#but ill have a beard and low voice and all that

[sprout-fics]

Poly TF141 x Omega! Reader Headcanons

(Poly TF14 x F! Omega Reader)

(Part Thirteen: The Captain)

Tags: Omegaverse, Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Hidden designations, Alpha! John Price, Alpha! Simon 'Ghost' Riley, Beta! Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick, Omega! John 'Soap' MacTavish, Omega F! Reader, Group dynamics, Poly TF141, Slow burn, Price x Reader, Alpha! Price x Omega! Reader, Consent checks, Alpha behavior, Gentling, Dom Price, Man-handling, PiV sex

Masterlist

You’re in your bunk a few evenings later, trying to relax after a long day of drills, where there’s a knock at your door

You expect Soap or Gaz, one of the sergeants grinning affectionately as you’re dragged downstairs to the rec room for games or a movie where you all talk over each other in your laughter

You don’t expect to open the door and find your captain standing there

Price stands tall, making a point to keep his chin up in a way that betrays how he’s hiding a modicum of anxiety under his stern eyed stare

“Can I come in?” He asks simply, without much preamble, and it takes you a moment to let him pass inside

You realize he’s never been here before, has always left you just outside the door. When you turn to close the door, you hear Price takes a long, deep inhale of the room, of your rich scent on every surface

When you ask him what you can do for him, Price nods to your desk chair in a gesture for you to sit. It’s a little authoritative of him in a way that whispers of Alpha posturing, but you’re curious enough about his abrupt presence to settle into the seat facing him while he shuffles towards you

He doesn’t sit on the bed, and you inwardly snicker at the idea of his alpha instincts requesting he ask permission before entreating upon your territory. It’s endearing, and when his eyes flick to yours in a quiet ask, you stifle a smile as you nod. 

“I need to be sure you’re certain about this.” He says once he’s settled, knees spread and elbows resting upon them. He’s staring straight at you, gaze unblinking but steady, unwavering. It makes your heart thump, the way Price never seems to falter, seems to know the direction to turn the sails before the wind has even shifted. 

He’s asking about your heat, about the request you made over a week ago now, and it touches you that he’s here asking for confirmation, ensuring you are completely on board with this well before your heat is due and your consent is reduced to shivering, whining pleas

You tell him you trust him, you tell him he’s taken care of you before even though the circumstances were different. You tell him you want it to be him, to be Ghost, to be all of them

Price looks relieved, a little touched, mouth tugging up under his beard with a warm smile that reaches his eyes. Something flutters pleasantly in your stomach at the affection in his eyes, and for a moment you feel the passing urge to ask him to hold you

“I need to know.” He asks then, and his voice is more serious now in a way that makes you straighten. “Have you ever spent your heat with an alpha?”

You feel warmth rush across your skin, suddenly bashful, fidgeting in your chair. You tell him no, you’ve spent your heats alone. You tell him about the ill-suited match in bootcamp, the beta who slept with and then ignored you, and suddenly there’s a low rumble in Price’s chest that sounds like a growl

When you look up, there’s a vague consternation on Price’s face at your story. His eyebrows are lowered, mouth pressed tightly but eyes attentive as he speaks again. 

“Have you ever had an alpha in your bed?”

You stiffen again

It’s a secret you’ve kept for a long time that you have never slept with an alpha before. You couldn’t take the risk during your career, not even from an off-base suitor who might reveal your designation to the wrong person

Even though you don’t say anything, Price seems to understand. He nods to himself, looks contemplative before asking: “Do you know what to expect?”

“I’ve been through sex ed, captain.”

“That’s not what I asked, love.”

You shift, eyes darting down to your fidgeting fingers in your lap. “I…know alphas can be intense, domineering. I know it’s not supposed to hurt, that it can be uncomfortable…” You trail off, and wince at your fumbling words. “...That alphas can resort to base instincts sometimes.”

Price lets a heavy moment linger before he stands and comes to rest before you. A calloused hand catches under your chin, tips your head up to look at his stature towering over you

“There’s more than that.” He offers softly, and you’re unable to contain a little shiver at the low, soothing rumble of his voice. “Good alphas take care of their partners. Anyone who has taught you otherwise should be reminded of that.”

“I want this experience to be a good one for you, love.” He tells you gently, and something pulses low across your hips at the purr in his voice. “We care about you, we don’t want to hurt you.”

“I know.” You whisper, tilting your head into his hand when it cups your cheek.

There’s a low hum that echoes in his chest, and it reverberates inside you, coaxes something in you into docility. Price’s thumb grazes across your cheek, and he suddenly feels so warm

“Pup.” He murmurs, voice tinged with that low, soothing hum that makes your muscles uncoil. “You deserve to know what a good Alpha feels like.”

Something buzzes in your hindbrain, low and fuzzy but sharply needing at this man before you, at an alpha you trust so sincerely, one who’s proven himself to you in so many ways. Strong, capable, protective, and in so many ways already yours

You allow it to dwarf your thoughts, this encompassing comfort at his rich, heavy scent and the warmth of his palm against your face. His presence is grounding, like gravity beckoning you down into him

“Alpha.” You sigh sweetly, gazing up at him through fluttering eyelashes and rolling your head into his hand. 

Price sighs through his nose, a long steady exhale that feels somehow relieving and affectionate at the same time. With it comes another low, heady rumble, and you realize after a moment that Price is purring.

It summons a rush of warm realization, that Price is looking down at you and feeling such an immense contentedness that he’s purring just by barely touching you. It sends something inside you unfurling with a burgeoning desire, a flare of your scent that speaks of arousal, fangs popping out with the distant instinct to lick, bite

He reaches for you then, arms gently lifting you from your chair and scooting you over to your bed. You go without complaint, with a little sigh of satisfaction at being pressed into the warmth of him before he’s laying you down into the sheets

“Darling.” He murmurs a little hoarsely when you nuzzle the underside of his jaw, his form braced above you as you instinctively seek out his scent gland. “Tell me you want this.”

“Please.” You plead, eyes fluttering as he cups your nape. It’s almost embarrassing, this, how the mere gentle presence of your alpha makes you so pliant, so open under him, resorting already to low purrs and needing little whines

Price silences them with a kiss, and you release a shuddering gasp against him, feel something slick pool between your thighs at the low hum of satisfaction he gives you

“That’s it.” He murmurs, voice low and silky as you relax a little under him. One hand reaches to push aside a leg, spreading you so the thick scent of your arousal floods the air between you. Price drinks it in heavily, his eyes pitch black with growing desire as he smothers you with his weight. Your fingers reach up, tug aside his cap so you can tangle them in his hair. “You’re safe, pup.”

Price’s purr seems to infect your brain like a sweet, slow acting aphrodisiac, and with each heavy breath you feel that instinctive buzz in your brain force you into limp gentleness under him, a soft sigh of his name that speaks of utter relief. You think maybe it’s the preheat, your body slowly gearing up itself in the presence of a suitable alpha, but when Price traces his nose down the curve of your jaw to your scent gland, marking you, you realize it’s just him

Price maneuvers you with firm, grasping touches. Slowly, he divests you both of your garments, settles himself between your thighs and hoists a leg over his hip so your glistening entrance is revealed to him

Something changes in him then, an automatic trigger at the sight of an omega he’s been entrusted with being so willing and trusting, that floods his scent so thickly you force yourself to breathe through it. Like ambrosia, it seeps into your veins, honeyed and warm at the silent demand to submit

You feel yourself flail in the foreignness of it for a moment, distantly startled at the heady rush of pleasure when Price’s hands grasp your thighs and spread you wide for him. Price seems to notice, because he reaches up again, his broad palm settling on your nape, a thumb pressing down with a gentle insistence on your scent gland

“Easy, omega.” He gentles, and the distraction is forgotten, replaced by the soothing tenor of his voice. “You’re alright, I’m going to take care of you.”

Please, you think wordlessly, head lolling into the pillows as slick dribbles from your entrance. He swipes his fingers through it, collects it so it spiderwebs between them and hums a low, pleased sound at your arousal.

He takes a minute to explore you, and it feels so much like he’s mapping your body, disassembling and reassembling it in his mind as his hands knead the flesh of your hips and waist

“Alpha-” You keen, arching under him submissively, twisting in the sheets as something inside you pulls. It takes only a few moments before you’re on your stomach, hips raised in entreaty- presenting

You can only imagine the sight you make, bare skin reflecting the hazy bedside lamplight, spine curved enticingly as you raise your ass up to reveal your wet, leaking hole to Price’s rapturous gaze

You should be appalled at your behavior, but now all you do is look back over your shoulder at Price, who fixes you with such a dark, hungry stare that you fall into the bottomless depths of his eyes.

“Alpha, Price, please-”

Price chuckles then, low and carnivorous, hands settling on your legs and spreading them wider so he can admire you. It elicits a gasping little whine from your, fingers gripping the pillows and hips squirming against his touch, only for him to still you

“Gently, pup. Tell me if it hurts.”

You nod enthusiastically into the pillow as you feel the length of him bump against your entrance promisingly. “Yes, Price, please, just- oh f-fuck-”

Your words drop into a low, drawn out moan as he gently rocks himself inside you, the fullness making your entire body ripple with a shudder. Yet Prices presses in further still, and it takes a few hiccuping breaths to force yourself through the sudden swell of pressure before he seats himself entirely inside you

Gods, you think deliriously, If that’s how big he is, then how much larger is his knot?

Yet there’s no discomfort, not as you expected. Instead your body opens and welcomes the flushes length of him inside a velvety embrace, as if Price belongs there

Price grinds himself inside you with slow, lazy circles, and you keen, thrust back to meet him in a desperate bid for motion. Yet Price’s hand settles on you with a small amount of sterness, a gentle gesture coaxing you to still. There’s a warning little grunt that is a soft reminder to relax, submit, surrender to this man who’s keeping such gentle and firm care of you

Your air drops from your chest with a breathless moan as Price withdraws and then presses himself back inside you with slow, precise thrusts that make your knees go weak. The friction lights up something at the base of your spine you weren’t even aware existed, and the sensuous rush of dizzying pleasure races along the underside of your skin

“God, Price, it’s-” You try, voice cracking with desperate want. “Feels so good, I-”

“Shhh.” Price offers you, lowering himself across your back so the warmth of him envelops you, washing your senses in gossamer comfort. “Relax, little omega. I’ve got you.”

“Alpha-” You keen, trying to press back against him for more.

“Stay still for me, love.” He tells you, voice a little lower now in a mild warning. 

You realize too late what he’s doing, sawing back and forth inside you with slow, lazy presses, working you up to a hazy-eyed orgasm that sunsets the remainder of your resistance in your thoughts. The pleasure builds, and builds more, and even when you plead with Price to fuck you in earnest he simply shushes you, traces a thumb over your gland until you go into whimpering stillness

“Doing well, omega.” He purrs in your ear, thrusting little shallow thrusts inside you that curve against a raw bundle of nerves. You gasp, wiggle again to try and chase the feeling, but Price keeps you pliant for him with a firm grasp and a low, breathy growl that makes you arch your neck with a whimper

He rewards you with a small quickening of his pace, a thumb on your gland and suddenly you’re there, right on the edge, gasping his name, forcing yourself back onto him as your orgasm washes deeply over you

It’s a slow, intensive release that has your fists curling in the sheets, breath stuttering as your walls ripple down over the length of his cock. It punches the air from your chest, entire body bowing and then releasing with a deep sigh of fulfillment

Price grunts through it, his grip on you suddenly tightening as he forces himself to not release just yet, and it isn’t until your breathing has evened out that you realize he’s still hard

Oh. You think dopily. He was just warming me up

You’re entirely right, because as soon as your breathing evens out Price suddenly picks up his pace, and you cry out with a touch of overstimulation. Yes his hands are gentle, coaxing as he works you up to another imminent release, only to draw it away, offer it, and edge you until your voice is a mere, gasping plea of his name

Breaking is not the right word, you think. Price is not so rough as to break you. Even so, this dizzying tide and retreat of endless pleasure seems to test the limits of your patience and endurance in a different way, reducing you past words and into utter compliancy, molding you into his touch and demanding a full, exhaustive surrender into him

By the time Price is thrusting with his hips slapping against yours, seeking his own release with grunted, husky breaths against your shoulder, you’re nothing more than a puddle in his hands, reduced to whimpering little keens and mewls that only seem to encourage him

“I-inside-'' You gasp when he asks you, his fingers reaching up to tangle with yours as an anchor. “Price- Price please, fuck-”

It’s the only thing you can manage before your orgasm thunders through you, making you arch with a wail of release. Price fucks you straight through it, forcing himself inside you even as you clench around him. He’s barely made a sound other then gentle murmurs and aborted little grunts this entire time, but when Price finally comes the sound he makes is sinful

It’s caught between a gasp and a growl, and you feel him press flush to you before his cock twitches with a flood of warmth, branding you in a milky white release

You’re floating still when he lays flat atop you, turning your head gently so he can press a tender, fleeting kiss to your gland

You're going to smell like him for days, maybe even weeks.

“Alpha…” You sigh dreamily as he turns you onto your sides, not withdrawing quite yet, happy to soften inside your luxurious warmth. You burrow back into him, dazed but utterly satisfied, drowsy with release

Price holds you to him, kneads circles into the leg thrown over his hip to keep you open. A remnant of his spend trickles out from your joining, and briefly his fingers dip to smear it against your folds, as if to further drown you in his scent

“Did so well, love.” He murmurs against your nape, holding you fast to his chest almost territorially. “Rest now, I’ll get us both cleaned up in a bit.”

You surrender immediately to his request, instincts entirely succumbed to the touch of the alpha holding you. Your eyes droop shut, warm slumber beckoning to you with soft darkness as he murmurs gently to you

“Going to take good care of you, omega. You’re safe with us.”

Taglist:

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#price x reader #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #alpha john price #price x you #cod omegaverse #omegaverse #mdni #minors dni #my fic #my writing

[bimrsadler]

For something nasty? Low Honor!Arthur with an F!reader in a scenario that leads to either dub-con or con-nonconsent (your choice) because she's physically ill somehow? Maybe vulnerable to Arthur due to a bad showdown/gunshot or just wrong place wrong time? Sounds weird I bet dfjblg but if you do do this, ty!!

In A Bind

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female reader

Word count: 3,000

Warnings/tags: nsft, con-noncon, lots of dirty talk, d/s themes with bratty reader, rough oral (m receiving), rough sex, unprotected piv, creampie, light degradation, LH Arthur, established relationship/consent

Summary: after a failed robbery lands you in a Rhodes jail cell, Arthur comes to spring you but finds he can kill two birds with one stone in the process

Notes: this is just 3k words of smut basically lol, also my first time writing cnc so I kept it on the lighter side (plus even LH Arthur would never go further than that imo) but that being said if cnc of any kind is an ick for you - don’t read

Twiddling your thumbs in the quiet jail cell, you watched shadows from the trees outside as they danced on the wall — wishing desperately you hadn’t gotten yourself into this mess.

Arthur would no doubt be unbearable about it, with his sarcastic tsk tsks and I told ya so’s as he stood tall with his hands on his gunbelt, shit-eating grin wide and proud on his face. But dear God, as much as he could drive you crazy, he charmed you to death as he did.

It had been some time now since Sheriff Gray stumbled outside on “business,” clearly drunk on the moonshine the boys had recently recovered.

Unfortunately he had been sober enough to chase you down after a stagecoach robbery gone south the day before.

The bullet he fired grazed your leg and spooked your horse, stirrup catching around your ankle and twisting it as you hit the ground hard enough to knock the air from your lungs.

You were given cloth to tie around it and you’d seen worse, but it would put you out of commission for a few days.

Eventually the heavy footfall of boots on the wood floor broke the silence as Arthur came into view. Sauntering over with that stupid grin and familiar stance — he stopped in front of your cell and laughed.

“Well, well…quite a predicament you got yerself in missy,” after a pause and lazy scratch of his short beard he continued condescendingly. “I told ya not to go pokin’ ‘round where ya ain’t ‘sposed to.”

“I’ll poke around wherever I goddamn please, Mr. Morgan,” you stated unabashedly.

He raised his eyebrows and scoffed (smug taunt), “and look where that’s got ya.”

“I saw an opening and I took it. Care to tell me how many times Hosea and Dutch have rescued you over the years?”

“Lotta tough talk from a little lady stuck in a jail cell, don’tcha think?”

Arthur leaned closer to the bars and lowered his voice, “way I see it, you oughta choose yer next words carefully seein’ as I’m the only one who can help.”

Ignoring his vague threat you gestured towards his chest, “I think that silly little badge you’ve been wearing is going to your head. I can take care of myself.”

“That so? You ain’t foolin’ me. I could see that little shiver when I walked in, and yer still breathin’ fast. From where I’m standin’?”

Arthur reached through the bars to caress your cheek, a gesture in stark contrast to his deep and rough drawl. “Ya look like a rabbit caught in a trap.”

He slowly moved his hand along the growing length in his jeans, palming languidly at the sight of you sweating. “Now…what’re ya gonna do fer me if I let ya out? Seems fair don’t it?”

Astounded with his audacity you scoffed, “my leg’s hurt, the hell do you expect me to be able to do?”

Arthur responded without missing a beat, “ya can kneel right? Yer mouth ain’t hurt is it?”

“Pig,” you sneered as you crossed your arms in protest.

He chuckled darkly at your insult, rubbing himself harder. “Ya can lie down and open them pretty legs for me can’tcha?”

“I think you’re all talk, tough guy. Why don’t you come in here and make me?”

Arthurs eyes studied your face as you tried not to break your showing of defiance. You were going to make him fight for it as long as you could.

He was surprisingly agile for such a large man, giving you no time to react before your wrist was trapped in his much larger, much more powerful hand.

“C’mon asshole, knock it off.” Swearing under your breath and trying to pull away did nothing as he tied your wrists around the cool metal bars with his bandana.

“Quit squirmin’ and get on yer knees.”

You leaned in as close to the outlaws face as you could against the bars and spoke in a daring whisper, “ya deaf? I said, you’re gonna have to make me.”

Arthur placed a powerful hand on the shoulder opposite of your hurt leg and pushed. Even at his gentlest he was exceptionally strong, barely needing to use any of his strength to urge you down.

Freeing himself from the confines of his pants, he stroked his twitching cock inches from your face and thumbed your lower lip with his other hand.

You turned your head away from him defiantly, contempt clear on your face.

“Ah ah, what’s the matter princess? Too good for this? You’ll be cryin’ my name in no time, that’s a promise.”

“You wish.”

“Quit stallin’ now or you’ll be stuck in here even longer.”

Placing his forefinger and thumb on your chin he moved you to face him, broad figure towering above you as he waited for your warm mouth.

Positioning himself between the bars in front of you, he prodded your lips apart with the head, urging his hips forward as you took him further.

Arthur let out a long, groaning sigh. “That’s it, take it darlin’.”

He was slow at first, pushing to the back of your throat gently as you adjusted your lips to his girth; twirling your tongue around the tip and hollowing your cheeks along the shaft.

Glancing up you saw Arthur’s arms extended above him, hands white-knuckling the bars and eyes sealed shut it bliss. Every light thrust he made was accompanied by a sharp breath or husky groan.

Feeling ashamed, you realized the sight and sensation made your pussy absolutely throb — it was already becoming difficult to pretend you didn’t want this.

Small moans traveled up your throat and vibrated around his cock as you bobbed your head eagerly; shifting on the floor and squeezing your knees together to accommodate the uncomfortable arousal.

Always keen on your body and its responses to him, Arthur grinned and sucked the air through his teeth. “See? I knew you wanted this, I bet yer soaking through to the floor just from suckin’ on me. That right?”

You were dangerously close to giving into your lust drunk stupor, to rambling and moaning with spit hanging off your chin; though you couldn’t give him the satisfaction without a fight just yet.

