#i just realized STRANGERs silhouette looks so stupid when it cuts off before his shorts end fml

[rt-arts]

my previous nightshade post got WAY more traction than i thought it would so here’s more food 4 thought

[rezzyromance]

Hey, I already read some of your headcanons and loved your One-Shots of Heisy <3 May I request a Heisenberg X Reader One-Shot who is also German? Like they would be a tourist and stumble over the Village etc. Heisenberg will take care of her (which was chosen by Miranda). When arriving in his factory, he would notice their accent. How would his reaction be if he'd find out their native language is the same as the origin of his family? (F!Reader or GN!Reader pls!)

Ah this is so creative thank you!

You felt your head pound before you even opened your eyes. You could hear faint voices growing louder as your body and mind began to slowly wake up. "What the fuck happened?", you thought to yourself. You meant to go on a simple vacation to a secluded area in Romania. Life had gotten so stressful that you just decided to take a trip far away. The last thing you expected was to crash the car you were driving into a tree. Your thoughts began to gather from the haziness inside your head. It all seemed like a weird fucked up dream. You remember seeing something weird outside your car window which caused you to crash. It looked like... a werewolf.. or some other horrific beast. Then bam! It all went black and now here you are.

"She's an outsider! There is no telling how she got here mother, but she already has seen to much. If she were given to me, I'd make sure she'd stay quiet.", a powerful female voice rang. You slowly began to open your eyes. It was hard to open them past a squint due to the outrageous pain coming from your head. Your vision was blurry, but you could make out the silhouettes of a very tall lady in white, a strange hunched-over man, a black figure with a small white doll, a man sitting on a pew, and a woman in the center with a strange mask. "Oh come on! She's got to be of some use other than empty calories for you!", the man on the pew sasses. "How dare you! You stupid little manthing!", her voice boomed in the church. Were they.. fighting over you? It was impossible to put the pieces together. No one even noticed you were awake.

"SILENCE! BOTH OF YOU!", the woman in the middle demanded as wings spread from her back. "Heisenberg, you may take her. Just please adjust your attitude! I never want to hear you two fight over this again. Do you understand?" "Yes mother.", they both responded in an aggravated tone. You still haven't moved, but you begin to open your eyes more. The man on the pew became clearer. He was wearing a coat and a hat. Sunglasses covered his eyes and he had a large metallic hammer propped beside him. "This meeting is dismissed.", the woman says before vanishing into nothing but black feathers. You couldn't tell if you were dreaming or possibly died and went to hell, but you were far too scared to scream.

"Ah. Seems like my prize is awake.", the man makes his way over to you and kneels down to face you. You just then noticed that your wrists were cuffed and you had been laying on the ground the whole time. "How are you feeling?", he cocks his head. You're unable to form words as you're too overwhelmed by everything. "Well... I don't hear any bitching so I'll assume you feel fine. Can you stand?", he asks. You wiggle your legs, shocked at how they suddenly feel heavy. They're still asleep from whatever happened after you hit the tree. He helps lift you off the ground and to your feet, but your legs shake beneath you. You begin to fall, but he catches you. "Looks like you still need some rest.", he picks you up bridal style. Your head was still hurting, so you close your eyes.

"This is just a bad dream. This is just a bad dream. This is just a bad dream.", you repeated to yourself in your head.

"Home sweet home.", he says. You open your eyes and realize you had drifted off to sleep and had woken up again, confirming this wasn't a dream. You were still in his arms as you looked around, taking in the scenery. It looked like a factory. "You've got some blood on you still. That was a pretty bad crash. Luckily, you don't have any broken bones. But if you keep actin like this, I might have to assume you got some brain damage.", he laughs a little at his own words. He carries you to what looks like some type of workshop room. There, he sits you down in a chair and begins to rummage for some supplies to help your wounds.

You finally gain the guts to speak up. ".. can you please get rid of these cuffs on my wrists?" He jumps slightly at your unexpected voice and unexpected accent. It was an accent he recognized, but hadn't heard in so long. "Sure thing.", he flicks his wrist towards you and the cuffs break and fall off your wrists. You look down, shocked, as you roll your wrists around and stare at them.

"How did you do that?!" He approaches you slowly with his supplies, and he dampens a rag with rubbing alcohol. He squints his eyes at you for a moment as if he's thinking hard about something. "Don't worry about it.", he crouches down and begins to rub your head with the rag. The rubbing alcohol stings and you wince at the pain. "Sit still..", he continues to wipe at your forehead which you now realize must have a cut on it. "I'm sorry.", you say quietly, afraid of disrupting the man.

"Where did you come from? How did you get here?", he begins to question you. He stops rubbing your face and steps back to stare into your eyes. His were intimidating and demanding. You speak up. "I am.. from Germany. I came here for a vacation and.. I think I got into an accident.", you say. "Germany, huh.", he seems to daze off slightly when he says this. "I figured. I can hear it in your voice." Why is he so interested by this?

"You're name is.. Heisenberg? Correct?", your words snap him back to the present. "Yes. Karl Heisenberg. And you are?", he becomes engaged in the conversation once more. "I'm (Y/N). Karl Heisenberg.... that is a very German sounding name.", you try to make conversation. "Well, my family was German. It's just been so long... I nearly forgot what it sounded like..", he gets up and walks back to the box in which held first aid supplies. "Your family.. who are they?", you ask, confused from his lack of context. The mentioning of his family causes him to freeze in place.

"It's.... been a long time. Don't worry about it.", he finds a bandaid and walks over to you. He puts the bandaid on your forehead to cover your cut. "It's just nice to hear it again." There was a bitter sweetness to his words. The room goes silent after that, but there's a new tenseness in the air.

"What's... happening? Where am I?", you ask. It's almost comical how long it took you to ask. "Well.... to put it short.. you got into your little accident and this is probably the worst place it could've happened. You were found by Mother Miranda before the lycans were able to get to you. The fact that you're here already means you know too much, so the only options where either to have you killed or be put to use by one of the Lords. Donna never participates in these types of things and Moreau is to idiotic to speak up. Your life was either gonna be in my hands or the hands of that supersized bitch. I know what she does to girls like you and I didn't want that to happen so now you're here."

You have no clue how to respond. Mother Miranda? Lycans? What does it all mean? "I know it's a lot to take in. But, I have a plan to get out of here one day. Once you start feeling better, maybe you can help me. I like you. I like the way you talk." He probably means your accent since he seems so focused on it. "The way I talk...", you cock your head and look into his eyes, trying to get a reaction. He breaks the eyecontact and looks at the ground. "My mother and father always wanted to keep the culture and language alive through the family. I didn't get to learn too much as a kid, but I remember the accent. It's... really nice." He becomes overwhelmed with his own emotions. He didn't want to admit you or himself that something as silly as a strangers voice was so comforting to him. He keeps his composure and walks back to where the first aid box is to pack it up once more.

"Your family is gone?", you almost regret saying it the moment it left your lips. Was it too personal? You tense up as he stays silent for a little too long. "Yes." Once he's done, he turns to look at you. "How do you feel? Can you stand up now?", he changes the subject. You wiggle your legs a little to prepare. The feeling had come back to them, so you stand up. You lift each leg to check for any abnormalities, but they feel fine other than a bit of soreness. The rest of your body was the same. You ached all over but it wasn't excruciating.

"Well, looks like you'll be fine. That gash on your forehead is probably the worst of your injuries, but I don't think it needs stitches." "Thank you for helping me. Is there anything I can do to return the favor?, your words catch him off guard. "Just don't get in my way and we'll both be fine.", he tries to put on some type of stubborn act to cover up how weirdly flustered your words made him. "I can teach you some German if you'd like. You said you never got to learn much so maybe I can help you." He chuckles a little. The corners of his lips slowly rise into a small smile. "Maybe so."

[sagedgeek]

Jakku

Part 1 of Whispers of Fate (A Rey Djarin fic)

A/N: This is a fic I’ve been toying around with for a while and primarily why I created this account. So here’s my first fic for the Mandalorian/Star Wars fandom! I’m excited to see how it goes. Also, this takes place only a short while before Din finds Grogu. He will definitely come into play in later chapters.

Rating: Gen (Platonic)

Word Count: 4.0k

Masterlist ~ Next Chapter

Jakku.

Din had to admit he was not all that impressed, and he didn’t exactly have high expectations to begin with either. Desert planets had never been his favorite. Primarily because of the heavy armor and thick padding of his under armor’s tendency of trapping sand in places it shouldn’t be possible. After his first time on Tatooine, he’d spent the better part of a day cleaning out the dry sand and repolishing his armor. It also wasn’t very exciting to chase runaway bounties across a deserted planet, hiding somewhere along the repeating pattern of large sand dunes and rural settlements. For most hunters it would be a hopeless endeavor, and that’s why the bounty had such a high price with the guild, but for him it shouldn’t take longer than a day… hopefully.

He ended up having to park the Razor Crest a long way from the only known outpost he could find on the map. The planet was ridden with scavengers, all of which probably desperate for scrap and could care less about potentially marooning a stranger on this maker-forsaken planet. Even this far out Din has doubts he’ll return to his ship in the same condition it’s in. As old and scrappy looking his ship may be, it still flew which meant it was still of value and would result in quite the payday for whatever scrapper may stumble upon it. It’s a better chance than landing at the trading post though, considering the most condensed population of scrappers would be around the very outpost they used to trade their scrap.

Good thing his next bounty is on Maldo Kreis. It would be a nice contrast to the blinding sun and the burn of dry oxygen.

He sighs as he takes one last glance outside the cockpit viewport before powering down the Razor Crest and beginning his trek across this barren planet. 

Civilization was scarce and unless this Rodian smuggler was willing to take his chances in the middle of the barren desert, there weren’t many places he could hide.

He follows the fob, wandering out in the direction of the Niima Outpost. So, if he becomes absolutely desperate, the scrappers and traders who supposedly wandered the surrounding desert each day might have spotted a misplaced Rodian during their wanderings and point him in the right direction.

After about an hour of walking, the fob had led him past several scrapped Imperial ships which seemed to be growing in abundance and concentration the closer he came to the settlement. He lifts his hand to adjust his visor view settings to see if he can track a fresh trail of footprints,

Nothing.

He keeps the setting on and continues walking.

He is led in the direction of an old AT-AT, half buried beneath the sand, and there he finds a set of fresh footprints circling the outside that had wandered from the opposite direction. It wasn’t exactly what he hoped to find. The footprints were far too small and humanoid to fit the Rodian he was looking for, but it is the first sign of life he’s found in these outskirts so far. His next best bet would be to continue towards the small civilization further South. So, he scans for heat signatures along the skeleton of the AT-AT and sure enough he finds two. One of which, he assumes, being the owner of the small footprints he just found.

He crouches slightly and pulls his blaster from its holster as he stealthily moves around the walker to keep from drawing attention to his arrival. He ducks into the open belly of the machine, blaster ready. His visor highlights the silhouette of the smaller figure crouched just around the corner, and the other further in, close to where the head must be located.

He senses the incoming attack before it lands and his free hand darts down just in time to catch the staff swinging towards the portion of his gut not protected by his cuirass. He tilts his helmet to the side with a smirk growing across his mouth beneath it as his eyes settle on a tiny little thing with a much too large starfighter helmet jostling around atop their cowl and goggle-covered head. They grunt in frustration, putting their entire body weight into trying to tug the staff out of his grip. He tugs back just enough to rip it from their hands and toss it behind him, out of the way.

“Hey!” And the single word is enough that he can identify the small person as a young child, perhaps female. But the outburst also drew the attention of his arrival to his target. He heard a panicked rustle from the next room over and his head snaps to the side, growling in frustration at the inconvenience.

There goes the element of surprise.

“Get out of here you bug sucker!” A tiny fist collides with the padding over his abdomen and he glances down at his tiny assaulter. He gives a simple shove to their helmet to move the kid out of his way and starts further into the walker to follow the panicked scuffling. He points his fob towards the direction of the noise, and he smiles as he picks up his pace in time with the hurried beeping tone.

This wouldn’t take very long at all.

“Hey! Get back here!” He ignores the kid and leans around the corner to keep his blaster pointed in preparation. He comes around just in time to find the Rodian halfway through a cut out at the side of the head of the walker.

Soon Din’s chasing him across the large sand dunes. It didn’t take much effort, just a few long strides and an easy aim of his fibrecord from his wrist to trip him.

As he finishes securing the cuffs he hears a high-pitched screech just as a hard weight collides into his side. It makes him stumble slightly, and he pulls out his blaster, spinning it towards his attacker as he regains his footing.

“Stand down!” He growls at the young child. They were still wearing that oversized helmet they’d reclaimed their weapon.

“No!” They yell at him, pointing the end of their staff at him threateningly. “Leave him alone!”

Din tilts his helmet to the side curiously, but he doesn’t lower his blaster.

“Is he your father?” He highly doubts it, but it didn’t hurt to ask. Mandalorian’s weren’t the only ones to collect Foundlings… Although for all he knows this kid could have green scaly skin underneath that helmet and oversized tunic.

“No,” she scowls, “I met him yesterday.”

He lowers his blaster and sighs. He reaches down and pulls his captured bounty to his feet, giving him a good push in the direction of his ship in a complete dismissal of the child. They’ll give up soon enough. From his experience, children’s attention spans were extremely thin.

“Doe girl sa insistent.” The bounty mutters to him in Huttese.

Girl… Din notes.

“I can see that.” Din mutters in response. It didn’t take a genius to realize the girl was stubborn and plucky. He knew that when the child tried attacking him, a Mandalorian, with a stick.

“Hagwa hurt cheekta.” the Rodian begged for her, eyeing the twitch of Din’s fingers hovering over his blaster.

Din tilts his head then turns to glance at the girl. “I don’t hurt children,” he replies gruffly, then nods towards the girl to address her. “Go on home kid.”

The girl doesn’t budge an inch, and she doesn’t lower her staff either.

“Ya sa noah wompa tah care che cheekta.”

Din found it amusing that this bantha had the gall to try and guilt him into being released. He wasn’t going to buy into it, and he gave him another push to spur him into a brisk pace forward.

She follows them, because of course she does. She stews for a good while on their journey, but in typical child-like fashion, her curiosity wins over her stoniness and soon she’s peppering him with questions which he promptly ignores, hoping she’d lose interest and go on her merry way.

“Doe girl will nopa leave,” The Rodian muttered, “Mee know.”

“I can understand you y’know Rodey,” the girl quips as she flips the visor of her helmet up and pulls down her goggles to glare at the reptilian humanoid, “I’m not stupid.”

“Karking girl.”

Din shoves him and finally turns around to face the girl with a heavy sigh. “What will it take for you to go home?”

She nods her head at his prisoner. “For him to keep up his promise.”

“And what promise might that be?”

“He say that he’d take me to see his ship and even lemme fly it if I gave him my portions! And now I got no food or water, and I haven’t gotten to seen his ship.”

Maker help him.

He turns his back to her again and continues to walk. He notices that this time the girl’s footsteps don’t immediately pick up behind him like before, and he buckles.

“Come. You can see my ship.” He reluctantly mutters and Din hears her excited gasp and tiny footsteps chasing after him until the girl is trotting passively at his side, the top of her head reaching just below his elbow. She looks up at him from beneath the orange tinted visor of her helmet as if sensing his gaze. She pulls down the cowl covering her face to show off her bright smile, all teeth except the one tooth missing in the front and Din allows the slightest smile to break out in return only because he knew she wouldn’t be able to see it.

***

“WOAH!”

The girl leaps into a quick sprint once they reach the top of the sand dune. The Razor Crest now visible in the distance.

By the time he and the Rodian caught up, the girl had circled the ship at least twice. Her helmet had been discarded near the hangar door which now reveals the messy braid of brown hair falling over her shoulder.

Din lifts his arm to tap a button on his wrist gauntlet and the boarding ramp slowly hisses and begins to lower. Before the ramp even hit the sand, the kid is back beside him, jumping on the balls of her feet in anticipation, her helmet tucked securely beneath her left arm.

“Don’t touch anything,” Din instructs in a gruff tone. She nods obediently and sticks to his side as he guides his bounty up into the hull.

That’s when the Rodian started to get a bit finnicky and he pulled away from Din’s grip, trying to retreat from the ship like he just realized what was happening.

” Mee have credits. Mee can wamma twice myo bounty.”

Din pulls him further into the ship, ignoring his pleads. He gives him one last push backwards and with a final hiss he’s sealed in carbonite.

Job well done.

“Hey! What’d you do to him!” The girl rushes forward, hand slapping against the solid carbonite outline of the reptilian’s leg.  

“He’s fine. It’s just to keep him quiet while I fly.”

“Ohh,” she muses, taking a step back and tilting her head to glance at the two other carbonite slabs behind him. She points at them. “Were they noisy too?”

Din shrugs and sits down on a crate near the open ramp to adjust his vambrace. “You could say that.”

That seemed to be good enough of an answer for her and she approached him with the same wide grin from earlier, fists balled up at her side in excitement. “I didn’t like him anyways! I just wanted to see his ship! Can I fly your ship now?”

“No.”

“What?!” She whined. “but you said I could!”

“No. I said you could see it.” He stands up and points to the crate he was just sitting on. “Sit. I’ll make you food.”

She obeys, but only with an indignant huff and a pout. She turned her glare onto the floor and crossed her arms over her chest. It’s silent for a good while as Din heats up some broth for her and he’s surprised to find that he likes it much better when the girl Is chattering rather than silently brooding.

“You got a name?” He asks after awkwardly clearing his throat.

“Rey,” she answers with a huff.

He turns with the small bowl of soup in his hands and offers it to her.

“How old are you?”

“Seven, I think,” she responds as she makes grabby hands for the bowl before promptly slurping it up in just a couple of gulps then handing the bowl back to him. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome kid.” Din hands her a cup of water as he takes the bowl from her and she does the exact same as she did the broth.

“I can fly you back home. Where do you live?”

“I live in that walker!” Rey exclaims, her excitement growing at the prospect of being able to fly even if she wasn’t at the wheel.

Din pauses and looks at her. “That’s where you live?”

“Yeah!”

He grits his teeth, turning to face her fully. Maybe that Rodian wasn’t lying to pull a fast one on him after all. “Where are your parents? Who looks out for you?”

Rey’s face puckers in thought. “Well, my parents aren’t here right now. They’ll be back though… but um… Unkar kinda looks out for me for now. He gives me rations for good scrap.”

“Where are your parent’s Rey?” Din hopes he doesn’t receive the answer he knows he will. Maker knows he cannot afford to care for a Foundling right now…

Rey shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I don’t know. They didn’t tell me.”

“How long have they been gone?”

“638 Days,” she responds quickly.

Din grunts, grumbling under his breath because of course. Her parents weren’t coming back anytime soon that was a given, they probably sold her off to that Unkar fellow as a slave to earn a quick buck. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence; in fact, it was a familiar story for many Foundlings he’s come across through the years. But to leave a child as young as this one was cruel and disgusting, especially to leave them on a planet the likes of Jakku! Most would never be able to survive, and he wonders how it was possible this girl was able to for as long as she had. He slaps his hand against the control panel on the wall beside the ramp and it slowly raises into place. He moves towards the ladder leading up to the cockpit without another word to her.

“Wait! Mister where are you going?” Rey jumps up to follow him, looking up at him from the bottom of the trail of rungs.

Again, Din ignores her and continues his way into the cockpit. He takes a seat in the pilot’s chair, grinding his teeth together in frustration. He supposed he could just drop her off with the clan when he made it back to Nevarro. It had been a while since any new Foundlings had been introduced considering he was the only one to really leave the covert as of late. She’d be well taken care of, he’s sure. Celebrated even.

He begins flipping through the switches on the control board to start up the engines.

“Sir, are you flying me back to the walker?” Rey asks. For the first time that day she sounded unsure and a bit nervous, but Din is far too wound up by the frustrations of his new predicament to care.

“No. You’re coming with me. Now strap in.”

“What?! No! I can’t leave! What if my parents come back for me and I’m not here?! I have to wait for them!”

Din pauses for only a moment to sigh before continuing about his ritual of prepping the ship for takeoff. “They aren’t coming back for you kid.”

“Huh?”

He turns around when he hears the brokenness in her voice, and he frowns. She clutches her helmet to her chest, chin tucked down to rest against it as tears formed in her eyes.  He takes the moment to note that maybe the way he broke the news was a bit too harsh.  So, instead of risking saying something else that would trouble her he points to the co-pilot’s seat behind his.

She shakes her head. “What do you mean they’re not coming back? Do you think they died?”

Din didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t well versed when it came to emotions, especially the emotions of children. They were sensitive creatures and were quite unpredictable in his experience. So, instead, he completely veers around the question.

“I will take you back to my clan and you will be well taken care of. I will even look for your people if they are to be found, but I am not leaving you here.” His tone and words weren’t up for dispute and she seemed to understand as much.

She stares at him through glassy eyes but doesn’t utter a word.

Din sighs in resignation, “I’ll let you help pilot the ship.”

Anything to keep her from crying.

Rey’s eyes light up then and her head lifts slightly from where she had hidden it behind her helmet. “Is-is it sandy?” She pauses and when Din tilts his helmet to the side in question, she continues hesitantly, “where-where you would take me… is it sandy there?”

“Not particularly.”

“Okay,” Rey nods slowly, inching towards the seat Din had gestured towards earlier.

***

Rey was a natural at flying. She was eager and a very quick learner. She told him about the training simulator she’d found just a couple weeks back as well as a training computer. So Din taught her a couple advanced things, and her utter fascination when they entered hyperspace was enough to distract her from her earlier woes and able to make him smile beneath his helmet. The streaks passing by through the windshield illuminating her wide, glassy eyes. After an hour or so, her sad demeanor about leaving home had diminished completely and was now fueled with excitement and curiosity at getting to traverse the galaxy for the first time.

So, here he sat, an hour after entering hyperspace, answering question after question with as few words as he could possibly manage.

“Why do you wear that helmet? And all that armor?”

“I’m a Mandalorian.”

“What’s a Mandalorian?”

“We’re Warriors.”

“Cool! I wanna be a Mandalorian!”

“Maybe one day.”

“Where are we going?”

“To Maldo Kreis.”

“Where’s that?”

“A ways away.”

“Are you gonna pick up another guy like Rodey?”

“Yes.”

“Is that your job? Are you a bounty hunter?”

“Yes.”

“Cool,” she was silent for all of two seconds. Which was just enough for Din to release a breath in hopes she had grown tired of asking questions…

She had not.

“What’s your armor made of?”

“Beskar.”

“What’s your name?”

“Mando.”

“Is that really your name?”

Din sighs one final time. His helmet is propped against the head rest in defeat as he tilts it to the side.

“You ask a lot of questions,” he grunts.

The kid huffs and falls back against her seat. “Sorry,” she mutters.

Din stands from the pilot seat and gestures for her to stand up as well, holding out his hand to help her to her feet. “Come. I’ll show you how to use the fresher and then you can sleep until we reach our next destination.”

She’s tentative, but she takes his hand and doesn’t let go as she follows him down into the hull. He shows her how to work the fresher and the stream of water pouring form the wall has her squealing in delight, rushing forward to cup it in her hands and watch it spill over her fingers. He adjusts it to a temperature that would be comfortable for her. Then he does a silent onceover of her clothes and leaves to fetch her something to wear once she was clean. Her current outfit looked to be nothing more than a few rags held together by the wrappings around her wrists and feet and the tie around her waist. He places them on the sink.

“You can put this on after you’re clean. I’ll buy you better garments when we are in Nevarro, but for now this should do.”

Rey nods her head enthusiastically, eager to step into the fresher. Din steps out, the door sliding shut behind him so she could have privacy, and he moves further into the hull to begin preparing his own dinner. He made a point to begin heating up another portion of broth for the little one as well. She could probably do for some added nutrition with how small she appeared for her age.

He didn’t risk taking off his helmet to eat. Instead, he lifted the edge to take occasional sips and by the time he was done and discarding his empty bowl, Rey was stepping out of the fresher with sopping wet hair still done up in her messy braid and a wide grin on her face.

“That was so fun!” She exclaimed. “I’ve never done that before.”

She wore the large upper half of his old flight suit sinched to fit around her waist using the ribbon and the trousers she’d arrived in. The thick material barely fit over her small frame, the collar just barely managing to hang on her shoulders. Mando doesn’t say anything in response and simply holds out the fresh bowl of broth he’d just heated up.

Rey stared at the offered portion with wide eyes. “More?” She asked as if she couldn’t quite believe he was really offering it to her.

“Yes. You need to eat.” Din states with his arm still outstretched towards her.

“But I already ate.”

