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maccreadysbaby · 1 month

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A Hundred Ways to Become a Wayne

batfamily + oc insert

tw: none

wanna read more? here’s the table of contents!

want to read the first fic in the hundred days series so you understand what’s going on here? here it is!

short but crucial moments between the fam <3

part thirty-two

❝ REUNIONS ❞

TUESDAY — AUGUST 18 — 1:07PM

THE FIRST THING BENTLEY HEARD WAS THE BEEPING OF A HEART MONITOR.

He took a deep breath. He was laying on something comfortable now, and his shoulder — the one that had been shot — felt like it had been tampered with. His right arm was close to his body and he couldn’t move it all that much. Something really warm was pressed up against the whole left side of his body, too.

His brain was still kind of hazy, but a different kind of hazy than before — less of a I’m-about-to-die haze, and more of a painkiller-high haze.

Still, all the painkillers could do was dull the endless aching that originated in his shoulder and reverberated through his bones. He wasn’t sure what had happened — did people stitch up bullet holes? — but it was still pretty painful.

When he pulled his eyes open, he was blinded by the white lights of the cave’s medbay, and a shooting pain shot through his skull. He made a small whine of discomfort and squeezed them shut. Why were the lights so bright?

A hand landed gently on his forehead, and he almost started crying right then. Because it wasn’t Nico or Asten or Davis or just anyone touching him, it was the real deal, he was actually home, actually alive, and Bruce was actually touching him. He thought.

He peeled his eyes open again just to make sure, and the back of his eyes began to burn at the sight of Bruce, sitting in a chair not a foot from the bed in the batcave’s medbay, his grey-blue irises trained on Bentley’s face.

“Hey there, chum,”

Bentley looked away, (don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.) and instead, focused on himself. He was wearing his own hand-me-down Wonder Woman pajamas now (he’d never loved them so much.) His right arm was in a blue sling, and there was an IV going into his left hand. Really, his entire body was aching in some way or another, but instead of dwelling on all of that, he looked over to the warm thing that was pressed into his left side.

It ended up being a very worn-down looking Dick Grayson that was curled up on the edge of the hospital bed, sleeping soundly, with an IV of his own in his arm. His black hair was tousled and messy, hanging down over his eyes, and he looked paler than usual. One arm was folded beneath his head while the other was extended toward Bentley, resting on his left shoulder.

He was home.

He worked up the courage to look back at Bruce, but when he plastered on a reassuring smile, Bentley promptly peered into the rest of the cave. The Batcomputer was empty, and Bentley couldn’t see anyone else.

Bruce kept brushing his hand over his hair. “How are you feeling?”

Bentley thought about shrugging, but that would be stupid. He also thought about trying sign, but he didn’t have both hands. He definitely wasn’t going to talk, lest he burst into tears, so instead, he lifted his left hand ever so subtly and finger-spelled: bad.

Bruce took in a breath through his nose, a sort of hazy film covering his eyes as he continued to brush Bentley’s hair back soothingly. “I’m so proud of you, Bentley. You made it home.”

Bentley really had to stare at the ceiling, good and hard that time. Bruce was proud of him? Proud of him for running away, for chasing a supervillain, for breaking into someone’s cabin, for getting himself kidnapped? How was he ever supposed to work up the nerve to tell him all of that? Sure, he hadescaped, he had made it home, but not on his own, only after his idiotic decisions had gotten him there in the first place. There was nothing for Bruce to be proud of.

You worthless waste of oxygen, John Whittaker’s voice came and left him blinking back a sting in his eyes. Why couldn’t he do anything right? Every time he tried to do something helpful or good it always ended up backfiring, getting him hurt, getting him kidnapped, getting him laid in a hospital bed with Wayne’s at his side. Why couldn’t he do anything right? This time he hadn’t even attempted it alone — he had friends at his side, and still, it was disastrous.

Bentley Whittaker, you are a walking disaster.

Why did the insult hurt worse now than it had then? His father always called him worthless, useless, a disaster. Did it hurt worse now because the Wayne’s went out of their way to tell him he wasn’t, but he still really, really was? And he knew he was? All the evidence was laid out neatly before him: Bentley Whittaker was a disaster.

And still, they loved him.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. Bentley looked around the medbay to keep his eyes occupied, at the other hospital beds that were to either side of his. Much to his surprise, he was currently the only one in the medbay, if he didn’t count Dick. Alfred (who he hadn’t seen before.) was running tests on the other end of the room, and the beds that were once inhabited by Tim, Jason, and Damian were empty.

Slowly, he lifted his hand and finger-spelled: Damian?

Bruce smiled fondly. “He woke up… about twelve hours ago. Jason, too. They’re upstairs now.”

Bentley sighed softly, then spelled: Tim?

“He still isn’t feeling well, but he’s doing much better. He’s upstairs as well,” Bruce explained softly.

Bentley glanced over at Dick, his eyes traveling across the IV in his hand. Dick? He signed.

“He’s okay, just a little worn,” Bruce explained, making sure to keep that reassuring smile plastered on. “You were gone for twenty-six hours, and Nightwing was out searching for twenty-three of them. You’ve been in the cave for about thirteen.”

And that made Bentley feel even worse than he already did. He knew that’s not what Bruce intended by telling him that, but it’s what happened, anyway. So Bentley looked back at the too-bright ceiling with a small exhale.

Bruce moved his chair closer with a small squeak. “Should you ever want to talk about what happened, we’ll listen. But for now, we’re just relieved you’re home.”

Bentley said nothing, but like a bell that was coming to save him, Dick began to stir. It wasn’t but five seconds before his bright ocean blue eyes flitted open, focusing on the rest of the room, then Bruce, then Bentley. He inhaled sharply, his blue eyes very suddenly and quickly brimming with tears, before he hugged Bentley as gently as he could and his his face away in his hair.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, Bentley found himself saying again. There was suddenly a hand in front of his face that finger-spelled: I love you.

So Dick still wasn’t talking, then. Bentley had forgotten about that part. He didn’t mind, though — staring at various parts of the batcave was good enough for him. Communicating thoroughly wasn’t really on his radar at that point anyhow.

For a while (a long while) Dick just cried. Which was fine. Bentley just let him. It felt like he was being eaten alive by guilt, anyways, so the least he could do was let Dick cry it out with him.

Dick’s pain was his fault, his mind kept saying. Everyone’s pain was his fault. Bentley’s. His father was the one who ran the experimenting facility. His father was testing the Synchronizers on other people so he could eventually do it to him. If he’d have just gone through with his father’s plan last year, Keene and his metahumans wouldn’t have a vendetta against Batman. The Secret Keeper wouldn’t be attacking them. If he’d have just done what he was told for once in his life, people wouldn’t be dead, his family wouldn’t be hurt, and Gotham would be fine.

Everything was always his fault. Why couldn’t he do anything right?

He forced himself to keep it together and stared at the ceiling some more. There had to be a way for him to fix this. To destroy the whole empire his father had built, for his family. There had to be a way to do it without involving Asten and Nico, so they wouldn’t get in trouble. There had to be a way to do it alone. Himself, so he’d stop hurting people. Didn’t there?

You’ve gotten yourself into this hole, claw yourself out, John Whittaker’s voice came.

He could do that. He could. After all, John Whittaker didn’t give up. He stillhadn’t. And John Whittaker’s blood was running through Bentley Whittaker’s veins.

He could fix it all.

But for now, fixing it looked like giving Dick a shoulder to cry on. And he could do that.

So he did.

—

The second time he woke up, someone was talking.

“I about decided I didn't like it so much, though, when I spotted that red Corvair trailing me. I was almost two blocks from home then, so I started walking a little faster. I had never been jumped, but I had seen Johnny after four Socs got hold of him, and it wasn't pretty. Johnny was scared of his own shadow after that. Johnny was sixteen then,”

Bentley pulled his heavy eyes open, glancing around the medbay. Dick was no longer at his side, and there was only one person in his vision — the one reading his favorite book to him.

When Bentley fully comprehended that Bruce’s seat had been taken by a certain Wayne with white-streaked hair, he pushed himself up.

“Jason?”

It was the first word he’d forced out since he’d made it to the doorstep of Wayne Manor, all raspy and weird sounding. Jason looked up at him, his bluish eyes dull with something Bentley couldn’t place. He was wearing a hoodie that Bentley was pretty sure he’d seen Dick wear before, and he had the hardcover The Outsiders in one hand.

CRACK!

Dad!

CRACK!

The sounds of a crowbar hitting flesh plagued his mind, and all of his keeping it together seemed to be futile. He hadn’t let himself cry thus far, not when Dick was crying, not when Bruce was talking to him, not ever. But now, when Jason was looking at him with his little white streak that was hanging down near his forehead, reading to him with his Crime Alley drawl, healthy and here and alive, Bentley didn’t have enough willpower to stifle the burn behind his eyes.

“Hey, kid. What’s going on?” Jason asked gently, lowering the book until it rested on the edge of the bed. Bentley brought his left arm up to cover his eyes, but it wasn’t much use. He let out a few small, pitiful sounding sobs anyways.

“Do you want me to go get Dick?” Jason continued, somewhat anxiously as he glanced around the cave. “I’ll go get Dick.”

“No!” Bentley croaked, uncovering his face and scrubbing at his teary eyes. “Don’t go.”

Jason didn’t move, but he didn’t exactly seem comfortable, either. Man, Bentley was just screwing stuff up left and right, wasn’t he?

“I just… Can I… have a hug?”

He really didn’t know what to expect from Jason — he’d always been particular about touching Bentley, abuse survivor to abuse survivor, so maybe the question was totally out of bounds. Maybe Bentley should’ve thought about it first. (He wasn’t very good at that anymore.)

Jason steeled for a moment, blinking just a couple times, and Bentley looked away, trying (and failing) to stop crying. Jason was next to him and Jason was alive. He wasn’t Robin, he wasn’t dead in a warehouse. He was alive.

After a moment, Jason replied: “Yeah. Yeah, you can.”

Bentley moved to the edge of the hospital bed sort of awkwardly. The whole thing was kind of awkward, actually, since Bentley was on the bed and Jason was in a chair, but they ended up making it work. Bentley rested his head on Jason’s shoulder and looped his (one) arm around his neck. He could feel his pulse under his fingers — he was alive.

Bentley sniffled deeply, tightening his hold ever-so-slightly. “I’m so glad you’re alive,” He whispered as a few more tears rolled freely down his face.

Jason tensed for a brief moment, and not a word fell from his lips. Had he ever been told that before?

A moment later, the tenseness left, and Jason let out an exhale.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” He replied, his voice thick with something Bentley couldn’t place.

So was he. He was glad he was alive and Jason was alive and Tim was alive and Dick was alive and Damian was alive and everybody was alive… except maybe Davis.

That sent a pang of sadness ringing through him, and he balled up the back of Jason’s hoodie in his hand. He squeezed his eyes shut when a new wave of tears shook his body for a completely different reason. “I’m really scared.”

Jason adjusted his arms around him. “No one’s going to touch you here,” He replied, exhaling. “I promise.”

For some reason, it sounded more like a threat than a promise. But not a threat toward Bentley.

The child hid his face away in the hoodie. “I love you.”

There was another moment where Jason tensed, and Bentley was afraid he’d said the wrong thing. Maybe he did. Why would he say that? He held onto Jason in fear he might let go of him.

But he didn’t.

“Bruce said you read to me,” Jason said, and Bentley felt his hand move ever so slightly on his back. “I could hear you sometimes.”

Bentley sniffed. “I messed up a lot.”

“I was stuck. In the same memory over and over. I would’ve lost my mind if I couldn’t hear you,” He explained softly. “So, thank you. And I… I love you, too, kid.”

Oh, great, now Bentley was really crying. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure, but he could probably guess what memory Jason had been stuck in — the same one that Bentley had seen in the Synchronizer. And, by extension, it was all his fault.

How was he supposed to fix a problem so big? Every time he’d tried it just seemed to multiply. Maybe he wasn’t hitting the right places.

If you’re killing a man, you shoot for the heart. If you’re killing a snake, you chop its head off. He didn’t need to go for the Secret Keeper or Dr. Keene or any other branch of the operation — he needed to aim for the most vital part, the source of it all.

Bentley needed to go see his father.

But right now, he settled for hugging Jason.

—

dedicated to @sassenashsworld 💚

—

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rosequartzwriting · 3 years

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Attack in The Library

Pairing: Doctor Strange X Fem!Reader

Description: Stephen sends you to Kamar Taj to get some books, but some invaders attack you. Stephen comes to the rescue, and he’s not happy.

Warnings: Fighting and violence

Word Count: 3.5k

A/N: Originally posted on Quotev // School has be busy so one shots that are already on my quotev will be reposted here, all requests on hold for now sorry // Originally requested by Coppercat615 on quotev <3

Masterlist | Fic Reading Recs | Ao3 | Quotev | Coffee

You had just finished a meditation and astral projection practice session on the Sanctum rooftop. The background noise of the frantic and angry city below sometimes helped you focus. It was just what you needed today. Feeling relaxed, accomplished, and satisfied, you went back inside to see what Stephen was up to. It was getting close to noon, and maybe you could pull him away from his studies for a little to grab lunch together.

Stephen was standing over his desk in his office, a few books open before him and his eyes darting from one to the next. He looked deep in thought and you almost did not want to bother him. The Sorcerer Supreme in his natural habitat, it was like there was naturally a 'do not disturb' sign plastered onto him. You did anyways.

"Hey Stephen, I finished my practice."

"How did it go?" He did not even look up from his books.

"Pretty good!" You walked up to the desk and rested your hands on it, trying to see what he was looking at even though it was upside down for you. "Looking for something?"

He shrugged and flipped one of the books around so you could see it the right way up. The book was old and small, the wear and tear from over the years showing through its pages. There was writings in characters you did not understand scribbled across the page, directions for a spell you assumed. He then showed you another book that had the same letters translated to English, but there were so many variations of each and it looked hard to decipher.

"I've been trying to decode this spell. This is the only instance of it in writing. The Ancient One left it behind but I cannot seem to understand it." There was a frustration in his voice and you could tell from his messy hair that he had been running his hands through it in said frustration.

"I'm sure you'll figure it out." You handed him back the books.

"Hey (Y/N), can you do me a big favor?"

Curiosity struck you, "What is it?"

"Can you head over to the Kamar Taj library and find these books for me."

Stephen handed you a list on a piece of paper. Titles and authors were listed in his slightly messy handwriting. You counted six books.

"Why can't you go get them yourself?"

"I'm busy."

He did have those books in front of him, certainly looking busy. But he could go over there himself and it would only take about ten minutes. It felt like an excuse to you.

You gave him a look, before growling under your breath, "Fine. I'll get you your books..."

Raising up your hand that had your sling ring, you started to conjure up a portal before Stephen interrupted you.

"No, take the door."

"Seriously?"

"You can't rely on magic for everything, (Y/N)."

"Well that door is magic too, you idiot. What do you want me to do? Jump on the next flight to Nepul?"

"Just stop complaining and go take the door."

You rolled your eyes and stomped off down the hallway and towards the door that connected the Sanctum to the two others and Kamar Taj. He did that all the time, scolding you for using magic for minor conveniences. Whether it be you quickly grabbing something from across the Sanctum with a portal or teleporting to the other side of the room for split second. The thing is was that he did it sometimes. When you pointed it out he just told you to shut up. Typical.

Walking through the door that lead directly to Kamar Taj, you entered the library and found just how like a library should be: calm and silent. It was nighttime in Kathmandu so the lack of people in the place did not surprise you. But when you walked past a few shelves, you saw Wong with a stack of books in his arms.

"Hey Wong." You said cheerily, coming up beside him to look on the same shelf he was organizing the books onto.

He bowed his head, "Master (L/N)."

Your mouth formed a tight line for a split second, "How many times have I told you to just call me (Y/N)?"

"Well it is out of respect," He replied, and you shrugged a little in understanding, "But on your word, (Y/N)."

You smiled and went back to looking for one of the books on the shelf. It had some weird and long title, you scanned the book spines for it.

It still felt a little weird when others would call you that, Master (L/N). It came with the feeling that you were in a high position. You kind of were, being taught personally by the Sorcerer Supreme himself. Not to mention being his girlfriend. The people around Kamar Taj and the other sanctums treated you with a lot of respect. Sometimes you did not feel like you deserved it, you still felt like you and being a master of the mystic arts did not change that.

You shook the thought away from your head as you found yourself not even reading the titles. You went back over while Wong moved to the other side of the library to keep working. Then you found it, it was a bigger book. When you took it off the shelf the weight of it dug into your hands. This made you hope the others were smaller, otherwise you would be taking a big stack of heavy books back home. That could be dangerous due to your sometimes clumsy nature.

Opening it to a random page, it was full of runes with descriptions of their spells. You feathered through more pages and they were like that, covered in artworks of detailed images of runes. Then you remembered that Stephen was working on a lot of rune magic recently so it made sense. You closed the book and tucked it against your chest as you moved to another shelf to keep on looking.

While you were reading the little list of books, there was a sudden sound. It was soft. It was very familiar. It was the sound of a slingring portal opening. You turned around, looking towards where the sound came from. From in between the shelves and the tops of books, you saw a figure and the sparks from a portal. You did not recognize the figure, but on a closer look it was a man with black and red robes. For some reason the sight of him was slightly unsettling.

What happened next confirmed your suspicions.

He walked right up behind Wong. Just as Wong turned around at the sound of heavy footsteps, the sorcerer made a fast motion with his hands that made sparks explode from his fists. The energy shot into Wong and he was soon on the floor.

You quickly ducked behind a bookshelf, tucking the book you held tightly against your chest. That came out of nowhere and you assumed it was an attack. Wong was now unconscious and no one else was around. At this hour not many sorcerers were up and about around Kamar Taj. So you guessed it was up to you to stop it.

There were two more portals opened, and the first man instructed someone to look for 'it'. The 'it' they were referring to was probably a book, what else would they raid a library for? It could be any one in this whole library, so you needed to do something before they found what they were looking for.

Sneaking in between the shelves, you tried to think of a plan of action. The adrenaline was already pumping and your heart racing. This kind of distracted you from the planning, but you managed to think of something.

You heard someone nearby tossing books off the shelves, ones that were not what they needed. You slowly made your way closer, your boots against the floorboards not making a sound. Carefully, you summoned energy to create a whip, hoping that the sound of the sparks would not give you away. You threw your magic, the rope wrapping around the sorcerer's ankle and you pulled it back. The man fell to the floor and you cracked the whip on top of him to keep him down.

Before you could land another strike, something from behind grabbed your hand as it was raised up. While turning your head to see what happened, you were struck with a very powerful punch. It send you right down to the ground, the book skidding across the floor as it was knocked from your hands. You scrambled to get rid of your dazed vision and to grab the book again. When you felt the hard cover and clutched it to you chest, three figures were standing over you.

"We're going to need that."

You looked down at the book that you were clenching to your chest, the thick volume was one of the books that Stephen wanted you to bring back. Of course it had to be the exact book you were holding. From the looks of the group, and what they had did to Wong, you knew you could not let them get their hands on this book.

Looking him right in the eyes you said a calm but stern "No." Your eyes were full of seriousness and daring, but inside you knew you were insecure. You were scared.

"We thought we did not need to hurt anyone today." The woman with a thick accent peered at you, a glint in her eyes that you did not like.

You would not stand down though.

Thinking quickly, you cast a teleportation spell and hid yourself among the maze of shelves. From across the library you heard the three separate to search for you. You were still dizzy from that punch, knowing there was going to be a mark on your face later. You teleported again, hoping to get away from them.

Big mistake.

You accidentally appeared right in the sight of one of them. He warned the others and started running towards you. You were in the middle of summoning a spell to protect yourself when from in between the bookshelves the woman slid right past you and struck you in the leg. Soon there was a sting running down your leg and something hot started to coat the leggings you wore underneath your robes. You let out a cry and collapsed onto the ground. Feeling a boot kick itself into the back of your head, you seethed with pain and blurry vision.

"Well that was easy." One of them said going to pick up the book you had dropping in the impact.

"This one is weak, convenient for our mission."

There was another kick that went through you, this time to your stomach. Then again. And again. It felt like the air from your lungs was being forced out, being unable to breathe. Your head was ringing, your leg burning, and your very existence aching.

And they were laughing while it was all happening.

"Make one more move and I'll kill you where you stand."

The deep voice came suddenly, purring the threat out to the attackers.

The hits instantly stopped. You leaned on your elbow to prop yourself up, struggling against the weakness that had over come you. Looking up at Stephen as your vision was starting to become clear again, you saw a darkness in his eyes. This said that all hell was about to break loose.

He used the word 'kill'. Stephen would not kill anyone. Whenever he fought, he did it without the intention of harming his opponent. That was probably one of the doctor qualities he kept, swearing not to hurt anyone.

But this darkness you could see in him. It was unsettling. You felt a chill go about the room. You knew it had nothing to do with temperature.

The gang looked taken aback from his sudden appearance and froze in place, he must have teleported in. The expressions that washed over their faces told you that they recognized him. They were being threatened by the Sorcerer Supreme, his cloak flaring out to make him look bigger and a death glare staring them down.

"How dare you touch her."

The attackers broke out into a run, but Stephen was right on their heels.

You tried to crawl over to a bookshelf to lean against for support, but it took a while since the pain was so strong. You started to grow dizzy again from moving, your breath heaving in your chest. With your vision all fuzzy and body refusing to cooperate, all you could do was listen.

What you heard was brutal.

There were sounds of magic, struggle, heavy breathing, grunts, cries of pain. Also you might have heard the snap of a broken bone, which made your skin crawl a little. Stephen sounded mad. Very mad. What you realized that there was less sounds of magic, but more sounds of physical fighting. You could only imagine what was happening. It scared you a little. When Stephen got angry it was usually bad, but you have never seen (heard) anything like this. The fight continued out if your sight until the sounds stopped. You did not know if your attackers had escaped, been subdued, been knocked out...or worse...but you had no way to tell. You did not know if you wanted to ask him later either.

Stephen snapped back out of his fury-filled state, it being quickly replaced by concern and anxiety. There you were on the other side of the library, leaning on a bookcase and clutching at your leg. He noticed the trail of blood smeared on the ground from where you were pulling yourself across the ground, a deep red soaking your robes. Retaliation hit him that you were stabbed.

He rushed over to you. Kneeling down over your figure, his eyes darting everywhere in concern, he took you in his arms. "It's alright, you're okay."

"Stephen, it hurts..." You tried to say, but it came out as a quiet breath.

"I know." You were surprised he heard you. "Don't worry I'm right here."

He had to act quickly. What he needed to do was get you somewhere safe, clean your wound and stitch it up, and lay you down just encase you had a concussion. The weakness in your body and the pained look on your face made him want to let out more rage, but also hold you close until you were better.

"Okay," He took a breath and recollected himself. "I'm going to take you home. I'm going to lift you up. This is going to hurt. Deep breath for me." He reached around your body, one hand under your knees and the other supporting your back. He counted down so you could brace yourself for the jolt of pain he knew would hit you as soon as you moved. On one, Stephen lifted you up in a controlled motion, his muscles aching a little from fighting the attackers. You let out a cry as soon as the pain came and clung onto his neck and shoulders, you needed him there through it.

You desperately held on, wishing it was over the entire way. Stephen would have used a portal to get you home faster but his hands needed to carry you. He carried you through the door and you were back in New York in no time. But for you the pain made it feel like a lifetime. He brought you to the bedroom which was close by. As carefully as he could, he put you down on top of the covers. The pain slowed to a quiet beat as you began to relax.

Stephen rushed out of the room to go find a first aid kit. Once he found one, hidden in the back of a closet in the hallway outside, he came back right by your side and started to rummage through the box. As he was doing so, he came to the realization that this was gonna be difficult. His hands. His hands shake more when he was panicking. And in that moment they were trembling like crazy. Seeing you like this, the hurt and the worry he felt. It went right to his hands, bringing back the state they were in when he was stripped away of everything he had. When he felt hopeless.

But he told himself to push past it. Because he needed to help you.

