochi had just a bit more courage, he could reach his arm out and sling it around Ryousuke’s shoulder. Just a touch more intimate than them on the baseball field: less exhilaration, more longing, but just as – loving.

Finally, Ryousuke’s quiet whispers break the silence.

“You’re right,” Ryousuke says, and his voice is a touch lighter than it normally is, a little less guarded and a little more real. “This is beautiful.”

Behind them, the ocean. Before them, the city. Ryousuke’s outline is washed by starlight and his expression has softened to something resembling happiness.

“Yeah,” Kuramochi responds, breathless, but he’s not looking at the stars anymore.

The smile Ryousuke gives him in response is half-coy, half-knowing. Or so Kuramochi thinks—it’s gotten just too dark to see.

The sky is still dark when Kuramochi finally steps outside, a heavy winter coat pulled over his shoulders and a scarf wrapped around his neck. Immediately, the cold stings at the tips of his ears.

“Where to, Ryou-san?” Kuramochi asks, watching as his breath forms lazy white clouds in the early morning air.

“Just follow me,” Ryousuke says, already heading down the stairs and onto the road.

Kuramochi hurries to keep up, hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat. As a result, he wobbles side to side as he half-jogs, half-walks, not unlike the waddle of a penguin, only faster.

The glance Ryousuke throws back at him, laden with amusement, isn’t enough to deter his enthusiasm.

“It’s cold,” Kuramochi whines in response. “It’s cold and I forgot to wear gloves.”

Although Kuramochi doesn’t see Ryousuke rolling his eyes, he knows he’s being judged anyways. With a rush of laughter, Kuramochi picks up the pace and falls in step next to Ryousuke, who is leisurely strolling along. The snow crunches underneath their feet, but the sky is cloudless, giving way to the pale glow of a crescent moon.

Lining the sidewalks, the streetlights cast yellow beams across the snow. As they walk, Kuramochi finds himself watching the way his boots sink into the freshly fallen snow, breaking new ground. It doesn’t seem like Ryousuke is looking for conversation, but Kuramochi finds himself content to walk alongside Ryousuke in silence. Eventually, Ryousuke comes to a stop.

Kuramochi takes a look around them and says, “Oh.”

They’ve stopped at an intersection, but across the street the trees lining the sidewalk have been draped with multi-colored lights. The sidewalk goes forward for a few blocks, ending at large clearing. Kuramochi’s been down this road many times, and he knows that the city has put up a big Christmas tree in the middle of the square; living so close to the city center has its perks

Ryousuke is already halfway across the road when Kuramochi blinks back to the present. Pausing in step, Ryousuke turns his head back and asks, “What’s wrong?”

Kuramochi shakes himself out of his stupor. “Nothing, nothing,” he says, rushing to catch up.

As they walk along the sidewalk, the Christmas lights throw disjointed rainbows over the snow. Kuramochi steps over a particularly bright patch and says, “So, what’d you bring me out here for?”

Ryousuke hums. “You’ll see,” he says.

Kuramochi finds himself watching the soft curve of Ryousuke’s face, the way the glow from the Christmas lights and the streetlights mix to form an array of lights and shadows that cut across his figure.

Sighing, Kuramochi shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. “Whatever you say, Ryou-san.”

When the reach the clearing, Kuramochi has to squint at the sudden influx of light. The big Christmas tree is covered with lights, and in the early morning darkness, it is just a bit too harsh for comfort

Still, it’s a beautiful sight, and Kuramochi pauses in his steps to take it all in. But Ryousuke is still pushing forward, like a man on a mission, so Kuramochi sighs, again, and follows him.

“Come on, Ryou-san, you didn’t drag me all the way here to look at the tree, right? We could’ve gone anytime during the day,” Kuramochi complains.

Ryousuke finally stops, a couple feet from the base of the tree. “If we came during the day,” Ryousuke says plainly, “There would have been too many people.”

“Huh?”

With crisp, certain steps, Ryousuke plants himself in front of Kuramochi, and enigmatic smile on his face. It wavers slightly, but before Kuramochi can speak, Ryousuke reaches up and grabs the lapels of Kuramochi’s coat.

Then, he pulls down, lifts himself on his tiptoes, and meets Kuramochi with a kiss.

Behind them, the lights pulse brighter, warmer.

“You know,” Kuramochi says, “If you wanted to kiss me, you should've said so earlier. I would’ve said yes immediately.”

He doesn’t say, I’ve been waiting for so long.

Ryousuke rewards him with a swift chop to the head and another kiss on the lips.

#daiya no ace #kuraryou #Kuramochi Youichi #kominato ryousuke #wamuura #swankitty writes #i'm sorry this is so late! had some family issues this past week and it took a bit to get back oh my feet #nevertheless i hope you enjoy this! i had lots of fun writing it :)

26 notes · View notes

chezzkaa · 7 years

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Fears of a Fake - pt 1/3

A/N: Happy early Halloween! Welcome to the first installment of a 3 part special for the spookiest of holidays, brought to you by the Fakes. Each part is going to be long as dicks, so I apologise in advance (or not?). However, I worked incredibly hard on this to create something original and out of the box for the haunted house concept. I hope you have as much fun reading as I did writing.

