#heavy. and alive. warm and wet and still full of sap
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Fluri Oneshot, “Morning”
Flynn was used to waking up at the early hours of dawn, even when he didn’t need to. It was ingrained into his blood as a knight, and he couldn’t no more help that than he could help the rhythm in which his heart beat.
Or whom it beat for, he considered as he glanced down at his still slumbering bed partner as he sat up and stretched his neck. Yuri of course hadn't taken to any part as a knight, least of all waking up for morning drills so he was still fast asleep in their bed in Aurnion without so much as a whisper of a clue Flynn wasn’t still lying with him and dreaming.
Which Flynn could be. Being outside of the capitol didn’t stop him from being Commandant, but it did let him flex on the rules of his station a little. Like spending a morning sleeping in with his outrageously attractive lover, for example.
So Flynn didn’t get out of bed yet, just leaned against the headboard and continued staring at Yuri for a while, admiring the man in a way he was rarely allowed while Yuri was awake to notice it.
His features were soft with sleep, belying the youth Yuri’s mouthy personality rarely betrayed. His skin was pale for someone who spent as much of his life as possible outdoors running around with dogs and children, standing out even more against the dark of his hair.
And his hair. If there was one thing about Yuri’s outward appearance Flynn was obsessed with, it was probably his hair. Shining now in the grey light of dawn, a shade of purple so rich it looked black in anything but direct sunlight. Long and silky soft like Yuri actually took care of it when they both knew he barely remembered to wash, Flynn had dreams of just the flash of his hair taunting him while he chased down ghosts of Yuri’s he could never quite catch.
Except now. Here in his bed Yuri was alive and real and his, in ways Flynn had never imagined would be true in his wildest fantasies. Of which, as a man, he could admit there had been… copious amounts of. And many of which Yuri had made reality in the course of their nights together.
Flynn brushed a lock of hair out of Yuri’s face, and received a small sleepy groan in return for the finger brushing against his cheek.
“Sstoppat,” Yuri grumbled, swatting Flynn’s hand away. “It’s ass o’clock in the morning, stop being awake.”
“I tried,” Flynn lied. “It was more fun watching you.”
“Freeaaaakkk,” Yuri complained, slowly blinking his eyes open. Flynn figured since he was already awake anyway, he was allowed to keep petting Yuri’s hair, feeling the dark strands run through his fingers. Usually Flynn was wearing gloves or gauntlets, he got to touch Yuri with his bare hands so seldom...
Yuri finally sat up, sheets falling around his waist to expose his bare torso, all the way down to the hip. Every inch was of him was beautiful, down to the last scar. “Seriously, what are you doing awake? You know we have to leave once it’s morning, are you just trying to get rid of me and get back to Zaphias that much faster?”
“The opposite,” Flynn admitted with a smile Sodia would probably call dopey. “I know we have to go our separate ways again, so I wanna soak up as much of this morning as I can until we have to go.”
Yuri had the gall to turn red, like a little flirting was more embarrassing than the things they got up to at night. “Who knew you were such a sap?”
“Everyone, really. I talk about you a lot.”
“Gross.” Yuri said back, but he still leaned forward to pull Flynn down for a kiss. “So,” he mumbled into the kiss, hands trailing under the sheets to stroke Flynn’s thigh. “Wanna repeat performance of last night?”
Flynn wanted to laugh. “That’s not what I had in mind by more time together,” He said, but leaned into the kiss to press his tongue into Yuri’s mouth.
Yuri really did snicker, not quite breaking the kiss to mumble, “What else were we gonna do, while away the hours chatting over tea?”
“I mean,” Flynn brushed Yuri’s hair off of his neck to expose the flesh of his bare throat. “We could, yeah.”
Yuri only laughed, leaning into Flynn’s touch before just straight up climbing into his lap continue their kiss.
His weight was solid and heavy on on Flynn’s thighs, warm and alive in ways Flynn was always nothing but grateful for. He loved the feeling of Yuri on his lap, body pressed in as close to Flynn’s as they could get without being inside each other.
Which very well might be Yuri’s goal, judging by how he was sucking ravenously on Flynn’s tongue. His hands were also busy beneath the sheets in the narrow space between their bodies, bringing Flynn to full hardness with ease.
Flynn groaned from deep in his throat, his own hands sliding down Yuri’s back to open him up, because if Yuri wanted to do this Flynn certainly wasn’t going to argue. He was still a little wet and loose from last night and only needed one gel to open him up the rest of the way, and soon Yuri up on his knees to sink down onto Flynn’s aching hardness.
Yuri rode him like that, sitting in his lap in the breaking dawn light. Yuri’s hair fell into his face and onto his shoulders as he moved, a chorus of little gasping pants filling up the room with their shared breaths echoing against each other. A little slice of heaven for no one but the two of them, a tiny universe all unto themselves where nothing mattered but the other.
In some ways, it felt like Yuri had always been Flynn’s entire universe. No matter what he did or where he went or who he was with, Yuri never managed to leave his thoughts. And when they were together… even if they weren’t being intimate like right now, all of Flynn’s attention was always on Yuri.
Maybe it was love or maybe it was obsession or maybe it was both, but either way there was no fighting it. And here, right now, with Yuri in his arms and on his lap and his lips were curling into a happy smile even as they pared and moaned in pleasure, Flynn wouldn’t have in any other way.
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Smoke and Mirrors
Chapter 7
Dismas had seen plenty of blood in his lifetime. And he had lost his fair share during raids gone wrong, and in the fighting rings behind bars such as Jubie's. He had spilled some on cobblestone and asphalt, more on concrete and plain earth – but there was something wrong about seeing it here, in contrast to the clinically white walls and washed-out floor tiles.
Next to Dismas, Guyot stood with his cup raised halfway up to his lips, open-mouthed and still as a statue. Reynauld's brows had drawn together enough to almost form a single line as he took in the scene before them. Dismas turned his head, following the other man's gaze until he saw red and then, a leg. His eyes flittered away again. He couldn't. Couldn't look. He-
He was breathing very fast.
The air felt very thick all of a sudden, and his own body very light.
Why were they all standing around like calf-eyed dumbs?
Dismas' tongue darted out to wet lips dry as parchment. "We need to get outta here," he mumbled, no clue whom he was addressing, or who 'we' was, but the urge to move was becoming overwhelming, that age-old instinct to run and live.
The stale air of the corridor mixed with the aroma of cheap coffee and the warm, thick scent of flesh and Dismas' stomach cramped painfully enough to almost double him over. He grabbed Reynauld by the forearm, because he needed something to hold on to stay upright, and because he still had not gotten a reaction. "Reynauld!"
The contact did what mere words couldn't, and Reynauld's head snapped around.
"We need to get out," Dismas repeated, his own voice sounding curiously calm despite his rising panic. He could see the refusal in Reynauld's closed expression, and desperately, he pressed on, "Who else's here? Think." Dismas was sure Reynauld would be able to read his mind from the intensity with which he held the other man's gaze as he slowly said, "Who else has any dirt on yer big fish?"
Reynauld blinked and a split second later he understood, his eyes widening as realization struck him. "Fuck."
Dismas watched as Reynauld punched the button that closed the doors to the interrogation room. They slid shut almost soundlessly, hiding what lay behind, and Dismas felt only relief
Thank fuck.
He closed his eyes and swallowed. He was still dizzy and his heart was beating so fast, he was terrified there was something wrong with it. Was this what a heart attack felt like? Wasn't he supposed to smell burned toast and have his left arm go numb, or some shit like that?
The radio cracked, and a distorted voice spoke up. Reynauld answered, as more and more people joined the call.
To Dismas it seemed like hours were passing while he shifted from one foot to the other, casting nervous looks around. In reality though it could only be a minute or two before a pair of officers rounded the corner at a run. Reynauld waved them off before either one could start reporting in, telling them to, "Stay with Guyot. He can fill you in!"
Guyot, whom Dismas had almost forgotten about, snapped out of his own shock. "Rey what are you – ?"
But Reynauld had already grabbed Dismas by the upper arm and was dragging him in the opposite direction. His other hand was on his service weapon, Dismas noticed. The police officers stared after them, but then Dismas had to tear his eyes away and pay attention to where they were going when they hurried down a corridor lined with doors, and another identical one, and,
Was this entire fucking place like this?
Suddenly the deserted hallways seemed dangerous rather than merely empty. Where had all the people disappeared to? Dismas' heartbeat jumped before every corner, and he cursed out loud when one of the overhead lights flickered.
It was a relief when Reynauld pulled open the door to a room that looked a lot like the showers had. For a moment Dismas thought that's where Rey had taken them again, but no, this was a locker room.
"Wait here," Reynaud ordered, and let go of Dismas' arm.
Dismas nodded, looking around. There was a bench, and he tried to sit down, but his legs folded under him halfway, his bottom connecting with the wood rather unpleasantly. Dismas still felt like he was a leaf caught in a gale of wind; with no control over where he was going or what was happening to him. He pressed both hands against his upper thighs, just above the knee, and he could feel the tremors become less. A loud noise made his head snap up.
Reynauld had thrown open his locker, and pulled out two enormous chests. They hit the floor with a thud, and Dismas did not have to guess as to their contents for long. He caught sight of a variety of uniforms and other equipment, before Reynauld pulled out a suit that bore a striking resemblance to the military's combat gear, and began to dress.
Dismas could tell he was doing this regularly, as his every move was economical and practiced with no fumbling and no time wasted. Once he was done, Reynauld pulled a rifle from the back of the locker, slapped in a magazine and loaded the weapon.
Dismas was pretty sure he had fired something similar on one of the raids. It wasn't like he cared for the letters and numbers that were used to name the firearms. As long as the trigger was where it belonged, they were all pretty much the same in his books.
Dismas startled when the locker doors slammed shut again and Reynauld stood before him in full gear. He was holding up a ballistic vest that was evidently meant for him. Reynauld took the handcuffs off, but Dismas' hands and fingers still felt clumsy and useless. Reynauld helped him with the straps, and while the vest was surprisingly light once he was wearing it, it was also tight – too tight. Dismas was being choked, suffocated. He slipped two fingers under the collar, tipped his head back, and gasped for air until the dizzy spell had passed.
Dismas blinked when a moment later a familiar, beaten-up bag appeared in his field of vision, dangling from Reynauld's hand.
"Are you a kleptomaniac, or what?" Dismas blurted out, before his brains caught up to his damned mouth.
"I'm thorough!" Reynauld replied, without a hint of amusement. "Come on."
And he dropped the duffel bag in Dismas' arms. Dismas clutched his bag to his chest, a million thoughts swirling in his head. Why did Reynauld have his personal belongings in his locker? Weren't they supposed to stay in prison?
Reynauld ushered them out of the room before Dismas could gather his thoughts enough to form a single question. The corridors of the police department flew by, one by one, a crosshatch of hallways like the burrow of some beast. Reynauld was leading them steadily down, until Dismas caught the familiar odour of damp and gasoline.
A moment later they passed a set of heavy, fireproof doors and stood in the garage, surrounded by rows of cars. Reynauld picked an unremarkable brown station wagon that looked rather well maintained despite obviously being an older model.
Dismas got into the passenger seat while Reynauld sat down behind the wheel, sliding back the seat so he'd actually fit in with all the body armour on. Dismas suspected that this was Reynauld's own car rather than an unmarked police vehicle. It just wasn't neat enough. There were crumpled gas recipes lying around along with a candy wrapper, and Dismas spotted a collection of Southern rock CDs in a pocket over the rear-view mirror.
Reynauld started the car and reversed out of the parking spot. They left the garage via an automatic door, and Dismas had another look at the courtyard of the Riverside PD.
He pressed himself into the seat when they stopped by the guardhouse and Reynauld exchanged a few words with the police officer stationed there. Dismas resisted raising a hand to hide his face behind it but he also refused to turn and look, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. It couldn't be that easy. He'd been in an interrogation room just a little while ago; surely they wouldn't let him go. Any time the guard would spot him, and–
–and then the bar lifted, and Reynauld shifted gears and they were through, and speeding past Riverside Park, the police department growing ever smaller in the distance.
Just like that.