You pulled your head back and away to remove him from your mouth, looking up at him with raised eyebrows. “Lotta talk for someone who was about to come in ten more seconds.”

“We’ll see if yer still sassin’ me like this when ya can’t walk tomorrow. Now, I asked you a question woman.”

You batted your lashes and smirked, “that’s funny, I don’t recall hearing a question. All I could hear was you whimpering.”

Gathering a fistful of your hair Arthur pushed into your mouth and to the back of your throat, causing a gag as your nose met his chestnut curls. The thrusts were rough and sloppy now, his soft whines turning into primal, teeth gritting grunts.

“Tired a hearin’ you talk girl, yer mouth’s better at this anyway,” you looked up at his crooked smile, drool gathering at the corners of your mouth.

“Now…fuck — let’s try this again. I bet yer soaked just from havin’ my cock in yer mouth, ain’t that right?”

Arthur pulled out quickly to let you respond — and to catch your breath.

“Yes,” you mewled and panted, unable to stifle your dizzying lust. “I’m so goddamn wet right now.”

Arthur laughed smugly as he fished for something in his pocket, “that’s what I thought.” Revealing the cell keys he let himself in and closed the door behind him.

Still tied to the bars, Arthur circled around you slowly as his eyes traveled along every inch of you. For the first time you truly did feel like a rabbit caught in a trap.

“Can ya stand?”

Your replied nervously, “I think so…”

“Then do it…” His snarl was dark and harsh and sent a shockwave straight to your core.

He felt dangerous and you felt cornered.

Gently pulling yourself upright Arthur allowed you to test the waters. Putting pressure on your ankle, you found that the pain was a quiet whisper compared to the aching arousal between your legs.

He approached slowly, boots thudding next to you as the scent of leather and tobacco was carried with it. He opened the front of your dress forcefully to slip a hand inside, squeezing and massaging your breast with his cock twitching at your side.

“Can’t let an opportunity like this pass me up can I?” His pulling and pinching of the pert peak made your hips roll at the air.

Moving behind you, Arthur placed his hands on your hips and rutted his hardness against the soft fabric over your backside with shallow breaths.

You spoke in a breathy plead, “haven’t I given you enough yet Morgan?”

“Hardly. You think that pretty little mouth a yers was all I wanted?”

Pressing himself tight against you he dragged the flat of his hand along your mound possessively. “I deserve this tight cunt too don’t I?”

He tilted your head backward against his chest to look up at him, his other fingers tightening along your slit — pressing into the soaked undergarments. “Don’t I?”

You nodded with a lick of your lips, not wanting to say it out loud but left helpless to his appetite.

The outlaw brought his lips close enough to your ear that you felt the scratch of his stubble as he spoke, “good girl.”

Bending you forward, Arthur made your lower half bare to him, wetness glistening invitingly. Without warning he entered you with three of his sizable fingers, immediately motioning inside of you.

“So fuckin’ wet for me girl, thought you didn’t want this huh?”

All you could muster was a weak moan, focusing instead on the ebb and flow already increasing in your abdomen, the lewd sound of Arthur working your walls, the absolute debauchery and how good it made you feel.

“Got nothin’ to say now do ya? If you wanna come I better hear it.”

Arthur suddenly removed his fingers, leaving you desperate at the sudden hollowness.

The digits instead roughly penetrated your mouth, making you suck them clean of your juices. “Taste that? That’s what I do to ya girl, may as well jus’ admit it.”

“Now…beg for it.” he asserted harshly as you whined around his fingers. The palm of his other hand collided with your ass, leaving a hot sting. “Ain’t playin’ girl. Beg. Or I’ll take what’s mine and go.”

And this is what you wanted. For Arthur to tell you off and take you, to make you beg and turn you into jelly. The shame was merely an afterthought now that your carnal body had taken over.

“Please Arthur,” you swayed your ass and rolled your hips. “Please — let me come.”

Another playful slap landed on your backside as he stuffed his fingers inside of you once more, “yer lucky yer so goddamn gorgeous.”

You felt his other hand move to your sensitive bud, rolling in circles as he fingered you. “C’mon now, lemme feel how bad you want it.”

Obscene noise and filthy words filled the cell and ushered in your peak, waves of fluttering giving way to squeezing pulses around Arthur’s fingers.

Crying out your body fell forward, shaking and spent.

Giving you no time to recover, Arthur spread your swollen and sensitive lips as he entered you, flush with your ass and twitching in your core, a relieved groan escaped his lungs.

“Fuck…Arthur!”

“You can take it sweetheart…you can take it.”

As wet as you were — and as wet as he always made you; there was still a sweet sting as you adjusted to his girth. But Arthur was not patient today.

His iron grip on your waist was the only thing keeping you from collapsing as he pistoned in and out of you, pushing the air from your lungs with each thrust.

“Someone,” you fought through the stuttered breaths, “stop — someone could come in!”

“Oh but you’d like that wouldn’t you?” Arthur pulled your hair and rode harder. “You’d like the whole town to see what a little whore y’are, ain’t that right?”

Arthur slowed his pace to a long, languid grinding. “Let ’em watch, then they’ll know yer all mine.”

His substantial hand travelled slow down your spine, almost lovingly. You had a feeling this wasn’t part of the act.

“No one else gets to touch you like this — take you like this.”

Your breath hitched in your chest at Arthur’s words, injured ankle faltering slightly. Taking notice he untied you from the cell bars and laid you face down, flat on the cot.

Now that you were more comfortable, his demeanor snapped back to dominance.

Arthur’s hands pawed roughly at your ass, fingernails digging in as he rutted against your dripping slit.

You couldn’t help but grind your mound against the thin mattress and ass along the bottom of his shaft, the time for feigning disinterest long gone.

“Give it to me,” you pleaded against the thin pillow, losing all composure.

Keeping your legs together Arthur once again entered you, the sting no lesser in this tight position. “Look atcha, ain’t even hidin’ that ya want it anymore.”

Arthur’s broad torso encompassed you as he hovered above your back, repeatedly slamming into your heat with hot, wanton breaths against your ear.

Pressed into the mattress you listened to Arthur’s breathing become ragged and felt his body stiffen, all signs that he was close.

In one swift movement he pulled out to flip you on your back, pinning your wrists above your head as he plunged back into you.

“Wanna look at that pretty face while I fill you up. You want it?”

You turned your head to the side, feeling your body flush with heat from the intimacy of his words — of his future actions.

“Yeah you do,” Arthur leaned into your neck, sucking and biting at the tender flesh above your collarbone.

You couldn’t help but grind against him as he bucked into you, much to his delight. “Such a dirty girl, knew you wanted it. Coulda just enjoyed it sooner if ya weren’t such a goddamn brat.”

Lacing your fingers through the honey locks pressed against his forehead in sweat, you tugged gently while dragging the nails of your other hand down his back.

Arthur winced with a proud smile, “gonna empty myself inside ya.” He paused with a bite of his lip and groan, “I’ll be drippin’ down yer thighs and all over that nice dress…”

You could feel his cock flexing inside your heat, talking himself into a frenzy with each passing second.

Falling on top of you as his climax took over, Arthur moved in for a heated kiss; the first since he walked through the door.

Pressing deep inside you his hips moved in shallow jerks while painting your walls. A single, honest groan released from his mouth into yours, turning into whimpering shudders as his tongue roamed.

Arthur laid his forehead on the pillow beside you with a quiet expletive as you both took a moment to catch your breath.

Stirring slowly you felt his calloused hands running down your calf and toward your ankle. “Y’okay?” He gently ran his thumb over the swollen skin, “I can go take care of that bastard, don’t give a damn if he’s the Sheriff.”

“I’m okay, handsome.”

“Good. Ya know, ya didn’t need to get yerself arrested to get me to uh,” he grinned with a chuckle, “well…fuck ya like this.”

Playfully slapping his chest you exclaimed, “you know I didn’t do this on purpose!”

“I dunno, yer a pretty wild woman. I wouldn’t put it past ya.”

“Shut up,” you teased.

Arthur was rough around the edges but you trusted him. After many mornings of trying to keep quiet in the tent, humid nights shared at the Flat Iron lakeside, sweating and entwined with praises and whispers; you couldn’t help your lust drunk confessions. Wanting excitement and thrill, to do things the other hadn’t done with anyone else.

“So was it…thrillin’ enough for ya then?”

“That and then some, cowboy.” You ran your hand across his bulky chest. “What’d you think?”

“That it’s the hottest — and craziest thing I ever done,” he laughed and squeezed your ass playfully. “And on that note we should get goin’ ’fore anyone comes back.”

As the two of you began making sure you were decent, you inquired, “won’t Sheriff Gray put it together that it was you who broke me out?”

“He’s drunk as Uncle on a Saturday night sweetheart, he won’t even remember I was here.”

Arthur paused as his tone grew stern, “really though, what were you thinkin’? You gotta be more careful.”

He was right, but his pension for being overprotective and pushy in these situations felt unnecessary after an injury and arrest. “Most of the gang’s been in jail or tights spots at least once, comes with the territory.”

He taunted, “maybe, but what if I ain’t around to rescue ya next time?”

“I could’ve broken out myself. Wouldn’t be hard to seduce a nervous old deputy anyway,” you winked.

“Ain’t funny.”

“Well quit givin’ me a hard time then.”

“Alright alright, let’s get ya outta here.” Arthur wrapped his arm around your waist as he ushered you through the back of the jail, supporting you through your slight limp.

Before he helped you up on his horse you planted a quick kiss to his cheek, “thank you, Arthur.”

He shrugged dismissively in response but the rosey tint forming on his face didn’t go unnoticed. “C’mon now, let’s get you home and get that leg better.”

#nsft #arthur morgan #low honor arthur morgan #rdr2 #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x f!reader #arthur morgan x reader #red dead redemption #arthur morgan fanfiction #rdr2 fanfiction

[jomiddlemarch]

While You Were Sleeping

Chapter 4

Some people, primarily Muggles, count sheep when they have trouble falling asleep.

Wizards preferred Puffskeins or occasionally crups. Molly Weasley had once admitted she counted crups in Weasley sweaters, after George had spiked her tea with something she made him pull from the store shelves.

(Hermione did not believe anyone who said they counted dragons other than Hagrid, who listed them off by their forenames.)

Hermione preferred facts.

Fact: the Eguzkiko continued to think she and Draco were a married couple.

Fact: Draco was fluent in at least five languages.

Fact: Draco wore a subtle cologne that smelled like Hermione imagined the Silk Road would, minus the camels.

(Unconfirmed fact: this was exactly what Amortentia now smelled like to Hermione, forget cut grass and parchment.)

Fact: Hermione’s facts were usually about statistics, geopolitical historical alliances, and characters in Dickens’ novels because her father had loved those dearly but since the start of this mission, her facts had increasingly, exclusively become All About Draco.

Fact: Hermione appeared to have Feelings for sodding brilliant, widely accomplished and knicker-incineratingly fit Draco Black Malfoy, Esq., Feelings she felt ill-equipped to express.

Fact: She felt no more drowsy now than when she’d extinguished the reading lamp and turned on her side to avoid trying to make out his profile or the exquisite line of his neck against the pillowcase.

Fac—THUMP.

“What was that?” she exclaimed.

“I don’t—” Draco began.

THUMP. Thump. thump.

“What the bloody fuck?!” Draco said, sitting bolt upright. There was a yelping quality to his cry, that couldn’t be denied, though his voice was still pitched low enough that no one would have called it a shriek. Also, being bolt upright showed his broad shoulders to notable advantage (who knew pyjamas could be so impeccably tailored?)

In any case, Hermione had that covered, the shriek-department that is. She did manage to keep it to one solitary shriek that she choked back at the end, right at the moment when Draco reached over and grabbed her upper arms. She only had a split second to evaluate the grabbing, but it was definitely from the making-sure-you’re-real and I’ve-got-you-don’t-worry categories, not the get-a-hold-of-yourself-witch or I’m-about-to-shake-you-silly-for-being-a-silly-bint. Also, his hands were big and warm and transiently made her feel very much cherished and she was glad she’d tied back her hair so he didn’t accidentally pull any of it, though the prospect of his hands gently running through her curls was dreadfully appealing.

When she wasn’t devoting her not inconsiderable brain-power towards the mental recitation of facts, she was capable of noticing quite a bit.

“Are you all right?” he asked. With the grabbing, he’d closed the distance between them and they were close enough she could see the hints of green and blue in his grey eyes, the faint shadow of his beard, a darker shade than his hair. There was a small scar near his left temple and she wondered at what curse had caught him there, how badly he’d been injured to leave such a mark impervious to the Healers at St. Mungo’s. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, are you?” she said. Her heart was still beating very fast, but it had more to do with Draco than the earlier noise.

“Yes,” he said. He loosened his grasp on her and let his hands drop, but they still rested on her forearms, lightly enough she could shrug him off. She did not.

“What was that?” she said when the moment had started to grow too intense, the hollow at the base of his throat too tempting.

“I don’t know,” he said. “At home, I’d guess it might be an old house settling for the night or a storm brewing, but here—”

“Could it be something magic?” she said. She swallowed, then said what she’d first thought, when all she had felt was terror, when she’d wanted to call out his name. “Don’t laugh at me—”

“I won’t,” he said.

“A monster. Under the bed. I know it sounds foolish,” she said.

Hermione was absolutely certain that every single one of her acquaintances, with the sole exception of Luna Lovegood, would agree it sounded foolish. And even Luna was likely to give her reassuring smile and tell her that kidakomori were far fonder of people than people ever gave them credit for and Hermione would have to pretend that she was aware of kidakomori and their undeservedly dubious reputation.

“It doesn’t sound foolish. Not to me,” Draco said. 

“What?”

“I didn’t want to say it first, because I agree it makes me sound unhinged, but I also thought of a monster under the bed,” he replied.

“You were supposed to talk sense to me. To tell me I was overreacting,” Hermione said.

“Are you even capable of overreacting?” Draco countered. “I realize I am tacitly validating your prior assault on me—”

“We were children! And you were beastly,” Hermione said.

“And I deserved it,” he said.

“Well, no one deserves to be hit,” Hermione said.

“I understand the progressive Muggle approach to childhood discipline and in general, I don’t disagree but in that particular situation, I must say I did. And not only because I was making a point.” He smiled at her and she liked it far too much.

“Do you really think there’s a monster under our bed?” she said, trying not to whisper and failing. 

“You said our bed,” Draco replied.

“That’s what you’re choosing to focus on? Not the monster part? And the fact that we have no wands and even wandless magic is verboten in here, even assuming either of us knew what spell to cast for a monster under the bed,” she ranted. Her exposure to Parseltongue had been so negative (whose wasn’t?) she kept herself from hissing, but it was a close call. Draco moved his right hand from her forearm to her wrist and then laced his fingers through hers. It would have been the sexiest move she could remember any man making except for the possible monster beneath them.

“Inanis belua, but you have to put the emphasis on the bel and let the final a drift. Like leviosa,” Draco said.

“Inanis belua,” she repeated.

“Perfect,” he said. “You’ve always had an ear for incantation.”

“How did you learn it?” Hermione asked. It seemed he wasn’t going to make her face the implications of our bed. At least not at the moment.

“Narcissa,” Draco said, again referring to his mother by her first name. Hermione almost wished for another round of eerie thumps to distract them both from the ticking bomb that was his relationship with his mother. “She coddled me, as much as she could—the Malfoy heir was expected to be superior in all regards, but the Blacks tend to be high-strung, overly sensitive. It was a secret, that she taught me the spell. I wasn’t to tell my father.”

“I don’t think it’s coddling to make your little boy feel safe,” Hermione said, hoping she’d picked the least inflammatory aspect of what he’d shared. The less she said about Lucius Malfoy the better. Even after all these years, she wasn’t sure she could talk about him without venom and however Draco felt, the man was still his father, albeit immured in Azkaban .

“Perhaps,” Draco said.

“I suppose you think it’s horribly middle-class of me. Or Muggle,” she said.

“I think you were raised by kinder people than I was,” he said. Hermione thought of the estrangement that existed between her and her parents and also how it had been as the Grangers’ little girl, the plush calico kitten that had been tucked with her under her covers, the bedtime stories, the trips to the library with a trolley to bring home her latest acquisitions. When she thought of them, they were still Mum and Dad.

“It was Bellatrix who taught her the spell,” Draco said, watching her face. His own eyebrows were drawn together, a serious expression similar to one he wore when wrangling with a particularly thorny bit of medieval Eguzkikan legislation.

“I take it you’re of the confront your fear persuasion,” Hermione said. “Or is this some kind of weirdly roundabout apology Or a Pureblood thing? If it’s a Pureblood thing, you’ll have to give me some context, like whether it’s all the Sacred Twenty-Eight or just the Blacks. It doesn’t feel authentically Malfoy.”

“I’m not sure what it is,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his left hand, still hanging onto her right with his own. “I thought, we’re talking about monsters, from our past, we’ve never spoken about what happened with Bellatrix. We’re sleeping together every night, it seemed odd not to address it but perhaps that was better—"

“It wasn’t better. But this isn’t necessary,” she said.

“I think it is,” Draco replied. “Necessary, but not better. She’s so hard to talk about and no one wants to, beyond cursing her, and I understand, but to not talk about her, it’s as stupid to me as blasting Andromeda off the tapestry. And I’ve never told you how terribly sorry I am that I couldn’t figure out some other way to help you, when she was hurting you. I don’t know what I could have done but that’s not enough, Hermione. It never was and now—”

Draco broke off and Hermione found herself raising her left hand to cup his cheek, stroking her thumb across his cheekbone. It went on far to long for him to mistake is for only gentleness.

“D’you know, I think we’ve had enough of monsters,” she said. “Only I wonder—”

“What?” he said.

“There’s been no more noise. Might we have done wandless magic with that spell of yours, banished the bedframe’s resident horror to parts unknown? And if we did, will the Eguzkiko be deeply offended and break off diplomatic relations?” Hermione asked.

“I won’t tell,” Draco said. “Wandless is near-impossible to trace and tandem wandless hasn’t been recorded. Or regulated in any magical region. I think we’re safe.”

*

Fact: Draco’s eyes weren’t only grey.

Fact: Draco had been a little boy afraid of monsters.

Fact: Hermione wanted to fall asleep holding Draco Black Malfoy’s hand. And he let her.

#dramione #there was only one bed #fake marriage #rom-com #but with angst #hermione POV #hermione granger #draco malfoy #hermione x draco #post-hogwarts #epilogue what epilogue #sleepy time tropes #diplomat!hermione #lawyer!draco #getting into family stuff #the author repudiates JK Rowling

[maracujatangerine]

79. The butler didn’t do it - part 2

CW: pet whump, animal death

Lydia leafed through page after page, pen in hand, marking out passages to be revised and spelling mistakes to be corrected.

*

The butler didn’t do it

The low, midwinter sun cast its golden glow over the snow-covered forest. White-robed spruce and birch, rowan and beech, all stood silent in the cold. No wind stirring their branches.

The only thing moving was a lonely figure in a grey cloak who arduously trudged through the snow. They dragged a heavy spruce branch behind them, efficiently obscuring their tracks.

A man on a gleaming chestnut horse came to meet them. The horse high stepping through the snow. The jingling of the tack and the muffled hoofbeats loud in the stillness.

“There you are, Coal!” The man’s voice was suffused with joy and relief. He pushed back his brown hood to reveal long, dark hair, a neatly trimmed beard and sparkling, blue eyes. He reached out a restraining hand. “No, no, do not kneel. How are you?”

The blonde man bowed deeply. “I am well, Master. They have not suspected a thing.”

“Well done!” The man frowned. “Your clothes are too thin.” With a swift motion he unclasped his cloak, whipped it off and leaned down to lay it around Coal’s shoulders.

