#And appears to walk the line between keeping Trunks prepared and not forcing him to be a warrior despite his Elite Saiyan Blood

[shannonsketches]

Fun fact/good news! It is indeed based on this moment of Geets enjoying time with his boy Pre-Buu

Sometimes you and your kid take a training break so he can enthusiastically walk you through the plot of his favorite niche janitorial-based video game

his interests make no sense to you, but you're glad he's happy

[hes-writer]

Reign (3)

Summary: harry sees something he's supposed to have

Warnings:  angst in the beginning, angst in the middle, angst near the end

Word Count: 4881 words

A/N: @devilinbetweenthesheet-s : dont cheat and don’t do drugs, kids

Tarnish (1)  .  Halo (2)  . Reign (3) . Trial (4) .

Errors (5) . Ruin (6) . Crumble (7)

Error Taglist

____

A writer that cannot write is dead.

When one loses the ability to tell their stories and anecdotes through the mere action of swirling words together to create an imaginable atmosphere of real-world fantasy; they are dead. A writer recovering from the mundane and mediocre way of penning experiences to bounce back into what they used to be is difficult. It is easier to free fall and drown in the depths of despair. The moment thoughts and rumination fog up to form a blurry image of conviction is a warning sign, blaring at the back of their minds and sometimes even in their faces.

Harry is a writer--or, he was. Picking up the pen to style the words lingering in his head used to be as easy as blinking; quick and natural. Now, the words claw at the swell of his throat, trying to spit an adjective to describe the way he felt. It was at the tip of his tongue, waiting to be lathed into existence. It did not matter if his cognition was mingled with various chemicals aimed to be able to feel happiness.

He was sober but he had trouble placing his finger on why it was so strenuous to narrate his feelings throughout the breakup. Being high or drunk was never the answer for him. Weed made him tired and made him have a case of cottonmouth. Harry learned from a young age that he should only ever engage with alcohol if he was in a mindset and setting that catered to increase existing good vibes. He thought that maybe he was in an odd phase of perceiving the opposite, and so he intoxicated himself enough to understand that it didn’t matter if he was soaked head-to-toe in sobriety or whizzed out of his mind by the amber liquid swirling in the glass in his hand. But that wasn’t the circumstance. It also didn’t matter if he was grasping his favourite pen to write--because it was comfortable--or tapping his calloused thumbs against his phone keypad. Hell, it didn’t make a difference when he sat down and prepared his typewriter to indulge in a headspace of vintage songwriting. Maybe that would help.

It didn’t.

He had stories to tell. Everything was laid out in misty overcast yet Harry’s great ideas morphed into gentle mistakes, harsh mistakes and discoveries that had him almost ripping his hair out of the roots of his scalp. When he felt the wave of his ocean-thoughts rise and peek where the sand shifted, his fingers were ready to move and discern for the eyes to see. But with each fritter, he couldn’t seem to get even two paragraphs in to decide that it was utter shit.

Harry was old enough to understand that slumping on the wet sand was a part of life. Sometimes picking up a fistful of grains and throwing them back to the sea was a great way to release frustration. But it seemed like this plunge of his ability to write was a hole of quicksand. He was trying his hardest to displace himself as swiftly as possible but it only made his scenario worse. The muddy sand clung unto his legs like sticky glue, heftier with each effort to leave. He wanted to move on. He wanted to forget everything that occurred in the past four years. Harry wanted to erase Y/N from his life because she wasn’t around anymore to bring those memories back to sparkly existence.

What he needed to do was nestle himself into a certain depth, calmly, in order to pull a limb out and ensure that his progress on the so-called ‘moving on’ did not have any drawbacks. Until then, he cannot possibly create songs that he was well-known for if he wasn’t patient enough.

He wanted so badly to tell his side of the story. Harry craved to think as clearly as he did when he told Y/N about his plan for their future. Admitting to his feelings was a hard route. Sure, he can be vulnerable but it took a great deal of convincing on his part to immerse himself in the deepest parts of his brain to understand why he felt the way he did. He usually had the means of songwriting to help him out but that obviously wasn’t working out that good for him.

___

Harry was packing the rest of Y/N’s things in boxes to be picked up later in the afternoon. He was annoyed at first at how she depended on him to fold her clothes properly instead of doing the bundle of the work herself. But he guessed that she didn’t want to be around him for longer than she had to. To be frank, he also did not want to indulge in what might turn into an argument if they spoke about the reason for their breakup. It was just a bit confusing because he had an urge to still want her around despite their less than likely situation.

Torture. If Harry had one chance to describe the way he felt right now; it was torture. With every nook of Y/N’s side of the closet emptying into brown, cardboard boxes--he physically how much she had integrated her life with his. How much space she took up in his life. How his clothes and her clothes were so interchanged between them that he couldn’t decide if the gray pull-over was actually his or hers. And in a moment of selfishness did he tuck it away for his safe-keeping despite seeing the tag imprinted on the inside; a shop that he hadn’t set foot in so it was a guarantee that it was hers.

Her scent embedded in the thin threads of each fabric wafted to his nose; each with a new wave of memories engulfing his senses as if each piece garnered a specific scent tailored to a specific event. Like her sunflower sundress--it smelled of fresh flowers as if the print was a scratch and sniff that released a fragrance. Or their DIY-ed tie-dye shirt of pastel blue and cotton candy pink. It was a matching piece made out of the cheap dye and a simple white tee but it was theirs. Things like these made Harry want to yell in frustration because every time he thought that he was completely over her-- Y/N appears out of visibly nowhere and towers over him.

Seeing her for the first time in days was a breath of relief. She looked fine. Glowing even, and Harry did not know what to make of it. As sadistic as it sounded, he was expecting dry-stained tears and a birds’ nest of hair trampling her head. Instead, Y/N was dressed for comfort in her baggy jeans and an even looser sweater covering her body. Her lips were drawn in a thin line, giving him a nod in greeting as he gestured to the boxes littering the floor.

Harry offered to help--it was the least he could do. And somehow, silence protruded from the tense atmosphere, begging to be cut by a knife yielded through their voices nipping at each others’ emotions.

“Let go of my damn hand,” Y/N stated, her hard stare could turn Harry into stone. He just wanted her to listen before she left.

He shook his head in denial of her request, tightening his grip further. “No. Listen to me, Y/N,”

“What do you possibly have to say that will change anything between us?”

And maybe it was her fault for assuming that he wanted to fix things. The sliver of hope thinly dressed behind closed lids enabled her to think that maybe he was going to say that he wanted to make things work again. That he had broken up with Camille and he realized what a stupid he had done throwing away everything they built up to for the past four years for an affair that couldn’t quench the thirst of his desire to have a family.

Harry sighed, a shadow of mischievous smirk painted on his lips. But maybe it was Y/N’s sight in deception because she could never see Harry as anything other than sweet and kind Harry incapable of hurting a fly.

“What? I don’t intend to. We’re broken. We’re beyond fixing,”

The hitch in her breath was as sharp as the stare he was searing her with. Forcing her to please understand that this would be their last conversation--if time and fate were on their side. “You’re not something I would take the time to handle,”

“Stop saying shit you don’t mean, Harry” Y/N rolled her eyes in annoyance. His macho act was barely an act and more like a stage curtain easily pushed with a flick of a wrist.

“Things I don’t mean?”

“You heard me,” She crossed her arms over his chest in defence, leaning against the closed trunk. “Say what you will but our love was real. Don’t make me seem like I’m crazy. Don’t tell me that I’m a mistake,” Her voice was filled with confidence because she knew the affection that Harry diffused.

The cradles of his palm at the small of her back when they had to walk past a crowd. The subtle graze of the back of his fingers caressing the bare skin of her arm. Kisses pressed to her temple as she read a novel and swirling fingertips twirling her hair. These were acts of love that happened nearly every day in their relationship. A routine that felt different if it wasn’t done to or with each other.

Exasperatedly, Harry felt the same itching crawling up his spine. His ego ballooning into a delicate size and one more word from Y/N’s lush lips would have him on his hands and knees, begging for her back.

“This, us, was a fuckin’ mistake,” Harry’s accent thunked heavily in her cochlea, practically spitting the words out of his mouth as if they were poisonous. Ringed fingers gesticulated the space between them to emphasize how much of a misunderstanding they truly were. “I should’ve known the second things went further than planned,”

Y/N felt her heart drop to her full stomach. The feeling so nauseating that she instinctively palmed her belly over the fabric to protect her little baby from his harsh words. Even though they weren’t directed towards anyone but Y/N. She didn’t think that their unborn child deserved scrutiny from their own father.

“You don’t mean that, Harry.”

Because how could he? Not when he emulated sincerity through his syrupy voice. Not when he spent hours loving on her tummy and spoke to it like he would if she were pregnant. Especially not when every kiss from him felt like a buzz of electricity coursing through her veins because he was the main distributor of her happiness.

Harry truly was an asshole for making her hope and wonder of what the future held when he was unsure himself. He did want a family. That was a statement in all its truthfulness. What he wasn’t sure about was if he wanted a family with Y/N. He could have a family; kids of his own in his own time. But Y/N didn’t have to necessarily be the mother. So was he besotted with the concept of family and marriage regardless of who it was with?

“But I do,”

The rain started drizzling in frequent spurts, planting a fat droplet on her cheek that could be argued as a tear escaping Y/N’s eye. It hurt a lot to hear that from him. The man of her dreams blatantly denying each sugary word because his plans had changed.

“You’re a goddamn mistake is what you are,’

“Why are you. . .saying all these things to me? Are you trying to hurt me?” The shakiness of Y/N’s tone had Harry swallowing his words down his strep throat.

He shook his head in disagreement, “No, I’m not. ‘M just tryna make you see my side. So you can understand,” His head dipped to the side, softening his tone yet stern as though he was speaking to a child.

And that was one of the reasons why Y/N didn’t believe his all-too stoic demeanour about her. Harry was great at making others see his side regardless of how much in the wrong he was.

So why was he struggling?

___

Needless to say, he wasn’t very respectful towards Y/N any other time afterwards. He had unblocked her number months after blocking it at one point and demanded answers that he didn’t have the right to know. In retrospect, Harry was embarrassed by the way he acted. He did cheat on her and suddenly he was a saint because she moved on quicker than he thought she would? Unbelievable.

In his defence, the night he became the drunk caller was the same night he fought with Camille about having children; having a family they can call their own. Ever since that discussion did Harry notice a dispatch in their relationship. It was like they were aware of a missing link that had disappeared in their connection, but neither one of them wanted to be the one to bring it up. Harry supposed that now that Camille knew what he wanted (and vice versa)--she was feeling the pressure of giving in to him. Don’t get him wrong, Harry absolutely wanted a family and he thought that Camille was the right partner to build it with. However, he couldn’t help the voice at the back of his mind slyly whispering that he had forced her to give him what he wanted for the sake of saving their failing relationship.

___

It had been two and a half years since he mildly and miserably accepted that his dream family was being erased like a pencil on paper.

The first year; Harry still clung to the obscure hope that Camille might change her mind of having kids. Many fights sprouted between the two of them concluding in them sleeping at different places for weeks on end until they eventually crawled back to each other like an invisible string. The second-year; Harry brought up the idea of adoption. It was a hard choice for him as he desperately wanted kids of his own. A boy that looked like him and his love or a little girl that smiled at him with deep dimples mirroring his own.

And Harry liked to think that he was just on the edge of convincing Camille to consider the option when his tour was scheduled a few months after. A new dealbreaker was that Harry wasn’t going to be around much to watch and nurture the little bub they might’ve adopted. It was a sudden intrusion to think about since Harry was good with kids. He knew that. That was why he had three godchildren of his own. But what hit him the most was how sure Camille sounded when she yelled at him about leaving for months at a time and returning for a bit, only to leave again. Now, Harry hadn’t considered that part. But surely he will be ready to choose between a family and his career, right? When the time comes, he thought.

___

It pained Harry to admit that his relationship with Camille was dwindling down the drain. The knowledge that there was no future--the one that Harry envisioned--for them was getting more and more real each passing day. 

A late-night grocery trip was one of the many examples that had Harry rethinking his actions for the past couple of years. It was the time period where night owls arose and barely any customers littered the aisles. Still, Harry made sure to keep his hoodie up to shield his face.

Camille had an early flight to Milan in just a few hours later that day and she wanted to purchase some things to bring with her; in case they weren’t available in the country. So here they were at three in the morning.

As Camille walked ahead of him in her sweatpants and a plain tee, Harry couldn’t help but let his eyes flicker to the clothing section to his right The first-floor space was decorated with pastel blues and pinks; a stroller was displayed with a price would not make a dent in Harry’s bank account.

“‘M just gonna grab somethin’ over here, Cam,” Harry muttered as he pointed a thumb behind him. She nodded, “Meet me at the produce? Need to get you some fruits,”

Harry felt guilt thudding his chest because although he was losing feelings he thought were written in stone, Camille appeared to care for him the same way she always had.

He walked to the brightly lit area, puffing his cheek as a cute onesie caught his eye, “You’re so golden” with the word ‘golden’ printed in a shiny, yellow glimmer. He smiled at the thought of baby angel cooing at him as he tickled her tummy. Harry passed by the shoes next, picking up a pair barely the size of his palm. His mind flashed back to a conversation with Y/N years ago,

___

“I’m just saying,” Y/N took a bite of a pickle she held on her left hand, “Baby shoes have no business being that expensive,”

Harry chuckled from his place across the counter, “Babies need shoes too, love,’

She grabbed her fork and stabbed a piece of strawberry from her bowl, “I didn’t say the don’t need shoes. For tiny things, they could at least be a bit cheaper,”

Harry watched as she munched on a pickle on her left and took a bite of a strawberry on the other. His tongue poked out in a gag at the odd combination, resorting in glare and a huff from Y/N.

“You should try it instead of judging me,’

“No, thank you. Watching you eat it is enough for me,’

___

Harry craned his head at each aisle, hoping to find Camille and to distract himself from the endless Y/N related thoughts that somehow returned to his brain. He needed his girlfriend to remind him that he cannot just knock on Y/N’s door and ask her about the baby she has. If he could hold them for a bit because his baby fever was through the roof.

Locating the produce section, Harry whistled mindlessly as he searched for a blonde head of hair, failing to notice that there was a basket in front of his feet. He had kicked it, jolting him out of his thoughts in a hurry.

A man with brown hair sporting an outfit similar to his (sweats and a hoodie), chuckled at him as Harry leaned down to retrieve the gray basket filled with a jar of pickles.

“Sorry man,” Harry muttered, holding the handles up for the man to carry.

“It’s alright, it happens,” The guy had not seen his face yet, too busy inspecting the carton of strawberries.

He decided to continue the conversation, “Strawberries and pickles? Odd combo, huh,” Harry was briefly reminded of Y/N’s obsession with the two rival products.

“Yeah, m’lady loves ‘em. Had a craving in the middle of the night. She’s in the car right now with our lil bubba,”

Harry’s heart fluttered at the mention of a baby. He needed to get his rails in check. He cannot keep having his heart bursting with adoration at the mere mention of a baby.

“I’m Connor,” He said, finally facing Harry after choosing the best carton.

“I'm--,”

“Harry!” Both men turned their heads towards Camille carrying a basket full fruits and green veggies, “Got you some stuff to blend for your smoothies,”

Connor squinted his eyes at the couple and Harry internally screamed because he knew that he and Camille had been recognized. “Harry. Yeah, I know you,” The sudden hostility made Harry confused as Connor grasped his basket from him in a harsh manner, heading towards the checkout.

The rest of the time inside the store was filled with curiosities as Harry carried the paper bags towards the car, barely recognizing Connor’s figure heading towards his own vehicle. Luckily, Harry has parked only a few slots away and could inconspicuously watch Connor and his so-called ‘lady’.

Except, Camille was ushering him to hurry up as she still had a few things to pack at home.

___

On most days, Harry was used to waking up alone. Used to feeling the shiver crawling up his side, used to seeing the indent left by Camille’s body instead of her. He had grown familiar with the sudden cast of loneliness blanketing him thicker than the duvet on top of his body.

The early morning trip to the store had tired him out, paired with the overthinking of the man named ‘Connor’ that flipped his attitude towards him quicker than he could kick the grey basket with his feet. He flopped back to the mattress after washing his face and brushing his teeth. It was noon when he jolted out of bed again at the sound of his front door opening, voices filling the empty space that had Harry running towards the foyer in case there was an intruder.

His tense shoulders sagged in relief when he caught sight of his mum and Gemma, “Oh, s’just you guys,”

Both women looked up at him at the top of the stairs, “You forgot we were coming over for the weekend, didn’t you?” Gemma teased as she headed to the living room. Harry followed, walking down the stairs.

He scratched the nape of his neck nervously, “No. . . “

“Can you help me reach this, H?” Anne called out from the kitchen.

His mum gave him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek, “Yes, you did, by the way. Slept through the whole morning. Good thing Camille let us in before she left,”

At the sound of a bag crumpling and squeals echoing the hollow house, Harry scrunched his nose in curiosity, briskly walking where Gemm was currently holding up tiny baby clothes in front of her. “Who’s that for?” He thought of any possible friends that had had a baby recently but couldn’t recall any.

She immediately stuffed the clothing into the bag, nervously placing a hand on her chest, “Gosh, Harry, you scared me,” Her brows went high on her forehead in alarm, sharing a look with her mum trailing behind Harry.

“Well? Did I miss something?”

“Oh, it’s for one of my friends,”

Harry contemplated on his next words, “D-did you know that Y/N had a baby?” It couldn’t be right if his sister and mum knew about his exes baby and not him, right? That’s just plain odd to still be in touch with an ex's family. His brows furrowed in suspicion as both of them declined his question.

“What? Nooo,”

Awkward silence filtered through the air as Anne sipped water from her mug and Harry was slowly putting the pieces together. Gemme dove to the centre of the couch where her phone was when it rang suddenly, surprising all three of them. Harry was quicker, eyeing his mum and sister and inspecting the emoji substituting as a name before sliding his thumb to answer it.

"Hey, Gems! Are you coming to the park? We're waiting for you,”

Harry felt his heart drop to his stomach just as the phone nearly slipped from his clutch. That voice. He could recognize it from everywhere having spent nearly every morning for the four years that they were together hearing it lulling him out of sleep. It was Y/N’s voice calling his sister who was looking extremely anxious.

He tapped on the ‘mute’ button, “What does she mean ‘we’?”

“Nothing! Give me my phone back,” Gemma tried to reach for the device but Harry held it high beyond her reach.

“I saw the picture you sent me. I told you that you and Anne didn’t have to get me anything,” Harry felt dizzy. “Connor and I got some things a few weeks ago. But that skirt is so adorable!”

One part of him was glad to hear her voice. In fact, Harry found himself smiling too, despite what he just heard. Connor. “Harry, won’t be there right? Hello? Have I been talking to myself this whole time,” Y/N laughed a little; she had a habit of talking endlessly when she was excited. It made Harry more sombre, letting his guards down and his arm in reach for Gemma to grasp.

“Hey! I'm just organizing the clothes, see you soon!" Gemma jammed her finger on the red end call, anxiously glancing at her brother, piecing everything together.

“Who's Connor?" Could it be that the Connor he met last night was the same as Y/N’s? The one who bought pickles and strawberries--one of Y/N favourite food combinations? He mentioned that he had a little girl and Y/N just called to meet his sister and his mum at the park. And baby clothes?

Anne and Gemma looked at each other, quickly deciding that for the benefit of Harry that they should tell him at least a little bit. He was looking as if he was going insane, especially with his bed head pointing his hair out in different directions.

“He’s Y/N’s partner”

Harry gulped, reeling his thoughts to a halt, “Partner? And the baby is...?” The last bit of confirmation was all he needed to lash his feelings out.

“Is... waiting for us at the park! Sorry H gotta go,” Gemma was swift enough to gather all the bags without having Harry chase after her. His state of confusion and shock was enough to render him partially speechless and immobile.

“Hey wait!”

Anne garnered his attention, “Oh, Mrs. Q from next door wants me over for dinner. I’m sure wants to see us both. Why don’t you get ready, Harry?” Anne tugged his arm in the direction of the staircase pushing him to stumble up a couple of steps.

Harry was confused. He made the sounds of his footsteps creeping up the wooden stairs, hearing his mum quietly talking to Gemma on the phone, “Elmsway Park, you said? How long till you're home? I��m not sure how long I can keep him occupied,”

With that being said, Harry was out of his house, silently unlocking and locking the door. He was dressed in some basketball shorts and a graphic tee, slipping on the first pair of sneakers he had tossed aside. Harry jogged to his car, typing in the name of the park on his phones’ GPS. The route was only a few minutes away so he decided to take his time, gathering his scattered thoughts along the way.

He parked just beside the playground scouting the trees around the premises. Harry decided that it was the perfect day. The sun was out. It wasn’t too humid and the birds were chirping on the branches. He could see why the playground was full of children running around in delight. The green patches of grass were partially filled with picnic blankets and food to be shared. Families laughed with each other as one in particular caught his eye.

It made him smile at first, seeing just how adorable the couple was with their baby. He exited the car, making sure to lock the vehicle. With his hands jammed deep in the pockets of his shorts, Harry could feel the tethered grass rubbing against his legs. As he got closer, he couldn’t help the twinge of familiarity spark in his chest, recognizing that what he was staring at was Connor playfully chasing a little girl of about two-years-old as she squealed at how close he was getting to tagging her.

Harry stood by a tree, shielding him away from view. He tried to appear invisible without seeming too creepy. He knew that it was only a matter of seconds before his eyes found the woman he had been missing, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

Connor picked up the little girl in his arms, dotting pecks all over the girls’ cheeks, causing her to giggle and push his face away with a tiny palm. And there she was standing outside the raised platform of the playground, coming up to the both of them with a juice box in hand to hydrate the little angel. Connor turned his attention to Y/N, planting the most adoring kiss on her lips that made her smile so wide and the baby cover her eyes. They laughed together, looking like a picture-perfect family.

Gemma sat on the bench, flickering her gaze to the precious family in front of her and to the figure of her brother walking away from the scene. Her heart broke for Harry, and it cracked, even more, when he turned back. This time, watching Connor and Y/N cheer on baby angel to go down the slide. Both of them clapped their hands in enthusiasm as the girl hesitantly slid down the plastic slide. The smile on her face was infectious.

It almost made Harry smile, too.

___

Let us know what you thought!

Trial aka pt 4 is already up on Patreon! (link in bio)

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Permanent Taglist: @splendidsunsetx @swagmoneymaya @textingharry @arypesanchez @theresthingsthatwellneverknow @mellamolayla

[the-children]

The Westmoore Tragedies | Chapter 3

[ TW: Mentions of Gore ]

The weight of his sword was immensely comforting to Rodarin—not only in case of another bizarre happening, but in fondness of his days of adventure. His trusted short sword hung within its sheath by his side, still humming with old enchantments he had woven himself in the past. “Everyone’s on edge—people are fuckin’ terrified” said Ahldmhas, the Captain who awoke Rodarin with grave news. “They wanna know what th’fuck’s happenin’.” “We all do..” Rodarin murmured in return, his brow knitting in frustration as worry, fatigue, and dread all gnawed at his core once the schoolhouse came into view against the grey overcast. A crowd had already gathered, theories and panic murmured amongst one another as a line of privateers blocked their entry, only shifting to the side to allow the pair through. Their footsteps echoed along the main hall as they made for the staircase dead ahead. The school had been emptied once the Maelstrom arrived—it felt so lonely inside these halls without the staff, without the children. For a brief moment his vision flickered, the sickening crimson taint flashing before Rodarin’s eyes to paint the surreal emptiness with a nightmarish foreboding, causing a spike of panic to chill his veins, and his stride to falter.

Within the next blink of an eye, it was gone—an armored hand placed on Rodarin’s shoulder as Ahldmhas turned to him with concern. “Aye, you alright? Yer shakin’..” Rodarin steeled his nerves, offering a rapid nod to shake his panic and steady his pulse. “Yeah, sorry.. Just remembered something..” I’m not there anymore. I’m here—he told himself. They proceeded up the staircase, the sense of dread clawing deeper into his spine, a slight nausea settling in his stomach—not over the growing smell of blood and viscera, but in anticipation for what he would see. Reaching the top of his stairs, he was confronted with what he had hoped had been a lie—the blood trail, dragged from the first open room to the last at the end of the hall. The tiny shoe prints dotting within, only a handful of larger prints off to the side, likely of the first privateers to arrive at the scene.

As they stepped into the first classroom, his vision flashed once more—the tainted crimson washing over the scene of mangled chairs and corpses. Just like yesterday. Rodarin flinched and shuddered, his right hand darting to clasp over his eyes while his left pressed to the wall to keep himself balanced. A ragged exhale barely escaped clenched teeth. I’m not there anymore. I’m here—he repeated, slowly dragging his hand down to look again. The crimson taint was gone, but the scene was the same. Exactly the same. Ahldmhas gave Rodarin a light pat on the back. “It’s fuckin’ disgustin’, I know.. But that’s not all. C’mon.” The Captain made off for the next room, following alongside the drag marks in the hall. Yes, there was more, and Rodarin was sure he knew what was left. This couldn’t be possible.

Standing within the doorway of the last classroom, a sense of despair grasped at his heart, steadily dragging it to the pits of his stomach. As he suspected—the same bodies were scattered around the room in pools of their blood, tiny shoes and hands printed throughout the room. Their corpses were just as mutilated as the last, and some of the skin-bound crafts still littered the room. A couple of removed eyes were left lying in a pile, and various crafts of bloodied, pulled teeth glued to dark papers were hung among the display board–a twisted comparison to the macaroni pieces nearby. He remembered the victims squirming and twitching in the crimson shadows—it must have been agonizing. Even Ahldmhas’ expression was soured—the usually stoic man averting his gaze from the carnage. “It’s like a buncha’ fuckin’ kids did this, Rodarin. What th’fuck is goin’ on?.. Y’think they made ‘em watch while they did all this? Forced ‘em to play with this shit? What kind’a sick fucks..”

Kids did do this–Rodarin mentally replied, his heart sinking further at the mere prospect. His gaze slowly fell to the mangled corpse near his right—Melrin, that poor bastard.. He always wanted children of his own, but he was pronounced infertile. He had planned to adopt before the Orphanage Massacre. And to have been slaughtered by children so soon after?.. Yes—despair. It was hopeless. They were all going to die. His hand lifted to brush through his hair once more, tugging sharply at his dark locks to sting some sense back into himself. No, focus. Rodarin released a shaky exhale before he began to speak to the other investigators. The older children—the teens, were confirmed to have been told to stay home by an anonymous source. That, apparently, there was no school today. There weren’t enough bodies to account for every staff member—some were missing along with the children. This was by far the largest murder-kidnapping connected to these events to date. Thirteen dead and mutilated. Over sixty children, missing. There had to be a clue—a sane clue.

Rodarin began to pace between the classrooms, studying meticulously. It was his own comfort, in a way—to distract himself with work from this damned madness. Between his own investigation and the staff records, Rodarin was finally able to piece something together, despite the occasional inconsistency. Of the staff, only the young were missing. The inconsistencies were a few young male teachers—such as Merlin, and a single twenty-three year old female teacher—Ms. Belise. Aside from that, every single young, female teacher was missing, along with a small handful of young male teachers. They were all in their twenties. Why was this the connection? Why were some of the young killed anyway? And why all this to take children? Rodarin’s jaw popped from the pressure of his clenched teeth that deep thought had strained upon them—he needed some air.

The cool touch of stone kissed against the exposed skin of Rodarin’s arms, a long and deep inhale slowly filling his lungs to the brim with clear air. It was a night and day difference here behind the schoolyard, although the now-abandoned playground equipment gave it a slightly solemn appearance. Compared to the thick, choking carnage upstairs—this was much needed tranquility. His fingers brushed and massaged at his forehead as it throbbed painfully—he still couldn’t make any sense of it. Something sinister was happening, that much was obvious. But if he had really seen the act as it unfolded, and a day earlier on top of that—if the children were really behind the atrocious killings and mutilations.. What the hells did that mean?

A sudden blur in the corner of his vision averted his attention to the treeline of the nearby forest. It was fairly shaded within, thanks for the overbearing clouds that thickened the sky in a depressing grey—so it was hard to tell. But as Rodarin focused more intensely, he could see it—the shadow-coated child standing at the edge, staring upon him with its wide eyes of pure glowing white, and a similarly wide smile to match. With a slow wave, the child beckoned him to follow before disappearing into the forest. It was one of them. Those dreadful shadowed children that watched from the corner—that clawed at his leg. Rodarin broke from the wall he leaned upon, frantically sprinting for the treeline to follow the path the child had taken. If there were any answers to find, those shades would have them.

Gentle wind rushed against his ear to join the beating of his heart as he raced through the slowly but steadily thickening trees. Huffs of breath escaped his lips, his boots kicking up dirt and grass behind the urgency of his pace. Where did it go? A soft voice caused him to grind to a halt, sending him toppling onto his knees as he searched each direction for the source. There, to the west—one of the missing teachers, holding the hand of two school children as they seemed to lead her forward! They were ushering her forward, though their exact words were too soft to hear from this distance. “Hey! Stop!” He cried, though it seemed to fall upon deaf ears. Grunting in frustration, Rodarin scrambled to his feet and broke into another sprint as their figures disappeared behind trunks and foliage of the forest. Reaching the area they disappeared behind, he found them further up ahead. They turned, facing the right, and simply stared—seemingly beyond a nearby tree. Rodarin turned to look in the same direction, desperate to follow their gaze to something, anything—but all he saw was more forest. He turned back to the trio, watching as they began to walk forward. A tree blocked them as they moved behind it.....and then, nothing. They never reappeared. Were they hiding behind it?

A brisk jog brought Rodarin closer—and the closer he came, the darker the forest seemed to become. No, not again.. His pace slowed, an all-too-familiar sense of dread filling the air between each soft crunch of grass beneath his feet. This is just like the school from before–just like the staircase. His gaze continued to shoot off towards the right, but nothing ever seemed to appear. What had they been staring at? The answer came soon, as Rodarin turned to gaze behind the same tree they vanished behind. It was a pathway, trees tightly lining the sides, like some naturally formed tunnel. The darkness grew thicker as the path progressed, and towards the very end he could see that damned crimson taint slowly bleeding into the darkness. He stepped back, looking around the other side of the tree—there was nothing but dark, open forest. Stepping back again, the path of trees returned. What sort of illusion was this? What kind of twisted game was being played here? His right hand came to rest upon the hilt of his sword, squeezing tightly as the leather bindings stretched in his palm. He wasn’t sure what awaited beyond the darkness—but this time, he was prepared. With a metallic ring, Rodarin drew his sword from its sheath—flames bursting to life and licking across the steel against the old runes he left years ago. Blade steady, he moved forward into the bleeding dark.

͔͙͡ ̹̰̣ ̮̰ ̡ ̤t̥̭͝o҉̳͉̹ ̝̣͞ḅe̗͟ ̬͈͙̞̯̦͝ͅc͈̠͍̣̣̤̕ͅo̧n͍̜̳̪̙ţ͎̳̼i̙͉̻̗̬n̰u̸e͟d̝̱̻̭̜͙ ̭̫͈͈ͅ               .