Before he did anything else, he put down the first aid kit. Raising his hands up and making a few sharp movements with his hands, energy summoned and made a little rune in front of him. His hands absorbed the bright colours. The shaking slowed, almost to a compete stop. Now he could work. Trying to remember his basic studies from medical school, he began to tend to the gash in your leg.

~~~

You had passed out from being so tired and being in so much pain. When you woke up, it was dark outside and it was a little colder in the bedroom. Stephen was still beside you, sitting at your bedside currently looking through a book that had a title that implied the pages contained mystical information on healing. There was this look in his eyes, like he was trying to stay calm. You could only imagine the rushing thoughts running through his head. Once he realized you had woken up, he put his book down like he was called to attention.

"How you feeling?"

"Dizzy..."

He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your forehead.

"You're going to be just fine." He said, moving a little closer to you. "The stab wound is not too deep, needed to be stitched up. Bruising on your torso and arms." He gestured to the areas as he spoke. "You also got hit in the head pretty bad, maybe a concussion so you need to rest." He pulled the warm blanket further up to cover your cold body.

You have not seen Stephen in doctor mode in a while. It was comforting, knowing he knew exactly how to treat something and how to take care of you. You smiled at him, remembering back when he was a surgeon. He might have changed as a person from doctor to sorcerer, but he kept a few qualities.

"Is Wong alright?" You asked, suddenly remembering that little detail from the attack.

"He's fine. I made sure someone is watching over him."

You nodded, instantly regretting making the movement as it came with a headache.

"Are you alright?"

"I'll be fine."

Then you remembered something else. Earlier you did not think you were going to ask about it. But you needed to. It was nagging you in the back of your thoughts.

"What did you do to them?"

He paused. "I stopped them from hurting you." You thought he was going to stop there. He was, it if were not for the look you gave him to keep going. "I beat them up. I know it was wrong. I was just so angry. I did not like what I saw. Them hurting you like that."

You noticed he kind of dodged your question directly. He gave no details of what he physically did to them. Even with your worry and slight curiosity, you did not press him for the answer you wanted.

You understood why he did it though. He was full of rage and it overtook his mind. But that did not excuse his actions, and you knew he knew it too. He looked a little ashamed of it. He was never good at controlling his anger. You reached out your hand and rested your palm on his cheek. You did not need to say anything because from the look in his eyes you could tell he understood your gesture. Bending down, he kissed your forehead again. Angry Stephen was gone, now it was just protective Stephen.

"One more thing." You said.

He hummed in response.

"You stitched me up?"

He nodded.

"But...your hands..."

"I learned a new rune that suppresses nervousness and its physical reactions."

You had to let out a little laugh, "Of course." Must have been from his recent rune studies because that was new.

"I had to do what I needed to." Shrugging, he gave a smile.

"What about your gloves?"

"I did not have time to go get them," He replied, this made you smile.

The rest of the night consisted of Stephen staying up with you and making sure you were comfortable. He brought you pain killers for your sore muscles and headache, something for you to eat, and anything else you needed. He let you cuddle up to him to rest and stay warm. You had made him renew his promise, and to make a new promise to you, that he would never hurt anyone like that ever again. He agreed and you could see the shame and guilt in his eyes. But you knew he did it to protect you even if his anger had taken over. You both fell asleep into the night, Stephen there to protect you.

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samstree · 3 years

Text

and the wolf was nowhere to be found (2/3)

Jaskier pays the price of his lies. With blood and tears and a few broken hearts.

(4.3k, lying spell/potion, cursed jaskier, blood and injury, miscommunication, mutual pining)

Previous | Read on AO3

The reverse trope series: [1] [2] [3] [4].

Jaskier wakes with a crick in his neck and an aching heart.

He goes through the motion of packing, their morning routine too familiar to distract him from the heavy guilt in his chest. Jaskier wonders if Geralt is actively avoiding him—the way his back is turned at every chance can’t be a coincidence.

The only time he so much as spares a glance is when Jaskier puts the lemon cake in their rations bag, wrapped perfectly and untouched. Geralt stills for a split second, his jaw clenched.

Jaskier wants to brush it off.

Finding an excuse is the first instinct he has, thinking of a lie as to why he didn’t eat something he’s been drooling over for ages, and erase that crestfallen look on Geralt’s face, the one that is breaking his heart.

Because he can’t exactly tell the truth, which is that he’s more likely to be sick if he ate it. Another lie, however, would turn his stomach even more.

Jaskier remains silent.

Even Roach is judging him as they walk out of the stable. Jaskier bears her side eyes and annoyed headbutt without putting up a fight. The mare is too perceptive to miss the tension in the air, and her protectiveness is more than justified. She’s a smart girl. Of course, she knows Jaskier is one making her broody witcher brood even harder.

She tries to bite his doublet again, and it’s Geralt who stops her with a soothing hand down his mane, murmuring confused questions into her ear. Sweet, kind Geralt, who has been rejected by Jaskier so many times for no reason in the past few days, is still trying to defend him.

Jaskier needs to make it right.

“Geralt, look—”

“Master Jaskier!”

Someone in the distance rudely interrupts Jaskier’s nervous attempt. He turns by instinct and watches a boy in lilac doublet jog up to them. He’s so young, no older than twenty, still with that joviality and naïvety in his features. The way his matching doublet and trousers could catch the eyes of any crowd reminds Jaskier of himself in his early years.

“Sweet Melitele, I’m your biggest fan! Oh my…” the boy proclaims, awestruck. “I’ve been following your ballads for years, and now I get to meet you in person!”

Jaskier looks to Geralt and then back at the man.

“Ah, I’m flattered. It’s always nice to meet a fan, but you see—” Jaskier gestures to the horse and the man behind him. “—I’m in a hurry to leave town.”

Besides, he’s in no mood to converse right now. The quicker he can get Geralt alone, the better. With this weight on his chest, Jaskier feels so drained just talking to anyone but his witcher, let alone dealing with an enthusiastic fan.

“Oh but you must listen to my set first!” The boy looks at him expectantly. “I dream of writing a hit song just like Toss a Coin. I could be just as big—”

“I’d love to, but the circumstances won’t allow it.” With the biggest smile plastered on his face, Jaskier dismisses the guy. “I’m sure there’s promise in you, especially now you’ve chosen the correct role model—”

“You can go, Jaskier.”

Jaskier snaps his head to Geralt, confused as to what he just heard.

“We need to leave this morning, my dear. That’s the plan.” Jaskier frowns. “Remember?”

He excuses himself to the young man and drags Geralt away too quickly, too rudely—on another day he’d feel contrite ignoring a fan like this, but today he’s mind is occupied by something much more important.

Once out on the street and alone, Geralt’s befuddled frown deepens. “Why did you—”

“I need to tell you something,” Jaskier interrupts. “Before I say it, I know you will get mad at me, but you have to understand that the past year has been hard on me, Geralt. When you showed up in Oxenfurt out of the blue, I didn’t have enough time to process everything or what it would mean for us to travel together again. That’s why everything is so wrong now and I need to make it right.”

“I know what you want to say.”

The world stops.

All he can see is that pained look on Geralt’s face, the one that’s breaking his heart and making his blood run cold. Of course, he knows, witcher senses and all. As if Jaskier has ever gotten away with lying to Geralt’s face in the past.

“You do?” he breathes, the crack in his voice unmistakable.

Geralt lets out a sigh. He’s not mad. At least, he doesn’t look like he’s angry with Jaskier. “It’s been obvious in the past few days, and I… I do understand.”

“Oh.”

There’s still hope then. Jaskier just needs to come clean and apologize, and, definitely, throw whatever game he’s been playing out the window. They will be fine. The two of them, the bard and the witcher on the path, just like the old days—

“I can leave now,” Geralt starts. “With me gone, you’d be free to stay here for longer. You have so many things to see and so many people to meet. You can go back and talk to the boy. Finally, there’s someone who can wax lyrical with you. It’ll be for the best.”

“What?”

“You don’t need to say it, Jaskier. I can see now that it’s better if we part ways. Let’s not make things more difficult.”

Jaskier stares, gaping like a fish out of water. He can’t believe what he’s hearing, after all this time, after the mountain. Geralt wouldn’t do it.

He wouldn’t.

“You are leaving me here?”

Geralt looks as if he’s stricken. His shoulders tense like every time he wants to appear smaller.

“It’s for the best,” he repeats.

Jaskier shakes his head. “Wait, I thought you understood. I’m sorry, Geralt, for the past few days. I didn’t mean to… I wanted to apologize, so you know I didn’t mean it.”

The smile at the corners of Geralt’s lips is too sad.

“You don’t need to apologize. It wasn’t fair of me to ask it of you to begin with—”

“Ask me what?”

“—Us traveling together again… It was only wishful thinking. There was never a second chance and I never should have gone to find you.”

Jaskier takes a step back, swallowing the lump in his throat. Suddenly the collar of his doublet is too tight and the lute on his back is too heavy. He has to look away from Geralt’s resolute face just to stop the stinging in his eyes.

“You promised…” he mumbles. “You promised not to leave again.”

Geralt falters for a second, his hand resting on Roach’s saddle as if to steady himself. When he answers, his tone is cold, colder than Jaskier can take.

“How can I keep you when everything catches your eye, Jask? You are not made to stay... Not with me. Not after everything that happened.”

Disbelievingly, Jaskier retreats. His hand fists around the strap of his lute case, digging into his palm. “Not made to stay? Seriously?”

“It’s for the—”

“If you tell me it’s for the best one more time, I swear, Geralt…”

“Jaskier.”

Geralt calls out his name without heat like he’s placating an unreasonable child. Jaskier exhales in exasperation.

“Maybe you are right that it was only wishful thinking.” he forces the words out, his heart sinking. “For once it was actually my fault, and you can’t wait to ask for life’s one blessing again.”

“I—”

“Fine. Have at it,” Jaskier hisses. “I don’t care.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

Jaskier lands the biggest lie he’s ever told in this mess. He drags his feet to cooperate, to take him away and put some distance between him and the worst disaster that’s ever descended upon his life.

Roach neighs, but the sound is far-away. Jaskier grabs at the doublet at his chest and wonders if the witcher-shaped hole within can ever be filled.

Jaskier doesn’t stop.

He walks into the bustling crowd of the market, heedless of cheery townspeople going about their day, and he keeps walking until the noise dies down.

Jaskier stops at the riverbank with nowhere to go, so he sits down on the ground and finally lets the dam break.

Crying does very little to ease the ache, and yet when the tears bring a release for the pent-up pressure in his chest. It’s hard to feel justified in letting the pain be cried away when he’s so aware of his own faults in the once-again ending of their companionship.

After all, Geralt couldn’t wait to throw him aside on top of that mountain when he’d done nothing wrong. What makes him think Geralt will tolerate him when he intentionally fucks things up.

Jaskier gasps for air, but only a whimper chokes out. How pathetic, to regret the most precious second chance destiny has ever granted him.

Now he knows for sure that he doesn’t deserve to cry, to let himself feel even just slightly better in the wake of his destruction.

Jaskier tries to stifle the tears with a hand at his mouth, and breathes. In and out, one breath after another. It’s like trying to contain a storm threatening to wreck through his entire being.

But he manages, after an eternity.

Jaskier sniffles one last time and wipes away the tear tracks. There’s a tremor in his hands but he pays no mind. The lute case is laying carelessly in the grass where he dropped it. He slings it onto his back and realizes that in a frenzy, he’s left everything else he owns in Roach’s saddlebags.

He could laugh at the idea of going back there, tail between his legs, as if being kicked out of Geralt’s life—for good this time—isn’t humiliating enough. His only hope hangs on the possibility that Geralt may have left his packs at the inn so they don’t have to face each other. Why would Geralt want to see him anyway? The witcher should be long gone.

Jaskier doesn’t make it too far when a streak of lilac pops out of nowhere.

“Oh! Here you are, Master Jaskier. You are a hard man to track down.”

The boy still looks too chirpy for Jaskier’s liking, too bright and too carefree. His mood is soured even further.

“Look, I’m not fit for company today.” Jaskier walks right past the young man, heedless of his insistence. “Mister—what is your name? Maybe you’ll catch me at the next festival if fate allows.”

The boy ignores his deflection and stops right in front of Jaskier’s face, which successfully draws his full attention and pisses him off completely. “I said—”

“Why are you in such a hurry?” The kid doesn’t relent. “I thought the witcher is determined to abandon you for the second time. Don’t you think he’ll stick to it this time?”

Strangely, the other man doesn’t look nearly as young up close. His face is youthful for sure, smooth and unblemished, and yet there’s an inexplicable weariness in his blue eyes. Now that Jaskier notices, these blue eyes look eerily similar to his own. With just the eyes, he could be looking into a mirror.

Jaskier wants to squirm.

“Did no one teach you that eavesdropping is rude?” He pauses, startled. “Wait, a second time… You knew—”

“Oh.” The man looks sheepish. “Can’t blame a fan for keeping tabs on you, can we?”

An overly zealous fan is nothing new, but somehow, this one sends a shiver down Jaskier’s spine.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Jaskier says, trying to back away. “I need to get back to town. You know, where the inspirations are, so I’ll find it in me to… um, compose more of those pieces you love so much.”

“Oh, don’t kid yourself! You are not going back to him, are you? Twenty years! All the sweat and blood and singing his praises and this is what you get after all this time!”

The guy grabs at Jaskier’s arm, which he shakes off in horror.

“You know nothing about me. Or Geralt.”

“That witcher will never see you!” he exclaims. “I was there when your first ballad swept the continent off its feet, Jaskier. From that moment on, I knew you were special. What appreciation has that mutant shown you? Only insults and scorn.”

“Geralt is not like that, he—”

Jaskier freezes to the spot.

He forces his attention back to the boy’s face. His eyes are still startlingly blue, even more so in anger. There’s not a single trace of age at his temples, and yet…

“My first song was twenty-two years ago,” Jaskier states, something akin to fear creeping into his voice. “What did you say your name was again?”

At those words, the man’s face shifts. It’s like watching someone shed a layer of skin, a façade, and another being emerges. A much more powerful one.

“Does it matter?” When he answers, there's magic in the air, sizzling with power. The blue of his eyes shimmers under the surface, ever so slightly. Jaskier’s heart clenches.

Not human.

Definitely not human.

“We never got to know each other, well,” Jaskier stalls. “I think now it’s not too late.”

He has an inkling that getting away will not be an easy feat. He can hope to distract this… this creature long enough for a chance to run. His hand tightens around the strap nervously, and the man’s eyes follow the movement without a beat.

Shit.

Jaskier turns to run, to take the lute case in his hands as a weapon, but it’s too late. The next thing he knows, the case is thrown against the ground and he’s backed against a tree. The other man’s grip around Jaskier’s wrists is like a vice, securing his hands right above him.

Jaskier wants to scream, but no sound escapes his throat. His body shakes all over, out of control.

“The fae never reveal our name easily,” the creature hisses.

Those blue eyes are too sharp and there’s a scent growing overwhelmingly strong. Fae, as it turns out, smell like newly cut grass and wildflowers, like the forest.

If only Jaskier can live long enough to share the trivia.

And then, with both their hands occupied, the fae presses his forehead to Jaskier. He struggles but to no avail.

The touch is cold and something is slipping into Jaskier’s mind like an icy stream in the spring. It trickles probs at every corner of his memories.

“Oh, even now you are loyal to the witcher. You still believe he’ll save you, little songbird.”

Jaskier’s vision turns fuzzy. His soundless whimpering breaks into breathless gasps, like a wounded animal waiting for a mercy kill. At the back of his mind, he’s achingly aware of Geralt’s absence. His witcher in shining armor won’t come this time, not after all the—

“All the pretty little lies. Every single one of them, born out of love, misguided.”

However true that statement is, Jaskier doesn’t want to hear it. His love for Geralt shouldn’t be spoken with malice. He fights against the fae’s iron hold with everything he can muster.

There’s a crack of bones before the pain hits him, exploding from his wrists all the way down his arms. Jaskier sobs, the edges of his vision darkening, the shock threatening to pull him under. He still can’t make a sound.

“What can we do?” The fae’s voice comes from a distant realm. “How can we have your loyalty as the witcher does? Oh, how fierce you are, songbird. To have your voice at our court… Perhaps, more lies will do. Yes, it was your choice, what your heart desired. A gift from us.”

Jaskier can’t process anything he’s hearing. He’s too tired from the searing pain in his wrists.

“Just a few lies. They’ll be easy to roll off the tongue, and yet, such powerful weapons.” The fae retreats. “A gift of lies. Thank you for the inspiration, Jaskier the bard. We hope you enjoy it as much as we will.”

Without the brute force holding up his body, Jaskier sagas against the tree, his legs unable to support his weight. His lungs burn and his mind turns fuzzy, bereft of the fae’s presence.

Jaskier needs to move, needs to scramble away from this place. But before the sweet relief of freedom even hits him, magic seizes him again and, finally, finally, a world-ending scream explodes from his lungs.

The world goes to black soon after.

Jaskier wakes to someone shaking his shoulder, someone gentle.

His body pulses like a bruised nerve. The back of his head feels like it’s been trampled by a whole army and his neck creaks at the barest move. Jaskier’s nose is buried in damp grass and he chokes, which jostles his neck even more.

He groans miserably and tries to touch, only to be stopped by the burning in his wrists. He lets out a hiss.

Right, broken bones. Blue eyes that look the same as his. Fae.

“Careful… Fuck, Jaskier, what happened?”

A gravelly voice comes through the fog.

Geralt.

Oh, Jaskier can sob with relief. He arches his back, slowly propping himself up on his elbows. His eyes are so sore from lying on the ground face down, but the sight of his witcher is unmistakable.

Jaskier wants to call out for his witcher, but a sob is the only thing that gets out. He cradles his hands and finds his right wrist is swollen red and sensitive to the touch, but the left looks more or less the same. Only a throbbing pain tugging at his fingertips.

He reaches to the back of his head with his left hand, where the crick is prickling at his nerves, only to find a gash at his nape and hair caked with blood. He doesn’t remember hitting his head while falling. He doesn’t remember falling at all.

So, one wrist sprained, the other broken, plus a gaping hole in his head. Jaskier can cope.

If he doesn’t die from the embarrassment, that is. He whines pathetically, already exhausted.

“I told you not to move.” Geralt catches Jaskier’s tilting body. Amber gold flows with concern. “What happened to you, Jask?”

The question comes out soft, more of a whisper to the witcher himself than demanding answers. Jaskier’s lips wobble at the endearment. He needs to tell Geralt everything. Fuck his injured pride. Geralt came for him. This wonderful, beautiful, sweet man came to him after the disaster that is this morning and he’s still trying to help Jaskier.

All because Geralt is safety. He’s safety and home, and Jaskier needs to tell him—

“None of your business, witcher.”

It takes a moment for Jaskier to register what left his lips, the venom that drips from these words so foreign. He’s never aimed at Geralt before. From the looks of it, Geralt is equally startled if the tiny crease by his lips is any indication.

“You hit your head,” Geralt says patiently, hovering close to Jaskier’s face in an attempt to check the wound on his neck. “It’s bad. Here, let me see—”

“Get your filthy hands away from me!”

The words fly out on their own volition. Jaskier flinches, the same time as Geralt takes back his hand as if burned. He closes his mouth with a pop and the feeling of something severely wrong weighs down on his stomach. That’s not what he meant, not at all. The only thing he wants to do is lean into Geralt’s touch and melt into a puddle. Whyever did his mouth betray his heart? Why did he…

Why did he…

…Lie?

His mind focuses on a sing-songy voice.

A gift from us.

A gift of lies.

It’s like a bucket of ice water thrown over Jaskier’s head. He sobers up immediately. The inspiration they took from him. The fae’s gift.

The fae’s curse.

Geralt’s brows are knitted together, amber eyes imbued with hurt. He is still crouched in front of Jaskier, hands fisted at his side and shoulders taut. He’s got the look now, that lost look that only appears when a mob drives him out of town with pitchforks and stones. Jaskier has seen that look one too many times.

And now he's the one causing it.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks, shocked, unsure.

Jaskier breathes hard and tastes the bile rising in his throat. Geralt doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve to have that hopeless look on his face or to be shunned by the world, by anyone, and least of all, by someone he’s let stay beside him for so many years. By the Gods, Jaskier needs to let Geralt know he’s the kindest person on earth and more human than any human. He’s Jaskier’s friend and protector, his dream, his heart—

“You are a mutant, a freak,” Jaskier feels the words slip out, too late to realize the mistake of opening his mouth. “No better than the monsters you slay.” The magic compels his tongue. He bites down on it but it’s only futile. “You feel nothing and give nothing but death to those around you.”

Jaskier recoils, tasting blood. In front of him, Geralt mirrors his movement. The entire time, the wolf medallion rests against his chest plate, Jaskier’s last hope, sitting still and unresponsive.

And Geralt…

He doesn’t defend himself.

Of course not. Geralt never defends himself against the stoning even when he can easily defeat most humans with his bare hands. There’s a faded scar near his hairline, a solid proof of men’s capacity for prejudice and violence.

Now Jaskier has joined their ranks.

Geralt looks like he’s been suck-punched in the gut, his eyes wide and crestfallen. And yet, wide amber eyes gaze upon Jaskier without accusation, only quiet acceptance. Jaskier shudders with disgust and fear, which must be the reason Geralt is backing away further.

“I’ll leave… If you—” he pauses, before standing up. “I see. This is goodbye, Jaskier.”

Don’t go!

“Get away then!”

Jaskier shakes his head, putting all the force he can muster into biting into his lips, scared of what may come out. His wrists burn but he has to force his mouth shut by pressing his palms over it.

Why can’t Geralt see that something’s wrong? Why can’t he see Jaskier?

See me! Jaskier pleads silently through the tears.

Geralt’s face falters as he spares one last glance at Jaskier.

Look what you’ve done to him, the sing-songy voice returns. This is your choice. You chose to lie, little poet. Be careful what you wish for.

Jaskier crumbles like a puppet with his strings cut. He barely contains the choked-out whimpers. The burning in his lungs is nothing compared to the anguish. He could die at this moment and it would be a sweet release. Hurting Geralt like this, it’s worse than a thousand broken bones and a million cuts on his skin. In the darkest corners of his mind, he wants Geralt to walk away from him. If Jaskier has to spew any more venom towards the man he’s loved for more than half of his life, he’d surely want to walk into the ocean and never come out.

He presses his ears to the grass and remembers the cold wind on the mountain. He was a fool to hope Geralt could come to him then. He is a fool now.

The witcher drags his feet away, one step after another, trampling the soft flora under him, and then—

And then, by some miracle, he stops.

Jaskier watches as his witcher turns around and rushes back to his side, his jaw clenched and eyes determined. His heart bursts with hope, but his fists press against his mouth harder. There’s more blood coating his tongue.

“I can’t,” Geralt states as he kneels next to Jaskier’s curled body. The betrayal in his eyes ebbs away and in its place is something…tortured.

Jaskier shakes his head, or is he trembling again? His vision swims with blood loss. He won’t be able to stay awake for long.

“I can’t leave you here, Jaskier,” he muses to himself, frowning deep. “Shit. You are bleeding again.”

Jaskier scoffs into his fist, almost hysterical.

“You are in shock, and you are about to pass out. I don’t know what happened, but your wrists are a mess. Jaskier…” The name comes out like a prayer. “I heard your wishes. Loud and clear, this time. I know you loathe my presence in your life, but… I have to make sure you’ll get better. Please, forgive me.”

Geralt tries to gently pry Jaskeir’s hands away, but he struggles blindly. Through the haze of his mind, Jaskier’s last thought reminds him to keep his mouth closed.

“Forgive me,” Geralt mutters in anguish, “I can’t let you hurt yourself because of me. Forgive me, just one more time.”

His hand makes the familiar sign of Axii, and everything turns…soft.

The pain is gone, the magical hold on his tongue too. Jaskier loses himself in the mellow sensation of giving up control. The ground disappears under his body and his head lolls against Geralt’s chest.

“I was wrong.” Regret rumbles deep in Geralt’s chest. “I was the curse that befell you. After all the hurt you’ve received by my side, Gods, and I still can’t keep myself away from you. I will not make the mistake of forcing myself into your life again, Jask. Allow me a few days to see you safe, and then... Never again.”

The vow is so wrong, but Jaskeir is powerless to protest. He catches a broken whisper before darkness claims him for the second time on the same day.

“I’m sorry, Jaskier. For my heart.”

Jaskier welcomes the oblivion that drags him under, as well as the nightmares that follow.

I'm...sorry.

One more chapter to go. Hopefully this time I won't have to up the chapter count. Some real communication and comfort are on the way! <3

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @a-kind-of-merry-war @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @kitcatkim3 @endless-whump @rey-a-nonbinary-bisexual @llamasdumpsterfire @dapandapod

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

#geraskier #geraskier fic #lying spell #cursed jaskier #miscommunication #mutual pining #jaskier fucks up real good in this one #and bears the consequences #geralt x jaskier #again i'm sorry #i meant to end it with geralt walking away #and thought #in this economy?#but somehow this is... worse?#hurt jaskier #jaskier whump #hurt geralt #everytime i hurt geralt's heart i go 🥺🥺

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sourskywalker · 3 years

Text

Perfidious

PERFIDIOUS: deceitful and untrustworthy.

SUMMARY: You’d been in a secret relationship with your Master, Anakin Skywalker, which ended up in you getting pregnant...Everything had been going well...Until everything changed (reader is of age, don’t worry)

“Padme? Padme, chancellor-” You stopped mid-step, eyes widening at the sight in front of you, your hand flies to your swollen stomach. Your voice apparently wasn’t loud enough because it seemed that neither Padmé nor Anakin heard you. Though, that could be because of how loud Anakin was being “Anakin…” You whispered, taking an unconscious step back, you couldn’t look any longer and with half-lidded eyes you turned on your heel and ran out the front door of the apartment.

The Coruscant weather had changed drastically in the few minutes that you were inside Padmé’s apartment and your hands flew to your arms, rubbing at the goosebumps that rose on your skin while your head remained glued to the ground, ignoring the strange looks people were giving you. A pregnant padawan was definitely a sight. No matter how much you tried, the images wouldn’t go away, and you felt stress and anxiety creep up through the back of your mind until all you could feel was hurt and betrayal.

You couldn’t remember when you got into your speeder, or, when you arrived at the Senate...The almost unnoticeable pain that started in your lower belly had started to blossom into a more pronounced aching feeling which was raining down on your whole body.

“Y/n..? Y/n!” You refused to look up, your eyes tightly shut as you tried to will away the tears that were threatening to fall

Finally you felt your knees crumble, and you were ready for the stinging pain of carpet meeting knees. But nothing came, instead warm hands grabbed your arms and pulled you up, before letting you fall forward, your head hitting the firm chest.

“Oh god it hurts” You gasp out, it felt like a painful punch to the gut, and then water trickled down your leg and onto the expensive carpeting

“We must get you to a medcenter” You recognised the voice as Bail Organas, who managed to swoop you into his arms “Guards! Get a ship ready, now!” Your head rolled slightly sideways so you could see everything happening, a ship slowly lowering onto the ground and the ramp hissing opening

“I came here as soon as I could” Obi-Wan panted, hands falling to his knees as he tried to regulate his breathing, before he stood straight “She wasn’t due for another month”

“The droid says that both shock and stress caused her to go into an early labour” Obi-Wan walked into the room you were resting in

“Y/n? It’s Obi-Wan”

“Obi-Wan” you muttered softly, your serene face made it seem like you were under something “I found out the most shocking thing”

“Do tell” Obi-Wan pulled up a chair and sat beside you, his much larger hand covering your smaller one

“I-i found out that the man who got me pregnant is bedding another woman...who’s also pregnant!” You laughed loudly until it eventually died down “I..I knew they were close. But, I guess I was so oblivious to see how close”

“Who, Y/n? Who is the man who got you pregnant” Obi-Wan asked, leaning forward in his chair “You told us everything else but who the father is”

“The father is-” But your sentence was cut off short by a scream that ripped itself from your throat and bounced off the walls of the sterile room “Kriff”

The nurse droid quickly bustled over to you, datapad in hand “She’s ready”

Obi-Wan let out a nervous puff of breath, his grip on your hand tightening “If the pain is too much, squeeze my hand” You nod, already feeling sweat form on your hairline as the droid made quick work to set up the final preparations

“When the next contraction comes, I want you to push” The droid states, a mechanical hand resting on your propped up knees, you nodded, breathing in and out quickly until a sharp pain hit you like a speeder and you let out a groan, hand clamping down tightly on Obi-Wans as you pushed as hard as you can

Throughout the whole ordeal you screamed and let out a few swear words. But never cried...The realisation of what happened within a few hours hadn’t fully hit you.

“Come on Y/n, just one more push” Obi-Wan urged, his hand squeezing yours

You felt yet another twinge of pain and sat up, your hand clutched his tightly, teeth gritted in concentration as you used all of your strength to push

“That’s it!” Obi-Wan exclaimed, his other hand pushing strands of hair that were stuck to your forehead away

“Girl” The droid announced, picking up the screaming baby and laying her on your chest

“Hello, my little one” You smiled tiredly “I’ll be taking good care of you”

“You’ll be taking care of her?” Obi-Wan’s eyes widened “I thought you were going to give her away to the Jedi”

“I was, but after the whole ordeal I don’t want my baby anywhere near her father” You kissed the top of her head which was covered in birth fluids before handing her off to the nurse droid to get her cleaned

“So the father is a Jedi” You nodded in confirmation “Have you thought of a name?”

“Yes...Shmi, after her grandmother”

~~~~

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Windu asked, helping place the last of your luggage into the ship

“I’m certain, Master Windu” You responded, adjusting the cloth woven baby sling which held your daughter protectively “I know you were prepared to go great lengths in order to secure my position at the temple whilst the baby is raised without any knowledge of who I am. But I just want to raise my daughter in peace”

“I understand” He stood up straighter

You looked past his shoulder and saw Obi-Wan carrying a basket of food “Thought you might want something”

“Thank you Obi-Wan” You smiled, grabbing the basket and placing it down on beside everything else “Remember what I told you both”

“Outside of this ship nobody knows you’re alive” Mace repeated your words from earlier “Including your former master Anakin Skywalker”

“As far as anyone knows I died in childbirth and so did the baby” The two Jedi Masters nodded “It was a pleasure serving alongside you and I cannot thank you enough for the opportunity you gave me”

“Good luck Y/n” Obi-Wan gave your shoulder a comforting squeeze before he walked down the ramp

“Goodbye Y/n” You raised a hand, ready to give Mace a handshake, but he shocked you when he pulled you into an awkward hug which lasted only a few seconds before quickly he walked down the ramp his arms resting behind him as both he and Obi-Wan strode off

The ramp hissed shut and you quickly moved to sit down on the pilot's chair, punching in the coordinates to Leshef, an outer rim planet that was only inhabited by a large village and decorated in lush trees and plants.