“Thank you, Master.” The pet gratefully wrapped the warm cloak tighter around himself. “I dare not arouse suspicion by showing off things that are above my station in life.”

“I’m sure you could come up with an excuse,” the rider grumbled, “a gift from your late master. A gift for uncommonly devoted service, that sort of thing. It is not uncommon, you know.”

Coal petted the horse’s neck, the mare nuzzling his hair with familiar affection.

“With all respect, Master. It isn’t worth the risk.”

“I trust your judgement.” The rider sighed. “I’m just worried about you.” He rallied, and continued briskly. “How did you manage to get out?”

“Like we planned. The cook was very happy with my avowed skill in setting traps and eager with the prospect of some hares to add to the supplies.”

“Brilliant.” The dark-haired man opened his saddlebag and revealed a brace of hares. Their soft, white fur shimmering in the pale sunlight. Thin, red lines circling their necks.

“Here you go, to further strengthen your reputation. I have sent Meredith to restring your traps.” He laughed. “She is a natural. She will take the path by the manor and insisted on wearing your old booths in case someone would be suspicious enough to check.”

“I had expected nothing less.” They exchanged proud smiles. Coal stuffed the hares into his own satchel.

“What is the mood in the house?”

“Everyone is in a tizzy about the upcoming holidays, eagerly and nervously awaiting the arriving guest.”

“I’m still angling for an invitation.” The rider interjected. “I will do all that is possible to make sure that I am there.”

“Thank you, Master.” The pet nodded and continued on. “The pets and the servants - not all of the servants are pets - are afraid.” He paused, thoughtfully. “But not, I think, of Mistress Gwendolyn, who I have barely seen, but who I hear is strict but fair and not unduly hash. The butler, the housekeeper and the cook have all been long with the household and they seem also generally well-liked by the staff. However… I’m sorry, Master. It pains me to speak ill of a person… the Mistress’ son seems to be a right piece of work. Cruel, insidious and apt to make problems for the staff.”

“Hmm…” The owner rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I haven’t heard anything about this, but I will try to find out more about him. Anything else?”

“I think that is all for now.”

“Good work. Here, I brought some food for you.”

“Thank you, Master.” The pet handed over the cloak and took the packet. He bowed again. “I will head back. I’ll try to return here on the day after tomorrow.”

“Coal?”

“Yes, Monsieur Dupond.”

“Be careful.”

“I will.”

*

Satisfied, Lydia left all the pages in neat stack of papers on the windowsill. Coriander would go through them and add comments later, too.

*

This is the continuation of The Butler didn’t do it that absolutely no one asked for. 😂 Actually, this is a chapter of Lydia’s work in progress that happens before the events in the first part. Cory is working hard to help Lydia improve her writing, and specifically her writing of pets.

Tag List Part 1: @cupcakes-and-pain @whump-em @whumpzone @wh-wh-whu @neuro-whump @carnagecardinal @cowboy-anon @whump-me-all-night-long @redwingedwhump @myst-in-the-mirror @haro-whumps @eatyourdamnpears @bloodsweatandpotato @pinkraindropsfell @whumptywhumpdump @theydy-cringeworthy @whump-in-progress @whumpsy-daisy @nicolepascaline @whumpcreations @briars7 @shiningstarofwinter @whumppsychology @alex-ember @miss-kitty-whumptastic @whumpy-writings @in-patient-princess @youtube-fandoms-bands @goblinchildindabog @mazeish @distinctlywhumpthing @inpainandsuffering @canniboylism @icannotweave @incoherent-introspection @kim-poce @broken-typewriter @the-monarch-whumperfly @whumpers-inc @grizzlie70 @lil-whumper @writingbackwards @sunflower1000 @wingedwhump @thecitythatdoesntsleep @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @onlybadendings @rabass @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning

#pet whump #lydia and coriander #pet whumpee #bbu #box boy multiverse #box boy universe #whump fic #writers on tumblr #writeblr #original writing

[saradika]

hoping against hope

Rated M - 2.8k

Pairings - kino loy x wife!reader

Tags: andor spoilers, fix-it fic, hurt/comfort, mentions of violence and death, anxiety, vaguely implied sexual content, loose third-person pov, flashbacks

Summary: There is one way out. And against all odds - he takes it.

He comes home.

A/N - Based heavily on this vanity fair interview (the snippets of his backstory), and an exploration to see what it might be like if he had made it home to his family (which comprises of his wife - no descriptors given). Of course Andor is so brilliantly written - this is purely for a little bit of angst and comfort.

There had been a time - years ago - when a knock at the door would have had her racing through the room.

Her heart leaping into her throat as she threw open the door, chest so tight she could hardly breathe.

And now, she despises it.

It’s become a painful thing, something she’s become dulled to over the years. Enough to where if she has company, they will answer the door for her. Walk right in, if they know she is home.

But she’s alone, tonight.

And the knock rings out, again.

———

It’s late, far past dark - nerves coiling in her stomach as her fingers curl around the blaster. Something she had never wanted to own, but had become a necessity over the past few years.

With the troopers that moved into town, the trouble seeming to follow in their wake. A constant and painful reminder of what happened.

It’s been close to a decade but she still remembers the call - the hushed croak of a voice, the tone of someone not wanting to be overheard.

“It’s Kino. They’re here, at the mine-”

She knew the comm was from one of the boys on his shift. Had barely made it in time, pushing her way to the front of the crowd as a group of men were slapped in binders.

Her husband - red-faced, the shaken-loose swoop of hair that swung across his forehead - still arguing, as his arms are yanked behind him.

Her voice, carried through the air - his snarl cutting off as he sees her. The flash of sorrow, the moment of distraction used to push them into the transport.

Eight years.

For disturbing the peace.

For disrupting Empire regulations and procedure.

For just wanting fair hours - the recent increase in output leading to illness, accidents, injury. Two men in critical condition, a dozen more wounded, from a collapsed tunnel that never should have happened.

All under his watch.

It could have all been prevented.

It had been enough to make him snap.

A calm discussion that had quickly turned to shouting, to violence, leading to four men arrested. Their judgment passing just as quickly - barely any time to process, to say goodbye - before he was gone.

And it’s like a ghost stands before her now - as the door swooshes open. The blaster clattering to the floor, because she knows that shape, the curve of lips and the shape of a nose beneath the low hood of the cloak.

The hands that push the fabric back, the bit of light from the twin moons casting shadows across his face.

And though a part of her know this - her brain seems to stutter, the picture in front of her not making sense.

Because, it was him. Not entirely the him she knew. Her husband. His face is different - still him, just older. The dark ink of his hair turned silver, the light, neat beard now full and long. Lines carved deep from time around his eyes and forehead.

Though, his eyes are the same.

The same as the photos, the same as in her memories and dreams.

They blink at her - no words coming as he takes a step forward. As her arms are coming to wrap around him, a sob choking her as his hand curls around the back of her head, crushing her against him.

He was home.

———

The door locks in place when he steps inside.

There’s a million questions they both have, all of them tight and stuck in their throats. A weird sort of melancholic remembrance - a moment in time where things felt just as they had been. A jolt as they realize it couldn’t be more different.

She says his name and it’s like a gift - his memory returning, so much already restored when he had stepped onto this planet. Even more so when he found his way to the town.

So unsure if she would still be there.

That was something that had been on his mind for days, months. Years.

Afraid that she would have left. Or maybe, if she had stayed - that she had moved on.

Found someone else.

He wouldn’t have blamed her.

It would have hurt - after everything. Crawling his way out of that hell, to get back here.

But - he would have understood.

That twist of unease and fear finally and mercifully laid to rest, when he saw her standing in their doorway.

He’s home, but he’s not.

It’s not the same, and it never will be.

Her hand trembles against his face, thumb brushing over weeks-old scruff. He leans into it, the first touch in years that wasn’t a means to an end.

When her mouth presses to his and his eyes close, it’s now and it’s twelve years ago and he can hear a rough, ragged sound that takes him a moment to realize it’s coming from his own throat.

Eight years of pushing everything down, springing to the surface as his jaw grits.

She leads him to their room. Set up the same but much like them, the details had changed over the years. Searching through closets that still hold his things, even after all this time.

Finding him clothes, to get him out of the ones he’s been working in, traveling in, sleeping in. Clothes that weren’t even his - the shoes too tight on aching feet, the jacket frayed at the cuffs and heavily stained.

Both a luxury, after the prison.

“Tell me everything.” She tells him, handing him an old sweater that smells freshly laundered.

He hesitates.

So much like he had on the platform at Narkina 5.

Because nothing had turned out the way he thought it would. Even after the days, weeks, it took to get back here - he's still uncertain.

Such a different hestitation from before, because then, he had been sure of what would happen. Had known from the beginning, as soon as the whispers began.

Had made peace with it the night before. A stab of guilt the he had thought about the complicity he had been lulled into. The daze and ache in the hallway with Ulaf that came when he realized he was never going to leave that prison alive.

Because there would be no escape.

Not for him. Not here.

He couldn’t swim.

An irony that was not lost on him. It was a prison in more ways than one - caging him in, even as he stood, breathing in the fresh air.

Feet planted flat on the platform as the others rushed by, diving into the ocean, to their freedom. The rueful smile he had managed to send Keef, before the despair set in - so close to freedom, after all those years.

At the cost of his self-sacrifice, thousands of others could go home, rejoin their families. It was what he had to do, he knew that.

She was never far from his mind, as his eyes closed. Stinging, from the sun and the wind and the tears that seem to spring up, unbidden.

Not paying attention to the surge of men from another floor, rushing from the stairs. His feet ripped out from underneath him as he's suddenly falling.

Plummeting.

Kino is ripped from the memory when she touches his arm - still unsure if he’s real. A sentiment he understands well, the ghost of a smile he sends her way in thanks.

He’s sure he’s frightening her, that she’s worrying. So - as he eases off the torn, canvas jacket - he begins.

He fills in what he can - as he tugs on a pair of thick woolen socks, because he never wants to be barefoot again. Because she knows the timing didn’t line up. That he’s early, that something had happened.

Her hand clutched in his, as he catches her up over these years they’ve been apart. His voice clipped and mechanical, because the wounds are too fresh, and this is the only way he can get through them.

But there’s so many things he doesn’t tell her.

That he won’t ever say out loud.

How he’s spent the last three years unable to remember the way her voice sounded.

Hating himself for forgetting.

How he never thought he’d breathe fresh air, again. How there’s so much of him he’s had to tamp down, close up inside his head, just to make it through each day. Turning himself into a shell, because he had to.

How he’s seen death. Time and time again.

Seeing his own on that platform, how he mourned for himself but also for the woman waiting for him. Wondering if she would ever find out what happened.

His throat growing tight as he weaves in what he can. Skipping over the parts that were too painful. Trying to make her understand just how dire things had been, for all of them.

Her fury and fear and amazement written so plainly across her face. It’s hard to bear.

The afterwards is easier. How those in the water had scattered - how the few of them that had made it to the eastern shore had escaped.

Grateful for Keef again - figuring out how to sneak them aboard a transport that was heading off-world. Stealing clothes, lying through their teeth. Surviving.

Finding men desperate enough for workers, that they didn’t care where they came from. It had almost been funny - the old Weequay foreman telling them to keep their heads down, to do what they were told. It felt different, when you were a free man.

He could do that.

Hours of hard labor in exchange for a pitiful amount of credits. Each day passing, until he could afford a ship home.

Talking until his throat grows hoarse, until he’s realizing for the first time just how weary he is.

She takes over then - like she always had. Coaxing him to bed after a long shift, making him take care of himself.

Sliding in besides him, just as they used to. Lying in silence, her head pressed against his chest. His arms around her in an iron grip.

“I missed you.” He speaks into the dark, “Stars, I missed you.”

Grateful she can’t see him, the cracks that threaten to shatter his armor. He isn’t sure what would happen if she could.

Isn’t sure he’s that strong, yet.

His eyes shut when she repeats the words back.

Finally feeling like he can breathe again.

———

It pains her to hear what happened. To see him like this, though she’s never been more grateful. It’s feels unbelievable, what he’s been through.

Staying awake after he drifts off, exhaustion pulling him under after his long travels, the effort of revisiting the memories.

Watching him, the furrow in his brow that persists, even when asleep.

He’d always been a stern man.

It had become a running joke, the man who was used to barking orders, keeping the line running flawlessly.

A loth-wolf, ferocious as one.

Until he met her.

“And what am I, now?” He had asked, an eyebrow cocked - at one of their evenings spent in good company, at the local cantina.

The two men across from her exchanged looks, before one smirked, leaning closer.

“A tooka, chief.”

Kino had scoffed, lifting his glass - but she could see the edge of a smile hidden behind the cup.

Could feel the warmth of his hand, from where it rested along the back of the booth. Where his fingers brushed the bare skin of her neck, goosebumps raising after.

There was a lot she remembered about that night.

But, she thinks - that softening was gone.

All hard edges, now. Rougher than before.

She think she understands. She isn’t sure she could have made it through what he did - what he had to do to made it home.

The waiting had been agony, but she had bared it. The boys at the mine had been there for her, after. Checking on her, making sure she ate. They had respected him, knowing what he had done was for them.

But Kino had been alone. Stolen from her.

He wasn’t the only thing that Empire had taken from them.

Once upon a time, recently after they were married, there had been whispers. Just little hopes and dreams under the sheets, about their future together. Where they would live, where they would go. What they would do.

Things that she wasn’t even sure were possible - but at that moment, it hadn’t mattered.

It feels like the Empire has stolen that from them, as well. Hope and dreams and time.

So much time.

But, she thinks - maybe they could make it up.

Together.

———

It’s still dark when he finds himself gasping for breath.

Forgetting for a long moment where he is.

This happens often now - the memory of falling. The feeling of weightlessness, the terror as he suddenly jolts awake - expecting the icy impact.

Remembering the way the fear tasted as he went under, as sharp as the salt water that filled his throat.

Somehow - mercifully, instinctually - finding his way to the surface.

Thinking, better to die here, a free man - than face the same death of so many before him.

But he hadn’t. Another grace of the gods, the Force, he'd thank anything - as some of the men from his shift find him. He thinks he tells them to leave him. It’s hard to remember, the panic overshadowing his memories.

But they don't.

They remember his words.

You see someone who's confused, someone who is lost, you get them moving and you keep them moving until we put this place behind us.

They put the place behind them.

His feet touched down on land.

He reaches for her then, remembering. Just as he had reached for them, just as his head was about to submerge again.

The worn cotton of her nightdress feels like silk to his calloused fingers. Unable to sleep soundly in a room that isn’t harsh and white and sterile.

Too warm in his clothes but it’s better than being cold all the time, as he curls himself around her again. Slowly recounting all the things he’s forgotten.

Reacquainting himself with the one he loves, as she stirs, rolling over to face him. Remembering with slow and careful fingers, how they used to fit together so perfectly.

If he only has tonight - then he’ll make it count.

———

There’s the brush of his cheek against hers as the sky just starts to turn from violet to bronze, a voice low in your ear. Tugging her from slumber - this time a much more rested sleep.

“I can’t stay.”

There’s an edge to his voice, sorrow wrapped in steel because he hasn’t been sure how to tell her.

Because he had known. Had been asked to go with Keef and Melshi - where he had hesitated again.

“I can’t.” He had rasped, his eyes bouncing between the two of them.

Keef had understood. The sharp look in his eye, the way his head ducked to make eye contact. His words just as clipped and clear and sure as during that moment in the elevator.

“Kino. There is no going back. Not now.”

He knew there wasn’t. Not to before.

But he could afford a night, couldn’t he? Hadn’t he earned that, after all of those years?

Just a chance to see her, again.

She turns, frowning as she blinks sleepily at him, trying to caught up. Awake enough to notice the singularity of his words, the exact tone in which he says them.

“It’s not safe. For you, for me.” His arms tighten around her, betraying his words, “I haven’t told you everything that’s happened. I need to leave, before-“

Kino’s word die off as she scoffs, her frown deepening - as she rolls over to face him.

It’s insulting. How he assumes she’s stayed here because she wanted to. That she wouldn’t have ran - to her old home, to somewhere new, anywhere - if there had been a way to tell him.

That she hadn’t been terrified to leave the house for weeks, in case something had changed, and he had come home. That she still left notes when she left the house for more than an hour.

That she hadn’t been staying for him.

He misinterprets, hurt flashing across his features, before his jaw sets. But then she’s kissing him, the soft press of her mouth before she’s pushing herself up, legs swinging over the edge of the bed.

“Tell me the rest, then.” She calls from over her shoulder, as she pull the bags out from the storage beneath, “While we pack.”

She’s waited for him - just as he had for her.

She wasn’t letting go of him now.

#a fix it fic #kino loy x reader #kino lot x f!reader #kino loy x you #Kino Loy #andor spoilers

[slashyroguefics]

···

AU-gust 2023 Day 31: Two of the Above - Immortals Royalty

He shouldn’t be here.



Will stood in the corner of the ballroom, heart beating wildly in his chest, and watched the others titter around him as the anticipation of the guest of honor’s arrival grew. He had not spoken to a single soul, mask covering his face, and the stolen clothes that covered his person felt as if they would give him away at any moment.



The Prince’s promise had gone out to every regal and rich family in the kingdom, asking for unmarrieds to join him for an event. The news spread like wildfire until everyone knew, even lowly peasants like Will himself, and as he watched more and more come in to get their garments made and mended his jealousy got the better of him.



One of his clients, Duke Chilton, had come in to get his order and declared it “unfit and ugly even for a low blood” demanding his money back while leaving the outfit Will had taken hours to make. Chilton had bought the supplies, had given him all, and left without care.



Will did not know why he chose to sneak into the ball, nor how he’d slipped in with such ease, but he had. He had yet to see the Duke, and if he did he’d be exposed to everyone as a low blood.



The Prince would have every right to order his removal, or worse his death. No one was allowed into the castle without invitation. This was near treason, but as Will took in the glamor and splendor around him he could not help but be in awe.



It was beautiful here.



He imagined living here, dancing with the Prince, and tears came to his eyes.



What a dream that would be.



Will knew he was not as comely as those here, would never be noticed, but tonight he thought he looked handsome. The suit he’d made for Chilton was royal blue with gold inlays, shining now under the bright lights, and his hair was perfectly curled while he’d shaved his usual beard.

He was a different person, a dream, and though he’d never get the Prince’s attention he wanted to experience a life as one of the upper class if only just for the night.



He heard the music start up again, and though there many started to dance as he watched with envy. Will had never been a dancer, not really, and he’d never be able to come to court like others had when they were young. Now, at nearly thirty, he was way past marrying age.



Will knew he’d be alone forever but still it was nice to dream.



“Enjoying yourself?”



He jumped, surprised at the stranger who seemed to come out of nowhere. The man was dressed in white and blue, hardly noticeable among many others with the same - the royal colors were popular - but still there was something about him.



“Yes, I…yes,” he said, turning away as he blushed sipping his wine.



“The Prince is rather late,” the man said, “Just like one of them.”



Will frowned. “One of them?”



“The royals,” the man said, “You know, the…you know.”



“I don’t understand,” Will said, glaring at him, “The royals are…it’s…you shouldn’t speak ill of the Prince.”



The man scoffed. “Why? Is he going to strike me down? We have free will, man. Use yours. The Prince doesn’t want a sycophant as his intended, nor does he want a mewling whore who will open his legs just because….”



Will blinked back tears. “Sir, you….”



All of a sudden, a hand came to Will’s shoulder, and he froze when a voice like silk whispered near his ear.



“Is this man bothering you?”