Summary: Construction on the haunted house has been in full swing, and all that’s left to do before hair and makeup is the final walk through so that opening night can go as smoothly and spooky as possible. Not knowing what to expect, join Geoff and the rest of the crew on a journey filled with fear, surprises, and feelings (in true Cinders fashion).

WC: 6857

“Alright fuckers, let’s get this shit show on the road.”

Geoff claps his hands, rubbing them together in anticipation as he watches the remaining sets come to fruition. Brushing back your hair with a paint splotched hand you return the pallet with a clatter to the floor, stepping away from the final touches you’d been putting on the welcome sign. The man visibly vibrates in excitement, humming cheerfully as he gathers the pile of security cameras Matt is juggling; ready to scatter them throughout the warehouse you’d been working on for months. “Okay Geoff,” you throw over your shoulder at his prompts, “I’m coming.” Snatching a grubby rag you wipe away the paint smearing your skin, dumping it on the floor and collecting a fresh one to stuff into the waistband of your trackies before joining him by the side door. “Where’s Ray?” his suspicions are warranted, the young man having scampered off at the sound of Geoff’s approaching footsteps. You offer what you hope to be a convincing shrug, his mustache twitching skeptically at your response; “working on his room?”

“Why don’t I believe you?” “I dunno, Geoff. That sounds like a you problem.”

You had to admit, you found it incredibly ironic that a man who love Halloween so much was the biggest scaredy cat you’d ever met. Still, it was the one holiday that he took in his stride. Jack had Thanksgiving, Michael and Gavin had fought it out for bonfire night, and you and Ryan had taken on the Christmas cheer. But Halloween was all Geoff, through and through. As soon as October rolled around the penthouse would be littered with plastic spiders and cobwebs, fake bones and surprisingly joyous ghosts left to haunt every corner he could find. Mechanical creatures were hidden away to guard the fridge in the dead of night, shrieking at the slightest movement and making 2am adventures to the fridge a terrifying ordeal. Finding Gavin curled into a whimpering ball with a witch cackling while he rocked in a pile of stolen cookies had been the last straw; Ryan and yourself moving back into your apartment with Ray in tow so you could raid the cupboards in peace.

That didn’t mean you spent much time in the comfortable confines of your own home. On the contrary, you had spent every night of the past week sleeping on a pile of crinkled tarps in the haunted house you’d diligently constructed; covered in paint and holiday excitement. Geoff didn’t need to tell you how thankful he was – though he did at every opportunity – because the sparkle in his eyes was enough. Every overjoyed gasp brought a smile to your lips, his gushes over your handiwork and creations making the late nights on the floor with Ryan worth it. Now’s no different, his face alight as he dances giddy from side to side while opening the door for you. “I want to do one last check of the rooms before this shit goes live,” he declares, satisfied by your nods of confirmation, “most of the guys should be nearly ready for wardrobe and makeup by now.”

You squint into the glaring sun as you emerge outside, light peeking through the clouds and dusting across a world gripped by autumn. Clusters of deep auburns and warm oranges tumble through the street, leaves dancing on the chilly wind without a care. Pride swells in your chest at the sight of the warehouse, completely transformed and near unrecognisable. The production efforts and bruises had ultimately paid off, the decrepit Victorian home being constructed over a matter of months to now loom eerily above; like it had been planted there for generations. The windows screamed down at you, rattling within the rickety boards clawing at the cracks to hold the structure steady. Inside the walls were the gnarled and battered remains of the years of pain you’d forced inside with a paintbrush and hot glue gun. No effort had been spared in creating an absolutely haunting atmosphere for your guests, every meticulously placed lantern ready to flicker and cast distorted shadows across the twisted attraction and jump in anticipation. “Are you ready to head through?” Your question accompanies the delicate raise of an eyebrow, quietly sussing out the level of bravery Geoff had managed to muster in the short walk through the warm pallet of autumn. He shudders, eyeing the building critically, “no. Let’s get on with it.”

And with that you’re pushing open the doors, wood creaking ominously to reveal the dark and dusty foyer doused in a deep, royal purple hue. A grand staircase curves elegantly up to a level that peers curiously down upon those entering the space, maroon carpet frayed and banister mistreated and tarnished. Large ornate picture frames house oil paintings of corpses dressed in their Sunday best, empty eyes peeking around the white sheets draped across the lavish furniture. Exquisite mirrors lay fractured against walls with blossoming brass flowers, distorting the room and twisting with the shimmer of your own reflection. Each step creeks, echoing softly and rattling against those occupying the room, moths fluttering from the homes they’d nested inside of cushions and coverings. A generous glittering chandelier hangs its head in disgrace in the corner, jewels tinkling faintly with the gentle breeze, a memory long since forgotten as it reminisces over the guests it never truly experienced. Strewn across the floor and crunching under foot are bundles of leaves, spinning together before dispersing into the throbbing silence as you move deeper inside. You take in the glorious fireplace, hearth filled with ash and releasing it into the air, sculptures cracked and crumbling beneath the illusion of time.