“I want you to eat more.”

Rey gave him a stink eye, lips pursing in suspicion. “You aren’t trying to plump me up to eat me or somethin’ are you?”

As amusing as the accusation was, Mando’s tone remained unamused. “No. Now drink.”

She takes it from him and greedily gulps it down like she was afraid he’d change his mind and Din begins to feel guilt remembering his original intention of leaving her behind to starve on that scorched planet. He’s glad he found her, she’d make a strong Mandalorian one day and she’d do the tribe proud. They would take good care of her.

He stands to begin making up a bed for her on the floor. He gathers as many blankets and cloths he could find, knowing Kreis would be far colder than what she was used to.

She’s at his side in a matter of moments, looking down at the warm cocoon of blankets he’d built on the floor.

“Time to sleep little one,” he tells her, balanced on one knee as he pulls back several layers of blankets for her and gesturing for her to climb beneath. She scrambles over to hurry and snuggle herself beneath the mound of soft blankets and Din gently settles the cloths back over her shoulders. She yawns, hand snapping up to cover her mouth as her eyes squeezed shut for a moment before they opened once more to blink up at him with a tired smile.

“Thank you Mr. Mando.”

“You’re welcome, kid.” He shuffles awkwardly, adjusting the blankets again before standing upright. “Do you need anything?”

She looks up at him anxiously, chewing on her bottom lip. “Ummm not really… but um… can I ask you one last question? I swear I won’t ask no more!”

Din sighs and nods his head.

“Why wouldn’t you leave me on Jakku?”

He pauses as he searches for the right words to explain it to her as he taps a button on his vambrance to dim the lights of the hull. She had no family and no proper home. By creed he was honor bound to take her. No Mandalorian could leave an abandoned child behind. They were Foundlings… and he was once a Foundling.

“This is the way.”

That was the way.

~ Next Chapter ~

[stressedkitkatttt]

You’re Beautiful

Okay, so an Erick story wasn't even on my list to do, but this request is coming before any of the other stories. So first off, happy early birthday to your friend! Lucky duck, my birthday is still two months away... Secondly, this fic contains dark themes, such as mentions of rape and attempted suicide. If any of these things are triggering to you, or you can't handle these types of things, please do not read this story.

If you, or someone you know, has been through a traumatic event, is contemplating suicide, or anything of the sort, I recommend you check out this post here - Helplines. I want my viewers to know that I do care about you, even if we don't know each other. You all matter. I have been through some shit and I know how much it can mean for someone to just say that they care. I write stories to help deal with the stresses of life and to think that they may brighten some of your guy's day, it makes me even happier. You are all so strong and so beautiful.

Word Count: 3.1k (once I got into the feels, I stayed in the feels)

Warnings: the reader is a rape victim, reader has tried suicide(I don't go into detail about these things, but they are mentioned), PTSD/reader has nightmares, reader has a hard time accepting herself, Erick being a truly awesome human being, fluffy smut(it’s short but I hope the fluff makes up for it), I cried a little while writing this... I also got carried away but I am proud of it

Anon: Hi, can u make an Erick fanfic where the girl was a rape victim and she's like scared and self concouis, and then Erick help her. U know, something like a sweet fluffy smut. Its for a friend and her birthday is next week. Can u do it pls?.Ps Ilove u writing!😉❤️

DISCLAIMER: Do NOT  think it is okay to take my stories and post them somewhere else without my EXPLICIT PERMISSION. Do NOT  think it is okay to take anyone else's stories and post them somewhere else without their EXPLICIT PERMISSION. Giving credit does NOT count as permission. You may reblog my stories, you may NOT repost my stories without MY PERMISSION.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's dark. The street lamps only light up so much of the street, and even less in the alleyways. You look around, seeing an empty street, a faint sound of a bass and music could be heard from a couple of blocks down. This place looks very familiar. You begin to walk down the sidewalk, towards the sound of the music, yet you soon notice that the sidewalk seems to stretch on and on. You continue to walk for what seems like hours and yet, the music stays the same distance, still faint and far away.

You try to move off of the sidewalk yet you can't, almost like an invisible force was keeping you there. As you continue to walk down the never-ending sidewalk, you pass the same alleyway that is pitch black, the light from the street lamps unable to penetrate the darkness after a certain point. The more you pass the alleyway, the more a growing fear settles beneath your skin. The feeling continues to grow, almost like you're being watched.

You keep walking, something compels you to look down the alleyways. At first, there was nothing but darkness in them. Then there was a faint silhouette that grew closer and closer to the entrance of the alley each time you passed it. You tried to turn around, to stop, to run, but you couldn't. You keep on walking, your heart is beating loudly and your fear clearly visible now. When arms as dark as onyx grab you and drag you into the dark abyss of the alley, you try to scream but nothing comes out.

You're slammed against a brick wall, knocking the wind from you, and you're stunned. Looking up, you catch a glimpse of the assailant. You could see his face clear as day despite the darkness. His dark eyes, his crinkled nose, his lips, which curled into a wicked grin as he held you down with ease. You try to call for help but his hand came down over your mouth, muffling any noise. You close your eyes as he slowly brings his head down and begins to whisper your name.

"Y/N. Y/N. Y/N!"

~~~

You open your eyes and scream, looking around wildly as the alleyway and the man fade from your vision and are replaced by a mutely-toned bedroom, dimly lit by a bedside lamp. Your boyfriend, Erick, was next to you on the side of the bed, gently calling out your name.

"Turn on the lights!" You gasp out and Erick quickly gets out of bed and runs to the light switch, turning on the bright lights. You look around the room once more, pinching your arm just to be sure that this isn't a dream. You begin to shake and a rush of emotion crashes over you, making you curl up into yourself and cry. Erick comes back over and places himself beside you, making sure he's not on top of you.

He lets you cry it out, feeling helpless as he watches you go through another episode. He wants to hold you in his arms but he also knows that it could make your episode worse. Some time passes and you finally stop crying and shaking, taking deep breaths and looking up at Erick. You almost throw yourself at him and he holds you against him, letting you cry a little more as he gently rocks you. Soon, you're relaxed and breathing in his scent. You finally pull away and look him in the eyes.

"Erick, I'm so sorry about -" You try to apologize but he cuts you off.

"You have nothing to be sorry for." He rests his forehead against yours, hands gently rubbing your back. You try to speak again but your voice fails you and you cough, the scream from earlier made your throat dry and raspy. "Want me to get you some water?" You nod and he gently lets you go, getting up and walking out into the hallway.

You grab some pillows and prop yourself up, thinking about the events still fresh in your mind. The man's face still haunted your vision years after the fact. Every time you closed your eyes, even to blink, you could still see his dark eyes and sick smile. It's crazy to think about how one person can ruin your life. Even though it happened a couple of years ago, the wounds are still fresh. And the PTSD nightmares seem to be like putting salt in the wounds like your mind doesn't want you to forget what happened. Though over the years you've been having fewer nightmares, it's something that will forever haunt you.

Your hand unconsciously runs up your wrist, feeling the scars, forever a reminder of the times you tried to end your pain. More tears prick your eyes just as Erick comes back with a glass of water. You take it from him and take small sips, the cold water feeling good against your throat. You place it on the nightstand when you're finished and you sit in silence with Erick. You scoot closer to him and he wraps his arms around you, pulling you close.

In the silence, you're brought down memory lane to the first time you met Erick. After the incident, it left you feeling hollow and emotionless, pulling you into a deep depression that you thought nothing could pull you out. Your parents had finally convinced you to go outside, just down to a small cafe where your best friend since kindergarten worked. It was the first place, besides your home, where you felt semi-safe. Though it would be a while before you felt safe going out in public again alone, it was a step in the right direction.

You remember you were scrolling through your phone that faithful day, wrapped up in a blanket when movement in front of you caught your eye and your head snapped up. Your best friend was standing in front of the table with a green-eyed stranger. Your friend introduced you to Erick, and at first, you were a little panicked. He asked if he could sit down and you didn't reply. Eventually, you gave a little nod and he grabbed a chair, sitting across from you. You both were silent. You kept your head low but your eyes were trained on him like a hawk.

He began to tell you about himself and what he did, what his hobbies were, and some crazy stories he had from traveling with his buddies. It got to the point where you were actually looking forward to going to the cafe. Even if you didn't talk, you grew to love his stories, his voice was very soothing and it made you relax for the first time in years. You were sad when he wasn't at the cafe, but when he came back, he had a ton of new stories to tell you. Eventually, he was able to sit next to you, showing you some photos of the places he traveled and funny videos.

Then one day, he was sharing a story about him and his buddy Chris doing something stupid when you looked up at him. He was deep into his storytelling, which was normal for him, and didn't notice your stare for a few minutes. When he did, he looked at you with a brow raised.

"Y/N." Your voice was so quiet, but the slight movement of your lips told him you had said something. He looked at you in shock, and even your friend from behind the counter had whipped their head around like they somehow had super-hearing and heard what they thought was their imagination. In the year since he was first introduced to you, you had never spoken a word to him. You took a deep breath in and spoke a little more clear. "My name is Y/N."

He was shocked and didn't say anything for a minute. When he finally got snapped from his trance, he smiled and reached out a hand, "I'm Erick." You looked at his hand for moments, silently making him second guess his choice to do that, before you took your own hand and gently shook his. And that was the moment you had formally introduced yourself. You remember going home that day with a small smile on your lips and your parents had broken down crying. You began to get more and more comfortable with him. He made you feel like you again.

And the rest is history, leading up to where you are now, smiling, wrapped up in the arms of the man that saved you. Erick looks down and notices the smile on your lips, making him smile in return.

"What are you thinking about amor?" He asks, gently running a hand through your hair.

"Oh, you know... Just the first time we met." You reply. Saying that out loud made you realize that you never really told Erick about what happened. Your friend had filled Erick in on a vague description of, "She's been in an accident, so just go slow." You had eventually told him what that accident was, but now you figure that you've been together for a little over a year, he should at least know the truth. The whole truth.

"Hey Erick, I don't think I've ever said thank you."

"For what?" He sits up a little straighter.

"For everything. I don't think you realize how much you've helped me. I probably wouldn't be here because of you." He looks at you now. "I think... I'm ready to tell you what happened."

"You don't have to..." He trails off, a little unsure.

"I want to." He nods after a moment and gets himself comfortable. You take a deep breath and open up about the incident; telling him how you tried to kill yourself twice before you met him, and how the first time you had met him, you had made a pact to kill yourself by the end of the week. You tell him how in that first week, he, still a complete stranger to you, had changed your mind. He lifted you from this dark place your mind had gone to and helped you fight off your demons.

You explain how much he helped you and how you weren't the only one thankful for saving you, bringing up the memory of the first time you brought Erick to your family's house and how your mom had hugged him and cried, saying "Thank you" over and over. By the end of it, you could see his eyes glossing over and a few tears escape.

He suddenly looked up at you and pulled you in for a tight hug, whispering "I love you" over and over. Once he had calmed down, tiredness had both of you yawning every few seconds. "Let's get some sleep, yeah?" He said, and you nodded. Getting into some new clothes for the night, and turning off the lights, you lay down and Erick wraps his arms around you, making you feel safe and secure. Almost instantly, you both are asleep soundly.

~~~~~

Sun shines through the blinds, lighting up the mutely-toned room rather brightly. You can see the light coming through your eyelids and you groan in protest to the daylight, turning around and snuggling close to Erick's chest. He adjusts to the change in your position and snuggles closer to you. Though you were tired from last night's episode, and you're pretty sure Erick is as well, you know now that the light had been shined in your face, you wouldn't be able to go back to sleep.

Deciding to prolong the inevitable, you relax into Erick's embrace. You didn't have any more nightmares, and you think it's due to the fact that Erick never let you go from his embrace, not that you're gonna complain. Having no nightmares and getting to snuggle against someone you love? It's a shame you can't do it twenty-four seven.

Erick has yet to wake up and you slowly start to drift off when a pang from your bladder alerts you. You groan softly and open your eyes slowly. Looking up a little, you're met with Erick's peaceful face. Another pang reminds you and you'd hate to leave him. Slowly, you move his hands from around you and he shifts, getting comfortable again, still not awake. You quickly make your way to the bathroom and when you're finished, you walk back to the bed and sit down on the edge.

You reach a hand over and comb it through his dark hair, noticing a small curve of his lips. He opens his emerald eyes, practically glowing in the sunlight, and looks at you. You smile in return and notice when he shifts, there's a tent in his boxers. You raise a brow.

"Need any help with that?" You ask teasingly. He laughs and runs a hand through his hair.

"Only if you're comfortable amor..." He trails off. Another thing you fell in love with was that Erick never pushed you to do anything. If you felt even the slightest bit uncomfortable, he would stop whatever it was and calm you down. You get on the bed and crawl over to him, your body hovering slightly over his.

"I'm comfortable with it..." You look into his eyes before you slowly start leaning in, as did he. Your lips meet and it's a slow kiss, Erick's hand coming up to your face and cupping it gently. He slowly begins to sit up and he lays you down on the bed. Getting comfortable beside you, he makes a trail of kisses down to your neck and ghosts his lips over your sweet spot, making goosebumps rise and you giggle. "Erickkk," you draw out his name.

He smiles and his hands begin to wander down your body, to your wrists where his fingers run over the scars. Your breath gets shaky and you try not to squirm. You always get uncomfortable when people stare at you because they notice your scars. You've even gotten some dirty looks from people like they're judging you even if they've never met you. But when Erick looks at them, it's like he doesn't judge. He knows they're a part of you and he accepts it. But there's always that voice in the back of your head that, even though it's small, can drag you back down into a dark place.

Erick knows you well enough to know that you're getting slightly uncomfortable. He sits up on his knees and brings up your hands up to his lips and kisses your wrists, looking at you with so much adoration and love. "You know your scars don't bother me, mami."

You don't know how long it had taken you to get comfortable enough to show Erick your body. Long-sleeved shirts and hoodies were your best friends for the longest time. But now you're actually comfortable wearing a t-shirt around the apartment, though still a little too self-conscious to go out in public. All in good time. Look how far you've gotten come already.

Seeing Erick look at you with such a genuine look, you couldn't help your heart from melting a little. When you were with him, you felt on top of the world. He made you feel like you again. He didn't see your body's imperfections. To him, you were perfect, even if you yourself couldn't see it yet.

Erick takes his time and slowly undresses you, making sure to tell you how beautiful you were and placing kisses everywhere. Soon, you're both naked and he lets you relax for a minute, knowing you're a little stressed.

"O-okay Erick, I'm ready..." You tell him. He nods and gets in position. You give him the go-ahead once more and he captures your lips before pushing in. You suck in a breath he makes sure you're okay. Before you know it, he's bottomed out and pecking your lips, waiting for you to tell him to move. Taking a deep breath, you're ready and you tell him. He pulls up and looks at you before he moves his hips.

He pulls his hips back and pushes them back in, creating a slow-burning fire in your lower belly. Erick keeps eye contact until the pleasure gets to him, making him lean his head down. You like the slow pace, which allows you to feel him and the pleasure he's giving you. Your hand finds his hair and you gently tug, making him groan and moan your name in return.

"Feel good, mami?" He mumbles against your neck. You nod and slowly lift your hips to meet his, sending him a little deeper, and making you shutter. Before you know it, he's brought you to the edge, and you just need that little push, which you receive when he brings a hand down and rubs your nub twice and you're sent over. He follows you seconds after and rolls off of you, heading to the bathroom and grabbing a rag and cleaning up the mess and going to throw the rag.

You never thought you'd open up to anyone like this, but it's crazy to think how sometimes all it takes is one person. Erick has done so much for you that you don't think you'll ever be able to repay him. He comes back and gets under the covers with you, pulling himself close to you and you both settle down. You glance over at him and he has a big smile on his face.

"What?" You ask.

"Nothing, amor, it's just that you're so beautiful. And all mine. I'm so lucky." He adds, pecking your cheek.

"Actually, I think I'm the lucky one." He smiles even wider. "You've actually done so much for me Erick, I don't think I'll ever be able to repay you."

"Well, you don't have to. Being with you, being able to share my life with you, is more than enough for me."

"Even with all my problems and imperfections?"

"You're so beautiful and so perfect Y/N. And if I have to say it for the rest of my life to get you to realize it, I will." That made your head turn and you were a little shocked. You were both young, and marriage wasn't on your list of things to do, but the thought of spending the rest of your life with him made butterflies in your stomach flutter and your heart skip a beat. One look into his eyes and you know he means what he said. You feel tears prick your eyes and you lean into him, basically cuddling against him like a koala.

"I love you, Erick," you whisper.