Continued in: AU-gust Writing Challenge 2023 - Chapter 31: Immortals Royalty

#au gust 2023 #hannigram #hannigram au #hannigram fanfic #hannigram fanfiction #regency au #supernatural au

[grand-theft-carbohydrates]

Ode to grief #4

A long time ago, a man lay quietly in his room, dying slowly. The room was sparce but expensively furnished. One could tell he was a gentleman and quite learned, for there were books in the shelf, inkstones on the desk and heirloom swords hanging from the wall. He was a stranger to this land, and had not been there for long. The house and all its servants were a gift from his wealthy patron. 

His mysterious illness had all the doctors in the land plucking their beards in frustration. He was young, hale, had not suffered wound nor chill, yet his strength waned day by day. One evening, he found that he could not walk. The next morning he could not rise. Now he was one foot in the grave. Neither food nor drink had passed his lips in ten days and he lacked the strength to even speak. 

“Fear not, my good man! The days of sickness are behind you! Salvation is at hand!” 

The dying man roused a little from his stupor and cast a bleary eye about the room. Standing in the gloomy doorway was a strange apparition. On its back it carried a large, rectangular box wrapped in broad-cloth, it was dressed in woman’s clothes, but no woman was ever so gaudily painted—or had such a ridiculous, drooping moustache. 

“You are in the presence of the illustrious Musician of Yan—Gao Jianli!” cried the man in drag. His voice was bright, loud and extremely grating on the ears. “I suppose you’ve heard of me. Oh, who am I kidding, of course you have! My music can heal the sick, make the lame dance and allow the blind to see—or so I’ve heard.” 

The man who claimed to be Gao Jianli threw open the windows, causing the dying man to wince. He was small and his movements were quick and vigorous, like that of a chicken pecking at feed. He had evidently been consuming all the garlic and chives Yan had to offer, because his breath was fit to rouse the dead. The dying man was not unconvinced that this was just some charlatan who had wondered in off the streets. Either way, he could not care enough to chase him out. 

“Gao Jianli” was not in a hurry help the dying man, or even play music. Instead, he pulled over a low table and helped himself to the dying man’s lunch, gobbling down the food like a hog at the trough.

“This stuff’s alright,” he remarked, in between slurps of wine, “but it’s not as good as the dinners the king serves me when I play at the palace. Oh well, it’s probably the best you can manage, for a man of your station.” 

With great effort, the dying man turned his back to him and closed his eyes. He detested the sun. He detested noise. He was sick to his heart of hearts and wished nothing more than to snuff himself out, like a candle that had burned to its end. 

There was a loud crash behind him, followed by a bitten off oath. The man did not bother turning around. Gao Jianli had pulled one of the decorative swords off the wall—the big, long ceremonial one, by the sound of it. 

“Wow, this is a cool sword!” Gao Jianli giggled, “I bet you three silvers I can cut your desk in half with one swing.” 

The dying man did not dignify that with a response. He was fairly certain that ridiculous little man would not even be able to unsheathe the sword, since the entire length of it exceeded his arm span. 

“Eh, what the…?” 

Told you. 

“Hey, you’re barely taller than me. I bet you can’t pull this sword out either!”

Wrong. 

“How come your arms are so short? I thought swordsmen were supposed to tall, with long arms and big muscles.”

It’s not about size. It’s about skill. 

“How disappointing! I was expecting the famous Swordsman of Wei to be a fine figure of man, worthy of his great name, but all I get is this sad little lump.” He put on an exaggerated feminine voice, just to make it clear which aspect of the swordsman’s physique he was insulting; “I must say, Sir, I’m very disappointed. I was expecting a lot more to play with.”  The dying man was getting tired of this inane jabbering, “you…are… Gao Jianli?” he croaked. 

“So my mother tells me!” 

“Prove…it…” the man said through gritted teeth, “play…something.”

“Fine, fine. I don’t usually do requests like this, but I’ll make an exception since you’re clearly not long for this world. I do hope the King invites me to your funeral, Mister Wei Swordsman, I charge extra for eulogies…” 

He picked up his long box and unwrapped it. The instrument he pulled out did not fill the dying man with any confidence. It was an old, shabby zhu, the body was without lettering or ornaments and only the silk strings were new. 

Gao Jianli placed the instrument upon his knees, rolled up his sleeves with slow, dignified grace…and proceeded to hammer violently at the zhu with both hands, assaulting the dying man’s ears with the most god-awful racket he had ever heard in his life. 

“Stop that!” the dying man snarled, and burst into a fit of coughing at the exertion. 

“How’s that for some music!” Gao Jianli howled with laughter, “you get what you pay for!” 

“Get… out…you filthy swindler!” 

“What shocking language! I don’t know how things are done in Wei, but here in the Kingdom of Yan, we are inclined to treat our guests with a little more civility.” 

The dying man collapsed back down onto the bed and squeezed his eyes shut. If he could not make the man leave, he resolved to deny him the pleasure of giving him any reaction. 

Gao Jianli let out another horrible, juvenile giggle, and edged himself closer to the bed. He had stuffed two, large, round somethings down the front of his shirt to give the appearance of being buxom. He pulled one out—revealing it to be a mantou wrapped in bamboo leaves—and took a large bite. How he was still hungry was anyone’s guess. 

“Mmgh mufff phughdg muhmfff,” Gao Jianli swallowed noisily “--wow, this mantou is so soft, white and delicious. A man would be content to nibble on them all day!” He took several more bites, and said slyly, “what a shame, this pair is not as nice as the ones that belong to your mother…” 

The man’s eyes snapped open, “what did you say?” 

“Didn’t you hear me?” the little fiend cackled, “I said your mother’s got a nice, fat, pair of—” 

This was the last straw. The dying man, who had previously lacked the energy to even speak, suddenly leapt out of bed with a roar. Gao Jianli, who had been expecting this, threw the chalice of wine at his face. While the dying man was spluttering and wiping his eyes, the musician took off at a dead sprint with his zhu tucked under one arm. The sound of his maniacal laughter could be heard echoing down the hall.  The dying man kicked the discarded sword into his hand, unsheathed it by swinging the scabbard behind his back, and took off after the scoundrel, weapon in hand and murder in his eyes. 

Gao Jianli glanced behind him, did a double-take, and turned as white as a sheet, “n-now wait a second!” 

“Die!” 

“Look, I can explain—oh, fuck—guards! Guards!”

“Stop running, you bastard!”  

“Help! This maniac is trying to kill me!” 

The two men dashed out into the garden, and began to run circles around a large cherry tree. It was hardly an exciting, high-speed chase; one was an out-of-shape zhu player, the other was a weak, half-starved swordsman with a weapon he could barely lift, but both made up for it with sheer enthusiasm. 

An on-looker might have been surprised to see that the musician was still holding onto his zhu. A normal man would have tossed it aside, or perhaps used it to block his assailant. Gao Jianli clutched the zhu to his bosom like it was his own child. It did not even occur to him to ditch the dead weight, he would have sooner parted with his own arm. 

The swordsman swung, missed, and swung again. On the third swing, the blade struck the tree trunk and became lodged inside the wood. The swordsman let out a a howl of frustration and leaped on top of the musician, pummelling him with his fists. Gao Jianli shrieked in agony—mainly because he had dropped his zhu—and retaliated with a swift, hard kick below the belt. 

They were so busy duking it out, neither man realised they had acquired an audience until a high-pitched, stringent voiced shouted rather pointedly, “all hail the King of Yan!” 

The men froze mid-blow and slowly looked up into the disapproving face of a court eunuch. Behind him stood the king and his royal entourage, staring at them in polite disbelief. There was a mad scramble as the men climbed off each other and hastily pressed their foreheads into the dirt. 

 “Good afternoon, Your Highness!”

“O, mighty King of Yan! Please forgive me for my gross impropriety! I—I don’t know what came over me. I will accept any punishment you see fit—”  

“It’s good to see you’re up and about, Jing Ke, we had begun to despair of you ever recovering,” said the king. “Gao Jianli, your methods are, ah, unorthodox but no one can deny that they are effective.” 

“Thank you, Your Highness!” Gao Jianli said, “I had long suspected that the Gentleman of Wei’s illness was not caused by a physical disease, but stemmed from deep, emotional anguish. He had fallen into despair after losing his own king and countrymen to the tyrant of Qin. Pretty songs and empty platitudes would have done little to ease his spirit. I thought the best way to help him would be to deliver a sudden, dramatic shock to his system. I can only pray I have not overstepped…I hold Minister Jing to the highest regard and I have long admired his skill and courage.” 

“I…” Jing Ke, the swordsman of Wei was absolutely speechless. He sat up and clasped the musician’s arms tightly.  “Gao Jianli, I…” Jing Ke said in a choked-up voice, “I…I am going to faint,” and immediately made good on that promise.

“Oh my god! Someone get a doctor! Oh no, oh no, oh no—You better not die on me! I’m serious! I’m going to get in so much trouble…”  

In the ensuring commotion, the last mantou bounced out of Gao Jianli’s shirt and rolled off into a bush somewhere, never to be seen again. Thus began a passionate friendship, although one would quite understand if the history books never made any mention of it.

---------------------- Notes:

haha so this is a gender flipped version of the feeding scene from the Emperor's Shadow + foreshadowing of Jing Ke's failed assassination. I've been giving you guys a lot of angst so here's a little monty python skit...that is really sad and bittersweet in hindsight!

i wanted to flesh out gao jianli's character a little bit more. I've always intended for him to be very insightful and a little bit of a troll. I like to think there's two versions of him, the happy, carefree prankster who died with Jing Ke, and this brittle, sorrowful man who is unmoored, indecisive and struggling to honor the memory of the man he loved.

I couldn't manage to squeeze it in bc it messed with the flow, but Gao Jianli is in drag because he was out performing some musical theatre in the streets! I like the idea of him being this maverick performer who just doesn't shy away from "lowbrow" art. this is based on a play in the Six Dynasties period, called The Dancing Singing Woman (踏謡娘), one of the first-recorded plays where the female role is played by a man, and it is a precursor to later chinese opera.

omg this is the first time jing ke actually gets a pov! mr not-appearing-in-the-story finally appears!

#the emperor's shadow #gao jianli #jing ke #my writing #chinese history

[paperpeacock]

hihi! i’m so glad there’s someone who writes for the vld fandom that’s still active omg your writing is so lovely, you know that episode where they finally make it back to earth? after keith was stuck in the time loop thing and all of that stuff, could you write something about that where like the reader sees him jump out of the car and like bolts towards him like they’ve just missed him sm 👉👈

Hi! thank you so much! this request made my heart swoon~ it's so sweet! I hope you enjoy this and remember to have an awesome day.

Keith x Reader - There you are

The clouds gently passed upon the dull, ashen sky. Swallowing the land in a veil of fog and sending forth the brisk autumn gale. You watched the forest of apricot trees, leaves dripping from their branches before being swept by the wind. As time carried on, the sight of such tangerine shades grew scarce. The flora dispersing into few far and between. The land became barren, acres of forests, dissipating into a mire. 

“We’re almost there now” Coughed a hoarse voice. Beside you sat Allan, a head of sparse silver hairs, a full beard and a crabby face. Despite his ill-temper he treated you with nothing but kindness, as if you were his own. 

“Oh my gosh, I'm so excited” You giggled quietly, peering out upon the icy world. “But nervous to...” You hadn't seen your raven-haired prince in quite some time, the last time being when dropped him off at the Garrison. From then only entropy ensued as he was taken half way across the universe, far, far away. You hadn't heard from him, sharing the worries with the rest of the families that missed their paladins dearly as they fought for their lives in the far reaches of space. Your days were filled with thoughts of him, you worried he wouldn't feel the same. 

“we’re here...” Allan croaked, pulling into the parking lot. Security insisted you waited here, at least until everyone got clearance to go outside. “They said he should be out soon” he reassured, whilst also pushing his seat back and getting comfortable. You flipped open the overhead mirror, inspecting your face. You made sure to fixup your hair, but yet you still pried at a few loose strands. Gazing into the mirror you were met back with a pair of troubled eyes, wide in worry and distress. 

“Allan?”  

“Yes?” 

“What if...what if Keith’s changed” You gazed at the elder beside you, seeking assurance. 

“Probably has” he responded, cap covering his crinkled eyes. “Afterall he’s been travelling through the stars, that ought to change anyone” 

“Yes, but what if he doesn't feel the same way about me anymore” You pleaded, anything to prove your worries. “I mean, we haven't seen each other in so long... what if he doesn't think of me anymore” Your head hung low, spirits sinking deep into a pool of doubt. Going so far in as to think, what if Keith met someone else.  

“Y/N” You were pulled from your pond. “Keith wouldn't be fighting for clearance this soon if he didn't want to see you” Your gaze landed upon the old man. “Infact, they weren't supposed to be out for at least a week but the boy couldn't wait that long” This was true, your concerns couldn't deny such a potent fact. 

“I guess so...” 

About twenty minutes ticked by, you watched the outside eagerly, bouncing your leg in excitement. Suddenly, the main entrance opened up, the metallic doors sliding open.  

“Is that him?” You searched around from your window, trying to get a better view of who it was. From out the large building paraded two guards, shouldering between them a familiar face. “Thats him! That’s him!” You gushed, hand gripping the door handle. Security pointed towards your car, an old scarlet pickup, rugged and beaten compared to the fleet of sleek garrison cars. 

Keith recognized it instantly, something so familiar an unchanging, he felt his heart swell. You clambered out the car, quickly stepping towards him. 

“Keith!” You yelled, waving your hand. His distant figure raised his hand back. 

“Y/N!”  

Your legs moved on their own, pushing into a jog to then a full sprint. Wind rushed past your face as you drew near to each other. Every bit of power was placed in each step, before they could take you away from him. You dashed upon the concrete, launching yourself into his crashing arms. He wrapping himself around you, arms snug upon your waist, swinging you in circles. You let out a summery laugh. 

“Keith” You panted, staring down at him as he held you up.  “Hi” he met your gaze, shadowy eyes filled with adoration. 

“It's been a while” you smiled, as he gently set you down. Your arms still hung around his neck, cupping the ends of his midnight locks. 

“I’ve missed you...so much” He breathed, voice trembling. Before you could respond, he pressed his head into your neck, pulling your figure close. His grip was tight, as if he was never going to see you again, but no. This was hug he didn't get to give you, when he was swept away. This was what he wanted you to know every day he spent protecting the stars, defending the universe. This was what he would never lose again. 

“I know” your fingers threaded through his hair, drawing him near. 

From the other side of the parking lot sat Allan, watching the scene unfold before him. A smile played his lips as he shook his head. Keith was finally home. 

#voltron legendary defender #keith x reader #keith kogane #voltron #fluff #my writing #fiction

[talldecafcappuccino]

14, 27, 29 for the fic writer ask meme?

14. If you could see one of your fics adapted into a visual medium, such as comic or film, which fan fic would you pick?

Either my body over yours (because sexy bodyguard tropes) or things keep getting better (because I need to see Ted interacting with the Queer Eye folks for real)

27. Is there a fic you were nervous to post/share? Why?

Probably the sequel for the bodyguard universe because I was like, “what if this isn’t how anyone imagined Ted and Rebecca’s lives to go and it ruins the original fic retroactively?” 😅

29. Share a bit from a fic you’ll never post OR from a scene that was cut from an already posted fic. (If you don’t have either, just share a random fic idea you have that you don’t plan on getting to.)

I randomly wrote the first third (?) of a fic a week or so ago. It’s ’s pretty low on my list to finish so…here’s a (long) bit of that:

Rebecca pokes her head into the coaches’ office and finds Beard all alone. He’s absorbed in a book about bioluminescence, his legs propped up on his desk. Ted’s chair sits empty across from him. No track jacket hanging over the back, no backpack or coffee cup to be seen.

Her stomach sinks as she realizes they’re not just missing each other this morning. He’s not here.

“Where’s Ted?”

“He’s home,” Beard replies, barely glancing up from the page he’s reading.

She frowns. “Is he sick?”

“He’s feeling a little off this morning.”

Her stomach sinks again. She and Ted were due to get drinks tonight, a pre-game ritual of sorts. With West Ham tomorrow, she’d been counting on it to take her mind off seeing Rupert tomorrow.

Except that’s not right.

Rebecca frown deepens. Ted’s not one to take a sick day from the club, especially not the day before a big game like this. Or at least not without texting her some sort of explanation. There’s something Beard isn’t telling her.

She steps further into the office, looming over him in her three inch heels.

“Feeling off how?”

Beard sighs and closes his book, his finger wedged between the pages to save his spot.

“Let’s just say you should ask before eating someone else’s food and leave it at that.”

He chuckles as he reopens the book, self-satisfied in a way Rebecca finds incredibly odd if Ted is actually ill.

He’s also being cryptic and if she knows one thing about Coach Beard it’s that once he’s speaking in riddles, he’s unlikely to explain himself.

Right. The only answer is to go see Ted for herself.

“Fine. I’ll swing by and check in on him at lunch.”

“No!” He sits up, dropping his feet from the desk and clambering into an upright position.

“Why not?”

“Because you can’t!” His voice squeaks on the last word, the sentence lifting off into the stratosphere of the office.

“I can’t?” She raises a brow defiantly, but Beard shakes his head.

“No, sorry, but you are the last person who should be seeing Ted right now.”

She scoffs. Granted it might be odd for a boss to see her employee when he’s in physical (possibly gastronomical) distress, but they’re friends. Good friends. The type of friends who help one another out when they’re in pain. Emotional or . . . otherwise.

She crosses her arms over her chest.

“And who are you to decide that?”

Beard splutters, his eyes looking between her and the door. Despite the crazed look in his eye, he can’t seem to find an answer to her question.

“That’s what I thought.” She adjusts her purse on her shoulder and turns on her heel just as Beard finally finds his voice.

“Wait!” He reaches under his desk and pulls out a medium sized brown paper bag, the top rolled shut.

“If you’re going to insist on doing this, can you at least bring him this?”

She eyes the bag as she takes it from him. “I suppose I can.”

“Just don’t look inside.”

“Fine. May I just say, this is one of the strangest conversations I’ve had with anyone, let alone an employee?”

“Yeah well the conversation you’re about to have is gonna give this one a run for your money.” He shakes his and opens his book. “Tell Ted I said hi.”

She stares at him for a minute, debating if it’s worth asking what he means. It’s not. She’s better off seeing Ted for herself.

#I…really hope the read more works 😂 #I’m on mobile and have never quite figured out how to do it on mobile… #ask #chainofclovers #thanks!! #edit: it didn’t work so I trimmed it lmao

[just-shipgirl-thoughts]

Abyss

A WIP prologue of a fic I'm hoping to post someday. I'm putting it here so I can get some early feedback for revisions, and also because I like watching numbers tick up.

Yes, before you ask, it is a shipgirl fic for Kantai Collection. Yes, it's also a Dishonored crossover.

:>

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The sun rose over Dunwall’s bay. 

Atop the high white walls of the aristocratic quarter, two did sit and converse.

“Do they not unnerve you?”

A scoff.

Bellowed low did the mournful calls of a wounded whale echo across the water, sunlight glinting off the blood-sullied ships calling their fair port home.

A sigh.

“Of course.”

They turned their eyes away from the bay, and the victorious hunting horns sounded.

Crimson splattered against decks as the cheers of many working men went up into the air, the scent of salt and the stench of iron pervading through the air. 

The whaling trawlers stood still on the water, towering over the smaller boats in the docks, waves slowly lapping up against the sides of their looming steel hulls, as ichor from their crew’s latest prey dripped, dripped, dripped down onto their decks, flowing down the sides like a macabre curtain. 

Gore pooled into the bay, and it was whaling season in Dunwall again.

Deckhands whistled as crates and blubber were hauled ashore, bosun’s ear-bleeders and wounded animal calls drifting across the port, interjoining into a discordant chorus of ship’s horns and voices high over low as the bustle of the returning hunt began.

“Voids, just lookit the size of ‘er! We’re eatin’ good tonight lads!”

Eyes roved out over the water, stormy grey and gazing off into places elsewhere.