You watched as the bustling streets of Coruscant left your view until it was nothing but a speck. You clutched onto Shmi as the ship went into hyperspace.

You didn’t know it now, but your decision to leave the Jedi saved your life

~~~~

“Obi-Wan!” Anakin waved his former master over “I told Y/n two days ago that our lesson would be at the meditation rooms, it’s been nearly two hours since the lesson was meant to have begun but she hasn’t shown up or responded, have you seen her around?” Obi-Wan’s knuckles went white as he tried to compose himself

His former padawan was the one who got her pregnant and broke her heart...It was his fault that she left the Jedi-

“Anakin...” Obi-Wan, Anakin looked at him, suddenly nervous as to why his former master sounded so strange “The council didn’t know how to tell you this, but….” He trailed off

“But?” Anakin pressed Obi-Wan, who simply sighed in response, pinching the bridge of his nose “She went into labour a few hours ago...” Anakin’s mouth formed into a small smile He was a father now, he had a child

And yet he couldn’t understand why Obi-Wan didn’t look pleased, he was the one who voiced his excitement at the thought of meeting a child born from a Jedi..

“...And suffered a haemorrhage, the droids couldn’t save her” Anakin small smile quickly turned into a shocked expression, the colour from his face draining “They couldn’t save the baby either”

Anakin watched as his Obi-Wan turned on his heel, leaving him in the middle of the temple. His knees quickly gave out and he crumpled to the ground, tears falling freely down his face, he didn’t care whether someone saw or not. On shaky legs he slowly stood up, his cheeks swollen and splotchy and his chest rising and falling rapidly

He will avenge her death.

Side note: Literally could not find the right planet for this fic so I had to use a planet name generator :/ Also really sucks that google doc doesn’t let me spell Padmé correctly 😑

#anakin skywalker x reader #pregnancy #angst #cheating #anakin skywalker #reader #he literally cheats on both reader and padme #padme is pregnant #same outcome

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bluegarners · 3 years

Note

dick + jaw wired shut ???

hiii anon!! sorry this took awhile to get out there, but here it is! ao3

Jaw Wired Shut

It happens quickly. A bit too quickly, really. One could say it happens in a flash, but neither Wally nor Barry are really here to appreciate that, so it just happens quickly.

He’s on his bike, a slightly older model of the same one Robin rides, just larger and more loved (well-used is another kind term, but he really means beat-up), and they’re both reaching speeds upwards of seventy miles per hour. One hundred and twelve kilometres if he’s using the correct measurements, but no one really cares. Either way, the point is that they’re going fast and only getting faster as their high-speed chase takes them down long streets filled with trash and night-walkers alike.

Robin is slightly ahead, his smaller bike a bit better at maneuvering around the sharp angles and narrowing roads, and Dick is trying his best not to think about how one pot-hole could spell the end for both of them at the speeds they are currently keeping. Of course, they’re both wearing helmets with more padding than standard (thank you, Bruce), but it does little to reassure him as he keeps one eye on the perpetrators they’re tailing and the hardly fourteen year old boy handling a motor-bike like he’s been at it for a lifelong and fulfilling career as a Nascar driver.

It’s not raining, Gotham in some sort of mid-fall drought, and Batman took the car in the opposite direction to try and cut off the gang before they reached the city limits, so there are small mercies. Very small, but Dick is used to relying on slim chances so it’s fine. Fine, really.

The thing is, though, is that they’re only getting faster. Later, Dick will wonder how in the world the gang managed to fix an engine onto the old van to make it go so fast, and later Dick will shake his fist at the sky for his inattention or his too divided attention, but for the moment, Dick is only pushing his bike to keep pace with Damian’s, and going back and forth between glancing at Robin’s wildly flapping cape and watching for civilians that got in the way.

They’re hardly forty feet from it when the van doors kick open and two men crouch at its opening, shouldering what looks to be a machine gun (holy shit, they weren’t supposed to have that kind of weaponry) and a few hand-guns. Immediately, Dick is calling into the comms with the new development.

“Fall back, they’re armed!”

Robin cooperates, lessening his speed and coming to ride along Dick’s flank.

“Weaponry?” Batman asks.

“Hard to say,” Dick shouts, wind screaming in his own ear. “Definitely a few 9mm and maybe a GPM. They’ve got more than a few rounds in there too.”

“Copy. Stay back. Do not engage and keep distance. I’m closing in on them. Keep civilians out of the way.”

“Like we weren’t just doing that,” Robin mutters, the feedback in the comms a glimmer of humor despite the intense situation.

“Got it, B,” Dick responds, a grin marring his serious tone.

He’s hardly got the words out before the first lash of bullets is hitting the rough pavement, metal clashing against stiff cement and slightly more malleable cars. They’re lucky that these thugs just seem to want to put more distance between themselves and the vigilantes because the bullets are only hitting the path in front of their bikes. Still, the ricochet is violent, metal casings bouncing up and pelting anything even remotely close, and it pushes Nightwing and Robin back further. It’s the middle of the night, somewhere close to three a.m., so there aren’t too many civilians out, but it’s still Gotham.

It’s just a normal Tuesday for most of them.

“Maneuver five?” Robin asks, swerving to the right as a slurry of bullets hits a sewer covering. “Or seven?”

“Seven,” Dick decides, grimacing a bit as his front wheel wobbles against the pavement. “Push it up to a Scenario B, and,” he adds, taking care to emphasize the stress in his voice, “minimum engagement.”

Robin doesn’t respond, a blow of air into the comms all that Dick gets in reply, before Robin is suddenly speeding up and launching his bike onto the civilian pathways and gliding by store displays and carefully made signs.

A maneuver seven typically involves three people; one to distract, one to enact, and one to take care of whatever other obstacles there are. Seeing as their only backup was about twelve streets away, the plan adjusts to a Scenario B; meaning that now there is only the distractor and enactor. Being the distraction is more dangerous in this scenario as there is no one to ensure that they aren’t instantly put into a direct line of fire, so that role is automatically deferred to either the older or the more experienced. Both of those apply to Dick, so he takes it upon himself to do his best to keep the attention of the machine gun and 9mm on himself while Damian builds up enough speed to intercept or figure out a way to crash the van itself. Thus, the enactor.

It’s a difficult maneuver but not impossible, and both of them have trained and even done the maneuver a few times. Of course, other variables like speed, location, psychology of the criminals, and the vehicle itself all play major roles in the outcome of maneuver seven, but thinking on one's feet isn’t as difficult to do when it’s either do that or die standing still.

Not as reassuring as it sounds, but it works. Most of the time.

Robin is waiting for the signal to increase his speed, riding parallel to Nightwing’s bike, and Dick fishes for a wingding out of one compartment. He snaps it open, sharp metal edges clicking into place, and with a slight head-tilt, both Robin and the wingding are flying towards the speeding van.

Dick’s accuracy hasn’t failed him in years, and the (essentially) metal boomerang collides against one of the legs supporting what he thinks is a modified GPM. He slings another one, flicking his wrist in a motion that guarantees a slight curve, and a second wingding buries itself into the lower bumper of the van. This one is different though as Dick presses down on a button and a flash-bang goes off, a miniature flare emitting smoke and blinding the gang members inside. Robin is getting closer, a little further than twenty feet from the van off to the right on a sidewalk, and Dick readies a third wingding when he sees a commotion interrupt the panicked flailing of the men.

Previously, Dick had only counted two men in the rear of the van, both armed, but now a third one appears, wielding another gun and some unknown object in the other. They’ve got a gas mask on, goggles too, and they’re staring right at Dick.

“Third assailant,” he hurries into the comms, reassessing. “Armed.”

“Got it,” Damian grunts in reply, engine revving slightly as he pushes his bike further and rapidly gains pace. “Batman, update?”

“Encountered some civilians. Five blocks away. ETA thirty seconds.”

Okay, good, good, Dick thinks to himself, throwing the wingding still in his hand. It knocks out another leg on the GPM and he hears the shout of surprise. “Robin, what’s it looking like for engagement?” he asks aloud.

He veers to the left suddenly, pops of one-two-three as one of the 9mm sounds off. He curses as a stray casing impacts against his back tire and he wobbles for the second time.

“Preparing to board.”

What? Dick thinks as he turns his attention to Damian, who is slowly inching his feet upwards onto the seat of his bike. It’s a risky choice, one that is never 100%, or even 80% guaranteed to work, and Dick feels his heart leap into his throat as Damian continues to accelerate, all the while getting closer and closer to the speeding van and bunching his legs together.

Trust him, a voice whispers in the back of his head, but Dick can’t help but divide his attention by watching his little brother, and god he looks so small, gather his feet underneath him, one hand still controlling the bike, and jump into the screaming air, aiming for the front windshield.

The impact is going to hurt, Dick knows from experience, but he can’t help but feel that sting of pride as he hears the shock of the gang members, the van swerving momentarily before regaining its momentum.

And this is where things begin happening too quickly. Where things happen in a flash.

A lot is going on at the same time. Robin is clinging to the front of a van filled with armed gang members. Robin’s bike is currently still rolling on the sidewalk, slowly, very slowly, coming to a stop and falling on its side. Batman is hardly one block away, Dick can just barely hear the rumble of the Batmobile’s engine against the wind tearing at his arms, but it’s out of reach. The two gang members are still rubbing magnesium and smoke out of their eyes and the GPM is tilting out the van, the slightest push away from it tumbling into the street. The third member is elbowing past their blinded partners, dropping the gun in their hand and fumbling with whatever was in the other.

All of this is happening at the same time, and all of these requires Dick’s attention, his direct action, but he’s still half-way between his heart seizing as he thinks about bruised ribs beneath Robin’s tunic and trying to correct the unexpected and severe quaking of his back tire. He’s always been good about juggling multiple things at once. Give him an orange, a spoon, a bowl, and a paper weight and he’ll put on a show. Give him a week to commute between the Titans, Gotham, Bludhaven, and three new case files, and he’ll get it done a day early. He’s good about handling multiple things at once, but it’s a maneuver seven, a Scenario B, and Dick is slightly more harried than he normally is with it all.

So the grenade being launched out of the back doors and the GPM crashing and splintering into the pavement, parts of it hurtling at Dick’s bike upwards of eighty miles per hour, goes unnoticed. Dick is distracted and misses it. Misses those precious few milliseconds of time and pays for it.

The sound of the GPM practically exploding on impact is what alerts him, eyes zeroing in on first the metal pieces and then the rounder object that just seems to… float, mid-air, gray-green and twirling and heading straight for him.

It’s all Dick can do but break. Hard. A jolt so severe the handles jut into his sides and he’s practically leaning over the front of his bike, before he’s swiveling around, desperate to put some space between himself and the ensuing explosion. From the distance he’s at, the grenade and shrapnel coming from the GPM, he’ll be lucky if he scrapes by with some charred flesh. Who’s he kidding? He’ll be lucky if he scrapes by with his life.

There’s nowhere to go but back because even though it’s Tuesday and most of the shops are closed, it’s still very much Gotham, and Dick just can’t take the chance of diving behind a car or swerving into a shop window without the risk of injuring innocents. His back wheel, dented and more than likely missing some rubber, squeals against the asphalt as he lurches forward, away from the van, hand coming up to hastily, hopefully, patch into the comms to alert Robin, warn Batman, about the explosive.

It happens too fast though. Too quick. He’s barely got a finger onto the side of his helmet before he feels the heat burning into his back, the shock-wave of sound following closely behind. The force of the detonation brings the rear of his bike shooting up, his body pushed out of the seat and flying, arms outstretched and ears ringing.

He thinks he screams. It certainly feels like something is being ripped from his throat, loud and fearful. It’s a distant thought though because even though his arms are spread out before him, his head slams into the ground first, the smack comparatively silent against the roar of everything and nothing in his ears.

He’s not too sure what happens immediately after. Dick thinks he might’ve passed out, lost consciousness as he (presumably) rolled and rolled and scraped his body against asphalt and hard Gotham tar before finally coming to a stop.

All he knows is that when he opens his eyes, it is an enormously difficult task.

There’s feedback going off in his ears, a static cling to it that leaves him nauseous. He can’t feel his fingers or his toes, and some part of his brain is screaming at him that that’s not a good thing, but the other part is relieved. Moving is an impossible task and Dick is glad for the shock.

The world is a tinted mess of shadows and yellow shop lights through the visor of his helmet. Half of it is shattered, the enforced glass fractured and in some areas missing altogether. It filters through to his eyes and Dick is tempted to close them, avoid the pulsing brightness that stabs into his brain. He doesn’t though, an ingrained piece of him knowing that to close his eyes would mean to possibly lose the battle and Dick’s not willing to give in just yet.

There are other noises in the background, piercing and violent, metal screeching against metal, but all Dick can really focus on is the sound his breath makes as his lungs expand and deflate. He can’t decide if he’s breathing through his nose or through his mouth, erratic and chattering throughout his helmet. He doesn’t think breathing is supposed to sound like that, echoey and clunky, but he takes what he can get.

There’s also something against his lip. A few somethings. Small and smooth, and there’s a few just sitting in his mouth. His tongue tastes like iron, like he’s been eating nothing but metal for the past few days, and the sensation of it alone makes Dick want to vomit. He tries that, throat working and muscles in his cheek convulsing, but the immediate pain, the prompt resistance, stops him. Again, he’s not sure how, but he doesn’t vomit even though he badly wants to. Instead, he just lays there, allowing his body to take over the reflex of breathing, and trying his best not to succumb to what he’s sure is a comforting darkness.

His right arm is squashed under the weight of his body, a distant part of him acknowledging that it’s probably been dislocated, but he has no energy to move himself to lay on his back. There are a thousand protocols running through his head, ones he’s known for years and could probably recite backwards if need be, so he knows instinctively that laying on his back or moving from whatever position he’s managed to crash into might mean further damaging his spine. His neck. Not that he’d notice the difference if he were to, the shock from his propulsion slowly ebbing away to the point where awareness of his own predicament is poking at his brain.

For now, though, he just lays there and breathes, maybe even bleeds as well, and tries to fight against the urge to scream and vomit. The pain is getting worse, throbbing and burning at his jaw, his cheek, his entire face. He hopes the helmet has done its job and prevented something worse than a concussion.

Suddenly, there’s movement in his peripherals and Dick spots green boots and black laces.

Robin. Damian.

He’s okay. He made it out. Alive.

Dick finds himself sagging a bit at the relief of that. It had only been a barely second thought to, ‘Oh shit, that’s a grenade,’ but the worry for his little brother’s safety had definitely been pounding away in the background. Now that he can more or less see for himself that his littlest brother is unharmed, Dick relaxes enough to the point where he forgets he’s supposed to be making an effort in staying awake. Gray tickles at the edges of his vision, drifting in and out of focus, before a sharp “Nightwing!” snaps him out of it.

Robin is crouched down to his level, elbows digging into the hard tar as his pensive little mask peers through Dick’s broken visor.

“Nightwing, are you awake?” he asks, a fine tremble lurking behind those words.

Dick tries opening his mouth to reply and instantly regrets it, a shout of agony ripped from him instead. Okay, yeah, that’s a broken jaw. A bad one. And… oh god, those are teeth in his mouth. Loose teeth. As in, teeth that are no longer fixed to his skull and are sitting like popcorn kernels on his tongue.

Panic grips him for a moment, the sudden urge to spit out the tiny pieces of not-really- bone violent and driving. His shoulders move, anticipating the reactionary need to pucker his cheeks and convulse his stomach at the same time, but a small yet firm hand pokes at his arm.

“Stay still,” Robin orders, the only sign of alarm being the slightest twitch of his lips. “You’re going to be okay, Nightwing. Batman will be here soon and we will take you back to the Cave.”

Dick wants to nod, signal he understands despite the dread that’s beginning to curl around his chest, but even that tiny movement is sending jolts of fire throughout his jaw and neck. He settles on a low grunt that comes from the depths of his sternum, and the tone vibrates in his teeth. He’s never taken such special notice to the small things before but it’s all he can think about right now. All he can focus on, the feeling of many hard objects just swirling around in his mouth, slicked in his blood and metallic in their taste.

Popcorn.

Something gnawing at the edges of a frenzy poke at Dick’s composure and it is with concerted and severe effort does he scrunch up his left hand and move it back and forth against the road. Damian can only frown at the movement but understanding creeps in as Dick repeats the motion again, visible strain shaking at his arms.

Damage?

“I don’t believe you knowing the extent will do you any good, Nightwing,” Damian answers, chin crumpling the slightest bit. It’s a new tic of his that Dick has picked up on. Damian only does that when he’s stressed. Anxious.

Dick wheezes in reply, fisting his left hand again and moving it against the rough terrain. He taps the ground for emphasis, another dimmed whine involuntarily escaping from his lips as it jerks his shoulder, traveling upwards to his neck. Knowing the extent of his injuries will at least take his mind off of the fact that there are teeth in his mouth. Teeth that aren’t where they are supposed to be. Loose little kernels that taste like flesh on his tongue. Drool sliding down and out of his mouth like he’s some starving animal with a gaping maw. The stench of his own breath and the smells of bodily fluids and blood smearing within the helmet.

He slams his fisted palm into the ground again. It’s more like a plea than it is a request at this point. He’s freaking out and the pain is starting to get to him. Black spots blur in and out of focus and Robin’s green gloves are all he can pay attention to.

“Okay,” Damian relents, one of his hands hovering just outside of the helmet’s visor, “but please. Calm down. Batman will be here soon, Nightwing, but I need you to calm down first. I… cannot touch you or offer comfort, and I am sorry, but please. Stay still.”

Dick hears him, even through the static clouding his head, and relaxes his fist, slumping further into himself. The spots are turning gray and washing over like a film in his eyes.

“Your suit managed to protect much of your backside from the brunt of the explosion,” Damian continues, settling further down into his crouch. His mask is pinched and aching. Dick does not know what to do. “You will have secondary burns, most likely, and a few lacerations from shrapnel. I don’t believe there are any extraneous pieces lodged, however.”

Something clicks, rather clinks, inside of Dick’s mouth and he feels another smooth… piece fall onto his tongue. The urge to swallow, or better yet vomit, persists. The side of his face feels tacky, like half-dried glue is clinging to his lower cheek. A million fire ants pepper his jawline and neck. It burns.

“Visibly, from my stance, there are only a few other injuries, mostly other lacerations.” Damian pauses, his chin scrunching up again. “However, I cannot see your face. I do not know-”

“Robin,” another voice interrupts, deep and controlled. Edging into a degree of certain authority in their small world of chaos.

Dick is still thinking about the clink though, can’t think of much else except the acid seeping into his bones, his entire facial structure, eating away at his skin and every cell he’s ever owned. What little adrenaline that had been keeping the worst of it to a buzz is fading, becoming a roar in his ears and a sickly, numbing ache in the concave of his right cheek. The gray is darkening, bleeding into what small consciousness he has left to interpret what’s going on around him and Dick is left with the cold sensation of undiluted fear in his chest. Icy and coiling.

There’s a long, high-pitched beep from somewhere beyond his vision and he hears the faint but gruff voice that follows it, every second or third word filtering through to his ears.

“...stable… move… secure…. Robin...”

He blinks. The gray turns darker. Knives are digging themselves deeper and deeper into his face, flaying open his skin and grating against bone.

He blinks. His eyelids are sticky. His nose itches. Something is drying on the sides of his lips.

He thinks he might be dying.

He blinks.

The world goes black.

. . .

He’s jolted from the dark to the screeching heat by his ear, and for a moment, Dick is paralyzed with unknown. Not fear of the unknown, but just an unknown.

It’s like there’s a jackhammer going off right next to him, reverberating and shaking his eardrums and brain into mush, and he’s flinching away from it when something prevents him and holds him still.

“Stop,” is what he tries to get out, a mere gurgle of syllables escaping instead as his tongue refuses to leave the dry roof of his mouth. He tastes plastic. Blood. Ash.

The buzzing stops, erratic silence plunges into his head, and he almost wishes for the noise back until he registers the fact that his jaw is no longer rattling and his teeth are no longer quaking where they lay.

Oh god.

His teeth.

His jaw.

The panic sets in immediately, a ferocious awareness that he has no idea where he is or what’s going on climbing on top of the realization that he’s in so much pain that it’s unbearable and ruthless. It hurts. It hurts so much.

“Master Richard?” a voice calls to him, far away and cavernous. “You’re alright. You are in the Cave now. I have to saw off your helmet. Your jaw has been dislocated and that makes removal difficult. Please, do your best to hold still. You’re going to be alright, my boy.”

“Do as he says, Richard,” another voice chimes in, just another noise to echo in his ever shrinking head. “Stay still.”

Dick thinks he recognizes those voices, trusts them enough to try and attempt the task at hand, but when the buzzing resumes and the thundering in his own brain doubles, it proves impossible. It’s as if the Flash himself is summoning the lightning that dances throughout his face: violent, repetitive, and so, so blinding.

There’s another jolt and his mouth yawns open in a terrible impression of a roar and the world goes black again.

. . .

When he wakes up, it's to the feeling of needing to throw up. It’s that same sick-to-his-stomach feeling he got when he was younger, down with a bad case of the flu but not quite knowing it yet and being unable to do anything except lay down with an ice-pack on his face. There’s a faded memory in the very back of his mind of laying on a leather couch, watching cartoons, and then feeling a lurch in the depths of his being that had him practically yelling for a bowl to hurl into.

He doesn’t throw up. His stomach rolls around and the back of his throat is tingling with an impulsive reflex, but there must be nothing left inside of him because nothing comes up.

Opening his eyes is a chore, sticky and weighing a thousand pounds, and when he does, it’s to the cool, dull fluorescence of an overhead light that pokes at his awareness. Its electric flicker reaches his ears, like a fly hanging around his head, and he turns his eyes away from the light to drift around. Next to him is Damian, small and huddled.

There are bandages on his face, butterfly band-aids holding together small cuts that will eventually heal on their own, and greasy patches of skin where ointment has been applied to yellowing bruises. He looks up at Dick’s gaze, stowing away his phone, and frowns carefully. Damian says nothing though and a part of Dick is grateful for it. The world is still a haze, blurry and out-of-focus, and he doesn’t think the pain medication running their course through his veins will let him hold a conversation just yet.

He keeps the silence, keeps his little brother’s gaze, and after a few minutes of staring, he drifts off again, blissfully unaware of anything else.

The throbbing in his face is what wakes him up again. A pounding ache that feels as if someone is repeatedly punching him in the jaw. He reaches up a hand to touch it, the pull of an IV or some other fluid tube in his hand restricting his already sluggish movement, and a different hand comes up to intercept his inspection. Dick turns his direction from the hand to the owner of the appendage, something like a smile tugging at his sore features.

“Glad to see you awake, Master Richard,” Alfred says softly, holding the younger man’s hand in his own. “Before you do anything else, however, there are some things you need to know so you do not… fret… later on. Do you understand?”

Already feeling the dull emotion of anxiousness, Dick nods anyway. He’s tired.

“Good,” Alfred amends warmly, releasing Dick’s hand. “Your jaw has been wired shut,” he continues. “You will have difficulty talking for the time being, but for now, you will not be able to open your mouth at all.”

Now that it’s been pointed out to him, the sudden need to yawn or say something pulls at Dick immensely, practically an instantaneous reflex as his muscles twitch to open his mouth.

“Your jaw was fractured on the right side of your mandible, as well as dislocated,” the old butler continues, not unkindly. “Unfortunately, your face had become so swollen by the time you were brought back to the Cave, your helmet couldn’t be moved without it being cut off of you. Do you remember that?”

Dick nods, somewhat shakily, as the urge to speak pesters him further. He can feel the restraints though, feel his limitations and taste the metal plates and wires in his mouth. On his teeth. Oh god. There are gaps. There are gaps.

“Yes, you woke up as I was cutting away the sides. I am sorry for that, Master Richard. We had thought you would remain unconscious long enough for us to remove your helmet, which, I am unbearably grateful you were wearing. Your injuries would have been considerably… worse had you not been wearing it.”

Dick wants to make some joke or mockery of the lessons ingrained into him about wearing a helmet since he was nine, but the staunch reminder of his limited capabilities leave him mute and horrifyingly silent. He can’t… He can’t even smile properly. It feels wrong. He feels wrong.

“Just as well, the impact that led to your jaw dislocation also popped out your right shoulder. It was put back in without any trouble, it will just feel sore for a spell. You have some minor burns on your shoulders and upper back, and a few lacerations on your arms, but otherwise nothing else.”

Dick wants to ask about his teeth. Wants to ask how many he’s missing, how many are in his mouth, how many are on the side of the road, how long it’ll take to get new ones or be fitted for some replacements, if any of them are salvageable, but he remains quiet. Too afraid to speak. Too afraid to try and find he can’t at all.

He flexes his lower jaw, desperate for the tiniest bit of leeway, but his jaw remains in place. His mouth remains welded shut.

“For the next few weeks, the wires will remain in place and you’ll be given a largely liquid diet. I, or someone else, can help you with that and the cleaning process required to maintain the wires.” Alfred sighs then, reaching up a hand to ghost over Dick’s hair. It lacks the warmth Dick is desperate for. The touch is too light. Too far away. It makes him feel like he’s not truly there. Transparent. “You were tremendously lucky, my boy. Had circumstances been different, I fear we would be having a much different conversation.”

Just as he’s only found himself capable to do, Dick merely nods, crinkling his eyes in what he hopes looks like a light acceptance. Having his jaw wired shut isn’t a first for him. He’s been knocked down enough in his life to have fractured his face more than once, has experience dealing with getting food from a syringe and trying to suck down things he knows would taste better whole rather than in a puree. This isn’t… new.

And yet, something tight is gathering inside of his chest. Something cold and choking, wrapping around his rib-cage, tighter and tighter. Squeezing.

He just nods though, watching as Alfred walks away to get Damian and Bruce, announce to them that the eldest is awake.

And he doesn’t even need to open his mouth to talk coherently. Sure, some of the enunciation might be lost, but he can move his tongue and his lips just fine. He’s fine. It’ll only be a few weeks, and then after the wires and the plates are out, he can be fitted for new teeth. Get the dental work done. Yeah, just a few weeks. No time at all. He’s fine. It’s nothing new. Nothing new.

He’s fine.

