#mat did the thing with the horn and i understand that i was meant to clap and cheer and scream but for the life of me i dont know why.

[amarimeta]

are there any show only watchers of wheel of time who genuinely feel like they have a good understanding of whats going on.

[toastandjamie]

Okay so, I wanna preface this by saying that I have not read Sanderson’s other books so this is not a discussion about his actual abilities as a writer, and I’m not saying that he’s in anyway a bad writer. I do not envy the situation he was in At All, it must’ve been incredibly difficult to be given the responsibility of finishing such a long and beloved story as Wheel of Time. Trying to honor RJ’s story and characters when you are jumping in at the climax and expected to finish it in a way that the fans find satisfying when there is no way to make Every fan happy with the ending. Okay with that out of the way let’s talk.

So i have a lot of feelings about the final three books of Wheel of Time. There were many parts I enjoyed and there were also parts I was disappointed by. Personally, I felt like many aspects of the last three books felt rushed and incomplete and the pacing a bit odd in places and a lot of that comes down to the fact that it was originally meant to be one giant book, but like- that would’ve been ridiculous and I agree with the choice to break it up into multiple books. However I honestly think they should’ve just broke it up into more than three books to properly to pace them. There were a lot of things that Needed to happen that I think ended up causing certain things to get cut, for instance I do believe a big portion of both Mat and Min’s storylines in those last books were cut for time, specifically I think there was probably originally a lot more time dedicated to dealing with the Seanchen. What I believe to have happened is that Sanderson was given the notes about where the Black Tower needed to be and decided to dedicate the time to it and in exchange he cut the Seanchen plot line for pacing since the Seanchen were Technically already solved. Technically. Now controversial opinion but I did actually like Androl, however, I think he and the rest of the Black Tower suffered from having their storyline rushed. The plot line in the black tower should’ve started after the Ashaman with Rand betrayed them as we got to see the corruption already seeping into the Black Tower. Sadly that’s not what we got, but it honestly deserved an entire book to properly introduce it and it would’ve benefited from having pre-established characters that we cared about be more involved. Other parts of the story I think deserved more time dedicated to, the actual process of stealing the horn of Valere back from the White Tower, I wanted a heist mission with Faile and the Band but that is just personal preference lol. More time learning about Slayer and the red veiled Aiel, they were introduced and then promptly stopped actually mattering outside of being enemy fodder. Literally everything about Faine and the Evil of Shadar Logoth, Faine dying so quickly will forever disappoint me, he was a main antagonist since book one and his death felt very quick and unceremonious, like just tying up loose ends.

Next is issues with characterization. Once again I do not envy Sanderson’s job here at all. This type of thing isn’t easy but I can also see exactly where the issues were. Sanderson by his own admission didn’t understand Mat, and he Did get better at writing him but the damage was already done unfortunately and there wasn’t enough time to properly fix the issues with Mat’s characterization. Mat was not the only character whose characterization was flattened however, Aviendha and Tuon for instance also lacked a lot of their original nuance. I think it’s very clear where Sanderson struggled and that is with unreliable narrators. Characters that Sanderson seems to both enjoy the most and successfully write in a compelling way are characters who very straight forward and honest, their internal monologue matches their actions, and they reliably narrate their stories. Characters like Perrin and Galad thrived under Sanderson’s writing style. Androl is a very obvious example of this archetype being one that he’s comfortable writing. The issue he faced with both Mat and Tuon is that their unreliable narrators who act inconsistently to an outsider perspective and I think for Mat especially Sanderson struggled to get past his first impression of Mat. The biggest issue with Sanderson’s version of Mat is that his character arc was reset, Sanderson’s Mat was still running away from his destiny and trying to avoid Rand, something Mat had already worked past in books four and five with Melindra and the Rhavin incident teaching him to accept his destiny and embrace his role as Rand’s General. This meant that Mat and Tuon’s relationship lost a large part of its nuance and Mat’s actions felt out of character and immature for the point in the story we reached. There’s also the difference in how RJ wrote Mat’s “flirtatious play boy” status versus how Sanderson portrays it and it can feel a bit jarring at times, and just in general, I feel like Sanderson often wrote Mat as “stupid” where he very much isn’t. He’s reckless and mischievous but never stupid and I think Sanderson equated his recklessness with stupidity in some places.

Writers play favorites, and it does show, RJ’s favorite was Mat and Sanderson’s favorite was Perrin and both are very obvious preferences. Poor Rand was neither writers favorite but it’s okay because as the protagonist he at least got consistent page time dedicated to him. RJ definitely paid more attention to Mat than Perrin and Sanderson did vice versa. So I’m not complaining just because I wanted Mat to get more page time. My issues with it are that Mat ended up feeling a bit underwhelming during the last battle. Where all other characters got to have their spotlight moment during a Memory of Light, Mat didn’t; and perhaps that’s because Towers of Midnight was originally part of a Memory of Light so Mat had got his big moment in the final book during the original draft. The Seanchen overall felt like it was resolved in an underwhelming manner, as did the Shadar Logoth plot line and it just so happens that both of those plot lines were Mat’s and I do think Sanderson’s bias informed his decision at least subconsciously when choosing which storylines to trim down.

In summary I would’ve rather Sanderson made it five more whole books if it meant that all the plot lines could be given enough time to be resolved in a fully satisfactory way.

[magicspace114]

New faces

There was a creature in your living room. It was no animal you were familiar with, who would you even call to get it out of your house? You're pretty sure any animal control would laugh at you if you described it to them.

This was some strange looking goat thing that stood upright on two legs. It's feet were hooves but its hands weren't. Its hands had five digits and it was covered in short, coarse, white hairs. Its face protruded in a snout and it had curly horns and thin, stiff goat ears that moved sharply like it was listening for predators. It also had a short, fluffy tail.

It wore clothes too. Some grey, one-piece flight suit that left a hole for its tail with a puffy, green coat over it. It stumbled around your room like a newborn foal and some strange purple liquid was leaking out over brown, matted curls on the top of its head in between its horns.

You dropped your bag on seeing it, staring at it in silent shock. Was this some kind of demon? Or a strange costume your friends were pranking you with?

It turned suddenly on hearing your bag drop and let out a startled bleat that you knew no human could replicate. It stumbled away from you, tripping over the couch and hitting its head on the coffee table.

"H-hey, uh... what- I don't-"

You stumbled back into the door. Whatever this thing was, it was fast but it was hiding behind your couch. You didn't know how you were meant to react, were you meant to be scared of it? Should you call the police? Did it even understand you?

There was a low mumbling coming from the hiding spot and as you crept closer, you could hear English words.

"By Grifon, this can't be happening. No, no, no, I can't- this is bad." It was the creature. It was curled up behind the couch as you got closer, arms shielding its head.

"You speak English?"

The creature bleated again and got up, rushing as far away from your voice as it could. Unfortunately, it didn't have anywhere to run in the tiny apartment and in its panic, it wasn't looking where it was going. It ran full speed into your wall, its horns leaving a huge dent in it and it collapsed again, no longer moving.

You winced on seeing the dent but even more so when you noticed more purple liquid running from its head. "Wait, that's meant to be blood, right?" You darted towards it.

It was out cold but you were still careful as you hovered your hand in front of its nose. It could bite but you felt its breath still flowing so you took the time to look over its injury.

It was hard to see with all the curly hair on its head but there were multiple spots now where this dark purple blood was running from. You didn't want to touch the blood in case it ended up being made of some strange chemical that could eat your skin or something. It wasn't reacting to anything else around you but you wouldn't take the chance.

The creature was a little small, maybe about five foot, but when you picked it up, you found it to be incredibly light, worryingly so. Like picking up a medium sized box filled mostly with cushions and duvets.

When you laid it down on your couch, you took a look and realised its bones sticking out, never a healthy sign no matter what creature it was. You couldn't figure anything else out though until you took off its large coat.

It was covered in white, short hairs along its arms where the flight suit was ill-fitted but there were also defensive signs when looking at its hands. There was purple blood under its fingernails and even under fur, you could see some discoloured skin.

You decided to hold off on calling someone right now until you understood the situation properly but at least for now, you grabbed your first aid kit and some gloves to start dealing with the head wounds.

Next >

Old Shadows >>

New Guardians >>>

[fedonciadale]

Just watched the last episode of Wheel of Time and this might be controversial but all in all I loved it.

I never even wanted the series to adapt the books page by page and not only because that is not doable but also because there are so many things in the books that benefit from changing. Now, I always knew that WoT would not change exactly the things I would want to change but all in all I’ve been happy with what they have done.

And honestly, I like that book readers have to guess, too. We might have some inklings about what is to come but I like that I have to guess what awaits us in season 2 and that I’m not at an advantage.

I try to keep this books spoiler free.

That Cold Open: Lews Therin and the Tamyrlin Seat and that short glimpse on Sci-Fi Age of Legends. The short dialogue also shows that the rift between men and women came even before the 100 companions made their strike to imprison the Dark One. And I liked that.

One thing I like is how much emphasis they put on the fact that the defeat of the Dark One is an ensemble effort and it made sense that Moiraine’s plan did not work out, because the Dark One cannot just be defeated this easily.

The episode felt a bit “ragged” when it came to the whole “Horn of Valere” and the moment we finally saw Padan Fain for real and how dangerous he really is. My suspicion is that this was somehow meant to be a confrontation with Mat and Perrin. I think the whole thing was a bit off though, possibly because Mat had to be cut out. I hope they’re going to fix that next season.

I loved Perrin struggling with the way of the leaf and how Loial set him straight and told him how easy it is to help. I really hope Loial is o.k. 😥

I also loved Agelmar and his sister. How determined they were to do what had to be done. Great side characters.

I also liked that we were shown how women can link to channel the power and that this might have a danger of its own. I got the feeling that Amalisa maybe was not practiced enough and that is why she drew too much? Nynaeve taking on the brunt of that was peak Nynaeve. She would absolutely do that. And Egwene and Nynaeve’s friendship while saving each other. So nice and actually true to what they are.

And what can I even say about Lan and Nynaeve. The actors are just so great. It‘s romantic and sad and they already have a deep understanding of each other. It must have cost Nynaeve much to tell Lan how he could track Moiraine. Loved that.

Rand and Moiraine in the blight were really nice. Moiraine was so determined to her cause. Interesting that she did not open up about how much it must have hurt her to leave Lan but told Rand about her difficulties with the power to calm his anxiety about being able to touch it. And we got a glimpse of Malkier!

Rand’s dream was pretty creepy. My minor issue with the blight is only that they are not supposed to touch anything and yet they touch these blasted twisted twigs all the time. Maybe the warning should have been: Don’t let anything touch your bare skin or something. It  made little sense.

The confrontation with Ishamael (the Dark One) was great. I mean, he offered Rand a peaceful life in the Two Rivers with Egwene as his wife and he saw through all that because Egwene would not want that? How cool is that?

Moiraine making a move with a dagger although she’s been incapacitated by Ishamael. What a fighter!

Poor Rand thinks everything is over. I wonder if he’ll go and search the Aiel? That would be interesting.

Moiraine telling Lan that “He’s gone.” What a choice of words. It’s technically the truth but everyone will think that Rand’s dead.

How Moiraine let herself cry in Lan’s comforting arms just for a moment and then she was back on track!

And the last glimpse on yet another threat. You always know shit is going to happen if a harmless playing child gets in the way of the baddies.

The finale should have people sufficiently on their toes that they continue to watch next year. I’ll have fun speculating!

[sparrowmoth]

21 (from a parent) + whichever of the Core 4 inspires you!

Heart-Shaped Box • [AO3]

Teen | 1.1K | Jay-centric, Jay & Jafar | Angst, Grief/Mourning

A/N: Thank youuu, @mycroftinthemindpalace​! ♥️ I combined this prompt with @baby-dragon-horns​’ request for “Jay and a creepy object,” so thank you both!

CW: Alcohol mention, references to degradation/objectification, themes of domestic abuse, and non-graphic murder.

1.

A drunken Jafar had once told him the story, when Jay was eleven, maybe twelve.

It’d been only once, but the story had stuck with him, probably because Jafar hadn’t just told it; he’d shown him—shown him the locked box with his mother’s things—the tail of braided hair he’d stored there with her silks and jewelry and vials of perfume.

Things, Jafar said, that she’d lost the right to—

Because she meant to leave him, meant to run and go—where exactly? (Jafar had laughed.)

He’d cut her hair in the night and told her no one else would want her now. She wasn’t even beautiful.

Jay had touched the ends of his own hair as his father said that. He’d remembered the time his hair had grown so knotted, it had to be chopped. Not even worthy as a trophy to be kept in a box. Jafar had tossed it in the trash, given Jay a smack upside the head, and told him… he was worthless.

But his hair had grown since—so, too, his pride and his strength and his confidence and—

Despite that, he’d felt cold and small, more like a child than ever as he watched his father stroke his dead mother’s hair. He hadn’t thought he remembered her, but it was strange, because—the sight of Jafar like that—well, it was too tender right then, but it’d stirred a memory of… something vague—

Like the scene was reflected on rippling water in the low light of evening.

2.

Years later, the memory found him again—as a nightmare—

Jafar had cut more and worse than his mother’s hair that night, as Jay had watched through the part in the curtained doorway, in the room he’d gone to sleep some hours before the fighting started—

It wasn’t abnormal to hear them fighting.

Often, Jay would glimpse them through the curtains as he lay in the dark. He’d turn around and nestle back to sleep in the shadows of his cubby on his dusty mat. That night, much the same, he’d woken slowly to what he thought had been his mother calling him to go, but—was it morning yet?

He’d sat up and squinted through the curtains, out into the quiet, candlelit room beyond.

He’d seen… his mother on the floor, relaxing in his father’s embrace, the both of them dark with shadows. He’d heard his father’s whispers, too faint to make out, but they sounded soothing—

3.

In the dream—the nightmare—and only there—did he stand up and confront Jafar—

He’d been too small in reality, too young to understand.

He’d fallen asleep as his mother died not ten feet away in the other room, and he’d slept right to morning when he’d woken to a world with just his father, who told him flatly that his mother was gone—that she’d left in the night and abandoned them both, that he should hate her for it—

And he did, or—well, he had, for a long time.

Finally, though, he understood.

What had really happened.

He couldn’t… kill his father, for some reason beyond him. He’d hold the knife and think about it, but his hands would shake—so badly sometimes that he dropped the blade with a startling clatter—

4.

One night, when Jafar announced he was going out and Jay was to stay and guard the Junk Shop, he laid his plan. He couldn’t kill his father, no, but his father might kill him if he ever realized what he was doing—staging a break-in to cover up the real theft of his father’s box of his mother’s things—

Jay had paid Mal to punch him, really bang him up a little so it’d looked like he’d fought the thieves.

She’d only asked why once, and when he’d refused to answer, she’d kicked him (for free).

Nonetheless, she’d taken the box as he’d asked and stashed it in their hideout.

Jay had waited alone for his father’s fury, feeling it was worth it.

5.

Some weeks later, when his leg had healed enough from the beating, Jay had made the climb up the stairs to the hideout and taken the box out from under the bed, where Mal had hid it. He’d sat alone and traced the carvings in the wood, mind blank of anything but an awful hum of melancholy—

He’d picked the lock only after a long while sitting like that, and when he’d opened the lid, he’d seen just what he remembered: his mother’s jewelry, her silks, her little vials of perfume, and… her hair…

He’d taken it out and held it stiffly, like he were handling a snake that might strike and attack him.

He’d set it back in the box in a matter of seconds, slammed the lid down, and hid it away again.

6.

The box remained there, beneath the bed, until the morning Jay learned he was going to Auradon.

Not without her, he’d thought as he’d filled his bag up with lots of nothing, covering the box—

His father, of course, had eyed his hefty bag and asked him “what he needed where he was going.” Jay hadn’t had to answer, since Maleficent did, reminding Jafar how the world would be theirs soon.

Let the children have their toys.

7.

And oh, years later—years—Jay still felt like a child every time he took that box out.

He’d snuck things from it, one by one—returning them sometimes, then taking them again.

Her ruby earrings. Her jasmine perfume. Her golden necklace. Her moth-eaten silks. But never her hair.

It was a private ritual, privy not to Mal or Carlos or Evie, though they did ask about the jewelry—only once. He’d gotten defensive, said they were heirlooms. Stolen things, sure, but they had always belonged to him, or should have, and could they just stop asking questions—? (They did. They did.)

8.

Jay waited for news, not knowing he was waiting; but it finally happened. His father was dead.

And that was when—in a strange way, it felt like—Jay was done protecting the box and its things; so, he took it out again, put back the earrings he’d borrowed, let his fingers brush his mother’s braid in a fleeting touch goodbye, and then—he closed the box. He locked it. He kissed the engraved lid, and—

He set it in his bag, slid the bag onto his shoulder, and walked out the door toward a beautiful view.

He set the box down on a cliffside with only endless land in sight—all the sun-warmed, shifting red sands, none of the ocean or the Isle. He did not open the box, because it was not a coffin, and there was no one in it to pretend could see this. He didn’t know, even, if he believed in spirits, so he did not speak. But he did stand there a while, neither smiling nor crying—

Was this an end or a beginning?

Maybe it was both.

Thank you for reading! Reblogs are always appreciated. <3

[blackestnight]

1: the clutches of fate

Prompt: Crux

Word count: 1400

(n.) an essential point requiring resolution or resolving an outcome; derived from Latin cruc-, or cross. Contains spoilers through the Shadowbringers quests “Full Steam Ahead” and “Crossroads.” Or: Hanami, Ryne, and the obligations of a mother.

When Hanami had been very, very young—small enough that the memory was faded and worn through in places like ancient paper, more a moth-eaten patchwork of words than a true recollection—she had thrown a tantrum, sobbing and lashing her tail and howling to her mama that she wanted to go home.

She could barely remember what exactly had prompted her fit. Something to do with her bedroom—the twins were just old enough to sleep without constant supervision, and Itomi had moved into her room with her, sleeping on a tiny pallet across the room and keeping Hanami up at night with her sniffling and cries for food. Hanami had wanted her own room back, one not disturbed by a sister’s cries or her mothers slipping in and out to answer them. She had wanted her old room, in their old house, their real house with the pretty garden that filled her sleep with the scent of sweet flowers, rather than spoiled milk. 

Her mama must have been busy with something else when Hanami made her demands; she was a tactile woman, always sweeping her children into her arms, but she hadn’t held Hanami when she said, “This is our home now, Hana-tan. We don’t get to go back to Monzen.”

Hanami had been persistent, stumbling over her own feet to keep up with her mama as she went about her work, clinging to the folds of her momohiki with fumbling child’s hands. “Why did we leave?” she had whined, desperate to make her point, driven to upset by this old creaking house surrounded by strange animal-noises instead of the yellow glow of streetlamps, by the isolation of the countryside where there had been friends and neighbors. “Aiko’s family didn’t leave. We should go home. I hate it here, kaasan,” she had said, with another insistent yank to her mama’s trousers. “I hate this stupid house! I want our house back!”