"I love you too Y/N."

~~~~~

Taglist: @cracraforfandoms @kmsmedine @kikixfandoms  @xmaudjexo @richardscurls

[fragilevixenfic]

Chasing Your Silhouette

Read on AO3

Rating: M

Classification: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, UST, RST, Post-Episode Zebras, Flashbacks

Summary:  They’d learned each other’s quirks and intricacies on the job—but when did it become over the line? When did physicality become a detriment to them once they’ve taken off their shields? When did they realize the line in the sand no longer existed? (This is meant to take place a couple weeks after “Zebras” – had to assume a timeline, I don’t remember actual dates)

Notes: “Sometimes a change of perspective is all it takes to see the light” – Dan Brown

Mild description of sexual assault/violence (purely as a device not as an action) – it is not meant to trigger. Please proceed with caution.Also, I’m definitely on the EO ship but I don’t necessarily ascribe to the idea that Elliot would ever cheat on his wife. Creative liberties have been taken to alleviate such issues. Eli was never conceived and the marriage has never recovered since the initial separation in 2007, the status of their marriage is unresolved but in limbo. Don’t come for my head.

No one else can disarm me

No one else has your light

-Edward Gamper “Stranger Love”

               “Put your gun down.”

               It couldn’t be real.

               The blood, the wound duct tape around Elliot’s wrists and across his mouth, the click of a bullet sliding out of the clip and into the chamber. The only sound that inspired any sense of clarity was the thudding of Olivia’s heart in her throat as she stopped dead in her tracks. She tore her focus off of Elliot for just enough time to bear witness to O’Halloran’s lifeless eyes. She walked right into it and let her guard down as the distress in his eyes pulled back her layer of protection. How could she be so stupid? Stuckey had her in the wrong spot and Elliot had already begun to pay the price as the punctures and slashes continued to bleed through his striped shirt.

               “Okay, Dale. Okay,” Olivia blinked and relinquished her sidearm, the shaking of her digits barely noticeable as she kept them extended.

               Don’t flinch. Don’t flinch. Do not flinch.

               Her inner mantra was stuck on repeat as the reminder of O’Halloran’s corpse laying just feet away and her partner hung in the balance as some sick offering to the one holding all of the cards. She couldn’t tell if it Stuckey or herself that had everything to gain. She knew she had everything to lose. The line began to blur as the business end of Elliot’s gun got a little closer and Stuckey’s stance became a little less sure; he was shifty, aching to pull the trigger. Stuckey was capable of burying a bullet in the middle of her back, or her head, and leaving her for dead in the middle of the tech lab. Collateral damage. She was in the way. Her head was swimming, battling against the current as her blood pressure skyrocketed.

               Think…What would Elliot do?

               “What are you doing here, Liv?” Stuckey had disappointment flaring from behind his rage as he digested her arrival. “I didn’t want to have to hurt you, too.”

               “Then, don’t,” Olivia’s voice wavered, the scenario playing out in a dozen different ways as Elliot’s muted breaths were audible from across the room.

               “I don’t have much of a choice now,” Stuckey had that gun aimed high and true, inspiring nothing less than a hefty dose of tension as she swallowed more of her fear. “You’ve seen a little much.”

               “Let’s all calm down,” Olivia’s method of reassurance was hovering between collected and methodical as her chest heaved, opting to pivot to look him in the eye with a certain level of assertion. “Okay, Dale? Just relax. Because you did good. Really good.”

               “What?” The confusion was real but he held his ground and stared her down.

               “Well, I think it’s pretty clear what happened here, right?” Olivia didn’t think about it as she chose the only feasible way to undo what had already been done as she made a gesture toward O’Halloran’s body on the floor then Elliot in the chair. “One of Harrison’s crazy followers must have gotten in here. He attacked these two, you found the bodies, you secured the crime scene, and then you called me. Right?”

               “I did?” Stuckey’s eyes couldn’t stay still as Olivia weaved the careful tale for him, desperation in her eyes.

               “That’s what I’m going to tell Cragen,” Olivia nodded, squeezing the last bit of calm from her expression as she elevated her eyebrows and made eye contact with Elliot. “And then, you can finagle the forensics so everyone else believes it, too. SVU hero is killed in the line of duty. It’s perfect.”

               God, I’m so fucking sorry.

               Olivia knew it was a mistake to look at Elliot but it was a necessary evil to drive her point home. He would’ve done this and more if it were her in that chair; that fact was never in doubt. He’d been through the wringer and now she was twisting the blade a little further into him to really make it count. She’d give her life up to save his and that was the more acerbic part of the situation as she pushed her tongue against the roof of her mouth. It wasn’t like refusing to take the shot but it almost felt worse as the silence from Elliot was deafening. He would just have to trust the method even if it betrayed every fiber of his being.

               “You’re lying,” Stuckey’s finger was lingering a little too long over the trigger, his tone elevated as he stared her down. “You’re lying.”

               “You think that you’re the only one whose life is hell because of this prick?” Olivia didn’t waver with every syllable as she began to back up and let the first heavy-handed slap bite hard on Elliot’s skin before it blurred into the second and third strike as she read him the riot act. “…’Liv, do this. Liv, do that.’ I’m sick of it.”

               “No, don’t,” Stuckey wanted him muffled but Olivia’s wheels were turning as the panic set in. “Don’t!”

               “Sick of it,” Olivia muttered and gave the tape a firm, unforgiving tug from her partner’s lips. “I want to hear him scream!”    

               “Don’t you touch me, y—” Elliot’s growl was cut short with Olivia’s hand pushing against the knot of his tie as she wrapped her fingers around the material of his shirt and pushed her knuckles into his Adam’s apple.

               Olivia’s knees cried out, yearning to buckle as she let the words slip free, the effort to keep a domineering stance faltering with every breath while towering over her seated partner. “Did somebody say you could talk?”

               “Both of you, shut up!” Stuckey’s face was red, the adrenaline pumping as the agitation nagged and nipped in the air, pushing the envelope a little further as he tested the boundaries. “Hit him again.”

               Elliot’s eyes were locked on Olivia’s. There was an immeasurable level of strength hidden beneath the glaring amount of vulnerability she possessed—it’s what made him choose her too many times. It’s what made her everything that he needed right next to him. It’s exactly what drove him crazy. Her eyes glassed over and her lashes twitched as she held onto her control. She didn’t need to say ‘I’m sorry’ out loud. It had already been scrawled all over her face as she gradually blinked and exhaled slow. They were stuck in a perpetual nightmare and the aggressive show was becoming difficult to maintain. He could see it in the depths of those deep, brown eyes. All he could do was narrow his stare and will her to finish what she’d started.

              A means to an end.

               “Don’t do it, bitch,” Elliot muttered and squeezed his fingers against the chair, bracing for the inevitable as Olivia’s hand met his face again, encouraging a little more than a groan in the process, “Don’t hit me ag—”

               Olivia cut him off and gripped his neck, pressing the curve between her index and thumb against his windpipe to keep him from speaking. “No more orders out of you, pal!”

               “I don’t believe you,” Stuckey was breaking, finally, and Olivia had finally gotten underneath of his skin. “I don’t believe you.”

               “If you knew half of what this prick has done,” Olivia had her index directed firmly at Elliot, digging deeper as she rationalized every word and let them move her, cutting open another wound as each phrase became an excruciating plea, “Somebody needs to take him out. I just didn’t know you felt the same way as I did. I never had—anybody that I could trust.”

               “Stuckey, don’t listen to her, she’ll turn on you the way she’s turned on me,” Elliot talked right over the top of her, adding to the torment that they were inflicting on each other as they laid it on thick and went to the extreme.

               “Dammit, just shut up!” Olivia shouted and glared, sweeping her index at Elliot as Stuckey took particular offense to the outburst.

               “We told you to shut up!” Stuckey pistol-whipped Elliot across the left side of his face, throttling him solidly before aiming the gun at Olivia.

               Olivia’s voice was ragged as Stuckey kept the gun trained on her, the wretchedness breaking free as she kept talking. “And when this son of a bitch is out of the picture, I’m going to need a new partner.”

               “What about Cragen?” Stuckey’s eyebrows went up, attracted to the notion.

               “I’ve got Cragen wrapped around my little finger, the same goes with Munch and Fin,” Olivia was hopelessly clinging to getting him to lower the barrel as she held up her finger and attempted to ignore Elliot’s disapproving groans. “Dale, if I say the word, you’re it. Think about it, Dale.”

               “I like the sound of that,” Stuckey tilted his head and smirked, his focus off of Elliot entirely as he nodded eagerly.

               “You like it because we get each other…We’re connected,” Olivia knew how contrived it sounded but her body told a different story as she held out her hand and softened her facial expression to drive the point home, “We’re connected.”

               “We are connected” Stuckey was still teetering on apprehension but his grip on that gun was softening, his enunciation faltering.

               “Yeah,” Olivia reached for his hand, moving just close enough to graze his fingers and get him to hold hers with a semblance of affection.

               Come on, come on, come on.

               “Let’s take care of the third wheel,” Stuckey rubbed her fingers and nodded his head as he started to move toward Elliot, a determined look on his face.

               “Wait, just wait one second,” Olivia was at a turning point as recklessness took over and she forced a smile while her fingers smoothed across the top of his hand, tugging Stuckey’s focus back to her, “I want him to watch.”

               The knock at the door nearly took her breath away and elicited an involuntary gag as a wave of dizziness washed over her while she stood at the sink with the water still running. She splashed herself again with more urgency and wiped away the stray droplets as she turned the spigot until the flow stopped. That was all she needed tonight. Instant replay of one of her less graceful solutions that had the palm and back of her hand sore for two days. Olivia would’ve liked to admit that she knew why it was still rolling around in her brain but she couldn’t pinpoint it even as the knocking continued with a little more urgency than the first time.

               “Liv, a bathroom break shouldn’t take this long. Are you ready for round two?” Elliot opened the door and raised an eyebrow at her as she palmed the porcelain, staring at her reflection in the mirror. “You can do whatever you’re doing later. Russell is getting antsy and whining about sweat pooling in his asscrack.”

               Olivia shook her head and scoffed, the smirk resting on her lips as she tilted her chin to look at him. “He still hasn’t waved the white flag and asked for counsel?”

               “Nope,” Elliot pushed the door against the stopper and leaned against the iconography, waiting impatiently for her. “There’s a solid chance he’s got a thing for you, though…might be why he’s not asking for a lawyer.”

               “He’s either brave or stupid,” Olivia dragged her feet as she moved into the dimly lit hallway, shaking off the last of the flutter working through her belly. “I’m his type—let’s not make this deep, El.”

               “Oh, by the way, Liv,” Elliot stood in front of her as they approached Interrogation One, a crooked smile creeping across his face as he encroached on her personal bubble. “You better not go ducking out on me again because it’s too hot in there.”

               “You turned on the heat again, didn’t you?” Olivia slipped out of her jacket and swatted him with the overheated leather before he could reach for the door handle. “You’re a royal asshole, you know that, right?”

               “I’ll see you inside, dear,” Elliot shrugged his shoulders, laughed, and dodged the slap of leather against his exposed forearm.

               “You’re lucky I’m too hot to bruise your other cheek and match them up,” Olivia turned around, flipping him the bird as she came to the end of the hall to put away her coat.

               “You keep your hands to yourself,” Elliot called out after her, a guilty smile across his face as he twisted the handle and gave it a push.

              He really had jacked up the temperature. It was excruciatingly hot in the interrogation room. Olivia gripped the back of her neck and swallowed a groan as the wave of heat spread across her skin, awakening every pore as a bead of sweat kissed her brow as she went from the cooled space of the hall to the sweltering cage the interrogation room had become. Elliot narrowed his eyes at her, a not-so-subtle reminder that she wasn’t going to go escaping their interrogation over a little sweating. She shifted her weight in her ankle-high boots and cleared her throat as Elliot’s eyes burrowed a hole straight into her soul, refusing to back down. She would’ve been lying if she said the look he just gave her was ineffective but it was shifting her focus and tugging at the last of her sanity as their suspect continued to stonewall them.

              Cat and mouse. The bait was out and he wasn’t biting.

              “You look really uncomfortable, Olivia,” Russell had already, expertly, pushed every one of Olivia’s buttons before she had made a rather prompt exit just thirty minutes earlier. “Can’t take the heat?”

              His inquiry wasn’t without irony as he wiped the sweat from his neck and dried his palms on his pants. His skin had developed a reddish hue in patches and the staggered pattern of his open-mouthed breaths hastened. Of anyone in the room, Russell was the least skilled at executing a poker face. He grinned, his sleepy gaze fixated on Olivia as she moved behind the chair opposite his. He licked his lips as he immersed his attention fully on her; studying the sway of her hips even as Elliot’s jaw tightened with displeasure.

              “Oh, focus on yourself for a little while, Russell. The only words I want to hear out of your mouth is an explanation of why you restrained, raped, and mutilated four women in the last six weeks,” Olivia snapped and slammed both hands on the edge of the table, barely making a hair flinch on her partner’s body.

              “You really don’t want to keep pissing her off,” Elliot had both sleeves rolled up, a light sheen of sweat across his brow and down the curve of his nose, still favoring the healing flesh wounds across his chest and ribs as he winced with a flex. “Playing games with her is a bad idea, buddy.”

              “That sounds like you’re speaking from personal experience, Detective Stabler,” Russell lit the match and ignited another fire as Elliot balled up his right hand into a fist.

              I want him to watch.

               “That shit isn’t going to work on me,” Elliot gritted his teeth, a flash of Olivia’s fingers stroking Stuckey’s cheek moving into his consciousness as his patience wore and the affliction twisted at his guts.

              Elliot couldn’t let it tug at him any further as he centered his concern on Olivia. Elliot already knew Olivia’s breaking point and she was comfortably residing at the edge of it even as Russell Miller continued to man spread in his seat, a delightful sneer aimed at her. She was thoroughly done with his shit but four hours of interrogation needed to be worth something more than a foul taste in her mouth. He wasn’t going to get away with this. Olivia’s knuckles went white as she gripped the cold steel with the tilt of her head as she dug her chin into her shoulder. The slow blink was satisfying as her back went rigid after a necessary release of the palpable grip from the tabletop.

               “How many false confessions have you inveigled from men in my position, Detective Benson?” Russell had gotten her attention with that one as she laced her fingers through her hair and snagged a couple of knots in the process. “Tight slacks. Low cut, tight tops that leave next to nothing to the imagination. Repeating the action of running your pretty, delicate fingers through hair that most red-blooded men would love to pull. I’m sure that it’s done a healthy amount of coaxing.”

               “Well, I’m sure this is no surprise to you, Russell, but you’re a predator and only predatory men would make something so innocuous become a device or a motivator for their fetishes…” Olivia couldn’t help but laugh as she crossed her arms, letting sections of softly highlighted locks fall around her face. “Is that your motivator?”

               “Oh, you’re not going to redirect this, Benson. I have too many curiosities that need satisfied,” Russell scrambled as Olivia found the trigger to flip the game on him, making him more irritated than she had earlier. “You like the attention, don’t you? I bet you love knowing that you get stared at by that uptight mother fucker over there, huh? How many times do you think he’s imagined undoing the zipper on those slacks?”

              “Have I touched a nerve?” Olivia could feel the burning stare from Elliot as she diffused the bomb and stepped directly into his line of sight to soften the temper that was beginning to boil. “Sounds like I touched a nerve, doesn’t it?”

              “That’s what it sounds like,” Elliot had to move as he paced the floor and watched her tongue graze the edge of her lip.

               I want him to watch.

              Russell’s left hand banged against the surface of the table, demanding their energy anchor on him as he scrutinized Elliot’s movements. “Come on, Stabler, tell me how much it kills you that you haven’t taken the initiative and sampled the product?”

              “You fucked up son of a bitch,” Elliot had done his best to not let it get to him but Russell had sent his rationality flying out a window.

              “El…don’t,” Olivia grasped his bicep and redirected his torso, absorbing more of his heat than she’d bargained for as his chest thumped against her own.

              “Oh, no way,” Russell’s laugh was entirely too loud as Olivia’s grip persisted on Elliot’s arm, the balance of her intensity meshing with a more frenzied one from her partner. “…You already have, haven’t you?”

              “Alright, enough,” Olivia veered, converging at the edge of the table with a little more intensity as she gripped the table. “Was that the problem with your victims? Were they wearing tight, low cut clothing and suggestively touching their hair? Did you think it was all for you? Just couldn’t stop yourself, could you? They were all there to be your playthings, weren’t they?”

               “You know it’s always all for me,” Russell lacked self-control and a filter as he jolted from his chair, lunging at Benson as his shouts echoed through the room. “Always!”

               Elliot had been waiting for him to make an ill-advised maneuver for hours and all it took was getting a weak grip on Olivia’s shirt to flick the switch. The sound of cotton and polyester ripping immediately preceded the haphazard and quick extraction of Russell’s form from Olivia’s immediate vicinity. Elliot knocked over two of the chairs in the tussle and took an elbow to the face as he wrapped his arm around Russell’s torso, tugging him just enough to stop the flow of air to his sternum. A last hoorah of Russell’s strength came in the form of a shift of his arms in such a way that the contents of the file went flying into every direction before landing in a scattered pattern on the floor. Russell flailed as Elliot swung him toward the table as the clang of cuffs reverberated in the air. Elliot bumped against Olivia’s side as he secured Russell’s hands behind his back. Elliot couldn’t help himself as he took a whiff of her deodorant stifled sweat, citrus, and faint coconut while his partner beat him to the punch with the slapping of her own pair around Russell’s wrists.

              Her timing, as always, was impeccable.

               “You know I could’ve gotten him just fine without you knocking him around,” Olivia breathed heavily as she elbowed him and went to the glass to give it a couple of sharp pounds before moving back toward the mess they’d made. “Couldn’t just let me have this one, huh?”

               “Not that it matters but I had a little bit of a vested interest in putting a little bit of a hurt on him,” Elliot tilted his chin, gesturing toward her ripped shirt as he caught his breath and heaved Russell to his feet as Fin and Captain Cragen opened the door. “It’s exactly what it looks like this time…”

               “Are you okay?” Cragen was parental in his assessment of the situation as he passed Olivia first, his voice barely above a whisper as she awkwardly held torn fabric between her fingers.

               “I’m fine,” Olivia said and turned her head toward Elliot. “He’s the one that’s doing all of the manhandling with fresh scabs on his chest and abs��I’m just peachy.”

               “Fuck you both,” Russell fought against the cuffs as two uniformed officers pulled him toward the doorway, the spittle running down his lip as he struggled.

               “Sounds like the conversation got a little dodgy in here?” Fin and Elliot had butted heads more than enough but the concern for Olivia was paramount as the reddened flesh of her ribcage peeked out from the ripped portion of her shirt.

               “Nothing that we couldn’t handle,” Elliot sniffed the stale air in her absence from his proximity and dabbed the perspiration from his forehead, never once taking his eyes off of his partner.

               Elliot’s yellowed bruising across his left cheek stood out in the light as Olivia took a step closer, reminding her for the second time of the game they’d play to get out of a jam. It reminded her of every gamble she’d taken to save him even though she knew the reversal was bitterly true. The thought alone stole her oxygen as she contemplated the reaches of her partnership. She made eye contact with him in spite of her best efforts not to and the doubt crept in. She bit down on her bottom lip, held the ripped open section across her midriff closed, and ducked out of the room before Elliot could fully fathom what she had just done.

               What Olivia hadn’t anticipated was that he’d follow her around every corner.

               “Liv, come on,” Elliot pushed the door to the cribs and found her sifting through a duffel bag for another shirt, her back to him with the ripped section of her top hanging off to one side. “Cragen’s going to want to talk to us about what just happened in there and you ran out a little quick…”

               “Can a girl change shirts so she’s not flashing her fucking stomach to the whole fucking precinct or is that too much to ask?” Olivia was terse as she pulled a fresh top from the bag, refusing to grant him the courtesy of looking him in the eye. “I’d like some privacy.”

               “I’m sure you would but you’re not going to get it,” Elliot was unintentionally rough with her wrist as he spun her around, encouraging a yelp from her. “You act like I’ve never seen what you’ve got on under there.”

               “El…Jesus,” Olivia let out an exasperated sigh and pivoted in her shoes as the cot rail pinched the backs of her legs until it dug against the material of her pants. “Why are you doing this? Wasn’t all of that in there enough for today?”

               “You can act like everything is fine and dandy, but I see right through your bullshit, Liv,” Elliot was less concerned with the concept of her personal space and more focused on driving the point home as his knees brushed against hers. “Every single day, I’m running after your shadow, and even when I am facing you, you’re pretending. Why?”

               “If you’ve got something to say then just say it. Contrary to popular belief, I’ve never needed you to coddle me and that’s not going to change anytime soon,” Olivia squeezed the shirt between her fingers, frustration brewing as her partner’s behavior seemed less like an unusual outburst and more like he’d been holding it in.

               “So, you don’t think about your power play with Stuckey at all?” Elliot took a step back from her and wiped the thin layer of sweat from his face as he craned his neck back, angling his eyes toward the ceiling. “I mean, really, Liv.”

               There it was. They’d tiptoed around it and pretended as though it didn’t exist but it was real. It had taken weeks to talk about it and they’d both let it fester for a lot longer than they should have. The wound was open and Elliot wasn’t going to let it go. Not that Olivia was doing anything about forgetting it. It been haunting her and invaded wandering, waking thoughts on a daily basis. Olivia crossed her arms and shrugged her shoulders, the distant look in her eyes less than inviting as she trapped her tongue against her cheek. She didn’t want him to know that she’d replayed the scenario a thousand times but the outcome was still the same every time. That acrid taste on her mouth, that look in Elliot’s eyes, and a pang of agony over not being able to look away or close her eyes.

              It was strategic. It had to be.

              She did it all for him.

               “What do you want me to say?” Olivia dodged him and moved toward the exterior wall, winding the fabric of the shirt around her hand while the ripped shirt continued to hang freely from her torso. “That slapping you around and saying really fucked up things about you didn’t bring me personal joy? I certainly didn’t want to force you to watch that cretin stick his tongue in my mouth, either. I thought you knew me a little better than that, El.”

               “I want you to tell me the truth, Liv,” Elliot took a breath as he lowered his voice, the agony having its way with his senses as he stared at the floor. “I can’t get the image out of my head and I had to ask myself if it was out of sick possessiveness but I don’t think it’s that.”

               “Why are you telling me this now?” Olivia leaned against the cold finish of the painted, cement brick and bit down on the swell of her lip. “I can’t be your little sibling that you tower over and stifle whenever danger gets too close. I’m not property, Elliot.”

               “Eleven years, Liv,” Elliot was fiddling with the tip of his tie, winding it around his fingers as he shook his head slowly, grappling with the words. “Eleven God damn years. Enough to go from zero to sixty and lose control of all of my faculties without so much as a lift of your fucking pinky. Eleven years of tucking away so much of my sentimentality when it comes to you that the sight of your lips on anyone else’s…Despondency doesn’t go far enough and all I can do is pretend that it doesn’t piss me off. It does. It torments me. It kills me…it breaks my heart.”

               “You’re a fucking piece of work, Elliot Stabler,” Olivia’s voice strained, a swarm of trepidation whirling through her chest as she fought the desire to hit him as his sky and steel lifted to stare into her soul. “I walked away from you once and I can do it again just like that.”

               “Just like that? No hesitation at all?” Elliot refused to shrink as his speech did nothing but piss her off as he groaned into the atmosphere. “I can’t say that I wouldn’t deserve it, Liv.”

               “I meant what I said, Elliot, about having rules and not breaking any more of them,” Olivia had already broken them for lesser men but she let the comment slip free as though it carried a semblance of conviction. “It can’t get personal.”

               “We’re a little past that, Liv,” Elliot wanted to shout at her but he held it in as he watched the indignance cover for confusion as he groaned, popped his knuckles, and pushed his sleeves up toward his elbows. “Everything fell apart…except for you. You were still here. You are personal and I don’t want that to change.”

               “Whatever you’ve done with the Elliot Stabler I know, I need you to bring him back because this convoluted and confusing sender of mixed signals is like riding a roller coaster and I’m sure my lap belt is broken,” Olivia hated being the equalizer but she was witnessing her best friend fall apart before her eyes as she shoved past him and reached for the door handle.

               Elliot wasn’t good at grandiose gestures or elucidating the details of his feelings until they were boiling over like a screaming kettle but he couldn’t let her slip away again. He snagged one of her belt loops and tugged her backward, demonstrating one of his more agile qualities as he braced her back from smacking against the wall. Olivia’s knees betrayed her as they shook, reverberated the sensation as the gooseflesh covered all the way to her neck. He made her feel gossamer and ethereal, unnerved and out of control, while understating the actuality of her height as he tilted her chin with the tip of his index. It wasn’t demanding but the craving was irrefutable as he sought out a silent acquiescence with the softest graze of his mouth on hers.

               Her answer wasn’t so quiet as the utterance came out in a soft, breathy gasp.

               “Don’t ruin it,” Olivia was already drunk off of him simply by his touch and his heat radiating against her, both of which were consuming her as his name came out in a moan. “Elliot.”

               Elliot’s lips were already tracing the curve of her jaw all the way to her ear while his fingers gathered along the small of her back, tangling around the strip of ripped fabric. “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop, Liv.”

               Olivia’s eyes rolled back and the Earth tilted on its axis as she didn’t give two shits if anyone walked in or not while her back involuntarily arched, pushing her forward, against his chest. “No, no, no, don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