Dick hears the quick succession of small feet before he sees Damian enter. There are still butterfly bandages on his face, still sickly bruises on his cheeks, and still a slight pull on his brows. Dick does his best to smile as the boy approaches but his own face still feels like it was rammed with a semi-truck, and he’s yet to look in a mirror or take in his predicament properly, but he’s sure he isn’t a pretty sight to behold.

“Good evening, Richard,” Damian says, stilted and unsure. He hovers, just as he did when Dick was still looking through broken glass.

“H-” is all Dick can get out before he stops, feeling that constriction around his chest further tighten. He tried to open his mouth. He tried to say ‘Hello’ and attempted to open his mouth to do so. He can’t though. He can’t. He can’t do that.

His hand trembles as he raises it to his forehead, pushing outwards in a mock salute. Damian’s brow creases further.

“I see,” is all the boy says, easing into the same chair he had sat in before, leaning forward and steepling his fingers together. “No matter. I imagine you would like a report of everything that has happened since… then.”

Dick just blinks at his younger brother in response, trying his best to breathe around the weight in his lungs. He knows how he’s breathing now. It’s through his nose. How silly of him to think otherwise.

“The grenade used for the gang’s attempted escape was essentially a homemade device. Thus, the explosion resulting from it’s release was not as potent as a military grade grenade would have been. Batman was able to successfully stop the gang’s departure near the same moment the explosion went live. I was not caught in any crossfire,” Damian adds, glancing upwards before settling on his fingers again. “Once the suspects were secured, Batman and I assessed you before taking you back to the Cave. I presume Pennyworth has already briefed you on the extent of your injuries?” Damian’s chin crumples at that, one of his eyebrows twitching in a similar manner.

Dick nods. It’s all he can do. All he can do but breathe. Barely. His chest hurts. He’s not… He’s not getting enough air.

“That’s good,” Damian says, shoulders relaxing a fraction. “It’s been approximately twenty-eight hours since their arrest. There were no other severe casualties than your own. Bat- Father is attending a meeting of some sort. He will be back shortly and will expect a report now that you are coherent enough to give one. Of course, seeing as incapacitated as you are now, it will prove to be difficult for you, so I will see to it that you do not make any mistakes and will help- Richard? Are you alright? Richard?”

Dick stopped listening half-way through Damian’s brief, too focused on getting enough air to his lungs. He can’t remember the last time he had a panic attack so severe, so debilitating, and he knows how to control it, knows how to calm down again, but that involves taking deep, calming breaths, something he is incapable of doing seeing as the easiest way to do that is through the mouth and he can’t fucking open his mouth and he’s not getting enough air-

He can’t suck in oxygen fast enough, each intake of breath through his nose like breathing underwater through a straw; too slow, not enough. His hands are gripping the sides of his cot in an effort to strain himself further, lungs working overtime as he inhales and exhales in the same breath, struggling to get any of it to his brain. If only he could open his mouth, breathe through his mouth. If only he could articulate what he’s feeling, force the words out of his mouth, and even though he knows he can do that without opening up his jaw, it is a task much too difficult for him.

His face is on fire and his lungs are following, consumed in his deprivation. Somewhere off to the right he can hear the sounds of someone calling to him, begging for his attention, but he’s not getting enough air and that’s all he needs. Just a little more air. Just- just a little more air and then he’ll be okay.

There is none though. No oxygen for his starved lungs, no salvation for his leaking brain. The pain, the hurt, pulses through him like his own furious heartbeat, and he’s clenching his jaw so hard it feels like it’s breaking, fracturing, all over again.

Just a little more air. Come on. Come on.

There’s a quick succession of snaps, one-two-three-four, and suddenly his jaw is falling open, and Dick gasps.

Great, heaving breaths fall into his lungs despite the absolute anguish in his relief, the gaps in between his teeth whistling as he sucks in breath after breath- greedy, starved for air.

They stutter in his chest, lungs inflating properly and expanding so much it hurts. He trembles in his cot, overwhelmed with the ability to finally breathe, and as he continues to wheeze and gasp, he falls back, releasing his death drip on the metal bars. The sudden release of tension leaves him light-headed, and his vision spots, graying in and out as he calms down.

A figure stands in his peripherals and Dick recognizes it as Damian, tense and clutching a pair of wire-cutters in his hands. His eyes are wide, watchful, and the creases that line his face betray the stress, the fear, building inside his small body.

Dick raises a hand, still gasping as he presses it to his lips and lets his hand fall back down in a sloppy ‘Thank you’. Damian only jerks his head in response, mouth pressed tightly into a thin line.

It continues on like that for some time, Dick continuing to wheeze and Damian continuing to stand over him, wary and strained.

Dick can feel the jagged ends of the wires poking into his gums as his jaw bobs up and down with each breath. Can still taste metal and blood. This wasn’t supposed to go this way. It’s not new. He’s used to this.

But not really. Not truly. Yes, he’s had his jaw broken before. Has had wires holding his upper and lower jaw together. Has been faced with the ordeal of liquid diets one too many times. None of this was supposed to be new, he’s done it all before, but there is something new he didn’t consider. Didn’t think of immediately as being the cause. Of creating the entire experience “anew” again.

Damian.

He’s never been injured in this way, so humiliatingly, in front of the boy. Broken bones are one thing. Cracked ribs and toes, fractured arms and dislocated shoulders. Long gashes and concussions. Par for the course, Damian has been witness to all of these injuries before and Dick has faced them with the same level of casualness as any other.

But this was different. This was… debilitating. Feebling. Near disabling.

Damian was going to have to watch him get fed through a syringe. Watch his muscle mass shrivel away, even if just minutely, because a liquid diet is not the same as rich, solid food. Watch as Dick struggles and fumbles over basic, normal things like talking. Watch as simple, little things become unbearably painful, as the urge to laugh or cough overwhelms him to the point where he needs to sit down.

And even now. Even just then. Damian had to watch Dick hyperventilate, nearly strangle himself to the point of unconsciousness all because he couldn’t breathe through his mouth well enough. Couldn’t regulate his breaths the way he wanted to. Needed to.

And it was so humiliating.

To struggle so much in front of the child he’s tried so hard to be strong for.

Because he can’t talk his way out of what just happened. Can’t reassure Damian with an easy grin that doesn’t turn into a grimace. Can’t wave away the pain, the bruises, the metal contraption in his mouth. Can’t hide effort in remaining natural, just as he always has before..

He’s supposed to be Richard Grayson. Steadfast and loyal partner to Damian Wayne.

And right now, he just feels…

Wrong.

Dick can’t take his eyes off of the white-knuckled grip Damian has on the cutters. Can’t ignore the way every muscle is stiff and rigid. Can’t not realize that it’s his fault Damian is so shaken, so unnerved, even with all of his own injuries and fresh trauma to care for. And now it’s a different type of pain in his chest that makes Dick feel light-headed. The shame, the guilt, that shrouds his head at the knowledge that he’s no good like this. No good for Damian. No good for Bruce. No good for Alfred.

No good for even himself.

It all just… it happened too fast. Too fast for him to do anything about it.

He can’t even catch his breath anymore.

#tw: broken jaw and teeth #bad things happen bingo #jaw wired shut #my fic #fanfic #dick grayson #damian wayne #alfred pennyworth #bruce wayne #dick grayson whump

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haphazardlyparked · 3 years

Text

the war AU

@gingerly-writing originally i started this as a response to your captured solider/person-enemy general thing but then it just turned into a whole bunch of self-indulgence sooooo

(i'm a softie at heart??)

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"Masara," a voice hissed in her ear, and Masara came back to her senses, only to swallow back a groan. Her whole body was an ache that burned at the edges, part magical exhaustion and part old-fashioned beating.

"Arlis," Masara murmured back, trying not to move. Trying to catalogue her hurts before she tested them, trying to remember what had happened. She did not say, You young fool.

Masara's heart––already burning her chest with grief and war––had leapt into her throat and turned to fear when she'd seen Arlis emerge from the tunnel pass, adept enough with the spells that she could open the hidden routes on her own. Masara's young, foolish squire, who had followed her because she thought her knight-mistress had gone off to do something brave, when all Masara was was reckless, desperate––and desperately hopeful.

Panam as heir was safe, the king was on his way to the Yina stronghold, and Fathmir, who had been at the holy mountain's summit since the new moon, could be made High Priest soon. The heart of Amir would be preserved, even though Amirasa had fallen. Even though things might had been different, before the assassination and the war.

Masara knew her part now. She was the most experienced knight traveling with her uncle––fleeing, navigating the twisting paths and hidden tunnels that wound through the foothills of the Endless Ridge. The king had to make it to the safety of Mount Yina, and that was worth Masara's life.

In some small measure, Amir would survive, watchful and isolated while her southern lands became a battlefield between two imperial powers. Ancient Lapur to the southwest, hemmed in by the Blasted Plains, and Kas to the northeast, a young and eager threat.

Masara had dreamed of her kingdom’s waning. She had felt the shadow of death hanging over her head since Panam had brought news of the High Priest's assassination.

When she had volunteered to lead the pursuers away from the king's trail as he and a fragment of his court ran for holy Yina, the king had faced her as her father wold have––grieved, yet proud. But he had faced her as her king, too, grimly resigned to her sacrifice.

"You might have been one of our greatest queens, if my sister and I chose differently," he had whispered.

Masara could scarcely meet her uncle's eyes.

"I dreamed a fire would burn away my future, during my rites,” she confessed. One did not usually speak of the visions, if there were any, but Masara thought she could ease her uncle’s conscience. “When Panam came with word of my father's death... I already knew how this could end. This is my decision, Uncle."

"May the Lady Sascrin guard your path, Masara," the king said.

The knight knelt, and kissed her uncle's hand, and when she rose––when the king drew her to her feet to hug her one last time, the farewell embrace she never had from her father––she smiled.

"It will be your job to look after Arlis now,�� she said when they pulled away from each other. She stepped back.

Arlis was a jealous squire, and would likely be furious when she realized Masara had ridden to battle without her. Later, she would come to understand that she was too young for this.

And then the little fool had burst from one of the rocky passages, into the pitched skirmish while Masara charged a company with a twilit illusion, riding alongside moonbeams, and dropped the bridge to cut off pursuit of the king’s path.

She thought the destroyed bridge would been a good place to die, right up until she saw Arlis and realized with a ringing clarity, Not now. Her squire needed her.

Masara's vision filled with molten silver, magic in her hands and spitting down the length of her blade, and Arlis flickered across the field in her mind's eye, a star to be guarded. When they reached each other—the knight a blur of spell and steel, her squire a smaller whirlwind no less fierce for her youth, and Kassan footmen with their blue-rimmed shields and clumsy swords—Arlis screamed, and Masara's world exploded.

In the tent, when she opened her eyes, the physical ache seemed to coalesce in her chest as she put everything back together again.

There was her beloved, fool squire whom Masara would protect with her last breath; and beyond that, all the things that threatened her.

Masara and Arlis were tied side by side to foldable campaign chairs, which was quite civilized, all things considered. She could see spells crawling on the walls of the tent, and smelled the distinctive sting of burning a sharp, distinctive incense. Natural inhibitors of magic.

"Do you know where we are?" Masara spoke. Her voice was cracked and barely audible; her throat dry as dust. Unlike Arlis, she was tied to her chair by only one arm, because the other was broken. She woke with it cradled against her chest in a sling.

"I'm sorry, sir, I––” Arlis began urgently, quick and breathless, all the words she'd been thinking while Masara was unconscious now tumbling out. Masara let her relieve herself. "I shouldn't have followed, and then I ruined your plan and you went down––and I panicked. I surrendered. I thought they were going to kill you!”

“You did as you should have done, Arlis," Masara assured her squire when she fell silent. “I am grateful to be alive."

It was true. Masara had made her peace with her sacrifice, but she hadn't wanted to die. If she could live––and she had somehow, for Arlis or thanks to her––she would. (She wondered if this meant her vision was wrong; or if there was another fire threatening her horizons.)

"But Masara," Arlis mumbled. “You weren’t about to surrender.”

“That only means you have proven yourself wiser than me.”

“But... I told them who you are.”

Masara considered her broken arm––splinted and bandaged, carefully tended to like the rest of her battered body, and found Arlis's confession did not surprise her.

"And yourself, too?" Masara asked.

"Yes."

"Good," Masara said firmly. "We are alive now, and I will not see you die, Arlis."

Her squire knew enough to hear the grim promise.

"Sir," she acknowledged. "I don't think they'll hurt me. They think I'm a child––a poor, misguided girl-child who accidentally maimed some soldiers..." Arlis indulged in a little complaining, and when Masara recalled her visit to the Kassan court years ago, she decided Arlis was probably justified. And yet, they still burned the incense; they still spelled the tent. They were cautious.

"They were horrified when they realized you were a woman, and that was before I explained you are a high lady," Arlis continued. "After that, they bundled us up and had a surgeon come; you were stabbed through the shoulder, by the way. I tried to do what I could, on the road yesterday. They put us in a wagon and set a guard. They don't think very highly of me, and didn’t notice I what I was doing."

Masara considered that, and realized that was why that whole upper side of her hurt, not just the broken arm.

"Thank you, Arlis," she sighed. "It's called battlefield healing for a reason, and you've always been one of the best. I am fortunate." It really wasn't much more than cleansing wounds and dulling pain, but it was more than nothing.

Arlis grinned. "Am I better than Guira?"

Masara ignored the question, as she always did. She smiled, and then her lip split. Grimacing––carefully––she asked, “How long was I out?”

“The rest of the evening and all of yesterday. We stopped last night, and I slept, so it may be morning again,” Arlis reported. “You destroyed the footbridge we used, and that was the only easy path for a large party, so they've had to retreat back out of the foothills. They didn't stop until they were out, which was late last night."

Masara was shocked to hear she had been unconscious for so long--but something in the back of her head disagreed, remembered a dream, perhaps. Later. She said instead, "These are Sascrin's foothills; outlanders think they are cursed. Even I only turned back to make very, very certain they would too."

Some things were too important to leave to should and probably; the king had understood that when Masara proposed remaining behind to guard their rear.

Arlis didn't ask her what the plan was now. She didn't ask what it had been, either.

Trust, or insight? Masara thought it was the former, and she tried to turn her worry into resolve. Her uncle had depended on her before; now Arlis did.

"Has anyone spoken to you?"

"Only a captain," Arlis reported. “He said their general could decide what to do with nobility."

"And have you seen a mage?"

"No. But I do think there's one around. The tent could've been prepared, but the incense smells... intent."

Masara tilted her head––carefully, to avoid tugging at any other injuries she wasn't fully aware of––and smiled lopsided at Arlis, trying to avoid the split. "Very good," she said, winced, and licked at the cut. "I thought you might notice that; that's the scent of the mage's spell. Now, what other kinds of magic inhibitors are they using?”

"Sir," Arlis protested, half-indignant, but she was looking at the canvas around them. She knew better than to try and fuss more over Masara's wounds; she'd already done what she could. It was nothing she would not recover from, she decided––given a chance to recover, of course.

"We're currently bound to chairs in a spelled tent, Arlis," Masara said. "We might as well have a brief lesson."

Masara heard rather than saw Arlis's roll of the eyes. She could never keep from that airy, "As you say, sir."

But Masara saw how she relaxed a little, easing back into her seat and straining less at her bonds.

"Let's begin with the standard suppression spells," Masara went on. "One of the nice thing about them is that they're always visible, as it's active magic, and look––these weavers didn't even try for subtlety. Tell me which ones you know already."

Arlis and Masara discussing the fire protection spell woven into the seams of the tent, where the different cuts of fabric had been sewn together, and how they served to isolate each separate piece of fabric, when they were interrupted.

"It looks newly done," Masara murmured. "And it looks northern too, not like a spell that's been fully assimilated." That was the thing about magic. There were always spells and brews you could learn, but they worked best when you had truly made it yours, or if it was yours.

Masara often wished the fireless explosions Arlis was so fond of hadn't been her obvious calling.

"How can you––" Arlis began, but then the tent flap opened and a man stuck his head in.

He came all the way in when he saw Masara was awake, daylight flashing through the opening, and stood before them.

"Good," he observed after an assessing gaze. "Surgeon said if you were out the whole two days, we might have problems."

He wasn't a very tall man, but he was broad-shouldered and confident, a soldier in a blue cloak. He had the olive skin and dark hair of some of the Kassan, though with clearer, lighter eyes that spoke of some northern heritage. Or magic and vanity.

The soldier crossed his arms and frowned when Masara said nothing. It took Masara a moment to realize he had been expecting her to speak––he had asked no question. She instead had been looking to Arlis, to see if her squire recognized the soldier, but a twitch of Arlis's fingers said, he's new, and Masara wondered again where they were. The tent also kept them from hearing just what kind of camp lay outside. Masara would bet it was far larger than the one company that braved the foothills and her attack, if the general was said to be coming.

"Are you injured?" the soldier demanded, eyes narrowing.

Masara smiled––carefully, lopsided.

"I believe so," she answered.

The soldier's frown didn't change. "Well enough to speak the general now, I see."

"Lead on!" Arlis challenged boldly, unwilling to be overlooked and left behind. Masara didn't bother to check her.

"Oh no," the soldier corrected with a grim smile. "Do you think we're letting you out of this nice tent? The general's on his way here. You should be honored. Him coming to you." The soldier sounded disgruntled enough by the necessary breach of etiquette that not even Arlis commented.

They didn't have to wait long. The soldier left the tent after another moment of silence––did he think either Masara or Aris would say something, unprompted?––and then the flap opened again, and he returned. This time, he was followed by a younger man, another soldier, alert and brisk. He'd become very tan under the Amirran sun, his hair burnished to a golden blond currently bare of a crown, but Masara was surprised to recognize the general.

Arlis shifted by her side, suspicious. The general regarded the both of them in silence, his pale brown eyes almost dark in the tent's dim light.

"Leave it open, Kinlo," the general––if that was how he chose to style himself––said, and Kinlo, the first soldier, went to pull back the opening. Clear morning light spilled inside, silhouetting the general, and from his slight smirk, he knew its effect. "They won't run."

Masara quite honestly didn't feel up to a break for freedom, so he was right, which was mildly irritating. The smoke of the incense kept her weak, as though she hadn't slept or rested in days.

"We're in the middle of my camp. Surrounded by thousands of men," the general explained reasonably. One couldn't hope to escape or be rescued against such odds. Amir's people really would be penned into the foothills, with Yina as her only stronghold. "Of course," the general said, "we will treat a high lady of the land and..." he trailed off, and frowned at Arlis. What stories had his men had told of Masara and Arlis's capture?

Arlis's fingers twitched. Treat us with honor, I bet, she signed. Masara affected not to notice, and did not smile.

"Well?" the general prompted.

Masara lifted her gaze and fixed on the shadows by the door. "I didn't realize you wanted an answer," she excused herself. "The young Lady Arlis is my squire, if that is what you were looking for."

The general nodded, as if all was now confirmed for him, and he stepped to the side, away from the tent opening. It was strange to think of such a man––young, open-faced, eager for action and the field itself––ordering the High Priest's death. This general had plenty of battlefields to choose from, without provoking a new series of them. But he had advisers, and they were apparently in the capital, directing the empire while the general was here.

"And it was the two of you who blocked the advance company?"

Masara inclined her head as far as she could.

"You wouldn't have gotten far anyway." Arlis raised her voice in a taunt. "The foothills can be quite haunted, you know."'

The general snorted. "I don't doubt it. I don't think 'foothills' is fair name for them, either. It's like calling the Henori river a little creek. I'm ready to forget the whole campaign." He sounded matter-of-fact.

"By all means, do," Masara suggested.

"But there's Lapur to worry about. And your mages."

"Our mages," Masara repeated, turning it into a question with an arched brow. The movement pulled at a scrape on her cheek by her hairline.

The general looked at her, slow and considering.

"Yes. Mine are worried. My advisers tell me it's unnatural that you don't use spells. Materials, incantations - the common instruments." He paused, then added: "Is it?"

Masara spoke before Arlis could. "Your imperial majesty," she said blandly, deciding now was as good a moment as any to dispense with all pretense, "why should any Amirran spill our secrets to you?"

Arlis frowned, backing down. She hadn't known who the general was, and Masara could tell she was swiftly reconsidering their situation.

"I have found some who were very talkative, actually," the emperor-general retorted. Arlis hissed at the implication of torture––but Masara frowned at the general’s honest, untroubled irritation, and heard her quiet oft-ignored fear confirmed.

There was a traitor.

How else could Amirasa have fallen? And their escape to the foothills had been too close, too harried. Masara signed another hold to Arlis, one that called for caution, and said nothing.

"Unfortunately, they do not know much about your magics."

"You have captured Amirasa," Masara replied mildly, though the admission was ash on her tongue. She didn't dare ask for the general's chatty Amirran, not yet. "If your mages cannot see the spells of our city, that does not mean anything."

"They see those spells," the emperor-general clarified. "The battle magic, on the other hand..."

He trailed off expectantly, but neither Arlis nor Masara rose to fill the silence. When it stretched on, the emperor straightened, chin lifting as though he suddenly felt the weight of his crown, and said, "Even if you don't talk, you will be useful bargaining tools. Perhaps now your king will be tempted to meet me at a crossroads. What do you think, High Lady Masara?"

Masara offered the lopsided smile she could, but without warmth. "If negotiation is what you wish, I will write to my king myself."

"You doubt me?" the general demanded.

"Your army holds our ancient capital. You have done nothing but kill our people and claim our land."

"I sent an ambassador, and your king gave him back and declared war."

"Ambassador?" Arlis snapped. "Is that a new word for assassin?"

"What are you talking about?"

"The High Priest," Masara answered succinctly. It came out flat, an accusation torn free of the sudden hollow chasm that threatened her. It appeared suddenly, as usual, and nearly all-encompassing. She breathed through it slowly, counting in her head to ten.

"He was the head of a militant religious order," the general replied carefully, sensing the delicacy of the topic. "The greatest obstacle to diplomacy. He would never accept surrender."

Arlis scowled, but Masara called for her silence again––she was never very obedient for long, but she held her tongue for the moment.

"And did your sources also believe Amir would be amenable to surrender after an assassination?" Masara asked, with pointed equanimity.

The emperor-general frowned, and crossed his arms, and then changed the subject.

"I think the most important thing to remember is Lapur. They cannot be allowed to grow past the Blighted lands."

"How gratifying, that our kingdom can be a foothold in your imperial wars."

It wasn't exactly a fair assessment; Lapur worried Amir, too, with its constant, probing incursions north of the desert, into the no man's land usually left to Amir.

But it was Kas, young and full of its own power who had invaded, not Lapur.

The emperor-general's eyes narrowed, glinting nearly like gold as he coolly declared, "Say what you will, High Lady. But we cannot afford an Amirran succession crisis, not with Lapur so close and so restless."

Masara gestured minutely, freeing Arlis while she considered the general's words.

"That was your reasoning for your conquest of Seriona," Arlis burst out, after holding her tongue for what surely felt like ages to her. "We are not Seriona. In Amir, we know our king and our prince!"

The general frowned at Arlis, but replied to her as seriously as he had to Masara. "And if your king should prefer his niece over his son?" he challenged.

Arlis strained briefly, forgetting she was tied up as she tried to point at Masara. "We are here," she settled for instead, spitting the words out furiously. "A lone knight sacrificed to hold off your whole company, the high lady, the king's supposed favorite––doesn't that tell you anything?"

A new uneasiness settled in Masara's chest as she realized how badly she had underestimated her young squire. Arlis understood Masara's decision... and she was still a fool for endangering herself. In the past half year of border skirmishes, the outbreak of war, and their flight from Amirasa, Arlis had grown up a great deal.

Masara felt she herself had aged decades.

The general's expression didn't change, yet Masara still felt a shift in his attitude.

"It tells me more than you know," he said, and then waved his hand, dismissing the matter. "My ladies, I've been distracted from my purpose. I simply wished to inform you that you will be hostages until a suitable agreement can be come to with your king, which I hope will come swiftly. Until then, you will be kept with the camp quite safely, and we will do our best to see you treated with honor. If you need anything within reason, you need only shout to the guards." He glanced at Arlis, and added, "I don't think you'll have an issue with that."

Arlis regarded the general balefully. He ignored the young squire's glares, and asked Masara directly, "Should I send the surgeon to you again, my lady?"

Arlis fumed under her breath about it being his fault anyway; Masara's mind spun.

"That would be appreciated, your imperial majesty," she said quietly, focused more on the realizations that were slowly coming together for her, overcoming her unwillingness to see them.

"In the field, I prefer the title Imperial General. Hokiraj," said the emperor, magnanimous in his role as captor, familiarity offered as a flattering courtesy.

"Well then, Imperial General. It appears we are in your hands," Masara returned in kind, though distracted.

The imperial general coughed, made a vague noise of agreement, and then made his departure with, "I will send that surgeon along. Later, we will discuss that letter and what terms your king may agree to.”

As soon as he was gone, Kinlo followed him out and shut the tent. The haste of his exit went on unremarked, and it was Arlis who finally broke the silence.

“I think there’s a traitor, sir,” she whispered, reluctant to speak her fear too loudly.

Her squire was so old at fourteen, yet Masara wanted to protect her still. "I think I know who it is,” she prevaricated.

The king had broached the idea of changing the succession only once that Masara knew of, and only idly. Masara knew he would never act without his son’s complete agreement; it was how rule had been decided between himself and his older sister, Masara’s mother. He had thought he might have Panam’s approval.

Only Panam and Masara were not siblings, and it had been a while since they had been close as such.

Oh, cousin, she thought, unease dripping through her memories of Panam like oil. Could you really?

But Masara could not let despair overcome her. She had Arlis to protect... and Amir, too. However she could.

#i love aus #maybe too much #masara #hikaj #gingerly writing #prompt response #self indulgent 2021 #the war au

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potassium-pilot · 3 years

Text

Prompt 28: Bow

“So remind me why we’re doing this, if you’d be so kind”, Dia asked.