“My sweet girl,” her mama had murmured, distracted still but mournful, in a way Hanami hadn’t been old enough to understand. “I miss it too. But there are—” Hanami remembered the stumble more clearly, the hitch in her voice, not fear of being overheard but fear of what her young, thoughtless children might repeat. “—there are very strong people in Monzen now, and they don’t like me or your mother very much. That’s why we had to leave, my sweet, do you understand?”

“But you’re strong too!” Hanami had insisted, infantile blind faith in the arms of her mothers. “If they took our house you should take it back. If you fought them they would leave,” she had said, voice choked with her own tears, throat swelling shut. “You said our family was made to fight for the king’s house and you didn’t. At least fight for ours!”

This was the part Hanami remembered clearest: the clatter of whatever had occupied her mama’s hands dropping to the floor, the dull thunk of her knees dropping to the mats. Her mama’s hands were rough, skin thick from her sword-grip, the roughness catching on the scales just beginning to creep onto Hanami’s cheeks. Her hold was always so firm, strong enough that Hanami couldn’t pull away but gentle enough that she didn’t want to. When her mama held her there was nothing that could scare her. Her mama had the strongest hands in the world.

“My baby,” her mama had said. She had been crying: that was the other thing that had surprised Hanami, the shock stilling her, her little fists slack as her mama had reached forward to bundle Hanami into her arms. Her mama smiled so much. Her eyes were so bright, like orange sparks, and they looked wrong, ringed glassy and red. “Our old house, even the king’s castle—I would lose them a hundred times over if it meant keeping you.” Her hands had been firm but her fingers had trembled as she stroked them along Hanami’s horns, a gentle rasp. “Yes, your mother and I could fight to take it back. But by being here—by bringing you and your brothers and your sister—all we ever wanted was to make sure those horrible soldiers could never take you from us.”

Hanami had shuddered at the thought, coughed out another sob at the vision of shadowy soldiers looming over her, and her mama had bundled her close, tucked Hanami into her neck and pressed the curve of her own horn to her hair. “When you’re grown,” her mama had said, breathy but too firm to be a whisper, a quiet oath, “if you want to take our home back, I will fight a thousand soldiers with you. But the castle, and Monzen, those are Doma’s past. You are our future.” Her mama’s battle-worn, tender fingers had dug into Hanami’s back when she promised, “There is nothing more important to me than safeguarding you. No house, no king—nothing.”

—

Even through the ever-present cloud of Light, the heat of Amh Areang beat down on the back of Hanami’s neck, an ever-present warmth like a hand cupped around her spine. The shimmering sands were the same pale gold as Shomi’s eyes. 

Hanami’s hands were rougher than her mama’s, now, her fingers thick and crooked from repeated breaking. Her knuckles throbbed, quiet twinges of pain as she flexed them, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. The pattern of bruises on Thancred’s jaw matched the width of her battle-worn fist.

She would have felt bad about his face if she’d known Ran’jit would find them, or if she thought a sore jaw would make a difference.

“You need to go,” Thancred said, gunblade balanced on his shoulder. “Now!”

At Hanami’s back, Minfilia’s hand—pale and tender, still forming calluses and so, so small—fisted in the back of her vest, the other reaching past her, under Hanami’s outstretched arm. “Thancred, no!” 

“I heard what you said,” Thancred promised—he turned enough that Hanami could see the hard line of his mouth, his set, swollen jaw, blooming with broken blood vessels from her reprimand, and though he spoke to Minfilia she half-suspected that the words were not just for her. “And I’m sorry for all that I’ve left unspoken.”

Minfilia railed again, silently trying to duck past Hanami’s guard, and she clamped her own hand down on Minfilia’s shoulder, gentle and unyielding as she could be. “This is not your battle to fight,” she told Minfilia, just loud enough for her voice to reach the girl’s ears, though Hanami did not look down at her, watching Ran’jit as he took his stance, the aether at his side swirling in serpentine shapes. “You are too important to lose here. We need to go.”

Thancred nodded, turning back to Ran’jit, shifting forward to balance on his toes. “Do what you came here to do. I’ll not have you waste that newfound resolve on me.”

“No,” Minfilia wailed, straining under Hanami’s hold, and she drew the girl further behind her, behind the shelter of her arms. Ran’jit’s familiar began to take shape, casting slithering shadows over the sands. Hanami could fight him, she knew. Ran’jit was strong but she had defeated worse. With Thancred at her side it would be child’s play.

But Ran’jit was fast, and focused, and it would only take a half-second’s luck to slip past them. To get to Minfilia.

If she is yours now, Hanami had said, Thancred still sprawled at her feet from her punch, fueled by the trembling fury that had flooded her limbs at Minfilia’s confession, that she was so sure Thancred hated her, would prefer her dead. If you will claim her, she is your world, do you understand? No loss is too great. Nothing means more than she does. If you fail her again—if you leave her thinking she would serve you better as a sacrifice—I will break one of your bones for every tear she cries.

“Take her, Hanami,” Thancred insisted. “My old friend. Go.”

Minfilia sniffed, watery and thick, and Hanami forced them both back a step even as the sound broke her heart.

“I have her,” she promised, and turned to fold her arm around Minfilia’s waist, to bundle her away from the battlefield. To take her into the safety of whatever time Thancred could give them, the last precious minutes when she could be a child, safe from the clutches of fate just a little while longer.

[boogiewrites]

Choking On Sapphires 78

Characters: Alfie Solomons x Genevieve (OFC)

Title & Song: Blue Veins

Summary: Alfie confronts Horne and sees what has happened to Genevieve. As she is known for, Genevieve takes her fate into her own bloody hands. Song is Blue Veins by The Raconteurs.

Warnings/Tags: Fluff. Language.Graphic Violence. Blood, Gore, Fighting. Revenge. Alfie and Gen reunited. DRAMA. ANGST. Some Shelby boys. 

Click on my icon then go to my Mobile Masterlist in my bio for my other works and chapters. (Had to do this since Tumblr killed links, sorry.) Please like, comment and reblog if you enjoyed it! It helps out us writers A LOT!

Alfie was a shadow of himself. He wouldn't have disagreed to the statement if someone had had the balls to point this out to him either. He was too tired and too close to redemption.

He exited the work truck from his bakery into the long and dusty warehouse with its wooden walls and contraband crates stacked almost ceiling high. The salt from the sea held it's natural tang in the air, clinging to his now red and patchy skin, as in Genevieve's absence it had bloomed fully into an itchy and red mess from stress and lack of care. He pushes back his greasy hair in an attempt to prepare himself for what he was about to see, but nothing besides the war could've helped him prepare to hold a stone face in the presence of the one thing he cared about the most being destroyed in front of him.

Cyrus Horne in all his American unearned confidence stands strong in front of the cars that brought him and his men. He sees the usual suspects behind Alfie, the Jewish boys from his bakery that served as muscle. What he hadn't expected was for the Shelby brothers to be there. Tommy stands lean and poised as always, an almost bored look on his face. The oldest Arthur couldn't have been more the opposite. His face was red and angry, mustache twitching and jaw tense at Horne and his smug exterior for what he'd done to his Genny. John acts as a wall for Arthur, ready to hold him back from bad decisions, the toothpick in his mouth almost snapping every time his teeth came down upon it in his underlying intensity, ready for a brawl.

"Where is she?" Alfie demands, stepping forward with the cane she'd given him for his birthday. He was worn down, in every way and image be damned he needed it to keep his energy up to potentially dismember the piss poor excuse for a man that stood before him.

"I brought her. Don't worry." Horne's smugness is obvious as he flicks a finger and the back doors, hidden from sight open and a bulking man carries out Genevieve's limp body over his shoulder. He moves to drop her with a thump to the cold, hard ground and Alfie points his cane at him.

"You don't fucking throw her on the ground mate or this will end before it even fuckin' starts." the veins in his forehead throbbing and spit flying with every over pronounced word.

He bends at the knee and set her on the ground, her body rolling out of his arms and onto the floor will a dull thud that he does not react to.

"There she is. See?" Horne motions with his hand towards her.

Alfie's face is held impressively still despite how he wanted to rip out Cyrus' neck with his own teeth. She was in such a state and he couldn't even see her face. What worried him was the blood. So much blood all over her torn and tattered, now filthy dress she'd been wearing at the party.

"What the fuck am I supposed to do wif 'is? She could be dead for all I can tell." he guffs out, cane still out and pointing now at Genevieve.

With another flick of his fingers, a man brings a bucket of water over and pours it down over her head. She awakes with a wheezing gasp, her hand moving up to her chest, her hair a black puddle around her head.

What she noticed first was that she was no longer bound. Her hands tremble and shake in pain and adrenaline, broken fingers and swollen joints ache as she moves to push her upper body off the ground, a veil of hair blocking her vision. She fails twice before finally locking her elbows and holding herself up. Alfie watches with a heavy heart as he sees her body shaking involuntarily. He wanted to run to her, to wrap her in his arms and sweep her away but he knew it wouldn't be going down that way.

"Now that that's established. Let's get to business." Horne says, ignoring the woman next to his feet.

She couldn't understand the words she heard, but with the eye that could still open, she saw a bright light. This light wasn't yellow tinged, it was spreading something she hadn't felt in what could've been days, warmth, over her skin. She moves her curtain of hair away from her face, the wet heaviness of it slapping against her back and the ground, revealing her face to the men who had come to save her. She raises it towards the light like a flower in the morning. Her skin the color of the iris and bluebells in her garden, a watercolor portrait painted across her, swollen and marked, showing the clear damage that had been inflicted upon her. John holds Arthur back, and he tries to hold in tears of anger.

As she heard Cyrus' voice, the babbling that her brain had stopped understanding some time ago now makes her gag. For the sound of his voice, as opposed to any of those of his men always meant the worst was coming her way. As she throws her weight to sit on bruised knees, she wheezes and holds what was surely more broken ribs. The pain was an afterthought now, it was the only thing she'd felt in so long. It could've been days, but she knew that her memories would not be reliable at this point, what with how many times she'd been hit in the head as of late.

What Alfie can't rip his eyes away from is the blood. It moves like a river, starting in her now dirty and matted hair, down from her scalp across the sides of her face, a sticky and clotted frame of the damage he could never apologize enough for.

"If I didn't know personally that she was a woman, I would say this one here was a man of most impressive strength." Horne remarks. "She withstood more than any man I've ever interrogated before that's for damn sure." he adds in an impressed tone, turning to face her.

Alfie's eyes moved down her body, the blood connected in a forked pattern and down the middle of her breasts to a thick line that ran all the way down the center of her dress, the inside of her thighs caked with clotted blood, her hands and knees leaving prints of it behind as she struggled to hold herself up.

She looks up and sees the silhouette she would know anywhere. A choked sound escapes her, as the tears form quickly now, seeping out over her filthy cheeks as she tries not to sob as the pain is too much when met with the relief the sight of him brought. Alfie was there. He'd found her. She wheezes and struggles for air, trying to focus her eyes but the bright light of the sun hurts too much after the days in the dark.

"Lucky for you. All of you." he narrows his eyes and points his finger to Alfie and the Shelby's. "She wouldn't talk. Wouldn't give up a peep about you. So I'll need to be compensated for that as well." he continues with a shake of his head.

All her loyal dogs had surely shown up to take her away from all of this. Even if it went badly, she knew they'd come for her and she wouldn't end up in a hole in a country field that would never be found. Taking these assumptions she decided to focus on the next most important thing besides Alfie, Cyrus. Although his men had followed his orders, he was the orchestrator of all the pain she'd been put through that had left her in such broken state. She had no weapons, she couldn't move fast or well, but she did know that he had to die. It's all that her mind would think and it shows on her face.

He catches the death stare she gives him openly. Out of habit, her brain disrupts her understanding of his words, she hadn't wanted to hear what was said as he touched her while she had been held captive and had taught herself to not listen. He asks something, leaning in and swiftly nodding his head her way. Glaring with a face of stone, she found a new well of rage in the knowledge that she wouldn't be fighting alone if she did attack him at this point. He puts his boot on her face slowly, giving it a hard enough push to knock her onto the floor to her side. She keeps her eyes on him as he moves, giving him no satisfaction to be found in her expression.

She knew the shuffle of Alfie's feet by sound alone. He moves closer to her and the way he comes into focus slowly distracts her from the hate in her heart for Cyrus. She sees his exhausted face, focuses solely on Horne at the moment. He knows there's the business to take care of before he got to her, and she accepted this as the way things had to play out. She wouldn't leap for him or beg for attention, that would show weakness. She would stay strong for both of them. Alfie was acting on certainty, knowing that Genevieve would want Cyrus murdered first and foremost before he tended to her. And he was right.

Shots fire off suddenly, and she doesn't know who or where they came from, but everyone hits the ground and scurries, including her. A gunshot even after all she'd been through was enough to fill her with the pain deafening adrenaline to make it behind one of the trucks on Horne's side of the line of defense. She doesn't move fast or well, and certainly not gracefully, tripping over her shroud of hair that grasped to her bare skin from the dampness of it. She ignored the shooting pain in her chest, back flat against the side of a truck with darting eyes that tried to focus and a mind that tried to concentrate despite the hard time she was facing attempting to do so. With shots now sporadic, men's voices yelling taunts from both sides, she moves to the open back of the truck she was brought in. She rests her upper body on the bed of it, searching for something to defend herself with.

She hears a familiar voice let out a call of pain, the clatter of buttons hitting the ground as she hunkers down and sees Cyrus on the opposite side of the line of vehicles. He was shot in the leg, and another wave of adrenaline spikes through her veins as she knows she's found her way in. She eyes an ax in the truck and lugs it out with her bruised and injured arms. The sound of the head hitting the ground a dull thud compared to the shots that still rang out. With both hands on the handle, she drags it behind her, her eyes with their blackness both inside and surrounding them are set with an unbreakable focus on Cyrus' face as she moves with a limp towards him. Her gate is broken and flawed, the scrape of metal against the poured stone floor a distraction to the men who were on Horne's side, giving Alfie's men opportunity to take more of them down. She can't hear the shots any longer, or the screams, she only hears her heartbeat in her ears. She lumbers forward with the ax and stands, her presence blocked by open doors and angles at Cyrus' side with the ax in her hand. He scrambled, looking up at her in the way he'd wanted her to feel while he'd exacted his revenge on her, with fear. She resembled more animal than human now, her hair a tangled mess, the blood and bruises only adding to the camouflage of her feminine self as she grits her teeth and grips the wooden handle of the ax in her hands. He pushes back with his feet to get away from her, only one leg being of much use, but it's not enough to escape her. With her stance like Athena bringing a sword down upon her enemy, her back arched and looking strong, the ax held above her head and a face that held the hell of a woman scorned, she brings it down into his body with a roar. Her lips snarled, her teeth barred and chest heaving as she brings her weapon of justice above her head again, the blood now dripping and blending with the red head of the weapon. She once again is chopping past the bones and flesh of his torso with a sickening and satisfying crunch. With a ringing in her ears, only her breath now registering as she loosely flings the ax away, she straddles his body, almost halved in her enacted revenge. She sees his face screaming, tears from his eyes, spit flying and teeth gnashing as he looked in unfiltered horror at himself, knowing his story was coming to an end by the woman who he had tried to break.

With dead checks on all of Horne's men, Alfie follows the animalistic sounds that blend with the echoing shrieks of Horne. What he sees happen before him, he was not ready for.

She kneels over him, a hand cracking his ribs as she puts her weight on the broken cage, her knees at his side and her eyes nothing but black and vindictive. As she sinks her hands into his bubbling mass of guts and organs, the men who had seen war all stop at stare at the carnage. She rips him open with her bare hands, his screams causing Arthur to cover his ears, reminding him too much of the war as he shakes his head.

Her voice is dark and raspy, barely recognizable or understandable as it raises in volume as she speaks, each statement more painful than the last. "You're screaming but I know you love it!" she says, throwing her head back and laughing maniacally at him. She digs his intestines out of his body, tearing out his stomach and liver and tossing them away. "Am I too big for you?" she asks him, leaning close to his face and working fast. "I bet I'm SO much bigger than he is. Come on now! Acting like you don’t want it only makes me want it more." her voice is now that of a banshee wail, all vengeance, and agony. "What's a broken bitch like you going to do about it? NOTHING! YOU CAN'T!" her voice sounds as if she's telling a joke, a madness lies beneath her words, as all the men that hear her know she's only reciting what must've been told to her during her time being held captive.

She sees him fading, and wants more from him. Her thumbs gouge into his eyes, sucking them out of their sockets with sickening pops as she digs her thumbs into the empty holes until he is no longer screaming, and no longer alive.

Alfie looks on in horror. He never wanted this for her. This was war. This was brutality that she should've never had to witness or perform, but because of him...here she was living this life.

"Chanah." he calls with a crack in his voice, walking towards the body and the blood that pooled around it. "Chanah." he calls out again, his voice more strong and certain. He had to put his guilt and his fear behind for her now. She was what needed all of his attention at this moment. "Chanah." he says, his shoes finding the edge of the sticky puddle of blood as she stops and wheezes, his voice finally registering to her. Her head rises slowly, hands running down his body before she holds them up and looks back and forth at them. Her adrenaline fades, her hands now shaking and trembling and pulsing in distress. She sluggishly rises, her knees giving out a few times, as he holds out his arms to her, not wanting to frighten her further or worse, have her attack him and have to restrain her. He'd seen men lose their minds on the battlefield, and he wasn't going to chance having to harm her further to keep her from hurting herself. But as she stands, stumbling and feeling his hands on her back, she moves to face him with unsure feet. "Chanah." he whispers with as much sweetness as he could muster in the face of the slaughter he was gazing at.

Her eyes meet his, the one that wasn't swollen shut was wide with fear, pupils dilated fully and as she takes in a forced shaky inhale before she squeaks out wordless sounds, her back bending and her body collapsing into a violent sob as he lunges forward and catches her at the waist. She calls out in pain and he moves, holding her as gently as he can. She was frail and pale, utterly broken as he saw the frantic nature of her eyes as she grasped at him. She reaches up for his face, finally eye to eye, the blood-soaked dress and limbs now slathering him in bits of Horne but he didn't even register it. Her hands at his face, her lips trembling and split, blood coming from her mouth and nose, her teeth pink from it, she tries to speak. "Ari." she chokes out, only seconds before her eyes roll back into her head, and she goes limp in his arms.

"Chanah!" he shouts, his hand moving to give her face a few light smacks as she lay without response in his arms.

Tommy pushes forward, his hand to her neck as Alfie shook her, each breath growing more desperate, fearing the worst.

"ALFIE!" he says holding his arm tightly. "She's alive. She's passed out. But we need to get her to a hospital NOW, yeah? She's clearly... hurt." he chokes out, the way Alfie was holding her, that look of loss on his face reminding him of losing Grace.