               The protective line between them had dissolved with the return of a gaze that seemed to last forever. They’d tiptoed around the broken glass and still came up with shards as Elliot’s mouth crushed Olivia’s, pushing her lips apart as though he’d replayed it in his head a thousand times. Perhaps, he had and knew, deep down, in the depths of her mind that she’d done the same as her fingers gripped his bicep, drawing him closer. Her heartbeat thrummed against him, the frenetic rhythm building with that of his own. He loved her so much more than he could ever say in words as he directed her motions and dragged his fingers over the material of her shirt until her moan vibrated against his mouth.

               Elliot savored the taste of a mint’s remnant on the tip of Olivia’s tongue as he felt the chill of the night air radiating through the windowpane as he pressed his palms against the glass. It suddenly didn’t matter that only a singular door separated them from the outside world—for a moment, they existed wholly for each other. Even as Elliot leaned in a little further and bowed his head as if to pray, he simply craved more of her. Elliot tilted his chin and encouraged Olivia onto the tips of her toes while his arms memorized the curve of her spine down to the swell of her hips. There wasn’t anything to pull them back, convince them of an alternate path, or deter them from simply being. There was nothing left to prevent either of them from feeling something real.

               “El, we still, ah, have work to do,” Olivia’s eyes were dreamily in reset, lashes aimed down, lips swollen and bruised while reality crashed back down around them in the dim, her fingers gliding along the chiseled edge of his jaw. “Captain will send Fin or Munch out after us and we’ve already been gone too long.”

               Elliot groaned and dragged his lips down her cleavage as he pulled her close and buried his face against the soft, hot skin above her shirt, generously squeezing her backside until the grunt was audible. “I know…But I don’t want to.”

               “We have to,” Olivia bit down on her lip, the chill of the wall finally touching the exposed skin at her side while she traced lines around the remnants of bruises on his face. “As much as I’d like to keep going, we have to get back to our job.”

               “It’s worse than a little taste,” Elliot set his teeth against the material of her shirt before standing upright, applying a soft, completing kiss to her temple as his embrace slowly unwound. “A tiny tease of you.”

               The absence of his heat against her tugged at the strings of her ailing heart as she ran a hand through her hair and unfurled the shirt to swap out, a smirk residing on her lips. “You know, it’s only a tease if it doesn’t lead anywhere, El.”

I wouldn’t know where to start on tagging this one. Just hope you’ll check it out.

[kyber-kisses]

Applaud the Two Idiots

Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: the reader and dean being high af, cursing

Summary: When Dean and the reader are captured on a witch hunt and put under a spell, it’s up to Sam and Cas to try and fix it.

A/n: I totally based this whole fic off of that scene in Stranger Things 3 where Steve and Robin are higher than kites, so please enjoy this masterpiece. Also this gif added ten years to my life so thank you to whoever made it.

Slipping quietly into the hunting cabin, you followed the broad shouldered silhouette of one Dean Winchester, the two of you brandishing pistols filled with witch killing bullets.

You and the brothers had been working this witch case for two weeks and every time you thought you had finally caught up to her, she was two more steps ahead. And truthfully It was beginning to drive the three of you up the walls.

So when you and Dean caught wind of something for the first time in days you both dropped everything, failing to update Sam who had been out on a dinner run. You and the older Winchester had enough faith in yourselves to believe you could finish it alone.

At the time you didn’t realize how wrong you would be.

The only source of light in the cabin seeped underneath the door to the basement, making you and Dean share a quick look of annoyance.

It was always the fucking basement. Well that- or the attic.

Dean slowly raised a finger to his lips, signaling for you to keep quiet. His free hand going to slowly turn the doorknob. Light spilled out further into the darkened room, lighting up your faces as Dean slowly began his decent down the stairs. You following close behind him as the two of you raised your weapons, eyes searching for the witch.

Too busy scanning what was in front of you, you failed to notice the figure behind you. But luckily Deans sixth sense kicked in and he whipped around to warn you.

You knew it was too little too late though as you felt the harsh force of a blunt object slam into your head, immediately rendering you unconscious. The last thing you saw being the look on Deans face as you crumpled on the stairs.

*. *. *. *.

As you slowly stirred back into reality , you let out a light groan, the throbbing in your head making you squeeze your eyes shut.

It felt like you had been hit by a truck.

You attempted to roll your head, trying to loosen your muscles but quickly stopped short by the constricting feeling around your body.

“What the hell?” You breathed, looking down at the ropes that were wound snugly around your torso and ankles, successfully binding you to the chair you sat in. Your arms tightly bonded to your sides.

“Y/n? Thank god, I didn’t know if you were alive or not.” A sudden voice exclaimed, making you whip your head around again. You felt the slight shift of someone behind you and realized that Dean was back to back with you, your ropes constricting him as well.

“Dean? Of course I’m alive you idiot. What the hell happened?”

“Well, that dumb witch got the jump on us. She knocked you out and then came after me.” Dean struggled, attempting to pull on the ropes.

“Are you telling me you got knocked out by one tiny witch?” You mused, trying to turn to look at him but failing.

“Well I’m sorry if my first priority was making sure you were okay. And plus- you got knocked out too- so your one to talk.” He fired back, struggling on the rooms even more.

“Dean! Would you please stop? Every time you move the rope just digs into my skin more!” You yelled, making him cease his actions.

“Sorry.”

Taking a deep breath, you could see that the witch was no where in sight, and even better the table across the room from the two of you was covered in random items-including a knife that looked sharp enough to cut through your binds.

“Hey, Dean?”

“Hmm-“ he hummed back, rolling his head back to try and look at you. You nodded your head towards the table, a grin on your face.

“You see that table over there? On the left?” You questioned, feeling Dean shift his head again. “ You other left moron.” You sighed, rolling your eyes. A second later he nodded in response.

“You see that knife? I think if we move together at the same time, we can make it over there.-“you started, “and I could kick the table and get it into your lap.”

—“ and I could cut the binds.” He finished, catching on to your idea with a light breath. “Wait- she just left a knife sitting around here?” He questioned.

“What an idiot.” The two of you breathed out in unison, readying yourselves to move.

“Okay on the count of three we’re gonna hop. One...two...three!” With one swift move, you and the green eyed hunter shifted a good foot closer to the table. The two of you letting out a relieved laugh at the success. This might actually work.

“Okay! Let’s go again!” Dean exhaled, shifting in his restraints again. You counted again- and just like before the two of you moved a little closer.

“Holy shit- this is gonna work!” You laughed, finding it hard to though, due to the tightness of the rope. Together you and Dean counted down once more, propelling yourselves sideways again.

And then everything went wrong.

You had put to much force into the last hop, which resulted in you and Dean toppling sideways, hitting the cement floor with a light yell.

For the second time that night your head caught the worst of it. You could hear Dean letting out a groan as well as you breathed in a big gulp of air. So your plan backfired— and now you were gonna die at the hands of a witch.

It was in that moment you realized how completely insane your life was. It was bat shit crazy.

And maybe it was the two hours of sleep you were running on or the lack of food in your system, but the giggles bubbling out of your throat cake out of nowhere, almost sounding like sobs.

“Shh-Y/n it’s okay. It’s okay. Please don’t cry.” Dean tried to comfort you, also attempting to pick his head up off the ground with little success. His gesture only making you laugh harder. “Wait- are you- are you laughing?” He questioned, eyebrows knitting. Together in confusion.

You tried to take a breath, which made you giggle even more. “ I’m gonna die in an old musty basement at the hands of a witch. “ you snorted, “With Dean Winchester. It’s just too trippy man.” You laughed.

You didn’t know it but Deans face was a mixture of confusion and amusement. It was actually pretty funny, he wasn’t gonna lie.

The sound of footsteps thundering down the steps of the basement rendered you both silent. The Witch stepping into view with a scowl on her dirt covered face.

“You two were trying to escape? I see you failed miserably.” She chuckled, coming forth to pull your bodies back up. “Now let’s see if you can tell me where the other Winchester is hiding?” She smirked, stepping over to the table and picking up a massive syringe.

Your eyes widened. No,no,no you did not do needles. Especially massive ones like that. Panic settled in, making you rapidly push and pull against your restraints in a failed attempt to get away. Deans mind quickly catching up and reminding him of your fear of needles.

Dean glared at the witch as she stalked forward with the syringe. “ Don’t you even dare touch her you bitch!” He growled, pushing against the ropes.

“Ooh, not very friendly I see.” The witch tilted her head, a wild look in her eyes. “If you had been nicer I might just have let her go second—“ she didn’t even finish before she stepped up next to you and jammed the needle into your neck.

You let out a shriek as you felt the syringe inject whatever concoction she had whipped up directly into your bloodstream. The last thing you heard before passing out again was the sound of Deans muffled yells as the witch did the same to him.

*. *. *. *.

“Dean, you okay?” Sighing, you let your head fall back against his own. God, you were tired, even with the amount of sleep you had gotten from being knocked out not once, but twice.

“To be honest I don’t really feel anything.” He yawned,closing his eyes. “Do you?”

Hearing his yawn, had you yawning too. Stupid contagious yawning. “I feel fine- which is never a good sign when it comes to these sorts of things.” You admitted.

“Yeah-“ Dean paused, a light laugh bubbling o. Of his chest. “ I kinda feel good actually.” You had no idea why, but you chuckled along with him. A tingling feeling flowing through your whole body. In a way, it kind of felt like when your feet are asleep, except this was everywhere.

“Idiot. She messed up the spell.” You giggled, you heard Dean snort behind you as he tried to inhale more air.

“Yeah she did. She totally messed it up.”

You had no clue as to why you were laughing, neither did Dean, but one thing was for sure: you had never felt so care free, and to be honest, it was nice.

“The idiot messed it up!” You cackled again, head falling back once more. The bang of a door had the two of you falling silent. Eyes watching the witch walk back into the room, a smug grin on her face.

“There is definitely something wrong with us.” You whispered, trying to push the next wave of laughter down.

The witch stalked towards you, grabbing your face .” Just tell me where the other Winchester is.” She asked, a wild smile plastered on her face.

“Who?” You giggled, your mind too fuzzy to understand anything. You could hear Deans laughter behind you, which only made you laugh harder.

The back of a hand came down hard across your cheek, making you stop short. Hearing the sound of the crack made Dean whip his head around. “Hey! I know Sam! He’s my brother.” He exclaimed, trying to pull the witch away from you.

It worked because she gave you one more look before walking around to face the jade eyed hunter. “I know, your Dean Winchester.” She stated. “ care to tell me where little Sammy is?”

Dean let out another set of light, bubbly laughter. “Yeah, he’s uh- back at the motel.” The words came flying out of his mouth.

Your mind was trying hard to fight against whatever was going on with you as you turned violently. “Dean- Dean shut up.” He couldn’t give away where Sam was. That would be bad in more ways than one.

Luckily the universe was on your side because the sound of splintering wood echoed down the basement stairs as someone kicked down the door. All three heads spun as Sam rushed into view. Without hesitation he was aiming the barrel of his gun and your capturer and firing.

The witches body hitting the ground before you could even exhale.

And then the giggles came back.

Sam rushed down the remaining stairs, kneeling down to help untie the both of you. Dean chuckled again, looking down at Sam “hey Sammy! I was just talking about you!”

Shooting his brother a confused look, Sam set to work untying the constricting rope. “Hey, Cas!” Sam's voice echoed, “I found them!”

There was a faint response before a familiar angel came down the stairs. “Heyyyy Cassie!” You drawled, head falling back as Sam pulled the last of the ropes away. “Dean, the pretty angel is here!” You giggled.

Sam and Cas turned to look at each other, birth musky confused and concerned. “Are they alright?”

“What are you talking about? We are fantastic!” Dean snorted, pushing himself out of the chair and turning to look at you. His eyes widened, slightly taken back, “WOW! You are really pretty!”

Normally you would have blushed at something like that, especially when it was coming from the mouth of Dean Winchester, but you were too out of it to even react properly. So you winked back at him instead. “Look who’s talkin.”

Sam watched with an even more confused expression as a blush crept across his brothers face. “Okay! Cas can you get y/n to the car? I have Dean.” Cas nodded, walking over to you. And before you could say anything, he was picking you up and carrying you up the stairs towards the impala.

A few minutes later, you and Dean were jammed in the back seat, watching as Sam and Cas slid into the front seats. “You have any idea what is wrong with them?” Sam questioned, hoping to get an answer from the Angel.

“All I know is that it was some sort of truth spell.” Cas whispered, both pairs of eyes panning back to you and Dean. Deans eyes quickly zoned in on a bag of chips sitting untouched in the front seat,making him lean forward to snatch them up.

“Yes! I’m starving!” He grinned, ripping open the bag. Your eyes widened as you watched him shove chip after chip into his mouth.

“Give that here! I want some!” Pulling the bag from his hand and taking some for yourself, ignoring the looks of the other people in the car.

“Please tell me there’s a way to fix this.” Sam sighed, not taking his eyes off you, Cas doing the same.

“I think we have to wait for it to wear off.”

*. *. *. *.

Over the next few hours Sam and Cas watched as you and Dean were overcome with fit after fit of laughter, even falling to the floor of the motel at one point, tears streaming down your face.

You two were completely and utterly out of it.

It was around hour 4 that it started to wear off, you and Dean flopped over the edge of one of the beds, heads hanging over the edge as you took in a deep breath.

“So that was wild. . .” You paused, trying to make sense of what the hell had just happened. It had easily been some of the craziest hours of your existence.

“Yeahhhh. . .” The words leaving Deans mouth slowly, presumably thinking the same as you.

Your eyebrows drew together as you thought back to earlier. “Did you really call me pretty?” You smirked, turning to look over at Dean. You could see the gears in his head turning as he went back to the memory.

“Yeah. I totally did.” The realization noticeable in his voice. He was blushing again- and it was adorable.

“Awww Dean. Do you have a crush on me?” You teased, lightly giggling. Dean gave you a side eye, face marked with slight embarrassment.

“Maybe.”

“So it took a witch making us trip balls to have you tell me that?” You didn’t let him respond though before you were leaning over and placing a kiss on his freckled cheek. “If so, I’m okay with that.”

[yandereshit]

Saeran x Reader: special invitation.

My piece for @saeranzine that I completely forgot to post, hi. 

I just wanted to say that this zine is one of the best things that happened to me during my time in this fandom. I’m thankful for every single person that was a part of it.

The room is dark, with a few computer screens to lighten it up a little, but not enough to make it seem less unfriendly. The walls and floor radiate with coldness, relieving from the hot weather outside, but seeping through one’s body as if to remind them of their fate.

The young man sits there, eyes fixated on one of the screens, analyzing all the details as if he hasn’t done it enough times before to know what’s about to happen.

But even if he knows exactly what the girl’s about to do at this time of the day, his eyes don’t leave her silhouette, taking in the structure of her skin, the slight frown on her face, the way she stares at her own reflection for longer than he ever would, using all these brushes and pencils to make herself look as the social standards tell her to.

He couldn’t care less about whether or not she does that, or how much time she spends on it, and neither about how expensive the cosmetics are. He doesn’t know how a woman, according to those standards, should look like.

He only stares at her, wondering what kind of person she truly is, and keeps telling himself that he only needs to keep an eye on her, to know whether she’s not planning something vicious that would put the whole plan at risk.

But he knows she’s not. It took her merely a few days to get used to this peculiar situation, and now it seems as though the apartment is her own place. She made sure everything stayed clean, and cooked her own meals, which she always focused on so much he wondered how she felt while doing so – all he ever made for himself, was some rice he ate dry out of lack of anything else.

In the middle of putting on the black thing she has that weird brush for – was it called mascara? – her phone lets out a ping and she reaches for it, immediately stopping her doing. His own phone receives a notification as well, meaning the RFA chat is open.

There is only one person in the chatroom. The nickname of Luciel Choi doesn’t make him even flinch, he’s been watching over this app for too long to be affected. But he hates the attitude the redhead hacker makes towards her, so different compared to the other members.

The girl clearly doesn’t reciprocate his feelings, and that much of a comfort Saeran has. He's being as stupid as always, making an idiot out of himself. What is he thinking? Does he want to lure her into believing he likes her?

To give her the sense of safety, of being cared for, maybe even loved… only to leave her out there, alone, in despair, once a better chance appeared ahead?

Couldn’t be. Can’t be.

What would he gain from that? What does he want from her…?

The messages keep flooding through the chatroom. Saeran feels an urge to force Seven out of the chatroom, only so that he’d leave the girl alone. But he’s aware he could easily make a mistake and get tracked if he did so. He has to endure.

“I checked the CCTV and nothing strange happened!

I’ve been looking at it every 2.35 seconds just in case something happens.”

Saeran shakes his head. Even now, the redhead does what he shouldn’t. The cameras won’t show anything interesting, he knows that. He should focus on trying to track Saeran instead.

“Are you a stalker or something? ;;”

Exactly! It’s creepy, watching over her all the time as if he had nothing more important to do.

“I want to go to MC and protect her myself!

Can’t believe there’s nothing I can do…!!!”

“Don’t come.”

He lets out a huff of irritation at how persistent the redhead can be, though he huff ends with a chuckle when he sees the girl’s reaction. She couldn’t be more blunt, and he likes that. He shakes his head, but once he looks at the screen again, the boost of messages makes his head ache. He has a sudden urge to turn everything off.

I have a mission, he reminds himself quickly, reaching for a bottle of water he keeps under the desk. But the bottle is empty and he lets out a quiet whimper of annoyance.

He stands up abruptly, almost knocking the chair over. He doesn’t feel like going to the kitchen now, there’s always so many people. He goes to the bathroom instead with the bottle, and starts to fill it with the water from the sink.

He stares at the mirror in silence as the soft sound of pouring water echoes in the cold room. Looking away after merely a few seconds, he realizes how much he and the girl are different.

And he wonders once again, what kind of person she truly is.

Does she love herself enough to not cringe every time she looks in the mirror?

The waters keeps streaming down, till it pours over the edge of the bottle and streams down its walls now. He stares at it, as if enchanted. The water is way colder than his fingers. The coldness sinks in through his nerves. His fingers become numb and he moves them slightly, as if to check whether he’s still able to.

He turns off the water and looks at his reflection again. With his wet hand, he slicks his hair back, wanting to see the difference.

The mint color of his eyes seems more intense than usual. The shade is somehow comforting yet frustrating at the same time. He feels as if his eyes don’t belong to him anymore, claimed by his Savior, the one who’s watching over him all the time.

He feels an urge to comb down his hair so that it covers his face completely, so that no one can see it. But it’d be a problem if he couldn’t see what he’s doing, so he just takes the bottle and goes back to the room, calmer than before, yet somewhat uneasy.

He sits by his desk and stares at the screen, curiosity welling up in him once again. He can’t help but stare as the girl puts her phone down and gets back to all these accessories. She’s almost done by now. It’s nearly noon so soon, she will be leaving to college. Is she a good student? He didn’t find hacking into her studying records necessary. But he may do it some other day.

He bites on his lip when the girl starts to brush her hair. Her face is emotionless, unbothered.

Her attitude is something he can’t quite get a hold on. If she was as enthusiastic as the redhead, he’d assume she’s just as stupid as him. She had ben cheerful for the first few days… but now it seems as though she changed her mind, unwilling to get any closer to the hacker. Did she get bored of him? Of the RFA?

If that’s the truth, would she be able to carry the party to an end? It’d be better to know whether she’ll keep working on it, and not one day just leave, ruining the whole plan… If such a thing happened, he wouldn’t be able to play the same trick again. RFA wouldn’t let another stranger in. It was the only chance to make it seem as though it was the group’s founder’s wish.

It actually is, he thinks. They don't have to know the real purpose, though.

Not yet. Not until they were all invited to the final party.

He’s getting impatient, he realizes. And unsure, whether or not it will work out. If the girl is already getting bored, he has to hurry up before she changes her mind and leaves.

Which means… he has to change the plans a little.

Pushing himself away from the desk and letting his wheeled chair spin around a little, he plays with his phone for a few minutes, putting it all together in his head.

Once his fingers dial the number, he puts it by his ear and waits. Glancing at the screen of the CCTV camera, he spots the girl go through the room, wondering as to who may be calling her at this time.

He sees her frown slightly when she stares at the screen for a few seconds before clicking the green button. He hears a shuffling noise when she put it to her ear.

There’s silence for the next few seconds, as neither of them speaks. Quiet sound of breathing comes out from both of the speakers, but it feels as though the time just stopped and they didn’t breathe anymore, enchanted by each other’s presence.

“…Hello?” she finally speaks, her voice cutting down the nervous silence.

He starts to cough and sees the girl frown at the sound.

“Are you… okay, sir?”

He shakes his head, annoyed with himself. Is that really the first thing he made her hear? Not intimidating at all!

“Hi, there” he finally lets out.

Hi, there?! Is that really the best he can do?!

“I’m sorry, but… do I know you?” the girl asks, her voice showing doubt and distrust.

He takes a short moment to compose himself before speaking again.

“You already forgot? It’s been only five days.”

Staring at the computer screen, he spots the girl’s eyes widen.

“You’re the…” her voice changes, showing uneasiness and – somehow – curiosity. “…the Unknown person…”

He smirks, scratching his forehead.

“Didn’t you want to meet me? You seemed quite interested back then, MC.” She flinches when he says her name. Probably because she still doesn’t know his. “So? Are you still interested in meeting me?”

“I’m…” She hesitates, but he doesn’t pry. He waits patiently for her to make her mind. “It would be a lie to say I don’t want to, but if I was to meet you, I’m not sure if it’d be a good decision to make in the first place. I’m… still confused over what’s happened. Not only me, apparently. If I agreed, would you tell me what you want to do…?”

He laughs softly.

“So you're cautious, but interested. Don’t you worry your pretty head though, princess. If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it by now. But I need you. You’re the main character here, don’t you know by now~?”

She huffs.

“I have no idea what you mean by that. But yes, I’m aware you want something. Care to share?”

He laughs again, but this time the sound is almost warm, not as threatening as his voice merely a few moments ago.

“Not yet. Be patient, and you’ll soon find out everything… Probably even sooner than planned~”

“What do you mean by that…?”

The girl’s frown deepens when she analyzes thoroughly every single word. Yet, there’s still too many clues missing to let her figure it out on her own.

For a short while he stares forward, deep in his thoughts as well. When he asks the next question, his voice is calm, almost emotionless.

“Do you want to find happiness?”

“I do.”

Her voice is confident, as if she knew the answer for this question long ago. He grins.

“Well, then. You’ll find it soon.”

“What do you…”

“Just be patient. I will come to you soon. Can you trust me?”

“I-I think so…”

Her voice trembled, holding hesitance. But as she gullibly spoke these few words, he already knew he is already midway to convincing her.

“Well, then. Wait for me, princess. I’ll show you the real paradise. You’ll be a special guest to our party. The last party of the RFA.”

Bad Ending

[itsclydebitches]

RWBY Recaps: The Shining Beacon Pt. 1

This is a reposting from October 4th, 2017 in an effort to get all my recaps onto tumblr. Thanks!

Welcome back, welcome back. We're starting off this recap exactly where we left off--with Ruby, Yang, and Jaune approaching Beacon--which gives the first two episodes a cohesive feeling, like they're just one episode sliced in half. RWBY gets better at this as the volumes go on, but Volume 1 in particular reads less like distinct stories and more like one story that was divided up, if only because our expectations regarding form demand it. I'd love to see a supercut of Volume 1 with the credits removed to see how well it all actually flows together.

After getting another shot of Beacon we're treated to a scene of Jaune rushing off the airship and vomiting copiously into a very convenient trashcan. It's a bold way to introduce a character, especially since we've already had four trailers displaying the girls' skills, an episode all about Ruby's moral compass, and a decent amount of time showcasing Yang's sisterly devotion. Making Jaune into "vomit boy" is comparatively cruel--which is largely the point. Though he'll get his character development soon enough (a bit in this episode, actually) RWBY is making sure we're clear about where their loyalties lie, so to speak. Though they're working with a very large cast, they're much more concerned with emulating magical girl storylines (Sailor Moon, Powerpuff Girls, Puella Magi Madoka Magic) than they are the lone, male shounen hero (Naruto, Fullmetal Alchemist, Dragonball Z). By taking the blonde-haired knight stereotype and reimagining him as the fool, RWBY ensures that we know who the "real" heroes of the story are. Jaune absolutely becomes a hero too as RWBY continues, but his status as "vomit boy" reassures us that he's not going to dominate the narrative.

Instead Ruby and Yang leave him behind as they exit the airship, surrounded by more hilarious silhouette people. I'd actually love it if RWBY came up with an in-universe explanation for this (beyond the great RWBY Chibi skit). Maybe there really is a whole species of people out there made entirely of shadows!

Hell, stranger things have happened in this show.

As they reach Beacon's courtyard Ruby becomes so excited by everyones' weaponry that she turns into a chibi version of herself, another technique that touches on RWBY's anime roots and that will eventually be left behind. As the series gets darker we see fewer of these non-diegetic details, like Ruby spinning with swirly eyes or Jaune geeking out over detective badges with literal stars spouting up around him. Though these techniques do an excellent job of conveying emotion to the viewer, they have a kiddie feel to them that becomes out of place post "Beginning of the End."

For now though Ruby is enthralled. At Yang's insistence that they're "just weapons" Ruby exclaims, "Just weapons? They're an extension of ourselves. They're a part of us!"

(Art by Eunnieverse)

This is a fantastic bit of world building. As we learn later in the episode, Ruby (like all Signal students, and presumably most Huntsmen) built her own weapon, designing and crafting it over who knows how many years, suggesting that, yes, in this universe weapons really are an extension of the self. We can thus read characterization in each person's choice. Roman, who uses manners as his decoy, keeps a dapper cane with a hidden pistol inside. Glynda embodies order to contrast Ozpin's more free spirit, so she directs all of her power through a riding crop. Meanwhile Ruby is the "adorable girl" who will continually defy expectations. Thus, she wields a scythe that's taller than she is and that's also a "high impact sniper rifle,” the exact opposite of what we’d expect a cute teen to carry. Despite her sister's teasing that Ruby needs to make some real friends, she's right that in Remnant meeting new weapons is a lot like meeting new people.