[indianamoonshine]

Chapter 7 | Superman (Ice Cream)

Summary: Every summer you work on your father’s strawberry farm with your three sisters. It’s a way to take a break from the big city but summers in the midwest are hot and they linger. This year, your father’s old and mysterious friend shows up to stay on your land for a reason yet to be determined. Din Djarin seems dangerous, but kind enough, and the two of you quickly become…well, let’s fact it…smitten.

Rating: (+18) for future and explict sexual content.

A/N: Hi friends! This chapter isn't as long as the others, but I've already got a head start on the next one!

Warnings: I can't find anything in this short chapter that would trigger anybody, so yay!

One can tell a lot about a person by their choice of ice cream.

For instance: Rhea likes honey flavored. It’s a rarity, but Scoops specializes in it. It meant she was sweet, though refined, and organic in these regards. Charlotte prefers amaretto fudge which implies she is a hopeless romantic and the kind of woman who loves vintage films (that alone says quite a bit). You prefer Superman. Maybe that meant the obvious; you’re the youngest and a little bit of a fledgling with a silly sense of humor. You like to be doused in color and leave a sweet taste on people’s lips (some say you’d do anything to please and they could be right).

And Din, well, you were surprised to find that Din ordered sherbert; raspberry and just one scoop. When you questioned his choice (not to say sherbert wasn’t tasty, but at an ice cream parlor it just felt wrong) he justified it by saying he didn’t like the texture of ice cream. Ice cream reminds me of snot, he says to you. You still haven’t gotten that out of your head (and was a bit turned off when you received your cone because of it).

Scoops is in the next town over. It’s a tourist town full of counter-culture fanatics and overlooks the stunning landscape of Lake Michigan. The beach is always packed with families toting cheap red coolers or wild young adults slathered in sunscreen. The air is light and clean with no trace of salt, but it’s a glorious kind of smell you’ve never been able to describe. Lake Michigan is something of mystery – after all, it’s one of the biggest freshwater lakes in the world -- but its appeal might be because it’s watched you grow throughout the years. The great body of water is something of a deity, all-powerful and all-encompassing in its compassion and protectiveness.

The weather is still scorching, but while the ice cream helps, it melts quickly. Along the boardwalk where Scoops is located are dozens of shops all lined up in a neat row and bustling with smiling people, laughing with one another, and arms weighed down with chic looking boutique bags. Most of the population is wealthy because of its tourism and the ridiculous economic situation, so this comes as no surprise. Charlotte and Rhea fawn over the window displays, pointing out which expensive items of clothing they wish they could afford.

Charlotte squeals upon seeing a sundress with a silhouette that she couldn’t possibly deny; Rhea agrees enthusiastically. While they gaggle, you keep your eyes on some birds that dive for pieces of corn dogs fallen upon the walkway. There was a lot going on so it was only natural that your brain retreat to idle, given that you had little to no spending money in general.

“We have to go in,” Charlotte sings to Rhea. “We have to. I need it.”

Rhea admits that she couldn’t pass up the chance either but promises she wouldn’t buy the same dress. The two of them invite both you and Din inside, but you shake your heads, eager of the idea to be alone with one another. It was a risky thing, especially considering how your feelings for Din exposed themselves upon your face like traffic signs. While your sisters certainly knew of your schoolgirl crush on Din, they’ve made no indication they suspect Din of reciprocating those feelings. How embarrassing for you.

When the girls are out of view, door closing behind them with a ring of a silver bell, Din immediately turns to you with a grin. It’s a slight grin – the kind you wouldn’t have been able to notice had it not been for your keen observation of him. His thoughts, actions, and feelings show upon his face like a stroke patient’s might – a little lopsided and faint, but still genuine. You can’t help but wonder why he’s so hesitant to show any exuberant display around anyone else. Did that have anything to do with his family? Any past relationships? Even his career? The career you had no inkling of? It wasn’t like pulling teeth; getting him to chuckle seems easy enough, but his friendliness couldn’t be mistaken for jolliness in any sense of the word.

Either way, Din is smiling – albeit, faintly – as he appears next to you.

“Were you planning that?” he teases, spooning his sherbert.

You shrug, licking the sides of your waffle cone. “I was counting on it.”

The two of you smile at one another and continue your walk with pleasant conversation. You people-watch and he casually jokes around by creating exaggerated scenarios for each of them as they pass. (“That guy in the red swim trunks and sports shades definitely cheats on his girlfriend.”) You can’t help but wonder if you sound ridiculous by the way you snort with laughter each time he says something clever, but he grins pleasantly anyway. It’s difficult to not get a big head each time you manage to get him to do anything other than monitor his surroundings – you notice he has a habit of it, despite how hard he tries to pretend he doesn’t.

“Are you sure you don’t wanna try it?” you offer, ice cream cone melting a bit down the sides.

Din wrinkles his nose but sighs after a moment, maybe weakened by your puppy dog eyes. Wishful thinking. “Alright. Just for you.”

You smile widely with satisfaction, bringing the cone up to his lips. And just when he’s about to bend down to lick the sugary treat, you push the cone onto his face. Din blinks, expression blank, and you’re afraid you might’ve crossed a line. The colorful ice cream stains his chin, dripping down onto his neck, and then soils the collar of his t-shirt. You prepare for the blow, cringing a bit under his gaping. But just when you’re about to stutter an apology and run away, Din presses his lips in a thin line to stop himself from letting out a full-bodied laugh.

“Oh, you think that’s funny don’t you?” he raises his brows in jest.

You sigh out in relief. He’s clearly amused. “Yes actually,” you quip, donning a pair of innocent and fluttering eyes.

He nods a few times, lips pursed, and humming with consideration. “I see,” he muses, hands placing themselves on your hips and squeezing.

You shriek in a fit of giggles as he pushes you gently against the brick of a nearby building. It’s cold against your skin, but nowhere near as chilly as Din’s milky lips peppering chaste kisses against your cheeks. His lashes bat against you, tickling your cheeks, and you become sticky with fruity condensed milk as the gleeful bombardment continues. His name escapes your mouth between your humored twittering. He has you pinned between himself and a wall - you are quite literally trapped - and in front of the public no less.

He wasn’t ashamed of you.

It’s almost a reaction what happens next.

Your hands lock themselves around his neck, mouth pressing against his full lips for the very first time. The people surrounding you disappear, the noise of the busy street vanishing completely. You’d expected your first kiss with him to be serious, maybe even a little awkward with graceless fumbling. But the two of you are snickering against one another, the embrace as natural as breathing. He’s cupping your cheek with the caution he’d shown this morning; he must’ve been terrified you’d crumble beneath him.

You felt like you could.

He’s holding back, and you know this because his lips are soft and slow as a wounded butterfly with clipped wing. The hand that isn’t holding your cheek has pulled you in by the hips. It’s getting harder to breathe, even if it’s closed mouthed. He spoke and the world spun - but his lips make the world sing.

You’re the first to pull away, eyes fluttering open with an uncontrollable eagerness to perceive his countenance. What you expected, you can’t remember, because when you find his eyes still closed, relishing in the kiss with a full-bodied smile, you feel nauseous with excitement. It was almost too much.

Yet not enough at all.

The napkin around your ice cream cone is soaked, but you crumble it in a ball and bring it to Din’s face anyway. You pat against his cheek, wiping away as much of the ice cream as you could while he recovers. Some of it has collected on his dense mustache and you resist the urge to laugh at that.

He nods to himself like he’s trying to get a grasp on what just happened, eyes opening with caution to gaze into yours. He looks tired, but the kind that was delicious; the kind that you look forward to remedying. You must’ve taken an energy from him.

You hope you did.

Because he took it all from you.

He lets out a breathy laugh and you place a thumb against his jaw to wipe some stray remnants from him. “I think I like ice cream now,” he jokes.

•••

The two of you manage to escape.

This is after Rhea and Charlotte come bouncing out of the store, bags in hand, and giddy smiles upon their faces. You laugh with them as they show you their purchases while Din looks on from the sidelines, knee bouncing with alacrity.

You’re weak by the kiss, the blush from your cheeks still prominent. You were positive your sisters would notice, that tonight they’d drill you with questions they already knew the answer to. Women have a way of knowing when another woman has been kissed as zealously as you just had. It wasn’t just the pink in your face that would give you away; it was the dreamy glint in your eyes, the bit of Superman that you’d missed upon Din’s cheek, and the trembling of each item they forced in your hands.

You say your goodbyes to your sisters, promising you’d be home in time for movie night, and skip alongside Din while walking to Bessie. When he’s sure the two of you are in the clear, he takes your hand and massages the space between your thumb and forefinger. Tension subsides in your shoulders.

This was new to you. You’d kissed guys as a teenager; even had a few boyfriends here or there. But that’d been years ago and none of them alighted a fire in your belly like Din has. His company was ethereal - he was made of stardust; you were sure of it. And it seemed silly - even a little frightening - that your feelings have evolved so quickly. For hells sake, you’d just met him a few days ago. Could you really be just, well, stupid? And maybe he was feeding off that stupidity for his own personal gain?

This thought alone makes you feel guilty. You try to ignore the anxiety and focus on the feel of his hand, tanned and masculine, and breathe. The smell of fried dough wafts from down the boardwalk, the tune of an old carnival song muffled in the distance by the chaos of summer. The sun was still high in the sky; it was only five in the afternoon but your body felt as though it’d been up for an entire day, weak with the intensity from such a rush of adrenaline.

Upon arriving to the car, Din opens the door for you and a bit of paint from devoted Bessie showers upon the pavement. You can’t help but wonder if he knew you’d leave early with him and the idea of bringing two separate vehicles was clouded with hidden agenda. This, of course, starts up the cycle of mental dramatization again.

Gods, why can’t you just leave it alone? Why can’t you feel something for once in your life? You’ve spent so many years hiding in the corner in fear of getting hurt – of opening yourself to be exposed to new and terminal wounds even if the process was liberating. And Din was liberating in more ways than one; in ways that have surprised you, despite how little you’ve known him.

As soon as he climbs in, you scooch as close as possible to his side. Your bravery surprises yourself, but you wouldn’t overthink it, especially when he smiles cheekily your way. You’ve leaned your head against his shoulder just before reaching for his free hand again and placing it in your lap with a tight grip.

You may get hurt later. But for now, that pain was worth experiencing. Din Djarin already seems to be worthy of experiencing.

Bessie rumbles to life but he starts for the crown of your head first, lips brushing against you, and light as a feather.

•••

If Din hadn’t been such an experienced driver, he was sure he would’ve crashed by now.

No. He was positive he would’ve crashed. It was nearly impossible to concentrate on the plainness of the road when a goddess was sitting in the seat beside him, holding his hand, and gazing out into the fields you rush past. You exuberantly point out each time there was a farm where cattle and horses grazed, their tails flicking to shoo away flies. He realizes that you love cows (“especially the brown ones,” you had smiled) and makes a mental note of it.

The house is in view now, the strawberries blooming the land with color beneath their plants’ emerald leaves. Your sisters hadn’t beat you there and your father’s truck wasn’t parked in front like it normally was. Not that it would’ve mattered that his friend was home, but Din preferred your father find out…later; when Din felt confident in your feelings for him and you felt confident in his. You were too important to risk losing so soon or even at all.

And that terrifies him.

And just when Din’s about to turn onto the road that leads directly to the house, you gasp beside him.

It frightens him. He isn’t well acquainted with your exclamations yet, so it was hard to distinguish whether your outburst is harmless or exclaimed in the face of danger. He pauses, foot stepping on the brake pedal, and lunges Bessie forward with too much exertion. Upon instinct, he reaches out an arm to prevent you from slamming yourself against the dashboard by the sudden halt.

He immediately looks to you, brows furrowed in concern, and chest heaving with epinephrine. “What is it?!” he jolts out.

You’re staring into the nearby woods with narrowed eyes, silent as a bug. The thicket and vines wrap themselves around one another, graceful in their disorganized summer. Din couldn’t find any movement interrupting the overgrowth, but he had a suspicion you’ve seen an animal of some kind. What else could have caused you to gasp so randomly?

Something pretty incredible, apparently. Because just as Din’s about to repeat himself, far more concerned with your silence than anything, you swing open the rusted door and sprint into the woods.

{ Tag List: @steeevienicks, @hallway5, @t3a-bag, @dodgerandevans, @lumimon47, @dancingwiththeplanets }

[vminity21]

Aplomb | kth

» Pairing: instructor!taehyung x blind!reader

» Word Count: 2,315

» Genre: vague angst/fluff/soft

» Warning(s): None; Rated: pg

» Summary: He always finds a way to bring the vision to you, even when you thought it could never be possible.

Credits to: @suhdays , the cover seriously embodies the aesthetic, thank you so much!

The rain is relentless causing clusters of cold, stringy grass to cling to your ankles while you amble past, palms palpating rough bark of tree trunks on either side, pushing your way through the mush, flinging dirt covers your shins, the scowl on your face must be ridiculous, but you're determined to find shelter regardless. A path ahead paves you through the woods, tangled brush mingles with fallen logs, decorating what you can imagine is the color green among the ground- your bare feet soaked along with your dress snug to your figure. The journey is long or appears that way, except when your eyes fall upon something peculiar in the distance.

Lily pads glide along the top of the water encircled by pickerels and horsetail plants, long blades of grass tickle each other in the wind, the rain ceasing especially when your gaze halts at the silhouette- his eyes are closed, hands crossed over his chest, merely floating letting the trivial splashes of the water drown his acoustic senses to nature. You're so intrigued by the scene, tiptoeing forward to see the subtle fall and rise of his chest- the water carrying him in a peaceful drift.

Bricks surround the pond holding in what it can, you nestle onto the ground, your eyes never moving from the sleeping frame. It's strange, everything around is simply what has been described to you, but something about him- something about him makes you feel as though you're not alone. You dip your feet into the water carefully, the mud washing away from your skin. When you inch closer, you peer at his face, what you imagine him to look like, a small freckle dotting his nose, pink lips resting in a content line, the curve of his jawline, and the beauty of what you imagine is soft brown eye-

-

Darkness is all you see when you jolt awake, panting at the realization that the man in your dream happened to open his eyes without your knowledge. Hence why your heart is thrumming beneath you, your hand hovering above your chest in order to remain calm. Though you can't see it, you can tell its daylight from the way your room feels, the heat soothing on the wooden floors the moment you maneuver your bare feet onto the ground. Palpating the covers of your bed, you search for your white cane that you typically leave leaning against the side of your bed frame; cautiously you arise when your fingers curl over the curved edge, slowly walking to your dresser to throw on whatever jeans and t-shirt you have clean.

You were five years old when you were pronounced blind. The sickness that overtook you robbed you of your sight, though years and years have passed, there are still things you don't necessarily remember, but your memory has reserved just enough for you to imagine. Tapping your cane along the floor, you pause, feeling for the denim in one drawer, then sliding open the next one and grabbing the first fabric you touch. Once dressed, you feel your way to the laundry basket, throwing your pajamas into it.

School for the blind. That's where you are because according to your parents there is always something to learn. Loneliness overwhelms you, especially when you wish your family would visit you, but in order to succeed, you must focus- according to your mother. If only she would understand how much strength it really takes for you to endure this then maybe she wouldn't be so distant. You prod to the bathroom, palms patting against the cool surface of the counter until you find your toothbrush, freshening up before retrieving your hairbrush, gently pulling it through your tousled strands, wincing at the pain when you hit scant knots. One thing you've missed out on that you wish you weren't forced to is what you've grown up to look like. You remember your hair color from when you were younger, the same as you remember the color of your eyes, yet the equivalent thought plagues you every day- how do you appear to other people?

"[Y/N]?" Taehyung, your instructor's, deep voice calls from your bedroom door, your head turning in that very direction. You tap your cane in front of you until your fingertips smooth along the top of a table, one that is set a foot away from your bedroom door.

"Good morning," you greet with a terse grin, your hearing is sensitive or has been nearly your whole life due to your condition since you hear Taehyung shifting fully away from the door and into your room.

"Good morning, [Y/N], are you ready for your review today?" his voice is soft- you hear the skid of him pulling a chair out, you brushing your hip along the rim of the table until you settle into the seat, the cushion comforting enough for you to feel at peace.

"I am," you reply, dropping your cane lightly on the ground as the sound of a heavy book is set in front of you.

"Good, I'm glad to hear it," you hear him taking a seat beside you- the flapping of book pages sinking the silence, "Alright," he clears his throat, "you may begin."

You raise your hand to find the book, sliding your fingertips along the page until you feel the familiar dots of braille. You murmur the letters to yourself until they form a word, "Cat," you say confidently, your fingers flying to the next word.

"Good job," Taehyung congratulates, and you feel the air from his palm gesturing you to continue. Though you can't see him, you always enjoy his company, his countenance brings a peace you wish you could feel when you're alone.

The single dot you feel, immediately you identify as 'a', your fingers pressing harder into the braille to figure the other letters, "Apple." You continue for another twenty minutes correctly reading words from left to right until you feel Taehyung moving the book away from you. "You know what I think?" he says leading to a drawn-out silence. You gulp, the pace of your heart slightly quickening as nervous jitters greet your stomach. You wait patiently for his response, imagining his fingers pinned to his lips in concentration. "I think it's time for sentences. A story if I want to be frank."

Your eyebrows furrow at his words, "A... story?"

"From what I've gathered, you already know braille inside and out. Have yet to make a mistake," his deep voice serenades you though you'll never admit it, just something so soothing about the way he enunciates his words and the encouragement brings a timid smile to your lips, "Why not read an entire story? Not from a teaching standpoint but an actual-"

"Book," you finish his sentence, "Like, a book book."

His chuckle reverberates in the room, and you imagine his smile inwardly wishing you could visually see it, "Exactly. Like a book book."

When you spread your fingers along the table, you happen to brush his, though unintentional, you freeze, his touch lingering before he clears his throat, closing the thicker book, and standing to his feet to retrieve what you assume is a story he has in mind for you.

"What- what is it about?" You question, turning your body to face the direction of his footsteps.

"That is something you will have to find out," and with that, he lays the book on the table in front of you, the slight touch of his arm against your shoulder giving you feelings you repudiate.

-

Swans swim across the glistening lake, their bright orange feet paddling beneath tinged green ripples. Tiger lilies bloom beside towering cattails giving ribbiting toads a place of refuge. Your heart swells at the scene, perfumes of cardinal flowers waft in your direction due to the subtle breeze. The sun rests directly between the sky and the hills ahead, its flames keeping the atmosphere warm, your feet kicking along the pavement while your hands remain on either side of the bench you are seated upon.

When darkness hovers over your eyes, you realize large palms are pressed against your eyelids, your heart hammering before turning to see his face. Bright teeth show below his squinting eyes, shoulders quaking from your ajar mouthed gape- he leans onto the back of the bench letting your humored eyes and shaking head deem his fate. Leading him to the edge of the stream like a character from a storybook, he's entranced by your seducing gaze, not prepared for the shove you give- him tumbling into the water backward, arms flailing producing droplets that nicker your cheeks.

Laughter from your lips is the music to his ears once he manages to stand to his feet- knee-deep and drenched- the swans fly off- their shadows hovering above- he reaches for you, lifting you by your waist, both of you plummeting simultaneously into the water. Your fingers grip his arms, him lifting you for air- the hilarity of the moment refusing to dispel. Automatically, your arms wrap around his shoulders, the warmth of his soaked chest allures you enough to where your eyes latch with his. You've read of a scenario similar to what you're fantasizing- the pause of realization when the characters hold their gaze, lips parting almost instinctively, tips of noses brushing yet you have no idea how to imagine the sensation of a kiss even with his breath swiping your chin. Desire to loom in every aspect, you move your fingertips to trace his face, letting his aura captivate-

-

"[Y/N]?"

Gasping, your shoulders tense, realization dawning that it's Taehyung, him appearing at your bedroom door in preparation for your next lesson. "I'm sorry, [Y/N], I didn't mean to frighten you. How has reading been going?" Taehyung's heart nearly melts when he sees your lips form the sweetest smile. You timorously face down, fidgeting your fingers, "I love it," you murmur, him settling in the chair beside you.

"In that case," though you can't see it, you can hear the smile in his voice, "how about we have our lesson outside, today?"

Worry clouds your expression at his proposal, "But- but I can't see it," your words are hardly above a whisper.

"Ah, but you can feel it,"

Taehyung remains by your side the entire walk outside of the school building, your cane tapping along in front of you though you trust that Taehyung will never let anything happen to you. Footsteps trample the pavement until they meet the quiet crunch of grass. Chirps of countless birds welcome you with the pooling sound of water- quacking ducks waddle along the edge- honking geese rattle off in the reserve.

"Where- where are we?" you stammer, your head poised as if you can see the Heavens. Taehyung's large hand slightly rests at the small of your back, leading you to a bench, helping you settle onto it, the metal warm from the sun rays that are evident.

"The lake," he answers once he sits next to you maintaining his distance, "It's too beautiful of a day to keep you cooped up in your room. I think you deserve a break." His words touch your heart a whole lot more than he knows. "Here," he says, his presence disappearing momentarily before you feel him relaxing into the seat beside you once again. Gesturing in your direction, you're uncertain of what he's doing- that's when soft fingers lead yours to feel the smoothness of something, the fragrance of it convivial to your nose, the leafy stem revealing it to be a flower.

"It feels," you breathe, "it feels beautiful."

"I knew you'd like it," you hear him sniff the floret, the urge you're fighting leaves you in defeat for you turn to face him, the curiosity imminent from every piece of your soul.

"Can I?" you pause, lifting your hand to level with where your shoulder is. Taehyung's eyes widen, swallowing the lump in his throat because the butterflies he's feeling reflect the thumping of your heart though neither of you voices it. With your fingertips, you find his chin, tracing tenderly along the edge of his jaw then moving toward his ear, tufts of hair tickle your fingers though you yearn to see the color of the soft strands. Sensibly your digits trail to find his eyebrows, discovering he's wearing a hat that covers the majority of his head- you then find his nose pausing over the spot you imagine a little freckle, soon brushing his lips, you unintentionally inch closer to him, his breath hitching though the burning crave between both of you is undeniably smothering.

"[Y/N], I-" Taehyung whispers.

"Please," you choke, your thumbs resting on the corners of his parted lips. You read in the story of how this feels, how the emotions between two people can be so strong- though the intent of the story was more to focus on nature- your heart mostly belonged to the love between the two characters. The love you long for with the man of your dreams. "Let me," your nose burns from the tears gathering in your eyes. When his large hands move to cup your face, you feel his forehead rest upon yours, his shaky breaths mirroring your own, giving you the permission you've so desperately longed for. Without further disinclination, you close the gap, his warm lips so soft you're nearly dizzy from the sensation; your face eases, your muscles relax as you melt into his kiss, you lean more into him, giving him a chance to embrace you completely.

You may not be able to see the world, in fact, you will never be able to envision it,

But you can feel it. Because right here in your arms, you have the world who's taught you the most.

The world who brings the vision to you.

[readingismyoxygen]

A liar, bug and bird ch1

ch1 / ch2 / ch3 / ch4 / ch5 / ch6 

The class was going on a graduation trip, as a final goodbye before university. They were all one big group of friends, but two people didn't fit in: Marinette and Chloé. The difference between them was that Chloé just stayed by herself for most of the time, quietly, while Marinette seemed to have it out for everyone's favorite friend: Lila. Because she was always angry at the Italian and just straight up bullied her when no one was watching (Lila had "trusted" them with that info two years ago, but no one saw the devious smirk she hid in her hands while pretending to cry), the class had decided to not let Marinette join them for the trip.

The bluenette was fine with that, she had given up on her class long ago and only really spoke to Chloé when they were alone, to keep the blonde out of their line of fire. Mme. Bustier's class decided to go to Gotham, because Lila's childhood sweetheart Damian Wayne, lived there and it would give them the chance to reconnect. So they prepared everything to help the girl, booking a hotel, tours to do in the city, plane tickets and so on. Soon, they would leave on their trip of a lifetime.

~~

It was the day of the trip. They were already at the airport, waiting to board their plane, when they saw someone unexpected.

"Marinette? What are you doing here? You weren't invited on this trip!" Alya said furiously.

"Oh, I know, I'm just going to visit some people I haven't seen in a long time."

They were ready to reply sharply when a voice over the intercom called for the people who would fly first-class to Gotham to start boarding the plane.

"Oh, that's me. Bye, everyone!" she said, smirking at their surprised faces and winking subtly at a grinning Chloé. To be honest, while she had planned to go to Gotham for a while now, she lined her trip up with one of her class on purpose, because it was the perfect opportunity to take down a liar.

~~

One long, long flight later, they landed in the city of Crime, and Marinette was ready to go home and sleep. She hadn't been able to on the plane (turbulence and not being fond of flying will do that to you), and the day before was entirely spent on packing. Luckily she saw immediately where she had to go, Alfred waiting for her with a gentle smile on his face.

"Hey Alfie, how are you?" she asked, tiredness seeping into her voice.

"I'm doing just fine, Miss Marinette, thank you for asking, though I do believe you could use some sleep."

"I know, I know, I'm not the best at that, but this time I at least have good reasons and I'm still not as bad as Tim", she answered, holding back a yawn while they exited the building. When they reached the car Alfred put her luggage in the trunk while Marinette lied herself down on the back seat.

~~

Little time passed before they reached the Manor, but it was enough for Marinette to pass out fall asleep completely. She  woke up to the sight of two faces mere inches from hers, and will deny for the rest of her life that she shrieked louder than rusty brakes on a car.

"Eeck! By my Mom's cookies Dick, Jay, you almost gave me a heart attack!"

"But Sunshine, we're just so happy to see you again! Seriously, you have no idea how much everyone has missed your heavenly presence!"Dick said dramatically.

"Yeah, especially one certain annoying little Demon Spawn", Jason said with a smug grin and waggling eyebrows. She hit his arm, but was still too tired to really put any force behind it. 

"D-don't -yawn- call him that you jerk. Now let me out of the -yawn- car, kiss my boyfriend and find a bed to sleep off my jet lag."

Jason chuckled as he helped her out of the car while Dick and Alfred took care of her bags.

"This way to your Demon, miss fashion designer."

They walked into the manor, heading for the living room, with Marinette leaning on Jason in a side hug, half asleep again already.

"Oh Demon spawn, guess who's back", Jason said in a sing-song voice, practically carrying Marinette at this point. Damian, who had been petting titus as he sat in one of the armchairs, stood up and walked over to them, a soft smile appearing on his face as he let Marinette lean onto him instead of his brother.

"Hey Shieae Alqamar*, how was your flight?" he asked her softly while pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"Oh it was awesome, turbulence all the way", Tired-Marinette drawled out sarcastically.

He chuckled. "Alright, you need sleep."

"Noooo, I dooon't!"

"Mari, my Moonbeam, light of my life, you can barely stand up straight. You are going to sleep. Now."

"Will you pleeeaaaase stay with me then?"

"If that's what it takes to get you to sleep, then sure."

As the two left the room, the others stared after them.

"I still find it creepy how different he is when she's here", Jason stated.

"I think it's adorable", Dick said, his proud-oldest-brother-tendencies rising to the surface. Jason quickly made himself scarce to avoid being subjected to them, while Dick went up to his room gushing to himself about the two lovebirds.

Alfred just smiled softly. "Either way, they are each other's perfect balance."

 ~~

The class was less lucky. When booking the hotel, something had mysteriously (looking at you, Tikki) gone wrong. Instead of a fairly luxurious hotel near the center of the city, they had ended up in one with a lot more creaking floors and beds and a musty smell, on the outskirts of the city. But no matter, they would be able to endure it for Lila! Still...

"Umm... How exactly did we end up in this hotel again? This isn't the one we booked." Alya inquired.

"Oh, I don't know, Als! Marinette must have done something to change it, just to get to me! I'm so sorry you guys!" the liar wailed obnoxiously. The class started muttering while Lila cackled a victorious laugh in her head. These sheep are so stupid! They believe absolutely everything! I wonder what else I can blame on Mari-trash while we're here...

__________

Okay, that was my very first chapter! Let me know what you think, and thank you for reading!

[the-l-spacer]

Summary: In which Madeleine's latest attempt to hash things out with Espresso gets a little... out of hand.

This is my first cookie run fic i. genuinely can’t believe im writing for this game now. Anyways, hope ya like it!!

- 

He sees the knight striding towards him, spotless armour clinking smartly with each step he takes, cloak billowing ever-so-slightly behind him.

His lip curls, practically a reflex.

“Espresso. Do you have a moment?” Madeleine's voice, like his appearance, is meticulously crafted to capture the attention of anyone in his vicinity. A deep, resonant baritone that carries authority, brooks no room for disagreement, least of all disagreement from a particular surly practitioner of Coffee Magic.

Or at least, that’s what Madeleine likes to think. For all his chivalrous acts and airs seem to have no effect on Espresso in the slightest, who simply sighs and rolls his dark, bespectacled eyes.

“Do me a favour; skip the pretence that participation in this conversation is optional, and get to the point. I have research that needs attending to.”

Perhaps a few months ago, Espresso’s brusque reply would have stopped Madeleine in his tracks, wiped the genial smile off his face. But as it is, they’ve spent far too much time together (unwillingly, on Espresso’s part) for the other to be fazed by mere unfriendliness. So he simply barrels on as if Espresso had never spoken. “It appears as if that young band of cookies are keen on having us join their party.”

As one, they glance over to the campsite a little ways away, where Gingerbrave and Chilli Pepper are engaged in a mock-swordfight, wielding pieces of gathered firewood, with Wizard, Strawberry and Custard cheering on. Gingerbrave rushes forward, ‘sword’ held aloft, but Chilli Pepper sidesteps his attack, and before his momentum can carry him too far, grabs the scruff of his collar, and turns him to face her. “Sloppy work, kid. I could catch that coming from a mile away. Next time, try-” She pauses mid sentence, noticing Espresso and Madeleine’s gazes. She winks, and gives a two-fingered salute. “Hey! Wanna watch me spar with a buncha kids? There’s plenty of room on that log over there, but just a little warning, I charge adult spectators.”

Madeleine waves a hand. “No need to relieve our pockets just yet, friend Chilli Pepper. Espresso and I are perfectly content watching from afar.”

“And besides, we have better things to do,” Espresso adds, “Like being corralled by a paladin into having pointless conversations.” The last bit, he aims at Madeleine, who’s response is to grin wider.

If the irony in Espresso’s statement registers to Chilli Pepper, she doesn’t show it, and simply shrugs. “Don’t let me interrupt. You boys might wanna head a little further away to have that ‘pointless conversation’ though, it’s probably gonna get noisy up in this joint.”

“An excellent idea! My humblest thanks!” Madeleine sweeps into an exaggerated bow, and takes Espresso by the elbow. “My compatriot and I shall head a little further into the woods for our chat.”

Custard perks up at that, and shouts, “Be careful! There might still be cake monsters running around, and as king, I can’t let my subjects be hurt!”

“Not to worry, we’re more than capable of defending ourselves. If our previous encounters with those beasts suggested anything...”

