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phcking-detective · 4 years

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Find Familiar, ch 1/2

Nines casts the spell and feels the magic pull from their soul. They need this to work. They don’t know what else to do.

They hear nothing, but perhaps the animal is simply quiet. The summon circle contains a perch and a large bathtub, painstakingly levitated all the way to the highest floor of their tower. Even a small area filled with sand. Just in case.

A wizard never knows what form their familiar will take until they summon it.

Nines doesn’t dare open their eyes. They need this to work. They are the most brilliant wizard of their generation and likely several before and after as well, but their brilliance is purely academic. All magic comes with a price, of course. That is why they’re ... like this.

Why bright lights give them migraines, and they cannot stand to be touched, and can only wear certain fabrics, eat certain foods, sleep under EXACT conditions. Why they can understand ancient languages and cursed tomes better than they ever could read a face.

It is their Price, and they need--

Nines opens their eyes and stares resolutely at the empty summoning circle. The spell had worked. They felt it take their energy and a piece of their soul. It had cast.

But out of all the beings on this plane and sixteen others, none had answered.

Very well. They don’t need help. They never have.

A first child for inheritance, a second for insurance. A third for luck, a fourth for the middle. Fifth for work, sixth for status. Seventh to fulfill a prophecy.

And an eighth child to be tithed. Two parents, presumably, and the eighth made exactly ten, one-tenth of the family and all they owned given to the church so that they gods would look favorably upon them.

There was no point in a child after that. No prophecies or tithing, and certainly no inheritance left over after carving it up for seven others first. No one ever needed a ninth child.

And Nines has never needed anyone else.

***

Three days and nights after casting the spell, Nines has eaten few enough meals to count on one hand. The sand has not been swept from the floor, and they have not managed to drag themself from their studies long enough to utilize the bathtub for its actual purpose.

But they’re fine.

It’s fine.

They are the greatest wizard of his generation, and they will ... survive. Perhaps not live, not as others do, not in happiness. But they are not dead yet and he has no less than twenty-two contingency spells if death does dare

KNOCK

Nines looks up from their manuscript for the first time in so many hours, they don’t know if the sun is setting or rising. The crystal ball embedded above the door glows green. Someone just solved their first riddle.

Well. Surely the second will

DOOR

Nines stands, then almost collapses from the black spots overtaking their vision. That was too fast. No one should have been able to solve the second riddle that quickly.

MAT

Nines draws their wand and faces the door as the third and final crystal ball lights green.

Knock knock knock.

“Hey. Hey! Hey, asshole!”

... what? They must be dreaming. Yes, an unexpected social visit from a villager capable of bypassing all his wards is surely the stuff of nightmares.

“Either let me in or shut the fuck up!”

The indignity of being accused of speaking when Nines hates speaking, particularly to “people,” infuriates them enough that they forget their wand entirely and throws open the door to berate the--

The much smaller man glaring up at them.

Not small enough to be a dwarf, although he certainly has that ... stockiness. Perhaps a mixture of human and dwarf, but. Even half-dwarves have beards, while this man just has some rather scruffy stubble and a scar across the bridge of his nose.

“You don’t smell right,” the man informs them.

He shoulder-checks past Nines before they can respond. It’s only due to their momentary bout of dizziness that they don’t smite him immediately for that. Or when he circles around the large living area, sniffing at things like a dog.

“Should’ve expected it to be bigger in here than out there,” he says to himself. “Still kind of small though.”

“I do not receive visitors,” Nines replies as coldly as they can manage.

They have accidentally frozen people before, simply with the freezing burn of their anger, yet their magic lays calm and docile inside their chest.

“Good, I fucking hate people,” the man says.

Nines makes some sort of very undignified noise in the back of their throat at that. The man continues wandering about their space, finally sticking his entire head inside their cauldron.

They’re hallucinating. That last alchemical potion must have--

“Don’t you have any cooking pots?” he asks.

Nines doesn’t answer so they don’t have to admit the answer is no. They will not be judged by some--some vagabond, a dirty ugly little man who is--IS BAREFOOT?

“You don’t have shoes,” Nines says, as if that is the important part about a strange man breaking into their home.

“I wiped my feet, fuck off.”

Nines looks back toward the door. All three crystals glow a fading green as the wards slowly reset themselves.

They did not originally mean to bar all the villagers from visiting them forever. They simply wanted any guests to have basic manners. Knock on the door at the first floor before entering, close it behind them so leaves didn’t blow into the stairwell, and wipe their feet on the mat at the top.

Clearly, Nines had expected far too much of the general public.

Nines turns back to see the man filling their alchemy cauldron with water. Although they sterilize it thoroughly after each use in order to prevent cross-contamination among potions, they scrounge up enough hope past the exhaustion to ponder if maybe they had forgotten to do so in the haze of the last several days.

Unfortunately, the man’s flesh does not melt from his skin as he scrubs it out with a rag.

“What are you doing?” Nines asks.

“I’m hungry and you don’t have anything else to cook in,” the man says. “At least we’ll have leftov--”

“Get out of my tower!”

The man looks up and scowls at them. “You’re the one who kept fucking calling me, bitch. Make up your damn mind.”

The realization leaves them light-headed.

“I ... I didn’t ...”

The black spots creep back again, except now they can no longer accurately be called “spots.” They take up far too much of Nines’s vision for that, then consume it entirely.

Something warm and solid catches Nines before they fall. Their hands grab at whatever they can reach out of an instinctive need to hold onto something--fabric, skin, fur. Fur? Not quite. Hair, maybe. Very thick hair. Dwarf beard? No, only stubble. But very thick hair somewhere, somewhere, oh in the middle. His ... chest?

“Ow, quit pulling on that.”

“Furry,” Nines says, because they are very intelligent and also the greatest wizard of their generation.

“Yeah, moon’s close to full. Damn, you’re a gangly bitch, aren’t you? Where’s your fucking body fat, you need to eat more.”

Nines mumbles his very clever retort into his pillows. Oh, his pillows. They’re in bed. That’s nice. Their bed is soft and warm and good.

The other Warm Good thing wrapped around them lets go.

“Nooo.”

Nines pulls it back. Furrier now. They’d secretly wished for a dog. Obviously, a feline familiar would have been more practical, and certainly more in line with their introverted tendencies. Dogs need too much attention, and walks, and they drool and shed. Cats only do one of those things, and if they summoned a black one, the hair would just blend into their robes anyway.

But still. Some part of them had hoped ...

“All right, fine. Fucking bossy. Scoot over, bitch.”

The Warm Good thing piles into the bed with Nines, but there is still entirely too much skin. Nines does not go to bed with people. Certainly not with skin showing. They want--they need--

They want a dog.

They need a person.

