Treading Water — Chapter 3: The Wallowing Wolves I

Also found on ao3!

Links to The Intro, Chapter 1, and Chapter 2 :)

I did have my also dyslexic sister read every Asher line just to make sure it could still be understood when written in his dialect. I also hope I wrote an Irish dialect correctly ':)

ENJOY

——

   Heavy wood creaked and moaned as the ship rocked in all different directions, bobbing gently over small waves of the calm sea on a clear night. Billions of stars twinkling overhead like freckles and blemishes of light on the face of Lady Midnight, not a single cloud in the sky to shield the clusters and constellations adorning her pitch black complexion from the sorrowful green eyes peering up at them.  His thoughts swam through his mind restlessly with a lack of distraction, the feeling of slight regret drawing a low growl from his throat that was chased by a tired sigh as he recalled his and his First Mate's conversation earlier that dusk.

   "We should take a rest t'nite," he'd said, every word doused in his thick Irish accent. "Been up t' ninety movin' teh past weeks 'r so." He'd remembered even what he replied with:

   "You can all take time to rest now, have an easy day doing simple deckhand work tomorrow. I'll pick up any harder slack," his answer had drawn an exasperated sigh from the dirty blonde.

   "While I'm sayin' "we," I do mean ye need the rest as damn well as teh lot'f us," David had hummed, acknowledged Asher's unsaid concerns while he didn't agree to abide by them.

   "David," he'd said sternly. "Drop anch'r t'nite," the Captain's hard green eyes had met the gaze of blue hues as vibrant as the ocean they sail upon, riddled with worry and sympathy. "Please." It had been David's turn to sigh, but he'd nodded, and received a gentle smile in return.

   "Tanks a million," Ash had placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed a little before he'd sauntered off to help Booker with the supplies below deck. The remaining bustle of the evening had been a distant blur of memory as he'd been dreading the thought of stopping for the night. The feeling lingered long after silence settled over the ship.

   And now he was here, head lulled back against the wooden railing as he sat on the quarter deck, his arms rested and draped over his bent knees, and his eyes on the sky. Thinking. That's what rest, for him, opened the floor to.  From memories, fond and foul, to the ache of regret and doubt that often plagued both heart and mind.

   He never sees himself as a good leader—a good Captain. And the words spat with venom from his sibling in bond were ones that would echo in his head forever, just giving him more reasons to doubt himself and his capability to lead. The dispute between him and his wayward sibling had begun as a war of sharp tongues, but it was quick to escalate into such a discourse, all in the wake of Gabe's declared death. It was nasty when it got physical, but the words were what left behind scars that hurt more than physical pain, so many open wounds to add to the hurt that still had yet to heal. 

   And those thoughts often lead him to remembering the day his father was gone. With the crops and materials thinning as that year's drought had been relentless and unforgiving, despite his and William's allied efforts, they still were accomplishing too little. Being denied aid from Favíll even after offering more strength to her ranks, and denied by King Pluvaes simply because he was revelling in the fact that his kingdom was finally thriving far better than almost all others in Dahlia, he'd set out on a journey to Northern Ferris in an effort to make contact with an old friend of his, King Gregory Keaton. Only, he never made it to Alfanes, nor had he returned to Canis. He was gone without a trace and declared dead after months of searching from both his own subjects—or family, rather—and King Solaire's.

   It had all spiralled downward from then. His wayward sibling had grown even more distant than they ever were before, causing David to believe that, most nights, they had disappeared just as his father did. Especially when they would end up unable to be found for days, sometimes weeks. Canis castle was stormed, the kingdom had crumbled to its knees at the feet of a single man who stole his place upon the throne, announcing the wanted capture of David Shaw and the rest of the late King's bound family. Each and every person of his family had a bounty over their head, with the biggest rewards pinned on 'David Shaw' and 'Asher Talbot.'  When the family fled, they were missing one. One only very few noticed hadn't been on the ship when they were forced to evacuate their home.

   Then the fall of King Solaire had taken every hope they had of ever being able to go back and reclaim their home, and hanged them in the gallows. So caught up in all of these thoughts and memories flooding his conscience, David hadn't heard the soft thumping of boots travelling up the steps to the quarter deck.

   "Ye know," a thick accent began, "I'd a feelin' ye still be bright-eyed an' bushy-tailed t'nite," Asher shifted his weight to one foot and propped his hands up on his decorated hips.

   "I don't know if I'd call this "bright-eyed,"" he replied, only sparing a glance to his First Mate. His best friend.

   "Aye," the blonde shrugged, "just teh bushy-tail then." In a single motion, Ash spun around and joined his Captain seated on the wooden floor. After a few minutes of easily comfortable quiet, nothing but the creaking of wood and the gentle sounds of the calm, undulating sea lapping at the ship. Sparkling blue eyes following his to admire the scenery above that not even the most professional of artists could ever hope replicate.

   "Stirms follow ye, ne matter how clear be teh sky," he sighed. There was always something so delicately kind about the way he spoke, a kindness that was always so genuine. David was both impressed and, honestly, grateful that he'd been able to maintain such an aspect of his personality after everything that's happened. The Captain only hummed, drawing a breathy chuckle from his friend at his side:

   "If ye just wan' teh sit here en quiet company, I'd be perfec'ly fine widit," Asher spoke softly again, leading the deep brunette's attention to catch his gaze. "But if dere's anytin' ye'd like off ye chest, I'd also be mar then willin' teh listen. Maybe even share a shot'a wisdom," he winked with a smile, feeling a smidgen of pride swell in his chest while a trickle of relief washed over his soul when David huffed a laugh.

   "I think I might trust Aggro to steer the ship through a storm more than I trust your "wisdom,"" Ash dropped his jaw, eyes bulging dramatically as he chortled a little heartier than the other had.

   "Aye, I'd trust that cat wit my life if it came down t'it," he shrugged, pulling another small chuckle from the Captain as he nodded, the First Mate laughing softly along with him. Quiet befell the deck of The Wallowing Wolf once more, a tangle of nerves perched upon David's shoulders growing noticeable by the man beside him as he took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

   "I can't stop thinking about what I might be doing wrong," he said, brows pinched tightly as his vivid green eyes now stared out at the nearly invisible horizon across from where they both sat. He didn't need to steal a glance to know Ash was listening with his full attention focused on every word.  "It's easier to push it down and ignore it to some degree when I'm busying myself with something..."

   But once I'm sitting alone on a night of silence with no work to be done, no voices scattered across the whole ship—chattering about what someone will request for the next meal, or making plans to enjoy some proper drinking and merriment once we find land that hasn't gotten word of our bounties yet—all the thoughts, all the memories of everything I've ever done wrong, of everything I am doing wrong.., they crowd my conscience and they refuse to leave until the noise and distractions pick up again.

   Is everything he wanted to say.

   He clenched his fists as he felt them start to tremble, a distant sting that he'd always made such strong efforts to keep away finally coming to his eyes. Giving up on what his throat wouldn't let escape yet, he started elsewhere to Asher, however continuing from where his thoughts broke away:

   "But the sunlight fades so fast, and the dark lasts an eternity." David couldn't will himself to say more, but the strong squeeze from a grounding hand on his shoulder told him he didn't have to.

   Asher may parade about under the guise of a pirate jester, but he was perceptive as the owl; he had a sixth sense for just knowing when something wasn't quite right, especially up in the mind of his best friend and Captain, David Shaw. When their eyes met again, it was like Ash suddenly knew everything he'd done and seen, all the words he said, every expression of boiling rage and animosity his sibling had shot at him ever since their biggest fight, the pain he felt when they declared his father's death—the inadequacy he'd felt in himself ever since that day, when he was told he was to take up the throne, only to watch his home crumble before his eyes.  Asher hummed,

   "Teh rain is faded when teh Lady o' nature wills it, but teh cleods are still dhere. Even dhen, only teh passage o' time may carry them awae, an' this stirm canny start movin' befir ye let it rain, my friend," David sighed and his lips offered an almost microscopic smile.

   "Thank you, Ash," he replied.

   "Aye, not eh probl'm." Asher took in a deep breath and sighed, humming an old tune as his eyes traced the constellations above. It was quiet as the two best of friends sat comfortably in each other's company. It was indeed quiet and tranquil.., for a few minutes

   "Ye know what helps teh time pass dhat, en turn, will give thes stirm a hand en movin' along?" Asked the First Mate, receiving a tired expression complete with a cocked brow.

   "Goin' d'feck asleep." David rolled his eyes and the two shared their laughter, one heartier than the other as always. "Talkin' cen help ye out as well," he added, "not necessarily teh me, lettin' ye know." David grunted as if to say that he understood clearly, and he did. He knew what Ash was hinting at when he said it could help, the two looking back at one another with something akin to a brotherly love embedded in their eyes. Then, Asher stood with a dramatic grunt.

   "Welp, s'pose I'd best be off on my own way," he said as he reached his hands over his head and stretched out his spine, groaning in satisfaction when a series of pops sounded in his ears. "Ye better treat dhat hart-a ye's a lot bit kinder dhan ye have been." Asher told him. The Captain nodded.

   "Merry calm nite to ye, me mule of a Captain, and best o' friend, David Shaw" he took an elegant bow before he spun smoothly on his heel and started back down the steps from the quarter deck and ducked through the door of the Captain's quarters, the space the two friends shared as Asher new that being alone in that cabin—the cabin his father used to sleep in on his own journeys—was bad for the heart and the head.

   Mulling over what the Irishman had said in their conversation, David found himself staring up at the sky, glassy-eyed and conflicted for but a few hours longer before he finally let himself retire to his cot in the Captain's quarters. His final thought as he nodded off being one he found crossed his mind more frequently these days:

   Are they alright?

——

HOPE YOU ENJOYED!! I have decided to go with 'Talbot' as Asher's last name, but I'll be giving Baabe the last name O'Connell—which is the only case that I will be giving one of the listener characters a name myself.

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@morgansplace @sealriously-sealrious @epsi-l0n @star-sheeps @friendlyfaded @the-gender-bending-squid @nonbinarycringe404 @pinksparkl @anthrokiaera @whatalovelymae @0605018redactedasmr @beemybella @reyofsunshinelol (if you'd like to be tagged for Treading Water stuffs, lemme know!^-^)

⋆˚ *･༓     headcanons

tagged by: @jurati

tagging: @citykept​, @fakesmade​, @fasciinating​, @stormlit​ (georgie) and anyone else who wants it!

—    basics.

▸     is your muse tall/short/average?    tall.

▸     are they okay with their height?   when she was a teenager, she hated how tall she was  --  a lot of ballet companies have maximum height requirements and when she reached 175, christine burst into tears and begged power she never believed in to make her shorter again.

▸     what’s their hair like?  blonde, ash-blonde.   thick, with a natural wave to it, but she curls the ends to make it prettier.   in her main verse (snw) she wears it shoulder length.   in tos, she wears it to the middle of her back, but always in an up-do, and in aos, it's straight it’s up to her shoulder-blades.

▸     do they spend a lot of time on their hair/grooming?   yes.   keeping her hair at that color requires her to touch up her roots at least once a month, and she usually curls her hair after she takes a shower, and at least one more time after that, to keep her curls.

▸     does your muse care about their appearance/what others think? not really.   she used to, as a child and a teenager, christine was very self-conscious about herself and how others perceived her.   as she grew into her body, and became more confident, she stopped caring about what other thought of her.   she feels good, and that’s all that matters.

—    preferences.

▸    indoors or outdoors?  outdoors

▸    rain or sunshine?     sunshine

▸    forest or beach?     beach

▸    precious metals or gems?     gems

▸    flowers or perfumes?     flowers

▸    personality or appearance?     personality

▸    being alone or in a crowd?  in a crowd

▸    order or anarchy?     anarchy

▸    painful truths or white lies?   painful truths

▸    science or magic?     science and magic

▸    peace or conflict?     peace

▸    night or day?     day

▸    dusk or dawn?     dawn

▸    warmth or cold?     warmth

▸   many acquaintances or a few close friends?     a few close friends and many acquaintances, she is a social butterfly

▸    reading or playing a game?   reading

—    questionnaire.

▸     what are some of your muse’s bad habits?   scratching at bug bites, pacing

▸     has your muse lost anyone close to them? how has it affected them?    her fiancee goes missing and when she finally finds him, she discovers he is dead.   she has lost others, friends, family, but roger has always had an outsize influence in her life.   he is the one person who has made her question her self-worth;   his death freed her, when he was missing, she was trapped in a cage, unsure and afraid to open her heart.  

▸     what are some fond memories your muse has?     she has a lot of lovely memories with her dog milo growing up, and reading curled up with her mom.

▸     is it easy for your muse to kill?    near impossible.   taking a life would go against everything she stands for.

▸     is your muse capable of trusting someone with their life?    yes.   she felt unsteady with the concept at first, as warm and trusting as she is with her friends, there is an independent core within her, an echo of a lonely childhood, which begs her to never fully trust anyone, to protect herself.

▸     what’s your muse like when they’re in love?    physically affectionate, she says i love you a lot, wants to be close to her partner as much as possible  (   while also requiring some times to herself  ).   as i stated here, love is about filling up cracks, and christine pays close attention to those around her.    it is like being loved by the sun: warm, all encompassing and terrifying.

— @decthmessiah​ .

joshua  hated  this  town  ,    he  hadn’t  thought  about  it  in  a  long  time  and  had  liked  to  think  he’d  long  forgotten  the  terrors  that  came  with  living  here  .    he’d  shed  every  link  to  his  father  and  he’d  done  his  best  to  do  right  by  riley  ,    taking  them  out  of  this  place  before  he  got  to  be  too  much  like  their  dad  and  ruined  both  of  their  lives  ;    heaven  knew  he  was  on  that  path  ,    and  nobody  in  town  had  ever  been  convinced  otherwise  .    he  was  nothing  like  he  once  was  ,    in  fact  ,    josh  was  outright  unrecognisable  ,    ditching  everything  from  drinking  ,    right  down  to  his  blonde  locks  ,    inherited  so  distinctly  from  their  father  .    

they  couldn’t  ,    however  ,    avoid  this  town  forever  and  their  return  was  inevitable  .    the  past  few  days  hadn’t  been  totally  bad  ,    they’d  brought  the  morettis  with  them  and  things  had  been  suspiciously  calm  .    that  day  ,    josh  had  left  riley  with  matteo  ,    not  wanting  to  force  them  into  recalling  any  trauma  ,  and  left  kieran  with  their  father  ,    it  wasn’t  very  often  the  two  got  to  see  each  other  and  he  hadn’t  wanted  to  disturb  that  .    he  made  his  way  up  to  the  farm  house  and  spent  most  of  the  day  clearing  the  place  out  ,    glad  that  his  father  was  dead  and  gone  and  they  could  finally  ,    and  officially  ,    be  done  with  this  place  .  

finishing  up  around  dusk  ,    josh  quickly  dialled  kieran’s  number  as  he  descended  the  stairs  ,    frowning  when  he  got  their  voicemail  for  the  first  time  in  a  long  time  .    it  was  unusual  ,    but  not  totally  unheard  of  .    he  opted  for  shooting  them  a  quick  text  to  say  he  wouldn’t  be  much  longer  ,    but  didn’t  get  half  way  through  the  words  when  he  heard  movement  from  the  living  room  .    he  narrowed  his  eyes  ,    and  glanced  out  of  the  front  window  to  see  if  riley’s  car  was  outside  .    when  there  was  no  such  sight  ,    he  glanced  around  himself  once  again  and  considered  his  options  .    he’d  been  here  all  day  ,    so  he  knew  he  wasn’t  a  squatter  ,    there  was  no  evidence  suggesting  that  ,    and  it  wasn’t  his  brother  ;    the  only  other  person  with  a  key  to  this  shit  hole  .  he  considered  investigating  before  deciding  he  simply  didn’t  care  ,    or  wouldn’t  have  ,    had  his  car  keys  not  been  sitting  on  the  coffee  table  in  that  very  room  .  

josh  sighed  ,    pushed  a  hand  through  his  hair  and  offered  a  quiet  fuck  it  ,    before  making  his  way  into  the  very  empty  ,    very  eerie  living  room  .    there  was  nothing  that  could  have  made  such  a  noise  ,    but  instead  of  sticking  around  to  attempt  to  decipher  what  it  was  ,    josh  simply  grabbed  his  keys  and  made  his  way  towards  the  door  .    his  hand  hesitated  over  the  door  knob  when  his  name  floated  in  a  slurred  and  croaky  voice  .    his  blood  ran  cold  ,    hairs  on  the  back  of  his  neck  standing  on  end  as  he  swallowed  loudly  .    he  knew  the  voice  ,    knew  it  probably  better  than  his  own  .  

josh  .

he  shivered  ,    looking  up  at  the  ceiling  and  then  ahead  .    no  ,    it  wasn’t  real  .    his  dad  was  dead  ,    he’d  rotted  away  slowly  in  the  coroners  office  and  josh  had  caught  the  first  flight  out  to  ensure  that  it  was  definitely  his  father  .    he’d  found  some  sick  satisfaction  in  that  ,    but  it  was  all  the  confirmation  he  needed  .    the  man  was  gone  .    they’d  burned  him  the  day  after  and  tossed  his  ashes  mere  minutes  after  that  ;    he  wanted  no  memory  of  his  dad  ,    neither  of  them  did  ,    that’s  why  the  farm  was  going  too  .    josh  realised  he  was  yet  to  open  the  door  ,    but  then  came  the  voice  again  ,    more  angry  this  time  .    it  wasn’t  a  call  ,    it  was  a  demand  .

you  little  shit  ,    don’t  you  dare  ignore  me  .

he  knew  better  ,    this  town  played  tricks  on  his  mind  ,    it  had  to  each  and  every  one  of  their  friend  group  .    this  wasn’t  real  ,    and  he  knew  it  ,    but  that  hadn’t  stopped  the  fear  from  forcing  josh  into  acting  on  instinct  .    he  turned  ,    greeted  with  an  empty  hallway  .    “    dad  ?    ”    he  asked  in  a  voice  that  was  much  like  it  had  been  when  he  was  a  kid  ,    scared  and  cautious  .    josh  breathed  in  and  let  out  a  shaky  breath  ,    after  receiving  no  response  ,    he  was  comforted  .    it  was  just  in  his  head  .    his  phone  began  buzzing  at  that  and  he  looked  down  to  see  kieran’s  name  illuminating  the  screen  .    he  answered  ,    “    hey    –    hey  ,    yeah    I’m  …    I’m    done    here  ,    I’m    leaving    now  .    ”    his  name  came  again  ,    not  on  the  other  end  of  the  phone  ,    not  in  the  soothing  tone  of  his  partner  ,    but  in  the  gruff  bark  that  was  undeniably  his  father  ,    and  if  any  doubt  rested  in  josh’s  mind  ,    the  crack  of  his  belt  confirmed  it  .    he  dropped  his  phone  ,    tugging  open  the  front  door  and  attempting  to  rush  out  onto  the  porch  .

josh  didn’t  get  far  ,    a  hand  clamped  on  his  shoulder  and  dragged  him  back  inside  ,    the  door  slammed  behind  him  as  josh  was  thrown  against  the  stairs  .    his  head  hit  the  bannister  with  a  crack  and  he  winced  ,    sinking  down  but  immediately  glancing  up  .    there  he  was  .    his  dad  .    luke  shelby  ,    in  all  his  drunken  ,    stumbling  glory  .    “    you    think    you    can    just    get    rid    of    me  ?    you    left    me    here    to    rot  ?    after    everything    I    did    for    you  ?    you    ruined    my    life  ,    you    know    that  ?    you    killed    your    mom    too  !    you    killed    both    of    us  .    ”    josh  hadn’t  realised  he  was  sobbing  till  the  man  pointed  it  out  ,    “    you’re    crying    now  ?    am    I    supposed    to    feel    sorry    for    you  ?    you’re    pathetic  ,    I’ll    give    you    something    to    cry    about  !    ”    the  first  hit  was  a  shock  ,    the  second  was  familiar  ,    and  all  he  could  do  was  lie  there  as  the  man  reined  terror  on  him  ,    just  as  he  always  had  .

“    dad  ,    stop!    ”    josh  sobbed  ,    attempting  to  scoot  away  as  a  hand  clamped  down  on  his  leg  ,    forcing  a  childlike  yelp  from  the  grown  man  as  kicked  back  at  it  .    “    you    killed    us  !    you    ungrateful    bastard  !    ”    josh  curled  in  the  corner  of  the  corridor  ,    hands  covering  his  head  as  his  knees  pressed  to  his  chest  ;    he  never  thought  he’d  be  here  again  ,    but  maybe  he  never  really  left  .      

lame

05.

there’s a scar you’re not telling

You almost thought you were running late. Well, you weren’t.

But you were late to miss the early train.

Fuck.

And the train was packed. Just fucking great.