“Can barely believe it myself I say, she’s nearly bigger’n me bloody house! What a beauty of a beast.”

Smoke drifted into the air from a pipe, attached to a pair of cracked lips hidden behind a scruffy ill-maintained beard.

“Daniels, keep yer mitts off the crates! If I find even a piece o’ that blubber missin’, I’ll take my cut outta yer hide, you good-fer-nothin’ yellow liver!”

Calloused and bloody hands gripped the railing at the bow of a ship, the limbs they were attached to hidden by a black wind-weathered overcoat, whale-leather exterior shining under the heavy gaze of the sun. 

“You keep yer hands away from that Bessie or I’ll have words with you at the end of my gun, you salt-ridden dogs! Away, away with ye, to yer posts!”

Captain Gregor Hobson of the Red Lady’s Hymn sighed, raking a hand backwards through his hair, whale-oil pale with a meager speckling of grey here and there. 

“Oi, Claggard! Ease up on ‘em, no reason to get so worked up this early when we’ve just brought in a haul like this.”

His voice was tired and exasperated, smokey and slow like a cask of fine liquor, or a trail of burning gunpowder leading to an ammunition storage, depending on his mood that day.

The first mate stood pinned in place, before quickly nodding and scarpering off without a word, not without one final glare at the smug deckhands.

“And fer the rest of you, if I find even so much as a hand's width of that blubber missing, I’ll feed you to it. Get back to work, the lot o’ you!” He turned, and the crew took to their stations with all the speed of a man being chased into hell without so much as a backglance.

“Blimey, he’s terrifyin’.”

“Aye. He was a sarge, fer the navy. Tyvia, I think. Sunk near a dozen ships himself and ate a man’s heart out on the deck during the wars, from what I heard tell of.”

“Malarkey, the both of you. He’s an old sea-dog, nothin’ more, nothin’ less. Just keep yer hands away from the whales if you want to keep ‘em. He’s ruddy well good with that sword, and I don’t fancy losin’ any more fingers than I already have.”

Hobson scoffed, turning his pipe over the port with a good thunk against the rail for good measure, reflective mood soured as a heavy frown worked its way onto his sea-wizened face. 

“Excuse me.”

He cast an eye over his shoulder.

Another sigh, barely suppressed as the frown dropped from his face like a slick trout.

A thin man stood behind him, face pointier than a shark’s with twice the teeth to match, eyes narrowed down to dagger points and holding a watch in his hands, impatiently checking the time and tapping his foot.

A shining brass badge pinned to his vest shone in the rays

“Mornin’, Harbormaster. What can I do you for this fine day?” He greeted, turning and leaning back against the railing nonchalantly, tipping his hat up. 

The Master looked down his nose from his head’s perch upon his far too spindly body with a sneer.

“Yes, yes, good morning and all that, we hardly have time for pleasantries. State your name and import, I have important places to be and this isn’t one of them.”

His voice was a mixture between coarse grating sand between his ears and a poor imitation of a noble’s nasal dulcet tones.

Hobson only narrowly kept from rolling his eyes at the behavior. Slap a new accent on, think you’re taller’n everybody else and suddenly you’re the talk of the Tower. 

Still, as much as it grated, the Harbormaster was a rung above him in this twisted labyrinth of a society, so he played along for appearances sake. 

“Of course, of course, wouldn’t want to keep you, I’m sure you’ve got some very important things to be doin’. Just follow me and we can be done with it right quick,” he assured, tone falser than his bosun’s teeth, smiling wide like a whale waiting for its next prey to wander into its maw.

The Master’s head inclined, chest puffing out, though he straightened himself out before it could become too obvious, glancing about none too obviously.

Hobson pretended he didn’t see it, whistling a jaunt as he guided the man away and down to the hold, past the whale strung up in the crane above them. 

Hook, line and sinker with these types, every time, like leadin’ a rat to bread.

An hour later found the man off of his ship, wandering away with his hands stuffed into his pockets, probably to bugger whatever poor sod he set his eyes on next that was within his reach.

The Red Lady’s Hymn sailed for no company, and no sponsor. 

To a man like the Harbormaster, it would’ve been easy prey for an ego boost, bossing about independent sailors on their own ships from the safety of his position, conversely to the myriad of trawlers moored in the bay marked as Royal Hunters, the biggest group of sailing shills this side of the continent. 

Hobson watched until the slimy eel disappeared into the throng of sailors before turning back out across the bay, blowing out a long exhausted heave, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands to rid them of the salt’s sting. 

The Hymn hummed under his hands, engines whining with electrical power under the strain of the immense creature above the deck, groaning as blood sluggishly dripped from harpoon wounds along its flank. 

“I know girl, I know. Just one more good haul and you can rest,” he whispered, waiting for the humming to settle before striding off towards the bridge, barking orders to the crew as the church bells further inlands began to toll.

Below the deck, buried deep within the guts of the hulking steel beast of a ship, was the Hymn’s twin hearts, glowing as the whale-oil within churned and sparked with arcane energy, rusted screws rattling in their places as the engineers did their best to sooth the beleaguered machines. 

The Red Lady’s Hymn was ancient, by modern day whaling trawler standards. 

It wouldn’t be out of the question for Anton Sokolov to have walked the Hymn’s deck himself when it was just WT-032, the last of the Driscol class ships, marking the beginning of a new line as the trawlers were further refined.

Three crews had manned the decks of the Hymn in her time, and all but one of them had met grisly fates at sea at the hands of beasts unnamed and unknown. 

And yet, every time, the Hymn had sailed back into Dunwall to do her duty as always, towed in by tugs, or, in the incident that earned her the moniker of Red Lady’s Hymn, by the tides themselves. 

It had been a foggy morning then, all those years ago, bitter winter come to lay its weary bones into the bay as ice crept around the shores, and WT-032 had been missing at sea for three weeks. 

The Watch had all but given up on it by the beginning of the second week, and the only ones still looking for it in any capacity were sailors wary of happening upon its wreck. 

Then, in the waning days of the Month of High Cold, a ship had sailed into port, sluggishly maneuvering into dock until her hull had ran aground the shore with an awful shrieking noise, almost touching the nearest house with her prow until she rasped to a stop, barely a finger’s width away from shattering its window. 

The Harbormaster then, a crabby old man with little to say beyond poison to spit at younger folk, had come running out of his hovel with his face twisted into an angry rictus and shouted for the captain of the vessel to step onto shore, then abruptly fell silent. 

The hull loomed over him, red ichor drip, drip, dripping out of her scuppers and onto his face, filling his nostrils with the heavy cloying scent of iron as it dribbled down his chin. 

The carcass of a whale still hung above the abandoned vessel, bereft of all life as it slowly shifted in the wind, sending creaks rattling down the cranes holding it aloft. 

Blood congealed into the cold oak of the deck, spattered about in great pools and littered with splinters, some planks sticking out like jagged teeth, and others split in two, like the steps of a mighty giant had sundered them apart. 

No matter where the Watch had searched, after the calls had gone up, no crew were to be found, corpses or otherwise.

It was like they had been plucked from the decks by the hands of the void itself, leaving it to drift away on the winds, pulled along by the tides like a lost child by the hand of a mother.

That day, in the cold of Dunwall’s winter, the dock-goers had gathered and listened as the vessel’s engines sang, like a ghostly siren’s chorus, solemn and pained as it strained to keep itself going on what little fuel it had left.

The sailors would drift home that morning, minds elsewhere and attention paid to places far away as the song echoed across the waves, the blood drip, drip, dripping off of her deck and into the bay, seemingly never drying no matter how long it stained the decks, or so they say.

WT-032 earned the moniker Red Lady’s Hymn that day, for the color of her crimson shawl and the notes of her sorrowful song. 

As much of an curse as she was a blessing, she was truly a terrible and wonderful thing to see over the horizon, hull bloodied with whale-gore more often than not, her song whispering across the waves as the silhouette of a mighty beast caught in her crane wavered against the setting of the sun beneath the sea, like wet paint running down a canvas. 

As the moon came up over Gristol and colored the ocean in a ghostly pale blue, the Red Lady’s Hymn set out for her next hunt, skies cloudless overhead and waves calm beneath her hull.

Captain Gregor kept a watchful eye over the sea, hands steady on the wheel as a quiet tune carried over the deck in chorus with the humming of the Hymn’s heart. 

He turned slightly, away from the windows, just enough for the glow of the moon to leave the corner of his vision, grasping for the lighter in his pocket and deftly lighting the pipe perched precariously on the wooden surface beside him, lifting it to his mouth and turning back to face the deck.

He stilled.

It was quiet. 

He leaned slightly over, casting his gaze about for his crew and finding nothing but air. 

His heart slowed as his eyes narrowed, setting the pipe down. 

He thumbed open the lock on the furthest right window, before calling out in a clear voice, “Boys, how’re the seas lookin’?”

The only answer was the waves, gently lapping against the Hymn’s hull, song eerily silent. 

Unnerved, he called again, voice unsure, to no avail. 

His eyes narrowed further, and his hands itched for his sword.

Turning on the spot, slowing the ship and leaving the wheelhouse, he opened the bulkhead and stepped out into the cool night air, breezeless and still.

Closing the heavy cast door behind him, he strided down the steps, whale-leather boots click, clack, clicking against the deck.

Two paces.

No sign of anybody.

His heart beat faster, like a war drum thudding in his ears. 

Four paces. 

“Boys?” He yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth. 

No answer.

Six paces.

His back was nearly against the aft’s railing now, the Hymn’s heart still quiet beneath his feet, his voice echoing across the waves. 

Eight paces. 

The Hymn sang. 

One, low, haunting note, like the death-call of a whale in her last throes, reverberating in his chest as it froze like ice, heart dropping like lead into his gut as it crescendoed, louder, louder, the engine’s whining almost reaching an unearthly wail, before- 

Death, yawning wide open, like a cavernous maw, a black and cold abyss.

A hat hit the deck without a sound, a scream evaporating into the air, never making it out of his mouth as more than a rattling gasp. 

When the dawn rose over Dunwall’s bay once more, and the hunt once again returned victorious to the bay only to find its waves silent and songless, the Red Lady’s Hymn was not there to greet it.

______________________________________________________________

Abyss

noun.

A deep or seemingly bottomless cavern.

“A rope led down into the abyss.”

______________________________________________________________

#kancolle #dishonored #dunwall #shipgirl #crossover #crossover fic #I have zero idea how to tag this. #my writing #bis rants #don't expect very many notes but I hope I at least get a few comments #Self esteem boosts and all that. #numbers go brrrrr

[groundcontrol21]

Mashka's Origin Story! (Or: A Welcome Sight, M)

As promised, here is some more backstory on Anatoly and most importantly, how he fell in with everyone's favorite rascal. With copious snz, of course :)

****

In trembling hands, Anatoly clutched the photograph of the doctor whom he was to be meeting upon arrival at the station, Dr. Rosenbaum. In the final hour of the trip, he had all but committed the photograph to memory, studying the hearty, bearded man who peered at him with smiling eyes from behind his rounded spectacles. Every possible anxiety thrummed through his veins; he had visions of him departing the train only to realize he had arrived at the wrong station, visions of those smiling eyes turned angry after Anatoly made the busy doctor wait too long for him, visions of himself getting lost. Perhaps he would have been calmer if he could think straight, if he had slept at all the night before, but as such, Anatoly swallowed heavily and stepped off the train. 

But Anatoly’s worries about finding the man in a sea of people proved unfounded. As he should have expected in such a rural town, the platform was nearly empty, save for two old ladies and the towering figure of Dr. Rosenbaum, dressed in a brown trenchcoat. Upon seeing Anatoly, his pink cheeks pulled wide with a grin, and he waved Anatoly over vivaciously. 

“Anatoly Ivanovich!” he called, his voice echoing in the emptiness. “My savior!”

“Doctor Rosenbaum,” Anatoly said with a smile of his own, quickly tucking the photograph back in the pocket of his own coat. “I’m so pleased to meet you.” He held out his hand, only for the older man to blindside him by crushing him in a hug. After the shock wore off, Anatoly couldn’t deny the embrace was welcome (particularly after the cold train carriage and how he had longed for his mother and sister), but a tickle in his nose warned him he needed to break away. Anatoly hesitated, out of a reticence to retreat too early and appear rude, but this moment’s deliberation was his undoing, and he sneezed directly into Rosenbaum’s shoulder. “Eh’KSHHH’uhh!”

“I’m so sorry,” Anatoly said hurriedly, pulling away, a bit horrified. He sniffled and rushed to explain. “I came down with a cold on the way here.”

“Ah, that’s how I know you’re young!” Doctor Rosenbaum boomed, giving Anatoly a clap on the back, hard enough that the young man stumbled forward a couple steps. “You’re not the first person to sneeze on me, and you won’t be the last. Probably not even this week. There’s a cold going around here, too.” 

He took Anatoly by the arm and led him out of the measly station. “Rotten luck to come down ill on the train, though.” Rosenbaum shook his head. “I’ll bet they hardly gave you a bite to eat, eh?”

“Heh’TSHHH!” Anatoly ducked his head shyly and fished for his handkerchief, giving his nose a brief wipe. “A bit of bread and tea.”

Rosenbaum grunted. “No wonder you’re feeling low.” 

Anatoly followed him to an off-white car, stained and scratched by its journeys through rough country roads, no doubt. Rosenbaum gave the hood a satisfied pat. “Anna,” he said, “this is Anatoly.”

“Nice to meet you,” Anatoly said by rote, and grimaced at the fact that he had just given a pleasantry to a car. His cold and lack of sleep were affecting him, clearly, and the last thing he wanted was for Dr. Rosenbaum to think he was too foolish to do his job. Anatoly opened his mouth to say something to rectify the situation, perhaps an assurance, perhaps mock his own stupidity, but Rosenbaum cut him off with a hearty laugh.

“Named her after my sister,” he said. “Who was very offended, though I can’t imagine why. I would love to have a car named after me.” He paused, before giving a jolt and slapping the roof resolutely. “Ah! I know what will interest you even more than that, given the train journey you’ve had.”

The man opened the door and ducked into the front seat. After rummaging around for a brief moment, he emerged with a neat cloth bundle, tied off in a bow with a bit of twine. He held it up like a trophy.

“A roast beef sandwich,” he said, and smiled when Anatoly’s eyes lit up involuntarily at the mention of food. “I’m no chef, but I figured you’d be hungry when you got here.”

In fact, Anatoly hadn’t been, formerly thinking himself too queasy from his cold, but the mere mention was enough to send his empty stomach rumbling like a thundercloud. He reached to take the sandwich from Rosenbaum, but the man pulled it back at the last second.

“I’d say you can eat it as we drive, but do you get carsick?”

Anatoly’s cheeks grew hot. “I’ve never been in a car,” he said quietly, wracking his brain for any memory that he had. Perhaps he had ridden in one once or twice, maybe with one of the his mother’s fellow workers at the factory, but never anything substantial. “At least, never for very long.”

“Ah, yes,” Rosenbaum said knowingly, his eyes twinkling. “They warned me you were a city boy. Trains and walking for you, eh?” He winked. “Well, best you eat it before the drive in that case, just to be safe.”

Anatoly unwrapped the sandwich and, hungry as he was, could only manage about two-thirds of it, his blocked-up nose erasing any chance of tasting the food and rendering it a bit like chewing wet sawdust. Besides, he was suddenly worried that he would find out he did get carsick, as would be his luck, and he did not want to add anything more to his stomach that could prove disastrous in such a circumstance. He wrapped the rest of the sandwich up and put it with his bags, which Rosenbaum helped him place in the back seat, before they were off.

The car whined as Rosenbaum shifted it into gear, and he spoke loudly over the sound of the engine. “So Doctor Kulyakov, top of his class—“

Anatoly cupped his handkerchief to his nose. “Heh’KETSHHH!”

“Though perhaps not in top health at the moment.”

Anatoly gave a congested little laugh before dipping forward into his handkerchief again. “Ehh’KSSHOO! Snf!” He blew his nose as quietly and as quickly as he could. “Sorry.”

“Bah, nothing to apologize for.” Rosenbaum waved a dismissive hand. “We all fall ill from time to time. If not, we would be out of a job.” He chuckled a bit at his own joke, then clapped Anatoly again on the shoulder. “Tell me all about yourself, and then I’ll tell you about me. You first, though, because once I get talking, it will be summertime before I stop.”

Anatoly laughed again, which turned into a brief cough he did his best to stifle. 

“What can I say,” Rosenbaum said with a shrug, “I’m an interesting man.”

Unsure of exactly where he should start and how much of his life’s story Rosenbaum was expecting, Anatoly told him his birthdate in October which he shared with his twin sister, though he left out how she had almost died from the exhaustion of their birth. He mentioned that his mother and sister still live in his birth city, his mother working at a factory and his sister as a typist in a bureaucrat’s office. He made no mention of his father who had died in the war, made no mention of his university friends nor the girls he failed to date, choosing instead to stick to positive factoids, uncertain if these other truths would have been too heavy for a first meeting.

The going was bumpy, the road all dirt and rocks, but the monologue easily distracted Anatoly from any physical discomfort, at least until his throat became so sore from all the talking that his voice gave out with a hoarse crackle. He coughed, the sound raspy and painful, and tried to speak again, but his voice was gravelly and thin as a reed. 

“Oh, I suppose I’ll swoop in and save you from laryngitis,” Rosenbaum said, as though such a thing were the greatest imposition. Of course, he was feigning such discomfort, for, true to his word, he spoke the rest of the trip, regaling Anatoly with every inanity from the dill he grew in a small garden behind his home to his thoughts on the design of candlesticks. If it were anyone else telling him such things, Anatoly would have been bored to tears, but, as he was quickly learning, Dr. Rosenbaum had a way with speaking that gave Anatoly little choice but to listen. The man flew wildly from topic to topic by way of connections that were thin as threads, and it was as amusing as it was infuriating. Moreover, given the tender ache in his throat, Anatoly was glad Rosenbaum proved willing to hold the conversation entirely on his own, with little more input than a few polite laughs from Anatoly. 

Rosenbaum stopped the car once they had reached a small brick house with a half-collapsed porch and a black car in front that looked as though it had seen its fair share of accidents. He gestured at it, through the windshield. 

“Welcome home.”

Home, Anatoly repeated mentally as he exited the car, feeling his stomach turn. The nearest house was down the muddy road a ways, halfway to the horizon, and he felt loneliness weigh down on his shoulders. He wondered if he could ever call a place as empty as this home.

Like a moth to a light, Rosenbaum went to the shabby car. “She looks rough, but she will get you where you need to be.” He tipped his head skyward, surveying the gray clouds that were gathering forebodingly. “Much faster and much drier than walking.”

He stroked the dented metal almost lovingly. “She’s lived a long life in my service, and it’s about time she got turned over to a spry young man like you.”

“Me?” Anatoly blinked rapidly. “I can’t even drive!”

Unsurprisingly, Rosenbaum just waved his hand. “We’ll get that straightened out soon enough. I’d say you’re a quick learner, Mister Top-of-the-Class. Oh, excuse me.” He clapped his hand to his mouth. “I mean, Doctor Top-of-the-Class.”

Anatoly was certain his cheeks were scarlet. He scuffed the toe of his shoe, wiping the  mud off on the grass. “Thank you,” he said sincerely, feeling slightly dizzy. He gazed at the car, little more stable than a hunk of scrap metal, and wondered whether his sister would be offended if he named it Elisaveta. He smiled when he got the odd feeling that she would be just as pleased as Rosenbaum to have a car named after her, even one as ugly as this.

“We’ll see how much you’re thanking me when I add driving lessons to your busy schedule, Doctor Kulyakov!”

“Hihh’TSHHHH! Snf! Ihhh…HISHHH’uhh!”

Rosenbaum’s expression turned soft, and he ushered him toward the front door. “Let’s get you inside.”

