#the clouds cleared just in time for me to see the endless ridges

[honey-andmilktea]

✎ Welcome to Night Vale: Glow Cloud

🤎𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Scientist!Bang Chan x GN!RadioShowHost!Reader | 🌙𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: Fluff, Crack Fic, 1st Person | 🖊️𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2,789 Words | ✏️𝐀𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬: Most of the dialogue is from the Night Vale podcast and transcriptions! I recommend checking out the podcast it’s so cool and funny! There's not a lot of Chan in this one but other groups and other group members are mentioned! [Lee Felix, Lee Minho, Choi San, Lee Minhyuk (Monsta X)] | ❌𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Mentions of dead animals, more oddities, slightly offensive humor (?)

🍁𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: A mysterious cloud looms over Night Vale plus the change of the Boy Scouts hierarchy, community events, and a PTA bake sale!

“June, July, August. Every day, we hear their laughter. I think of the painting by Van Gogh, the man in the chair. Everything wrong, and nowhere to go. His hands over his eyes.” - Mary Oliver, ‘August’

The desert seems vast, even endless, and yet scientists tell us that somewhere, even now, there is snow. Welcome to Night Vale.

ೃ⁀➷ 🦇🕰️☀️[Monday, 8 am]

I get everything ready for the morning’s broadcast. I sit with my regular cup of coffee in hand as I move my mic close to me and start the morning’s announcements. “The Night Vale Tourism Boards ‘Visitable Night Vale’ campaign has kicked off with posters encouraging folks to take their family on a scenery filled jaunt through the trails of Radon Canyon. Their slogan: ‘The view is literally breathtaking.' Posters will be placed at police stations and frozen yogurt shops in nearby towns, along with promotional giveaways of plastic sheeting and rebreathers.”

I clear my throat as I continue on to the news of the morning. “And now, the news. Have any of our listeners seen the glowing cloud that has been moving in from the west? Well, Lee Felix, you know, the farmer? He saw it over the Western Ridge this morning, said he would have thought it was the setting sun if it wasn’t for the time of day. Apparently, the cloud glows in a variety of colors, perhaps changing from observer to observer, although all report a low whistling when it draws near. One death has already been attributed to the glow cloud.” I raise my brows at that last part feeling it was a little extreme but also made some sense in a crazy predetermined way. 

“But listen, it’s probably nothing.” I turn away from the mic and snort. It most possibly is something, but the listeners don’t need to start freaking out now. “If we had to shut down the town for every mysterious event that at least one death could be attributed to, we’d never have time to do anything, right? That’s what the Sheriff’s Secret Police are saying, and I agree, although I would not go as far as to endorse their suggestion to ‘run directly at the cloud, shrieking and waving your arms, just to see what it does.’” I shake my head but smile with a tiny sigh. I was right though, our community was full of oddities, if we shut down every time something happened, we would basically not exist. I roll my eyes as I read what comes after in my notes.

“The Apache Tracker, and I remind you that this is that white guy who wears the huge and cartoonishly inaccurate Indian headdress,  has announced that he has found some disturbing evidence concerning the recent incident at the Night Vale Post Office, which has been sealed by the City Council since the great screaming that was heard from it a few weeks ago. He said that using ancient Indian magics, he slipped through Council security into the Post Office and observed that all the letters and packages had been thrown about as in a whirlwind, that there was the heavy stench of scorched flesh, and that words written in blood on the wall said, ‘More to come…and soon.’” I scoff lightly as I shake my head and continue to talk. “Can you believe this guy said he used ‘Indian Magicks’? What an asshole.”

ೃ⁀➷ 🦇🕰️🌑 [Monday, 2 pm]

I purse my lips as I go to sit, having noticed something on my little trip down the hall. “Here’s something odd: There is a cat hovering in the bathroom at the radio station here. Seems perfectly happy and healthy,  but it’s floating about four feet off the ground next to the sink. Doesn’t seem to be able to move from its current hover spot.” My smile turns into a little pout at that fact. It must be so lonely being all stuck there. “If you pet her, she purrs, and she’ll rub on your body like a normal cat if you get close enough. Fortunately, because she’s right by the sink, it was pretty easy to leave some water and food where he could get it, and it’s nice to have a station pet.” I smile and coo to myself at the fact that we now have a little pet to call our own in the station. “Wish it weren’t trapped in a hovering prison in the bathroom, but listen, no pet is perfect. It becomes perfect when you learn to accept it for what it is.” I clear my throat and continue with our next segment for the afternoon. “And now, a message from our sponsors: I took a walk on the cool sand dunes, brittle grass overgrown, and above me, in the night sky, above me, I saw. The bitter taste of unripe peaches and a smell I could not place, nor could I escape. I remembered other times that I could not escape. I remembered other smells. The moon slunk like a wounded animal. The world spun like it had lost control. Concentrate only on breathing and let go of ideas you had about nutrition and alarm clocks. I took a walk on the cool sand dunes, brittle grass overgrown, and above me, in the night sky, above me, I saw.” I hum and nod as I read the paper, flipping it over to continue.