As Madeleine talks, Espresso discretely tries to wriggle free from the hand on his elbow, but his attempts prove futile, Madeleine’s grip is loose but firm, forming a little cage around his arm.

He lets his arm go limp, and when the grasp loosens slightly in response, he flicks his free hand, around which (unbeknownst to the jabbering knight) shadows had been gathering for quite some time.

A tendril of magic whips around and strikes Madeleine’s wrist.

“-And as Knight of the Madeleine House, I was trained since I was but a little cookie, much like your merry band, to- ah!” When the tendril connects with a small thwack, he releases Espresso, jerking away as if burned (in actuality, the magic was really just a moderately heated slap. Espresso didn’t want to do any serious damage to Madeleine, after all.)

The seemingly permanent smile on the knight’s face falters, just for a second, and Espresso allows himself a moment of schadenfreude.

“Is... is everything okay, Madeleine?” Strawberry pipes up from her spot on the log.

“Quite alright, quite alright.” The ten-carat smile is back in full force, and once again, he waves his (non-injured) hand airily, though Espresso notes with some satisfaction the displeased side glance Madeleine shoots at him.

Espresso’s face pulls into a smile of his own, falsely sweet. “Well. Shall we be off, then?” He begins walking into the woods. True, he would much rather be tucked away in some quiet corner, poring over magical scrolls, but if he has to be subjected to this... chat, at least he can try to have some fun while doing so. Make Madeleine regret initiating contact, make him trail behind for once.

And sure enough, Madeleine follows after him, making long strides to catch up.

As they retreat into the forest, Gingerbrave shouts, “Come back in time for dinner! We’re having sweet jelly stew!”

“We’ll be there,” Madeleine replies, not needing to raise his voice for it to carry across the clearing where they had set up camp.

The other cookies give their final waves, and return to sparring, the sounds of cheering and wood striking wood fading the deeper in Espresso and Madeleine travel.

- 

Eventually, the noises from the campsite fade entirely, replaced by the chirping of birds, and the soft rustling of trees. The last of the day’s light dapples through the jelly forest’s leaves, and Espresso might have called the whole scene pleasant, if not for the cookie next to him.

They come to a stop in a forest clearing. “Is this far enough for your liking, oh Knight-Commander of House Madeleine?”

Madeleine leans against a tree, the light glinting off his armour. “You know, the attitude really isn’t necessary, and neither,” he cocks his head, glossy hair spilling over one shoulder, his reprimanding smile akin to a teacher lecturing a particularly irritating student, “was the use of dark magic back there.”

Espresso smirks. “Ah. Have I discovered your weakness? Is the pride of House Madeleine scared of a little magic? I just meant for it to tickle, really.”

A scowl begins to form on Madeleine’s face, before he schools it back into careful neutrality. “You must be intelligent enough to grasp my meaning. It’s not the act itself, it’s the…” He gestures loosely in the air, his right hand still slightly red, “... the spirit of it all. Cookies who fight together shouldn’t turn on one another. It simply isn’t right.”

“Mmm. Mm hmm. Of course it isn’t.” Espresso, in a bid to minimize the dirt from the forest floor getting on his robes, opts to hover just a little above the ground, and Madeleine has to crane his neck to meet his gaze. “And I’m sure wrestling the cookie you’re supposed to be fighting with into the woods is so much more excusable.”

Madeleine bristles. “You wouldn’t have agreed to this conversation otherwise, as you’ve made so abundantly clear in the past. All I did was ensure you wouldn’t be able to weasel your way out of the inevitable yet another time.”

“What about our current situation makes you think this conversation is inevitable?” Espresso snaps. “I’ve told you time and time again I don’t care for your company. Our paths crossed once, we travelled together briefly to achieve our own goals, and parted ways. We work together acceptably, and we tolerate each other, barely. What more is there to be said between us?”

“Well, for one,” Madeleine says, standing just a bit straighter, as if to deliver a set of prepared lines, “I was telling you, before we were interrupted, that Gingerbrave and his fellows seem eager to have us as travelers alongside them.”

“Yes. And?”

“And I’m sure you are as keen as I am on accepting their offer.”

Espresso stiffens. He hates cookies who presume things about him, and more than that, he hates when those presumptions are right. After a moment, he bites out, “Even if I was, what of it.”

“We’ll be traveling together once again. Serving as their protectors, and all that.”

“So what? As I said, we’ve travelled in each other’s companies before.”

“Yes, but I believe this will be our longest journey yet. They seek answers, a way to defeat the evil forces rising, and this is no easy feat.”

“I seek no such thing,” Espresso scoffs, folding his arms. “I only know that they’re searching for the Forgotten Academy, and that particular locality has a library I’ve been meaning to peruse for a while. I plan to travel with them until that point, where we will then part ways.”

“Even then, according to my maps the Forgotten Academy is weeks away. Maybe a month. Months, if we keep up our current pace. A considerable amount of time that allows for sour dough to spoil further. I simply think it… unwise, to allow things between us two to reach such a point.” Having finally said his piece, Madeleine pushes himself off the roll cake trunk, and starts towards Espresso, open palm outstretched.

No, not again. They had done this dance before, and Espresso isn’t planning to retrace those steps. He whizzes backward, out of Madeleine’s reach.

“I’m not interested in becoming friends, knight,” he spits. “And I tire of your constant overtures.”

Madeleine’s hand returns to his side in an impatient motion. “Must you insist on being this- this difficult?” He asks, voice fraught with frustration. “It is a simple offer. Put our differences aside and work together amicably, if only to to make our journey more tolerable for us and our companions.”

“Ahhh but there’s the rub, Madeleine,” Espresso retorts, “I’m afraid our differences are too great to reconcile. If that is all you have for me, I think I’ll be returning to camp. I would say it’s been a pleasure, but… you know better.”

He makes to leave, floating quickly away to leave the knight behind, but catches a blur of movement from the corner of his eye. Before he can react, Madeline moves forward, his armour and shield glowing. With a flash, the shield comes down on the edge of Espresso’s long, dark cloak, pinning it to the forest floor.

Both of them hear the telltale sound of ripping fabric.

“Don’t move.” Madeleine warns.

Espresso’s vision goes red. He gathers the shadows to him, wreathing his clenched fists in black swirls of magic.

He doesn’t move.

A pause, then the shield lifts.

Espresso doesn’t wait to rush backward, heading straight for Madeleine. This time, it’s the knight that finds himself unprepared, as Espresso grabs him, and with the help of his magic, lifts him in the air, slamming him against the trunk of the nearest tree.

“Don’t. Touch. Me,” he growls.

Their faces are close enough now that Espresso sees the tiniest twitch of fear in Madeleine’s expression. He doesn’t yield, keeping him pinned to the trunk.

Madeleine speaks, holding both hands up in a conciliatory gesture. “Now, now, I admit I was rather hasty, but there really is no need for-“

“- doesn’t feel nice, does it? Being trapped against your will?” Espresso cuts him off.

“Listen. I’m sorry things had to come to that point.”

Espresso sneers. Just as he predicted, Madeleine’s ‘apology’ is anything but. His mouth forms the syllables, but like a pedestrian one accidentally jostles on the street, his ‘sorry’ is merely a formality, said to hear the sound of his own voice.

Espresso doesn’t buy it, is what he’s saying.

“Save it. Save your pithy little apologies and insincere attempts at friendship for some other cookie.”

Madeleine’s face twists in indignation. “I’m not being insincere!”

Espresso drops him unceremoniously, the knight’s armour clattering when he lands on the soft earth. He tries not to betray his own fatigue, both in mind and body. Madeleine is heavy after all, weighed down further by his armour and weapons, making the act of holding him aloft (even aided by magic) one that had taken a not-insignificant toll on him. His feet touch down lightly on the ground, the glowing aura around him fades.

“Oh, spare me,” Espresso says coldly. “Every action, every toss of your hair or flick of your cloak, every word that comes out of your mouth betrays your insincerity.”

Having gathered himself, Madeleine finally snaps, drawing his sword from its scabbard with a metallic hiss. “How dare you.” His voice, a dangerous murmur, grows louder and louder, until it carries to the treetops. “I don’t know what I have done to offend you so. I attempted to be friendly, and reach out with offers of peace, as my family taught me to do for years, but you insist on rebuffing me, sullying my good name with your.. your insolence!”

The sword is pointed at Espresso’s throat, now, and the magician takes a careful step backward, keeping an eye on the gleaming blade. Madeleine doesn’t seem to notice, however, as he barks, “I’ve been lenient in the past, but as a cookie of honour, I can’t let such words continue to slide. The Divine, protect me!”

Celestial light bathes the forest clearing, surrounding Madeleine in its radiance. He lunges forward and swings his sword, a ray of light arcing from its blade. Espresso, caught unawares, finds himself knocked back, sent stumbling to catch his footing.

He regains his balance, clutching on to a tree branch, and counters the next light ray with an explosion of coffee beans that makes Madeleine's attack fizzle out.

“You know I’m right about you,” Espresso taunts, “in fact, we both know this is all a little charade you put on, because-” he plants his feet firmly in the ground, bracing himself against a third wave of light magic. “- beneath all your bravado, your shiny armour and fancy new weapons, you are empty.”

“That’s not true!” Madeleine roars, attempting to close the distance between them. But Espresso splays his hands, and a swirling vortex forms, pulling the paladin backward and into its dark center. Madeleine staggers in pain.

“You’re just a selfish glory-seeker, as slow and soulless as the monsters that- gah!”

Dexterity had never been his strong suit, so when Madeleine’s retaliating attack comes, he doesn’t dodge quickly enough. He sees the sword swing, feels an impact across his face, before his world goes blurry.

His glasses!

A lance of panic spikes through his chest.

He can’t see. He can’t see and he can’t look for his glasses either because if he steps on them that’s it. And Madeleine will win or worse he’ll just leave him here, in the middle of the woods.

The attacks stop coming.

The forest is silent once more, but for the two cookies’ heavy breathing.

Then, Espresso hears the crunching of leaves, sees the blurry shape of Madeleine stride towards him. He readies his magic. Madeleine passes him, and bends down over a spot Espresso can’t quite see.

A familiar metallic object is pressed into his hand.

“Your glasses.”

In a flash, Espresso has them on again, and exhales in relief when the forest comes back into focus.

“I never meant to knock them over. I’m sorry.”

Espresso is about to respond, but Madeleine says, “We should not have let our discussion escalate like this.”

“I’m sorry. We?!” Espresso’s recently restored vision colours. “When it was you who dealt the first blow? You, who initiated this discussion in the first place, who-” He trails off, righteous indignation fading slightly when he sees Madeleine, who stands at arm’s length away from him, both hands resting on the pommel of his sword, his expression unreadable.

“..Yes. Fine. As allies, we shouldn’t have turned on each other like this.”

Madeleine says nothing, so Espresso continues. “But as our previous attempts at civility have shown, you are incapable of holding a conversation without trying to domineer over me, push me into situations I do not want to be in. And I… I admit that I went too far in my personal assessments of you, but the fact remains that I simply cannot work with you beyond what we already are. Allies, and nothing more.”

For the second time, Espresso begins walking back to camp. Madeleine makes no attempt to stop him. “Thank you for retrieving my glasses. Good evening.”

Before he can fully retreat into the copse of trees, he hears Madeleine’s voice, saying, “Wait.”

Espresso pauses for a moment, and continues walking.

“Wait. Please.”

The word ‘please’ sounds so strange on Madeleine’s lips, and Espresso realises he can’t recall if the cookie had ever said the word in all the time they had worked together.

He turns his head.

Madeleine is leaned against a tree, arms folded and a foot kicked up against the trunk. His face is hidden by a curtain of hair.

“You are from The Republic, yes?”

Thrown by the sudden question, Espresso says, “Yes. The both of us are.”

“You’re aware that The Republic is a peaceful nation. No conflict within its gates, no monsters to be found without.”

Where is this going? Espresso responds, “Safe, sterile, and utterly boring. I’m aware.”

“Then what,” Madeleine turns his face away from Espresso, addressing the trees, “what use do you think such a nation has for soldiers? For knights?”

Oh.

Madeleine laughs, not his usual hearty guffaw, filled to the brim with bravado, but a short and bitter exhalation. “Do you know what it’s like to be, as you called me, the ‘slow’ one, in a family of scholars and politicians? For your only prowess to be your physical strength, in a place where that skill is entirely unnecessary?”

“But the knight order you lead-”

“- is purely for show. Just cookies dressed up in shiny armour to remind the other kingdoms we’re not to be trifled with. None of them have actually seen a day of real combat outside of sparring.”

Espresso is back in the clearing, picking a position next to Madeleine so he doesn’t see his sympathetic expression.

“Then… the reason you and all the knights were sent out?”

“As I said, my mission was to seek the legendary Soul Jam that is supposed to grant us cookies eternal life. Not that anyone in the Republic really expects us to find it.”

“They wanted to get rid of you, then.”

Madeleine visibly flinches at Espresso’s words. “I wouldn’t put it so bluntly, but… yes. I’m welcome back home, of course. If I were to return, I’d be met with trumpets and fanfare, but not much else, and certainly not anything approaching respect from those who truly matter.” The knight clenches his fist. “This quest is to be my saving grace. My only purpose, and the only way one like me can conceivably bring pride to House Madeleine. The only way I can be of use”

Espresso regards Madeleine, the revelation casting the cookie in a new light.

“So.. yes, Espresso. I am a selfish glory-seeker. Perhaps I have no other choice but to be.” Madeleine’s previously ramrod-straight posture is gone, and in its place his fists are clenched, shoulders hunched inwards, his hair tumbling forward, shielding his face from view.

And a small part of Espresso feels the strangest urge to push that hair back, to place a comforting hand on the paladin’s shoulder. Anything to stop what has to be the strongest — the most annoying, surely, but the strongest nevertheless — cookie he knows from curling into himself, from hurting like this.

But he holds himself back. All he lets out is a soft, “I think I know how you feel. Not entirely, but some of it.”

Madeleine turns to look at Espresso, a blank expression on his face. “You do.”

The mage lets a spark of magic fly from his hand - a single, glowing coffee bean surrounded by dark shadow. “You have called what I do ‘black magic’ in the past.”

Madeleine, suddenly stricken, says, “I wouldn’t go so far as to call it ‘black magic’, but-”

“- Listen. You have, countless times. And it annoys me to no end, but I understand why. It does look like it, no?” He conjures more coffee beans, letting them spin in circles around him. “I’ve had this ability since I was a child. It did not come from dark origins, I did not make a pact with evil forces to obtain it, as some have believed. It simply was. My magic, like your physical strength, is a part of me.”

Madeleine simply nods.

“But people don’t understand Coffee Magic. Whenever I demonstrated my abilities, I’d be shunned, the respectable citizens of our beloved Republic saying that I was a child of Dark Enchantress Cookie.”

“Espresso…” His magic fizzles out, and now, it is his turn to look away, incapable of facing the pity that is surely in Madeleine’s gaze.

“I was barred from every magic school. I had to learn, and practice, and make it on my own. If I didn’t have Latte Cookie, I don’t know how I would have-” Espresso shakes his head. “No matter. All I am saying is that I do know how it feels, not to belong. To have to carve a place for yourself among people who can’t respect you.”

A hand settles on his shoulder, and Espresso almost flinches. He looks up, and his gaze meets Madeleine’s, earnest and apologetic. “Espresso, first and foremost, I am sorry that I ripped your cloak in trying to keep you here.”

Espresso’s eyes travel to his torn (and expensive) wizard’s cloak. “It’s fine. I’ll just have to get it repaired once we return to camp.”

Madeleine continues. “And I’m sorry, truly sorry that I misjudged you based on your magic. That I pushed when I should have respected your wishes. Respected you.”

And this time, Espresso believes Madeleine’s words. He lets his own hand creep upwards to rest over the knight’s.

He sighs. “And I apologise, too. I made undue assumptions about you, and let these assumptions colour my actions. I treated you poorly, and for that, I’m sorry.”

When their eyes meet again, it is as if the forest goes silent, nature’s rustle and hum being forgotten as the two look at each other, and for the first time, understand.

Of course, no moment can truly last, and it is Espresso who breaks the spell, gently moving Madeleine’s hand off his shoulder. “Naturally, don’t think this means I’ll let you strongarm me into doing whatever you want me to. You still irritate me. Incessantly.”

Madeleine chuckles. “Naturally. Besides, I do not imagine such actions will be necessary in the future. I think we understand each other perfectly clearly, now.”

Espresso lets a grin creep across his face. Rolling his eyes, he says, “Don’t assume you know everything based on a tidbit of my past. I encompass multitudes, Knight-Commander.”

“In turn, I request that you not write me off just yet,” Madeleine responds teasingly. “I may not know everything about you, but I would be very interested to,”

Both their eyes widen, Madeleine realising the forwardness of his statement. “That is. I will give you the space you need, certainly, but if you ever feel like-”

“- Wait. Stop.” Espresso takes a breath, lets it out. “I- I do feel the same way. You’re a good fighter, and I did not let myself give you a fair chance.”

He crosses the short distance between them, and extends a hand. “I’m Espresso Cookie of The Republic. Founder of the Coffee Magic School. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Madeleine regards the outstretched hand in wonder.

"... Don't make a big deal of it, knight."

He puffs out his chest, taking Espresso’s hand. “And I’m Madeleine Cookie of The Republic. Servant of The Divine, Knight Comm-” He stops himself, clears his throat. Then, he smiles and simply says, “I’m Madeleine Cookie. It’s an honour to get to know you.”

[kazuharem]

ok, angsty luci! i found this quote and kind of wanna see what you can do with it~ “doesn’t it bother you? that they refuse to see the good in you, that they choose to only focus on your faults and mistakes?” she asks him. he turns his head and looks for the horizon. “why should it? we’re all bad in someone’s story.” 👀👀

(Below contains an image not yet released in EN server)

Hi Grace! I loved receiving this request from you! (Cuz god knows how angst runs through my veins. And when it’s Lucien angst.... I just- *chef’s kiss*). Believe me when I say I love Lucien, okay. But something about Lucien angst.... is just so addictive.

Also, some of y’all seem to forget that I’m an ANGST writer (as well as smut) with all the requests I’ve been getting as of late... So this is my gentle reminder for you that I am indeed, an angsty soul 🤣

Anyways, thank you for requesting this (and helping me brainstorm hehe), this is dedicated to you, my friend 💜 @tartagilicious

───── ⋆⋅ Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ ⋅⋆ ─────

“We’re All Bad in Someone’s Story” ↠  LUCIEN [ANGST]

Characters: Lucien, Victor, mentions of MC (Female)

Genre: Angst (Pure Unadulterated Angst, A N G S T - You have been warned) *insert Lucien clutching chest*

Word Count: 1,312

A/N: Set after Ch. 13 (Lucien’s betrayal), mentions of established relationship between Lucien and Female MC, and let’s pretend Victor’s little time travel thingie didn’t happen

Summary: With her no longer trusting Lucien, Lucien goes to Victor with a request.

Lucien gazed across the expanse of city lights before him. It should’ve been a beautiful sight, but now, there was no beauty left in this world. Not for him. Not anymore.

“Was any of it true? Everything that you told me? It was all lies?”

He could still see the moment when her heart had shattered. Because of him.

The moment her tears had spilled from her beautiful eyes, he had wanted to run over immediately and wanted to pull her into his chest, just like he had done countless times. But he couldn’t. 

And when the moment she had put the pen that he had gifted her to her neck, his entire world had stopped. He had been forced to keep his emotions under control, to not let anything slip out from the mask he had crafted as he had watched crimson blood flow from her neck. He had felt his heart break along with hers. A heart, Lucien didn’t even know he had.

Foolish girl. Didn’t I warn you? 

A shaky sigh was exhaled from his mouth, exceptionally loud in the still air.

But he had tried so hard, hadn’t he? At the beginning, didn’t he try so hard to ignore her, to ignore the blossoming feelings she had planted within his cold, empty heart. The fact that she alone was able to make the seeds she had sowed grow into a beautiful, passionate yearning was a feat of its own.

“Will you miss me if I do leave?”

He remembered the way she had nodded enthusiastically without hesitation at his question.

“I’m the fool,” he muttered. There was a broken laugh, bitter and grating. 

Lucien looked up heavenward. The sparkling stars he had seen with her were now dull and gray.

“How unfortunate,” only the stars could hear his cracked whisper, “To fall in love with such a wretched man... And I, that wretched man, fell in love with you...only...to break your heart...”

The gentle hum of a car’s engine interrupted him and Lucien turned his head to see a man in a dark suit stepping out, the headlights illuminating the man’s silhouette.

“You asked to see me, Professor Lucien?” The man walked up to Lucien as he spat out his name. The expression on his face was severe. His eyes narrowed, “Or do I call you Ares now?” Indigo eyes met violet ones challengingly. 

“It appears that you’ve already been informed,” Lucien answered casually, schooling his expression into a calm mask, “Victor.”

Victor scowled, “What do you want? Why did you call me?”

“I know you’re busy, but I would just like to ask for a bit of your time,” Lucien said coolly. 

“You have no right to be making demands right now,” The words were nearing a low growl. “Not after what you did to her.”

“I’ll live with the consequences,” Lucien stated softly.

Victor laughed humorlessly, “And her? How do you plan for her to go on? Now after you’ve dumped her like some useless toy.”

“I suggest you get your facts straight before accusing me of anything,” Lucien’s voice was frigid; there was absolutely no trace of warmth. “I’m doing this for her good. To ensure her safety.”

“From you.”

“I’m not here to argue with you tonight,” Lucien smiled tightly. “I just have two requests to ask of you.”

Victor crossed his arms, “What do you want?”

Lucien exhaled, “It would appear that you care for her. And I imagine, with all comfort you’ve given her, she...cares for you as well.”

“What do you want?” Victor repeated, impatience creeping into his voice.

There was a pause.

“My first request is to ask that you keep her safe...Protect her in my stead...” Lucien spoke slowly.

“That’s hardly a request,” Victor scoffed, “I’m not protecting her for you. I’m protecting her from you.”

Lucien nodded once. “I understand. I just want her...to be safe.”

Victor’s eyes narrowed, “And what good does this do for you?”

“I’m prepared to lose the only color in my world,” Lucien’s voice was steady, betraying no sign of his inner turmoil. He turned to look at the man beside him, “Tell me, what are you prepared to lose?” The words carried a hint of underlying threat.

“I don’t lose,” Victor responded flatly.

“No? What about the girl you had yearned for so ardently? The girl whom you’ve searched for all these years?” Lucien couldn’t help but challenge.

Victor’s jaw clenched, “I won’t lose her,” his voice was sure and confident, leaving no room for argument. “Not like you did.”

“Very well,” Lucien conceded with a slight smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. He turned away to watch the city spread before him.

“The other request, what is it?” Victor spoke up after a brief silence. “You asked me to keep her safe, what’s the other request?”

Lucien watched the scene before him, a faraway look in his eyes. There was a touch of melancholy about him. “Keep her safe,” he repeated softly, the words carrying easily through the tranquil air. “And...Please let her be happy.”

Victor did not reply.

Lucien turned to leave, offering Victor a polite nod, “I hope you can honor these requests.”

“Does it not bother you?” Victor spoke up before he could leave. Lucien stopped, but did not turn to look at him. Victor continued, “Does it not bother you now that she found out who you really are? Now that she thinks of you as her rival instead of her lover?”

Lucien gave a soft chuckle, “Why should it bother me? After all, we’re all bad in someone else’s story,” he replied placidly. “Now, if you will excuse m-”

“Did you love her?” Victor cut him off, curt and cold. “Did you ever love her?”

Lucien stilled, his face ever so unreadable. There was a deprecating laugh. 

“How could such a despicable man like me ever be capable of love?” He finally responded, smiling thinly. He turned on his heel and walked away, until he was out of Victor’s line of sight.

As soon as he could no longer see the bright beams of the headlights, he doubled over, gasping. Steadying himself on the trunk of a tree, he took in great shuddering breaths.

A choked groan came out of his mouth as the pressure in his chest built. 

How ironic, he thought to himself, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. A pathetic man like me is capable of tears after all. A single tear traced its way down his cheek as he closed his eyes. He collapsed against the tree, sliding down the trunk until he sat at the base of tree. His head sank into his hands.

Images of her played behind his eyes. The way her eyes had lit up with such innocence, such joy when he had taken her to see the vibrant maple trees in Canada. The way she had taken him in that night when he was testing her, patching him up without a single moment of hesitation. The way she had trusted him wholeheartedly with no questions asked. The way she had loved him unconditionally despite knowing he had secrets, the him who was undeserving of such pure love. 

“Ha..” Lucien gave a strangled laugh. “I am indeed...wretched...”

He reached into his jacket pocket and opened his hand. In it, lay a peace knot. The one she had gifted him with a brilliant smile and a wish hoping he would be happy and healthy. It was frayed in some places. He could no longer remember what colors it used to be. Now it appeared to him in varying shades of gray. His fingers closed over it tenderly, holding it carefully.

“If only...you hadn’t met me...” He whispered, “I hope...my little butterfly will be happy and healthy from now on...I hope, she’ll be safe...” A broken sob broke out from his throat. “Victor...is good for you, little butterfly... So fly away and be free. Be free of this wretched man who had wanted to keep you in a glass jar forever.” He pressed his lips against the peace knot softly. 

“And...I hope you won’t mind this wretched man for wanting to love you just a little bit more... little butterfly, don’t let this man’s ugly blacks and whites stain your beautiful wings...and fly away...”

───── ⋆⋅ Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ ⋅⋆ ─────

A/N Part II: I’m...a Lucien stan I swear. I absolutely, positively love this man with every fiber of my entire being. I just couldn’t resist. Don’t worry, I’m sobbing as well. Also, I love me some good old rivalry between Lucien and Victor. *Cue TENSION* But if you are too sad from this Lucien angst, I have a treat in store for you. It involves FLUFF annnnnnd (sneak peak) wedding stuffs. Stay tuned!

To the Nonnys in my asks, I promise I’m working on your requests! (I just wanted to get through the drabbles before I launch myself into full-blown 10k word fics again). 

If the rest of you would like to request something, as always, my ask and/or messages are open!

Part II: here

More of my work: 📖

[fortheloveoffanfic]

This Christmas pt2

John Wick x Reader

Masterlist   This Christmas Masterlist

London It was the second day of the conference and Y/n had spent most of the day in John’s suite, giving his speech one final proof reading while he went over some paperwork. Outside of the hotel and the center where the week long event was being held, Y/n hadn’t really seen much of the expansive city, much too busy with work to do anything else. At first, back in New York she couldn’t really fathom why John would need her in London with him, but it had only taken the first evening to clear that whole matter up. Being there wasn’t just about five days of sitting in a auditorium listening to speeches and having meet and greets afterwards; there were cocktail parties with investors and potential clients, leadership luncheons, training sessions and a host of other work related events and while she wasn’t directly involved, Y/n could see how navigation would be made easier when there was someone to help with keeping track of the calendar and preparing material. 

It was boring though, at least for Y/n, and somewhat dispiriting, especially when every time she looked out the window or went downstairs to the lobby, all she was reminded of was the holiday she wouldn’t really be celebrating that year. On her last call with her mother, she’d encouraged Y/n to call its quits, a job was no good if it was making you unhappy and a boss that couldn’t care enough to give you week off after you’d been a perfect employee for the rest of the year just wasn’t worth the fuss. But Y/n knew that she’d never actually bring herself to leave, despite everything, John had become a huge part of her life and she cared about him, probably a tad more than she should. 

“Are you finished with that?” Y/n’s head snapped up at the sound of his gruff baritone, coming from the armchair near the electric fireplace. He had one arm laid on the upholstered arm of the sofa and one of his ankles was crossed over his knee while he held a pen in his left hand, absently tapping the pages as he awaited her answer. 

Using the joint of her thumb, Y/n pushed up her glasses, trying to ignore how the way the sleeves of his dress shirt, rolled up to his elbows, made his arms look bigger or how the way he had the top buttons undone had somehow added to how smoldering he usually was. John was her tough as nails boss, it would have significantly helped if he looked the part instead of looking like he’d just materialized from the page of a fashion magazine. “Uh...yeah, almost,” as she shifted on the long sofa, tucking one jean clad leg under herself while tugging on the hem of her grey sweater, Y/n forced herself to look away and pick her jaw up off the ground, “I can read faster or-”

“No, it’s okay. There’s still some time, don’t rush yourself,” he was so nonchalant and much more relaxed than she was used to him being. John was always  so tightly wound that sometimes it was hard to believe he hadn’t snapped yet. Though, that evening, in his hotel room with the roaring fire ablaze and nothing more than a pot of room service coffee shared between them, he seemed softer. 

Simply nodding with a tight smile, Y/n bent her head to continue with her reading. Her eyes scanned each line in search of any error and she was wholly focused on the task at hand, trying her best to not pay John any mind, not even when he stood from his seat, making his way over to the nearest window, slipping his hands into the pockets of his black slacks. “It’s snowing,” he broke the silence again, musing absently.

Once again, Y/n looked up, that time to find that he was still looking out the window. Nervous as hell about the sudden shift in his demeanor, yet still trying to welcome the new found side of John, Y/n stood as she finished the final paragraph, going over to meet him at the large window, sure to keep some space between them. Sure enough, white flakes were making the slow, picturesque journey to the wet sidewalk, while in other places, like on the lawn of a gated park across the street, it had started to gather, creating a blanket of white around the decorated trees. “It is,” Y/n hummed, still looking outside, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” 

He shrugged and Y/n barely noticed when John spared her a lingering glace, only to turn away before speaking, “I guess it is,” an awkward silence was traded between them, and Y/n was pleasantly surprised when John was the one to break it, “What’s your favorite?”

“My favorite?” Y/n furrowed her brows, turning to throw him a curious glance, “I don’t think I understand.”

“Your favorite winter, I mean; here, New York, somewhere else. Where’s your favorite?” He clarified and Y/n was finding it hard to believe that he actually cared. John had never, not even once, asked about anything remotely personal, she didn’t even think he knew when her birthday was.

“Oh,” huffing a brief, wistful chuckle, Y/n barely thought on it, knowing her answer almost immediately, “Connecticut, you know, back at home,” John didn’t appear to have a response, and not yet ready for their little moment to be over, Y/n threw the question back to him, “What’s yours?” 

“Madrid,” he noted coolly, “Not a lot of snow most of the time, but it’s quiet, easy to stay away from the fuss.”

“The fuss?” 

Scrunching his nose, John nudged to everything outside; the colorful lights intertwined on the branches and around the trunks of trees, the decorations in storefronts and evening running along street lamps, “All of this. It’s not really my thing.”

“I know,” she glanced at him, and surprised to see that he’d just looked at her, their eyes meeting unintentionally, “But maybe you just haven’t given it enough of a chance.”

Shaking his head, John sighed heavily as he started retreating towards his bedroom, “You wouldn’t understand,” with another audible exhale, he closed his hand over the brass knob, “The symposium starts in an hour, we should get ready to leave.”

“Of course,” Y/n frowned. She was eager to know what exactly she wouldn’t understand, but John had changed the topic so quickly that it was obvious the matter wasn’t one he was going to elaborate on. “Let me just organize your things.”