Of course. A fully animal familiar could only do so much for them without thumbs, and monkeys are horrendous. Only a real person would be smart enough to take care of them the way they need it.

But a person-familiar ... unheard of. Impossible. No one had ever summoned a human before, and it would be grossly unethical regardless.

Nines crows with the proof that they really are the greatest wizard of their generation, and likely several before and after.

“OK, so you’re good with me being a werewolf, right? Because if you start crying about a monster and get a bunch of pitchforks up in here, I’m pissing on all your robes.”

A werewolf. Half man, half wolf. Brilliant!

“So. What’s your name?”

“Nines.”

“Fuck, humans are still doing that? Your litters are bigger than ours, goddamn. And popping them out one at a time like that?”

The werewolf shudders. Nines pets over them, much more fur than skin now.

“Was two of us,” they say, all filter gone with how tired they are. “Twins instead of just the last eighth. Connor, Connor was ... just ... a second quicker.”

“What, so they threw you away?” he asks, the question nearly a growl.

“Tech,,nicaaally,” Nines slurs. “They did him too. Gave him. Away. Just, pretended to love him first. It’s, s’crueler. I think. At least I, ahhhhh. I always knew.”

“Phckin’ hue-mens,” the werewolf growls.

“Mmhmm.”

“Miiine.”

That is the last word he can growl out before the transformation completes. Then Nines receives the dog they wanted. Like this, it is far easier to feel their familiar’s mind at the edge of their own, to recognize the bond for what it is.

Good boy, [name].

It’s Gavin, dickhead.

Adequate boy, Gavin.

The wolf huffs. Go to sleep. I’ll feed you soup in the morning and maybe you won’t be so hangry.

I only want potatoes and carrots. NO celery.

Go the fuck to SLEEP.

Nines does so.

The wolf licks their face only after he’s absolutely certain they’re unconscious. The dumb human just smells dehydrated.

He didn’t want to come at first. Didn’t understand what the ache in his head was in the first place, or why he kept feeling hungry no matter how much he ate or that he had to pee for four hours straight.

Just that he needed to go, go this way, this way, this way!

Fucking asshole wizard summoning him like he’s their goddamn dog.

(But it’s not like he has a pack of his own. Not like he has anything better to do. No one to protect or feed or cuddle.)

(And this human obviously needs his help.)

He’ll only stay for the moon, just so he has a safe place to sleep it off away from angry villagers convinced he’ll “deflower” their women--who already smell of sex by the way--even though he really prefers men.

And this one wizard, apparently.

Gavin licks Nines again. The human already smells way better with his scent on them, and this is the most luxurious bed he’s ever curled up in.

He can spend the night. Make some breakfast. He’s hungry, right? Wouldn’t make sense to leave a good meal behind.

Yeah, he’s just staying for the food.

***

One of my lovely followers recently commissioned a second chapter! It’s rated E for Explicit (sex scenes). Subscribers to my Patreon get early access to all my commissioned fics 2 weeks earlier than they’re posted to AO3 or tumblr ^^

#reed900 #gavin reed #dbh #dbh fanfic #reed900 fanfic #my writing

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liquidlizards · 4 years

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i'm in danger, bad behavior

summary: after a drunken night listening to 80s avant-garde pop, flug wakes up next to demencia harboring a multitude of regrets. with a little persuading from her, though, he might just come around.

pairing: paperlizard! they’re both such enormous assholes!

rating: no fucking but mentions of fucking. also boobs and flug’s hard-on for vulgarity

(ao3 link)

---

The first thing Flug noticed was the smell. It slithered beneath his bag and floated up to his nose like early morning sea fog, cheap coconut shampoo and sweat swamping his senses in a wave. A slight pang in his head told him he had one too many glasses of wine last night, and when he shifted in place he noticed he still had his lab coat on, the rough fabric scratching against his bare skin, a sensation almost like a whole anthill was nestled under the covers with him. His face collided with a frizzy cloud of fluorescent green, reminding him of a bedside light too bright to fall asleep to, and he froze.

It was at that moment Flug became acutely aware of the fact that he did not sleep stark naked wearing only his lab coat, he did not have a phosphorescent body pillow, and he most certainly did not own sheets with cute little skulls on them. He wanted to close his eyes again and go back to sleep because he instantly knew what this meant, what this signified. The reality of the situation, as unbelievable as it was, suddenly socked him square in the forehead when it rolled over, granting him a real good look at his latest fuckup. His newfound snafu. A plight worth more than one of his balls on the black market. Briefly, he considered doing that, just selling a gonad to the first lucky bastard and taking off with the cash so he’d never have to face the terrible, laughable truth. It was an option that left him far more at ease than just rolling over to look her in the eyes, to acknowledge what they’d done. They could kill each other later, if she was down for that.

His bag crinkled from the impact of her hand, and he flicked it off, black fingernails plopping down on the bed. He didn’t even feel like yelling, flailing his arms around in a display of colorful obscenities while booting her off with a flourish, oh no. Flug was far too tired to do any of that, instead settling for a quick peek at the rise and fall of her chest—holy shit her bare chest— and suddenly he lost every ounce of chill he previously thought he had. One of her legs wrapped around his waist, deliberately brushing past his crotch, and he jerked from the bold way her foot slid against his skin.

Demencia’s toothy grin burned him to the core, a weird type of warmth washing over his body and right down to his dick. God, this was the absolute worst morning of his life, and that was counting the day Black Hat beamed him to a Bananarama cover band concert while he was in the shower because he was 20 minutes late on a deadline.

The rasp of Demencia’s dumb voice suddenly snapped him back to the real, present world, and the pitchy chorus to “Cruel Summer” became only a past nightmare once again. One that definitely happened, though, Flug recalled miserably.

“What’s up, Doc?”

He seethed, finally fed up with the past two minutes and how fucking casual she was, like it was no big deal to bone your co-worker over three bottles of wine and the entire Kate Bush discography. Jesus, Black Hat was gone for one night on a business trip and suddenly Flug lived in a drunkard’s funhouse. With sex! How appalling! How could he let his guard down like this? Like a fool in her...her presence! It was horrendous in all honesty, really. His first mistake was forgetting the straitjacket, then it all just went downhill from there.

This was by far the most out of the ordinary, anomalous situation he ever had the displeasure of being in, and she was treating it like another day at the office. If you’d call Black Hat Manor— the same one with the vanishing hallways and doorways leading to apocalyptic realms—the office, that is.

“Are you kidding me!” Flug yawped, thrashing the covers around. “Fuck you!”

Demencia seemed amused, propping her face up with her palms, elbows sinking into the bed. She licked her lips, studying his eyebrows and how they moved with his arms. Like they were attached with a string. Her mismatched eyes stole a quick glance at his groin, and he screeched, wrapping his coat around him when he remembered he was completely commando under there.