With your backpack hung in front of you, you tried to balance within your personal space whilst avoiding bumping into others. Thing was, it was getting more and more cramped as it was rush hour.

Why the fuck did school have to be so damn far!?

Businessmen, students, workers slowly filled in and out the train, it was wall-to-wall of people, barely allowing you a breather. Still, it was fucking cramped.

Absentmindedly, you bunched your hair together, letting it drape over your left shoulder, fingers nimbly working on a braid through your (h/c) locks.

Just as you secured it with a tie, the train cart screeched, the sudden movement throwing you off balance, falling back. Thankfully, warm hands grabbed hold of your shoulders, steadying you.

Your eyes turned to the windows, wondering if there was an attack from villains, some people were muttering behind you, thinking the same thing. Overhead, the PA went off, apologizing for the turbulence then announcing the next stop coming up.

Everyone sighed in relief, realizing it was just a train momentum, people were now shuffling around at the announcement, some preparing to leave while many others struggled to remain in their current spots.

Looking over your shoulder, towards your captor, with a smile you offer your gratitude. “Whew, thanks- “then you met ash blond and carmine, smile faltering, lower eye twitching, but a gratitude was still in order. “Yeah, thanks.”

Bakugou Katsuki's response was a noncommittal hum, roughened hands slowly slipping off your shoulders. As the train came to a stop, there was a shuffling of people, you were just about to take a step back, allowing people to move, but remembered that he was behind you. Though you were steady on your feet, it was still rush hour and people tend to really rush into the train - not wanting to miss the train. One false move and you could find yourself squished against someone, or against the window, or be cornered by some pervert – all options made you shudder.

Damn it. This is why you take the early train!

“Here,” without waiting for you to argue, roughened hands gently brought you aside, your back against the wall, shoulder touching the railing, with him in front of you. Protectively.

The feel of his hands on you made you remember just how warm they were, how big they’ve become compared to before.

“Um,” you didn’t like the way his eyes bore into yours, especially when it felt like he was seeing through you. “thanks. Again.”

Okay, not counting the time you had to confirm it earlier, that was two times already. Two words of gratitude in one morning.

He just blinked, towering over you whilst the train filled. Just the mere fact that he was in front of you made you consider a lot of things. Now that you had a good look at him, you could see that in his UA uniform, he was dressed rather ruggedly with the top buttons undone, even his blazer’s not completely buttoned, and his pants were loose – Auntie Mitsuki must’ve given him hell for his appearance. It was a total contrast to Izuku, who dressed like a good schoolboy – granted, he’s always been one. He just didn't know how to work a tie.

Regardless, he looked every bit of a high schooler now. Physically speaking, he’s always been muscular in build and tall – because of his good genes. But in a matter of time, because of his UA education, he’ll probably build up more.

But wow, it’s only been a few months since high school started, he’s definitely gotten bigger. Izuku, as well, but Bakugou’s muscles were more prominent-

Shit, were you ogling him?

Geez, it’s too early for these thoughts. Leaning against the railing, eyes squeezing shut, tucking your chin in, you groaned angrily to yourself.

Thankfully, you had your bag in front of you, creating a respectable space between you both.

Also, you could just end up not talking right? That was a thing.

You barely know the guy anymore, after years of bullying under his command, years of distance – he was nothing but a stranger to you now.

It hurt, actually.

There was a time when you were so close, never apart.

Everything just had to change because he had a quirk, birthing this damn ego that propelled him further and further away from you. Izuku, too.

And though you had your own (longer than Izuku), you felt so behind.

Him and Izuku in their UA uniforms, you in your generic public-school uniform.

The two of them were going places you could never see yourself following.

“Hey,” he called, voice surprisingly soft, cutting you off your thoughts. “that mark on your neck,” due to the environment noises surrounding, he had to lean in so you could hear him properly. “how did that happen?”

Fuck. He was too damn close!

But at the mention of the mark, hands instinctively reached for it, just by the junction of your neck and shoulder, abnormally shaped like a heart. A tiny splotch, that was over years old.

“You wouldn’t remember.” It was barely a whisper, but it reached his ears, carmine eyes faltering.

“Try me.”

Lifting your head, (e/c) eyes meeting carmine, fixing him an almost pained look. He balled his hand into fists at that, gazes holding, unwavering - a thousand words could be spoken.

The train came to a steady halt, finally reaching your stop.

Not breaking eye contact, you told him, in one breath. “It was when you discovered your quirk in kindergarten.” Then the doors opened beside you.

Hurriedly, you exited, never looking back.

Absentmindedly, your hand reached for the mark. To others, it might look cute due to its shape, but to you, it was a reminder. One of the many, anyway.

(It burned when you touched it.)

Middle school was a rough time, especially when you were the quirkless girl, an easy target, or a punching bag. Little did they know of your martial arts prowess and of your quirk, that even though you were restless in the morning, you learned to conserve just enough energy to fight, it just made you extra tired the next day though.

One day, you were cornered by a bunch of girls, all of which were fangirls of Bakugou, they saw you as a threat because of your relationship as childhood friends, forgetting that it was rather strained.

It was a four against one, which you easily won - because they chose to approach you near dusk, that was when your quirk picked up, but not without casualties.

“E-Eh, (Nickname)!? What happened to you?” Izuku frantically hovered over you when you met on the way to school.

Chuckling easily, you scratched at your bandaged cheek. “Ah, you know…assholes with quirks.”

His expression only worsened; eyes filling with tears. “(N-Nickname)…”

“IZUKU, PLEASE DON’T CRY!” you cried out, tossing your shoes into your shoe locker, lazily slipping on your indoor shoes. “Don’t worry, Izuku, I got them all.” You assure, adjusting your bag on your shoulders. “Besides, you’re forgetting that I’m a badass who knows martial arts!”

That quells him a little, worry still in his eyes. “T-That’s true. I’m just not sure how to feel that you have to resort to actually using them to defend yourself. I mean, I know you’re good at martial arts, because it’s in the family, and you’ve always been kind of strong and quick on your feet-“

“Izuku,” cutting him off, you worked on a cheeky grin. “I’m fine.”

Unconvinced, he fixes you a look, brows knitting together. “Just promise me you won’t get into fights again,”

Ah, he’s so cute when he’s being serious.

Scoffing, you swiped at your nose with your thumb. “No promises, so long as loose assholes with quirks continue to run amok and mess with me, I’ll show them exactly how I’ll mess them back and worse!”

That only made him uneasy, somehow a bit assured. “(N-Nickame)…”

When you both entered the room, your eyes easily caught on the girls from yesterday, each sporting some cuts and bruises from yesterday. The corner of your mouth lifted into a smirk, whistling breezily towards your seat.

“F-For now, (Nickname), are you feeling better? Do you want some aspirin? Do you need to head to the clinic?”

You shook your head, smiling at Izuku’s concern, he can really mother too much. “Like I said,” you said in a sing-song “I’ll be fine~ This’ll all heal soon enough, you’ll see.”

As soon as you said that, a pair of carmine eyes looked your way, focusing on each and every bandage and bruise on your skin.

Feeling someone looking your way, you turned your head. “Can I help you, Bakugou?” you drone lazily, leaning back against your seat to give him a bored look.

“A-Ah, K-Kacchan! G-Good morning- “

“Should’ve stayed at home to rest, idiot.” He tells you, eyes never leaving the bruises and bandages.

“Fuck off.” You replied, knowing the girls from yesterday were watching. Hopefully, that assured them that your relationship was pretty non-existent. Dead.

For the rest of the day, you were teetering on sleep and academic dedication with the former winning at each turn – a drawback of your quirk. Thankfully, you managed to snag some sleep during Japanese Literature and Science.

“Ah, (Nickname), you look like you’re getting better. But it would be wise not to sleep in class next time…” Izuku tells you, beratingly.

Yawning, arms stretched upwards, you fixed your best friend a dopey grin. “That’s alright, I can always depend on you for notes!”

“Really,” he sighs, announcing that you two should probably head off to lunch.

Yawning, you made your way to the meat section, mumbling over and over the things you need to buy for dinner. Lately, because your grandfather’s been working with Eraser Head, he’s been quite antsy when it comes to food, and a bit demanding, too!

Tonight, he wanted steak. FUCKING. STEAK. IT WAS EXPENSIVE FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! AND HE DIDN’T EVEN SPECIFY WHICH STEAK HE WANTED!

Grumbling under your breath, you were just about to reach for the Wagyu steak (on sale, lucky you) when another hand appeared, reaching for the same thing, making you halt.

“Ah-" looking up, you were met with familiar warm brown eyes. "Uncle Masaru!”

“Oh, (Name)-chan, it’s you!” Came his soothing calm voice, eyes brightening at the sight of you. “It’s been a while.”

“It has been, Uncle.” Your smile grew, turning to him fully before the cold wind gently whispered to your skin as if to remind you. “Ah, you can have it, by the way.”

“No, no, you were reaching for it first.”

“No, I insist!”

“Please, (Name)-chan, it’s the least I can do. Also, this at least gives me an excuse to make something else,” he replies sheepishly with a light chuckle.

You paused at that, processing the information shared. Bakugou must’ve wanted steak for dinner, but since Uncle Masaru gave up the meat, it was yours now. It was your win.

Pettily taking the win as yours, you happily took the steak and dumped it into your basket. “Thanks, Uncle Masaru!”

If he noticed the mischievous – almost devil-like expression on your face, he didn’t mention it. He just smiled, kindly, warmly, like how you remembered.

“How have you been?” he asks you.

Normally, the question would annoy you, because it was rather basic. But it’s not every day you run into sweet, mild, and good-natured Uncle Masaru.

“Eh, I’m doing very well, as you can see.”

“I’m so happy to hear that. You used to be the smallest thing, with scrapes and bruises on your pretty dresses. Whenever you and Izuku were over, it was either a riot or a party.” Okay, you had to laugh at that, but it was true. Uncle Masaru laughs with you. Having him remember those things were endearing, made you feel warm. And guilty.

“I know it might seem awkward, but Mitsuki and I would love to have you over for dinner sometime. If that’s okay with you? Of course, you can bring Izuku-kun.”

Glancing up, you met the man’s kind gaze, the one thing Bakugou never got from him – everything was from his mom, he only ever got Uncle Masaru’s spiky hair and height.

You didn’t want to say no, neither can you say yes, but you sure as heck didn’t want to disappoint Uncle Masaru.

“No promise, Uncle Masaru,” his expression fell, shoulders dropping. “but, I’ll see what I can do.”

He smiled weakly. “Then that’s more than enough for me. Just don’t be a stranger, (Name)-chan, okay?”

Smiling softly, you bowed at the older man and turned on your heel.

Cutting your losses with someone really hurts, especially when it involves certain people.

Cutting off from Bakugou meant you had cut off all contact with his parents, whom you loved so much since they took care of you for a time when your parents had passed – both taking turns to visit you when you were deep in depression. It hurt, but it was expected when you decide to cut someone from your life. Nobody is spared.

This time it was seven-against-one.

After having their asses served to them, those bitches managed to talk some filthy high schoolers into beating a middle schooler. A quirkless middle schooler.

Rolling your shoulders, you enjoyed the burn of your wakened muscles. “Wow, you bitches really want to make yourselves look bad in front of an audience, huh?”

So far, they’ve all showed to have power quirks that could be readily usable for the future, should they decide to make use of it. Sadly, their prized quirks turned out to be nothing but a waste for these fuckers.

You easily toyed with them for the first few minutes, allowing a few hits in before retaliating with a force and speed that was twice theirs. You made sure that the punches and kicks, especially to those bitches, stung and hurt, they were your own brute strength honed from training and your quirk.

A sickening crunch rang in your ear after some high school student punched you in the cheek, you made sure to return the favor by capturing his next punch, taking your legs up to strangle him by the neck, catching him completely by surprise, using your weight to swing your body towards an approaching somebody before jumping off.

Watching the two high schoolers stumble to the ground, you lazily walked up to the rest, fingers caked with dirt, grime, and blood, knuckles aching, a dark bruise forming on your arm, (h/c) hair was a mess.

Spitting blood on the ground, you wiped the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, grinning at your next opponent, eyes glinting dangerously, menacingly, excitedly.

The rest of them faltered at your expression but didn’t back down.

That was alright, that meant they weren’t complete pussies after all.

Also, you liked fighting.

You came from a family of fighters, the thrill of it made your blood sing, made your instincts come alive – it made you feel alive.

“Hey, I’m a little disappointed,” you call out, watching the group – beaten and bruised. “you lot say you’re strong, an added bonus is your oh-so-cool quirks, so beating a measly, quirkless middle schooler like me should be no problem,” working on your most sickening grin, you tilted your head. “right?”

“Fucking bitch!”

“Now you’re really asking for it!”

“We’ll beat you black and blue!”

Falling into a stance, adrenaline rushed through your veins (and mentally preparing for a tongue lashing from your grandfather), when an explosion went off.

Clouds of smoke and sand filling the air, gushing furiously against the wind, making you squint.

“OI! IS THIS SOME DIRTY TRICK!?” you yelled, voice fading into noise of wind, sand, and explosions.

More explosions went off, going out at random – big, small, small then big. There was screaming and panicking on their end. Maybe they’ve probably found themselves in some yakuza turf and are being under attack? Shit, you had to make a run for it while you had the chance!

The sudden change of scene wasn’t good for your senses, everything was completely mushy and too much to comprehend. You at least remember where you put your bag, running towards a certain direction, you stopped at the sight of one of the fuckers. Their eyes widened at the sight of you, you readied a fist, but the gust was making your eyes water.

Falling to your knees, you covered your mouth as you coughed – having inhaled too much smoke and dust in your lungs, he saw this as an opportunity to attack you. But something grabbed him by the shoulders, some punches and groans followed, then an explosion could be heard before footsteps approached you.

Too busy coughing your lungs out, you were ready for any pain thrown at you, especially when you were at your most vulnerable.

Instead, a garb lands on your head, shielding you, arms easily scooping you off the ground, something lands on your belly, then loud hurried footfalls were taking you away from the scene.

The more you coughed, the more it felt like your lungs were going to give out, too strained to heighten your senses.

Eventually, your cough died down, your hands rubbing at your chest from coughing too much, throat dried out.

Ah, I probably will run into those assholes again, since we weren’t able to finish the fight.

You must’ve passed out – or dozed off, you weren’t sure – because the next thing you knew, you were being lowered down gently on a soft and cool sofa.

“W-Where…?”

Tugging the garb off your head, (e/c) eyes flinched at the light, strained to make out the furniture around you, the familiar TV set, the fancy-looking wall panel, the familiar staircase, that unmistakable family portrait – one brunette, two explosive blondes-

Wait, you were at Bakugou’s place?

What the heck, you haven’t set foot here in forever! Why’d he bring you here?

Fully coming to, you turned to the blond “Why’d you bring me here!?” you had to ask, demanding.

The sudden movement stung at your fresh injuries, making you coil in your seat.

“Where else was I going to take you?” he replied immediately, coolly, loud enough for you to hear as he was taking two bottles of water from the refrigerator. “My place was closest, yours takes a while to get there, plus, you wouldn’t want to worry your family, right?”

You stared at him, distrustfully, then at the water offered to you, shocked to find that he remembered how much your family would worry over your injuries – big or small. He was always the one carrying you home, almost witnessing first-hand how much your mother would be near tears, your grandfather giving you a murderous-worried look, and your father just ash-faced and pale.

Taking the water from his hand, you nodded your thanks, pressing the cool item against your jaw, hissing in pain from the punch thrown earlier.

Carmine eyes narrowed at that, an emotion crossing over them.

“Don’t move,” he orders, walking off somewhere, you don’t care, eyes wandering around the area. It’s been a while since you were here, the last time was when it was his 10th birthday. After that, though, you and Izuku stopped receiving invitations.

Twisting the cap open, you took gentle sips, relishing in the cool water running down your throat.

The Bakugous were loaded – because Uncle Masaru worked in the fashion industry and Auntie Mitsuki worked in a cosmetics company. The two adored you, treating you like a daughter they never had – Uncle Masaru would gift you cute dresses (which Bakugou would make fun of you whenever you wore them) whenever he can, and Auntie Mitsuki was a hard-ass woman you looked up to.

But since discovering his quirk, Bakugou had become unbearable to be with, a shitty friend to both you and Izuku, ties had to be severed. However, that also meant not being able to see Uncle Masaru and Auntie Mitsuki, who were surely saddened by you and Izuku’s absence.

Suddenly, Bakugou was in front of you, his gakuran unbuttoned, exposing his shirt underneath, a first aid kit in hand. Eyes meeting, a silent conversation was being held, carmine clashing against (e/c). Fixing him a dull stare, he clicked the first aid kid open. With a roll of your eyes, you allowed him to clean your wounds.

Silence filled in, nothing you both seemed to mind. Surprisingly, for a guy with an explosive, volatile quirk and a shitty attitude, he was rather gentle. Not like you’ll ever tell him that, eyes looking around the house, remembering the times you were over with Izuku, anything to avoid staring at him in awe.

“Do they always come for you…” having finished cleaning most of your wounds, his voice came out quiet, but you heard it, a statement rather than a question.

Blinking, you were unsure if he deserved an answer. He thought that was the case and asked again, dipping iodine into the cotton, “Do they always-“

“I don’t see how this is any of your concern.”

Noticeably, his fingers stilled. Then, something smoked, it was the cotton ball, now reduced to ashes. A beat passed before he found himself working again, getting another cotton, now applying ointment to your bruises.

“Do you always need to fight them back?” There was a slight edge to his voice, controlled yet on the verge of breaking.

(E/c) hardened down on him, a seesaw of options playing in your head.

“Have to.” You reply breezily, watching him snap his head up to meet your gaze, unfazed by the anger in his carmine eyes. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“No shit.” He growled, hands beginning to shake. “What I do understand is the disciplinary action you’re gonna get once people find out you’ve been fighting fellow students, even if it were an act of self-defense! Y-You,” he slammed his fist into the glass table beside him, cracking it a little, his head hanging. “you could’ve just called the teachers, told them, too. About those bitches…”

“Again, I don’t see how this is- “

“YOU’LL BE FUCKING EXPELLED, (NAME)!” head still hung low, you could feel his hot breath and tufts of his hair against your skin, making you tingle a bit. It scared you to be this close to him, after all this time. Scared of how he was still protective of you.

Hating how you could hear the guilt in his voice because, in a way, he caused this, he allowed this, he was the reason. He was scared for you.

And he called you by your name.

The seesaw in your head continued, teetering, options weighing one after another.

“…why do you care?” One option up, the other falls. In the end, you just destroyed the seesaw. “Why waste your breath and time on an extra like me, quirkless too, if I might add, why waste your time?”

His head snapped up to yours, his expression was a shock to you. Why…why did he look so devastated, so crushed, so- “(Name)…”

Unable to stay any longer, never mind your still healing body, you stood. “I’m going now. Thanks for treating my injuries. I’ll..." you gulp, hard. "I'll try to avoid getting into fights.” Without waiting for a reply, you grabbed your bag, heading towards the door. “Bye.”

The next day, extremely exhausted from the fighting, Izuku once again panicked at the sight of your bruised and beaten face. When you reached the classroom, you were more than ready to meet the gazes of those bitches – only to find out they had been suspended, as they were given serious warnings should they cause another fight with you.

Apparently, someone had reported their involvement in ganging up on a quirkless student. Plus, there was a video of them taunting you since first year.

Bakugou was in his seat, looking anywhere but your way. Returning the gesture, you quietly sat in your seat, listening to whatever Izuku had to say.

Since then, you swore never to get into fights anymore for the sake of Izuku, and because Bakugou practically begged you.

“How’s school?” your grandfather asked, helping himself to some bok choy.

Shrugging easily, you cut a piece of steak, gesturing for his bowl to serve it to him. “Could be worse, but I’m doing fine.”

“Clarify, silly girl.”

“Mathematics continues to chew me in the ass,” you tell him, avoiding the hit thrown your way.

(Name) – 1, Shihan – 0.

“You’re failing already!?”

“Translation: it’s difficult, not I’m failing. Geez, old man, context!”

You barely dodged the chop aimed for your head, making you wince from the pressure.

(Name) – 1, Shihan – 1.

“That’s no way to talk to your elders, silly girl!” handing you an empty bowl, you nearly pawed it off his hands.

Angrily, you scooped him his heaping, a mound of hot rice returned to him. “Where do you think I take it from!?”

(Name) – 2, Shihan – 1.

“Enough arguing, more eating, foolish girl! We have training to do!”

(Name) – 2, Shihan – 2.

Narrowing your eyes at your grandfather, you wished lasers would come out just to fry off the last of his remaining hair out of petty spite.

Regardless, you loved your grandfather and appreciated these banters. He was rough on you, only because he wanted to teach you to be strong and to be able to hold off whatever was thrown your way so you can repay them back twice, thrice, or ten times more.