She was still in the process of putting John's stuff together when he reemerged shortly after, that time with his hair neatened and wearing a suit jacket, button left open to show off the pinstripe tie he had paired with his dark shirt. Through her lashes, as she checked his devices to see if they’d have enough power for the rest of the evening, Y/n eyed him as he shrugged on a thick navy coat over his suit, subsequently slipping his key card into one of his pockets. 

“You should take a scarf,” Y/n blurted out, wringing her hands together anxiously the second the words fell out of her mouth. And then, when John didn’t catch on, she extended, “It’s cold out,” already, she’d started moving towards the bag he’d left on the love seat, rummaging through until she got a hold of a plain black scarf. Giving it a once over as she approached him, Y/n tried to hide the fall in her expression at its plainness, proceeding to stand on her toes and drape it over his neck anyways, “You wouldn’t want to catch a cold,” she said softly, still leaning in so she could fix and adjust to suit.

John stiffened her touch, his frame going rigid and his face more unreadable than usual. He didn’t say it, but Y/n knew that even if they were standing close and her hands would occasionally brush his shoulders carelessly, he was doing his very best to ensure he didn’t touch her. “You didn’t have to,” he breathed uncomfortably.

“I know,” she smiled faintly, finally stepping backwards to admire her work, “But you’re stubborn, so I wouldn’t want to risk you not listening,” tentatively, she reached out, brushing away any lingering fault on his shoulder, “There,” she pulled away, “All set now.”

“Thanks,” John sighed, avoiding her gaze, “Ready?” He shuffled past her, narrowly keeping his distance, going to collect the rest of his things as Y/n shrugged on her stylish fleece coat.

“Yeah,” Y/n lingered in the foyer, her eyes going wide after a moment, “My phone!” Y/n declared, hurrying over to where she’d left it charging at the small, round table near the window they’d been standing at just a short while ago.

Just then, three short, unhurried knocks at the door had John pulling it open to reveal Robert on the other side, dressed far more casually than John was. “You’re not on this one,” John noted hastily, his mind, as it always did, immediately going to work.

“I know,” Robert beamed, pocketing his hands in his coat, rocking back and forth on his heels, “I’m here for Y/n.”

“Huh?” Confused, she looked up from where she’d been stuffing her charger into her handbag, “What?”

“You can’t just take my assistant whenever you feel like it,” John scolded defensively, folding his arms, “Y/n is working tonight.”

Whistling lowly, Robert shook his head, “First of all, she’s not just your assistant, she’s Y/n, life outside of you and all that, and second, she’s been working all day. What do you need her to do anyways? Hold your hand and walk you to the conference center?” At the mention of hand holding, John’s face went beat red, though Y/n couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed or angry and Robert didn’t give John a moment to let them know, “Look, I’m sure you can manage without her for a couple hours, I just want to take her ice skating.”

“Ice skating?” Suddenly excited, Y/n perked up, more jubilant than he’d ever seen her, “That would be amazing! I swear, I’ll make up the hours tomorrow, or whenever you need me to,” she approached John, her doe eyes hopeful as she clutched her handbag in anticipation. 

Wincing, John gnawed on his lower lip as he debated her request. The wait seemed to go on forever, and right before he gave his response, Y/n was actually starting to worry that he’d say no. “Fine,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes, “But only this one time.”

Flinging herself into his chest, Y/n grabbed John into a hug that undoubtedly caught him off guard, “Thank you,” she mumbled into his neck as she stood on her toes, only noticing that he had hugged her back just as they were untangling. “Good luck with your speech,” giving his arm one last squeeze, and feeling heat in her cheeks rise at his slightly softened expression, Y/n finally pulled away, half way out the door with Robert, “And I’ll see you tomorrow.”

By the time John had returned to the hotel, he was beat. All he wanted was to flop into bed after a hot shower, though, as appealing as the prospect was, he’d first have to drag himself out of the town car and through the golden framed doors of the entrance. Immediately upon entering, he breathed a heavy sigh of relief; even if it wasn’t his room, it was still far warmer than his few minutes spent on the sidewalk.

Slowly, he trudged past reception, ignoring all the fluff and frill of plastic green garlands, the huge tree in the center of the lobby and the shiny, colorful decorations that were inescapable at  every corner. Most times it was irritating, but there was the rare occasion, like that night, where seeing them stung a bit more than it annoyed him and John didn’t want to admit it, not even to himself, but he had a feeling that it had something to do with Y/n’s absence. 

He’d wanted her at the conference that night, not just as his assistant, but more so as the only person in his life that actually cared about him. Of all the meetings and gatherings that were being run that week, John had wanted her at that one the most. In his mind, he’d rationalized it by trying to convince himself that it was what made sense; Y/n had helped him write that speech, she’d sat in his office late at night, listening to every draft and she’d even acted as a sounding board for ideas that he wanted to test. Y/n had been with him for every part of it, until the very end, when all he wanted was to see her face in the crowd. 

But of course she’d chosen to spend the evening with Robert, who could blame her? John knew himself well enough to know that his employee was definitely much better company than he was, and the way her face had lit up at the mention of ice skating, he’d really be the Grinch if he took that away from her. And the last thing John wanted was to be the recipient of another one of Robert’s taunting jokes. 

With a heavy sigh, John was finally stepping out of the elevator having reached his floor, only to run into someone he didn’t particularly feel like having a conversation with. “Hey boss,” Robert nodded politely as he drew closer from the left side of the hall, still dressed the way he was when he’d picked up Y/n earlier, though with hair wind tousled. “How was your big speech?”

They were headed in the same direction, so really, John had no way of escaping the mineral chit chat. “It was good,” there was no way that John was going to let Robert know that it might have been better if Y/n were there; he might tell her. Worst yet, John was pretty sure that Robert had taken some sort of romantic liking to Y/n and he didn’t want to intrude on that. “How was ice skating?”

“Like you care,” Robert shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, scoffing lightly, “Though, if you must know, it was great. I had fun, and I think Y/n did too,” they were nearing the end of the hall when Robert stopped, rummaging around in his coat before producing his key card, “Well this is me, I’ll see you for the brunch tomorrow. Good night.”

He’d already slipped the card into its slot, and John had just started walking off, when a nagging thought had him halting with a wince and turning, “Why ice skating?” There were so many other places that he could have taken Y/n if he wanted to impress her; one of the many upscale restaurants, the London eye and the list went on but still, Robert had chosen something as juvenile as ice skating and she’d gotten so excited. 

Shrugging, Robert smiled tiredly, “She goes with her family every year. They go to the local rink, spend a couple hours and get cocoa after. And I don’t know, she just seemed a little down about not getting to do that this year, so I thought I’d take her, see if it would cheer her up.”

As John listened, his mind went back to that faraway look in her eye and Y/n’s soft, wistful smile when she’d mentioned that her favorite place to spend winter was back at home. Then he hadn’t known well enough to look for it, but maybe she had been upset. Had she been down for the entire trip? Was he really that selfish? John hadn't meant to be, and that certainly wasn’t something he wanted to take up with Robert, “Oh, well…..good. ‘Night Robert.”

As he walked off, John barely heard the other man’s response; he’d already started sinking into deep thought. With his head down cast and his brows furrowed, he let his mind tick away; he was going to make it up to Y/n, somehow. 

*****

Tagging- @harrisongslimited @magnificentclodpiebanana  @keandrews @greenmanalishi  @rdjloverxxx @danceoftwowolves  @planetkt @wheretheriversrunintothesea

[earthfluuke]

summary: they’re the protectors of the trees, have been since they sprouted. after so much time, he’s become comfortable; too comfortable to notice when things change.

did you think i could continue the nymph!tine universe without adding ohmfong into it? impossible! the two of them (along with phuak) are based on alseids (grove nymphs) from greek mythology, but as a reminder, they are anything i imagined them to be.

this also became far longer than i intended it to be. so...oops? regardless, i hope you enjoy!

(side note: margosa trees - also called neem trees - grow in thailand.)

parts: 1 / 2 / 2.5 / 3 / 3.5 / 3.5i

From the high branches of the apple tree, lone and unique amongst the grove of margosa not far away, Fong keeps a watchful eye on the ground below. Specifically, the human boy who dares to take a step closer to Tine. One wrong move, and he will be sliding down the trunk, bark scratches and splinters be damned, to his aid. Such is the life of himself, Ohm, and Phuak, the protectors of the trees, the field, and the creatures that dwell there.

The human boy tosses a blade to the ground behind him and raises his hands to his chest, fingers spread wide in surrender. Tine braves towards him, sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. While he relaxes, Fong only further tenses, fingers gripping the branch tighter, swirling patterns indenting into his palms. Tine is too quick to trust, leaving Fong to be the one to worry.

When he turns to the two nymphs above him, they seem to share his sentiment, if the creases to their brows and downturn of their lips are any indication. If there must be a soft spot for those they protect, they at the very least all agree to have the same one. To the three of them, that is Tine. And for him, they are attentive, subjecting themselves to a day of observation and scrutiny. But what else does one do for those that they love?

…

Humans are not so foreign to them. There are the occasional wanderers, free spirited couples who want to escape for a bit of privacy, curious explorers who collect leaves and twigs from the ground to shove into the satchels at their hips. But they are few and far between, never venturing in more than once.

Tine’s human boy, however, is an oddity. Every day without fail, he returns to the forest, walks through the trees until they part into an open meadow, and trails up the hill to the sole apple tree. Sunrise to sunset he stays, leaving with promises of a happy tomorrow.

It isn’t so much the human boy’s presence that concerns him. It instead is the light that reaches too high in Tine’s eyes. They all but glow, seeping a brightness across the fields when the sun sinks away. His cheeks push up too high, smile grows too wide, sighs become too dreamy. They are all warning signs that Fong knows better than to ignore.

Weaving between tree trunks, he follows the human boy through the grove. On the ground, he can see him closer, see a bit of what Tine must see in him. He has a handsome, angled face, sharp features that don’t quite match the softness in his eyes. Even from the tops of the trees, he can see the way they melt to enraptured fondness with merely a glance to Tine. There again comes his worry; the two of them make something so complicated so seemingly easy.

Fong is light on his feet, toes barely touching the dirt before he takes another step to keep up with the human boy’s longer legs. One with the wind, he resembles it whipping through the leaves, tearing those less fortunate from their stems, floating to the ground in a graceful dance. He is careful and calculated; a single step out of place puts him at risk.

It is a single step he takes. Misjudging the length he needs to take over a tree root, his foot catches. A pained hiss goes through his teeth, and he tumbles in perfect line with the human boy.

The first thing he notices when he regains his balance is the glint of a blade secured tightly at his waist. The second is the large, tan hand that covers it, ready to free it from its leather confines.

Fong is frozen still, eyes wide and unwavering from the gaze he has locked on the human boy. He stares back, still gripping the handle of his blade but making no move to draw it. It is as though each are waiting for the other to make a move, not daring to do so themselves. There is the perfect chance to dart away into the confines of the trees, and yet, he cannot bring himself to move nary a step.

Just as the human boy appears to want to move in closer and offer him his words, a cloud of dust huffs up between them. Feet hit the ground hard, the fall from the tree branches above kicking up twigs and rocks. Fong cannot see Ohm’s face, but it is all too obvious that he is angry. Squared back shoulders arch into long arms extended towards the ground, prepared to pull up the roots from the earth and trap the human boy within them.

He is on him before he can. It takes a series of progressively harder tugs on his hand to get Ohm to whip around and face him. Fire burns in his eyes, but it extinguishes when they meet Fong. Fear flashes through them, then grief, and then anger once more. But it is different than the first kind, more guilty than aggressive.

Before Fong can study him further, Ohm dashes through the trees, disappearing beyond the hills. The human boy is still looking at him, clearly perplexed from their exchange, but it is he who supplies an explanation with the single whisper of, “blood.”

Fingers rise to his cheek, find a wet pool that stings when touched, and when he pulls them back, they are tinted red. Somewhere between the dust and the fury, some of the kick up must have struck him.

He acknowledges the human boy with a nod before taking after his fellow nymph. From what he has seen, Tine’s human boy has far from bad intentions, considering how many chances he had to harm him, all of which he did not take. And regardless, there is something much more pressing he needs to see to.

…

It is not difficult to find where Ohm has escaped to. Just beyond Tine’s apple tree, down the far side of the hill, there sits a river. And on the banks, nestled between the cattails, he is crouched, head down, spine curved. A step closer, and Fong can see a scaled hand resting upon his cheek in comfort, webbed fingers spreading over his ashen skin.

Pear notices him almost instantaneously. She turns to look at him; the pink scales curving up towards her temples flicker gold beneath the sun, and her eyes grow soft with sympathy. He cannot make out the words she hushes to Ohm, but as she dives beneath the water, he glances over his shoulder. The flinch he gives matches the sharp pang Fong feels deep in his chest, just beyond his ribs, when he sees the remorse growing in his eyes, grief fading in just behind.

Two long glides, and Fong is on him, warming the cheek that Pear had left to grow cold. Thumb grazing over the indents of the vine that outlines his cheekbone, he forces a smile, hoping to rid the sorrow from his eyes; it hurts more than any cut ever could.

Those eyes – usually so big, so bright, full of mischief and unspoken plans between himself and Phuak – fixate on where the tree branch struck. Trembling fingers brave a graze so light he could have imagined it, and then his hand rests just beneath it, a hold mirroring the very one Fong has on him. More pain grows in from his pupils, spreading towards the edges of his dark brown irises until they are encompassed in a sadness too deep for Fong to bear.

He leans forward until their foreheads touch and their noses ever so carefully tuck into each other. He can feel Ohm’s breath feather onto his skin, rapid and staggered. Fingers stroke out towards his ear to say I’m okay while his thumb brushes just under his lashes to plead please don’t be so angry with yourself.

Ohm turns, forehead bumping his temple and rubbing against it. Each nuzzle presses an apology into his skin, gentle but not enough to go unnoticed. Fong feels it clearly, how much he means it, how badly he needs Fong to know it. And though he knew from the moment he saw the heaviness in his eyes, he stays still, not daring a move until Ohm feels he’s done enough.

It isn’t much, not for Ohm. For him, it’s always been different. Phuak has always been as close as a friend can be, a better one than Fong ever believed he deserved. Tine is the one he protects with a fierceness strong enough to topple trees and flood oceans. But Ohm…he doesn’t believe there’s a word to describe just what he is.

He is beside him before Fong knows he needs him. He follows in his steps or creates a path for Fong to follow. There is more said between them in single glances and lingering smiles than could ever be expressed through words. Where Ohm is, there is understanding, endless joy, a comfort that emerged one day and never left.

What one titles that, Fong hasn’t a clue. All he knows is that Ohm is forever, and staying like this, for as long as he needs, is nothing (and everything) in the grand scheme of things.

…

The next time the human boy visits, it’s with a string instrument in hand and a few more hearts to his eyes. Each moment passes by with his skilled strums, the birds drawn to the sound tuning their songs to match his melody. Tine’s attempts follow, unexperienced and clumsy and yet still met with soft praise. The back and forth floats to the treetops, to where Fong is perched with a hand pressed firmly into his lower back.

No longer red and stark, the scratch on his cheek should not be as offensive to Ohm as it once was. There is nothing to scream blame at him, no physical remnant of what he so wholeheartedly believes is his personal act of sin. And still, everywhere Fong goes, each turn he takes, a hand follows. Sometimes it hovers, a quiet whisper of protection. And other times, such as this, it is obvious, noticeable to an almost absurd degree.

He is not glass, has never been treated as such. He is resourceful, wise beyond his years, quick to a plan before others can so much as ponder the situation at hand. Proven himself for as long as the margosa grove has stood, he refuses to play weak for anyone.

But Ohm is not anyone, and anyone is not Ohm. And furthermore, does it make one weak to do what is right for your one’s – your only’s – peace of mind? Because regardless of his actions, Ohm’s trust in Fong’s strength has not wavered. It has instead pushed itself to the back of his mind in favor of guilt taking over the forefront, hazing his judgement with a desperate need for remedy. Perhaps it is not Fong at all, but Ohm feeling burdened by the wrong he believes he has done and this – the hovering, the following, the hands – is his way of making things right.

Regardless of reason, Fong has made his choice. If the price to pay for Ohm trusting himself again is a constant weight on his back and eyes on his cheek, then he will pay it proudly. There is strength in helping the ones you love. And as the human boy’s song plays on and Fong looks to Ohm – and Ohm looks to him, as he has been doing without fail – he cannot help but think of what little there is that he will not do if it is for him. It is as simple as breathing.

…

They came into this world on a sprout, grew along with it until it breached the skyline and was no longer lonely, surrounded by a collection of other trees that would become their home. The roots grew through their bodies, wound up around their arms and rose to their cheeks, tinting them the green of the margosa leaves. And from that very beginning, Ohm had been a beacon of light.

Brighter than the sun, the stars, and the moon combined, he brings warmth to every creature he meets. It bleeds out from his smile and into their chests, engulfing their hearts and melting it deeper into them until they ache with swelled emotion. Fong finds it so fitting that when the day breaks and the sun hits his skin, he shines a golden yellow as a symbol of all that is right and good in the small world they’ve created around them.

So when Tine shows off the flower crown he has woven for his human boy and that light within Ohm dims, Fong cannot help but recognize how wrong it feels. There is a hollowness to his eyes, empty and cold enough to send a shiver through Fong’s spine.

For a meadow nymph like Tine, this crown is special; to gift someone an object of his own creation, made from the flowers he bloomed from the very tips of his fingers, is no small feat. There is an unmeasurable amount of trust in a gesture that big, and for a moment, Fong believes that to be why Ohm has extinguished. They are protectors, and to him, Tine’s human boy must still be a threat. He is worried, Fong thinks as the skin around Ohm’s jaw tightens. He does not want to see him get hurt.

But no matter the worry or fear they may have over his decisions, Tine’s happiness is what holds most importance to them. However, when Tine lifts his creation, proud smile on his lips and hope squeezing his eyes to crescents, Ohm turns on his heel, showing his back to them before stalking out of the meadow and back towards the grove.

It is then that Fong realizes that none of this has to do with the human boy. Even more troubling is that he hasn’t a clue of what it does. He and Phuak are quick to reassure Tine with returned smiles and pats to his head. In between it all, they manage shared glances, each holding the same sentiment. Pray tell this is just a flicker, and he has not burned out entirely.

…

Starlight kisses his skin, patterns of the spaces between the leaves dancing across his cheeks and reflecting up into his eyes. There are just some moments in life that do not feel real, even when they are seen in person, and Fong believes this to be one of those.

Ohm has always been a familiar kind of beautiful, one that makes him feel safe. Crouched upon a branch of one of the margosa trees, the soft curve of his jaw stretches to get a better look at the sky, lips spreading slowly into a content smile. Under the light, he is still golden, but this kind is fainter, brighter, more ethereal. While he is entranced by the stars, Fong is entranced by him, because what could they possibly hold to this picture he wishes to etch into his memory for however long he has?

When he does take notice of him – because he always does, as if there is a sixth sense that only registers as Fong within him – his lips stretch further as he reaches his hand out to him. It is familiar, too familiar, and only when Fong takes hold does realization catch up to him, a swarm of memories flooding back to his mind.

The hands that he’d believed to be a phase of heightened worry that would slowly fade as his cut did are here; his cut is not. And his eyes dazzle into him, unwavering from the gaze he before had on his cheek and now has through his eyes and into his soul. That too should have gone when he healed, and yet, they both stay. Or is it that they never left in the first place?

Or could it be they had been there the entire time?

Pasts of fingers circling his wrist as he crossed the river on unsteady stones and palms brushing tears from his cheeks when Phuak removed a splinter from his foot. Histories of pinpricked pupils narrowing in on him when the first human to explore their grove came and crinkled eye-smiles first thing in the morning, saved only for him. Memory after memory, too many to count, so many he has overlooked. Always, Ohm has been there, looking at him the same, holding him the same, and he has never noticed. Because that is Ohm; it has always been Ohm. Fong has just gotten too comfortable with what they are – what they always have been – that he has been blind to things becoming so much more.

And now, he cannot focus on anything but. Every touch, every look, it is, it has, it will always be, their normal. What does it mean? What has it meant? Must it mean anything at all? It must, with the rate his heart quickens and the slight shake to his knees.

Thoughts consume him, and it’s all too much. It’s dizzying, how fast one’s mind can work. He clutches to Ohm’s bicep, hugs it close to keep his balance on the branch. Surely, he has done so before, subconsciously with far less concern. It is all he can do. That, and look at the stars; all he can see in them is Ohm.

…

After that night beneath the stars, Fong needs time to think. Realization hit him square in the chest and knocked all of the wind out of him. His nights are filled with those hands, those eyes, and something more. Breath on his neck, lips fitting against his own, arms catch around his lower back as he spins and spins and spins until he wakes to the only nymph to blame for this mess.

It is the day he uses as an escape, a time to distract himself in hopes of it bringing clarity. And the universe has blessed him with the perfect opportunity.

He was created to protect his tree grove and the creatures around it, and the stream just beyond Tine’s apple tree is no exception. Another human appears one day, a girl this time, and she does not stray from the place she’s made for herself on the water’s banks. She creates colors with her hands, a magic Fong was unaware humans possessed, and every so often, she looks up as though she’s expecting something. Every time she looks down, the hope in her eyes fades just a bit more.

It is not so difficult to decipher just what (who) she’s looking for, but it becomes even easier when he finds Pear at the mouth of her river – farther up on a shallow overhang of cliffs – staring down at the human girl with interest and hesitation. It is as though her body wants to go to her, but her mind shouts wait.

And she does, in a way. Each day the human girl comes, Pear inches that littlest bit closer, just to watch her, as though she’s trying to figure out everything there could be to know about her. Where she goes, Fong follows. She provides the sort of silence he needs when his mind is too loud.

On the third day, they’ve traveled far enough down the river to where he can see Tine’s apple tree as well as the two figures situated in the branches. While he’s gone off with Pear, someone has to look after Tine. Or in this case, someones. Ohm could have followed him, and if this were any other time, he would have. But he knows this is something Fong needs to do on his own, because he always knows. And that’s what makes this ever so hard.

It is odd to be apart. He discovers so on the fifth day when he sees Ohm’s shoulders bounce in what he can only assume to be laughter. An emptiness grows in the center of his chest, sinking his heart to the very pits of his stomach. They’ve never strayed far from each other, and this. This must be why. Has he felt a pain like this before? Has anything hurt him so terribly that he could feel it course through his roots and squeeze him tight?

Only one thing has. Seven days gone, and Pear has taken her leap. It is more of a tip toe to the human girl’s side, one that startles her when Pear reaches for her magic colors. But it is not long before they fall into one another. Shoulders brush, wrists cross. Pear smiles, and the human girl’s cheeks flush the same shade of pink as the magic color on the tips of Pear’s fingers.

The closeness they share is the same kind that Tine and his human boy have. It is something that Fong should envy but never has. The question of why is followed quickly by you know.

A glance to the tree tops is all he needs. He need not be jealous for he has a closeness of his own, has for far more than his mind has ever let him remember. Long before human boys and human girls, there were nymphs. Some with shimmering scales, others with blossoms at their fingertips. But there has only ever been one for Fong, something he had not understood until his cheek was gashed and he felt an ice-cold ache, more painful than any other he’d felt before, from eyes filled with irrefutable guilt.

…

Pear’s human girl presents her with a water lily. Fingers part back her hair to tuck it behind her ear where it sits proudly against her temple. Its soft gradient from white to purple radiates Pear perfectly, dainty with a striking, breathless kind of beauty that cannot be ignored. It is an altogether excellent choice, if the kiss the human girl receives is any indication.

Feeling as though he is intruding on a far too intimate moment, he turns and finds himself upon Ohm. His eyes dart away as well, but rather than out of respect, it appears he does so out of disdain. His expression carries the same anger it did when Tine showed off the flower crown he’d crafted for his human boy, the one he and Phuak could not comprehend.

A blink for clarity, he looks closer, really looks, and sees the sadness in the creases between his brows and the sharp bite he has on his lower lip. He’ll draw blood, Fong is sure, but he pulls back before he can surge forward. Just as he cannot break into Pear and her human girl’s private moments, he cannot do so to Ohm’s either; he is not entitled to that, regardless of the personal revelations he’s had within these last few days.

All he can do is shift back onto his hands and stare up to the sky, wondering what it is about humans and flowers that makes Ohm so heartbroken.

…

Fong is greeted back to the meadow with music and laughter. Tine is on his feet, each step leaving clusters of pink peonies; he dances around his human boy as he strums his strings and tries to catch him into a kiss. Pear and her human girl have joined them, spinning each other around and dissolving into fits of giggles when they are right way around again. There is not necessarily a reason for such festivities other than the thrill of being alive, but he supposes that is good enough reason as any.

Celebration circles through the air so thick that Fong can feel it. It warms his toes and melts his lips to a smile, but a chill passes over his shoulders from farther away. At the outskirts of the margosa grove, Ohm stands, leant against a tree trunk. His eyes, as they always seem to be, are locked onto him.

They are sad, though not in the same way as they were the day Pear’s human girl gifted her the water lily. This kind is a lonely kind of sadness, the kind that whispers I’ve missed you only loud enough for Fong, and Fong alone, to hear.

It drives him forward. That, and the notion that so many days have passed since they’ve been in each other’s presence. He hates it. He had to sort himself out, but he detests that it has caused this. His sunshine should always be bright, not this cloudy overcast with the chance of tears.

Standing in front of him, the closest he’s come to him in what feels like a millennium, he near breaks. But for Ohm, on the brink of shattering himself, he holds himself together and does for him what he’s done so many times for Fong; he reaches forward, palm up and ready to be taken. Every memory he’s recollected has Ohm taking hold of him and not letting go. This time, the first he plans of so many, he’ll hold him.

Fingers grip between his, squeezing tight enough to bruise. For all of the confusion Fong has had, Ohm has only experienced fear. That he would not return, that he was gone without a goodbye. And that, he has to rectify.

Pulling him forward, Fong manages to take back his hand and slip it around Ohm’s shoulders. The other finds the back of his head and presses his face to the bend of his collarbone. With strokes over his hair, nails catching over tangles and smoothing them out, he buries his nose into curve of his ear and inhales deep.

Grass, tree bark, apples, and something warm. It’s Ohm, it’s home, and Fong promises himself that never again can he stray for as long as he has. Here, cradling sunshine in his arms, is the only place he belongs, the only place he wants to be. It is an honor to hold up the sun, keep the light alive and burning, and it is not a privilege he plans to forget.

Ohm grasps at the back of his tunic, bunching the fabric up in his hands as though it will disappear if he is not strong enough. His breath is staggered, finally exhaling after days of not allowing himself to. And that’s a thought, isn’t it? By taking himself away, he’s taken away the very thing that allows Ohm to live. A day longer, and Fong would have found him beneath the tree he grew from, the two of them withered and alone.

Lips brush over the shell of his ear, gentle kisses unspoken promises of the forever Fong has always thought him to be. He’s never imagined a future where Ohm is not beside him, but it is more than that; he sees that now. Without Ohm, there simply is no future for him. When Ohm goes, so will he, their lives intertwined from beginning to end.

The music continues to play, but their own celebration continues in the privacy of the trees. Here, with Ohm in his arms, is not where their forever starts. No, that begun long ago. It is where it continues, with the promise that it will be as near to perfect as the universe allows.

…

Soft weight falls upon his head. His eyes roll up, hoping for a glimpse. Met with only rounded shadows, he reaches up, and his fingers find velvet, delicate to the touch. Taking it in both hands, he lowers it carefully to find a wreath of sunflowers, adorned with margosa leaves.

Unwavering, unconditional love with personal touches of the past woven in between. It’s so light, but it’s meaning is heavy, keeps him holding on tighter lest something tragic happen to it.

Just past where it rests in his hands, shifting from foot to foot, is Ohm. Not meeting his eyes, he waits for what Fong is unsure of. Perhaps for him to shove it back at him in rejection or stomp it into the dirt in disgust. It is within these nerves that Fong finds familiarity: a tight jaw and sad eyes.

He’s seen it before, with Tine’s flower crown and Pear’s water lily. It is not quite jealousy, nor is it resentment. It is instead a crushed desire, a hope he does not allow himself to have. It is the unexplainable want to be those humans. To have and to hold some part of the one they love; to give part of themselves to the one they trust most to take care of it.

That’s what this is. It’s unmistakable. Golden petals match the reflect across Ohm’s cheeks, in his smile, through the brown of his irises that shine just that slightest bit warmer. For so long, Ohm has yearned to give himself to him. And finally, he feels as though he can.

Situating it back onto his head, he takes Ohm’s hands into his. They are as warm as they should be. Ohm dares a glimpse, and the joy that bursts through him makes Fong smile. It’s a bit of a dance, the way Ohm pulls on his arms and catches him around the waist when he falls against his chest, but it is one he’d do a thousand times over if it keeps his sunshine hanging high in the sky, bright and brilliant, as he should be.

An honor, he thinks as Ohm leans down, captures his lips with his own. It is an honor to hold a piece of him, to be trusted this much. He is meant to care for every creature in the grove, in the meadow, in the river and forest beyond. Ohm has always been included in that; he was the very first after all.

[capricornus-rex]

Could I uhm by any chance have a cal x reader where they're kids and meeting for the first time and the reader's a human who's been adopted by wookies? If not that's fine. Love your writing btw😊

“A Time Where Innocence Prevailed” | Cal Kestis x Reader

Summary: The young Padawan Cal Kestis joins his master, Jaro Tapal, to a campaign in Kashyyyk in order to give aid to the warring Wookiees against the hostile Trandoshans. During their trip, little Cal meets an unlikely friend that he’ll surely keep it in his memory for time immemorial.

A/N: I so love this prompt because this is the very first time I’ll be writing about smol Cal!! I can imagine all of the sweet, pure fluffiness that transpires in his adventures with Master Tapal and oh good god my Cal Kestis-loving heart will melt into the goopy mess that it is!!! A sweet little angel that must be protected at all costs! Thank you Anon for sending this beautiful prompt to me, I’m really glad you did give it to me because I wouldn’t have made such an adorable story! On a serious note, some of the italicized dialog lines will be the direct translation from Wookiee to the protocol droid’s Galactic Basic—I personally thought it’s redundant and looks like sentence filler to switch between Wookiees speaking and protocol droid when they’re basically saying the same thing to the Basic-speaking characters.

Also in AO3

Tags: Young! Cal Kestis, Padawan! Cal Kestis, Non-Jedi! Reader, Non-Force Sensitive! Reader, Child! Cal Kestis, Child! Reader, Young! Reader, Orphaned but then Adopted! Reader, Adoptive Family, Childhood Friendship, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories

Masterlist

“Good morning, General Tapal,” a clone waiting outside the ship greeted the Jedi.

“Good morning, Captain Prell. Are the preparations done for travel?”

“Yes, sir. We’re ready when you are!”

“Good,”

There was a long pause after their exchange. Captain Prell slightly bobbed his head to the side. Normally, he would find a little ginger boy tagging along behind the tall Lasat Jedi.