He was out and– He was–
He was shaking, Dismas realized. His hand hurt from how hard it was clenched on the door's handle. He tried to relax it, but that just made the tremors in his hands all the more evident.
Dismas' heart jumped when a couple of minutes after they had hit the highway the radio suddenly faded out to a continuous shrill ringing.
"Stop," Dismas pressed out through clenched teeth. He swallowed convulsively when his stomach cramped and he could taste vomit.
"Stop the car."
Reynauld cast a quick glance to the side, then pushed the red triangle button and swerved over to the emergency lane at a speed that didn't help Dismas' already revolting stomach one bit, even though he appreciated the immediate action.
The car had barely drawn to a stop when Dismas fumbled for the door latch and cussed when the seat belt which he did not remember fastening kept him in place. He managed to disentangle himself from it, and once out of the car, a hot summer afternoon crashed over him; humidity, hot blacktop, and exhaust fumes.
Dismas jumped the guardrail, staggering into the bushes on stiff, shaky legs. He didn't make it in far before he cashed into a tree and, with both hands braced against its trunk, retched until tears shot into his eyes. His last meal had been before Jubert's, and he couldn't even vomit properly. Dismas instead suffering one bout after another of dry heaves until he hurt all over, like he'd just had a couple of rounds in the cage.
Bark flaked under his fingers, rough and tacky from tree sap. He might be sick like a dog, drenched in cold sweat and coughing up stomach acid, but he was alive.
Dismas sucked up some saliva before he spit it out. He leaned his head against the trunk of the tree, ignoring the scratch against his brow. A spider fell out of one of the lower branches and he watched it descend on its silken string before losing sight of it entirely as he waited until the bout had passed.
Out here he could smell rotting foliage, rich earth and dry pine needles, and bit by bit his breathing became easier, and when the cramps subsided, Dismas slowly straightened. His hands were unbound and Reynauld had not followed him out here. Dismas was sure that the other man too was shaken up by what had happened back at the PD, or he wouldn't have let Dismas out of his sights.
Through the trees Dismas could not even make out their vehicle, although he heard other cars speeding by. If he wanted to, he could get a solid head start. His pack was still in the car but he could do without his effects, even if it hurt leaving them behind. He'd run and grab the money he had stashed away, and then that'd be the last this city had ever seen of him.
Dismas wiped his arm over his face, sweat stinging his eyes.
If he wanted to get going, it was now or never.
But his legs remained rooted to the ground and the thought of being on the run again was a lead weight keeping him in place. He couldn't run far or fast enough to ever escape El Abuelo's influence. Hadn't he seen the proof of that today? No matter where he was; free or behind bars, someday El Abuelo's goons would find him and then he would suffer the same fate Louet had.
And then who was going to take their revenge?
The thought hit him so suddenly that it felt like a physical blow.
Dismas had always known that the past would catch up to him, that one day he'd pay for his sins. It was part of the reason why he had spent the last years of his life living the way he had. Always on the move, never staying in one place for too long. Why he rented cheap motel rooms where he could pay with cash and leave no trace.
He had grown tired of always having to look over his shoulder though, of the years he had spent in hiding, keeping his head down. What good had it done him? Somewhere under the fear and the pain, rage began to simmer. It was the fuel he needed to make up his mind.
Reynauld was after El Abuelo. Reynauld, who had a whole police department to back him up, and the resources necessary for such an undertaking. His chances of finding and taking down the mobster on his own were still very slim, but if he wanted to succeed at all, he would need Dismas.
With newfound resolve, Dismas returned to the car. Reynauld was on the radio again, but he looked up and handed Dismas an open bottle of water without asking.
Dismas nodded his thanks and took a sip, rolling the water around in his mouth, and spitting it out over the guardrail. It helped to get the sour tang of vomit out of his mouth. He drank the rest of it, before collapsing in the passenger seat. His shirt stuck to his back, cold and clammy with sweat. Dismas shivered, and crossed his arms, and waited.
"Are you good to go?" Reynauld asked in a business-like tone once he had finished his call.
"Yeah," Dismas rasped, his voice gone to hell after the acid had burned his throat.
The car vibrated as the engine ignited, and Dismas watched buildings and other vehicles pass him by without having an inkling where he was, or where they were headed to. He was too exhausted to care and with the heating kicking in and them being on the move again, he was ready to lean his head against the passenger door and space out.
Reynauld seemed to know what he was doing, and Dismas startled awake as they pulled into a broad alley that was lined on both sides with plane trees.
The buildings here were mostly two-story, and an unappealing grey in colour, but the alley was real nice and he spotted the one or other well-kept garden, as well as some completely wild and overgrown ones. Those usually belonged to the homes that were up for sale or rent.
On a plaque at the side of one of the houses, Dismas could read that this was a settlement originally built for the veterans of the Secession War, the revolt that had turned into four years of armed conflict, but had ultimately won the city and its lands freedom and independence from the South.
"Here we are," Reynauld announced. He reached over one of the gates and pushed down the handle from the other side in order to open it.
Dismas spotted that the letterbox next to him had the word Maurouard, R. engraved in a neat, cursive script. They followed the gravel path through the front garden and up to the door which Reynauld unlocked with one of the keys from the inside of his jacket.
This wasn't just some place, chosen at random.
Dismas stepped over the threshold with a cold lump forming in the pit of his stomach. His suspicions were confirmed as he took in all the details, the small plate that Reynauld used to put away his keys on, and the lived-in assortment of furniture that told him he was in somebody's home.
He found himself standing in a living room, with orange-tinted light streaming through a row of windows on the far end. The sun was setting already, as a day that Dismas would not regret to put behind him, drew to an end.
He looked around and spotted a door to what he guessed was a kitchen. Not far from it there was a big table with a bench and six chairs standing around it, on the other side of the room the space was dominated by a TV corner with a large and comfortable looking couch that showed signs of wear.
Dismas felt more lost in here than he had back in the police department. He wondered if he should toe off his boots, because standing on the clean floor made him feel like he was leaving invisible muddy footprints all over it. In the end he decided to do as Reynauld did, and left them by the dresser that had the key-bowl on top of it.
"Make yourself comfortable, I need to make some more calls," Reynauld said and then pointed to another door around the corner. "Bathroom's in here."
Dismas nodded, and despite Reynauld's words he still snuck rather than walked across the room. Something felt wrong, there was an uncomfortable weight and tightness around his chest, and his posture was stiff and unnatural. He was still wearing the bulletproof vest, Dismas realized.
The raw, tearing noise that the velcro straps made had him clenching his jaw, but Dismas was glad to get the thing off. He left the vest on the table, not sure what else to do with it.
The bathroom Reynauld had pointed out also had a shower to Dismas' delight, and he quickly fetched his duffel bag. He left it right there on the floor as got rid of his disgusting, sweat-soaked shirt, pulling it over his head and dropping it to join the bag. His pants soon followed, and then his underwear, and then Dismas stepped into the shower, his face turned up into the stream that was icy for a second or two before it turned hot.
For a brief, perfect moment, the world and all its worries ceased to be.
When Dismas turned the water off again, the walls of the shower stall were foggy and he shivered at the cold draft from outside.
There were towels hanging on a rack, but he didn't know how Rey would react to him just taking one, so he just used his old shirt to rub himself dry.
When Dismas returned to the living room, dressed only in sweats and an undershirt, he immediately noticed that there was bedding on the couch already. He had a thick pillow, and an even thicker down blanket, and as if that wasn't enough, there was also an extra blanket.
Dismas sat down slowly, for a moment wondering if he had ever gotten out of that holding ward. Perhaps he was still in there, dumb and drooling, and all of this was just the conjuring of a feverish mind; from Louet's death to him actually sitting in officer Reynauld's living room. But the couch felt very real, and so did the burning sensation in his chest and throat.
The fuck was he gonna do now?
Footsteps alerted Dismas that Reynauld was coming back, but he did not have the energy required to lift his head. He already knew from one look at the bathroom-mirror that he looked like something that the cat had dragged in, his bruised eyes rimmed in red, his hair in complete disarray. In other words, he looked exactly like he felt. He might as well spare Reynauld the sight, and himself the look of pity.
Dismas saw Reynauld's legs appear next to the coffee table, and a soft thud told him that Reynauld had just sat something down in front of him. A moment of silence passed, and then Dismas could hear the click of Reynauld's throat as he swallowed, before going for a quiet,
"Here." Reynauld nudged the object closer to Dismas.
"Thanks," Dismas rasped, blindly reaching out. He wrapped his hands around something cylindrical, and hot, and held on. When his he opened his eyes, a red firetruck was laughing at him.
Reynauld had actually made him a cup of cocoa.
"Feckin'... hell," Dismas muttered, his voice breaking halfway.
He'd never... Nobody had ever...
He bit the inside of his cheek, but the sting was nothing compared to the pain inside him.
Reynauld gently took the mug out of his shaking hands before he could spill its contents all over the rug.
Dismas slapped one hand over his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears. You ran with the gangs, you quickly learned not to cry, or to do so where no one could see, but there was no hiding the sobs that wracked his body.
There was nothing to keep him from falling apart – until Dismas felt Reynauld shift and strong arms wrapped around him.
Reynauld didn't say a word, just held him close, and Dismas thought about how Reynauld had been in the military, wondered if he had done the same for him comrades. He didn't deserve this kind of comfort, but he took it anyway, and buried his face in Reynauld's shoulder and cried until he was hollow, wrung out of tears and emotions.
When Dismas pulled back, Reynauld let him go without comment.
Dismas rubbed the back of his arm over his face, and then reached for the mug and raised it to his lips. He didn't have much of a sweet tooth, but the chocolate was dark and bitter, and drinking it gave him something to do other than think on the dark tear stains on the collar of Reynauld's shirt, or the vacant, slack look on Louet's face.
For all these years Louet wanted – had wanted – excitement, while Dismas was looking for a way to grow old. It had ultimately led to them breaking up, although neither one was above a quick hook-up now and then.
"I loved him, ya know?" He didn't know why he was telling this to Reynauld, the words just spilling out of him. "Buncha years ago, when I didn't think the son of a bitch had it in him to sell me out, but still."
Reynauld looked uncomfortable, and with what had happened between them, Dismas didn't even fault him. The man had a dead prisoner on his hands, and another one was sitting on his couch, in his home, telling him sob stories he neither needed nor wanted to hear. If he weren't so exhausted, Dismas would be disgusted with himself.
But despite the circumstances, Reynauld didn't brush him off, and he didn't leave either, though he developed a sudden interest in his hands. "Try to get some rest," he suggested kindly.
Dismas snorted. As if that was actually an option with the picture of his murdered ex-lover still vivid behind his eyelids.
"If you need something to help with that – ," Reynauld seemed reluctant to finish that thought, but he did retrieve a small plastic bag from somewhere.
"What's that?" Dismas asked, looking at the two pills inside and not really willing to think too closely about why that would be something Reynauld carried on his person.
"Flunitrazepam," Reynauld replied. "It'll knock you out for a few hours."
Dismas looked at the bag, then took it from a surprised looking Reynauld and shook out its contents into the palm of his hand. Then, before he could reconsider, he swallowed both pills with some water from the glass.
"Thanks," Dismas mumbled, not sure if he should be thanking the other man just yet. Reynauld nodded, and for a moment it looked like he wanted to say something, his jaw working. But in the end, he settled for,
"I'll be upstairs. We'll talk tomorrow."
Dismas sighed, not looking forward to that in the least. Reynauld rose and turned off the lights before he disappeared up the stairs, leaving Dismas in the semi-dark. There was enough light from the street lamps to see by, but it mattered little.
Dismas' thoughts were darker than the night around him.
He gave up on trying to hold the images at bay. He let them resurface, take over, allowed for the damned cell door to slide open again and again to reveal the blood, splattered across the walls and pooling around Louet's legs, and his slumped figure.
Death wasn't romantic or anything like what movies made it look like. It was fear and confusion, and pain. He knew, because he'd seen plenty of it. But it was one thing to be shot during a raid, when you were running with the gang, and it was another one to be murdered while chained up, unable to do so much as fight back.
It wasn't even fair that after being betrayed, it was still Dismas who would be hung-up on his ex when he had other problems knocking at his door.