It’s through the shadows that the space is able to mourn, abandoned and lost without an owner, nothing more than a fine layer of dust as the final touch the room would ever feel. Through the thick gloom a dotting of lights struggle to flicker and fizz, dousing the room in blackness before surging with an unearthly glow, coating the space in an overwhelming heaviness, tainting the air bitter and sharp. You could almost taste the age in the dust swirling through your lungs, concentrated and stodgy. Everything almost vibrates in anticipation; every noise dull and soft as the walls absorb the haunting sounds humming through the space, floor quickly devouring the thuds of your feet, chasing your movements hungrily. You don’t have to see Geoff’s face to recognise the weight settling nervously across his shoulders, shuddering with the wails of the wind clawing through the shattered windows, bringing with it fragments of a story you’d expertly woven.

Still you turn to him, the extravagant doors slamming shut with a subtle shift of breeze fanning from your grace, Geoff jumping with a high pitched gasp to clutch his chest and glaring at the offending structure. “This is incredible, Y/N,” he praises, pressing closer to the wall and reaching out a finger to touch the dark smears splattered throughout the room “it almost looks real.” “It is real.” “Gah!” Panicked he bounces frantically, catching the rag you snag from your track pants and toss to him; wiping his fingers with relief. “I don’t do things by halves, Pops,” you point out, opening up your arms and spinning slowly in the space until the lights flicker out once again. With a frown you wander towards Geoff, brows furrowed in confusion and concern. A spark sees the room yet again doused in the amber glow that illuminates your skin, having ghosted to stand before him in the dark. “Geoff – please stop screaming – there’s a problem with the lights.” “Please stop jumping out at me, that’s not nice.” “I literally moved, like, 10 steps.” “In the dark.” “That makes no difference.” “It makes all the difference,” he rebuts, hands moving to hold the air and shake it in frustration, “it makes it fucking creepy.”

You roll your eyes with a sigh, letting him win this round as the room is again plunged into darkness; lights failing to flicker as you’d programmed, the frown returning to your face. “See?” You complain into the shadows, Geoff’s breathing quickening until the room is lit again; “it’s suppose to fade every 7 to 15 seconds, go black and then flicker for another 8. We aren’t getting any flickers, just on and off.” Geoff takes notice, face clouding in concern with the creases folding his forehead. He, more than anybody, wanted everything to be perfect for the big reveal to the public - 4 hours away and counting down. “We’ll ask Matt about it when we finish the rooms,” he finally concludes, glancing around the space and rolling up the cuff on his dress shirt, crooked tattooed fingers tugging on fabric and playing with the translucent button. “Speaking of which,” you point a directing finger to the bag slumped at his feet, “don’t forget the cameras.” Geoff nods, waving a handful at you before stashing them in the corner of the entrance, between the banister, and nestled within the fire place. “Nice, we’ll be able to get everything from here. Matt’s coming through later, right?” “That’s the plan. He’s probably still working in the kitchen. The Buzz saw’s been giving me some trouble.” “Fucking thing nearly took Jack’s hands off this morning,” you remember, the blades cutting through your memory with a series of sharp whirls and shudders. “Exactly. Would be great for the production value, not so good for ratings.”

You laugh nervously at the thought while ascending the stairs with Geoff, knowing Jack would fully consider being torn to shreds by a buzz saw simply for the content. She was a fearless woman, and it was honestly terrifying. Still, you put her out of your mind as you ghost through the hallway steeped in cobwebs that seemingly stretches on forever, walls and floor curving at unusual angles that throw off your balance. The door at the end is modest, deep purple and reaching just above your elbows with a golden ornate handle. You stare down at it perplexed, the ceiling pressing against the top of your head and carpet scuffing up uneven beneath your feet. “You’ve got to be kidding,” you huff, falling to a crouch and opening the door as Geoff giggles in excitement. “This is so awesome.”

Working through the doorway the room expands, the underside of the bed looming before you. Dark and ominous, a soft scratching emanates from beneath it; claws catching against the rotten wood. You’re immediately on edge when you stand, not wanting to lose sight of the impenetrable darkness seething from beneath the sheets. Still, the bright orange and purple light haunts the space, uneasy as it drapes over the bedroom and burrows into the corners. Geoff follows behind you, jittery wines humming from his lips as he spots the seemingly empty space beneath the bed. He quickly scampers to your side as his eyes dart around the room, taking in the rickety wooden frame and moth-eaten sheets, tendrils of cobwebs twirling from the ceiling and catching in the faint, whispering breeze. The sizable wardrobe door creaks open before bouncing shut with a multitude of sharp taps, furniture cluttered with plumes of feathers and floorboards riddled with tiny bones. More than anything it was the low hum that pressed against your eardrums like a speaker’s feedback, raising the hair on your neck higher than the cold air sneaking past the curtains and nibbling on your fingers.

