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writefightandflightclub · 4 years

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Two steps back: chapter 4 (Poe Dameron x reader)

Chapter summary: (LEAVE:TWO) Poe is now a Captain in the Resistance and he’s finding his stride - that is, until he has a brush with death. After his life flashes before his eyes, he realises he needs his best friend by his side. Somehow, somewhere, across the galaxy, you are coming to the same conclusion.

Series masterlist here

Rating: TEEN Word count: 5.5kish OOPS GIF: @irebelcaptain

Author’s note: please know that the last scene was SO sad in my head that I wept, and I’m sorry if I have failed to convey it well enough to get you in the feels too. I hope you like this instalment. Stick around, there’s a lot more to come for these two.

Song: I have a whole angsty / cheesy playlist for these two and Grow as We Go fits this series so closely that I strongly advise a listen - if you’d like some angst on the side of your angst.

Warnings: character death / death mentions, wounds (not super graphic descriptions but mentions of blood, shrapnel, coughing), ANGST. Kissing. Canon-typical mentions of war, strong themes of homesickness.

Poe was leaving you behind.

There was a sky fringed with red as he lay on his back, the warm, damp soil under his fingers reminding him of home. He was grateful for that. Home is indistinguishable from you.

His fingers clawed more deeply into the earth as he cried out, marring his fingernails, pulling up grass and grit, his hands digging as if searching for the roots of himself.

Poe was leaving you behind, all over again. But this time, as he prepared to leave, the sky was darkening and shrinking above him, frayed hems of red bleeding more deeply into his vision.

So long. So long looking up, ahead, beyond, and in that moment, he simply wished he could look over to his side and see you there. Whyever had he been so keen to fly deep into the maw of space and have its dark expanse swallow him? Why had he wanted to see anything of the universe, beyond where your arms could reach him?

Poe brought his hands to grasp at his stomach, soil mingling with the flowers of red blooming over his torso, a garden of shrapnel buried in him; thorns amongst the pooling red roses.

His chest heaved. A cough rattled like his lungs were full of stones.

He knew. He knew what was coming. A boy who once reached for the stars held hands with a man ending on the ground.

So this is what it feels like to die? So this is what it feels like to die alone?

Perhaps, in these precious moments, Poe should have been thinking of whether he did enough. Enough good. Enough to make his parents proud. Enough to make the sacrifices worth it. Enough that Leia wouldn’t feel he let her down, after she took a chance on his dumb ass.

Perhaps, Poe should have been thinking about whether he would see his mother again soon, as his reddened fingers wound around the ring he wears on his neck, seeking comfort from the familiar, cool band of metal which he used to twist on her finger when he was a boy.

Still, all he could think of was you. That it had been years. Years since you had both laid on your backs in the grass and grazed fingertips, hands and hearts inching closer. Years since you had generously masked the fear in your eyes, for his sake - your fear that the sky he craved so desperately would swallow him and he’d never return.

It had been years now since Poe had seen you, held you, known you, and yet... in these red-tinged moments it was thoughts of you which jarred most in his mind; violence within violence.

Violence, yes, because you didn’t appear to him as an angel- as a soothing balm. As a comfort.

You appeared to him like a spectre. A terror. A panic-rousing lament signalling that it was too late. That he had messed up, because he was too far from you, at his end, even though the only beginning he remembered was hand in hand with you. He was too far away to come back. Out of time to return. Out of breath to tell you…

They say your whole life flashes before your eyes, don’t they?

You are his whole life, then; and yet…

He is filled with dread because he is leaving you, and he never meant to leave you twice.

Once was more than enough for a lifetime.

He looks up, and the sky blazes red, but the earth beneath his clawing fingers reminds him of home. Indistinguishable from you.

****

Poe looks uncharacteristically brooding as he cradles his drink in a dark corner of the Resistance bar, his leather jacket – the first of many to come, perhaps - tugged tightly around himself like a protective barrier. His brow is heavy, his youthful, unlined face learning a new weight. The burdens of war have already begun to school his features; to carve out future furrows.

He rasps a hand over the dark stubble sprouting along the sharp line of his jaw. Typically clean-shaven, Poe finds the texture is a comfort. If he’s honest, he likes the way it makes him look too - and by all accounts so do a fair few others on base. Since he grew it in, he has heard fewer descriptors like “boyish” and “baby-faced”, and more like “handsome”.

Youth is wasted on the young.

Still, his new image, combined with his exploits as an X-Wing pilot, have certainly generated Poe a certain level of… attention. And, certainly, the dashing pilot is learning to better handle the attention he gets - even how to attract and cultivate it, when his Resistance schedule allows it.

Tonight, however, he is not in the mood for any kind of attention, and so he sighs deeply and averts his gaze as Harli enters the bar.

Bracing himself as she sashays over to him, Poe takes a rousing sip of fire whiskey, the spirit burning down his throat and making him cough, fracturing his well-crafted display of sullenness and suave.

Perhaps he is still learning some finesse, then?

Or, perhaps the boozy nights he shared with you on Yavin didn’t develop much of a tolerance in him. Since then, he hasn’t often indulged - he has usually needed to stay sharp in case he has been required to jump in an A-Wing or X-Wing at short notice. This time, though, there is nothing to preclude him from a tipple, since he has once again been grounded for reckless behaviour. No change there, then? Aside from the fact that, this time, his behaviour really had almost killed him.

“Kriff, you’re choking!” Harli sing-songs from behind him in her sweetened voice, patting and rubbing circles into Poe’s back as he chokes. “Are you okay, Captain?”

Poe can’t help it- he still feels a swell of pride every time he hears his newly bestowed rank, especially when delivered in Harli’s honeyed, laudatory tones. He feels it even though Leia had threatened to strip him of his title after the last mission. Still, she had opted not to be that cruel to her fallen pilot. Perhaps she thought he had been taken down a sufficient number of notches already, considering he languished in the med bay, broken and bruised in both body and spirit.

Poe looks at Harli impassably as she slides herself delicately into the bar stool next to him, eyes sweeping over Poe with gentle concern as he presses his palm to his stomach, checking that all of his insides are where they should be after his coughing fit – a nasty habit you form when you almost die, turns out.

He mulls over Harli’s question with more soberness than she had delivered it. He is okay, isn’t he?

Isn’t he?

If so, why can’t he shake that red sky? Why can’t he shake thoughts of you? Ever since that fateful day he has been saddled with a deep-seated sadness, as if all of the incremental, unconscious grieving he has done for you over the years is risen to the surface. As if it had been you that was lost that day. Lost to him.

Perhaps this is how you felt when he left you. When he still had so much to learn. Perhaps he should heed Leia when she insists that, even now, he still does not know as much as he thinks he does.

“Come on, Captain,” Harli probes, a less than subtle hint of flirtation in her tone. “Why so glum?” she slips an arm over to squeeze his bicep, a gesture hovering transparently between comfort and coquetry. Poe had filled out his flight suit a bit since he started training. That seemed to garner him more attention too. He certainly wasn’t complaining.

Harli’s gentle advances are not lost on the pilot, but Poe isn’t exactly in the mood to respond. He is snared by thoughts of you. Of how she is not you. In fact, the ghost of your features acts as a shroud over his companion every time he looks at her, of late. Not your eyes. Not your hands. Not your lips. Not your smile. She is not you.

Of course, this sudden malady doesn’t make any sense, Poe knows.

He’d had his chance to choose you. And he chose to leave you.

There had been others since he tangled limbs with you on Yavin - others who were not you. Of course there had. Zorii. Alister. Ayenne. Harli… Some unions were dalliances, and others over the years, were something approaching love, if not love itself. And yet... none of their faces had appeared to him as a cruel vision in the moment before death. None of their names has embedded themselves in his heartbeat and sounded out with his last breaths.

None of them were at the root of him. You were. You are.

Poe had used to feel invincible. Like the war couldn’t touch him. Like he had all the time in the galaxy to come back to you. It didn’t matter how many bodies he touched or how many names fell amorously from his tongue as he skipped from star to star. But now… now that he understands that he is fallible, he can no longer shake you. Now he understands all too well that time is a thing which ends, his promise of loving you until the stars go out seems recklessly lackadaisical. He should love you now, instead of loving you forever, he thinks.

“I almost died.” Poe says in monotone, eyes fixed on the spinning ice cubes as he swirls his glass in his palm. A distraction. His mouth goes instantly dry.

“Am I missing something? Because that seems like cause for celebration to me,” Harli offers brightly, though Poe still does not look up, his dark eyes appearing haunted. A spectre of you. “Unless… what flashed before your eyes that day?” She studies him more intently. “Or... who?” she ventures, perceptively. She’ll do well in her espionage vocation, Poe thinks, once she’s through with training. She can already run circles around him.

Poe looks up now, squirming guiltily in his chair.

He finds Harli’s beautiful, bright eyes.

She doesn’t deserve the thought, and yet... all Poe can think is to lament that they’re not your eyes. Still, the steady warmth in her gaze softens him a little. Blunts the sharp knife of you which is rammed into his chest, like a piece of shrapnel they could never quite extricate in the med bay.

Poe regards Harli fondly. She is pretty as well as headstrong and sharp. Her body is full and soft and her smile easy, but she retains a careful air of mystery which fits her vocation well. She invites him in but not too close, and, perhaps, that’s exactly where Poe needs to be.

“Someone I left behind,” Poe offers cryptically.

“Hmm,” she responds kindly, even though he has given her little to work with, still smoothing her hand over his arm. “Well, maybe they’ll forgive you, Captain. Maybe you can find your way back.”

“I don’t know if I can forgive myself.” Poe says gloomily, his eyes clouding over, and he looks away from Harli again, not wanting to burden her with this.. whatever this was.

Poe had been convinced he’d done the right thing when he set off for the stars. The war was his vocation, the Resistance in his blood, and he had huge footsteps to fill. Poe put the Resistance above his own life, and he would do it over again, he was sure. Still, in his final moments, when he allowed himself to be selfish, to want something for himself, it was you that he wanted. He didn’t regret joining the war. He did regret leaving you behind to pursue it.

“Well, Dameron,” Harli soothes, extending a hand to squeeze his thigh this time, her lithe fingers rubbing lightly over the fabric of his pants and inching subtly up and up. “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”

Poe gulps and looks down at her hand there. Not your hand. But it feels… good. Maybe he needs this. Wants this.

“Where are they? This person?” Harli asks, and Poe almost falls into her eyes as she dips her head towards him, her painted, cherry-red mouth tempting him. Harli doesn’t deserve this thought either, but Poe thinks of your lips, so often tainted by the crimson blush of koyo juice, when he knew you.

Where is she? Poe reaches, and…

“I don’t even know.”

Where is she?

There is that rising panic again.

He’s lost you. He’s lost himself.

He can’t find his way back.

He kissed a map of stars on to your skin, and yet...

You should be by his side, and yet...

Harli is here. Harli is here as she tentatively dips forward to capture Poe’s full lips in between hers, staining him cherry-red. A different fruit to you but still sweet, stealing the red from his sky and his wounds and channelling it into this. Into a kiss. Not yours, but warm, like you.

“Feel like hooking-up tonight, Dameron?” she coos as she parts from him, her eyes full of promise. “I promise I can make you feel better.”

She finally teases a smile from him, disarming even though he reveals a mere flash of teeth. “I don’t doubt it, Harli Telana.”

The smile she returns is bright and easy. It cuts through the dark.

Yes, Harli is quite unlike you; Harli is here. Reaching for him.

Able to comfort him. Unlike you.

It’s not your fault.

Not your fault at all. Poe was the one who flew beyond where your arms could reach him. But he had to, didn’t he?

Didn’t he?

Channelling the red, finally shifting the blood from his skies, Poe dips his head to the crook of Harli’s neck, her light, flowery scent filtering over him.

He needs to shake that red sky. He needs to shake the ghost of you. He needs to shake that dense, packed earth where the roots of him are buried. Even if only for now, and not forever.

He can’t go back. He has grieved for you already. For that part of himself you will forever hold on to, and now…

Now… he can only move on.

He nips and tongues the sweet spot on Harli’s neck, tasting her perfume under his tongue and grazing his stubble along her collarbone, earning a soft, keening moan from her already. Her body is soft and full and her smile is easy.

He looks at her. Bright eyes, filled with intelligence and mystery. Cherry red lips like petals opening in a moan for him. He looks at her, but this time he sees her. Sees her without the ghost of you shrouding her features. She deserves this. Deserves to be seen.

“Yeah, I would like that,” he concedes, and she offers him a satisfied, sultry smile.

“Come on then, flyboy. Follow me.”

She rises from her stool, catching his hand in hers. Not your hand, but warm all the same.

Her grip is strong, confident. Leading the way. Not the way home… but where else can he go?

Maybe this could be something? Maybe?

Maybe it could be enough.

Maybe Poe could finally leave you behind. At least for now, if not forever.

****

He was leaving you behind.

He gasped, and spluttered, and he cried out, until he knew not whether he heaved violently for air, or for you. Until the burn in his oxygen-deprived lungs was indistinguishable from a need for you. Until the letting of blood from his body was the chance of you, slowly ebbing away. Until the pain jarring through his body was nothing but the burn of regret.

In death you returned to haunt him as a life unlived. A story unfinished.

Violence within violence.

“No, no, no!” he rasped brokenly as the field medics rushed to his side. “Tell her… Tell her…” he had tried, but his lungs felt weighed down by stones, his voice a red, gargling brook, his liquid sinking into the wet earth.

As they tended to him, they might have imagined he was crying for the loss of himself, and yet... he was crying for you.

He had always wanted to fly away, to disappear in the stars. He did not comprehend that he ran towards death. He had still had so much to learn, when he flew the nest. And yet…. now, he would trade it all for a life with you.

He didn’t want to leave you again. He wanted to come back to you, in the end. At his end.

But it was too late. Too dark. He didn’t even know where to find you.

He was lost. He always lost his path without you, didn’t he?

And now, now he was under a shrinking, blood red sky. Reddening. Redder.

Still, as his eyes blinked closed, he was beneath a canopy of verdant green, looking up at the expansive blue sky. He looked to his side and found you there.

You were children again. You had nothing to regret yet, and he felt calm as he reached out to take your hand in his. You always were and always will be at the root of him.

He had thought all was lost but now...

“How did you find me?” he whispered, and his voice was innocent again.

“I always know my way to you,” you replied, in the voice of his best friend. Of his youth.

“I was so lost,” he cried - to you, to the medics, the boy who reached for the stars joining his voice with the man ending on the ground. You swiped the tears away from his skin. A comfort. His angel.

“You’re safe, Poe,” you had gently smiled. “You’re home now.”

And in the moment where the reds and greens and blues faded to black, you were with him.

He stayed by your side as he left you behind.

****

As Poe is ending, you are returning to where he begun. You track down the oh so familiar dirt path to Kes’ house, your face still tear-stained and puffy from both your reunion and your hasty goodbye with your Mama.

“Kes? Are you home?” you call into the house, a break in your voice already - a distinct crack as you sound the word “home”. You find the door ajar, and you wait at the mouth of the house for him to greet you, your heart in your mouth.

It has been years.

You never expected that returning here would hurt so much. To this planet. To your house. To Poe’s house. You ache with both regret and relief.

Still, the sounds and sights and smells of Yavin are deeply familiar and soothing, and you let them wrap around you while you wait. You tilt your head up towards the low-slung sun, which bathes everything in gold. You allow the wafting scent of koyo fruit and tea and wet earth to fill your nostrils. Allow the jibber-jabber and chatter and squawk of animals and birds lilt into your ears, filtering from the jungle via the gentle breeze which makes the leaves in the canopy shush and tremble.

Beneath all this, if you peel back the layers of yourself, you can practically hear the laughter of two young children. You can practically see tiny, grubby hands teasing the hefty, wooden door ajar. Can practically see a brown-eyed, black-haired boy, greeting you with a toothless, cherubic grin.

The lump in your throat grows. It has been a long time since you were home. So much has changed - including you. There is so much that is missing. And yet, everything is simultaneously as it was. You are a child again. As you stand here in front of Mr. Dameron’s door, you feel three foot tall.

Kes appears in response to your call, trundling through from the back of the house, approaching you from across the kitchen, his eyes creasing at the corners as soon as he catches sight of you, his arms already extending towards you in preparation for a hug. He looks older - slightly more rotund, and his hair now entirely awash with grey, but the light in his eyes is still as bright as ever. They are warm and brown like earth as they fall on you, and they remind you endlessly of a boy you used to know.

“Hi, cookie.” Kes smiles, a break in his voice too as he tugs you into an immediate, enveloping hug, and your heart snags on the old nickname.

You hadn’t realised how much you felt Kes’ absence until his presence surrounds you, and suddenly a delayed fit of sorrow bubbles to the surface.

Still, you gladly return his vigorous embrace as he grasps the nape of your neck, just like his son used to do. As he holds you, you are overcome, your eyes screwing shut and your brow creasing - your throat bobbing around a terrible lump as you fail in biting back the tears. You are sure they are in part shed for this reunion, and in part for the reunion you never did get with his son.

Kes feels a gentle, unexpected sob wrack you as he holds you tightly, and he breaks from you to plant his hands firmly on your shoulders, giving you a reassuring squeeze and pat. He nods gently - kindly, understanding your tears. You feel three foot tall again, as if you have run to him with scraped knees and crocodile tears to tend to. You had been prepared to face your mother, but this - this took you by surprise.

“It’s been a long time, kid. Long time since you were home, huh?” he asks gently, allowing you to freely let go of whatever you didn’t realise was pent up.

There’s that word again. Home.

It has been a long time indeed. And it will be longer yet that you must be away. A fresh batch of tears travels down your face and you quickly wipe them away with the back of your hand, smushing your face. You nod quickly, your face a grimace.

“Well, let me get a proper look at you,” Kes says in his soothing baritone, as you bring yourself under control with a few deep breaths, his kind eyes creasing at the corners as he fishes some glasses out of his cardigan pocket and lifts them to his face with his big, worn hands, his aging skin lined and crinkled now like brown paper packages.

You’re not sure Kes will like the jaded, battle-scarred woman in front of him, and for a moment you worry you will disappoint him upon closer inspection, but he tips up your chin fondly with his thumb, a warm light tinkling in his eyes. He looks you over in your tactical wear and you stand a little taller, out of habit.

There is a certain sadness in his eyes when he observes that you look every inch a soldier. He always hoped you and his boy would be spared the fight.

“Look at you, beautiful girl. And look at that steel in your eyes. Still a hard nut, and still soft in the middle, I suspect. You’re everything I knew you could become, but hoped you would never need to be, aren’t you?” Kes’ eyes grow even more wistful as he regards you, at once familiar and yet entirely changed. “It’s still so strange to see you without him. Whenever I saw you standing in my doorway, I could always expect to see my boy rounding the corner a few steps behind.” Your eyes become misty again, and you and Kes are joined, finding affinity in the pain of Poe’s absence. “Come in, cookie? Have some tea? I’m sure we have a lot to catch-up on.”

So much.

You nibble your fingernail, because you know you’re about to break Kes’ heart.

You and Poe had each given the man a hard time in your youth. Poe in particular, especially after his mother passed. For a good few years things had grown strained between them. Still, Kes had always seemed so much sterner back then. Now, he seems kind and soft, and you realise that you owe him so much.

“Kes. I’m so sorry,” you say earnestly, placing a hand on top of his as his grip settles around the kettle. “I can’t stay. I wish I could, believe me,” you say truthfully. “But I need to find him, Kes.”

The man pauses, recognising the levity in your tone. He looks at you questioningly, knitting his brows together but serving no interruption.

“My unit are... They’re all...” You can’t complete the thought. You can’t bring yourself to say it, but Kes recognises that familiar look. The weight on your face is all too familiar.

He is sorry, in that moment and so many others, that his generation did not do enough to spare the next from this pain. He can’t find the words either, but he again finds an affinity, and he reaches out to squeeze your arm.

“Someone betrayed us,” you explain more cleanly, gaining some composure. A determination taking over your voice, causing Kes’ eyes to glow with a gentle pride. “I don’t know who to trust, Kes. The Order obliterated our forces. I have no friends left. I need to find him and find the Resistance. There’s work left to do.”

Kes nods in understanding and pats your cheek reassuringly with his palm. “Kid.” he says, with a fond smile, crossing to a wooden dresser and fishing out a data chip. “You’ll always have at least one friend.” Padding back to you, he scoops up your smaller hand and places the data chip in your palm, wrapping your fingers securely around it as he clasps your hand in his.

“That’s the most recent cypher. He might have moved on since then, I don’t know. He... he gets in touch when he can.” Kes’ voice is heavy with the absence of his son, yet also imbued with forgiveness, readily given, for the lack of him.

You clasp your free hand over Kes’. “I missed you, Kes. I miss him. I wish I could stay.”

A soft smile blooms on Kes’ lips. He is getting all too used to being left behind. “Me too. Me too, kid. Just... promise me something?” You nod. “If you see Poe...” Kes’ watery smile falters and his eyes drop to the floor, his breath becoming subtly discombobulated as he speaks. “If you see him will you tell him that I.... I....” Kes’ voice fractures, and so you generously pick up the slack.