“You may be an all-powerful warrior with a spellbook in hand, but imagine the utility if you learned something new. Where better to learn than a training ground such as Camp Dragonhead?” Haurchefant reminded her kindly as requested.

“I guess. I don’t necessarily have anything better to do thanks to the Braves, now do I?”

“I hope this might prove sufficiently entertaining during your stay. Here is your weapon.” Haurchefant removed an oaken bow from the wall mount as well as a quiver filled with arrows.

“A bow?”

“Aye. Is aught amiss?” Haurchefant tilted his head at her comment.

“Well, no, I guess…I would have thought you’d recommend something a bit more, er, close combat than that.

“A knight cannot be content with simply one mode of combat. A quick marksman can have just the same impact as the mightiest of swords with the right timing.”

“Yeah, but the sword looks cooler.”

He sighed. “Aesthetics aside, I figured this would be an easier transition. Instead of slinging spells, you would sling arrows.”

“I guess. The bow is definitely a different medium though- easier to aim my hands than this.”

“Who knows? Mayhap you’ll find yourself enjoying it more than you think.”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“I’ll try anything once.”

“Attagirl! Now then, here is where you’ll stand.” Haurchefant lead her to a marker about twenty fulms away from a target. “Allow me to give you an example of proper bow handling.” He grabbed his own bow and quiver and prepared at a target next to hers.

“All right, first thing’s first, depending on your dominant hand- based off of what I’ve seen, you appear to be right-handed- you need to place one leg back and another to the front. As a right-handed woman, keep your right leg to the back for support…” Dia listened as he explained form for proper bow handling for about two minutes.

“….and last, but certainly not least, keep your eye on the target. If you’re aligned with your bow, you will hit your mark.” Finally, he demonstrated everything he said in one shot. Carefully, he drew back the bowstring, and fired at the blue and silver target in front of him. It flew skillfully towards the bullseye and landed perfectly, as if he told the arrow to simply go there. “Does this make sense, my friend?”

“I…think so. I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

“Indeed. Show me what you’ve learned.”

The answer was rather little. She fumbled with the quiver for a moment, failing to get an arrow since she failed to attach the quiver to her person properly. She spun in circles a few times as if she had a mi’qote tail she wanted to catch, but she did manage to get one.

“Got it! Now you said something about a nock”, she mumbled, looking for a slice of metal on the string as he pointed out. “Ah-ha!” she exclaimed quietly as she located it and placed the feathers against it. Slowly, she pulled back the bowstring, but found she couldn’t get it very far back, not to mention her slipping grip on the arrow.

Out of nowhere, Dia felt her arms be lifted upward gently. “Don’t let your elbows fall back into your sides or you’ll never get very far”, he spoke softly into her ear in a low tone. He slid his hands up her arm to her hand and corrected the positioning of the arrow, pulling it slightly backward so she didn’t grip the feathers. “Remember, slightly behind the feathers”, he instructed in the same tone.

Please don’t let go of me, she thought to herself, hoping to every god she could think of that he couldn’t tell how she drank up his warmth, that hot breath against her neck, the way he whispered to her just right, and how it made her heart race.

It only made things worse when he gently took her chin and tilted her head towards the front of her, pressing against his own cheek as he put his face parallel to hers.

“Eyes on the target”, he said just as low before turning his head to her ear, and whispering “Fire.”

She didn’t even register her own grip releasing. She just focused on her racing pulse and the shiver being sent down her spine at his whisper.

“Well done!” he exclaimed aloud, snapping Dia out of whatever the hells that was, and bringing her attention to the target. Her arrow pierced through the edge of the circle near the bottom.

“Uh…I-I didn’t even hit the bullseye.”

“‘Tis your first time, my friend. Many a fresh recruit have sent their arrows flying through our windows, so I consider this a rousing success for your first try!”

Now that he said it, it was rather nice to her that he could see a miss in such a way. To that end, she intended to try again. “Hey, so uh, you might want to help me try that again, Haurchefant. Maybe I’ll hit the bullseye this time with your help”, she suggested meekly.

“Nonsense! You’ll never learn with me hanging over your shoulder. Now then, use what you’ve learned, my friend.”

Dammit, she cursed in her head.

Dia picked up what he led her to do pretty quick, and went through the motions: straight arm, just past the feathers, eyes on the target. She waited a few moments as she felt herself practically fighting the bowstring, but the stage was set.

That is, until she took her eyes away from the target to look at Haurchefant, who seemed to stare her down as well, but why?

She would have thought about it more had she not just grazed his arm with an arrow.

“Oh, Twelve help me!” Dia exclaimed as she threw the bow to the ground to run to his side.

“I’m all right, I’m all right”, he tried to reassure her, but kept his arm conveniently covered. She pulled it away from the wound with great force as he attempted to keep the wound out of her sight. “Gah! I’m so sorry, Haurchefant!” she apologized as she began her ministrations on his arrow wound. “I’m an idiot; I got distracted by something at the last second and that arrow just flew in the exact direction I didn’t want it to go.”

He said nothing. He couldn’t; not when she was right there. The way the aether flowed from her into him electrified his senses. Her firm grip on his arms was exactly what he needed. The way she glistened with sweat in such a frozen wasteland; in this moment, she seemed rather…splendid.

“There. Are you all right?” she asked Haurchefant worriedly.

Halone help him, he needed out of there before he did something he’d regret.

“Oh, uh, yes, I’m fine now, thank you”, he answered rapidly and nervously, “Keep, uh, keep practicing with that bow. I just remembered that I have some business-like…business to attend to in my-my office. Excellent work! Keep it up!” He shot out of the shooting range as fast as he could and entered his office with all haste.

Dia, you fucking idiot, you scared him away. Focus! she berated herself in her head. She picked up the bow one last time, doing exactly as she was instructed, and fired the arrow. It hit the wood that held up the target. “Fuck!” she whispered loudly.

********

The evening sun hanged in the horizon of Ishgard. The golden glow of twilight still shone enough light that the garden she managed to keep alive in the courtyard behind Borel Manor could remain visible. She tended to her peppers and kidragora quietly in spite of the cold. None could make a master botanist stop doing botany, climate be damned.

Once weeds were pruned enough, fertilizer was laid down properly, and covers were applied to keep her labor of love warm through the night, she stepped away. Her garden was located in a different spot of the courtyard, separated by a wall, most likely at the former countess’s request. On that other side of the wall was a small area used to practice combat. Neither her nor Aymeric used the other side all that often; Dia had a proper setup for practicing gunbreaker maneuvers with Thancred back in Mor Dhona, while Aymeric preferred to use the mostly defunct Whitebrim front for his training. With that in mind, she was slightly curious about it, and decided to pay it a visit.

Upon reaching the other side, she took a quick look around. It was painfully obvious how unused everything was considering the frozen state of all the equipment. That said, there was one particular item that didn’t seem to share the same level of disrepair: a dark oak bow, complete with metal arrows in a quiver next to it.

It still hurt. After everything she’d seen and done, after everyone she ever met, after all the sacrifices she’d seen, it still hurt. But still, she always remembered how a smile better suited a hero. Dia picked it up off the wall, alongside a quiver that hung next to it, and stood at the line about 30 fulms behind the target.

The quiver was on correctly this time, making it much easier to pick one out of the collection. She found the nock easily, seeming to have been prepared already, and placed the arrow just above the feather. She placed her right leg back, and lifted the bow, ready to aim. “Arms up”, she whispered as she lifted her arms. “Eyes on the target”, she whispered as she focused on the target.

She could still hear him whisper, “Fire”.

In a moment, she let go of the arrow, and felt a small sting of disappointment as she just missed her mark. It landed on the right between the edge of the target and the bullseye. “Dammit”, she whispered.

“Fine form.”

She turned her head to see Aymeric at the doorway, clearly amused by her attempt. “Come to laugh at your girlfriend and her piss-poor aim?” she snarked, still disappointed in her efforts.

“I would never. Your aim is fine, my dear. That in mind, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you lack confidence in something before.”

“You should have met me when I first started adventuring. You’d be floored by how little confidence I’m capable of having.”

He smiled and laughed lightly. Aymeric walked towards her and said, “You look rather dashing with my old bow.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize. I’m sorry.”

“Naught to apologize for, my love. Consider it our bow.” He led her to lift up the bow again. “Your form is quite good, but don’t waver.” He held onto her bow arm to still her arm, and tilted her chin upward, keeping his hand in place. “Align yourself with the bow. Remember, it follows your lead, and you are a natural leader.” She kept her eye on the center of the target.

“Fire”, he ordered in a low tone.

Dia released her grip, and witnessed the glory of her arrow hitting the very center of the bullseye.

She squealed in excitement and hopped in place like a child, making Aymeric laugh in a mixture of pride and amusement. “Congratulations!”

She pounced him and kissed him in her jubilee, and he returned it happily. After a few seconds of enjoyment, she released and told him coyly, “Thank you for being such a great teacher.”

“Where would I be without my star pupil?”

She grinned and returned to kissing him with more passion behind her efforts than the first time, the both of them soaking in each other’s energy and warmth as the evening began to wane.

Thank you too, Haurchefant. I’ll carry your guidance with me always.

#ffxivwrite2021 #ffxivwrite #ffxiv #haurchefant/wol #aymeric/wol #haurchefant greystone #aymeric de borel #female wol #this is the stupidest i’ve ever written #i’m looking forward to writing stupider #just spritz those two with cold water and get them laid and they act normal #ffxiv fanfiction #fanfiction

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hainethehero · 4 years

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BILLY BREAKS THINGS OFF WITH STEVE...

A big grin breaks Steve's face in two, glowing through his cheeks like a beautiful sunrise or something. He can hear the sound of Billy's Camaro rumbling to a stop in his front yard. His skin breaks out in goosebumps and his heart beats wildly, like an animal trapped in a cage.

It was movie night.

Nothing special, since they've been having nights like these since last Christmas. But tonight was different. Call him a stupid girl obsessing over shit that he shouldn't- but he really couldn't. Not after they'd done the Devil's tango for the first time about two days ago. Of course Billy had gone AWOL after that but he'd called earlier today... said he wanted to talk. It's been the only thing Steve could think about since that time... - that and the fact that he'd had sex with Billy for the first time! He stays replaying all the sounds and tastes in his head over and over again like a reel. He hoped to God that it had been as special for Billy as it had been for him.

His insides still felt soft, sore and mushy from where Billy had pounded into him, thighs burning with every movement of his legs. His pale hips sported several deep, purple, finger-shaped bruises and there were dark hickies colouring his alabaster neck like watercolours. And if he thought about it real hard, he could still feel Billy's hands in his hair, pulling and tugging and fucking yanking on it as he thrust into his tight hole.

God, he thinks, chastising himself for being so horny.

Get a grip Steve! Desperation was never a good look, on anyone.

Billy's suddenly at his front door, not even bothering to knock. No.

He just stands there looking all majestic and super chill in his aviators and leather jacket. Steve pulls the door open with shaky hands and just takes in the eyeful of glorious golden skin and Californian blue eyes. His heart flutters stupidly in his chest and Steve glares down at himself as if to berate his own goddamn heart. His cheeks become inflamed as Billy brushes past him, woodsy cologne filling Steve's senses. He tightens up involuntarily at the scent and slowly closes the door, biting at his lip with a nervous smile.

"H- hey," he mutters dumbly, craving the idea of rushing into Billy's arms but somehow restraining himself.

The blonde simply gazes at him; a kind of heat in his heavily hooded eyes. He's got on a white t-shirt under that black leather jacket, cotton pulled taut across his broad chest. God, Steve is going insane every minute his face isn't buried in Billy's chest. That's his safe place... and that white t-shirt is one of his favorites.

"We need to talk," Billy tells him in that raspy, low and smoky tone.

Steve goes molten between the legs and his heart does some weird kind of flip inside him. How the hell did Billy have so much control over his mind and body? Was that what sex with another guy was like? Or was this just a Billy thing? Because Steve has tasted the blonde once already- literally- ...and he wanted more.

"Yeah, we can," he nods with a grin, "but can we do it in my room? It's already warm in there and out here's like, freezing so-"

"Out here is fine," Billy interrupts, mouth drawn in a tight line and haw clenched tightly.

It's the first indication that maybe this was very serious and Steve hadn't noticed because he was too busy thinking about getting dicked down again.

"Wh- ...what's wrong?"

Billy stares at him, thick brows drawing over his darkened eyes. "I can't do this."

Oh God, Steve's gonna have an aneurysm.

"What?"

He forces himself to keep his cool, to not instantly turn into some crying, shaking mess that just wants to go down on his knees and beg the other boy to stay. He keeps repeating in his head that it's all just some sick fucking joke on Billy's part and offers the blonde a pained grin but his heart falters when Billy's expression doesn't change.

"Bill-"

"I'm leaving town. Tonight."

Steve feels the breath get knocked out of him and this time he takes a quick step forward. "Billy what's going on-??"

Billy takes a step back, growling. "I just told you, I'm leaving."

"That's not- ...What happened? Why are you leaving? Was it your Dad?"

"It wasn't my fucking Dad-"

"Well then tell me!"

"Tell you what?!" Billy shouts, getting in Steve's face now, a deep rumble in the back of his throat.

"Why are you leaving? Why now?" Steve snaps, the pit of his stomach hollowing itself. He's so fucking scared and hurt right now but all he can feel is the hot and cold running all over his damp skin. Hot tears prickle and sting his eyes but he doesn't dare blink for fear of missing Billy for too long.

"Harrington-"

"No!" Steve screams, "You tell me why you're suddenly moving out of Hawkins! Tell me why! Tell- wait, is it because of me?"

Something in Billy's expression shifts and he looks away, cursing under his breath, fists clenched hard.

"It's not you, don't flatter yourself Harrington."

And that particular statement puts Steve on notice. This couldn't have been Billy talking. His Dad maybe but he'd stopped calling him Harrington whenever they argued. Apparently it sounded too impersonal and not intimate at all. Which is the opposite of how Billy had been cooing and whispering his name the night they'd had sex. He'd even made sure to hold Steve through the worst of his first time, asking him gently whether or not he should pull out, or if he wasn't ready.

A tear slips down his cheek at the now sour memory.

"Then what was it? Is this town too small for you, Mr California? Not enough clueless hick town boys for you to fuck huh?"

Billy takes a menacing step forward and grabs him by the neck. "You're awfully close but no dice, " he snarls, "Unlike you, I actually got into college, so, I'm leaving. You think I want to stay stuck in this backwater town with some nobody who slings ice-cream for a living?"

Steve fights the strong grip, breaking it and taking a heaving step back, shudders wracking through his body. His breath comes out ragged, and pulls back in with a sob.

"What are you saying?" he mutters softly, too afraid to shout or even get angry, because that'll only make Billy leave faster. It always makes them leave.

Billy grunts, "Jesus Christ you want me to spell it out for you? I'm done, Harrington. We're done."

But Steve shakes his head, tears already falling silently from his eyes. His goddamn heart was in his throat.

"You can't do this..." he chokes, feeling sick to his stomach.

"Why can't I?" Billy growls, his face dry and emotionless.

"Because we-" Steve hisses but is cut off by an unexpected cry. He didn't have the strength to say those words right now- couldn't.

Too bad Billy had caught on anyway. "Because we what? Had sex a few days ago? Jesus Harrington, didn't take you for such a pussy. It was just a mindless fuck, didn't think you'd take it to heart. I'm not actually some fucking faggot like you."

Steve shakes his head, "Why are you doing this to me?" he sobs, feeling utterly betrayed.

Every part of his body felt betrayed right now- every single part of him that he'd let Billy touch, kiss and sink his teeth into. A sharp pain stabs him in the chest and then slowly sinks in all the way to his gut. It feels permanent, yet somehow like a terrible dream that he can't seem to wake up from.

Billy turns to leave and he doesn't have the strength to hold him back. Just watches him go through blurry eyes, body shaking with the massive effort it takes to keep from falling to his knees.

"Wheeler was right about you; you're bullshit Harrington."

Steve's knees only hit the floor when the Camaro rumbles off into the distance.

...............

Hardened blue eyes glare back at him from the rearview mirror.

The only sense of accomplishment he felt was that he'd finally put some distance between the monster in his head, and the one thing he loved more than life itself.

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goonlalagoon · 3 years

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We start small || Leagues and Legends

A series rewrite AU for @ink-splotch‘s fantastic Leagues and Legends books.

Spoilers for the whole trilogy below!

Read on Ao3

When George was fifteen, her village left her out for a dragon. The blacksmith slipped a knife up her sleeve as they went, and in the press of bodies she couldn't ask him why. She could only guess at what mercy he was handing her. The villagers would live with shame under their tongues for the rest of their lives, but they would live. The dragon ruled the hillside, great and golden, scales bright against the purple lupins that bloomed there every year, and they pretended it was fear that made them shudder at the sight.

Maybe Jack still survived the bandits who attacked the merchant caravan he was travelling with. Maybe he travelled on with them, bounced from place to place until he found a cause to throw himself into, on some distant shore far from the Forest where he had grown up. Maybe he didn't, one fourteen year old boy with no training and no battlefield experience, just a big heart and a bit of luck on his side.

There was no Dragon Slayer. It would be years before someone earned the old title Giantkiller, and it wouldn't be a red headed forest boy who tried to stand tall under the weight of that history.

Liam Jones powered the towns and villages of the mountains for weeks. The Seeress was almost blind with the burning light that drifted up through the floor, and the afterimage it left behind when it finally winked out was almost worse. There were no tales in the mountains of the Pied Piper.

Beatrice Tanner would never know any of their names.

On the day when in another life she might have opened her door and let a third soul into her shuttered heart, Bea woke as always before the sun to put the bread on to rise, and while the ovens warmed she rolled her dog eared map out over the old wooden table and traced her fingers over hidden paths and scant shelters. She had a network, small but growing, owed petty favours and moments of kindness. She had a list of lives saved, and a list of those she knew were at risk and could possibly be convinced to leave. She had a list of losses, a bitter sting under her tongue and a cold motivator to keep trying.

People still didn't believe her warnings, most of the time. They hushed her for telling children to be careful, to be hidden, and she did it anyway whenever she saw gold glittering in the corner of her eye, when she saw children play with sparks that didn't burn. Maybe they wouldn't believe her, but maybe they'd check over their shoulder anyway. Maybe the children would curl their hands into little fists and ignore the skin of the world pressing in on them, scared by this woman who hissed nightmares at them in the street. She didn't want children to be afraid, but she wanted them to be safe, and when there was a monster on the loose fear was what kept you alive.

She said as much, one day at a market, snapping warnings at children and glaring at the uniformed man who'd asked her what she was scaring children for. She had no patience for coddling, and she had little for the Bureau either. But this one blinked at her, and scratched at his clean shaven chin.

"Stealing mages? Say, d'you mind repeating all this to Sarge? He's the boss of our League, and this sounds like something we should know about." Bea eyed him suspiciously, but the possibility of getting more people to help outweighed her faint distaste for the Leagues.

It was only a few weeks later that May told her that it was really just May, not short for anything despite what the Bureau paperwork said. Bea wasn't quite sure whether this was a sign of trust or of just how much May wanted to get out of her padded armour and into something that didn't chafe quite as much on the healing gash down her side.

Sarge had sent coded reports back to headquarters, and was glaring at the responses. Flash was twisting his fingers, safe with his training and his league, staring sleepless at the ceiling with visions of those who weren’t keeping him awake. They couldn’t give themselves wholly to this cause; the Rangers had a job to do and it was one that badly needed doing - but part of their job was to keep people safe from monsters, so when they left they took some of her gathered information with them, and kept their eyes open.

They sent her news, dropped by the markets they knew she liked to give her the names of people who had helped, people who believed them when they whispered warnings. They sent people to her, frightened or angry or numb, but always desperate, and she sent them on. She didn't ask anyone to be a hero, because heroes were for stories and legends, for Bureau badges and official postings. She just asked people for a little bit of help, and then they offered it again and again.

It was over a year after she met them that they sent her the Giantkiller.

Kay had thick ropes of scarring over his side and arm, the pockmarks of claws pressed deep into his shoulder. He was a child when rocs tried to carry him off, struggling and screaming. He was lucky - the Rangers heard the commotion and brought the beast down, two arrows in its heart, a net of golden fire to catch him as he fell, to pour into gaping wounds and knit flesh back together. When they had to stay camped out for a day while the mage weathered an Elsewhere storm, their Guide showed him how to mix a paste to help the scars heal out of ingredients he could find within an hour’s walk of home.

His father's fury when he said after they left that he wanted to be a Leaguesman too was a burning thing, a bitter thing. He jerked his head down the road the Rangers left by, and listed every time they could have been of use before one lucky day. Kay fiddled with his spoon, because it was true - but that was the point of joining up, wasn't it? To be the person who was there when he was needed. But his father was bitter, furious, so he held his tongue.

When his father was out working in the field and Kay was supposed to be chopping wood, he fenced the air with a stick for a sword the way he'd watched May and Sarge practice in the early morning, as they let Flash sleep late to regain his strength and they kept a wary eye out for any returning rocs. He stumbled over his own feet and knew he was no good.

When he was younger, he'd practiced with his sling until his fingers blistered, and his father smiled over the small game he brought in, the crows he scared away from the crops with a sharp stone to the claws. Kay practiced still, every day, and now he imagined bigger targets.

The rocs came again, as they did every year, and one tried to carry off not a child but the neighbours' sheep. Kay sent it crashing back to the ground. Its neck snapped as it landed and he stood over it, shaking and fierce and frightened. The men arrived at a run from the barn, and Kay's father looked proud and scared and bitter.

"You see?" He said, later, when they’d butchered the carcass and he was watching Kay sort the feathers he'd asked to keep. "Rocs every damn year, and no Leagues here to help."

Kay hummed, non-committal, thinking but I was.

He was too young for the Leagues anyway, he knew. But he wasn't too young to help, so when there were rumours of Things haunting the woods nearby he slipped out his window in the grey dusk and went hunting. He had a handful of mage spelled stones, even if they were spelled for gentle warmth not damage, a gift from Flash to help ease the ache in healing limbs. The Things shrieked like the stones burned, and he was sick behind a bush afterward but the nest was gone, and Things shriek but he'd heard the families who’s homes were closer to the woods than his weeping too, and he knew which he'd choose. His father was pacing when he got home in the soft light of dawn, and he knew without asking where Kay had been. He knew what Kay was making himself into and he was furious and so scared, but Kay couldn't go back to waiting for someone else to save his people.

Kay set out the next morning, when his father was already out in the fields, working off his anger on the weeds. He packed a satchel of food and clothes, his sling and pouches of stones. He slipped the little carved flute his father made for his last birthday into the side of his bag, and set off down the road, refusing to look back.

When he met the Rangers again, it was in the shadow of a giant, the wreckage of a village. They were too late to help bring it down, but they found him digging through the fallen buildings for survivors. Sarge glanced at the sling at his hip first and Kay tensed. They were already whispering about him, the survivors, about the Giantkiller and his sling, and he knew the price of being a vigilante. Sarge said nothing, just gripped the other end of the beam he was trying to lift, hauling it up so Kay could drag the wounded boy underneath into the light.

They had a hushed conference, the Rangers and the Giantkiller, carefully out of sight because they could only shirk this particular duty if no one knew. May shook her head over him but bullied him through a basic staff work drill. Sarge watched, and nodded thoughtfully when Flash muttered "think the Baker could use a field agent?"

His story rolled ahead of him, growing as he went. He cleared a nest of Things in one village and took down another roc in a narrow pass, had a brief run in with bandits that he barely survived. He helped stock a woodpile for a hot meal and repaired a fence for another. There hadn't been a Giantkiller in the memory of anyone younger than his grandmother, and he listened to the old stories that were being dusted off. He hoped no one expected him to live up to all of them.

Bea heard him out, polite but not friendly, and he tried not to shuffle in his seat under her level gaze. She shrugged, eventually, and let him tag along as she smuggled a woman and her sister through the checkpoints in her cart. Kay tucked his sling out of sight and played a sullen teenager for all he was worth so that she could scold him loudly and the guards would shake their heads over the disruption instead of searching through the carefully stacked flour bags.

Someone wrote to her a week later saying they had a wyvern problem - people had long since started writing to the Baker for any help they needed and couldn’t afford from official sources, to see if she knew someone who could help. She sent Kay as a response, and he came back with a burn on his leg and pockets full of scales, scrubbed clean - but he came back. She grew to expect it, became used to keeping his room ready and leaving space at the table for him.

The first time he broke into the Graves' keep, he slipped out of the bakery after she'd gone to bed. They hadn't reached these ones in time, and he'd watched the way her shoulders fell and her lips thinned when he came back too soon, no rescues in his wake and no stories about how he'd helped them escape. He'd looked at her map, and thought but I'm still here.

The keep was easy to break into, because no one else was fool enough to try, and the Seeress was still working her way into her father's toolkit. He'd never held a lock pick but he knew how to remove hinges from a wall so he opened the doors that way, until one of the terrified mages shook off the stupor and started melting through them for him. They fled, and he scrawled the ward diagrams Flash had sent to Bea in the dirt for his rescues to copy with the sparks of power that were left to them. They had suspicions, Bea and the Rangers, dark thoughts about how their foe was finding prey so easily. They had wards that would cloud them from the sight of a seer, briefly, enough to break a trail, and they worked.

Kay led them to the bakery, where Bea fed them and sent them on, and when the house was empty again she wrapped her arms around Kay and hissed don't you dare do that again, don't you dare Kay, you don't disappear on me. He nodded and promised, but they both knew he meant he wouldn't slip away in the night. Kay was young, true, but he wasn't a fool. He could promise not to go without a word, but he couldn't promise he'd come back.