You were his pride and joy the moment you were born and swore to your parents that he’d guide and protect you so long as he was still kicking.

“I ran into Uncle Masaru today.”

“Oh! How is the man?”

“Same as always. Not a single grey hair in sight, despite living in a household full of rabid Pomeranians and hitting his forties.”

The Yoruichi patriarch stared down at you, unamused. “Please don’t tell me you told him that.”

Snickering, you deftly avoided his chops.

(Name) – 3, Shihan – 2.

“Gramps, please, like I’d be so willing to break Uncle Masaru’s heart.”

“You don’t have a problem doing that to me.”

“Simple: you’re literally and figuratively old,” you pointed with your chopsticks, waving them in the air as you enumerated more. “you’re Shihan of our dojo, and you have to raise me!”

(Name) – 4, Shihan – 3.

You failed to block the flick on your forehead after finishing your piece.

“Don’t wave your chopsticks in the air, fool, it’s rude.” Snickering at your whining, knowing it’ll leave a mark, he ate more steak. “And easy there with your words, silly girl, otherwise, I’ll repay your kindness in training!”

Recovering, you smirk, helping yourself to some steak. “Bring it! You know I love a good challenge!”

“Oho? My, someone’s cocky.”

“I wouldn’t be your granddaughter, either way.”

You two laughed at that, dinner coming to a finish as your grandfather happily ate the last of the steak. Eyeing the leftovers, you delighted at the thought of tomorrow’s lunch.

Just as you were to clean up, your grandfather asked a question: “By the way, how is the young Bakugou boy?”

(Name) – 4, Shihan – 4.

You stopped at that, hands freezing in the air, feeling your grandfather’s stare on you.

“Dunno.” Came your reply, hands found themselves resuming their work. “Don’t care.”

He watched in silence as you arranged the empty plates, bowls, and chopsticks. “Still not in speaking terms, eh?”

“Yep.”

Your grandfather didn’t have to ask to know that something changed between the three of you, especially with you and Bakugou. What you two had was not something so easy to forget, especially when both of you had been so close. Since then, his name had been taboo in the house.

“He goes to UA with Izuku, right?”

At the mention, you feel the tension seeping away slightly, mouth fixed in a straight line. “Yeah…”

“Are they in speaking terms?”

That made you scoff, fixing your grandfather a dubious look. “Civil, to say the least. Izuku’s not a brute, not like that other one.”

The animosity was clear in your tone as you talked about the other boy, like a bitter pill. Strong arms, decorated in scars and tattoos, crossed against his chest, displeased yellow eyes fixed on you.

“Has he tried talking to you?”

Shrugging with one shoulder, you turned to a lone rice on the table, flicking it without care. “He has, but they’re pretty half-assed.”

“What makes you say that?” to which, he received another shrug from you, mouth twisted into a twisted pout.

Consciously, you reached for your mark, rubbing at it with your fingers. “Some things are better left unsaid, the same way that some things buried should never be unearthed. It’s better off that way.”

His eyes never left your form, taking in your slouch, the look on your face, the sadness in your eyes. “Are you talking about yourself? Because that’s a rather selfish line of thinking, don’t you think?” Shifting, he slowly stood from the table, you watched him stand and met his gaze, offering you a sad look. “In a way, aren’t you being half-assed, yourself?”

Winner: Shihan, Loser: (Name).

masterlist • six

lead me with your hands tied | chapter 3

chapters:

1 - 2 - 3

summary:

In the midst of a crumbling kingdom at war, Levi Ackerman is commissioned by King Jaeger to paint a portrait of his overzealous son.

chapter 3:

The dining room he had been ushered into was extravagant, if not slightly small. Levi said as much, curious as to how the king managed to entertain his multitude of guests in such an enclosed area. 

“That’s what the great hall is for, sir,” Petra answered as if it were obvious, and maybe it was to the rich nobles who frequented the king’s presence. But regardless of what the castle staff was led to believe, he’d never made merry with the clients who commissioned his work. It was always a job and nothing more. Often, he didn’t even share more than a few words with the nobles, those typically being instructions to move their leg forward, hold their head higher, or keep still goddammit. 

The housekeeper was typically his point of contact during all his projects, and until Petra mentioned dinner, he was fairly certain it would stay that way. Of course, he knew that it would be expected for him to eventually meet the king and present the artwork - but the pleasantries of having dinner… this was new to him.

“His Majesty will be arriving shortly, sir. Please make yourself comfortable.” The stiffness in Petra’s tone was still evident even after their long walk from the studio. She didn’t bother with keeping up appearances this time, skipping her courtesy altogether as she hastily exited the room. Levi silently cursed himself, hoping that upon Petra’s leave an armed guard wouldn’t be arriving to charge him with treason. He had to be more mindful. This was a dangerous place to show discontent, regardless of the intentions.

His palms had become damp with sweat, and Levi grimaced as he wiped the excess moisture off onto his beige breeches. 

The sound of boots clicking against the wooden floors echoed loudly within the confines of the small room as Levi ventured closer to the table and chairs positioned in the middle of the chamber. A crystal chandelier hung delicately above the table, white gems glittering brilliantly in the orange radiance of dusk filtering in through the large windows. There were too many crystals to count as Levi tried to estimate how much the almost entirely useless decoration was probably worth. 

Enough to feed the surrounding villages for months - no, years, he thought bitterly.

“It’s beautiful, no?” The deep voice caused his shoulders to twitch upward. He turned on his heel, breath held deep in his chest and ready to face the worst. The man standing before him was not who he expected - tall and broad-shouldered with striking blue eyes. Most importantly, though, the man was definitely not the king. The lack of a crown placed upon his blonde hair was evidence enough. “It was a gift for the queen. Two years before her passing, rest her soul.” His eyes roved suspiciously down the man’s face, widened when he observed the attire the man was wearing. The dark green cotton pulled tight across the man’s chest with gleaming silver buttons, a bright, yellow epaulet fashioning his left shoulder.

Military, Levi reasoned as a chill traveled darkly down his spine. He would be able to spot one of the uniforms from a hundred yards away if given the chance. Would never forget a single detail of the men who brought so much destruction into his life. He suddenly felt sick, head filling with seemingly millions of images of fires and screaming and- 

“Are you well, sir?” This shitting bastard, Levi thought as he grit his teeth.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, hands reaching out blindly for something to steady him. God, it felt as if he had fallen right back into that place once again. Swept up by the ash of the burning buildings and the adrenaline coursing through his veins. 

“You look deathly. I’ll fetch Ms. Ral.”

“I’m quite alright, dammit,” Levi bit out between clenched teeth, grip finally connecting with the top rail of a chair. The world was fading back into view now. What was once plumes of smoke and burning embers melted away to reveal the shiny sheen of the mahogany table. “I’m fine,” he said again, more to reassure himself than the blonde bastard who was quirking an impressive eyebrow at his display. 

The other man breathed in heavily through his nose. “Quite,” he agreed. Levi didn’t miss the sardonic edge to the man’s voice as he pulled a chair out far enough from the table to slide into the velvet seat. His grip tightened on the top rail. Wanted to lift the object into the air and use it to break the goddamned whoreson’s neck. Instead, he followed the man’s lead and shakily entered his own seat at the table. A stale silence filled the air, one that Levi was most certainly not going to break. He was perfectly content with brewing in the solitude until the king arrived. His company, however, seemed to have other plans. 

“So, you must be the artist the king commissioned,” the man started. Levi looked up, blinking, only to find the man staring intently at him. It was offputting, the way the man seemed to glare straight into the backs of his eyes as if Levi were an open book ripe for the taking. Had his lip twitching in annoyance as his fingers began to chatter against the smooth surface in front of him.

“I am,” he answered plainly.

“Hmm,” the man leaned back into his seat, a smirk cracking the corner of his lips. “Then it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ackerman.” Thick arms crossed over the man’s chest. “I hope your stay has been pleasurable so far?”

“Incredibly.” Where was this damned king?

“Are you nervous, Mr. Ackerman?” Suddenly, the air felt as if it had been sucked clean from his lungs. Fingers stilled against the table as Levi regarded the man.

“What did you say?” He tried not to let his voice shake. Levi had a creeping superstition that the man sitting across from him was analyzing his every octave. 

“A mere observation, Mr. Ackerman,” the man shrugged. “You look as if you’d rather be locked in a cage with an angry bear than preparing to feast with Your Majesty.” If Levi had feathers, he’d be ruffling them. And the man- damn him - the man knew it. Bloody hell, he needed a drink.

“Maybe you are simply being too presumptive, sir.”

“General,” the man corrected with a grin. “General Erwin Smith.”

“General Smith,” he tested the name on his tongue and decided it tasted exactly like ash. 

“Well, I’m sure you’re weary from the long journey. I hear you traveled from Mitras?” 

Levi scoffed, growing frustrated with the man’s badgering, “And we sang songs about taking a merry shit all the way here.”

Erwin opened his mouth to undoubtedly ask Levi another infuriating question when the entrance to the dining room was abruptly pulled open. The general promptly pushed forward out of his chair to stand, and Levi followed to do the same. Two soldiers passed through the door first, immediately taking their place on either side of the entrance as they faced forward, looking ahead. Levi’s stomach dropped as he watched the next figure emerge into the room. 

Dressed in fine white robes and golden jewels, the king exuded royalty. The crown, in all its glimmering glory, nestled atop inky locks that curved comfortably along the king’s shoulders. As the entrance closed quietly behind the man, another opened, ushering in half a dozen servants carrying trays of various sizes. One who had appeared empty-handed quickly moved to pull the chair back for the king. The servant couldn’t have been older than ten, and Levi soberly wondered how many more children were hidden behind the stone walls of the castle serving the monarch. Once the king was seated, Erwin followed suit as did Levi. He assumed the general knew the correct protocol to follow in the presence of royalty. Going off blind faith wasn’t ideal, especially faith being entrusted in a scheming military man. But unfortunately, Levi had no experience in dining with the ruler of a kingdom. 

The dishes were placed accordingly onto the table once everyone settled. The food, Levi had to admit, smelled wonderful, and it caused his stomach to grumble impatiently. Perhaps he was more famished than he thought. 

“Fetch the wine,” the king demanded, waving his hand absentmindedly. One of the servants scurried off through the door, quickly returning with a large pitcher. Levi’s chalice was filled soon after the king’s, the dark red liquid threatening to spill over the rim. “That is all. Leave us.” And with the command, the servants vanished as swiftly as they had appeared. The king took a large swig of the wine, smacking his lips as his gaze turned towards Levi. “I take it your journey wasn’t too arduous, painter?”

Levi swallowed thickly, “No, Your Majesty. It was most pleasant.” The words sounded alien leaving his lips. A complete fraud of what he truly wanted to tell the treacherous snake. 

“And apparently filled with festive song, Your Majesty,” Erwin added, throwing a knowing smirk in Levi’s direction. If looks could kill, he thought. 

The king grinned none the wiser, teeth shining beneath a thin mustache. “Ah, a musician and a painter! I’m sure the coachman was thoroughly amused by your antics. Speaking of, Erwin, did the coachman bring any news from Mitras?” 

“Some villagers attempting to build a militia. Nothing the guard couldn’t snuff out, Your Majesty.” Levi’s mouth went dry. He knew those villagers. Fucking morons the lot of them, always blubbering in the pub about their plans to make the Jaegers pay for what they’d done. Levi didn’t think they would have the balls to actually make good on the schemes. Now, they were all probably dead or worse.

“Good riddance. Rotting vermin the lot of them,” the king surmised as he began to fill his plate. “The sooner these revolts cease, the sooner we can focus on the true enemy.” 

“Agreed, Your Majesty,” Erwin said, raising his chalice in assent. “To the glorious King Jaeger. May he quickly vanquish the Marleyan devil.” Levi’s hunger abruptly morphed into sickly nausea. The smells of a once mouth-watering feast now stinking of charred bodies and burning flesh. 

You’re pathetic, a voice whispered to him. Making merry with the man who had us killed.  

“No,” he whispered.

And suddenly, the voice was gone, leaving him in the dead silence of a room full of enemies. The two men had stopped their toast, now leering suspiciously at Levi. The jovial expression that had previously shaped the king’s face was now replaced with a narrowed brow and a curled upper lip.

“No,” he repeated again, conviction lacing his voice. The king was standing now, shoulders hunched and fists forming at his sides. With a slightly shaking hand, Levi wrapped his palm around the handle of his chalice and lifted it into the air. “May he defeat all the devils.” Levi watched as Erwin’s eyes closed heavily in relief, the man obviously not wanting the meal to be spoiled by an impromptu execution. The king sank back into the chair, his face contorting back into that fictional illusion of happiness. Levi met Erwin’s reawakened gaze as he spoke, “Death to the pigs.”

“Death to the pigs,” Erwin repeated.

Just as he’d raised his drink to his lips to commemorate the toast, the dining room door was swung open with a loud bang. 

“Sire, please!” He faintly heard Petra’s pleading, the sound growing increasingly more desperate the closer the footsteps got. “You are in no state!”

“Let go of me, you damned woman!” The two guards posted at the entrance curiously peeked around the edge of the door frame only to quickly turn their focus back to their fronts. 

“Shall I go assist Ms. Ral, Your Majesty?” Erwin asked nonchalantly as he cut into his venison. 

“No, no. Thank you, Erwin, but I want the painter to see for himself the challenge he will be facing.” Levi was used to challenges. Hell, all of his commissions provided some sort of unforeseen difficulty that he had to work around. Surely, the spoiled brat of a prince would only be one more slight opposition that needed conquering.

The prince stumbled through the doors ungracefully, dressed in nothing but a pair of cream stockings and a simple white tunic. The man looked manic, long brunette locks tousled and tangled around the angles of his face. Large emerald eyes alight, all fire and anger as he regarded the trio. This was who he would be tasked with capturing. The wayward prince, Eren Jaeger. 

“Your Majesty, I apologize!” Petra’s arms were flailing as she rushed into the dining room. “I have tried to tell the young Majesty that he was not-” 

“Silence!” the prince yelled. Petra’s mouth snapped close. “I want to speak to my father, and I’ll bloody well do so with or without your approval.” The woman looked helplessly at the king, begging for some direction. When he granted her a silent nod, she gave the room a quick bow before making a swift exit.

“Well, my son, what causes you such dismay that you grace us in your undergarments?”

Levi watched as the prince’s fists clenched. “I’m in no mood to jest, father.”

“Nor am I, my son. Yet you appear in front of me as if there is some cruel joke of which I do not know its point.” Eren threw up his arms in disbelief, a humorless chuckle falling off his full lips. 

“The only joke is your choice to recruit Jean into serving in your ill-conceived military unit.” Eren took several threatening steps closer.

“The Kirstein boy? Your whoring and drinking pal? Ha! Maybe I do understand the purpose of this quip after all.” If possible, the prince’s brow furrowed even further. Levi did not understand the meaning of the display, couldn’t fathom why the king would allow the heir to the throne to embarrass himself like this. To prove the youngest Jaeger’s temper didn’t fall far on the family tree? Perhaps. 

“You laugh, old man, but you forget that his father is a duke. He is no mere peasant whose life you can expend so easily.” Levi’s eye twitched at that. To think that one human life was worth so much more than another. That a title and a plot of land made you invulnerable to the laws of mankind. How very fucking naïve. 

“And you forget your place, my son.” The king stood from his chair. “You have not only embarrassed yourself in front of General Smith but the painter I so humbly commissioned to render your likeness. Should he start now? Display a fine portrait of you in your stockings in the grand hall?” 

The man’s face reddened. “You…” Eren fumbled with his words, glancing between his father and Levi. “You… argh!” In a huff, the prince stomped angrily out of the dining room, throwing the door closed with a resolute smack. Levi was left gazing wide-eyed at the entrance, anxiously anticipating for the moment when the vexed prince would throw the door back open to began the argument anew. 

“Well, painter, what do you think? Still up to the challenge?” the king questioned. 

Levi pondered his answer for a moment. Now seemed like a perfectly reasonable time to take that drink. So, he did just that, allowing the wine to slide down his throat before addressing the king. “When do I begin, Your Majesty?”

May Death Do Us Part

Summary: Wilbur dies and in the void, a voice refuses to accept his end. Prologue of Unequal Halves of the Same Whole