“This is fucking cool,” you breathe, inching further into the room with Geoff sticking to you like glue. Each step kicks up dust, bones rattling across the floor as you approach, making sure to keep your feet out of reach from the blank space. “I dare you to look under the bed.” “What?” squeaks Geoff, shuddering and shaking his head frantically; “no, no you do it!” “C’mon Geoff,” you try to reason, refusing to turn your back on the bed or shuddering wardrobe. “We have to make sure everything’s working for tonight.” “Oh no,” his holds up a hand that trembles as feverishly as his voice, accusing you of whatever foul betrayal he was constructing in his fearful mind; “I’ll give you a raise.” “You literally don’t pay me. It’s a first in, fight to the death, type deal.” “And a paid week off.” You roll your eyes in astonishment, watching him shuffle anxiously as the scratching starts again. You jump slighting at the sound, body running cold and jaw setting tight in defiance. “Geoff, I’m not looking under the bed.” “I’ll pay for your honeymoon.”

You’re on your knees in an instant, bones fracturing beneath the collision with the scuffed wooden boards. Stealing a deep breath you stretch out a hand, fingers tentatively tugging at sheet’s hem while the room creaks and moans. Your heart hammers in your ears with an uncomfortable ache, a flurry of scratches setting your teeth on edge while your nerves shoot off in a panic. Everything inside you screams for you to run, pulling aside far more difficult than you could have imagined, the strain stinging the backs of your eyes while you apprehensively search for something – anything – lurking in the darkness.

“Oh, hey guys.” “AHHHH!” “AHHHH!” Geoff’s shriek has you bolting upright, head smacking painfully against the lower bed frame as you scamper to you feet and whirl on Jeremy; the young man mirroring the elder’s screech. Breathing heavily and glaring with enough ferocity you could start a fire; you watch each of the two men continue to scream, Geoff bouncing in fear and Jeremy looking confused. “Hey, hey!” You yell, trying to calm them down by placing a hand on Geoff’s shoulder, lips pressing into a thin line as he jumps again but eventually settles. “Why the fuck are you screaming?” Jeremy shrugs, cheerful as ever while he glows beneath the throbbing orange and purple lights. “I dunno; we were all doing it. I just wanted to be part of something.” You frown, Geoff’s head falling into his hands as he chuckles nervously through his fingers, Jeremy patting him on the shoulder apologetically with a “sorry pal.”

“You still owe me my honeymoon,” you remind the tattooed man with a playful jab, relieved as he begins to recover and control his shaking. He grows more confident when exploring the room, Jeremy’s presence helping ease the anxiety that’d been building up in his chest and clogging his throat. “Fine, a deal’s a deal,” he huffs, poking a spider sat in one of the many webs, jumping away when he realises it wasn’t a prop, “where were you wanting to go, and how much is it going to hurt?” “Greece, and a lot.” At your words Jeremy gives you a puzzled look, a mixture of sympathy and confusion shifting in his eyes with the unspoken questions you knew to be bubbling between his lips.

Geoff doesn’t notice, instead turning to the shorter man with hair glowing neon, a proud beam on his face. “You’ve done a great job, Lil J.” He sweeps a hand around the room, Jeremy sharing his grin. “Yeah,” you offer him a one armed hug and a compliment, “this place is fucking creepy.” “Thanks,” he delights with a cheer, “don’t wanna brag or anything, but the end scare will be freaky as fuck.” “You gonna tell us what you’re planning?” Geoff’s inquiry is met with a stubborn headshake, a knowing grin creeping across Jeremy’s lips; “nope, you’ll have to wait and see.” You clap Geoff on the back, signalling that it was time to move on if you were still intending to explore the other rooms before the curtains came up, his deep sigh vibrating against your fingers and burrowing into your elbow “can’t blame a man for trying.” “Hey, when you see Michael can you give him this? Careful, its cold.” He turns to retrieve a burlap sack, its contents clinking as he presses it into your waiting hand, surprisingly heavy. “Sure,” confirms Geoff, tossing a few cameras in his direction from his own rucksack, “as long as you put these up.” “Deal.”

With that you’re squeezing back out of the tiny door and into the constricting hallway, racing out to avoid letting the confusion keep playing havoc with your stomach. Geoff is close behind, a permanent smile on his face whenever he wasn’t utterly terrified. You had to hand it to him; you envied his bravery and love of a holiday that constantly kept him up at night. Walking together you move back downstairs, waving at Jack as she talks animatedly with a Trevor clad in a dark sweatshirt with a printed skull, his head nodding vigorously while the man beside him in a baseball tee tries his best not to seem lost. Noticing your descent Jack waves you down, a smile as broad as her shoulders adorning her freckled face, eyes sparkling warmly into your embrace. “Y/N, I’m so glad you’re here,” she exclaims, pulling away to muse Geoff’s already chaotic hair, the man blushing deeply; “I wanted to go over some stuff for the tour. I’m in your room so there’s some crap I wanted to make sure you’re cool with me doing.” “Of course! We can talk about it during hair and makeup,” you reassure, smiling up at the woman towering over 6ft in her reliable heels before turning your attention to Trevor and his friend.