Speaking of friends, Yang ditches Ruby for hers... who are promptly never mentioned again. They're clearly just a plot device to get Ruby on her own, but like our silhouette people (of which Yang's group is a part) I'd love an explanation for how she got in good with this Beacon group before ever setting foot on campus. Or whether they’re all Signal graduates who then, presumably, should all be pretty close... 

Regardless, poor Ruby is left floundering, wondering where she's supposed to go or what she's supposed to do. I feel ya. She ends up collapsing into a massive pile of luggage.

Ruby: "I don't know what I'm doing."

"What are you doing?"

Nice parallel there! Enter Weiss, the owner of said luggage, who is literally framed as the bossy, dominant personality as she towers over Ruby.

We get more world building/exposition as Weiss yells about what dust is and what it can do. Her anger is, surprisingly, not just stemming from a rich girl having her stuff messed with, but because Ruby is knocking into cases chock-full of an explosive substance. Were any of these cases to break they might set off a rather violent reaction--as we see when Ruby sneezes into a cloud of dust and lightning erupts. The irony is that this only happens because Weiss is shaking the bottle of dust erratically in Ruby's face. I love these little moments that highlight how these girls are still kids in many respects, capable of doing stupid things even as they play at being mature.

Still disgusted with Ruby's behavior, Weiss asks, "Aren't you a little young to be attending Beacon?" which tells us that, yeah, Ruby does look young. It's hard to tell with Rooster Teeth's art style, but here we're explicitly told that Ruby looks like a child compared to the other students. Her age is recognizable. That will impact how others relate to and (in some cases) underestimate her.

We learn that Beacon isn't your "ordinary combat school" (what does that mean exactly? Are there other upper-level schools where the students train but don't fight live Grimm?) and Ruby finally looses her patience with all the lecturing.

Ruby: "I said I was sorry, Princess."

"It's Heiress, actually."

Enter Blake. For a millisecond Weiss is thrilled that someone is showing her the respect she thinks she deserves, until Blake follows that little correction up with a list of critiques, including the Schnee's "controversial labor forces and questionable business partners"--more on that as it develops. Ruby cracks up, clearly more interested in Weiss getting her just desserts than thinking through the implications of Blake's words. She then wanders off before Ruby can introduce herself.

The team is now technically complete, even if the girls don't know it yet. Again, RWBY is rather blunt when it comes to many narrative devices. With the exception of Jaune we know exactly who our protagonists are by order of who the show has bothered to introduce to us. 

Ruby is still at a loss though. She hilariously collapses in the courtyard and lies there until "vomit boy" gets his real introduction.

I honestly don't understand why so much of the fandom hates on Jaune (except logically I do: it stems from a dual worry that Jaune will sideline our female cast and that he’s become a full-fledged Gary Stu BUT). He's just a nice guy here, and I do mean literally nice, not a Nice Guy with a capital 'N' and 'G.' Yes, we see his misogynistic views that he'll heap on Weiss with, "Jaune Arc. Short, sweet, rolls off the tongue. Ladies love it” and his inappropriate insistence thatt she date him, but Jaune deliberately comes across as someone emulating bad advice about how to make friends/find a date. From the start we’re meant to understand that his perception is inaccurate and he will (as seen) grow out of it. To say nothing of the fact that the narrative undermines his views twice with Ruby's "Do they?" and his more genuine belief that "Strangers are just friends you haven't met yet." That's the real Jaune Arc.

He and Ruby wander off together and it's here that we get our first glimpse at Pumpkin Pete under Jaune's armor. I'm honestly impressed that Rooster Teeth had that detail in right from the start.

They talk weaponry, with Ruby showing off Crescent Rose--"It's also a gun"--and Jaune getting self-conscious about his hand-me-downs. Besides him staring up at Beacon's statue in the opening credits, this is our first hint that Jaune comes from a long line of prestigious Huntsmen. It also provides a contrast between what fighting Grimm once was and what it has now become. Jaune's weapons are a simple sword and a shield whose only 'upgrade' is that it gets smaller so you can put it on your belt, but of course it still weighs the same. Ruby, meanwhile, has three forms of Crescent Rose: storage, sniper rifle, and scythe, and she can use all three in a variety of ways. In short, fighting Grimm has become incredibly high-tech, suggesting that the fight itself is always getting harder. Swords and shields just don't cut it anymore even if they, like Jaune, are "classic."

They keep wandering, realizing too late that each was following the other and they still have no idea where they're heading. Like Yang's vomit panic last episode, "The Shining Beacon" ends on a lighthearted note with Jaune wondering if there's a foodcourt nearby.

There is and you're both going to help destroy it in the most epic food fight imaginable.

But that's a whole Volume off.

Until next time~

[alittlepieceofwarcraft]

Orphans of the Forest

Year 33, fall, two weeks after the night elves first reclaim Darkshore.

The rain fell like the tears of Elune, though in large, dirty droplets, tainted grey with ash. While the cloud cover was thick, even it could not squash the light of the moon that shone brightly through the cracks. It, like the kaldorei, would not be broken. Despite the heavy rain fall, relatively little made it to the ground where the large black panther currently skulked. Using the sound of it against the thick tree canopies, the druid let it camouflage his steps while the shadows took care of the rest. He was tired, hungry, and hadn't slept for a couple days. Be it all the same, if the human king wasn't going to help them take back their lands, he wasn't going to wait in Stormwind for the notion to fall on convenience for him. He had to do something. The fatigue was beginning to get the best of him, however, and every step caused pain to splinter like lightning through his side where a hastily wound lay wrapped hastily wrapped with vines, thick sea weed, and salve. He could tell by the smell of it that whatever the Forsaken that had hit him with had likely caused infection to set in, but in the end, he had survived while the dead things had met their true death.  And now, Verdanikus patrolled, pondering if perhaps he might meet his own out in this place that had long been his home.  

 Between the bushes Mywin remained crouched as the swaying and increasing incoherent figure dragged their heavy paws towards her. Hidden, she could study it without detection. As it stumbled closer, she began to see the form in much more detail: a panther, sleek black coat dampened from the downpour, thick layers of seaweed wrapped around its middle as if to keep him together. Mywin frowned. Something had attacked this creature, yet nothing was pursuing it which meant they hadn’t attacked the mighty beast for its rich meat or silky coat. And then someone else had bandaged it up and left it to journey on. How curious.

 Verda continued on, swaying on his paws. To him, it felt as if the sea had risen beneath the ground, causing his unsteadiness. However, the ground was as steady as ever, and after another step, he stumbled and collapsed. However, when his small panther body hit the ground, it caused reverberations to shake the area as if a much, much, larger thing had fallen. His breath was labored, and his eyes glazed as he whimpered softly. He didn't try to get back up, his head spinning. 

 Mywin leapt up and hurried over the creature. 

“Quel dorei,” she reached out slowly to cup one side of the drowsy panther’s face, “do not be afraid. I will help you.” By then, it was so intoxicated by the malicious state that had sprung upon it that the poor creature barely seemed to notice her presence. Its body was warm to the touch, feverish. An infection. Raising a palm and closing her eyes, she began reciting an incantation under her breath, concentrating on every word, every syllable. Green wisp-like magic danced from her fingertips, wafting towards the being and swirling around its form. Slowly, panther began to ease, relaxing its muscles, indicting the spell’s success.

 That feverishness took a moment to wear off as she healed and purified it, and when the infection left, it left exhaustion in its wake. The kind that left Verda unable to fully keep his true form hidden. A thick green dragon tail and long ibex-like white horns appeared, proportionate to the panther's size. It, unknowing that they were there, let out a soft chuffing noise, looking at her thankfully, and forgetting he couldn't actually talk in his panther form instead used that dragon way of projecting speech that felt as if it came from nowhere. "Thank you..." Mywin flinched, blinked once, then again. Completely bewildered and taken aback by the panther speaking: she’d expected perhaps a purr, or a sigh, but not Common to exhale out of the jaws of this big cat. She shuffled back still upon her knees, just a little, unsure how to respond. Her silver eyes darted to the changing form of the beast, widening in shock. He lifted his head a little confused, looking back to see his green tail, scaled tail was attached to his panther body, and realized he probably looked like some kind of odd chimera. With some effort, his form shimmered with white light before a seven-foot-tall blue-skinned kaldorei sat before her, dark navy dreadlocks falling in a tangle around his face. He placed a large hand on the ground to steady himself a moment. "Forgive me, I did not mean to surprise you," he spoke gently, his voice barely above a whisper. "My name is Verda. I promise, I mean you no harm." Mywin scanned the new form up and down and said nothing from a moment. After a heartbeat or two of aghast, the confusion faded with realisation sinking in. A shapeshifter, or druid perhaps. She swallowed and allowed the assurance to ease in, giving a small smile, 

“I thought you to be the result of a failed hunt. I am Winnifred. Mywin.”

 He started to reach to take her hand for a proper greeting, but paused without touching her, canting his head a little awkwardly. For a moment, he just seemed unable to figure out how to go about greeting her by touch and ended up giving up and just dropping his hand. "It is good to meet you, Mywin." Absently he rubbed his freshly healed side. "I suppose, in a way, we survivors all are results of failed hunts. The Horde meant to exterminate us, yet we still live." Mywin nodded. 

“Our people have suffered much. Far too many losses.” She bit her lip, remembering those who once had been but were no more. And those who yet lived but could not be beside her. A legendary Sentinel mother and a powerful druid father both resting with Elune, a mysterious demon hunter who she disturbed peeking in on a festival one fateful full moon lit night now dwelled by the greatest beings in all the universe. All three living, dying or making sacrifices for honour and the ultimate good of Azeroth. Yet they had left her behind.  She exhaled and returned her attention to the stranger before her. “What brings you to this part of the forest?”

"I...don't honestly remember," he said looking around. "Last I remember, I had been hunting the Horde caravans bringing in more war resources and taking out the ones that I could. I must have wandered here in my haze. Thank you for the healing, I am sorry to have troubled you." He paused a moment. "What brings you to this part of Darkshore?"

She inhaled sharply, like electricity had running through her as she suddenly remembered.

“I want to stay close...” inclining her head to the corpse of Teldrassil in the distance. No longer smoking, its colossal charcoal body could be seen by the naked eye even from miles away. Branches that once stretched out proudly seemed to be mere blackened twigs, bark chilled away by flame, barren of leaves that left them naked.  “My birthplace is Hyjal and my an’da and min’da are there. I never had the chance to see Teldrassil as often as I would have liked. And now I won’t.”

"I hatched there...in a den near Dolanaar," he said quietly, sitting cross-legged. He looked back at the husk of his home with sorrow and an ache that cut straight to the quick of his essence. "I don't remember how I ended up through the portal to Stormwind. I thought for sure...I would have died in the Temple for sure." 

“I’m sorry… you hatched?”

He blinked for a moment, confused as to why she seemed confused at the idea. Then it dawned on him, and he smiled a little shyly. "Oh, I'm sorry. My true name is Verdanikus, of the Green Dragonflight." He rubbed at the back of his neck, the slightest hint of blush purple on his blue cheeks. "I keep forgetting."

Mywin similarly went a bright shade of red in embarrassment. Of course, how could she have missed it? Shape shifters don’t just take aspects of a form, they become the whole entity. She internally scolded herself for her stupidity. There were a million questions she wanted to ask: how old was he? An ancient dragon or a youngling? Did he know the Ysera the Dreamer when she was alive? Could he fly, and if so how far? A moment passed until she realised she’d not said anything.

“I apologise for my ignorance”, she admitted, “I should know better than to make conclusions based on what I think I see.” 

He waved his hands a little worriedly, shaking his head. "Please don't be upset! I forget I am not kaldorei. That is on me," he insisted, feeling his heart speeding with anxiety. Worry showed on his face that he might be chasing his new friend away with that secret. "I was raised kaldorei, I don't know who my parents were. My egg was abandoned in that den, and when I hatched, it was to see Shan'do Duskwinter staring at me. He was the closest I had to parents, and I just kind of forgot what I was as I tried to fit in, because I feel I am kaldorei more than I feel I am dragon." Mywin became even more intrigued with each word that escaped the dragon’s mouth

“Fascinating,” she finally replied. “Does your shan’do live?” He shook his head. "He passed a thousand years ago. He had become very ill, though he had hidden it from me. His resting place had been on Teldrassil..." He let out a soft huff through his nose, fierce eyes looking up toward the silhouette of it in the distance. "And now...it is gone." Glancing back to her, his expression softened. "I am sorry about that. I am not used to...being angry or longing for vengeance. It is not...it is something that before this war...I had been against." A lost little orphan, just like her, yet they’d both managed to find themselves in the same society only with herself only a short flight path away from the other. 

“Anger is not natural to me, it is not comfortable. I am born of Sentinel Kalnor Starblade and Druid Tavanar Owlcaller.” Pride laced her words as she spoke their names, followed by a sadness of the next part she inevitably had to say. “Both are with Elune now. I did not feel rage then. Then, dying an honourable death in battle is far more just than put to the flame.”

"They took me in, the kaldorei. Most accepted me as one of them or helped me learn what it truly means to be kaldorei." He said quietly. "There were small children, mothers, all cuddled together within the thick of the smoke. The flames were so close, my scales bubbled from the heat though I had not caught fire." he closed his eyes. "The screams..." There was a small whimper through his nose. "They were murdered like cattle for slaughter. There was no honor, no...no meaning for their deaths..." Mywin didn’t meet his gaze, only stared on into distance to notice the downpour was subsiding as the sun’s glowing silhouette hidden behind grey clouds sank into the earth. She stretched her legs to rise from the ground. 

“I should return to my shan’do. He will be wondering where I have got to.”

"May I accompany you? If only to see you safely back to your shan'do?" He asked quietly. "It is the least I could do to make it up to you for helping me." Mywin glanced around, surveying the area.

“It appears to be safe, but I would be glad of the company.” Verda smiled, seemingly encouraged by the invitation, and stood to his full seven-foot and stretched as well. He was bare chested, in a pair of ancient looking linen pants that were tattered as could be and barefoot. There were thick scars near his spine that swirled and curled ominously, burned into him as fierce as his memory of Teldrassil's extinction.

"Please, lead the way, Miss." He said in his entirely gentle way, hands clasped behind his back. 

 Mywin couldn’t help but look just a little too long at his muscular physique as she admired the strong body that had stood beside her. A little taller than herself, dreaded hair falling past chiselled collarbones that lined a perfectly formed chest, feet solidly planted into the earth as he patiently waited for her to step forward. A being so very pleasant to behold. She registered the pause she’d caused in her daydream and hurried to the front and paced towards the trees that tangled themselves into the thick of the forest, only leaving a vinery passage for them to slip through.

“The druid caravan was this way,” she assured, “they won’t have moved.” He noticed her staring, and moved his arms out of the way a little as he canted his head, thinking maybe she thought she saw something. When she simply sped ahead without a comment, he followed and let it drop. Must have been nothing.

"Alright, lead the way, Miss Mywin." He smiled softly, happy to protect her. She worked her way through the winding woods, trees towering above them and grass becoming thicker and unkept. Her silver night elven eyes were used to hunting in the dark and her long ears were able to detect any twig snapped that was not under the feet of her or her companion. Fortunately, as they delved further into the depths, no creature - Horde or otherwise - was roused by their trek. A few minutes passed as she focussed in the route until she stopped in her tracks: grey billows of smoke rising from a fire pit could be seen overhead. Her camp. Nearing the flames confirmed it. A party of night elves sat around the fire swigging water from their skins, warming their hands against its comfort. A particularly unique druid was stationed at the back of the group, staring into the thicket as if he were waiting for someone, hands clasped behind a back that sprouted two giant eagle-like wings, antlers akin to a moose exaggerating his height. As she drew closer, his ears flickered, and he gave a content nod, his thero’shan was alive and returning. She turned to Verda.

“Yes, this is them,” she smiled. “Thank you for your escort. It was welcome.” Verda followed quietly, his gold eyes glowing in the low-light. For a dragon, it was remarkable how silent his footsteps were. It had taken years for him to learn to control his strength and weight to mask it and fit in better. Now he was stealthier than some of the better druids around, and rather sure footed. As he saw the camp, he smiled to her.

"Be safe. Thank you for saving my life, Miss Mywin." He said gently. 

“Just Mywin,” she grinned and gave a small wave before entering the area and murmurs of greetings could be heard from beyond the bushes. 

"Just Mywin," he whispered to himself, watching her go, before shifting back into that panther form and stalking off, deciding to take up a quick patrol to make sure there weren't any Horde scouts threatening their camp before he'd head back to hunting.

*Kaldorei: “Children of the Stars”, night elf/elves. 

*Quel dorei: “Noble child”: in this content she’s using the phrase as a pet name rather than its combined meaning of “Children of noble birth”, high elf/elves.

*Shan’do: “Honoured teacher”, a title.

*Thero’shan: “honoured student”, a title.

Verda is owned by co-writer @fullelven.

Continues with A Winter Veil’s Tale.

[fuzzballsheltiepants]

Name Games

Inspired by this amazing post by @andrews-nothing.  Neil’s cat is sick, so he brings her to the vet.  A meet-sort-of-cute ensues.  Read on AO3 if you prefer. 

The waiting room was a cacophony of nonverbal vocalization, barks and plaintive meows and the insistent screaming of some sort of parrot.  Neil sat in the corner where he could see the whole room, working to keep his hands still in his lap.  People in scrubs bustled in and out, sometimes taking a pet, sometimes delivering one, or guiding a human-and-animal through the door that led to the exam rooms.  He had long given up on concentrating on his phone with all the noise and movement.

Only one other person was as still as he was, a short blond man with a blank face and sharp eyes that watched everything.  There was something about his body language that had shoved him immediately into the threat category, though Neil had not heard him say a word.  He didn’t even know why he was there; he had been there when Neil had appeared a half hour ago and handed King off in her carrier to one of the technicians along with answers to a long list of questions.  As far as he could tell, the man hadn’t moved once aside from an occasional blink and the slow rise and fall of his chest.

There was a brief burst of excitement in the form of the parrot in its cage being carried toward the treatment screaming “Help!  Help!  I’m innocent!” while its mortified family followed.  The blond man’s face didn’t change as he stared after them.

A bouncing golden retriever on a flexi-lead zoomed over to the blond man and dropped his bedraggled stuffed toy into his lap then waited, wagging excitedly.  The dog’s family began apologizing profusely and reeled the struggling dog in, scolding him.  As soon as they turned their backs the dog bounded back to his toy.  Neil watched through his eyelashes as the man glanced around, then handed the toy back with a quick ear rub before going back to his impassive facade.  The dog sighed and rested his drooly chin on the man’s knee, and Neil bit back his grin.

The door swung open and a dozen pairs of eyes looked towards it in unison as an irritated tall man in scrubs entered.  “Will the owner of, um,” he looked down at his empty hands as if he expected the information to be there, then back up at the expectant room, “the cat with the stupid name please come with me?  Your cat just mauled the doctor.”

Neil sighed and got to his feet.  King was usually a sweetheart, but she hated having her feet touched.  He probably should have warned them but he hadn’t thought about it.  It was with some surprise he realized the blond man had joined him in front of the vet assistant.  The assistant, Kevin according to his name tag, looked between them.  “Okay, come with me.”  

They were shown into an exam room and then Kevin the surly assistant left.  There was only one chair and the blond guy took it, which was fine.

“What’s your cat’s name?” Neil asked after several minutes of silence.

He didn’t expect to get an answer, not with the look of disdain he received, but after a long pause an unexpectedly pleasant voice answered, “Sir Fat Cat McCatterson.”

Neil laughed.  “Okay, I know why you think it’s your cat, then.”  He waited but got no response.  “Mine is King Fluffkins,” he offered.  It only seemed fair to share.

“I don’t care.”

“She was peeing blood in my sink.”  Nothing.  “I’ve only had her for a month.”  Still nothing.  Neil didn’t usually talk much to strangers; he didn’t know why he felt the urge to keep talking.  Maybe it was the secret kindness this man had shown the dog out in the waiting room.  Or maybe it was the way the hazel eyes stayed locked on his face, but not on his scars.  “My friend gave her to me, he said I shouldn’t be alone so much.  He named her, too.”  He smiled a little at the memory of Nicky appearing at his door with a screaming cat in a carrier and a mountain of supplies.

“I’ve lived with people for years and not learned this much about them.”

Neil’s retort was cut off by the entrance of a large snarling gray-and-white ball of fury being held by a heavy-glove-wearing Kevin.  The cat was deposited unceremoniously on the examining table and whirled, lightning quick, to swat out, claws snagging in Kevin’s gloves for a second before Kevin yanked free.  The cat hissed and Kevin drew himself up, looming over the table.  The two glared at each other, unblinking, until the door opened again.

A woman with short dark curly hair and fresh bandages on her arms entered, a strained smile on her face.  “Mr. Minyard?” she asked, looking between the two of them.  The blond man stood up and she held her hand out towards him, carefully out of reach of the enormous cat who had crouched down on the table and was emitting ominous growls.  “I’m Dr. Wilds.”  The man didn’t shake her hand but nodded again.  “Well, we got the piece of bone out of his mouth, he should be much more comfortable now.”  Another nod.  “He was fine while I removed the bone, but attacked me afterwards.  I guess he took exception to me touching his tail.  Is he current on his rabies vaccine?”

The man—Minyard—just said, “Yes,” with no apology or hint of guilt.  The assistant bristled at him but Dr. Wilds just went on.

“And he needs to go on a diet, he’s at risk for diabetes right now.  I’ve written down a feeding program for him to help.”

Minyard took the paper she was holding out and barely glanced at it.  The doctor continued to review some things that Minyard gave no indication he was listening to, and concluded with a small laugh, “and don’t feed him bones.”

Minyard gave another slight nod.  The vet gave a small, involuntary shrug and turned towards the door.  “Wait,” Neil said, “do you have an update on my cat?”

Confusion flickered across her face.  “You’re not with Mr. Minyard?”  Neil shook his head.  “Then why are you in here?”

“Your assistant said the cat with the stupid name,” Neil shrugged.  “Mine qualified.”

Dr. Wilds glared at Kevin who didn’t seem to care.  “What is your cat’s name?”

“King Fluffkins.”  

Kevin rolled his eyes and muttered, “Idiots” under his breath, earning himself another glare.

“Oh, yes, what a sweetheart.  I’m running a urine test on her right now, I should have the results soon.”  

The vet left with her assistant, and Sir Fat Cat McCatterson stopped growling like a switch had been shut off.   He gave Neil a suspicious glare but appeared to decide he wasn’t a threat, turning to face Minyard and rising up on his hind legs to bop his human on the chin with his head.  “You worthless piece of shit,” Minyard murmured, but his hand came up to stroke the cat’s cheeks gently, eliciting a frenzy of purring nearly as loud as the growling had been previously.

“He attacked the wrong person,” Neil said with a grin.  “He should’ve gone after the assistant instead of the vet.”

There was a glimmer in the man’s hazel eyes that might have been amusement.  He shifted to rubbing under the cat’s chin, and Sir Fat Cat closed his eyes in bliss.

Neil wasn’t sure why Minyard was still there, since his cat had been returned.  “What do we do now?”

“We wait.”  Neil’s confusion must have been evident, because Minyard gave a long-suffering sigh.  “I am not taking him out of here without his carrier, and presumably you want to learn why your cat is peeing in your sink.”

“Right.”  Neil started looking at the various posters that were on the walls about assorted different diseases.  The one behind his head was a Body Condition Chart, with silhouettes of cats ranging from a skeleton with skin at 1 to one that looked like a bowling ball with ears at 9.  Neil glanced back at Sir Fat Cat.  “I think he’s about an eight.”

Minyard glared at him.  “He used to be a nine.  I’ve had him on a diet since I got him.”

Dr. Wilds entered again.  Her forehead furrowed as she looked at Minyard.  “Is there something you need?”

“My carrier would be nice.”

“True.”  She stuck her head through the door and said something to someone in the hall, then turned to Neil.  “Well, Mr. Josten, it looks like King Fluffkins has a urinary tract infection.  I’m going to dispense ten days of antibiotics, she’ll need to take one pill a day, and I want you to put her on an all canned diet if she’ll eat it.  A high moisture diet makes them less likely to have bladder problems.”

“Oh.  Okay.”

“And we need to see her back in two weeks to check another urine sample, we need to make sure she clears the infection.”  She talked for a moment more, until a thumping sound against the door made her pause.  Kevin entered with two carriers and Dr. Wilds excused herself.  

King’s carrier was shoved into Neil’s arms and he turned it so she faced him.  “I’m sorry, baby,” he cooed at her, sticking his fingers through the door so she could rub on them.  “We’re going to make you better.”  

He looked up and saw the other two men staring at him.  “What?”

Kevin shook his head while Minyard plopped the carrier in front of his cat and opened the door.  Sir Fat Cat looked into the opening, then back at Minyard.  “You want to stay here with these assholes or go home and watch TV?”  Lashing his tail, Sir Fat Cat marched into the carrier and Minyard shut the door behind him.

Neil thanked Kevin, who responded with, “Why did you name her King?  She’s a tortoiseshell, she’s obviously female, she should be Queen Fluffkins.”

“Why do you think the cat subscribes to human gender constructs?” Neil asked, setting the carrier down and crossing his arms.

Kevin rolled his eyes.  “Whatever.”

“It’s a valid question,” Minyard said, a razor’s edge to his voice.  “Why should they conform to your notions of gender?”

“We don’t even know if King identifies as female,” Neil said.  “We may be insulting King by using the wrong pronoun and not even know it.”

“Not to mention, ‘queen’ is the generic term for a female cat.  Perhaps they would resent the idea of being named the cat equivalent of ‘bitch’.”  There was a small twitch at the corner of Minyard’s mouth as he finished that Neil would have sworn was a smile.

“Oh my god, forget I ever said anything,” Kevin said, gesturing the two of them out into the hall.  “Follow me, I’ll check you out.”  He tapped a few things into the computer and then frowned at the screen.  He looked up at them, then back at the screen and clicked the mouse.  “Uh…Okay.  Mr. Minyard.”  He read out his total and accepted the card he was handed.  After Minyard had signed, he picked up his carrier and turned to Neil with a sarcastic two-finger salute before disappearing through the door.