If the Wolf was cleaning up, then Dismas was on that list too. He had left the outfit years ago, not agreeing with how things were run, not wanting to spend his life lying in wait on the northern highways, robbing travellers and surviving by the skin of his teeth in between heists.
And if El Abuelo had killed the Wolf, and was now covering his tracks, well, that did not put Dismas in a better place.
The drug was kicking in fast, because already Dismas could tell how the world around him was soft and blurry and how every thought and sensation lost its clarity and edge.
He just couldn't bring himself to care about it.
The red light of the turned off TV was a bright spot in the darkness. There was a clock ticking away in the darkness, and above him, footsteps. Something hummed, perhaps the fridge, and the house creaked and groaned as if it too settled for the night.
Faintly, he recalled the echo of words he had not paid any heed to when he'd first heard them.
"Of course, if he snitches on me, I'm going to have to kill him."
Who'd said that? Someone... someone... Audrey! She... they'd talked about Louet. She had told Dismas about his arrest. She had known, because... because of her girlfriend. Did Audrey actually work for somebody? Were their nightly stints more than a bit of fun and a lucrative side-hustle?
She was of his closest friends, but then she had been married to a mobster. One who had met his demise in prison, and now his widow was rich and living a life in the lap of luxury.
Dismas swallowed past the painful lump in his throat. No, he couldn't trust Audrey. Or Boudica, for the matter, or... or... anybody. He really could not trust anyone anymore.
The light had gone out of focus and Dismas turned his face into the pillow. It smelled like Rey, and like the stuff he used to wash his clothes with. It was a comforting smell. As was the thought of the other man's arms around him, having some of his strength to cling to, and while Dismas found that he had a hard time holding on to any thought there was one which stood out bright against the darkness of delirium.
I can trust Rey.
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🤐 for our wolfy boy Medvetis!!
[Have some AU after they take Rockwood!]
They held Rockwood for one long, hard winter.
While spending the wet, cold season inside the walls of a castle was better than huddled in a tavern or some small hovel off the main trail, it wasn’t exactly what Medvetis had expected. Saddler didn’t have enough in his castle stores for the army that had taken residence, and the rest of Rockwood didn’t have much to contribute, either. Hunting parties braved the cold until there was no game left to bring in. T’ke helped the cooks spread the stores as thin as they could, Isthe enforced rations, and Medvetis walked the halls to whisper encouragement and reassurances, but it didn’t matter.
By the time the spring thaw finally poked tender green shoots through the mud, famine had taken its toll. The soldiers Medvetis had meticulously gathered to take Rockwood from Vendave left as soon as they were able, lean and vicious, emptying the last defensive reserves from the castle walls.
Medvetis leaned against the battlements, shivering in the sunlight that still couldn’t burn through the winter’s chill. “Vendave will march on us soon.”
“If they are not already on their way,” T’ke agreed, watching the way the sun found every hollow in Medvetis’ face, curving out the places that had been full of laughter and muscle in the autumn. “We should leave, too.”
“Rockwood is my home.” His fingers tightened against his arms. “I will not abandon her. Silas can throw himself against the walls as much as he wants. I won’t be moved.” He sucked in a careful breath, hearing the air whistle through his teeth. “Will you stay with me, T’ke?”
“Always, my Lord.”
In less than a week, Rockwood burned.
The battle was bloody, tactful, short, and Medvetis would have been impressed if he hadn’t been on the wrong end of it. It didn’t matter much in the end; the result was the same. His strength-sapped arms were tied behind his back, he lost track of his Captains in the chaos, and he was forced to his knees in front of the gray King of Vendave.
“This is the wolf that’s caused me so much trouble?” Silas asked with a scoff, looking down at Medvetis with a curl of his lip. “My men tell me you had a silver tongue. That’s all well and good, but you can’t keep an army with promises, now can you?”
Medvetis snarled, but when he opened his mouth to retort, Silas stuck the tip of his dagger against the inside of his cheek. He froze before he impaled himself on it, watching the King’s face and feeling a squeeze of his chest.
“You’ve caused me a lot of grief. And for that, your execution will not be quick. It will not be clean. And I won’t give you the privilege of begging for it to end.” Silas looked up, nodding to one of his soldiers. “Get a platform set in the center square, and make sure it’s raised enough for the peasantry to see. I want them to remember what happens to dogs that bite their master’s hands.”
Rockwood wasn’t well equipped for public executions, but the soldiers had no trouble clearing enough space to make a raised wooden platform and drive heavy iron bolts into it. Chains were attached to those, and then shackles, and the spring sun shone promise of budding flowers and agony. Castle guards dragged Medvetis onto the platform under Silas’ supervision, and he had no strength left for the struggle. Hollow-eyed townspeople formed lines under the tips of spears, and they watched his dragging march to his death. Some of them looked away. Most looked, but didn’t see. He couldn’t blame them.
His knees hit the platform, and shackles secured his ankles to the metal bolts. Soldiers took hold of his arms, stretching them straight on either side of him, straining his shoulders before the manacles were clasped around his wrists, and the chains secured. He flexed his hands, pain rippling across his shoulders and down his back from even the small movement. At last, one of the guards crouched in front of him, and pried open his jaw. A small metal bar was forced between his teeth, leather straps buckled around the back of his head keeping it in place. Affixed to the front of the bar was the likeness of a snarling wolf’s muzzle, the bottom jaw resting against his, digging in with sharp spikes until blood trickled down his neck, warm in the spring chill.
And, once every buckle and pin was in place, the soldiers left him.
The sun arched across the sky, and its warmth was the only solace Medvetis could find. As the hours stretched on, the ache in his arms and back turned to numbness, the tingling sensation spreading to his legs as well. The platform dug into his knees. He could taste nothing but iron and copper. His vision pulsed at the corners in time with his sluggish heartbeat. His empty stomach growled.
Of all the places to die, at least this was home.
The sun set and the moon rose twice. People passed in front of the platform, soldiers called and peasants stoically looked to the ground. In the dead of night, children snuck onto the boards and ladled water into his mouth. Most of it spilled down his chin. The rest kept him breathing.
On the third night, it was not a child that climbed the platform, but someone with a softer step. So quiet was the ghost that he didn’t wake Medvetis, not until gloved fingers gently lifted his chin, and unbuckled the leather straps from the back of his head.
“Make no sound,” T’ke whispered, rubbing at Medvetis’ jaw as he set down the wolf-muzzle, careful not to let it clang against the other chains. “I’m going to have to pick these locks.”
“You’re alive,” Medvetis whispered, his voice cracking, his eyes welling with tears that his dehydration would not allow to fall.
“I am, and so is Isthe,” he assured. “Don’t move. Don’t speak.” He pressed his hands against Medvetis’ face, soothing his thumbs over his freckled, sallow cheeks, and he leaned forward enough to touch his brow to the young warlord’s. “I’ll get you off of here.”
“And then what?” he asked roughly. The first shackle came undone, and T’ke was there when he fell against him, unable to support his own weight. He felt another set of hands on his back, and Isthe took T’ke’s place under his chest, quieting the rattle of the chains and keeping him from collapsing.
“And then, my Lord, we will try again,” T’ke answered at last, unbuckling the final cuff. Between him and Isthe, they slid off the platform, and carried Medvetis into the shadows of the forest at the edge of Rockwood. By morning’s first light, all Silas would have left of his prisoner was the bloodstained, snarling wolf muzzle and a platform full of empty chains.
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Please feel no obligation, For scum 🏰- sex in a fantasy setting
It was the best kept secretof the court. The prince and the blind seer were seeing each other. Much to therelief of all involved. He hadn’t intended it to go as far as it had. The wholeordeal had started with prejudice and awkwardness. Ezekyle had known about theseer visiting the court, had sneered at the very idea of his parents evenneeding such a thing. They ruled and their rule was absolute. His father had adistinct way of keeping everyone in line, usually involving bruises.
As brutal as he was, he hasinsisted that the seer come to the castle and reside there, informing him ofportents and sendings when she had them. She had been wise enough to agree.Their first encounter was before they had been introduced. He had smashed rightinto the small woman when he had been bustling around a corner, late for ameeting with his father; something that had earned him several lashes. Of course,he had apologised and helped her up. When he saw her face, everything hadchanged. Gone were the quick witted words and the false smiles. It was asthough his head had been filled with fluff and he could only stammer anapology.
The moment she had touchedhis hand, a shock shot up his arm. He met her sightless eyes, milky whitepools; glassy and knowing. Without a doubt, he knew she had felt it too. Shehad stammered a thank you and then hurried off on her way without so much asanother word.
It was only later that hefound out that she was the seer.
Everything had changed whenthey’d touched. He found that he thought of her all the time. While he wastraining, his thoughts were with her. While his father was teaching him how torule, his thoughts were with her. Even while he slept, he dreamed of her.
The second time they hadmet, Ezekyle had spent the entire evening speaking with her. He knew he wasignoring the other female members of the court, including the elven mistress hewas supposed to be flirting with; he knew his father would be angry but he didn’tcare, she was far more captivating than any willowy she-elf. She was curvy andanimated when she moved. Her words were interesting and she had a way of sayinga great deal without giving anything away.
After that evening, hisfather had some rather choice words for him. None of them polite; allreinforced with a crop. After that, letters were written. Glanced wereexchanged and a few hasty conversations in the corridor was all they couldafford; both of them knew it.
The third time they met wasat midnight.
The stable was not the bestplace for such an encounter; they had to be quick. Both wore heavy grey cloaksand travel gear. Without speaking, Ezekyle led his huge horse from the stall,unable to stop the echo of his hooves on the cobblestones. The moment thecharger was out of the building, he swung the Seer into the saddle beforesettling in behind her. A snap of the reins and they were off. They werethrough the gate and over the drawbridge before anyone could stop them.
They ran. Ezekyle was not surehow long they ran for, but by the time he slowed Falkus to a walk, the lightsof the castle had faded into the background and the gloom of the forest sappedthe dim light of the moon. Only then did he dare speak a word, “Are you alright?”
“Fine,” she said. Her voicewas a delicate lilt, soft and airy, like the power she carried with her. “Weshould carry on for another hour, then find somewhere to sleep.”
“Off the road,” he said.
“Yes.”
Silence fell once again andthe rode on. Falkus’ steps gradually became heavy and he dismounted, leavingher up on the horses back. Cutting into the forest, they continued to walk.Ezekyle led Falkus through the forest until the moon had descended towards thehorizon and the cold light of dawn kissed the sky. He felt his eyes growingheavy as they walked, his footfalls staggered and he knew they had to stop.
The forest spread out into asmall clearing and he found a decent place to make a small camp. Gently, helifted Quincy from the saddle and set her down on a log. He then tended toFalkus as best as he could. Ten minutes later, he flopped down beside the womanhe had ran away with. The chill of the predawn cut through the air and henoticed that she was shivering. When his hand touched hers, she flinched. “Sorry,”he muttered, aware then that she was unable to see his subtle movements.
“It’s alright,” she said.There was something off about her tone and he tilted his head, then felt sillyfor she couldn’t see it.
“What is it?”
“They’ll come for us,” therewas a hint of sadness in her voice, “They’ll come for us and when they find us,you’ll go with them.”
He took her small hands inhis and shook his head, “No, I won’t.”
“I have seen it, you will,”she said.
“If I go back, my fatherwill kill me,” he said. There was no sadness in his voice, just a statement offact. She didn’t deny it either, instead wrapped an arm over his shoulder. Heleaned into the touch and a small hand brushed over the top of his head.Silence drew close as she tugged on the band keeping his black hair out hisface. Her fingers then wound their way through the lengths and he sighed. “I’llnot go with them,” he said.
She didn’t respond and heshifted a little closer to her. The cold of the predawn bit through hisclothing as much as it had hers. She was the one shivering though. “Keep mewarm,” she said.
“I’ve a horse blanket andbody warmth,” he said.
“It’s enough,” she said. Henodded and spread the blanket over the ground. He then took her hand and pulledher down onto it. After wrapping his arms around her, he tugged the blanketaround them too. Her shaking stopped as he ran a hand over her head, smoothingher chestnut hair down out his face. Her small hand rested on his chest, herhead against his side and she shuffled until she was as close to him as she hadever been. She smelled delicious. He wasn’t entirely convinced it was a goodidea, but he pressed his lips to the top of her head anyway. They’d ran away togetherand this seemed like a place to begin.