“So, who’s this?” You motion to the man beside the blond, his eyes wide and looking at you in awe. “Oh, this is Alfredo; he’s helping me us tonight. We’ve known each other since I was like, 10.” “I dunno dude,” says Alfredo, his voice deep and warm “it feels a lot longer than that.” “It’s because you hate me.” “Oh that’s right,” he recalls fondly before elbowing Trevor in the side with a cheeky and bright grin, “how could I forget?” “Ouch, maybe because you’re a gargantuan ass?” He rubs his arm, hopping from side to side before continuing, “I’ve been meaning to introduce you fuck for a while. Sauce, this is the Cheshire.”

You offer out a hand to Alfredo while expecting him to flinch away like the many others, pleasantly surprised as he takes it eagerly and shakes. “It’s really nice to meet you” he gushes before you get the chance, eyes alight with excitement as he lets your hand go and leans towards Trevor, whispering loudly; “is this the girl that nearly killed you that one time?” Trevor angles closer to him, staring you dead in the eyes with a serious expression while replying, “yeah.” “Cool,” he breathes, ecstatic, “fight me.” “What?” “He’s serious,” laughs Jack, watching him fondly, “he’ll fight anything.” You roll your weight, hand making its way you your hip while raising an eyebrow, accepting his challenge. “You really think you could take me?” “Oh god no,” he shakes his head, still smiling “but think of the story.” You laugh, peels of cheer bouncing around the foyer while lightly punching his shoulder, his hand gripping the site with a grin, “I like you.” “Did you hear that?” He turns eagerly to Trevor, clutching the tops of his arms and shaking him, incredibly excited, “the Cheshire likes me.” “Yeah, that’s rare. Normally she threatens every friend I bring home, and the ones I don’t. She just threatens everything in general. And, err... you do know she can hear you fangirling, right?” “Right,” he drops his hands, facing you again with a forcibly blank expression while Trevor groans in mock embarrassment, “gotta be cool.” “Oh lord, Fredo just stop. This hurts, this physically hurts me.”

“He’s a great shot,” comments Geoff from your right, looking at Alfredo with fatherly pride and ignoring Trevor’s displeasure, “he was our stand in sniper for the harder jobs after Ray died.” “God rest his soul,” you chuckle, reaching a hand out to touch Trevor’s and gain his attention; “you wanna tag along?” He nods vigorously, collecting some equipment he’d stashed momentarily on one of the covered plush seats, stuffing the items into a bag. “Hell yes. Please take me away from his idiot. I’ve gotta talk with Ryan about fog machines and fire hazards.” “He doing that ‘go hard or go home’ thing again?” You joke fondly, mind wandering to the mischievous glint that would always sparkle in his eyes; Trevor affirming your suspicion before you could even finish your sentence. You sigh, smiling affectionately at a man who had quickly become one of your closest friends during the dark period after Gareth, “what would we do without you laying down the fire code?” “You’d probably have eaten each other by now, if I were to guess,” he teases, quickly bidding Alfredo and Jack goodbye before following Geoff and yourself to the right of the foyer, Geoff’s mustache twitching in amusement; “you’re not wrong.” “Err, I never am?” “But what about that time with the marshmallows?” His eyes go wide, face wiped free of emotion. “We don’t talk about that.”

You’re laughing as you push open the next door, sound catching in your throat and falling to the floor once the room comes into view. Before you can react you’re slipping across the tiled surface and landing with a painful bump, mind unable to keep up with the world tumbling around you. Confused you lift your hand to your head, fingers slick with red; liquid seeping into your trackies with a sticky nauseating warmth. Trevor slides to your side, concern furrowing his brows while you take in the pool of blood shining in the lights. “You alright?” He starts leaning down to help you up only to topple over himself, clattering to the floor with the crunch of his elbows. If you weren’t so disgusted by the smell you’d laugh, but instead the putrid stench of rotting flesh churned in your stomach and burned your nose. “I think so,” you reply while trying to stand, unsteady as Trevor follows your lead, the two of you using each other to shuffle to your feet.

“You guys need to watch where you’re going,” chuckles Geoff, inching his way carefully into the room by gripping onto the walls. “This doesn’t exactly seem safe” frowns Trevor, skidding into the centre of the kitchen before looking around. Completely white bar the metal appliances, the walls, ceiling, and floor are splattered with blood and bio matter that viscerally glug between the tile grout. Hunks of meat pile in the corners and scatter along the counter tops, the sound of flies incessant from the speakers and gnawing on the hair rising across your neck. It isn’t the wicked sharp buzz saw that adorns the back counter that catches your attention, half a human carcass slapped against it ready for dividing; nor is it the utensils and instruments mid mutilation of organs, dissections clumsy and rough. Instead it’s the prep station set up on the centre island. The white marble slab drips blood like a gruesome water feature, puddles shifting in the lights that are far too bright, glaring down and blinding. Atop the bench and marinading in the gore is a mixture of human odds and ends. Finger tips and toe nubs tossed carelessly together with peeled vegetables, parsley garishly garnishing a set of plates overflowing with what you can only describe as an unidentifiable mush.