Kevin turned to Neil and gave him his total, still looking baffled.  “What?” Neil asked as he handed him his card.  

“You guys have separate accounts.”

“No shit,” Neil said; evidently it was his turn to be confused.  

Kevin took in his expression and shook his head.  “Never mind.”  

Neil signed and took his card back, snagged one of the business cards sitting next to the checkout and jotted something down on it, then gathered up his paperwork and his carrier and shoved his way outside.  The parking lot was full of cars but devoid of people, except for Minyard, who was standing next to Neil’s car smoking.  He stepped aside so Neil could put King in the passenger seat.  When Neil turned to go around to the driver’s side, he found himself blocked by Minyard’s back.  “Why are you still here?”

“I’m not going to expose the cat to second hand smoke he can’t get away from,” Minyard said over his shoulder, as if it was obvious.  Neil was sort of trapped, and he leaned against his car and waited.

“That was kind of fun,” he said after a minute.

Minyard ground out his cigarette and turned to face him.  “You need help if that’s your definition of fun.”

Neil shrugged.  “I don’t know, I kind of enjoyed ragging on that assistant.”

“Like I said.”

“Is that some sort of invitation?” Neil challenged.

Minyard stepped closer.  “No.”  He waited just a breath too long then got into his fancy car and started it.  Neil grinned at him, returning his two-fingered salute as he backed out of the space.  

Neil’s phone dinged as he pulled into his parking spot.  how tf did u get that card in my pocket

I’ve got skills

ur an idiot

what’s your name

andrew

Neil

thats what the card said

There were three dots indicated another text was coming.  Neil got out of his car and fished a mournful King out.  He had just reached the stairs when the next text came through.  wanna get a drink

I don’t really drink

a coffee then

Sure

A time and the address of a coffee shop followed; it was only a couple of blocks away.  Neil gave King her first pill with only a moderate amount of difficulty, then petted her until she was purring and kneading on his lap.  He smiled a little as he looked down at her, then around the apartment, sparse except for the cat tower, scratching posts, beds, and toys.  Maybe Nicky was right about the benefits of cat ownership after all.

[rudra-writes]

Pallas and Telurin - Meeting (Part 1)

This is a log of a roleplay story written with Telurin’s player. In Shadowmoon Valley of AU Draenor, the draenei priest Pallas is rescued from orcs by a death knight mounted on horseback named Telurin. The two of them take Pallas’s injured guard back to civilization, where Pallas shows great curiosity towards the death knight.

About a month had passed after Pallas's brutal 'training' at the hands of his Death Knight mentor, Rasuron. It had taken the Anchorite that much time to recover, but now he was up and about and eating again. One night, it came into his head to return to the site of the Moonwillow Tree. The Tree, in the one instance Rasuron had been present near it, had seemed to trigger a memory or strange reaction in the other draenei, for it had seemed to draw him strangely. Accompanied by one of Karabor's defenders, a pleasant Vindicator by name of Alhoriel, Pallas journeyed to the tree again by talbuk.

He searched about until he had found a seedling of the giant Tree. Unfortunately for the two of them, Pallas wandered away from the civilized, safe region during his search. The Anchorite dug up the seedling with a spade, then wrapped the roots up in canvas. "I've found one, Alhoriel--"

The other draenei made a motion in the darkness to cut all sound. Pallas froze in place where he was. The sequence of events happened very quickly. Alhoriel told him to run. In nearly the same instant, a spear punctured through his back, erupting through his breastplate in a spray of sapphire droplets.

Pallas cried out in grief and turned around. He swung himself up into the saddle of his talbuk, miraculously still clutching the precious seedling. The poor animal took two gallops, then bucked wildly as it was needled full of arrows.

Pallas hit the dirt on his back hard. An orcish boot stamped down on his right wrist, the brutish creature grinning at the Anchorite luridly. Pallas, at the very least, managed not to panic, and instead squirmed and flung himself about like an eel dragged onto land, crying out for help.

There were Shadowmoon orcs here, so close to the Moonwillow? It was a horrific thought. Although he wasn't certain, Pallas discerned three or four orcish warriors coming in to surround him.

Hearing the cry for help, Telurin turns the nose of his charger toward the scene. The big horse knows what the scent of blood means and his ears perk as he picks up speed, cresting the rise and smashing into an orc nearly at the same time, crushing him underhoof. Telurin urges him to continue through the group, deflecting a badly attempted blow and cutting another down before the pair are out of the pack, and Telurin wheels the horse and slides out of the saddle in nearly the same movement, preferring to meet the rest of the group on his own hooves.

With a cry, Pallas rolled out of the way of the heavy horse. He thought, somewhat deliriously, that it must be Rasuron - He had seen the Knight's charger before. It made absolutely no sense why he would be here, but stranger things have happened. When he picked his head up and saw the silhouette that slid off of the charger, he realized that it wasn't Rasuron. It was someone else. ...But why would a different person ride an undead, lichfire-flaming horse? It hadn't dawned on the priest yet that there might exist other draenei death knights. The orc closest to him shouted an unintelligible command at the others, and they turned away from him to face what looked like the far greater threat. He counted three of the orcs, the fourth having been trampled to the dirt and unmoving. They wasted no time gaining the offensive, charging the Knight, axes at the ready.

Telurin scowls, and barks a short command to the horse in an equally harsh tongue. The charger trumpets a challenge and charges the furthest one on the right as his master reaches out with a free hand and freezes the orcs in place with chains of ice before making his own strike with the long runeblade he carries.

Pallas had seen Rasuron in combat - He'd seen the absolute hell that Death Knights were capable of wreaking. He pushed himself up on his palms while Telurin cut down the first of the orcs. They were terribly enraged to be rooted in place, and they seemed as if they'd break free from the force of their sheer anger alone. But this did not happen, and they remained frozen to the ground. The horse delivered a kick to its orc's forehead, dispatching him swiftly. Pallas wanted to help too. Scowling, he focused all his inner energy on the frozen-in-place orc closest to him... looking for all the world as if he were merely staring it down. But it became confused, as if it had forgotten the reason for its being here.

The charger stamps vindictively on the corpse of the latest orc he's crushed before wheeling again and placing himself nearly on top of Pallas. Telurin catches the glazed look in one of the remaining orc's eyes and changes his target, his runeblade splitting the orc nearly in two, from one shoulder to the opposite hip. The remaining orc, managing to break free of his chains, howls as he swings his axe toward the death knight. Telurin brings his runeblade up from the previous swing, up and under the orcs gaurd to catch him in the ribs, the blade going through bone and armor as if it were nothing. His axe hits one of Telurin's pauldrons and skitters off, but he's already dead.

"Agh!" Pallas falls over on his rump when the horse approaches him closely, although a moment or two later he had picked up on the fact that the animal was trying to shield him. The Anchorite was covered in dirt his blue eyes blinking owlishly at the unfamiliar, suspiciously Death Knight-looking figure not far from him. Whoever it was... They had just more than likely saved his life. Pallas glanced around wildly for any sign of other orcs, but he saw and heard nothing unusual. It did not, however, automatically mean that they were now safe.

Telurin pulls his blade out of the last orc by putting a hoof on the corpse's chest and pulling. He also looks around warily but, seeing no additional immediate threats, he takes a moment to wipe his runeblade clean on the orc's clothing.  He turns to look at the person he's saved, eyeing him with a critical eye to asses any damage he may have occurred. The big horse continues to stand over Pallas, but now that the threat is past he's calmed, and he bends his head to nose the Anchorite he's standing over with his muzzle.

Pallas jumps at first at the innocuous nuzzling of the charger, then realizes the horse is behaving the same as any living horse, despite its fearful appearance. Pallas rises to his hoofs slowly - He does not appear to be seriously harmed. He looked up and into the eyes of the unfamiliar man... He had Rasuron's aura. No matter. "Please, we must recover Alhoriel's body," Pallas begged Telurin. "It's not far away... He died because of me." Pallas's hands balled up into fists and his eyes squinched closed. "I was stupid, and wanted to come out here for a plant... A good man died because of me..." His thin shoulders started to shake.

Telurin frowns, and takes a half step toward Pallas before stopping himself. The horse's ears flick back at the sound of distress emanating from the draenei below him and nudges him more insistently. "Sugarfoot." Telurin says, cracking the word like a whip. The horse reluctantly moves away from Pallas. Telurin considers the man a moment more and nods. "Take me to him."

Telurin seemed hesitant to approach the Anchorite. It matched Pallas's first exposure to Rasuron - Rasuron had done his best to push the priest away from him, as if concerned he'd get hurt or sullied somehow. Pallas rubbed tears out of his eyes, but when Telurin replies that he will follow, he looks up and nods gratefully. The priest turned and hurried a short distance into the underbrush. There lay a dead talbuk, and a Vindicator with a grievous wound. But the Vindicator was still alive! Pallas cried out and flung himself to the other draenei's side. Completely without hesitation, he placed his hands into the wound and began to channel the Light. His white hands were stained a vivid indigo in the process. Pallas looked back up at Telurin's face. "We must take him to safety, as quickly as we can," he implored the Knight. "I think I can stabilize him, but he will need intensive care."

Telurin had followed Pallas to the wounded man, and privately agrees on Pallas's assessment of the injury. He speaks another word to his charger, who moves to stand next to the injured Draenei and lays down. "We can tie him to the saddle if need be."

"Thank you," Pallas muttered. He moved to the Vindicator's hoofs. "If you take his shoulders, I can pick up his feet?" The Knight was quite large, and Pallas could not move Alhoriel on his own. His curiosity was starting to kick in, now that the danger had passed. Pallas watched Telurin with bold-faced inquisitiveness. "Are you... one of the Ebon Blade?" he asked, humbly.

Telurin steps closer, and nods curtly before crouching next to the wounded guard. "I prefer Telurin." His voice rings hollow like any other of his kind, but it's also expressive and right now is curt, most of his attention on their surroundings. He lifts the wounded man easily, the only thing left for Pallas to do is get one of his hooves over the horn of the saddle.

Hurriedly, Pallas helps swing the bulky Vindicator's hoofed leg over the saddle of Telurin's horse. Privately, he is surprised to hear emotion in Telurin's voice. He was used to speaking with Rasuron, whose voice and manner were infamously devoid of warmth. Pallas looked as if he were remembering something at the last minute, and scurried a short distance away. He picked up the seedling he had dropped and shoved it into his robes, then hurried back to Telurin's side. "I am ready to depart," the Anchorite announced, then he blinked and said, "Oh, I am Anchorite Pallas." He bowed on the spot, apparently unable to resist formality.

Telurin is still tying the injured guard to the saddle, but he smirks at the introduction and after he's finished with the knots, he returns the bow with equal formality. "Any man'ari would know you to be an Anchorite."  he touches Sugarfoot on the shoulder and the charger stands with the injured man safely tied to his saddle and only requiring a bit of stabilization as the horse gets to his hooves.

Man'ari! An accursed name! Pallas seemed to puff up like an angry chipmunk. His tail wiggled like a cat that was about to pounce. "A man'ari can suck my left teat," he muttered, pouting stormily, before realizing he'd said a curse! He blushed faintly, "...Please forget that I said that, Sir."

Telurin snorts. "Hardly the worst I've heard, even from an Anchorite." He makes an expansive gesture toward the road. "Lead the way."

Pallas's brows drew together in confusion. He'd really never met a foul-mouthed Anchorite before. Foul-mouthed Vindicators, yes, but not an Anchorite. "It would be fastest if we all ride," Pallas replied, looking up at the head of the charger. "But can your steed bear the three of us? Um, I don't weigh very much."

Telurin seems to consider this for a moment, before he nods. "Sit in front, and I will ride behind. It is not far, Sugarfoot should be able the bear the weight."

Pallas swung himself up into the saddle, possibly with some assistance to compensate for his short height. He wrinkled his nose. "You have named your horse very strangely for a Death Knight," he remarks, maybe not entirely politely.

"He came with the name." Telurin replies, his tone returning to its former curtness. He sees Pallas struggling and sighs, offering his brusque assistance before swinging up behind the two of them with ease. "Though it seems to suit his personality. "Hand me the reins, if you would."

Pallas gives Telurin the reins. He smiles a bit. Any Knight that would choose to continue to use such an adorable name cannot be all bad, he thinks to himself. Then he turned to look forward, blushing faintly. He felt very small riding in front of this giant, undead man. That's right... he was undead. He had died. Pallas shivered despite himself. "I am sorry for troubling you like this, Telurin, Sir..."

Telurin takes the reins, and clucks to the horse to get him to go, as well as to reply to Pallas. "Trouble? I would say this day has been more troubling for you, Anchorite." Now that they are moving, he's more relaxed, and his tone lightens in turn. "It is *just* Telurin, however. Do not trouble yourself with 'sirs' on my account." He sounds slightly disturbed by the thought, actually.

Pallas's long, thin tail wrapped around his waist protectively, and for warmth. There was a drizzle, and the night was cold. "I understand, S--I mean, Telurin." The Death Knight felt as cold as iron behind him. "I am used to formality, living at the temple at Karabor... But I will try not to be so much around you, if it bothers you." The last thing Pallas wanted to do was peeve a giant, undead Death Knight. Even one who called his steed Sugarfoot.

Telurin's response is to snort, making his opinion on the matter clear. "The only thing that bothers me is that an Anchorite feels he owes respect to a man'ari such as myself."

Pallas's jaw drops open. "Wh--You cannot call yourself that!" he quips. He looks emotional. "You saved my life! A man'ari would never do something like that. I have only just met you, but I can already tell, you are not one of them!" He seems to be rather emotional!

Telurin laughs, though it's hollow and carries little mirth. "You must be young."

Pallas pouts at Telurin, even as the pair return to civilization. "What does me being young have to do with anything?" His brows come down. It's quite adorable. "You will not call yourself by that name in my presence!"

Telurin looks amused at that statement. "Oh? And what will you do if I refuse?" Telurin replies, and it's clear in his voice that he's already dismissed Pallas's argument.

Pallas is not so easily dismissed! He pouts even more, if that were possible. "...Sugarfoot will be disappointed in you!" That was the best he could come up with on short notice.

"Hardly." Telurin scoffs. "As long as he gets his feed and his brush he is content." They reach the front of the inn and Telurin is the first to dismount, turning to offer Pallas a hand, equal parts sarcasm and a genuine offer of assistance. "I understand you've just been attacked, but your rhetoric could use some work. Try appealing to my better nature next, see how far it gets you."

Pallas still looks angry. He actually seems to debate spiting Telurin's offer of assistance, but then he thinks better of it and takes the Death Knight's hand. "I don't want you to call yourself that," he tried again, sounding less irritated. "Man'ari are 100 feet tall, bright red, have giant fangs, and have no redeeming features." He climbed down, "They also probably smell bad."

Telurin helps Pallas down with the same brusque regard before turning and beginning to untie the straps holding the guard in place. "In the original meaning of the word," he says, still focused on the straps and not looking at Pallas, "It means 'wrong', or 'twisted by evil.' In this regard, man'ari is an excellent choice to use. It was only later that it became associated with those that stayed behind."

Pallas scurried to the other side of Sugarfoot to help untie the knots. His tail unfurled from his waist and twisted and shook in his irritation. "You are obstinate," he replied, but then his voice cracked, "Just like Rasuron."

When the straps are loosened on the far side, he pulls the unconscious guard off of the horse with ease. "I am." He replies easily, "Though you are as well. What is it to you what I call myself, Anchorite?"

Pallas looked up as Telurin prepared to go inside with the wounded and unconscious Vindicator. His brows furrowed. Pallas didn't have an easy answer for that. "You were kind enough to save my life..." he murmured. "You could have chosen to have left us."

Telurin speaks another word in a harsh tongue to Sugarfoot and looks to Pallas. "Loop the reins over the pommel. He can be trusted not to wander." He pauses, his tail twitching irritably at Pallas's words. "It is not in my nature to leave an Anchorite to orcs, even now." he says, and enters the building before Pallas can respond.

Telurin lays the injured draenei on the bed, and moves to put some distance between himself and the living.

[scarlette-joel-writing]

Erased Pt. 9

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader 

Warnings: things get a bit gruesome, not too bad though. Language. 

A/N I know . Ihave taken forever to update. Im sorry about that. I promise that I will be better

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10  Part 11  Part 12 Part 13

~

Y/N’s POV:

It is dark and it is cold and it is loud.

It is dark. I cannot see an inch in front of my face. I cannot see any light coming from any place and I have no idea what the room I am in looks like. I don’t even know if I am in a room. I could be in a cardboard box for all I know. Stored on a shelf somewhere, waiting to be shipped off to China. I haven’t moved from this spot since I woke up because I am not sure that I want to know what my surroundings consist of.

It is cold. I am so cold that my teeth chatter and my skin has permanent goosebumps on them. Yea that is what I mean by it is freaking cold. There is a breeze that is as cold as the Arctic Circle that hits me every couple of minutes and I cannot, for the life of me, figure out where the hell it is coming from. I guess the fact that there is a breeze is some indication that I am not in a card board box, so I can add that to the very short list of things that I know.

It is loud. There is a loud pounding in my ears that causes my entire body to shake as I am sitting on the ground. It is Similar to the sound that I heard when the guy came into the complex to take me, but this sound is much louder than that one. And it isn’t just one steady note. It is high frequencies and low frequencies that mix together and cause my brain to feel like it is turning to mush. It paralyzes my muscles and makes me want to puke. Thankfully, I have been able to stop myself from doing that so far.

I don’t know how long I have been here and I really have no way of figuring it out. My internal clock is fucked because of the noise and my external clock is fucked because of the lack of sun. If I had to take I guess, I would say that I have been awake for about 12 hours but I have no idea how long I was out before then. It could have been 2 hours or two weeks for all I know.

I have to do something besides just sit here. I have to. So far no one has come in and I am pretty sure that even night vision wouldn’t be able to see through the pitch blackness of this room. I am just sitting there until they decide that they have had me for long enough and kill me.

I take a deep breath and then allow myself to unlatch my arms from around my knees and to pull myself up onto all fours. My hand sweeps out in front of me and it is met with nothing but cold air. So not a cardboard box. Maybe a shipping container. I shuffle forward a little bit on my knees. Maybe if I can just make it to the other side of the space, there will be a door or something that will lead to the outside world.

I continue on with my blind search until I put my hand down on top of something. It all happens so quickly. I set my hand down on something and then suddenly my hand is going through the something. My arm goes in all the way up the elbow and I can feel a warmth encompass me. I have to pull my hand out of whatever it was in, and the warm and sticky substance encases my entire left forearm.

That is the breaking point. That is what makes me scramble to my feet, take a couple steps and then hunch over, vomiting up whatever stomach contents I have. I have no idea what that was, but I can tell you that I know it wasn’t strawberry jelly. The smell is enough to tell me that.

I abandon my search of the room and crawl back into my little corner, stumbling as I walk because these fuckers know that I would kick their ass if they didn’t have this stupid noise buzzing through my ears.

I sit back down on the ground and let my head hit the wall behind me. I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes. I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to cry but I don’t know what else there is for me to do. I am helpless. I can’t use my power and there isn’t anybody here for me to kick the shit out of. I don’t know who is doing this, why they took me, or what they want.

I let the first tear fall, and I don’t even attempt to wipe it off.

All I know is that I want Bucky. I want to be back home in the complex. I want to be home.

Please come find me Bucky.

~

Bucky’s POV:

“What the fuck do you mean we don’t have anything?! How can we not have found out a single fucking thing on where Y/N might be?!” my voice shakes and it feels like it shakes the entire complex with it. I am angry. I am beyond angry. I really don’t think that there are any words to describe the emotions that I am feeling right now. There are too many of them.

It has been two days since Y/N has gone missing. Two days since I realized that she was taking a bit to long with her shower and went up to find her bedroom empty and some blood on the floor. It has been two days since I realized that the girl that I am supposed to protect with my entire life is missing. Two days of non-stop panic and anxiety, trying to find anything that could possible lead me to her.

“Bucky. We are doing everything that we can. We don’t really have a lot to go off of,” Steve says as he and the rest of the team are sitting in the conference room, trying to have a civil conversation about the plans that they should be making. How is this any time to be having a civil conversation? This is the time to be going out and knocking people’s teeth out until they tell me what I need to know.

“Yea, Buck. It’s not like they exactly left us a note, telling us exactly where they were taking her. These things take time,” Natasha says and I can see her give me a small smile of sympathy. But small smiles of sympathy aren’t what I need right now.

“Why aren’t we going through lists of all of our enemies and trying to figure out which one has her that way?” I am pacing the floor now. Back and forth. Back and forth. It doesn’t offer me any release but it does allow me to do something. Anything.

“We are doing that. But that list isn’t exactly a short one. Like Romanoff said, these things take time,” Tony is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He gives me a look that tells me that he is sorry but he isn’t that sorry.

They are all trying to cut themselves off from their emotions. They are all trying to pretend like this isn’t one of their own that has gone missing. They are trying to keep themselves more rational by being impartial to the situation. But that doesn’t work with me. None of that works for me.

I am not going to sit here and pretend that my Y/N is just another random stranger that we have to save. I am not going to pretend like she isn’t the most important thing in my life and I am definitely not going to stop until I have her back home and with me.

Let’s just hope that nothing bad has happened to her…

~

Y/N’s POV:

There is nothing but light surrounding me. Bright blinding light that causes my eyes to water and me to cover them with my right hand. It is coming from the opposite side of the room, just like I knew it would. Once my eyes have adjusted enough, I drop my hand and look back to the door. There is a silhouette there, just standing.

“I see you have had the pleasure of getting acquainted with Robert,” the voice says and I am confused for a second until I look down and realize that there is a body lying in the middle of the floor. It is half decayed and the skin seems to be sliding off of the bones a bit. I notice that there is a gaping hole in the middle of the stomach and when I look down at my arm, it is almost black in color due to the blood and whatever else was resting inside of Robert. The sight makes me gag but thankfully there is nothing left in my stomach to throw up.

The noise is still pounding in my skull and it makes my vision blurry. Everything is blurry. I feel like I am going to pass out But I cant do that. I cant. I may never way up again.

“Who are you? What do you want?” I want my voice to be strong and hard but it comes out weak and broken and laced with fear at the sight of the body in front of me. Is that going to be soon? Is that how the others are going to find me? Half decayed with a hole in my stomach? Or will they even find me at all?

“My name is Dr. Orlov,” I can hear the Russian accent now. Subtle but still there. He takes a step inside, switches on a light, and bathes the room in a yellow glow. Everything in this room is gray. Gray tiles and gray concrete. All the way to the gray body lying in the middle of the room. “And you have something that I require,” he smiles at me.

“And what would that be,” I spit back at him, and before I know it, he has crossed the small room and is kneeling in front of me. He pulls a small machine out of his pocket and attaches it to my forehead. This device causes small bursts of electricity to shoot through my body every couple of seconds. He hits another button that stops the horrible noise, but I still cant use my power because of this stupid electricity.

FUCK ME.

“I require the code to my asset. And it seems that you are the one that has it,” he leans back and I cant help the look of pure confusion on my face. How the hell does he know about that. There is no way that he could possibly know about the code. I erased it from every person’s mind in the world. The only way that he could remember was if he wasn’t on the planet when I was erasing things… But that’s not possible. “Ah, I can see the little wheels in your head turning. So many questions. But don’t worry your pretty little head about that. We will have plenty of time to talk and discuss how I know the things I know while you are telling me the code,”

“I will never tell you the code,” I hiss back at him, feeling myself lose consciousness once again.

“Torture is a powerful thing Ms. Y/N. Never say never,” he smiles at me.

Taglist: 

@jacks-on-krack @tbetz0341 @haleypearce @buckybarnesappreciationsociety @zestygingergirl @geeksareunique @jemjem-chan @rachelmc97 @fesslasuisse @vvonder-lands @ran-randomness @m4df4n

[risingpolaris]

It Lives in the Woods Ch. 1 Pt. 1

ilitw fic. mc insert. andy x mc.

Being in an attic room like this one meant that on nights like these the moon was in perfect position to peer in all her glory through the unobscured window, bathing the entire room in a pale white glow that allowed the objects within to be perceived just past what would be considered a silhouette. It’s the main reason that when the cellphone--lying face down on the bedside table--starts to vibrate, Dizzy Ainsley can find it with relative ease despite the heavy weight of REM trying to drag her back into blissful darkness.

Scrubbing sleepily at her face, numb on one side with the deep impression of her pillowcase, Dizzy squints at the bright rectangle of light until her eyes adjust enough to see anything.

Hey, are you awake? It’s Dan.

She glances at the time. It’s the better part of three in the morning, confusing her even further than the text on her screen does.

Dan? Dan Pierce? The guy I haven’t had a decent conversation with since the ass-end of elementary school? Why in the hell...?

Before she can even decide how she wants to reply—she’s debating with herself between mildly disgruntled or distant and evasive, both very appropriate she thinks—another texts pops into place in her notifs.

I messed up. I’m so sorry...

She scoffs indignantly initially before feeling a little twinge of guilt. It isn’t as if Dan is the only one at fault for their drifting apart. At this point in time, Dizzy wonders if it had actually made things easier to bear. Judging by the way his very name makes her gut twist and recoil, she assumed it had.

Despite that...

She wasn’t going to leave him on read like this. They knew each other too well for that.

Hey, Dan...been awhile. You know it’s 3 AM, right?

He seems to have been waiting for a response, because his comes within seconds of her hitting send. He ignores her subtle irritation and cuts right to his point.

I went back into the woods.

Her very mind snaps backwards like a coiled snake dodging a thrown rock. The Woods.

I had to be sure...had to prove to myself that it was all in my head. But it isn’t, Dizzy...it’s all real.

He’s real.

She shakes her head as she reads—an actual, physical reaction to the things he was saying. She pushes back the wave of unpleasant memories with all her mental might.

You’re high.