"Yeah. Fuck....yeah, mate. Yeah." he says with rushed words, scooping her up like a baby as he carries her to their car to take her to start the long and seemingly impossible recovery period for her.

The moment marked another chapter in their relationship, something neither had gone through before. But all Alfie thought while he kept his fingers on her pulse the entire drive was how he was going to murder everyone and anyone that had anything to do with Horne after he knew she would be alright. This day would come to be infamous in myth, but it was, in fact, a true story. And a love story nonetheless of gangsters and revenge. It would be told years down the line of the day the mad Jew almost burned down all of London for the woman he loved.

Please leave a like, reblog or comment if you enjoyed this! It makes me want to write more of what you want if you let me know!

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[honestsycrets]

One Day

Hvitserk x Witchy!Wife for @tempt-ress I’m sorry it took me so long to finish this for you my love. I hope you enjoy it.

Spakona: Seeress

Seidhkona: Magic user of Seidr.

Rökt fisk: Smoked fish soup

Ale-runes which the wife of another will not betray a man’s trust must be written on the drinking horn.

Gifs: Mine and I abused the shit out of them!

She’s a witch! His brother had said it as if their mother had not been the same. When Hvitserk went to Kattegat, it was always with the knowledge that he was outside of their strange circle… despite being so in at the same time. The only thing keeping his brother at bay, or so Hvitserk thought, was her.

It was cold-- wet and frosty as he hops from one congealed mat of ice to another, hoping back onto the man made road towards the slight hill where slushed ice would crack under his foot. He taps his boots of the ice as he pushes the door apart, sliding in with a small little peep. A garland of weasel bones jingle to welcome him back home, etched with rune.

“Fadir!” Shrills his nearly three year old, whizzing through the dark planks of his home to the doorway. Hvitserk grins a bright, gleaming smile as he closes the door behind him. It smells of warm hearth. Old ash lit alive and boy, there are no bowls on the shelf. That meant one thing to Hvitserk who sheds his fur coat and plucks up his son: dinner.

“(Y/N)!” He beams, rocking his son in his arms.

You turn away from the warm hearth in the room, pouring him a hearty and warm soup of rökt fisk to go with his herb bread. You turn up with your bowl, revealing a round belly that picks up his skirt. He moves forward to meet you in a soft kiss to your forehead.

“There is my pretty witch.” He teases, running his hand over the curve of your stomach, taking the bowl you hand to him. He almost moves away when you stop him by tapping your lips with a ‘ah, ah, ah’ as if to note that he can’t leave before his kisses. His pre-existing gloomy mood is done away with in that instant, leaning in with a great smile to kiss you upon the lips. Then he moves to his seat with his little boy in his arms.

“Mhm. Why do you come in here with that frown?” You say, bringing your own bowl on top of your round belly. The chair you sit in is carved with imagery of the falcon-- melted gold paints its surface in memory of the goddess you serve.

“Ivar murdered Margrethe on his way to find Bjorn.” He notes. Old feelings died hard-- you suppose, but you are far more confident in your abilities to keep your husband than worries of the one who played mad. Hvitserk bobs his son on his lap, offering him some of his smoked fish soup.

“I can’t say I’m surprised. Are you grieving?” You ask.

He mushes his thin lips together, shrugging his shoulders. “A little. Ivar thinks I am overreacting and have gone soft.”

“Ivar is just as guilty of being soft as you, little fadir.” You reach over, tickling his belly. Your young son babbles for more of his father’s food.

“Hey, I’ve hardly gotten any.” He pouts to him, cleaning the spoon. His son steals his bread, devouring it as hungrily as Hvitserk ever had. Your husband turns his eyes to you.

“He says I’ve gotten comfortable having a seidhkona at home.” Hvitserk notes. Such strange magic you practiced. Magic that even the gods were wary of. Harmful and yet protective, all in one. Your kohl lined eyes glisten while you raise your eyebrows up.

“Should I reverse ale-runes on his horn?” You tease.

Hvitserk laughs, leaning up in his chair. “No, Freydis is with child. They will call you a Spakona, not my pretty little witch who bares me sons, makes bread and cares for me at night in spirit or person.” He rolls his eyes as if he can’t understand how his brother managed it. The two did not speak. But more than that his impotence was exactly what led to the death of Sigurd-- which you foresaw with Aslaug. A death.

“Oh, then its too late for that.” You note rather dead pan in tone. Its enough that he stops to look at you quizzically. You return his gaze with a dead serious one, not at all revealing anything more. He opens his mouth but then closes it. He stares off again.

“He doesn’t think I love him. What if I…” He begins. Just as quickly you cut him off.

“Let the fool play the fool, Hvitserk. He will humiliate you.”

Nothing else passes his lips, bringing his bowl of soup up to his lips to chug the fishy broth all at once. He hops up, setting down his heavy son who whizzes about his feet as he goes to serve himself more. You stand up, gliding over to where he kneels.

“Let me do that.” You huff something about womanly duties-- and Hvitserk swats your skirts back to sit down.

“I have hands too!” He pouts cutely bringing his son another bowl of fishy soup along with him. He plops down on the ground to eat with him, resting his head against your side.

“But you’re my king.” You turn your hands over his neat braids. Hvitserk can’t help a smile at the suggestion.

“With no lands in all of Norway.” He notes. Even the land he was given was bought off of his smaller brother’s hands. You hush the strain in the wrinkles of his forehead by a consoling rub of your thumb against the wound smack in the middle of his forehead.

“Be patient my love. Your line will have your glory.” You console. So he smiles, edging closer towards your belly. He lays a kiss atop of the round swell of his son brewing in his little witch’s belly.

“One day.”

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[rose-lattess]

Widojest Week

Day one: Dance ~ 1.6k

“I could be worried about nothing, but if your mother has been compromised in some way, it is too late. But, it is not too late for your child, Nott.”

Takes place after episode 64. Inspired by Laura’s, “I have trouble sleeping that night.” This is disregarding the order of watch displayed in episode 65.

“I could be worried about nothing, but if your mother has been compromised in some way, it is too late. But, it is not too late for your child, Nott.”

As much as Jester Lavorre wished to cry, the tears would not come. Fear, a big black wall built by Caleb’s dismissive tone and heart-wrenching reality, stood like a dam between her heart and her eyes. Her mother would be fine. She had to be. Jester could not fathom a future without Marion in it, and she never truly thought of losing her until Caleb had told her that if Marion faced trouble, they wouldn’t be able to save her. Caleb had spoken as if it were a prophecy as if he did not believe Jester could save her own kin.

Perhaps, that is what stung the most, what locked Jester’s tears away. Her own companion, her friend, had spoken to her with such apathy. He had used Marion’s safety as an example to convince Nott to agree with him. He disregarded the weight of his words, and that had made it all the worse.

Jester never thought she would be disregarded by Caleb. Fjord, yes. Beau, sometimes. Never Caleb. Time after time, he had shown her that he saw her. Truly saw her. They confided in one another. She trusted him, and she would continue to trust him. But he had hurt her tonight, and he was the reason that she could not cry.

She spent the first three hours of the night fidgeting with the edge of her bedroll and the buckle of her belt, mulling over the possibility of her mother’s demise. She glanced across the fire. Nott rested with her head against Caleb’s legs. Beneath the crackle of the fire, Caduceus’ snores decorated the hut in a gentle cadence. Everyone slumbered, besides Fjord. Sitting cross-legged, Fjord kept watch with half-lidded eyes.

Jester quietly stood. She gently tapped Fjord on the shoulder and told him to get some rest; she would take the rest of his watch. He gladly accepted, and Jester swore he had fallen asleep before he hit his mat.

Standing near the exit of the hut, Jester crossed her arms and held herself. While it was too dark to see, she could imagine the Barbed Fields staring back at her with its desolated land and flat horizon. She was glad it was dark. Cradling her arms with tender hands, Jester allowed herself a glance to the stars.

As a child, she often took pleasure in the twinkling lights of the sky. It was her reminder of the great unknown. A reminder that there was more than just the halls of the Lavish Chateau. Her mother often accompanied her out onto the balcony, and the two would connect the brightest stars to form constellations.

Without intending to, Jester started to hum. It was a soft song that did not carry far. A personal melody, one which her mother would sing to her when she was feeling down. Lost to the memories and the brilliant stars, Jester did not hear the footsteps behind her.

Caleb was at her shoulder, hands stuffed within his pockets and brown hair wild from stressful sleep. Jester stopped humming. “You don’t take watch until dawn,” she said softly, keeping her eyes focused on the dark night.

“I am not here for watch,” Caleb said, not only matching Jester’s volume but tenderness, as well.

Jester’s brows dipped as she struggled with his meaning. Still holding herself, she dug her toe into the dry dirt and turned to look at him. She kept her lips parted, unsure if she wanted to speak or not.

Blue eyes, navy under the touch of night, flickered between the Barbed Fields and Jester. Caleb swallowed his compunction. “That song,” he started.

Jester shook her head and frowned. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” she apologized, upset by his tone. Unlike earlier in the evening, he was gentle. She wondered if he was trying to brush his behavior off by speaking as he normally did. She did not like it.

“You didn’t.”

Afraid of showing him the pain in her expression, Jester turned back to the Barbed Fields. Silence hung between them. Jester hated silence. Silence surrounded her childhood like a thick blanket, and she would often ramble to combat its grasp. Tonight it was a struggle, for she really did not wish to speak, but Caleb was standing there, waiting for her to say something, to pretend to be usual self, to pretend that nothing was wrong.

“It was my mama’s song,” she supplied.

Caleb looked at her. She could feel his frown. He frowned with his entire face. She would consider it one of his many talents. “Do not speak with past tense,” he lectured.

Unable to hide the twitch of her lips, Jester turned to him. Her arms fell to her side, and she crumbled before him. “But, you said—”

“I know what I said,” he interjected. His brow was low, and his tone had shifted down, reminiscent of earlier that night. His façade had not lasted long. “I remember every word, every volatile syllable that left my mouth.” His lips stretched as grief took hold of his features. “But that was me, not you. Do not speak like that.”

“I don’t understand, Caleb.”

“It was wrong of me to speak to you the way I did. I am full of this, this pessimism.” His voice was shaking, and he raised his hand to gesture to her. “And you are not.” He sounded so lost, and Jester wanted to reach out to him, tether his body to hers, so he could not drift off too far. But, she stayed still and let him unravel. “When I first met you, I promised myself that I would not tarnish your innocence. Your hope. But tonight, I broke that promise, and I’ve- I’ve tainted you with the toxic doubt that fills my mind.” He held his hands together and slowly shook his head, his brown hair, red when the firelight hit it just right, scattered across his face. He made no move to fix it. “I—you are bright. Do not let my presence in your life dim you.” He met her eyes in a heart-bearing plea.

Jester took an unsteady breath, ripples of emotions caused her chest to heave. “Caleb, it’s okay.”

“It is not. It is okay not to be ‘okay,’ Jester. You have the right to be mad.”

“I’m not,” she confessed, lowering her voice to try to convince him it was the truth. It was the truth. She forgave him. It was an easy thing to do, despite how gravely he had hurt her. He stared at her in disbelief, waiting for her to take her words back, to yell, to scream at him for threatening her perception. She would do no such thing; she would never do that, not to him. Because, while Jester was not broken, not yet, she could tell he was, and as an unbroken, she felt it was her duty to help him. And, if helping him meant forgiving him when he hurt her, she would do just that, even if he had left a scar.

Slowly, she raised her hand toward him, offering him her palm and slightly curved fingers. It was her turn to plea. Caleb glanced to her hand, brows low and lips quivering. “Will you dance with me?” she asked softly.

She watched as he battled with his answer before he raised his own hand and set it in hers. His gloved palm covered hers in a tender grasp, and his fingers curled around her blue skin. She stepped closer to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You talked to her tonight,” Caleb muttered as Jester began to rock back and forth.

“Yes,” she answered.

“You will talk to her tomorrow night as well?

“Yes.”

“Good.”

They did not waltz. Instead, Jester simply rocked them from left to right to left again. It was a gentle rock that neither of them rushed. Caleb removed his hand from hers, and Jester was about to break away, not wishing to push the man’s comfort. But instead of halting their movement, he continued to sway. He placed his hand on the back of her head and pulled her into a soft hug. He rested his chin between her horns, and she nestled her ear into his chest. She could hear his heartbeat through the cloth of his shirt, and she closed her eyes.

They continued their swaying embrace for a few moments before Caleb’s chest vibrated beneath Jester’s cheek. “That song you were humming,” he said softly. “Can you continue? I’d like to hear how it goes.”

Pleased by his request, Jester began to hum the melody imprinted along her heart. Caleb held her as they rocked from side to side. He listened intently to the order of the notes, remembering them with ease and by Jester’s third repetition, he had joined her. With his low timbre, they hummed in simple harmony, never once dipping into dissonance. Beneath the constellations, embraced by someone she loved, singing the song of her childhood, Jester cried. The release of emotions she had so longed for came in languid tears that left her refreshed and undaunted. She smiled. If Caleb felt her tears staining his shirt, he made no move to address it.

[tarralin]

Recovery

Fox Hunt, Chapter Eleven

(Board gifted by @under-sengoku-skies​)

Find Master List, Ao3, and Ko-Fi links in blog bio!

Thank you @rainyluneotome for beta reading!

TW: combat, gunfire, mention of death

~*~

Croatia was mostly a peaceful country but a known terrorist group had recently moved in and started snatching young people for their cause. Men forced to fight for ideals that weren't their own and women were either used for the men's entertainment here or trafficked internationally to other terrorist cells.

That's where she came in. Her newest command position set her-- and her squad-- as judge, jury, and executioners unless otherwise stated in mission briefings. Guilt had already been determined for their newest targets and they were hours away from takedown. Sleep was deserved…

“Mabel!”

Macon's scream jolted her awake the very moment Mark yanked her from the cot. Dirt dusted her face as she hit the ground, rolling on instinct just as stray bullets blasted through her pillow. She didn't bother asking either of her brothers what was happening. She'd find out later... if they survived that is.

Gunfire and agonized screams sounded on the other side of the tent. Soldiers were being butchered. Her soldiers. Her squad she had led to the outskirt of known enemy territory. Her gut had told her to move on to safer grounds but that required time the victims didn't have.

She had led them to slaughter.

“Mabel!” It was Mark’s voice now that called to her in a stage whisper. His face was the emotionless mask he usually boasted on all their previous missions and the familiarity grounded her. They’d get through this, they always did. She pulled both tact knives from her belt with an exaggerated flex of the fingers, the age old sign they used since childhood signaling she was ready to move.

The three slipped from the tent as a unit, successfully ambushing a passing enemy trio from behind and making quick work of their throats. Macon looted two rifles as his eyes scanned the vicinity from point. Mabel’s eyes caught sight of a flash to her right and sprinted the distance to terminate the threat, leaving Mark to take rear point.

Mabel’s target spotted her too late, his warning shout to comrades was drowned out by his own blood filling his lungs from the new holes she’d given him. His fall allowed her to steal his weapon easily, flipping it to her perspective as she gripped her spare blade in her teeth. Three new targets cleared a tent corner and dropped cleanly as her shots blasted through their craniums.

Mark and Macon flanked her as they crept through the hellfire that rained through the camp. Together, they picked off all intruders that crossed their path but screams and gunfire still rang into the night from the opposite camp side.

“How many shots y'all have left? I got six.” Macon growled.

“Ten,” Mark quipped.

“Five,” Mabel moaned. She'd be able to make the few bullets count but dropping to find a new rifle would be out of the question once the fire flew. “We'll grab what we can and pick off as many as possible. Then--”

“No,” Macon snapped. “You two make for the trees and get out of here. I'll find Rica and Jules and we'll rendezvous at Nonna Lorenza's in Venice.”

“No,” Mark snapped back to the elder sibling. “You won't make it far with just six shots. We do this together or not at all. Jules wouldn't want you going alone and I need to see Rica safe with my own eyes.”

Mabel met Macon's gaze and nodded her agreement. “ ‘The family that slays together…’ Let's go get our girls.”

~*~

MC always knew it would be a bloody end for her but never did see think she’d relive the worse night of her life once more. The past had haunted her sleeping hours and robbed her of precious rest for the better part of the last decade, couldn't it let her die in peace?

The sandpaper down her throat told her ‘no’. She’d been screaming in her sleep-- the only time she ever did-- while that blood painted scene replayed before her unconscious vision. The sandpaper also meant she was still alive. Still denied reunion with her brothers of both blood and bond.

Then again… maybe living was her Hell? It certainly felt like it right now. She couldn't move, an invisible concrete block restricted her arms. She couldn't see, a piercing light washed her vision in white. And she needed water almost as much as the time she had been stranded in the Sahara for two days.

And what was that buzzing sound? Were mosquitoes to be apart of her personal Hell, too?

“I draw the line…”

The buzzing stopped and a merciful angel of darkness blocked the blinding light. Something must have pleased the angel because they extended a cooling touch to her forehead and chuckled softly.

“I have been called many things… but never an angel.”

I know that voice! Hallelujah!

“Right now… you're my angel. Just… keep out the light.”

The cooling touch continued in soft strokes down her cheek and jaw. The lapse between strokes seemed to last an eternity and she leaned into them as much as the invisible block pinning her down would allow. “I'll stay then and keep the light out. Ieyasu is fixing you something to help you rest easier…”

Oh, so you're a devil after all?

“No… no sleep…”

“You need it, Dearest.”

She pulled away from the coolness, as if she could escape her prison. “No… I can't… can’t watch again.”

The coolness found her at the same moment a glorious liquid crossed her tongue, quenching the desert sands of her esophagus. “You won't have to… Just rest.”

The sweet chill of the angel’s touch and voice remained as darkness overcame the light, pulling her into the first deep slumber she had in years.

~*~

The light was the first thing she was aware of as her eyes creaked open. It didn't hurt like last time and revealed she was in her own room. A breeze danced through the window and greeted with the freshness of a new day to clear the lingering fog of her mind.

Why am I still in bed? I have work to do!

“The only thing you have to worry about is rest.” A hand swooped in keep her head pinned to the pillow. The cool touch reminded her of the dark angel she dreamed of. Only now she wasn't dreaming but this angel really did dress in white.

A fire blazed to life beneath her ribs as she fell back to the mat. “Oh, I recognize this pain! Guess I wasn't as fine as I thought I was…  How long have I been out?”

“This is the fourth morning. Though, you did stir several times. We had to restrain you before the wound reopened.”

That explains the invisible block… She knew she had a tendency to scream and thrash about when the nightmare came. How many times had she woken on the floor tangled in the sheets? How many black eyes had RM or JR earned when they tried to wake her from the past terrors? The reason she preferred a nighttime workout was so she’d be too exhausted to dream, but bloody fights always triggered and called its presence as a siren’s song lured sailors.

Focusing on Mitsuhide, she could see dark circles lining his bloodshot golden irises. Shoulders slumped forward as if only his will kept him sitting up. White tufts of hair stuck out in various places, no doubt from scrubbing his hands through to keep awake. What have her screams been doing to him?