“Is something wrong, Captain?”

“Err… I was wondering where you little Padawan might be, sir.”

Jaro Tapal looked to his side and then angled to his behind only to find nothing there. He thought he had his Padawan walking close to him ever since they exited the Jedi Temple and walked to the open landing pad. He looked to the path behind him and saw his apprentice being held back by some of his fellow younglings chatting with him.

When the boy saw over his friends’ shoulders that his master was waiting for him, he quickly bade goodbye and came sprinting towards Master Tapal.

“Come along now, Cal, we mustn’t delay,” beckoned Jaro in his prim, baritone voice.

“Coming, Master! Sorry about that,”

“Watch your step now, child,”

“Watch your head, Master!” Cal quipped as he strode on the entry ramp of their shuttle. He was received with a throaty chuckle as Jaro himself enters the vessel.

They make for the cockpit and settle themselves on their seats. The ten-year-old was so small on the chair that he had about five inches of space on both of his sides! Even so, he made himself comfortable and leisurely swung his legs as they prepared for take-off.

“You ever been to Kashyyyk, kiddo?”

“No, what’s it like there, Captain?”

“Well, there’s sure a lot of trees,”

Upon the shuttle’s arrival through Kashyyyk’s stratosphere, Cal’s amazed, widened eyes could not fit the vast, green expanse of the planet; so much so that the color of the landscape has already taken over his natural jade-green irises. His mouth formed into a full O. The sight from above was breathtaking, and he wanted in on every inch they pass over the dense jungles and grand treetops.

The boy leaned forward, struggling to match his height with the windshield of the shuttle in order to get a better view—as if his perspective right now wasn’t satisfactory. He couldn’t control his excitement and hopped on his toes as they zoomed through.

Cal had unintentionally ignored Jaro Tapal’s gentle warnings to come back to his seat in time for the landing.

“Cal, come on now, sit down before the captain lands the ship,”

“The general’s right, kiddo. We don’t want you bumping your head when we land!”

Cal resorted to following both of them. He jumped back into his seat and watched the landing cycle commence. The clone captain flew into one spot in the forest that provided enough coverage from possible threats—especially the Trandoshans—then settled the ship in one section of a Wookiee settlement on the ground—for they are known to dwell in the higher levels of the trees.

A group of Wookiees flocked the landing area with great curiosity about their new visitors, tilting their heads and lowing in conversation with one another. Jaro Tapal and Cal—along with a protocol droid, named KP-475 or Kay-Pee, for translation—exited the ship; when they stepped out of their vessel, they’re greeted by the leader of the settlement, apparently subordinate to Chieftain Tarfful. When the Wookiee spoke in his native language and protocol droid obliged after every sentence.

“Welcome, friends, to our peaceful home. My name is Khevariik, leader of this village.”

“Khevariik welcomes us in their peaceful village,” the protocol droid relayed.

Khevariik offered shelter for Master Tapal, Cal, Captain Prell, and even Kay-Pee. The four obliged and followed the Wookiee—and his warriors flanked them as they walked on. They stayed in a bigger hut situated in one tier of a high tree trunk. Cal’s wonderment hasn’t run out as he discovers that the cottage were connected with sturdy wooden bridges made with the exact same kind of lumber where the Wookiee homes are built with; but it doesn’t stop there—the bridges appeared like an intricate network, connecting from one tree to another, some of them even connected to the higher levels that if one is to look down, it ought to be a fifty-foot drop!

“Watch your step now,” Jaro warned a jittery Cal.

The cottage was relatively larger than the rest of the cottages they spotted outside, Master Tapal assumed that it could have been some sort of council hall and he was correct. Khevariik situated himself at the northerly side of the room, across him sat Master Tapal and Cal—they were offered libations by Khevariik’s mate and they sincerely accepted.

As the Wookiee conversed with the Jedi Master and filled him in on their situation against the Trandoshans, Cal’s attention is elsewhere. He studied the interior of the cottage, how surprisingly well-lit it was—until he counted all the crude sconces on the parapets around and made sense of the brightness in the room. In the corner of his eye, he noticed a couple of the Wookiees seated along the wall shuffling and lowing in a reactive manner.

The boy gasps at the sight of you: a child, more or less in the same age as him. Similar to the Wookiees, you had ornaments adorning your hair—woven, patterned ribbons that snaked along the braid that crowned your head and beads fastened into locks of your hair.

Master Tapal caught wind of his Padawan’s reaction and unintentionally cut his conversation with Khevariik. The Wookiee leader mewled to acknowledge your presence.

“I saw the ship that wasn’t ours, so I figured to take a look,” you reason out.

“You understand them?”

You nodded.

“A human child?”

The Wookiee lowed a series of growl and yelps, to which KP-475 instantaneously translates.

“Khevariik says the child is part of the clan. The real parents have… erm…”

The droid trailed off, it needn’t to continue as it might offend you. You immediately turned the awkward, somber mood around, but only projected your bright, cheeriness to Cal.

“Hey, wanna come play with me?” you beamed to him, not waiting for his answer a second after you asked him. You looked to Khevariik and then to the tall, purple Lasat who is his apparent custodian. You repeated the same permission to both of the adults.

Cal then turned to Master Tapal, in subtext, he was pleading he’d be allowed to go with you. Before Jaro could even say anything, Khevariik allowed you but there was an underlying tone in his growl.

“Yes, I promise. I won’t stray too far!”

“Well, run along now. Just don’t wander too far off then,” Jaro finally caved in and patted Cal’s head, nearly messing up the top of his hair.

“Yeah!”

Cal scrambled up to his feet and immediately joined you on your way to the door—or lack thereof.

“I’m Cal!”

“Name’s [Y/N]!”

You took the lead, of course, and gave your newfound friend a tour of your home. Along the way, Cal bombarded you with a lot of curious questions—you didn’t mind though, because likewise, you had the same curiosities about him as much as he does with you. The path that you’re taking led to one of your personal playgrounds—spots that only you knew of, your precious secret hideaways.

“So, uh, [Y/N],” Cal grunted as he scaled up a short wall. “How did you end up living here?”

“Oh, well, my parents and I went to live here. But when I was, like, seven… some Trandoshan hunters got caught in a fight with my parents. Good thing the Wookiees are a friendly kind and they rescued me. I owed my life to Khevariik and Itaahka, his mate.”

“Must be hard, missing your parents like that,”

“Yeah, it sure is, but… I’m not lonely. I have another family—the Wookiees!”

For some reason, Cal was relieved that you weren’t in your lonesome—given that you’re being taken care of by the Wookiees—but he wondered if you were lonely because you’re not their kind. You balanced on a thick enough branch that crept along the tree trunk as Cal continued his questions in getting to know you better.

“It felt weird at first, though. Sometimes I see people like me talk to Khevariik, but it’s my first time seeing someone really like me—and that’s you!”

You hopped down from the tree trunk and landed right in front of him. Now, it was your turn to ask the questions.

“Do all Jedi children have that braid tail on their hair?”

“O-Oh, yeah but… I’m not called a Jedi—not yet, at least,”

“Well, what do they call you?”

“Kids like me—who are learning to be Jedi when they grow up—are called Padawans,”

“And that tall, purple person is the one teaching you how to be one?”

“That’s right! So… Um, where’ve you taken us, [Y/N]?”

Your eyes lit up. Cal didn’t notice the wall of vines and limp branches that hung downward until you swept them to one side—revealing a large hole in the wall; it appeared more to be the mouth of a cave, but when he peeked over your shoulder, he didn’t see a cave, rather he saw a slope.

“What’s through there?”

“Oh,” you started in a singsong manner. “You’ll see!”

You turned tail and let yourself drop into the slope. Your whoop of enjoyment echoed and then faded out, leaving Cal in the starting side while you’ve already gotten to the other end.

“Come on, Cal!” your faceless voice called through the mudslide.

Cal angled his entire body slight sideways, his knees buckled, and his ankles locked on. Clumps of damp soil flew and sputtered upon his wake as he slid down. The thrill eventually brought out the laughter in him, all the way until he plopped and landed on his bottom, over a soft carpet of grass.

It would appear that you’ve brought him into a thicket. You called the mudslide your portal to your secret hideout.

“Whooaaa…!” Cal gasped as his pupils widened, absorbing all the sights, lights, and colors that pooled the entire thicket. “This place… is amazing!”

“You think? I found it months ago and no one else knows about it—well, except for you!”

He slowly brought himself up to his feet, eyes still fixated at the entirety of the little paradise, and then dusted off the shreds of grass and dust that clumped on the hem of his tunic.

“Let’s keep this our secret, yeah?” you chirped.

“Of course! My lips are zipped!”

You hold out your hand in front of him, only your pinky finger is sticking out. Cal looked at your hand quizzically and then to you for some clarification.

“Pinky promise?” you initiated.

In response, Cal hooked his own pinky finger with yours, sealing the promise.

“Pinky promise!”

With your pinky fingers intertwined, the two of you shook on it as well—bobbing your tangled hands up and down until one of you withdrew. Your curiosity seemingly has no end, and you continued to bombard Cal with questions about the Jedi and how their way of life works differently from the one you’ve come to know.

He demonstrated his skill in using the Force—this was the very first time you saw someone move an object without touching them! Your eyes popped with wonderment, watching Cal manipulate a bunch of rocks simply by waving his hands slowly—to you, it felt like his arms were dancing—and he willed them to stack on top of each other until he made a small mound of them.

“Wow…” you sighed, staring at the neatly-arranged, miniature mountain of rocks that your new friend has made without ever touching a single one of them with his own hands!

The boy was rather proud of himself that he’s able to impress you, but you didn’t allow him to one-up you in your own home turf.

“My turn to show you something cool! You know how fireflies only light up at night?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, what I’m about to show you says otherwise!”

He followed you further into the thicket, the sunlight was gradually getting dimmer; it began to worry him when he looked back and noticed that you’re getting a bit farther from where you came from. You reassured him that you know this place better than the back of your hand. There was another enclave in front of you, sunlight still pooled through the canopy of the trees, shafts of light spotlighted in random parts of the forest, however a vast majority of the space remained untouched by the sun—not too dim, not too light either, it was the right amount of shade.

“What’s so special about a boulder?”

“Hah! It’s just not any boulder,” you boasted. With all your might, you hauled away the boulder and out comes an entire colony of Light Beetles—the more docile subspecies of Flame Beetles—and they filled the entire forest clearing, despite the broad daylight! They scattered around the air and lit up the clearing like live stars. The two of you were practically standing in their own field.

Truth be told, you seldom did this—because of the varying days and weather—but apparently today was a perfect day to show it to Cal, almost as if the galaxy permitted it, simply to humor your free and innocent spirits. The little, redhead boy spun around slowly, taking all in the sight of the Light Beetles fluttering and floating about in the dim space like a planetarium.

“This is so awesome! Look at that!” your new friend squeaked, and one Light Beetle hovered close to Cal’s nose—its natural bioluminescent light pooled on the boy’s cheeks and face, warranting a delighted giggle out of him.

On the other hand, you carefully caught the little buggers in your hand, let them fly free as soon as you unclasped your hands and watch them flicker their bulbous buttocks as soon as they realize they’re out of their temporary net. The two of you stayed there for a while, Cal almost forgot that they have a campaign to deal with—it’s just that this is the most genuine fun he’s had for as long as he can remember.

Both of you did all sorts of games to pass the time. As a matter of fact, you’ve played more games than you could care to admit that you and Cal lost track of time. The two of you regained your bearings and realized that you’ve taken long enough in your playtime when you heard a calling roar, followed by the sound of Jaro Tapal’s voice.

“[Y/N]! Cal! Come here!”

“Oop, there goes our fun!” you squealed.

Both youngsters hauled themselves back up on their feet, and walked up to a wall of vines. The two of you were fortunately able to scale the wall and have something to grab on, at least, until you’ve reached the top from where the Wookiee scout and Jaro Tapal have called you.

“Come on, it’s time for us to go,”

“Already?!” Cal objected.

Taken aback and surprised by his amplified fondness of the place, Jaro Tapal slightly angled his head to his Padawan and raised an eyebrow for good measure.

“We still have to report back to Coruscant to tell the Council of the situation here in the Wookiees’ home,”

Seeing that he can’t argue with that, Cal was left to go along with his master’s plan. Eventually, Khevariik personally saw Master Tapal, Cal, their clone captain, and the protocol droid to the landing pad; this time, you tagged along from the high level cottage to the surface level where their ship was situated in.

There was bitter taste in Cal’s mouth. He didn’t want to leave yet, the high of the fun was still coursing through his veins—as well as yours—Cal took a moment and walked back to you, standing in front of the cluster of Wookiees who lent their presence—besides Khevariik and Ihtaaka—to bid goodbye to their visitors.

“Well, I guess this is goodbye,”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll see each other again—and we’ll have the same tons of fun like we did earlier!” you chirped.

You spot him make a sniffle and heard him out, “Yeah, I guess. I’ll look forward to that, [Y/N]!”

“Great! Oh, before you leave…”

Cal noticed you unfastening one of the colored cords that added color to your hair. You leaned closer and tied it at the end of his Padawan braid.

“Here, something to remember me by once you leave,”

“Thanks, [Y/N]. I wish I could give you something in return,”

You shake your head and pursed your lips, “No need. I’ve had tons of fun with you—that’s more than enough. It sure was nice to have some company in my secret hideout for once and I’m glad it was you!”

 -----

BRACCA, 8 YEARS LATER

Cal—now a young man—stood atop the wing of a salvaged Venator, overlooking the scrapyard that his eye could see. The drizzle was gradually ending and the sun persisted to peek through the dense mixture of post-rain haze and the heavy, cumulonimbus clouds that loomed along the skyline of the landscape.

It was midday, he basked in the rising sun and its warmth as he dries himself from the rainwater that collected on his face. When the rays have beamed strongly through the clouds, Cal shielded his eyes from the light with his hand; the corner of his eye watched the bracelet on his right hand dangle in the wind.

He lowered his hand and gazed upon the band that was once so full of vibrant, dyed colors has now faded or grayed out from the grease and dust that Cal has been exposed to in the scrapyard.

“Here, something to remember me by…” the voice of your younger self echoed in his mind.

His free hand involuntarily went to his wrist, his thumb ran across the cord—the luster of the fibers have aged, the loose ends of the string have puffed out into messy tufts, and it ran coarse under the skin of his finger.

Behind his eyes, he reminisces and reimagines the rich, green vastness of Kashyyyk from a bird’s-eye view, the melodies of your laughs mingling together so well like music, the cold wind reminded him of the air that flew through his hair when he slid down that mudslide leading to the thicket that seemed so surreal even for Kashyyyk’s standards, and finally, the distant sparks of the mechanics’ and engineers’ tools reminded him of the twinkling Light Beetles that filled the clearing where the two of you stood to gaze at the wonder of those insects.

The whole memory warranted a private smile, as he remembers everything vividly, it’s as if it happened yesterday and the nightmare that is the Jedi Purge never happened at all.

I wonder when can I see you again, [Y/N]? Cal thought to himself, with the faintest pitter-patter of the remaining rain.

“Hey, Cal, you comin’?!” a male voice called to him from the safer surfaces of their work area.

“Yeah, Prauf, I’m comin’! Just gimme a sec,”

“Alright, well, I’ll meet ya down,”

“Sure!”

When Cal confirmed that Praud has indeed gone out of sight, he returned his eyes to the horizon, the wind combing through his fiery red hair.

“I hope you’re doing okay, wherever you are, [Y/N],” he muttered under his breath and a smile naturally came to him, as if reassuring himself that you’re in a good place, though he misses you so much and wishes that he can return back to the same bliss of his childhood with you.

[bbygrgu]

Eternal Moonlight

a/n: okay wow. it took a little over two months to finish this and I am thrilled. I want to thank @jalapenobarnes​ and @rogueobservation​ for basically being betas, for reassuring me in my choices. I also want to thank @romanticgumchewer​ for showing interest in this fic, for inspiring me to keep going with this fic. I do want to state that this heavily inspired by Rick Riordian’s take on Artemis and the Hunters of Artemis. As always, I would love to hear your thoughts! please enjoy! 

divider by @whimsicalrogers​

Pairing: Steve Rogers x (F)reader

word count: 9.4k 

warnings: angst (lots), blood, violence, fight scenes, weapons,  brief mention of r*pe (Artemis’s back story), I believe a couple of swear words. 

There were whispers once, long ago, that one must be chosen. Some cried, begging in desperation, screaming at the night sky in hopes to be heard, cursing the Moon, to be taken into Her world. A chance to prove their undying loyalty to Her and Her alone. To swear off the material world and to join the hunt, to join the magical bits.

It would be long before they realized that She must choose who is deemed worthy, who she knows will not break the Oath of a Hunter, who will not turn her back to the Moon and the Hunt.

She finds the worthy ones when they least expect it. When they show strength in their vulnerable states, not letting their weakest moments define them but growing from them, pushing themselves, utilizing the moment to make themselves strongers.

She asks them to join the Hunt, to not turn their back on the moon and on her sisters.

-

Summer nights, cool breeze, fractions of moonlight hitting warm skin, the smell of the forest. A laugh echoing through the ever growing ocean of green, trees piercing the sky at different heights and even angles.

With much time passing, a hunter learned how to speed past the obstacles of branches and tall trees without her bow and quiver getting caught, streaks of silver blurring with the dark greens and browns; a shooting star in the dark universe that is the forest. Even when distracted by the laughter and jokes from her companion.

Recruits had taken notice of the faint sound of laughter through the night, starting at the point of day where the moon becomes visible, no longer hiding behind clear, bright skies and the sun’s luminous rays raining over every surface on the material world.

Some who were patrolling, assuring that the perimeter was not breached, would catch faint echoes of laughter, mixed with tree branches cracking under pressure and the light, lingering smell of blood just barely blending in with the distinct scent of nature.

It was a month in of the same reports of these findings when Sam Wilson was sent to do a sweep over the familiar parts of the woods, a gruesome sight catching his eye and willing him down.

A clearing with trees encircling it. Trees, full grown and adult, cracked in half. Some just barely held together, only by splinters. The ground dug up, as if a large creature was thrown down with such a force and slid, taking all the dirt with it right before hitting the trees. Foot prints, hunter boots, standing meters away from the crash landing against the unfortunate trees.

Blood splattered against the bark but this blood was different. Not the typical dark red of a human or regular animal. No, this blood was nearly purple and it was fresh.

Clumps of dark fur lazily hung from the knocked over trees and low branches. It was one hell of a fight.

Bucky, Steve, Tony, and Natasha were taking in the scene as Sam pointed out all his observations. Bucky quietly making his own, waiting for Sam to conclude, all meanwhile Natasha walked around, looking in awe as she’d never seen such a sight.

“Did you notice markings against the tree?” Bucky asks once Sam becomes quiet.

Bucky takes a few steps before squatting in front of the forest’s fallen soldier. Pink fingertips brush against the missing patches, pitch black foles against the armor of bark.

“These aren’t bullet holes, but something had to pierce through the bark.” Bucky looks back at them, each carrying a confused expression.

No one said a word. There was nothing to say.

Natasha stepped up next, moving to stand beside Bucky, eyes squinted as they focused on the pierces. Her gaze moved to clumps of fur just lying around for a brief moment. Her attention switching between the footprints left and the markings littered the tree. It wasn’t claw marks; Nat was positive a creature wouldn’t dig its claws into a tree when trying to flee, to save itself.

She knows she wouldn’t. She’d flee if it meant life for death. A living creature can only handle so much suffering.

Nat moved away from Bucky and towards the base of the trunk, tree roots weaving in and out of the ground.

Squatting down, one elbow on one knee, a clump of dark fur limply hanging over a pen that Nat held by the end.

“What do you boys know about bows and arrows?”

“You’ve said that the laughter happens at night, when the moon has made Herself visible?” Thor asked, carefully making his way to the footprints that stood a distance away, facing East with the toes angled out.

A flash of the events from the previous night passed through his thoughts and a smug, knowing smile settled on Thor’s face. He wasn’t surprised, but he figured they would be.

“This was no regular Midgardian creature. It was a creature from a different realm,” Thor starts slowly, playfully positioning his arms to mimic the stance of a hunter with a bow and arrow.

Peering over his shoulder, the smile never leaving his face, he noticed a confused look upon Steve’s face.

“What the hell is an Asgardian creature doing here?”

“I thought you were a better man than to use such words, Steven,” Thor teased, “but I did not say it was of Asgard,” Thor chuckled, relaxing. His gaze turned towards the East, the Sun on the West and he could very well make out the Moon slowly pushing through the bright blue .

“Artemis and her Hunters have been here.”

“Artemis… like the… the Goddess of the Moon? The Greek Goddess?” Sam stutters, a bewildered look on his face.

Thor’s smile never leaves his face, only his brow arching in amusement, in confirmation.

Both Bucky and Steve’s heads tilt to the side, waiting for someone to explain who this ‘Artemis’ was, who her ‘Hunters’ were, and how many damn Gods and Goddesses were really out there?

“Artemis is of your realm,” Thor starts, mostly directing it towards Bucky and Steve before continuing, “Goddess of the Moon, of the Wilderness and its creatures, and as I, the Goddess of Fertility.” A brief pause.

“Oh, so now you’re a Goddess, too,” Tony mutters to himself. Thor just winks at him, facing all of them and points to the holes marking up the fallen tree.

“I cannot say I know Artemis personally, I’ve only been on Midga- sorry, Earth, for so long. But her legend is known even on Asgard. She and her sisters use bows made of the strongest and purest material only found in her world, dipped in a full moon’s beam; arrows coated in moonlight as well, but forged from the waters of an island that can be only found by those who know it’s true name.”

Met with the same looks of confusion, except for Sam’s face pulling into a mix of revelation with a hint of smug, Thor sighed. He looked up at the Moon, brows furrowed in concentration.

“Wait,” Bucky speaks up. His eyes are squinted, brows furrowed, thoughtful frown on his lips. No other words leave him, his eyes speaking for him. He’s trying to piece all this new information together.

“How do you know about Greek Mythology?” Natasha asked, her own expression one of curiosity and warmth.

“Another religion to search up later, Cap,” Tony mutters to Steve, eyes never leaving Thor.

Thor waves off Natasha. It doesn’t matter how he knows, just that he does.

“She’s been hunting, that’s for sure,” Bucky quips. He nods towards the clumps of dry-blood fur.

Two weeks later and more reports, sightings of a large creature running through the woods. Howls that sounded nothing like the typical wolf. Its speed causes it to appear as a black blur, dodging trees. Tracks matching the same ones from the wreck that Sam found.

This time, they were prepared.

Steve and Bucky running after it, their speed almost a match to the creature’s. Sam flying over, keeping a close eye, directing the two super soldiers in the right path. Thor stands in the same clearing that they stood in when they came to the conclusion that the creature was indeed not of this realm.

Natasha positioned herself in a tree, squatting down, hand on the trunk. She listens closely, looking towards the Moon. The energy in the forest was different compared to the energy the day they saw the sight of a tough battle.

No longer were the leaves of the trees carefree, branches swaying with the wind. There came a small breeze, just barely brushing by, mixed with the smell of salt and moss. Warm and pink, orange skies, the Moon ivory white. Wisps of clouds dissolving into the canvas of the universe.

Growls were carried with the breeze only moments later.

Natasha stood at her full height, hand against the trunk. Sam was right over the clearing, Steve and Bucky calling out for the group, a warning shouted into the open air.

Thor looks back at Nat, feet shoulder width apart, fists clenched with Stormbreaker in one arm. Their bodies tense, ready to face the creature, to see what caused such a scene only weeks ago. Except, they didn’t see the creature at first.

Steve and Bucky stumbled out, running towards where Thor stood. They skid to the stop, spinning to face the fence of trees they had just surfaced from. Nat stared at them in bewilderment, lips parted. Her eyes scanned over the front line, then up at Sam, who was just above Thor, Sam and Steve. She moved her gaze back to the trees when the ground started to rumble.

“What-”

The giant black and red mass flew from the ocean of the trees, landing between Natasha and the rest. It didn’t face Nat, it’s eyes and growl directed towards Thor, Bucky and Steve. It moved back and forth, carefully taking in the three new enemies. Mouth in a snarl, saliva dripping from the gaps between its teeth.

They’d never seen a creature like this before. Red glowing eyes, teeth so sharp, its fur such a dark shade of brown and grey that it looked almost black, fire beneath its paws, under every step. Like a creature straight from hell.

Before anyone made a move, the sound of an object cutting through the air caused everyone to freeze.

A silver arrow stuck out from the tree, right next to Natasha’s hand. A warning.

The creature’s eyes no longer focus on the three men in front of it, never noticing the fourth just above it. Its eyes focus on the trees for a moment, before a snarl rips through its throat, sending a vibration and tinge of uneasiness through all of them.

The creature’s front paw moved, all three men quickly pushing out the way just before it growled and bounded towards the trees. They all looked back, left in complete awe. The only one with a smile on their face, excitement pulsing through his blood was Thor.

Weaved through the darkness and the trees at the frontline were glowing silver dots and crescent moons with the points facing the heavens. The closest one brighter than the rest, bigger than the rest.

Before their eyes, the creature grew twice its size. Heavier, more dangerous, more fire. Faint orange glow casted around the creature’s figure. Ears pulled back and just as it started to move forward, all but one of the silver dots disappeared, the brightest crescent still there, only growing bigger as She stepped out.

A loose hood over Her head, a white scarf covering her mouth and nose. Her bow drawn back, focused on the creature. Her cold, striking-silver eyes taking in the other figures before returning back to the creature.

Her beauty distracted the Avengers easily. They never noticed the other figures positioned on tree branches, some standing and others kneeling, with their bows drawn and pointed at them.

They all wore loose hoods, scarfs the same shade of white as the hoods covered their mouths and noses, only their concentrated eyes surrounded by glowing white freckles and up-turned crescents on their foreheads visible.

“Are those…” Sam trailed off, landing carefully beside Thor and Bucky, eyes watching all of them in the trees.

“Yes,” Thor breathed.

They turned back to the creature, never moving an inch, eyes never leaving Her. She landed on the ground in front of the creature, eyes narrowed at it. Her bow still drawn, an arrow aimed at its head. In just a blink of an eye, Her bow was around her body, arrow back in the quiver and She was running at the creature at full speed, long hunting knife in hand.

The creature and She rolled around the ground for a few minutes before a high-pitched cry rang through the air. The dark mass was back to its smaller size, body limp against the ground.

She was kneeled before it, looking around at the figures in the tree before looking up at the Moon. She muttered a few words, words that Thor, Steve nor Bucky had ever heard before.  Hunting knife through the chest, where the heart of a normal animal would be. One last whimper before its body stilled.

Forgotten where the hooded figures that stood on the tree branches with their bows drawn at the Avengers. Their eyes never left the woman standing before the creature, her hand reaching slowly for her scarf, her eyes focused on the group of heroes in front of her. Tundras and glaciers hid behind her eyes, piercing them as goosebumps clawed their way up their skin.

Cold, but beautiful. Her hand pulled her scarf down, her eyes never leaving them. Shoulder length dark hair fell loose as her scarf hung around her neck. Brown skin, freckles glowing and face-up crescent moon highlighting her face perfectly. She still held the hunting knife in one hand, dripping with the creature’s blood; the same color as the blood left behind weeks ago.

“The amount of hellhounds getting loose, or rather sent, have been increasing at an alarming rate,” She simply stated, more to herself and the Hunters, wiping the blood off on her hunting knife against her dark trouser’s leg.  

A quick glance to Her sisters followed by a short, sharp whistle and the others in the trees had lowered their bows, all falling out of the trees and catching themselves, moving to stand around them. One of the hunters moved to stand directly beside Her, not bothering to remove her own hood and scarf. Her eyes on Bucky and Steve.

“You can relax,” Artemis chuckled, “I may not be one for the male species, but I have respect for another God when I see him, even with mortal men by his side.”

Natasha made the first move. Involuntarily pulling the arrow from the tree trunk, she swung from the branches and carefully landed before cautiously walking towards the middle, standing beside Steve and Sam. All the Hunters visibly relaxed at the sight of another woman, yet there was still an edge to the way they stood. They were not trusting.

A smirk danced upon Artemis’s face, her eyes raking over Natasha before they moved to the four men accompanying her.

“Artemis,” Thor finally spoke up, clearing his throat and straightening up. He knew about her distaste in men, but he could not keep fighting off the smile at the sight of the Moon Goddess of the Greeks. “Goddess of the Hunt, of the Wild, of Chastity, of Childbirth.”

The last time he was this excited was when he met Brunnhilde, the Valkyrie.

Eyebrow arched and the faintest of smiles toying on her lips, Artemis looked at the others. She took in the sight of Thor, the innocent and excited of a child on his face; Steve, a neutral expression but his eyes displayed every thought, emotion, curiosity that ran through his mind; Bucky, his own expression soft and curious, eyes moving quickly as if he’ll miss something, attempting to remember everything to a T; Sam, a mix of emotions written across his face, but the way his lips parted and eyes flitted over each face, doing his very best to not meet the Goddess’s eyes; Natasha’s brows furrowed and lips parted, her eyes betraying herself as they filled with wonder and innocence.

“Am I to assume your title, young God?” Artemis asked, her tone calm, neutral, “And your friends’?”

Thor was used to this, but the rest of the group? They couldn’t remember the last time, in recent years, that their names were unknown by anyone they came across. Names, aliases, that they were part of, deemed by media sources, a controversial hero group the Avengers, Earth’s best defenders. Their past and present are known by all, their future in the eye of the public determined by the same people.

Soon, Artemis and her Hunters were aware of who was who. Of course, with some unhelpful jabs from Tony and Natasha, she deduced that Tony was the one in the red iron suit, known as Iron Man, Steve was the man on ice, etc. Artemis was more amused with the alias that Natasha announced for herself, the “Black Widow.” She admired it actually.

Artemis’s second in command never took her eyes off the men she once knew. Had it really been this long? They were alive after all this time?

Bucky had his eyes on the woman behind Artemis, the one closest to her. Her scarf still pulled up to cover everything from the nose down, her eyes flickering between Bucky and Steve. Bucky could see the loose strands of her hair pressed to her damp skin. Eyes flickered between the ground and them. Her’s never meeting him.

Just like the others, a soft glowing crescent moon with the points turned towards the sky. Unlike the others, she had a constellation of tiny stars dotted from the arch of her right eyebrow, curving down the path of her temple and stopping just before the iris of her eye on her cheek.

Steve also noticed the constellation mapped against the sky of her face. The stars reflected the stars mapped out across the universe. Glowing specks, hidden secrets in their distant light, one’s buried billions of light years away, only for the stars to share with one another, giving the planets hints of the universe’s mysteries, and anybody lucky enough to reach it.

Steve and her eyes locked. A brief flash of emotion. With widened eyes, Steve caught Bucky’s eye before looking back at her, Artemis’s second in command.

He knew those eyes. They both knew those eyes, yet her name did not roll off their tongue. Her name was a song that played at the back of their mind; the song you couldn’t remember the name of, but the chorus stuck to you for days, singing it under your breath until enough was enough and the name came flooding back to you in the most unexpected moment. They’d been singing that same song since 1944 and at that very moment, in the middle of the woods and surrounded by Hunters and a Goddess, they remembered the name of the song.