Christ, all the years he spent with this psychopathic ignoramus, all the weird shit that went down with her around, and yet he couldn’t see this coming. Figures.

“I tried to be calm about this,” Flug continued, ignoring her nonchalance, “I really did! But you—” He made a sound similar to a yipping pomeranian, jabbing a finger in her face. “You honestly don’t see a problem with this!?”

He violently gestured to their intertwined legs— courtesy of Demencia— and then to her pert boobs. Just...out in the open. Up for grabs. It was then that certain memories from last night resurfaced after that keen observation, and he felt his cheeks flush. Quickly, he made a point to snatch his legs away from hers, huffing a bit for the drama of it all.

She didn’t answer his question, opting to play around with the waver in his voice, the splotchy red spreading across the visible part of his neck. Oh yes, she was going to have so much fun with this.

“Your definition of ‘calm’ must be laying there like a sad sack of potatoes, gawping at my tits—”

“Shut up!”

“— with your 8 a.m. wood deciding whether or not you’re up for round two,” she finished, crudely snickering when he spluttered out some nonsensical string of words.

“Ah, I love it when I’m right and you’re horribly, utterly wrong,” Demencia taunted as she brought a hand to his face, cupping the bottom of his chin that got exposed during his outburst.

Flug lurched back, the mattress squeaking with him. “Don’t do that.”

“Oh but Doctor, I’m all wound up again and I know you can make it all better.”

“No. Stop. Don’t use that voice.”

“What voice?” she feigned innocence, drawing closer to him again. “I’m just talking like I normally would.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem.”

Demencia snorted, mouth against his neck. It was a strange new sensation, to have someone this close to him, especially her. Although, he knew he had plenty of time to get acquainted with her in that manner last night, recalling her sweaty, powerhouse of a body atop his as she rode him to the next town over. He absolutely would not let her have the satisfaction of having the upperhand again, so he awkwardly took both of her wrists, slapping her down on the bed like a pancake.

Raising her brow, Demencia obliged even though they both knew she could easily throw him clean across the room and through the wall if she wanted to. He was up to something, and her curiosity always did get the best of her.

“Wow, is the scientist about to sack up finally or—”

“Demencia.”

Staring down at her, he tightened his grip, and her breath hitched. This was new.

“Aw, is that all you got, you little cupcake bitch? Come on, don’t be shy. I bite if you ask me to.”

“You know, you’re making this really hard for me.”

Demencia’s eyes flicked down to his dick. “God, I hope so. Almost thought I was losing my touch there for a second. Anyways, get to the juicy part already. You’re killin’ me, Doc. We don’t have all day here.”

It came out of his mouth before he could catch it and reel it back in.

“Actually, if you would’ve listened to Black Hat yesterday, he said he wouldn’t be back until after dinner tonight. So technically, we do have all day.”

Something animalistic flashed across her face, giving Flug a burst of courage. He spoke carefully next, but with conviction.

“So shut the fuck up and let me...fuck you?”

Nailed it.

Strangely enough, that was exactly what Demencia needed to hear, because she wasted no time in rolling them over, so she was the one on top. With a grind of her hips, she had Flug whimpering.

“Not before I fuck you first.”

#villainous #paperlizard #op #fics #includes kate bush and black hat's secret wine stash #also the lab coat stays ON during sex

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aloe-casia · 4 years

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Ostracism

Day 1, Netflix/Books, Mild Gore/Canon-typical Witcher Racism, 5,417 Words

Summary: Geralt receives help from a group of cruel villagers for the sole reason that they want him out of their town. Needless to say, the situation is not ideal.

@geraltwhumpweek

So often, Geralt found emptiness where others felt full. It had been this way for as long as he could remember, except for the few vague memories he had of being Visenna’s son before she gave him over to the Law of Surprise. Where humans went to fill themselves to the brim with interaction, the markets and towns, were places Geralt avoided more than he would avoid a plague-ridden burial ground. He wasn’t sure entirely how this habit had started, just that it had become necessary, particularly after Blaviken. Not only did the noise and smell overwhelm his sensitive mind, but people cursed and spat. Called him unnatural, disgusting when he rode into town carrying the head of the beast that would likely have killed them all. They said he was mutant scum, good for nothing but killing and being killed, a shield to keep others safe but not worthy of gratitude.

Normally, this was a nonissue for Geralt. It bothered him a bit, to hear them curse and spit on Roach’s hooves. But he avoided their towns and cities anyways, did exactly as they wanted because it was also beneficial for him. The sensory overload of venturing into a town without absolute necessity was often enough to push him over the edge into the territory of dangerously debilitating migraines. However, it was different when he needed the people who hated him. It did not happen often, most of the time Geralt was capable of patching himself up, caring for his wounds as best he could and then continuing on his way as they healed up on their own. But there were some times when this was simply impossible. And then he had, in the past, relied solely on luck to keep him surviving. Luck, and the fact that he had been told over and over that he was destined for something more than dying in some farmer’s field.

However, Geralt was beginning to question if this was really the truth. Something about the way his blood was soaking the golden wheat around him, dyed almost amber in the sunset, made him feel like this was where he would die. It was almost beautiful, he thought dizzily. There were flies buzzing above him, the sound of their quickly beating wings almost soothing, letting him drift off to sleep. Far above, he could hear carrion birds crowing. That was never a good sign. Carrion birds were intuitive sensors of death. They would never have wasted their energy flying to him unless he was truly dying.

Rolling on his side, Geralt lazily trailed his finger through his blood, pooling on the ground underneath him. He drew a figure eight in the dirt, and watched as his blood filled the grooves, the same consistency as molasses. The birds crowed, and the insects buzzed, and the sun continued to sink over the horizon. He was reminded of the fact that even if he died here today, which was a considerably likely occurrence, the sun would keep setting. The bugs would keep flying. The birds would fly off after they were done devouring his corpse and go find some other decaying body to gorge themselves on. It was a strangely comforting thought.

Geralt was ripped from his wandering path of thoughts by the feeling of rough hands rolling him on his side. He started with pain and fear. The fact that anyone had managed to come all the way up to him and touch him before he noticed they were there was damnably frightening. Even dying, Geralt had always hoped he would be in complete command of himself until the end. Although, now that he was experiencing it, he realized this was an impossibility. Death conquered all, even Witchers. A small whimper escaped his chest as whoever was rolling him over dug their fingers right into the open, bloody chasm carved into his side. Geralt would have screamed, but he was too weak. The world felt hot and heavy, and he could barely even bring himself to feel concerned as the person lifted him up carelessly. One hand was still half in the wound, using it as a kind of handhold to keep Geralt upright. He groaned again, feeling the hot blood trickling down his sides. As he was dragged away, the dirt of the farmer's field squelched under his boots. It was red and rusty in the sunset. Feeling ill, Geralt swallowed convulsively, feeling the tips of his boots making tiny furrows in the mud. Somewhere along the way, his eyes had drifted shut, even the painful grip not enough to keep him conscious. Vaguely, he heard voices. Gruff, harsh, indistinct. He tried to raise his head, tried to get a faint understanding of what was happening to him, but he was so damnably weak. He'd let himself lose too much blood. If Vesemir had been there, he would have whipped Geralt within an inch of his life for being so careless.