It took every ounce of strength she could muster to pull her hand from the covers and raise it to his cheek, relishing in the weight of his head in her hand. “I’m sorry you had to witness that.”

His hair swayed side to side as he shook his head in her hand and he covered her fingers with his own. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“Mitsuhide, you look as bad as I feel! That's a lot to apologize for.”

He chuckled at that and brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead. “Your color has returned. Do you remember anything from that evening?”

“I remember it ending very differently than I’d hoped.”

“Ah, that it did,” he smirked as he wrapped her hand between both of his, dragging a slow kiss across her knuckles. “Anything else?”

“All of it,” she sighed. “I remember tunnel visioning, I didn't even feel those two creep up on me before it was too late. I remember a mouthful of blood…”

“Mmm, yes, and because of that, you've earned a few new titles. Tales of Azuchi’s Rasetsu have already been heard in town while the soldiers speak of a Lady Akaoni.”

Her eyebrows knitted together. “I understand the ‘man-eater’, but why a red-horned demon?”

“To be fair, you didn't see the mess your hair was in when Masamune and the real night guard arrived.”

That earned a laugh she regretted as her wound objected to the merriment, forcing a grimace as she spoke. “Masa is okay? What kept him detained?”

“Yes, he is fine. There was an ambush in the north part of the castle, meant to serve as a distraction, but I'm sure they didn't anticipate Masamune patrolling the perimeter himself instead of holed up in an office somewhere. There were four of them and they weren't very talented swordsmen. Although, one did almost have him…” the weight of his head rested fully in her hand as his eyes fluttered closed.

“Mitsu, tell me.”

“The young guard he was training took the blow in his place. There was nothing we could do aside from ensure a warrior’s ceremony.”

The one Masa was training…? “One of my maids’ son?”

A single nod in response.

She rose from the floor as far as her shoulders before that searing flame in her side blazed to life again and sent her crashing back to the mat as Mitsuhide pinned her shoulders in place.

“What in the blazes do you think you're doing?!”

“I have-- I have to go see her,” she gritted through the pain. “Those men tried to tote me off. I was the target. All this was because of me.” Again.

His hair swayed across her brow now as he shook his head at her again. “None of this is your fault and you can speak with her later if you wish but, for now, you need to rest. We've managed to stave off any infection but you still need to regain your strength.”

“Eh, I've had worse scrapes than this. I'll be up before long now.”

“Yes, I'm sure you'll be up by the time I return.”

“Return?” That ensnared her attention. Where are you going?”

His hand returned to stroking her forehead, eyes drifting to the window. “Away.”

Ah, can't say. Azuchi's rat must still be on the loose.

She released a sigh and tugged his robe to bring his gaze back to hers, forcing a smile through the pain for him. “Just don't make yourself a martyr. In fact, I'd like you to take these.”

Reaching into her kimono, she retrieved the trio of pendants that had called the chain around her neck ‘home’ for the last five years. “Nobu calls me his good luck charm, well… these are mine.”

A single white brow arched as Mitsuhide ran the chain through his fingers and inspected the small plates. “The writing on these match the print on your back. What do these talismans say?”

“They're not talismans,” she chuckled darkly. “Back home we call them ‘dog tags’. Soldiers wear two matching tags so they can be easily identified if they fall during battle.”

His second brow joined the first as he blinked down to her. “That does not sound like a favorable fortune to wear around your neck, Dearest. Why do you have a third then?”

“One is mine. The other two belonged to my brothers, Macon and Mark Clements. They were always trying to look after me and having those just feels right. Imagine having two Hideyoshis, but one of them with Masa’s prankster attitude, and you have my brothers with me as their Mitsunari.” His sudden laughter brought a smile to her as she continued. “And they are lucky. My other one still has the head of a bullet that was meant for my heart implanted in it. So, please, wear them. You can give them back when you return. I'm not going anywhere. And… I'll try to have an answer for you on staying here.”

Days of exhaustion seemed to evaporate off his shoulders. She loved that cunning smirk of his but the rare, beautiful smile it melted into curled her toes with glowing warmth. Warmth that only continued to spread as he leaned down to trail a searing path of slow kisses across her brow, cheek, nose, until finally claiming her lips as he meant to the night of the attack.

“I look forward to it, Dear One.”

~*~

Mitsuhide left at dusk after visiting once more and ensuring Masa’s soup made its way to her stomach. Masa retrieved her finished bowl himself and to inform them that Mitsuhide’s horse was ready for departure.

Nobu sat with her that night.

“I don't sleep much anyway,” he gave as a way of answer when she arched her brows at him when he settled against the wall.

“As my current position as Chatelaine proves, that is a lie.”

“Perhaps,” a self-deprecating chuckle before his eyes rolled back to her. “What do the markings on your back mean?”

She turned her eyes to the ceiling. “Just a means of atonement.”

“Atonement? Why--”

“Not something I wish to speak of.”

She could feel his eyes on her as as heavy as the silence settling over them. “They have something to do with the nightmares?”

She clenched her jaw to keep from snapping at him. She knew he was just curious and possibly trying to lull her to sleep with small talk. This particular subject was never small for her but, if she remained quiet, maybe he’d drop it.

After another loaded silence, he released a heavy sigh. “As curious as I am to learn how one such a you acquired the skills I've witnessed, I won't force you to relive the battles of your past. But… I dislike disruptions in my home, my little fireball. I simply need to know that this recent incident won't cause further distraction.”

Ah, of course. Gotta keep the machine running and well oiled, eh? I can respect that. “I’m used to managing my terrors, Nobu, and they do not interfere with my daily work. They'll dissipate once I’m back on my feet.”

The intense stare he leveled her with almost took the breath from her. It was the exact one Macon used when he thought she had lied to him. And just like Macon, Nobu's shoulders relaxed once he found she hadn't. “Do try to sleep, fireball. I’ll wake you should your terrors catch you again.”

She would have replied, if not for the sudden lump in her throat that refused to budge. Instead, she willingly surrendered to the darkness.

~*~

The warm sunshine of the garden welcomed her with open arms as she reclined under the wisteria.

Having spent an additional two mornings in bed pushed her past the end of her patience and the entire room sickened her in ways unrelated to her injury. Fresh air was what she needed and that was what she was going to get. Flames of pain still ignited around the wound but the blazes were diminishing more and more with each new morning, enabling her to redress the wound herself for the first time with the modern medical supplies she always packed her purse with.

Now, it was time for some good old Vitamin D while hiding from the mother hen--

“Princess!”

Damn. Mission failed. Note to self: Locate and recruit any of Hideyoshi’s descendants because-- hot damn-- those tracking skills!

“Do you know how worried I--” his march across the garden ended abruptly before muttering a curse under his breath, no doubt noticing the peculiar arrangement of her kimono; uncovered arms and shoulders, thighs-to-toes bared to the sun. “What are you doing?”

She snickered at the changed projection of his voice and finally peeped her eyes open to find him facing the way he came. “It's called ‘sunbathing’. Quite common back home and a favorite pastime of mine actually. I don't have the proper protection from the direct sun but it is bright enough here under the shade.”

“Princess, you really shouldn't be… lying about… like that… let me give you my kimono.” The blush creeping over his ears could be heard in his voice.

“That would defeat the purpose of sunbathing. I do all my best thinking like this. Besides, you seem to the only one here persistent enough to actually find me so you can either go back the way you came or you can join me. Either way, I need silence.” She finished while crossing one ankle over the other to emphasize her indifference.

After a moment of quiet contemplation, Hideyoshi settled into the grass facing away from her. Now, to tackle the issue at hand...

Or… is it even an issue at all? She wasn’t born of this time. Yes, she could blend in and quack like the other ducks but that was a skill of survival. Everything up to now has simply been a means to an end coming up in six weeks. Was this really something she could live with?

Despite the war time hardened lifestyle, the people and land here held a measure of peace she had never encountered before. But when would that peace run out? This era is named for the wars that shaped it. It would be the gamble of a-- literal-- lifetime to remain here with only the hope that her miniscule interference of pulling one man from a burning building would be enough to secure a better future.

And what of RM and JR? After everything they've been through already, her disappearance would be the final nails in their coffins. Both had international connections that could very well burn the world to the ground if those two so much as suspected foul play.

Her family… Her career…

Mitsuhide…

Could she really be so selfish?

~*~

Two evenings later, she found herself waiting at the stable. Mitsuhide’s personal page returned that morning with news of his lord's expected arrival in the afternoon. After ensuring the maids work and renovation schedule, she had taken over the grooming jobs from the stable hands and set out to clearing the horses manes of tangles and debris.

RM's mother came from generations of Texan ranchers and still continued equestrian breeding for race horses. MC always found it calming helping with the animals during the few free summer days she had with RM and JR. How easy it was to fall back into that easy pattern of care.

“And you say you don't sing.”

“Mitsuhide!” Her head snapped up at the voice entering the gate and she met him halfway in his path to the stable. “I wasn't singing.”

He grinned down at her. “Of course not, my mistake. As you can see, I have returned. Do you have an answer for me, dear Chatelaine?”

“Now?” She squeaked, freezing in her tracks as he circled his horse around her. Here is definitely not the place to hash this out!

His lips tilted into that smirk she missed the last several days. “Oh? Has the resident rasetsu turned into a little mouse in my absence? Might be fun to plan a chase then.”

“You will lose! But yes, I mostly have an answer.”

“ ‘Mostly’?”

“Well, it's not exactly an easy answer. There's choices and conditions to be heard… are you getting off the horse or not?”

His golden gaze never left her just as that smirk refused to falter while he continued to trot in circles, raising her curiosity.

“Why?” She switched tactics. “If I gave you an out right ‘yes’, what would do?”

Finally halting his steed beside her, Mitsuhide’s eyes glinted with a predatory gleam as he gracefully dismounted. She watched with open curiosity as he marched to her but only when he opened his arms did she think to take a step back too late. Without a care as to who witnessed the display, his arms swooped under her hips and lifted her into the air against him. A shriek of surprised laughter escaped her as she was spun in the air.

“Is this is a sufficient answer to your ‘if’,” that predatory edge never left his gaze as he settled her back on her feet, ignoring the stunned silence of the passing stable hands.

She could feel her own face flush by the open act. Oh, come on girl! You've been in far more publicly compromising positions before and never even blinked.

“I take it you tracked down our rodent problem?”

His smirk was triumphant now. “I found a few leads. I also have a gift on its way here that I'm sure you'll enjoy.”

“A… you what?” What does he mean a gift?

“You'll see in the next few days--”

“I don't like surprises.”

“But first, I must speak with Nobunaga and Hideyoshi with what I've discovered.” He lifted a lock of her hair to his lips in parting, pointedly deflecting her statement.

Her eyes followed after him. What has gotten into him, blowing through like a whirlwind and leaving like that?

His pace around the corner slowed just enough for him to glance over his shoulder at her, that knowing smirk back in place as if he hadn't just caused her to question his sanity.

Oh, dear Kitsune, this is part of your game, is it?

She glanced into the town before her as a plan formed. He was wrong if he thought she wouldn't be up for a little Cat-n-Mouse.

~*~

The kimono crafter had always been popular among the town for the sixteenth century version of window shopping. However, wartime meant less spending on pretty things and-- despite the constant flow of people in and out the door-- the elder tailor had been struggling financially. So when he heard the bell of his stall's flap signal a potential customer, he was half-tempted to ignore it completely.

Now he wished he had.

His wife was happy to help with the foreign princess’ need while he was still trying connect the garments in their hands with the stated occasion. Lord Oda was taking her on a game trail? Then why did she prefer the sheer fabrics? Surely, the softer cotton would be better for sport.

“I'm sorry, my Lady, but what kind of game did you say you would be hunting?”

The Princess glanced up to him and he could have swore he saw a flash of pink dust her features before she turned back to his wife with a conspiratorial grin. “Foxes.”

~☆~

[times-new]

The Son of Rome, Chapter 1

Hi! This is my PJO fanfic, a Roman!Percy AU that I’m writing as a five-part series like the original PJO. I’ve posted the whole first ‘book’, the Son of Rome, on ffn - but I’m posting it here too for good measure. Hope you like it!

Look, I didn't want to be a half-blood. You might think I'm crazy for saying that. Being a demigod? Why would anyone not want to be one?

Well, a lot of reasons. I knew that. But I didn't fully understand it until today.

It started several weeks – no, it must have been months now. Several months ago, I woke up cold, confused, alone, and surrounded by talking wolves. It was scary, sure, but fear wasn't an unfamiliar feeling. Being a twelve-year-old in New York is hard enough, and when you add ADHD and dyslexia to the mix, you might end up with something like me. I had to face bullies from classmates and teachers alike. I was raised in a system that set me up to fail. Even when I come home to my mom, the only good thing in my life, I had to put up with my stepdad. Being scared and alone wasn't anything new.

Okay, that sounded a lot more arrogant than I thought it would. Let me start over. My name is Percy Jackson. I'm a skinny kid with thin black hair and green eyes. I guess I don't look too different from my mom, but I got my eyes from my dad. That's the only thing Mom would tell me about him in twelve years. Enough about him, though. Like I said, I'm ADHD and dyslexic, so school never felt right to me. I just felt like I should be doing a lot more than book reports and geometry. I tried to join the basketball and baseball teams, and although using up all my energy felt good, it just wasn't rewarding.

I was stuck in a loop of doing bad in school, disappointing my mom, getting frustrated, then doing bad in school again. Sometimes I even wish that my dad would finally show up and save us from our lives. My mom keeps telling me how proud she is of me no matter what, and I believe her, but I know she deserves better than that. Better than me. And a little after I turned twelve that wish came true.

I woke up in the ruins of what I thought was a castle at first. It turned out to just be a really big house, but my mind couldn't comprehend that people could actually live in places as big as this. That was almost harder to believe than the talking wolves. They surrounded me when I first woke up, all slick dark fur with beady eyes. Then they had parted to allow a much bigger wolf approach me. Lupa, she said her name was. She told me everything in her deep and powerful voice. That I was a demigod, that I had been chosen, that I had to learn to fight and live and survive the legacy of Rome.

Sure. Better than pre-algebra.

She pushed me to the limit. I did things I didn't know I could do and tore muscles I didn't know I had. When she was done with me I was strong enough to be a member of the pack. I had to be, because I'm still alive.

Right now, I'm sitting in a bus with my backpack on my lap, squished between strangers. Every bump in the road made me clutch my bag even tighter, and my hands would twitch to the coin in the pocket of my jeans. Over the past few days I was traveling towards my destination, some place called Camp Jupiter. Lupa had told me to 'follow my instincts' and 'embrace my destiny'. She was a bit dramatic that way.

But I couldn't describe the feeling any better. I just knew in my bones that this was the right way even if my brain says otherwise. A camp? Like a summer camp? It's probably a bunch of cabins with a volleyball court. It's got to be back in the forest near the Wolf House. How could it possibly be in the middle of the city? It made sense. And yet I knew it wasn't right. The trail of monsters probably helped me decide that.

I tried to keep my head down. Really, I did. But one way or another I would always find some weird nasty trying to kill me. They were always bigger, stronger, and meaner than me, but none of them were taught by wolves, let alone Lupa. I had to use my hard-won wits to beat them. Which meant a lot of running away. It's a lot more heroic than it sounds. But I had to stand and fight more times than I was comfortable with, and that meant busting out the magic sword I kept in my pocket. Lupa had given it to me – she said it's made of 'Imperial gold', that it was meant to be used by the greatest sons and daughters of Rome. I didn't understand why calling gold 'imperial' would make it any better, and I definitely didn't understand how I was 'great', but I learned not to question Lupa. That would only lead to running more laps around the Wolf House.

As far as I knew, I didn't have anything to make me great. Though I always had a nagging feeling, something to do with how I get whenever I go near water… like that one time I tried to join a swimming club and outpaced the instructor, or that one time me and my mom went to the cabin in Long Island. But that can't be right. It can't be. Because if it was, then that would make my dad…

No. A couple days ago I went to a public library to get on a computer and Google some stuff about the Roman gods. I found out that out of all of them, Neptune was the most feared and hated - except for maybe Pluto. After a life of being rejected by everyone I knew, this was my one chance of fitting in. I didn't want to be a loner again. Sadly, I also found out that every monster within a five-mile radius immediately knows where I am whenever I use the internet, so I could never find out more about the Roman gods by myself. The only reason I made it out of that library alive was my coin and very inventive use of a rolling chair.

I snapped back to reality when I saw my stop. I got out of the bus and stepped out into the middle of nowhere. Well, not exactly. But it sure felt like it. The bus stop was on top of a small hill, and I was the only person around. I was surrounded by beautiful golden hilltops and flatlands further in the distance where the suburbs of San Francisco sprawled. Far away, I could see the Golden Gate Bridge, and on the opposite side, I could see a mountain with its peak hiding behind a cloud. I wasn't sure where I was. But something just felt right. I had followed my instincts like Lupa taught me, and I would know I was right because I would always find –

I heard a snort behind me. The only thing I heard for a few moments after that was my heart beating in my chest. Then I plucked up the courage to turn around.

It was tall, muscled, and really, really smelly. Like, worse than my stepdad smelly. It was naked except for a loincloth, though that wasn't what I was looking at. Its nose was covered in reddish snot, and its eyes were dull black and fixed on me. But my eyes kept drifting to the top of its head, where two cruelly twisted horns sprouted out like the stunted plants from one of my failed science experiments. I guess it looked pretty normal until you moved past its neck and onto its bull's head. I wondered why I didn't notice it before. The Mist, I realized. It must have affected me, and the mortals even more. It was the magic that covered up our world from everyone else, Lupa had told me. People saw what they want to see, and it's never the truth. Even now the thing's head would sometimes look like a misshapen human head with a cowboy hat. And I figured that if someone saw the man-bull for what it was, it could probably go on all fours and moo and no one would look twice.

That made me choke out a laugh. Apparently cows took offense to that, because it roared and charged at me. My battle instincts kicked in, so of course I turned and ran. Look, I promise I'm a demigod, alright?

My first thought was to think back to what I knew about bulls. Well if I'm being completely honest my first thought was Oh my gods, please don't kill me, I'm sorry I had a cheeseburger this morning! My second thought was racking my brain about bulls. Even when I was sprinting up and down hills with a monster at my tail I could think up a few things. First, beef is delicious. Second, cows don't like the color red. Not a lot to go on, but I was under a lot of pressure. Then I remembered that some people would go in an arena with bulls and wave red flags in front of their faces. I forgot what they were called – mats? Doors? Whatever they were called, they always dodged by moving to the side just before they got hit. I hoped that would help me, because I began to feel the thing's breath on my neck, like my pre-algebra teacher. That didn't help me calm down.

I dodged to my right before I knew what I was doing. Sure enough, there was a surprised grunt and I risked a look back. Now that I was closer I could see that it was a lot less human than I thought. It had fur on its chest and arms, but even under all that I could see veins rippling below its bulging muscles. It looked off-balanced for a minute, until it shook its head and barreled at me again.