Artemis noticed the way the two soldiers looked at the woman behind Her. Her second-in-command the most tense She’d ever felt.

Tony was still questioning them, an authoritative tone with her but Artemis did not care. He was a mere mortal hidden, hidden behind a face of metal and the materialistic concept of money. Artemis rolled her eyes, getting ready to call the Hunters back into the woods until a name came from the man on ice, Steve.

Aside from Artemis’s own, no other name was given when introductions were made. All the Hunters remain nameless; just strong, powerful women with bows and arrows, friends - no- sisters, of the Goddess of the Moon and the Hunt. All names were unknown until Steve said it, the name of Artemis’s second in command, the name of the woman he cared for since he was the scrawny kid that fought the big guys, cutting off Tony, causing Artemis’s most trusted Hunter to gasp soundlessly.

Eyes wide, lips parted, heart racing. A million memories racing through her head.

Bucky said her name next, a small step forward, only be met with drawn bows.

Artemis stepped forward, her hand pulling her hunting knife out of her high holster but stopped when a hand wrapped around her forearm. Artemis looked up, her eyes locking with her’s.

“The last time I heard my name come out of either of their mouths was the night Bucky left after being drafted,” she finally said.

All eyes were on her.

Slowly, her hands reached to carefully pull the scarf down. Eyes moved from the ground and finally locked with the two men she once dreamed every night about. A sharp inhale from the three of them. She couldn’t believe she was looking at them again, for the first time in about eighty years.

The two men who always encouraged her to push herself, to push past the norms set for women during their time. The two idiots who left her behind, promising her that they’d come back. Whom she thought broke their promises.

Each time she woke from a dream in the middle of the night, finding her way to a lake or stream, moonlight washing over her, she’d remember the news of Bucky losing his life on a mission in the mountains.

She remembered coming home from a day shift at the factory. Her body sore from working the heavy machinery. A quick stop to drop off some baked goods to the Barnes before she finally trudged up her steps and slipped into her home. A letter with her name elegantly written across the front of the envelope; someone personally slipped this into the mail slot.

She remembered everything falling around her, knees hitting the ground, tears blinding her. Her fingers gripping the damp paper, stained with her tears and her other hand pressing the dog tags to her chest, soundless screams She remembered the night she disappeared from the world.

No one called off the Hunters with their bows trained on Steve and Bucky; they sure as hell didn’t notice.

Steve and Bucky’s eyes never left her. She looked exactly the same. No sign of aging. The hood of her sleeveless tunic barely on her head. The only thing different aside from the glowing crescent on her forehead and the constellation dancing over her eyebrow, were her eyes.

She’d seen a lot, experienced a lot.

“You two punks,” she started off breathlessly. Stepping towards them, forgetting about Artemis, forgetting about her boys’ new friends, she made a gesture and bows were slowly lowered. She stood in front of them, her eyes on Bucky.

Her fingers twitched at her side. The last she had seen him was the night he was drafted. She thought he was dead. Somewhere in the mountains. She thought they were both dead.

She turned towards Steve.

He certainly looked different. Broad shoulders, tiny waist, long legs. She remembered seeming images of Captain America in the papers, but she never once saw him during his newfound days as a soldier, as America’s sweetheart.

He stood with confidence, with pride, with ease. Raw emotions behind those blue eyes with the specs of green and those long lashes still brushed against his pale cheeks; you were still jealous of those damn eyelashes for they touched the skin you once wished to feel against yours. That you, again, wanted to feel against your own skin.

He wasn’t the same scrawny man who disappeared the night after the Stark Expo. He didn’t look like the man she had fallen in love with, but she knew that she no longer seemed like the young woman that they had grown up with as well. He looked different, but she knew better to judge a person based on what they look like. Was he still the same stubborn, headstrong man who fought for the little guys?

Bucky looked different, too. He seemed different. Not just the way he looked and how much he physically changed, but the way he held himself.

What happened over the last century?

Their current position, in the middle of the forest and surrounded by her sisters as well as their friends, came rushing back to her. Rapid blinking and small gasp pushed past her lips, as she stepped back; Steve took a small step forward, Bucky’s hand lurched toward. No bows pointed at them this time.

She peered over her shoulder, apologetic eyes as she locked gazes with Artemis.

She knew how Artemis felt about men. Knew how all her sisters felt about men. Hell, how she felt about men. But these two men… they were different. She missed them, the lost longing resurfacing through the waves of emotions.

The look in Artemis’s eyes was cold, but understanding. Yet She took another look around, eyeing the mortals and the young Asgardian God before Her eyes settled on her most trusted sister, friend. The woman Bucky and Steve had just gotten back, was being taken away from them.

“Well… the beast has been handled, sent back to Hades. Our task has been completed and we must get going. We don’t get to leisure like the rest of the world,” Artemis commented. A short whistle followed and suddenly the Avengers were no longer surrounded by Her Hunters.

All the Hunters followed Artemis back into the woods, with their hoods thrown on and covers back over their faces just at the nose. All except her.

She stayed put after taking several steps backwards, eyes never leaving Steve’s. Confliction in her eyes, her hand scrunched over the fabric of her tunic, the quiver’s leather strap, and her bow string.

Steve, furrowed brows and parted lips, stepped forward against, his hand reached out. Fingertips just barely brushing against her bare arm before she stepped back, tears in her eyes and bewilderment.

“Wait,” Steve gasped, taking another step forward, watching her turn her back on them, on him, and disappearing into the forest.

The night they were brought together and pulled apart again, Steve and Bucky blindly ran into the forest. They called her name, shouted for her to come back, that they just wanted a little more time. Their calls were met with no human response, only the howls of wolves from the north, the chirping of crickets and the symphony of the woodland creatures.

For the next month, with the help of Sam and Natasha, Steve and Bucky spent their nights, from the moment the sun disappeared and the Moon was at Her highest, searching the forest. The perimeter surrounding the clearing and from there on.

A month of stumbling over roots that dipped in and out of the sea made of dirt. Leaves dark, outlined by blue and silver from the moonlight.

The new, repeating orchestra of boots crunching and hitting the ground at a quick rhythm, heavy breathing, calls of each others’ names as they believed they found something, directions shouted, heavy breathing and hopeful pleads that they found something.

Natasha suggested following the Moon’s trail at another completed cycle, but it was a bust.

They searched and searched. Another cycle went by, marking two months. They refused to give up. Steve refused to give up.

All  those emotions from over eighty years ago came rushing back to the surface. Ones that he knew still bubbled deep down, but never thought about making its way back to his consciousness, the vivid everyday thoughts. The ones he’d dream about once in a while, as if the universe was sending him a message, a chance to change things.

Steve thought he could finally tell her. Finally explain that everytime Bucky sent her up with a friend or the brother of his flame, it would upset him. How he hated himself for allowing himself to fall in love with her and never did anything about it. He not once indulged himself. Hated himself for not coming back to her and for leaving her without a single word.

Things were different now. They were different. Life was different.

Third cycle, marking the third month since Steve last saw her. Another full Moon. Except, this felt different.

Rather than starting where they left off the night before, Steve headed to the lake that was north to the clearing where they ran into Artemis and Her Hunters, into her. Bucky trailed after him, calling his name, but to no avail, Steve kept going.

Steve was in no rush. No heavy boots beating against the forest’s interior, pushing past the trees and snapping off the branches; no shouts alarming the forest’s natives. He walked, skillfully and carefully dodging branches, quietly as to not disrupt the night’s silence.

Breaking past the last line of defense, Steve stopped just a few feet from the shore. Bucky’s cries were no longer audible.

In front of Steve, the Moon’s reflection splayed across the lake, the silver beam casting an ethereal glow against the surface.

His eyes were focused on the figure across the body of water. Her hood down, crescent glowing faintly, the white and dark freckles causing her eyes to glow as she watched the Moon against the breaking surface of water; were the aquatic creatures reaching for the heavens, too? The constellation that swept from her brow down to her cheek was not as bright as the night they saw each other for the first time in eighty plus years, but he could still see it.

Her quiver and bow laid beside her, her hands dipped into the water, specifically where silver danced across dark blue. Her eyes closed, lips moving, head turned towards the Moon.

Steve felt his heart race as he took another step forward, not wanting to interrupt and break the silence, but he also did not want to keep feeling like a predator right as they snuck up on their prey.

Where he was once in tranquility, he now felt desperation.

Steve stood at the shore, his hands itched and his body full of adrenaline, except he didn’t know to release it. Everything was going fast but slow at the same time. His brows furrowed with nerves, eyes never leaving her figure as she slowly tilted her back down to her hands, eyes opened and on her hands before meeting his, a quick white gleam over them before they returned to their normal color.

Her eyes widened at the sight of him, lips parted but the corners tugging themselves upwards.

Her name rolled off Steve’s tongue, an old tune that she knew would be replaying in her mind for the rest of the week.

They met halfway, standing a short distance away from each other.

She admired his wear. A stealth suit in a dark, navy blue with the only color being brown leather from the straps of his belt, the leather holding the shield against his back, the fingerless gloves, and the silver of the star in the middle of his chest, followed by the stripes on either side. He bore no helmet, messy blond hair tempted to dance with the breeze to the quiet symphony of a forest’s night white noise. The perfect sculpture of his chest, dipping into his waist, rounding back out at his hips.

The Moon made his eyes brighter. She smiled to herself, knowing Steve wouldn’t understand.

Steve himself took her in. Aside from the additional glowing facial features and signs of physical strength that he picked up on, she looked exactly the same. Except, at the same time, she didn’t.

Her eyes were still soft, but there was a hidden wisdom behind them. She’s seen enough, maybe more than he has. Her lips were still plump, but no wrinkle lines from smiles that once made his heart race faster than a hummingbird’s, that have been making his heart race when he climbs back into bed after hours of searching for the past three months. Her body… he wanted to see what was hidden beyond the tunic, to run his hands along each and every curve, appreciate the softness of her belly and thighs. To feel her calloused hands against his skin and steal the moments that should’ve been their’s years ago.

They whispered each other’s name. Steve’s heart thumped against his chest, he thought she’d be able to hear it. She smiled brightly, a soft laugh brushing past the smile that shone brighter than the stars and the Moon.

They found themselves sitting next to each other, legs towards the lake and toes pointed to the heavens.

He told her everything. From being injected with the serum and adapting feelings for a certain British SSR agent, losing Bucky and steering the plane into the ocean in hopes of saving the world, to waking up and finding out the truth that the government hid, finding Bucky and saving the universe multiple times.

When he looked over at her, her smile was gone, fingers involuntarily pulling at the grass.

“Artemis forgive me,” she murmured before turning back to Steve.

“I was coming back from a shift down at the factory,” she started, eyes never leaving the moon’s reflection on the lake’s surface, “I was so tired, but I dropped off some fresh bread at Buck’s, for Rebecca and Winifred. Just like I had done for the last five years. Except, this night was different. That damn letter was just sitting there in the mail. My name handwritten across the front. No address or return address. Just my name.”

A humorless chuckle.

“Had a lot of moxie,” she referred to him with the wave of her hand, “getting up and leaving only days after Buck. Leaving me alone, without a word. Then five years later, I get a letter and your tags,” she breathed out, tossing her body against the grass, flat on her back.

Steve couldn’t look at her. He felt shame. He just went and left her behind. Of course, he’d do it all over again, but he knew he’d do something different along with it.

“‘We regret to inform you that Captain Steven G. Rogers…” she trailed off, her voice shaky.  

“They called themselves men, let alone soldiers? Didn’t even have the moxie to tell me and the Barnes’ personally. Completely passed the buck,” she breathed, her voice cracking as she fought to stay strong.

Steve finally spared a glance over at her, his heart stopping when he spotted glittery tears race down her face.

“I can’t remember much after that,” she croaked softly, “I just remember waking up and there was Artemis, standing over me, smiling. The Hunters stood around us, no bows pointed at me,” she threw in as a small joke.

It earned a smile from Steve and playful huff.

“I became a Hunter that night,” she stated seriously, looking up at the Moon. “I pledged myself to the Moon and to the Hunt, to protect the wilderness and my sisters. I pledged myself to Artemis in exchange for immortality and a family. One that I know won’t go anywhere.”

Not sure whether she threw that in to jab at his actions or not, it hurt Steve regardless. He turned his glance up to the moon. Fingers tangled tightly through blades of grass, Steve having to remember not to pull the grass out, that she whispered for forgiveness when she had just pulled the blades from the ground.

The silence settled between them, tension lingering around. Taunting them, causing them to steal glances when they thought the other wasn’t looking.

Steve wasn’t exactly the same man he was in the past, just shy of turning twenty and determined to join the army to fight in World War II. He never spoke about the way he felt, in terms of romantically and anything involving her. Now, he wanted to say everything on his mind, what the emotions bubbling in his chest caused his mind to flood with.

Where do they go from here? This is the last time they’ll see each other? How does he find her? What happens now? What happens to us?

Steve felt her eyes burning into the side of his face, his cheeks heating. Had he said that aloud?

Steve opened his mouth, struggling to quickly get words out but she’s already cut him off.

“What do you think is going to happen, Steve?” she urged with a stern voice, a cold-blooded look lingering in her eyes. She stood herself up, white-knuckling the bow in her hand.

Steve pushed himself up, standing to his full height, hands out to pacify her. This angered her further.

“I - we..” Steve stuttered, brows furrowed. Angry was slowly seeping into his blood, but he willed himself to not do this. There was no need to get defensive nor offensive.

“What did you think was going to happen, Steve?” She pushed, taking a step forward after each word. Quiver over her shoulder, finger pressing into the middle of his chest. The first time she’s touched him since the forties and it was to put him in his place, out of anger.

“I don’t know,” Steve urged back. God, he wanted to feel more than just her finger pressing into his chest, pushing him back.

“Steve, you left. You were gone,” she spat. Her brows furrowed, the spot between them scrunched up, The constellations of glowing freckles brightened as she got closer, Steve’s back finally pressed against a tree, branches on either side of him. Entrapping him.  

Her eyes narrowed, chest just barely brushing against his. Her finger slack against his chest. No longer was it just the tip of her finger and finger nail. Her whole finger laid lax against his suit, palm and thenar with it.

Steve watched a glassy glaze coat her eyes, her facial features softening. Eyes never breaking from each other, her hand slowly opening, all fingers splayed against the tough material stretched against his broad chest.

“You left, Steve. You both left. It was the three of us. Then the two of us, until it was just me,” her voice croaked.

Steve’s heart shattered at the broken look in her eyes. Years of sadness and years of ache were all rushing back to her. Just like when all those unspoken feelings rashed back to him after seeing her again.

“Five years,” she whispered, tears threatening to spill over, “you were gone for five years. You didn’t even come back after we thought Bucky died. I don’t know how it works, but you’d think Captain America would spare a minute or two to make sure the family of his best friend was okay,” she chuckled sadly.

There was another jab. Of course he could and should have gone to see how they were holding up - he was family after all, but he was just so upset over not saving Bucky himself, he couldn’t bear telling the Barnes how it happened, how it was his fault.

“You left,” she broke his train of thought, “and now, eighty years later, turns out the three of us are alive.”

The words wouldn’t move past his lips. They stayed on the tip of Steve’s tongue. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing again. But his mind was repeating that sentence, a mantra, -

She pushed away from Steve’s body in a rush, pivoting on her heel. Quiver strewn across her body, hood pulled over her head and completely covering her. She ran across the clearing, reflection glittering over the pond and the moonlight’s silver beams.

She’s fast, faster than him. Steve’s hand is held out, clenched around where her wrist would’ve been if he caught - stopped her in time.

Steve’s eyes were glued to her figure, body frozen in place.

She stopped at the moment she arrived where the trees and small patch ground met. Throwing a look over her shoulder, a sliver of light over her eyes, the constellations kissing her skin glowing brighter.

Then she was gone.

Six months went by. It was the middle of winter.

The snow-packed Earth deafened the sound of forest– all except for the soft crunch of their boots against the smooth ground. Bucky reached down and picked up a brown leaf, examining it, then looking up to see the remnants of wooden soldiers; their bodies now battered and broken into heaps of sticks littered everywhere.

Sun peaking through grey clouds, soft flurries floating to the ground. Covering the bodies of wooden soldiers, hiding evidence of greens and what once was. Tracks of the forest’s habitants slowly covered by blankets of slurried water.

The clearing was not touched. The only footsteps were made by heavy boots, belonging to Steve.

Sporting outerwear that was similar to a poncho made for the winter, Steve stopped in the middle of the clearing, pulling the hood down. Blue eyes scanning the surrounding area.

To his left, the tree broken in half from the creature straight from full, covered in snow. Blue eyes glanced to the surrounding wooden soldiers that continued to stand tall, observing the branches. Steve wasn’t sure why he hoped to see the footprints from the Hunters who stood on those trees’ arms, bows drawn and arrows pointed at the Avengers.

Steve’s name coming from Bucky snapped him out of the small trance, body turned towards his best friend.

“They’re not here. I think it’s time to go,” Bucky pushed, shifting back and forth. He’s always hated the cold. She did, too.

Steve took one last glance around. He could picture the very moment. When she moved from her spot behind the Greek Goddess, her eyes never wavering from him and Bucky. He wished he could relive the feeling he got when she finally spoke up. Hearing her voice after eighty years plus.

Chills crawling up his back and it wasn’t from the cold gust of wind.

The sound of footsteps on set snow cause Steve and Bucky to turn towards the point of origin.

There, in stark contrast between the blanket of snow and the dark amor made of bark, was a single deer. Body turned towards their own point of origin, but the head was facing them. Nose moving with every whiff it caught, eyes on them, ears twitching at every little sound, deciding whether or not the two super soldiers were a threat.

Steve noticed the white spots littered on its back. Almost like constellations.

“You know, the deer is the sacred animal of Artemis,” Steve murmured, eyes never leaving the small creature, “Something about Her falling absolutely in love with them. I read that her chariot is driven by five golden-horned deer.”

Bucky, remained turned towards the deer, with his eyes casting a side glance to Steve, eyebrow arched.

Spring rolled around in a blink of an eye.

No longer was the ground blanketed in snow, but now in mud and puddles of what once was frozen. Animals tracks engraved deep into the ground, waiting to be immortalised. Greens were growing brighter and habitents were waking up soon.

Birth and new life was present.

Hunters of Artemis helping creatures who were troubled and struggling with birth. Bears, deers, boar. Aid and protection provided to the vulnerable creatures.

It was no longer hunting season, but there would always be those who defied their mortal rules. The Hunters and Artemis were always ready for them.

Artemis’s second in command was in charge of patrol detail. Perked up on one of the forest’s soldiers, she whispered a small gratitude to the natural protectors just as she touched the trunk, moving down to kneel on her knee. Bow in hand, arm reaching back to pull out an arrow.

Only a klick away were her sisters, helping a deer deliver not one, but two fawns.

All the Hunters were scattered nearby, in case anything were to happen. All they had to do was listen for the short, sharp whistle and the silhouette of a chariot made from clouds.

She had perfect visuals on the small clearing with the pond, the night she saw Steve, confronted him only seven moon cycles ago, was replaying in her head. Not that very moment, but the scene afterwards. When she ran away from him, when she was close to reuniting with her sisters. When she stopped dead in her tracks to Artemis standing right in front of her.

”Artemis,” she inhaled, straightening her back, white-knuckling her bow.

Artemis, hood pulled over her hood and scarf hanging around her neck, keeping off her face, watched her second in command with a stoic gaze. Eyebrow arched.

“You’ve gone to see the human man you once mourned,” Artemis simply stated. There was no venom dripping in her voice nor was there sweetness. It was neutral.

She knew better than to lie. Artemis was not one to forgive easily, didn’t matter if one was a mortal man or her own Hunter.

“He found me,” she simply stated. Her gaze never broke Artemis’s. An even exhale left her lips as she continued.

“I was in the clearing near the pond, cleaning my bow. He was there, we ended up talking,” she confessed, “nothing more, nothing less.”

Artemis gave her a stern look and she began to feel like a young girl, smothered by a scolding mother.

“Forgive me letting my emotions get the best of me and for hoping for any drop of closure. It’s been eighty years, Artemis. I can’t control the way my brain starts to react, overproducing thoughts of what ifs and making my body react on its own. The men who I believed dead and drove me to join my sisters and you. Forgive me for acting human.” 

A touch to her shoulder made her draw her bow, arrow aimed at Adoni, a Nymph that traveled with Artemis much longer than she had.

“Zeus, you must have been really distracted,” Adoni teased lightly. A small, understanding smile played at the corners of her lips.

Shaky exhale, she lowered the bow, whilst sitting herself down on the branch. Legs swinging in the air, fingers brushing against the embedded moss, twirling her arrow in her other hand.

The silence between them was comforting.

She stared out, catching the little pockets of air from the pond bubbling across the surface. Blades of grass dancing in the direction of the breeze, songs echoing and amplifying with the help of the wind. Squirrels here and there. She smiled. It was moments like these that she didn’t miss the city.

“What was it like?” Adoni broke the silence.

She hummed for her to continue, her eyes never leaving the clearing below them.

“What was it like loving a mortal? Especially a man?”

A scoff left her lips, but her heart skipped a couple beats at the thought.

Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of the kindness hidden behind Steve’s eyes. Blue with just small specks of green, leaving some people to say he was almost perfect.

It was the way his brows furrowed and face scrunched up when he was concerned. The way his blond locks brushed against his forehead when out of place. His stupid smile that started with his lips pressed together, slowly growing wider until it was teeth and crescent eyes. That one wrinkle between his brows when he was deep in thought.

The way he would never stand down during a fight, always getting back up and being the stubborn man she fell in love with. The way he cared for everyone. The way he hid his emotions but his eyes deceived him. How he put everyone before him.

The way she hoped he’d return after the war.

“You don’t ever really stop,” she murmured, finding solace in the silence once more.

Recruits all scattered across the field behind the compound. Some were running laps around the track, others sitting on the grass and heads thrown back in laughter. There was an easiness to them as the cool breeze sliced through the early summer warmth.

Late afternoon, no harsh sun nor bright blues. The clouds softened, coming apart and whisps twirling into nothing. Clouds no longer pure white, but masterpieces of pale shades of pinks and purples. Cotton balls slowly pulled and stretched until there was nothing in the middle but now two clumps of cotton.

Natasha was looking out to the field from the third floor. Arms crossed over her chest, eyes scanning the trees. She’d been doing that since that night, nearly a year ago.

Natasha’s eyes glanced to the figure that stepped up beside her, mimicking her stance.

“When was the last time you went?” Natasha broke the short silence, her eyes focused on the practically transparent full moon hovering among the trees, slowly climbing to the middle of the heavens.

“Four days ago,” Steve replied quietly, his own eyes glued to the tops of the trees.

Natasha looked at Steve’s reflection against the glass.

Steve had that determined look he usually wore, but there was something different recently. Everything hardened except his eyes. They were soft; hopeful.

“Steve, can I ask you something?”

A soft hum of encouragement.

“Why do you keep it? Why keep going into the forest? Why keep looking for someone that doesn’t want to be found?”

Silence. The silence pushed Natasha to keep going.

“Steve… she found her calling, her own opportunity, her own shield and cause. Why keep looking for her? What are you hoping for?” Natasha turned towards Steve, continuing, regardless of him shifting back and forth on his feet, “are you hoping that you can make up for losing each other the first time? For leaving her completely behind? That some powerful being in the universe made it so? Granting you this second chance?”

Steve interrupted her as she kept going, his voice crescendoing with each breath.

“Yes! Maybe! I don’t know!” Steve shouted. Arms uncrossed, palms hitting the glass before one hand rested on his hip, other running through his hair.

“Steve, tell me you don’t hope she leaves everything just to come back to you.”

One, two, three long seconds of silence.

“I don’t know.”

Later into the night, with the skies completely dark and the stars glowing brightly amongst the full moon, Steve was sitting back in the small clearing, feet at the edge and hovering over the pond.

Hands palming the grass behind him, his body leaning back on his arms, acting like support beams. Steve’s phone playing Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong’s “Dream a Little Dream of Me.” He hummed along, watching the full moon’s reflection, the waves dancing across the seemingly perfect surface.

Ripples caught Steve’s attention, his eyes moving up, breath catching in the back of his throat. In front of him, a single deer. Back littered with white spots, the head turned downwards as it took a drink from the pond.

Behind Steve, a gentle voice singing along.

Steve didn’t bother turning to look over his shoulder. The figure dropped to its knees only a foot away, right next to him. She stopped singing along, moving herself to sit on her bottom, one leg outstretched and the other pulled up. Her bow next to her, mimicking his position, arms going behind her.

They stayed still, both facing the pond. The song ending, only to be repeated.

Steve wants to break the silence, he wants to be the first to say something, but she beats him to it.

“Did you know that Artemis is not only the goddess of the Moon, but of the hunt? Of childbirth? Of virginity and purity?” She started, her eyes moving from the reflection to the Moon.

She took Steve’s silence as “keep going.”

“Artemis… she’s not very forgiving - believes that a woman’s virginity and purity is sacred. She hates anyone that tries to violate that purity and steal it from a woman without her wanting.”

Steve’s eyes never leave the Moon’s reflection.

“As a Hunter of Artemis,” she continued,”you stay loyal to your sisters and especially Artemis. She chose each and everyone of us for a reason. The moment to break that loyalty and trust, you choose the temptations and empty promises of man over the bond of eternal sisterhood, you lose everything,” she breathed slowly.

The silence came again. Steve’s phone dead, the only music from the hooting of owls and insects, buzzing, chirping, making themselves known.

“I don’t regret leaving,” Steve started off, catching her off guard, “I don’t regret being the man I was nor am.”

Her eyes moved, now glued to the toes of her boots. Her eyes burning with the unforgotten sensation of tears, fingers gripping blades of grass tightly. She’d been fighting off tears for the past year.

“I don’t regret becoming Captain America,” Steve continued, swallowing slowly before continuing, “but… but I do regret not coming back when we thought we lost Bucky. I regret not writing. I regret not telling you how much I love you.”

She froze. Steve said love, not loved.

She had been thinking about this since her conversation with Adoni.

With a deep, nervous inhale, she pushed herself back to her knees. Bow laid against the ground, her hands free and wiped against over pant material on her thighs. She saw Steve turn towards her as she reached her hands to the back of her neck.

Carefully, she pulled out a beaded chain hidden underneath her tunic. A shaky gasp left her lips when the metal tags were no longer pressed against her chest, stuck to her skin. She waited for the uneasy feeling that came with ridding herself of the metallic memoir. It was one the one thing she kept of her past.

She heard Steve’s choked sob, her own eyes blurred with hot tears. A heartbroken laugh escaped her, the chain lifted and her neck free of the feeling, metal no longer against her skin. Only her tunic and the leather of the quiver across her chest.

Carefully, tags splayed against her palm and the chain piled in a circle over them. Her eyes never left her hand. Taking in memory of the chain, finger running over the imprints one last time.

This time, her inhale was calm, confident, collected simultaneously as she pulled Steve’s hand out. While she glanced up at him, noticing the tears running down his face, she realized her own face was streaked with hot tears, vision blurry.

“Steve,” she exhaled, carefully dropping his dog tags into his hand. Her hand wrapped around his, enclosing the tags.

They both looked at each other at the same time. Her hand moved from his, cupping his face, turning him to her.

Their eyes lingered on one another, switching between their lips and their eyes. It took the push of the chilly summer breeze to push them towards one another.

His first kiss since that day in Germany, with Sharon.

Her first kiss ever.

She never knew that kisses were so intense, full of emotion, so heavy and rushed yet slow and careful. Her hand shifts to his neck, pulling him closer, but though she wants more, they both want more, she pulls away.

Eyes closed, light breathes leaving their bodies, chests heaving. Her thumb brushed at the patch skin by his hair, into the beard.

“Steve, I don’t regret becoming one of Artemis’s Hunters. I don’t regret swearing my loyalty to my sisters, to Artemis and the Moon, nor to the Hunt. I don’t regret choosing the Hunt over you. I don’t regret kissing you,” she breathed, opening her eyes, “but I do regret kissing you not soon enough.”

Steve opened his eyes to see the constellations on her face glowing bright, the crescent moon pointed to the heavens lit dimly, and a quick sliver of silver flashing across her eyes.

With a soft, confident smile, she pushed herself up. Reaching down to swipe her bow, she moved quickly, stopping at the forest’s first defense. This time, she allowed herself to spare a glance back at Steve. Her smile grew bigger, brighter. One last nod, she turned her back, running into the forest.

Steve watched after her. Hand clenched tightly around his old dog tags.

His gaze moved from the tree line down to where she once sat.

There was no indent from her body. No imprint against the grass, the grass was not even laid flat.

No, where she once sat beside him, where she gave him back the one piece that still tied her down to the mortal man, bloomed a single flower.

White petals, with just a hint of pink among the edges and tips. Where she once was, bloomed a moon flower.

[vaire-gwir]

Some Cat and Wolf fanfic I had in mind

Edit: I think I fixed it now, should make a little more sense.

I was listening to I Lost a Friend and it made me me think about Lambert and Aiden for some reason. Why, you may ask, well I don’t know. This is just my poor attempt at what happens after Aiden‘s death (spoiler?), Lambert coping with the loss and remembering. This thing was sounded better in my head so, is it terrible? probably, I mean I’m trash, not the sexy kind. Attention please: I’m a sucker for feedback, give me all the feedbacks, I want to know if you liked it, hated it or if it’s so bad you stopped reading after 5 lines. 

Attention please, pt2: this is hardly canon, obviously, and it’s also surely out of characters but I mean no disrespect, sorry if it offends you. Leave me a comment or message me to tell me where did I go wrong and I’ll be a very happy cookie. It was originally longer but pt2 is still wip. Thanks to any single person that will spend their time reading it, I’ll love you forever <3

***

There’s no body and there’s no grave. Dead Witchers? It doesn’t make sense to have a grave for something that already filled people’s nightmares when it was alive. There was a space somewhere, a dirty and soon forgotten corner of earth where the medallions were buried, but that was it. Not wanted in life, not missed in death. And yet, Lambert fucking missed the Cat.

For a time he wore the cat medallion around his neck hidden and tucked away under his shirt, he made the chain longer for that sole purpose, even if it was weird wearing two. It seemed such a great idea until he woke up one night scratching and clawing at his chest, cause he felt like there was not enough air in the entire forest for him to breath in and the cold eyes of the cat were definitely moving, watching him, twitching and staring like they expected something from him but he has absolutely nothing to give. Another dream filled with green eyes slowly turning dull and empty, words dying on chapped lips, blood-splattered hair, and a cloud of red blooming under a familiar body. It’s not the first dream of this kind he had in the last month, Aiden’s death haunts every moment of his life except when he’s killing something. When he tears off the chain from his neck Lambert stares at it like it has all the fucking answers in the world, If he listens hard enough he’ll catch them, he just has to learn to listen.