The house was little more than a tiny kitchen, a little hearth, a sofa, and a bowed wall that separated off the bedroom. The bedroom had room enough for a small cot and a nightstand, as well as some hangers on a string for clothes. The sofa was tattered, the floorboards gnarled, rotted, and creaky, and the kitchen table was rickety and lopsided. Rosenbaum bent to start a fire to dispel the damp chill of early spring which permeated the household, as Anatoly unpacked what precious few belongings he had.

Once both had finished, the senior doctor drew Anatoly’s attention to the telephone in the kitchen. “Made sure you’d have this,” the man said, “even though most of your patients won’t have one to call it with.”

He tapped the receiver. “If you do need anything, give me a call. It may take me a while to get here, but I’ll come.” Rosenbaum paused, narrowing his eyes and wagging his finger. “Now, don’t abuse that privilege. Don’t think to yourself ‘Oh, it’s a quarter to midnight and I’d love a sandwich but I’m out of bread, let me give Daniel Abramovich a call’. No. I won’t come, and if I do come it will be to deliver you the beating of your life, do you understand?”

Anatoly laughed and nodded. “Of course.”

Rosenbaum himself nodded, but then his brows pulled together, his pinkish face taking on a more serious look than it had worn all day. “But I also do mean it. If you need something, if you need help, call me. It can be lonely out here, but it doesn’t have to be.”

With that, Doctor Rosenbaum bid Anatoly farewell to drive to his appointments for the day. As soon as Anatoly was alone again, he slumped against the wall, the fatigue of illness and sleeplessness rushing through him with a sudden intensity. 

“Ahh’KSHHHH’uhh!” 

A quiet squeaking noise brought Anatoly’s attention to the small window above the sink in the kitchen. A small gray tabby cat was wriggling and squeezing herself through the gap between the glass and the pane.

“Well, come in, then,” he said, rolling his eyes. He pushed on the glass to widen the gap a bit until the cat slipped through and went immediately to the sink, curling up in the basin and licking her paw. He pulled the window shut again. “Even though it’s springtime, I’m sure the nights get cold out here.”

The cat glared at him as she continued to groom herself, sprawling on her back and exposing her belly. Anatoly tried to pet her, but she swatted his hand away with a reproachful mewl. He was reminded of the kitten which he and Elisaveta had found in the alleyway behind their apartment block as children, which they had been forced to give away to the neighbor’s after finding out their mother was quite allergic to the cat’s dander.

“Mashka,” he said, the name Elisaveta had chosen for the kitten all those years ago. The cat looked up at him, tipping her head inquisitively, and Anatoly smiled at the rush of warmth in his chest. “Does that suit you?”

She stretched before curling back up in a contented ball, and Anatoly took the motion as a ‘yes’. He didn’t know much of cats, but he could tell she looked a bit thin in the stomach. He looked to the table and saw the cloth bundle Rosenbaum had given him. 

“Do you like a bit of roast beef sandwich?” he asked the cat. “I still have some left.” 

But before he could unrap the remainder of the sandwich, his breath hitched and he sneezed explosively. “Hhh’RSHHH! Heh’RSHHHH’uhh! Eh’KSSHHH! Oh. Hehh… Snf!”

Mashka’s reaction was instant; she flew out of the sink and dove beneath the table, pressing herself to the wall and meowing loudly. Anatoly reached his hand to her, but she hissed and tried to draw back further. 

“Suit yourself,” he said with a wet sniffle, standing back upright. He finished the sandwich himself, casting a glance every so often in Mashka’s direction. Every time he looked, she was eying him suspiciously, her tail swishing back and forth, as though his very presence offended her. 

As he swallowed the last bite, she hopped back up into the sink, then to the windowsill ledge, before pushing the broken pane aside and leaving the way she’d come without a backward glance. And of course, without shutting the window behind her. A wind was picking up, and the air whistled through the opening beneath the glass. 

Anatoly couldn’t help but laugh, even as he shivered. So that was why it was so cold in the house.  

#my writing #ocs: anatoly #and mashka #of course #the world needs so much more historic snz fic #do not reblog to non kink blogs #sickfic #snz #snzfic

[carewyncromwell]

“Methinks I see a spark -- a gleam -- a glimmer of a plan With which, perhaps, I may redeem me honor as a man... Kidnap Wendy, seize the boys,  And you'll have Hook to thank, For when the time is ripe,  You'll see the children walk the plank! Oh, when was such a princely plot concocted by another? To murder all the boys and keep the Wendy for our mother!”

~“Tarantella” from Peter Pan (musical) 

x~x~x~x

previous part here! // full tag here! // original concept suggested by @ag907​

x~x~x~x

When Carewyn awoke, she found herself in a bed covered in luxurious velvet covers and pillows and fine silk sheets. She even had a wet rag on her forehead, like the kind her mother would put on when she was ill. 

She felt very disoriented as she uneasily got up, looking around.

“Did I say you could get up?” said a very passive-aggressive voice. 

Carewyn stiffened like a startled cat. The person who’d spoken was a man of about eighteen with blond hair and dressed in a brimmed hat and a black coat, standing in the corner of the room beside a black grand piano. He had his back to her and he was hunched over a basin set up on a table beside the piano, wringing another wet cloth in his hands. 

“I’m -- ” Carewyn immediately made as if to apologize, but then the man turned around. And when he did...

Carewyn’s eyes widened. 

His eyes, narrowed reproachfully, were the same color and shape as her mother’s...as Jacob’s...

“Lie down,” he said very gruffly. “Those tear tracks might scar over, if we don’t wipe them away now.” 

He carelessly shoved the little girl back down onto the pillows, dabbing at her cheeks with the cloth. It could’ve been a gentle gesture, but, being done by such a callous and persistent hand, it instead felt rather like Carewyn was getting some really crusted-on mud roughly wiped off her face. It made her give an irritable little whine.

“Mmph -- ”

Tear tracks...why did she have those? Had she been crying...?

The memory of Orion and herself dancing in the air around Pixie Hollow returned to Carewyn’s mind. The memory of Orion trying to comfort her, even as he said such awful things -- telling her to forget Jacob --

As the memory of Neverland -- of where she was -- fully germinated, the sight of the wide-brimmed pirate hat on the head of the man fussing over her made Carewyn’s heart leap into her throat.

Pirate. This man was a pirate. And if he was a pirate, she had to be --

Carewyn got up again to look out the window at the far end of the cabin, seeing nothing but sea.

She was on the Jolly Roger.

Fear flooding through her, the little girl immediately bolted out of bed toward the door. The pirate immediately seized her, grabbing her roughly around the waist as she screamed.

“Let me go! Let me go, let me go!”

“You’re not going anywhere!” the pirate snarled. 

Carewyn pulled and bit and punched as best she could, but her strength was a mere fraction of the pirate’s. Without much effort he’d picked up right off the ground and hoisted her up onto his shoulder as if to carry her back to bed, even as Carewyn writhed and kicked in his grip.

“LET GO! LET GO OF ME!”

At that moment, the cabin door opened. 

“Blaise,” said a very low voice, “put the young lady down.”

It was striking, how just those words could freeze everything in the room, like a biting winter wind that chills your blood. It made both Carewyn and the pirate called Blaise stop struggling at once as they both looked up at who had entered.

He was a brown-bearded gentleman in a rich, gold-decorated coat made of scarlet velvet, and a wide-brimmed hat trimmed with a feather. Like the pirate called Blaise, his cold eyes were as forget-me-not blue as Carewyn’s mother’s and brother’s...and he held the door open not with his right hand, but with a crooked, silver hook.

Carewyn’s eyes widened and her face blanched.

So this was Captain Hook...

Blaise frowned at the man like a petulant child. “But Captain, I��m not done -- ”

“You can finish playing nursemaid later, Blaise,” Hook said very coolly. “For now, I wish to have a word with our new arrival. Leave us.”

Blaise’s upper lip curled with displeasure. He shot a look down at Carewyn, before very, very slowly lowering her to the ground. Then he reluctantly swept out through the cabin door. 

Carewyn instantly felt the urge to run again, but when Hook closed and locked the door with a SNAP behind Blaise and she met the eyes of the pirate captain, she froze once again. It was like being eclipsed in the man’s shadow had locked her feet onto the spot she stood. 

Carewyn tried to keep her posture as straight and strong as she could, even as Hook bore down upon her, considering her. Then his lips spread into a gentlemanly smile. 

“Hello, Winnie,” said Hook. 

Carewyn flinched. The pirate captain’s low voice was gentle, but completely lacking in sincere warmth. It made her mother’s old nickname for her coming out of his mouth sound so very, very wrong. 

Hook extended his hand to her like a gentleman. Carewyn immediately recoiled. Rather than look offended, however, Hook merely chuckled.

“Come now, child,” he said. “I’m not going to harm you. Why would I ever harm someone with eyes such as yours?”

Carewyn didn’t answer. She didn’t understand what was going on, but Hook’s cold, effortlessly intimidating aura filled her up with such dread that she didn’t trust her voice. She thought if she spoke, she’d sound frightened...and from all of the stories her mother had told her about Captain Hook, she knew that he relished the thought of making others -- especially Lost Kids -- afraid. 

If I stay quiet, she thought, and her entire body tensed up as she considered this, maybe I won’t seem so scared.

Hook’s cold forget-me-not eyes became a little smaller as his smile softened.

“Here, now...perhaps some music might put your mind at ease.”

He walked over to the grand piano. With a flourish, he took off his hat and coat, hanging them on the nearby coatrack.

“Take a seat, Winnie, my dear.”

Carewyn sorely wanted to correct him, to tell him that her name was Carewyn, but her throat was too tight. She glanced again toward the locked door of the cabin and then over at the stool set up next to the piano. 

With a swallow, she gingerly climbed up onto it, so that her feet dangled off the edge. Hook smiled, clearly pleased, and then settled himself down on the bench in front of the piano. 

Carewyn wasn’t entirely sure how a man with only one hand was going to play the piano, but somehow, he did -- quite well, in fact. Out of his hook and fingers came a sweet, tinkling, waltz-like melody -- like a dance meant for fairies...

Fairies...

It took Carewyn a few moments to realize -- this was the song the fairies had been singing, at Pixie Hollow. The song they, she, and Orion had been flying along to...

“Charming little tune, isn’t it?” Hook asked.

Carewyn snapped back to attention. Hook’s smile crooked up a bit more.

“I forget quite where I heard it first,” he said leisurely. “But it seems you remember it. Where from, may I ask?”

Carewyn looked down at the floor. She refused to answer that -- what if Hook wanted to hurt the fairies? 

Hook, for his part, looked unperturbed by her lack of a response as he continued to play.

“Such is the true tragedy of Neverland,” he sighed. “Sooner or later, we all forget. Who we were, where we were born...names and faces that once were so important...”

His eyes flitted over to Carewyn. She stubbornly refused to meet his eye.

“Soon, all we’re left with are pieces of who we once were,” said Hook. “Mere shadows of the past...scars that flare up with pain every time we try and fail to remember...”

He stopped playing, his hand and hook withdrawing from the piano keys at last. Carewyn had crossed her arms and turned away on the stool, hugging herself tightly.

“...For all of our suffering, however...there is one silver lining,” said Hook. “One thing that can halt Neverland’s spell...the one thing that can never be forgotten.”

Carewyn straightened up, her eyes widening. Part of her wanted to turn around, but the fear coursing through her veins and her mother’s voice urging caution in her ear made her stay where she was.

“...Orion said everyone forgets,” she said very, very quietly.

Hook got up from the piano bench, striding purposefully over to a nearby table.

“He is mistaken.”

The words were incredibly clipped -- clearly the mere mention of Orion Amari was akin to an irritating fly buzzing in his ear. 

Set out on the table was a full tea service -- perhaps something the pirate called Blaise had put together. The china teapot was made of white china and patterned with violet waves and birds, while the cups from the same set were all different colors: one red, one yellow, one blue, and one green. 

Rather than serve himself some tea, however, Hook picked up a strange bottle filled with a pitch-black liquid set up on the side and poured it into one of the empty cups beside the teapot -- the green one, specifically. The drink had to be something akin to rum, Carewyn thought -- every well-respecting child knew that pirates drank rum -- but when the bottle was opened, a strange, ghoulish mist seemed to come off of it. Even the very smell of it seemed cold and lifeless. 

“Merely some ice-cold licorice, my dear,” Hook said reassuringly, upon noticing the wariness of Carewyn’s expression. “Much akin to hot chocolate, if you’re familiar. It’s a personal favorite of mine -- I find it quiets one’s emotions, when they’re particularly high-strung...”

After filling the green cup, Hook picked up the blue cup of the set and politely held it out to Carewyn. To her complete surprise, it was also completely full of the bizarre, eerie liquid, despite not being the cup Hook had poured the bottle’s contents into. 

“Here you are,” said Hook. 

Hook offered Carewyn the blue teacup. Trying to ignore the tight dryness of her throat, she looked down at the floor and shook her head. 

“No, thank you,” she said. 

“Come now, child,” Hook coaxed her. “I’m only being generous...”

“No, thank you,” Carewyn said again, a bit more forcefully. She tried hard not to look Hook in the eye as she cleared her throat. “...I’m not thirsty.”

Hook raised his eyebrows coolly. For a moment Carewyn wondered if he could tell she was lying and was going to call her on it, but instead he seemed almost unfazed as he put down his own green cup back on the table and instead finished the contents of the blue cup he’d offered to Carewyn. 

“It is in Orion Amari’s nature to forget everything,” said Hook, his voice much calmer than before as he lowered the now-once-again-empty blue cup again. “It’s only natural that he presumes everyone suffers from Neverland’s disease equally, when he is so ignorant of its cure. Love -- the kind one knows from one’s family...that’s something a boy like him can never understand.”

Carewyn whirled around, her posture tensing up in righteous anger. 

“He understands it more than you!” she said, her voice coming out much more bravely than she felt. 

Something flashed in Hook’s eyes -- something black as the drink he’d been sampling. Despite herself, Carewyn felt her shoulders come up on either side of her head, but she tried hard not to shrink. 

“Is that so?” Hook said softly. 

The pirate captain put down the blue teacup and returned to the piano. He settled back down on the bench and began to play once more. This time, however, he actually sang alongside it in a low, almost regal Bass tone. 

“Once upon a time and long ago, My mother would sing so soft and low...”

Carewyn’s breath stilled in her throat. 

That -- that song -- it couldn’t be --

“Now when day is done and night is near, I recall that song I used to hear --  ‘My child, my very own, You are my joy, and mine alone. Sleep until the dawn, and we set sail...’”

The words -- they were so wrong. So many of them were wrong, so many of them weren’t what her mother had always sang...and yet...the melody was just the same, as the old lullaby she used to sing to Jacob and Carewyn, to help them sleep...

“Long ago this song was sung to me --  Now I sing it for my family, And recall the past I used to know, Once upon a time and long ago...”

As the song came to an end, Carewyn stared at Hook, white as a sheet, as the captain looked up at her. His face was very serious despite the cold smile clinging to his lips.

“It’s not often I hear anyone else singing my old lullaby,” he said, “but then again, I suppose Lane was always the best of us, when it came to resisting Neverland’s ‘forgetting’ magic...”

Lane -- that was her mother’s name, Carewyn suddenly remembered. She’d forgotten --

“How do you know my mum?” she demanded, unable to keep her voice from shaking.

Hook’s expression seemed to falter. A flicker of consciousness seemed to dance through his cold, endless eyes -- then, in an instant, they seemed to gleam with something terrible -- something cruel -- even as he smiled so fully.

“...Your mother...yes...”

Hook started to chuckle as he rose from the piano, crossing to the window and looking out. It was a low, rumbling sort of sound -- something halfway between the throne of England and the throne of Hell. 

“That was why I took him,” he said very lowly. His reflection in the window glass betrayed the fiery, hungry gleam in his eye. “Because he was Lane’s. Because she was mine...before she...”

Carewyn’s heart pounded with more fear, but it only made her clench her fists at her side and repeat herself more fiercely, “What do you know about my mum!?”

Hook’s gaze snapped right back up to Carewyn’s, making her flinch back. Then, very slowly, his smile spread again, enough to show teeth.

“Your mother told you stories of me, didn’t she, Winnie dear?” Hook said softly. “Pray, what was it that she said?”

His cold eyes glinted with such satisfaction, as he asked this. It made Carewyn incredibly uncomfortable -- her eyes fell down to her feet, but she clenched her jaw and tried not to look scared. 

“‘As dogs he treats and addresses his crew, and as dogs they obey him,’” Carewyn spat. “‘He’s never more sinister than when he’s polite -- a sign of impeccable breeding -- and yet with that breeding comes cruelty, the kind no handsome face could ever truly disguise. His eyes are of the blue of the forget-me-not, and of a profound melancholy -- save when they turn red, when he’s going in for the kill.’”

Carewyn could hear Hook chuckle lowly. 

“‘A profound melancholy...’” 

Carewyn stiffened as she felt something under her chin. Fortunately it was Hook’s thumb, rather than his hook. He tilted Carewyn’s head up so that he could study her more intently. His forget-me-not eyes seemed to sparkle with something oddly triumphant.

“Yes,” he murmured absently. “Yes, indeed, they do have that melancholy. It’s much easier to see, when my eyes adorn another’s face...”

Carewyn’s brows knit together tightly over her eyes. “Your eyes?”

“But of course. Has no one told you? You have a pirate’s eyes.” 

A strange memory rippled over Carewyn’s mind -- something Firenze had said once, probably when they’d first met -- 

“I have ne’er seen forget-me-not eyes on such a young face.”

“A child with forget-me-not eyes, aligned with the Boy Who Won’t Grow Up…how very curious…”

“What do you seek, little pirate?”

He’d compared her eyes to a forget-me-not...just like how her mother had always compared them to Hook’s eyes...

Hook’s eyes -- so identical in color and shape to her mother and brother’s, and yet cold as a diamond -- seemed to crinkle up slightly, twinkling with satisfaction at how pale and horrified Carewyn’s face had become.  

“Yes,” Hook murmured. “You are one of mine, Winnie, my dear. My flesh, my blood -- my family, my crew. Same as your mother was, when she was but my third daughter, a maid of twenty. Same as your brother...even now that he is merely my cabin boy.”

Carewyn bolted upright in alarm.

“Jacob?”

Her heart had leapt with both terror and also hope, despite herself. 

Jacob..after three whole years...it couldn’t be...he couldn’t really be -- !

“Jacob,” laughed Hook. “Ah yes, that was the name he had before, wasn’t it? There was even more to it, at one point...Jacob Erik something-or-other...I must wonder if Jack even remembers the whole thing anymore, after how much of a fuss he made about it...”

“Where is he!?” Carewyn demanded, grabbing onto Hook’s sleeve before she could stop herself. “Tell me!”

In an instant, Hook had taken hold of Carewyn’s chin. She flinched at the effortless, iron-clad grip in which he held her.

“Now, now, my dear Winnie,” he said very quietly. “We mustn’t forget our manners. What do we say, when we wish to request something?”

Carewyn swallowed back the lump of righteous anger and pride that had cropped up in her throat. She was quiet for a long moment, before she finally caved.

“Please,” she choked. “Please, tell me where he is.” 

“That’s better,” said Hook with a cold smile. He released her chin, his face becoming a bit more thoughtful. “He is here, on my ship. I would be happy to summon him up here to see you...if you but do a small favor for me first.”

Carewyn’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What kind of favor?”

Hook’s own eyes -- identical in shape and color to Carewyn’s -- grew a little smaller too, not out of suspicion or anger but out of something almost softer.

“It’s been a very long time since I heard your mother’s voice,” he said quietly. “After so long here in Neverland, apart from her...I’ve quite forgotten how she’d sound, when she sang songs for me.”