I can't outrun him, I realized with a jolt. Even now I was starting to get tired and the man-bull was just warming up. The sharp turns were hurting my ankles, and the thing was starting to get used to my tricks. That left two options. I could overpower it or outsmart it. That first option was crazy, even for me, so I had to use my brain instead. Maybe if I went to the city and ducked into an alley – no, that would just endanger more people. I couldn't do that. Maybe…

My instincts told me that the camp was close. Very close. I needed to buy some time, get on a hill, and look at my surroundings. Right now, the only thing I could see were my feet pounding the soil, and a big shadow getting bigger and bigger. Well then. I decided to do what I do best and did something stupid.

I dodged again, but instead of sprinting I turned around, took off my shoe, and threw it at him. The monster was more surprised than hurt – which made sense, since it flew well over his head. I was no good at archery, so I guess that wasn't shocking. But it did its job. It was distracted long enough for me to reach into my pocket. I pulled out a small golden coin – it was the size of a half-dollar, but solid gold and with weird drawings on it. It had the head of some guy I didn't recognize on one side, and the letters IVLIVS on the other. I didn't know what that meant, but I did know that if I flipped it, it would turn into a Roman gladius: a few feet of sharp monster killer.

I screamed at the top of my lungs, grabbed the sword in midair, and jammed it to the thing's leg. It screamed even louder than me, then reached down to grab me with its meaty hands. I pulled out the gladius just in time and rolled backwards. Golden fluid, what had to be the thing's blood, poured from the wound. Normally monsters would just poof into dust after a solid hit with my sword, but this guy was something else. Still, it fell to its knees when it tried to charge me again, which gave me a few seconds to run up the nearest hill and look around.

I only had a glance. It was enough. I could see huge columns in the middle of the field, then saw that they were holding up a highway above me, where it disappeared into a big hill. To my left were more hills, which began to turn to asphalt streets, while to my right I could reach the suburbs with just a few more minutes of running. But up ahead…

It looked like an old tunnel, built into the side of the big hill. Maybe for maintenance? I wasn't sure what I was looking at, but something just screamed to me, home. The only time I felt that way was when I'm in my tiny apartment, alone with my mom, talking about the rare happy moment in school while eating nachos and her legendary seven-layer dip. It felt right. It felt safe.

That was all the encouragement I needed. I ran through the grass and dirt faster than I thought was possible. I could feel stitches at my side and cramps down my legs, but the smell of monster kept me running. Eventually I could see an entrance in the tunnel, a set of enormous iron doors, and two people who looked like they were wearing armor. They were also holding spears and carrying shields, which reassured me, though they couldn't have been much older than me. But when a charging bull monster was on your butt, you'd take your chances.

"Help!" I screamed. My voice was strained and hoarse – gods, I wish I had drunk before I stepped off the bus. The guards noticed me and looked as scared as I felt. I could see them yelling to each before one of them opened the doors and the other readied his spear. As I got closer I could see his blue eyes and waxy skin underneath his helm. He looked terrified, but he leveled his spear.

"Halt in the name of Rome! Who are – "His voice was shrill, and I might have laughed if my voice was any better.

"Later! Help now!"

He ground his teeth and surged forward. I couldn't believe my eyes. He actually moved to attack.

"Senatus Populusque Romanus!" he shouted. Okay, I thought. Why not.

"Get in!" yelled the other kid. She looked like a girl – it was hard to tell underneath the helmet. That sounded like a great idea to me, and I ducked inside. It was dark inside the tunnel, but I could see a light in the distance. I followed it before turning to the girl.

"What's- "And I realized it wasn't her. Instead, the first guard was running beside me. He had a nasty gash on his shoulder and was breathing heavily, but otherwise looked alright. "Keep going! Gwen is keeping it busy!"

I didn't know what he was talking about, but 'going', I understood. I huffed and reached the end of the tunnel. I thought I had died.

At the other end was a valley, small as far as valleys went, but there was a city in the distance. It looked like heaven, or what I thought heaven would look like: pristine white walls, beautiful arches, and solid buildings surrounded by freestanding columns. It was a couple hundred feet away, and in between us there was a river that ran through. Again, I could feel that tugging feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I forced myself to think about something else. I turned around and my heart leapt to my throat.

I was so taken by the sight I didn't notice the male guard had switched places with the girl again. Only this time, she looked terrible. Her helmet was missing, revealing a mass of reddish-brown hair that stuck to her head with what looked like blood. She was using her broken spear as a crutch and limping as fast as possible towards me. The other guard was yelling at the monster, trying to get its attention by going for the occasional jab with his own spear, but I knew that it could snap the spear or the guard with equal ease. I had to help.

I heard shouting and bells ringing. In the distance, a group of people were running towards us, but it would be a few minutes before they arrived, minutes that we didn't have, and that was if they didn't have to cross the river…

The river.

"Hey! He needs your help! Hey!" I heard the female guard, Gwen, calling out to me, but I swallowed my guilt and ran to the river. You told yourself you'd never use this power, I thought. You said you'd reject your father. I hated that I had to do it, but I hated myself more for not thinking about the guards sooner. If I had stood and fought, if we surrounded the monster three on one, then maybe…

No. This was not the time to regret. Right now, they need me. I heard a pained shout behind me before I stepped into the river and turned around to face the monster. The female guard, Gwen, had fallen to the ground. The other kid lost his spear and was weathering blows with a shield that looked like a saucer compared to the monster's fists. He was the only thing standing between Gwen and the monster. I felt the anger and guilt burst inside me like a geyser. They were taking those hits for me. They were taking that pain for me. I wouldn't stand for that. I screamed, and I felt the water rushing to meet me. I charged the monster, and the river came with me.

I wasn't sure how I did it. I just poured all my emotions into a single thought: Fight. I pulled out the coin and flipped it into a sword. When I was halfway there I jumped and felt the water propelling me like a rocket. I was launched several feet into the air straight at the monster. Time slowed down as I gripped the sword with both hands and held it above my head like I was bringing down a hammer. I saw the monster looking at me with surprise and fear. I could see the guard staring at me, wide-eyed. I could feel the wind blowing at my face and the water giving me the strength of a superhuman – of a demigod.

I jammed my sword between the monster's eyes and it dissolved into dust. With nothing to land on, I fell to the ground, soaking wet and hurting in every part of my body. I coughed up the remains of the monster – it tasted like overcooked steak – and stood up to check on the other two. Gwen was still unconscious, but the other kid took off his helmet and stared. He was even paler than I thought, and his blond hair was now dripping wet. Everything between me and the river was drenched in water.

"That was… that was amazing," he whispered. He was clutching his shoulder where the gash was. "How did you do that?"

"I don't know. I just did." I looked at Gwen. "Is she alright?"

The other guy smiled tiredly. He must have been my age, maybe a year or two older. "She'll be fine once we get some nectar and ambrosia inside her."

He walked forward and stuck out his hand. Even though he was just in a fight for his life, he had a crazy gleam in his eyes, like he was just given a new toy to experiment with. I wasn't sure how I felt about that.

"My name's Octavian. Who are you?"

"Hi. I'm… I'm passing out." I fell forward, and the world turned black.

[mollymaymaukme]

Mollymauk x Reader: From Beyond the Grave, Part 4

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

“Get back here!” A voice shouts behind you as you sprint down the alleyway. Bare feet slapping against the hardened dirt and bounding over obstacles. Your fingers holding up the brown and muddied hem of your dress in a white knuckled grip.

You hadn’t meant to steal from them. Well you had actually totally been trying to steal but you definitely would not have if you had known the owners. The object of conflict currently stuffed down your bodice, a handful of gold and silver jewelry.

It had been sitting on a velvet cloth on the ground while its owner stepped away to go help someone. He had been in the process of attaching it to his horns. But you see, the thing is, people who have those kind of flashy accessories are normally rich. Not a fucking carny who had an army of other carney's willing to chase you down with a variety of swords, knives and even fire. 

The aggravating thing was that even when you scrambled up a wall and onto a rooftop they could still follow you. Just as spry and nimble as you, and probably more practiced. A ball of fire comes hurtling over your shoulder and you duck to avoid it.

The motion makes you slip and you feel a stray clay shingle slice into your foot as you let out a yelp. Barely managing to tuck into a ball when you lose your balance and roll from the roof onto the road.

Body aching and head spinning you claw your way to your feet and start running, only to hit a wall. A wall with beefy arms and giant hands that caged you in. As soon as it registered you’d been caught you begin to thrash about, desperately trying to break free of the iron grip.

Baring your teeth and snarling like the feral beast this cursed city saw you as. You looked the part to. Your dress muddied and torn from sleeping in the woods, ill fitting since it hadn’t been made for you but for someone a little shorter. Hair that is filled with twigs and leafs matted and untouched by a brush in your lifetime. Gangly limbs that spoke of lean times tipped with yellow nails that were both long and broken.

The woman holding you jerks you in a 180, hands on your upper arms and pinning them to your sides.

The purple tiefling, owner of the jewelry, comes running up to you both panting heavily. “Thanks Yasha” He shoots the woman a wink before turning to you with a disturbingly polite smile. “Now if you’d please return my belongings I would greatly appreciate it.”

Your only answer is the glob of spit you aim at his face.

He wipes it away with the back of his hand before his grin grows, making you shrink back into the womans hold. “Okay. That's fine. If you won’t hand them over I guess I'll just have to find them myself.”

You understand his words a second to late and he is plunging his hand down your bodice and fishing around for every last ring and bobble. There are no curses from you to him, only screeching and more thrashing. Just as he withdraws his hand triumphantly you get a well aimed kick in between his legs.

Finally wiping that stupid expression from his face as he falls to his knees with a hiss of pain. You immediately turn your head and bite into the woman's arm with as much force as your jaw can muster. She doesn't loosen her grip until you taste blood, giving you the chance to wriggle free. Immediately darting into the nearest alleyway and away from them.

You hear the voice of the red headed woman that had been shooting fire at you asking if she should follow but the tiefling is laughing strangely enough. “Nah, let her go. I got my shit back, it's all good.”

---

The sound of approaching voices breaks you away from the memory. At first you are upset that Caduceus interrupted the memory of when you first met Molly, looking back it was hilarious considering how you two would end up.

But then fear runs through you when you remember that Caduceus was gone. Possibly never coming back. So then you must question who was near?

Focusing on the material world around your body harder you discern three different voices. “Let us explore together.” The deep rumble of a man says a little ways off. If you could have held your breath in anticipation you might have, as is the steady inhale and exhale did not stutter. “There are so many flowers.” A small voice says in awe.

“Yes. Caduceus said he had been taking care of this garden for a very long time.” It was the gentle voice of a woman. Of a mother.

You listen as they make their way into the temple, coming out to explore the graves, before finally circling around behind the building. The running pitter patter of small feet is the loudest, accompanied by a small gasp and then the retreat of the same small steps. “Mom!” The child sounds terrified “Mom there is a body over there!”

“Stay back Nila, I’ll go look.” The man's voice calls as you hear a heavier set of steps coming towards you.

“Be careful Kitor” The gentle voice you could now identify as Nila spoke.

“By the gods. Asar was right. There is a human girl half buried.” You sense that the man, Kitor, kneels beside you. A hand hovering underneath your nostrils and over your slightly parted lips. “Nila, she is still breathing. . .”

You listen as Nila and the child come closer. “Caduceus never said anything about this.” Nila murmurs.

“Hello?” She is talking to you, you think, and when she receives no response you here her whistle. Like a bird, except not exactly mimicking the chirp of the birds that lived in the willow above you.

An actual bird responds and you listen in fascination as it seems the bird and Nila have a conversation. “It says that this is Caduceus’s special flower. That he is growing her for the Wildmother.” She pauses as another series of chirps are traded “And not to disturb her. She will wake up when it is time.”

“Odd things for a bird to know” The deep rumble of Kitor reminds you of Caduceus. But Kitor’s voice was a bit lower than his.

“Maybe it overheard things Caduceus had said?” Nila offers, still sounding confused.

“Or maybe that's what the Wildmother told it to say.” The small voice, who must be this Asar mentioned once earlier, said.

“Perhaps.” Kitor agrees “So what are we to do about her?”

“We will leave her be” Nila says matter of fact “This place is obviously her home before it was ours. So we shall be respectful and not disturb her.”

You are grateful that they are not going to rip you from the ground or try to suffocate you beneath it. . .but you also don’t want them to ignore you.

It had not taken long for you to miss the sound of Caduceus’s voice, or the far off sounds of him puttering about the graveyard and temple. You were lonely and craved the sound of people.

“Mom, the girl is crying. . .why is she crying?” Asar whispers.

“Maybe she is sad.” You hear footsteps come up right next to you before there are fingers brushing the tears off your cheeks. This only makes them flow harder as the action reminds you of Caduceus, who might never come back, your companion in this lonely existence. “Oh don’t cry flower girl.”

There is a cacophony of chirping from several birds in the willow branches. The woman pauses to listen before you feel a tear, not your own, fall against your cheek. “It is all going to be alright now flower girl. We will be your friends now.” She says with conviction, and you can hear the tears in her voice.

Then there is the feeling of lips against your forehead. She pats the dirt around you back onto where it might have shifted off you over time. Fingers brush your hair from your face as she whispers “Goodnight, Flower girl.” Before getting up and leading her family back to the temple. Once again you are reminded of a parent tucking their child into bed.

[thetenthdoctorscompanion]

A One Shot Series - Peter Parker/OC

Word Count: 3285

Warnings: Idk language? Teens being awkward and fluffy.

A/N: Do you like how every time I post a ‘one shot’ I add another eight hundred words? Eventually these won’t even be one shots lmao.

MASTERLIST | PREV | Three

The full magnitude of what he had done didn’t hit him until the next morning. Peter woke with a start, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a half-formed haze. 

“I tol’ ‘er em Spid-man!” 

“What was that, Pete?” asked Aunt May, who was unloading a basket of laundry onto his dresser. 

“Uh—nothing! Sorry, um…morning, May.” 

“You too, sleepy head. Get going, will you? I don’t want you to be late again.” 

Peter was anxious all morning. He sprinted to the train, to school, to class. Even when he was safely in his seat, five minutes before the bell, he couldn’t stop himself from twitching. What if she told someone? Would it matter? What if someone followed him back to his apartment one day? What if they found out who he was? What if May found out what he was doing? Shit, if May found out what he was doing he was so, so, so dead. No one could know what he was doing. 

The whole day, Peter kept expecting someone to point at him and say, “Look!” But no one did. He told himself he was being irrational. He hadn’t even told Yasmin who he was, just the name of the mask. There was no way she’d be able to recognize him. They weren’t even really friends. 

He kept an eye on the news as well, just in case there was any gossip. One of the local channels covered the break-in the next morning, but it was a short piece. There were a couple shots of the store, one or two of Mr. Delmar talking to the police, but it was all swept under a tight voiceover. Two robbers, one gun, apprehended by a masked individual before the police could arrive. No name, no sketch, and no mention of spider-webs. For the most part, he seemed to be in the clear. 

Still, Peter decided it was better safe than sorry. He skipped out on his trips to the Delmar’s bodega for the next week or so. It didn’t look like they were losing patronage anyway. Any time he dared to pass on the corner, the place was packed with customers. Mr. Delmar had the front door replaced the afternoon after the robbery, and the new metal stood out against the window frames. Peter could only imagine that he’d been explaining what happened all week. Everyone wanted to hear the story for themselves. 

Or maybe they just really liked Milo’s sandwiches. Peter didn’t want to be self-absorbed. 

The curiosity was eating at him, but he stuck to his decision to keep his distance. It wasn’t until one day when he was helping Aunt May with the grocery shopping that she made the decision to swing by. 

“I just want to get some ham,” she said pulling him into the store. “I know you usually eat at school, but just in case you want a sandwich or something…” 

“Ay, Ms. Parker!” 

Mr. Delmar was beaming behind the counter. He’d never bothered to hide his shameless flirting with Aunt May. May always brushed it off, saying that was just the way he was with people, but Peter had never seen him flirt with any of his other customers. Customers, Peter noticed, that were not flooding the store for the first time in days. It seemed like the crowds were finally starting to thin out. 

“Hi, Ricky,” Aunt Mat said with a smile. “How are you doing?” 

“No, no, no. More important question is how are you doing, bonita?” 

“Oh, stop. I’m good. I’ve been good.” 

Peter rolled his eyes, going to grab a bag of chips from the rack. He eyed the jalapeño flavor longingly, but stuck with sour cream and onion. 

“Now, this might be a silly question,” Aunt May started as Mr. Delmar wrapped her purchase, “but didn’t your front door used to open the other way?” 

“Yup,” he answered, irritation clear in his voice. “That’s what I get for hiring a rush job, I guess. Had to replace it last Sunday.” 

“Oh no! Why?” 

“Why? Didn’t you see on the news?” He gaped at her, almost affronted when she shook her head. “Well, someone tried to break in. Did break in, actually.” 

“Oh my God!” 

“That’s awful,” Peter chimed in, nodding. 

 “Well is everything okay? What happened?” 

Mr. Delmar leaned forward over the counter. He clasped his hands in preparation for his story. 

“So, Saturday night we’re closing a little later than usual, and I ask Yasmin to finish up for me—she’s fine,” he added at May’s gasp, “really, she’s fine. I get her set up, go upstairs to help Abuela, and then I hear this crash. Loud. So I call downstairs to her but she says she’s fine. Now, I knew she sounded worried—stressed—but I figure, you know, maybe she broke something. I’ll give her a minute or two to fix it before I go down and find her. And that’s when I hear the gunshot.” 

“They had guns?” May asked, horrified. “Oh no, Ricky…” 

“I go running downstairs. I grab my bat, I’m ready to go, but by the time I get down there, everything’s stopped. Yazzy’s behind the counter, temblorosa, and there’s three guys. One’s all red and blue—he’s got the mask, he’s got the gun—and the other two are in black, strung up in these spider-webs. And I mean up, like cocooned three feet off the ground.” 

“What?” 

“Exactly what I’m thinking. So, of course, I go to take out the guy with the gun, and Yaz runs up waving her hands. ‘No, Dad! He saved me! He saved me!’ Apparently he came out in the middle of the robbery, shot out these webs, climbing up the walls. Stopped the whole thing before I could even hit the stairs. Another one of those enhanced people, you know? Saved Yasmin’s life.” 

“Oh my goodness,” Aunt May sighed, hand on her chest. “Ricardo, I am so sorry. How’s she doing? Is she alright?” 

“She’s doing okay,” said Mr. Delmar, nodding solemnly. “I think she’d having trouble sleeping, but you know kids. She doesn’t want to tell me that. And when she’s awake she just won’t stop talking about this Spider-Guy.” 

“Well, he saved her life,” said May. “I don’t blame her.” 