It’s the only thing she can think of to say with the edges of her mind numbing with panic like they are. Her wit is at its limits, but she needs to deny it. She needs to. To convince herself, to shut it all out.

Dan doesn’t read it, or doesn’t care.

I heard him whispering, like when we were kids.

No...

Dan, you know that was just us being stupid kids. It wasn’t real.

The reply comes even faster.

It was. He’s here with me now. I can hear him in the trees.

Whispering.

Three sharp raps at the window startle a yelp from her lips. Her phone tumbles from her fingers and smashes her nose where she lies, making her cry out again.

“Fuck!”

She shoots up in bed, hand still cradling her face. A dark silhouette blots out the moonlight, casting a thick shadow across her room. Her heart hammers against her rib cage like it’s itching to burst out of it. Without taking her eyes off of the shape, she fumbles from memory for her light switch, connected to every lamp and strand of lights in her room. It takes a few tries before her entire room is bathed in light once more.

Dan’s grinning face peers at her through the window, and she doesn’t quite know whether or not to be relieved that it is only him. Either way, she makes a mental note to invest in some curtains.

“What the hell are you doing here?” She flings herself out of bed and unlatches the window to throw it open, still functioning on at least eighty-percent adrenaline. “It’s been literal years since we last talked, and now you show up at my bedroom window at 3 AM. If you really wanted to rekindle the friendship, the first day of school starts in a couple hours.”

“I’m sorry.” He says, and something about the way he does it has her on edge. An underlying, almost malicious tone to his voice that she’s almost positive she must have imagined.

With an exasperated sigh she stabs her fingers through her pastel purple hair and unwittingly avoids his intense gaze. “Don’t...ugh, don’t apologize. Just tell me what’s going on with you. Your texts were...weird.”

“It’s nothing. I’m fine.” Dan has ditched the unsettling smile for an even stranger blank expression; it brings to mind the image of a stoic Ken doll. His eyes follow her every movement, but he remains mostly still. No...not mostly.

Completely. He’s practically cast in stone, for how little he moves. Even when he talks, all that moves is his mouth. Has he even blinked since he came inside? Dizzy shivers an takes what she hopes is a discreet step backwards.

“Come on,” Dan says tonelessly, “we need to get the others.”

“What others?” Dizzy almost snaps at him in her unease.

“Our friends.” He smiles again, and it’s like every part of his face aside from his mouth is petrified in place. Dizzy feels a weight settle in her stomach. She looks anywhere but his calculating eyes. “Stacy, Lily, Noah, Lucas, Ava, and Andy. I have something that I want to show all of you.”

Each name he speaks twists another knife in another wound made several years ago, yet still barely healed. “I...I’ve hardly said a word to any of those people since we were little. After what happened with Jane...” She trails off.

After what happened with Jane, I didn’t want to have to look at any of you ever again. She finishes guiltily without a word. She doesn’t want to admit it, but it has always been the truth. They wouldn’t have drifted apart unless every single one of them had been completely willing to.

“They have to come, Dizzy. That’s the rule.” His smile disappears almost as if it was never there, and a flash of something more intense than annoyance flashes across his eyes for a split-second. Dizzy flinches away, and notices that there is a faint, muffled buzzing coming from her blankets. She moves slowly towards it, almost like she’s trying to avoid provoking a wild animal instead of standing in a room with one of her ex-best-friends.

“I wanna help, Dan, really.” She speaks softly, digging in her comforter for her phone as she does. “But, you’re really freaking me out, right now. I already said the first day is in a few hours, okay? Let’s talk, then.”

Her phone blinks to life in her hand. On it, another text.

Dizzy, are you still there? I’m lost...and I think my battery’s gonna give. Please help me!!!

It’s from...Dan.

She stares for a moment, forgetting in her shock that now more than ever she should be keeping an eye on the...thing in her room. “Holy...”

“We have to go back to the woods, Dizzy.” He’s close. Too close. When did he move?

The light’s flicker, and Dan’s face seems to change in the brief darkness, like something is hiding underneath. But the light is like a reverse camera flash and she can’t see it well enough before it’s just Dan again. Or “Dan”. Whatever it was. “Who...?”

He smiles once more. It stretches much wider than it should. All she can hear is the hammering of her heart and her gasping breaths. Bile rises up her throat with the panic.

“Dizzy.” He grabs her arm. She tries to yank away only to find that he’s supernaturally strong. His eyes darken; sinister. With a grunt of effort she snatches a ceramic mug from her bedside table and smashes it against his head. The pieces clatter noisily to the hardwood, but he barely flinches. With a grin nothing short of evil, he throws her down. She hits the ground hard. He pins her with a hand to her throat. She can hardly struggle without choking herself.

“We all have to go back!” He hisses through clenched teeth, though holding her down as she squirms and kicks seems to require no great effort.

“Over my dead body!” She yells in his face. She claws at him wherever she can reach. Her stomach lurches when his skin crumbles under her fingers like old dried-out clay. A ripe stench of blood and stale earth wafts from the gashes. His eyes roll back into his head until they’re a swimming milky white. His skin continues to crumble, needing less prompting from her fingertips as it loosens like soft dirt under the surface. His hair falls out, his features fall away. Soon he is only an unrecognizable monster.

“Everyone plays together, Dizzy.”

She screams, but it’s cut off into a scratchy rasp when he tightens his grip around her neck. Her hands grasp at his fingers, trying to peel them away. They don’t budge, and the world around her begins to blur.

Her struggles die with lack of oxygen, and her limbs start to feel very heavy.

The darkness claims her, not so blissful after all.

~

The last time she’d woken from the throes of a night terror she’d been in the middle of a sea of meds and therapy sessions that had lasted all throughout her middle school career. The nightmares hadn’t stopped completely, but it had been quite some time since she’d been sent shooting upwards in bed, drenched in sweat and screaming. It takes her a moment of struggling against sheets and pillows to realize that they are not her attacker. Sun streams in from her window and casts none of the sinister, oily shadows from her dream.

She sits for a moment, catching her breath.

“Fuck...that...” She mutters, scraping strands of clinging hair from her forehead before her fingers trail downward, tracing the skin along her throat where that monster had held her down. As soon as her fingertips brush the tender flesh, she winces, pain shooting up and down her neck. Bruises.

She considers any scenario she can think of, but there’s only one possibility given her current situation—and it’s all very Nightmare on Elm Street. She winces again—although now it is less due to pain—and tries to shove it from her mind. She reminds herself that she needs to get dressed for school.

She grabs her phone to check the time only to find that it has died. With a grunted curse, she discards it into her school bag before snatching an outfit from her closet. She tucks an oversized sweater into some black skinnies and steps into a pair of sneakers. Only a few steps in her morning ritual remain, and after she finishes she’s down the stairs and out the door.

All around her house the wind rustles in the trees, drawing her eye even as she locks the door behind her and steps down from her porch. The familiar forest that cradles the edge of the yard sends and equally familiar chill up her spine.

It was only a dream. Creepy bruise notwithstanding...Dan couldn’t have seen Mr. Red...

Just thinking that old name gives her the creeps.

“Morning, neighbor!”

Dizzy almost trips over her own feet, heart jumping up into her throat for what feels like the thousandth time in the last hour. Doing her best to play it off, she turns to face her neighbor, Cid.

He’s a friendly guy, with shaggy blonde hair and a well-groomed beard to match. In his signature plaid button-down, it’s like he’s ready to pose for the cover of lumberjack’s digest. “Hey, Cid,” She says, speaking a little too loudly to be considered casual, “what’s up?”

“Just coming back from our walk. Look who it is, Hilda!” He calls over his shoulder. A second later, a black blur darts out of the bushes. Hilda, Cid’s excitable border collie, glances from side to side until she zeroes in on Dizzy. Dizzy crouches as the dog makes a break for her, barking happily at the familiar face.

She uses both hands to ruffle the dog’s soft fur. “Hey, girl!” She grins, pressing her forehead to the dog’s. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you.” Hilda pants happily at the attention, trying to lick at Dizzy’s face. She stands quickly, still chuckling a bit. Don’t think you’ll like the taste of makeup, bud.

“Your parents around?” Cid asks as Dizzy reaches down to continue scratching behind Hilda’s ears. The dog plops down at her leg, content. “I didn’t see them out and about this morning.”

“Oh, that’s because they’re still overseas while they take care of my great aunt’s estate...or something.” She frowns in thought for a moment, and then shakes her head dismissively. “They’ll be back in a couple weeks, anyway.”

“Hell,” Cid grunts in surprise, “That’s a long time to be home by yourself. ‘Specially in a big house like that.”

Dizzy decides not to mention that she’s been eighteen for some time now and had spent those eighteen years learning to take care of herself for the most part. “The nightly ragers tend to keep me pretty occupied. Nothing like strip poker and keg stands to kick off senior year, right?”

“Y’know, as someone who’s been through college, I feel obligated to tell you that keg stands aren’t half as fun as they look.” Cid grins, “Unless you like the feeling of cheap beer all up in your sinuses.”

[araneaes-order]

In the Bleak Mid-winter Ch. 6

LAST HERALD-MAGE FANFIC

Fix-it…ish. canon mm

Young Stefen, living on the streets, found out someone was looking for him and decided to lay low, avoiding the mysterious stranger in red, so he’s never taken to Haven by Bard Lynnell. It was an unfortunate decision, but in spite of it, he and Van do meet up, just later, and under less kind circumstances. Basically a redo on the ending. ~55k words Finished.

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Visit my master list

Word Count: ~9400

Rating: Mature for, sorry, lots of bad stuff, rape, sexual abuse, child abuse. Canon was pretty dark, especially what I was redoing here, so’s this.

On AO3.

Chapter Synopsis: Stefen’s backstory with Leareth. (Mind the warnings)

Stefen felt ready to crawl out of his skin at any moment. They were so close to Master Dark already. It was just the pass between them now and Stefen hated crossing through that narrow, dangerous way, the mountains to either side like two frozen oceans, or one, divided, and only waiting for the perfect moment to come crashing back together and smash whatever insignificant creature was stupid enough to try to ford them.

The Herald, the whole reason he was doing this, didn’t even seem to care. The closer they’d gotten, the cooler he’d become. Stefen wanted to shake him until he expressed some of the terror he ought to be feeling, if only so Stefen could feel less alone in it—except he’d seen the man blow out the roof of a keep without half trying and kill almost twenty men with frightening little effort, and that after being beaten bloody and broken. No, Stefen wasn’t making a move on that one in anger.

The Herald and Master Dark might just be well matched in more than appearance. …if the Herald had brought an army with him, a few dozen magical monsters from the Palagirs, a score of lesser mages to drain of power and life and hope…

At least he probably was fine going off by himself here, though Stefen had tried pointlessly to argue with him about it at first. But no one came this far north without express invitation from Master Dark. No one who was hunting him would even consider he might be so close already; this was possibly as safe as they could be, short of on the other side of the continent.

The Herald had told him ominously to “rest while he could,” as though there was any chance of that, before taking off for whatever solitary errand he was pursuing. Stefen’d napped a little on that uppity horse and now sick dread was churning his innards, making him shiver more than the cold even as he huddled over the small fire the Herald had left.

When that horse, that Companion, let out a terrified call and half rose to her feet from the lying position, he jumped to his own in a panic, his dagger drawn, pointed out at the dark, wondering what the hell she’d caught wind of. After a moment, with no attackers and no more noise from her behind him, he turned to find she’d settled back into her previous position and was only staring wide-eyed and mouth agape, into the darkness.

No. No, she wasn’t staring at anything, he realized after a moment, another shiver racking him; she was talking to her Herald, and apparently not liking what he was saying to her.

Stefen retook his place, huddled so close to the flames he was at genuine risk of his clothes catching fire. Gods, it was creepy.

He suspected he was missing most of the times they were “talking” but he’d caught it often enough: the sudden blank expression of one or the other as their focus turned inward, the gestures, a turn of the head, a sudden pat or stroke, the shifting of the Companion to be closer to him, all hints of a constant flow of conversation going on around Stefen’s head.

And thank the gods for that! He shivered again.

He couldn’t imagine anything worse than a relationship that unnecessarily close. Someone always in the back of your head—more than bad enough the times Master Dark had strutted through his, thanks—how horrible and invasive it would be to have someone just…always there?

And how much worse would it be when they turned on you? he wondered, since in his experience everyone always did, eventually.

He kept his eye on her. She was supposed to be resting. She’d run all day after their early start, and would run all or most of the night just to get them to the other side of the pass. Hopefully she’d run all the next day—or several—afterwards, to get them well away from here once the Herald had seen what he wanted of Master Dark’s forces.

Stefen still couldn’t stop feeling guilty, even though this clearly wasn’t about him. Whatever was between the Herald and Stefen’s Master had been going on longer than he’d been involved. But that didn’t let Stefen off the hook for bringing the Herald, helpless, to Rendan, orders or no.

Guilt was idiotic. Pointless. A privilege for people with wealth and power and real choices in life. But that didn’t mean a penniless boy couldn’t feel it.

He knew what would take the edge off, the only thing that would, and he ached for it with a desperation that made his fingers almost fumble on the strings of his gittern, which he didn’t remember breaking out though he was glad to fall into the music when he noticed it.

It was almost as good. There was a time it had been better; when the music had been the nexus of all his hopes. Now even the music couldn’t stop him feeling the flask tucked tight in its hidden pocket against his chest, and hearing the sweet call of it.

He’d be useless if he gave in. He owed the Herald a clear head until he got him where he wanted to go, no matter how futile the Herald’s desire to see the Master’s work was.

His fingers tripped off into a faster tune, loosing some of his frantic tension in racing, tumbling notes. As quickly as he wished to be flying away from here, his fingertips strummed the strings. He was panting when he finished the song, heart pounding.

His eyes slid over the Companion. She was lying down now, as if she was dozing, but he suspected she was still in contact with her absent Herald. He wondered how far their mental link extended.

He moved into a softer, gentler song then. He didn’t call on his pain blocking gift, but he did weave a bit of restfulness into the melody. Peace, he played, until he felt the calmness rising in himself. Nothing but now. No use feeling guilty over what was past, no point worrying about what they would face in the morning; for now, there was rest.

It didn’t last. The Herald returned a bit later, striding out of the snow that had started falling again, like a creature of the snows himself, even if he was wearing the drab brown of the Rendan’s unfashionable bandits instead of his ruined Heraldic Whites. The silver in his hair and in his eyes was more than enough to make him seem a creature of an elemental winter, and the calm surety of his too-pale face made him seem more than human.

The longer he had spent with him, the more superficial his similarities to Master Dark had seemed. As the paler one, of eye and hair anyway, Stefen would have thought he’d have appeared the…weaker. More worn, more aged, and in some ways that was true, but age and care made him seem more real than Master Dark, and made the dark mage feel more and more like an imperfect copy, crafted by a talented but uninspired artist.

The Herald went straight to his horse, who stood, not waiting for a word or visible sign, so he could fit her gear back on her again.

Without being told, Stefen put away his gittern and quenched the fire.

“’Fandes says to thank you for the music,” the Herald said, without turning from his work.

Startled, Stefen looked at her, as though to check her expression—as though a horse’s face could have revealed whether that was truth or mockery.

The ride through the night was by far the worst part of the journey, as Stefen had expected. The pass was dangerous, narrow, and the crags of the mountains on either side made dark, looming silhouettes against the sky. The wind funneled through the pass, a mad, howling thing, raging and frigid and even with the Herald in front of him, shielding him from the teeth of the beast, he couldn’t stop imagining the damage frostbitten fingers would wreak on his musical abilities.

That was still less terrifying than the thought of being in Master’s Dark’s presence again if he found them before Stefen could convince the Herald to run away.

And he didn’t want to think about what the Master would do if he found Stefen with the Herald and realized he hadn’t been bringing him to turn over. Frostbit fingers would be an easy fate in comparison, even if he never played an instrument again.

The Herald patted one of his hands, and he realized he was probably holding on to the man far too tightly but he couldn’t make his grip loosen.

“The end of the pass will be guarded,” the Herald said, turning his head and shouting over the wind.

Stefen nodded against the Herald’s back, though he understood it had not been a question.

“I’ll set a Seeming on us—an illusion. Keep quiet and stay down and close to my back and I promise they won’t see us.”

Stay down and close? That wasn’t a problem; Stefen buried his face in the Herald’s cloak, trying hard to regulate his breathing. He’d been feigning indifference to the world since he was a child. But he couldn’t pretend indifference to Master Dark, pride be damned.

He was so lost in his fears he didn’t even notice them passing the guards that Master Dark had set at the northern entrance of the pass.

The Herald’s gasp and sudden stiffness was his sign that they were probably in sight of the stronghold. He sighed.

The Herald had cut east as soon as he’d reached the open snow plains north of the pass. The Companion found a small ridge of stone that curved up along the mountains, taking them high enough to look down over Master Dark’s work.

Stefen finally forced himself to look as well.

There was a straight path from the entrance of Crookback Pass to the grand front gates of Master Dark’s keep. Though calling it a “keep” was doing the elegant structure a grave disservice: it was a small palace, pulled from a child’s song, multi-towered, sparkling with glass even from such a distance, pennants flying, with high walls surrounding a courtyard that somehow enclosed a lush and verdant garden, even in the heart of this wintery land. It was all well suited to the powerful and vain man who’d made it his seat and stronghold.

But Stefen had seen all that before.

New to him, though it was little surprise, was the army camped around the keep, filling an uncomfortable amount of the landscape. It crowded the plains almost to the horizon, it surrounded the keep, it was gathered around that road between it and the pass, and Stefen could already imagine the spectacle that the Master had planned: him riding out of those gates on something that wasn’t a horse, along that clear, open road, his men falling in behind him as he rode through them, taking the vanguard and leading them through that pass into the southern land—and then to Valdemar.

Stefen knew he’d been gathering an army, allying with and subjugating many of the tribes of peaceful  and not-so-peaceful caribou herders who’d once controlled the northern country.

He sighed wearily. You could even see where some of the beasts were being held: both summoned mage beasts and wild things captured from the Pelagirs. The former would obey their Master’s command, the latter could be set free and driven before the army to sow chaos in his enemy’s ranks.

The mages weren’t as visible, but Stefen knew they were there too, likely in the keep with Master Dark himself. Some would be blood mages, willing acolytes of such a powerful dark mage, hoping to learn enough at his knee to one day overthrow him. Others were captives and slaves, brought to be drained of magic and of life, their blood forfeit to the Master’s spells. That was the end that Herald Vanyel was courting. He was powerful, as Stefen had seen, but Master Dark was unstoppable. Hopefully now, looking over the forces he had gathered, the Herald would finally understand that.

“You see?” he demanded, though his voice was dull with exhaustion. “You can’t stop him. Go back to your country—maybe if you raise your army you can hold him off.” For a while.

He and the Herald dismounted, the Herald still disturbingly silent.

“I need you to do something for me, Stefen,” he finally said, slowly, as though the words were difficult for him. They probably were, a high and mighty Herald asking for help from a backwoods thug. But for some reason the way he said his name made Stefen shiver. It was foreboding, he decided. Trouble. And the way the Companion turned away from them both as the Herald spoke only made his heart sink lower.

“…yes…?”

The Herald turned to face him and pulled out one of the packets of Master Dark’s powder. Stefen stared at it in confusion.

“I need you to take me to your Master Dark.”

He forgot the powder. “What?”

The Herald grabbed his hand and pressed the paper packet into his glove. “Use this and take me to your Master.”

Stefen didn’t even think, he dropped the little envelope of powder and staggered away as though he’d been attacked instead of…whatever this was. “You’re mad!” he said, but to his own ears his voice was the voice of a child, shrill and frightened.

And perhaps the Herald saw him that way too: he looked regretful but determined, picking up the packet and following Stefen, then following again when Stefen couldn’t help falling back another step.

“I can use it on myself, I suppose,” the Herald said, sounding remarkably understanding for a man who’d gone completely off his head, allowing the hand that still held the powder fall to his side. “But I’ll still need you to take me to Lea—to Master Dark.”

Stefen was already shaking his head. “I won’t do that. I won’t—you’re mad!” he finished again, faintly and even vaguely plaintive.

He looked at the horse, thinking this had to be some strange test. She’d turn on him in a second and trample him to bloody bits in the snow for even listening to this. But she’d stayed where they’d dismounted, staring out over the plains as though memorizing the view, not turning at all to look at them.

Catching the direction of his gaze the Herald sighed. “She doesn’t like it, but she’s agreed with me. It’s the only way: Yfandes will go back to Valdemar and raise the Heralds, she can tell them through the other Companions, she can show them exactly what we’re facing here. That army—” He waved at Master’s Dark’s troops, a camp that stretched from the mountains to the distant horizon. “—they’re almost ready to march. The standing army of Valdemar will never assemble and make it here in time to hold them back, but Heralds on Companions might at least reach the pass…perhaps. Master Dark’s number won’t matter so much if we can catch him before the bulk of his forces are through.”

Stefen lifted his chin. “Then good, the two of you go back and get the other Heralds—”

But the Herald was already shaking his head. “They can take on the army, but Master Dark is a different matter. He’ll have mages, feeding him and strengthening his shields…?”

Stefen nodded so stiffly he was half surprised his neck didn’t snap like a brittle branch under the sharp jerk of his head.

“…and we’ll never be able to touch him. Not from any distance, and with as many troops as he cares to hide behind to keep assassins at bay.”

And Stefen began to understand. He snorted. “And what sort of assassin will you be? Blind and deaf and helpless because of that stuff—”

The Herald smiled in weary triumph. “Don’t you know? The powder doesn’t affect me the way Master Dark designed it to.”

Stefen waved his hands wide. “Master Dark will never buy that stupid story I told Viga! I still can’t believe Viga bought it, but Master Dark’s no small-minded hedge wizard.”

The Herald caught one of his hands and held it between them, stepping close and using it to keep Stefen from trying to back away again. “Yfandes and I made some changes to my personal shields. Nothing Master Dark should notice, but that powder will affect me differently now. I won’t lose all my senses, and though it will block my magic, it will leave a sort of backdoor in the walls that hem my powers in. It shouldn’t be visible to your Master Dark, but I’ll be able to use it to bring down the shields against me when I’m ready to.”

“And if he kills you right off?” Stefen asked quietly, a rising wave of despair peaking over him as he realized the futility of trying to talk the Herald out of this suicide mission. Was this what it always felt like to be standing with a hero as the makings of a ballad were aligning around you? A terrible, doomed sort of feeling. “Or if he doses you with something stronger once he has you?”

Those strange, pale eyes were as gentle as his grip on Stefen’s wrist. “He’s been waiting too long for me to kill me out of hand.”—at least that was likely true—“And I suspect he’ll have other ways he’ll want to ‘play’ once he has me.”

Shite. That was probably true too. Stefen gnawed at the inside of his cheek.

But if I take you to him that means I’m giving myself to him too! he wanted to whine. Just because the Herald didn’t care if he threw his life to Master Dark it didn’t mean that Stefen shared that same casual disregard for his own skin.

But the grave expression on the Herald’s face suggested he knew very well what he was asking and it left Stefen squirming under the steady weight of that implacable, saintly calm. Stefen had never pretended to be a hero and he sure as hell had no delusions of sainthood.

He’ll go to the Master without you, a voice whispered in the back of his head. Alone. Surrounded by the Master’s sycophants, he’ll suffer—and probably die—alone.

And for some reason selfish, practical Stefen couldn’t bear the thought of the Herald facing that fate. Not alone. Not without a single friendly soul to stand beside him. Or knowing his own cowardly, worthless self, to watch helplessly and silently from his place at the Master’s feet.

His throat was closed with fear and something else he couldn’t even name, leaving him able only to nod his assent.

The horse had nuzzled the Herald for a long moment, and aimed a stern, searching gaze on Stefen.

:If I find out you betrayed us, the gods themselves will not keep you from my justice.:

He staggered at the clear, dangerous female voice ringing through his head.

You can talk to me?

For once it was the Herald, his arms wrapped around his Companion’s neck in bittersweet parting, who was left out of the conversation. Behind his back, she bared her teeth.

:I can do more than you guess. More than even he knows. Take care of my Chosen.:

As she turned and left them there on the side of a mountain, her stony gaze passed over him but didn’t linger.

Watching her go, he got a better sense of the speed with which she moved. He’d known she had to have been near to flying to get them to the pass so quickly, but seeing her from this new vantage he found she almost seemed to vanish as she ran, leaping, and disappearing, and reappearing again several ground-devouring strides further ahead. He blinked away the odd observation, certain it was some trick of the light on the snow and her equally snowy hide.

Then if you care so much for him, come back for him as quickly as you can! he thought a her, but he had no idea if she could still hear him or was still listening or…whatever, and there was no reply.

The Herald turned on Stefen and held out the packet again, with an almost sheepish smile. He’d use it on himself if Stefen wouldn’t, he’d already said as much and he seemed about ready to do just that.

Gods above and below, save him from heroes.

Stefen snatched the little packet. He’d unfolded the first flap when the Herald stopped him.

“Wait,” the Herald said, and suddenly held out seven of the powder packets Stefen had given him. “It’ll look suspicious if I have them.” He smiled again, but Sefen knew the expression. Trust me, it said. He’d worn it often enough himself, and usually turned it on people he was about to fleece, one way or another. It irritated him that the Herald was trying it on him. Amature, he thought unkindly, pocketing the other packets and finishing peeling the first one open.

The Herald watched him steadily; a strong, hard breath over the pile of powder cupped in his hand sent it airborne, setting it over the Herald, sparkling for a moment like stardust before it settled and dulled, like a quickly melted frost.

He should have made the Herald move away from the edge of the mountain; it would have been just his luck to end up throwing the man he was trying to protect—gods knew why—off of a cliff.