His eyes bore into Carewyn’s, almost as if he were a bird of prey trying to sink its claws deep into her and hold on tightly.

“...You, however, also like to sing. You do it quite well, if I’m not mistaken.”

Carewyn’s face contorted with confusion.

“You...want me to sing for you?” she asked warily.

Hook’s smile spread more fully. “Very much.”

Carewyn hesitated. Hook brought his hand up to his chest, bending over Carewyn with such grace that his shadow dropped over her like a curtain.

“Even your mother acknowledged that I come from good breeding, Winnie. My word is my bond -- I would not be a gentleman, if I didn’t keep it. And so I give you my solemn word that if you sing for me, I shall let you see your brother. Do we have an accord?”

Carewyn swallowed.

Could she really trust him? This was Captain Hook, after all -- her mother had always said he was dangerous -- she’d seen he was dangerous herself, when he went after Orion and the Lost Kids --

But...but as awful as he was...he said her mother was his daughter. That meant he had to be mourning her mother, just as much as she had...missing her just as much, even if he had nearly forgotten her, as she almost had Jacob. And if Jacob was really somewhere aboard the Jolly Roger...

She had to take the risk. She had to take that risk, if it would get her to Jacob...

Carewyn nodded stiffly. “...Yes.”

Hook cocked his eyebrows. “Yes...?”

“Yes, sir,” Carewyn took his cue right away. This pleased Hook greatly -- his mouth had spread into a full, gleaming smile by now.

“Wonderful,” he said.

He settled back down in front of the piano, facing Carewyn expectantly. It was remarkable, how cold and hard his eyes remained, even while he smiled.

Carewyn looked down at the ground, steadying her courage. Then, taking a very deep breath, she closed her eyes and started to sing.

“Tender shepherd, tender shepherd,

Let me help you count your sheep --

One in the meadow; two in the garden;

Three in the nursery, fast asleep.

Tender shepherd, tender shepherd

Watches over all his sheep --

One, say your prayers, and two, close your eyes,

And three -- safe and happily -- fall asleep...fall asleep...fall asleep.”

When Carewyn was finished, she opened her eyes slowly. She was startled to see Hook clapping his hand and hook together politely.

“Well done, my dear,” he said. “Quite a wholesome little tune...not one of your mother’s, was it?”

“No,” said Carewyn at once. “It...”

She faltered. She suddenly had trouble remembering where she’d heard it from, exactly. The vague shadow of a round woman with lots of freckles and a stained apron standing in a dark door frame rippled over her mind.

“Best keep the window shut tonight, Bill. No sense in letting in the evening chill...”

“...It’s...something Bill taught me, I think,” she said at last.

Hook raised his eyebrows. “‘Bill?’”

“He’s my friend,” said Carewyn. “Charlie and Bill. They’re brothers.”

Hook’s eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly. “Ah yes...the two ginger boys Orion Amari brought with you, to Neverland. So you did know them before you arrived...”

Carewyn went very quiet. The thought of Bill and Charlie -- of this woman who had sung this song for them, as well as her...it troubled her. Who had that woman been? Where was she now?

Could she...have been Bill and Charlie’s mother?

Mrs. Weasley, Carewyn recalled. Her name had been Mrs. Weasley. 

Hook lowered his hand and hook and turned toward the door.

“Blaise,” he said sharply, “I know you’re out there and listening. Kindly fetch Jack and bring him up to my cabin at once.”

Carewyn turned to the door, startled. Sure enough, though, a moment later, she heard a low “Aye, aye, Captain” and footsteps leading down the stairs.

The little ginger girl’s eyes drifted from the door over to the bed where the First Mate had been tending to her uneasily.

“...Is...is he part of our family too?” she asked very quietly. “Blaise?”

“But of course,” said Hook idly as he turned to the piano. “He also has my eyes -- therefore he too is my family, just as you are.”

Carewyn was just about to ask how Blaise was related to her exactly, but Hook had started to play the piano again. He really was quite good at it.

“Come now, my dear,” he prompted her, “I do believe you know this one.”

She did. It was her mother’s lullaby -- Captain Hook’s lullaby.

Carewyn looked up at Hook, only to be warded off by just how intently he was watching her. Once again it felt like he was trying to sink his claws into her, just from making eye contact. She closed her eyes and began to sing again.

“Once upon a time and long ago, I heard someone singing soft and low... Now when day is done and night is near, I recall this song I used to hear -- ‘My child, my very own, Don't be afraid -- you're not alone -- Sleep until the dawn, for all is well...’”

Carewyn didn’t consciously decide to sing her mother’s words and not Hook’s -- she just sang what was more familiar to her. To anyone who heard it, though, such as the three younger pirates who had opened the cabin door, it was striking how differently those words came across. Even while sung by a mere child, there was a sense of longing -- a melancholy that nonetheless sought to comfort and soothe.

“Long ago this song was sung to me -- Now it's just a distant melody, Somewhere from the past I used to know, Once upon a time...and long ago...”

It wasn’t until Carewyn opened her eyes that she was suddenly made aware of the sound of crying.

When she turned around, she saw the three pirates who had entered -- one was Blaise, while another, she recognized at once, was the pirate with sharp brown eyes who had taken her captive in the first place. Blaise had had his focus solely on Carewyn, but the brown-eyed pirate -- must not be one of their family members, Carewyn thought, to not have eyes like hers -- had his focus solely on the last pirate. He and Blaise had been holding this one’s arms as if escorting him upstairs -- now, however, judging by how much this gaunt, pale pirate with a black hat was trembling, it almost looked like Blaise and the Pirate Without Pirate Eyes were supporting him. Tears were also streaming down this black-hatted pirate’s face -- leaking out from multiple sides of his hollowed-out, but sparkling almond-shaped blue eyes, framed by messy dark black-brown curls.

However he was dressed, however unfamiliar the gold earring in his ear was...he was still just a boy of sixteen, identical in face to when Carewyn saw him last, before he headed out to his hospital job three years prior.

It was Jacob.

#peter pan au #hphm #hogwarts mystery #au #my art #my writing #carewyn cromwell #charles cromwell #orion amari #jacob cromwell #bill weasley #molly weasley #gah finally updating this AU! #I had to split this section in half because of how long it got #next part is more than half-done #so it hopefully shouldn't take so long to finish and post

[jomiddlemarch]

the better part of valor

“And this is Captain Miller,” Mary said, keeping her voice low. The man, a pallor beneath his tanned skin, dark shadows under his eyes, had taken a turn for the worse in the night, a consequence perhaps of being assigned to Dr. Hale, and she was loathe to wake him any earlier than she must. Hale would bluster about his time being valuable, but Jed was more likely to shrug and then expound upon what any decent physician could glean from a simple observation. If they had had coffee and not chicory, he might go on at some length, clearly enjoying himself while also waiting to see if the patient would rouse to the sound of his voice. If Jed sidled a bit closer in these circumstances, the hint of a smile almost concealed by his beard, the admiration in his gaze more obvious, Mary could not be held responsible or accused of any untoward behavior ill-suiting a Head Nurse.

“He ain’t. He’s Major Miller,” the young boy in the next bed piped up. 

“Indeed?” Jed said. He barely needed to pivot to take in the youngster, the beds having been pulled closer together than Mary ordinarily allowed. It meant the ward could hold a few more wounded, but she’d acquiesced primarily to assuage the boy’s combination of imperious demand and abject pleading. It happened this way sometimes, a pair or trio of soldiers came in together and it was apparent that their bond went beyond the battle or the uniform. 

“I see no evidence of such an elevated rank,” Jed added. “Perhaps you’re mistaken, a head injury can cause confusion—”

“I know what I know.” Beneath the bandages, the boy’s eyebrows drew together. Stubborn he was and though Mary was certain he’d lied about his age and very possibly about his name and sex given the binding she’d discovered under his newspaper-lined coat, she recognized the ring of truth in his expression and the flatness of his voice.

“Then you know better than the Union Army?” Jed countered. He’d taken chicory but there’d been fresh milk and Mary had poured with as lavish a hand as her New England upbringing would allow. Jed was in good spirits and was sure to regale her with a thorough medical assessment of the young private when they left the ward. 

“He got a whaddyacallit, a brevet, after what he did a month ago. Should’ve gotten a passel of them, all the Rebs he’s got, sir,” the boy said. 

“For gallantry on the field,” Jed said.

“Not gallantry,” the boy said, shaking his head as much as he could. Mary had attended to his dislocated shoulder herself, strapping him securely without disturbing the muslin tightly wound around his, or rather her, chest. “He’s the bravest man I know, the bravest man in the whole Union Army, and I wouldn’t even be here if he hadn’t—if he didn’t—”

Something, a memory most likely, had overtaken the boy and his voice had risen before he broke off, worryingly soprano, enough to draw attention to the discussion and to the smoothness of his cheeks washed free of dirt and dried blood, the slightness of his frame. Carrying a flag and a drum, he’d be taken for what he said he was, but here, in the narrow cot, the bandages around his head like the nuns’ wimples, he was in danger of discovery and his champion Major Miller slept on, unable to defend with a distraction. Someone must intervene before Jed was forced to ask questions Mary knew he would rather defer, a truth undiscovered one he needn’t act on as either Doctor or Captain Foster, could trust to her discretion.

“I’ll be sure to make of note of the Major’s rank, Private Elton,” Mary said, lingering just a little on the name the boy had given her when she’d asked, a subtle reminder of the role that had been undertaken. He’d stumbled over it, really, salvaging the near-disastrous admission by coughing, first clumsily as Mary recalled the poor acting of the man rehearsing as Juliet when Corporal Gielgud had spiked a fever and been unable to tread what passed for the hospital’s theater boards, and then with the convulsive hacking that those who’d breathed in too much smoke and dust were prone to. Ellen was most likely or Eleanor, Elizabeth more commonly shortened to Lizzie or Betsy, not the El— that had been abandoned. The people she’d left behind must fear for her greatly, unless there were none left, Elton an orphan or a poor relation the larder barely stretched to feed.

“He rode a horse gut-shot,” Elton offered. “Major Miller was shot, not the horse.”

“A helpful, though unnecessary, clarification,” Jed remarked. “Exceedingly helpful for the horse, one imagines.”

“Took out two snipers while he did it,” Elton went on, undeterred by Jed’s comment. “They would’ve killed me but he could’ve not got wounded. Belly’s bad to get hurt—” 

Jed picked up Major Miller’s wrist and after a few seconds, nodded, raising an eyebrow in that rapid assessment he was capable of, indicating he thought the man would live but that he’d have had a better chance under Jed’s hands than Hale’s. It was enough for Mary to go on with; she always found it easier to tell the truth and to lie by omission.

“I’m sure he was glad to do his duty. To keep you safe,” she said. She had half-expected another argument, that protecting Elton wasn’t Miller’s duty, that it was unreasonable to be kept safe in a battle, to have a stranger become your closest ally, but Elton stayed quiet.

“His injury isn’t terrible, though you’re correct that abdominal wounds have generally worse outcomes,” Jed said. Elton gave Jed such a glare of skeptical scrutiny it was all Mary could do to keep from chuckling. “I’ve seen worse and I’ve seen plenty,” he said, direct as he could be when it was needful.

“You ain’t the one they call the Butcher, are you?” Elton asked.

Jed choked on the laugh he couldn’t suppress despite the quelling glance Mary gave him.

“No, I haven’t been given that esteemed title. It belongs to our other surgeon, whose efforts your comrade appears to have weathered. Major Miller likely possesses a hearty constitution and an ample degree of, shall we say, fortitude?”

“He’s got grit and he’s obstinate as my Aunt Phaedra’s mule, if that’s what all your high-falutin’ words mean,” Elton said. This time, Mary permitted herself to smile.

“I’ll watch over him myself,” Mary said. “And you may send any of the orderlies for me if you are worried, I’ll come as quick as I can.”

“And now, young Elton,” Jed said, the name uttered with a sincerity that was undercut by the acute acknowledgement of his gaze, “you may rest easy, for there is no one here who is more determined to keep a man alive, even if he should wish to argue, than our Head Nurse. She should merit her own brevet, save that there is no higher post for her to ascend to, given that Lincoln’s still in the White House and the Mother Mary Veronica assures me God occupies His throne.”

#the last of us au #the last of us x mercy street #the crossover that no one asked for #as self-indulgent as it gets #hurt/comfort #phoster #jed/mary #joel as a Civil War soldier #Ellie as a drummer boy or private disguised as a boy #reference to the mercy street players #byron hale remains a crappy surgeon #joel miller #found family #mercy street #pedro pascal fanfic

[merciless-macdonwald]

aaand heres the last of the 2018 macbeth sequel. never made it past act 1. (well i kinda made it into act 2 scene 1, but that's unfinished)

ACT I SCENE V. Beside the lake

Enter LENNOX and LADY LENNOX.

LENNOX Perhaps my missive hath not reached him yet, For so haphazardly did I depart, The letter’s edge but slipp’d under the doors. Perchance some other eyes may find it there, And with the wond’ring eyes that all possess Turn me the paper o’er and find what's writ, And then the words shall never find their way. Yet still, since I in haste forgot to leave My name to he who's well acquainted with’t, He may, perusing quietly what hath Been sent to his estate as written word Pass over mine, mistaking it for some That found its way to him, meaning not so, And therefore set aside and ne’er retrieve The contents nor my meaning. O, if I Had given it to him but face to face, That none may intercept and block my way!

LADY LENNOX All’s well, I'm sure--thy want for patience shows. Yet tell thyself thus if thou still fear’st so. He hath received thy word, and goes about As men like thee do: first upon his cloak Fastidiously pins his brooch in place And checks to see if’s beard be trimmed or not, Then second looks at whether he be dressed To match th’ occasion (an if he be not, Then goes he back once more and does redress The issue), third and final does he stall For nor decision nor import at all.

LENNOX And on what grounds mayst thou defend thy claim?

LADY LENNOX O, dearest love, I see thee do the same.

LENNOX By God, if I’d a blade quick as thy wit, None e’er could bid me fall nor land a hit.

LADY LENNOX An were the food I lived on but thy love, The sweetest meals would I soon grow sick of.

LENNOX Thou hast done well to keep my mind apart From matters that thou know’st make ill my heart. And though this ring I wear be newly fledged, To thee myself in all respects I’ve pledged.

Enter MENTEITH and LADY MENTEITH.

LADY LENNOX Here comes the one that thou hadst cast upon Thy doubts. Had I not reassurèd thee well That he would soon arrive? And here he is. 

MENTEITH Forgive me for my latest tardiness-- Thou must be keen to hear the reason why.

LENNOX Go on.

MENTEITH I had but new returned and meant To rest, for Ross and I had gone to hunt, And did par force de chiens, those hounds of mine No match for those of his, for as the horn Cried loud and th’ chase began, we on our mounts Held back and watched the dogs speed past. One called So aptly “Cailean” by his master sped Along the dusty path, and we pursued Him through the low-lying branches, past the fount That thou know’st best of all is ill-placed there, And soon our quarry came within our sight: I tell thee true, the beast stood tall and proud, With ten great points upon that crown he wore So proudly on his head, those bony spires Proclaiming him the ruler of the woods Wherein we so trespass’d and dared disturb. At once, he sighted us--how th’ beasts did cry!-- And so he fled from thence, and we gave chase--

LENNOX What, man, waste not on those who want it not. Make swift your speech. 

MENTEITH I do apologize-- My mind has been a-whirl with thoughts of late, And th’ instrument that gives them voice holds not A single one behind. The reason thus: The lord Macduff arrived at mine estate Ere I could find the letter that thou sent, And for thy words were vague, he took th’ message To mean some kind of harm ‘gainst our young king.

LENNOX ‘Swounds, should he do such wrong? I should have known-- Since we the tyrant’s castle seized upon  And took his crown, giving it to the prince, Macduff hath taken it upon himself To keep watch o’er the king as carefully As one might see a shepherd watch his flock.  How like of him to take mine empty words And spin a meaning from their ravelled threads.

LADY LENNOX ‘Twould do thee best to watch thy bitter tongue. We that have seen Macbeth as king know well That even in the secretest of rooms, Our words are loose, and somehow heard by all.

LADY MENTEITH The time of fear has passed. Let’s speak no more Of this.--Now, Lennox, what didst thou intend To show the two of us?

LENNOX Come, follow me About this winding road that Nature hath Carved out for us beside this crystal lake-- Now, Menteith, watch thy step--My lady, come, Give me thy hand, and pace thy steps well.

MENTEITH Friend, For what do we all climb this rocky cliff, Cling fast to jagged stones to elevate Ourselves, step down a path none e’er traversed?

LENNOX Gaze out in awe and see what I hath found.

LADY MENTEITH The whole o’th’ lake I see from here--Come, dear, And look up too: the stars shine bright on us.

MENTEITH An I could wish the flow of time were stilled, ‘Tis here eternity I’d spend with thee. Here Nature’s canvas lies, and of her hands Comes forth a blessing to mine eyes; still none Compare to you, my dear.

LADY MENTEITH I love thee well.

LENNOX Set up thy rest not here, for I still have Much more to show.

MENTEITH Lead on. 

Exit LENNOX, LADY LENNOX, MENTEITH, and LADY MENTEITH. Enter MACDUFF.

MACDUFF My lord the king was right--’twas all but none. Still yet, ‘twould better us to overstep Our limits of security and sleep In safety knowing all is well than lie Asleep yet restless as ill deeds slip past. Ay, as I live, he’ll never hear of this, For this would cast me in some wicked light, And none know more than we how common cries May so besmirch the clearest name. The prince Returns from Ireland soon, and in his name The king has asked we hold a joyous feast, The preparation he hath tasked me with. These fears of mine must quell themselves. The morn Comes fast, and with it Duncan’s second-born.

Exit MACDUFF.

#macbeth #macbeth sequel #macduff #lennox #menteith #shakespeare #shakespeare fic #macbeth fic

[seafoodpun]

Finally finished a Dune fic...

I never manage to finish fics, I swear, even little short one-shots, so the fact that I started AND finished one in just an hour or two is a heckin' miracle. And then AO3 is down and I moped so hard it took another solid hour for it to occur to me that I could post it on Tumblr and then upload it to AO3 tomorrow when it's back up.

Anyhoo, stomping down the nerves to post a thing. 😅😬🫣

Mouth to Mouth

“If you wanted to kiss me all that badly, all you had to do was ask,” Gurney tried to joke, but his self-deprecating huff of a laugh turned into a painful cough before it even emerged.  His throat already felt like he’d been gargling razor blades from the effort of expelling the sea water, and the cough also jolted the ribs he was now sure were at least cracked.

Lying back, he pressed a palm to his side and felt two of them grate against themselves and upgraded those to broken.  Distracted by the pain, it took another moment to realize that the silence was stretching awkwardly.  Rewinding the past several moments in his mind Gurney paused and then closed his eyes.  God in heaven.  Added on top of the humiliation of needing to be hauled out of the sea by his na-duke and the pain and inconvenience of broken ribs from the rescue breathing, a formal rebuke going into his service file would really round this out as the worst day in recent memory.

It had to be clear that it was a joke, but it was a poor joke, poorly thought out, poorly timed, and poorly delivered.  Not thought out at all, if he were to be honest, but the past year Gurney had rather gotten out of the habit of being honest with himself when it came to how he reacted around Paul.

Beyond having grown into a beautiful young man whose natural command was tempered by a wicked sense of humor, the Atreides heir had matured into a confident, competent person who, frustratingly, Gurney found deeply appealing.  Painfully competent, in this case, as he had certainly taken to heart the lesson that with the mouth to mouth breathing, rescue compressions needed to be hard enough that they might leave damage in their wake if they were to be effective.