You nod, a steel in your eyes letting the man know you will keep your promise. He can’t put his message into words, but he doesn’t have to. You can translate it for him. You know love when you see it.

“I’ll tell him, Kes. But he already knows, and he loves you too,” you reassure, your words precise and your eyes searching his to ensure the words sink in in their entirety. It seems to offer some comfort to the man. You fish for a little more, if you can provide it. You land on the only other thing you know of Poe since you knew him on Yavin. “He saved my life you know. He was one helluva pilot, even as an Academy flyboy.”

“He told me about that. Told me we almost lost you,” Kes shakes his head as if chiding you for it. “I’m glad my son was a crappy enough pilot to crash and a decent enough pilot to get you out.” Kes delivers another wistful smile. “Boy always was like his mother, fortunately. Wouldn’t want him to have turned out like his father.”

A soft, watery smile finally cracks your face, and you force it up until it apples your cheeks.

“Ah, you’re not so bad, Kes. Don’t be so hard on yourself,” you say fondly, dipping to kiss him on the cheek.

He smiles gratefully at you, suddenly looking smaller and older, and with a deep inhale, you turn and track out of the house. If you don’t leave now maybe you never will. This house is imbued with memories from the floor to the beams and everywhere in between, and if you bask in them too long you won’t want to leave them behind. Still, you pause in the doorway, your fingertips gripping the frame, just above where child’s hands used to.

You turn, looking back over your shoulder, and you say something to Kes which you have thought to yourself on many a battlefield, in moments of deep gratitude. You really did owe him a lot, and now you can tell him that. “Thank you, for teaching me how to shoot better than every enemy I’ve come up against so far.”

“I’m sorry that I had to, but I’m glad that I did.”

You nod, one soldier to another this time, and you begin to track down the dirt path, turning your back on the past once again. Kes follows and leans up against the doorframe, calling out to you one more time. He sees your humble ship in the distance, parked-up by the edge of the clearing.

“You’re not flying that are you, kid?”

Flying was never one of your talents. Nor was it ever a talent you wished for.

You smile at the good-natured teasing. “Unfortunately yes,” you call back. “But I’m a little better than I used to be.”

“Thank goodness for that!” Kes calls, with a rumbling, baritone laugh, and you smile as he beams back at you, etching this happier image into your memory for later. You really do wish you could stay, and so, this time as you turn your eyes away from the cottage, away from Kes, and away from the ghost of a black-haired boy in the doorway, you don’t look back.

Instead, you fix your eyes ahead on Sion, where he leans up against the side of your craft. You school your face until it is free of emotion, despite the tear-tracks lingering on your cheeks. You don’t feel like sharing. Sion hasn’t exactly been on board with this plan, and with this whole visit, and his attitude inspires a coldness in you, in stark contrast to everything you found in that cottage.

“Did you get it?” Sion asks you tersely, pushing himself up from his position and opening up the boarding ramp.

You nod, curtly, not making eye contact with him as you make your way up the ramp.

“I still don’t like this,” he voices, for the nth time.

You are starting to lose patience. You’re not sure how many more times you can rehash this.

“We need a friend,” you bite. “Someone we can trust. I don’t know if you noticed, but we have no-one left, Sion. If we don’t act soon, the Order will -”

Sion grabs you by your arm as you bluster past him, and your eyes whip towards him, full of steel. “I know all that.” he interrupts. “But, I don’t get it. Poe. Poe Dameron. It’s been years. Why him? You don’t know him anymore.”

“I know him,” you insist, and Sion shakes his head, puffing out air in exasperation. But, with a lack of alternatives, you know he has no moves left to make. You’re at stalemate.

“You trust him?” he asks, muscles in his jaw twitching in agitation.

You pause, looking Sion in the eyes, your stare penetrating, your body poised. You know you should probably bite your next words back, but you feel in the moment that’s it necessary that you make yourself eminently clear.

“I’d sooner mistrust you,” you say coolly, emotionless, before snatching your arm away from him and tracking up the ramp to slide yourself into the pilot’s seat.

“Brilliant. Kriffing brilliant,” Sion curses under his breath, angrily strapping himself in beside you, his face painted with a scowl.

You ignore his mood. Something feels off with him and has for a while, but you don’t have anything you can prove yet. Only conjecture. You know Sion cares about you, but sometimes you wonder if he cares a little too much. Enough to have struck some sort of deal with the Order. The fact that only the two of you survived the betrayal always struck you as a little too... convenient.

Still, you push your niggling suspicions down, and allow your eyes to sweep over the view in front of you - the panorama of jungle and temples and golden light through the transparisteel windshield. You drink in one last measure of home, while you still can.

You were home, but it wasn’t quite the same without him.

And, as much as you wanted to stay here, on familiar ground with your family, you had to find a friend. You knew you could only find him amongst the stars.

You power up the craft, and you insert the data chip into a vacant slot on the control panel, letting the ship decipher the coordinates.

The ship whirrs, and you take off shakily, in all respects.

“Kriff, I hate flying,” you complain as you rise up, up, up. Far above the canopy. Far above the place you never wished to fly away from, and towards the only person worth following into the stars.

#poe dameron x reader #poe dameron #poe dameron angst #star wars #oscar isaac

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fencesandfrogs · 3 years

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sea shanties, work songs, tiktok

so apparently tiktok and sea shanties (technically they’re usually sea folk songs, based on the ones i’ve heard, which is not many) are having a moment and as someone who’s always been a fan of work songs, esp. sea shanties, i just wanted to take a moment to talk/think about them.

[this is abt 1.4k words with a lot of music, incl. 4 embeded videos. i included this break because scrolling past long posts is annoying but like. there’s some good music to listen to in here even if u don’t want to read the whole thing.]

call & response is a pretty common musical idea. i’m not sure at all, but i’d wager a good deal that it’s probably some of the oldest stuff we have. but, like, if you’ve ever sung anything in a group, it’s there. the classic call and response is shorter, but i just want to also say a lot of music can be thought of as call and response, like verses/choruses, etc.

i think it just speaks to a human desire to participate in music. many people know what i’m talking about here (maybe most? i come from a musical family so i don’t have a good breadth of experience but i’ve met very few people who don’t jive to music), and so we make this little welcoming come sing with me environment.

anyway, so work songs are a type of music meant to coordinate labor. a lot of work songs are formed by slaves, because for a work song to be helpful, you need to be doing work that requires coordination.

sea shanties are a specific type of work song that use the general structure of the american slave work song combine with irish, scottish, and english folk music.

folk music as a whole is a wider genre that overlaps a lot with work songs, especially as you start to turn to industrial work songs and cowboy work songs and the like which have a less specific rhythm than sea shanties specifically.

musical edification complete, i’m going to focus on sea shanties and industrial work songs b/c that’s what i listen to the most.

so call and response. sea shanties usually have a soloist part that’s a bit more musically complex, and the response is “simpler”. i’m not here to talk abt music theory or why they developed like that, but you know when you’re bad at singing, having a simple part to join in with is positive. hits the warm gooey spot of participating in group music. here’s a recording of blow the man down which i think demonstrates this quality really well:

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(it’s a pretty popular shanty which is why i picked it. the “truth”of my argument is not at all universal, and it’s not just about speed, but also the rhythm, melody, etc.)

anyway there’s a lot of shanties and what typically comes to mind is drunken sailor which i know “all” the words to (as much as anyone can) but you’ll see theré’s no call and response

what do you do with a drunken sailor

early in the morning

right? that’s not a call and response, it’s just repetition. lyrically, its a call and response:

put him in bed with the captain’s daughter

(that’s my favorite line bc as kids we didn’t understand it so it made us laugh)

but musically you’re not having a back and forth. and so they’re things everyone just gets to sing together.

and that brings me to more industrial work songs. my favorite is sixteen tons, because i’m a basic bitch, and the line “saint peter don’t you call me cause i can’t go” is eternally stuck in my head. here’s a full version:

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so as you can see, there’s no call and response, but the melody is relatively simple. it’s repetitive, the range is decent, and it’s got a really flexible tempo (the video i chose is pretty moderate, but here’s a fast one (and this is pure performance), and i swear i have a slower version on my computer but i can’t find it for the life of me).

(aside: one thing to notice in the johnny cash version is the backing. his is far more complex than ernie ford, and that’s because it’s dropped all pretense of being a work song. work songs don’t have much behind them because they’re almost always a capello. this isn’t super relevant to the discussion i just wanted to point it out.)

so mining work songs are generally like this (see black waters, another favorite of mine), and it’s not hard to see where folk music as a genre develops:

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i just really like this song it’s probably not the best example.

on the other hand, other folk music maintains the structure. lets look at oh susanna (i hate this version, but the vocals are very clear so uhhh here’s a random cool fancy one listen to this it’s super cool).

the whole thing is fairly repetitive, it doesn’t have a strictly definite end, etc. the melody is still pretty simple, although i will say, having sung this in a choir, it can get more complicated in arrangement pretty easily.

anyway, this becomes bluegrass which is basically the folk version of country, here’s callin baton rogue which is absolutely one of the best songs to ever be written. this version is done by garth brooks, country singer, but listen to that fiddle and tell me it’s country.

(this is future matthew with an edit just to say, like, i’m not trying to establish a *strictly* factual chain of music genres here. bluegrass is, i believe, related closely to jazz & blues, while country was formed directly as an opposition to jazz & music history is really complicated.)

you get a lot of ballads here, eg ballad of john henry. i’m not going to say that’s good. but uh there’s a lot to filter through and i’m supposed to be working on my computer science assignment not doing an exploratory discussion of work songs and associated genres.

so this brings us to scottish/irish/english ballads. the clancy brothers are a popular band here, my mom had them on in the car a lot. here’s the work of the weavers for a slower song, but a good one, and here’s moonshiner, which is both a good song and takes me to my next point: sea songs, folk song, and tiktok (see its almost the same as the title it’s a joke).

i’m happy to see folk music making a resurgence. it was really a shame that we spent such a long time listening to not singing friendly music. that’s not a diss on any particular genre (except for edm fuck edm, everyone who makes dance remixes should have their music liscences revoked), because in isolation every genre is fine, but then you take it all together, and there’s a lack of the group singing, safe for bad singers, simple to play, music as a wider genre.

when did we stop singing lullabies? i mean i assume we still sing them to children, but how many do you know? how long has it been since a song like you are my sunshine has been popular? *caveat that i don’t listen to the radio, but if you have a counter example, make sure you think about how long it is and how large the range is and how complicated the rhythm is, etc., because that all is part of it.

at the camp i used to go to, we would sing bohemian rhapsody walking down the hill to the waterfront. someone would start it, and those interested get to join in sometime around “easy come easy go", but then you get to a guitar solo, and the thing kind of fizzles without a backing track.

and that’s what i mean, i mean people keep singing together, and wouldn’t it be better if more people made music that was meant to be sung? i mean sure you can gather your friends and sing anything, but will it resonate in the same way “what do you do with a drunken sailor?” would? will everyone be able to sing it, will it sound okay if you sing it badly? why did we stop making music that sounded best when we sing it the way we always have? why did we stop listening to it?

anyway i don’t have a deep take on this except like folk music is really good, and traditional songs exist for a reason. since i’ve focused really heavily on america and gaelic tradition, because that’s what i listend to growing up, and therefore can speak about in a qualitative sense, i would like to just leave this south african lullaby here, because my mom used to sing it to me, so it’s got a real soft spot in my heart. i didn’t really talk about lullabies because again comp sci assignment but they’re related, so anyway, this has an english translation in there which may or may not be the standard? but you can know what it means too:

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#folk music #work songs #bluegrass #sea shanties #lullabies #music #mine #txt #19th #January #2021 #January 19th 2021 #q #essay

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baby-grayson · 4 years

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Kind Stranger|GBD|Part 9

Parts 1-8

Words: 3.6k

tw: fluff and angst? Tags: @dolanpornhub @styles-dolan @evergreendolan @someonetogray @vintagedolan @prettyboydolan @dolansficsandpics @graysavant @baby-turtles

Grayson leaned back on a patch of grass, his body falling beneath him as he slumped on the ground. Ethan sat beside him, one arm draped over a bent knee and the other fidgeting with blades of grass. Ethan could swear Grayson hadn’t been this quiet since their father passed. Ethan struggled to comfort his brother, growing increasingly tired of dead ended conversations. Grayson had tried to call Kate at least once a day for the past five days: she never picked up. Ethan shepherded his brother between Zoom meetings, phone calls, and their various responsibilities while the shell of Grayson wallowed in heart break.

Grayson’s usually glimmering eyes were duller, like a light inside of his face had been put out. He had lost sleep, beginning the accumulation of heavy, dark bags under his eyes. The calluses on his hands were picked over and ripped up, his pass time during meetings. He and Ethan were preparing for Wakeheart’s candle launch, being persecuted on twitter for their podcast, and trying to maintain momentum for their Youtube channel. Grayson struggled to find focus, much less creative energy, since his fight with Kate.

This afternoon, Ethan invited Grayson longboarding in an attempt to get him out of their rental house, and hopefully out of his head. A few wipe outs later, the twins founded refuge on a patch of grass. The silence was deafening. Negative clouds ruled Grayson’s mind while Ethan tried to navigate around them to soothe his brother. “What did you do last time things weren’t so great?” Ethan probed, hoping to find the answer to Grayson’s dilemma. Grayson shrugged from where he laid on the ground. His eyes followed a cloud moving across the open sky above him. “We kinda---just …” Grayson exhaled, thinking about the happy times felt like a treacherous tap dance on his heart. “I went over. We kissed. I spent the night and it just went away..” Ethan’s jaw dropped softly as he cocked his head to the side. Grayson stayed focused on his favorite cloud and did not notice Ethan’s eyebrow raised. “Are you telling me you fucked it out of her?” Ethan could not veil the cutting tone in his voice. Grayson groaned. Her soft skin, her plumps lips, her whispy hair, her sweet, citrus scent..it all flooded back to him. Fuck. Fuck Ethan for making him think about this..about her..”No, we just got busy and happy and didn’t really think about it again.” Grayson’s eyes darted around, no longer able to locate his cloud. He clenched his eyes shut, trying to focus on the feeling of the ground beneath him when he added, “We haven’t had sex yet.”

Ethan’s head pushed back, his brother was always full of surprises. It both made all sense and no sense to him. Grayson usually practiced certain activities on a regular basis, soon after meeting women. Of course Grayson would have waited for the girl who actually meant something to him. Ethan exhaled, realizing the gravity of the situation. “You do know you can’t be a virgin until marriage if you’re not a virgin when you meet her, right? Do I need to explain that idea to you?” Grayson’s arms went limp against the grass. He exhaled through his nose, striking a twinge of pain in his sinuses. He did not try to mask the annoyance in his voice, “No, but you can explain what I need to do to get her back.” Grayson’s head throbbed in pain, his lack of sleep not serving him well. His eyes felt heavy. His body felt heavy. His soul felt heavy. He questioned where he went wrong. His heart twisted and turned between being hurt and wanting to hear an apologize but feeling the obligation to apologize himself. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling and asking himself if this was a preventable problem. He barely heard Ethan’s words of encouragement, telling him not to give up on her if she really meant something to him.

******* Kate opened her freezer to pull out one of many pints of ice cream. She dug a spoon out of the bottom of a kitchen drawer, not wanting to think about the pile of dishes sitting in her sink. She plopped down on her bed, opened her third pint of the day and continued playing the youtube video lighting up her laptop. Getting over a break up was hard—Was this a break up?—but it was made even harder when the object of your affection was plastered all over the internet.

Over the past five days, Kate had consumed enough Dolan Twins content for a lifetime. She watched Grayson perform as a goofy teenager on TRL. She mused over him in the image of a Greek God at Paris Fashion Week. She cried over a scoop of chocolate ice cream while watching his tribute to his father. She laughed at the antics of a younger Grayson and Ethan. She admired the way his hair fell in front of his face. His wheezy laugh sounded like a song to her. His smile beamed through her heart and lit her soul on fire.

And suddenly, she remembered that she kicked Grayson out of her apartment and her heart. Occasionally, she would hold her phone when he called. She would let it ring, internally debating whether she knew what to say. Did she miss him in a deep place? Yes. Was she willing to forgive him for his double standard? For holding her to different rules? For trying to control the way she processed and celebrated their relationship? No. His phone calls extenuated the moot point.

She cursed his beautiful face when it appeared on her screen. She cursed the glittered gems embedded in his teeth. She cursed the watercolor tattoos on his legs. She cursed every ridge and curve of his bronzed, muscular body. Somehow, having a virtual Grayson in her company only made her feel more alone.

LA was a lonely place, especially when you moved during a pandemic. Kate missed Philly, the familiar sound of the subway and bustle of people in City Center. She missed walking through the universities, looking for food trucks in the afternoon. She missed not wondering if everyone she walked by on the street was an internet celebrity, post-career actor, or wanna-be sugar daddy. LA wasn’t home: LA was a lonely, abysmal place that separated Grayson Dolan from Kathleen Walker.

A hollow knock rapped across the front door. Kate sat straight up, not trusting her own ears. No one in LA knew where she lived…except—Kate shot up when the knock came again. She looked down at her bare thighs, the very tops of which were covered by an oversized t-shirt. A third knock jolted her off of her bed. She tossed her ice cream to the side and hurried to open the front door.

She turned the lock to expose a tall, muscular figure towering over her. His familiar hazel eyes seemed completely strange to her in that moment. He trimmed his hair since the last time she saw him, keeping it out of his face. His sharp jaw line nearly reflected the sun’s rays from outside her apartment. “What are you doing here Ethan?”

Ethan removed his hands from his pockets and bit his lip softly, “Can I come in? I was hoping we could talk.”

Kate opened the door further, letting Ethan stroll through the door. Ethan looked around, eyeing her sparsely filled apartment, decorated in IKEA furniture. Ethan stood awkwardly in the entryway, his eyes landing on Kate. “Do you want water? Or um—a snack maybe?” She hoped he wanted ice cream, because the only other thing she could offer was a slightly moldy head of lettuce. “No I’m fine,” Ethan hedged, burying his hands in his pockets. He looked at the floor and then back up at Kate, “I was hoping we could sit and maybe talk?” She lead him to an arm chair and sat across from him.

The air in the room was heavy. It’s not every day you are stuck in a room with your ex-boyfriend’s identical twin. Seeing Ethan’s face panged in Kate’s heart, she wanted desperately to see Grayson’s again. Ethan cleared his throat and leaned forward in the armchair. He exhaled softly before starting, “I wanted to talk to you about the Grayson thing. I don’t know how you’ve been dealing, but Grayson is a mess.” Ethan revealed, wondering where the line was drawn between being honest and depicting his twin as a pathetic, lovesick sack. “I don’t know how you’re feeling about him or what happened, but if you can – could you call him? Or talk to him? Give him maybe a little more closure than he has now?” Ethan’s voice was soft, and his eyes curved downward at the sides. His reverence and care for his brother filled the room in a gentle air.

Kate struggled to find words. She struggled to maintain eye contact with Ethan; looking at a creature so much like Grayson made her heart lurch whenever she focused on Ethan for too long. Her pupils bounced to the pile of dishes behind Ethan, to the traffic on the other side of the window, to her own feet, and then back to Ethan. Her mind went blank at the first time to talk about what happened out loud. Faithful to Grayson’s request, she hadn’t told her mom, her friends, or anyone really. For the past week, she had no one to comfort her. And now, Grayson’s brother sat in front of her, assuming she had already processed her emotions.

“I don’t know Ethan,” her voice stayed just above a whisper. “I don’t know what I can offer him.” She let out a breathy chuckle as she continued, “I almost feel like he should be giving me closure—if it’s ..ya know…case closed.” She shook her head, slumping her shoulders and letting her head fall between her knees. “I really like him Ethan,” she confessed, “I just don’t know if this whole…” she waved her hands in the air, waiting for a word to come to her, “—celebrity thing” she spoke it as if it was a curse word “is a world I want to be a part of.” She sat back against the armchair, holding her stare on the ground, “At least not the way he was handling it.”

“Grayson’s my partner: in everything we do. I would have never gotten this far without him, he’s the energy when we come together.” Ethan sat back against his own chair, his mind opening the flood gates for his words. “Our ideas, our projects, our pushes—those are all him. He constantly asks for us to be better, for me to be better. I owe so much of what we have to him, because I would have never been able to do it without him.” Kate’s heart lurched, remembering a similar conversation with Grayson about Ethan.

Ethan continued, “I was the one who was nervous about you in the beginning.” Kate’s head shot up from its slumped position, finally meeting Ethan’s gaze. Ethan swallowed and weighed his head before continuing, “I was concerned that you were maybe..I don’t know a gold digger? Or something like that and you were going to use him.” Kate’s eyebrows raised, staring at Ethan as if he had seven heads. “That was before I met you,” Ethan hedged “But I think I was the one who put the thought in Gray’s head to be extra careful about you two.”