The night is still and calm, the fire still crackling over the soft sound of the wind between the trees carrying nothing but silence. His life has always been filled with silence, noise usually meant bad news: his mother and he had to be quiet in the house to not further irritate his asshole of a father, cause they didn't want to give him another excuse to lash out at them, he was already beating them enough. Kaer Morhen was always silent, except during the trials so if the silence broke it was replaced by screams and agony and cries for endless hours. Life on the path was not without sounds, never the good kind though, cause nobody ever willingly talked to witchers unless they had a contract and monsters were harder to fight when they were irate because of the noise, already screeching and scratching enough as they were. Silence was the uncomfortable calm before the storm in his life.

Everything had to be silent to be fine until Aiden appeared. Then, the silence was comfortable, filled with a heartbeat as slow as his own, holding no expectations that he couldn't fulfill. Not that the cat was ever silent for too long anyway, but the words out of his mouth somehow never bothered Lambert cause Aiden never expected anything from him and never demanded more than what he could give. He didn't push him to talk when he felt like being on his own, he accepted his horrible habit of not thinking before speaking, and he called him out on his bullshit when he tended to lash out at anything and anyone just because he was upset or trying to protect himself. Aiden seemed to recognize the difference when he was silent because there was no need for words and when his mind was racing too fast and his thoughts were all dangerously closing in and choking him. Not only Aiden knew when to leave him alone and when not, but he also seemed to be able to pull him out of that rushing jumble of dark thoughts threatening to overwhelm him and he made it look so fucking easy. Soon enough Lambert discovered that everything in his life required a huge amount of effort: fighting, living on the run, the hardships of the path, the choices always taken from him. Being with Aiden was easy. Being with Aiden was simply effortless. Traveling the path together seemed to make more sense and for once in his life, Lambert chose this. His choice was to be with Aiden, it's the only one that was not stripped from him, and the one he never regretted.

Before Aiden, he longed for winter. His poor excuse of a home was still better than life on the path, and while Kaer Morhen housed some of his most painful memories, it was the closest thing to a place and a family he ever called his own. But after he met Aiden there was not the same peace in the idea of walking up The Killer to the empty ruins for the long winter months, too much time to be on his own, and facing his brothers always made him understand how he was still not enough. He loved them, he'd die for them, but they represented everything he could never be. Spring seemed an entire lifetime away, and by the end of winter Lambert was fidgeting and itching to leave as soon as possible, the promise of seeing Aiden in Kaedwen alluring as the song of a siren and he couldn't even pretend he wanted to resist it. His brothers had their fair share of snarky comments and jokes ready for him, but not even the concern for whatever opinion they shared on his behavior was enough to keep him in the castle as soon as the snow melted. Aiden had the habit of asking him how much he missed him as soon as they were in the quiet bubble of their room in some inn or the other and Lambert had the habit of telling him to fuck off, kissing him hungrily and biting on his neck too hard on purpose, as if he was trying to reclaim something that belonged to him. There was this need under his skin to touch and feel Aiden everywhere at once, committing again to memory the map of his skin, the only place where he could lose himself. He'd notice if there were any new scars, breathing in the scent of spices and mint that now meant home to him, and always kissing with something close to reverence the long scar under his ribs that Lambert patched up himself the year before. He missed the Cat, terribly. He missed him when he was gone for two days on a contract, months were nothing short of torture. The knowledge that he'll miss him for the rest of his miserable life is too much for him to take. Aiden never hesitated before answering I missed you too.

He gave up any fantasy of sleep he may have had, coming to terms with the fact that he's clearly not going to rest tonight. Again. He stares into the fire, willing the tangled mess in his mind to sit still, but it never works when he's alone. Aiden would help, but Aiden's not here. He's not anywhere. Would it be better if there was a grave to dig? Or a pyre to build, if there was wood to collect, something to set on fire and watch it burn until dawn, maybe, just maybe, Lambert could force himself to finally say goodbye. To tell him how wrong he was about that vampire nest contract, and how he always cheated at Gwent because he's an asshole that doesn’t know how to lose, that his words always come out all wrong and I really wanted you to come to Kaer Morhen for winter, I don't care what anyone says, sorry, I love you. Will you still hear it I say it enough times now? It's always words that cause trouble in his life, words he meant to say but he never did and words he shouldn't have said and he regrets them now when it's too late to take them back. Between the two of them, it has always been a constant push and pull on a rope stretched thin by too much anger, and not enough choices.

Lambert remembers the first time they met. And the first time they kissed. The cold tight squeeze in his chest just where the medallion usually rests never seems to ease. There's this cat-shaped necklace dangling in front of him and it seems to whisper at him about how he failed again, as he always did his whole life, and Aiden could have had so much better. And it's true, cause in the middle of the night every part of him knows that Aiden deserved someone better, not someone who ran or kissed him in the middle of a rotting vampire nest. Aiden deserved the world and he couldn't even give him one winter.

*****

<<I told you it was a nest.>> Aiden extracts his sword from the body of the last vampire he killed, the one that managed to claw at his thigh. The cut already stopped bleeding by the time he catches his breath and looks around at the mess of severed heads and bodies surrounding them.

<<Why are you still fucking talking?>> Lambert is laying against a tree, there are claw marks on his chest where one of the beasts scratched his armor and his back is probably already one giant black and blue bruise considering how many times he was slammed against the wall of the cave.

<<Well, it got my leg darling, not my tongue.>> The cheeky tone doesn't go unnoticed, Lambert raises his eyes to where Aiden is standing, cleaning his  swords before he starts rummaging through their packs.

<<You never shut up, do you?>> Lambert adds growling, trying to hide the pain spreading from his side and back while he sits up, using the trunk as support. He closes his eyes for a heartbeat, steeling himself to get up and prepare to finish their job and the next time he hears Aiden’s voice is suddenly much closer than he anticipated. The Cat is leaning on the very same tree, looking down at him with a vial in his hands.

<<You know you don't scare me you big stupid wolf, growl all you like. Now let me take a look at that.>> Lambert wishes he had enough strength to come up with a nasty comment or punch him, but he doesn't feel like moving anymore. The scent of the Cat so close to him is  relaxing him, more than it should be, his shadow is so close to him that if he stretches his fingers just a bit he'll be able to touch him. He wants to touch him. For weeks he has been craving something he can't have, and he knows he's not supposed to need that, though that knowledge doesn't stop him from wanting. He's convinced that the Cat sure as hell don't want to be touched by him, his attitude is just empty comebacks and nothing more, but at times it is harder to focus on that. Certain times like when Aiden is that close to him, and he's been thinking way too often about how bad would it be to kiss his...friend.

<<I'm fine.>>

<<Sure, I hear your bones cracking every time you breathe but you're doing great, I see that.>> Aiden passes him a vial and he gratefully gulps down half of it, the familiar taste of Swallow spreading on his tongue. Lambert must admit that it’s nice to have the Cat around. It will be painful when Aiden leaves like everyone else. It’s just a matter of time before he gets tired of the Wolf. Lambert doesn't believe in the Gods, he'd pray to them if he did, pray to be ready for that pain when it happens. He hopes they still have some time together before Aiden decides he can’t stand him anymore and their little agreement is over but he also knows that nobody ever stays for long.

<<Good to know you didn't poison me.>>

<<See? I didn't kill you yet, don't we make an excellent couple? Will you let me take a look now or are you scared I'll bite? I promise I won't. Unless you like it of course.>> There's nothing funny about their situation, but leave it to the Cat to flirt with him when they are stranded in the middle of nowhere 'cause their horses ran away scared. And it is fun to pretend there’s more underneath his words, except it wasn't flirting of course, Aiden talks like that to everyone. He has been warned countless times about how witchers from the School of the Cat can be too passionate, physical and most of the times unbalanced. Some mage decided it was fun to tweak with the formula before the trials and realized his mistake only when everyone involved died. Of course the bastard didn’t stop there, mages never did, and kept playing with the mutagens until the children involved lived. Well, 5 out of 13 lived, the asshole considered it a victory and sent the recently made Witchers on their merry way. Lambert has heard the story before, it’s different when Aiden tells him though, cause he was there. It still doesn’t stop him from pointing out the obvious from time to time.

<<You cats are really fucking weird.>> And Aiden doesn’t even get mad anymore, he knows there’s no judgment behind Lambert’s words.

<<Yes, comes with the package love, thank you for noticing. Take this off so I can properly look at you, want to make sure nothing is broken. >>

<<Don't need you to. I'm good.>> He'd never admit that he likes Aiden's attention on him cause he can almost believe that the Cat cares for him in some way. Almost. Lambert's mind quickly supplies that Aiden probably doesn't want to drag him across a swamp and the forest with a few broken bones cause it would take forever.

<<Clearly I'm the only one with some sense here, so how about you keep that pretty mouth shut and let me help you.>> Aiden kneels next to him on a patch of dry ground, and Lambert never really understood how the Cat could always be so attractive.

<<Clothes off, now pup.>> There’s no way he’s allowed to say something like that, more so because Lambert seems unable to resist him, and his hands are already making quick work of the buckles on his armor. He likes to believe that Aiden stares as if he was enjoying the view.

<<Well kitty, I know I'm hard to resist but you don't need an excuse to see me half naked.>>

<<Don't I? Oh, I'll hold you that promise later.>> Lambert wants him to, he'll deny it  to himself later when they're in a rented room and he's not listening to the Cat’s  breathing to fall asleep. He discards his sweaty shirts and tries to relax, fighting the suddenly kicking instinct inside him that doesn't like the idea of having someone so close when he's so exposed and he's not even clutching a dagger or two. For a few seconds, he has a hard time remembering that the Cat wanted to help him and not kill him. Aiden must sense his thoughts cause he's removing his two swords to gently lay them on the ground next to his legs, the metal shining in plain sight like some weird peace offering.

<<I'm not going to kill you, wolf.>>

Lambert turns around while the Cat silently moves behind him, he wants to say something but he's unable to put together the words to express his appreciation. It's not a small thing for a witcher to leave his weapons, he knows that very well, he's always reluctant to do the same, he's not sure he’d even think of doing it if the roles were reversed. Aiden did, and he had no reason to be this considerate with him, not a single one.

He so lost in his own though that the first touch catches him by surprise and the feeling of Aiden's fingers on his back make him jump a little, but it's his voice right next to his hear, close, so close that he feels the gentle puff of his breath on the skin of his neck that makes him shiver.

<<Just relax and be a good pup for me.>> Lambert is sure that Aiden said something else but he didn't catch it. The Cat is too close to him, his words, his scent of spices mixed with the sweat of the fight, the touch of his hand, it all overwhelms his senses in a way he had never experienced before. He desperately wants to lean against him and feel more of everything that Aiden seems to be so easily offering and it takes a willpower Lambert didn't even know he has to stop himself from moaning when both of his hands press over his back. He tries very hard to remind himself that this is not supposed to feel good, this is simply an act of kindness, a friend checking if you're hurt, it's not meant to make him feel like he's standing too close to a great source of magic and his senses are alerted, but then Aiden's hand is at the back of his neck, warm and inviting and there's no way in hell the Cat missed the sound that escaped his lips. He's cursing every God he can think of for the way his body betrays him, but then the feeling is gone, Aiden is gone, he's standing and collecting his swords again as if nothing ever happened. He knows there's a smirk on his face by the sound of his next words but Lambert is afraid he'll do something stupid if he looks up at him, so right now staring at his hands in his lap is perfectly good for him.

<<Good news, whatever was broken is already fixed but your back will be blue for a while. Bad news, we still have a pile of dead vampires to burn.>>

It takes a moment longer than necessary for Lambert to register the meaning of his words, his body still tingling from where Aiden touched him, the scent of spices and something fresh, is it mint? lingers around him. Oh he's so screwed.

<<Lambert?>> He pretends to busy himself with his shirt, just to keep his hands occupied and preventing him from reaching out to the Cat. He finally composes himself enough to look at Aiden: long and deceptively lean legs stretching in front of him, clothed in blue and covered in a layer of dust, narrow waist with too many belts tightly buckled, strong muscular chest and arms crossed over the layers of leather and armour, a scar on the side of his neck, barely visible under the dark caramel curls, green and intelligent cat-eyes looking straight at him. Lambert wonders for a minute if his eyes were that green even before he was turned into a Witcher, cause usually the colours were always altered. Wolf at best had amber eyes, at best meaning Geralt, lucky bastard as always.

<<Are you sure nothing is still broken? Cause I really don't feel like moving around vampire's heads.>>

<<That, my dear wolf, is called being a lazy ass, and has nothing to do with your not-broken back.>>

<<Fine, fine, if I strain myself I'll blame your poor nursing abilities.>> says Lambert before standing up. Aiden’s lips were curled in a smirk, he looked all too pleased with himself. Nobody should be so beautiful.

<<Oh trust me wolf, I’d knew perfectly well how to take care of you.>> Damnit. That was not supposed to sound enticing.

They start working together, dragging the bodies around and collecting the dry wood they could find. Aiden was moving quickly, keeping his hands and mind busy to get rid of the adrenaline rush. Lambert finds himself staring without even realizing he's doing it. He is torn between feeling unnerved by how Aiden managed to keep a sense of grace even covered in sweat and dust, collecting firewood to burn some fucking vampires after the shitty night they had, and the burning temptation of running his fingers through his sweaty hair down the side of his face, just to feel the warm skin under his palm. Sometimes he sees him panting with strain and when his lips twitch in the most inviting way, lips that seem to demand to be kissed, and it's a sin to leave him waiting....

<<See something you like pup?>> Aiden's voice distracts him from his dangerous thoughts, and thank for that cause there's no way he was thinking about how good it would feel to kiss the only friend he ever had. Lambert is determined to not ruin the frail bond between them just because he's probably horny. He never had a friend, especially not one like Aiden. He constantly fears losing him, he knows it will happen, but he doesn't want to speed up the process and send the Cat running away cause he dreams of his mouth. He has reasons enough to dump him anyway.

<<Don't call me that. And there's not much to like about this rotting nest.>>

<<Oh you know how to brighten the mood, don't you, pup?>>

<<For what? Burning vampires? If this is your ideal date then I'm sorry for your lovers, but I've got bad news.>> He can't seem to remember when was the last time Aiden mentioned a lover but he's pretty sure he talked about someone from the caravan. Lambert tried to make fun of the weird Cats habit to easily sleep with others from the same school as if he never spent a winter in Eskel’s bed. Lambert also knows that there's an asshole out there that left him and hurt him, when Aiden shares that story he has to stop himself from hunting the whoreson down wherever he may be and rip him to shreds.

<<And you are a real expert when it comes to dates and lovers, aren't you?>>

<<Wouldn't you like to find out, kitty?>> He wasn’t an expert, considering that he rarely even asked for the same whore in a brothel and every attempt at relations ended in his lovers running away, vanishing or dying. It was always bickering and poking fun at each other between the two of them, trying to get under the skin, riling the other up just to see who would quit first. It was nothing more than a game. He's still chastising the part of him that decided to be jealous of anyone that ever had Aiden in ways he'll never be allowed to have. There must be some lucky bastards around the Continent that kissed him, touched him, fucked him, woke up with sheets full of his scent.

<<Well, I'd love to find out. Is that a promise? >>

Lambert quits first this time, because there's something in Aiden's tone that tells him the cat is not kidding, and what if he isn't? Maybe the teasing is not just empty banter and there's a very small chance that Aiden wants him too. Lambert shakes his head, internally laughing at the absurd thoughts that cross his mind, and goes back to the pile of wood, brushing the stupid idea aside. The Cat didn't want him. It was good enough that he treated Lambert as an equal and most of the times he didn't judge him for his idiotic decisions, there's nothing more he could ask. That's more than anyone has ever been willing to give him. Aiden could have anyone in the world and he's too smart to be interested in a mess like Lambert. Nothing is interesting about him. He doesn't have bright and clever green eyes, he doesn't know what patience is and he can barely string enough words together on a good day to make sure people understood him, he doesn't smell like mixed spices and yes, the fresh tang he detects its definitely mint, it reminds him of the field behind his house when he was a child. Oh yes, it will burn like hell when Aiden leaves. If only the Cat would stop being so....easy to like.

<<Let's just burn this motherfuckers so we can get a drink.>>

<<I like how there's a we now. Any plans for us?>>

<<Gods you're exhausting, how does anyone put up with you?>> It’s one second after the words leave his mouth that Lambert realized what he said. It's one second after the shadow of anger and hurt flicker on Aiden's face that he understands he fucked up and he can see the cloud of emotions passing inside him.

<<Oh fuck, I...don't....>>

<<It's fine, exhausting is hardly the worst thing I've been called. Won't be the worst. I probably am anyway.>>

<<Didn’t mean it, fuck, I....>>

<<Save it. Not the first time I hear it.>> The pieces of the puzzle suddenly clicked inside Lambert's head and stories traded in front of the fire echo in his head. 'Oh you're wrong, I'm not the one doing the up and leaving part. I'm the one that is too much to deal with and they leave. There's a reason why they say Cats are not very stable, everyone gets tired of that.’ Aiden doesn't look at him, his eyes are focused on the pile of dead bodies before him and this gives Lambert an accurate idea of how much he fucked up: it speaks volume if your companion (friend?) would rather stare at dead vampires than at you. He didn't even mean to take it so far, it was just supposed to be another joke. He would never hurt Aiden on purpose.

<<Listen, what I meant was....>>

<<Don't. I don't need pity. Not from anyone, and especially not from you. Let's finish this up and let's go.>>

<<Oh you stupid bastard, it's not that! I say the wrong things all the time, there's a reason why everyone always says I have no brain left to save my own life, Eskel is the smart one, I'm just the angry idiot, point is...>> He looks up at the Cat and Aiden is upset. His hands are clenched at his sides and Lambert doesn't really know how to fix it. He wants to walk over and grab him, hold him close until the anger is gone, and if he was a better man he'd try to explain that nobody ever taught him how to fix anything, let alone how to not break things. He can't stand the idea of Aiden being angry at him and he doesn't need to add this to the list of reasons why he hates himself.  

<<....I'd put up with you. >>

<<Oh thank you, how very generous of you. You'd put up with me like you put up with your duty and your contracts? You know what, shut up. You made it clear enough you don't like me and you don't want to have me around, I got it.>> Aiden is still not looking at him, and he sounds so different than any other time they fought before. Disappointment, that's what he sounds like. That's how every person that ever mattered spoke to Lambert at some point, usually before beating him, leaving him or disappearing from his life. He could take a whipping any day now, but he still can't take the disappointed voices telling him how much he messed up.

<<I....I don't. I mean I do like you. Not this...close to me. The longer you stay around the harder it will be for me when you go.>>

<<Do you want me to go? >>

<<I don't know, I never thought you would not not go.>> Since they decided to travel together after Temeria, Lambert has been waiting for Aiden to go, trying to prepare himself for the inevitable moment of truth. He's been expecting it like you expect a storm when you see dark clouds brewing at the horizon. Something inevitable you can't escape.

<<Why? I made it clear enough that I liked sticking around you.>> Aiden's voice is softer now, still laced with pain but less angry, less hurt.

<<Yes, for the contracts, slaying monsters is easier if there's two of us, less dangerous. >> Aiden moves too quickly for him to follow his steps and he is standing right in front of him, looking straight at him.

<<You honestly believe I kept traveling with you just because I want someone to watch my back? >> There's something in his tone he can't picture what it is, but Aiden is looking at him, and he has a little smirk on his face, so maybe this means things are not as bad as they were two minutes ago, maybe Lambert can hate himself a little less now. If Aiden leaves now, he won't leave angry at least. It's a small victory.

<<Seemed like a good idea as any. You kept sticking around. I've been trying to get rid of you but you don't get the hint.>>

<<You're not doing any better when it comes to hints dropped around. Do you want to get rid of me? >> Lambert doesn’t have the presence of mind to collect his thoughts, he’s feeling too raw, like the pink edges of the almost-healed gash on Aiden’s leg where his eyes fall.

<<What the fuck does that mean? I don't fucking know! Sometimes I want you to get as far away from me as possible. Sometimes I want to kiss you.>> It's more words than he ever had the guts to tell anyone, probably in his entire life, and this conversation was never meant to happen. Aiden never had to know, he has already plenty of reasons to leave. There must be something he can say to take back that last part, maybe Aiden will agree to pretend it never happened.

<<Then fucking kiss me you stupid pup!>>

<<Stop saying things you don't mean, it's....>>

Aiden crashes their lips together before any other question could be asked out loud. It takes Lambert the fraction of a second to close his eyes, frozen in his spot and trying to make sense of the whole thing, but it feels as good as it always does in his dreams just before he wakes up. Maybe this is not something that he needs to make sense of, so he dares kissing him back. His heart is racing too fast, and his mind blanks out the very instant Aiden's hand is on his neck. He can't get enough of his lips, Aiden tastes like the best thing he ever had, and he wants to stretch time in a slow line before them so he can savor him for a little longer. Or forever.

When Aiden moves back to put a little space between them he doesn't want to let him go, the gap there is suddenly too big and Lambert is not completely sure he can survive without kissing him again.

<<I meant it. Did you?>>

Lambert really wants to say yes, but words, treacherous things as they are, refuse to crawl out of his throat, so he just leans his forehead against Aiden's and breathes in his scent, mint, and honey, and a mix of spices that will always mean happiness from now on. He has never felt so vulnerable, but for the first time in his life, this doesn't make him want to run and hide or put on his armor. He just wants to kiss Aiden until the noise in his head stops. He sneaks a hand into the soft brown curls, fingers itching to touch what he never thought he could have, and brings their lips together again, hunger and desire pooling inside him as he roughly kisses Aiden once more. He's quickly growing addicted to that taste, Aiden's mouth is sweet and warm and he feels all of his anger and frustration melting away against him. Lambert deepens the kiss, and can't help but moan when a hand presses at the small of his back, the strength and power of the body wrapped around his own is strangely reassuring, in a way no one has ever been before. Lambert raises a hand to trace the side of Aiden's face, his beard tickling his palm and the first touch of their tongues makes him burn. Lust sparks deep inside him, making him crave more, he wants to know what Aiden tastes like everywhere, and if he feels like is skin is on fire too. Aiden pressed their bodies together as close as possible, moaning in the most sensual sound Lambert has ever heard in his life.

Aiden has the nerve of licks his lips after they part, making a scene of savoring their combined tastes, as if he doesn't know what it does to Lambert.

<<Took you damn long.>>

<<You could have said something!>>

<<Wolf, I've been saying something for the past three months. You spend so much time in your head you didn't notice.>> Lambert mutters something under his breath that suspiciously sounds like 'how could I have known' and Aiden just laughs.

<<Let's finish this up and get a move on, if we're lucky our employer will pay without making a scene and we can find a room. I’d like to do this some more without the added bonus of dead vampires.>> Lambert blinks twice, looking around as realization dawns on him.

<<Fuck! I forgot about the damn nest!>>

<<Did I kiss you stupid, pup?>>

<<Shut up.>>

He's growling at the Cat, pretending to be mad while he piles up wood and Aiden is laughing again. That is the best sound in the world.

[darkstar6782]

Fade to Black - 2.20: What Is and What Should Never Be

“Naw, I'm sure it's nothing. I just wanna take a look around.”

Dean hangs up the phone, and Sam almost bites his tongue to keep from screaming into it. For one thing, Dean’s logic is totally flawed—if it’s nothing, why go look?—and for another thing, Sam still hasn’t figured out how to kill the Djinn yet, so if Dean does find something there (his brother’s instincts are right more often than not, after all), he’ll be going in basically defenseless. Sam considers calling Dean back and telling him all of this, but Dean probably won’t pick up, and it’s not like Sam has any new information to offer him either, so he sets the phone back and returns to the books. He’ll give Dean an hour. That’s plenty of time for him to check out whatever place he’d seen and either call back wanting information if he finds something, or make it back to the hotel room if it turns out to be a bust.

The sound of an alarm blaring causes him to jerk upright, heart racing. Under his head, on top of the books he’d been reading, lies a piece of paper with the words ‘silver knife dipped in lamb’s blood’ scrawled across it. He’d fallen asleep doing research again. It shouldn’t be that much of a surprise, given that he hasn’t been sleeping well since their second escape from Henriksen and the FBI, but when he realizes that the reason why he hadn’t awoken sooner is because Dean still isn’t back from his trip to the warehouse district, the frantic beating of his heart takes on a whole new dimension of panic. Sam scrambles for his phone, and is not in the least bit reassured by the fact that he hasn’t received any calls since he last spoke to his brother.

Sam allows himself ten seconds of panic, taking deep breaths and counting backwards from ten. On “one”, he breathes out, closes his eyes, and thinks back on everything he knows:

Dean was hunting a Djinn.

Dean was alone.

Dean was driving around the warehouse district on the south side of town.

Dean doesn’t know how to kill the Djinn.

Then, he catalogues all of the things he doesn’t know:

He doesn’t know exactly where Dean is.

He doesn’t know if Dean was picked up by the cops.

He doesn’t know if Dean found the Djinn, or if the Djinn found Dean.

So what can he do about each of those unknowns? The most important thing, obviously, is finding out where Dean is and determining exactly what kind of peril he is in. That means that Sam will need to find a way to get to the warehouse district and start searching for the Impala. Though Dean getting picked up by the cops is a possibility, it is one that Sam can do very little to prepare for in advance. Dean being attacked by the Djinn, however… Sam still doesn’t really know what they do to their victims, only that they leave the desiccated husks behind, and the thought of finding his brother like that starts his heart pounding painfully hard again. “Damn it, Dean,” he mutters to the empty room. “Why couldn’t you have come and picked me up first?”

He’s not going to steal a car from the hotel parking lot, that’s for damn sure. Instead, he walks into town and heads for a local butcher shop (thank God for the trend towards locally-sourced, specialty grocery stores, despite the chunk of change it’s going to take out of his wallet). He never feels like as smooth of a liar as Dean in situations like these, but he manages to come up with a reason to buy a pint of lamb’s blood without getting too many strange looks from the butcher or any of the other customers. On his way out, he slips the lamb and mutton chops that he had also purchased in order to complete the ruse into a fellow shopper’s bag, just so that they won’t go to waste.

Their only silver knife is still in the Impala’s trunk, but since the car should be wherever Dean is, that is less of a concern than the next thing on Sam’s list. Another two hours pass before he tracks down a vehicle that he can ‘borrow’ without drawing too much attention from the cops: an old van parked in the far corner of the grocery store parking lot. From the dust on the windshield and the trash piled inside, it’s been abandoned for some time, so Sam doesn’t have many qualms about cracking it open, hot-wiring the engine, and driving off towards the warehouse district on the far side of town. He keeps his hands at ten and two, though, and drives at exactly the speed limit, and holds his breath every time a cop car passes him. He’d always been aware of the fact that his and Dean’s line of work led them to bend or break a lot of laws, but it had never seemed quite as dangerous as the actual monsters they hunted before their run-ins with the FBI and that little taste of prison. The thought that their lives could end behind bars rather than on a hunt gone wrong seems disturbingly likely now, though, and Sam’s honestly not sure which is worse. Of course, if he can’t find Dean, the cops are going to be the least of his worries…

It’s almost dusk when Sam finally spots the Impala, tucked away in the shadows between two nondescript, abandoned buildings. Trying not to panic, Sam leaves his stolen car on the other side of the block of warehouses and runs back over to the Impala. He whispers apologies to the car as he picks the lock on the trunk and pulls out the silver knife. He coats it liberally in lamb’s blood, grabs a gun for backup, and heads inside the closest building. It’s empty, and looks like it’s been that way for a long time. Cursing, Sam tries the other building. It also appears long-abandoned, but on the far side of a large room near the back of the warehouse, Sam finds two desiccated corpses. His heart in his throat, Sam starts searching every shadowed corner of the warehouse, whispering his brother’s name.

“Dean?”

“Dean?”

“Dean!”

“DEAN!”

He’s there; hanging from his wrists in a small alcove in the darkest corner of the room. His body is so still and pale that Sam is sure he is dead. Abandoning all caution, he practically screams his brother’s name as he shakes him, searching for some signs of life. Just as he’s about to give up hope, Dean gasps for breath and opens his eyes. Sam could almost cry as his brother looks blearily at him and mumbles, “Auntie Em, there’s no place like home.” Instead, he tries, with shaking hands, to remove the needle that is draining blood from Dean’s neck. “Thank God,” he breathes as he feels life begin to return to Dean’s body. “I thought I lost you for a second.”

“You almost did.”

Sam’s heart skips a beat at Dean’s reply, and for a moment he just wants to carry his brother out of here and never go hunting again. They’ve had so many close calls over the last year, and now, with Dad gone… he doesn’t know how much more of this he can handle. Of course, that’s when the Djinn decides to attack, and by the time it’s over, Dean has managed to finish freeing himself and is the one saving Sam’s life instead. And then they discover that another one of the Djinn’s victims is still alive, and in the ensuing chaos of getting her out of the warehouse and safely to a hospital, Sam forgets for a moment that the thought of giving all this up had ever crossed his mind.

At least, he forgets until Dean explains exactly what the Djinn had done to him, how it had shown him a world in which Mom was alive, and they had never become hunters, and had instead just been normal brothers—brothers who weren’t particularly close to one another. And Sam can see in Dean’s eyes how much it hurt him to think that—even though it had only been in his mind—in order to have something he had always wanted, he would have been forced to give up something else that meant so much to him. Sam knows that feeling because he had tried it once. He had given up this life to go to college, and as happy as he had tried to be there, it never felt as right as his life does right now, saving people from monsters with his brother by his side. He isn’t quite sure how to tell Dean that he understands the crisis of faith that Dean had gone through, but maybe he doesn’t have to say it in words. Maybe just being here, having Dean’s back and knowing that Dean has his, is enough.

Though if Dean thinks he’s going to be able to use the whole ‘split up to get the job done faster’ argument again any time soon, Sam might just have a few things to say about that.

[the-fox-knows]

‘I’ll Tell You a Story’

Mustn’t Linger at Crossroads (1)

What were the words of an old wives tale? Simmering magic behind an ancient veil. A land so steeped in legend and myth, it is little wonder when things go amiss.

The low sky, laden with swollen clouds, had effectively obscured the sun and any chance of continuing with a picnic four young women were desperately clinging to; four Americans on holiday in Scotland, underestimating the dreach weather, and in various stages of bowing down to the superior forces of Mother Nature. The last to submit had her face turned to the sky, squinting up at the looming clouds, an expectant quirk to her lips as she waited for that first drop to splash somewhere on her skin.

“Molly! Stop daydreaming and help pack this up. I don’t want the whicker to get wet!”

Snapping her eyes back to her friends, she lurched to her feet and wordlessly began folding the blanket her bum had been holding hostage. A smile lingered hiding behind her curtain of hair, giving away her amusement at their frantic behavior. This was the quartets fifth day in the country and the first afternoon that had promised improved weather for their little outing. Molly couldn’t say she was surprised by the speedy return of rainclouds, though, was the only one willing to meet them. Outnumbered in less than a second, she gave into their squawking, though, had her thoughts elsewhere as they packed the car up just as the first drizzle was unleashed.

“You go on ahead,” Molly told her friends, pulling out her umbrella and opening it with a flourish. Their plans consisted of heading back to the B&B they were staying at, but Molly was just a bit sick with cabin fever and had one or two things she wanted to poke around before returning.