With a lurch bile rises in the back of your throat, a sickly cold seeping across your skin and crawling with it. You try to push past the large pots boiling over on the stove, attempt to ignore spice bottles decorating the counter tops. All your thoughts form a terrified plea, fearful eyes darting to Geoff as he stands uncomfortably in the doorway. “Please tell me this isn’t real.” He doesn’t respond immediately, rather suppressing a gag behind his hand at the sight, an unpleasant noise forming in the back of his throat. “I, err... It’s not real.” “Now say it like you mean it?” You skid as you round on him, glare losing impact as you slip again to snatch at the fridge handle. The door rips open, guts tumbling to your feet with a wet slap before you’re suddenly shrieking. Back on your hands and knees you’re scampering backwards, bumping into Geoff’s legs and tries to suppress the cowardice shaking through your being. His eyes are wide, taking it all in with a shudder he has no need to hide, “It’s not real from what I know. I don’t indiscriminately murder. But, err; I didn’t pick up the supplies.”

Trevor runs a trembling hand over his white blond hair, clumping it red as he surveys the room with appalled eyes, “who’s is this?” “This is my station,” admits Geoff sheepishly, mustache twitching under the astonishment dancing with the disgust. Trevor’s wide eyes turn on the tattooed man, bewildered and accusing. “This is a fucking hazard,” he determines, and Geoff pulls a face, an irritated clip forming in the back of his throat, “Jesus, who anointed you the safety police?” “You did, Geoff.” “Oh yeah.”

You can barely hear the pair over the pounding in your ears, using all of your strength to force back the images the room was trying to drag up. It had been months since you’d seen such a raw and blatant disarray of violence and torment; having avoided it at all costs after the torture of Garry and brutal murder of Gareth. Cheshire had made life difficult, the first month after the ordeal seeing you revert back to the angry, uncontrollable force of destruction you’d feared; the woman more than capable of killing whoever stood in her way during a fit of rage. You couldn’t risk a relapse, meaning you’d done all that you possibly could to stay out of interrogations and kept to the cleanest methods possible in an attempt to suppress the Cheshire’s twisted enjoyment. Now sitting in a pool of blood surrounded by the trinkets adorning her world you can’t escape the pains of fear as they pang in your chest, mind flooding with memories that left you panicked and tight.

“Okay, so if we could just clean this mess up?” continues Trevor over the anxiety attack you were trying to fight, hearing his words swim between the numbers you were counting down; “people need to be able to run screaming. Not make a pile by the exit.” Geoff offers a defeated sigh as you shift to reciting your 7 times tables, the taste of iron rushing in your mouth as you gnaw the inside of your cheek, “alright, I’ll minimise it. But I didn’t do all of this,” he gestures to the horror show coaxing your unease “you can blame Lindsay.” “I will blame Lindsay,” you spit with stubborn eyes, refusing to look away from the white patch of ceiling you’d found to focus on, “I’ve soaked up most of the fucking set.” “Exactly!” Geoff retorts in triumph, Trevor rolling his eyes and looking extremely uncomfortable. “Just do your camera thing and let’s... keep moving. My clothes are starting to stiffen. I’m not gonna be able to walk by the end of this.”

You were thankful that the conversation was coming to an end so that you could leave, your breathing having become shaky and difficult to hide. You’d rather the crew didn’t know of the anxieties you housed towards gore and the key it possessed to the Cheshire’s cage; preferring to keep such private vulnerability to yourself and the small, closely knit group of men constantly by your side. Somehow Ray had already figured out your fear before it occurred, Jeremy quickly catching on after the first instance you entered the interrogation after the Gareth ordeal; the fight to stay in control catching you off guard as the Cheshire reared and refused to back down. As Jeremy clamped your favourite wire strippers around a man’s fingers the room started to spin, mind screaming throughout Cheshire’s cold smiles as they laced with the hours you were captive in your own body. Ryan had witnessed your struggles from behind the glass, sharing the memories that burnt a foul taste in his mouth and left his throat thick; angry yells amidst pacing running ruts of emotion into the room. Jon had finally smashed his cyber against the glass window once Geoff had left unaware, the sound enough to shatter through the Cheshire’s vice grip and leave you sobbing over the body you’d mutilated.

You stand quickly and snatch the bag Jeremy had tasked you with delivering, not needing to be asked twice. Rushing out of the room you slide across the floor, feet kicking open the door in a smooth motion to greet the fresh air gladly. Gasping and heaving out of sight of the two men slipping over one another you press your palms against your eyes, desperately trying to wipe away the images that clawed at your sanity; Cheshire looming dangerously just below the surface, her nails scratching beneath your skin.