“I didn’t know that,” Kate’s voice was just above a whisper. She wanted to melt into her armchair, disappearing from this scene. Her mind felt torn between blaming Ethan for Grayson’s behavior and decided that this was no excuse, Grayson was a grown man who made his own decisions. Kate’s eyes narrowed, trying to decipher her own thoughts. Ethan started again, “I just can’t stand thinking that I’m the reason for what Gray is feeling right now and—” Kate shook her quickly, “You’re not Ethan.” She leaned forward in her chair, resting her elbows on her knees and exhaling heavily. “I’m the reason for what your brother is feeling.” She opened her mouth, but feelings of confusion, guilt, and loneliness competed for the next word. Ethan beat her to it, “If you give him a chance, he won’t disappoint.” Ethan played with his fingers in his lap, looking up to meet her gaze, “My brother is a hopeless romantic who gets off on making the people he loves feel special.” Ethan shrugged and let go of his fingers.

A few moments later, Ethan stood from his armchair and thanked Kate for at least listening to him. She gave him a thin smile and nodded as he stepped toward the door. She closed the dead bolt behind him and stood there for a while. Her mind felt like a thousand horses were trying to pull her in different directions: toward Grayson, away from Grayson, into friendship with Grayson, back to Ethan with more questions. Her mind was a mess. She stepped back into her bedroom, finding that a dollop of melted ice cream has stained her sheets. She exhaled and threw her head back, cleaning her space begrudgingly.

She sat on the end of her stripped bed, phone in hand. Her hand felt heavy as her phone rang. Her heart beat throbbed into her temples. Her good leg shook softly against the edge of the bed. Her tongue went dry. “Hello?” His voice was so familiar. Her mind set off a fireworks show of internal curse words, her teeth nearly chattered in rhythm to the shiver down her spine. “Hey Gray,” she started without knowing where she wanted to finish, “I was hoping we could talk-but not like this—maybe we could pick a time or a place?” Her tongue felt like a brick, heavy and stiff against her lips that tried to remember to pass air through her lungs. “Y-yeah” Grayson’s tone wavered, trying to mask excitement and anxiety with something that sounded stable, “I’d like that.”

*******

“Thank you,” Kate smiled at her Uber driver as he pulled up the edge of the beach parking lot. She had considered walking to meet Grayson, but eventually decided that walking across LA, by herself, at 7PM was not a good idea. She left the car and started to fidget with the hem of her skirt, which was blowing in the ocean winds. The ocean breeze usually calmed her, but today it only ignited her flaming nerves even further. Her hair would not sit still, blowing in nearly every direction as she walked forward. She cursed to herself, not wanting to look like a mess to have this conversation with Grayson.

She stopped when she spotted him. He was waiting in his usual spot from when they met—his spot. He looked so elegant, his grand figure a silhouette against the sunset. Even in the shadows, his megawatt smile beamed at Kate. She bit her lip from across the beach, the hand on her purse clenched down. Every thought about the ocean breeze escaped her mind. Her knees shook slightly. How is it that one human being could elicit that kind of response out of another?

Kate’s hands cupped her face while her heart exploded, looking past Grayson for a moment. A few beach towels acted as a picnic blanket for a home made meal and a couple of Wakeheart candles. A stray napkin floated through the wind away from the setting. Two place settings were laying on the ground, ready for the two of them to sit together. Grayson grinned watching her face, hoping that maybe he could show her how serious he was about making her happy. Silently, he wished she would take her hands away from her face. Grayson desperately wanted to see her smile; his heart needed the confirmation that he was able to make her happy again.

The hands on her face were only one part of this scene teasing Grayson’s heart. The dark tendrils flying around her face called out to the day they met: making Grayson’s heart swell. The air around her was angelic, Grayson could make out the gold flecks in her brown eyes from where he stood. The sound of her voice as she approached him was like a song to him.

“Grayson—” hearing his name in her voice sent Grayson’s emotions into a romantic frenzy “—this is amazing.” She removed her hands from her mouth, revealing her kind smile and pink mouth. Grayson’s cheeks burned from grinning so hard, his happiness overtook any anxieties that had been clouding his mind. A deep part of his mind wondered if he had done enough practicing earlier, now that he was struggling for words. His elation took over any cerebral duties his mind would usually oversee, “I wanted to do something special for you, because you’re special to me.”

Grayson took her small, dainty, smooth hands in his large, rough, calloused ones. He squeezed her palms and looked down into her big, brown eyes. Kate bit her lip subtly, wondering how one man could be so many things at one time. Grayson took a breath before starting his semi-rehearsed speech. “I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry for hurting you, doing something to you that made you feel like I wasn’t proud of you. If anything, it’s the opposite. I’m so proud of you, the things you have preserved through in your life before you ever met me--..I don’t think I could do it.” Grayson gaped down at her, he swallowed while holding back sentences about her disability, career, and drive. “I just..I did something wrong. I should have been more open about who I am and what my life is like from the start. In truth, I didn’t think I had to me. I thought I was just a normal guy, who could meet a normal girl and have a great relationship.” He squeezed her palms warmly. “But I see now that maybe that’s not what this situation is. And to be honest, I don’t really know what that means. But I do know that you make my life better. You make my life so much better,” a stray tear sat on Grayson’s bottom lashes. His voice choked slightly, making Kate’s eyes widen as her entire expression softened. The sight of her garnered a stray tear on Grayson’s other lash line. “You make everything so much better. You make me think about what’s important, because so much of my life isn’t.” He made a noise that sounded like a sad chuckle, “I spend so much of my day worried about branding and images and posting schedules and comments—things that I barely have control over sometimes. But when I’m with you,” he squeezed her hands and pulled her in closer, “my life isn’t that. With you I’m happy, and I get to share simple things with you. I feel like someone is seeing me, for the first time in a long time, as just a guy.” One lone tear danced its way to his cheek while he finished, “I hate what I put you through, I hate how that other part of my life could have poisoned us…But I think we can make if you’re willing to talk things through with me because I want to keep you around for such a long time…I love you.”

Grayson’s heart felt like it was tiptoeing across a high wire above a pit of sharks. He felt like one word could change her answer. He gulped hard. Grayson Dolan had done many daring things in his life: blind folded sky diving, swimming with sharks,cliff jumping in foreign countries. And yet, no deed felt more daring than this. He admitted that his own life confused him, that the reality he thought existed was just his attempt at gripping onto normalcy: saying it out loud felt like a vice grip on his emotions.

Kate thumbed one of his hands gently in hers. She let go of one of his hands, causing Grayson’s mouth to gape slightly in fear. Grayson’s lips fell into a relaxed smile when she moved to cup his face in her hand, softly wiping at the ghostly trail left by the tear. She tried to find words, any words, but they weren’t coming. Her tongue was tied in a knot around her heart. Grayson instinctually moved his freehand around her waist, pulling her closer to him. He looked from her deep, bright eyes to her lips and back to her gorgeous gaze. Kate bit her lip, licking it softly before exhaling. Grayson drank in her sweet, citrus scent—only realizing now how comforting and soothing that scent had become for him.

The sound of the waves crashing against the shore boomed around them. Kate memorized his face in this moment, cherishing how the warm, sunset rays only illuminated his bronzed skin. The gold flecks in his eyes danced for her, begging for closure. His few freckles gave his face a boyish charm, decorating high cheek bones and a striking jawline.

A few grains of sand infiltrated Kate’s sandals, catalyzing a series of rough and jagged attacks on her soft skin. Kate’s mind raced in finding her next words, knowing that she could choose to give Grayson her whole heart or walk away from a future navigating the hurdles of his life. If it wasn’t for the pit growing in her heart, she would have chuckled at the irony of the moment. Here they were, almost embracing each other, almost crying for each other, almost surrendering themselves to each other: when just a few weeks earlier, they stood in that same spot as only a pair of kind strangers.

#grayson dolan #fanfic #romantic #fluff #dolan twins #youtuber #ethan dolan #grayson X OC

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wordsablaze · 4 years

Text

Or Lack Thereof

Jaskier loves meeting new people but sometimes he just wishes he could part ways with them properly. Or, the three times he doesn't get to say goodbye to Eskel - day one of @jaskierwhumpweek

A/N: me? starting a prompt week despite my half a dozen wips and making them all jaskel? more likely than you think. today’s prompt: “goodbyes”

Making camp in the middle of the woods is far from Jaskier’s favourite thing to do.

But needs must and since Geralt has gone off to hibernate or whatever, there’s no way he can travel through the night without being attacked by something or the other.

Especially since he’s cold and he’s tired and he’s pretty sure that someone had been following him before he’d left the last town. Granted, it’s perhaps not the best idea to be a source of light in an otherwise dark forest but he has no other choice.

He’s only just settled in front of his small fire when something lands beside him. He lets out a rather undignified yelp and jumps backwards, instinctively brandishing his lute in front of him as if it were a weapon.

“Believe me, you won’t even scratch me with that thing,” a deep voice says.

Jaskier scoffs but relaxes as he catches sight of amber eyes illuminated by the firelight. “And you’re a witcher so you won’t kill me or harm my wonderful lute.”

The witcher chuckles and gestures to what Jaskier now has the sense to realise is a rabbit. “And you look like you’re in need of a decent meal.”

Although the gesture only goes to prove that witchers really aren’t all that bad, Jaskier isn’t sure whether he should be flattered that another one chose to help him or offended that he’d been yet again deemed as incapable of providing for himself.

“Well, won’t you share it with me, darling?”

The witcher pauses, clearly having intended to just leave. “You would want to share a meal with me?”

Jaskier nods slowly. “Of course. As long as you know what herbs are, unlike a certain white wolf we all know.”

The witcher laughs and places himself on the other side of the fire. “I’m Eskel, and I have more advanced taste buds than my brother.”

Making a note to tease Geralt with that another time, Jaskier offers Eskel a grin. “Well then, it’d be my pleasure to share a meal with you, Eskel.”

And so they do.

It’s quite easily one of the best meals Jaskier has ever had, and not because of the food.

Later, he’ll be able to recall fragments: the scent of spice, the feel of old scars, the sound of unexpected laughter. Later, he’ll buy the pretty ring with the ruby embedded into it that he sees in the market because he doesn’t want to forget the witcher in the red armour. Later, he will poetically mourn an experience he almost had.

But when Jaskier wakes up, Eskel is gone.

He doesn't quite remember falling asleep but he can’t bring himself to be surprised because of course a handsome witcher wouldn’t want to spend the night with him when he could be enjoying himself at Kaer Morhen.

And in fact, there’s no sign that anyone else had been there at all, aside from the rapidly fading happiness in Jaskier’s heart. Because although the soft rays of sun are warm, there’s a coldness inside of him that comes from having to accompany himself once again.

If he couldn’t still taste the lingering herbs on his tongue, he’d be inclined to think that he’d imagined meeting Eskel altogether.

“Note to self, don’t be tired when meeting witchers in the woods,” Jaskier mumbles to himself, because it’s not that he regrets meeting Eskel but it’s somehow painful to have only experienced a glimpse of him.

He then curses because he’s more or less entirely sure he hadn’t told Eskel his name in return. He hopes that next time, he remembers to introduce himself properly - maybe that way witchers will stick around rather than leaving with no warning.

Because this time, he didn't even get to say goodbye.

-///-

Something else Jaskier hates is being in dire need of a healer.

But he can’t feel his leg and there’s something seriously wrong with his shoulder and he can’t remember the lines to his own songs and that just won’t do. Stupid bandits.

“H’llo? please h’lp…” Jaskier manages as he stumbles in the path of the first person he sees upon reaching the town.

“D’you’ve a heal’r?” he asks, groaning as the stranger steadies him and thus accidentally puts pressure on his burning shoulder.

“I know where to find one,” the man replies, altering his grip on Jaskier so he’s not hurting him.

Jaskier frowns at how familiar the voice sounds but he can’t even remember what his name is, never mind someone else’s, so he just nods quickly and hopes he hasn't taken too long to reply. “Please. C’n you take me th’re?”

The stranger must take pity on him because he feels an arm settle around his waist and the two of them start moving towards where Jaskier presumes the healer is to be found.

He feels awful making someone go out of their way to help him but he knows he’s close to collapsing and he really doesn’t want to die in a town he doesn’t even know the name of so he had no choice but to bother someone else.

He can feel his eyes slip shut every so often but each time, they shoot back open and he’s reminded that he’d actually hit his head very hard on that rock when he’d fallen, like an absolute idiot.

“Th’nk’ou,” Jaskier mumbles, well aware that he’s being a burden to the very muscular man practically dragging him along and hating the very idea.

“Try and keep your eyes open, bardling.” the man replies.

Jaskier is almost certain he’s heard that voice before but all he can recall is fire and something about a goat and neither of those make sense to him, but then again, the ground keeps switching places with the sky so he doesn’t know what to think.

“What happened?” another voice asks urgently.

As if on cue, Jaskier’s knees decide they no longer want to support his weight.

The man holding him up staggers but dutifully pulls him back upright and for a blessed moment, he can pretend he’s just being held for the sake of it rather than because his life depends on it. Oh, how he wishes that were true.

But then someone curses and someone else says something about his blood and he’s so tired and all he can think to do is whisper another “th’nk ‘ou ‘gain,” to the oddly familiar stranger still holding him up before his eyes flutter shut.

And when he wakes up, the healer tells him he’s lucky to have a friend like Eskel but really, he just wants to cry at learning he’d come oh so close to the witcher once more because all he’d done this time was make a right fool of himself.

And he still didn’t get to say goodbye.

-///-

Another habit Jaskier wishes he didn’t have is being drugged.

But it’s hardly his fault that some people just can’t accept that their desires aren’t reciprocated no matter how obvious he makes it.

And unfortunately, he sometimes doesn’t notice until far too late.

Which is why he doesn’t decline the drink offered to him as he takes a quick break from singing because really, nobody wants to hear a sore throat sing.

“Thank you, my dear,” Jaskier winks at the woman who’d handed him the cup.

She just smiles and shares a glance with the man sitting next to her as Jaskier returns to the other end of the tavern and continues with his performance, fulfilling someone’s request for the next song.

He’d intended to sing for at least another hour but he finds that he can barely feel himself think after only half that time.

“Sorry, I think I’ll have to retire early for the night!” Jaskier announces, wincing inwardly as people loudly voice their complaints and expectations.

He hears himself promise to perform in the morning but the room seems to be spinning and he’s not sure who exactly he’s addressing.

“Let me help you,” someone says softly.

Jaskier frowns as he feels someone take his lute from him but hands as soft as their owner’s voice have settled firmly around his arm and he can’t seem to shrug them off, he can’t seem to avoid being guided somewhere.

“Wait, my lute…” he manages to mumble, but the hands only tighten their grip on his arm, hard enough for him to grimace.

“We’ll return it to you in the morning,” a different voice says and Jaskier shakes his head.

He tries and fails to stop his feet from moving. “No, I- wait, we? Who’s we?”

The hands on his arms seem blurred and for the life of him he can’t tell whether they belong to the same person or not. For a minute, all he can focus on is the fact that he can’t see his own hands and thus he can’t be sure he still has them.

“You’re not as light as you look,” someone comments to his left.

Foolishly, he turns his head to look. Only to promptly groan in pain as his head throbs at the movement. He squeezes his eyes shut and almost forgets how to breathe until his lungs scream at him and he inhales sharply.

“Maybe we gave him too much?” the person on his right asks.

But he doesn’t know what she means. Too much what?

“Stop talking or he might remember this tomorrow,” the other person hisses and he realises he’d said that aloud. Oops.

“Wait, where’re we going?” Jaskier dimly hears himself ask.

Neither of them reply as they speed up and Jaskier has to bite his lip to stop himself from gagging at the wave of nausea that hits him.

He doesn’t want to go anywhere, he just wants his lute and the bed he’d booked for himself and maybe a drink because his mouth is so dry, as dry as his lute needs to be, and where did he put his lute again?

“I would let go of the bard if I were you,” a new voice says, but it’s not that new because Jaskier knows that voice, he’s sure he does.

“And who are you to stop us?”

Jaskier doesn’t hear the reply because a sharp pain echoes in his head and he moans, curling into himself, which causes the hands on his arms to loosen considerably.

And then they vanish altogether and Jaskier expects to hit the floor but for some reason that doesn’t happen. Also the arms now holding him seem far nicer than the previous ones so he’s not complaining.

“Thank you,” the nice voice says, sounding amused, so he must have said that out loud again. Whoops.

“Let’s get you to your room,” he hears as his feet are lifted into the air, along with the rest of him.

Amber eyes and half a smile drift into his mind and he finds that he trusts the new and yet oh so familiar voice. He doesn’t think of anything else until he feels a bed beneath him and a blanket above him, a blanket that feels a lot less comfortable than the arms of the kind voice.

“You can sleep now,” the kind voice tells him.

Jaskier nods blindly, then groans when the action only hurts him. But he closes his eyes nonetheless, not that they were really open, and hopes that he manages to mumble an apology before falling asleep.

Once again, he wakes to be told that he’s fortunate to have a witcher on his side.

And once again, he finds himself grieving a moment he could have had, a moment that keeps slipping from his grasp the same way perfect rhymes often elude him, a moment it seems he is not fated to deserve.

He wishes he knew how to earn it, wishes he could find a way to properly bid Eskel farewell if he is to always be denied a fully-fledged meeting, if he is to be denied the memory of their fleeting interactions.

But this time he hadn’t even said hello, never mind goodbye.

i know this is like fragments of an actual fic but i don't have time to extend this atm, maybe in future? idk. i do promise the rest of the fics for this week are more blatantly jaskel though, if you're interested :p

next: “betrayal”

thanks for reading! masterlist | witcher sideblog: @itsjaskier

#jaskierwhumpweek #jaskier #eskel #jaskel #jaskier x eskel #hurt jaskier #jaskier whump #soft eskel #sad jaskier #protective eskel #hurt no comfort #angst #sorry #fanfic #fanfiction #witcher fanfic #my writing #olt

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bananban-feature · 3 years

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My Top Pentagon Songs

I’ve already mentioned before that Pentagon has great songs, personally written by the members themselves. I’m also still not shutting up about their live vocals because they're literally at the top of my list among all the kpop groups I follow. They deserve so much.

I hope you watch all the videos cause they are all great.

1. Daisy (2020)

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The queen. This song earned them their first win, and a lot people became Pentagon fans because of this song, including me. This song about fake love and heartbreak was written by Hui and Wooseok!

Even though I didn’t understand the Korean lyrics, Daisy really pulled my heart and played with my ears the first time I heard it. Watching the MV gave me an even more intense feeling seeing the emotional scenes and the lyrics translation. It’s like I really felt the pain they had. What a powerful song!

Classical & jazz musicians reacted to this, and I love how they explained the technical side of the song. (CLICK HERE FOR THE VIDEO!) Like one of the reacting musicians said, this song was intelligently written! Great job, Hui, Wooseok, and producer NATHAN. Beautiful arrangement.

Favorite parts: Wooseok’s whole verse (ugh, I can’t stop fangirling about this 0:28-0:38). The drop and the boom before Hui’s chorus (1:01-1:04) and the chorus itself. The part of Yanan’s verse (1:39-1:42). Just the MV, but the silence + eerie sound and then Kino falls (1:59). The bridge where everyone sings! (2:32-2:46) And the rest of the parts after that, especially Yanan and Hui’s contrast (2:50-2:55).

***Ok, I take back what I said about Yanan’s vocals in my previous post. I really love him here.

Versions (click bold title for link):

Acoustic Version (<-click for video)- I’ve already shared this in my first post! Their vocals totally shine more, and the beauty of the arrangement shines more. You can hear even the low and rap voices of Wooseok in the bridge. The whole thing is beautiful. (Seriously, even the way Yeoone sighs after his part is beautiful.) I totally went wild after seeing this video.

Rock/Band Version (<-click for video) - A different feel, but obviously, I love the live versions. They sang really well! They covered Love Sick Girls as well, it’s a good one.

2. Shine (2018)

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This is mostly written by E’Dawn, but other members participated as well. It’s a masterpiece, a very catchy song about admiration and confession of love. The fun sound will dwell in your ears. I love it when they do a fun dance! Honestly, E’Dawn’s charm is accentuated and his vocal rap sound is so good.

Favorite parts: I love the choreo. I really love their dances in fun songs. E’Dawn in this whole thing is a big vibe. The chorus, especially “Jijiri, jijiri” part. The “Yuto da” line also always becomes my favorite in any Pentagon song, and then he did a great rap! Jinho, being the legend he is at 2:49, absolutely beautiful.

Versions:

Acapella Remix - I was seriously mind-blown after watching this. I mean, what other kpop group does it like them? They harmonize so well! Clearly, the best vocals. I’m a HUGE HUGE fan of this, and I think this video is criminally underrated. Since I love it so much, I’m gonna post it below. DAMN that talent.

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Acoustic Version - Yes, live acoustic versions of Pentagon are lovely! They actually have a few slips here, but it just proves this is completely live. And they all sound so good live!!!

3. You Are (2016)

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This is another beautiful song written by Hui. (I keep telling you, Hui is a genius.)

I honestly couldn’t pick the best video to embed here cause they’re all good. All the videos of this are live performances. But this specific video is so emotional and just shows how good they are at live singing. (There’s a loud backing track of course, but they were literally crying and yet they sounded good.) Jinho, the legend, was crying and he still nailed his high note beautifully. I am in awe.

And to think they were ROOKIES here!!! They literally JUST DEBUTED and this is one of their first songs! Just king things.

Favorite parts: In general, the melody and their beautiful harmonization. Jinho’s high note, obviously.