But Vesemir wasn't here. Geralt was alone, in a strange and inhospitable world, wounded and too weak to even lift his head and see who was taking him. At this point, with most of his blood having seeped out onto the ground, Geralt felt too listless to even care about who it was. Everything was cold. He shivered, clenching his toes and hands in a final, desperate attempt to keep himself from betraying any weakness. A rough, work-worn hand grabbed his chin and yanked it upwards roughly.

“You’re fucking useless, you know that?” A deep voice grumbled, “We hire you to do one thing. Just kill the fucking rusalkas and leave us in peace, and you can’t even do that. We want you gone, and the sooner you’re able to sit on your horse and get out of here the better.”

Geralt blinked blearily, disliking the way the man was squishing his face in his tight grip. He couldn’t see anything, the blood loss was taking a heavy toll on him, and even if he had been able to understand the man over the roaring in his ears he guessed he wouldn’t have been able to make sense of the words. He was too weak, too tired. He just wanted to be left in peace, to lie down and expire in the dirt.

However, it was not to be. Geralt had a moment’s notice before the man who was holding his face released the tight grip on his chin, causing Geralt’s chin to thump painfully against his sternum. His boots swam in a blurry haze under his feet. Then, he felt strong, thick arms wrapping around his waist, and a rush of air as he was tossed unceremoniously against something hard and wooden. There was a dull thud, and underneath a slightly sickening sound of hot blood dripping onto the boards. The moment Geralt hit the wood, stars swam in front of his eyes and an audible groan escaped his lips. He reached around, trying desperately to find something to anchor himself to, something to hold onto as the world spun dizzyingly around him. His stomach was on fire, and he gasped as he tried to inhale. His head, which had taken quite a knock when he had been thrown, was aching fiercely, his vision tunnelling. Having been unable to find anything solid to grip, anything to anchor him to consciousness or to help him understand what was happening, Geralt allowed himself to slip. Whatever was to become of him, there was nothing he could do about it now anyways.

----

When next he awoke, Geralt was only aware that whatever he was lying on was jolting horrendously, and that it was probably this jolting that had caused his return to consciousness. His body certainly did not feel ready to be awake. He was covered in his own blood, sticky and hot, and in so much pain that the only way he could draw breath was by leaving his mouth open and taking gasping breaths like a beached fish. There was a vague sound of trotting horses, and men talking and laughing amongst one another. Their voices were harsh, and sounded cruel.

Peeling back his eyelids with considerable difficulty, Geralt was able to make out the green leaves of trees and the bright light of sunlight filtering down between them. He had always loved the dappling of the sunlight on the forest floor, but now even that had been turned into a feverish, painful nightmare. The light passed over him as they moved, so quickly and unpredictably that it completely overwhelmed his sensitive eyes. Feeling nauseous, Geralt tried to lift a hand to rub at his eyes and block out the light, but found that his hands were unable to move. At first, he thought this was due to weakness brought on by blood loss. After all, he was covered in his own blood, sticky and hot and sickening on such a warm day. But when he tried to move again, he heard a rattle and felt the sharp bite of metal against his skin. Whoever had him had bound him tightly, weak though he was.

A horse trotted up next to what Geralt had confusedly determined was a wagon. He couldn’t truly make out the person sitting on it, or the horse for that matter, but the scent of animal and unclean human suddenly became stronger as a brown blob floated into his vision. Under different circumstances, Geralt would have been tempted to laugh at his own weakness. And then probably slap himself upside the head for having been so stupid as to get into this situation in the first place. But thinking was too hard, and all the thoughts he had were disordered and made his head ache even worse. He focused on the stench, but that only made his aching stomach roll.

“I see you’re awake, beast,” a voice, the same one from earlier, sneered down at him, “Best not to move. Monsters can’t be trusted not to lash out, even when they say they’re here to help.”

Geralt blinked up at him, eyes aching, trying to understand what was happening to him. There was a bandage wound tightly around his side, he could feel the itch of the fabric pressing against his skin as the wagon jolted. But, for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why people who so obviously detested him were keeping him alive at all. He allowed his head to bounce on the floor of the cart, hoping perhaps it would knock him out again. Every pebble on the road was agony for his stomach, sliced open as it was. The man must have seen the confused look in his eyes, though. He leaned over off his horse, and Geralt gagged at the stench of his breath — onions and rotting teeth.

“Probably wondering why we’re bothering to save your worthless hide, eh?” The man chortled, breathing hot air all over Geralt’s face, “Not that there’s much to save. But we can’t have a Witcher’s rotten corpse sullying our fields and killing our crops. We’ll heal you up well enough to send you on your way, and then you can go die somewhere far away from here. And take your thrice-damned cursed body with you.”

Ah. So this was one of the places where the myths about Witchers bringing curses and bad luck still persisted. Geralt supposed he should be grateful they were willing to patch him up at all, instead of just dumping his body in a river and hoping he floated away. However, the circumstances were less than ideal. Geralt creased his eyebrows and nodded meekly. He was too weak to fight this right now, and so far they seemed intent on not outrightly harming him, if not exactly being gentle either.

He turned his head to the other side, mostly to escape the man’s fetid breath. There were poplar trees sliding by as the wagon jolted on, each bump withdrawing a small gasp from Geralt’s parted lips. As he watched, the trees began to blur together, turning into a mass of white and brown bark. He couldn’t hear the bugs or carrion birds anymore. Perhaps they had gone off to find someone more determined to die.

----

There was no more rest for Geralt all the way back to the village where he had taken the contract. He tried to pick his brain for the name, but came up empty-handed. His thoughts had been reduced to the bare minimum to keep him distracted from the hot pain in his gut. All the way back, his eyes had continuously slid shut, with every rock on the dirt path snapping them back open. He was exhausted, and freezing cold. His body trembled from lack of blood, and every breath hurt. A bed and soft blanket would be more than acceptable right now. And Roach. She was always gentler on him when he collapsed against her neck after an injury. Much gentler than these men, who had taken it upon themselves to spit on and kick at him every time he let out a noise of pain. Geralt couldn’t really hear their jeering anymore, but the kicks hurt, and the spit covered the few parts of him that hadn’t already been soaked with blood. He just wanted some damn peace and sleep.