“Y-You know that’s really crazy, Mr. Delmar,” Peter piped up. “I didn’t see anything about that on the news. Wouldn’t that, you know, be…news?” 

“You’d think,” he said, and jabbed a finger at Peter’s chest. “Everyone’s been coming in here, wondering what really happened. Not a peep on any of the reports. And you know what I think? It’s the cops.” 

“The police?” asked May. “They wouldn’t do something like that, would they?” 

“Course they would. After all that shit in Manhattan? That Devil guy, the Punisher? All makes people think they can’t trust the police. Like they don’t do a good enough job. Last thing they want is more people in masks.” 

“But—But this guy was just helping, right?” Peter asked persistently. “I mean, he—uh—it sounds like he just caught the guys. You still called the police, right?” 

“Yeah, I called the police. The Spider-Guy, he was…I don’t know. He was a little weird.” 

“Bad weird or just weird weird?” asked Aunt May. 

“Nah, nothing bad. But he didn’t seem like the big ones, you know. Sounded like he didn’t really know what he was doing either. He didn’t have a supersuit or anything, just like a little track suit with the face covered up. Wouldn’t take any kind of reward, didn’t want to stick around for the cops or help get rid of the robbers. Just took a bag of chips and skipped out.” 

“That’s totally weird,” Peter agreed, nodding sagely. 

“Hey,” Mr. Delmar said with a shrug. “Guy could wear a tutu if he wants, for all I care. Long as Yasmin’s alright and my store’s still upright. Hell’s Kitchen’s got their masked guy, and now it looks like Queens has got our own.” 

“God, I couldn’t even imagine,” said May, still shaking her head. “Peter Benjamin Parker, if you ever see anything like that, I want you to run as fast as you can in the opposite direction, do you understand? The last thing I need is to worry about you getting caught up in some robbery or vigilante or conspiracy plot or…” 

“No worries, Aunt May,” he promised. “I have no desire to be anywhere near a gun.” 

Again, he added to himself silently. At least any time soon.

They left shortly after that, heading home so they could put the groceries away and Peter could finish his work. The whole time, he kept playing the conversation over in his head, different parts sticking out to him at different times. Was he really making life harder for the police? Was Yasmin having nightmares? Was he doing more harm than good as Spider-Man? Was she really talking about him non-stop? 

It wasn’t a conscious decision. At the same time, Peter wasn’t surprised to find himself out that night, perched on the snow-capped building opposite the bodega. The lights were on in the apartment upstairs. Blue lights flickered through the cracks in the blinds, someone watching TV on the other side. A set of pink curtains glowed with lamp light, the yellow bulb making them red in the darkness. As Peter watched, someone pushed them apart, a silhouette with elbows propped on the window sill. 

A car passed, and for a moment, Peter could just make out her face. He could see what Mr. Delmar meant. He hadn’t seen Yasmin in days, but she looked tired. Peter wasn’t even sure what time it was. She just sat there, staring listlessly out the window. The only time she moved was when some kind of noise echoed down the street—a car horn too close, the slam of a dumpster in another alley, a cat’s yowl. Every sound made her jump a bit. Peter could sympathize with that, at least. It wasn’t always fun, being hyperaware of everything around you. With him it had been involuntary, a side effect of his powers. But after what happened to Yasmin, he couldn’t blame her. Slight paranoia was probably part of the reason she was having so much trouble sleeping. 

Beneath him, someone slammed their window shut. Yasmin flinched, and ran her hands through her hair. Then she froze. Peter looked around, trying to find the focus of her attention. Until she raised a hesitant hand and waved. 

“Oh, shit, shit, shit!” 

He considered ducking, considered sprinting off the other end of the roof and bolting it all the way home. But that wasn’t exactly going to change anything. He’d already been caught. It would look just as bad if he ran away after being caught, if not make it look worse. Besides, he reminded himself, his face was covered. He was Spider-Man, the crime-stopper, not Peter Parker, the awkward nerd. 

Uncertainly, he raised one of his hands to her as well. Any doubt faded away instantly as another car passed by, lighting up the smile on her face. 

Peter took a running jump, and flipped across the street. He landed on the wall just beneath her window. There was a metal grate on the street side—an empty flower bed that had never been filled—and he scooted up to fold his arms on it, his feet sticking to the bricks below. 

“Uh…hey there.” 

“Hi,” Yasmin managed. She’d clapped her hands over her mouth when he jumped, and had to lower them before she continued. “You kind of scared the crap out of me for a second.” 

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to—you know, I wasn’t trying to be creepy by watching you. Not that I was watching you! Just that I was sitting across the street watching…the street…” 

“It’s fine! I guess that’s what you do, right? Go out at night and keep an eye out for trouble?” 

“Well, yeah. Sometimes.” 

“Actually, it uh…kind of makes me feel better. Safer.” She bit her lip, nervously winding the ends of her dark curls around her finger. “Sorry. That probably sounded weird.” 

“No, not at all. I mean, there’s a guy hanging from your window in sweatpants, so…I don’t think I’ve got any room to decide what’s weird here.” 

She grinned and relaxed a bit. Peter tried to keep his eyes from wandering into the room behind her. Her walls were a light blue, clothes and books scattered around the floor. There were a few band posters around the walls, and the yellow lamp that was still shining on her desk. When she leaned back from the window, he could hear the squeak of bedsprings. Her bed must’ve been pressed up against the other side of the wall. 

“I’m Yasmin, by the way.” Peter blinked at her as she continued toying with her hair. “I didn’t get the chance to say that the other day, with all the…guns and stuff.” 

“Right. Well, it’s nice to meet you, Yasmin. Officially. And um, like I said—I’m Spider-Man.” 

He was not expecting her to smirk at that. 

“Well, Spider-Man, I think you kind of lied to me the other day.” 

“I…did?” 

“Well, you told me you were nobody, but as it turns out, you are all over the internet. I found like six different videos of you on YouTube—backflipping off buildings, stopping car crashes, saving cats from trees. And there’s a whole thread of tweets with people talking about this crazy guy that’s been doing parkour all over Queens in a red and blue sweat suit. Like, jumping-off-buildings and flying-through-traffic parkour. I even found a blog post where someone cut down the webs you left behind and they saved them. There were pictures and everything. Kind of crazy.” 

This was all news to Peter. Sure, he’d kept an eye on the news, on the trending topics, but seeing as nothing had gone viral, he’d thought he was in the clear. He hadn’t heard anyone talking about it at school, and he figured hallway gossip would be his first sign of trouble. Despite this, only one part of the conversation seemed to stick with him. 

“You Googled me?” 

Yasmin flushed. 

“Hey, a mysterious stranger in a onesie saved my life. I’m allowed to be curious.” 

“No, totally. I just didn’t realize you were running a background check.” 

“Shut up.” Her eyes popped wide and a hand clapped right back over her mouth. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. That sounded so rude. I just meant…” 

“Yasmin, it’s okay,” he chuckled. “You are definitely allowed to tell me to shut up.” 

“Right.” She shifted again, hugging her knees up to her chest. “So uh…what brings you back to the neighborhood?” 

“Well, I wanted to check on the store. Make sure those guys didn’t have any ideas about coming back with reinforcements. But uh…I also guess…I wanted to see how you were doing. Most people wouldn’t be great after something like that.” 

“I’m fine.” 

Peter hoped that his disbelieving expression could still be read through his mask. Yasmin must have gotten the message, because she sighed and pulled her legs closer. 

“I will be fine. As soon as I start sleeping again and Dad learns to trust me and things go back to normal.” 

“What do you mean trust you?” 

“Just that he won’t leave me alone anymore. I can’t open the store. I can’t close. I can’t run the register if there’s not at least one other employee in the room with me. And I get it. I don’t think I’m ready to be alone there either, but it’s—it’s everything else. I have to text him when I get to class and when I leave practice. Call with every change of plans if I’m going to a friend’s house. He’s even on my back about walking to school.” 

“Well it sounds like he’s just worried,” Peter reasoned. 

“I know he’s worried. I’m worried too. That doesn’t mean he has to coddle me every second of the day. Bad things happen sometimes. It’s not like getting robbed increases the chance I’m gonna get snatched off the subway.” 

Yasmin shut her mouth abruptly. Eyes squeezed shut, she forced a deep breath in and out of her chest. 

“Sorry. You don’t need to hear this.” 

“Hey, I asked. If talking about it makes you feel better, then I’m all ears.” 

“Oh really?” Yasmin peered down at him in amusement. “I didn’t realize therapy was on the superhero agenda.” 

“You didn’t? Shit. I guess I can’t charge you for this, then. Normally, you wouldn’t be able to afford me.” 

Yasmin laughed again, the sound too loud at first. She frantically looked at her bedroom door, as if expecting someone to come barging in. But there was no movement in the rest of the house. Another thought seemed to occur to her. 

“Actually, that reminds me.” 

She rolled off of her bed, moving to grab something in a corner Peter couldn’t see. When she came back, she was blushing again, chewing on her bottom lip. 

“Don’t make fun of me,” she warned. 

Peter was about to ask why when she handed him a brown paper bag. The top was rolled down like an old-school lunch bag, and there was a poorly doodled spider on the front. 

“Aw, no way! Is this what I think it is?” 

He scrambled up the wall, moving to sit on the iron flower bed without invitation. He ripped the bag open, and inside was a pile of snacks—water bottle, apple, granola bars, gummy worms, jalapeño chips, even a few lotto tickets. 

 “I was gonna make you a sandwich or something,” she explained, “but I didn’t want it to spoil with the meat and everything, or if you even eat meat, or if I was even gonna see you again. And—wow, now that I said that out loud this whole thing just got even more awkward. Please pretend I didn’t say any of that.” 

“I don’t think I wanna do that,” Peter said smugly. “I think I’m gonna remember that.” 

“Smart-Ass.” 

“Yeah.” He rolled the bag up again, swinging his legs idly over the street. “Really, though. Thank you for this. I’ll probably stash it up on some rooftop for emergencies. Last minute snack reserve. Except the apple, obviously. But man, I love these chips now. I kinda just grabbed them on a whim, you know? I’d never tried them before, but they’re crazy good.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind. And if you ever want some more, um…you know where to find me.” 

Another car drove by, and Peter tensed. 

“Ah, I—you know, I probably shouldn’t. If I’m hanging out of your window all the time asking for potato chips, people are probably gonna start to notice. Then they know where to find me, and…” 

“Right! Oh my God, totally. I get it. You’ve got to stay undercover.” 

“Exactly, yeah.” He forced himself to climb off of the grate and back onto the wall. “I should probably get going. Try and get some sleep tonight, okay?” 

“Yeah, I will,” she promised. “And…thanks for listening, Spider-Man.” 

“You got it, Yasmin.” 

She beamed at him, and Peter quickly jumped off the wall before he could change his mind. He’d stopped by to make her feel better, and he had. Job complete. If he was going to keep being Spider-Man, he had to be smart about it. Don’t give away your identity. Don’t take the same patrol route every day. Don’t stay in one place for too long. Simple stuff. 

He just had to stay smart. 

FOUR

[cecilspeaks]

Episode 118 - eGemony, Part 2: “The Cavelands”

Time is irrelevant and imaginary. 

And yet, somehow it seems we are out of it. 

Welcome to Night Vale.

Listeners, I have just returned from an odyssey. As you know, a case of Canadian Club whiskey was hidden in Night Vale over 40 years ago as part of a contest. And now, e-gemonee… edge-meny, edge-meny, edgem- eedgemon- e- that tech startup wants it back, so they can drink it and thus drink the soul of Night Vale. It turns out that the alcohol was spirited away by – oh, ahaha, spirited, that’s a good one, Cecil… by baristas.

I knew I had to warn them before the corporate prize contest and sweepstakes buzz marketing street teams located them. But that would mean going to a place from which no one has ever returned: the remote Cavelands of the baristas, deep under the Earth, where (Eritrean pourover) drips gently from stalagmites and latte foam rivers froth and bubble in cool stone cracks. We’re all pretty sure the Cavelands are under that crate behind the Ace Hardware, but no one goes down there because of the stench of espresso and the chilling sounds of Carly Simon’s greatest hits CD.

The underground society of the baristas is an insular one, and no outsider has met their king. Did you know that baristas have a king? I mean I didn’t, but my niece Janice knows all about which professions have monarchs and which like mm, ride sharing services, only have serpents wearing crowns. Janice still has her barista costume from last year’s careers parade.

So in order to investigate the Cavelands, I cloaked myself carefully in the necessary animal skins, as Janice directed, and slung over my shoulders the ceremonial spiky coffee hammer and the sweater vest with the correct number of arm holes. Janice and I took a quick online course in latte art. Janice was great at it. She made a photorealistic aspledium nidus fern, and I uh, I made a, rock of some kind.

Janice said she knew exactly how to finish my disguise, and she was right. I regarded myself in the Ace Hardware window, and I knew I was meant for that boldest, unruliest, most outlaw of mustaches: the rolly fingers! The final touch of a true barista. Rolly Fingers was the most famous king in barista history, and now every barista grows a long thick mustache that swirls at the ends, just like the former king Rolly. From these curls, baristas often hang sweeteners and spoons for customer service.

I flexed all my facial muscles tight, and within minutes, I had finessed my new thick mustache into lovely coils. It was sunset, the time when all the baristas return to the Ace Hardware parking lot, from their day labor jobs, or as they call them, “gigs” throughout greater Night Vale.

My plan was to simply blend among them. Blend [chuckling] oh my god blend, oh Cecil you’ve done it again. And so one by one, I smiled and waved at them, and we teased each other with sprays of hot steam, as is the way of baristas at the end of a long day. There were 10 of us, then 15, then perhaps 20, then 30, then 40, then 100 baristas. Baristas as far as the eye can see. So many baristas, all laughing and scalding each other with joviality. Then a very tall barista, whose animal pelts were dusted in silver, looked at me with suspicion. I put her mind at ease by calling out one of their familiar jokes. “Your mother is so tasteless, she orders her eggs ristretto!” I cried. The barista’s hardened face softened into a laugh and she called out: “Time to ride!”

Our steeds made quick work of the steep mile and a half descent below Ace Hardware. I could hear the faint echoes of Norah Jones, as we passed cuneiform style sketches of French presses on the rocky walls. Once we were in the caves, by the lights of torches dipped in (pinch), the baristas ambled to their bed rolls, their knapsacks, their (bindles), and all around the cave, I could see them unwrapping and dusting off and (-) [0:07:41] their instruments. I saw harmonicas, violins, ocarinas, banjoes, mouth harps, mouth pianos, mouth banjoes, (lip scissors), and those who had nothing to play brought out pots and pans to keep time. And we began – to sing.

[singing] “I’m a-dreaming of someone whose love is so swee-ee-eet, [echoing] like (--) (cronut), 4000 fee-ee-eet, oh my perfect love gives me endless bli-i-iss, [another voice joining] never wants the wi-fi password without puur-chaa-a-ase I said he never asked for that wi-if password Without a puur-chaa-aase.”

And then, without warning, one of the baristas made a gesture and the rest fell silent. They were all looking at me, listeners.

“He doesn’t know our anthem!” she said. “No, I totally do,” I said. “I mean, I was definitely singing… something.” The baristas closed in on me. “Don’t talk to me til I’ve had my coffee! Amirite?” I pleaded.

From the back, I heard a quiet but authoritative snarl. “It’s Cecil!” The baristas parted, all of them, and in the silence, I heard the shuffling of leather shoes, and I was face to face with the king of the baristas.

Listeners, we are all made up of goodness and not-so-goodness. We have conflicting impulses and we struggle to do right. We care to a lesser or greater extent whether our actions are moral, and if they will strike other people as immoral. This is true for all of us, you and me. Corporeal and otherwise. Everyone.

Except the King of Baristas. When I saw him, I knew immediately he had never once hesitated to do right. How did I know this? Maybe it was his beard, as his beard seemed kind. Or it was the way his eyes, his purple eyes crinkled with empathy. Or it was who the light glinted off his horns. In any case, listeners, he reminded me a little of a buffalo. And it’s hard not to trust a buffalo.

“Cecil,” he said. “We have been waiting for you. And by we I don’t mean the royal we, as we don’t believe in that, and I didn’t mean the royal we that second time either. All of us have been waiting for you, and not one of us believes in the royal we. And I love your mustache sooo much!” the king added in a baby voice as he pinched my cheek. I explained that I came to the Cavelands for the booze. He said, “We’ll talk about that. But first, we need to talk about something more important. Your new sponsor.”

I said, “Our sponsor, you mean money? Did you know it’s available in twenties now?” He said: “Do not speak to us of the attractiveness of money! Money is cursed! And of course everything that is cursed is attractive, otherwise the curse wouldn’t be a problem.” He said that and I thought it was pretty smart. I mean, all of the cursed objects around the station are really fun to play with. Until an intern gets hurt. Like Gustav the other day, who found radium squish ball from one of our old statin promotions.

Oh, quick aside: to the family of Gustav, he was a distracted intern, and he will be missed.

The king said, “How many times has a person done something awful and you can’t understand why it happened? Only for the reason to be – money! If there were a drug with the same side effects money has, it would be illegal.” “Um, maybe we can talk about this later?” I said. “There are eGemony corporate prize contest and sweepstakes buzz marketing street teams heading this way now! You’ll be defenseless against them! They’ll round you up into tech campus relaxation zones and make you play videogames and drink energy shakes and and learn PowerPoint! You’ll be trapped for eternity!”

He said, “OH Cecil. They came already. There was a squadron of them, hideous and flickering shadows with smiles of black fire, driving branded cars with terrible posture. And all of them were cheery and wearing shorts and saying things like “devOps”.

I asked if the street teams found what they were looking for. The King of the Baristas said: “We have taken care of them.” And with his big hands, his big nimble hands, he reached into the matted animal skins on his chest, and he sorted through necklaces made of tiny bird skulls and Splenda packets. He fished out a thin badge that was embossed with the eGemony logo. It still had the rampant weasels and the cheerfully crossed (--) [0:13:52] mushrooms. But the name, the name on the badge, was ground away. “This,” the King of the Baristas said, “is all that’s left of them.” And he let out a little chuckle. If I could grade it on a scale between mirthful and mirthless, it was on the mirthful side of things. But there was also a bit of self-knowledge in it, as if the person chuckling were aware that to completely abandon himself to pleasure was to be unmoored from the realities of existence.

He said the street team had covertly arrived over four years ago, in the dead of night, and worked their way to my desk. They recovered the case of Canadian Club and in celebration they opened a single bottle. They passed it around, and each one drank from it. But when they drank the soul of the time, they became infused with it. by the time each had finished a single sip, they had become a part of this place, and the place had become a part of them. “Do you understand, Cecil?” he asked. And I exclaimed, “I get it! Rather than absorbing Night Vale’s soul, Night Vale’s soul absorbed them! So… We’re all good. Problems always solve themselves. Thank you, King of the Baristas!”