Not many versions of this song but here’s (another live performance. (CLICK HERE) This one is a fan cam (CLICK HERE).

4. Nostalgia (2020)

*Unfortunately, I can’t add anymore embedded videos to this post, so here are links to the song. They don’t have an MV yet, and not a lot of content on this song since it’s new.

Youtube Link , Spotify

OMG. This is written by maknae Wooseok. This is a B-side track in the same album as Daisy. But wow this deserves more. It’s a very catchy and fun tune. I really hope they make an MV and more content with this song.

Favorite parts: The whole song is gold, but I do especially like Wooseok’s part from 1:24-1:35. It blows my mind everytime. HE. IS. ON. FIRE. And I always love it when they sing all together.

Versions:

Live Version - I’ll embed it below (the video of 3 songs from WE:TH album in acoustic at a beautiful field of daisies.) The whole video is beautiful!

Concert Version (<-click for video) - It isn’t really a different one from the original, but this clip is just fun. This was from their online concert yesterday. They had finished singing Daisy, and then they came back to do this encore. After a very long and tiring concert performing without seeing an audience, it was really hard for them. Surprise, surprise! The look on their faces when they see Universe on the screen and hearing them sing along is so cute!

WE:TH ALBUM LIVE

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(Spotify Link for WE:TH ALBUM) I like the song You Like from this album too.

#Pentagon #Daisy #Nostalgia #Shine #You Are #Hui #Yuto #Wooseok #Hongseok #Junho #EDawn #Cube Pentagon #Shinwon #Yanan #Yeoone #Kino #kpop

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englass · 5 years

Text

Threadbare

Pairing(s): John Seed x F! Reader/Deputy

Warning(s): A little bit of Possessive Behaviour near the end (when isn’t there in my fics haha)

Word Count: 9,101

A/N: Gonna use this opportunity to apologise to @starsandskies @softseeds and @seedlingsinner for not getting back to you on your ‘Last Line Meme’ tags, I’ve been working on this and didn’t want to risk spoiling anymore of it than I have 😅 Apologies again, lovelies! ❤️ Now, I hope you all enjoy this inconsistent mess; I’m just glad that it’s finally over!

Also, side note: this is the final/original version of ‘A Moment In Time’ that I never thought that I’d finish, so... yeah, I actually finished it; oops? 😅

- - -

The room is quiet, save for the gentle rustle of fabric and your calm breathing, only ever holding when your concentration tightens or a loud sound catches your ear. It’s a risky move you’re making, being here of all places. All it would take is one slip up and any patrolling Peggies would come running. In your current position, rifle resting just out of comfortable reach against a nearby night stand and hand gun securely holstered to your thigh, the potential outcome could be precarious.

Still, such thoughts are far out of mind. If anything, for once, your mind is not plagued by the worries, fears and demands of the people. It is quiet, tranquil, filled with an occupied motion that lulls and eases. It is the most peace you have had since this whole debacle began; and secretly, unknowingly even to yourself, you take your sweet time and milk it for all it’s worth. An unconscious action deeply needed.

Every so often you take stock, pausing to look, only to end up staring at nothing in particular, around the room you hold court in. It’s a surprisingly large room and it is as gorgeous and telling as the man it belongs to: all high-class with expensive taste, yet subtly simple – modest in design and openly exquisite in every minute detail. Almost everything, save for the immaculate wooden furniture and feather-soft carpet, falls within the spectrum of blue. It creates an oceanic space filled with a deep and enriching sense of stillness and liberation, emulating the ebb and rise of a tempered wave.

It’s an absent wonder why sloth is visualised as the coercing colour.

You shift slightly, readjusting your position as you turn back to the article of clothing in your lap, eyes layered with an embedded fatigue not aimed at anything in particular. The glaze is misleading, your movements speaking not of a tired body. Instead, they are easily measured with a humble confidence, working at a steady pace with a precise and focused concentration, all benign.

There is an edge of paranoia, sharp and teetering like the point of a knife. It fuels the anvil-heavy weight on your shoulders, makes it hard to breathe even the shallowest of breaths. Worry gnaws at your edges alongside its cutting twin. ‘What ifs’ are a dangerous line of thought, yet even with an empty mind it turns in the background, twisting and coiling like a viper as worry and paranoia feed and pamper it.

The stress of the situation – the position you’ve been made to hold, a final bastion in a red-dyed field – has left a very real and scarring impression upon you. A bitter taste you can’t wash out.

It’s why you draw out your time with a self-imposed task that could be over within a matter of seconds. You drown yourself in an old action and memory, away from the war you have been made charge of.

It actually makes for quite an interesting scene.

Away from the tragedy of a civil war and the reluctant role you play in it, in the confines of a grand modern home, one would see the image of domesticity. A young woman sat on a satin quilted bed, expression relaxed and eyes tinged with oblivion as they lose themselves in a rhythmic motion, effortlessly mending a piece of male attire with a needle and thread in hand. A simple kit that the young lady wields with a conviction that rivals that of a knight and his sword.

Yes, quite a scene it makes.

Admittedly breaking into the infamous Seed Ranch wasn’t the best place to host such an image, despite how well you fit into the frame (obscenely so), but it wasn’t your idea to come here in the first place. No, the Resistance has a way of... puppeteering you. Not that you would ever openly admit to such a thing.

Thankfully you have it on good authority – ‘it better be on good authority’, you had snarled, before stalking out of the door of the outpost you had been visiting – that the youngest Seed would be away for the day. Overseeing another load of confessions and such, you had no doubt. It would be the perfect opportunity to take the ranch for the Resistance; loot the cave while the dragon is away, so to speak. Perhaps that’s why, along with the decrease in guard numbers, you had somewhat made yourself at home, taking your time to slowly wander the grand ranch and really take it all in; all in its full and undisturbed splendour.

Arguably you could do so once it was under the Resistance’s control, it would be a lot easier and less stressful to do so then, but you are not naive enough to believe that they won’t change anything once it’s theirs. No, it’s better to see it as it’s intended to be, before that travesty occurs.

Yet, despite your initial wanderings into the many, many rooms around the ranch, it was John Seed’s bedroom – of all places – that had caught your eye. It is why you are currently perched contently on the man’s king sized bed as you tend absently to one of his shirts.

It’s truly silly when you think about it, it’s just a shirt after all, but it turns out that sewing your younger sibling’s toys and clothing growing up has ultimately left a very lasting impression upon you. You had found solace in the action growing up and you still felt it now, more so than ever with the violent turn your life has taken, and you wanted nothing more than a brief moment to try and capture that same tranquility once again.

Although, in all honesty, even you know that you’re not potentially endangering yourself like this for a reason so small and seemingly petty.

With your modest sewing kit on the night-table next to you, and the faintest whisper of the birds songs outside, you pause to look over your work. It’s not turned out too bad, it won’t be the worst you’ve ever done, but not the best either. Not that you believe for a second that John would actually appreciate the gesture, no matter how perfect it turned out.

John Seed, though mainly known for his slippery lawyer ways and role within the infamous Eden’s Gate, was a very rich man. His life before Eden’s Gate, before being reunited with his lost siblings, had him as a rather successful property attorney from what you’ve heard, and it’s from that life and accumulated wealth that’s allowed the project to get as large and domineering as it has done.

It’s also allowed him to lavish himself in some of the most luxurious, and most audaciously expensive, brands that you’ve never heard off. Not only was he good looking, tall and slim with a lean frame painted with tattoos and gifted with a pretty face home to a devilish smile, but he dressed impeccably well.

It was near impossible to not initially swoon at such a charming character, but sadly he was a bit of an open book. The exterior may be exquisite, utterly unique and persuasive in how it draws you in, but it’s too easy to read and you find it’s pages to be littered with an underlying venom and rage; a bitterness that may be understandable, but hardly justifiable.

It was actually quite sad when you chose to sit down and actually think about the man and his siblings, to sit down and try to read them as best as you could. Each of them were broken in their own ways, left in disrepair, from the lives they had lived. You had even gone so far as to read Joseph’s physical book, the bible by which Eden’s Gate knelt before, to see if it could tell you more. The question of how they became – how you know them to be – a guiding hand as you flicked through the yellowing pages and over painful words.

Theirs was truly a sad story.

Still, you know it is no excuse for what they have done, or what they continue to do; and yet there is a part of you that, secretly, knows that you do this simple gesture for more of a reason than out of habit or past influence. It’s a simple but nice gesture and, although you don’t feel like it’ll be appreciated, you’re sure it’s something that they – John in-particular and especially so – have never been given before. At least not willingly.

If anything, with how rich John is, you wouldn’t be surprised if he just brought a new shirt from an equally fancy, if not tear-inducingly expensive, brand without even batting an eye. That’s if he didn’t get it custom made. You’re pretty sure your average store doesn’t sell plane printed jackets and Eden’s Gate belt buckles after all.

Even so there’s no need to waste money, even if he can burn it and still be well off, when you can just as easily fix it. Besides, it’s actually a really nice shirt. Even with its predictable colouring.

Despite all the terrible things the man has done, and will no doubt continue to do, you can’t help the small smile that blooms across your lips. The knowledge that the Baptist, the dreaded Reaper, of Eden’s Gate has a favourite colour and is so shameless in embracing it is strangely humanising to you; and also surprisingly sobering.

At a leisurely pace, mind now hollow with an echoing sorrow, you pierce the fabric and loop the needle through the gap between the strand of thread and pull, creating a knot. You do this a second time, creating another knot to make sure it stays, before you reach for the small scissors in the kit beside you, cutting the remaining thread loose.

With a soft touch you run your finger over the fabric, silently marvelling at its heavenly texture as you thoughtfully look over your finished work. The thread you’ve used isn’t as high quality as the shirt itself is made out of, a fact that actually irritates you, but it’s the best that you own and you find yourself sighing in resignation; leaving it be.

Yes, it’ll have to do.

With a lingering gaze you start to slowly turn the shirt back to being inside-in, taking your time to enjoy the quiet that’s fallen over you. It’s only as you go to straighten the shirt, holding it out in front of you and giving it a final, critical look-over, that the silence breaks and you’re startled out of your revere.

Looking toward the bedroom’s door with wide doe-eyes you are shocked to see none other than the Baptist, John Seed, himself standing at the threshold. Eyes equally as wide, but much more bemused than your own, staring at you as you internally curse your luck with a tensing jaw.

He isn’t supposed to be here...

“You know, I must admit, Deputy,” he drawls with an intriguing lilt, ocean eyes dragging over you as he leans his lithe form against the door frame with crossed arms, completely at ease despite the situation, “I never pegged you for a housewife. It makes for quite an... interesting image. Did you also happen to cook me a meal and do the laundry by chance, darling?”

His smile is mocking, sharp and cruelly delighted, and it has you flushing in a mixture of shame and restrained anger. The fact that you’ve been caught in such a position puts a nasty dent in your pride. You know how this looks: the fearsome Deputy, poster child and head of the rising Resistance, sewing; and not just sewing, but sewing the damned enemy’s – a man on your given blacklist – shirt of all things.

It’s a colossal embarrassment.

You’re also aware of what this could do to your reputation if this got out and you don’t need John Seed, the smuggest bastard around, to gloat over that. Nor do you want him making smart quips that you know he’s more than likely going to constantly torment you with now over the radio for everyone else to hear.

Life’s a living hell at the moment as it, and you don’t need something like that being added to the proverbial pile. The humiliation would kill you quicker than a piece of shrapnel from a plane crash.

“Oh shut up,” you snip, “like I’d do you the honour; and if anyone makes for an interesting image around here it’s you, unexpected as you are,” you sass lowly. “Honestly, when are you going to do us all a favour and just fuck off. Maybe you should go and play with that little toy collection of yours like a good little brother instead of harassing all of us, now that would be an interesting image.”

It’s hardly even a half-baked comeback you give him, your bite a mere brush of teeth, yet it’s still enough for his expression to turn into something testing. A tick in his jaw as his icy eyes pierce you like a needle, pinching and uncomfortable; attention grabbing in the worst way possible.

The look is near enough water off a duck’s back. If you’ve come to learn anything from your few, but nonetheless taxing interactions with the man, it's that he won’t take the risk of action unless he’s a hundred percent certain that he has you right where he wants you; where you can’t or won’t fight back.

He wants things, people and confessions alike, handed to him on a gem encrusted platter. Given to him so he can play his twisted little games and break all his new and precious little toys. Always pushing past limits and breaking you down until you can do anything else, but give him exactly what he wants. Spoiled brat.

Perhaps John isn’t as absolved of his sin, carved into his chest like a fatal warning, as he thinks he is.

Closing his eyes John kisses his teeth with a restrained annoyance that is difficult to miss. For all his talk of wrath, and how well you embody it, he puts you to shame in how well it suits him, wearing it like a second skin and parading it like a model wrapped in Prada.

“As much as I’d love to spend my free time doing things that don’t concern you or your petty Resistance, it’s a bit too late for that now, isn’t it dearest,” he hits back with a chilled, but airy quality. “After all, you’ve made yourself quite a fixture in my life as it is, and I don’t believe for a second that you’d actually want out of that.” There’s a hint of something knowing in his words that doesn’t sit right with you. “And in case you haven’t noticed, but this is my home that you’re trespassing in. I’m pretty sure you’re breaking the law actually; you hardly have a warrant after all, Deputy,” he bites, cruel and vile and so self-satisfied.

For a brief moment the twins of worry and paranoia raise their heads with salivating jaws, itching like an infection to tear into you as you suddenly start to fret over John’s motives for this back and forth; along with the simmering anger that lurks beneath the water.

The anticipation of what his next rage fuelled actions could be is rattling. You can’t tell if he’s going to laugh this all off like some sort of bad joke or straight up lunge at you with the likes of a wild animal by the end of this. He can be rather unpredictable, and it’s that unpredictability that makes him so feared throughout the Valley. It’s what makes him so dangerous.

Yet it seems you can do nothing but poke the bear lately, your own frustrations and stresses giving you a false and reckless bravado. Albeit with a soft and unthreatening tone.

“And do I look like I care? We’re at war John, I’m pretty sure anything goes; your methods have already proven that. Now, are there any other normal past-times that you want to mock me for while I’m here, or am I free to go?”

Internally you wince. That came out a lot more defeated than you intended it to be. Still, you hope he at least concedes on this petty back and forth of yours and actually lets you leave–

“I’d hardly call your level of wanton wrath ‘normal’, Deputy. Tell me, what is your total body count at the moment? How many innocent lives have you gorged yourself on in order to fuel that gluttonous soul of yours, until it’s satisfied with the carnage you leave in your wake? Don’t worry though, you’re in safe hands. I’ll be sure to give your soul a good scrubbing once I get you in my chair. Starve it out of you until you bleed across my floor...”

You don’t say anything, merely roll your eyes and gently shake your head at the flip in attitude, continuing to look and touch up the shirt in your tender hold. He’s likely lost in his own warped thoughts if the way he stares through you for moment is any consolation. However, even lost in thought, you’ve found that John is not one to keep quiet for long, and he quickly proves that notion right.

“You know,” he says suddenly, conversationally; tip of his tongue wetting his lips as he looks for all the world like he just discovered the weight of gold, “if you wanted to confess to me you could of just called. Really, you needn’t go through all this trouble just to make my life easier, darling. I could have set up a welcome party and everything for you. Pulled out the red carpet, set it all up and made it all nice and perfect, for you... just for you, Deputy.”

It doesn’t make sense to you how he can warp what strangely sounds like the most sweetest and innocent of words into something so filthy, sinful and ultimately twisted; as if whispered around a forked tongue made of false promises and sugared venom. He’s an expert at his craft, you’d give him that. Sadly though you can’t help but skim over your absent companions playful jabs and blasé observations with a newfound air of caution.

The beast of worry looks at you with a telling, razored grin.

“... Flattered,” you drawl warily.

For such a simple and plain response you don’t feel that his boyish grin – filled with an emotion that is so foreign on the sadistic and calculating man that you feel the lazy shift of fear beside the intent prickle of paranoia and worry; something self satisfying and grateful and speckled with awe – is justified.

Like the flippancy of the wind John’s expression shifts, fluidly, into an emotion akin to a played up indignation. He sharply huffs through his nose.

“You should be. I make so many exceptions for you my dear and you do nothing but repay my kindness with more bloodshed. It’s rather rude of you in fact.”

“To be fair,” you cut in with a tired glower, careful with were you step in this game of twister, “your kindness leaves much to be desired. It’s not like anything I’ve ever seen, so forgive me for misconstruing your intentions.” It’s said with the most blatant sarcasm, dripping thickly like molten tar, and yet John lights up like a town on the eve of Christmas. The remains of his coiled agitation shifting into an unwarranted giddiness.

Good Lord, you’ve not even spent five minutes with this man and already you’ve got a killer headache.

“Oh? Should I learn by your example then, my dear Deputy? From this... quaint little gesture of yours, hmm?” He’s eyes hungrily roam over your lap, no doubt acutely aware of the way your thumb has comfortingly been brushing over the silken fabric of his shirt. “Not to say I don’t appreciate it mind you.”

You can’t stop the roll of your eyes nor the huff that accompanies it. “Trust me, John, there’s no gesture here.”

He makes a sound in his throat, chimed with a badly contained mirth. Slightly, barely visible from your perch on his bed, he leans forward with something almost predatory in those sea-deep eyes of his. “Then what’s that in your lap?”

You turn to hold his gaze, icy and sharp with a smugness that screams of a known victory. He’s got you there. Your teeth grind into each other as you will for a retort to come to mind, but nothing does. With a heavy exhale through your nose you turn to the ceiling and pray for the strength to survive this ordeal.

Not that you’re completely confident that you will. With a swift flare of frustration one of your hands shoots up, palm facing skyward, in a half-arsed admission. “I don’t know. I don’t know, okay, I was just trying to be nice I guess.”

“Nice? You?” John barks mockingly, “Oh don’t make me laugh, Deputy. You’re a killer; there’s not an ounce of mercy in that tainted soul of yours. After all,” There’s a humourless chuckle, a glint of something vicious in his sea-deep eyes, “what ever happened to serve and protect?”

The look you throw him is completely disbelieving, practically aghast from insult, but there’s also a familiar rage resting within the glaring pools of your eyes that John knows rather well. Truthfully, it’s not something he’s ever seen in you before, more a muted irritation than straight up fury, and it thrills him something fierce to see it threatening to come into full bloom.

Conflict has never been in your veins. You came from a quiet and career driven family, to the point where your parents were hardly ever around. Arguments were rare, and if they did happen they never lasted long. You didn’t have the courage, nor stomach, for such things; and despite how much this County has twisted your placid instincts into something sharper, more aggressive and impatient, some things will just never change.

Lips in a tight line, brow furrowed and eyes ablaze in a dirty glare, you look away from him; down to your lap then across to your resting rifle. He’s not wrong, and ultimately that hurts worse than anything physical that he could very well do to you. The battle of your morals – your conscious – against your duty, against the pedestal that everyone has hoisted you up onto like some sort of savour – another Joseph almost – , is a constant one.

“Then what does that make you?” You ask quietly, something cruel lurking beneath the surface of your own waters. “What makes what you do so good, so much better and different than everyone else? Because you believe your brother, because he believes he talks to God?” There’s a huff of a laugh, a mocking condescension hissing with fangs bared, “don’t make me laugh, Inquisitor.”

John’s away from the door frame before you can even blink, a warning shift that tells you that this is no longer a strained, but casual banter between enemies. There’s a familiar glare in his eyes, dark and treacherous like the deepest waters and daring you to get a little closer, to swim a little deeper; to say another word against his brother.

Despite your writhing worry at the sudden tension in the air, twisting and flailing and coiling, you take a deep breath, let it suffocate you a moment too long, and then let it go. Tracing the lines and scratches on your rifle as your shaking anger lessens into a quiet ache. You’ve never been able to maintain it for long; you’re just glad that it no longer makes you break down crying anymore.

John on the other hand...

“Joseph,” he starts, voice so tight that it trembles, “wants to save people.”

“And you don’t?”

There’s a pause; a subtle shift.

You watch as John’s jaw gets tight, his head tilting the slightest amount to look down his nose at you; arms crossing over his chest in a defensive gesture as he leans back against the door frame again; a faux display of casualness.

It’s all the answer you need.

Slowly you nod your head, an acknowledgment even though you needn’t give one. A murmured ‘right’ scoffed under your breath. In all honesty you didn’t expect him to be so (indirectly) honest with you. In a way you can very much respect that, appreciate it even, but in another it only has the beast of worry grinning hauntingly at you; a new dread crawling up from the deep. It’s twin sewn from paranoia slinking up beside it with an equally telling flash of teeth.

Surely he can’t be doing this just for Joseph, just for the Project; there has to be something more that he’s gaining out of this. There has to be.

“Atonement,” the word is drawn out, a slow and delicate dissection, “is the absolution of sin… without it we are left to fester in the disease of our past transgressions. If we are not absolved of sin then we can never even begin to hope to be allowed entrance into Eden. However,” the baptist gives you a pointed look, head ducked and eyes alight but shaded, a stray strand of hair falling loose, “that decision must be genuine. They must want to atone, otherwise what would be the point?”