“Ezekyle?” she asked.
“Yeah?”
“If you’re going to do that,do it properly,” she said.
He did not need to be toldtwice, one of his hands touched her cheek, tilting her head. He took a momentto search her beautiful face before he closed the distance between them. Thecrackle of their lips meeting sent a vivid shock through him and for a moment,all he could do was remain still with their mouths together.
Her tongue pushed againsthis lips, breaking the moment. He parted them and let her inside, tasting heras much as feeling her. The kiss deepened, drew out in length and not for oneminute did he think about breaking it. The rush of her being so near was heady,dizzying and lush. His hand pushed into her hair, loosening at as he held herhead still so he could plunder her mouth.
Her hand slipped down hisside and her hand gripped his bum. Smiling into the kiss, he hummed anapproval. What she did next surprised him completely. She hooked her knee over hisand shoved. He was on his back, she straddled his waist. Looking up at her witha grin, he raised an eyebrow. The tight sensation in his pants didn’t resolveitself under her weight; the look on her face said she’d realised it too. “What?”he asked.
“What’s this?” she hummed,pressing her hips down against him.
Catching her hand, he drewit to his hardening bulge. “This could be a problem,” he said.
“No, I don’t think so.”Ezekyle let go of her hand and cupped her breast instead. She seemed quitecontent to run hers over the swelling at his crotch before she leaned down andkissed him once more. This time, it was full of heat. The flick of her tongue insistentand demanding; he knew his was every bit as needy as hers. He lifted his headinto the kiss, teeth clashed together and she pulled back a fraction, easingoff a touch. Her hand began tugging at the ties of his slacks, his hand liftedher heavy skirts and found her panties. She gasped as his finger brushed upagainst her slick quim. Heat radiated from her and she clamped her thighs over hishand as he rubbed her through the fabric.
Cold air met hot flesh andhe sucked in a breath. Her warm hand pressed and squeezed him and try as hemight, he was unable to keep that distraction from his mind. “Quinsy,” hemewled in a voice that did not sound much like his. She did not stop. Shegrinned at the bead of moisture at the end of his cock. Knowing this would notdo, he slipped his hand into her underwear and pressed into her wet sex. Sheclenched around is finger and he wished it was his prick instead.
“I want you,” she said,voice thick with unspent passion.
“You sure?”
“No Ezekyle, I said that forfun!” He laughed at that and tugged her panties to the side. She rose up on herknees for a moment and took a firm grip on the base of his cock. Next thing heknew, her wet heat was slipping down his length and his world was covered insparks.
“Fuck!” he hissed as shesettled around him. She twitched, he gasped. Hands rested on his chest and shebegan to move, barely giving him chance to register what was happening. Redswamped his vision, his hands fell to her hips and as she found her pace, sodid he. Thrusting into her deepened the red to crimson, his lips parted. Dimly,he was aware that she was panting as she moved. Her hands pushed into the skinof his chest, the fabric rubbing against his sensitive body, alive with sensationas they moved together.
When she leaned down foranother kiss, he swallowed her moans, refusing to relent and kept to the swiftmovements they created together. Crimson turned to purple as their tonguestangled together once more. Her delicate fingers brushed against his balls andhe moaned into her mouth. He was forced to break the kiss when she squeezed.
“I can’t…” he hissed beforebiting his lips. The pressure on his cock, the sweet tingle she sent into hisballs and the heat of her panting in his cheek, it was all too much. He couldfeel himself beginning to spiral away. His prick began to pulse as she clenchedaround him. His tip swelled, her wet heat absolute perfection. Purple turned toviolet and his head fell back. His lips parted and his balls drew up to hisbody.
His world narrowed to theplace they were joined for a brief moment before he was spinning out ofcontrol. Letting out a deep, guttural cry, he released into her. He pulsed intime with her clenching. Her soft cries matched his and for a few, briefmoments, nothing else in the world mattered. It was just the two of them andthe bliss they created together.
It couldn’t last however.When Ezekyle returned to himself, she was trembling in his arms, a happy smileon her face. Looking down at her, he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead,knowing that he smiled too. “I won’t go with them,” he said softly. “I promise.”
“I know you won’t,” shereplied, her words breathy, not yet recovered fully.
“But you said-“
“Hush, sleep,” shewhispered, “We need to be gone in an hour or so.”
Her words were strange, hedid not quite understand why she had changed her mind. Had the future changed?Had she seen something new? Had she lied in the first place? He found he didn’tcare. His eyes closed and he found he was going to do as she suggested. Tomorrow,they would deal that problem. Right now, basking in the glow of their unionseemed like the best idea.
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You Ready, Luv? (Part 5) - [Eggsy Unwin x Reader]
[OMG GUYS SORRY THIS IS MONTHS LATE OOPS. I got a burst of passion again for this bitch tho, so here we are. I hope you like it! <3]
--Read on Ao3 ! Parts [1] [2] [3] [4]
It’s bright, too fucking bright, and something feels wrong… no everything feels wrong. Yet somehow everything is familiar, like you’d been here before, done it before… had you?
Your head hurts something fierce, but it’s worse just between your temples. It’s dull, and sharp at the same time, and your entire body feels cold. It’s like there’s ice water pumping through your veins instead of blood, and you can’t help but let the shiver begging for release free; creeping further and further over your lips like tree sap, and you can feel it taking root...
It’s sickly, and wet, and it reminds you of that day on the beach… the day you almost drowned. You can’t help but think about the way the seaweed felt wrapped around your neck, and arms, and in an instant you can almost feel it twisting like a snake again— pulling until you’re completely submerged, and then suddenly you’re trapped in that room.
Wait…room? No, that’s not right…
You’re trapped under the current like you were on the beach that day, and just like then; you’re drowning. Hitting the sand hard as cement while the muffled bubbles swim past your ears taunting you, and you know this is it.
Your air was up… or was it time you’d finally ran out of?
You know deep down that you’re not underwater at all, really you do… You know that you hadn’t been in the ocean since that day. You know deep down that you can breathe, that you’re alive and alright… but you can’t seem to shake that feeling, and at the end of your searching was only one thing hidden in the darkness.
“Eggsy.”
Your eyes shot open as you pressed from the stiffness of the bed, but your body fought you, jerking to a halt as a sharp pang spread from your shoulder. “Gah— what the fuck!” you closed your eyes tightly, cursing under your breath several more times, pressing the palm of your hand firmly to the wound, wondering where the fuck it came from, voicing your confusion aloud. “Where..?”
Now you realize you have no memory of the last day at all. Or… however long had passed. Slowly you slid your hand forward, your palm shining back in a rose of your own blood… the color was bright still, which you knew meant that it couldn’t have been very old, but you still can’t remember where it came from.
You can’t remember how you got it, you can’t remember who gave it to you or why… You can’t remember a goddamn thing, and in that moment an oddly familiar sense of unease sets in. It wasn’t like what you felt during a fight, or when going down an elevator… this unease was different. Deep rooted, yet locked from your view behind a thick green fog.
Another glance around the room settled your racing mind, at least a bit however. You were at Kingsman HQ, in the medical bay to be more specific. And the last thing you could remember was leaving for the mission with Eggsy… you remembered the ride… the kiss… then…
Nothing.
You slid your feet from the covers, placing them to the cool tile before standing fully. It wasn’t hard to do, but your muscles were sore, which let you know you hadn’t been out long. At least there was one positive in a basket full of negatives and unknowns.
Next came your eyes, they glanced around the space in search of Eggsy.
He wasn’t there though, and that left a weird feeling in the pits of your stomach; a feeling you didn’t like one bit. You did however notice a chair just next to your bed, with a large blanket so you knew he had been there at some point. That at least made you smile a bit, but still that sickly feeling didn’t stop spreading, so you hugged yourself willing it away; pretending for just a second those arms weren’t yours, but Eggsy’s.
And as the seconds trickle on, so did your desire to see him. That feeling grew and a long with it another one you didn’t know so well. As you slide your eyes from surface to surface you just can’t shake that feeling that something isn’t right… that something is very wrong.
But what?
Your fingers drifted to your neck, lightly holding the front… You could almost…
A creek from the door pulled your eyes toward it, and with it any progress you’d made. But you didn’t care, because somehow you knew just who would be on the other side. Your hand slid to hide behind your back, clutching tightly onto nothing at all as if you’d done something wrong; a near guilty expression cascading your otherwise baffled expression.
Had you done something?
It didn’t matter right then, because Eggsy was here… finally. His eyes glued to the ground as he mumble to his feel. It was obvious he hadn’t taken notice to you yet, and for just a moment you let yourself pretend everything was normal. Those broad arms you wanted to feel again almost desperately were full of snacks, and at the end of a long leash was your dog Prince.
Eggsy looked just like a fucking dream, one you never wanted to wake from, and all you wanted to do was grab him, hug him and tell him… tell him something…
If only you could remember what…
When Eggsy noticed you there, his stoney expression lightened into the sweetest one you’d seen him wear. Immediately he tossed his armful of food aside, not caring where they land, taking you fully into his arms instead. He was warm, and for just a second that cold feeling dissipated.
It was perfect… it was home. Yet somehow it felt like time was slipping like coarse sand through your fingers, and you were powerless to stop it. Trying to squeeze your grip tighter and tighter around it, but no matter how tightly you grabbed, you only made it worse.
What the fuck happened during that mission?
Eggsy slid his hand to the back of your neck, his fingers braiding lightly through your hair, and when he looked at you this time his eyes were heavy and burdened. Almost like he was seeing a ghost, or something just as haunting when he looked in to your eyes. Maybe he felt what you did, and that’s why he was looking at you like this…
You were reminded that it wasn’t time to find out when Eggsy kissed you. And thank the bloody universe for that too, because there was little more you wanted than to just feel him against your lips again. But just like everything else thus far, there was a strange taste to it… the tase of familiarity and finality.
That kiss was hard, impassioned and fucking terrifying.
It felt just like the one he gave you before the mission you couldn’t remember, and now just like then—whenever then was— it left you with questions.
One of those questions was how a kiss could be so blissful, yet so daunting, and god did you want to know… but you also knew it wasn’t the time for asking, at least not questions like that. Not questions you somehow knew you weren’t ready to know the answers to.
For now holding him would be enough. Pretending that everything was alright for just a little while longer... that would be enough. Just feeling him… before… before...
Before what?
“Don’t you ever do that t’me again, d’you understand?” he placed both hands to your face softly, very nearly begging in the way he spoke as his eyes plead silently for a promise he knew you couldn’t give him.
But you smiled your promise anyway, slipping your fingers to the wrists cradling your face affectionately; the pads of your thumb tracing the back of his hand as you lied, nearly believing the words yourself. “I won’t.”
Even Eggsy knew it was a vow you could never keep, but it didn’t stop him from asking you to make it. And for some reason a part of you felt like you already had broke it as strange as that sounds, more than once even.
Somehow you knew that you’d always be doomed to break it, time and time again.
“Hey, look at me… everythin’s alright now, luv. I got you now, yeah? An I ain' lettin' go.” Eggsy whispered, and whether he was trying to convince you of that or himself, you really didn’t know and figured that was another question for later— or maybe never now that you thought about it. But it brought you a little comfort to know he was trying like he always did. It was nice to know that at last a part of him believed it, even if you weren't sure you did. “You had me worried though, didn’ya?”
“I’m sorry, babe… really I am. But, I can’t…” you squeezed him harder, the pang of guilt once again erupting. Was the guilt from making the man you adored worry or was it due to something else entirely? Again... you didn't know, but at least for now you'd ask questions Eggsy might know the answer to. “What happened?”
“We was hopin’ you'd tell us.” and when he replied this time, you could definitely sense his apprehension building. The disappointment and anxiety seeping off him in light airy waves. For once he was doing a bad job at hiding what was on his mind, and you couldn’t help but pull slightly from his hug to meet his gaze head on.
“You don’t know?”