“This message was brought to you by Coca-Cola.”

ೃ⁀➷ 🦇🕰️🌑 [Monday, 4:30 pm]

“The City Council, in cooperation with government agents from a vague, yet menacing, agency, is asking all citizens to stop by the Night Vale Elementary School gymnasium tonight at 7 for a brief questionnaire about mysterious sights that definitely no one saw and strange thoughts that in no way occurred to anyone, because all of us are normal, and to be otherwise would make us outcasts from our own community.  Remember: If you see something, say nothing, and drink to forget.” I move my finger from the button, reading over the rest of my notes a small pensive look on my face before I continue. 

“The Boy Scouts of Night Vale have announced some slight changes to their hierarchy, which will now be the following: Cub Scout, Boy Scout, Blood Pact Scout, Weird Scout, Dreadnought Scout, Dark Scout, Fear Scout, and, finally, Eternal Scout.” I used my fingers to count off everything, a small smile spreading on my lips as I continued. “As always, sign-up is automatic and random, so please keep an eye out for the scarlet envelope that will let you know your son has been chosen for the process.”

ೃ⁀➷ 🦇🕰️☀️[Tuesday, 7 am]

I started my day with some interesting news. Well more like everyday news, normal in Night Vale but news is always interesting, isn’t it? I sat myself down with a bagel in my mouth. I took a bite and started the broadcast. “This is probably nothing, listeners, but Lee Felix, you know, the farmer? He reports that the Glow Cloud is directly over old town Night Vale, and appears to be raining small creatures upon the earth.” I nod along to what I read, typical for our lovely little town. Taking another bite of my bagel I continue. “Armadillos, lizards, a few crows. That kind of thing. Fortunately, the animals appear to be dead already, so the Night Vale Animal Control department has said that it should be a snap to clean those up.” I bring my mic with me as I move to make myself a coffee. I’m quite happy that I decided to set up a coffee maker in my little office. “They just have to be tossed on to the Eternal Animal Pyre in Mission Grove Park, so if that’s the worst the Glow Cloud has for us, I’d say go ahead and do your daily errands, just bring along a good, strong umbrella, capable of handling falling animals of up to, let’s say, 10 pounds.” I smiled as my coffee finished walking back to sit down passing by an umbrella I had perched against one of the walls of the office. I sit and take a sip of my coffee with a satisfied hum. “More on the Glow Cloud as it continues to crawl across our sky. And hey, here’s a tip: Take your kid out and use the cloud’s constantly mutating hue to teach them the names of colors! It’s fun, and teaches them the real life applications of learning.”

ೃ⁀➷ 🦇🕰️🌑[Tuesday, 1 pm]

I quickly run to my mic half throwing off my jacket as I get back from picking up lunch. There was a breaking news alert and I had to report on it right away. “Alert! The Sheriff’s Secret Police are searching for a fugitive named Lee Minho, who escaped custody last night following a 9 pm arrest. Mr. Lee is described as a black cat hybrid, about 5’8” in height, with yellow cat eyes, and about 145 pounds. He is suspected of insurance fraud.” I settled in my chair, catching my breath before continuing the rest of the alert. “Mr. Lee was pulled over for speeding last night, and the Secret Police became suspicious when he allegedly gave the officers a fake driver license for a 5’10” man named Lee Minhyuk. After discerning that Lee Minhyuk was actually a black cat hybrid from somewhere other than our little world, the Secret Police searched Mr. Lee’s vehicle.” As I talk I open up the container my lunch was in taking a bite of it since I couldn’t handle being hungry any longer. 