Warnings: Death, blood, stabbing, brief description of a dead body

It's only the two of them in this small room. It feels even tinier now that he's blocked the entrance to prevent anyone else coming other than Phil. The silly thing is this wall before him, the one with the button he's determined to press yet even now still has slight doubts about actually going through with doing so, it's not remarkably thick. It's not like there's multiple layers of stone between himself, Phil and the rest of the world. He's technically a stone block's width away from the whistling explosives. The others are fighting, he comments to the air. L'Manburg will have to concern itself with a force more destructive than some mere fireworks in a matter of minutes. If he does indeed detonate the nation he helped found. Phil seems determined to prevent that. But, then again, Phil doesn't know that Wilbur has cursed himself with a Chekov's gun, one that by its nature can't be left on display forever. When he mentions not even knowing if the button is rigged, the blond man laughs. Did he really want to take that risk? Well... As for there potentially being a lot of TNT connected to the device, yes that's the point. Regardless, it's clear Phil is in denial that Wilbur is absolutely ready to do this. His loss. The moment is ripe. It's best if he takes advantage of it. "Phil..." Now or never. "There was a saying, Phil, by a traitor once part of L'Manburg. A traitor I don't know if you've heard of. Eret?" "Yeah." Phil's expression is wary and rightly so. He'd be concerned if it wasn't, honestly. "He had a saying, Phil." These six words have stuck with him for months. Since... the beginning of August, it must have been. Ever since, he's never truly known whether to take people's words at face value. He'd made the mistake of trusting Eret and cost his loved ones a life. Who could tell if another one of his 'friends' was plotting his demise behind his back. Best to eradicate the plague that is L'Manburg with everything that made it so before they get a chance to reveal their true loyalties. Perhaps he's doing them a favour, betraying the lost cause in their stead. Either way, it is time for the words that will end up haunting the man who raised him since he was six. He almost wants to be sorry for bestowing the burden of them onto a new victim. However, he's so caught up in the moment, so thrilled to be at the point his goal is finally coming to completion after all these weeks, that he directs his energy to not truly smiling as he utters the infamous phrase. It does nothing to hide the pride in his voice that the time for his grand finale has finally come. "It was never meant to be." There is a satisfying click as the button accepts the pressure exerted on it. In that second before the world reacts to what he has done, he regrets letting Phil see this. He's close enough to the wall that he predicts the force of the explosion will find its way to him. Debris too if he's not already dead. It won't be pleasant to witness. But well... Phil made the decision to confront him directly and neither of them can change this situation now. He goes out saluting with eyes shut tight. Or at least, he would have if he wasn't knocked to the ground by a force not in allegiance with the TNT. Phil is pushing himself off from where he'd been laying on top of him when he opens his eyes. The wings are ruined. Wilbur wouldn't be surprised if he learned the older man has permanently grounded himself with that sacrificial act. One way or another, they are both alive. The damage has been done to the land before them as well as themselves. Ash rains down upon Wilbur as he rises to his feet to observe the consequences of his actions. Phil's eyes are full of horror and agony as he does the same from where he remains sitting. "My L'Manburg, Phil!" He throws his arms out. "My unfinished symphony, forever unfinished! If I can't have this, Phil, no-one can." "Oh my god..." The older of the two mutters in disbelief. "Kill me, Phil, kill me." He unsheathes the sword that had been situated by his side, tossing it towards the man he's appointed his executioner. "Phil, stab me with the sword. Murder me now. Kill me. Killza. Killza! Do it. Kill me, Phil, murder me. Look, they all want you to. Do it, Phil, kill me." "Y- You're my son!" He cries back, getting to his feet. And oh, that's caused him to be taken aback for a second. His... son? Well, he supposes neither he nor Phil were immune to the feelings that can naturally arise in arrangements such as theirs. Phil had been friends with his mother before her death. As such, he had felt obliged to care for her young son whom he's supposedly viewed in a fond light. The stories went that Wilbur had liked him back in turn. Of course, any and all attachment had waned on Wilbur's part as he aged into a teenager left to raise another parentless boy while Phil travelled with a piglin the same age as his 'son'. Son? Please. Phil had a funny way of showing it in that case. His standards for a father had been low but 'forcing a kid to become independent years before their time then randomly appearing out of the blue to talk them down from mass destruction and saving said child's life' still didn't reach the mark. If Phil wants to prove he's on his side, there remains one thing he can do for him. "Phil, kill me." He requests for the thousandth time. "No matter what you do, no matter what you pull, I can't-" "Look. Look! How much work went into this and it's gone. Do it." He challenges once more. "Do it." At this, Phil relents. A slash is made with another swiftly following it. Blood begins to flow and he's glad he doesn't give a shit about this outfit. Not that it even matters since he won't see dusk tonight. He drops, head smacking against the floor. And holy shit, is that what fire aspect feels like? He suddenly gains a profound understanding of why animals slain with these types of swords provide meat edible upon the moment of slaughter. He'd understood it in theory obviously but fuck, he wants to apologize to any creature whose throat he's aimed that sword at. He wonders whether he'd perceive someone pouring lava into the wound as a punishment or a distraction. He breathes through it. He won't cry, not in his final minutes and certainly not in front of Phil. Phil himself doesn't seem to have the same resolve to remain composed. The sword has left his grasp, having clattered to the floor. He is knelt, folding in on himself slightly with palms pressing into his eyes, and lets out a pained groan. It sounds like a mix of grief and acknowledgement of the agony his destroyed wings must be putting him in. Phil's heads lifts and their eyes meet. With some newfound determination, he gets up and lifts Wilbur's torso so he's leaning against him in a semblance of a sitting position. He subsequently moves the young man he supposedly considers a son to have his back against the wall. "Fuck, you couldn't just let- you couldn't just win? You had to just throw your toys out the pram." Hands are on his shoulders to steady him. Phil's frustration goes ignored. "Phil, you know when Dream- well, I guess you don't know but Dream said earlier that there was no traitor. He said earlier- he said 'hey, do you know what? There's no traitor', he said to me. And you know what?" Wilbur weakly chuckles. "He fucking lied. He lied. Phil, it's Technoblade. Phil, it's Technoblade." "Oh my god. The most powerful person on the server is the traitor?" "Phil-" He catches the attention of the man who is desperately trying to locate where the piglin may be outside. Phil's gaze snaps right back to him. Wilbur continues his warning with a bloodied grin. "And he has 8 withers ready to go." "Oh my god, I need to get out of here." True to his word, Phil glances back at the sealed entrance then the massive hole that used to be a wall. Calculation made, he descends down the rubble to the battle brewing below. "Go as fast as you can, Phil. Go see them, go on. Bye-bye. Bye-bye, Phil." With no-one to hear him anymore, he sighs and mutters to himself. "We won. It's over." He's not entirely sure what Dream was on about earlier in regards to there apparently being no traitors. Of course there were traitors. It was Wilbur and Technoblade, the man who had been planning to detonate an abundance of TNT for weeks and the man who had been gathering wither heads for anarchistic purposes. Honestly, who else would it be? Speaking of the TNT, as he overlooks the destruction, he doubts all of it has gone off... perhaps only half of it. It doesn't matter. The deed is done. Though he's miraculously managed to maintain conversation, the effects of the sword are increasingly taking hold. Bleeding out isn't the most pleasant thing to endure even without the enchantment wreaking havoc on his nervous system. Although, he's certainly no stranger to this kind of death by now. Punz had stabbed him and left him for dead in the Final Control Room. The same man's arrow found his chest while Wilbur and Tommy were escaping L'Manburg upon being exiled. Had the arrow not struck vital organs and stolen his second life quickly, it likely would have caused him a similar fate as his first and now current deaths without appropriate medical attention. Still, being the man of the arts and politics he once wanted to liken himself to, he could appreciate a good leitmotif. He can spot a wither or two in the sky. He supposes if he checked the communicator on his wrist, he'd see several user status updates regarding this development. Good, let Techno have his time to shine. It's an interesting last view, the rubble he's created, but he can't help feel a sense of pride. This has been his goal for so long and despite the delay of a month, it's finally over. "Tubbo, you are president of a crater." He says with delight. "Enjoy." Shortly thereafter, death at last envelops him. Phil does not come back to the room where the body of the boy he raised lays. Perhaps it is due to him becoming preoccupied by the withers and subsequent aftermath, maybe he cannot force himself to witness the end result of him fulfilling his son's final request. Regardless of the reason, the fact of the matter is that what physically remains of Wilbur Soot will be there tomorrow when Tubbo traverses the rubble along with Fundy and Quackity in an effort to begin rebuilding the nation following the events of the previous day. The president of L'Manburg will state that his predecessor should be left there to rot, promptly constructing a new wall to officially seal him in his tomb. The path his actions have led him down had to end eventually. If he thought about it too much, it almost seemed inevitable that by travelling down it, he would arrive at this room, to where he was to breathe his last, to his consequential final resting place. But that is to come and it is only his physical destiny. Every other aspect of him finds itself in darkness. There is nothing. And in the nothingness, there is only him. It is the outskirts of a black hole's event horizon, ready to scatter his atoms when time itself comes to an end. It is a sensory deprivation room in the heart of a city bustling with noisy activity, overloaded with an infinite variety of colours and aromas, though you would forever be none the wiser. It is the expanse of space with any and all celestial bodies too far to detect with your exposed being. The void accepts him as its latest inhabitant. In the abyss that follows his demise, silence is shattered. "What are you doing?" "This isn't right. I want to go back." "This is what we wanted. It's over now. We don't have to carry on." "There must be another way." "But we're dead. There is no reversing that. There is no 'other way' either." "What if we started over though? What if we came back somehow without the paranoia and mistrust. Someone must have cared about us, right?" "You're talking about changing who we were." "I'm talking about reverting back to a happier version of ourselves. We've done the whole 'bad guy' thing. Why don't we be the good guy again? We won't have to worry about being betrayed if everyone likes us." "...I don't think I appreciate your line of thinking." "I think my reasoning is sound." "This is crazy! We can't just show up like nothing happened. We blew up the country. We said it ourselves, if Phil didn't do it, somebody else probably would have put their sword through us." "We'll never know if we don't try." "Stop it!" "No. I'm doing this for our own good." "But I don't believe it will be beneficial. If you would just listen to me-" "If you're so content with how horribly things ended then here you go. You keep all these memories. Wallow in them. I definitely won't be needing them." "Wait-" "Meanwhile, I'm going to give us the second chance we deserve. And I'm going to do so back down there with a clean slate." "Don't do this. Please." "I'd rather take amnesia over missing this chance." Yellow burns in their line of sight, highlighted by the lack of colour. An additional arm forms. Another joins it as do two extra legs. Rapidly, one entity separates into a near identical pair. One pulls away as their twin uses both hands to pull an arm back towards them. They struggle like this momentarily before the rejecter shoves his counterpart away, causing himself to fall further and further from any continued attempts to stop him. The first is left in a wealth of misery, hatred and anxiety upon the split commencing. Anything they ever fondly cherished, even if they hadn't acknowledged it recently, is ripped from them. Memories of childhood, of playing music, of accomplishments worthy of pride are left negated in the aftermath. If the Grinch's heart grew three sizes upon accepting love once more, then this half's heart was currently shrivelling to a third of its typical capacity. Resentment fills them as their twin tumbles to the world below. The second is overcome by joy, excitement and hope as the transfer is made. Gone are the pain, the regret and the sorrow. They are free to go about their existence without a care in the world. Like a foreign object burning upon contact with the atmosphere as it tumbles, everything unnecessary disintegrates. In the fire, they are cleansed. They are able to float and avoid their feet needing to touch the ground with the absence of all that undesirable weight. The closer their new attempt at life approaches, the more they feeling as if they are flying towards it. Who cares about the other half they are leaving behind? He can take care of himself. Besides, he's been in the reins for too long. A ghost wearing a yellow jumper appears in the room where his originator succumbed to exsanguination hours beforehand. A body wearing a brown trenchcoat with red staining his shirt and fingerless gloves overlooks the surrounding ruins. Or, at least, he would be were his eyes not closed. However, it goes without saying it is disturbing to see your own corpse right in front of you, to look at your own face and know there is no life to be found upon it. So he escapes in the same direction a blond man had done earlier. Night has fallen but he knows that come morning, he will have plenty of opportunities to reunite with friends under his new name of... Ghostbur. Yeah, he wants to be called Ghostbur. Wilbur was someone else entirely so why not adopt a second identity to mark his second chance at life. It is the first memory that is solely his own and he promptly forgets it.

Broken Love

Hello! My name is Scythe, this is my very first time posting on tumblr, I really don’t know how to lmao. This is a story that I wrote on AO3 a few months ago, but I’ll be posting it here too. Really sorry if the formatting is wonky, I don’t know how to use this lol

TRIGGER WARNING FOR: alcohol abuse, self hate, semi-descriptive mention of sexual assault, and slight sexual content. Please read at your own risk. 

༺༻

“What, do you think your mother even bothered to think about you while she was worked to death?” 

Nesta regretted it the moment those hateful words left her mouth. A part of her wanted to take back the venom she spat out, yet dignity trampled it down, keeping her spine straight and her head held high. She refused to acknowledge the pain that creeped upon her heart, instead curling her hands into fists as that maelstrom in her eyes swirled angrily. 

Her eyes were a force to behold; oh, such rage filled those cunning blue-gray eyes, like that of a wrathful thunderstorm. 

She watched, not a flicker of emotion showing, as the fire in Cassian’s eyes died out, reduced to ashes. 

She wanted, ached for him to spit back at her, to argue and quarrel. 

But she knew she went too far with that remark. 

Yet pride, insufferable pride, refused to let her apologize. 

༺༻

Cassian felt his breath still at the sneering insult she had flung back at him. They bickered endlessly, yet it was an unspoken rule between them to never bring relatives into it.

Never.

Especially when they were dead- have been dead for five hundred years. 

Thousands of retorts came to mind, an endless collection of insults he could hurl back, yet they all died on the tip of his tongue.

Cassian could feel nothing, hear nothing, as he closed the door quietly behind him and walked out of Nesta’s apartment in deafening, roaring silence, wings tucked in tight. He did not know where he was going, and he definitely was not in the mood to fly back to the House of Wind. So he let his steps carry him to the ends of the earth. 

And he couldn’t help but think back to what Nesta had said. 

Do you think your mother even bothered to think about you while she was worked to death?

Somewhere inside him, uncertainty crept along his bones. He knew that his mother cared for him, even as he was abandoned at an Illyrian camp with nothing but himself. But what if he was wrong? Five centuries later, his only recollection of his mother was a hazy, warm face. 

Oh, and the screams and body-wracking sobs that she had let out as he was taken away. 

His mother had left him with an amulet, a necklace of ruby the same brilliant carmine color as his seven siphons. He chose to give it to Nesta. Yet that was at the bottom of the Sidra, thrown in there after she refused to accept it, telling him that she wanted nothing from him and leaving.

Oh, how he loathed himself. 

༺༻

Nesta stood there, fists clenching and unclenching, as she processed what just happened, replaying the events over and over again. 

She should have never said that. She had never hurt Cassian so deep before, so thoroughly that he had left, just left. Without firing some stinging retort back at her. 

And what killed her the most? He was a good male. In her heart, she knew that he was worth everything in the world. Gods, he had even closed the door quietly, not slamming it like she would’ve undoubtedly done. 

She finally shook herself out of her stance, pacing around her messy, drab-gray apartment, dirty clothes flung everywhere, cobwebs on the corners of the walls.

And so, Nesta resorted to the only option at hand.

The only way she knew how to cope.

Oh, how she loathed herself. 

༺༻

Cassian’s steps eventually led him to the Sidra, his unkempt hair blowing in the harsh breeze. The biting cold chilled his fingertips, but he paid it no mind as he stared across the river, waves lapping gently at the sand that he stood on.

From besides him, he could feel shadows wreath him, swirling around the secluded beach, twirling in the air. 

“Not now, Azriel,” he spoke, responding to the silent shadows. “I want to be alone.”

The shadows seemed to stop, hesitating, as if saying, ‘are you sure, brother?’ before eventually blowing away, returning to their master.

The Illyrian Commander stared out across the Sidra, his gaze unfocused, eyes on the horizon. Though he did not see the point where water met land. 

No, the only thing he could see were smoldering eyes of stormy blue. 

༺༻

Nesta cringed inwardly at the cheap alcohol that went down her throat, rough and burning. She took another massive gulp.And she kept this up, until only the last dregs remained.

And then she asked for another drink.

And another.

And another.

She drank, and drank, and drank, welcoming the oblivion and the lack of emotion that accompanied this. Nesta kept at it, until her head was fuzzy and dizzy and she could not hear nor see a single thing clearly. Empty bottles lined the table she sat at.

You are worthless, a voice in her head hissed. Worthless. You do not deserve him, you do not deserve Feyre and Elain’s kindness. You should continue to waste away, until you are completely gone.

Nesta wholeheartedly agreed with whatever spoke in her mind. 

She hated herself, hated her walls of thorns, hated that she was like a plague, spreading hatred and sadness to everyone around her. 

She wished she could change. And when she realized she couldn’t change, wouldn’t change, she wished she was gone. 

A male approached her, sitting down next to her. A cruel smile slashed across his face, displaying a handsome face with striking blue eyes and cropped, dirty blond hair. Pointed ears and sharp canines added to his features. 

High Fae, then, Nesta thought. 

She could practically smell the lust and whiskey on the male.

She welcomed it. 

Nesta did not mind as a phantom hand of his grazed her leg, inching up to her thigh. She smirked at him, an invitation and a taunt. 

Soon enough, she grabbed his hand harshly, and they were in her bedroom within minutes. 

This was the only way she could find freedom, through sex and alcohol. Perhaps she indeed was wasting away, a useless pile of garbage. Once upon a time, she would bristle at such a comparison. Now, she could only agree. 

The male entered her, and an image of Tomas Mandray crossed her mind. The foreign touch, the mortal man who had torn her clothes to pieces and pinned her on the wall, until she had screamed her throat raw and clawed her way out of his grip. She still shuddered at the memory, but she shoved it down in her brain, all the way to the back of her mind, where all these other emotions and memories and feelings and happiness were, repressed and behind a gate that Nesta would never open. 

She rode him deep into the twilight, though she did not see the male Fae.

No, the only thing she could see were fiery eyes of warm hazel.

༺༻

Cassian stayed by the riverbank until dusk, the rays of twilight sun warming him. Occasionally, he stretched his wings out, extending them and flapping once before he tucked them in tight again. Other than that, he stayed still, letting the waves lull him as he combed through memories and thoughts. 

They always seemed to rebel, to go to that one day he didn’t want to think of. The day where his wings were broken, shredded to pieces, wounds dotting his body like stars in the night sky as he laid on that battlefield, with Nesta covering him. 

I have no regrets in my life, but this. That we did not have time. That I did not have time with you, Nesta. I will find you again in the next world- and we will have that time, I promise.

Those words he had spoken echoed in his mind, and he remembered the way Nesta had shielded his body with her own. 

And right before that- as Nesta had shouted, roaring his name, as he had avoided that blast of magic that would have killed him within milliseconds. 

Did he deserve that?

Nightmares still plagued his mind during the night, where he watched as his soldiers, men he grew up with, died on the battlegrounds. 

Where they had lain their lives for the war. 

Where they died, and he didn’t. 

Guilt still ate at him, reprimanding and lashing at himself for surviving when he should have died, was supposed to die with those people. He had been grateful for Elain and Nesta, who killed Hybern, yet oftentimes he still went back to that day, wondering why he was still alive when he shouldn’t be.

Cassian’s slumbering siphons flared brightly as thoughts invaded his mind. 

He watched as the sun sank into the sky, the last rays of crimson and gold died with the sun, falling below the horizon. For a moment, the atmosphere turned the same, dark shade of vermillion as his siphons.

Gradually, the sky grew dark, as night fell and stars peeked out from behind their blanket of darkness. 

Cassian lowered his head. 

Purpose sang in his body, purpose to live. If he was granted with life, he would live it to the fullest. He would pull Nesta out of that dark, dark place, no matter how long it would take. No matter how much it would hurt himself, no matter how bleak some days might be. He made a promise to himself, vowing to never admit defeat and stop trying.

Because he loved her. Truly. 

And love, unending love, refused to let him give up.

༺༻

Yeah that’s it! Leave any comments down below (are they called comments on tumblr? I think they’re like,, notes or smth? Also, prompts r nice, gimme prompts for Nessian if you want :)) love them sm. Hope u enjoyed!! I have other fanfic oneshots, which i’ll post probably after i figure out how Tumblr works

- Scythe 

Quarantine Reading Material

Lots of thanks to both @thekatthatbarks and @raendown for thinking about me <3

I post mainly on AO3 and all my drabbles are here.

Main fandoms are:

Naruto

Dishonored

Mass Effect

Dragon Age

One Piece

Main pairings are:

ShikaSaku

SakuIno

NejiShikaSaku

SakuHina

NaruSasuSaku

TobiMada

Corvo/Daud

Shepard/Joker

Warden Mahariel/Tamlen

Warden Mahariel/Zevran

ZoSan

Most popular fics are:

There is sunshine on his forehead (Gen, Minor SakuSai) - Soulmate AU The first words your soulmate will say that will break your heart are written on your forearm. Sakura is five, and she already knows two things: her mark is awful, and whoever “Sasuke” is, she’s going to kill him. Withered Flowers (Hiashi/Fugaku) - Canon Divergence Hizashi is dead. He’s dead, and Hiashi is alone. It should have been the start of the end of the world, one thing leading to another until a rabbit goddess comes out of the moon and— Except it’s not. Except a butterfly, somewhere, changes everything when Hiashi finds himself drinking his sorrows away in the same bar Uchiha Fugaku decided to drowned his as well. It should have been the start of the end of the world. Instead, it would lead to the most massive change in Konoha’s history. our oath (we’re expendable) (Gen, Sakura-centric) - Post-War canon divergence The war is over and the headcount is made official. Sakura frantically goes through the list of names, dread pooling in the bottom of her stomach. The verdict is finale. Sakura is the last Haruno. This is the story of how she’ll become Clan Head, and rebuild her clan from its ashes. wake up (this is my promise to you) (Gen, Sakura & Sasuke friendship) - Crossover w/ Fullmetal Alchemist, Time-Travel AU Barukh watches, from the roofs of his village. He watches the desert, and waits for the signs of blue uniforms and blond hair, for the sun mirrored on the blade of a soldier. Instead, he sees a shape, stumbling out of the desert, burned skin blistering and dehydrated. He sees a woman, carrying something big on her back, so exhausted she looks about to fall with every stop she takes. She’s not wearing blue. She doesn’t have blond hair. So Barukh gets off the roof, and meets the woman halfway to offer her rest in the village. He doesn’t know yet that he just invited the savior of his people.

I’m finding I’m not her (the girl I thought I’d be) (NaruSasuSaku) Trans!Sakura, Coming of Age There are lies on her ID and sneers waiting for her at home, shame and scorn and torn dresses and harsh words. But then she sees Naruto’s smile and the fragile hope in Kakashi-sensei’s eye that maybe, he won’t screw this up and the peace in Sasuke’s shoulders and she thinks, maybe, it’ll be okay in the end.

Personal favorite fics are (all of the above count):

if i could i would (challenge your demons at dawn) (Warden Mahariel/Zevran) Origins retelling What if, when Duncan forces Mahariel to join the Warden, Tamlen and her have a child? A story about war, parenting, healthy relationships and communication. A story about a Dalish who hates shems, forced to lead them, and an Antivan assassin forced to follow his failed assassination mark. It all goes well, in the end.

drown in dreams of daylight (Gen, Sakura & Tsunade-centric) Soulmate AU The first words your soulmate will say that’ll make you respect you are tattooed on your body. Sakura is weak and alone and her fathers just died. Kakashi-sensei is sleeping in the hospital, Naruto left her behind to go chase a new Hokage and she’s alone and her fathers just died. Then Senju Tsunade walks into her life and Sakura doesn’t remember how to breathe.

all the leaves are brown (SakuIbiki) Time-Travel Fix It AU They call her Honeytrap Haruno, and like every awful nickname given to the elite of Konoha's force, it sticks. She’s ugly and she’s harsh, they don’t know where she comes from and she adopted the Fox kid right after he killed his parents and Sarutobi forced all of them to shut up about it. Suffice to say, no one likes her. Tough luck, cause she’s not going anywhere, and Ibiki might be a little bit smitten (ft. the most vanilla sex you can think of and two people enjoying it very much)

samurai verse (ShikaSaku) Ronin!Sakura on-going series of one-shots telling the story of samurai Haruno Sakura from the Land of Iron and her complicated love with Nara Shikamaru, honeypot and prostitute extraordinaire and secretly Konoha shinobi. child of the mist (ShikaSaku) Trans!Sakura, also Wave-born!Sakura Sakura looks in the mirror and she hates, with everything she has, every fiber of her being, until the self-loathing is so primal, so ingrained, that she’s bursting at the seams with the rage and the self-hatred, and Shikamaru doesn’t know what to do, how to help, how to heal them both. It gets better, one shower at a time.

the thing you’re becoming (is a bloody wonder) (ShikaSaku) Shikamaru has amnesia AU Hokage Sakura comes home from work to find her husband, his skull cracked open in their garden, his hand still gripping the paintbrush he was using on the fence she complained the night before wasn’t to her liking. When he wakes up, he remembers neither her, their family, nor himself. 