Eggsy pushed a sigh out, pressing his lips into a fine line with brows raised light with concern as you asked him that. “You askin’ me? Y/n, you was the one stuffed in that fuckin’ room for six hours.”
Six hours.
Okay, you had something to go on now. Six hours wasn’t that long… but you weren’t naive, and knew that lot could have happened in that time. Judging by the face Eggsy was now wearing like a poorly set mask, it probably had.
But you still didn’t know how long you were out for, or how much memory from before your— let’s call it an ‘accident’— happened was lost.
“I-I… Eggsy, I can’t remember anything.” you confessed feeling that creeping guilt spreading yet again, thick like honey, yet black as tar… and still you can’t fucking figure out why.
"Merlin'll figure it out," Eggsy pulled you close once again, kissing the top of your head softly. That kiss was different. Different from your usual ardent ones, different from the uneasy one from before that felt just like a goodbye… “It’s all gonna be okay, luv.”
“What if it’s not…” you whispered to his chest, pulling him closer; tighter than before, and if he hadn’t known something was seriously wrong before, he definitely did now.
You could feel his pulse rising as he run his fingers through your hair at the nape of your neck… you could feel his breath quickening in cadence as he move his chin across your head then place another tender kiss to the top of it… this one longer and sadder than before if you could imagine that.
You could feel all of this as if they were your own feelings. Hell, maybe they were… but mostly you were filled to the brim with one thing and one thing only.
Fear.
#Eggsy Imagine#Eggsy Unwin x Reader#Eggsy x reader#Kingsman imagine#Kingsman fanfic#my writing#you ready luv#eggsystential crisis#my gifs#part 5#fuck this is late#sorry ;.;
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04 _ Straw Spun to Silk
First - A Gentleman in a Coat
Chapter 04 - Bells Chimes and Orange Rhymes
Spate stole another step back, for all the good that would do. He sniffed the dank, humid air – picked up nothing, but rot and decay. He fought the curl of a snarl in his ribs; this was not the time.
“Come now,” Spate rasped. With a hand, he eased Chad out from his side, his other hand adjusted the hat on his skull. He hid his eyes, hid the light, and concentrated on moving Chad without the boy panicking. He kept himself between the designated corridor passage of the sewage line, deemed occupied and teeming with hostility. “Stay close. Slowly, turn. That’s good, very good.” The boy quivered shoulder to toe, but he worked his limbs to move seamlessly; if a little disjointed. Spate only need guide him, and keep him from collapsing outright. “Good. So good. I’m proud of you, you’re doing so well, Wick. Don’t look back. There’s nothing.”
“But—”
“There’s nothing. And we’re leaving.” Spate hunched over, and put his jowl because Chad’s chin. “But you can’t look back. Not once. I’m here, I won’t let you go.” He nudged Chad’s upper arm with his premaxilla, and coaxed hasty progress. Faster would be good, but Chad was swathed in a daze. “Keep moving, eyes forward.”
Movement was the essential – get away, gather distance, the more the better.
“This is where we came down,” Spate proclaimed. The slope was steep, but he could aid Chad on his ascent. Carry him if necessary. It would be best if the boy walked. “Take your time, I have you.”
“Chaddy,” a voice crooned. “Where y’going, chum?”
Chad choked, and pried out of Spate’s hold. “Sterling? Sterling!” And felt instantly the gravity of his error. A piercing howl erupted from his throat – there was nothing else in his arsenal that could contend with what his gaze met. Only noise, a piercing wallow, would liberate his throttling shock.
It was tall, built of ravels and jagged ends of splintered bone – the fetid odor that permeated it obliterated all fond recollections of food and summers long dead. The eyes in the oozing skull blazed, molten and hot and diseased. In an instant, the ghoulish marionette was gone—
Spate whirled about lurching in front of Chad. He didn’t see scrap or bit of what terrified the boy; he glimpsed a wisp of color that splattered across his memory, and some wholly physical force collided with his body – paralyzed his entirety. Spate went down sprawling, with Chad in his arms – then the bundle was gone, his grip vacant.
“Wick!” he croaked.
In the furthest recesses of the corridor, the rolling wail of the boy snapped off.
Spate roused himself, and pulled himself together in the most literal sense. He detected a definite and substantial loss of time. “Wick!” He shook out his coat and fixed his head, and stood. “Wick! Say something! WICK!”
The solid force of silence and absence brimmed through the vastness of the sloping channel. Spate looked to an open direction, continuing directly across from his stance. Water churned and splattered in some vague pipe elsewhere, the noises whirled and intermixed with the drumming of a rapid stride. No reply, no return cry.
No scent. None, other than….
Spate swept his attention back onto the fresh, mutilated corpse flayed not far from where Chad had plopped down. No, no… he couldn’t be certain. He followed the scent that was Sterling, whicha clung heavy to….
“Wick!” Spate lowered to the cement, and touched the grimy slough of the channel bottom. He dug through silt and leaves, inching forward little by little. He returned to his stance and shot off, taking the next bend to his left and picking up pace. His coat tail fanned out behind him, snapping as he hit the next turn – skimming along the wall and rolling to the opposite slope. A mesh-weave of rusted metal and left over construction supplies dipped in his path; one that Spate sprang through smoothly.
And stopped. He pushed the hat on his skullcap back, and leaned toward the sharp slant of a corridor bend. He darted to one end of a shaft, then returned to an intersection and studied the parched mulch layered on the floor. Follow Chad. Seek Sterling. That absorbed his essence, this was what he knew… he couldn’t follow the abductor, but he could follow his client.
The body was not only mutilated. It was practically chewed to bits. There wasn’t much left. There wasn’t much there to begin with….
A cry burbled in Spate’s ribcage, but he maintained the minimal silence he could afford. He navigated the long and winding networks of the sewer, and came to a ledge that dropped off into a lower chute. Another network of smaller, tighter tunnels extended from this division. There was water that sloshed around his boots, and soaked into the tails of his coat. It was much more difficult to drag semblance off the soggy, warm air; too much to calculate through. So many people, so many bodies.
Spate crouched onto a soggy heap of soil beneath the water, and watched the swirling stew twirl around his boots. The water was a constant, a moving and cleansing villain. It didn’t stop him from staring despondent, concentrating. With no fresh leads. Chads scent faded with each tick of the clock. Spate might’ve muttered about the crisis, if not for the teasing chime.
“Bells,” he uttered. Crouched low on hands and feet, he slipped along a low slopping wall. The pathway came to an open pass, with deviating channels. He could detect the lively aroma of plants, trees, other animals vividly. However, his fixation remained on his client. Chad.
There was a small, minuscule connector grate, at the edge of the copper wall; water spilled freely over the channel, nearly concealing it from Spate’s perceptive eye. If not for his keen sense of seeking what has no business of being. Spate was forced onto his stomach into the sludge – if he were a living thing, this would not be sanitary nor sane. Instead, he was free to swim through the shallow murk, the mud was heavily saturated and he barely made trudged out on the other side.
Immediately, his thoughts doubted. Could they have come through there? Was this a fatal error?
The channel Spate lifted up into was small, drab, and the tethers of roots hung low; slowing across his snout. Waterlogged materials clung to his boots, gurgled thickly with each step. He sloughed onward, taking a path to his right this time. He pursued carefully, slowly, aware of the oppressive unwanted the passage conveyed. It was a yearning, and at the same time repulsion.
Spate skittered to a stop, and cocked his head sharply. He meandered, tense and distressed. Something wasn’t right, this was obvious.
There was his Chadwick, partially obscured in reeds. He lay limp and folded over a greasy bar of dead grass and branches, the child looked okay – aside from some scuffing and scratches, but nothing alarming – he was alive and breathing.
For now.
And then spate could smell it, too. Popcorn and sweet treats, but oh so faintly, and distant from his memory. Did he ever visit a Fair when he was alive? The sewer, it no longer encompassed him; the space was something else entirely. A different place, a different time. Maybe at one time he was in the sewer, hunting for something that didn’t exist for a contract he never committed to. Not anymore. This was now a place for fun and games, the exciting sights and the flash of lights; the best food and offerings on this side of the county. There was so much to see, too much that needed experiencing. It was overwhelming. He wanted that more than anything – run and adventure, and appreciate every gleeful sensation that was stolen from him. He would have it, and a full, thrilling lifetime would be his. All of it, until he was old and worn out and his bed became a dried pine box.
Spate dipped his head down. He shook his coat out and loosened his bones. Water and liquefied reeds clung to his collar. Wet, soggy mud.
The Bells.
Chad whimpered an unintelligible sound. And that was when Spate struck.
He meant to fall upon the boy and gather him up in one decisive swoop, but his collision with Chad was arrested by a stringy mass… which growled and snapped back.
Soured, needle teeth gnashed at his snout, barely a breath width away. Spindly hands grappled with his throat, fingers bore into his fur and bone. It didn’t hurt – couldn’t hurt what was already dead – but the mere presence sapped so much of his resolve, his existence and ether. The amber eyes burned into his eye sockets. He wrestled at the writhing mess prying into his jaw, but found his limbs entangled with rich satin and bleached fabric; the scent of the carnival and all its treasures intermixed in the heap; beneath the acrid reek of decay and sapid wallow of death.
Something knobby and not hate fueled fury sagged against Spate’s knees. He was being folded backwards over his ankles by the snarling – this was a clown? – but when he chanced a grip out to brace himself from collapsing completely, his wrist snagged something else.
Chad!
Spate wove his claws into the boy’s shoulder. Chad was stiff, cold, and unresponsive, but his ribs persisted to cave and rise, shallowly. That was well and good, more than he expected.
A nasally snicker trilled from the towering nightmare that held him pinned. The eyes brimmed with tenors akin to delight, and equal parts malice and cruelty. Again, jaws snapped at Spate’s chin, eliciting a creaking moan from his bones. He recoiled back within the limited distance allotted to his coat and hide, all of which bunched up in the constricting grip. He pressed further backwards with no leverage; could only twist his snout aside as It leered, hissing, spitting, and gargling. It whispered against his cheek, closer and closer still. A little closer….
Like a tightly wound spring, Spate let his skull snap loose! The sharp edge of his nasal bridge connected with the white face, and an off withering yelp was his reward. Spate toppled, and somersaulted forwards. He hoisted Chad up to his chest, and twisted within the fingers locked into his throat. There was an upheaval of grumbling and fumbling limbs, but Spate broke free of the lethal embrace and bolted for what he perceived to be open air.
He raced through the cluttered passage, utterly blind with no sight or hint of where his direction led. The shrieks faded in small portions at his backside, with each meter he stole and each turn he cut around. He had enough sense not to collide with a wall; that was the least he could fare with for now. The horror couldn’t catch what didn’t stop, and Spate was nothing but a aimless spirit.
Chad sagged in his arms, dead to the world. Spate wanted to stop and check him over by a margin, if he could afford that, but the brutal cries echoed in the back of his essence. If he became more lost through his flight, then so be it. He doubted a second confrontation would merit his freedom, let alone Chad’s. The boy was still his client, and as such Spate would sanction his safe retrieval by whatever means passable.
In time, Spate understood he couldn’t find his way back to the primary channel where he first entered from; with the large and open expanse, and the runoff that were discernably… cleaner. The warren he navigated remained binding and claustrophobic, the shadows and deep water clustered about his flank like needy apparitions beseeching aid. It was almost relaxing, treading water in this comfortable fashion and seeking, but finding nothing. He bowed low beneath collapsed ceiling, and detected less cement, and more natural rock. The thought discomforted him, but he tried not to focus on that. He sought openings and secret pathways that did not exist, combed the edges of perception without piercing. He felt something was amiss, but couldn’t accurately decide what. The channels looped around, went in circles.
In the backdrop of churning water, was the delicate chuckle of bells. If Spate’s amble became too languid, he could hear them. But it was almost terrifying not to have confirmation that something was there, lurking and waiting. For all he knew, the lurker matched his pace perfectly and was toying with him. But Spate doubted that, he had a sense on it and could perceive that… It was not near. Not near enough to be a threat.
He hoped that was the correct presumption.
Somewhere in his aimless wandering, the ceiling began to rise higher and higher, the open channels melted into tunnels that stretched and yawned forth. The drastic alteration was unfamiliar, and the location – to what Spate understood, and what was expected – refused to match up. He didn’t like this. Everything became wrong and strange.