When the wagon finally rattled to a stop with a jingling of harnesses and whinnying of horses, Geralt realized he hadn’t even noticed when the scenery sliding by him had turned from trees and bushes to the brown of mud brick and timber houses. He blinked, wishing he could lift a hand to rub across his eyes. They were full of sand and dirt from the journey, and ached every time he closed them.

There was a clattering of boots and spurs as the men, Geralt hadn’t been able to count how many, dismounted. Then, the same man who had spoken to Geralt earlier clambered up next to him in the wagon and placed his face uncomfortably close to the Witcher’s. Geralt winced and turned his head away from the hot breath.

“Welcome home, bastard. My wife is waiting to bandage and stitch your wounds, and then you’ll be left alone until you heal. And if you get any ideas with her, know that I will flay you alive and throw you in the river, curses be damned. Do you understand me?”

The man grasped Geralt’s face viciously and pulled it so close to his own that Geralt could feel his stubble brushing up against his cheek. Several answers came to his mind involving the impropriety of his actions, and how his wife would probably be relieved to have an out. However, he dismissed these responses as being unlikely to help and as products of what was probably a burgeoning fever. Normally he had better self-preservation instincts.

“Yes…” he breathed through his teeth, wincing as the cold air passing through them caused them to ache, “Just for fuck’s sake, let me sleep.”

The man cackled obscenely and backhanded Geralt roughly, unlocking the shackles around his arms so he could sling him over his broad shoulder. Then, he trudged inside, all while the other men who had accompanied them back to the village elbowed and jeered at Geralt. He closed his eyes and let his head hang. The blood loss he was experiencing wouldn’t let him do much else. He trembled a bit, although he tried clenching his muscles to keep it under control.

When the man carrying Geralt bounced up the steps to what must have been his home, the Witcher nearly blacked out. He was lying with the injured portion of his stomach digging straight into the man’s shoulder, and with every stair his vision tunnelled a bit more. He could smell what must have been stew cooking inside the house, but his stomach ached at the mere thought of ingesting anything. Vaguely, Geralt wondered if all of his stomach was still inside him. The rusalka had swiped at him with deadly precision, and he had fallen before he was able to truly assess the wound. However, he supposed, he wouldn’t have survived the trip back in the wagon if the rusalka had mortally wounded him. Vesemir had once told him that if he could make it past two hours, he would be almost certain to recover.

Inside the home, Geralt found himself being dropped unceremoniously onto something bouncy that must have been a bed. He would have been grateful for this but for the way the mattress bouncing aggravated his wounds, and the fact that the man had bound his hands to the sides of the bed with what felt like leather horse reins. Not that those would have been likely to restrain him if he had been a bit stronger. Geralt had a feeling that the man knew this, and was doing it more because it was humiliating and pulled at his wounds uncomfortably. He tried not to wince, not wanting to give him the satisfaction, but was unsuccessful.

The house was a cacophony of smells and sounds, and Geralt tried to close his eyes and tune it out as the man stomped out of the room, hollering that he was hungry and wanted dinner. Geralt felt so weak. His legs and arms trembled from a combination of cold and pain. He was still dressed in his blood-soaked shirt and pants, and the blood had congealed into a cold, slippery mass. Geralt felt like he might freeze, and it was all the more torturous because he could feel blankets underneath him. Freezing and miserable and too weak to roll over, Geralt tried to settle for burying his head in the pillow. It was still to noisy and bright in here to sleep, but his mind was sluggish and slow and his thoughts were scattered. Blood loss was not conducive to entering a meditative state, so Geralt had no choice but to curl up and tremble, hoping whoever came to stitch his wounds would have mercy and give him something to help him sleep. Normally, he eschewed opioids. But just this once, it would be a blessing.

----

It felt like many hours later when the wooden door banged open again. Geralt had long since lost all feeling in his hands; the reins cutting deep into his wrists. He thought he could feel blood dripping onto the floor, which made his heart speed up. He couldn’t afford to lose any more blood tonight.

The woman who entered the room had sleek brown hair and big brown eyes. She was wearing a hand-woven dress and flowered apron, although Geralt only acknowledged this as a way of confirming that at least his eyesight had improved since he had been lying in the farmer’s field. She also smelled considerably better than her husband; like stewed meat and dirt. Geralt had always liked the smell of dirt. It reminded him of Vesemir. He shook himself violently, wincing when he realized his attention span was nowhere near what it should be in such a situation.

While Geralt had been reflecting on dirt (another thought that would have made him snort a bit under different circumstances), the woman had seated herself none toi gently on the edge of the bed, jostling Geralt’s abdomen. He wished he could bring up a hand to grip at it, but the reins were too short. She smiled cruelly at him, although her huge eyes widened innocently.

“Dear Witcher,” she simpered, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear in a way that made him shiver from something other than the cold, “I’ve been instructed to tend your wounds. And I assure you, that’s the only thing that’s keeping me from bleeding you and sending your horse galloping out of this town with you tied to it. You’re the bastard that couldn’t even save us without getting himself completely butchered. What is the point of you, then?”

Geralt blinked up at her and tried not to squint too much. His eyes were still full of grit and sand, and more than anything he wished she would wipe it away, sew up his wounds, and leave him in peace. Her wide, childlike eyes made his skin crawl.

“Oh, do your poor eyes hurt?” She smiled down at him, “I imagine they do all the time. That’s what happens when you have the devil in your eyes. Surely a little sand won’t hurt after all that.”

Resigning himself to healing that only involved the bare minimum of what he needed to do to survive, Geralt tried to summon some tears in the hope they would wash out the sand. While the ability to cry from emotion had been taken from him during his Trials, tears were still an important defence mechanism used to rid the body of unwanted toxins. But he was so tired, and couldn’t even focus enough to dilate his pupils in the light, let alone wash away the sand from his eyes. He settled in for a miserable time, unsure why he had expected anything else. Humans didn’t willingly offer help to monsters, after all.

“You may call me Tara,” the woman continued as she watched Geralt blink exhaustedly with a toothy smile, “Although I don’t expect you’ll be saying much for quite some time. Those rusalkas really did get the jump on you, no?”

He glared at her, watching as she unpacked some bandages and a wicked-looking needle and thread. She also set a butcher’s knife down on the table beside her other healing things. Geralt wondered what she intended to use it for that would still leave him alive at the end. He twisted a bit, face pinched with the discomfort of his wounds. The dried blood on his skin itched, and he was so weak and tired. A very small part of him that still indulged human emotion missed Eskel. His brother always took good care of him when he was wounded. It had been a long time since Geralt had experienced a tender touch. And, weak with blood loss as he was, he ached for it. He coughed a bit.