He had a lifetime of practice setting aside physical discomfort, so Gurney’s mind was starting to work overtime on how to mitigate the offense.  Resigning himself to face whatever consequences awaited him for his ill advised attempt to make light of needing to be rescued, he looked up at Paul.  He found the young man’s face utterly unreadable and cursed internally.  Holding his intense gaze was more of an effort than Gurney wished to admit, fighting the cowardly impulse to shut his eyes again and hide away from the situation he’d managed to get himself into.  But he was anything but a coward, so he–

“May I kiss you?”

Gurney’s mind stumbled over itself to an ungraceful stop.  Try as he might, he could not marshal a single thought, the low voiced question echoing in his mind over and over.  Paul’s expression didn’t change when he asked, or after, as he waited for Gurney to manage any sort of response.

“...Alright,” Gurney finally croaked, at a complete loss.

Paul’s face broke out of the unnerving blankness, but Gurney still couldn’t read whatever he was feeling or thinking.  From where he was kneeling on the deck beside Gurney it was a simple matter for him to bend to put them face to face, a hand planted in the water above his shoulder still seeping from his soaked shirt.  Paul’s other hand came up to frame his jaw, thumb sweeping over part of his beard, and Gurney swallowed hard, despite his ravaged throat.

There was a slight pause, as if even after asking he was being offered an opportunity to demur or turn away, and then warm lips pressed to his, lingering, but not moving.  It was wholly different from the frantic press of a mouth over his to force air into his waterlogged lungs barely a quarter of an hour before, but Gurney’s heart kicked up a rhythm that could match the speed of earlier.

Paul pulled back enough to study Gurney’s face.  Gurney found himself panting shallowly, having hardly dared to breathe when Paul was, was–  He wasn’t sure what Paul saw in his expression, but the other man hummed briefly as if he’d come to some conclusion and then ducked his head to bring their mouths together again.  This time his mouth moved on his and Gurney tilted his head to press up into the kiss, any reserve he’d been clinging to crumbling.  

Paul hardly parted their mouths as he curled his fingertips under Gurney’s jaw to turn his face slightly.  “Paul?” Gurney rasped out, not quite sure what question he was asking.  Paul’s response of his own name was low and insistent, said almost into his mouth as he sank into a deeper kiss.  It sent a spike of heat through Gurney that redoubled when a tongue pressed into his welcoming mouth.  He could feel his pulse thundering in his neck, his temples, his cock, his fingertips with every stroke of Paul’s tongue against his.

Paul moaned into his mouth and Gurney took a sharp breath at the sound and feel of it, but then flinched at the spike of pain from his ribs.  Paul pulled back instantly as Gurney’s hand fell from where it had apparently fisted in the other man’s shirt without him realizing to hold his side again.  He grimaced, trying to take another deep breath slowly.  Paul’s brow was furrowed with worry, but his face was flushed and his pupils were blown wide with his reaction to their kissing and the rush of lust Gurney felt at the sight overwhelmed the pain.  His impulse to pull Paul back down to him was conquered by common sense a moment later.

“I’m going to call in an evac,” Paul told him, sitting up on his knees.  “I can’t handle a boat this big on my own to get us back.  Father is going to be insufferable.  ‘An Atreides should be a consummate sailor.  You need more practice on the water.’”

His impression of the duke was both fond and not terribly flattering.  Gurney snorted in amusement despite the physical discomfort and the creeping bit of panic that was starting to grow at the reminder of Leto with the feel of this friend’s son still lingering on his lips.

“Never mind the fact this was supposed to be me getting practice, even though he doesn’t have time to sail with me these days.”

Paul started to push himself up to his feet, but stopped at the last second and leaned down to steal another lush kiss as if he couldn’t help himself.  He framed Gurney’s face with both hands and lingered for an endless set of heartbeats before tearing himself away and hurrying to the cabin for the satellite communications relay.

Gurney lay on the deck of the old fashioned sailing vessel and stared up at the clouds chasing across the blue sky.  From start to end, this trip hadn’t gone to plan and he felt at sea as metaphorically as he was literally.  He had no clear idea how he’d ended up in the water, and if possible even less of an idea how Paul and he had gotten to this point.  He didn’t know what it meant for his position in the Duke’s household, or what it meant for Paul and him, if it really meant anything beyond now, or…

The sound of wind snapping the lines against the mast and canvas filling as the sail bellied out preceded the deck tilting gently as the sail boat started picking up speed and dipped its nose into the first wave.  Despite Paul’s earlier dismissal of his own skills, Gurney trusted him to get them back safely single handedly.  As he watched the clouds seem to change direction as they came about, he ruminated that that’s what it really came down to: he trusted Paul.

All in all, even with the broken ribs threatening to have him off duty for weeks recovering, today was shaping up to be the best day in recent memory.

#Gurney Halleck #Paul Atreides #gurney x paul #paulleck #dune #fanfiction

[nemo1-16]

Chapter one- The dream of peace is only a dream.

Every story has a beginning, here’s mine.

I remember it all as if it were yesterday. All the memories of that day still haunt me, even now at the end of it all. The smell of smoke and smog, the smell of burning corpses, and the screaming coming from those who burned alive. Oh, Dominus the screams. All the blood-curdling cries of that day still echo in my head like a nightmare. Back then, on the day we lost everything and everyone we cared about, it was just him and I.

He and I were orphans in a small town just north of the border of the cursed lands. The winters were unbelievably cold there, I almost miss the freezing winds. But the snow made everything seem so peaceful, it made the world seem so pure. Oh, how wrong was I?! Believing a child's fantasy!

But in this small cold town, there was an even smaller orphanage. There weren't many kids in that small house. The ten of us were close, more than most big families. A young couple took great care of us all, our father's name was Solomon. He was a very tall and stoic man but he was always so kind and gentle. He was maybe 4 and a half cubits high and his beard looked like a large bear cub sleeping on his face. Our mother Atalanta, was just as kind and as gentle but so much more reckless. She loved danger and loved to fight. She said she learned how to fight in the capital; and when she taught us how to fight with a sword, she was so fast and relentless. Her bright red hair was just a blur to us all. They were the closest people we had to parents but to us, they truly were our parents.

They told us older kids that they were low-hanging nobles and that's why we were so well off at the time. Their last name was “ill-fate” which is kind of ironic now that I think about it. But watching their very fate unfold before my eyes. Oh, Dominus, it was so much more than ill. The very memory of watching their demise is still fresh in my mind every time I close my eyes.

My little brother and I were the only souls to survive. He was a small, skinny kid at the time. Always was a little on the smaller side. But if he and I still carry the name ‘’ill-fate’’ will we meet the same or similar end? Only time will tell I suppose.

H-hey!! Hey!!!! "an unfamiliar voice called out to me. My eyes felt stuck together as I tried to stand up. Only to fall back on my face" don't get up, you're hurt!!! She cried out "I felt a hand on my bare back through my scraped and torn shirt. She tells me to stay calm and that she will get help. Her hands were so warm or maybe it was just the hypothermia setting in that made them so warm. "Hold on! I'll heal you ‘she said "the distinct sound of magic echoed in that enchanted frozen forest as she healed me but I still laid face down in the snow. Even though I can't see, I can feel the snow melting from my blood or maybe the blood of the horse he and I were riding. We did take a nasty fall, after all the storm was so heavy. How could I have seen where we were going in all that? I barely remember going off the cliff; I just remember the ground coming out underneath us and the sudden rush of a fall." There! You should feel a little better now" the girl said eagerly "I slowly started to move. Pushing up and trying to stand, my eyes still frozen over from the intense storm. My mind was so clouded but as the fog lifted I suddenly remembered" Oh Dominus where is Icarus! “Do you see anyone else here with us? I yelled to her, my little brother! Where is he?! "I yelled and yelled, then ripped the ice from my eyes, small cuts and patches of skin yanked away from my eyelids, I looked around for my brother. As my vision began to fade, red and blurry from the overwhelming amount of blood coming over my eyes. When I had ripped the ice from my eyes the girl screamed at the sight of me almost ripping my eyelids off. And my body, still trying to get a grasp on what happened previously. Beginning to shake, and as I fell back to my knees and my vision began to darken. I faintly remember a lullaby. But the words. I couldn't understand them, but they seemed so mystical and that distinct sound of magic became music for her song. I felt my eyes begin to heal and the blood stopped flowing, the blood on my face began to disappear. The peace that came over me. It was indescribable at the time.

By the time I came to my senses, I was on a soft, cushioned couch. I was somewhere I had never been. Then again I never left the land beyond the village until that point. I heard the voice of the girl before, she was talking to someone, but my mind was still so foggy to understand what was said and I could barely move. I felt so weak, my blood was boiling and every breath was as if there were a dagger being twisted in my lungs. My eyes were shaking, my muscles twitching, cramping, and contracting uncontrollably. My entire body itched as if It were dumped into a pit of poison ivy. The girl from before then looked over at me and panicked. She hastily asked someone to grab a cold towel. And after what felt like an eternity I felt an ice-cold cloth on my head. It was slightly soothing. The cold water dripping down the sides of my head was a small but pleasant distraction from the excruciating pain. She then crouched down next to me and said ” you'll be alright, okay! You're strong, you made it this far!'' but all I could do was stare at her with a lifeless gaze. Then as she left the room I stared back at the ceiling. I could hear them in the kitchen.

An older woman said “he won't last the night Stella, and your father is already looking for that other boy you said he mentioned" oh Dominus, Icarus where is he, is he just as sick as I am? How will he survive out there, will I survive? Am I really at death's door? I tried to scream but only a subtle breeze from my lips came forth. I was Paralyzed. I couldn't move to save my life. Oh God of gods save me!

From then on my memories begin to clash with hallucinations, dreams, and nightmares. I remember a few of the many hallucinations or nightmares quite vividly. The world turned a deep blood red, the lights dimmed, and the smell of death and decay filled the air just like finding a beast's old kill in the forest. But as the lights began to come back to my eyes, I noticed dim black torches around me, maybe 13 or 14 cubits all around me in a circle. I was in the ruins of some colosseum or castle and the moon was incredibly dim but was an awful blood red. A stone statue of a sword in the distance had an ominous golden haze. I then heard a voice, it was deep and strong and it seemed so familiar. It was saying “walk to the statue Nerian” and again “walk to the statue Nerian“ and so I did. As I walked to it I felt the presence of something vile next to me, it felt like the presence of a necromancer. One once walked into our small village. He was a pale, skinny, and boney man. He looked like one of the skeletons he kept in chains and cuffs going through the village. But this presence was so much worse. Oh, Dominus what is going on? As I approached the statue I saw a scabbard on the ground. It was golden and had gems engraved all around it, the presence I felt from it seemed so holy. It looked like it was crafted by Dominus himself. I picked it up but soon realized it was solid gold and as I struggled to hold it I felt some kind of faint power from it, seeping off and flowing into my body. I then heard that voice again, that deep, strong, and stoic voice. It told me to turn around, the presence of some vile creature was right behind me, and I just knew it. I was scared out of my mind but what other option did I have? I trusted the voice nonetheless. when I turned around there was a statue of a demon. Its presence was unfathomable even now it makes me shake. It had to be at least 6 cubits tall, maybe more. It was overgrown with vines and moss. The claws and teeth were massive but still razor-sharp after what I can guess were millennia. It had this sword up in its chest, it was glowing with a violent orange and gold hue.

There was a golden lion's head at the end of the hilt and the crossguard was like a temple sword I've seen in pictures. The stoic voice said to me “grab the sword and you will slay which what must be slain” I reached out, still shaking in fear. When I grabbed the sword I felt this incredible power flush through my body. This power was even more unfathomable than the one before. The statue of the crumbing demon turned to dust as it blew away with the power surge coming from the sword as I held it. The voice said once more “with this sword you will slay which what must be slain” and then like the snap of the fingers. My eyes opened and I was back in the house. Almost like I never left.

I sat up and looked around the room, it was dark but I could still see the door was slightly open and the room was empty besides an old nightstand and the rickety bed I was laying on. There was also a chair with a bowl of water and a cloth. My bag was next to me and the only light in the room came from the full moon shining outside of the window by the bed

I moved the covers and got out of the old and dusty bed, my legs felt weak. I sat back down thinking ‘’how long was I asleep"

As I came back to my senses, after just waking up. I began to notice a similar presence. Not nearly as powerful as what I had experienced in my nightmare but still enough to make me shake with fear. My ears perked and my heart was beating out of my chest, unlike before I knew this was real. I heard something heavy as it walked down the hall. The footsteps were loud and they shook the floor a bit. But whatever it was, it called out saying "help" "help" and other sounds that sounded like a child yelling and crying. I stared at the door that was barely cracked open. Thinking to myself, “by the name of the God of light what the hell is that’’ at this point I had never seen or felt an actual demons or dark spirit's presence, it had just been dark beasts and dark magic users. But as I stared at the door, it slowly crept open. I saw a pale face peek through, the face was abnormally long. I couldn't tell if it had a snout like an ape or a dog but it was still extremely human, the jaw looked loose and dislocated. Dark cracks were coming from its eyes oozing some kind of acid. It would drip down from its lifeless eyes and burn and sizzle when it hit the floor. They were this horrifying orangish-red; they looked so full of anger but so empty at the same time. It had antlers and horns on its head when it crept in. It was walking on six limbs but both sets of elbows were bent backward and its chest was facing up. It looked like some kind of altered human, it had small patches of thinning hair all over its body, cuts, and bruises too. Its blood looked rotten, it was black and congealed, lumpy even, it was so thick. it looked like cold watered down honey dripping out of a jar.

I was petrified with fear. I've killed many beasts before that point. Blood serpents, griffins, and blood trolls too. But this was like nothing I had ever seen. I reached for my bag looking for any weapon. The whittling knife my father gave me. My sword, or anything I could use! But there was nothing, no weapon in or around, not even my mother's sword. Nothing but a few things I had taken with me, the locket my mother gave me, some water, and a satchel of coins.

As I shook in fear, the smell of the beast was reprehensible. It was like the musk of an animal that had rolled around in its own feces and then died and began to mold in a wet cave. I began to cough uncontrollably. This thing started to crawl towards me, there was some kind of plant growth on its back almost like a tumor. The mass looked deformed and diseased, the tumor fell off the creature in clumps but grew back in seconds. When the small clumps hit the floor they began to grow, small vines and mold spores started to fill the air from the clumps and while growing all around me on the old wooden floor and walls. The vines crawled to me while a thick black fog came from its back like a geyser flooding the floor. It was so thick as if it were smoke from a volcanic vent, I could barely breathe because of it. The gas was suffocating, and while the vines grappled onto me. Twisting onto my legs, arms, and neck. The vines pulled me forward and brought me close to the hideous creature's face. The monster's face was not even a hair width from mine. speaking in a horrific voice as if there were a legion of spirits talking to me from that one entity. It said to me in this deep, crazy, rumbling voice. “Death to the bringer of light! Death to the Sword of the God of light”

The vines then continued to cover my head and around my neck. I remember the vines twisting my head to the side very fast. But just like that, I had woken up on the same couch I had fallen asleep in. The same couch I thought was going to die in. I was never in any other room. The whole illusion was all just some hell-made dream and I was relieved to be alive.

I laid awake staring at the ceiling for some time. Moving my hands in front of my face, watching them shake. That creature? Spirit? Demon? What the hell was that thing? I sat up and looked around and noticed my Mother’s sword against the wall and the bag I had seen in my hellish nightmare. In my bag, I looked in and grabbed a thin leather cloak. The cloak was a dark brown however the hood was a darker color than the rest. My mother said when she gave it to me I should take good care of it and that it was expertly crafted. It had an emblem on the front and the side of the hood. The emblem was of a sword and staff on an open book and it was all encased in the shape of a shield surrounded by golden dragons. The emblems are beautiful but I usually try to keep them covered. I didn't like drawing attention to myself at the time. But I won't get into that now.

I remember as I stood up and put that thin brown cloak on, my shirt was ripped and torn, soaked in blood and dark magic. The reason I was sick, was I was splintered by a blood thorn, An incredibly toxic and poisonous plant. They only grow in areas of strong dark magic, and the region I grew up in was said to be among the strongest in the known world but not the worst.

But how did I survive?! A scratch could kill a man and yet on the side of my stomach, there was a deep wound. A slash that looked to be from a thick knife and a deeper point near the end. A black and red zigging pattern like lightning coming from the deeper part of the wound and black marks all around it. Next to the couch, there was a wooden stand, and on that stand in a glass plate lay a thick whitethorn as long as a cork of a bottle. I knew the worst thing that could happen to someone is the thorn turning white. When the originally black and red thorn is pulled out and is completely white it means that all the dark magic has been leaked into the body.

When I was a young child at the orphanage there was a boy a few years older than Icarus and I. He was an amazing hunter and wanted to be a hero. He wanted to be a man who could conquer evil with a flick of the wrist. But his dream was cut short, while out one day fighting some blood monster he was stabbed with just one of those thorns. He came home with the head of the monster but collapsed at the door. He was too weak to stand, coughing uncontrollably and throwing up blood. When the thorn was removed it was pale as snow, and so was he. I can remember the look of horror on my mother's and father's faces. I had never seen my father nor my mother cry till that point, but their tears just kept coming. Within two hours or so, his screams of agony were unbearable. But the worst part of this cursed plant. Before he passed I entered the room, I wanted to say my final goodbyes because I had looked up to him for as long as I could remember. He was a hero to me, and when I said that to him. His smile was almost ear to ear and at that moment I could tell the tears had at least a little joy in them.

When he laid his head back down to finally let himself go, his eyes turned this glossy black with a red hew. He started to scream again, but this time his voice was like the one in the nightmare from before. How there seemed to be a legion voice coming from his mouth. I noticed he was tied down. Ropes around his hands, feet, waist, and neck. He then said “the god of darkness will reap every soul you have ever seen and his power is incomprehensible. Your lives are forfeit to him and he will devour you alive. Sacrifice yourselves to him and he just may have mercy on you, all hail Malum all hail Malum all hail Malum all hail Malum '' then after continued to scream in different tongues, none were any tongue of man. The look on my parents, they were horrified and grabbed me. They explained to me what just happened. When the eyes turn black, the soul of whoever was there before is gone but every demon and impure spirit in the vicinity rushes into the body—possessing the body, trying to commune with those in the living world from the spiritual world.

And so knowing all of this. How am I alive!? And what did my dreams or well nightmares more like it mean?

“I stood by the couch still in shock of it all and I thought to myself”. The creature I saw, the ruins I was in, and the sword I pulled from that statue. What does it all mean? That thing called me a bringer of light and the sword of the God of light, what does that even mean? I'm good with a sword but I could never be strong enough to fight an army-class monster, I'm no hero. I could never slay a beast that would need an army to kill. This is making my head spin and I need to figure out what's going on. I can't think about anything else right now, I need to find Icarus!

“I started to look around the darkroom, the living room was nice from what I could see. The furniture seemed expensive and the floor was of smooth stone slabs with rugs on top, a fireplace in the corner that gave off a very warm, dim light, and beautiful paintings on the walls. The light from the window looked to be early in the morning, just before the sun was up.

I have no idea how much time has passed and I have no idea where I am. I could have been asleep for days and Icarus could be dead or alive. I don't even know if this is another nightmare and at that moment I remember everything, my heart began to shatter. The realization of having nothing left, no friends, no family, nothing to my name beside a cloak, and a sword too heavy for me to wield. I had no home, I had nothing. The memories of my family being slaughtered and burned, crushed and tortured. It was making me sick to my stomach, I had to run to the door and let my guts out onto the pale white snow outside. Getting on all fours and spilling out whatever I had left in my stomach. After it all, I felt this anger in my heart, this fire that seemed so real, I could feel it boiling inside me as I began to sob uncontrollably. But at the door, as I screamed and cried, I heard a familiar voice call out to me. I turned my head around as fast as I could. With tears flowing from my eyes and saw him standing in the doorway

“Icarus!?”