There still came the narrow and tiny chutes, low in the water and nearly submerged completely. Spate was indifferent to foul liquid, but he remembered Chad would become sick. Not only from the chill, but whatever hovered beneath the surface wouldn’t benefit his health. Spate cradled Chad’s head above the surface, and resumed his sharp canter once free of the tight confines.
In an open channel that was relatively dry, Spate redacted his stride and searched around. He sniffed at the breeze sharply; oil, tar, gravel. Fresh air. High above, in the center of the concave ceiling a manhole cover was punched in. Tendrils of light glittered down, Spate was certain he heard vehicles above. He examined the wide spread walls carefully, and evaluated the texture.
Chad burbled nonsensical noise.
Spate shook his coat, and moved around the channel. The only other notable detail was the center floor, a carved drain seeping. There was also rubbish, branches, and a shattered crib; nothing that would assist. He halted and listened, peering into the deeper sections of shadow. The street above sang its siren song.
Chad didn’t rouse when Spate lay him down. He crouched low, and unbuckled the belt from his coat; while working, he turned his sight on the manhole cover above. The climb wasn’t a trail for him, but he needed his arms free. In case. He looped the belt around his torso crossways, and hefted Chad up against his chest. Both arms needed to be over his shoulder, and with Chad comfortably balanced, Spate tightened the belt. For good measure, he untied the mask from Chad’s neck and looped it around his own arm – the stain tie was long enough.
Spate held Chad in place across his neck, and moved to the side of the curved wall. He experimented with pressing his claws into the imperfections in the cement, and put one boot to the wall. And pushed up. While he still had one arm free, he adjusted Chad a little higher on his shoulder, and surrendered his arms to the climb.
The difficulty wasn’t climbing, but the wall arched sharply backwards. Spate claws trembled, but he put his focus on the circular cover and the flittering light, teasing. His foot lost traction and swung loose, beneath the tail of his coat. Spate waited, until he regained composure.
“W-whuuh?” Chad came to. The worst possible time Chad came to, and pushed back from Spate, though he was tethered tight. “Holy crap!” He threw his arms around Spate’s neck and gripped with every ounce of his strength. “Where the fuck?”
“We’re safe,” Spate wheezed. “Almost out. Don’t worry, just hold tight.” Chad whined into his collar. Spate’s other foot swung loose, and he rocked by his claws. “I won’t fall. You won’t fall.” His boots scrabbled with the slick concrete; he swung, and retook stability. He gained a few more feet; hand, foot, had foot, alternating, and always a firm grip with his claws. Chad continued to mewl, but that was for the best. “Not far….”
You are not one of My children.
Spate swung his head backwards, nearly knocking his hat loose. He was completely inverted, and Chad was in no danger of falling.
Below, something glimmered in the depths of the swelling black. He didn’t recall it being so dark, but the hostility was familiar. Practically beamed into his skull. The eyes suspended in the miasma were vibrant and displaced from the curling shrouds; they were fastened into a pallor face with distinct red bands, like fangs. A delicate and lacey collar enveloped the steely gaze. The face smiled, and the giggle of bells alit on the air.
Spate dragged himself along the ceiling. In less than five seconds he reached the manhole cover; there was no ladder, no wall, it was just a steel grate in the middle of a featureless ceiling. Chad whined when Spate savagely shoved his snout against the metal plate; the plate popped right out.
The outside was balmy, saturated with night and cricket chirrups. Spate hauled him and Chad from the opening, bursting out into the cleansing natural dark free of grunge and the rot of decrepit catacombs. He kicked from the opening and hit the wall of a building. They surfaced into an alley, brimming with clutter and discarded crates. Five minutes of stunned silence, Chad had not lifted his head from Spate’s neck.
In the ground, the sewer opening was placid and unassuming.
“It’s okay,” Spate wheezed. “We’re out. It’s safe now. Safe. I told you. Wick?” Chad didn’t respond, except to bury his face deeper into the collar and constrict his arms around the rigid chest. Spate had to cock his head sharply to see clearly. “I have to cover the sewer.”
Spate undid the belt, carefully. Then, pulled the tie from the silk ribbon – the wooden mask slipped loose and clattered to the ground. Chad might’ve fortified his grip by tenfold, if that was possible. “I need to—”
“Don’t leave me,” came the muffled whine. “Don’t!”
“I won’t leave you,” Spate uttered. “But I can’t leave the cover off. That… person. We might let him out. I have to shut it.”
“No. Don’t!”
“It’ll be fine.” Spate rocked forward onto his knees. He did sling an arm around Chad’s middle, to keep him from slipping. He didn’t want the child near the sewer opening, and worked on detaching him from his arm. “Easy now. I’m right here. Everything’s fine – you’re safe. I got you.”
Chad put his feet to the ground – his shoes squelched, drenched and ruined. He kept a hold of Spate’s sleeve, as the monster scooted toward the open sewer access. Spate did press Chad back a bit more, before he looked down into the yawning vortex.
There was nothing reflecting their previous adventure. No cavern nor impossible climb greeted Spate’s scrutinizing leer; only the dingy floor of the channel, no less than seven feet below, and a ladder. No eyes, no face, no sounds.
Spate shoved the steel grate over the hole with a decisive clunk.
Next - A Gap in Wake and Dreams
#nano#nanowriter#november#2017#crossover#fanfiction#horror#literature#dark fiction#mystery#suspense#suspense horror#just to be clear Chad is 10 or something#bone#straw spun to silk#cloak#skeleton#grim#fiend#spooky#hungry ghost#cryptid
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Love me, love my bump
This contains smut involving a pregnant Floor Jansen in very explicit detail. If you don’t want to read that, don’t. Otherwise, enjoy! @minimetalxena, I really want to hear what you think ^^
Summary: In a desperate struggle against her new body, Floor’s only hope to feel better about it is her devoted man.
“How the fuck did I ever want to get pregnant?”
Floor was in front of their bedroom mirror again, on the verge of tears and cursing the new shape her body was taking. Hannes had come to accept the sudden surges of hormonal moodiness she was subject to now and again, but they usually were few and far apart, and not nearly as strong as what she was experiencing at the moment.
“I hate myself!”
As always, he tried to reason with his wife, knowing full well he had no chance of getting through to her.
“Honey, you have to store that baby somewhere until we can put it in a crib. Why would you hate yourself?”
“Because I’m revolting, disgusting, fat, hideous, that’s why! How is anyone supposed to look at me when I’m bloated like a pig? When even I wouldn’t want to look at me!” she raged, fighting her sobs that threatened to escape.
Reason was useless in comforting a pregnant woman.
Coming behind her with a sigh, Hannes wound his arms around her until his hands lay on her prominent belly. He stroked it lovingly through the split front of her lacy negligee, while dropping kisses on the crook of her neck.
“I look at you all day,” he spoke softly against her skin, “and I love your big, beautiful body.”
“Stop it, Hannes, don’t try to make me feel better!” she huffed, trying not to give in to his caresses, but she wasn’t quite that strong, and his lips really felt heavenly, lightly sucking on her pulse point.
“I will make you feel far better, sweetheart.”
“I don’t wanna! Just leave me alone with my ugly self!”
“Calm down, breathe. I’m not going away until you’re happy.”
It didn’t sound like an offer, more like an order one gives when they know what’s best for you and you don’t; as infuriating as it was touching. Like a child forced to drink one of those repugnant cough syrups, Floor surrendered begrudgingly.
She relaxed into his soothing touch and let him embrace her curves, the ones she’d always had and the new ones he’d given her. He felt his wife’s abandon and smiled, moving one hand up until his fingers stumbled on taut, bountiful flesh. Her breasts had always been wonderful, but never quite as full as they now were, nor so sensitive, judging by the slight moan she let out as soon as he cupped one of them. Through thin fabric, he fondled and squeezed her breast softly and after only a few moments, her moans weren’t so slight anymore.
Hannes then started a leisurely rhythm, thumbing her thick, hardened nipple in slow swipes while his other hand crept under the waistband of her panties. His fingers brushed past the downy hair they found there and rubbed her womanhood in gentle circles. Like her breasts, it twitched at every touch, began to wetten and open up as she moaned with a sudden jerk when he found her swollen clit. Every one of her nerves was at attention, her entire body more alive and more sexual that it had ever been.
How could she ever think she was undesired when to him, she was the most erotic being in the world?
He flicked her clit again and her knees almost buckled, but Hannes held her up.
“I can barely stand,” she breathed out when he first dipped a finger in her entrance.
“Let’s sit you down, then we can do this properly,” he whispered, once more kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin of her neck.
He took her to the bed and eased her onto her back, her legs hanging over the edge of the mattress, before kneeling on the ground in front of her.
“Just take them off.”
He complied promptly, tugging her panties down her legs and onto the ground. Gently, he propped her legs on his shoulders and covered her inner thighs in slow kisses. She let out a low, supplicant moan.
“Do you want me to eat your beautiful pussy, sweetheart?”
Just to hear him say it almost made her lose her mind. She nodded, and he gave her womanhood a tentative swipe of the tongue. When she twitched, he lapped again, then again, up and down her wet seam.
His burning tongue parted her, darted into the hot opening, rolled around and licked everywhere inside and out. He worked hard to bring her frustratingly close more than once, but never gave enough to relieve her ache even as she arched off the bed, trying to feel more of his mouth. Whenever she was teetering on the edge, he slowed down to let some of the arousal dissipate.
It was delicious for him to be in such control, and for her to be subjected to his sweet torture.
Even sweeter when he looked for her tight little nub and found it with his tongue and lips. As she reached down to gently encourage him with a hand tangled in his hair, he gave her clit a sudden hard suck, making her throw her head back into the pillow. He started suckling rhythmically, more lightly, stopping from time to time to kiss her folds and mound and lap up some more of her delicious sap, before giving her clit his undivided attention again.
“I’m gonna- I’m gonna cum!” she gasped.
This time, he didn’t slow down.
Her climax came in an instant, ascending like a quickening drumbeat, and exploded into a heart-stopping finish. Her clear voice was drowned by a throaty, unrecognisable sound of ecstasy. Hungry for the taste of her, he eagerly drank all the wetness gushing out of her until she finally collapsed boneless on the pillows, no longer able to withstand the assault. She was always messy when he made her cum, wet and loud and hot; and he loved it.
As soon as she’d recovered, Floor reached out and beckoned him with a lazy hand.
He came up from between her legs, and accepted the kiss she pulled him into. After a few seconds sucking on his lip, she could feel him hardening against her hip. Perhaps, she thought, should that be put to good use. She ended the kiss with a swift lick to the corner of his mouth.
“Mmmm… Your lips taste like me, sweetheart. Now I want your cock, too.”
“Do you, now?” he smiled at her eagerness. “I thought you’d had enough.”
“Never enough of you,” she groaned, pulling at his waistband. He helped her along, ridding himself of his shorts and t-shirt. She rolled over to lie on her left side and Hannes slid up behind her on the bed.
Raising her leg to make way for his rigid member, he rubbed the tip of it slowly between her thighs, gathering some of Floor’s wetness, but she was desperate for a fucking, not in a mood to be teased.
“Please, just fuck me already.”
Positioning himself at her entrance, he firmly pushed halfway in and Floor gasped out a curse.
He was slow at first, but as she loosened the slightest bit, he allowed himself just a little more speed. Judging by the higher pitch of her moans, Floor didn’t disapprove.
Hannes kept thrusting with a purpose, making sure to sink as deep rather than fast into her as possible and she pushed back onto his cock, filling the room with the lewd sound of skin against skin. Her heavy breasts bounced slowly to the pace of his languid penetration; pathetic little mewls rose from her throat whenever he hit the spot inside that drowned her with sensations.
Those sounds, Hannes loved to hear them. He loved the feeling of making her so weak and needy just as much as he reveled in how snug her hot cunt fit around him and sucked him in.
Trying to hasten her climax, Floor slipped a hand between her thighs and stroked at her clit. Every few seconds, her fingers brushed against his hardness.
“How do you like it, baby? Are you happy with my cock in your lovely cunt?” he husked out, dispersing the last vestiges of her decency.