There’s a bitten laugh that scraps between his teeth; bared in a feral frustration that speaks of long talks and discussions that lead to nowhere but dead-ended roads. A hand claws through his hair, putting that stray strand back in place as he looks to bite at the inside of his mouth; eyes briefly cast to the side.

The afternoon sun, gradually turning richer as time goes on, catches against the satin blue of his vest, making it shimmer like the clearest of Caribbean seas. With his gaze turned away from you for the moment you can see the way the light glazes them, can see the hellfire for all it’s worth beneath those choppy waters; the rage given a flare of new life with the setting sun as the shadows stretch and consume, turning the once clear and shallow waters of his eyes deep and foreboding.

You think you may actually be starting to see some of the truths that lie within the Book of Joseph.

There’s a hesitant inhale; a steadying breath.

“But, it is the will of The Father to save everyone, regardless of if they are worthy of it or not.”

Looking away from the shirt still in your lap you turn to John, many questions on the brain, but only one that gets voiced.

“So you don’t think I’m worthy?”

John blinks. A moment of consideration before he meets your curious gaze; stars glinting against a multitude of emotions, all buried and unspoken, but telling all the same.

“I don’t think you believe yourself to be worthy.”

The bluntness of his response catches you off guard, eyebrows jumping high in surprise. It’s straight to the point in a way that you never imagined him to be, and you can’t help the interested ‘oh’ that melts on your tongue in response, lilts in newfound curiosity as your head tips to the side ever so slightly. “What makes you say that?”

You half expect a smile and some sort of jab, another dig to attempt to provoke you and prove a point that only he is fighting to prove. Yet, he does nothing of the sort. He’s quiet, simply watching you, and it’s with a strange type of realisation that you realise that, not only is he back to looking relaxed and at ease, but so are you; the tension lost and in its place lies a peculiar air, a feeling of contented melancholy almost; an accepting moment of reprieve within the wheel of fate.

“You’re still here,” he answers simply, an airy awe cushioning his tone, “if you didn’t want to be convinced then you would have left a while ago. You wouldn’t be asking me in the first place.”

There’s a tightening anxiety in your chest, a truth struck too close. Are you really that easy to read? Is your dissatisfaction and growing suspicion of the Resistance – coupled with your thirst to learn more about the local cult and its founders – really that obvious? You should hope not, such things will get you into trouble if you’re not careful. Satisfaction over discovering such things would certainly not bring you back if that were the case.

“Tell me, Deputy,” there’s a new glint in John’s eye, a new interest piqued, “what is it that you’re looking for exactly? Because whatever it is apparently can’t be found within your little Resistance, otherwise you wouldn’t be entertaining me like you are, nor would you be concerning yourself over such a touching gesture.” Surprisingly there’s a lack of sarcasm to his tone this time around as he loosely gestures toward your lap, where his shirt still lies under your gentle touch.

You suck on your tooth for second, petulantly glancing away with a quick, but weak rebuttal of, “It’s not a gesture.”

A familiar, if not slightly fonder and more teasing, lopsided smile lights up across John’s face. This strange companionship of yours back on steady waters. “If you say so, my dear.”

The warmth of the gradually setting sun is a welcome blanket at your back, the stillness between you both comfortable despite the different lines you draw and stand on in this war. Faintly you can hear the chatter and motions of the guards outside, the rumble of distant engines, but they quickly fade into the background as you genuinely consider John’s words.

Just what are you looking for?

You’re not too sure, and you don’t suppose John would appreciate such a response no matter how honest it may be. Really, if you were to be insanely honest with yourself, you would guess you are looking for a reason to stop; a reason to turn your back on those you are fighting for and not those who you are fighting against.

No matter how many times you humanise the Seeds, excuse their actions on past situations, you can’t justify what they’ve done. You may one day forgive them, when all is said and done and this whole sorry war is nothing more than a story for the grandchildren; but you could never forget the horrors they have put people through, the uncountable and unimaginable things they have done to get to where they are now; to both you and the residents of the County.

Yet, does that justify what the residents of the County have done? Does that excuse the crimes and damages conceived by the Resistance? No, no if things were even a sliver close to normal, if you were actually a proper deputy and not so damn green, then maybe everyone would of been locked behind bars by now; and you would be no exception, right beside them with blood covered hands.

The world has never looked so grey to you as it does now; and that honestly scares you worse than any cult.

“But please,” John continues after a beat, breaking the silence, “indulge me; what is it you’re after, my dear? What is it that you are really searching for?”

Absently your thumb brushes over the fabric in your lap, a heavy hesitancy causing you to take your lip between your teeth, biting at the skin there until the taste of copper hits your tongue. Eyes downcast as you debate with yourself over how honest you can be with John, how raw you’re willing to let yourself became in front of someone like him; as an enemy, as an ex-lawyer and – maybe, just maybe – as a friend.

You look up at him, see the interest and something else that you can’t quite name dancing like fireflies over a lake’s still surface. Watch as he patiently waits for you, for what you think and have to say… It’s a nice change, if not a little strange.

Without a thought you smile at him, a beam too tight that it doesn’t quite reach your eyes, a huffed laugh under your breath. “Nothing much,” you squeak, “although a decent meal would be a start.” The laugh lingers on your breath, eyebrow cocked and lips tilting into lopsided smile; an intended joke.

John looks wholly unimpressed at your bid at humour, his own eyebrow raising casually in a silent question. Surprisingly though he doesn’t say anything in response, doesn’t call you out or outright accuse you of lying, even though you both know that you just did.

Ultimately, it leaves you with a new type of uncertainty, anxiety rising once again as the smile slowly falls from your face. Still, you push past it as best you can, clearing your throat awkwardly as you decide to stand from your seat on the bed, looking and then making your way toward the set of draws on the left where you had found his discarded shirt.

You feel, but still try to ignore John’s eyes on you as you place the shirt back in (what you hope is) its original resting place, neatly folding and fitting it between others not unlike itself. Briefly you brush your fingers over the collar, savouring the uniquely expensive feel of the shirt before closing the open draw. No doubt you’ll never get an opportunity like this again. It’s a little sad in a way.

With a quiet hum you turn – back facing John – toward the bed, and with a casualness as if you own the place you start brushing down and straightening where you’d been perched on the edge of the bed, smoothing out the creases.

Admittedly, with the sudden lack of conversation, John’s silence is really starting to get to you, a familiar edge of paranoia creeping into the forefront of your mind like scavenging rodents. You listen with a keen interest as you finish your work, the rustling of fabric and your own soft breaths the only sounds that really catch your ear.

With your back facing the infamous Baptist you would have thought this would be a great opportunity for him, your more laidback and docile nature on full display for him to take advantage of if he so wished to. It really would be a perfect opportunity.

Yet, as you turn around, once more with a hum at your work, you find that John hasn’t moved from his spot in the doorway. If anything he still looks very much at ease there, completely comfortable and unconcerned as he rests his lean frame against the door, arms and legs casually crossed as he simply watches you with soft eyes; reflective pools that refuse to hide even the tiniest of emotions. Yet, strangely enough, you suddenly feel as if time is impervious to the both of you. As if there is no one else in the world, but you and John.

The sparkling sapphire of his eyes, deep and as unfathomable as the ocean, whisper in dulcet tones the promise of a loving caress within the safe haven of his gaze. An unexpected gentleness in the sorrow of a buried plea, a want for something never owned, but always craved. Such a display of tenderness, from a man that you know to be cruel and volatile at times, is so far removed from the usual turbulent seas in his eyes that it makes you feel breathless.

His face – strong defined jaw, coupled with an immaculately trimmed beard, and skin a naturally tanned hue that looks as smooth as the silk of his shirts – is not masked by barely contained snarls of rage like it often can be, nor the sharp displays of malicious mockery and petulant pleasantries that hiss between his fangs when bared. Instead he bears a freedom and fondness that has your heart racing, a strange vulnerability on his suddenly boyish features; an unfamiliar, yet not unpleasant, warmth stroking over something deep within your chest that you had feared you were starting to lose.

A thought skims across your mind, and is banished just as swiftly as it had appeared; but even so it leaves an impression that you can’t help but entertain. No matter how futile and unachievable it may be; a hopeless romantic forever at heart.

Lost in fanciful scenarios that will never come to be you don’t notice the way that John also takes you in, cataloguing every minuscule detail and committing it to memory with a keenness that rivals the amount of silver on his tongue.

With where you stand, still and serene in the heart of enemy territory, the large window of his bedroom holds proudly behind you. The fading afternoon sun casting a light pastel orange across the earth and room, beaming through the glass and haloing you in a warm and intimate glow, your form mesmerising and ethereal with how at peace you look when held within such a divinely born light.

Your eyes, typically brimming with a wrathful defiance and a gluttonous need for misguided justice, are a demure beacon that glitters like the limitless galaxies within the cosmos. A flare of hope and unconditional love, soft and reassuring, for all of those that catch a glimpse of your guiding starlight. And although he feels unworthy, tainted and irrefutably damaged as he is, John also feels unbelievably blessed to bare witness to such an otherworldly sight; to be gifted with the absolute vision that is you.

And, for a moment that never quite ends, John can’t help but question how you could be hell-incarnate when heaven touches you oh so sweetly.

There are many words John Seed would have used to describe you, none of them necessarily complimentary or flattering, yet in this shared time between the two of you – just the two of you – only one word comes to mind as he unknowingly, longingly gazes at you.

Angelic. Yes, angelic you truly are. Stunningly and perfectly angelic.

John can’t remember the last time he felt this way about anyone, if he has ever felt like this at all even, but suddenly he finds that nothing else matters to him. Not the Project, not his brothers, and not even the work that he should be doing but that he had slipped away early from, because – frankly put – he was tired. He was as fed-up with this war and the responsibilities placed upon him as he suspected his dear Deputy to be. Both falling foul to your shared sin of sloth in regards to the duties you uphold.

Yet, John at least holds direction and dedication to the work divinely placed upon him. Knows what the end game is and strives to achieve it to its fullest potential, but you? You’re wavering; you’re doubting. Straying away from the path you are on, looking into the distance for something else, all the while refusing to even acknowledge the right one. The one alongside him.

You may not say it, nor ever even admit it, but John knows exactly what it is you are looking for. Knows the evidence that you’re desperately trying to compile in order to build a strong case in favour of yourself and the choices that you’ve been making, wanting to justify yourself and the many actions that you’ve made until this point between you both in the name of your feeble Resistance. And John also knows that he and his siblings are partially to blame for that.

If it wasn’t for them, you wouldn’t have to try and stand alone for yourself in your own self made courtroom. Wouldn’t have to stand before your self-conscious as you pleaded your guiltlessness before your own guilt. But, really, that’s why you needed a lawyer; that’s why you needed him. John could help you with that, could show you a better path where you could be free of such shackles. He would stand and defend you where no one else would; he would protect you when no else could.

He just wished that you’d let him. Wished that you would just sign the contract laid out before you so he could aid you, so he could fight for you. Yet, you still refuse to bless him with the payment of his favoured word. You still refuse to acknowledge just how in debt this battle will leave you without his help. It’s a small ask, a tiny payment, for a lifetime of rightful assurance.

Yet, John wonders if maybe it’s not just the courtroom that he wants to defend you in.

In his previous life, before the Project and his reunion with Joseph, John likely wouldn’t have even paid you a second glance. You’re a bit of a Plain Jane, have a very girl-next-door sort of look about you. Yet, in the wake of this interaction, bathed in the golden hue of the setting sun, John can’t think of anyone more beautiful. So human and down to earth; lost and conflicted, yet certain and firm. You really are an oddity, and one that John finds himself genuinely wanting to learn more about.

True, he had always had an interest in you, especially when this war between you first began, but it had always been a professional interest (despite what many thought or claimed). You needed to join the Project, Joseph decreed it so, and although his interest had risen to a slightly more personal level it was still business; without you he wouldn’t be able to reach Eden. His fate was in your hands.

Yet, fate seems to want to play you both into each other’s arms, for if it didn’t then surely this sacred moment between you both wouldn’t be happening. Surely, if this wasn’t meant to happen, John wouldn’t be longing for the love that Joseph promised him – the love that only you could give him – like he suddenly and hopelessly is.

John knows where he stands in this war, it’s a fixed point that he can’t move away from even if he eventually decided that he wanted to, but really his dear Deputy is still undecided. You still have a choice to make in this divine plan; you still have time to choose. And, funnily enough, it looks as if you’ve already started to make that choice. That curiosity of yours, you being in his home – on his bed – looking so domestic, like a wife waiting for her husband… to John this is a sign, a hint, a mere taste of the future that he’s always secretly hoped and longed for. A prophecy in its own right.

Yet, as much as he wants to fight for you, to defend and cherish you, he regrettably knows that the time for such things isn’t quite here yet. It’s close, certainly within his reach, but you need to meet him the rest of the way. You need those final damning pieces of evidence before you’ll come to him. You’ll want every piece of evidence available before you’ll walk your chosen path; and although he shouldn’t interfere, John could very easily acquire such evidence for you. He could very easily make such evidence for you. A little more time, a few strings pulled and a couple of sins stripped, and he could give you everything you need and so, so much more.

The temptations of the promised future are a fruit too sweet not to savour.

Eden’s Baptist watches with a fresh interest as you sigh heavily, chest rising and falling with the action, as you start to walk towards him. John’s chest tightens, flutters under the way your sparkling eyes meet and hold his own, only a hint of uncertainty, a fleeting touch of something questioning – do you feel it too? Do you feel this like he does? – on your face before you look away, glance down like a bashful bride, and come to stand next to him.

He doesn’t move from where he’s been leaning against the door, doesn’t even dare to breathe in case this moment is blown away like ash on the wind. Yet, when nothing happens and all he can focus on is his and your own gentle breathing, he takes a gamble and swallows thickly, slowly turning his head so he can look down at you next to him, naturally pretty despite the odd scratch and speck of dried blood on your well worn clothes.

The tension is palpable between you both, not so tight that’s it choking you, but tight enough that you can certainly feel it; hear it moan like a bow dragging steadily over a cello’s strings. Although, not as ominous as one would first suspect, but more melancholy; a rich sadness. As though despite how much you might want and wish for something, it will never come to pass; a sad inevitability that you can do nothing but walk past, never to stop and consider. Or at least you shouldn’t, for only heartbreak lies down those withered and desolate roads.

Which is why you shouldn’t stop, why you shouldn’t be wanting to reach out with a tender touch, a reassurance to this greedy want of yours for something more out of this moment, for more out of this strange connection and unlikely companionship you have discovered between the two of you. You shouldn’t feel this safe when standing next to the man that wants to starve this Valley into submission. You shouldn’t feel so at ease around a man that derives a sick thrill out of torture and the power it gives him. You shouldn’t feel like you’ve finally found a home when you’re sitting on his bed with his shirt in your arms.

You can’t deny that you’re attracted to him, that there clearly is some sort of unexplainable connection between the both of you, but whatever this connection may be… it can never be explored. It can never happen. You will never side with Eden’s Gate, and even if you decide that you can no longer be with the Resistance, it’ll be for the same reason why you can’t join Joseph’s cult. Ultimately, your decision, whatever it may be, will change nothing. Just like nothing will change John’s decision.

Ruled by the cry of your heart and the attachments it’s quick to make you hesitantly lay your greedy hand upon him, turning slightly as your right hand crosses you in order to gently grip his toned arm; the familiar feel of uniquely expensive silk sliding pleasantly

against your skin.

You feel him tense under your hand, arms tightening from where they are still crossed across his chest, but you don’t blame him. Really you’re not even too sure what it is you’re doing, this will only hurt you more when you walk away from whatever this could’ve been if things were different, but you always have had a bit of a penchant for torturing yourself with things like this.

So no matter how much the ‘what if’s’ will wound you in the future you still immerse yourself in the feel of him, of the way he relaxes as your thumb brushes back and forth in a comforting gesture against his arm, the smell of his cologne naturally intermingling with his natural scent… it’s a bitter torture that already has the tears coming to your eyes, but still you stay a little longer; heart hopefully romantic even though you know better.

This – the two of you – could never work.

“Deputy…”

“You know,” you cut him off, the slightest fracture in your softened tone, “I didn’t mean what I said earlier, about your planes. They’re not toys; they’re really cool actually,” there’s a buried laugh under your breath, a small smile that speaks of a brief reminiscion, “the way you have them all set up, cataloged with their little name plates… it’s really cute. It would be super cool if you had them hanging down from the ceiling though; like, having them act out dog fights and things almost. Can you imagine it?”

You giggle there, head ducking as you get lost in thoughts and bitter imagines – helping to set them up, walking in and seeing them like that, being lifted and twirled under them like stars in the sky – that will never be.

This war has taken everything from you, has made you doubt and lose sight of who you were before. Even your dreams for the future, regardless of who they may be with, have been tarnished by the stains on your hands and the things you have been pushed into doing. How could you ever have a normal life after this? Who would want a life with you after all of this? It all seems so impossible and far too far out of reach for you now.

Although it may be cruel, your wandering thoughts and the reminder they bring is a good grounder, and in turn your smile sours; even as one blooms sweetly across John’s face, a light dusting of pink across his cheeks.

For the better, you don’t see it.

“Anyway, I better go; got a County to save and all that after all. I’ll see you around though, John,” you pause, hesitate, desperately cling to this fleeting moment that’s finally reached its end, “take care of yourself now, sweetheart. Lord knows we need to...”

With nothing else to say, that quiet piece of compassion laid out before him like a final offering, you leave; letting go of his arm with a parting squeeze and a faint caress as you pull away, walk past him and out the door until you’re eventually lost to him yet again. A weary ghost bound to forever wander the lonely battlefield.

John doesn’t follow you, doesn’t even reach out to stop you like a part of him begs him to do, and instead merely turns to watch you leave. Head down and arms wrapped comfortingly around your waist. He really should stop you, force this moment to last for as long as he can get it to, but he doesn’t; and that surprisingly hurts him, letting you go. Yet, the pain it brings only hardens him, makes his thoughts straighten and become resolute in the face of the same realisation that had dawned on him only moments before hand.

And as the sun sets over the horizon, the sky streaked in sunburnt northern lights, colours shifting like water with the flowing of time, John finally moves to sit in the same place you had been on his bed; alone and lost in thought. Reaching out to pick something up off his nightstand as he draws his elbows to rest on his spread knees. His hands cupped against his mouth and securely around your forgotten sewing kit, as he stares blankly at your abandoned rifle.

Another sign in and of itself.

Although you hadn’t been looking at him when you had left John had certainly been watching you. He had seen the way that your eyes had glistened like unsteady waters as the courtroom erupted into a debate that you felt that you couldn’t win; the choice taken from you as your morals and exploited loyalty raged and dictated the sentence you should face.

He knows you felt it, knows that there is something special between the two of you, and that it’s taken this moment between you – this one act of rebellion stemmed from your curiosity – for him to see it; for him to finally grasp the meaning behind his brother’s plea.

You were right when you had questioned him on his lack of care regarding the Atonement; how he doesn’t care to save those that don’t believe, how he doesn’t want to put in the effort for those that will only put it to waste. If their motives are not genuine then the process is entirely pointless. Although, John won’t deny that there is a certain gratification in having such control over someone. Forcing them to say yes, purely for their own survival, is not the intention, but it certainly works all the same. After all, Joseph hasn’t exactly scolded him for his methods; especially if he gets a little therapy and self management out of it.

But what of you? What do you have as an outlet, as a way to cope and make the prize all the more sweeter? Better yet, what is the prize that you’re working towards, because John certainly has his in mind, and it won’t just be the end of a cruel and uncaring society.

You’re a puppet, both in terms of your occupation and the leading role you’re now being made to fill, dancing on fraying strings. Strings that John could fully free you from, help to cut you loose, if only you would just say ‘yes’. He’d be able to properly protect and defend you then, reassure you in your choices and how the things you’ve done were never truly your own; your caring nature merely exploited by those that you were forced to associate with while under the influence of shock. The trauma brought on by that helicopter crash disorientating you and leaving you vulnerable toward their manipulative and pressurising ways.

At least if you were to say ‘yes’, John would be able to safely guard you and your surprisingly tentative character. He would be able to love and cherish you, hold you close like no other, and make it so that you would want for nothing while in his arms. He could actually keep you in his bed, smother you in the pleasure that he would gladly give you as his beloved; chain you there as he ravished you and the softness that you would offer him, that you allowed him a tantalising glimpse of.

If you said ‘yes’, then John would finally be able to secure you and your loose strings, worn and threadbare under the continued pressure of your wailing guilt, to his own tangled ones; knotting them together until they have been sewn into something new, becoming one and the same. And when that finally happens, you will be entwined around a silk too rich and blissful to be so easily frayed.

#thank god it’s over #i’m done!#I’m not sure how I feel about this still #but then again i never think highly of my work so...#john seed x reader #john seed x female deputy #john seed x deputy #john seed #fanfic #fanfiction #my writing #fc5 #far cry 5 #far cry

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pockpop · 5 years

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second chances | jeon jungkook

↬ summary; when you’re shot during the middle of an award show, jungkook is hoping that he still has a chance to save you.