If you ever only read one story of mine, let it be this one:

dusk (we will never look back) (ShikaSaku) let’s-escape-into-the-forest-and-start-a-new-life-just-for-us well. it’s exactly that. they escape into the forest and start a new life, from building their own home with their own four hands to growing a garden, their love, and a family. the story i’m the most proud of, indisputably. 

The best story I ever wrote, in my opinion:

soldiers never die (they only fade away) (Shepard-centric, minor Shepard/Joker) Post-Reaper War, PTSD!Shepard Shepard suffered brain damage during her final moments in the Crucible. The Alliance parades her around in a victory tour for as long as they need her, before shoving her back into the Normandy with her reassambled crew and not enough psychologists in the Milky Way to make sense of the mess in her damaged brain. How can you lead a crew when some days, you can’t even remember how to zip your pants closed.

Tagging @mouseymightymarvellous @omelettedufromage-24601 @castorlovescourgette @screwtheprinceimtakingthehorse @the-formerone @lvllns @fineillsignup @shadesofmauve

Shadows in Summer

Whiskey/Pizza Teen - No Warnings - Words: 1037 Summary:  One warm evening leaves both food souls fatigued, and Whiskey can't help but think about how he feels about the happy blonde.

Summer was entering its peak in this peaceful kingdom. A gust of wind blew through the trees growing beside the castle walls, causing the branches to tap a strange beat against the windowpane of Whiskey's workshop.

The castle saw little activity as the King was away on business with a neighboring kingdom. The hallways stood in near silence, the carpeted floors and draperies awashed with somber hues of the sunset as the dusk faded to night. Whiskey’s beakers clinked together like wind chimes, echoing in the generous space of his makeshift lab, the sound was pleasant to the ear even though its contents contained a slow-acting poison. However, the blonde food soul lazing in the office's windowsill eyed the bright green liquid like it was gummy candy. The blonde leaned closer for a fleeting moment and his shadow cast itself over Whiskey.

"So what are you making? It doesn't smell too good," Pizza leaned back against the wide frame, tilting his head.

"A simple vitamin drink for His Highness," Whiskey didn't look up as he measured out the next ingredient, "would you like some?"

"Nah, nothing healthy ever tastes good,” Pizza swung his legs and hopped down from his resting spot on the windowsill ledge into the room, “besides I could go for an ice pop right now.”

“Hm, seeing how I just lost my shade I require some rest too,” he settled the bright beakers onto the table as he adjusted the flame under a different one to a low simmer.

Pizza frowned, “Aw are you sure? I mean I don’t mind the sunshine on a hot day if you need to finish up.”

“Well one, there are curtains and two, you’re someone who doesn’t notice them.” Whiskey gave Pizza a polite smile and pointed behind the blonde.

“Hm? Oh! Yeah smart,” he pulled the curtains down to cover the window. The long fabric shuffled as the curling breeze shifted against them. When he turned back he saw the doctor resting on the couch, taking off his vest and unbuttoning his shirt at the chest. He quickly averted his eyes to the floor, however, Whiskey saw the shy reaction and chuckled.

“The heat hitting against your back must have made you dizzy, why don’t you come sit with me?” He watched as Pizza smiled back and walked over to sit beside him on the couch, leaning back into the cushions. He felt tired from the long afternoon and slanted into Whiskey’s side.

“Huh, wow you’re kinda frozen. That feels good,” he reached a hand over to hold Whiskey’s forearm, noticing it to be a chiller temperature than what was in the room.

“Yes, you could say that I’m cold-blooded,” he laughs, “or perhaps you need to cool down. You’re nearly running a fever, have you been drinking enough?”

“But I’m a food soul. We don't need actual food or drink, though they are yummy sometimes.”

“Here,” Whiskey leaned forward to the coffee table and poured out a glass of water. The remains of melted ice clanked on the glass as the water filled the cup. He presented the edge to Pizza’s lips waiting for the smaller food soul to part them.

“Ah thanks,” with a hand on Whiskey’s, he drank down the refreshing beverage as it was fed to him. Pizza pulled back after a couple of large generous sips, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He adjusted himself on the sofa to lay down on Whiskey’s lap.

“Oh?” Whiskey raised an eyebrow, “Sleepy?”

“Kinda, I hope you don’t mind but since you’re resting anyway, um, you’re comfortable. But if you need to get up I understand.” Pizza blushed as he looked up into the doctor’s eyes.

Whiskey took a moment and smiled. A grin grew on his face as he just petted Pizza’s hair and nodded. He laid themselves back against the couch, wrapping an arm around the shorter food soul. He thought to himself as time seemed to slow. He had all the time in the world, in which the only endpoint was his reunion with that person he lost long ago. He would use anyone and everyone to get them back. But that didn’t mean he denied being selfish as others in his position would defend, he embraced it as a part of himself. A good toy lasts a long time before it’s final use. He pondered upon that. He watched as Pizza’s chest rose and fell with each breath, slowing as he fell asleep.

However, something in the doctor’s heart twitched. As he ran his gloved fingers through that sunflower hued hair, he felt himself growing attached. The idiotic idea that he would ever love anyone else other than her stung at his chest in anger. He made a commitment no matter the cost that he would get her back. He had destroyed entire kingdoms, how was the food soul on his lap holding him back from experimenting on him then and there. He’s had numerous opportunities to take advantage of his easily earned trust; There was no rationale for playing his role for as long as he’s had.

Although, he wondered to himself that if he believed time didn’t move again until he had brought that special person back, then he could by theory work as slow as he wanted too. He could enjoy the food soul on his lap without rushing or a feeling of guilt that he was cheating on his true love.

With his mindset calm again, he carefully stood from the sofa making sure that Pizza was fully laying down on it. He turned off the flame from the beaker stand and with a pair of tongs he tossed it down into the dead garden below the window along with the other shattered beakers. The thick withered vines glowed for a moment before crumbling into ash.

The faint sound awoke Pizza, “Aw did another one break?”

“It happens,” Whiskey smiled in response, “why don’t we call it a day and acquire a late lunch together hm?” He settled the tongs back onto the table and began to clean up the area.

“Ha,” Pizza grinned, “More like an early dinner. But yeah! Anything’s fine really. I trust you.”

First of all, I always love catching up on your fics cause they're amazing. Second, do you think you could do a bit of a fic with the dogs and reader going on a camping trip? I feel like these idiots would fucking nearly die out in the wilderness alone 🙃🙃🙃🤣

first of all i adore u thank u odojdosdlaskj ♥♥

and yes i can!!! thats amazing LOL also i’m so so sorry this took so long!! i hope u like it bb :DDDD lots of love xxx

-

“Where’s the cigs? Where are my fuckin’ cigs?!” spits Mr. Pink, twisting and turning in the backseat, fumbling around trying to find the pack.

“Would you sit still?” sighs White from the driver’s seat, glancing at him through the lopsided rear view mirror. “Thought you quit, anyways?”

“I did.” He glares at Brown, who is squinting at his Gameboy. “Are you quite finished?”

…

Nothing. “Hello? Am I fuckin’ invisible?”

“Huh?” Brown mumbles, eyes fixated on the screen.

Slightly disgruntled, Mr. White turns to Pink, hands clamped on the wheel. “Can you just leave him to play on his video game and stop bein’ a little shit about it? Please?”

“A half hour. A half hour of that shitty Tetris playin’ over and over, so ex-fuckin-scuse me if it starts to grate!” Pink scowls, crossing his arms and rolling the window down. Sighing dramatically, he stares out of it, not a word more. 

“I beat my high score!” exclaims Brown, a few minutes later.

Orange turns around to him, his head between the two front seats. “Nice one, man. Gimme a turn now?”

“Sure,” he says, passing it over. Pink watches this from the corner of his eye, secretly wanting a turn, but he isn’t prepared to swallow his pride– not now, not ever.

“Hey, White, how long till we get there?” Brown asks.

“Uh… ‘bout an hour or so? Ain’t so sure, how long we been on the road?”

Brown checks his watch. “Forty-six minutes exactly.”

“Yeah, ‘bout an hour then, if the traffic treats us well.”

-

“How d’ya think Pink’s copin’ with Brown, then?” Blonde asks, a smirk present on his lips. He’s driving the other car accompanied by Mr. Blue and Nice Guy Eddie, and it’s a million times less drama-filled than White’s.

Eddie scoffs. “Fuck knows. Probably strangled him by now,” he says, and the three guys share a chuckle.

“You should give ‘em a call, I could use some entertainment.”

Eddie grins mischievously and pulls out his clunky-ass cellphone, dialling Mr. Pink’s number. “Hello??”

“Pink, it’s Ed. How’s it with you guys?” he asks, sharing a smirk with Blonde.

“It’s fuckin’ impeccable.”

“Less of the attitude, motherfucker.”

“Ask him how Mr. Brown is,” whispers Blonde, nudging Eddie.

“How’s Brown?” Ed sniggers.

“Don’t talk to me about that– that little retard!” Pink splutters, eyeballing Brown.

Eddie tuts loudly. “What did I say about the attitude? How far away are you guys, anyway?”

“I dunno, like an hour, White said earlier?”

“A’ight. Sive drafely, man.”

“What?”

Eddie sighs, smiling at Blonde. “Just don’t fuckin’ crash the car, okay? I’ll see you guys later.”

“Yeah. See ya.”

-

At least an hour and a half later, White pulls over, the wheels crumbling over the gravel. Mr. Orange flings the door open and jumps out, looking up at the trees towering over them. Rather than staying at a family-friendly campsite type of place, Eddie had opted for a slightly dangerous forest that a friend of Joe’s had recommended. There’s no sound of human civilisation to be heard, only the rustling of leaves and sweet birdsong, though White suspects that it wouldn’t be quite so uneventful when dusk arrives. “It’s so warm,” says Orange, taking off his leather jacket and chucking it on the passenger seat.

“It’s too warm,” Pink groans. “Christ, even my asscrack is sweaty.”

“Do you have to?” asks White, screwing his nose up in disgust. “We’re surrounded by all this beautiful nature and you’re talkin’ about your asscrack?” He places his hands on his hips waiting for Pink’s response.

“What do you expect me to do? Not tell you?”

White chuckles, defeated, and opens the trunk. “Jesus Christ. C’mon, help me get the tent out.” Despite Mr. Pink’s concerted effort in trying to convince Eddie to let him have his own tent (”I need fuckin’ privacy, come on!”), he had been unsuccessful. “I’ll share with Mr. Blonde, you share with Mr. Blue and Mr. Brown, White can share with Orange,” he had decided.

“Can’t he help instead? It’s boiling,” complains Pink, nodding at Brown– he’s slumped in the backseat with his head leaning against the car door and his mouth wide open, fast asleep.

“Nah, he’s sleepin’, leave him to it for a bit. I’m not havin’ you two bickering while we set up the tent.”

Pink huffs, scowling at White when he has his back turned, but helps heave the tent out of the trunk while Orange gets everyone’s belongings out of the car. White looks up at him with a smile. “Thanks, kid, just leave ‘em there.”

“Sure.” Just as he says this, the other car pulls up a little too close to Pink, who screeches when he almost gets run over. “What the fuck was that, man?!” he splutters, waving his arms about at Mr. Blonde.

“Oh, sorry, didn’t see ya there,” Blonde sniggers, stepping out of the car, the gravel crunching beneath his cowboy boots. Pink throws a dirty look and continues to help lay out the tent. “Where’s Brown?”

“Asleep,” Orange mutters.

“What’s up, fuckers?” bellows Eddie, striding out of the car and stretching. “Woah, fuckin’ beautiful here, huh?” he adds, admiring the scenery.

Blue emerges from the backseat, his hair a little fluffed up– presumably, he had been asleep for some of the journey. “Not bad here,” he remarks, whipping out his cigar and lighting it, his moustache furrowing.

It’s almost as if Mr. Brown has spidey-senses or something– at that moment, he had stirred, taking a minute to fully wake up. “Oh, hey guys!” he beams, knocking on the car window and waving at the other Dogs.

“Christ, here we go…” Pink mutters under his breath.

Yawning, Brown jumps out of the car. “How can I help? I wanna help!”

“By gettin’ back in the car?”

“Huh?” asks Brown, not catching what Pink says and marching over to White & Orange. After a LOT of bickering and arguing about how to put up the tents, the boys finally stand back and admire their handiwork. By now, the sky has turned a beautiful honey shade, the warm colours melting into one another.

-

“Where’s the damn food?” Eddie asks. All of the guys are sitting around a campfire that Blonde had managed to light (after a good round of arguing, obviously).

Blonde shrugs. “Thought Brown was s’posed to bring it?”

“Was I?”

If looks could kill, Brown would have been laying dead right then and there. Pink glares at him, not even blinking. “Yes,” he says through gritted teeth, “you were.”

Brown laughs nervously, six pairs of eyes on him. “No I wasn’t– you guys put me in charge of snacks.”

“Kid, we put you in charge of food. Y’know, as in the shit we’d hafta cook up & eat?” answers White, keeping his cool. “But what snacks did you bring?”

Brown jumps up and fetches his bag of food while the guys share pitiful glances with one another. “Uhh… Oreos, potato chips, some Wonka candy, Dunkaroos, cheese balls and… Hubba Bubba.”

“Hubba Bubba? You brought gum? That ain’t a fuckin’ snack,” Eddie scoffs, chuckling.

“I know, but it tastes good.”

“So what you’re sayin’ is you brought fuckin’ kiddie food,” Pink scowls. Although pissed off (it doesn’t take much let’s be honest), he snatches the cheese balls off of Brown and crams a few in his mouth.

Orange shrugs, leaning over and taking the Wonka candy. “I don’t care, this shit’s pretty good. S’better than nothin’.”

“Yeah. Pass me some balls, Mr. Pussy,” Eddie smirks.

To make things easier, Brown lays down a scarf of his (he had packed three, just in case) and carefully places all of the snacks on it. It’s a strange concoction, admittedly, but like Orange had said, better than nothing.

-

As dusk approaches, the sky is a deep purple and the wind rustles through the trees. It’s slightly eerie, but the atmosphere is light, so none of them really mind. They’re all still around the fire, now lying on blankets Brown had packed, sharing stories and having the occasional bicker. “Do you guys believe in werewolves?”

“What?”

The guys blink at Brown, who’s gazing up at the moon. He’s laying wrapped in his blankets with his hands behind his head. “I was just thinkin’ about An American Werewolf In L–”

“No, hold up. What the fuck does that have to do with our damn conversation?” Blonde demands, chuckling. He takes a drag of his cigarette and exchanges a smirk with Eddie.

“It doesn’t.”

“Christ, that’s my cue to leave. I’m tired,” Blue sighs, smiling to himself. “You guys are too much.”

“If you’re sure. Night, man,” Ed smiles. The other guys say goodnight and watch Mr. Blue disappear into the biggest tent (which, to be honest, isn’t so big). Blonde flicks the ash from his cig into the fire, his baby blue eyes lit up from the gentle flames.

Fidgeting slightly, Brown flops onto his back, putting his hands behind his head. “Camping is boring.”

“No, it’s fuckin’ dangerous is what it is,” Pink huffs.

White looks at him, nudging Orange with a smug smile. “Alright Mr. Expert, why’s it so dangerous?”

Pink sits upright and glares at him. “Well… well– what if a fuckin’ bear mauls us?”

“Be a fuckin’ miracle if he mauls you, that’s just about the only thing that’d shut your goddamn mouth.”

“Fuck you, man! I gotta take a squirt, where’s the bathroom?”

Pink looks across at Eddie, who shrugs. “How the fuck should I know?”

“Well where am I supposed to piss?”

“Blonde’s hair. Could use a wash.”

Vic drops his cigarette at the sound of this. A perfect opportunity to play-fight. “You’re a little bitch, anyone ever told you that?” he chuckles, pouncing on his chubby friend and tackling him to the ground, soiling that violently blurple windbreaker jacket of his. “I’ll piss in your fuckin’ mouth, ya little bastard!”

Eddie breaks into laughter, struggling to get Vic in a headlock as they tumble around. Meanwhile, the other guys are sat blinking at one another– it’s safe to say that random outbreaks of play-fighting between those two are a regular occurrence. “Brown, you come with me, I can’t deal with all this gayness. You need a piss too?” Pink sighs, grabbing a flashlight from his bag.

“Yeah, I guess we can do it on a tree.”

With that, the two saunter off to go find a spot away from the other guys, leaving Orange and White to deal with Ed & Vic. “You two fuckasses finished yet?” White pipes up, running a hand through his hair and earning a snicker from Orange.

Panting, Eddie breaks away from Vic, shoving him back down and taking a seat himself. He wipes his sweaty forehead with his sleeve, his cheeks rosy. “Think so. Think I won there, don’cha agree, Blondie?”

“I think I fuckin’ won, Edward.”

“Agree to disagree?”

“Bunch a queers, you guys,” Orange sniggers, nudging White.

“Oh yeah? What are you two then? You’re practically White’s twink!” Eddie retorts. He throws a couple of cheeseballs at them both as they all share a chuckle, the fire still crackling and throwing white-hot lashes at their skin. Sighing in contentment, he lays down (not bothered in the least about the dirty ground), gazing up at the sky– upon seeing this, the other Dogs do the same, admiring the masses of tiny stars. 

-

“HEEEELP!!”

…

“HELLO? AM I FUCKIN’ INVISIBLE? HEEEEELP!!”

Pink looks around in a panic, his head whipping from one direction to another. How the hell did they even manage to do this? ‘I swear,’ he thinks, ‘if I die here tonight I’ll make it fuckin’ known it was Brown’s fault.’

“Uh, Pink?”

“What?”

“Uh, technically if you were invisible they could still hear you, like, it’s in the name, man. Invisible? Like vision? So they’d still be able–”

Pink cuts brown off with one of his deadly glares. He’s impatient at the best of times, but they’d managed to get lost in the middle of a pitch-black forest at night-time with no cellphone, no way of contacting the others and, worse of all, stuck with Mr. Brown. Trying to keep calm, he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “Just help me yell for them, alright?”

“They should be able to hear, I mean, it’s not like we’re that far away.”

He scoffs, marching in what they assume is the direction they came in. “We wouldn’t have to yell if you’d have just listened to me.”

“Fuck you, man, I didn’t do anything!”

“‘Ooh, let’s take this fuckin’ turn,’” Pink mocks in a higher-pitched voice, waving his hands around, “‘Yeah, that’s really fuckin’ safe, why don’t we just get our dicks out and stick a sign there sayin’ ‘FREE FOOD’ for the bears to see?’”

Frowning to himself, Brown quietens down, trailing behind him like an ashamed puppy. He kicks a few twigs as he saunters behind Pink, wishing they could just get back already. After a couple of silent minutes (aside from the sound of wet leaves beneath their feet, the swishing of leaves in the night’s winds and the very distant smell of the smoke from their campfire), he speaks. “What if somethin’ bad happened to ‘em?”

“Shut up, nothin’ bad’ll’ve happened. Even if it has, they’ve got their guns. So shut up, they’re fine.” Although it’s in a snappy manner, it’s Pink’s best effort at showing a smidge of reassurance.

“If you say so, man. Sorry if I, uh, y’know, pissed you off back there.”

“Whatever, it’s nothin’. Just help me yell for ‘em, knowing those queer bastards they’re probably in the tents fuckin’ each other or some shit,” Pink scoffs, a slight smirk present on his face. It’s barely visible, but it’s there. A little more at ease, Brown manages a nervous chuckle and precedes to help his colleague holler for the other boys.

-

“Hey, what the fuck is this?! An orgy? We were fuckin’ stranded out there, didn’t you hear us yelling?”

Pink emerges from a few trees and stomps over to the campfire, a subtle shiver about him. Whether it’s from the temperature or the situation, the others can tell he’s shaken up. After a few seconds, Brown follows, looking equally as uneasy. “We yelled and yelled and none of you motherfuckers responded!” spits Pink, glaring at them all lying on their backs.

“Why are you guys lying like that?” Brown asks.

“Didn’t hear ya,” says Blonde. “Well, we did, but we thought it wasn’t important. You only went for a piss. A piss is a piss.”

White rests his head on his elbow, looking up at the two. “Did you get mauled by a bear?”

Pink scowls. “No.”

“So what’s the fuckin’ problem?”

“Fuck you guys, I’m goin’ to bed. Rather listen to Blue have a fuckin’ wet dream than be around you pieces’a shit. G’night,” he huffs, disappearing into the tent without another word.

“I think I’m gonna go to bed too, I’m tired,” Brown sighs. “And it was pretty scary out there. But it’s been a good night, thanks you guys.”

White smiles at him. “Thanks, kid. Have a good sleep.”

“Night, man,” adds Orange.