“Oh, I love it!” she whimpered. “Fill me up, love, please make me cum again!”
Even those few words she’d spoken made her throat dry out. Floor’s breathing was becoming heavier by the second, until she felt her walls clench around Hannes’ shaft.
“I’m gonna cum inside you,” he groaned.
With a rough grunt, he shot his release in hot spurts into her fruitful womb and she, at the same time, cried out and quivered in the throes of her second orgasm.
And then there was stillness.
His cock slipped out of her silky warmth and he let go of her thigh, allowing her to return to a more comfortable position on her back. He kept his hot body against hers, gone back to stroking the broad expanse of her pregnant belly.
So they stayed a few moments, spent and sated, so tranquil one would never guess how wild they’d just been.
“Do you feel beautiful yet? Or should I try again?”
Floor’s eyes fluttered open, dispelling the rapture she was in and bringing her back to reality.They both looked at one another and she couldn’t contain a smile at seeing all the honest love in his eyes; the way they looked at her, she felt like the most precious thing in the world - to Hannes, she no doubt was.
She pressed a small peck to his lips in lieu of an answer.
“I feel very beautiful. And I have no idea how you do it,” she said before closing her eyes, ready to nap.
“Let’s take a shower before you go to sleep, you made us both pretty wet.”
Upon hearing his words, Floor’s cheeks tinged with a furious blush - yes, she could still blush after their bout of passionate lovemaking.
“I couldn’t help that!” she protested.
“And I didn’t want you to. Come on, now.”
He helped her up on shaky legs then, once he’d rid her of her sultry sleepwear in the bathroom, into the shower cabin (thankfully, it was a rather large one). As they stood under the stream of hot water, he took his time soaping her up, lingering on a few well-chosen spot; she wasn’t in a hurry either, feeling her husband’s touch on her skin was quite close to bliss. He really did know his way around her.
The shower over, he toweled her down, and out of the steaming bathroom they went. Only a minute later, they were spooning in bed under a warm quilt. Of course, the sex was marvelous, but Floor was almost as grateful for the cuddles that invariably came afterwards.
“I love you, Hannes. Love you more than anything in the world.”
“I love you too,” he whispered against her nape, relieved his wife was finally serene. “You and that tiny girl that was making you so upset.”
Breathing out a comfortable sigh, she took his hand and held it over her baby bump before definitively closing her eyes. Hannes smiled and did the same; snuggled up against one another, they were soon fast asleep.
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Daryl saves rick from a walker and then gets bit, really angsty :(
Rickwaited too long after Hilltop’s doctor took Daryl away, and now the blood haddried to a sticky film all over his hands. For a while, he had simply stoodoutside the doc’s office room, dripping mud and blood onto the porch, staringat the door, helpless, until Michonne touched his arm and broke him out of thehaze. She got him to go wash his hands, and Rick wasn’t sure how long ago thathad been…but his hands didn’t feel clean yet.
Hisfingers had pruned under the constant submersion, and the backs of his handswere red and raw from incessant scrubbing. He kept mechanically repeating themotions. The water in the bucket was lukewarm on the side of chilly, not warmand thick like Daryl’s blood had been.
God,there had been so much blood. Maybe more than with Hershel. Hershel had goneinto shock faster though…Daryl had thrashed the whole time, refusing to justpass out. The bite had taken a chunk out of his forearm, and the only thingthat had been nearby had been a hacksaw. Rick had taken his arm off at theelbow, and his ears were still ringing from the screams. And if it wasn’t thescreaming, it was the hoarse wheezing that followed when the blood loss sapped Daryl’sstrength.
“Weshould get back,” Michonne stated, standing a few yards behind Rick.
Hetensed, having momentarily forgotten that he wasn’t alone. He withdrew hishands from the bucket of pink tinted water, shaking his wrists and sendingwater droplets onto the grass. He didn’t look up from his hands as he driedthem on a towel.
“Yeah.”
Theywalked back to the main house, where most of the group had ended upcongregating, waiting for news. Their taut expressions told Rick that therehadn’t been an update. Impatience suddenly surged through his blood, and hestepped past them, pushing the front door and walking into the foyer.
Jesuswas standing outside the doc’s door, looking like he was just waiting for oneof them to lose patience…like Rick now was.
“Ishe alive?” Rick asked thickly, already aiming for the door.
Jesuslifted a cautious hand. “It was touch and go, last I heard. There’s—“
Asif on cue, the door pushed out a bit, and the doctor—Rick couldn’t remember hisname, right then it didn’t matter—stepped out, not looking surprised at all thefaces immediately looking at him. There was blood on his shirt, and he waswiping more of it off of his hands onto a towel.
“He’sstable.” With the first two words, Rick felt his knees almost turn to jelly,and Michonne was gripping his arm to steady him. The doc went on. “We won’tknow the damage until tomorrow—“
“Youmean if he’s dying,” Rick stated flatly. “If I didn’t amputate in time, if thebite is going to kill him. That’s what you mean.”
Thedoctor looked sympathetic. “You couldn’t have amputated his arm any faster inthat situation. Now, he’s got a low grade fever, but that could just be hisbody reacting to the trauma. I’ve seen fevers from a bite take someone…It hitsfast and hard…This doesn’t look like that.”
“Ishe awake?” he demanded.
“No,”Doc said, and his tone sharpened. “And he’s going to stay that way. He had apretty high tolerance for the sedatives I gave him, but we don’t have the kindof painkillers that he would need if he woke up right now. So…let him be.”
Rickbristled at the doctor. Gratitude for saving Daryl’s life would not overshadowthe involuntary anger at the implied order to stay away from him. That was hisfriend, his brother, in there…He’d be damned if he was kept away…especiallysince this was his fault to begin with.
“Iwant to see him.” It wasn’t a request.
Besidehim, Michonne sighed but released her grip at Rick’s elbow. “I’ll give theothers the news.”
Rickgave her a grateful look, and though the doctor looked reluctant, he nodded andlet Rick pass. Besides Daryl, Sasha was the only one in the room through thedoor. Daryl was laid out on the bed in the middle of it all, pale, nearlygreen, and sweating. His shirt had been cut away to get access to his arm, andthere was a ring of bruising around his bicep that Rick could see, where he hadcinched his belt around the limb as a tourniquet.
Belowhis elbow, there was nothing.
Thebandaging around the stump was thick and many layered, and there were two metalbowls on a side table full of bloody rags. It was nauseating, and the coppersmell had permeated the entire room. Sasha was sitting in a wingback chair nextto the bed, her arm stretched out on the mattress. The blood transfusion lineran from her arm to Daryl’s intact arm. She was the only universal donor intheir group.
“Hey,”Sasha greeted when Rick closed the door after himself.
Rickwanted to respond, but something was lodged in his throat. He’d done this. Darylwouldn’t have gotten bit if Rick had been paying attention to his surroundings.His gut rolled at the memory of taking the hacksaw back and forth across Daryl’sarm, the harsh scrape when it started to hit bone, the wet slap as the limb finallyfell away. Daryl’s other hand digging fingernails into Rick’s leg, writhing onthe ground, screams of agony turning into cries begging him to stop, to justend this.
Rickexhaled slowly, sinking to sit in the chair on the other side of the bedopposite Sasha. He steepled his fingers under his nose, pushing his lipsagainst his thumbs.
“Ohmy God…” he murmured.
“He’sa tough son of a bitch,” Sasha remarked, both affectionate and fiercelyadamant.
“Yeah,he is,” Rick whispered.
Hesitantly,he reached out a hand, touching the round of Daryl’s shoulder. It was justenough contact to ground him, to feel the solid muscle mass and warm skinthere. Daryl’s chest was rising and falling methodically, and though he wassedated, there was no peace in his unconscious expression. Rick grimaced andleaned closer, moving his hand so that the back of his fingers could feel the temperatureof Daryl’s forehead. He was too warm, but nothing like the other fever. Nothinglike Jim or Andrea had been.
“Iam so sorry,” he whispered under his breath.
“He’sgonna make it,” Sasha stated firmly. “He’s gonna pull through this. With oneless arm, but…he’s right handed, right?”
Rickpaused, looking up from Daryl to Sasha. The woman looked desperate to findsomething less heavy about this situation. It both rubbed Rick the wrong wayand calmed him simultaneously.
“Why?”he asked.
Sashablinked, swallowing hard. She looked to Daryl. “I’m trying to find the good tocome out of this bad…”
Ricksnorted wetly, returning his hand to Daryl’s shoulder, reluctant to let go, torelinquish that contact to the reality that he had survived so far.
“Yeah.He, uh…He’s right handed.”
Sashanodded, turning teary eyes to the ceiling. “Okay, well, there you go. He’salive, and he’s still got his dominant hand.” She smiled ruefully. “And that’sall I’ve got right now.”
Ricksniffed and measured his breathing, keeping it under control. “That’ll beenough for today.”
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Chapter 8: For One Day Soon
Chapter Seven Chapter Six Chapter Five Chapter Four Chapter Three Chapter Two Chapter One AO3
Nanami felt soft green grass beneath her and a hot sun above her. The smell of flowers, tree sap, and elfroot filled her nose. She was surrounded by dense, living forest. She could hear birds and a young halla baying for it’s mother not too far away. She hadn’t seen so much green since she’d ventured into the Emerald Graves. It was like being home again; she took a deep breath and let the warmth of the sun prickle across her skin.
She felt lighter and realized she was without her armor. In a moment of panic she pulled on the power of the fade, but she stopped as someone she hadn’t noticed before stood up from under a nearby tree. The familiar face marching towards her dissolved her panic and replaced it with rage.
“What were you thinking?!” Solas’s voice boomed in her ears. He knelt down to her level and grabbed her shoulders, “Jumping physically back into the Fade, and for what? A dead man? It was foolish, you could have been killed!”
“You haven’t been around. You don’t get to weigh-in.” She pushed his hands away and stood up, she was tired of seeing his face. Nanami looked around the forested area and saw no sign of her friends. “Where are we, demon?”
Solas looked aghast, “I’m not a demon, you’re safe here.”
She tried to think herself out of the vision only to find that her mind was clear, like when she and Solas used to meet in her dreams. It didn’t ease her anger, however, if anything it fanned the flames. “How did you know where I was?”
“Spirits, Veh’nan, you were easy to find.” Solas sighed, “You know you don’t owe the Warden anything; Why put yourself at such risk for a woman half out of her mind with Blight?”
The familiar endearment smoothed the rough edges of her anger. “You said, “Veh’nan”? So, you still...?”
He was hesitant; Solas looked down and straightened his sleeve, keeping his attention off of her, “Of course… but Nanami --” She closed the distance between them and kissed him. She had been through too much to allow him to be dismissive. No matter how deep in the Fade they were, Solas was as real to her here as he had been in the warm confines of his study. He felt solid and safe, his arms didn’t encircle her, and his lips returned her kiss half heartedly.
Nanami stepped away from him but he pulled her chin up and his lips pressed against hers in a more attentive kiss. The moment was brief and he released her before he lost himself.
“This isn’t why I came.” He took a few steps away from her to put some distance between them. His hands busied themselves with tugging at the edges of worn cotton sleeves.
“Then why did you?”
“I couldn’t watch you die.”
“Then, you should come back to Skyhold. It will be much easier to protect me there.”
He shook his head, “It’s not that easy.” His eyes avoided hers again, they looked down at the ground or through the dense thicket of trees.
“It can be.”
Solas laughed, short and shallow. “Because you are the Inquisitor?”
“Yes, because I am the Inquisitor! Solas, I’m not going to wait for answers any longer. Why can’t you trust me?”
“It has nothing to do with trust.”
“Trust has everything to do with it, Solas. Whatever trouble you think you’re in or whatever you think you need to do alone, I can help, I can--”
He took her hands in his. “Listen to me.” His voice was soft and thoughtful; while his eyes were weary and pained, “What we had was real. For a while, we traveled the same road, towards the same goals and perhaps it could have stayed that way had things turned out differently. But, they didn’t. Our paths are taking us in different directions and we must walk them. But you needn’t do it alone.” He touched her cheek and ran his thumb across it to catch a tear. “Some love stories are better as short stories, my love.” He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek and whispered in her ear. “It’s time for you to wake up. Goodbye.”