↬ genre; angsty, so much angst ):, idol!reader

↬ warnings: mentions of blood, hospitals, ft. lyrics from faded by alan walker

↬ a/n; this took so long and i’m so sorry but it’s finally here. thank you for requesting and i do hope you like it!

part one - part two

all your life, you had dreamed of performing on the biggest stage the world could offer. you and your group worked your asses off to reach the big leagues and the the moment you noticed that you had had your breakthrough moment, you almost died.

it was the annual award show, where every idol and every fan tuned in to see who topped the charts and who was going to gain even more popularity after the final curtain. your group was one of the final acts and the anticipation for the performance was huge and before you knew it, it was happening.

you were bellowing out the final tune, the final note to a perfect finale song. every camera and every eye were on you, this was your moment to finally shine. fireworks and flashing lights with the spotlight on the singer blowing away the crowd. with your eyes closed, you missed the proud smile of your boyfriend jungkook, who sat right in front of the stage, the crowd was cheering so loud, the music blasting at maximum volume that not a soul noticed.

no one saw the woman dressed in all black, a dark hood hiding her face or the silver pistol in her grasp. not a soul heard the gunshot, or the one that followed but when it hit you, all noise fell silent. grasping your chest, the microphone hit the stage abruptly as you clenched the bloodied hole in your chest in confusion.

the crowd and your members were in initial shock, no one making a move until you choked, blood coughing from your plump lips.

then panic broke out, the screams of fans and other idols, security guards trying to hustle people but failing as people tripped over one another. jungkook was on the stage in no time, you had fallen back into the arms of one of your members, you had no idea who but you could hear someone repeating ‘its’ going to be okay, it’s going to be okay’ but the tears spilling from the corners of your eyes told a different story.

every time you took a breath, it was becoming tougher, almost painful as your lungs were reaching for air.

then jungkook was there, pushing away the hands of his members and security, his hands instantly going to your wound as he tried to put pressure on it, panic embedded in those puppy brown eyes you loved so much.

“stay with me y/n! stay with me!” you grasped his forearm to try and calm him down, but he was past that, “get a medic! hurry the fuck up and get a medic!” he yelled, his voice sounding blurry to your ears as black spots appeared in your vision. the faces of the people above you becoming blurry.

“don’t you die on me! you hear me? don’t you fucking dare!” jungkook was yelling but the darkness seemed so peaceful, breathing was becoming so hard and it hurt so much, sleep sounded so nice, so peaceful.

you tried to speak, trying to tell him you loved him one last time but more blood spilled out of your mouth making him gasp,”it’s going to be okay, it;s going to be okay.”

but the last thing you remembered seeing was jungkook’s teary eyes and your blood smeared on his tear stained cheeks.

jungkook sat in the waiting room, his knees bouncing in utter impatience. it now had been over two hours since they rushed you off to the emergency room, two hours since he saw your lifeless body and all he could think about was even through the panic and screaming, your eyes were still so confused. he blinked a few times to get the image of you looking so helpless out of his head but it was haunting him.

“we brought you some fresh clothes,” jungkook barely glanced up at the sound of jimin’s voice, his mind so clouded that it took him a moment to respond.

“thanks.” his answer cold and distant, reaching for the outstretched clothes. but he wasn’t quick to move towards the bathroom, what if the doctor came out while he was away? what if you ended up dying on that operating table and in your last moments you were looking for him? waiting for him?

he pressed the clothes to his forehead in despair.

you had been dating over two years, the engagement ring in his suit jacket was supposed to be his gift for your international debut. he was planning on making you his wife and protecting you for the rest of his life and yet he couldn’t even do that.

the thought made him want to rip his hair out.

“the family of miss y/l/n?” jungkook’s head shot up at the sound of the voice and he was the first one to approach the doctor, followed by your parents, your members and the rest of the boys. his veiny hands were almost rigging the fresh clothes jimin brought him, but he barely noticed.

the doctor’s eyes softened at the sight of the distressed singer, her brown eyes taking in his blood stained thousand dollar suit. “ is she alright? did she-did she-” jungkook couldn’t even finish his sentence and namjoon put a supportive hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

“the shot was supposed to fatal to the victim. gun shot wounds to the chest, especially that close to the lungs should’ve killed her instantly, if pressure hadn’t been applied to the wound as soon as it did, she probably would've suffered much more blood loss than she did.”

“so what are you saying doc? is she going to be alright?”

“she flat-lined for almost 4 minutes but then her heart started beating again, you’ve got a real soldier in there. she’s definitely going to be alright.”

there was a collective release of sighs all around that made the doctor smile a little but the smile faded as quick as it appeared,” but there’s still many tests we must run and she’s going to be hospitalized for a while to heal and may have to go through some therapy after this tragic event.” she paused letting everyone take in the information,” she is resting now but in the morning, visitation will be allowed. will she be awake then? we are unsure... but prayers are always welcome.”

once the doctor was gone, namjoon was there to catch the fatigued jungkook. the younger finally collapsing in tears. no one said anything but instead felt his pain.

they didn’t know that he blamed himself for her ending up that way, that he was angry that the suspect in custody was not only a fan of his, but a fan he had been warned about. he felt he put her in danger due to his own carelessness and that’s enough to break anyone.

---

“it’s called an endotracheal tube, breathing on her own right now is difficult.” jungkook jumped, looking away from your hospital room window to the nurse standing idly by. she offered him a kind smile and he tried to give her one back but his didn’t meet his eyes.

“will she- can she talk?”

“once she is cleared to breathe on her own, sure, but right now she has much healing to do but she can hear you fine. i heard you’re a pretty famous singer so i’m sure she’d like that... anyway i’ll be by a little while to check her vitals, take your time though.” jungkook nodded stiffly at the nurse before he opened your door, the clincial coldness of the room making goosebumps rise on his skin.

he sat in the chair that was already set beside you, which he assumed from your parents visit. they had formally forbid him from seeing you at first, blaming him for your position and he didn’t say otherwise. the rows of bodyguards outside your door and hall told him that now you would be protected, something he clearly failed to do.

he reached for your hand but then hesitated, instead letting his hand fall back into his lap.

the beeping of the heart monitor wasn’t a comforting sound at all to him, the room was too cold and he felt so bare. he missed the warmth of your apartment, the smell of your overpriced perfume, and how you would always hold his hands even if they were clammy, complaining of how hot he was. he was missing your laugh, how your eyes would crinkle as you laughed at his dumb jokes, your random singing of his songs to annoy him. he was missing everything about you that he took for granted and just seeing you like that made his stomach ache uncomfortably. so he started talking.

“so uh the nurse - the nurse said you can hear me” he started, scratching at his eyebrow as he fidgeted in his seat,” you did always have perfect pitch,’ he tried to joke but it didn’t feel the same without your loud laugh to follow. clearing his throat, he continued on.

“the fans are having a vigil for you tonight, they’ve been singing your favorite songs outside the hospital and the letters being sent to your apartment are crazy! i’ve been going there all the time to make sure your cats are fed and that everything is right as you liked it... i also tried to watch grease without you, but without you singing over me, it kind of sucks honestly.” jungkook rubbed his face with both hands, reddening his skin in frustration.

“she told me i should sing to you... but the only song i can think of right now is that song you kept telling me you hated and yet i caught your headass singing it in the shower, the faded one? should i sing it anyway?” met with only the beeping of the heart monitor, he laughed at himself and leaned his head back.

jungkook’s voice came out sad and slow, his eyes closing as he sang the lyrics just as he heard you sing them,“you were the shadow to my light, did you feel us? another star, you fade away, afraid our aim is out of sight, wanna see us alight..” his voice cracked at the end and he sniffled sitting back up. he dug around in his jacket pocket and pulled out a black velvet ring box.

“where are you now? atlantis, under the sea, under the sea,” he continued to sing, turning the box between his fingers in thought.

“this is for you. i had this entire proposal planned so dumbly perfect that even you would’ve cried. i guess that must be postponed until you can at least look at me, until you’re fucking conscious.” his eyes burned with tears and he let them fall, glad for the moment his vision was blurred from seeing you that way.

rubbing them away roughly, he reached for your hand, grasping it in his and placed the box there, curling your fingers around it. “this belongs to you, containing our love and my heart. i mean its always belonged to you anyway but this is the declaration that i’m never leaving you, i can’t and i won’t. my darling love, you’re stuck with me.”

jungkook laughed to himself again and let tears run down his cheeks but didn’t wipe them this time, letting himself cry for the first time since he would remember.

“and i’m hoping one day you will have the voice to say yes.”

#jeon jungkook #jeon jungguk #bts scenarios #bts imagines #bts jungkook #bts jungkook scenarios #bts jungkook imagines #bts angst #poc kpop #ambw kpop #bts

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mcsmseason3 · 4 years

Text

MCSM Origins Book I: Enter Lapilisia Lazul - Part 1

Summary:

Lapilisia Lazul, or Lapis for short, is a Gemonyk from Krystalyx in search of adventure beyond her own world. Her travels lead her to Emerl, another Gem from Krystalyx and a knight of the Order of the Stone. Little does she know that her life is about to change completely.

Next Chapter: Here

Many years ago, before the defeat of the Ender Dragon…

It was a sunny afternoon. The forest was silent aside from the occasional trickling of a stream or the odd animal or bird passing by. A cliff stuck out from the tree line, looking out over the woods which seemed to stretch out for blocks and blocks. The sound of footsteps on grass interrupted the silence as a woman seeming to be in her mid-20’s wearing sky blue robes and a blue cape hiked up the cliff. She had brown hair with blue highlights, pale skin, and golden freckles. What stood out most was a round lapis lazuli stone with a golden casing around the edges that seemed to be embedded in her chest.

Lapilisia Lazul, otherwise known as Lapis, looked out at the forest with bright eyes. “Wow…” she gasped in awe as she admired the view, “This is even prettier than the forests in Verde.” Lapis sat down on the cliff edge, her legs dangling off the edge as she felt a light breeze blew past her. Lapis had been travelling for the past few months, travelling by ship from her home in the Azurialis Archipelago to the Kingdom of Verde before crossing the Farlands that separated Krystalyx and Minecraftia. There were quite a few similarities between the two worlds…the biggest difference, of course, being the lack of magic in Minecraftia compared to Krystalyx. That and the lack of humanoids that are made of light and have gemstones embedded in their bodies. The people of her home were sad to see her go – she was the Blue Shard after all, she was pretty much their national hero-to-be – but knew that the journey would be good for her.

Lapis’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of hissing coming from behind her. She looked behind her, only to be greeted by a creeper trudging towards her. “Uh oh!” Lapis went to get to her feet, but the creeper was quicker on the draw. It exploded, causing Lapis to fall backwards off the cliff. “Please just poof, please don’t shatter, please just poof, please don’t shatter!” Lapis prayed as she squeezed her eyes shut and fell to the ground below.

*POOF!*

*TINK, TI-TINK!*

Lapis’s form disappeared upon impact with the ground as her gem clattered onto the earth, thankfully unharmed.

“Who goes there?!”

A voice rang out followed by the sound of footsteps running through the forest, “I heard an explosion! Is someone hurt?” A woman – roughly in her late 30’s – rushed through the trees into the small clearing near the cliff. She had short, side-swept, black hair with bright green tips and bangs. She wore a green shirt with long flowing sleeves and exposed an emerald stone on her chest, black trousers and green boots. There was a bright green sash around her waist and black and green gloves. Covering her outfit was black cape with an odd green symbol on it. She had pale skin and bright green eyes with pupils shaped similar to her gem.

Emerl Verdyk glanced around the clearing, an emerald sword with a golden hilt in hand, with a confused look on her face, “Hello? Anyone here?” Emerl looked up and the cliff top and noticed a small crater taken out of it. “Tch…creepers. Such a pain…” she sighed. Emerl turned to leave before a small glint of the sun hitting something caught her eye. She dismissed her sword and walked over to the object and picked it up. “A lapis lazuli?” Emerl muttered, confused as to why loose lapis was just lying around, “No wait…this is a Gemonyk. What are you doing all the way in Minecraftia, friend?” Almost on cue, the gemstone began to glow and levitate into the air. Emerl took a few steps back as the light being emitted from the gem shifted into a humanoid form before scattering to revel Lapis – good as new. “Whoa!” Lapis exclaimed as she landed on her feet, stumbling a bit before examining herself, “Okay, gem’s intact…outfit still looks awesome…still have hair, that’s a plus…can’t see my face so gonna have to hope my freckles are still there. I love my babies! Alright, overall: looking good!” Lapis breathed a sigh of relief. Noticing a presence behind her, Lapis turned around to see Emerl standing there with a small smile. Lapis noticed the emerald stone on her chest and her eyes lit up, “OHMYGOSHOHMYGOSHOHMYGOSH!!! You- you’re a Gem! You’re like me!”

Emerl nodded before extending her hand, “Emerl Verdyk; former knight of the Kingdom of Verde, current knight of the Order of the Stone. At your service.”

“Lapilisia Lazul, but you can call me Lapis!” Lapis grinned shaking Emerl’s hand before her eyes going wide, “Wait a sec! Emerl Verdyk? THE Emerl Verdyk?”

“That’s me.”

“No way!” Lapis’s jaw nearly hit the floor, “You’re the Green Shard that went rogue and disappeared! You’re in Minecraftia?”

“Yep. When you’re trained from the moment you emerge from the earth to be a ‘great warrior-hero of legend’, you tend to get sick of it after over 30 years.” Emerl shrugged, before looking around, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m guessing you were poofed by that creeper explosion just there, right? Come. I’ll bring you to the Order’s temple where we’ll be safe from any more day-time monsters. You can tell me about how you ended up here on the way.”

“Alrighty! Lead the way!” Lapis smiled cheerfully as she followed Emerl through the trees.

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

“So you’re a Shard too, then?” Emerl asked as they emerged from the forest. “Yep!” Lapis replied with a smile, “But I don’t have a handle on my powers yet. They tend to come and go as they please.”

“The Blue Shard’s power is Future Vision, right? You can see glimpses into the future?”

“Yup. It’s a pretty cool power, in my opinion! But not so cool when you get a bad vision, especially since the events are kinda set in stone.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve tried to change the events myself. But it seems that every time I try, I somehow end up ensuring they happen. Ugh…even just thinking about it makes my head hurt.” Lapis then laughed nervously, “Kinda wish I was given a heads up about that creeper though. My visions tend to have lousy timing sometimes.”

“You’ll learn to control it eventually.” Emerl gave a reassuring smile as she summoned a green and gold shield, “You’d be surprised how many times I’ve summoned this thing by accident. Hit my mentor in the head one time!”

“Oh no!” Lapis giggled. “Yeah, got an extra hour of training for a month after that.” Emerl chuckled as she dismissed the shield, “But it was pretty funny.” Emerl looked up as she spotted the temple peeking over the hilltops, “Ah! Almost at the temple now!”

“By the way,” Lapis began, “Who are the Order of the Stone? You’ve mentioned them a bit now.”

“Where do I begin?” Emerl chuckled, “They’re a group of heroes that travel to the far corners of the world in search of adventure. They’ve been from the Nether to the bottom of the sea!”

“Cool!” Lapis’s eyes brightened in awe, “You guys must have to travel a lot.”

“Yeah, but we have a rail system in the Nether that helps us get to places.” Emerl replied, “Their actually down there working on it while I patrol the are around the temple. Looks like it was a good thing I did, eh?” Emerl gave Lapis a playful nudge, earning a giggle from the Gem.

The two Gems entered the temple. Lapis gazed in awe at the beautiful structure. “Watch your step!” Emerl warned as she stepped over a pressure plate, “There are anti-monster traps set up here to protect the place.” Lapis looked at the walls and saw small dispensers embedded in them. “Aww! They look like lil’ faces!” Lapis cooed. “They’re not so cute when you take an arrow to the foot. Trust me.” Emerl chuckled, remembering the time Magnus stepped on one of the plates by accident and Emerl nearly got poofed as a result. “So what are the rest of the Order like?” Lapis asked as they walked through the Library, “Well, the Leader and Founder of the Order is Soren.” Emerl began, “He’s a master builder, a genius, but also a bit of a goofball…and prone to burst into song for reasons I’ll never understand. There’s Gabriel the Warrior, who is the strongest out of us. He’s a little full of himself, but he means well. Magnus is the Order’s rogue and a walking disaster zone. Seriously, his room is so full of TNT and I’ve no idea how he hasn’t blown a hole in the temple yet. Ellegaard is another genius of the Order. She knows pretty much everything about redstone and what it can be used for. The stuff she’s able to come up with is incredible. However, she and Magnus tend to butt heads a lot. If you ever hear shouting echoing around the temple, it’s more-than-likely them. Last is Ivor, the Brewer. He’s an expert in potions and enchantments. He looks grumpy but he’s actually quite eccentric when it comes to adventures. Whenever we leave on a trip, he always yells at the top of his voice ‘ADVENTURE!!!’”

Lapis laughed as Emerl mimicked Ivor’s shout, her voice echoing off the walls as they walked up the staircase. “What about you?” Lapis asked. “Well, I’m not really a member of the Order per se. I’m more like…” Emerl searched for the word in her mind, “…a bodyguard! Like, you know how the Shards had the Royal Guard back in the dark days? I’m like that!”

“That’s kinda funny considering you’re a Shard!”

“I guess it is!”

As the two walked up the stairs into the map room, Lapis’s eyes were drawn to a small trinket standing upon a pedestal. “What’s that?” Lapis asked. “That’s the Order’s Amulet.” Emerl replied, “The Order uses it to track the other members when they’re on the surface. Hmm…” Emerl glanced between the Amulet and the map, “Odd…they should be on the surface by now. What’s taking them so long?” Emerl turned to Lapis, “Hey. Ever been to the Nether?”

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

“Whoa!” Lapis gazed up at the obsidian framing the purple portal, “This thing leads to the Nether?”

“You got it.” Emerl nodded, “Just a heads up: the heat in there is pretty intense, so water powers might not work.”

“Don’t you worry.” Lapis grinned, “I don’t need my powers to kick butt!”

“Keep that enthusiasm going!” Emerl smirked, “Off we go!” Emerl jumped into the portal, Lapis following suit. Lapis’s jaw nearly hit the floor at the view around her. Red rocks, fire and lava as far as the eye could see. The two gems stood upon a dark coloured platform with stairs leading downwards to several minecart railways. “Keep up.” Emerl called behind her as she made her way down the steps, “If I remember correctly, they took…this one.” Emerl hopped into a minecart and Lapis hopped into one behind her. “Hang on tight!” Emerl grinned as the carts took off down the railway. “Whoa! Whoohoo!” Lapis laughed as the carts sped through the Nether, “This is amazing!”

“It’s fun, right?” Emerl chuckled, “So a few Nether-Need-to-Knows. Number 1: don’t attack the pigmen. They won’t hurt you if you don’t hurt them. Number 2: Keep a distance from blazes and magma cubes – or lava accordions as I like to call ‘em. Number 3: Soul sand is the sandy brown stuff. That’ll slow you down if you step in it so be careful. And number 4: beware of-”

Emerl was cut off by a distant wail followed by shouting which was coming from up ahead. “…ghasts." Emerl finished with a sigh as she summoned her sword in one hand and held tightly onto the minecart with the other, “I should’ve known. You ready for a fight, kiddo?”

“Bring it on!” Lapis cheered.

This was gonna be fun!

To Be Continued…

#mcsm #mcsm origins #mcsm origins book I #minecraft story mode #minecraft #lapis lazul #emerl wyverk

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trvelyans-archive · 5 years

Text

a commission for the lovely @chillyrose of her inquisitor heidi lavellan and cole <3 thank you so much for commissioning me, and i’m sorry it took so long for me to get to you! i hope i did heidi and cole justice :)

---

Fresh snow falls on the battlements of Skyhold, lining the walkways, blanketing the mounds of rubble still yet to be cleaned up. The sharp sound of swords clashing rings through the air, cutting clean through the peaceful night. Heidi looks out over the courtyard, trailing her hand along the white stone wall, whistling a tune under her breath.

He might as well be a statue when she comes across him. His skin and hair look paler in the night than they normally do; snow litters his shoulders and dusts the rim of his hat, and the metal adornments on his body look freezing to the touch. She shivers beneath her several layers of clothes and still the telltale drops of sweat beading her brow. She wonders if he’s cold, too, or if he perhaps doesn’t even realize he is at all.

“Hi,” she says warmly, swinging a leg over the railing and settling down next to him, ignoring the cold tingle seeping through the backs of her breeches. “Aren’t you cold?”

Cole shrugs, bracing his arms against the battlements, swinging his legs slightly back and forth. And then he pauses for a long hard moment and looks at her. “No. I’m not cold,” he answers, his tone quiet and yet still quite matter-of-fact before he turns away again.

She smiles at him, shuffling minutely closer to him, enjoying the feeling of his company.

Down below, someone shouts, and then people cheer. The orange light that peeks through the windows of the tavern is spotted with black silhouettes as the people inside bustle around. Heidi smiles and swings her small pack down from her shoulders, flipping open the top with gloved hands and fishing out a small pouch from inside.

There’s half of a still-warm loaf of bread inside. She splits it into two more pieces and sets the second portion down on her lap while bringing the first up to her nose to smell.

Satinalia is coming, and though she doesn’t know how she feels about the celebrations, Skyhold feels different – it feels happier. The air around her is lighter, the soldiers and scouts and refugees seem more at ease, and even the advisors, she’s heard, are looking forward to it. There’s still a few days until the main feast, but the fortress is still celebrating. Even what few people are using the sparring ring are just playing around and having fun amongst themselves. Everything is much better this way.