After exchanging a lot of goodnights with the other dogs, Brown crawls into the tent and, soon enough, the guys can hear him sleeping soundly– and by that I mean quietly snoring. “Don’t hafta see him to know his mouth’s wide fuckin’ open,” Orange jokes, looking across at the tent. He yawns, stretching out on his blanket. “I could sleep right here.”

“Yeah, me too, man,” Ed agrees.

“You guys are fuckin’ gay,” smirks Blonde, earning a slap on his cheek from Eddie. 

“Says the guy who tried to fuck me in Daddy’s office.”

“You little bastard–” Vic begins, a smile full of mischief appearing on his face. Two seconds later and they’re tumbling on the ground in a tangle of arms & legs while Mr. White & Orange sit watching, chowing down on some potato chips.

Orange leans in to speak to White, “I wish I’d have brought my camera, Joe’s reaction to this would’a been priceless.”

“Ah, that’s where you’re in luck, my friend,” White smirks, reaching over for his bag, “because I just so happened to bring my little Polaroid. Thought I’d never use it but I grabbed it on the way out just in case.” He hands it to Orange, who promptly squints into the viewfinder and snaps a picture. The second the flash goes off, both Ed and Vic’s heads snap round to look at the two laughing guys, utterly confused. 

“What the fuck are you two doin’? Did you just take a fuckin’ picture of us?” Eddie asks, eyes wide and curious. 

“Might have done.”

“Give it here, I wanna see if I look like a fatass.” Eddie scrambles for the camera, but Orange holds it out of his reach. Besides, White has the polaroid in his pocket. “Give it, motherfucker!”

Mr. Blonde is lying on his back now, hands behind his head and watching them squabble. “Forget it, Ed,” he says suavely, “you’ll look like a fatass either way.”

“Queer.”

“Asshole.”

The four share a chuckle, obviously not meaning anything by the bickering. With a yawn, Orange grabs a blanket and begins to stand up. “I’m fuckin’ exhausted, I’m going to bed. See you assholes tomorrow,” he snickers.

“I’ll join you,” White replies. “G’night, you two.” His laughter lines showing a little more after the night’s dumb escapades. He and Orange disappear into their tent as Vic & Eddie insult them goodnight. It’s quiet after that, the two remaining guys lying looking up at the stars, utterly mesmerised. The campfire crackles scarcely and, after hoisting blankets over themselves, the boys accidentally fall asleep in the midst of the night. 

-

OK RIGHT i’ve just finished writing this post but i think i’mma do it as a 2 part thing bc i feel like this is pretty long for one of my fics. like the next morning/travelling home etc will be in part 2 :) \DKLASJLKDA I WANNA GO CAMPING W THESE PRICKS NOW LOL

Ben and Felix (beginning draft)

The world shook at the seams as lightning thrashed down onto the jungle floor with a vengeful fury, setting grass and trees ablaze for a moment before the torrential rain put it out and ash mixed with the mud, creating a thick, unholy gloop. FX-G0711 was huddled in a cave with what was left with his squadron, each clutching their weapons with wide eyes and shaking arms. He wasn’t sure where the others were, but he prayed to whatever higher power there was that they were dead. FW-GO711 sidled up beside him and murmured “FX, we can’t stay here forever.” As much as FX hated to admit it, FW was right. They’d all witnessed first-hand that these tunnels tended to vomit out lava when a Bantam soldier stayed in its maw for too long. Humans always had a way to make them fight, whether they liked it or not. FX crept to the mouth of the tunnel and glanced out. The rain and thunder made it hard to tell if there was anything around, but he was pretty sure the coast was clear. He ducked back in. “Okay squad, lets move it!” He snapped “If we stay in here, we’re going to die. The coast outside is clear as far as I can tell, so I want you all to stick together. Try not to get separated.” He received various nods and murmurs of agreement from the others. He was glad they were following his orders so willingly. He wasn’t usually in charge but ever since FY-G0711 and FZ-G0711 died- No, he wasn’t thinking about that right now. He had a squad to lead. They were counting on it. “I hope that our fight ends soon, one way or another.” He said more gently, before turning and leading the way out of their save haven. Immediately FX’s senses were overwhelmed by all the noise and turmoil. He tried to stay sharp as he led his team through the thick jungle at a light jog, his boots almost getting lost in the mud every second step. He had no idea where they were or really where they were going, but he hoped it was the right way. There was a huge boom and an explosion of fire not far to the left of the group as lightning struck at the ground in rage. They all nervously veered away and continued their path. Every nerve in FX’s body was taught with stress before something finally happened. They saw another squad up ahead, a small one like theirs, just as wet and miserable as FX’s group. FX held up his fist to halt and smoothly shouldered his rifle. The others did the same. There was time. The hadn’t seen him yet, he could just slink away and pretend he had seen nothing. He had a choice… FX fired the first shot. In the following chaos of gunfire, FX’s mind was a blur. He had no idea who was winning or losing, all he knew was that he was alive, and he had to keep firing. Bang! One down, Bang! Two down. The fight was over almost before it began. FX gazed at the other squad’s bodies blankly before turning to his own group. There were several major injuries and two dead. FS-G0711 and FN-GO711. He sighed and looked away. “Who has the first aid kit?” He asked “We have to get these wounds treated now before they-“

KAPOW!

FX had no clue what had happened. There was a loud sound, and everyone went flying. FX felt an intense searing pain in his back before he landed on his belly and felt something in his chest snap. He gasped, struggling to breathe. He tried to yell out, but it just came out as a tired wheeze that he felt more than heard due to the intense ringing in his ears. His vision tunnelled, going black around the edges. Is this finally it? He wondered idly Is this what dying feels like? The pain had dulled right down to a background throb and FX sighed. Finally. Was the last coherent thought he had before everything went black.

“FX-G0711? Hey there bud can you hear me? Come on, wake up!” An overly cheery voice broke through to FX and he groaned, scrunching his eyes closed. “Come on buddy, you’ve been asleep long enough, up we get!” He mumbled something about his back, even he wasn’t quite sure what he said and opened his eyes. FX blinked a few times, his gaze assaulted by a bright, clinical whiteness surrounding him entirely. “There we go dove! You’re such a good patient, well done.” The chipper voice belonged to a nurse who was bustling about his bed, checking his vitals and adjusting the bedsheets. FX blinked a few more times before he found the ability to speak. “Where… What?” The nurse shushed him “Now, now doll, you’ve just woken up! Have a drink first hmm?” She handed him a tinfoil cup full of water and he grabbed it, only now realizing how thirsty he was. He gulped down the life giving liquid with reckless abandon that soothed his parched throat and wet his cracked lips. It was gone all too soon and FX sighed, handing the cup back. “Where am I?” He croaked “The last thing I remember was the Thunderdome and… Where’s my squad?” The room was closed off by a plain white curtain so he couldn’t see anything else. The nurse shook her head good-naturedly. “Right down to business huh? Well right now you’re in the Thunderdome recovery centre. You’ve been asleep a few days but that’s understandable considering the burns and the broken rib. That must’ve hurt right hon?” FX remembered “Yeah. What happened to us? Was it a bomb?” “No, just some rouge lightning. There were a lot of those, honestly I feel like the lightning won the game more than anything else!” She chuckled at her own joke, but FX didn’t join in. “Who won?” He asked, but he didn’t particularly care too much. “Oh it was that rookie fella. What was his name? Flynn Skylark I think.” FX grunted. It was all for nothing then. The other team won. He wondered how Tony was taking the loss. Hopefully he wouldn’t take it out on the Bantams too harshly. “It was pretty crazy” The nurse continued, unperturbed by his silence “Skylark lured Adams into a trap and took out all of his soldiers!” That got his attention. “I’m sorry, what?” “Oh yeah, no one saw it coming. Now Tony Adams has only a couple dozen Bantams left! He’s ruined!” FX felt the colour drain from his face. No… nonononono… words could not describe-! He felt his stomach tighten and he sagged in abysmal despair. “Oh no, what’s wrong honey?” the nurse fret “The medication wear off?” “Gone… They’re all…” He could barely think straight “Where’s my squad? Where are they?!” The nurse seemed taken aback “Um, well dearie there isn’t really an easy way to answer that one…” He growled and lunged forward, dragging her towards him by the front of her shirt. She yelped.

“Where. Are. They.”

“They didn’t make it! I’m sorry!”

FX let her, go, slumping back in defeat. She retreated from the room with a whimper.

All of them. Every single one. They’re all gone….

His squad. His brothers. He’d known them since the day he was born and now they were just… gone? Because of some fucking game?!

He wanted to scream, to kick and punch, but he just lay there. He was tired. So, so tired…

It didn’t take long for FX to drift off into a deep and dreamless sleep.

He stayed at the recovery centre for a few days, slowly but surely getting stronger and more alert. He never had the same nurse twice, and he never bothered to remember their names if they told him. He barely ate but drank a lot of water. He spent several afternoons staring at the scars on his back with the mirror he had been supplied with. “Honestly I have no idea how it even happened” One of the nurses said while unbandaging his back for the first time. This nurse was a male, which was uncommon but not unheard of. “I mean, there’s no way that lightning could leave scars that look like this, so something else must have done it. Maybe bits of wood from a tree? Either way, you’re back is permanently scarred.”

He finished taking off the bandage and held up a full-length mirror behind FX. He’d had to twist his head at an awkward angle to see it but when he did he gave a small gasp. There were a trio of ling angry scars raked diagonally across his back, one going from his left shoulder to his hip, and the other two mirroring it on either side, but not as long.

“At least you’ll have to admit,” The nurse commented hesitantly “It is a pretty cool scar.”

FX had turned away and put his shirt back on, crawling back into his bed without saying a word.

“Oh, okay bud. I’m going to get you something to eat, can you try just have a little bit of something today?”

FX said nothing.

It had been three days since and his back was healing nicely, along with his broken rib. He barely felt either anymore, for which he was glad. The nurses had wanted to keep him in recovery for a while longer but apparently Tony Adams was becoming… impatient and wanted all his Bantam soldiers back into is possession sooner rather than later. So today was the day that FX-G0711 finally went back to his cold an empty Toybox.

FX was presented with a fresh new uniform that morning to change into that smelt faintly of oranges that he gratefully changed into before he was ushered to the pickup section of the centre. It was a door that lead onto a large flat platform, like a helicopter pad but without the markings. There were railings on the sides of it but not the front and it looked over an unfathomably giant room. On the other side of the room, opposite to the centre were a set of plain white double doors. The rest of the room was also white and unfurnished.

FX looked around for anyone else, but he was completely alone. He gazed at the edge of the platform with longing, wanting nothing more than to just… take a few steps forward and-

But no. He couldn’t. If he killed himself, then the humans won. He was not about to let his brothers die in vain.

So, FX stood there, at attention, and waited for his fate.

And waited

…and waited.

It was nearing dusk before anything happened. FX, still at attention flinched as, with an almighty bang, the double doors at the end of the room flew open.

Tony stumbled in his eyes unfocused and his black suit rumpled. He was a heavy-set man, but not quite ‘fat’ with dirty blonde hair like straw, blue eyes and a thick, well groomed moustache. FX had only seen the man a few times in his life and each encounter had him feeling a pit of dread well up in his stomach.

Tony lurched forward, his gaze locking onto FX-G0711’s tiny form and looming over him. The man reeked of booze and smoke.

“Enjoy you’re vacation Little?” Tony asked, using the popular slur. “Cuz it’s over now.”

The subtle threatening tone hung over FX like a weighted fog but he didn’t answer, continuing to stare straight ahead with the blankest expression he could muster.

After a pause Tony snorted and gathered FX into a loose fist. The Bantam had to squash every instinct to struggle in his grasp and instead went limp, allowing Tony full control, just as he had been trained to.

“Goddamnit… forgot the damn... Toybox…” Tony muttered before stuffing FX unceremoniously into the pocket inside his suit jacket.

FX couldn’t help his small yelp at the sudden drop and landed on Tony’s keys. The unyielding metal jarred his legs and he stumbled backward into the other corner of the pocket among loose lint and a few mint wrappers. The pocket lurched and swayed jarringly with Tony’s every drunken step, making FX feel sick to his stomach before they had even gotten to the car.

The ride back home was short yet tense as FX felt his mind begin to spiral out of control. What was Tony planning to do with him? Would he be punished? Sold off? Tortured? The possibilities were endless.

He was jarred back to reality when Tony opened the car door and moved to what FX assumed was his front door. Adams fumbled with his keys for a beat too long before he found the right one.

(tbc?)

A New World Order (BB x NB AU) - Prologue

This is a repost from the story’s blog @anewworldorderseries ! If you like it so far, be sure to follow that blog, eventually, I’ll only post the chapters on there. 

Author’s Note: It’s finally out into the world! This is definitely the biggest writing project I’ve taken on (and stayed committed to) ever so, I’m so happy that it’s successfully made its way outside of my head and into actual words. Ever since Cal’s cameo in BB2, I needed these two groups to meet and it gradually turned into this epic crossover story. We also just need more time with the Nightbound crew in general since we didn’t get a book 2. All the open ends about the creatures in New Orleans really allowed me to experiment though and go outside the parameters the canon universe has. 

Get ready for epic narrative themes! I’ve managed to interconnect these two pretty well (maybe even too connected). You’ll also see a couple cameos of characters from two other books (well the modern-day vampire versions anyway) as well. I’ll also be posting these on my main blog @adrianadmirer so that more people will see it but, I created this blog just for the story since it’s such a big work. 

I just hope you love this story and these characters as much as I do.

Characters: Isabel Martinez (Bloodbound MC, mentioned), Zelenia Laskaris (Nightbound MC, mentioned), Alaric Laskaris (OC), Phoebe Laskaris (OC), Derek Laskaris (OC), Rheya (The First Vampire)

Rating: PG-13 (some mentions of violence)

Summary: An old threat has risen from the ashes and is ready to use their original purpose to enact it’s new diabolical plan while half a world away, the newly free Rheya realizes that her blessing of renewed life has come with a terrible curse. 

@endlesshero1122 , @kinda-iconic , @voseho , @something-in-red , @bloodboundsstuff , @lovemychoices, @mrsmatsuo, @galaxyside-0, @jlpplays1, @brightpinkpeppercorn, @desiree-0816, @tabithacarlisle, @shelley-parah, @ladykateofhousebeaumont, @ella-raines, @furiouscloddonutpeanut, @itlivesinpixelberry, @fluffy-cat-whisper, @strangelycami, @heatherfilliez, @edgaluten, @parrotdrama

(If you see yourself tagged its because you’ve liked a lot of my Bloodbound fics and/or you liked my previous Nightbound fic)

A nondescript black Range Rover pulled up to the curb outside of Rikers Island, the impressive structure a menacing presence in the pitch black of night. Pulling to a stop, the headlights shut off as the people inside waited. Not a sound could be heard, the silence stretched on endlessly into the night.

After several minutes, a tall muscular figure finally appeared around the side of the building, breaking into a sprint towards the car once the coast seemed clear. The windows rolled down as the dark-haired young man approached. 

“Get in son,” a male voice ordered, and the back door opened. 

Letting out a dry laugh he climbed inside, sitting between the two already there. “Hah, maximum security my ass.”

“Shouldn’t have had to bribe you out of there in the first place,” the older man said with a sigh. 

Age and height were among the only details that differentiated the two of them. 

Then, the brunette woman next to them cleared her throat. “I’m assuming the guards got the money?”

“Yes, aunt Phoebe.”

She nodded approvingly before checking the time on her expensive watch. “Good. Let’s make sure that Warden Daniels and Chief Mikalsen get theirs. Then, we won’t have anyone trying to get you back.”

The SUV came to life once more, driving off into the glittering city towards their destination. 

“Where are we going, Father? Home?” the young man asked, leaning against the cool window. 

“Briefly, just so you can change,” he responded. “Then, you’re headed to the airport.”

His son’s eyes widened and he tilted his head upright once more. “Already? Where to? Why?”

“We finally have our new headquarters finished, somewhere they’ll never be able to find. This means soon we’ll be able to launch a renewed attack on the vampires to wipe them out for good and we’ll be one step closer to our actual goal. You know from the letters what that is.”

This news proved surprising. “So soon? But...but the death of Balthazar...the destruction of the Mydiean compound...shouldn’t it have taken years to rebuild?”

It was his aunt who responded with a scoff, a smirk tugging at her painted lips. “Of course not. We have cutting edge technology, far greater than anyone has even anticipated. We had it stored in a secret location underground in case this very thing happened. The Order isn’t just back to normal...it’s even stronger now. Practically unstoppable.”

“That still doesn’t answer my question,” he retorted. “Where are you sending me?”

His father gave him a sideways glance. “New Orleans. For a while.”

This was met with an incredulous stare. “Why there?! Aren’t the bloodsuckers much weaker there than here? Do you not believe in me anymore?”

“I thought I told you never to question me, son,” his father roared, his face turning bright red even in the dimly lit car. Exhaling, he continued at a lower volume. “That’s exactly why both of us need to be here. We need more resources, more time to bend the public to our will. Besides, we’re not just worried about vampires anymore. There are...more monster species to worry about down there. Once we thought we eliminated years ago.”

He got his desired shock from his son who sat up. “What kind of...monsters? Like...the ones you used to tell me and Zelenia about when we were kids?”

The woman nodded. “Yes. Werewolves, witches, even the pesky Fae have rebuilt Lamrian to staggering heights and reestablished their connection to the realm. For us to succeed all of them must go. Including my daughter now that she’s chosen to embrace her half-breed nature.”

There was a brief silence. 

Then, the young man became animated once more. “Okay...well what about her...Isabel? You need me to kill her don’t you?”

“No Derek.” His father’s exclamation made the car interior vibrate. “You got caught, that’s why we’ve had to bribe have of the city’s officials to bust you out. We can’t afford to take that risk again, especially since we couldn’t get that protection order removed. Besides...now that she’s with them she’s too valuable now. We need her to be unharmed, at least for now. To break her, yes...cause then they’ll crumble. But, we don’t need human blood on our hands yet unless they get in our way.”

“But, I--”

“Stay away from her,” he ordered. “Or I will personally see to it that you are kicked out of The Order permanently. Understood.”

The young man simply nodded, his jaw clenched. 

“Excellent. I don’t want to disinherit my only heir.” He let out a low chuckle, his foul mood from seconds earlier now gone. “Not when they’ve done our dirty work for us. Now that the First Son, our dear fraud of a leader is dead, we can move on from this self-righteous talk and take power for ourselves just like we were destined to do from the beginning. If we’re the ones to prove humanity is superior, it’s only fair that we get rewarded.”

A slow smile eventually spread on the young man’s face, the two of them hauntingly alike. “I won’t let you down, not this time.”

“I’ll guarantee it.” 

An equally diabolical grin covered the dark-haired woman’s face, her blue eyes shimmering as she caught her reflection in the mirror. “We are so close Alaric. Soon, everything will be ours. Balthazar was right about one thing, there will be a new world order. Ours.”

They continued to drive further into the dark night, the glow of the city fading into the background once more.

...

Meanwhile, half a world away in rural Europe, it was anything but peaceful as dozens of terrified cries reverberated through the small village. The sun broke through the gray clouds like a harbinger straight from the heavens. 

A mysterious woman tore through the panicked townsfolk, her irises just as red as the blood that dripped down her silky skin. For her, this was just a normal hunt, the muscle memory that was still needing to be exercised. She didn’t know anything else, that she could do something other than kill. So she turned off her humanity, bared her teeth and consumed without another thought. 

“Sorry,” she murmured with a cackle as she ignored all of the begs for mercy. “It’s just...being trapped for a couple of millennia really makes you hungry.”

She continued her bloody mid-morning feast, her mind on autopilot as her victims collapsed one by one until she found herself draining a tiny neck belonging to a little boy. As the sweet liquid flooded her veins, her gaze lingered on the child, no older than six and slowly her thoughts came back to her. Realizing what she was doing, she abruptly tore her fangs from where she had latched on as the boy began to weaken in her arms, his eyes fluttering shut as he hovered on the edge of living and death. 

A sudden pang of remorse overwhelmed her. Something about killing someone so young had allowed a sliver of the humanity that had been buried when the priestess was sentenced to die thousands of years ago to peek through. At this moment, she wasn’t a predator who only thought about blood. She was simply Rheya.

Beginning to panic, she came to the realization that there was only one thing she could do to stop the boy’s decline now. 

She ignored the horrified audience watching and cut a slit in her wrist, feeding the gold-flecked blood to the boy. Then, she carried him into the dense woods behind the village, leaving the few survivors of her massacre alive. 

Rheya laid the child against a tree and struggled to perform the necessary rituals as morning turned into afternoon and then dusk. As she sun slipped beneath the trees she was startled by a low growling sound. 