Fortunately for both of them, but especially for the Herald, it seemed he and the Companion had done as he’d promised and though a shudder chased through him, he didn’t fall and his eyes remained clear. Too clear, perhaps.

Stefen considered him critically for a moment.

“…The Master isn’t going to think you’re under any sort of spell at all…”

The Herald’s mouth quirked. “Oh, he will. It’s easy enough to see and to feel, if you’ve any sense for the Mage Gift.” He rubbed almost absently at his temple, as though a pain was kindling there.

Well the Healer had noticed the “walls” on the Herald’s power easily enough. If that much of the spell had been left, then Master Dark would certainly know. But—

“He’s not going to believe I’m controlling you, with you so…” Stefen waved vaguely with his fingers. “Free?”

“I won’t seem so free by the time you get me to him,” he said, and Stefen wasn’t sure if he meant he was going to pretend to be out of it or that he might actually lose some of his clear-headedness, and he desperately hoped he meant the first, even if he didn’t think the Herald could trick Master Dark like that. “And this will help,” he continued, holding out a coiled length of rope.

Stefen took it, not liking this, any of it, trapped as he’d ever felt and had always been since Master Dark had come into his life. The Herald stood patiently with his wrists pressed together and extended for Stefen’s fumbling attempts to bind them. He was usually a pretty good hand with knots, tying and untying them, but the cold and his gloves and his nerves made his fingers clumsy.

More than that. The siren song of his flask—there was so much he wanted to forget, so much he needed to escape—

He cleared his throat. “I guess…I tell the Master we got attacked by the other bandits he sent hunting you. Tell him I didn’t trust his men after that—he’ll think that’s just delightful, amusing as all fuck—so I snuck you in, past his guards at the pass. He’s a clever bastard but maybe he’ll be so excited to finally have his hands on you he won’t worry too much about how I got us so far without horses…” he trailed off doubtfully.

“You shooed the horses off when we were through the pass, but before we sneaked past his guards.”

“I suppose—”

“And stick to your first story for Yfandes. She got away when you took me from the guard post.”

Stefen shivered at the thought of admitting that to the Master, even though he’d thought the same thing when he’d spared her in the stable. The order had been clear, the Companion was supposed to have been killed. “Couldn’t I just say she’s dead?”

The Herald shook his head and then wove a little on his feet, prompting Stefen to grab his arm and pull him away from the ledge and closer to the mountain. Please, let him be pretending.

“I can’t feign that sort of loss. He’d know if I’d suffered the severing of my Companion bond. It will have to be good enough that he thinks we can’t communicate while I’m blocked like this.”

Good enough to make Stefen pay for failing on half of his orders.

But he squared his shoulders and forced his chin up. It was the Master’s own fault for setting the other bandits on the Herald too. It was a stupid thing to have done; he had to have known they’d squabble over the right to be the ones who turned him over, going at each other like starved dogs over a single, bloody scrap. Gods, he was lucky Stefen had managed to even get the Herald to him under these conditions.

Sometimes the Master was amused when Stefen played cocky. He could hope he was in such a mood today.

The Master’s guards had never been friends to Stefen. In part because they, like the bandits on the other side of the pass, were never entirely sure where he stood in Master Dark’s regard and in part because they, like the bandits, knew that whatever his place was, he’d bought his way there with his body.

But while he enjoyed the relatively unusual benefit of coming and going with no real oversight, he hadn’t ever before come striding through the front gates bearing company to the Master’s palace. Strange, staggering, bound company at that.

“Who goes?” a guard—Warin—demanded suspiciously, stepping in front of him at the inner gate, and Stefen knew the young captain wasn’t asking for his own credentials.

“A special package for the Master,” Stefen answered, full of swagger and grinning false pride.

The taller man looked over the captive Herald with interest but didn’t immediately stand down. He was cleverer than many of the Master’s men, hence his promotion to captain at such an age, and not too proud to have let Stefen spend more than a few nights in his bed, though he welcomed the pretty kitchen maids there just as eagerly. He wasn’t a bad sort, especially considering many of his brothers-in-arms, and Stefen felt himself holding his breath. If anyone less than the Master and his inner circle of apprentices might recognize the trick, it would probably be Warin, but without magic what would betray them?

Was the rope that Stefen held not bound tightly enough around the Herald’s wrists? Were the Herald’s eyes not glazed and dull enough to mark him as properly subdued? Was—

Warin snorted, cutting through Stefen’s spiraling doubts. “Don’t look much like anything special to me,” he said, his hand sliding from the hilt of his sword as he shifted slightly, though he didn’t actually step away.

For a moment Stefen’s eyes widened, surprised by more than the ‘easy’ deception. Couldn’t Warin see the resemblance between the Herald and their Master? That alone would have been worth a second look—but then, even as a captain, the guard probably hadn’t spent enough time in the Master’s company to be as familiar with his looks as Stefen was, the better for Warin.

Master Dark didn’t spend much time with the lesser ranks of his men, and he had a separate, more carefully curated guard to protect himself and the inner sanctum of the palace: soldiers whose minds had been stripped to little more than mirrors of their Master’s whims; simulacrums, whose eyes were his eyes, whose ears were his, incorruptible, unfeeling, unaffected. Just the muscle memory of the warriors they once had been and the singular, driving will of the man who’d reduced them to nothing more. Yes, better for Warin to stay where he was.

Stefen tossed the captain a saucy smile. “Easy for you to say! You weren’t the one who had to get him here,” he said, leaning a little against the captain to pull his attention from the Herald. Perhaps he was just lucky the man didn’t favor brunets, though he knew he wouldn’t have let the handsome Herald pass by without a second glance, even if he hadn’t been out hunting him.

Warin stepped aside with a laugh and a gallant hand light on Stefen’s elbow to steady him as he did, his eyes gone a bit softer even while his grin took on a sharper edge.

“Off with you then, little bird. I won’t be the one responsible for keeping the Master waiting.’”

But it was a pair of the Master’s special guards who were waiting.

They were beautiful, the Master wouldn’t bear anyone in his presence who wasn’t, and one of them looked familiar, which Stefen tried not to think about. Had she been friend or foe? Not that it was important anymore; it was at least a relief that she didn’t strike him as familiar enough for him to remember who she’d been.

Now her eyes were blank and empty, like a hauntingly realistic doll. Or a magician’s puppet, dancing on a string.

“We’ll take him,” she said. The mouths never seemed to work quite right, as though the voice that passed between those lips wasn’t theirs.

“But—”

“Master’s orders,” the other one said, and Stefen knew there was no argument to that, even if the special guard could be argued with, which they could not.

He handed the rope off to the woman.

“He knows I brought him? I want my reward!” he whined, glad to imagine that the Herald was as dulled as he looked, and not able to hear Stefen’s weedling tone. It wasn’t entirely an act.

They ignored him though, trudging off down the hall where they’d intercepted him, three clockwork humans in a clockwork castle of stone and glass. Glittering and lovely, but cold and utterly lifeless. He shivered and wrapped his arms around himself.

The Herald gone and his stomach churning with a worry he couldn’t even name, as if he didn’t have enough whenever he was here, Stefen headed to his own chamber. He’d had bigger when he’d first come, swanning around as Master Dark’s pet, too stupid yet to recognize what a trap he’d leapt right into.

He’d lost it not long into his service, the punishment for some misstep he couldn’t even remember now, there’d been so many missteps and so many punishments since. Losing those big lovely rooms, right by the Master’s, hadn’t been even close to the worst. He shivered again, his teeth almost chattering as he let himself into the small, single room he now occupied whenever he was called to heel.

He froze with the door half open, finding the Master himself sprawled on his bed.

Oh gods, oh gods, what’s he doing here? he thought in panic, his stomach heaving.

“Against all odds, my little hunter returns triumphant!” the Master said, smiling and sitting forward, his dark eyes glittering.

Brave. Sometimes it amused him when Stefen played brave. Although his spine felt like jelly, he straightened it. “Against all odds is right, with every hold in the hills looking for him too. I was starting to think I wouldn’t make it back alive, nevermind get that damned Herald here,” he groused, forcing himself to walk into the room when everything in him was screaming for him to run. He couldn’t run. He knew; he’d tried.

The Master tossed his head back and laughed.

Stefen flinched, hoping he hid it well enough. That laugh always meant suffering, one way or another, and yet it still curled inside him like a warm hand, delicious and wrong all at once. He recognized it as something like his own gift, the barbed hooks in every word and sound the Master made, but that didn’t make him immune to its pull, or make him any less ashamed of feeling it for this man—this man, of all men.

But the closer he was and the longer he spent there the worse it became, his will and even personality draining away, bit by bit.

“Ah, Stef, my sweet Stef. I knew you could handle anything those ruffians would try. I didn’t want you to get bored. Where’s the thrill in an easy victory, hmm?”

All lies. Any of the brigands could have made short work of him and would have if it hadn’t been for the Herald’s Companion carrying them away from danger at a pace no normal horse could have managed to keep up with.

“Well anyway, he’s here now. You wanted him so bad, I’m surprised you’re bothering with me.” He wanted to sound disgruntled, but he knew the words came out sounding jealous. He felt jealous. Why did the Master even want the Herald so bad when he had Stefen? ‘His’ Stefen, who would do anything…

Master Dark stood and Stefen had to force himself not to scurry away like a frightened mouse—or fall to his knees and start licking his feet. He suppressed a shudder and stood his ground.

So the Master came to him.

While Stefen fought desperate, conflicting urges, the Master cupped his cheek and everything else fell away, the whole of his being focused on that hand, that touch. Everything was right when his Master touched him. He sighed and leaned into him, his eyes falling shut, his breath hitching in pleasure.

“Why Stef! You’re no bother…” His Master’s voice was a song, the melody that Stefen’s heart and his blood and his very soul sang. He’d do anything to please him.

There was something he was supposed to say… I love you. I worship you. No—

“That dust didn’t work on the Herald like you said,” he babbled, his tongue somehow bypassing the song in his head. “He didn’t go down all the way like you said he would. He’s just quiet, like one of your guards—”

“Shhh…that’s fine. It’s fine.”

He’d been afraid the Master would be mad. So afraid. The light amusement in his Master’s voice set off another wave of pleasure that made Stefen’s toes curl in his boots and wrung a sigh from deep in his chest.

“And the horse got away,” he continued, knowing he needed to say it all, confess—lies—before he lost his nerve.

The Master inhaled sharply. The pleasure drained away, the keen edge of terror piercing Stefen’s gut instead.

pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease—

He felt a weight on his chest that made it hard to breath, an insistent pressure on his bladder that made him fear he’d shame himself. But shame was nothing, nothing at all to what the Master would do if he was displeased.

Stefen opened his eyes, biting his lip to stifle a whimper, and looked pleadingly into that cold, black gaze.

“Where? How long ago did the ‘horse’ get away?” Angry, the song of his voice became a storm, a raging, discordant cacophony, his words, bludgeoning hail, the silences between, electric.

It would have been better if the Herald had killed him in Rendan’s keep when he killed the others.

Stefen couldn’t hold back a little, despairing moan. “At—at the guardpost. I got the Herald but I couldn’t get the horse, we had to go or I’d’ve lost them both!” he whined. He pleaded.

He held his breath, waiting for judgement.

Slowly, the Master smiled.

Stefen didn’t react; a smile could mean forgiveness or it could mean punishment, he didn’t dare assume.

“Sweet Stef,” the Master murmured, stroking Stefen’s cheek and brushing his thumb across his lips, and at last, Stefen exhaled, falling forward into his Master’s arms, clutching at his clothes and panting for breath. “Shhh, I know you did your best. And I’m very grateful.”

Stefen fisted his hands, daring to look up and meet his Master’s eyes again, hating himself for feeling so hopeful.

Hating himself more for how he trembled when Master Dark leaned forward and kissed him. He felt it in every part of his body, a sudden fire raging to life. This was so much worse than Rendan and his men. Master Dark made him want it, need it. His body shook with the desire to serve him.

Of their own accord his hands slid down the Master’s chest towards his breeches.

To his sorrow—and immense relief—the Master caught his hands and gently pushed them away, chuckling as he extricated himself from the kiss.

“Now, Stef. I must see to our guest,” he murmured indulgently, and Stefen felt his gorge rise at—everything, every part of the play Master Dark forced him to perform every time he was in his presence. The besotted fool, the desperate lover, the cossetted pet, he was none of those things, godsdammit, but he would act as if he was, no less a puppet than the Master’s mindless guards.

He couldn’t make himself pull away. That was for the Master only, and only when he wished it. Stefen leaned against his body like a dog, desperate not to be left. “Do you have to? Right away?” he asked, feeling guilty for the Herald’s sake that he didn’t mean it at all. Gods, just go, please, anywhere else. Just leave me alone.

The Master gripped his chin and kissed him again, deep, hard, and Stefen fell into it, devoured and lost and only returning to himself when the Master not only released him but stepped back, a little smile on his face.

“I’m afraid so,” he said, and Stefen couldn’t make sense of the answer or the question it was answering through the haze still clouding his mind. “But I haven’t forgotten what a good job you did, bringing him to me. And I haven’t forgotten your reward.”

His focus sharpened instantly at that word. These days there was only one thing that meant and it was the only thing Stefen needed more than he needed his Master.

Master Dark laughed again. “Yes, for my good boy—” He pulled a flask from somewhere, possibly from another room and space entirely, he did enjoy showing off, but Stefen wasn’t an appreciative audience at the moment, his gaze and attention solely on the large glass flask. The Master shook it slightly from side to side, the liquid inside sloshing audibly. Gods, it was full! “What do you say?”

“Please? Please, Master—”

“Of course,” the Master drawled, holding it out.

Stefen reached for the bottle, hesitantly, desperate, but used to having things offered and then snatched away as he reached for them. It wouldn’t have been an effective trick if his Master didn’t occasionally throw him a bone, and this time, mercifully, he allowed Stefen to take the flask and cradle it to his chest.

“Thank you Master, thank you! Thank you so much!” he babbled, but Master Dark, bored, was already walking away.

He cursed the little ball of pain that kindled in his chest at being left alone and as soon as the Master closed the door he fell to his knees, the precious flask still cradled carefully in his arms while he leaned forward, pressing his head to the cold floor, and cried.

He was fourteen or so, maybe fifteen, nobody knew for sure, least of all him. He’d been with Rendan for going on five years, bought for a handful of silver and a small keg of sour beer from a pair of filthy old men who’d bought him from Berte and carted him north, the length of the kingdom he hadn’t known he was part of. He’d learned what he was good for long before reaching Rendan and it wasn’t singing. It was almost enough to make him think the gods cared enough about a pair of dirty street rats to get him back for what he’d said to Janne that day in the alley.

Whatever his age, after five years Rendan and his men were losing interest in him. He was still small, but not so fresh faced anymore, and although that life had left him with a diseased soul, broken and decaying inside his head, physically he was a hearty thing, and there was only so much you could go through before even horror and hell became somewhat mundane. They still had their fun from time to time, but he didn’t squeal the way he used to and there were days he found it more dull than terrifying. He was mostly just tired.

And then one day, they brought back the girl.

She was pretty, even with the bruises darkening half her face, and her screaming and sobbing made it clear she didn’t find Rendan and his men to be dull at all. They’d brought back plenty of other of their prizes since Stefen had been with them, but she was different, maybe just because they hadn’t touched her before they got her to the hall.

It was the first time Stefen saw Rendan and Tan and them with someone who wasn’t broken yet. The terror in her face reminded him of something and it took him longer than it should have to realize it was himself, sleeping in garbage in the back of that rattling cart, the first time one of the old men had slipped back there with him. Old and foul smelling, but big and so strong—

When they stripped her he realized she wasn’t as young as he’d taken her for. She was a woman, not a girl; her hips and breasts, though slim and small, were too sweetly curved for a child’s body. That didn’t make it any easier.

Stupid girl, if she’d just stop whining and lie there they’d finish faster, he remembered thinking to himself, curled into the corner by the fire, hiding his face and trying to cover his ears, humming a wordless melody to himself and hating her almost more than he hated Rendan for reminding him what it was like for a real person to suffer Rendan and his men.

Turned out he was wrong though. No matter what she did it wouldn’t have changed Rendan’s plan.

“Enjoying yourself, girly?” The bandit lord sneered, that pitch piercing Stefen’s song and making his breath catch. No, there’s no reason to worry, it’s not you he’s talking to. It’s not you, he tried to tell himself but he couldn’t find any comfort in that this time, her answering whimpers were so pained and pathetic. Idiot, just shut up!

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, folded in on himself, as small a shape as he could twist himself into, as small a target as he knew how to be.

The sharp crack of a blow landing on soft flesh was met with another shrieking cry. “Gotta send word to your da, thanking him for sending you to us, eh?” Rendan said, his voice low and his words eliciting a round of mean chuckles from his men.

“My father didn’t—”

A slap, or worse, and silence in response this time. “Did, though. He knew what would happen if he didn’t fall in. He made his choice—and yours. The better for us. Oh,” he crooned—Stefen hated that, hated when his voice went soft like that, in mocking mercy—“Don’t hide your face now, girl. You don’t have anything left to hide from us, does she boys?”

There was another round. He wouldn’t look and he tried not to hear, but there was no mistaking that rhythm, flesh on flesh, or the little cries, or the smells. He hummed. Hummed and hummed, smart enough to keep it all inside his head though, he’d made that mistake before, and the men hadn’t been in nearly as dark a mood then.

It was starting to sink in this wasn’t a ‘normal’ game for them, this was something else.

She lasted three days. Three hellish, haunting days, before he overheard Rendan talking to Tan. “Send word to come get her. He’ll want to deliver her himself, I reckon. See the look on the old man’s face,” he spat and laughed. “Old fool.” He inhaled sharply, sniffing. “And for the gods’ sakes, get her out of here. He can pick her up from the barn, smells like she’s a week dead already.”

She wouldn’t smell so bad if they hadn’t—but he didn’t want to think about it. He’d thought he’d seen them at their worst, he hadn’t imagined there was worse in them, or in anyone, but he knew better now and it made him sick. He could hardly admit it even to himself but it was a relief when Tan tossed the girl over his shoulder and disappeared outside. He didn’t know how she wasn’t already dead, but he was glad she was gone, even if it was only as far as the stables.

And yet—

He couldn’t stop thinking about her, while he filled and refilled beers and stirred and dished out week-old stew. How pretty she’d been when they’d brought her. How everything had frightened her. Soft, is what she’d been. It was too dangerous a world to be so soft. The fault of her ‘da,’ for letting her be so soft and not giving Rendan and his set whatever they wanted if he’d wanted to keep her that way. He hated Berte, of course he did, but at least she’d taught him to be strong before she sold him north.

He slipped out of the hall, mumbling something about taking care of the horses when Gart stopped him at the door.

He found her in a stall at the back, and he couldn’t have said what he expected to find when he pulled the blanket off her, except penance, having to see her again. But he was surprised—and endlessly disturbed—to find she was still breathing, shallow and thready. She wouldn’t be for much longer, that was an easy bet, but gods, that she was even still alive.

He couldn’t stand to touch her, could hardly bear to look at her, she was so ruined, more meat than person. But he couldn’t just go back into the hall and leave her, either. She deserved more than that, even if she’d been stupid and soft. He squatted on his heels, scratching his arm, torn between grim vigil and guilty flight.

Then he began to sing. He couldn’t imagine she was in much pain anymore, she was probably already too far gone, but he sang as if he could still help her, since it was all he had. He felt a little rusty, no one to listen to it but himself since he been taken by the slavers, Rendan and his men not seeing much purpose in his ‘caterwauling’ except when they needed a break from their well-deserved injuries.

It was only her and him and the horses now though, and so he sang as if it would make a difference, tears in his eyes, but not for her.

He sang a love song first, a real one, low and sweet and soft, like her, full of longing and hope. He didn’t know many nice songs like that, his list was mostly raunchy ballads, dirty stuff full of innuendo and double entendre, suitable for a brigand’s hall. So he switched to lullabies, he knew a few of those and they seemed fitting.

Sleep now and don’t fret, your dreams will be lovely and the morning will find you—

Dead. He blinked and shook his head, his song cut off, the silence hanging heavy around him. Just meat now and no one sang to meat.

He reached for the blanket to re-cover her, shamed by the relief that made his hands shake. He’d go back in and curl up to sleep in his corner and not have think about her anymore.

“What happened to her?” a hushed voice asked from behind him. He fell forward with a yelp, struggling with an ungainly tangle of his own half-grown limbs to not land on the dead girl.

“Whoa! I’m sorry!” The voice came again with a hint of concern. “Let me—”

Stef scrambled away sideways, quick, putting his back to the wall beside the girl so he could face the stranger—there were never strangers in Rendan’s hall, unless they came with Rendan himself. Who was this man, off in the stable alone?

Then—

An angel, Stef thought, catching sight of him and staring, dazzled. He felt a dizzy certainty that he must have been the one who’d quietly slipped away in the stable, fallen asleep and frozen to death while the girl still labored for breath, no less than he’d deserve for such a wooly-headed bit of stupidity.

The man in front of him wasn’t like anyone he’d seen before. Pale, but with hair black as a raven, even with that bit of sheen to it, winged brows over depthless, black eyes, the prettiest face Stef had ever seen on a grown man; he was from a fairy tale if not the Havens.

The stranger dropped his hand—elegant, pale, long-fingered, a noble’s hand, that had never done real work—realizing Stef wasn’t going to accept his help up, and cocked his head and smiled, a little upward twist of one corner of his beautiful mouth. Stef felt it in his belly, like he’d been hooked on a fishing line and the handsome stranger held the rod and reel. This was… this was desire and it was the first time in his life he’d felt it. He hadn’t known he could, but it was glorious and nerve-wracking at once. His skin prickled, his ears rang, he felt lightheaded, and in his breeches—

Looking around, because he couldn’t keep looking at the man any more than he could have stared into the sun, his gaze fell on the body beside him and he remembered the stranger’s question. He shrugged stupidly and pressed his hands between his back and the wall of the stable. Where was Rendan? Who was this man? He was torn between wanting him to stay and wanting to warn him to go, leave this awful, dirty place while he could.

“Your singing was beautiful. I was sorry you stopped,” the stranger said, his words like music.

Stef didn’t think he could have managed anything sensible if he tried, so he just shrugged again. But he flicked his gaze back, catching the curiosity on the man’s face, and he found himself strangely desperate to please him, especially after he’d called Stef’s warbling ‘beautiful.’ Sometimes he still thought it was, but what did he know? The praise he’d once gotten for it on that faraway street corner seemed like something from a dream of another life, and Rendan and his boys didn’t think much of it, except when they needed him to sing away their pain.

“She wasn’t list’ning no more,” he said plainly.

The man smiled a little wider, leaned a little closer, as if to share a secret. His scent was heady, something herbal, woodsy, and clean.

Stef stared and licked his lips.

“I am,” the handsome man promised.

Too clever, Stef had been called all his life. It was never a compliment. Too clever for his own good. Too clever to take what he ought to just take. Too clever to leave well enough alone. Always looking for an out, always considering his options, even when he didn’t rightly have none.

What was his life with Rendan? He was a slave and fuck-boy, a toy for any man in Rendan’s hall. But he wasn’t half-bad to look at, maybe not as pretty as the stranger but prettier than any of the others in the hall, prettier than any of the men and a good lot of the women Rendan’s boys sometimes showed up with. He straightened his shoulders, hands still pressed to the wall behind him, he knew what his stance offered.

He looked down for a moment. The girl’s feet weren’t quite covered by the blanket and there was something heart-breaking in the vulnerability of those pale, bare toes in the dirt and hay.

Stef wasn’t soft like her though.

“I know more songs. More’n I was singing just now,” he said.

The man grinned. “I’m certain you do. And perhaps I could teach you a few new ones.” He held out his hand again.

This time Stef took it.

Stefen rolled over with a gasp, pounding his hand against his pillow, tears wetting his cheek and his bedding. When the dreamerie went down wrong it went down wrong, and dragged him with it.

He panted for breath, like he’d been running in his sleep instead of strolling through dark and misty memory. Stupid, stupid little boy, thinking he’d known the worst life could be, taking the devil’s hand and calling him an angel.

If there was justice in this life then he must have lived a helluva last one to have earned this lot. But he didn’t believe in justice or angels. He tumbled from his bed, staggering across the room.

He should have checked the time, maybe asked around to find out what had happened to the Herald, but he went to the flask instead.

There were worse memories he could have had dragged up to replay, as real as if he was living them again. Something after he’d gone with the Master maybe, the first time he’d made him mad, when he’d been unprepared for his ‘angel’ to cast off his wings and show his horns. Times he’d been beaten, made to crawl, given away like he was a cup to be borrowed, passed around—filled—gods!

His hands fumbled the cork off and he took a hit straight, not even diluting it in water or wine.

He’d told the Master everything about himself in the first, full bloom of that infatuation, thinking, unaccountably, that his plans had more than paid off; that he’d found a safe place at the frozen top of the world. When they’d fucked it had been the first time Stefen had ever actually wanted to. Damn him, how he’d paid for it.

He shuddered, wiping his hand across his lips to catch what spilled in his haste and then sucking his palm to savor any lingering drop, any smear of the drug, as he lurched back to collapse on the bed and curled around his pillow, still instinctively trying to make himself small.

His Master had given him music back, fascinated by Stefen’s Gift. He’d given him instruments, tutors and mentors. His words when he’d taken him away had been more than just innuendo: he’d given him access to a repertoire of songs he’d never have dreamed of, and then he’d stolen it all by back by claiming it, and Stefen himself, as his own.

His little pet, and, when he wished, just another weapon in so vast an arsenal it shook Stefen to his bones and stole his nights and his sleep. Then he’d given him dreamerie, knowing what it had been to his childhood, knowing the racking shame he’d kindled as he used it to buy what little was left of Stefen’s soul.

He hissed in pain, begging the dreamerie to kick in again, but better this time. Please, gods, please, let it be better this time!

The world started to fold in on itself, the little room falling away. Stefen breathed in relief as a cool, green light enveloped him. This was a good place, the best of places. A circle of trees, a warm, sweet-scented wind through them, and someone he was waiting for…

Continued in Chapter 7

Or switch to AO3