Cole seems different, too, but he also seems happier. Most of the time, even though she really admires him, she feels bad for him. It must be so hard to feel so weighed down by so many people’s sadness. She hopes he takes a break this week, as well. He needs it just as much as the rest of them do, if not more.

“Are you excited about Satinalia?” Heidi asks him as she takes a small bite of the bread, chewing it quietly.

Cole shrugs again. “It will be nice,” he says. “Maybe it will distract everyone for a while, too.”

Heidi watches him with curious eyes, a smile lacing her lips. “Do you have anything special you’re going to wear?”

He looks down at his clothes. “Special?” he repeats, his eyebrows gathering together in the middle of his forehead.

“Yes!” She turns her eyes towards the stars, counting them as she talks. “It’s a celebration, so people are going to be dressing up. I can tell Josephine to ask one of the seamstresses to make something for you – it’s only fair, since they made something special for Dorian and The Iron Bull and Blackwall and Sera and… well, and me.” And then her voice falters.

At once, he turns to look her, eyes wide and alert. “A sheep in wolf’s clothing,” he starts, and she glances away before he can continue, shifting uneasily in her seat. “Safe but not settled. They’ll shun you - they already do.”

Heidi clams up immediately, taking a small bite of her bread, avoiding eye contact.

“They’ll accept you,” Cole says gently. “They already do.”

There are so many thoughts running through her head that she doesn’t know how he managed to pick the strongest one, and yet he did, and now she’s not just shifting, she’s squirming, words failing to form on her tongue. “It’s just…” She heaves a wounded sigh, plucking at a burnt crumb and flicking it away from herself over the edge of the battlements. “It’s strange. Around this time, the clan would have a celebration, too. We’d all dress up and feast together and take a night off from hunting, and it was very nice and calm and fun. And…”

Heidi combs a hand through her hair. “It’s different now,” she finishes simply, brushing crumbs from the tops of her thighs where they had fallen.

Cole says nothing, but she thinks he moves closer, and she’s comforted by the act of it though her mind is still reeling.

“I just never feel like I fit in here,” Heidi whispers. “Surrounded by humans and qunari and even city elves, who treat me like I’m so different… I miss my clan. I miss not being the ‘Inquisitor’.”

“Hand holding a heavy sword, shining outside of its sheath.” His voice has taken on it’s otherworldly quality, and yet there’s still something distinctly soft and warm about it. “You can put it back in, sometimes.”

Heidi looks to him in surprise. “What?”

“You can put the sword back in its sheath, sometimes,” Cole repeats.

At first, she isn’t quite sure what to say. She just gives him and a smile and nods and continues eating her bread. And then she starts to dwell on it a little more, the gears in her head turning and turning, and finally, once a part of her – a part of her she hadn’t even realized was there – feels sated, she squirms in her seat until she’s fit more snugly in the grooves of the stone and hands the bread towards Cole, shifting closer until they’re shoulder to shoulder.

“I’ll ask Josephine to make you a nice pair of clothes tomorrow,” she says almost proudly, watching him with a smug smile as he takes the bread from her and turns it over in his hands with a soft, slow speed. “Do you want a jacket like this one –“ she gestures towards his, smelling faintly of hay from the stables and looking as though it’s covered in a layer of dust – “or a shirt? Or both?”

Cole shrugs, but something in his eyes tells her that he’s thinking about it.

“We’ll see what Josephine thinks, then,” Heidi says. “You’d look nice in red. Oooh, or orange. It might bring some colour to your cheeks, you know?”

Cole smiles, still looking down at the small loaf of bread, turning it over in his hands still until his fingers are covered in crumbs. “Do you like this?”

She leans over to take it back from him. “It’s Dalish, actually,” she responds, then adds, “so yes, I guess I do like this.” A snowflake lands on top of the bread and she swipes it off, running her fingers over the seeds embedded into as she does. It’s a familiar feeling, like wearing leather boots or feeling the silken sheets of her big, empty bed in the Inquisitor’s chambers. “The keeper used to make this as a celebration for… well, anything, really. Everyone loved it.”

“How else did you celebrate?” Cole asks.

That stops her for a second. The memories are so distant that it takes more effort than it should to remember them, and the thought itself makes her sad, though she pushes that feeling away before Cole can catch onto it. He’s done enough for her already. “We would sing a lot,” she answers finally. “Lullabies and group songs and… anything, really.”

“Can you sing for me?”

Heidi’s eyebrows knit together. “Are you sure?”

Cole nods.

The melody, thankfully, comes easily, as do the words, and it’s as though all of a sudden she’s transported back to Ostwick with her clan. She never wanted to be keeper, and though sometimes living in the wilderness was difficult, she misses her clan. She felt so right with them, and so safe, with her friends and her family and everyone that she knew.

But she’s learned a lot – she’s seen a lot of new things and new places, and she’s met a lot of new people, including the few who she’s especially thankful for. Dorian being one of them – Cole being another.

She’s shy about singing in front of him, but when the song is over and the furious blush darkens on her pale skin and she hastens to look away, she swears there’s a smile in Cole’s voice when he says, “You should show that to the others.”

Heidi looks over at him in surprise. “What?”

“Satinalia. It’s a celebration.”

“Yes…?”

“And you sang that song when you celebrated,” he observes. “With your clan.”

She nods, reaching up to adjust her head as a sudden gust of wind blows across the mountains. “Yes,” she says.

And then she realizes what he’s trying to say.

“Oh, Cole…” She leans over and gives him the fiercest hug she can manage. “You’re right.”

A smile plays on his lips.

“Let’s go show them now,” she says then, swinging her legs over so she can jump down onto the snowy stone of the battlements. “Maybe I can perform it at the feast!”

Cole doesn’t hurry after her, but he does follow. When he’s safely on the walkway beside her, she barely has enough time to slip her bread back into her back before – with great caution – grabbing him by the hand and tugging him along after her as she suppresses a shiver. It’s cold outside, after all. And she’s excited, now, too, of course.

“Cole,” she says over her shoulder, beaming, “you’re the best.”

#sorry this took so long to get to you - it's been a troublesome week #i hope you enjoy it nevertheless though! my eyes aren't working well so if you see any errors let me know :)#my writing #my commissions #lavellan #lavellan x cole

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dragongirl642 · 5 years

Text

Adopted Plot Bunny #36: OC was Smaug’s dragon rider. He was kind before the attack. And he only attacked because Thrain threw her out of the kingdom when she asked for shelter and medicine. She almost died as a result, if it wasn’t for Smaug’s magic, she would have. So Smaug attacked and put a sleeping spell on her. Gandalf breaks it when they find her. She now must cope with everything that has happened, and Thorin (wanting to make up for what his grandfather did) wants to help.

I have decided to make this a reader insert since that is my speciality. Also, this ended up being way longer then I thought and so, this is only part 1 of what I am planning to be a 2 (maybe 3) part story. (In my writing there are no rules concerning the naming of the Dwarrow race AAAAAHHHHH).

@sdavid09 Thank you for the adoption. Sorry for the late entry. Hope this is okay.

Context:

The line of Durin survives battle of five armies with injuries. Reader is found about a week/two weeks after the battle by some dwarrow tasked with finding out where the gold ends/damages Smaug had wrought. They find a glowing woman in an alcove and, justifiably, freak out and call Gandalf.

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The wind churned against mighty wingbeats. Like a hurricane stirring to rise. The great fire drake Smaug soared through the air. Red-gold scales shining in the sunlight. A young dragon by all accounts. Subconsciously drawn to gold like his kin, but this did not completely rule his thoughts. He was mostly free of it, for now, for he had a conscious desire to protect that which was dear to him. For hidden between the spikes trawling down his spine, sat a young dragon rider. His dragon rider.

Descendant of those blessed by the Valar; after they tamed one of Morgoth’s famed dragons for their own, mortal creations of the union of all the free peoples of Middle Earth. Thwarting his dark powers through self-sacrifice, freely giving their light to free the great serpents from darkness.

In appearance, she seemed closer to a young human woman than an elf, barely out of childhood. But there was a hidden strength under her skin and a fire in her chest. At least, there should have been. For now, she clung listlessly to Smaug’s back.

They had met, this dragon and rider, in the withered heath. Like all dragon riders, (Y/n) was tasked with travelling to this dangerous valley to prove themselves. Which they did, marvellously. Packing and planning, (they were pretty meticulous after all), and finally arriving. They sought their dragon. A dragon marked for them as they were marked for it. A dragon of similar age and mind. (Y/n) found this dragon in Smaug. Beating him in single combat and winning his heart through song. (A process that would kill anyone else who didn’t carry the blessings of the Valar…well…probably kill). Also, after this great battle, she sang to him regularly; since song is the greatest expression of the Valar’s power after all, it helped keep him in the light.

When they flew together, their minds were as one. Nigh unbeatable in combat. A dragon rider and their mount were among the most feared forces in the world. Especially if they survived against all attacks by the forces of darkness to reach maturity.

(Y/n) and Smaug were unbothered by this though. Smaug’s pride and (Y/n) headstrong nature meaning they failed to see the danger before it was too late. (Y/n) had presented herself before her father. He had had wished her well and she had set out to fulfil her role in protecting the peoples of Middle Earth. She decided they would eventually venture North into the frozen wastes, but not until they were stronger and Smaug could survive the colder regions. So, they travelled South. Deciding to visit Rivendell. Her family still knew of a bloodline living there, closely connected to theirs. But before they crossed the Misty Mountains, she had a stop Smaug was happy to indulge her for. Being curious as to the customs of Dwarves and having heard of their skill. She wished to visit Erebor and see the great forges for herself. She also promised to buy Smaug some golden trinket to help ease his lust for it.

But disaster struck just as they left the shadow of the Grey Mountains. Ambushed by Goblins. The tricky creatures had decided that, no creature as powerful as a dragon would look up, they weren’t wrong, so they positioned archers on the peaks and shot at his rider. (Y/n) was able to stop nearly all of them, twirling their staff at lighting speed, but not all. An arrow to the calf is a big enough problem on its own but add poison to the mix and you’re in trouble.

Their stop at Erebor suddenly gained an urgency it didn’t have before. (Y/n)’s pride, an equal match for her dragon’s, would not suffer to go home in disgrace, so they sought treatment elsewhere.

“I am a dragon rider, I will not be felled by a goblins arrow.” (Y/n)’s promise to Smaug was as much a comfort for her as it was for him. They journeyed over green valleys and scattered groves. Stopping in promising spots so (Y/n) could gather the necessary herbs to craft a poultice for her wound. Singing and crushing herbs she was able to almost create her own cure. It didn’t get rid of the poison, but it cleaned the wound and slowed the infection down.

Two days later, they landed in a valley. Almost in the shadow of the lonely mountain but guarded from sight by a wall of trees. A vast forest stretched all around on one side of the mountain.

(Y/n) pov:

“Smaug, I need you to wait here please.” When I had told him that he had protested. ‘Not wanting his rider to go too far from him with her injury, I completely understand’.

But even so, I argued with him. Citing the rivalry between dragons and dwarves. Noting that Dwarves only barely tolerated dragon riders due to the old alliance they had. I warned him of some recent news my father had received from the elves, of a dwarven king succumbing to gold sickness. Smaug winced at that. I sighed, telling him that if I showed up with him in tow it might send the Dwarves into a panic. After convincing him to stay put, I rebandaged my leg and set off for the gates of Erebor. Giving Smaug a quick hug before I go.

Leaving just as the sun was setting, I ended up walking all night. Skirting the edge of the trees, eventually coming to a road just as the sun was rising. I collapsed by the side of the road, I need to take a little rest. ‘Where are you now.’ ‘I’m almost there, be calm.’

The sound of clopping hooves echoed in the distance. I pulled a sandwich out of my bag and started Sullenly eating. The hoof beats got louder. Looking up, I saw a group of Dwarrow on ponies come trotting up the road. They stopped and looked at me.

“Who are you miss? Where are you bound?” I greeted them and responded that I was bound for Erebor. They just squinted at me. ‘No I’m not an elven envoy. Let’s just opt for a smile.’ I repeated the age-old greetings. They looked hesitant but agreed to lead me to the gates at least.

Two of the dwarves breaks off from the group, one to trot beside me and the other gallops back to Erebor; the rest continue their patrol down the road. I lean on my staff but otherwise walk tall and proud. My leg keeps throbbing. ‘I can’t afford to show weaknesses’.

After an age, we finally exit the treeline. I pause a moment to catch my breath, covering it by pretending to regard the lines of people and Dwarrow eagerly awaiting entry to Erebor. Returning Dwarrow are welcomed quickly, visitors for family next and the merchants last. Sighing I follow the guard’s pony, fully expecting to join the final queue. This resignation turns to pleasant surprise when this is not the case. Instead, I am led straight to the gate.

In the shadows, a burly looking dwarf was waiting. Intricately braided beard, (as was customary), spilling over his crossed arms. “What do you want in Erebor.” Judging by his armour, this was probably the captain of the guard. Once again, I repeated the greetings and asked for shelter and medicine. Reaching down, ignoring the jumpy dwarf beside me, I showed him my bandaged leg. He looked thoughtful, but not as harsh as before. Suddenly, he turns and asks me to follow him, leading me through one of the side doors in the gate.

Once inside, I have to take another breather, eyes darting about. Looking around in wonder at just the entry hall to Erebor. Emeralds were embedded high in the walls, banners of woven gold swaying inside small alcoves. Dwarves and selected humans bustled around, bartering for goods at the various stalls.

He looked at me and the crowd before holding out his hand, I allowed him to lead me through the throng. Even when we left the hall behind and had travelled past three subsequent markets, the sounds did not diminish. Voices echoing on stone in a low hum that refused to fade. I shifted my weight between my feet. Following the dwarf, I started to wonder just how far we would still have to go. ‘Just how big is Erebor.’

Finally, we arrived at a gilded door. My guide knocked and stepped back. Another dwarf eventually opened the door. His clothes had more jewels than my guides, black beard bearing a bead with the royal crest. My guide gestured between us.

“This is prince Thorin. Your highness, this one claims to be a dragon rider.”

“Thank you Dwalin. I can take it from here.” Dwalin bowed his head and marched a little ways away. Standing in a arch nearby. ‘Huh, do I look that dangerous.’

I turned to Thorin and bowed my head. “It is an honour Prince Thorin. I greet you gladly under the old ways.” He bowed his back and gestured that I follow him. Dwalin trailing behind us.

I followed, a limp attempting to show. ‘No! No limping.’

“You will be presented to the king. He will hear you. I smiled and gestured lightly with my staff.

“Lead the way your highness.”

He pushed through a set of even larger ornate doors and I almost stopped at the vastness of the hall before me. A narrow bridge being the only access point for visitors to approach the grand throne.

I followed Thorin as swiftly as possible. He strode up to the old dwarf sat on the throne and whispered in his ear. Before stepping back to stand another dwarf stood beside the throne.

“His majesty, King Thror of Erebor.” A herald nearby announced.

I bowed my head and stood to my full height. “I am (Y/n) (L/n) of the line of Drakón.” My eyes were drawn to the glowing light hovering just above his head. The Arkenstone. I had heard of it. I could almost hear a soft song coming from within its jewelled depths. I didn’t even notice or feel the fain heat rising in my eyes as they flashed in response to it.

“What is it you need.” Thror glared at me, suspicion all over his face.

I refocused on the dwarven king, doing my best to put on a friendly face. My heartbeat loud in my ears. “I need food and medicine, shelter too if it can be spared. We were attacked by goblins on the way down from the Grey mountains and...”

“We?” Thror interrupted, looking at me sternly.

I sighed and shifted, face morphing into a grimace as a flash of pain ran up my leg. I tried to smile. “Yes. We, being me and my dragon.”

Thror sniffed. “So, where is this dragon.”

“He is waiting for me just beyond the forest, in…”

“Stop!” Thror had leaped to his feet. “You dare bring a dragon within our borders. Do you know of their lust for gold.”

I froze. ‘What is he talking about. Dragon’s with a rider are fine around…’

I cleared my throat. “Yes. As dictated in the old treaty, I haven’t brought him any closer than…”

“Enough! I don’t want to hear any more. Leave.”

I looked at him in disbelief. My gaze finding Thorin’s who looked at me sadly. He turned to look at his Grandfather with a sorrowful gaze.

I looked at Thror. “I’m injured. You can’t just turn me away.”

Thror drew himself up. “I will hear no more of this. Take them.” The guards stepped forward.

“Please follow us.” The guard nearest to me gestured and I gritted my teeth. Turning to walk back the way we had come. It was at that moment, the worst possible moment, that the anaesthetics completely wore off. I collapsed, Dwalin moving to catch me, only just catching myself on my good leg and staff. “Ahh.” I hissed. “I can walk.” I pulled myself up and walked away, leaning heavily on my staff. Just before we left the room, I looked back. Thorin seemed to be whispering something to Thror, who raised a hand and bushed him off. I didn’t bother watching any longer.

I was led outside Erebor and sent on my way. Under the shadow of the gat, the dwarf known as Dwalin apologised to me.

‘I don’t know what he’s apologising for. His King’s a jerk, it’s not his fault.’ I don’t tell him that though. I heard Dwarrow can get particularly techy if you insult their royalty. I limped away.

Just get to Smaug as quick as possible. No need to waste time with them. If we hurry, we might be able to get to make Rivendell. I would go to Greenwood, but their king supposedly has a really big grudge against us at the moment. No need for a repeat of this disaster.

I walked away, only allowing myself the luxury of a limp once I was sure I was out of eyeshot of the gate. The woodland paths seem so much longer the second time round. The world keeps pulsing in strange colours.

I can’t feel my leg anymore. Which would be a bonus due to the absence of pain, but I can’t put any significant weight on it either. Also, there is pain, it’s just higher on my leg now.

Why can I hear my heartbeat. That doesn’t feel normal.

Almost there.

Almost.

Finally. There he is.

“Hey Smaug.”

My voice sounds so far-away. Am I shouting? I can’t tell.

Why does Smaug look so concerned, we can just leave.

When did I kneel? No wait, I’m on the floor.

It’s getting so dark. Cold.

No…wait. There’s warmth and light. It’s coming from that rumbling. It’s tuneful. Is Smaug singing?

Everything’s gone black.

Something’s puling on me. I can feel my legs again. It hurts, but that fades too. Soon I feel nothing.

I can’t see anything beyond this blank void. I can’t feel anything beyond my own flesh.

Have I been sent beyond the world for my pride? Please let me not have followed that accursed path.

I can hear distant screams. The wind, it’s so far away.

What is happening?

Everything has gone calm. The rumbling is back.

Smaug? Is that you?

It is warm.

I’ve been here so long. Drifting. It has been silent for such a long time. Even that distant beat has faded.

After it all went silent. I could feel a prickling on my back. Am I lying on something. I can’t be. Not floating in this endless dark.

I waited. Where is Smaug?

What happened?

I remember…walking, through endless trees. And Dwarrow. The one who hides his kindness, the one who turned me away and the one who did not speak for me. I remember.

But I have been here so long. How long has it been? They could be dead for all I know…

What’s that? A light. A sound.

I can hear…screaming? There’s a red light. I can hear the wind, it’s been so long since we’ve flown.

Ah. What is this…pain!

It hurts!

My heart!

It hurts!

Make it stop.

Make it stop!

I’m so cold. The warmth is gone. Where? What happened?

Smaug? Smaug!

Can you hear me?

There’s no response. No heat.

I can’t feel anything.

“It is time to wake up.”

I know that voice.

There’s a light. The world around me shifts. The light rushes over me.

I can feel the unforgiving stone beneath my skin. My vision has gone red. Wait, it’s flickering…is there light?

I can feel.

I open my eyes.

Ahh. That hurts. My hands fly up to shield my face.

Wait?

Hands!

I bring them down slowly. There is a face hovering just above mine. I recognise them.

Mithrandir?

Oh no what is he doing here?

Actually, where am I? Where is Smaug?

“Mithrandir?”

My throat hurts. Did I just speak?

“Mithrandir? Where am I?”

That doesn’t sound like my voice. It’s so dusty and creaky; like an old oak tree on the point of death, held up only by the resilience of its stubborn roots.

“Glad to see you awake.”

I look up at Mithrandir in confusion. The distant sounds of voices reach us. Something thick and heavy is placed around my shoulders. Hands pull on my arms and I sit up. The world is dark and misty. Wait…no, I’m inside. All around the walls are stone and dust swirls in the air. Dark, except for the golden glow spilling from an archway and all around us. A dwarf stands besides Mithrandir. He had an honest and open face. Innocent. I like the look of him. He is nervously looking anywhere but me; whilst, holding a bundle of blankets and a water skin.

“Gandalf! Thorin’s awake. Wait…who is that?”

Another small hairless dwarf? No, a halfling, runs into the room. They know Mithrandir as Gandalf; is that his name in common tongue? The halfling looks at me before immediately covering his eyes. Is there something wrong?

I look down. My clothes are in terrible condition. Barely hanging on. I would be completely indecent if not for this cloak/blanket/carpet thing the honest dwarf had placed on me.