Whirling around, a scream erupted from her lips as the boy’s pale skin was quickly rotting into a sickly gray and his blonde hair wilted and fell away as two fangs protruded from his mouth. What was meant to be saving his life was turning into a nightmare. She had barely any time to process what was happening when the boy leaped up with a terrifying hiss and lunged for her suddenly almost as powerful and quick as she was. 

He had to die. 

If not he was surely going to harm her, maybe even kill her when she had just come back to life. Swallowing she on instinct broke a branch off of one of the trees and as he came back for a second attack slammed it into the tiny ribcage. The boy let out a loud groan as the gray skin cracked all over before he finally turned into a pile of ash. 

Rheya stared at the remnants of him as her breath came out in loud gasps. For the first time since becoming a vampire, she felt fear and panic. She didn’t know what that creature he became was but, she didn’t need to in order to realize that she had done this. She quickly connected it back to her resurrection and horrified anger coursed through her. This was supposed to be a blessing yet the ability she cherished most...turning others to become her descendants...had been taken from her. 

Her gaze hardened with resolve and she furiously stabbed the branch into the ground with a growl. Then, she stomped out of the forest, not knowing where she was going but with a new purpose. 

She had to figure out how to lift this curse, whatever it took.

expiration date, part 2 ‘shed no tears for the dead’

wakes in valluria are never black and never covered in tears. water must never be given for dead things

jaewon steps off his ship dressed in ritualistic garb, long white wrap-around garments, pants that require ten strings to hold fast, a cloth sitting heavily over his shoulders, draped around his tattoos and branding, covering the scars on his body except for his forearms, the ends of it flowing off him and trailing behind him as though he himself were made of wind, formed from winter, a son of the sun, bright and blinding. his hair and mouth are covered in more fabric, the tails of which tuck down into the rest of his ensemble, parts of it tight, others loose, the designs modeled after what the ancients must have assumed death looked like. he strides slowly down the cargo bay landing door, looking like someone from thousands of years ago, eyes dulled but steady, a low smoldering gaze hooded beneath heavy, long eyelashes.

three days have gone by at a break-neck pace, jaewon’s ship breaking all sorts of interplanetary space-travel laws to get to the desert planet on time, all throughout which, her captain barely speaks, barely eats, sleeps even less. three days have gone by and he is devoid of thunder, no color to speak of, the kaleidoscope of his temper landing flat like a base note, a monotone, broken only by the extensively higher rate of cigarettes he’s taken to inhaling, seemingly always lighting one up or snuffing it dead, going through more than three pack in a single day. he answers nothing about the funeral, nothing about vera, nothing about valluria, except to say they’ll only be there for a day and a night and they leave again at first light. and if anyone wants to attend, he won’t stop them.

he is not himself and he doesn’t try to be, doesn’t try to extend out, arms reaching, voice calling, burning like the head of a lighthouse, the way his crew is used to seeing him do, doesn’t try to hear them, see them, understand them; much like the ghosts who latch themselves to his wrists, his shoulders, his back, he wanders through the ship in the middle of the night, reminiscently disembodied, disengaging with anyone who attempts to get too close, to ask too many questions, want for too many details.

he tries to keep himself busy, but his mind always returns back to that same white-noise place, where a thousand memories squeeze and crush themselves inside his head, a thousand images flashing at once.

when the ship lands, kyoji meets him, gives him the proper attire necessary for his position in the wake, neither of them speaking much to each other. they gather with the others a short walk away, previous crew members who are happy to see jaewon, albeit not under these circumstances, the group of them heading towards the fringes of the lowkey city, where the dusts and sands swirl together in miniature tornadoes, the sun howling down on them all. he’s missed these people, these half-hidden faces, all older than him, congratulating him on surviving as long as he has, using the name “rat” synonymous with “friend.” they all know a piece of him, of who he was as a child, of who he can’t indulge any longer with the crew he’s with now, asking him just what you’d expect of old friends catching up on each other in hushed voices as they make their journey; has he married yet? still a grenade of a boy? how’s the ship, is she still flying true? still as beautiful as ever, despite the loss of her first love?

somewhere in the distance behind him, he can almost hear serenity crying for vera— figures one of them ought to be.

the arrangement is simple: kyoji and jaewon, named as family, sit at the forefront, dressed the same, kneeling in the sand, facing east while the sun looms along the western hemisphere, while behind them, everyone else kneels the same way, all in the same color, all with the same sentiments, and for the duration of the funeral, turning to the west is taboo. before the gathering is a single flat, square stone, noticeably grey a few centimeters above the sand; beyond it an altar, stone and incense, burning vallurian brews and spices, creating the inescapable scent of cinnamon, three shamans, and a large pyre with a corpse-sized box atop it.

they burn her body, the fire raging higher than anything jaewon’s ever seen before, but can still somehow relate to it, eyes caught in the flames, the cackling of the heat sending him into a daze for most of it. he listens to the shamans’ song, the holy rite passed for her spirit, the ghoul of her life collapsing down into dust inside the coffin held high away from them, and something inside him wants to be able to see it. to see vera, to come closer to her, to comfort her— as though she might be scared trapped inside that enclosure, as though he could hold her arm the same way she had held his every time he’d come to her, broken from nightmares and memories and demons.

illaia….. illaia…..

the word repeats itself over and over inside his head and he has to fight against the lump that keep rearing up in his throat, fight against his own heart breaking itself against his ribs, fight against the urge to stay here, rooted to the dunes of his homeworld. the wind kicks up the sands against his clothes but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink, doesn’t sway. we are born of the desert, kyoji once told him, we are as much earth and stone and sky and light as we are flesh and bone; we do not let anything overtake us.

finally, the fire simmers out, the collection of her ashes and remains compiled, and they call him forward, initiating the next phase of the wake: the jan’hazal. jaewon swallows and inhales, bringing himself up, steeling himself against the tremble in his legs, the wavering of his soul, reminds himself he must be mountain, he must be lightning. he’s not ready for this, he doesn’t want to say goodbye, doesn’t want to give her up, doesn’t want to be here at all right now, inhaling the dusk, but he stands anyway and approaches the grey stone, shoulders back, the line of him tall and straight and shining. the way vera taught him to be.

he turns towards the west, the setting sun casting long, orange lines across his clothes, coloring him in the shades of his surroundings, of his history, of his people, and kneels down again on the stone, his arms outstretched for the shamans to unwrap his headdress and shirt off him, revealing his face, head, torso, and arms. blonde hair whips against his forehead and ears, sand scratching against his skin, but he doesn’t move, gaze locked on the setting sun as the mourners before him watch. two of the shamans begin painting his face in red dust, his neck, his shoulders, regardless of the scars or tattoos embroidered on him, a testament to the fact that no matter what else he does to his body, above and below the flesh, these sands will always remain on him.

the third shaman stands before him a few feet away, eyes black, features somber and serious, the urn in his grasp, and jaewon already knows this rite. “you have been named as the vigilant. you understand this.”

“i understand this,” jaewon answers.

“you are to take the remains of this woman into the desert. you are to ride an hour to the west, chase kalidasa until you can follow no more, until all light leaves the sky. you understand this.”

“i understand this.”

“you will stop. you will bring body and dust together, allowing her to rejoin the sands from whence she came, so that she may unite with her lineage, so that her essence will once again flow with the darkened waters of the world below, where all time stops. you understand this.”

“i understand this.”

“you will wait there throughout the night, you will keep vigil for her passage. vanashim the great witch, the howler, will come to you to tempt you with exhaustion and with hunger. you must not surrender. take nothing, believe nothing. keep your watch. you understand this.”

“i understand this.”

“when kalidasa returns to the sky, travel to the east and return. remember, young vallurian… shed no tears for the dead. you understand this.”

“i understand this.”

finger-painting finished, jaewon stands and receives the urn, small, hot, white, pretty unassuming considering the storm of a woman it used to be, and is re-wrapped in his headdress, torso still bare, red skin still on display. they lead him to a hovercycle and he gets on it, securing the urn, securing his footing, securing his lungs, his heart, his hands. don’t break. gold eyes flicker back to the rest of the still-seated mourners for only a moment, a strike of weakness, uncertainty, fear, dread, pain.

and then it’s gone again, shoved down into the corners of him as he clenches teeth tightly, eyes sharpening to knives, pinned on the horizon. white-knuckles grip the handlebars, the engine revving as sand spews outwards, the machine launching him into the dimming orange sunlight.

*****

the night is long and dotted with bright stars, smoke gathers around chimney tops in this sleepy desert town, some of the older crew rally to reminisce in taverns and bars, between beers and laughter, stupid stories about vera in her youth, about jaewon as a pre-teen, about the days when the skies were clear and much less charted, much less ruled, the edges of space still mysterious, still full of dragons and whirlpools, the days of real pirates, real deep-space hauntings. they sing old glory days songs, forgetting some of the words, making up others, they remember their last conversations with vera, their last goodbyes to the ship, their last voyages out into the black.

it is a night for endings, a night for expiration dates, everything letting down, the dust settling, the sands breezing, the air still scented with spices. there are glows that follow footsteps in the streets, lighted beacons to warm serenity as she sits and keeps watch, facing the desert still, facing the long edge of the world still, rigid and calm. everyone else tucks away their tabs of life, tucks away this chapter, says goodbye in their own small or large way, to a woman who’d always somehow managed to be stronger than anything that challenged her.

and only serenity sits and listens to vera’s son, the scarred boy, screaming into the dark, miles and miles away, the broken boy, tearing at the sands for all he’s lost.

*****

when the captain returns to his ship at first light, as promised, he is dusty, sandy, messy, and golden, the dunes of valluria having painted the bare skin of his chest bronze, the red paint on his face chipped, smudged, already half worn off. no shirt still, but the cloth for his headdress is slung over his shoulder as he strides through the metal gate, lips chapped and solidified downwards into a permanent frown, his brows heavy and dark, gold eyes blazing and resentful, the sun in him scorching and exhausted. he wants a damn shower and a cigarette, he wants to get back to his job, he wants to get off this world— this world that has seeped into his bones, dried him free of blood, fused itself to his life unwanted, each mountain his birthmark, each city an open, gaping wound.

he cannot cry, so instead he burns. he burns the same way everyone on valluria burns.

with a fist, he hits the intercom that connects to the bridge. “captain on deck. get us the hell off this planet.”

Dusk (1)

Feat. BTS

[Sirens note: Warnings for this chapter are as follows; mentions of violence, swearing, & weapons (including guns, stakes, crossbows, & a silver dust/stake bomb)]

Pairings: None

Genres: Action, fantasy, horror; vampire hunter au

Word count: 1,412

Trash litters the sides of the alley, the multitude of bags piled high and precariously. A man rounds the corner and scans the next alley with suspicion. He and three others were scouting the area and so far had turned up empty handed. Something that didn’t match the pattern their reports had shown for weeks. He clicks the walkie sewn into the cuff of his jacket and speaks. “Namjoon & Jimin, can you hear me?” The crackle of quiet static spills from the receiver for a minute before a response comes through.

“Namjoon here, what is it?”

“Something isn’t right about this. We aren’t encountering anything and the air feels… off somehow. Is Jimin with you?”

“No, last I heard he’d cleared his sector and was headed to you. You’re our rendezvous point. I’ve got one more block and then I’m backtracking to you.”

“Be careful. Like I said, something isn’t right out here.”

“Is your spidey-sense tingling or something?” A laugh rings out and the man clamps a hand over the walkie speaker to muffle it. “Look, Taehyung, I’m sure it’s nothing. Maybe they’re all sleeping or they moved on to another sector. Just keep scouting and we’ll meet up with you soon. Signing off.”

With that the walkie goes silent. Taehyung sighs quietly and weighs his options. He can wait for backup from the other two or he can finish scouting on his own. Normally the choice would be easy, but tonight he can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. The heavy thump of a figure on tin yanks him from his thoughts in a violent whirl. He swiftly pulls the stake from his jacket- the heavy silver giving him slight comfort as the scuffing sound of shoes on dirt reaches his ears and a hand lands on his shoulder. Muscles primed, Taehyung spins and snaps the stake forward in a fluid movement.

He misses by mere inches.

“What the fuck, Taehyung!”

“Me? Jimin, I almost staked you! What the fuck were you thinking sneaking up on me like that?” He scowls at the other man as he raises his hands. “I could have killed you!”

“Okay, so sneaking up on you was a bad move. I’m sorry. Just trying to liven things up a little and test your reflexes.” As Taehyung’s scowl worsens, he adds on, “Namjoon said you were on edge tonight. I didn’t realize it was serious. I really am sorry.”

“Let’s just finish our route and get back to base, ok? Side by side formation.” He starts off, the silver chain in his ear swinging. To be honest, Taehyung was always on edge. Some nights were just worse others. “Have your weapon ready just in case.”

“You got it.”

The duo walk down the alley and round another corner, squeezing between a massive dumpster and the edge of the wall.

“Who the hell blocks off an alleyway with a dumpster?” Jimin grumbles, brushing dark hair from his eyes as he sidles out after his companion. “Tae-“ He slams into Taehyung’s back, the blonde surprisingly having the effect of a brick wall in terms of impeding movement.

“This is wrong. We need to go back to base. Now.”

Jimin steps around Taehyung and scans the dead end alley. About thirty yards behind them is a chain-link fence with garbage bags piled on either side and about twenty yards ahead of them lies a solid brick wall with a child crouched in front of it. The child is wearing a pink dress smudged with dirt and seems to be no more than six or seven from the sound of their voice.

“Jimin, don’t.”

“It’s a child, Tae. We’ll check her for wounds and take her back to base until we can find her family.” He tucks his gun- loaded with silver bullets dipped in holy water- into his belt with the safety on and approaches the girl. “Hey there, it’s ok. We’re going to help you. Are you lost?”

The girl whispers something Jimin can’t quite catch and he walks closer, noting that the little girl seems rather calm despite her cries.

“Jimin,” Taehyung’s voice hisses out a warning.

“Not now, Taehyung. What was that, sweetheart?”

“I said,” the angelic voice ceases it’s hiccups when he stands around two feet away. Her voice now sounds calm and cold as ice. “You’re going to die, Hunter.”

“Bait.” Jimin whispers, eyes wide in horror as he grabs his gun and switches the safety off. “Taehyung, she was bait!”

“Yeah, that’s what I was trying to tell you. She’s the least of our worries right now.”

“What are you- Oh. We’re in trouble.” Jimin looks up, gun still trained on the vampiric child, to the crowd of vampires gathered on the roof of the wall behind her. “Hey, Tae, what formation do we use now?”

A thwack rings in the silence that follows, the whiz of the bolt flying by replaced with an unearthly shriek as one of the vampires explodes into flames and ashes.

“Run and gun. Got it!” He fires the gun and turns, sprinting full speed to Taehyung as the vampire child screams in pain and rage. “Shoot and go!”

The blonde waits until Jimin sprints past before firing another bolt at the vampire in the lead, who subsequently catches the two behind him on fire as he explodes. Taehyung slings his crossbow over his shoulder and sprints after Jimin, nearly skidding past him when he slows near the corner they came down.

“Not getting out that way. Gotta hit the fence!” He grabs Jimin by the back of his jacket and shoves him ahead as they run and turns to fire again as he leaps for the fence. “Climb fast, Jimin!”

He fires another bolt, nicking one who stays intact and snarls in renewed rage. A bullet whizzes by, catching a solitary one in the forehead but buying Taehyung some time. He slings his weapon again and climbs the fence with adrenaline-fueled speed. Flipping over in sync with Jimin and landing on the trash bags piled high on the other side. The both of them roll until they hit pavement and keep running.

“- the hell aren’t you guys answering?”

“Namjoon!” They yell in unison, hitting their walkies at the same time. “New rendezvous point!”

“Where are you?” Jimin yells raggedly into the walkie. “It was a trap. We got away and just crossed the halfway point in sector six but they’re still tailing us.” He fires behind him- a blind warning shot and the pursuit drops back again.

“I’m in sector four, right on the edge where it meets five. We’ve got a dust & stake bomb set up to a tripwire. It’s at the halfway point so make sure you jump it when you get there.”

“Yoongi’s going to be pissed. It took him three months to make that!”

“Look, your options are: trigger the trap and deal with Yoongi being pissed off for a day, maybe two. Or, death by vampire horde. Do you really want to be eviscerated by vampires guys?” Silence. “Didn’t think so. See you guys in twenty.”

“Man, these suckers have a ton of energy. How can they keep going when I feel like I’m going to collapse?”

“Because they’re vampires. ” Taehyung yells, pushing Jimin around the final corner in sector five. “Quarter. Quarter and a half. Wire, jump!”

The two of them leap over the wire and keep going until they hit sector four sprawling in the dirt six feet past the edge as a tall figure, Namjoon, scurries up from their side. He grabs the both of them by their jackets and pulls them up off the ground as the horde hits the tripwire.

They stare as the dirt around and underneath their enemies explodes, silver stakes flying into the center of the street as silver powder shoots from guns set up along all sides. In a matters of minutes, the horde is decimated. The street covered in a mix of smoldering remains.

“Damn. Yoongi deserves an award for that one.” Namjoon says as he scans the area before turning and starting off in the opposite direction.

“He’s gonna be so mad.” Jimin adds mournfully as he turns away, Taehyung following suit as they all begin the slow trek back to base.

“Hey guys?” Taehyung calls with uncharacteristic cheerfulness, slinging his arms around the other two as they both look at him. “I fucking told you so.”

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 11 - A Struggle Just Beginning

The winter of 9:31 Dragon draws to a bitter close. Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, hero of the people, has revealed a string of secret letters between King Cailan and Empress Celene of Orlais. The specifics are unclear, but suspicion of Orlesians run deep, and there are always those willing to take advantage of political scandal. Declaring the king unfit to rule, Loghain has retreated to his southern stronghold in Gwaren, with Queen Anora by his side. Fear and greed threaten to tear Ferelden apart. In Denerim, Cailan busies himself with maps and battle plans, hoping to stem the tide of blood before it can start. In the Arling of Edgehall, King Maric’s bastard son fights against the rebels flocking to the traitor’s banner, determined to free himself from the shadow of his royal blood. And in Highever, Rosslyn Cousland, bitter at being left behind, watches as her father and brother ride to war, unaware of the betrayal lurking in the smile of their closest friend.

Words: 2696 Chapter summary: In the aftermath of Highever’s defeat, the mood is grim.

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

Twelfth Day of Guardian, 9:31 Dragon

Darkness fell slowly over the redoubt at Deerswall. A grey day into a formless dusk into a black night lit only by greasy torches that spat at the drizzle. It made things easier in a way; soldiers huddled out of the cold, unwilling to disturb the Canticles sung for the dead, even if there were few with enough heart to listen to the Maker’s words. Instead, they sat in closed-off circles around their campfires, trying to ignore the stench of smoke from the pyres clinging to their hair. They drank from shared flasks as they played Gammon, with their cloaks tucked in at the corners to prevent draughts, and with their weapons within easy reach, waiting for orders that some grumbled would not come.

After all, few had seen the Lady of Highever since she had marched out of the funeral in the middle of the revered mother’s litany, teeth gritted and knuckles white on the hilt of her father’s sword. Since then, she had been seen walking beyond the encampment into the murk of the forest with only her mabari at her heels. The guardsmen sent in after her had yet to return.

Some said she had gone to find a place where water and earth ran together, in the old Alamarri way, to find wisdom among stones and trees that came from an older source than that approved by the Chantry – to find gods who kept faith with those who gave it. As her absence lengthened, however, the rumours grew darker. Perhaps she had simply abandoned them, using the weather and the thickness of the forest as a cover to escape the weight of duty. Those with least faith muttered that she had gone to make peace with Howe, and had betrayed them all.

Such uneasiness penetrated even into the ring off officers’ tents, pitched on raised ground in the middle of the camp. Before the end of the Orlesian occupation it had been designed as the foundations to a grand castle that never saw completion, but now Teagan’s quarters spilled light and warmth over the stones, the mood inside deliberately easy and filled with the comfort of crackling braziers and snoring dogs. He hosted two of his captains, the only members of his senior staff who had so far returned from the tasks assigned at the war meeting that morning. At his elbow was a decanter of brandy, and across the table, maps were spread with annotations and potential actions that had yet to be finalised, but the conversation had long since moved on from official matters.

“She blames herself, poor girl,” sighed Captain Astillo, who had inherited his dark eyes and good humour from his Antivan mother.

Next to him, the short, broad-shouldered Captain Rothby harrumphed. “We can’t afford that. She’s the only thread holding Highever together. Without her, we might as well rename the place ‘North Gwaren’ and have done.” She tipped her head back and drained her glass, exposing the knife scar that cut a diagonal line down her throat.

“No doubt that was Loghain’s plan,” Teagan replied quietly. When he tilted his glass, the amber liquid in it shimmered and caught the firelight. “He chose an effective pawn in Howe – I remember his ambition, but this… nobody could have seen this.”