There was an uncomfortably long pause. Every barista was staring silently at me. And I worried that maybe this was a disrespectful way to address the king. I coughed a bit and then tried again with a classic barista joke to lighten the mood. “Your mother’s so overcome with ennui that she-“ “Cecil,” the king interrupted. “We, the baristas, are the eGemony corporate prize contest and sweepstakes buzz marketing street team! Once we had become a part of Night Vale, we knew what we had to do,” he said. And I said, “Ooooooo, I can’t wait to find out! But can I check the weather report just really quick?” And he said, “Sure. Go ahead.”

[“Glitter” by Charly Bliss]

The king repeated: “We knew what we had to do.” He cackled a bit. “Have you ever noticed how, at one point, there were no baristas here, and then suddenly there were many, many baristas? Did it seem strange to you that every café now had a barista? And every restaurant and market, pawn shop and dry cleaner’s? And how the vacant lots are no longer truly vacant, because they are populated by baristas? Have you noticed baristas at the Antiques Mall, in the DMV, and close to but not in the Dog Park? And the ones who run alongside cars as they’re leaving the highway, to offers drivers shots of espresso? Have you noticed how no new buildings pass the city planning department, unless ther’es a four-foot-by-four-foot space for a barista to stand? Didn’t that strike you as strange? Did it strike you as strange that your choices at any coffee establishment were only espresso, or espresso with a shot of Canadian Club?”

The king said to me, wisely, carefully, giddily: “Cecil. After being absorbed in the soul of Night Vale, we knew we needed to save our city. So we served it to you. We served Night Vale, its own soul. Night Vale has drunk itself, and in the process become as much itself as any town could ever be.

By then, the sun was starting to rise, and some of the baristas had settled down and were cuddling and grooming each other in their little barista beds, as the fire in the cave was now turning to embers, and there were small ashes flittering like moths around the sierra cups and chemex graphs and wind-powered aeropresses that cluttered every surface. 

I felt relief knowing the baristas were safe. And also confusion, knowing they had once been a tech company social influence marketing effort. But also, civic pride, as Night Vale is darned good at defending itself against people who want to steal and drink our souls. But also itchiness, because of the animal pelts and long twirly mustache.

“The time of worry isn’t over, Cecil,” the king said. “In fact, it is only beginning. eGemony won’t care that Night Vale’s soul is safe. They’ll send another street team and another, until they’ve figured out how to distill our souls. And do you know why, Cecil? It’s because of – money.”

Listeners, this is terrible news! Mostly because I really don’t like to hear bad things said about our station’s sponsors.

“Cecil, we need you to renounce money as a sponsor. Do you know what’s more important than money? We do. We have taken steps this night, while you were here, your show is now sponsored not by but by – love. Love is the way forward against eGemony!” I said “Uh huh,” but I said it with skepticism, like exactly the way a cashier would if someone were about to buy something clutching a handful of love. Then I said, “suuuure,” but like really sarcastically like you do after a poetry reading.

He said: “Your battle is not yet over. eGemony wants that case of Canadian Club, even if it no longer exists. They’re going to use every one of their tools. They’ll use violence, intimidation, social media, dreamfluencing, viral marketing, even science! They will win, unless you figure out a way to repel them!” And I said, “Um pardon me, did you say that they’ll use science?” And he thought about it and agreed that he had at some point said that. Science, he said, was one of eGemony’s mightiest weapons, and the King of the Baristas said that he wished he knew of some way to fight against it. As soon as he said, I stood to my full height, which is one third taller than my three-quarters height. Listeners, I must admit I was moved enough to actually put my hands by my hips, and my hands were fists, listeners. fists! And I said, “Oh, I know how to fight back. There is only one weapon mightier than science, and that is – more science.” And the king looked at me with amazement, as if I had unsuspected depths, and he said, “Do you know science?”

Do I, listeners, do I?

Next time, I’ll answer that question, but spoiler alert: gosh, heck yeah, of course.

Stay tuned next for Adolescent X-team Karate Bedbugs, the show your grandma thinks you like, because she never understood you.

Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: Why would you wanna think outside the box? The box is steel and locked and buried deeply underground. It’s so safe here. Why would you want to leave?

[theas-bedtime-stories]

A Bedtime Story

Summary: Sam and Reader have a daughter, and it’s time to put her to bed without breaking any dreams.

Pairing: Sam x reader

Word Count: 1,671 

Warnings: None unless you count saying a fairytale creature isn’t real?

A/N: Okay so this is my entry for ‘Sam’s Birthday Celebration challange’ which is also to celebrate @impalaimagining hitting 3k followers. Congrats @impalaimagining on 3k you deserve every single one and more! I hope you like this, I know it is kind of early. Quote I got “Wait, there’s no such thing as unicorns?”. I hope you guys like this, first time writing Sammy so feedback would be much loved.

Sequel: Wild Mountain Thyme

The slowing sounds of Sam’s breathing signal that the story you are reading to your three-year-old daughter was lulling him towards sleep, whilst the bundle of blonde curled up on his chest was looking up at you with eager eyes, showing little sign of fatigue. Leaning towards Odette, you tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, as you playfully whisper, “I think Daddy is falling asleep…” With a gasp she looks up at Sam’s lazy smile, returning her attention to you she nods. Stretching out her tiny fingers to cover as much of her father’s face as possible, she taps him lightly twice before deciding that he needs her fingers in his mouth to wake him up. As he grabs her wrist he pretends to nibble her fingers, laughing as Odette looks back at you with a triumphant grin.

“More” she begs, bouncing excitedly.

Kissing her forehead, you readjust the duvet so that she is buried beneath it, whilst you and Sam curl your bodies around her fragile form. The tattered form of what once your favourite Teddy, Mr Snuggles, becomes squashed beneath your daughter’s arms; His golden fur is matted in areas and his brown, glass eyes stare up at you - Waiting.

“Are we sitting comfortably?”

Nodding in response, she beams up at you, her brows furrowing as she shakes her head dramatically.  Wiggling for a moment, she pulls Sam’s large hand onto her back, pointing at him before instructing him rather sternly (much like she has seen her mother do before):

“Stroke!”

Laughing at her stubborn huff, Sam obeys, stroking her back and her hair the way she likes it.  Continuing with the story, which you and Sam wrote for her the previous night due to her sudden obsession with unicorns, you knew you were approaching what could potentially be a scary passage. Odette is only three, and living in the bunker with you, Sammy and Dean meant that she was fully aware of some evils in the world.

“Upon discovering a secret door at the end of the gigantic forest, Odette and Sparkles the Unicorn looked at one another. Holding onto Sparkles’ mane, Odette decided to take a step forward. The door slammed shut behind them, revealing a staircase. Climbing down the narrow steps, Sparkles’ horn was the only light in the dark area. Odette was scared when she saw how dark it was, she didn’t like not knowing what monsters could be out there. Usually her daddy and mummy protected her from them, even her Uncles Cas and Dean would comfort her when it was particularly scary. But they were nowhere to be seen, still drinking their tea and eating sandwiches in the forest.”

Odette tugs at the base of the book to get your attention. Humming for her to speak, you feel your heart squeeze as you see pure terror behind her bright (Y/E/C)eyes. “Mamma?” she squeaks out. Sam raises his torso, being careful not to jog your daughter. He says, determined to see what the problem is,

“Yes Baby?”

“You and Daddy will always be close by?” she answers, her brows were deeply furrowed and tears pricking in her eyes.

“Always” you assure as you pull her onto your chest, running your fingers through her short hair.

“We will never let anything hurt you. It’s our job” Sam adds as he kisses the top of her head. “You want Mummy to stop the story?” She shakes her head violently in response. “That’s my brave little princess.”

Taking a breath, you continue on with the bedtime story. “There was enough room for them to walk side by side in the tunnel, so they held hands as they walked further inside. Suddenly, a huge shadow appeared on the wall that towered over Odette and Sparkles; they froze on the spot and shut their eyes tightly.” You pause slightly, looking down to where your daughter is burying her head into the material of her father’s new suit, her brows have become deeply furrowed from concentration. She has shut her eyes so tight that creases are becoming visible around them.

“They both shouted for help. ‘Mummy!? Daddy!? HELP!’  Just as her strong daddy appeared, ready to take down whatever monster dared to threaten his princess, they heard a small squeak and realised that it was nothing more than a tiny mouse who was living in the tunnel. The light from Sparkles’ horn had made the mouse's shadow look gigantic!”

Sam clutches Odette tightly, the muscles in his arm tensing as she attempts to break free from his ‘suffocating love’. With a laugh, you pass the book to your overgrown kid, it is his turn to read and you have to interject otherwise Odette will never get to sleep. You know that Cas gets agitated when you don’t sleep while he babysits. Speaking of which, the angel should be arriving in about 15 minutes. Indicating the time to Sam, he gives you a knowing look before telling your daughter to behave so that he can read.

He doesn’t get more than two lines in before Cas is standing at the foot of the bed, a soft smile on his face as he watches his niece trying to untangle herself from the duvet. As she scrambles across the bed, he reaches down, lifting her up as she yelps “Cassie!” over and over. As he props her against his hip, the signature trench-coat becomes balled up in her tiny fists. His expression is intense yet fond as he greets her the way he knows she finds funny (not that he understands why it’s funny). “Hello Odette”.

Turning his attention towards you two, he attempts to speak whilst she giggles knowing it will be his only chance before he is bombarded with questions, “Y/N, Sam. I will make sure she is asleep no later tha-“

“Look Unca Cas!” Odette interrupts excitedly, grabbing Cas by the cheek with one hand, using the other to point towards the notebook which is resting on the bed. “Mummy’s telling me about Sparsles the Unihorn!”

“She means Sparkles the unicorn…” you decide to clarify, seeing Cas’ look of utter confusion.

When his expression doesn’t change you can feel Sam beginning to shift uncomfortably, undoubtedly over-thinking - worried that there was something bad that Cas isn’t telling you. His head hangs as he rubs his thumb along the palm of his hand - he mulls over whether or not to bring it up. His eyes meet the brilliant blue of Cas’ once he makes a decision. “Cas, what’s wrong?”

“I do not understand your reasoning for telling your young stories about creatures who do not exist. What is the purpose?” You silently thank the stars that Cas speaks in a manner which your daughter sometimes struggles to fully comprehend. Otherwise her whole world would have just come down around her.

“Mamma what did Unca Cassie say?” Taking in her large eyes, spilling over with confusion, you see Cas turn to explain.

“Nothing important baby girl” You interject, deciding that you are the only one who can solve this situation as Sam was staring into space beside you. “It is just so that they get to keep their innocence for a while, same reason that there are Zanna’s. It’s fun and provides them with a little more light in this dark world. Also –“ You don’t get to finish your explanation as a quiet cough comes from beside you.

Timidly, with all the emotion of a toddler who received nothing from Santa, Sam looks between you and Cas. “Wait, there’s no such thing as unicorns?” His voice is barely more than a whisper but your daughter still hears him loud and clear.

You begin laughing, but cut yourself off when you notice how deadly serious he is. His face mirrors that of the three year old in her uncle’s arms whose eyes have grown wide, tears pooling at the edges. A tiny ‘o’ is where her mouth should be, both her and Sam are looking at you intently, waiting for confirmation.

Cas shrugs when you turn to him for help, aware that it was he who put you in this situation in the first place. Swallowing, you run your fingers down Sammy’s cheek, your eyes flitting between the two young hearts before you. Switching on the voice you tend to reserve for when either of them wake in the middle of the night with bad dreams, you purr a response. “Babe, if you believe in something hard enough, than it must be real”.

Getting up from the bed, Sam follows suit, watching as you take your relieved-looking daughter out of her uncle’s arms. “What do we know?” you ask, as your eyes meet hers. “There is always a little magic...” you state as your rub your nose against Odette’s, your (Y/H/C) hair tickling her face in the process - “All you need is faith.” Gently, you lay her down in her bed, tucking her duvet in around her. “Trust,” you add as you look up at Sam, your eyes muttering silent declarations of love , before you look at Cas – he gives a slight nod of the head in response. “And pixie dust.” With that final ingredient you lay Mr Snuggles beside her, kissing her forehead in the process.

Sam slots his large, familiar, calloused hand into yours, as you step back and watch Castiel, your family’s guardian angel, sit beside your contented daughter. As you and Sam are walking out the door, ready to enjoy your evening out, you realise you forgot to say goodnight. Turning round, your spare hand still on the door frame, you finish your nightly ritual. “Goodnight, sweetie.”

As an afterthought, Sam adds to the end of your sentence “Be good for Uncle Cas. Me, Mummy and Uncle Dean are going to go find some magic.”

Together you make the same promise you do every time you walk out the bunker doors. “We promise we will be here when you wake up.”

Tag List: @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid, @aiaranradnay, @the-petite-lion, @rosey-persephone, @fairy-kill3r

[gentlepyro]

(( A short story for fun. I’m a shit writer so i apologize already. ))

it was just a few hours. That’s all.

The sun held high over Highmountain, beaming a oddly calm and warming light over the usually frost touched land. To Loukua, it felt… weird. The legion’s claws still dug deep into Azeroth. But this land, it felt calm, almost too calm.

The half-orc had been asked by an old friend for a friendly chat and reunion. The tauren, known simply as “Winterhoof”, was an old friend and previous ally. A calm shaman of the waters, Winterhoof herself had started a small camp, giving the Rivermane tauren a new, much needed home.

Loukua didn’t really know why Winterhoof called a “small” camp. The area hadn’t been cleared of trees, but instead used as part of the structures that had been built in the land. Easily twenty tents sat just from what she could see. She didn’t know tauren that well, but she knew this was no “small” camp.

It didn’t take long for her to find Winterhoof, the woman stood shorter than most of the highmountain, but her white fur stuck out like a sore thumb.

As Loukua approached, the tauren rose and pulled the slightly-taller half-orc into a hug.

“ Loukua! My friend. I am glad to finally see you.” Winterhoof’s voice was tired, but cheerful.

“ Same here. Now, where is everyone?” Loukua asked, her hands moved to grip her helm, as if to take it off, but she stopped herself and let her hands fall to her sides.

“They will come soon, I wanted to have a chat about our old band, Yunza is planning...” Winterhoof spoke with a hushed tone as she glanced around.

“ Yunza? No. I cannot be of help.” Loukua responded with a shake of her head. “ Who else? Daiyu and Zhoyi? Kulrga? You know we all don’t exactly...”

Winterhoof simply shook her head. “ No.. no.. I retouched with Daiyu, but she is with child, woman married a orc… I’m surprised. “

Loukua’s head shook. “ Then who? I mean, I don’t know exactly much of us left alive, do you even know who’s coming? I can’t be of help this time, especially now.”

“ I thought so. It’s not like you to have well…”” Winterhoof’s hands guestered at Loukua’s armor, which for once seemed clean and wellkept. “ Not to be soaked in dirt and blood, you know.”

“ I-I have..” The halfbreed sighed, walking into the tent behind her with Winterhoof following.

“ So you have joined a new group, hmm?” The tauren asked.

Loukua paused, thinking over her words as she sat down on the mat a few feet away from Winterhoof. “ Yes. Horde military.” She spoke quickly. “ Turns out the Kor’kron name is not completely soiled.”

“ Kor’kron? Loukua, are you mad!” Winterhoof sputtered, moving to rest a pale hand on her muzzle. “ I understand where you thoughts laid, Loukua. But I would think after the siege you would have came to you se-”

“ Winterhoof. This is not Garrosh’s Kor’kron.” The halfbreed spoke finally, her voice seemed tired, as if she repeated herself many times. “ My warlord is a tauren! I.. I wanted a place of honor, for once in my life I think I did something right.”

Winterhoof let out a long sigh, tapping a hoof. “ You are a crazy halfbreed. “

Loukua scoffed. “ I guess. Now, I’m curious if anyone will show up.”

The conversation ended at the sounds of screaming and what sounded like thunder. Both of them instantly stood.

Loukua had reached for her axe, only to find no weapon. She had left it. She was in the Broken Isles, and she had left her weapon. The halfbreed let out an angry growl, only to be tossed a large blades staff by Winterhoof, the tauren had since grabbed a thick wood shield and her own axe, which never left her hip.

The warrior had walked deeper into the camp, the sight of the feltotem made the halfbreed’s hatred for the fel grew stronger.

The once bloodtotem tauren were deeply corrupted, their fur was black and matted, horns and fingers pointed and fel-corrupted, even their eyes seemed to be engulfed by felfire. It was a sight you’d see in a bedtime story. Except this wasn’t a story.

But the beasts stood in front of her. Loukua’s grip tightened around the spear in her hands, she thrusted the weapon forward, charging into the back of the nearest tauren she saw. Which this time happened to be a warmonger.

He let out a almost feral cry, falling to his knees and sweeping a clawed hand back at Loukua. She let the hand make impact, searing her armor but not hitting her skin underneath. She pulled the staff from the feltotem’s body, only to slam it down in it’s neck as he attempted to claw at her again.

It took a few tugs before it pulled from the tauren’s hide, by the time she had turned, she could see the whole camp was burning. It was no use defending. The trees! The trees. What was meant to provide comfort had doomed this tauren “city” to become nothing but ash.  

Loukua shook her head, hopping over the corpse, she made for the nearest opening in the tents and trees. She no longer saw Winterhoof, or many of the other Highmountain that were smart enough to flee. She came to an opening in the brush.

The halfbreed’s head turned back, debating throwing herself back to see if she could pull anyone out, the thought left her head as she heard a snap.

Another Feltotem stood, drenched in a mix of fire and blood, likely a mix of his own and those he had brutally slain. Loukua raised her weapon, going to charge at the feltotem, but he knew.

It was only moments before Loukua saw nothing but felfire. Whatever had been casted her way easily engulfed her torso. She could feel her blood boil and her skin and armor burn and char away. She fell with a slam to the ground, the pieces that had been hit of her armor cracked off her flesh, the shoulderpad being kept in place had broken off.

Loukua rolled onto her stomach, grabbing the staff again and standing up. She charged the tauren, using the bladed end to stop his next cast. The fel-tauren lifted a hoof, pushing Loukua to the ground. He was larger than her, and she knew she was now at a hard disadvantage.

The feltotem’s hands engulfed in a sickly green flame as he moved to slam his hoof on Loukua’s chest. She twisted her torso to roll out of the way, only for the arm holding the spear to be slammed down on. The halfbreed let out a painful cry, the feltotem smirked as he tossed the fire in her hands down, hitting Loukua in her exposed arm and chest.

To her it felt as if she could feel her flesh die. She screamed again, kicking her leg up as she pulled her arm from under the feltotem’s hoof. She rolled away, grabbing the spear with her injured, but still intact arm, jumping back to her feet with a few painful gasps.

The feltotem seemed to have developed a confidence, he was winning. She was loosing, and she knew if she lost, this was death. So it was simple, she had to kill him.

The halfbreed charged again, slamming the staff into his neck. She knew from the sound of the painful gurgle the tauren could no longer speak, he could no longer cast.