“What? It’s raining. Where are you going?” Ellie demanded, closing the trunk and hurrying to the passenger side.

“I’m not ready to come back yet. Need to stretch my legs,” Molly explained, keeping it brief.

“But it’s raining,” Cathy insisted from behind the wheel, reiterating Ellie’s point.

“I have my umbrella, besides it’s a ten minute walk to the B&B. I won’t be long,” she assured with a smile and a nod.

“Oh, let’s just leave her. You know we won’t talk her out of it,” Gracie hollered from the back, eager to be off the roads. Out of the four, she was the biggest worrywart and would likely as not be the one biting her nails until Molly walked through the doors to their rooms. As it was, she could only concern herself with one thing at a time, and presently the rain was getting heavier, plunking off the roof of the car.

Cathy and Ellie gave Molly a final, appraising look, before having to agree with Gracie.

“Just don’t go off the paths and – oh, is your phone charged? Do you have a signal?”

“Yes and yes,” Molly answered without checking. “I will stay on the paths, look both ways before crossing, and I’ll make sure not to talk to any strangers. Happy?”

Ellie grumbled. “Fine, but if you’re not back within the hour Scotland’s going to have three stereotypical Americans on their hands who won’t shut up until they find their friend. So for the sake of our motherland’s reputation – don’t daydream!”

Laughing, Molly shooed away their concerns, waving fondly until their little rented car dipped into a valley, vanishing from sight.

Free to explore, Molly thought giddily.

At a much slower pace than the automobile she sloshed her way down the road making sure to hit every puddle until the denim of her jeans were beyond damp and murky water could be felt sliding down the inside of her wellies. She twirled her umbrella over her shoulder, humming ‘Singin’ in the Rain’ to herself as the flat land around her held the tempting invitation to drop her umbrella and just run until she couldn’t – to throw caution to the wind and indulge even further into her reckless nature.

She wanted to see everything that could possibly be seen on this trip, to soak up as much as the culture and folk lore as possible. In a week’s time they’d be journeying even further north to the Highlands, something she was particularly excited about. Snapshots she’d seen of the rugged land spoke directly to her romantic imagination and the raw mountains with hints of mossy green, she felt sure, would easily fulfill her desire for adventure. She gave a rueful chuckle at her friends’ expense as she thought of the near future and how many times she planned on giving them the slip. Her endurance for new experiences far outpaced theirs.

For now, they were staying in a seaside chalet in Dunbar, overlooking a glorious stretch of beach with a walk that was part of John Muir Park. It was to this strip of sand she was headed. The rain was tolerable; no threat of lightening as of yet, and the desire to stand on the beach and be eye-level with the stormy waves, the sea-breeze filling her lungs, sounded like the perfect cure for cabin fever.

The beach was deserted, forcing Molly to momentarily doubt the sanity of her notions, but then the drizzle sputtered into a few week drops, and she felt it safe enough to continue. The tide was low, stretching back so that the glistening sand seemed to extend for miles before meeting the white foam. Slipping out of her wellies, Molly toed the sand, imprinting her feet in the cooling ground. She stood in the space between high and low tide, looking out towards the horizon in easy meditation, the natural rhythm lulling her into a deep serenity so that time was forgotten. Her mind turned to the legends of natural in-between points: cross-roads; the gloaming hours of dawn and twilight, not quite day nor yet night; the stretch of sand between high and low tide.

Eventually, the drizzle resumed, though turned stronger this time, and Molly was forced out of her reverie. Unconsciously, she had allowed her umbrella to droop to the side, and now straightened it above her head once more. Checking her phone she read the time as being half past two, and if she were to follow her friend’s warning about time she had only eight minutes to return before Scotland would be plagued with a headache.

Chuckling to herself Molly cast a final glance at the sea before turning her back towards it.

Missed by her roving gaze, however, was a speck on the horizon. Smaller than a dot, yet moving swiftly towards the shore, its wooden body soon loomed clear as the men waiting within watched the ever approaching beach with war-lust in their eyes. The metal of their weapons were dull under the foreboding sky, yet they received the fall of the rain with a low pattering that thrummed pervasively on the hull of the longboat. Out of the scores of men, only one stood with the outward appearance of patience. His glance held a spark of wisdom missed by the others as he prepared himself to once again meet the somewhat familiar land of the Christians.

. . .

 It had been quick. The tolling bells had eerily fallen silent all too quickly when the monks ringing them had been relieved of their heads. The monastery sacked, the town pillaged; young men who were no more than farmers or apprentices bravely stood their ground against the invading forces only to be cut down with a ferocity and cruelty undeserved. The passionate actions of the berserkers were dispassionate in their execution. There was no thought, no mercy, only the blood-lust that they entreated to take hold of their mind when rampaging.  The women faced depredations hitherto unknown to them as they no longer had their men folk to protect them. Their screams related the horrors of the North-Men far better than any round church bell could.

Undisturbed by this red backdrop, Ragnar Lothbrok walked slowly down what had only recently been an aisle of the church. The wooden benches now overturned, cut, chipped, and strewn alongside the bodies that had fallen atop them. The sight did nothing to upset the marauder, though unlike the rest, it did not make him revel either.

His steps were firm, but questing. He had no predestined location that he sought, only to gather all that he could to learn more of this new world. Past a ruined door that led to an ante-chamber, he found more bodies slumped over slanted desks; their life’s blood mingling with the colorful ink on the illuminated pages.

Recognizing these monks as being similar to Athelstan, Ragnar flicked a curious glance towards the ruined pages, his gaze running over the unintelligible scripts. In terms of value, these sheets were worthless to him, even less to Earl Haraldson. He may not understand the lines that marked out a language, but he knew that they were filled with nothing but the Christian G-d. Still, there was an undeniable twitch in his hand that impulsively snatched at the most unspoiled parchment.

The yearning for knowledge, no matter its source, was a more powerful inducement than the finest of kings’ hoards.

. . .

It was not long before the treasures; the gold crosses and platters, the silver goblets and candleholders were accounted for and brought excitedly to the proud serpent’s head rising from the water. The lapping waves caressed the hull, only to turn to erratic splashing when the tread of the Northmen disturbed the shallow depths as they distributed their goods throughout the boat. The rain had ceased early on in their raid. Their talk was disconnected from the carnage they’d delivered to the town; happy and boasting of the fine things they would get for themselves and their women once returned. The honor that would come to them as their riches increased; as they had no doubt it would, seeing how bountiful this land to the west was proving to be.

Ragnar stood back from this talk, both physically and figuratively. His ambitions were perhaps more far-reaching than those on the beach, yet his wits were sharper. Earl Haraldson was much on his mind of late. Ragnar had drawn the board and now the moves must be played by himself and those involved – whatever the consequences.

The land he stood on was rich, richer than mere jewels and trinkets - it was a land of wealth. Tillable soil, hardy animals, weather not so unforgiving as the climes of his homeland. Yes, he thought, his narrowed gaze taking in the sprawling promise, the flash of his eyes striking against the brown of his skin. Yes, there are riches to be had here.

Movement caught his notice breaking the spell he was weaving for himself. There was a flash of red between the green foliage of the trees that grew on the far reaches of the beach.

Cautiously stepping forward Ragnar paid a quick glance over his shoulder to the men by the boat. He was unobserved by them. Looking back to the trees he tilted his head, his eyes roving for a sign of a threat while he unobtrusively tightened his grip on his axe.

Flicking his gaze back and forth, Ragnar entered the first line of trees. He could hear the person’s tread now - quick and careless. At first they seemed to be marching away from him, however, a few seconds later had them returning in an indirect route. They changed course for a third time, and Ragnar found himself intrigued.

On silent feet he followed the noise, his grip no longer so intense on the handle of his axe. Low murmuring soon joined the footfalls, then, what sounded like an exceedingly frustrated grunt. There was a feminine lilt to the aggravated noise, and Ragnar quickened his steps until he saw a woman crashing through the trees away from him, only to change course as if she didn’t know which direction was hers.

Sidling up to a large trunk he watched her unseen.

Her raiment piqued his interest, as did the implement she was currently wringing in her hands. The curved end was intriguing, though, with a raking gaze, Ragnar determined its dullness, therefore it’s uselessness as a weapon. The satchel at her side was more promising of finding something of interest. His head was tilted curiously, his breathing quiet as he observed the woman’s ill contained hysterics.

She did not belong to the town they’d just sacked, he was sure of it, though he had nothing to base it on other than an educated summation.

Cocking an ear, he heard her distressed murmurs catching on barley contained sobs. There was a foreign lilt to her undertones, alas, ere he could distinguish the tongue, her reckless ambling began taking her further away from him.

As a shadow, he trailed her, pursuing her with a hunter’s instincts. Unknowingly, she made it easy for him.

She branched off a few times in opposing directions, displaying clearly that she was as much a stranger in these parts as Ragnar was. Several times he had looked back over his shoulder contemplating the distance he was risking by plunging deeper into these foreign woods. It was when he desired to go no further - and was entirely confident that this woman was alone - that he slipped from the concealment obtained from the woods and let himself be seen.

He anticipated her change of heart a second before she made it and was there to catch her startled gaze the moment she spun on her heels to retrace her steps.

Immediately she froze; a stifled gasp swallowed quickly in the back of her throat. Almost imperceptibly her fingers tightened around her strange device as her eyes darted over his appearance. At his side, his axe still had flecks of blood from spots he had missed in his initial wipe of the weapon, and he was sure splattered red ornamented his face and clothed chest. A slow smile tugged at his lips bearing an overwhelming resemblance to something feral as he enjoyed her eyes on him.

“You are a stranger?” he poised it as a question, though his tone was indicative of knowing the answer.

The woman’s eyes snapped back to his from where they had been staring at the lethal array of weapons strapped to his belt. Slowly, she shook her head, voicing a stuttered response in a language unfamiliar to him. He did not doubt her authenticity, though, immediately his interest was piqued even further. A new language meant a new land, a new land meant new riches, and new riches held the tantalizing treasure of more knowledge.

In mere seconds a plan had formulated.

The woman still stood frozen, like prey who knew they were caught yet clung to the hope that if they drew little attention to themselves they’d rediscover their freedom.

“I have a proposition for you,” Ragnar began in a tone of voice that might have been interpreted as mocking in his overt congeniality. It was clear she didn’t understand him, if the desperate shaking of her head was anything to go by. And which only intensified when he brought himself a step closer to her.

With a trembling step back she interrupted him speaking again in her tongue; the hitch in her voice audible.  

“You will come with me,” he said, keeping pace with her, never quickening his step in a terrifying show of unconcerned victory. He had her, and both knew it. She stumbled away regardless, tripping on her own feet as she was unwilling to turn her back towards him. The useless implement she held she began defensively brandishing when his eyes glinted.

“There is a story to your presence, and I would have it; a meaning to your language.” His gaze dropped to her denim-clad legs deliberately, then back to her eyes. “A reason for why you wear such tight trousers where any man may appreciate your form with little imagination.”

She spoke again, almost pleading as her footing faltered over some roots, and Ragnar deemed it time to end the cat-and-mouse game. With little effort he was before her, trapping her between his form and the solid trunk of an oak. Grasping first her wrist, he little expected the rattle to his head when the woman suddenly struck out with her odd stick and attempted to flee. His grip tightened immediately, holding her to him, as he brought her right before his nose where he proceeded to stare down at her squirming figure. Her entire body was engaged in struggling against him, tears streaming down her already wet face as he closed his large hands around both her wrists. Even then the fight persisted in her. Her fists railed against his chest, straining to break free of his hold. The curved handle of her stick proceeded to strike Ragnar in the face a couple more times before he wrenched it from her grip and flung it blindly behind him.

He was beginning to bristle at the soreness in his nose from the implement he’d initially deemed useless.

With a final attempt, the woman threw her body weight at him, knocking him only slightly off balance, though, startling him nevertheless at the move. She was able to slip her wrists from his grasp and, forgetting her stick, darted away. However, the North Man was too sharp for her. His grasping reach for her caught her round the middle, sending her crashing to the forest floor where her head collided with the hard ground; the impact rendering her unconscious.

Ragnar breathed heavily from where he fell atop her stomach and looked up to see her still form. His brow furrowed minutely until he saw the flutter of a pulse in the dip of her jaw. Taking a moment to examine her unimpeded at such proximity he decided that he had made the right choice in seeking her out. Her face agreed with him and when her eyes would be open once more he hoped to see that flare that had sparked even through her fear. Her hair fell long and tangled prettily in the grass and fallen leaves. There was no stain of blood which told Ragnar that he’d better use this time to his advantage and get her to the boat before she woke. He would investigate later into her satchel.

.

The others had noticed his absence, but it was Rollo who voiced their question.

“What is this?” He extended his chin to motion at the woman slung over his brother’s shoulder.

A few appraising eyes scanned her drooping body as they continued loading the last of their treasures and slaves into the long boat.

“A woman,” Ragnar answered broadly, splashing into the sea, walking towards their vessel home. Rollo huffed in irritation at the deflection; he followed after.

“What is she doing here?”

“Presently? She is unconscious.” He turned to give Rollo a half-smile. “She was not an easy catch.”

“Why are you bringing her? We already have many slaves. She will be an extra mouth to feed.” Briefly, his eyes roved over her raised derrière, taking in the shapely cut of her legs on display.

“Is that your only complaint against her coming?”

“It matters little to me which creature you decide to plow, only don’t let your cock decide who has the smaller ration.”

Ragnar swung into the boat with a little difficulty due to the woman, but when his feet were solidly on the deck of the boat, the woman slumped in front of him against the side, he looked down at his brother.

“Your proficiency with words, brother, leaves little to the imagination. There will be no shortages of food,” he assured before hauling the woman back up and bringing her farther down the boat, effectively winning the argument.

Rollo spit into the sea, watching his brother’s back a moment longer. He finally turned away with an unpleasant twitch to his lip, as the last of the load was brought on board and the Vikings cast off.

. . .

The first thing Molly was aware of was a nauseating dip and rise that moved her body, and which made her spinning head that much more unbearable. Her eyes were shut still, and she decided to let them remain as a shield against an unfamiliar scene. The sounds engulfing her were foreign and baffling. The voices of men speaking in a different language rang left and right of her, while the rushing song of the sea made clear why she was experiencing vertigo. A cool sea spray tickled her cheek causing her to flinch.

Her head was lowered, her chin nearly touching her chest, and she felt a soreness at the back of her neck from being bent so. The throbbing on the side of her skull, however, outweighed any of her other discomforts.

Molly remembered falling; remembered the man who’d appeared out of nowhere, interrupting her hysterical hike through the forest.

Upon quitting the shore with the mind of returning to her friends, Molly underwent a transformative experience of confusion, denial, anger, then raw fear when the horrid screams had pierced the stifling quiet. It was then that she heard the distant crash and clang of metal, of fearsome roars that she instinctively knew no animal emitted. In her turmoil and desperation to get away from whatever violence was taking place, and to somehow return to something she knew, Molly had lost her way in the trees. The broad trunks soon turned maze-like, only increasing her panic and seeping away any vestiges of rational thinking she might have had at her disposal.

It hardly mattered when the screaming stopped. The screaming had happened, and she prayed that whatever had caused such anguished cries would miss her entirely. Interestingly, she felt guilty at feeling no guilt in wanting to help in whatever crises had just occurred. Without even seeing what evil had befallen, she knew she was out of her depth and possibly a bit mad. When she’d first climbed the path of the cliffs that lead to the B&B she’d found nothing. No lodgings and no town; as if it had never been.

When he appeared, when she turned and found herself face to face with a heavily armored man, visible blood flecked on his clothes, his face, and disturbingly on the blade of his axe, she felt a numbing that nearly threatened immobility.

Where was he now, Molly wondered?

A tall wave rocked her and the boat close to upright, and her fear, which seemed endless this day, compelled her to scream in horror at the reality of her situation. She strangled the impulse with a low whimper, one that was drowned out by all the other noises, and forced herself to remain quiet.

He’d kidnapped her! And with that little understanding it was all she needed to know that she had to get away – even if it meant succumbing to the ocean. A known fate, even fatal, was preferable to the unknown horrors that lay in wait.

With the seed of intention planted firmly in her mind, beating back the fear that had consumed her was easier with the prospect of action. Slowly, Molly cracked open her eyes, fluttering her lashes in tiny blinks to clear away the hazy grime coating her sight. When her vision cleared, she was grateful for the curtain her long hair provided, concealing most of her face, bowed as it was. Extending her consciousness to the rest of her body, she became aware of herself being propped up against something, her feet bent in front of her, while her unbound hands lay in her lap. Her umbrella was long gone, but she still had her bag; she felt it’s strap across her chest. Strangely, that comforted her.

It was the only chance she had. It was the only choice she had.

The men’s voices continued, and absently she heard them as she worked up her courage to spring for her freedom. She felt certain that she was against the side of the boat, therefore a leap, and quick turn would see her over the side.

Suddenly boots entered her line of vision and stopped in front of her. She squeezed her eyes shut, then forced herself to relax to allay suspicion should whoever stood before her stoop down and look. They did indeed stoop down, lowered in a crouch, and Molly felt their presence close to hers. A hand touched her head, smoothing down the side of her face until her chin was caught in their fingers; locks of her hair caught in between. Her head was forced back, exposed to the terrifying environment, and softly placed against the wood bracing the rest of her form.

Molly willed her breathing to remain even, willed her eyes to remain calmly shut.

She would escape, she thought to herself, encouraging her state of mind to take this attention as nothing more than passing. But then the wicked thought of lust poked at her; of his lust, of every man on this boat’s lust. What if that was why she’d been taken? What if they all planned on having their way with her? She was about to spring, uncaring of the hand that still cupped her face, uncaring of the dangerous timing.

She needed to escape!

She was going to!

Now!

The hand left her, and she heard him rise, the heavy tread taking him a few steps from her.

The time was now. No one was expecting it.

Molly’s eyes flew open, as she blindly turned while scrambling to her feet. Her shaking hands gripped the side of the boat, hauling herself up when she heard the first shouts of protest to her endeavors. The voices grew loud and angry, but she didn’t dare look back. Slinging her legs over in a surprisingly fluid movement, she dropped, only to feel an interruption in her fall to the lapping waves scant feet below. Gravity favored her, however, and it wasn’t until she felt the shocking cold of the sea that she realized what the hiccup had been. Allowing herself a single glance back, she saw him standing with every intention of jumping in after her, her bag clutched in his fist. But another restrained him, shouting words that the sea swallowed, while physically holding him in place. The boat maintained it’s course, speeding away from her, while Molly grit her teeth against the cold and the stinging pain of the salt water washing over her head. Her body rose with the waves, her hair sticking to her face as she pulled her eyes away from the striking boat, indicative of another time, and began paddling away. She didn’t even care that she lost her bag.

Her strokes were strong and deliberate, and to her relief, the shore was still visible. It would be the longest she’s ever swum in the ocean, but she could do it. She’d escaped her captors; she wouldn’t fail when deliverance was so close.

. . .

Ragnar stood stonily, his narrowed eyes watching the woman’s progress, his fist still gripping her satchel. His anger towards his brother was immense, despite the reason that was plain to view in Rollo’s argument. They had many slaves already, he knew. He’d been told. That was not what rankled him. It was something Rollo could not understand; something he hadn’t understood when Ragnar had protected Athelstan against his bloodlust.

There were more to these raids than violence and treasure – to him at least.

The current was in her favor, pulling her farther and farther away, until she was nothing more than a speck climbing out of the sea, straggling up the beach. Even from this distance, he saw that her gait was slow and labored, and had he had absolute command over this vessel, she’d already have been back on board and under his careful watch.

She was a slippery one. Almost begrudgingly, Ragnar had to admire her daring; the barest hint of a smile tickled the corner of his mouth, as his regret played ruefully on his mind. Now he could only imagine what secrets she had to tell; what manner of society permitted women to be dressed so tantalizingly, and if it was not her society, what circumstance had her attired so. Why it was she was so terrified, even before she’d been aware of him. And if he had discovered these things with her lips to his ear, and those legs wrapped around him, he wouldn’t have minded that either.

She was gone from the beach now, having disappeared from his gaze somewhere between the trees and the lengthening distance growing between them. Ragnar stared some minutes longer until he was certain that he could gain no further sight of her. The men’s chatter had died down after her escape, and Rollo, once he ensured his brother’s remaining on the boat, had moved away.

With a curl to his lip, Ragnar pushed away from the edge, his attention being caught by the woman’s satchel. He’d almost forgotten it in his absorbance of watching her. It’s weight was sturdy and the means  of opening it occupied Ragnar longer than he anticipated, finally finding success when he tugged on the metal flap and dragged it down the teeth looking binding. He frowned at the unusual ‘zip’ sound, and greedily dipped his hand within, rummaging and pulling out the contents. Most of the items merely raised more questions, though one or two things were vaguely recognizable. There was a perfect ring of keys, the craftsmanship precise and clean and far the superior of any of their blacksmiths, as well as a book. Ragnar rifled through it’s pages eagerly, although he found nothing comparable to the works Athelstan had told him of, nor of what he had seen himself in the monasteries of the Christians. There were no colorful illuminations, only scribbles, words that maintained an elusive illegibility. Also unlike the monks’ works, there was no neatness to the script. The scratching looped and slanted, were big then small from page to page.

Skimming a hand down one of the open pages, Ragnar sought any clue as to what language he was attempting to read, yet continued to be disappointed. With a snap, he shut the book, but did not return it to the satchel as he did with the rest of her things. Resting it atop his leg, he stared down at it, his eyes mapping its corners as he projected future conversations with Athelstan about translating it for him.

He may have lost the source, but perhaps he would learn of something worth his time from the green book now in his possession.

 Chapter Two →

[centuryofdean]

When Lightning Strikes - Chapter 4

Chapter 4 of When Lightning Strikes. As a constant reminder, I do not own any of Tolkien’s characters. I do not own his story line or plot. All I own are the changes and my own personal Original Character Laurel.

This is my first fanfiction blog. I do post my work on other fanfiction websites. If you are interesting in knowing more about it, send me an ask or a message.

I am looking to get more into requests as well! Send an ask or a message with a request on a one-shot or drabble and I will do my best to do that for you. Currently the fandoms I am familiar with / willing to try and write for are:

The Hobbit / Lord of the Rings Harry Potter Supernatural Marvel the Madalorian The Witcher Night Huntress (Series written by Jeanine Frost) Anita Blake Vampire Hunter (Series written by Laurell K. Hamilton) The Hallows (Series written by Kim Harrison).

Thanks everyone! Enjoy the next chapter below!

Author Disclaimer:: The Hobbit, Middle Earth and its characters are not mine. I take no credit. The story line and even some dialogue–also not mine. Instead I claim my Original Character Laurel and the adjustments to the story line.

Summary:: From when Laurel Took was small she dreamed of a man. Every time she dreamed of him, he could not see or hear her. Over time they are able to communicate–but he’s been dreaming about her too. Finally after years of anticipation Laurel takes the leap and kisses him. Only for her to wake up and dread the real world. Then lightning strikes and she finds herself in a familiar place, with a familiar face.

Rated:: M for Mature. Please do not read this story unless you are 18+ At this point in the story there isn’t much, but later on the M rating will come into effect.

Warnings:: Language and Violence

Pairing:: Kili x OC (Laurel)

Kili

It took a time to explain the severity of the situation. By time I finished the story, the sun had rose. All the while, I ensured that every part of her I could touch without undressing her was dry. One by one the rest of the company awoke. Bilbo took a look at her and agreed with my assumption of her race; he also thought she may be a Hobbit.

Not once did she stir.

"So," Thorin announced once everyone woke and was gathered around, "our journey has come to a minor bump. We must build a sleigh of sorts so that we can transport her with us. This… woman is Kili's companion forward on. Once we reach a town we will assess her condition and see if she is fit for this journey or not."

Most of the dwarves jumped to action, going into the woods and gathering materials.

Once I explained to him of the dream—and the one that happened just before she fell from the sky—he agreed that it was no coincidence that I have been seeing her for years, and she suddenly appear to me. As for how she got here; not even Gandalf was able to come up with an explanation.

In a matter of hours the camp was packed and ready to move. Dori and Bofur got Nori to help them compose of the simple sleigh. It was big enough for Laurel to lay on and someone else to keep an eye on her. Though I wanted nothing more to ride with her, I felt it would have been better for Oin to keep watch of her health. We were able to dry her clothes, but a chill still ghosted over her skin and a fever on her forehead was starting.

Throughout the day when we took breaks for the horses to rest or to refill our water skins, Ori would sit in front of the sleigh and draw pictures of Laurel. One time I stood above him and watched as he tried to capture her likeness.

"What sort of tunic is this," Ori pinched the various hued green short tunic. "I haven't seen anything of the sort before. It's hard to draw it. The runes are very odd as well."

I knelt down beside him, looking between her and the forest around us. Was this the clothing she wore when she hunted? "I think this is her hunting attire," I murmured, "it allows her to disappear into the trees."

Dwalin was watching from a distance, "I dunno how she'd hunt in tha'. Too heavy."

I also pinched the material, amazed at how thick it was compared to my own jacket I wore.

"Let's continue forward," Thorin called from the line of ponies.

At the end of that day we were camped for the night once more. Thorin tried to stay in an abandoned home that appeared to have burned down, but Gandalf insisted to camp closer to the woods.

When a conclusion was not met, Gandalf stormed off into the night leaving us. Glolin created a fire in a matter of minutes. I gathered Laurel placed her in front of the fire with blankets surrounding her.

"Brother, watch over her while I take watch of the ponies," I muttered. "Have Bilbo bring me some soup when it's ready."

There was a big enough pasture on the edge of the woods that the abandon house had to keep the ponies mostly kenneled while they rested for the night. My body sagged against a tree trunk, eyes dropping with tiredness. Now that Laurel was actually here I didn't really want to sleep anymore, I much rather stay with her until she woke. Alas I couldn't fight the need for sleep.

The sound of a snapping branch in the woods startled me. It was quite loud and very close. I rose and glanced at all the ponies to see if they were startled as well.

There was two ponies missing.

Before I could go look to see if they were the ones that made the noise in the woods, Bilbo was climbing up the hill with a bowl in his hand. "I brought you some of the soup that Bombur made," he forced a smile.

"Bilbo," I muttered, "we are missing ponies."

A loud unfamiliar laugh crackled through the night. In the distance a large fire could be seen in between the tree trunks, one that was not ours. Each of us slowly crept through the woods, trying to get a better look at what was happening. In-between a couple of trees was our ponies, tied in a rope barrier. Next to the fire were three large trolls.

Bilbo chirped, jumping behind me. "Bilbo," I pushed him towards the commotion. "Take this blade and cut the ponies free. This is one of your burglary moments!"

"What if they catch me," he urged more importantly, "what then?"

"Go ahead and start," I motioned, "I will get the rest of the dwarves. We will defend you if anything happens."

Without a second look to him I jumped to action, running past the remaining ponies and to the camp we had set up. Everyone turned to look at me while I started to catch my breath, "Trolls. Stole the ponies!"

"We left them alone for only a few moments," Balin grunted, "how is it they stole all he ponies in just a few moments? Without making any noise?"

"Not all," I remarked, "just two. Bilbo is going to try and cut them free. We must go aid him!"

One by one they rose, grabbing all of their weapons. One glance at Laurel told me she was asleep and wouldn't wake for a while still yet. A few tree branches and leaves were lying on the edge of our camp, so I gently laid them across her to try and hide her from anyone who happens to walk by. It would be good enough until we returned. Dori put out the fire to hide our location.

Together we rushed to the tree line quietly to watch. The three trolls were large, eight dwarves tall and about five dwarves wide. Bilbo was the size of their hands. He crept behind the one, where the ponies were standing and tried to cut through the rope.

In the center of their area was a tall fire underneath a pot and spit.

"I 'aven't ate ponies in a long time," one of them exclaimed. "Tonight will be a good supper indeed."

"Tom," another called, "grab one of the ponies and prepare it. The pot is almost ready for meat."

Just as the troll called Tom turned around to grab a pony, Bilbo yelled and fell into the rope dropping the knife. A groan left me softly, what kind of burglar drops his weapon and gets caught?

"What's this," Tom shouted as he picked Bilbo up by the leg, dangling him high for the other trolls to see. " I've never seen one of these bafor'!"

All three started to argue about what he was. "When do we attack," Dwalin asked quietly.

"We wait to see if he gets away first, or if the sun will rise before," Thorin stated.

"He don't smell bad," the troll that was stirring the pot muttered, "might as well throw him in as well."

The last troll drew a long blade from his waist and pointed it at Bilbo.

"Attack now," Thorin muttered disdainfully. At once all the dwarves surged forward with a cry of battle. The trolls were startled, the one dropping Bilbo.

The arrows at my hip were made of wamara and plentiful, along with the strong sword at my hip. Fili and I jumped the nearest troll, stabbing it and shooting it with the weapons we had. It flinched and started to swing it's large hands. The rest of the pack of dwarves were similarly attacking the other two monsters.

Suddenly I was knocked to the ground, air leaving my lungs and me breathless for a moment. With another arrow knocked I took aim for the nearest trolls throat.

"Drop all yer weapons," one called out loudly, "or I rip 'is arms and legs off."

In-between two fingers on each hand was one of Bilbo's. The beast was pulling on his hands and arms causing our Hobbit friend to groan and fidget. "I'll do it," the troll muttered again, "drop all the weapons."

Begrudgingly each of us dropped the weapons in our hands.

One by one we were tied at the feet and wrists, then bagged to our necks and tossed into a pile off to the side. Our weapons were collected and tossed in a pile next to the ponies.

"William, how many dwarvies do we want ta start cooking," Tom exclaimed excitedly.

"I don't know," the cook muttered, "but do we want to skin them, chop them up, or boil 'em alive?"

Time seemed to drag along as the trolls argued back and forth on how they were going to cook us. Half of us were picked up and tied to the spit to turn and cook slowly.

How were we going to get out of this mess? Closing my eyes I prayed to the Valar that no one was messing with Laurel and she was alright.

Bilbo stood quickly in his sack, eyes darting everywhere. "You don't want to be doing this. Very bad business, eating dwarves and Hobbits."

"It is very good business, and food," William muttered, poking Bombur with a branch as he turned over on the spit.

"No very bad business, especially the lot of us. Infected, everyone," Bilbo stuttered, eyes still raking the woods around us.

Infected with what? No one here has aliments! Some of the dwarves agreed with me, muttering about nonsense. The trolls were bickering back and forth about eating something infected. Dwalin grunted about being as healthy as a horse. Thorin kicked him and gave him a look.

"I've got parasites as big as me arm," he changed his tune, rolling over and looking ill.

The rest of us joined, moaning and groaning about being sick.

"Don't listen to them you fools," William muttered, "they are trying to trick us into freeing them. We're going to eat every last one. We better hurry before the sun comes up."

A small gasp could be heard faintly before one of the trolls, Bert as he was called, grunted. "Ow, something bit me," he muttered, looking all around for something that could have bit him. A tree branch shook, causing all of us to look towards it.

As quick as lightning, something shot out from between the leaves.

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