You don’t notice the water logging down the carpet until it releases like a sponge beneath your feet. The gentle trickling comes next, tracing the walls with soggy wallpaper and beading across the ceiling; sagging beneath the weight. Though the hallway was only short and intended to join two horrors together, it still played havoc with the tightness in chest. Steady drips pooling uneasily in your stomach, humidity unbearable and drowning your lungs.

You can’t tear your eyes away from the water pooling out from under the next door; acutely aware of Geoff and Trevor joining you, their faces sharing your own mask of shock and welling concern. Fear rocks through you as a deep sorrowful bellow greets your first step forward; layers of mourning and loss cascading together and resonating painfully in your bones. Geoff flinches into the blond, the pair wrapping their arms around each other in defense while they keep pace from behind. You try to ignore the sight if blood clotting and cracking through the creases of your hand when you reach for the handle, nails caked and shirt sleeves stained. Apprehension catches in your throat as another inhuman moan as deep as a whale’s call shakes through the handle and fizzes against your finger tips.

The gasp of an airlock has you jumping back against the two men, door swinging open to funnel a rush of water into the hallway, debris catching in the carpet. It’s not long before your feet are submerged and tangled in seaweed. Though the expanse is dark as night the soft tinge of green encases the lonely and weighted atmosphere. Water ripples with no end, haunting greens bouncing off its surface to reflect over your skin. The room is far larger than any you remember constructing, your eyes able to make out crumbling concrete walls submerged in the water. The occasional beam of light illuminates the room and dances with dust to fracturing through the shallows, a cracked and decaying lighthouse almost entirely buried beneath the watery tomb.

“Alright kids,” claps Trevor, fishing out a clear plastic bag and holding it open, “hand in your phones.” With little resistance you’re slipping your technological lifeline into his grasp, Geoff doing the same. “Why do you have this?” Your question is met with a nonchalant shrug, the blond zipping up the bag and sliding it into his backpack along with the camera’s Geoff had been tasked to hand out. “I’m always prepared.” “Oh god, it’s a sandwich bag from lunch,” notices Geoff, jabbing a finger at the small scrawl of Trevor’s name in the bottom right corner. “Did your Mom pack your food today?” Geoff giggles, face brightening while Trevor’s remains smooth and serious; amusement dancing in the darkness of his eyes. “Please stop asking me questions I can’t give you the answer too.”

Turning the attention back to the room, you’d long since concluded that volunteering to check the attractions was one of the worst decisions you’d ever made. You were only 3 rooms deep and facing your forth horror; knowing there were still another 2 to get through. Your chest tightens at the thought, already having had enough for one day. Intense stress and adrenaline wasn’t something your body coped with anymore, and you’d much prefer turning back. But you were stuck, no escape without pushing through the mysterious waters or retreating into the human slaughterhouse.

"Ladies first," offers Trevor from behind, voice shaking you back to reality while he peers over your shoulder to survey the depths. You turn to him in refusal and point a finger to Geoff – who panics and shakes his head frantically. "You heard the man," you push, snatching Geoff’s wrist and dethatching him from the blond whose face is overwhelmed with relief; "ladies first." Resisting Geoff enters the water, its surface lapping against his hips while he whines; another rumbling moan ricocheting across the space and chasing through the shallows. Still he wades forward, nervous trembling hums vibrating from his lips to patter into the water swelling around his movements. Elbows up and hands shielding his face, Geoff only hoped that whatever monster lurked in the depths would spare him.

Following his lead you sink into the water, waist disappearing into the pool before you’re floating in the swell; floor recoiling away from you into nothingness. Trevor apprehensively joins you, accepting the reassuring hand offered to him above the water; mirroring Geoff’s raised elbows. Clinging to one another you wade after your boss, mournful wails catching around your knees and forcing through the fabric plastered against your skin. Despite the fear bogging you down you can’t deny the relief coursing through as the blood washes away, cleansing your body of the Cheshire while she retreats back to the cage you’d built.

A shriek from Geoff halts your scan and search of the water, his body flailing back towards you in a fountain of frantic splashes. “Something grabbed me! Oh my god, oh god it touched me!" "Geoff,” you fret, releasing Trevor’s hand to haul the boss comfortingly close; his arms winding around your waist while he cowers into your side. Trembles ripple tauntingly across the surface before something surges forward suddenly with a vicious roar, rushing straight towards you. You don’t think, instead forcing Geoff and Trevor back in with a spin before you crouch beneath the water. Blinded and ears logged you launch forward to cut through the heavy darkness like a bullet through the air, body connecting with the creature and arms clenching around it. Treading water your feet find the floor, bounding upwards to drag it to burst through the surface; catapulting into the open space. A curving back directs your feet to collide against its firm body, falling back from a kick that sees it squealing away.