They fell silent. The march from Highever had consumed any spare thoughts about what happened, but now, a safe distance away from their enemies and with nothing left but time for reflection, the brutality of the Couslands’ fate could finally settle, which was the point. Teagan had known Bryce and Eleanor personally from time at court, had found Fergus to be level-headed and his wife charming, and had no doubts about their son, though he had never met the boy. They had not deserved such deaths.

“Never a bad word came out of the North,” Rothby said, as if she had read his thoughts. “Nought was said about Bryce Cousland that wasn’t that he kept his people fed and his lands prosperous.”

Astillo nodded. “I saw them at Denerim, at the siege, you know? I was just a sergeant at the time. We’d cleared the walls of Feathers, and all that was left was the battle in the harbour – and the Mistral came about from behind a tower, cutting the water like summer swift, and you’d never seen anything so fine.” He smiled and reached for the decanter so he could refill the empty glasses, then raised his own. “To the Soldier and the Seawolf,” he declared. “Maker rest them.”

In the corner, Alistair lifted his head from the disciplinary report he had been reading. He was content to stay out of the way and unnoticed by Teagan’s officers, but hearing them talk about the Couslands only brought back how fragile Rosslyn had looked when he had last seen her, forehead crumpled, lip chewed to bleeding, with her knuckles white on the pommel of her sword. She had thanked him for bringing her the maps and supply list she had asked for that morning, and her frown had softened at his offer to get her anything else she needed.

“Still taking care of me?” she had asked.

“Well, it gets me out of the barracks.”

He regretted such a joking tone now, but at the time, he had been at a loss to better express his desire to help. He remembered the crack in her voice when she had revealed her father’s fate to her soldiers, and how she had sat tall in her saddle regardless, and kept her gaze on the horizon ahead.

He blinked away the image and forced himself back into the present.

“…her inexperience will make people uncertain what to expect. The mood among the men isn’t good,” Teagan was saying.

“She’ll show us her mettle, sure as snow in winter,” Astillo countered.

“As long as she shows it soon, or there’ll be nobody left to see it.” Rothby shook her head so that wisps of ash-blonde hair fell in her eyes. “Highever’s put a shock through everything. To destroy it so completely… It reeks of the Game to me, more than anything His Majesty may or may not have done with their empress – I’m no politician trading words across borders so I can’t speak for that. But without Couslands to stand against him, Loghain would have no uniting force to take him on if King Cailan died, not without another heir to the throne.”

Alistair shifted in his seat, ducking his head to avoid the look Teagan sent his way.

“Bah! Politics!” Astillo scratched at the silver edge of his neatly trimmed beard. “It does nothing but make cowards of honest soldiers.”

He reached out for the decanter again, but before he could offer more brandy around the table, his hand was stalled by a growing commotion from beyond the tent, out of place for the time of night. Voices welled in anger, then seemed to find a rhythm in the way random applause finds a pulse. With a worried glance at Teagan, Alistair rose from his chair and went to investigate, slinging a fleece-lined cloak around his shoulders as he traded the warmth of the tent for the damp Guardian night.

He didn’t have to go far into the common ranks to find the source of the disturbance. At the edge of the parade ground a clump of soldiers heaved against the dim torches in a single mass of shouting, cursing shadows. Surrounding them were stragglers who, like him, had emerged from shelter to find out what was going on, calling to one another over the din in obvious confusion as they were drawn towards the fight. Alistair grabbed the closest by the arm.

“Go find Ser Gideon,” he ordered.

The young soldier blinked, surprised at being addressed directly, but when she recognised Alistair she shot him a crisp salute and dashed away to find the commander of Rosslyn’s house guard. Some of her officers were already in the fray, and as he approached Alistair could see that they were beginning to get people under control. The chanting was dying away into a ring of silent spectators, and all that was left of the actual brawl was a small group of men locked together despite best efforts to separate them.

Eventually the last two combatants were ripped apart and stood panting, one with a split lip and the other sporting a bloody nose, while the officers holding them kept wary holds on the soldiers’ tunics.

Rosslyn’s cavalry captain stepped between them, her arms outstretched in a warning that belied her slight figure.

“That’s enough,” Morrence snapped, rounding on the younger of the two, who wore a cavalry uniform - the soldier who had been tied to Rosslyn’s backafter the escape from Glenlough. “I expected better from you, trooper. You’ll go on a charge for this.”

“But Captain, he called Lady Cousland a coward!”

“No more’n what’s true!” his opposite spat. “Bitch might’ve taken you up in Wythenwood, but she left my brother to die on the road like a dog. She abandoned her place and now she’d have us sit here like old biddies – or maybe we’ll all just run away again, and again, until there’s nothing left of the North!”

“Sergeant, take that man’s name,” Morrence growled.

But the comment had roused the crowd again. They pressed forward, jeering at the reprimanded soldier, and Alistair was pushed out by the sheer weight of people in front of him.

“Fuckin’ sot!” someone called. “Diven’ ye have enough brains to realise the lady saved your life too?”

“We’re Cousland’s men!”

“Being a Cousland doesn’t give a lass the balls for knifework,” another voice retorted. “Couldn’t even stick a lot of traitors, and now we’re stuck with ‘em! And we’re not listenin’ to any mongrel knife-ear, neither!”

The words sparked an angry hiss around the circle, loyalists searching for the source of the treacherous comment while others murmured their uncertainty. Morrence’s cheeks darkened but she held firm as three of her lieutenants dived cursing into the throng to drag the offender out into the open. At the other side of the circle, Alistair finally broke through the line.

“The next soldier to throw a punch gets twenty lashes!” he barked. “The one after that – thirty!”

Recognising him, the soldiers quieted, but the threat did nothing to dispel the tension, and the realisation that all of that hostile energy was now directed at him made his palms sweat. He glanced at Morrence, who waited with luminous eyes to see what he would do.

Right then.

He cleared his throat, tried his best to glare. “You all know the rules. Brawling in camp will not be tolerated, and neither will dissent. You are to follow your orders and save your strength for the battlefield.”

The soldier who had started the fight spat on the ground again, muttering. “If we ever get to see one.”

Both Morrence and Alistair turned to confront him, but before they could do anything but open their mouths, a sharp voice rang out over the assembled company.

“What’s going on here?”

The crowd scurried apart with a startled murmur. Rosslyn’s tall figure loomed out of the night, wrapped in shadows, with the torchlight glinting on the rain-matted strands of her hair. As she prowled forward, the ragged edges of her appearance became easier to spot – the aurum greaves stained from kneeling in the mud, the streaks of grime on her face cut across by tear-tracks. Her poise, however, remained absolute, that of a basalt cliff determined to stand in spite of the sea. Alistair felt something unpleasant snake in his gut, remembering the bright young woman who had shared her breakfast with him only a few days before.

Her glare was focussed on the soldier who had started the fight, her brows drawn into a fierce scowl that shadowed her eyes. “Do you have something to say to me?” she asked him. “Well?”

The soldier glanced to the mabari at her side, then to her sword, and then as high as her chin before his nerve failed and he fixed his sight on her boots instead. “No, my lady.”

“No,” she repeated slowly. “Hm. And what about the rest of you?” Her eyes slashed through the crowd, sharp as flint. “Do any of you have the courage to say to my face what you were shouting behind my back?”

Some shuffled their feet or stole looks at those next to them, but none spoke, and none would meet her gaze. Rosslyn waited, but when nobody stepped forward she shook her head, an ugly sneer twisting her mouth.

“To think my father used to speak of his army with such pride.” She swallowed. “And now look. Does none of you realise this infighting is exactly what Howe wants? Why do you think Highever was razed, if not to make us doubt, to break our courage so that he can destroy us without having to face us in a fair fight?” She laughed, the sound brittle in the dark. “To see it working so well is a disgrace.”

“And what else are we supposed to do?” someone called.

“We supposed to just sit here?”

Rosslyn cocked her head in the direction of the shouts, but otherwise did not move. Her eyes passed over Alistair, lingered on him for the briefest instant before she steeled herself to reply.

“Soldiers who cannot follow orders are of no use to me,” she growled. “Hotheads who start brawls in camp are only a danger to themselves on the battlefield. So you can go. Home’s that way. Have fun storming the castle.”

The soldiers glanced at each other. Dressing-downs they could handle. Sergeants who shouted orders and commanders who sent them into battle stone-faced were to be expected, but this speech was too raw, too full of hurt and anger and hollow grief for them to know how to respond.

“And look at that,” she hummed, glancing around at the circle of waiting men. “Not one of you has moved. Does this mean there’s still some courage left in the North?”

Breaths held, no one answered. The only sound was the crackle of the torches.

“We start in the morning,” she told them, turning away. “And you can find out first hand whether a lass has the balls for knifework. Dismissed.”

And that was the end of it. Mud sucked at Rosslyn’s boots as she stalked across the open ground, pausing only to order latrine duty for the instigators of the fight, and whatever punishment Morrence willed for the one who had insulted her. Lacking the will to stay out in the cold without orders, the crowd melted away to their tents, and within moments the parade ground was all but deserted. Relieved, Alistair ran a hand through his hair, a low breath puffing out his cheeks.

“You showed up just in time, my lady,” he joked when she stopped next to him. “I was afraid they were going to eat me.”

“Surely our stores aren’t quite that low?” she asked dryly. Now that nobody was watching, the careful façade slipped, and grey fatigue pinched the corners of her eyes. “I’m glad to be of service. Since you’re here, would you mind coming with me? I need to talk to Teagan.”

Despite himself, Alistair grinned at the familiarity of the words the lack of pretention in the request. “Of course – lead on.”

Together they wended through the camp, his stride shortened to keep time with her limping pace, until they were among the officers’ tents and he finally plucked up the courage to ask, despite the impropriety, if she was alright. She halted mid-step, turning to regard him with furrowed brows. For an instant she struggled to find the right words, her lips framing concepts that stalled on the tip of her tongue. He regretted asking, tried to stammer out an apology, but before he could manage more than a few stumbling words she swallowed and shook her head, trying for a smile.

The effort faded quickly.

“There’s work to do,” she said instead, and headed for the light spilling from Teagan’s tent.

The Sand In Your Shoe (5)

Fiona takes one look at her little brother’s face and her heart sinks.

“Ian.”

She says his name with so much tenderness it nearly sets him off again but he manages to bite the inside of his lip and shake his head slightly

“I got that cheap shit shampoo in my eyes!”

“That was unlucky.”

Fiona’s own eyes are large and round with concern but she lets him have his white lie and Ian feels a rush of affection for his sister that reminds him of how things used to be when they were both kids.

“Yeah, sucks. Thank you for my card.”

“You’re welcome, sorry there wasn’t a cheque in it. Still haven’t won the damn lottery!”

It is a weak joke but it breaks the miserably tension and Ian manages to smile and even laugh a little. Fiona pours the coffee and Ian cuts his cake. He took too long in the shower and Carl has wandered off on some errand promising to be back soon, Debbie has taken Frannie outside to play and Liam is back in front of his Play Station.

Ian delivers Liam some cake and then joins his big sister at the table. She looks tired but still so beautiful it makes his heart ache and Ian impulsively catches her hand in his and kisses it.

“What the fuck?”

Fiona laughs and ruffles his hair, shorter than he’s had it for a couple of years but still long enough that it needs smoothing back down when she’s done.

“You’re just so fucking gorgeous and I can’t believe I don’t tell you more often.”

“Wow. Thank you. You know it’s your birthday not mine ,right?”

Ian smiles and gives her hand a squeeze before reaching into his jeans pocket and producing a packet of cigarettes, slapping them on the table and winking at her

“That’s why I’m treating myself to a pre-lunch smoke.”

They sit quietly for a few minutes, both lost to their own thoughts and grateful for the temporary silence amidst the chaos. Ian drums his fingers anxiously against his leg and presses his feet into the floor to keep from tapping them.

“I saw Yevgeny Milkovich today.”

He tries to sound casual but overshoots and his voice wavers, hitting a high note that smacks of a panic attack in the making.

“Jesus. That must have been weird.”

“Yeah, he’s like seven or eight now.”

Ian knows exactly how old Yevgeny is but he’s trying to cover up his interest for fear of Fiona holding something back. He doesn’t know exactly what but maybe something she’s heard from Vee…

“Yeah. I’ve seen him around with Svetlana.”

Fiona is watching Ian for reaction and he deliberately keeps his face as neutral as possible.

“He looks like Mickey, doesn’t he?”

She offers finally, with an audible sigh that makes Ian wince. He knows he is being subtle as a brick but the expression on Fiona’s face suggests that this is something she has been waiting on for a while and it makes Ian feel predictable and a bit pathetic. For a moment Ian thinks about saying he didn’t notice and changing the subject to something lighter but he doesn’t really want to. Something has awoken in him, something that has lain dormant for so long that Ian had almost forgotten it was there at all and he means to follow it and see where the feeling takes him.

“Yeah he does. Svetlana said that Mickey still sends money, you know?”

“Good. It’s the least he can do!”

Fiona’s brows knit together and she shakes her head. She never had a very high opinion of Mickey to begin with and the fact that he sends money for a son he never sees fails to impress her all that much.

“I know it’s just … I hadn’t thought about him properly for a while and it’s good to know he’s still …”

“Alive?”

“… Free.”

Ian tapped the ash off his second cigarette and smiled weakly at her which only earned him another sigh.

“You know you gotta leave all that in the past, Ian.”

“I suppose … I mean … I just fucked it all up so badly, Fi. I had so much of my own shit going on and with the meds and the bipolar I wasn’t myself or like, the version of myself I wanted to be, and …”

“Stop. Jesus! You’ve got your life together! You’re doing great with your EMT job, you have your own apartment and your own friends. Your meds are stable, you’re healthy…”

“I know. I know all that and I’m happy…”

“Then why risk it for an old boyfriend you haven’t even heard from in years?”

“I’m not going to! I just … forget it.”

Ian shook his head again and closed his eyes. It was easy for him to get pissed with Fi, to resent her controlling ways and know-it-all attitude but the truth was that she had kept them going, sacrificing her own teens and twenties to ensure that all of them were seen right, or as right as possible. She had done so much for them, fought for every single one of them and if she was bossy then she had damn well earned that right.

“Ian, I know you loved Mickey but he is doing whatever the fuck he is doing and I don’t mean to be cruel, but he probably wouldn’t care about you at all now. Probably has a whole host of Mexican bang-buddies at his disposal.”

Ian’s head shoots up, green eyes wide and angry.

“Mickey never fucked around, Fiona. I was the one who did that. I did porno and I cheated on him. I was the one who acted like I didn’t care.”

 “Oh please! I know Mickey tried really hard when you first got sick, I never denied that and it was good of him but his way of showing ‘care’ was attempting to murder Sammi and busting your face when you pissed him off. You gotta leave this alone Ian!”

Ian wants to argue with her, tell her that he busted Mickey’s face too and that if he had the guts, he would definitely have killed Terry Milkovich but decides to leave it alone. Fiona is looking pretty upset with him and he can’t really blame her. Ian doesn’t even know why he is dragging all this up or what his end game is. He just knows he feels something in his gut and that isn’t much to go on and certainly not something to fight with his sister over.

“I’m sorry, Fi. I don’t mean to be a pain in the ass. I think just seeing Yevgeny … you know. I kidnapped that kid once!”

Ian grins and tries to make a joke of it all and after studying him a moment longer, Fiona gives in and laughs to.

“Fuckin’ Gallaghers.”

*

Ian leaves the Gallagher house towards dusk, he is feeling much better and his hands have stopped shaking. Mickey is still on his mind, as is Yevgeny, but it is a manageable level of background noise now. He can cross the road, notice his shoelace is undone and make greetings to people he recognises without having to bring himself back from his thoughts first and that is important.

Ian has learned to live a controlled life, monitoring himself carefully to ensure his moods are not swinging unduly one way or the other. If he wants to make an impulse purchase he tries to stop and think for at least five minutes, even if it is only a few bucks. He takes his meds as regularly as he can, he does mess up by an hour here or an hour there sometimes and often forgets to eat with them but he manages reasonably well and even Fiona has stopped asking him if he’s doing it right.

In a way, now that he has it under control this lifestyle suits him okay, he always liked neatness, order and rules. It’s kind of why he wanted to join the army so badly as a kid. He used to feel highs and lows that were not just part of his ‘disorder’ but part of his very soul. Now he tends to crush those feelings down when they arise and has become good at doing so. The only thing Ian truly misses is feeling a regular sense of curiosity. He used to be curious to the point of nosy and now he just doesn’t care enough about most things to wonder.

He realises that he is heading toward the Alibi and pauses mid-stride, his boots scuffing along the sidewalk. The Alibi used to be such a normal part of his routine, not that he was ever a big drinker but it wasn’t weird for him to drop in there to see Kev or find Frank or Lip. Ian thumbs his lip as he considers his options, a habit he doesn’t remember picking up but can’t shake somehow.

He wants to convince himself that it is nostalgia or the desire to see Kev that is sending him there but he knows it isn’t, he knows Kev hasn’t been there for quite some time. He is aiming to see Svetlana.

*

The alibi looks like shit but then it always did and Ian mostly ignores the old bar flies, lifting his hand in greeting to the ones who look up from their beer and briefly make eye contact with him.

“Is Svetlana here?”

The barmaid looks him up and down and Ian tolerates this with all the good grace he can muster. The blonde woman appears to make up her mind finally but doesn’t take her eyes off Ian as she yells

“LANA!”

Svetlana appears a few minutes later, her face sharp and watchful transforming into a small smirk when she sees Ian.

“He still says ‘Hello’. I have not told him Carrot Boy rejects him again yet.”

“Is he OK?”

“How in fuck should I know. I tell him of Yevgeny. He sends money for Yevgeny. Is all.”

Svetlana is eyeing Ian with something that could almost be amusement and Ian wonders if he is barking up completely the wrong tree. He weighs his options but the gut feeling which has been pushing him since looking up into Yevgeny’s eyes from the tarmac this morning won’t quit nagging at him and Ian decides to lay everything on the table. If Svetlana laughs at him, so be it.

“I haven’t thought about him in a while. Now I am. I just want to know he is alright.”

“You have not thought of him?”

Her voice is incredulous, almost angry and Ian feels a blush creep up his neck

“It was complicated.”

“You went crazy, he love you. You steal baby, he love you. You too weak to visit in prison without payment, he love you. Not complicated, just stupid.”

Svetlana has stepped behind the bar as she speaks and Ian watches her pull two shots of vodka, she pushes one across the bar towards him and slams the other down her throat before looking him dead in the eye.

“You are selfish little copper shit, no idea of love.”

“And you’re a fucking rapist. Don’t you dare lecture me on love”

The anger comes hot and fast and Ian slams his palm down on the bar hard enough to bruise the heel of his hand. Ian is almost as shocked as Svetlana at the outburst but it wipes the haughty look off her face and that gives him a small sense of satisfaction. She recovers quickly though and Ian crosses his arms over his chest protectively waiting her to strike back.  

“So we both screw him, just different ways, hmm?”

Svetlana pours another drink and shrugs cooly.

“He is OK. We spoke a little while. He is OK.”

“Will you tell him I say Hello back? You don’t have to but …”

“I will tell him. He may not care but I will tell him.”

“Thank you.”

Ian lets his breath out shakily and sips at the vodka she has given him. He doesn’t know if it is a gift or if he will be asked to pay for it. He doesn’t mind either way really. The feeling that brought him here is draining as well as encouraging and he feels ready to sleep.

“Give me your number.”

Svetlana says suddenly and takes her phone out of her bra, gesturing impatiently to Ian

“Why?”

“In case he cares.”

Those four words make Ian’s mouth instantly dry and his palms slick with sweat. His heart hammers in his chest and he feels a wonderful mixture of fear and hope rise up from the kernel of feeling in his gut, unfurling like a flower stretching out to reach the dawn light. He hasn’t felt anything like this in so long and it is almost painful in its intensity. A distant part of him knows this feeling, it is like returning to a childhood home after living away for fifty years and Ian taps his number into Svetlana’s phone before he can lose his nerve.

“Why would you do this for me?”

“Not for you. What I did … it got me my Yevgeny so I cannot regret it. But perhaps a small debt is owed to his father. A very small one.”

Svetlana smiles slightly at that and Ian feels like his feet have been lifted from the ground and he is floating above himself slightly. The vodka is working far too quickly, he shouldn’t have had it. He needs to leave.

“Thank you anyway.”

He mumbles and staggers out of the bar before Svetlana can say anything further. Ian runs until his breath is like fire in his throat and his legs tremble uncontrollably as he sinks to the ground, sitting on the curb with the sort of oddly graceful clumsiness that only big men have.

*In case he cares*

Fuck. Birthdays make him crazier than normal!

Ian grins up at the darkening sky and wonders when he’ll find out if Mickey Milkovich still cares or not.