Tara seated herself on a short stool next to the bed and began threading what appeared to be a long darning needle with thick black thread. Geralt tried to keep his eyes from rolling back completely in his head. He didn’t feel comfortable passing out while she was in the room, but with every blink he fell closer to sleep, cold though he was.

“Oh! I almost forgot. With all that blood loss, you must be in sore need of water. Perhaps I could get you some…after we’ve stitched your side. I don’t need to keep you comfortable, just make sure you don’t die on my watch.”

That rendered all Geralt’s hopes for a painkilling herbs null and void, then. Clearly, Tara was set on doing this as cruelly and painfully as she possibly could without killing him. Geralt hazily wondered if her hatred of Witchers came simply from the damning legends about his kind, or there was something greater at work. He had never experienced such raw hatred without warrant before.

Using the butcher’s knife, Tara slit Geralt’s shirt down the front, making a disgusted face as she flicked congealed blood off herself. She frowned at the wound underneath.

“Clearly whoever said Witchers are unmatched warriors never saw you fight. I know at least twenty men in the village who could have dodged such an obvious blow.”

“Why didn’t you send one of them to kill the rusalkas, then?” Geralt slurred out before he could stop himself. The blood loss was making him lose all his inhibitions. Tara frowned and pushed hard on his wound, making Geralt groan a bit as stars flashed before his eyes. Once again, he wished he had full movement of his arms, if only to push her away. Somehow, he doubted he was strong enough to push her off at the moment.

“Because they are valuable. They have families, and lives, and feelings. They aren’t tools. They deserve better than to spend their lives hunting beasts. No, that’s work for more…base creatures.”

Geralt found himself no longer able to speak as Tara wiped a cloth roughly along the sides of the long cut in his belly. He had tried to lift his head to see how damaged he was, but his neck quivered and shook, and he had had to abandon the attempt. Now, he floated in a semi-aware state between sleep and wakefulness, in too much pain to drift off but too exhausted to truly pay attention. His eyes fluttered at half mast as Tara finished cleaning the wound with wicked swipes of the cloth and began drawing the sides together to stitch it shut.

“Let’s hope that Witchers’ pain resistance hasn’t been as vastly exaggerated as your fighting abilities. I don’t have any needles smaller than this. Or, if I do, I couldn’t be bothered to find them.”

Geralt tried to open his eyes and summon some version of the glare that normally reduced men to quivering masses, but his eyes stubbornly refused to cooperate. With his luck, he would probably be unable to see her clearly anyways, and end up glaring in an entirely different direction. The sand had moved around in his eyes and was clouding his vision again, and the blood loss-induced weakness wasn’t helping matters. He steeled himself by wrapping his shaking hands around the reins, suppressing another small cough of pain.

With what Geralt was sure was a wicked smile, Tara dug her needle far deeper within the Witcher’s flesh than was strictly necessary and pulled the two sides together with a malicious tug. He clenched his hands around the reins and tried, unsuccessfully to suppress a whimper.

“Oh, does it hurt?” She said with exaggerated false sympathy, “I’m sure it’s nothing for someone as strong and unbeatable as you.”

Geralt tried to focus on his breaths as she continued tugging ruthlessly at his lacerated side. He was exhausted, and eventually drifted back to his half-asleep state as she finished knotting the thick stitches and pulled a bandage uncomfortably tightly around his side.

“There we are. Sweet dreams, Witcher. I’ll be back tomorrow to see if you’re still alive. If you try anything, rest assured you will be shown no mercy, mutant bastard.”

He was sure she was smiling down at him, even though he had lost the ability to open his eyes somewhere during his ordeal. He turned his head tiredly into the sheets. It was impossible to get comfortable — the way they had bound his arms pulled at the haphazard stitches in his side. He could feel the sides of the wound expanding a bit every time he tried to move, stitches straining to hold him together. However, discomfort was something that was all too familiar to Geralt. Letting a breath of pain escape through his clenched teeth, the Witcher turned his head onto a cooler part of the pillow and closed his eyes.

Rest did not find him easily.

----

Three days later found Geralt, with his wound barely scarred over, bundled up on Roach as she cantered away from the town. Tara and her husband had left him tied up in the barn after it had become clear he was no longer in mortal danger, and they had sent him on his way in the wee hours of the morning by slicing the ropes that bound him and dumping a bucket of ice cold water over his head. He was still suffering a bit from the blood loss — having lost all his potions in the fight with the rusalkas, he would have to replenish his blood supply the normal way. However, it left him uncomfortably cold, and as Roach cantered away he bundled himself deeper into his cloak to ward off the chill morning breeze.

“Come on girl, we just need to collect my swords and then we can get out of this shithole of a town.” His teeth were clenched to keep them from clacking together, and one aching wrist was wrapped around his stomach, which twinged a bit with every step Roach took. He slowed her to a trot as they continued down the road, hoping none of the less superstitious villagers had taken it upon themselves to follow him.

They reached the swamp where the rusalkas had been living as the sun had begun to set. Wrapped up in his cloak and shivering miserably, Geralt was reminded of the sunset when he had been lying in the field not far from here. Briefly, he wondered if he should stop taking contracts in villages where the people were obviously full of hatred for his kind. He had survived this time, but only due to malicious rumours that his flesh was cursed. And he would need to find somewhere a bit more welcoming to hole up for a few days, to make potions and let his stomach heal. He wished he was closer to the Temple of Melitele. Nenneke, despite all her grumbling, always took him in and gave him somewhere warm to sleep. However, he would have preferred to continue on the path unhindered.

Dismounting painfully, Geralt tried to find his swords with as little bending over as possible. Even standing up straight was a bit of a stretch for him at the moment. Roach nosed him gently until he nearly tripped over the hilt of his silver sword, decorated with the jewels from Renfri’s brooch, which gleamed dully in the sun.

“Thanks, Roach,” he sighed, wrapping an arm around his middle as he reached down to collect both swords, wincing a bit as they squelched in the mud, “Probably would’ve spent all evening stumbling around this fucking swamp.”

His attention to detail was also suffering greatly, probably due to a lack of sleep from the uncomfortable position he had been tied up in while staying with Tara and her husband. Not for the first time, he was incredibly grateful for Roach’s intelligence. She always seemed to know precisely how and when she was needed.

“Let’s head a bit further down the road tonight,” Geralt sighed as he heaved himself back into the saddle, strapping his swords behind him to save himself the weight on his shoulders, “I don’t want to camp any closer than this town than I have to, but I’m not sure how much further we should go on.”