I struggle of the stone bench I was on. Drawing the blanket, I’m going to call it a blanket, around me. Looking down, there was a thick layer of dust on the bench. Clearly marking my own outline. I appeared clean enough, so how come there was that much dust. My staff was stood in a crevice beside me. I pulled it out and leant on it.

Mithrandir, or Gandalf as he seems to be known here, asked me to follow him.

“I promise, all will be explained.”

Deciding to trust him, I followed. I had to walk slowly. My body felt loose. Like when you sit in a strange position and you lose all feeling in your legs. Like that but all over. Then came the tingling. And then came the prickly pain, racing up and down my skin with abandon. The innocent looking dwarf had left.

We walked, for what felt like ages. Dark stone and blinding gold. I pad carefully, scales raising on my feet to protect against the sharp edges of gemstones and coins digging into my soles. From time to time we would see a single dwarf roaming the halls. Then two. Then three. It got busier and busier the more gold we passed. A cacophony of sounds began to swell; many voices running together, the clacking of stone on stone, the creak of worn timber.

As we walked, more feeling returned to me. Eventually, all feeling in my body had been restored. Except for the smallest tugging in my chest. Faint and unsteady. Barely there. Like the fluttering heart of a new-born chick, or a man’s last dying breath. ‘Smaug?’ There was no answer. For now, I can do nothing about it, but see where Gandalf leads me.

We soon passed out of the halls of gold. A soft breeze caressing my cheek. The smell of blood and rotting flesh conflicting with the sweet scent of pine leaves carried on the breeze. We must be nearing the outside. But what is that smell. Has there been a battle?

More and more Dwarrow were here now, many humans and a few elves too. Was that one veering the mark of Greenwood? It was lighter too, sunbeams reflecting of gemstones embedded high in the walls. Gandalf darted into an alcove, a side corridor flanked by two dwarvish guards presenting itself to us. I recognised one of them.

“Gandalf. Bilbo. He’s doing better.”

The dwarves’ voice was just as I remembered. I attempted a smile as we passed. Dwalin’s eyes widened upon recognition, hand tightening on his weapon, but he said nothing. Following the wizard, we followed the snaking corridor downwards again. It opened into various rooms, makeshift cots lining the walls and healers walking between them. Some of these healers were armed, daggers hanging openly from their belts.

We passed through, ever journeying. Until finally we reached a set of doors. An elf was arguing with dwarf outside it about’ the proper treatments’. However, upon noticing us they hurriedly stepped out the way, allowing Gandalf and the halfling to push open the doors.

Inside was a tented dome. Curtains separated three cots from each other, only three of the twelve around the room were filled, upon which lay three dwarves. Two of them were unknown to me, but the last one. I remembered him. The dark-haired princeling who couldn’t stand up to his own family. Am I bitter…maybe. I wasn’t back then, but spending an age suspended in darkness does that to you.

Gandalf turned to an elven healer. “Could we prepare a cot for her…” I didn’t hear the rest as I wandered over to the prince’s bedside. He looked terrible, one foot and his ribs were covered in bandages. Bruises and cuts littered his skin. The ugly edge of a line of stitches poked out from the bandages around his chest. And he looked older. Streaks of grey in his hair and stress lines creeping over his face.

Okay, I’ll admit, he looks worse than me. For now, he didn’t seem conscious. I debated whether he would wake up if I pulled his hair into a different arrangement. That stray lock was bothering me. And just who are the other two. This appears to be a royal wing, so they must be important. Looking over the bed, Gandalf was laying a hand on the blond-haired dwarf in one of the other beds and muttering under his breath.

A healer walked up to me. “Follow me please, your bed is here.” I looked at her with a frown.

“Wait, Gandalf?”

“Yes, my dear.” He turned to look at me in that patronising way old people do. Smiling as I was marched to a bed and sat down. My staff propped up besides the pillow.

“Why do I need to see a healer?” Admittedly, asking the question was a fruitless endeavour since the healer had already begun to check my bones for breaks. He chuckled.

“You have been asleep for 60 years my dear. They’re just checking to make sure you’re alright.”

My mouth fell open at that. How long?! “What!? How?”

“It appears your dragon placed a sleeping spell on you.”

“Why.”

“I daresay. You will be able to acquire those answers from Thorin Oakenshield when he wakes.”

“Now Gandalf…wait!”

But he was already gone. The halfling received a diagnosis from one of the healers and then left as well. The Dwarrowdam had finished checking me over and asked me to rest, absentmindedly redoing a stray braid in her beard as the Elleth came over with some Athalas.

Placing it in a bowl and lighting it, soon the sweet, calming fragrance began to fill the infirmary. The two unknown dwarves softly stirred in their sleep before sighing and growing still. I looked to the prince’s bed. He grumbled and opened his eyes. The Dwarrow healer assured him as to his injuries healing and then left to fetch some food. He glanced around, huffing fondly at the sight of the other two heavily bandaged dwarves before looking my way.

He stiffened. Eyes blown wide in shock. I sat on my cot and watched him. Neither breaking eye contact until he whispered. “Are you real or some imaginary shade?” His voice was course but strong. I leaned forward.

“I wake up in Erebor, to find it in ruins and the prince crowned King, confused beyond belief, injuries gone, my dragon nowhere to be found, and you can’t come up with something a little more imaginative then to ask me if I’m real. Of course I’m real. I’m not dead.”

Thorin gaped at my sarcastic hiss. He searched for his words, biting his lips nervously before his face hardens. “If you are alive...then why did your dragon attack us?”

“Uh…” I didn’t have an answer for that. “That’s actually news to me.”

Thorin looked sceptical. “News…to you. I am not a fool Drake-ascen (taken from fire-drake (dragon) and the Latin ascensor for rider/charioteer), so do not take me for one.”

I bristled, skin prickling. “I speak the truth. I do not know what has happened to your home or Smaug.”

A hot burning grew in my eyes and I could feel the tears welling. Upon noticing this he seemed to soften slightly. “Smaug attacked the mountain and drew my people out. We wandered for years in poverty. Then when we reclaimed the mountain an army of orcs arrived, but we killed them. And that brings us up to now.”

I could almost feel the pain in those memories. Remembering the ruins we had come through, it made sense that something as powerful as Smaug had attacked. But there was a heavy feeling in my heart.

“But you have reclaimed the mountain now. After I left Erebor, I remember succumbing to my wounds and then darkness. Which is why I’m asking you, now, what has happened. What happened to my dragon? Where is Smaug? Maybe we can settle things peacefully. You drove him out somehow, so where did he go.”

Thorin looked grim. “He fled to Laketown…where he was shot down with a black arrow by the new king of Dale.”

I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. Winded. I couldn’t breathe. ‘Smaug? Smaug! Answer me dammit.’ I glared at Thorin with as much anger as I could muster. Before bursting into tears. I stood up, grabbed my staff and marched over to his bedside. He looked at me blankly.

“How can you just…he can’t be dead. Why would you kill him!” I raised my staff, fire collecting on the end of it. He glanced at the flames fearfully. The healer left in the room with us screamed and ran to get the guard.

“He attacked us after you left.” My mind was so jumbled. I was trying to make sense of it all before really looking at the fire on my staff. Wait, I reached out to the flames, they were cold. These shouldn’t be cold, they are connected too... No…it can’t be. I collapsed to my knees. Tears falling so fast I couldn’t see anything but the blurred outline of the one who told me MY dragon was DEAD.

Please no.

I felt a hand gently grip my shoulder. I wiped my tears and looked up into the dwarf’s eyes. A streak of blue sadness fell from his gaze. “I am truly sorry we didn’t help you back then. But I can promise you this.” I moved his hand from my shoulder, but he gripped my hand in his and rolled over on creaking ribs to confront me, “I will do everything in my power to make sure you are cared for this time. Anything you need, just ask.”

I drew myself up, tapping my staff on the ground to send a shower of sparks racing across the floor and walls; a thunder of scarlet flew around us. Thorin pushed himself to sit up, with equal parts fear and awe in his eyes. The doors flew open and Dwalin, both healers, some other Dwarrow, and an Elf I have only ever seen an old portrait of, run inside, freezing upon seeing the flowing light surrounding the room.

“Thorin Oakenshield, if you truly mean to repay me for my loss, I will do more than ask…I command you, do what you have promised, and…permit me to aid in repairing the damages Smaug has wrought.”

I offered my hand. An odd respect flowed behind his eyes as he took it. The light swirled faster before retreating into my staff. I sat down on my own cot and looked to our stricken audience. The elf King Thranduil regarded me curiously, while the Dwarrow looked to their King for instruction. His hands flickered and they all relaxed leaving the room.

“That was quite a performance Drake-ascen.” He looked about to say something but the elleth seemed to have recovered her wits and so both healers turned on him. Bustling the elven king out of the room and rushing to check on the two who had remained oblivious to the whole event.

“My nephews.” I looked to Thorin curiously and smiled. “I can’t wait to meet them properly.” Feeling tired, I lay down. Why am I tired if I’ve been asleep for so long? Closing my eyes, I focused on the tiny tug in my chest.

‘Come on Smaug…where are you?’

#tale teller’s plot bunny challenge 2019 #@sdavid09

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iheartseo · 6 years

Text

dancing with the devil pt.3 | ashton

requested: yes

word count: 2.7k+

synopsis: it takes two to tango, it also takes two to fuck. everything about us is messy yet fun yet something that shouldn’t have begun. but my god, dancing with the devil is so much fun. aka is there such thing as being “exclusive fuck buddies”?

warning: mentions of drug use

a/n: sorry that it took so long! the ending is blehh but whatevers! sort of angsty? or like at least i tried to make it angsty. feedback is appreciated.

part 1 // part 2

inspired by my personal experience & the song ‘Dancing with the Devil’ - NIKI

masterlist // writing prompt list

It was just another ordinary night. I was in my bed texting Ashton with my laptop just playing a random youtube video for white noise. This routine was almost like embedded into our brains where we would just message each other for hours on end without realising it. We talked every day without even realising it. Even if it was a simple ‘good morning’ text, they would still occur every day which was one of the reasons why I couldn’t personally understand my true feelings towards Ashton.

One of the things that Ashton suddenly hated, especially after his last failing relationship, was PDA. Any sort of PDA to him, he just somehow found annoying, even if it was just a simple hand hold; he just didn’t like it at all and found it way too cheesy. So, whenever Ashton and I were in public together, any moment that I would he would be okay with just a simple touch that conveyed the message of us being more than just friends, he hated it, would instantly pull away and act as if nothing happened, which would cause me to play it off like it was an accident. Whenever he would do that, for some reason it would break my heart just a little.

Ashton is such a sweet and charismatic person that it would be weird being rejected constantly by someone in public yet in private, he would be a whole different person. He would turn into this soft hearted man and would be begging for my attention constantly. His hand would reach over and grab mine first. He would initiate the spooning and cuddling first. He will even as far as pulling me in close for a cuddle and just stare into my eyes in silence. Not saying a word, but just admiring.

Holy fuck. I hated it when he did that because it would mess with my head so much. He shouldn’t be allowed to just look at me like that and make me feel like that, like we were the last two people on earth and the only thing that mattered was us two in that moment. He would also give me the soft and sweetest smile. It wouldn’t be a huge smile, just a small one but it felt like it was made for me, especially when he leaned in and kissed me after giving me that smile. And the kisses would be different too, my god, were those kisses something else.

Saying that they gave me butterflies was a cliché and no, his kisses didn’t give me butterflies. They never did, instead they have me this gut turning feeling where my insides started to tie together like knots but I like that feeling. I like the feeling of having my stomach feeling funny and weirdly enough my heart beating so fast to the point where it would actually hurt my chest. I like the feeling of him giving me a slow and soft kiss whilst his hand caressed my cheek like my body was made out of fine china. I like the feeling he gives me and I like him… I think.

Maybe.

‘what are you doing atm?’ his grey bubble read.

‘nothing, just chilling in bed honestly.’

‘on a Friday night?’

‘well not everyone can party as hard as you, hun ahah.’ I sent, back, ‘speaking of which, don’t you have a bday party or something tonight?’

‘lols, yeah I do. I’m actually here atm.’

My eyes widen slightly at his message, realising that him and I have been texting back and forth for the last 20 minutes. I suddenly felt guilt for taking up his time when he should be having fun with his friends and not talking to a girl who isn’t even his girlfriend. Quickly sending him a text that was basically apologising for keeping him away from the fun, I finished it off by sending a quick ‘have fun, let me know when you get home.’ before locking my phone and trying to preoccupy myself with my laptop instead of his attention.

I didn’t know when I fell asleep and I have no idea how long I have been asleep for. All I know is that one minute I was watching a random cooking video on youtube and the next, I was being startled awake by my ringtone going off. Furrowing my eyebrows, I grabbed my phone from underneath my pillow and answered it without looking at the caller ID.

“Hello?” I mumbled, the sleepiness seeping through my tone of voice.

“Oh fuck, did I wake you?”

“No no, I was gonna get up anyways.”

“At 2:30 in the morning?”

“… Ashton what do you want again?”

Shifting in my bed, I turned onto my side and balanced my phone on top of my cheek so I would be able to sleep and still be on the phone with him at the same time.

“I just needed someone to talk to.”

“How much did you have?”

“Honestly, not that much… but I can feel myself crashing, Y/N.”

Hearing those words, I suddenly realised what kind of phone call I was going to have with Ashton right now. Letting out a quiet sigh, I felt myself suddenly more alert and awake in order to tend to the high boy’s needs.

“How many lines?”

“Like 4 or 5.”

“Jesus fucken Christ, Ash.”

I rubbed my face, remembering what Ashton would be like when he was on the come down of cocaine in his system. I wasn’t too sure why him and the boys dabbled in the Hollywood drug. I guess they personally didn’t care too much about the price tag affect their bank accounts or the fact that they would use the excuse of not doing it often, only here and there.

“Okay, where are you now? Are you home?” I asked, worried that the drummer was still at the house party and had no way home. I bit my lower lip in anticipation for his answer. When he mumbled that he was actually in his own bed, I let out a sigh of relief, deciding to try and take his mind off of his crash.

“How was the party? You hook up with any hot girls?” I teased. His laugh then quietly echoed through to my side of the phone call, making my heart skip a beat. His laugh. All of his different laughs made me feel the same way every single time; actual pure joy and happiness where I couldn’t help but just smile.

“The party was pretty fucked honestly. Like it was fun but so fucked. I am surprised that I even got home. I think Mitchy had to carry me and Cal into the Uber and then me and him had to carry each other up to the house.” He explained, letting out a few chuckles here and there. I rolled my eyes playfully, chuckling along with him as I could vividly imagine the tragedy it would’ve looked like with the two band members trying to help each other out up into the house.

“You guys are so fucken tragic. I am not even sure how you are even alive right now.” I laughed, shaking my head even though he wasn’t able to see it. “Any hot girls?” I teased, repeating my earlier question. I wasn’t too sure why I always asked him that question. I guess it was my own little way of verbally establishing to both him and myself that what we have and what we share is nothing but physical and that we shouldn’t limit each other to just the other. We both have no ties or actual obligations to each other. So why is it that it hurts me a bit to think of him with another girl?

“Yeah there were plenty of hot girls, one of them even came up to me and was chatting me up.”

“Oh okays. Good for you. Make out with her?”

“No. I couldn’t cause if I did, I would feel guilty.”

“… oh.”

This was the first time I ever heard something even remotely close to Ashton possibly having some sort of feelings for me ever since our little arrangement started. Swallowing the lump that suddenly started to grow in my throat, I shifted slightly in my bed, trying to mentally prepare myself for a long phone call with him.

“W-Why would you feel guilty for making out with another girl? We’re not together.”

“I know we’re not. But I feel like if I hook up with another girl, that in some way, I’m gonna be hurting you and that’s not fair on you. Like, I know we’re not together but I just feel like if I went out and hooked up with random girls and then come back to you, my guilt conscious will just eat me alive. And I just don’t want to upset you or make you cry. Like would you care if I actually ended up making out with her? Be honest.”

It was back. The massive lump in my throat. I hated it and I hated it when he would ask me questions like this. Why couldn’t he be the type of person who just wants to go to sleep during their crash of cocaine? Or just simply mellow out and chill out after it? Why did he have to be the type of people who suddenly get all emotional and deep about their thoughts, especially when it comes to relationships?

“Y/N?”

“… y-yeah. I mean… I would care if you were to tell me that you did hook up with some random girl tonight or any other night, but like I said. We’re not together. As much as it hurts or like as much as it will annoy me that you went off and did it, I can’t get mad at you, cause I personally have no right to. Why would I get mad at you when again, you’re not my boyfriend.”

Those words started to taste more and more stale and heavy the more they naturally flowed out of my mouth. Between him and I, I was the sober one, which meant I had to be the sensible, and the logical one in this conversation. As intelligent and articulate Ashton was, he was in no mindset to be making any actual sense and then remember it in the morning, or at least once the phone call ends.

However, it made sense what I said to him and it was the truth. I would care, of course I would. Any girl who was tied to a guy like Ashton in any sort of romantic or sexual way would care if he went off to try and find something better than her. Any girl with the right mindset would care that someone she has been extremely intimate with, both physically and emotionally went off and repeated those vulnerable moments with another based on pure lust and alcohol driven thoughts. Of course, she would care… but again… Ashton isn’t mine.

And I hate that.

“Would you care if I went out and hooked up with another guy?”

“Honestly?”

“Yes honestly.”

“… yeah I would.”

Hearing his answer, I thought it would make me feel better, like him and I understand each other and that we could both work on this to something greater and better than just a fling with benefits. But, it didn’t. Instead, it just created a new invisible weight, pressing down on my chest slowly as I tried to breathe. He fucks me over so much and he doesn’t even know it.

“Why would you care, though Ash?”

“Because I do. I know it should cause like you said. We’re not together but that’s why I like you. You’re actually so smart and sensible and logical. I need that in my life. Like I feel like you will be such a good influence to me and I will just care if you make out with another guy, might get turned off a bit, but I mean… I will never get mad at you cause I can’t. Just like how you can’t get mad at me.”

Although he was venting, I couldn’t focus on anything else but the sentence of ‘that’s why I like you’. Those words just started to echo through my head as his rambling voice went in one ear and out the other. I wish he didn’t say shit like that because then he is just unknowingly building my hopes up.

‘He likes me. He just said he likes me. Holy fuck. Ashton Irwin actually likes me. What the fuck?’ were the thoughts that were running through my head.

“You know Luke asked me a question about you at the party. Earlier on.”

I snapped out of my overthinking trance, clearing my throat to try and focus all of my attention on his drunken and high words. However, it was slowly proving to be difficult especially at the fact that he just openly admitted to having feelings for me and that he would most definitely care if he were to ever see me with another man even just barely touch me, let alone kiss me the way that he does. My mind was slowly going insane as I found myself being so hung up on that tiny detail; a tiny but incredibly important detail.

“O-Oh? What did he say to you?”

“He asked me when I was gonna ask you out, cause he saw you texting me.” Before any words could come out of my mouth, Ashton continued to his little story without realising the little damage that it was going to cause to me.

“And honestly, I fucken hated it when he asked me that cause it put me on the spot and like I just hated how he expected me to ask you out. And like it wasn’t only him. The other guys came up to me during the party and was like ‘oi, where is your missus? Where is Y/N? did you not bring her?’ and it was just getting to me because I don’t want a relationship. Like… I like you and all but I don’t want anything at the moment and the fact that everyone around us is already building this expectation around us is just annoying me so much and I hate the fact that I can’t just kickback and relax. I have to apparently be in a relationship with you just because everyone else thinks we should and that’s fucked.”

Listening to Ashton’s rambling, I could feel my heart start to get heavier and heavier with each word. Aside from the fact that his words sounded as if him and I being together would be the most horrible idea ever, the tone in his voice just further emphasized it. It was like he grew ill of the thought of a possible relationship with me, which honestly made me feel like absolute crap. Ironically though, the only person who could make me feel better was him. He is the only one who can somehow push me so far down to the ground and yet just casually pick me up so effortlessly as if he wasn’t the reason why I would be crying in the corner with my knees up to my chest.

But I put up with it.

I put up with it because I care about him.

Both as a friend and as a “boyfriend”.

Which is why I stayed up till 4am talking to him on the phone, helping him through his emotional crash of the cocaine where he would tell me secrets that no one else knew about, including his own band mates, his biggest and darkest insecurities and worries because talking to me apparently made him feel better. But whilst it made him feel better, it just made me feel weaker because even though he seems to trust me with his entire life secrets, he still doesn’t want to be with me.

But I mean, maybe… just maybe… he will come to his senses?

Or maybe I’ll come to mine…

But tonight is not the time to. Instead, I will just continue to lie in my bed with my phone pressed up against my ear, helping an Australian drummer try and get through the consequences of his partying decisions and making sure that he knows that he isn’t alone, especially since I am just a phone call away for him.

tagged: @nostalgia-luke @cashton-queen @cashtonspicelatte @bbylonxcal @bbycal @irwinkitten

#5sos imagine #ashton irwin #luke hemmings #calum hood #michael clifford #5sos #5sos imagines #5sos angst #ashton irwin imagine #writing #ashton 5sos #luke 5sos #michael 5sos #calum 5sos #5sos smut

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