There was no Dragon Slayer, no Piper, a different Giantkiller - but it had never been just about those three friends. They were the ones whose legends were told, but theirs had never been the only hands buried in this war.

In a different village, there was a girl with the Elsewhere pulling gently on her bones. Kay took a warning, because if he and Bea had heard of her then so would the Graves’, and her sister narrowed her eyes at him as she went pale with fear. For all that he was the messenger not the threat, Kay took an instinctive half step back. "If anyone thinks they're taking my sister, they're going to get what's coming to them."

Rosie and Susie had friends, and those friends had already lost people to the machines, vanishing in the night and dropping out of contact. When Kay warned them, told them what he knew, they listened. They planned. When slavers came in the night, Elsewhere cracks tucked in their pockets, they thought this would be easy. The Seeress had seen an orphan girl with magic. If she had seen anything else, it had been shadowy faces with nothing to make them stand out. This is the peril of a Seer; you fall into the habit if thinking that if you don't see something it can't matter.

Slavers came in the night, and never left.

They started calling them Snow White and Rose Red, these sisters with deep roots in the mountain soil who grit their teeth and refused to run, refused to hide. Theirs was a mountain village, no Bureau-sanctioned guard and no walls to defend them, so they built their own. Bea smuggled out every person unwilling to become a civilian soldier, who wanted safety not defiance, and the rest built a fortress.

Kay helped, hands familiar with hammer and nails, the cost of freedom. He made friends, not just with the sisters but with Doc and his sons, the taciturn blacksmith and his two apprentices, the cheerful woman who ran the inn and the cynical one who presided over the fledgling community garden, with a few scattered kids his own age with fire in their veins and fear in their eyes.

(Or was it fear that ran in their blood, twitching at shadows and hearts pounding when they woke at night, and fire in their eyes, a stubborn, worn down fury?)

They named it Challenge, carved it deep over the main gate, a name and a purpose.

Their first siege had been a holding action in the mines, Doc and his sons collapsing tunnels and digging new ones until winter came on and forced the Graves' soldiers back to their own walls. The vigilantes stayed in the mines, huddled together for warmth and comfort, elated and terrified at their own victory. Rosie and Susie roamed the passages, after, speaking to everyone and inviting a selection to a council - Kay was invited too, and sat awkwardly listening to them lay plans for rebuilding, how to build sturdy walls the moment the snows cleared enough. Their second came days after they carved Challenge over the gate, while Kay was still getting all of the sawdust out of his hair.

He went back to the bakery afterward, to pour over maps with Bea and be sent out on missions. They couldn't save everyone. They couldn't save most people, but some was better than none. Kay stared at the ceiling through long, sleepless nights, trying to convince himself that it was okay that he couldn't work miracles. People knew him by sight, now, and some days he didn’t feel he should be looking over his shoulder whenever they called out Giantkiller!

It was a long, slow war, their quiet campaign against the Graves family. Bea’s network grew and grew, despite their heavy losses - mages who escaped and ones who didn’t, the non-magical casualties who weren’t quick enough with a lie or a dodge, or were simply unlucky. Susie and Rosie were a fierce pair, exchanging razor sharp letters with Bea to plan out strategies and contingencies.

(It wasn’t until after his third siege at Challenge that Kay would realise that Bea had never actually met either of the sisters; she had never met Marian, either, but they had never communicated directly so it was easier to recall. The sisters and the Baker sent word back and forth for years, but barely knew anything of each other outside of their shared plans besides what he could pass on - for all that Bea would like to see Challenge, there was bread to bake and travel could be dangerous. Better not to give the Seeress any reason to look again at this sleepy village that she and hers had already gutted for fuel.)

Kay was no natural physician, but he helped to wrap bandages in Doc Frederickson’s infirmary whenever he was in Challenge, between meetings and sentry duty. In the streets and villages people expected him to be a hero; in the infirmary, Doc just expected him to be useful. He cracked bad jokes as distraction, fetched water, and peered over a bewildered man’s shoulder at a neat formula that someone had stumbled through the gates clutching. She didn’t remember where she’d found it, but it had been tucked into the lining of her coat. There was a note on the front in her own handwriting, for all she didn’t recall writing it - My first rabbit was called Snowball, and this is real, not a joke.

Doc’s hand shook so badly that he had to put the unfolded note down before he dropped it. Kay clutched the edge of the desk hard enough to hurt, looking between the message and the woman sat on the edge of an infirmary cot, gold dripping sluggishly from her fingertips to pool on the fabric. It would stain, leaving smudged hand-prints on the sheets and faintly in the mattress below, but they would consider it a miracle not a nuisance. She was sitting, fingertips trembling but no worse this morning than they had been any day of her journey north. She had been dragged from the cells, away from the machines that should have killed her, and rather than dying grateful for a final view of the sky she had found herself weeks to the South, in a town she hadn’t known and a recipe in her pocket in handwriting she didn’t recognise.

It wasn’t a cure, but it was still something no-one had thought to hope for. It was a medicine, true, but it was also a message: somebody, somewhere, was trying to save their mages too. They weren’t the only ones resisting this blight.

This, too: after that first midnight venture of Kay’s they had never been able to rescue anyone from the Graves’ keep. They had fought to prevent people being taken, rescued people from mage warded wagons, hissed warnings to make people hide or flee. They had built a town, walls and watchtowers, a beacon of resistance. But they had never managed to make their way into the keep itself undetected a second time, for all the desperate families who had tried, for all the curses the Seeress and the Mayor hissed when they found the doors open and cells empty. Kay and Bea would exchange long looks over the bakery table, and wonder who on the inside was setting people free and laying the blame at their convenient feet.

(In a lab none of them had never seen, Jillit Chu was saving life after life of people who she knew would never remember her name, secrets written in invisible letters on her skin when she went home at night. Thorne was pouring over reports, Jill’s own records, Jeremiah’s much less successful and yet officially far more vital analyses, the dispatches from his spies in the mountains. He wanted the Graves family dealt with, of course - but he wanted their secrets, too. Thorne was a Bureau man, and while Mayor Graves was always careful not to upset the Bureau, he was no more affiliated with them than the vigilantes that plagued his operations. It had never been the means of production that Thorne objected to, or the Graves’ would have been out of a business years before.

Spider didn’t know this; Andrew Molina had given years of his life to bring the machines down, weaving a web to tear it all down. He was trying to find a gap in his plans to let Sandry slip through; he knew where Sam had gone even if she didn’t, thought if he could get her out too then there would be a life for her away from the wreckage of her father’s dreams. If he had to, he knew he would let her fall with it and take the regrets, but he was an excellent Bureau agent - he liked his odds for achieving both. He wasn’t reaching out to Sam just yet - they were working to weaken the system, but it was slow work. The Baker and her resistance were an irritation, but they weren’t yet causing enough of a disruption to have materially disrupted production, to have strained the system, to be convincing the less dedicated that this was a fight they were going to lose.

Thorne had other agents, he knew, and they heard things the Spider didn’t. Reports that when put together said that this was going to be the work of more cold years - he measured them in people lost, and tried when those the Seeress saw were children to make sure he was spotted on the road, that whispers spread before him, warnings. He couldn’t let everyone slip away, not if he wanted to bring it all down, but he tried to save as many as he could - he felt every mage who burned for other people’s light as a weight on his shoulders. He kept walking, the Seeress’ right hand man, and did not stumble under that burden.)

Robin Hood died on an otherwise unremarkable winter’s day, stumbling back to the treeline with them, held up as much as their rescues. Marian’s hands didn’t shake as she lit the pyre, and Kay wondered if she would stay that cold for the rest of her life. She left with a handful of the Merry Men, the ones who’d been thinking of warmer pastures or those like her couldn’t stand to be beneath the trees without Robin. Kay wasn’t sure if she was angry at him or the world - Marian wasn’t, either. She had fought sieges at his side, before he begged Robin’s help for the last time; she knew his history, this mountain born boy who became a legend. She wouldn’t write to him or the Baker, but Little John would drop mentions into his occasional messages, and some days she was glad for the news.

When Kay had first stumbled into the Woods, an injured mage leaning on his shoulder and pursuit on his heels, it had been Marian who coolly shot down the armed guard and guided them beneath the trees. She had helped bandage up his rescue, and Robin had dropped down next to him at the fire. Kay wasn’t sure he had ever felt as safe as he did that night, curled up beneath the towering trees with their cheerful assurances that he didn’t need to worry about any armed followers tracking him here, dozing off in a borrowed bed roll on the hard ground. The Merry Men weren’t all kind to outsiders, but they loved Robin and respected Marian - if they were told he was a friend, he was a friend. Kay watched the smoke rise, the snow melting around them, and wondered if Robin would still be alive, if Kay hadn’t thought of him as a friend.

The remaining Merry Men stayed out of the fight, after that, nursing wounds physical and metaphorical, but Little John made it clear that the paths through the trees were still open to Kay and his rescues. More than one trembling mage and their shaken family were escorted safely south by the Merry Men after a night or two beneath the trees.

It was a long war, and Kay measured it first in months rather than days, then years rather than months; the Seeress was spreading her gaze further afield as the mountain villages became wary, as anyone with sparks at their fingertips fled before they needed warning. Kay gained scars from vicious brawls with guards, with the long limbed Spider, a bullet wound in the shoulder that would ache in the cold for the rest of his life from Spider’s deputy.

Kay was by no means the only person fighting this war, but he had become one of the lynchpins, the one who most often acted directly against the Graves’ network - his was the face the Seeress saw most in the wake of plans dissolving like smoke. She had a bespoke curse tucked in a pocket, and one vindictive day she set it loose. Bea watched the Giantkiller turn pale, shaky on feet that a moment before had been steady, and crumple. She caught him before he could hit the ground, and carried him gently to his room. She sent out frantic messages through her network, looking for healers, looking for anyone who could help. After three nights of fever, Little John crept into the bakery, cradling a pouch in his large, gentle hands. He was no trained healer, but he knew old stories, knew how to walk into the shadowed trees on a full moon night and ask for help for the deserving. He did not know what he had done, to mix this medicine, but when the sun had risen it had been in his hands.

Kay spent another three nights tossing and turning, but he woke with the sun on the seventh day. It would take weeks until he felt fully rested, and Little John warned him that full moons would make him restless for the rest of his days. He spent his time sorting Bea’s correspondence and helping her in the bakery, until she declared him fit for field work again. Even then they were wary, cautious. They had no doubts who had sent a curse to strike him down, for all they sneered at the hypocrisy - they watched for any sign that the Seeress had known where to strike, but found nothing amiss.

One morning, Kay woke to the sound of shattering crockery in the bakery below; he was wary, fresh bruises on his knuckles and sleeping light, recently home and still listening for ambushes. He crept downstairs, and found Bea pinned to the wall of her own kitchen with strings of golden fire, the butter dish broken on the floor. The slingstone he pitched through the door landed, but its target had moved in time and took a glancing bruise to the arm rather than a blow to the head. She held up calloused palms, but he could see the gun at her hip and the gold holding Bea in place: he wasn’t fool enough to think that she was anything other than ready to take him down if he moved. She smiled, a precise and practiced thing. “Hello. Apologies for breaking in, but I needed to speak to the Baker and the Giantkiller, and I believe this is the right address?” Her smile turned feral, a fierce grin that looked more at home on her lips. “I’m an agent from the Bureau quiet branch, and I thought you might want to know we’re planning to bring the Graves’ down in a few weeks’ time.”

Bea made a scoffing sound, the gold fire glittering off her eyes, and the woman flicked her fingers to twist the fire into nothing again. Kay itched to go to Bea, check that she was alright, but he knew better. There were two of them and one armed intruder - better to keep her looking in two directions, for all that she seemed to think she was on their side, for all that he had no doubt which of them would win, if it came to a fight. Kay had years of experience, true, but you didn’t make it to being a field agent with the quiet branch without a fearsome skillset to your name.

She eyed their distrust with amused, approving resignation, and patiently laid out the bones of the web she and Spider had been steadily weaving, the tipping point that was coming. Kay frowned at the hints, puzzling out tactics, and Bea traced her fingertips over her map - the markers of lives saved, the ones of lives lost. There was an empty room upstairs she still couldn’t bear to use, years later. Kay did not and would never know that sometimes when Bea woke from nightmares these days they had been about waking to find the house cold and the curtains in his cosy room billowing in the night air, for all that he was no more a mage that she was. She eyed their guest with as much professional disregard as the woman had shown her, breaking into a house warded over the years by careful, grateful hands as though it was nothing.

“And why now? Why are you and yours only tearing down the Graves’ now? We know who you are, Agent, and for all I’ve heard of you you’re in the Graves’ pocket, the Spider’s precious protege.” She curled a lip, a mountain woman from a village that couldn’t afford walls, that had begged and begged for Bureau protection and been told to come back with gold in their pockets. “Why have the Bureau decided that now they can deign to get involved? Why are you here, breaking into my home, to tell me you’ve finally decided to care enough to stop it?”

"They killed my brother," snapped Laney, an old, bitter hurt - and the Baker looked back at her coldly, as though that didn't explain anything at all.

"They've killed a lot of people." The sharpshooter stiffened, hand twitching as though she might have gone for a gun if she hadn’t needed them alive. Bea didn't flinch from the movement, expression hard and unforgiving. "How many have you helped them kill? I could tell you, I think, because I hear almost everyone's story about the ones they lost, sooner or later. Do you know what we call you, when we whisper warnings? What legend did you think you were building, in your brother's memory?"

The Ballad of Agent Jones

Laney Jones had stumbled at her brother’s beloved heels for years, until he left the desert in search of new horizons. Years later, she had followed in his footsteps once again, Academy papers in her pocket and a handful of hard-won fire clutched close to keep her warm on the journey. She was planning to find her big brother, one day. She was going to show him what she could do, what she had made of herself, and she was going to see the pride in his eyes once again. It was a warm thought, one she had clung to through cold nights of hidden practice and long days of doubting her worth.

In her second year at the Academy, armed men broke into the fish shop where her study group were having their first meeting. When Thorne took her aside in the days after, to have a private chat with such a promising young woman, he glanced over her skin tone and the name in his file, and paused. He asked, carefully, if she had any connection to a Liam Jones, another powerful mage he had heard of. Laney beamed with familial pride, and a certain quiet joy that she had been put on the same level as Liam. "My brother, sir. He whistles up his magic, though I never had the knack for it."

Thorne called her in again a week later, for another chat, but his face was serious and even the glint of his glasses seemed subdued. There was a thin file on his desk, L. Jones scrawled on the outside. Laney's heart froze, because she knew there was no reason for the Bureau to have files on her, not yet.

"I am sorry, miss Jones, but Liam Jones died almost seven years ago, in the mountains." He pushed the file towards her, sympathy but not pity in his voice. "There are people there who - deal in mages. It seems that there was no one to warn him to hide." He pressed a clean handkerchief into her hand and went to fetch water for the kettle. He could have called for someone to bring them tea, but Thorne understood that people sometimes needed a moment alone with their grief.

The contents of the file had been heavily redacted, because the work of the Bureau quiet branch investigating the trade in mages was an ongoing thing, and a sister's grief didn't give you rights to all of the carefully gathered details. But there were a few stark lines that were intact - a description, a date of capture. A short summary of a doomed escape attempt that made her smile with fierce, pained pride. A date of death.

What had she been doing, that day? Where had she been, when her brother's song vanished from the world?

Thorne made her tea and made no comment on her damp eyelashes, told her she could speak to him at any time if she felt she needed someone who was aware of the situation to listen. He asked for her family's contact details, so that he could write to tell them the terrible news personally. He straightened the papers on his desk and promised to tell her when he sent it, in case she wanted to write as well, but he said that it shouldn't be her job to break it to them unless she wanted it to be.

Laney signed the quiet branch's letter of employment before the week was up.

She would never run the backstreets of Rivertown with Rupert; he would perhaps have trusted Sez, Bart and their secret, steady work to fellow Academy students, if a bit warily, but not to someone with Thorne looking over her shoulder from the beginning. Laney spent her spare hours at the Academy in the library or out on the firing range, and felt trapped, burning in her own skin.

When the battle of Driftwood Island came, when she realised that the monsters of fire were slipping in from the Elsewhere, it was Thorne she went to, to say she could help; she stitched the rift closed while the Rangers held their own in the wreckage above. She didn’t tell Thorne how she’d done it, exactly, but she agreed that they shouldn’t tell anyone it had been her - no point in making her a target, after all.

(Laney wouldn’t remember any of this for years; until then, so far as she could recall she’d spent the whole battle helping to shield sections of lower Rivertown from fire damage. If there was a gap in her recollection - well, it was so easy to lose track in your first real battle, for everything to blur together. The Rangers couldn’t recall exactly who had stitched the rift up while they bought time, and it nagged at them for years, too)

On her first day at the Bureau’s quiet branch as a junior agent, Laney made her way to Thorne's office, shoulders carefully square and chin held level, and asked him what she would need to do to become part of the group working on the mage slave trade case.

Thorne had known her brother's name, his description; not just the dates of his disappearance but those of his escape attempt and death, the clinical numbers documenting how much power had been wrested from his bones. Laney had known, even in the midst of grief - these were not things you could learn without someone on the inside. These were not things you knew, the shadowy quiet branch of the governing powers, unless you had plans to do something with the information.

Laney had her own plans; she had always intended to use the Bureau just as much as Thorne had planned to use her.

When the Seeress saw her, Spider’s newest potential recruit, she smiled slightly in recognition, sinister and small. She asked Laney why she was applying to a role with the Graves' network. Laney had looked her dead in the eye, shoulders relaxed and everything gold around her shining true.

"My brother was a mage, a powerful one. I grew tired a long time ago of being a shadow because I don't have gold dripping from my fingers."

Neither Kay or Bea trusted the Agent and her casually mentioned ally - Spider had been a nightmare in the mountains for longer than Kay had known of this fight, and had never slipped into the Baker’s net to whisper secrets to her deputy. In another life, the Baker’s right hand had been a girl who saw nothing but blood and ash on her palms, who had once let a whole village die, unseen, because she wanted to live; in another life, the Spider had been confident that the Dragon Slayer would understand the price he was paying. He would have offered himself as an informant, trusting in her pragmatism to take his information and keep the source to herself. In another life, Bea had years of listening to George talk haltingly about the place she had once called home, the dragon they had given her a legend for, and would have listened to her, taken the information even if reluctantly.

But the Giantkiller had no such weight on his shoulders, and Spider had spent too long working himself into the Graves’ good graces to risk his position on that kind of gamble.

They didn’t trust Agent Jones or the Spider, let alone the Bureau man with twinkling glasses who slipped into Challenge with a promise of information and a cheerful litany of all of Kay’s illegal activities, but they couldn’t afford not to take their warnings. Challenge prepared for another siege, hunkering down to withstand whatever the Graves’ threw at them, and Kay decided when the Rangers arrived to support the defenders that his life was worth the gamble and followed two shadowy spies into the Keep, a decoy captive.

He’d been here just once before; after that, the Mayor had finally listened to Sandry’s murmurings about weak points in their security, and no-one had broken into the keep since. Spider let them in through a side door, and Kay shuddered as it clicked closed behind him. They burned the machines, Agent Jones lighting the mage blasts, but the engineer wasn’t there, the careful blueprints and plans stored somewhere other than this cold office. Kay turned a corner and ran into the Seeress, the first time he had seen her face to face. They stared at one another, frozen; she was frantically figuring out how the Giantkiller had made it into the keep unnoticed - and he had no idea who he just run into, unsure if he should tell her who he was and hesitating to use force on someone he thought might be an innocent.

Spider stepped up behind him, and the Seeress’ cold mask slipped, fractured as she looked between them, Sandry feeling her steady ground shift beneath her feet. Spider’s hand settled warningly over Kay’s shoulder, yanking him back and cuffing him to a stair-rail to keep the boy in place as the recognition dawned, while he frantically whispered at Sandry - telling her to leave, to slip out of the side door and hide, that she could join her brother and start over. The Seeress snapped out sharp retorts, demanding to know what exactly the Bureau knew of her baby brother, and Kay felt an abrupt, unwelcome fellow feeling - he knew what it was, to fear the extent of the Bureau’s files, to want the names of you and yours kept secret. The Seeress was trembling, torn between drawing herself up and in, hurt and terrified of showing it, and wanting to trust, for just a little longer, that the Spider was on her side.

Mayor Graves turned the corner, calling for the Seeress, his useful little monster, because someone had been in his office, burned his papers to ash. He was clutching a weapon that pulsed gold (in the cells below, there was a trembling body, the magic in their blood ripped free and pushed into a new vessel), concerned but not frantic. He spied Kay, and his face broke into a smirk. Spider stood with a relaxed stance, hand on his holstered gun, face a mask while he weighed options. The Seeress straightened her spine. Her father had told her all her life that mages were selfish, hoarding power, that their work was a sad necessity for the wellbeing of the many. He was holding a gun that took that power and put it in his own two hands - Sandry had made Spider teach her to shoot years ago, on the quiet, because she wanted something she could do, to defend herself and her brother, something to hold onto that would give her power that didn’t rely on words. She knew that this was a power he had made for himself to cling to.

The Giantkiller was a child, still, and almost as young as her brother had been when she pressed a bag into his hands and told him to flee. Her father was pointing a gun at a boy barely older than his son, and everything in him was twisting gleeful with it. She murmured, dispassionate, that the boy might have useful information. That Spider should take him downstairs for questioning, to find out about the gaps in their defences - a security breach such as this must be investigated carefully, for all their sakes. Spider could dispose of the pest, after. Mayor Graves had never been in the habit of listening to his daughter, and she wanted to scream it at him as he dismissed her again without even a word.

The Mayor took an experimental shot at the Giantkiller, burning the ground by Kay’s left leg to cinders, and crumpled to the ground. Agent Jones slipped out of the shadows behind him, ash dusting her fingertips, pistol held steady and familiar in her hand. She glanced down at the body, cold, and wondered if she would regret never getting to tell him exactly why she’d taken aim, a sniper’s precise shot under cover of his own.

Spider stepped casually in front of Sandry, and with a glare Agent Jones holstered her gun before striding briskly by both her mentor and the Seeress to release the bindings holding Kay in place.

“C’mon, Giantkiller. Let’s get you back to your friends at Challenge, and the boss in here to sort out everything else.” She slid her eyes sideways towards Spider. “I’ll be sure to tell him that you have the Seeress in your custody, sir.” Spider gave a resigned sigh, but made no other objection. Kay felt he ought to protest, to argue against leaving the Seeress unchained, to snap that it should have been him who took down the Mayor, but this had never been just his fight, for all his was the name the Seeress had hissed in the wake of foiled plans. He let himself be guided out, Agent Jones brisk and efficient, a polite smile pasted on her face.

Thorne was waiting for them outside, cheerfully confident in his Agents and the Giantkiller. He told Kay that Challenge had withstood the final siege, but couldn’t tell him the cost. Kay, seething, bit his tongue at the man’s oily reminders that in the quiet branch’s service, any messy rumours about illegal activities would be swept under the rug. The Giantkiller jerked his head back at the keep. “The mayor is dead, but the Seeress is still alive in there.” Thorne pursed his lips, nodding. “Good, good. The mayor had to be removed, though alive would have been…preferable. Young Cassandra can take over, however, to maintain consistency - with supervision, of course, before you say anything.” Kay scowled. “She fed mages into his machines for years.” Thorne smiled at him, condescendingly, shaking his head like a kindly grandfather.

“We cannot simply remove every political figure we disagree with. She is young. She will be managed. You should be making your way to Challenge, however. I’m sure your friends will want to hear the good news.” Agent Jones watched the boy stalk away, carefully keeping her face neutral. She was an old hat at manipulating people, after years of practice - she could see that Thorne was trying to collect another recruit. She could also see that he was going about it in entirely the wrong fashion, but she didn’t think it was worth pointing that out.

Thorne glanced at her sideways. “The mayor is dead, Agent Jones?” “Yes sir. An unfortunate necessity to avoid further loss of life.” He heaved a sigh, but didn’t question it. “Very well then. Let us go and debrief Spider, and explain the new order of things to Miss Graves.”

Even with the Mayor gone, the keep was still hostile territory; Agent Jones was on high alert, so when she heard a door click softly closed as they walked through the entry way she waved Mr Thorne on ahead of her, waiting until Dadlus thought it was safe to emerge again. She tackled him to the ground, and had him cuffed and cursing by the time Thorne, Spider and the Seeress made their way back down the stairs. Thorne’s face turned gleeful when he saw her captive. He rubbed his hands together. “Excellent! Good work, Agent Jones.” The Seeress’ head snapped toward him, eyes widening fractionally in surprise before he spoke. “I have a Bureau engineer who desperately needs to pick your brains, particularly as it seems the Giantkiller was able to burn all of the blueprints. You're going to be very valuable to us.”