Roach turned around and nosed his knee sympathetically, letting a soft breath out through her nose. She kept her pace at a walk, sensing Geralt’s sharp intake of breath whenever her gait shifted. As the sun continued to set, and the Witcher felt his eyes drifting shut, he allowed himself to slowly slump forwards. Tara’s stitches had been woefully placed at best, and they pulled tightly at his skin when he slumped. Sighing and wincing when that hurt as well, Geralt crossed his wrists, raw from the rope that had been used to tie him in the stables, across Roach’s neck. Sensing what her master was about to do, the chestnut mare raised her head a bit to provide a more comfortable rest. With an audible whimper (these were the wilds, and there was no one but the birds around to hear), Geralt collapsed weakly into her neck, cramping hands fisting her main as his stomach ached again. He would just rest his eyes a bit, just for a little longer up the road. There would be no respite in an inn tonight, nowhere to lie down and rest his head, which ached with exhaustion and a residual fever. He was a tool, a killing machine, nothing more. And in these parts, that meant he was undeserving of rest. After all, monsters slept by the side of the road, not in beds or taverns.

He fell asleep fitfully, brow creased with pain, the spiteful voices of the farmers filling his mind. Butcher, mutant bastard, cursed. An emptiness settled in the pit of his stomach, below the wound he had taken in defence of those people. Roach’s head swayed beneath him.

He did not truly rest that night, or for many nights to come. Alone, outcast, left to his devices, he lay awake on Roach’s back and blearily watched the trees as they passed him by.

#geralt whump #geraltwhumpweek #my writing #whump fanfiction #fanfiction

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cookiecutterwrites · 5 years

Text

The Almighty Student Council Does Important Things - How to Save the World in 12 Easy Steps, S1E4

John Smith puts up with student council president Pavlova until he longer can.

Wordcount: ~2000.

INT. SCHOOL HALLWAY - DAY

Close on the STUDENT COUNCIL armband on JOHN SMITH's sleeve. He walks past rows of lockers, clipboard and pen in hand.

It's break time and STUDENTS crowd the hall. Something like every fifth student is decidedly inhuman, but the discordant gossip and palpable energy give the distinct impression that more than a few are hiding their own secrets.

Most ignore John Smith. A couple wave, fewer still say hi. John Smith marks each interaction down on a bit of graph paper knacked to his clipboard -- he’s plotting a curve. The peak smack-dab in the center of the page is labeled ‘NON-REACTION’. This is evidently the most popular response.

John Smith taps at the bottom-left corner and frowns. There’s a gap in his plot between ‘ABSOLUTE NIGHTMARE’ and ‘CRUEL AND UNUSUAL YET CHARMING’.

MARLEY blithely rams into John Smith as they cross paths and very obviously tacks something onto his backpack.

John Smith does the responsible thing and pretends not to notice at first before peeling the note off his back.

JOHN SMITH Hey, Marlon!

Marley comes to an abrupt stop, but doesn’t even bother turning around to face John Smith proper. He couldn't even get her name right, after all.

The note says ‘KICK ME’ in big letters, and then, in progressively smaller letters squashed together as they near the bottom of the page, ‘AND SKIN ME ALIVE AND IMMOLATE ME TO RESURRECT THE RENEGADE GOD BR’KOAZAR’. Marley’s handwriting is horrendously slanted, as if she were desperate to get the words out faster than she could move her pen.

JOHN SMITH (smiling) I’d be honored.

Marley scoffs and carries on her way.

John Smith fills in the gap in his plot and draws a perfect bell curve through all the points in one assured flourish. Because that’s a thing any normal high school student can pull off, right?

INT. CLASSROOM - DAY

A classroom with all the desks smushed together in the center. One of the windows is open. Six students, John Smith included, sit around this mega desk, each wearing an armband. This is the student council. And they all look scared witless.

PAVLOVA, 16, SLAMS her hands against the desk-Pangaea, surveying her underlings with fire in her eyes. She is a ballerina made entirely of candy and marshmallow fluff, and is evidently the student council President. Her voice runs like bubbling butterscotch.

PAVLOVA A dunk tank at the Borealis dance?! What do I say to the people?! This'll ruin me! Who approved this?!

SECRETARY Er, Pav, you did?

Pavlova ignores him. She ignores him so hard, we won't even grace him with a proper name or physical description.

PAVLOVA You there! Events Coordinator! You let this happen!

She points directly at John Smith, who jumps and gulps.

JOHN SMITH The student body asked so I -

Pavlova YANKS down a projector screen, points a clicker. A pie graph flickers into view, one solid color except a tiny sliver which is highlighted: 'PEOPLE WHO ACTUALLY ASKED - 1'.

PAVLOVA You made this graph!

JOHN SMITH Allow me to remind you that she had the rest of our year at literal and figurative gunpoint.

PAVLOVA She said she rigged the kitchens with Tinekta explosives. You told me Tinekta explosives weren't a thing. Why didn't you stop her?!

JOHN SMITH (shrugging) She looked like she was having a good time. Everyone deserves that.

Pavlova face-palms so hard, it leaves hand prints in the freshly-fallen icing of her brow. She points and clicks. The labels on the graph switch to, 'PEOPLE WHO HAD A GOOD TIME', and in egregiously larger letters, 'PEOPLE WHO DID NOT'.

JOHN SMITH Did you just have that ready to go?

PAVLOVA Do you have any idea how long it took me to gain the trust of -- never mind. It's the Borealis, who's gonna -

John Smith opens his mouth but Pavlova cuts him off by pointing the clicker, SEIZING him by the collar and pulling him up. John Smith is instantly paralyzed.

The new slide is a tally chart of 'TIMES JOHN SMITH WAS WRONG' and 'TIMES PAVLOVA HAD TO FIX IT'. It's the exact same impossibly large number on both sides.

PAVLOVA You made this uncannily accurate chart but I'm giving you a chance to redeem yourself. Force the scoundrel to sit in the tank! She asked for it. She'll answer for it.

JOHN SMITH (grappling at his collar) Why must you always go for the neck -

PAVLOVA (hushed, menacing) This is what we do here. Don't mess this up for me. What I say, goes. What happens in this room stays between these sanctified walls. This is how we've always run this show. (normally, dropping John Smith) Meeting adjourned!

She accompanies the announcement with yet another desk smack.

SOUND CUT TO:

INT. SCHOOL HALLWAY - DAY

A door is SLAMMED in Marley's face. John Smith's voice rings out from the room beyond.

JOHN SMITH (O.S.) I'm sorry, can you give me a moment? Someone left the window open and -- gah! Sky rats!

Marley taps her watch and stares down the door. TETRA is there too.

MARLEY You don't have to be here, you know?

Tetra fiddles with her thick scarf.

TETRA I - I'm responsible too. I got you those Tinekta explosives.

MARLEY Huh. So they do exist.

TETRA You didn't know?! Did you take me for a liar? And you were okay with just... lying to 200 people?!

Marley clicks her tongue, smiles and shakes her head.