“Wait, Gavin?!” Trevor’s exclamation snaps some sense into you, the fear dictating your movements ebbing away to be replaced with confusion; eyes scanning the water you’d flung your friend into. “Oh, you’re fucking kidding me,” you groan, the sound of Michael’s laughter now booming against the walls, Lindsay and Meg’s cackling quickly joining in. Splashing forward you struggle with the current swelling through your clothes, bogged down as you pass Michael in his swimming trunks and gripping a rubber ring. “Oh my god,” he gasps through his tears as you push him impatiently aside, “this is fucking incredible!” Geoff mirrors his sentiment, giggling uncontrollably while Trevor stands in the centre of the room; shock and amusement leaving his mouth hanging open and head shaking slowly. “But what if I killed him?” You panic while searching the depths, following the dull bird noises emanating from the pool. “I certainly hope so,” muses Trevor teasingly, finally regaining control of his body and paddling over to Lindsay, of who offers him a drink from the cooler stashed inside of the light house. Michael remains unfazed, clambering into the ring and floating lazily through the room. “Nah,” he smiles while waving away your words, “he had it comin’.”

And incredibly loud gasp from behind has you reeling, lashing out a fist and punching the offender without thought. As soon as you realise you retract your hand, staring at Gavin as he clutches his nose and complains through his laughs. “You fucking asshole,” you seethe, jabbing him in the chest only for him to dissolve into more giggles; Meg yelling out your point score from across the way while drifting on a floaty. Gavin simply shrugs, collecting his beer from Michael without a care in the world. Sloshing to your left Trevor makes his way over, a beam splitting across his face. “You’re lucky we have that weapons ban tonight, Gav,” he scolds, draping an arm across your shoulder and leaning in to point to your face, “she’d have stabbed your ass so hard.” “I would have,” you admit, “you wouldn’t sit for a week.” “He already doesn’t sit,” pipes in Geoff, swaying through the water and dragging Lindsay and Meg on their floaty towards the conversation cheerfully, “I make sure of that.”

“Hello everybody, yes yes please take your seats. Welcome to the Team Nice Dynamite-” “and Free Willy, don’t forget about us,” interjects Lindsay, Michael waving away her words before shooting her an affectionate beam and continuing; “Nice Willy... err, Free Dynamite... Dynamite Willy – look what matters isn’t that we don’t have a team name. What matters is that we combined our rooms to make this!” Michael gestures wide and proud to the space, the green glow seeping into his skin and dusting the tops of the water. “It’s pretty coo,l” you admit, hand going to your hair to push it back, Trevor bouncing beside you. “Are you kidding?” He squeaks in amazement, peering around now that he’s safe, “this is awesome.” “Aww, thank you,” smiles Meg warmly, sliding into the water to join you on the right, thumb coming to rest on your cheek while she rubs away the running make up.

“I can’t believe you got all this done without anyone knowing.” Lindsay cheers victoriously at your statement, hair as pink as bubblegum, “everyone loves surprises.” “Except when stupid British assholes grab you,” you retort with a half hearted glare at the offender, who’s eyes narrow. “Or when a pisspot tries to drown you.” You frown at Gavin, eyes forming slits as he shifts uncomfortably in the realisation you’d heard him, “what did you just call me?” “Nothing,” he squeaks while scooting away from your icy gaze, hand plunging back into the water to search for the bag Jeremy had given you, hoping it had remained intact.

“Alright, alright!” Geoff gestures sharp and dramatically, “as much as I love getting fucked by my friends my balls are starting to chafe; I’d really like to get moving.” Fingers clasping the fabric you haul it from the depths and toss it to Michael – of who falls off the floaty with a yell. “I don’t know what’s happening here,” Geoff’s hand sweeps the space before beckoning Trevor to follow his sways through the water “but I want nothing to do with it. Good job, blah, blah, and keep me outta it. Also!” He reels, jabbing a finger at Lindsay while Michael opens the bag to pull out a large dry ice container, the cold stinging his fingers. Geoff’s eyes narrow as he reaches the exit to let you pull yourself up first, wringing out your clothes. “What did you do to my room?” Lindsay shrugs innocently, as though the man’s words weren’t scornful accusations. “I did exactly what you told me to do. Go big or go home. I err, also solved our gang problem for the time being.”

“Err, hey guys?” Everyone whips round to stare at Alfredo as he stands at the edge of the room, arms filled with equipment and ropes. His eyes are pleading, the soft pout of his lips jutting out in confusion. “How and I suppose to put up Cheshire’s supports with all this water?” Gavin wastes no time in pushing one of the sturdier floats over to the entrance, Alfredo refusing loudly while Trevor paddles over to assist; the remainder of the room joining to hold the float steady. “No, this is not okay.” “You’ll be fine,” disregards Michael, throwing you a sniggering beam and motioning for you to keep moving. “You guys go ahead,” Trevor mirrors as Alfredo gingerly places a foot onto the precarious platform before wobbling and toppling to his knees, waves rocking against your shoulders; “I’ll catch up with you.” “You heard the boss,” claps Geoff against your back, forcing your eyes away from the man now shaking unsteadily to his feet, staring up in bewilderment at the beams he was supposed to be working with. Now behind you Gavin’s bright idea can be heard taking him under the floaty and pushing upwards to launch an unready Alfredo into the air; arms managing to snag onto a support platform. You’re laughing at the sound of his demand for someone to turn the lights on, gesturing for Geoff to follow you up and out of the room.

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