Spider was staring between Thorne and Dadlus, ice slipping down his spine as he put the pieces together, discovered the game Thorne had been playing all along. He had spent years working in this keep, shoulders weighed down by so many lives he had been unable to save, who he had sacrificed to ensure he could bring it all to an end. He took three long steps forward and slid the knife he always carried up his sleeve between the engineer's ribs. "I didn't let children die for years so the Bureau could turn around and do the same thing all over again." Dadlus slumped to the ground, blood pooling under him. Thorne went for his gun, but Agent Jones was quicker - in a different life, it would have been dragon’s fire that killed Gerald Thorne, but in this one it was handfuls of Elsewhere fire that Laney had been carrying around her wrists for years, hidden even from the Seeress.

Cassandra stared at them both over the cooling body, shaken - she had always seen everything, every secret and every weakness, and here she found both: her lieutenants had been hiding secrets upon secrets, tucked carefully away where she hadn’t found them, and so she was weak where she’d thought her back was guarded. She wondered if it would be a bullet or a blaze that came for her, whether Spider would help or if he would pull her out of the way.

Agent Jones didn’t glance her way: she and Spider were eying each other, weighing up their priorities and potentials. Spider wanted Sandry to go free - she had barely been an adult when he arrived at the keep, for all that it had taken him weeks to discover she wasn’t cold years older. He had realised within those first months of working his way into her network just how young she must have been, when the Mayor told her she was a monster and turned her into a tool.

Laney had always wanted revenge for her brother, justice for the other victims. She had burned the machines with glee and felt no guilt for shooting the Mayor down. She felt no guilt for burning Throne, either - she wanted the machines gone as much as Spider. But she knew who it was who had found her brother, who had sent armed thugs with Elsewhere cracks in their pockets after Liam. She had told herself she would feel no guilt for shooting the Seeress, either, even when she saw the date of birth in the briefing files.

But Laney had spent a year now with Sandry and the Spider; she remembered the squeaky sage in her second year study group, the one she still sometimes met in the University library to chatter over Elsewhere theory. She had heard Sandry talk about Sam, but she had heard Grey talk about Sandry, too. She thought she talked about Liam the same way, sometimes.

“Thorne said we would leave you in charge,” she spoke softly, as though the words were of no importance. “So we will. But you do not re-start operations, and Spider and I will make sure of it.” Agent Jones holstered her gun, turned to the Seeress, and raised an eyebrow. “But the people around here will freeze in winter, without help. Your people, now. So, I’ve a challenge for you - I know you’ve studied how the machines work, how to make them more efficiently. But have you ever tried to figure out how you can wrest this power from thin air and turn it into something useful?”

Laney Jones pressed her hand up to the skin of the world and broke it; in the glow of the Elsewhere she was radiant, and Cassandra would have shielded her eyes if she’d been able to bear looking away. All her life, she had been told that what they did was the only way, only fair.

She stared, eyes stinging, and thought I have never seen a mage burn so bright.

Kay spent the weeks after at Challenge helping to shore up the damage; Bea left the bakery to help, bandaging the wounded and scolding him for taking foolish risks. They knelt side by side in the community garden, repairing damaged trellises and trying to see which of the fragile growths could be coaxed back into health and which needed to be turned to compost. One water break, surveying the rows they’d managed to restore, he idly turned a stone over and said, “What are we going to do now? What’s next?” She didn’t pretend he was talking about the garden, though she didn’t reply until they were carting the next load of dug up plants to the compost heap.

“I don’t know. It’s been so long since I didn’t have -” And he put his arms around her and let her cry into his shoulder; Bea had turned herself to stone in so many ways, over the years, since she woke to a cold house and an empty bedroom, and now her war was won. There would be pieces to pick up, rebuilding that would take years. The Seeress was still in the keep, and for all that Agent Jones assured them she wasn’t going to be a problem it still sat bitter under both their tongues. It would take months for the mountain villagers to feel safe, for a child with sparks flicking between fingertips to inspire joy not terror. It would take years, a lifetime - several lifetimes. There was work for Bea to bury herself in still, but for now there was sun on her shoulders and there would be no mages lost in the night. For now, she could realise they were safe, as safe as you could ever be, and weep for all those who hadn’t been.

Later, shoulder to shoulder in the crowded inn, Kay would rest his head on her shoulder, quiet.

“I think I should go back to the farm, for a bit. See my dad, yeah? Make sure he knows I’m okay.” He nudged her with an elbow, gentle. “I’ll come back, though. But I promised I wouldn’t leave without telling you, so I am. I’m going to head back to the farm and get shouted at, so you aren’t even going to be the only one nagging me about taking risks, then I’m gong to come back to the bakery and chop wood for you.” She laughed softly.

“That’s your life plan?” He grinned, and it was a younger face that looked back at her than she’d seen for years. He was still a child, really, for all that he was growing tall and gangly. He shrugged. "For now. I’d like to go a few weeks with no-one trying to kill me, it’d make a nice change. Later - well. Maybe I’ll go get myself a Badge, I'm almost old enough. Sarge told me plenty of times he reckons I could do it, and I’ve daydreamed about it for years, you know? Be a proper Hero, join the Rangers as an intern. Agent Jones told me Thorne is dead - I didn't ask for details, I thought she might shoot me - and that I didn't need to worry about my name being in any paperwork with the Giantkiller, so long as I say Thorne was tragically killed in the fight with the Mayor. I could do it, if I wanted.” They sat in silence for a while longer, watching the crowd. After a while, Bea ruffled his hair gently. “Maybe you should go to the Academy, get yourself a career lined up. But if you’ll take an old baker’s suggestion - I think you’d make a better Guide, all things considered. You've had enough practice at being a hero.”

In the morning, before he set out for the old farm he hadn’t been back to in years, Kay climbed up the flights of stairs to the uppermost platform of the wall that surrounded Challenge. The wooden posts were riddled with marks, from flung weapons and the sooty streaks left by stolen mage fire, idle carved graffiti left by bored sentries - names and old in jokes, defiant records left when they knew they were all inviting battle to their doorstep. He stood looking out at the surrounding peaks as the sun rose, thinking about the Leauges and Bureau policy, about a roc digging claws into his shoulder and long summer sieges, the machines burning and Mayor Graves crumpling lifeless to his plush carpet, and dug out his pocket knife.

We were here.

#my writing #Jack is a Beanstalk #Beanstalk #Echoes of a Giantkiller #Remember the Dust #this one went way more off canon than usual #I was planning to spend more time with more of the background characters #Sorry Susie and Rosie I'll have to give you more screentime another time #because Kay kind of...took over #L&L fic #the mountain vigilantes never become the mountain vigilantes #other people still step up to the fight #Leagues and legends

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arrow-guy · 4 years

Text

Author and Auror (8/??)

Synopsis: Eleanore Vaughan has never been one for the spotlight. Her cousin, Rosaline, is the one best suited to the limelight, and is happier for the attention. Though Nora is most comfortable tucked away in her book shop, what happens when Grindelwald’s sudden takeover flips her world upside-down and thrusts her into the inner circle?

A/N: Alright, so @thorne93 has already finished posting her half of this collaboration, but we’ll get there eventually.... hopefully lmao. This chapter will be Particularly Dramatic. Again, I am not tagging any of my regular tag list for this fic, so if you’d like to be tagged, please let me know. Anyway, have at it!

Previously, with Rosaline...

Page dividers by @carryonmyswansong

Pairing: Theseus ScamanderxOFC

Word Count: 4.4k

Warnings: Dueling, injuries

Part 7

“Eleanore Vaughan,” Albus Dumbledore’s voice floats from the open beak of the shimmering phoenix sat on my desk. “I’ve just received word that Rosaline has passed through the Hogwarts wards and is headed towards my classroom. I am not aware of any business she would have with me, but I might suggest that you make haste in getting here.”

The Patronus disperses and I shove my chair back from the desk and hurry to Theseus’ office. I slam the door open, startling Theseus and Newt away from their work.

“Rosaline is at Hogwarts,” I announce.

“What?” Newt asks.

“Albus’ Patronus filled me in,” I explain, turning on my heel and walking back out into the hallway. Theseus and Newt follow me out. “Rosaline is headed for him, but he doesn’t know why. All he said is that we should get there fast.”

“Could Grindelwald have sent her?”

“Who knows,” I frown and poke my head into several different offices startling three different pairs of Aurors. “Where the fuck is Tina?!”

“She’s in the canteen,” Dawes answers, poking his head out into the hallway. “I’ll get her for you.”

“Great, tell her to meet us one floor down at the broom check out,” I stop dead in my tracks and turn to Theseus. “I’m so sorry, I swear I’m not trying to take over.”

He grabs me by the shoulders and turns me around. “No time for that,” he says, steering me down the hall to the lift. “We’ve got places to be and you obviously have more of a plan than I do.”

I nod once. The three of us bundle into the lift and, before the floor is selected, I yell, “DAWES.”

“Yeah?” he calls back.

“You’re coming with. Grab Jeanette on your way down, we’ll need the extra hands.”

He nods and the attendant selects the floor down. Theseus signs out six of the fastest brooms they’ve got and we meet up with Dawes, Jeanette, and Tina. We each grab an arm and steer them to the apparation points.

“Where are we going?” Dawes asks.

“Hogwarts gates,” I answer. “I’ll side along with Tina.”

“Well be flying up to the castle,” Theseus explains. “Make for the Defense classroom, be prepared for the worst.”

With brooms in hand and everyone filled in, Tina and I link arms and apparate. Each person appears with a crack. The gates slowly swing open of their own accord as we mount our brooms and we shoot into the sky one after the other. Trees blur together beneath us and quickly give way to a massive expanse of browning grass. The Quidditch pitch rises up in the distance and soon the castle is looming over us. I angle my broom towards the east towers and keep as tight to the walls as I can manage. I pull up on the broomstick and my feet ghost along the bricks of the astronomy tower. I dismount as soon as I’ve flown past the staircase to the astronomy classroom and toss the broom to the side in favor of sprinting for the stairs to Dumbledore’s classroom. Everyone else is close on my heels as I throw open the half closed doors.

“Nora?”

Rosaline’s voice reaches my ears and my head snaps to her. Grindelwald has a bruising hold on her arm and I immediately draw my wand, anger flaring up inside me. Grindelwald smirks and I throw a stinging jinx at him, just to get him to let her go. Rosaline deflects it and my eyes go wide.

“Rosaline,” I say, doing my best to keep my voice level. “We don’t want to hurt you. Come with us. Please.”

“No,” she says, chin lifted in defiance. “I’ll stay right where I am.”

“I don’t know what he’s done to you, but the Rosaline I know would never be with a man like him. Would never choose evil over her own family.”

“Evil?!” she cries, taking one step closer to Grindelwald. “As if you’d have any idea of the good we’ve been doing!”

Grindelwald caresses Rosaline’s cheek and she seems to lean into his touch. “You see, Ms. Vaughan, Rosaline chooses us. It seems to me that you should respect that choice, yes?”

My hand tightens around my wand and I throw a knockback jinx at him. Rosaline immediately steps in front of him and blocks the spell. Her face pinches into an expression of pure rage and she casts a stinging jinx, directed at me. I back up and fire off a spell without thinking and it slices a skull that was hanging on the wall in half when Rosaline dodges it. I step back to rejoin the ranks of aurors I had rushed away from. Grindelwald pulls Rosaline’s hair away from her face and presses his lips to her ear, whispering something I can’t make out. When he pulls away, Rosaline nods and her shoulders set firmly. She disarms Dawes and Jeanette, sending their wands flying. They go scrambling after them, leaving the rest of us to deal with Rosaline and two of Grindelwalds henchmen. While Grindelwalds men advance on us, Rosaline continues firing off spells, sending Tina flying into the wall behind her. As she falls to the floor in a heap, Theseus cries out in pain and clutches at his chest. Newt steps up beside me and, together, we disarm and bind Grindelwalds two men.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Scamander?” Grindelwald taunts. “You revealed me in New York, but you haven’t the courage to attack the woman whose heart you broke?”

Newt opens his mouth to say something, but closes it again in favor of lifting his wand a little higher. He moves slightly closer to me and I bump his shoulder with mine to reassure him.

“I spared you last time, but you won’t be so fortunate now.” Grindelwald steps out from behind Rosaline and draws his wand “Crucio!”

Newt crumples beside me, crying out and whimpering in pain. I drop down beside him, hands hovering over his body as he convulses, completely unsure of what to do.

“Stop this!” I cry. “You bastard, stop!”

“That is enough, Grindelwald!” Dumbledore roars. He shoots across the room and roughly shoves Grindelwald, breaking the curse. “Killing innocent men, you’re a traitor to your kind!”

I help Newt to his feet and grasp his face between my hands and look him over quickly before moving on to check on Tina and Theseus. Tina holds her non-dominant arm close to her chest and I carefully pull it away from her body to check it over. She winces.

“Can you move it?” She shakes her head and I gently press the tip of my wand to her forearm. “Ferula.”

A faint click indicates that her bones are back in the proper place and her arm is wrapped tightly in a bandage with a simple sling around her neck. Tina waves me off when I try to do more and points to Theseus. He’s managed to prop himself up and is trying to catch his breath.

“I’m fine,” he insists when I drop down beside him and turn his face from side to side and move on to check his ribs for any damage.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

He nods. “She just threw me back a ways. Nothing but my pride is hurt.”

I nod jerkily and haul him to his feet. Dawes and Jeanette have managed to circle back around and Jeanette helps Tina up. Grindelwalds men have managed to recover and advance on us.

“You two take care of those idiots,” Dawes and Jeanette nod. “Theseus, Newt, and Tina, you advance on Rosaline, I’ll grab her from behind.”

We break apart and head off to our own assignments. Dumbledore and Grindelwald clash in the center of the classroom and I have to shield myself from stray spells. Grindelwald’s men go down easily and Rosaline is distracted with dueling Newt, Theseus, and Tina all at once. She doesn’t notice me creeping up.

“Expelliarmus,” I hiss. Her wand flies across the room and Tina manages to catch it before it hits the floor.

“Wha-?” She whips around and her eyes go wide.

“Confundus,” I point my wand directly at her and cast. She presses a hand to her forehead as if suddenly dizzy and begins to fall to the floor. “Arresto Momentum!”

I manage to slow her enough that she doesn’t hurt herself when she makes contact with the hardwood.

“Go!” Dumbledore yells, having momentarily pushed Grindelwald back. “Get to my office!”

I cast a quick mobilicorpus and lift Rosaline from the floor. She rouses long enough to realize what’s happening. Tina casts fumos and follows quickly behind Theseus, who leads the way up the stairs. Grindelwald swipes at Rosaline as we pass, but misses as the smoke reaches his eyes and clogs his mouth. As soon as the door is closed, I lock it behind us and release Rosaline. She immediately makes for the door and Theseus and Newt grab both her arms.

“Let me go!” she cries. She thrashes about, clawing and kicking at both Newt and Theseus when she realizes she no longer has her wand. “Gellert!” she screams. “Gellert!”

The dueling continues on the other side of the door, but Grindelwald has taken more of an interest in spelling the door open. Theseus tasks Dawes and Jeanette with barricading the door and standing guard.

“Unhand me!” Rosaline demands.

I grit my teeth and whip around to face her, my wand pointed directly at her chest. “Immobulus.” And then her feet. “Locomotor Mortis.”

“Where are we supposed to go from here?” Tina asks.

I close my eyes and rub my temples. Albus wouldn’t have sent us in here unless there were a way out. My eyes snap open and I immediately begin searching the room.

“What is it?” Theseus.

“There!” I snatch up the flower pot on Dumbledore’s desk. The swirling fern fronds are artfully placed to conceal something much more useful to us than soil. “Floo powder!”

“His fireplace is connected to the floo network?” Dawes says, watching me pull each frond from the flower pot.

Newt shrugs. “He’s not exactly one for rules, is he?”

I roll my eyes and summon my frozen cousin to me. “We’ll go to my flat, understood?

“Grindelwald will expect us to go to the Ministry,” Theseus explains. “He may come looking for us and cannot be allowed to reclaim this woman.”

Everyone nods and I step into the fireplace with a handful of floo powder. “The Cursed Stacks!” I declare, and throw down the powder. We disappear in a swirl of green flames.

I step from the fireplace and wipe my shoes on the mat on the hearth. Rosaline stumbles out behind me, having broken free of each binding spell and rounds on me.

“Give me my wand,” she growls.

I snort. “No. I wouldn’t give it to you, even if I had it. Clearly, I can’t trust you yet.”

She runs at me and I stun her before casting mobilicorpus one more time, just as Theseus and Newt come through the floo. Theseus sighs and Newt gazes sadly at Rosaline’s floating form. Tina, Dawes, and Jeanette come through one after the other. I scold them when they start tracking soot into my library.

Dawes pales and immediately goes back to wipe his shoes on the mat. “Sorry, miss.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, clearing away the footprints with a quick scourgify.

“Dawes, go back to the Ministry, let the head of the DMLE know we’ve found Rosaline Vaughan,” Theseus says. “Lawsonne, you’ll stay here.”

“How long, sir?” she asks.

“As long as necessary.”

Both aurors nod and Dawes disappears with a loud pop.

“What do we do now?” Theseus asks me.

I shake my head. “I’ll set her up in her room and then we’ll wait till she wakes up.”

“Are you worried about her trying to get away?” Tina asks.

“I’ll tether her to the bedpost. She won’t be able to leave the room.”

“I want my wand back,” Rosaline says firmly. She leans back in her chair and away from the table.

“No.”

“It’s my wand, I should have it.”

I snort. “Tell us where you’ve been, and you’ll have it back.”

She looks down her nose at Theseus and I. “As if.”

“Perhaps Credence, then,” Theseus presses.

“No,” she says.

“Fine, we’ll keep your wand safe for you till you feel like sharing.”

She folds her arms over her chest and glares at us as we push our chairs back from the table and excuse ourselves from the room. As soon as the door is closed, Theseus pulls me to the side.

“She doesn’t seem quite right,” he says. “She’s never been that combative before, has she?”

I shake my head. “Not since she was little and I wouldn’t let her use my wand.”

“Any idea what could be wrong?”

“I have no idea, but we’ve only just gotten her back. Maybe she’ll come back to us.”

He nods and takes my hand. “Maybe.”

Rosaline is still sitting in the same chair as she was when I left her. She glares up at me, her hair tilted to the side, as I slide a bowl of potato soup across the table. She slowly reaches out and pushes the bowl off the table. The soup splatters across the floor and I just barely manage to catch the bowl before it crashes against the hardwood. I sigh and spell away the mess before sitting down.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you do that since mother placed mashed peas in front of you when you were five,” I comment.

She sneers at me, but refuses to comment. “Haven’t brought Theseus with you this time, have you?” she says. “Didn’t want to be around you for long, did he?”

“Mm,” I hum. “Perhaps. Or maybe I’ve snuck in. I’m clever enough to do that, aren’t I?”

“Not quite clever enough to convince a man to date you though.”

“Ah, yes. You’re really just dragging me along behind the broomstick, aren’t you? Just going for the fatal blow.” I lean back in my chair, my arms thrown up in mock surrender. “Oh no! You’ve backed me into an emotional corner! I’m completely trapped! Fuck you.”

“No need to get angry with me, cousin,” she says, clearly pleased with herself.

“Is this really what you’ve been learning all this time you’ve been with Grindelwald?”

“Not everything.”

“Alright then, what’s his next move to be?”

“I wouldn’t tell you even if I knew.”

“Of course. Perhaps you’d tell me why you visited Dumbledore, then.”

“I wanted to see an old friend,” she says sweetly, her annoyance painfully clear. “It’s my turn to ask a question now, yes?” I roll my eyes and gesture for her to speak. “Why am I being held hostage? I’ve yet to commit a crime!”

“You’ve aided in the conquering and subjugation of the wizarding world and muggles,” I say simply. “I can’t allow you to leave.”

“Eleanore?” Theseus pokes his head into the room. “We need assistance with the wards.”

I nod and place the bowl in front of Rosaline again. I hit it with a sticking charm and fill it with water.

“Don’t cause any trouble while I’m gone.”

“I want my wand!” she yells.

“No!” I call back.

“Something is wrong with her,” I say softly. “I don’t want to jump to any conclusions, but my suspicions that she may have been bewitched are only getting stronger.”

Theseus nods. “Is there any way to prove that’s true?”

“Only time can tell, really, and if she were, then being away from whoever cast the spell could have adverse effects, the likes of which I cannot predict. But…” I trail off, biting at the end of my thumb.

“What?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think we can keep her here. As secure as my wards are, they’re nothing compared to those of the Ministry, especially down in the Department of Mysteries. As it stands, Grindelwald may very well be looking for Rosaline and he may be able to find my flat, or my parents house, or even my… my shop. Merlin, Theseus, I have to tell my parents to leave their home. I’ll have to close the shop!”

I begin pacing and Theseus chases after me. “Nora.” He tries to get a hand around my arm, but I manage to slip from his grasp. “Nora, please.”

I pace back and forth across the library, muttering about plans to move my parents. Plans for the shop. Plans to keep my employees safe. Theseus manages to get in front of my and grab hold of my arms, stopping me where I stand.

“Eleanore, love, please stop,” he says softly, careful in the way that he cups my face in his hands.

I freeze and rest my hands on his forearms. “You called me love,” I murmur.

“Yes,” he nods firmly. “I-I did. Intentionally and with complete confidence.”

I choke out a laugh and Theseus wipes a tear from my eye with his thumb. “Thank you for that.”

“Is it that funny?”

“No, I’m just really happy that you feel like we’re at a point in our relationship where you can call me love. Because, believe me, I’ve been wanting to for a while, but I didn’t want to overstep any bounds.”

He smiles and presses his forehead to mine. “Never. You could never. But you are getting very wound up over this. Your parents have already been contacted and have been moved to a safehouse. I can send Dawes to the shop and make sure James and Tessa make it home alright.”

“Really?”

“Of course. There’s a real risk that they could be targeted. However, we haven’t seen any evidence that Grindelwald is doing anything to find Rosaline.”

“Sounds like something we should keep quiet for now.” He nods. “Where’s Newt? How has he been handling all of this?”

“He went home to take care of his creatures and check on Jacob and Bunty. He should be back tomorrow morning.”

“Is there anything we can do about Rosaline between then and now? Anyone we could contact about moving her to the Ministry?”

“There’s one person who may be able to help us.”

“Alright. We’ll work through the night if we have to.”

“We’ve got permission to move her into a cell in the Department of Mysteries,” Theseus announces when he sits down at breakfast.

“Really?” I say.

“We’ll be able to move her there around five this evening.” Theseus takes a slice of toast from the rack and butters it.

“Alright.”

“Is everything alright?” he asks.

“She refuses to eat anything. Either pushes it off the table or lets it sit till it’s cold, warm, or just disgusting altogether.” I place my tea on the table. “Could this be due to the bewitching?”

“It’s not quite my area of expertise, but it might. Maybe you should contact Dumbledore and get his opinion.”

I nod and push back from the table. “I’ll owl him. Perhaps he might take a look at her once we’ve gotten her settled.”

“Ah! The Head Auror is back,” Rosaline says when Theseus enters the room. I follow after him and she ignores me.

“You’re being moved,” Theseus says, folding his arms across his chest.

“Oh, am I?”

“You’re under investigation. As soon as the room is prepared, we’ll transport you to the Ministry,” Theseus explains.

She scoffs. “You’d have me locked up, would you, cousin?” she questions, finally lifting her eyes to meet mine.

I shake my head. “You’ve left me no choice.”

“Is this punishment? Are you seeking a surrogate for your own pain? The fact that you’ll never have Theseus, yet I’ve found true love eats you alive, doesn’t it? That’s why you’re doing this. You have nothing on which to hold me, you refuse me my wand and the respect I deserve, and now you’re confining me to the Ministry?”

Theseus and I glance at each other and Rosaline catches it. Something flares in her eyes.

“Speaking of lovers, how is Leta, Theseus?” Rosaline asks.

Theseus steps forward, his mouth open, and I stop him with one hand on his chest. His face steadily grows more and more red with his anger.

“You know damn well how she is,” he hisses.

“Oh, Theseus,” Rosaline cackles gleefully. “You always were a halfwit. No wonder they were begging me to replace you.”

With a flick of my wand, I cast a wordless silencio, and all sounds from Rosaline cease. Theseus sighs and his shoulders sag. I place a cup of water down on the table in front of her.

“Drink.” She purses her lips and I point my wand at her. “It’s the water or a hex, I’m certain I know which you would prefer.”

She glares at me and snatches the glass from the table and slugs it back and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She slams the glass down and folds her arms. I watch with mild disinterest as the sleeping draught begins to take effect. Her eyelids grow heavier and heavier until her head lolls back and her mouth hangs open.

“That should hold her till we can get her to the Ministry,” I say.

“I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that,” Theseus murmurs.

“You had every right to.”

He shakes his head. “What did she mean when she said you’d “never have me”?”

I press my lips together and take his hand in mine. “This isn’t a conversation to have here.”

I lead him into my bedroom and sit him on the bed. I stand in front of him and he looks at me expectantly. I take a deep breath and begin pacing.

“Again with the pacing?”

I nod. “I can’t explain myself and look you in the eye.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve cared for you longer than you have for me.”

“Wh-how long?”

“Years.”

“Years?”

“Yes. Years. That’s why I pushed you away when you started seeing Leta and why I tried to stay even further out of your way after you proposed. I didn’t want to hang around or torture myself because, as I’m sure you’ve figured out, I’m a great fan of self preservation. I threw myself into the shop and studying so that I didn’t have to accidentally get in your way.” He opens his mouth to speak but I stop and face him, arms folded. “I was happy for you and Leta, I promise. I never wanted to pursue you or anything. I never did, and Rosaline was convinced that I should for a very long time. But I could see how happy she made you. I mourned with you after… after Paris. I didn’t expect this-” I gesture between the two of us. “-to ever happen. Ever. And I understand if you don’t feel comfortable continuing on because I know it’s all very strange for this to come up after months of carrying on not knowing.”

“Nora,” he interrupts. “I’m not going to leave you.”

“I… what?”

“I’m. Not. Going. To. Leave. You,” he repeats, pushing himself up from the bed and taking my hands in his. “You really think something like this could turn me off you?”

I shrug. “I should have told you,” I say weakly.

“Why?”

“I don’t know… you deserved to know? It’s not as if I was the kindest to you while you were with Leta, and then-”

“You didn’t do anything,” he insists.

“Then with Paris and what Rosaline just said, it makes me think that maybe I should have just let things stay as they were.”

“Really?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you not happy being with me?” he asks.

“I’m happier than I’ve been in nearly ten years.”

“Then everything is fine. You aren’t Leta. You aren’t supposed to be. You yourself said the first night you invited me out that you didn’t want to be her replacement. You’re not. You are Eleanore Vaughan. You are a world class dueler, one hair shy of a curse breaker, and an excellent shop owner. Not to mention wicked smart.” He brings one of my hands up to his chest and places it over his heart. “This is yours. Not because I was lonely. Not because you talked me into it. But because I want you, because you’re the only you there will ever be.”

“Theseus…”