TETRA Tinekta is a poor translation. It's... extraterrestrial in origin.

Her scarf comes undone and there at the base of her neck is a subtly iridescencing cyan TATTOO of something unquestionably alien, part fire, part clockwork. It shifts and rotates in her grey ashen skin. Tetra quickly covers it with her hand and rewraps her scarf but it's too late, Marley's seen it.

John Smith opens the door, grinning sheepishly. Feathers stick out of his hair.

JOHN SMITH You can come in now.

INT. CLASSROOM - DAY

It's the same room as before. Marley and Tetra sit on one end of the uber desk island and John Smith sits at the other. Marley's gone and crossed her arms, eyes narrowed, self-assured smirk.

MARLEY I won't do it.

John Smith just frowns. They stare each other down. John Smith looks markedly less confident, while Marley glares like she trained with the best of hawks, which she may well have.

In the background, a SKY RAT rams up against the window, bounces off, falls away. Tetra winces.

JOHN SMITH Why'd you do it?

MARLEY Why, spite, of course.

JOHN SMITH TETRA Why spite? That's not what you told me.

Marley laces her fingers together, rests her chin atop the tent.

MARLEY You had the money, no? Your President is corrupt. She's sitting on a pile of money. Isn't it time for a change?

JOHN SMITH Yes it is but -

TETRA You're agreeing with us?!

JOHN SMITH - is holding an entire grade at gunpoint and joking about blowing up the kitchens really the best way to go about this?

TETRA Actually... Actually there was a Tinekta bomb ready to go.

John Smith throws his hands up in exasperation and face palms real hard. It's not a Pavlova level face palm, but it's pretty solid in its own right.

JOHN SMITH Didn't think you could get that stuff here on Earth.

TETRA You can't -- wait, how do you know -

MARLEY - Yeah, not even I knew that.

Silence. John Smith reaches up as if to pull the brim of a cap down over his eyes but upon realizing he just isn't wearing one right now, awkwardly hugs himself instead.

Marley waves his wide-eyed expression away.

MARLEY Why do you let her push you around? Huh? You're obviously smarter than you look, I bet you could do something really crazy if you had the reins to yourself.

JOHN SMITH Stop - MARLEY Who are you really, John Smith?

He slams his hands against the desk, mimicking Pavlova.

JOHN SMITH I'm nobody! I'm just... I'm...

Marley smirks.

MARLEY Check the files. She's taking the money for herself.

JOHN SMITH But why?

MARLEY Oh, I dunno. But isn't fairness and the status quo what you're all about? Can't have the prez running around with such lopsided numbers, can we? (leaning forward) And hasn't she done enough to you?

JOHN SMITH Why are you telling me this?

MARLEY Because I care about you, obviously!

John Smith is silent and tight-lipped.

MARLEY And chaos.

TETRA Ooh, I like chaos!

Marley stands and moves for the door. Tetra follows.

MARLEY I'm not even going to your stupid back-to-school dance but put my name down for the tank anyways. I'll make sure someone else takes the seat for me, I have my ways.

She exits and John Smith curls up, groaning and burying his face in his hands.

INT. SCHOOL HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS

Marley stares at the door to the student council room, takes a deep breath. And then, pumping a fist in the air -

MARLEY PAV JUST VOLUNTEERED TO SIT ON THE DUNK TANK!

STUDENT Really? Pavlova?

MARLEY PAV! The one and only!

CUT TO:

Same hall, later in the day. The final bell rings and students stream out of their classes. JAIDYN and John Smith make a beeline for the student council's meeting room.

JAIDYN You do realize how weird and out of character this is for you?

JOHN SMITH Just do this one thing for me.

They enter the -

INT. CLASSROOM - CONTINUOUS

John Smith raps his knuckles against a filing cabinet in the back.

JOHN SMITH This is where she keeps the transactions.

Jaidyn turns the padlock over in his hands and whips a butterfly knife from his backpack.

JOHN SMITH I don't think -

JAIDYN This is faster than picking the lock.

JOHN SMITH Sure, but it's still personal property.

Jaidyn flips the knife open, messes it up and cuts himself, drops the knife. He jams his finger in his mouth. Grumbling, he plucks a crumpled bobby pin from his bag.

John Smith snatches butterfly knife from the ground and flips it open perfectly with practiced ease. He hands it back to Jaidyn, who just kind of balks. John Smith frowns.

JOHN SMITH Is that - Is that not a normal thing high school students do?

JAIDYN No. Not at all. Just... dial it back a bit.

JOHN SMITH ... Noted.

Jaidyn STABS the padlock and miraculously, it breaks into two. He pries the cabinet open. John Smith pulls out a ream of papers and looks them over, sighs.

JOHN SMITH Marlon was right.

INT. DANCE HALL - NIGHT

It's a trendy venue, though not quite big or well-lit enough for the guests. Dressy students mill about taking pictures or crowding the food.

An ACTUAL HORDE of students push an over-dressed Pavlova up to a DUNK TANK in the corner of the hall.

PAVLOVA You can't! You can't! Who approved this?!

STUDENTS PAV! PAV! PAV! PAV!

Pavlova is dumped into the seat and begins shivering almost immediately.

John Smith is first in line, dressed in a dusty slate suit. He tosses the ball between his hands.

PAVLOVA John, you wouldn't...

Some distance away, Jaidyn motions 'NO!' to John Smith. 'Dial it back', he seems to be saying. He didn't even bother getting dressed, he's just wandering around in his casual clothes because he's a cartoon and is stuck with this outfit for the rest of the season.

John Smith shoots Jaidyn a nervous smile. Jaidyn winces and averts his eyes.

PAVLOVA ... John?

John Smith THROWS LIKE A GODDAMN MAJOR LEAGUE PITCHER. He hits the bullseye dead on and Pavlova drops into the water with a SHRIEK.

CUT TO BLACK.

I’m still posting, guys. I’m not dead

This episode’s shoutout goes to @mysterysiria for the oh-so-eloquent ‘SKIN ME ALIVE’

HTSTW tag list (ask to be added/removed!): @esoteric-eclectic-eccentric @maxbeewriting @eyelessfatdragon @glacizata @maple-writes @theforgottencoolkid @delerious-wordsmith @leskinggoddesskittycat @klywrites @quiescentwriting @acedragonwriter @deepestbelieverstranger @beatlesandbards @izzuniiwrites @managingmymuse

Previous episodes: E1, E2, E3

Next time on How to Save the World, Meet Cute!

#s1e4 #wip #htstw #cookie's writing #cookie's stuff #script #screenplay #screenwriting #amwriting #fantasy kitchen sink #slice of life #comedy #writers on tumblr #john smith #pavlova #half these throwaway jokes are building to something #trust me you guys #or maybe they're continuity gags #who knows

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