“Solas!” she tried to reach for him but already, the quiet forest was disintegrating around her and Solas was gone.
~ ~ ~
Briana woke up on a straw mattress with Nanami still fast asleep beside her. Her chest, neck, and shoulders were wrapped tight with cotton bandages. Standing at her bedside was a young boy with round yellow eyes. He had a wet cloth in his hands and smiled.“Mother will be pleased.” His voice was flat and lacked the emotion that usually accompanied ten year old boys.
A demon...
Briana sat up in her bed. The pain in her chest shot through every nerve in her body. She grabbed the little boy by his cotton shirt and reached for her axe. When it wasn’t where she was expecting it, she fumbled and fell out of bed hitting the hardwood floor like a heavy stack of potatoes. She yelped while the boy wrested out of her grip.
“Mother!” he cried, flinging the front door open and disappearing from Briana’s sight.
Briana stayed on the floor and stared at the ceiling. The blankets were twisted around her, and her feet were still propped above her on the edge of the bed. Briana was satisfied (by the pain and embarrassment) that she was, in fact, out of the Fade. She peeked under the bandage around her chest and saw a thick, red scar that was still stitching itself together.
Magic made dying complicated.
She had been stabbed through the chest and still managed to live. Who does that? Not Andraste, or Maferath...or Alistair. Just her, maybe she could find a dragon to fight with her bare hands and test the Maker’s resolve to keep her alive. After the initial anger quelled, the realization that she was alone made her listless, her mind was blank, and her eyes set on the wooden beams above her.
The rusty front door opened and swung shut.
“Well, well, the Hero of Ferelden, awake at last and with such grace .”
Fuck me, this is where it all comes full circle.
Morrigan stood over Briana with her arms crossed and brows raised. “I always said Alistair t’was the idiot but sometimes you make me think I was incorrect.”
“Not now, Morrigan.” Briana made no real attempt to untangle herself from the bed sheets.
“Ah yes, I’ve obviously interrupted something very important. Are you going to get up?”
“Nope.”
“Stop acting like a child and get up.” Morrigan snorted “I would have let you die, if I knew that’s what you wanted. You’re the ones who came through my eluvian.”
“Next time wake me up before you decide whether I should live or die. I’m getting tired of you, your mother, and the bloody Maker making that decision for me.”
“You would have survived even without my help, that wound on your chest should have killed you, but it was healing before I even touched it. Someone isn’t ready for you to die yet, Briana Cousland, so you could at least do them the courtesy of living. Get up; the rest are outside eating supper and you will do the same.”
Maker why?
Briana pushed herself to her feet, this time she moved carefully, using the side of the bed for support. She brushed her fingers through her curls and looked around the hut, “So, that was your son?”
“His name is Kieran.”
“Did Alistair meet him?”
“Briefly. Kieran doesn’t know anything about his father, as promised, and I kept him well away. Though I can’t say Alistair made that easy. Fool.”
Briana walked over to the fire and held her hands up to the flame. She felt cold to the core and the humidity that blew in from the windows was ice on her skin. She rubbed her hands together, trying to warm herself but Urthemiel’s quiet song seeped into her and pulled the heat away. “Thank you.”
Morrigan pulled the blankets back over Nanami who still lay unconscious. “For what?”
“For giving us time. I didn’t realize what you were offering. I was so convinced you had betrayed me; I didn’t even stop to think about another explanation. I did so little with the time I had; Alistair begged to come with me but, no, per-usual I had to put the world before us. I only seem to care when I risk losing him.”
“Why do you think that idiot cared for you so much? Because he could count on you to make the tough choices. Sentimentality doesn’t suit you, Briana-- even in your old age.” She tucked the blankets around Nanami and walked towards the fire, she came up behind her friend and dug a finger into Briana’s bare flesh. It was black, purple, and bruised.. It disappeared beneath the bandages and was about the size of Flemeth’s grimoire. “When did this begin?”
“Sometime after Alistair and I separated.”
“What do you plan to do about it?”
“Put a sword through my belly, eventually.”
“You’re pathetic, this isn’t the Hero of Ferelden who was ready to do what it took to end the Blight.” Morrigan started towards the door.“Go eat, Alistair isn’t the only person who cares about what happens to you. The Dragon Age isn’t the age to mourn someone’s passing. Too many people have been lost, death is apart of everyone’s life. Keep him with you but remember who you are. Things are not going to get better.”
Briana didn’t respond. She walked away from the fire, grabbed a clean linen shirt and pulled it over her head. She went into the frigid Ferelden air with Morrigan. There was a larger, warmer fire lit in the yard. It chased away the damp cold and left the air smelling of smoke with a hint of fresh swamp. The stars were bright and clear in the sky. Flemeth's hut had gone untouched by the Blight that surrounded it, on the other side of a small stream at the front of the cottage, Briana could see dead grass and blighted trees. The perimeter of the cottage, however, looked exactly like it had the day she had left it after (presumably) killing Morrigan’s mother.
Cullen and Sera sat together on a bench with their faces half stuffed with stew. When they saw her, Cullen tried to regain some dignity: wiping stew from the scruff of his ungroomed face and sitting a little straighter. Meanwhile Sera shoveled more food down her throat, more than happy to stay in gravy-faced bliss.
Briana looked between the two of them, unsure wether to laugh or cry, “How did we end up here?”
Cullen set his bowl aside “When the Nightmare reappeared, another spirit showed up in the form of a wolf and defended us. I don’t remember anything after that. Not saving you, or Nanami, or going through an Eluvian, as Morrigan claims we did.”
“What about Alistair? What happened to him?”
“Well, that’s even a bigger mystery, but one I’m sure you’ll be pleased by.” Cullen motioned for her to turn around.
She turned and her heart stopped. He stood there, his clothes too loose for his skeletal frame; his hair too long and frazzled around his square, bearded face but those eyes. She’d never mistake them, not in a million years. “Maker preserve me.”
“He hasn’t done anything but ask for ya.” Sera said through mouthfuls of food, “An’ give Morrigan these sideways looks but she said tha’s normal.”
Briana threw herself into Alistair’s arms. He hugged her tight. Regardless of how skinny or weak he was it was the safest she’d felt in years. His lips pressed against the top of her head and his fingers ran through her hair. She buried her face into the crook of his neck and just held him..
Alistair chuckled, “You’re going to break me.”
“You were dead.” She looked at him, touched his face, traced his cheek bone down to his chin.
“Me, dead? Perish the thought.” His hand rested on the back of her head, “Come here.” He pulled her face close to his and kissed her. He was warm and solid, the same as she remembered. All of her worries were gone. Anything that had been plaguing her before the kiss simply vanished. Even Urthemiel couldn’t rear his ugly head. Not when Alistair was so close and alive. So very much alive.
Alistair ran his hand through her hair and looked over every inch of her face. His eyes lingered on the top of her head and his brows came together as he touched the area where her rose usually sat. “Briana,” his voice was distressed, “Where’s your rose? You’re never without it.”
Briana felt his entire body tense, she reached a hand up to fluff his hair and soothe him but he was fixated on her rose. She tried to find eyes as she explained,“It shattered while we were in the Fade.”
“Wynne put a protection spell on it.” Alistair was curt and sild his hand out of her hair, “It wouldn’t just break.” He looked at everyone around him like they were part of the scenery and no longer people. “We’ve been through worse bloody battles and it’s always survived.” Alistair pulled out of Briana’s embrace.
“It was more than that.”
“I was free.” His eyes turned away from her and flickered from face to face, becoming more and more distant.
“Al” Briana reached for his hand.
“Briana, get away from him.” Morrigan warned.
“Not again, I won’t let you taint my memory of her anymore.” His voice was soft and shaking; tears touched the corners of his eyes. Briana ignored Morrigan’s warning; Alistair lunged at her when her fingertips touched his hands. Faster than her eyes could follow, his hands wrapped around her neck and squeezed.
Alistair looked through her, seeing a demon no one else could. Briana tried to pry his hands from her neck but the lack of air to her lungs, coupled with her injuries, weakened her. She thrust her hands against his chest and with a hard shove, she pushed him away from her and took a few stunned steps back. Before he could reach her again, Cullen was on him and restrained Alistair by the arms. He screamed,and cursed, and yelled, lost in whatever nightmare he conjured for himself.
Briana tried to go to him but Sera pulled her away. Alistair struggled in Cullen’s grasp. He screamed through heavy tears, calling Briana a demon, an illusion, spawn of the darkest depths of the Fade. He kicked and flailed like a child throwing a tantrum and though he was lithe and light, Cullen clearly struggled to hold him back and he kept shouting “I was free. I was free. I was free.”
Just as Alistair deteriorated from violence into sobs, Morrigan waved a hand in front of his face; magic slid up his nose and Alistair’s whole body froze before he collapsed into sound sleep.
“Alistair believes he’s still in the Fade.” Cullen’s voice was muffled behind the blood that pulsed in Briana’s ears. “I suffered the same after the uprising in Ferelden’s Circle. He was fine until he decided something wasn’t right in his world.”
Morrigan nodded, “Take him inside and tie him to the wooden chair near the fire. He won’t be waking up anytime soon but when he does I don’t want another fight.” Cullen nodded and carried Alistair inside while Morrigan turned her attention to Briana. She began to examine the bruises already forming on her neck.
Briana ran her hands through her hair, expecting to feel the velvety petals but instead felt nothing but dry brown hair.
Morrigan sighed, “Well if that’s all,‘tis simple enough to fix. Temporarily, at least.” Morrigan kneeled and pressed her hands into the soil. Magic penetrated the ground and slowly, fresh green vines rose up. Morrigan pushed more magic into the plant until a single red rose blossomed. Morrigan picked it and wove a quick spell around it before handing it to Briana. “This should help but you need to be careful. If the absence of your rose can set him off, who knows what else may. Don’t be alone with him.”
Briana took the rose and tucked it into her hair. She felt the soft red petals beneath her touch and twirled it between her fingers until it sat just right. “Can you erase the memories?”
Morrigan paused and shook her head, “No, the magic involved and the unintended consequences would be worse than its benefits. I will send you with sleeping potions and sedatives. Tis the best I can do. I’m sure the Inquisitor can put him to sleep if it must come to that.”
“Briana, he can recover. I went through something similar after you left the circle.” Cullen said as he stepped out of the hut, closing the door gently behind him. “With time and patience, he will feel the world become solid again. He’ll eventually begin to trust what he smells and feels. I worked through it and he can too. It will never go away though, Briana. The nightmares are continuous and it’s something the two of you will have to learn to live with. However, I have complete faith you’ll pull him out of the worst of it. Much faster and more whole than I could on my own.”
“You should stay at Skyhold with us.” Sera said as she skipped back over to the warm fire, sat down in a chair, and rubbed her hands together. “Until he’s better yeah? You’ll have everything you need there. I’m sure Quizzy wouldn’t mind and I know Bull and I’d like to watch you knock Cullen on his ass a few more times!”
“Thank you Sera but, I don’t want him paraded around in front of Orlesian and Ferelden nobility. It wouldn’t be safe for him to be seen there like this. We’ll go home.”
“You can’t bring ‘im back to the Wardens acting all Blighty.”
“I never said I would.” She had no desire to return to living under the thumb of the Wardens. Sera was right, with Alistair in this condition they may believe he had Blight sickness. They’d eventually find hers too and she’d be thrust into the Deep Roads like the unwanted problem she’d become, or worse.
Then there was, Skyhold. There she’d have Lilly and the entire Inquisition at her beck and call, but she had no desire to expose Alistair to people that still petitioned him to overthrow Queen Anora. She knew she could trust her allies but had no desire to trust the rest of the Inquisition.
Betrayal came cheap.
They needed somewhere safe, and warm, and surrounded by the people who loved her and not just her title. When she thought about it, Briana smiled “Highever, I think we’ll visit my brother in Highever.”
#dragon age origins#dragon age inquisition#briana cousland#alistair theirin#the dawn will come#commander cullen#cullen x inquisitor#solas x lavellan#Nanami Lavellan#Cousland#alistair x warden#dragon age
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