“I meant it when I said I didn’t think you wanted me to be interested in spending time with you. I never wanted to push you for anything when we were younger. Then Leta and I grew close. She and I loved each other. Circumstances change, though, and we’re allowed to want and-and to love and care about other people.” He shakes his head and pulls me into a hug. “Rosaline knows exactly how to get to you. She’s not in her right mind. We’ll get her to the Ministry, Dumbledore will look her over, and we’ll figure out how to help her.”

I nod and he pulls back.

“I wouldn’t let you go for all the gold in the world,” he says.

“Even if I’ve murdered someone?”

“Even then. May have to destroy any evidence first, but I’d never leave you.”

I snort and cover my face with my hands. “I’m sorry, Theseus. I’m just… I don’t think I quite feel I deserve you yet.”

“Give it time,” he smiles down at me and presses a kiss to my forehead. “I’m not going anywhere without you. Especially because your cousin is unconscious in the other room and we’ve got to have her at the Ministry in half an hour.”

“Shit, right. I’ll gather up everything we’ll need.” I rush out of the bedroom and skid to a stop in the hallway before turning on my heel and racing back into the room.

I cup his face and pull him into a kiss. He wraps his arms around my middle and kisses me back.

“What was that for?” he asks, out of breath.

“Because you’re you and I never thank you for that,” I say. “Thank you, love. For everything. I couldn’t do any of this without you.”

He laughs. “You just said you needed to put everything we needed together. We can thank each other later.” But he doesn’t let me go and leans in for another kiss instead.

I peck him on the lips and pull back. “You’ll have to let me go so I can.”

He sighs and releases me. I shuffle back out into the hallway.

“Hurry! We’ve only got twenty five minutes, now.”

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

Part 9

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this chapter, please reblog, comment, and/or shoot me ask! Feedback would be greatly appreciated!

#theseus scamanderxreader #readerxtheseus scamander #theseus scamander x reader #reader x theseus scamander #theseus scamander #newt scamander

25 notes · View notes

wordsablaze · 4 years

Text

3. it steals all my reason

your beauty hides the pain Lost on the mountain, Jaskier accidentally angers a mage who decides to curse Yennefer with his company and for once, it might actually be a blessing in disguise…

A/N: idk who canon is anymore but yen and jas are fun ^.^ @random-nerd-3 x

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Jaskier wakes to someone pulling him upright.

He blindly reaches for and pulls his lute case to his chest, letting himself be none too gently guided until the walls of what he hadn’t noticed is a tent are replaced by trees.

“What…?” he starts, only to trail off as said tent bursts into flames.

“You just cost me a room, bard,” Yennefer mutters, irritation dripping from her words.

Jaskier blinks, staring at her in confusion. “How exactly am I in any way responsible for your tent room thing deciding to set itself on fire?”

Yennefer shakes her head impatiently as she brushes practically non-existent dust from her dress. “You were covered in unnatural ash when you got here, it was a delayed spell.”

“Not my fault you didn’t sense it,” he scoffs, slinging his lute over a shoulder.

She glares at him. “I was a little distracted by your idiot self getting us cursed and bound together.”

Shifting awkwardly under her pointed gaze, Jaskier shrugs and offers her his best sheepish smile. “I did try telling her you and Geralt were better suited but she pretty much ignored everything I-”

“You did what?” Yennefer interrupts, her glare turning into some of the most deadly glowering Jaskier has ever had the misfortune of experiencing as she steps towards him.

He steps back automatically.

“You saw my memories, didn’t you? She said she could smell you or something and I tried to tell her that it was impossible because I’d been wandering around a mountain all day and the only person who could even possibly smell like you is Geralt because the two of you shared a tent before the whole- woah!”

The ground disappears beneath his feet as he’s thrown back into the air and all he can think to do is twist so that he lands on his side rather than his lute case.

Which he does.

Only to gasp as pain spikes up in his very bones again, every inch of his skin feeling as though it’s been set ablaze much like Yennefer’s tent.

Cursing internally, he picks himself up and stumbles back to Yennefer, who somehow looks elegant even as she sits slumped on the slightly dead grass with a pained grimace on her face.

“Maybe don’t do that again,” Jaskier suggests breathlessly.

Yennefer rolls her eyes but nods. “It seems we can’t be very far apart, bard.”

“How romantic,” he mutters, tightening his grips on the strap across his shoulder as he exhales softly, the pain melting away again.

They don’t move for a while, not until the tent is nothing but ashes.

Once the smoke clears as if there’d never been a fire in the first place, Jaskier turns to Yennefer. “So, where are you headed?”

She rises to her feet and frowns down at him. “Aren’t you meant to be trailing your precious white wolf like a lost puppy?”

Jaskier flinches. “He’s not mine. He never was and he never will be.”

And he’d been stupid to think otherwise because look where it had gotten him: stuck with the mage who’d stolen Geralt’s heart within the blink of an eye. He wants to pretend he’s not bitter about it but…

“I take it you had an argument then?” Yennefer asks, having the audacity to sound bored as he struggles with his recent heartbreak.

But he couldn’t care less about being mocked. “Not so much an argument as a swift farewell,” he ends up saying, almost wincing at himself for sounding so forlorn.

Yennefer gives him a strange look that he can’t quite decipher, something like disbelief and pity and anger rolled into one. But she says nothing so he doesn’t think much of it, pushing himself to his feet again and replacing his frown with a grin.

“So, once again, where does the merciless Yennefer plan to target next?”

He only grins wider when sparks crackle at her fingertips before she sighs loudly. “I should probably go and explain that moron’s death.”

They both know which moron she’s referring to and although Jaskier doesn’t find him particularly worthy of being honoured or anything, he can’t really argue with her. In fact, he doesn’t think to question anything about their plan until they arrive in a town he only dimly recognises as one he was kicked out of for sleeping with both of the blacksmith’s children.

(Not that he knew they were both his but that probably wouldn't have changed his mind anyway.)

“Uh, Yennefer? You should probably know that-”

“If you’re about to tell me there’s someone here who wants to kill you, I don’t care,” she interjects, starting to walk faster.

Jaskier just sighs and ducks his head, wishing for one that he wasn’t wearing something so beautifully made.

But they make it to the Lord’s house with no vengeful interruptions, where the central guard at the door raises a judgemental eye at them. “Lady Yennefer, and…?”

Yennefer sighs. “He’s with me, unfortunately. Won’t you let us in?”

Against every one of his urges, Jaskier stays silent and only smiles brightly at the guards once they’re let inside, starting to follow Yennefer only to be roughly yanked backwards.

“I know who you are and if you weren’t with her, I’d have gutted you on the spot,” one of the guards hisses under his breath, and Jaskier isn’t sure if he should be more concerned about that or the prickling sensation of starting to be too far from Yennefer.

“I’m terribly sorry if I remind you of anyone but I really haven’t had the pleasure of visiting your lovely town before. And I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding so-”

“Unhand him or lose the hand,” Yennefer says coolly from where she’s now glaring back at them, her voice somehow crystal clear despite the distance.

The guard spits at him before reluctantly letting go, turning back his post.

Jaskier suppresses his flinch as he wipes it away and exhales softly, speeding up so he can fall into stride with Yennefer again. “I thought you said you didn’t care?” he teases.

She hums. “I don’t. I just don’t care for you getting me into any more trouble, it’s bad enough that you’re here at all.”

Ouch.

He wants to think she only means to match his teasing but he can’t help that her comments always know how to sting in the worst way and all he can do is try his best not to let it show lest she use it against him in future.

“It’s not like I chose to accompany an arrogant coward from a terrible town up a mountain,” he snaps back.

They don’t get to say anything else because a Lord greets them at the door, welcoming Yennefer and sighing at the sight of Jaskier instead of his son. “I take it the quest wasn’t successful?”

“No, it wasn’t. I will, however, be taking payment regardless.”

The Lord nods quickly. “Of course, as promised. It’s just that the payment you requested has yet to be delivered. If you could stay just one night…?”

Jaskier tenses but Yennefer nods slowly. “One night, and then I take your blood instead. Noble blood does so well in potions.”

Never has anyone so quickly offered up their best spare rooms.

Said rooms happen to be across an opulently wide hallway.

“Yenn-”

“Not a word. Endure for two minutes, bard,” Yennefer mutters, letting the servants guide them to the two separate rooms.

Jaskier digs his nails into his palms as he thanks the girl whose curiosity regarding his lute he’d otherwise have loved to feed, waiting until she’s retreated fully before sliding down the door with a quiet gasp.

True to her word, Yennefer yanks him through a portal after just under two minutes.

Gagging at the wave of nausea that hits him, he waits until the room isn’t spinning before offering up a weak smile of gratitude.

“I’ll portal you back when we’re invited for dinner,” she tells him, settling on the bed.

“Sure. What kind of payment did you demand?”

She smiles mysteriously. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Jaskier shrugs off his lute and leans on the wall, stretching his feet out and trying not to laugh at the absurdity of his life. “Not really, darling, but I’m sure your malicious tale will distract from the after-effects of a portal.”

“I am not here to be a distraction for the likes of you,” Yennefer all but snarls.

After that, the two of them lapse into silence until the tension in the room builds to a palpable level at which point Jaskier pulls out his lute and starts idly strumming.

To his mild surprise, Yennefer doesn’t even bat an eye. But then again, she might be magically tuning him out because if she doesn’t care for him, she certainly won’t care for his music, no matter how beautiful it is.

Jaskier sighs at the thought, wondering how he’s meant to play for a receptive audience if he can’t convince Yennefer to enter a tavern. There’s also the small issue of finding an audience that can be receptive without him having to play Toss a Coin and suffer through the memories it brings back.

But those are inevitable concerns for another time, he decides, closing his eyes and absently letting his fingers dance across the strings as they please.

He just hopes they’re both invited to eat.

i’d say i promise to increase the pace next time so it’s more interesting but i can’t seem to rush these two...

thanks for reading! | masterlist | witcher blog: @itsjaskier | next chapter

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serendipityunho · 5 years

Text

No Strings | 강여상

↳ PART TWO

GENRE: smut, angst, college au, friends to lovers, friends with benefits WARNINGS: suggestive, fingering, alcohol consumption, multiple makeouts, explicit language, jealousy

Word Count: 3.2k

part 1 • part 2 • part 3 • part 4

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

He held her hand like they were delicate flowers. With yours, he held them like they were roses, careful, and cautiously of thorns. One prick would bleed out closeted emotions. And that was the problem, you weren’t careful holding his.

“Are you going to Wooyoung’s party tonight?” A deep voice snaps you out of your thoughts. Mingi takes another bite out of his sandwich, eyes still fixated on his screen.

“He’s having another one?” You sigh, throwing your napkin on the empty plate as you lean back against the seat.

“You really shouldn’t be surprised at this point” Mingi claps his hands together, rubbing off the crumbs as he chews down the rest of his food.

Wooyoung was notoriously known for his wild parties, everyone who went has said they’d go again even if it means accidentally chopping of their finger.

Yes, someone has done that. And that someone was either completely drunk off their heads or just a dumbass wanting to collect the social points they desperately wanted.

One time, you swore you witnessed a drunk Yunho urinating on Wooyoung’s poor dog. It was a good thing he tucked his thing away before it was bitten off. It was something that would most definitely scar you for life.

“Yeah, I’ll go, I guess” You cross your arms, watching Mingi tap away on his screen as he doesn’t bother to reply. He knew not to pressure you into going to things otherwise he’d mentally cry at the sight of your death glares.

There was one reason behind your hesitant reply. And that reason was Yeosang. You didn’t want to see him trail his hands up and down somebody else, it would be quiet the feeling, seeing someone who isn’t you have their body occupied with his rough hands.

You’d been avoiding him for days now, it was better that way. The more you avoid him, the more you hope the unrequited love between you and him go away.

“I’ll pick you up?” Mingi tucks his phone in his back pocket before sliding out of the booth, letting you follow behind.

“Yeah, same time as always” You clutch your jacket in your arms as the two of you exit the diner, pushing through the cooling air as you navigate your way back to campus.

“Alright, I’ll see you later” Mingi waved before parting away from you, slinging his backpack over his shoulder as he walks away.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The day headed along just fine, that was until you spotted him wrapped around her finger.

He embraced her in his arms as if she was his long lost soul mate. With you, he held you as if you were another friend. Just a friend.

Yeosang’s bright smile stopped you in your tracks, he rarely ever does smile, and when he does, it’s with you.

You wish you could just go up to him and say what your heart wanted to say, but you knew the potential disaster that could erupt from spilling out the three big words.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, staring deep in his eyes as if she was drawing a spell upon him, a love spell that Yeosang was slowly falling into.

Your breath hitched at the back of your throat, head throbbing as you feel the stinging pain travel up your spine, reaching your eyes. You force yourself to pry yourself away from the sight, blinking back the tears brimming your eyes as you sniffle back a cry.

The walk home felt longer than any other day, maybe because Yeosang wasn’t walking behind you, poking your sides with sticks he’d pick up from the ground. You’d scold him for it, but that didn’t do much other than making him laugh as he finds ways to annoy you even more.

Your chest hurt just thinking about the simple things about him, the way he made you feel when he was around, just thinking about him made the pain in your chest unbearable.

Perhaps Wooyoung’s one of many parties could find a way to let you escape from the reality that Yeosang wasn’t yours anymore, he never was but that’s what your weak dumb heart had told you.

A distraction, that’s what you needed, something or someone to be your escapism. You’ve had enough with the sleepless nights, reminiscing to yourself of the times Yeosang had made you feel good, the times he made you smear your makeup on the pillow as he fucked you deep into the mattress.

Sadly, that was all gone now. Oh, how you’ll miss it dearly. You’ve tried everything to push him out of your head, nothing worked, nearly everything had reminded you of Yeosang. But who knows what Wooyoung’s notorious party would have in store for you tonight.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“God, how much cologne did you spray?” Your face scrunches in disgust as Mingi’s cologne punches you immediately when you step inside the car.

“Not enough” Mingi chuckles, obviously joking before rolling down the windows, letting the cool breeze brush away the unnecessary amount of cologne.

Mingi presses down on the gas, accelerating the two of you down the street to the wild party where you hopefully won’t witness another grimacing sight of Wooyoung’s poor dog being urinated on.

You could already spot the drunk couples sneaking around the side of the house as the car pulled up to the busy residence. Music boomed loudly through the walls of Wooyoung’s home, the smell of alcohol becoming prominent as you walk towards the entrance.

“I forgot what it was like coming to one of his parties” You yell over the music, making Mingi lower his head down to yours.

“Really? With a party like this, no one is going to forget. Let’s go!” Mingi ushered you, slipping into the crowd of people as he waits for you to follow behind.

“Mingi! Y/N!” Your head snaps to the high-pitched voice, Wooyoung stood with wide arms in the kitchen, grinning largely before erupting into a fit of giggles.

“I’ve missed these nights, Wooyoung” You hug Wooyoung back as he greets the two of you.

“Yeah?! I’m surprised you made it tonight!” You could tell he was already drunk off his head, undoubtfully not going to remember a thing the next morning.

“I know right? I need to get drunk” You chuckle as Wooyoung’s eyes widen at your statement, clearly not expecting that sort of response from you.

“Fuck yeah! Mingi, let’s gOoOOoo!” Wooyoung waved his arms in the air as he turned his back, reaching for the half-empty bottles on the counter.

“Nah, man. I’m driving” Mingi shook his head, declining Wooyoung’s drunken offer.

“Boo, you whore”

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Your body swayed along with the beat, eyes shut as your hands tangled into your hair, the normal drunken movements on the dancefloor.

There was nothing you cared for in the world anymore, vodka and some other booze numbing your thoughts as you grind your ass against someone you vaguely recognize.

“Fuck, Y/N” It took you a solid five seconds before identifying the voice against your ear.

“Oop- Mingissiiiiiiiiiiiiii” Your words slurred as you snap your head to the side to face a flustered Mingi.

“Hello to you too” Mingi smirked, rocking his body with yours, hands hesitantly making their way to your sides, making you bite your lip as you pressed your body further against his.

“You look cute tonighttttt” Your voice became softer, leaning back against his shoulder as your lips brush his ear, letting your left arm snake back around his neck.

“And so do you, about time you got drunk again” Mingi’s deep chuckle sent chills down your spine, making you press yourself further against him, wanting more of his warmth as his hot breath fanned over your neck.

“Mhmmmmm fuckkkk” Your breathing quickened as your mind clouds with haze, mind going numb as you couldn’t care less about who was feeling you up behind you.

“I really don’t want to do this when you’re drunk” Mingi growled, nipping at your earlobe as his hands continue to slide up and down your sides, gently caressing the flesh as you grind your hips back against his crotch.

“Mingi, does it look like I care?” You push his head forward with the hand behind his head, letting your lips graze over his plump ones.

“Fuck, you’re killing me”

Mingi’s plump lips plant on to yours, groaning into the kiss as he moves hips against your ass, resting his hands on your waist. Your lips moved in sync, tongues wrestling for dominance as your eyes close and body subconsciously swaying slowly against one another.

You moan into the kiss as you feel Mingi’s thumb dig into your lower back, holding a firm grip on you as he pushes your hips back and forth against him, rubbing your ass on his crotch.

The heated kiss breaks apart as you feel another pair of hands on your body. Your eyes meet with another pair of soft brown ones. His chest was pressed against yours as he towers over you, seemingly close in height with Mingi, except with a ridiculous shade of blue patched on his hair.

“OooOOh what’s yourrrrr name?” You let your spare hand roam over his chest, tracing the outlines of his peck before snaking it around his neck.

“You know who I am, Y/N” The boy chuckled at you as you stared at him with droopy questioning eyes.

“Ooohhh- YUNHO!” You finally recognize the boy pressed in front of you.

Yunho sheepishly smiles, hands still resting on your waist as his body pressed against yours, swaying to the beat as you were sandwiched between him and Mingi.

“You’re lookin’ pretty wild tonight” Yunho grumbled against your ear.

“She’s loving it though” Mingi spoke up, smirking at the boy in front of him before letting his lips graze over your neck to the back of your ear.

“Mhmm yeah I’m loving it” You slightly moaned at Mingi’s hot breath fanning over your neck as he peppers wet kisses up and down.

With one hand resting around to the side of Mingi’s neck, the other makes its way behind Yunho’s head, letting your fingers tangle with his hair as the space between your bodies only grow smaller.

The gap between your faces was insanely close and you couldn’t care less. With Mingi sending sparking your nerves and tendering your ass with his crotch, you couldn’t back out now. It was too fun, especially now that you have another one in front of you.

The alcohol may be the major influence on your sleazy actions but you definitely needed it. What better way than to erase Yeosang with two others taking his place?

Yunho’s nose brushes against yours, tilting his head to the side before letting his lips graze over yours. Your breathing quickened as no inch of your body was left untouched, Yunho slides his hands down to your hips as he caresses the flesh lightly with Mingi’s hands still trail up and down your sides.

You nip down gently on Yunho’s bottom lip as you push the back of his head forward to you, closing the small gap between your lips.

You couldn’t help but moan at the way his soft plump lips moved with yours as Mingi’s taped onto your neck, giving you the best of both worlds.

Yunho slips his tongue into your mouth, playing around with yours. Your bodies continue to sway smoothly against the beat of the music, colorful lights beaming left and right with sweaty bodies grinding against one another on the compact dancefloor.

You open your eyes slightly, which unfortunately lead you staring at Yeosang, who was blocked by Yunho before.

Yeosang stared back at you, shock in his eyes as he witnesses the two boys pressed up against your body. But all you could do was shut your eyes again, blocking him out as you deepen yourself into the kiss.

Yunho breaks from the kiss, pecking your cheek before dropping his head onto your neck with Mingi occupying the other side.

You could see Yeosang through the bodies, he was still staring at you. That was until she came, Eujin, wrapping her arms around his neck as she forced him to dance with her.

You didn’t feel pain like you thought you would, thank god for the tequila numbing your body as Mingi and Yunho gives you the pleasure you deprived of.

Your eyes stay glued on Yeosang, watching him roam his hands all over her backside before squeezing her ass.

Oh, how you wish that was you. The sight of it made you grow wetter, watching his veiny hands touch every single inch of her body that should ultimately be you.

The two of you were practically in a staring competition. You took the opportunity to take Mingi’s head up, pressing your lips against him again.

“Mingi, I want you” You moaned into the kiss, sounding as desperate as you can.

“You’re drunk, Y/N, we can’t do that” You secretly knew he wanted it too, but he was still a gentleman despite having the advantage of ripping off your clothes in the state you were in now.

“Fuck, Mingi, I need something” Your eyes plead, whining for some sort of affection other than his lips.

“Mhmm, you sure?” The subtle tease in his voice made you whine even more, pushing your ass harder against his hardening dick.

“Yes” Mingi responded with another kiss as you feel one of his hands moving to your stomach, fingers playing with the edge of your waistband.

Yunho seemed to have noticed to subtle motion, smirking as he decides to attach his lips to your neck, sucking on the sensitive skin, making you moan into the kiss with Mingi.

Mingi’s fingers teasingly trail under your waistband, hand completely in your pants as his fingers press against your throbbing clit.

You weren’t worried about anyone else seeing as the darkness cloaked the room with only cheap colorful lights being the source of brightness.

Mingi starts to slowly rub little circles on your clit, making you unintentionally break the kiss from the overwhelming pleasure of Yunho’s lips against your sensitive neck and Mingi’s fingers rubbing your clit.

Your head rolls back against Mingi’s shoulder, exposing more of your neck for Yunho’s hungry lips as Mingi watches your face scrunch up in pleasure.

With a position like this, you were hoping Yeosang was watching, watching the way Mingi and Yunho make your face scrunch up in pleasure the same way he did with you.

Your eyes flutter open, still droopy as you tame the pleasure. Yeosang’s eyes were still fixated on you, this time his eyebrows furrowed, jaw clenched as his lips pressed into a thin line.

Eujin didn’t seem to take notice in his expression as she made out with his neck. You smirk at him from across the dancefloor, showing him your most desperate expression as Mingi’s fingers played with your slit and Yunho loving your front.

Your head turns tilts to the side, lifting Yunho’s head with the hand behind his head before slamming your lips back onto his.

All the problems in the world were gone, you couldn’t give two single shits about what these boys did to you and you absolutely loved it.

You loved the fire that coursed through your body as the alcohol controlled your decisions.

Although Mingi quite simply knows he’s being used, he wouldn’t hesitate to make you feel good at least once. As for Yunho? Who knows, he’s seen with a different girl every party. It didn’t bother you one bit.

Except for the body pressed against Yeosang. Eujin had what was yours, and you weren’t happy with sharing.

All that thought was abolished when Mingi suddenly slips his fingers into your wet pussy, slowly pumping in and out of you.

You moan against Yunho, making him smirk as he connects his lips back on to yours, muffling your moans with his tongue.

Even though your eyes were shut, you couldn’t help but roll them back as Mingi starts pumping in and out faster, tightening the knot fixated in the pit of your stomach.

“Mmmmnnnngh- fuck” You break from the kiss as Mingi curled his fingers inside you, palm brushing over your clit continuously as his fingers work faster in your wet pussy, quickening your breathing.

Yunho rubs his thumbs across the exposed flesh of your waist as he lets your head rest on his broad shoulder.

Yeosang’s eyes never left your little softcore porn on the dancefloor. Your walls clench around Mingi’s fingers as Yeosang begins kneading Eujin’s ass, bodies bouncing along to the music.

You miss the way Yeosang’s hands tenderized your ass raw with his spanks, the way he rubbed them when he fucked you from the back, the way he squeezed them when he fucked you against the wall. You miss him.

Your mind flushes with haze as you feel the knot in your stomach tightening with each fast pump. You could almost hear the squelching of your juices pushing back inside you by Mingi’s fingers over the loud pumping music.

Your face scrunches harder in pleasure, struggling to focus on Yeosang’s fuming expression as your moans became impossible to control.

“You close, baby?” Mingi growled against your ear, planting a wet kiss on the sensitive flesh under your ear as Yunho makes his way back around to your parted lips, taking the opportunity to kiss you again as his hands make their way around to your ass, squeezing them before pushing you forward against his body, making you moan louder as Mingi’s fingers dug deeper inside you.

“Fuck, yes, keep going ohmygodohmygod-” A low shaky moan drips from your lips as the quivering orgasm rips through your body, making your ass suddenly press back against Mingi as he pants, fingers pumping vigorously in and out of you, cupping your clit with his palm.

Your breath hitched in the back of your throat, the hand resting behind Mingi’s head shoots in front of you as you hold on to Yunho for leverage, letting Mingi fuck out your orgasm with his long fingers.

Yunho wore a satisfied smirk across his face as he watches your body twitch from the nerves sparking in pleasure.

You pant against Yunho’s ear as you bring yourself to cling around his neck with Mingi still closely pressed behind you, fingers slowing down before sliding out of your gushing pussy with a snap of your waistband.

“That was hot” You hear Yunho praise.

You couldn’t focus on the voices pressed against your ear. All you could fix your mind on was Yeosang, who was still staring at you from across the dancefloor, unamused by your little desperate act to make him jealous.

The two of you battle out with stares for a little while before he breaks his sight, looking back at Eujin before cupping her face.

Your heart raced as your eyes glued on the couple, mentally pleading Yeosang not to do what you thought he’d do.

Sadly, he does. Yeosang’s lips press against hers, it was a rather slow intimate kiss, one only real couples give to each other. A kiss you desperately craved your entire friendship with Yeosang.

The emotions start pooling back into your body, lips trembling as your head lightens. The sight made you sick to the core, she devoured his lips as their heads tilt back and forth seemingly hungry.

“I’m gonna head out for a bit” You squeeze out between Mingi and Yunho, who simply nod their heads before inching towards the kitchen.

You were hit with a wave of fresh, sweat-free air as you head out to the backyard, filled with much more calmer people as they giggled away with whoever they were talking to.

Your legs take a break from standing, letting out a breath of relief as your bottom plops down on the bench far from the crowd people.

Despite just getting fingerbanged by one of your best friends, it still didn’t help with that fact that Yeosang was so carved deep in your heart that he still pained you no matter what.

You hated yourself. The ‘distraction’ or ‘distractions’ only made you feel worse. It only made Yeosang hurt you even more and that was for you to blame.

Fuck you really loved him. That was the hard part.

You could fall head over heels for him all over again even if it meant ripping your heart out.

part 1 • part 2 • part 3 • part 4

#ateez #ateez angst #ateez smut #ateez fanfic #kpop #kpop smut #kpop angst #kpop fanfic #kang yeosang #song mingi #jeong yunho #smut:yunho #smut:mingi #ateez series

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