The feltotem raised its hands, one gripping her arm, squeezing hard enough to nearly break the other’s claws sinking in between the plates of the armor around her waist, digging deeply into the half-orc’s flesh.

Loukua pulled back, causing the tauren to loose his grip, before she pulled back the spear and shoved it firmly in between the beast’s eyes.

Her whole body felt on fire. Both of her arms were aching, she felt weak. The fel. The bloody fel. Loukua had hatred for only one thing more than this. She called out, someone had to be around, even if they were worse off then her.

But, nothing.

She heard Nothing.

The forest had gone quiet, Loukua had to snap off the staff, digging the dull end into the ground to keep herself from falling. Her whole body seemed to give out at once. Whatever that feltotem had done, it had taken more out then she could handle.

For hours, the only thing Loukua could hear was the sound of burning before consciousness left her.

It was nearly ten hours since the attack before she was found. But, had she been able to see, one of the halfbreed’s most hated enemies. The Alliance.

“ We found a live ‘ne.” A female dwarf spoke, poking Loukua’s limp body awkwardly with a foot. The dwarf had long gold hair, tied firmly into two braids that fell down her back. Only for a young human man to approach, his body covered in thick chainmail and plates indicative of the unseen path, even moreso with the bow strapped to his back.

“ Leave it, it’s just an orc. “

“ You found an orc?” A voice spoke up behind them, the human and dwarfed turned to see a petite Draenei woman, who still despite her frame towered over the pair.

“Yah. Got a nasty set of wounds.” The dwarf spoke, turning back to Loukua. She reached down, pulling once on the halfbreed’s helm, tossing it to the side. “ Oohh, this ain’t no orc.”

With that, the draenei pushed between the pair, reaching down to roll Loukua from her stomach onto her back. It was a sight to marvel for all three. The crest, the small tusks and the unusual purple hue to her hair and skin.

“ A half draenei… A half draenei with no fel..” The draenei spoke with a baffled face, only to kneel down and lean forward.

“ Ah’ though the kingslayer was the only one.” The human spoke, his face seemed slightly disgusted.

The draenei shook off what the human said, gripping Loukua by the neck of her armor. “ We’re taking her back to camp. Grab the helm.”

And with that, the three of them left with Loukua.

The argument of what to do with the halfbreed was hitting a dead end, until the Draenei woman had finally given into the demands of tying up the aggressive half-orc.

Well, they all assumed that Loukua would be aggressive. Which, was both right and rather smart of them.

The draenei had make sure that her wounds were at least someone tended. The lingering corruption had been purged and whatever was hanging off had been removed.

“ Nuvaya, how’s the halfie?” The human asked as he entered the tent that Loukua and the Draenei, whose name seemed to be Nuvaya sat in.

The draenei’s eyes rolled, standing from the small makeshift stump seat. “ Alive. I’m rather excited, I have a feeling… She will be vital, once she wakes of course.”

This earned a scoff from the young human, who sat himself down on a old wooden stool, only for his head to turn. Loukua’s armor sat in a steaming pile, along with any belonging that she had on her. This included a small “Wind totem” and a small hunting knife.

“ She’s no better then the orcs, Nuvaya. I know this shit.” He huffed, shifting back in the chair.

Nuvaya’s head shook.

“I’m giving her a chance, keep watch, I’ll grab Goldie.” With that the draenei stood, taking a few steps before leaving the small tent.

So the human sat, and stared, for about ten minutes before getting awfully bored. He resorted to pacing the room for a solid moment. He stopped in his tracks as he heard sounds from behind him.

Loukua had woke with a start, but her body remained still for a moment. She could feel the bindings on her arms and knees, she was captured, but by who? Her eyes turned behind her, and she was a human. A human!

Her eye twitched. She had been captured by the alliance. Or at least, that what she thought. The ties around her knees weren’t a problem, at least in her mind. She stood with a small crack of her back, using the binds her arms were tied, she jumped forward as fast as she could, snapping her arms over the young human’s head and pulled back.

He almost expected it, snapping both of his hands for a moment to grab the rope now pulling at his neck.

“ S-SHE’S UP!” He screamed at the top of his lungs, only to cough and sputter as the binds tightened, feeling his face being pulled back into the female halfbreed’s chest.

His leg kicked back in reaction, sweeping hard enough that both the human and Loukua were sent with a painful clatter and thump to the ground. He pulled from underneath her attempt to strangle, twisting around as she lifted her arms over her head, going to strike him in his head.

The human had remembered his own knife, he pulled it from his belt and moved to retaliate, dodging the strike to his head, he swiped forward, hitting Loukua in the face, causing the half-orc to take a few steps back.

They both seemed to huff and stare for a few seconds, enough time for the Nuvaya and “Goldie” to run into the tent, tackling Loukua to the ground.

“ Gul’rok ragath’a zaga zug ag gi!” Loukua screamed in her native tongue, which none of the alliance seemed to understand.

It took a solid thirty seconds before the trio had pinned Loukua to the ground. She had ripped open any mending done on her wounds, along with the new slash on her cheek. She had been re-tied, binding both her knees and feet to each other, along with her wrists no longer having a single bit of rope hanging between them, she still seemed to be struggling, but she felt weak.

Nuvaya let out a long sigh. “ Light be damned… I did not expect her to be this..”

“Horrible?” Piped up Goldie.

“ Vicious?” The human spoke with a smirk, his hand rubbing at the large welts on his neck

“ You know. Maybe insulting her is a bad idea.” The draenei gave them both a glare. “ I was going to say scared.”

“ That beast is not scared!” The human piped up, giving Loukua a point.

“ She’s not a beast, Byian!” Nuvaya nearly screamed, giving him an angry stare.

Loukua had finally stopped, only giving a wide-eyed stare at Nuvaya. She couldn’t understand a lick of what they were saying, Common was not a language Loukua needed to learn. The room was silent for a few moments, before a sound coming from no one in the room sparked to life.

“ Loukua, kag ogg kazreth tov’osh no’ku ka maz ko?” The voice seemed to be deep and male, with a familiar grumble that could only come from a orc. Everyone’s head turned to pile of armor and the halfbreed’s belonging. The windtotem was the source of the voice.

“ Gesh ag Makogg! Grom zaga magan ko mog raght’a!” Loukua had tried to respond,  rolling onto her stomach. She knew she had no way to activate the totem, but she could try.

Byian turned his body to the pile, he rose and walked over, lifting a foot and slamming down on the windtotem.

“ Byian! The fel are you doing?” Goldie yelled, taking a few steps over to pull the lanky male away.

“ We’re not getting fucking sieged because of Nuvaya’s little side project!” He yelled, turning to give the Draenei a stare, who simply stood there with her arms at her sides.

“ He’s not wrong.” She simply responded with a long sigh, her head turned to Loukua, the half-orc seemed to have an almost shattered expression.

“ Roth ‘zug g-golar il ur-uk ogg Lok’har..?” The draenei spoke in rusty orcish.

It didn’t seem to offer any comfort to Loukua, whose face was now hidden behind her black hair. The human male let out a sigh as he lifted his foot, the windtotem had been snapped in three pieces. He huffed and pushed the dwarf out of the way and left.

“ Ha nogu gesh, Loukua?” The draenei asked, causing Loukua to turn back and stare, it was a yes, even if she didn’t give a true response.

“ Is’ dat ‘er name?” The dwarf asked, resting a hand on her belt.

“ Loukua. I believe so.”

It took another few hours of re-tending to Loukua’s wounds. The half-orc had been in and out of consciousness nearly the whole time. Both Nuvaya and Goldie knew how much pain she must have been in. Even more so with the fact Goldie needed to hold Loukua down in order to get her still enough to not injure her further.

Nuvaya knew something had to be up. She had met a few horde in her life outside of needing to murder each other, they had never been this.. Angry, hostile, terrified.  She couldn’t call “Loukua” wrong, it’s not often you get captured by the alliance. Much less so.. Like this. But she needed to know.

Nuvaya had a plan, she had remembered what the burning legion had done, what they will do. Even now, the horde, the alliance, uniting under a friendly banner was more important than ever! She hoped that befriending this halfbreed was a step in the right direction.

If befriending Loukua was even possible, and it was getting very, very clear, it was going to be more of a challenge.

It started with her plainly refusing food, refusing to talk, refusing everything. Nuvaya was trying.. Oh she was trying. She had spent the past hour, sitting in front of Loukua, a few pieces of bread on her lap. Both of them knew that removing the half-orc’s binds spelted another tussle of combat. But she refused to take anything.

Did she think the food was poisoned? Nuvaya ripped off a piece and tossed it into her mouth. There

. She offered the piece only for Loukua’s head to turn away. No progress. Nuvaya didn’t have a problem remaining calm. Loukua was acting like a child, and the draenei liked to think she knew how to handle children.

A few more hours of poking and prodding passed, Nuvaya gave up for a bit, having Goldie watch the halfbreed while she greeted and check on the rest of their traveling party. The group was still small, missing the other Draenei and her daugther. But Nuvaya didn’t question it.

However, the time spent away left Loukua in a silent, bittering solitude. The half-orc was poorly attempting to plan an escape. She could see her broken communication totem and her hunting knife.. If she could get to that damn knife she could..

The tent opened quickly, snapping Loukua from her thoughts. It was Nuvaya again, holding some sort of package as she sat down to the weaved mat the halfbreed rested on. Nuvaya moved to open the package, which was wrapped in a thick brown paper and tied with blue rope.

Loukua watched with curiosity, but clearly weary of what could it be. As the draenei pulled out what looked to be a small set of purple crystals that were attached by a glowing purple chain. Loukua’s whole body leaned away to the point she felt directly on her side, squishing her burned arm underneath her torso.

The pain caused Loukua to let out a painful cry, Nuvaya gasped and dropped the crystals back into the cushioned box, grabbing Loukua by her unburned arm, pulling the half-orc back up. Nuvaya sighed and moved to grab the crystals, draping them over Loukua’s head till it rested on her neck.

“ There. Now we can actually.. Talk.” Nuvaya said with a sigh. She lacked any “accent”, which startled Loukua. The halfbreed stared for a few long moments.

“ Why can I understand you.” She spoke, her voice lacked any accent herself, which startled the shit out of Loukua as she moved to wipe at the crystals around her neck.

“ T-the fuck did you do to me!” Loukua cried out as she leaned back. Her bound hands slammed back at her neck as she poorly attempted to swipe the crystals away.

Nuvaya let out a tired sigh. “ The crystals won’t hurt you. They let you and me understand eachother.” She motioned to the necklace around her own neck.

“ Understand alliance scum?!” Loukua yelped with gritted teeth. “ I have no interest in speaking to any of you, especially you! Y-you.. You..” Loukua seemed unsure on what insult she could use.

The draenei sighed and rested a hand on her face. “ Loukua? I’m calling you Loukua. I’m not your enemy here..”

“ My name is Loukua.”

“Great.”

The Draenei and the half-orc seemed to share worried glances. Nuvaya let out a tired sigh.

“ I’m sorry about your communication device.” She spoke, turning her head up to watch Loukua, who didn’t respond.

“ Please understand you’re here for a reason… The horde, the alliance. We don’t need to fight. Even now. You carry my blood as much as the orc’s, maybe yo-”

“I am NOT one of you!” Loukua interrupted, screaming at the top of her lungs. Leaning in on the Draenei to make a point.

“ I have never, ever, ever, been one of you.” Loukua hissed. “ I was raised by orcs, I never in my life had any connection to your people. I am not a Draenei, no matter my father’s blood.”

“Father’s?” Nuvaya questioned. “ Your mother was an orc? How are you alive?”

“ Fuck if I know.” Loukua responded with a sneer, turning her head away. “ No one ever told m- Why am I telling y-you of this! “ She turned her head back. “ Let me go! “ She cried, giving Nuvaya angry stare with bared teeth.

“ Because you know I’m not your enemy.”Nuvaya said with a blank expression.

“ You are my enemy.” Loukua growled.

“ The burning legion is our enemy.” Nuvaya responded with a simple nod. The draenei folded the cloth back up. “ I wish to use you as a tipping point. I ask, are you a member of the military?”

“... Yes. I am… Kinda.” Loukua sighed and leaned her head forward.  “ I am a member of the Kor’kron Legion.”

“ The kor’kron is long dead, what is your real occupation.”

Loukua’s eye seemed to twitch. “ I’m so sick of being called a fucking liar.” She sneered. “ I work for a new Kor’kron.”

The draenei leaned back as Loukua clearly got more pissed. “ I-I see… Maybe you can push more waves then I know.”

“ Not me.” Loukua spat. “ I will be no help to you, Draenei.”

“ You don’t need to be afraid.” Nuvaya responded, moving to pull out a small book and a pencil.

“ I am not afraid!” Loukua screamed again, causing the Draenei to jump. The half-orc’s face turned to a smirk only for it to quickly fade.

Nuvaya stared for a few moments. “ You’re forcing yourself to hold back, you’re far to injured to kill me. What are you doing?”

Loukua remained silent, before shifting herself forward and laying down.

It’s clear the conversation was over. Nuvaya sighed and placed down the package, standing up and brushing herself off.

Loukua ended up drifting off into a long sleep, the halfbreed had hopped it would be dreamless, she was wrong.

She felt nothing, but the painting in front of her looked so familiar. It was nagrand, as she remembered from her childhood. Painted in greens, browns and the bright blue sky. She turned her head to pan back, only to see.. Herself? Well, not herself now.

This dream Loukua didn’t look a day older than thirteen. She wore a thick leather hide around her top, which was partially ripped, a ripped looking pelt around her waist. She lacked any shoes. Her hair had been cut short, pulled into a short top-knot. She still had horns, the small tendrils hanged from behind her ears, barely peaking out from behind said ears, which dropped awkwardly and looked far too big for her head.

The child seemed to just be standing and watching the scene before her, taking a few tiny steps forward before shifting into the brush and in the shade, kneeling down and wrapping her thin arms around her knees.

Loukua had the urge to walk forward, setting herself down next to the child. She looked down at herself, only to see nothing.

“ You know you need to let go.” The younger version of herself spoke, her voice seeming even softer and sweeter. If Loukua ever even sounded sweet.

“ Everyone is trying to tell you to let go. Even I am. And I’m you.” The younger version turned, pointing a small hand.

Loukua’s eyes stared down at herself but before she could go to speak, the scene in front of her seemed to painfully warp and blur, only for the younger version  of herself to quickly get farther and farther away.

Loukua screamed, only to hear nothing as she moved to rise and run forward. No matter how quickly the wind and scene rushed past her she could not get closer. Eventually the space around her was now just black. She could hear the dripping of water and nothing else.

She looked down to see herself, injured still, wrapped in bandages and in the clothes she fell asleep in. When she looked up, she saw something she could have never imagined.

It was her, but it wasn’t.

The woman looked elderly, wrinkles covering her face and hair a stark white. This version of her lacked any facial tendrils, but she had a set of short horns poking from her hair. Her armor looked different, clearly of blackrock make, a large wolf skull on one pauldron and a rylak’s skull on the other. The elder version of her wore a tabard that she couldn’t make out, deep red and orange in colour.

Her face was wearing a soft smile, only for it to twist and pull at unnatural angles.

Loukua’s head twisted away, looking from herself, she turned back to see nothing but the armor laid out on the ground. It looked burned and battered, a large sword was stuck in the armor, hitting the heart of the tabard.

She stepped forward, looking at the tabard. It was one of the horde army, the large gold-painted emblem showed it was made to wear with honor.  She reached her good hand to grip the sword and pull back.

The land she stood on seemed to give out as she tugged on the sword, sending her falling underneath what she thought was solid, but it seemed to be water. She couldn’t swim, no matter kicking her arms and legs she sank, and sank, till everything was bubbling and black once again.

And with that, she woke. Still in this damn tent, but she could feel her face was wet. The half-orc rose with a crack of her back. She had no idea how long she was asleep, but Loukua knew she had been crying.

The tent opened with a swish, sure enough the Draenei had walked in, holding a small wooden plate. The woman turned to see Loukua, almost dropping the plate. “ Are you alright?” She asked quickly as she walked over and kneeled down.

Loukua sat there for a few moments. “ I.. I think so.” Her voice had no anger, only exhaustion.

�� You’ve been out for almost sixteen hours, are you alright?” Nuvaya asked, moving to place the plate down, which had a small amount of roasted vegetables.

“ Sixteen hours.. Oh ancestors..” Loukua’s head leaned forward.

“ What did you want to talk to me about, Draenei.” Loukua looked at Nuvaya, the draenei seemed flabbergasted.

Nuvaya watched for a few moments. “ I.. What..” She stared and shook her head.

“ I need.. I need you to take something for me.” Nuvaya stood and walked over to a small bag, pulling out a few objects and tossing them behind her. The half-orc watched for a few moments, turning her head to the plate, she could feel her stomach growl.

Nuvaya turned back and held a small wrapped object and a letter. “ I need you to take this to your superior, anyone. I want us all to help each other.” The draenei said and held out the package.

Loukua’s head turned back to stare. “..Alright. I can do that…”

“ My name is Nuvaya, by the way.”

“ Nuvaya.. That’s..” Loukua’s head shook. “ I’m sorry, I’m very tired and hungry..” Loukua mumbled under her breath. “ I need to get back.”

“ Get back to the village we found you at?”

“No no.. Home. I need to go back to Orgimmar. How long have I been here?”

“ Two days? You keep passing out, I don’t think you’re able to move around properly.”

“ I don’t care, I need to go home.” Loukua snarled, coming back to her personality, which made the draenei lean back in fear.

And so, Loukua ate what she could, using her bound hands. The draenei had uncomfortably agreed to shove what she could into the bag Loukua wore.

Both of them clearly didn’t trust each other. But for a sudden change of thought from the halfbreed, Nuvaya was afraid and excited. It wasn’t until everything was settled that the binds on Loukua’s legs had been cut, which caused the half-orc to stretch and wince in pain. Clearly something was a bit messed up. But she’d live.

It took another few hours of the Draenei running in and out, debating what to do, and getting everyone to sleep before Loukua could be “safely” released. The necklace itself had been packed away. The language barrier between Loukua and Nuvaya was once again alive.

The draenei winced as she had taken a knife to the binds around Loukua’s wrists, finally slicing them off as the burned arm fell limply to her side.

“ Many thank…” Loukua’s common was poor, and that’s all she could think to say as she stood.

She was only five or so inches taller than the Draenei, whose head turned away as the half-orc stood at her full height. Loukua raised a brow only to look down at herself. She still wore the plates and linning of her armor on her legs. But she was topless, completely topless…. Awkward…

The draenei turned away and tossed Loukua a shirt, which didn’t fit the half-draenei that well, but she pulled it on and wore it anyway.

Loukua had been armored and given food for the day’s long trip to the nearest Forsaken foothold. She was no longer in Highmountain but Stormheim. It took her a day and a half of walking and avoiding wildlife to get to the nearest horde camp.

Well, she had one hell of a story.