“Representatives from local Civil Rights organizations have protested that officers had no legal grounds to search the vehicle, but they ceded the point when reminded by Secret Police officials that our backwards court system will uphold any old authoritarian rule made up on the fly by unsupervised gun-carrying thugs of a shadow government.” Rolling my eyes a little at that but nodding as that is true continuing to enjoy my lunch as I wrap up the alert for the day. “The Secret Police say Mr. Lee escaped custody by scratching at one of the Secret Police officials. He was last seen jumping and hissing along the Red Mesa. Secret Police are asking for tips leading to the arrest of Lee Mimho. They remind you that, if seen, he should not be approached, as he is an uncontrolled cat hybrid. Contact the Sheriff’s Secret Police if you have any information. Ask for Officer Changbin. Helpful tipsters will earn one stamp on their Alert Citizen Card. Collect 5 stamps and you get Stop Sign Immunity for one year!” 

I sit back and decide to finish my lunch before continuing the broadcasting of the rest of the events of the day.

ೃ⁀➷ 🦇🕰️🌑[Tuesday, 1:30 pm]

I clean up my station humming happily to myself satisfied with the meal I just had. I sat in front of my mic before pulling out the rest of my papers. “And now, a look at the community calendar.” I clear my throat and start to read the next couple events for the week and next week. “Saturday, the public library will be unknowable. Citizens will forget the existence of the library from 6 am Saturday morning until 11pm that night. The library will be under a sort of…renovation. It is not important what kind of renovation.” I make a mental note of that which in honesty I might end up forgetting either way-. I shake my head and continue to read.

“Sunday is Dot Day. Remember: Red Dots on what you love. Blue Dots on what you don’t. Mixing those up can cause permanent consequences.” I shiver at the thought, knowing those consequences are real and to always remember the difference between Red and Blue dots on Dot Day.

“Monday, Choi San is offering bluegrass lessons in the back of Louie’s Music Shoppe. Of course, the Shoppe burned down years ago, and San skipped town immediately after with his insurance money, but he sent word that you should bring your instrument to the crumbled, ashy shell of where his shop once was, and pretend that he is there in the darkness, teaching you. The price is $50 per lesson, payable in advance.” I scrunch my eyebrows at this, shaking my head in disbelief but shrugging. Just another person of good old Night Vale.

“Tuesday afternoon, join the Night Vale PTA for a bake sale to support Citizens of a Blood Space War. Proceeds will go to support neutron bomb development and deployment to our outer solar system allies. Wednesday has been canceled due to a scheduling error. And on Thursday, there is a free concert.” I blink as I look over the paper and tilt my head. “That’s all it says here.” 

ೃ⁀➷ 🦇🕰️🌑[Tuesday, 2:00 pm]

“New call in from Lee Felix, you know, the farmer?” I’m leaning back on my chair absentmindedly throwing a ball up in the air. There is so much that can keep me entertained. “Seems the Glow Cloud has doubled in size, enveloping all of Night Vale in its weird light and humming song. Little League administration has announced that they will be going ahead with the game, although there will be an awning built over the field due to the increase in size of the animal corpses being dropped.” I pulled out a paper squinting at it before perking up. “I’ve had multiple reports that a lion, like the kind you would see on the sun-baked plains of Africa, or a pee stained enclosure at a local zoo, fell on top of the White Sand Ice Cream Shoppe. The Shoppe is offering a free dipped cone to anyone who can figure out how to get the thing off.” I hum as I try to figure out a way to fit in a visit to the Shoppe. Who knows I could win myself a free dipped cone.~

“The Sheriff’s Secret Police have apparently taken to shouting questions at the Glow Cloud, trying to ascertain what exactly it wants. So far the Glow Cloud has not answered. The Glow Cloud does not need to converse with us. It does not feel as we tiny humans feel.” It felt like I was in a trance as I kept speaking. My mouth is just moving and no thoughts in mind. “It has no need for thoughts or feelings or love. The Glow Cloud simply is. All hail the mighty Glow Cloud. All hail. And now, slaves of the Cloud, the weather.” 

ೃ⁀➷ 🦇🕰️🌑[Tuesday, 7 pm]

“Sorry, listeners. Not sure what happened in that earlier section of the broadcast. As in, I actually don’t remember what happened.” I blink a little rubbing my forehead as I try to remember. “Tried to play back the tapes but they all are blank and smell faintly of vanilla.” I take some of the tapes and give them another sniff before my eyebrows scrunch up again. They really do smell like vanilla. Kind of pleasant actually. “The Glow Cloud, meanwhile, has moved on. It is now just a glowing spot in the distance, humming easy to destinations unknown. We may never fully understand, or understand at all, what it was and why it dumped a lot of dead animals on our community. But, and I’m going to get a little personal here, that’s the essence of life, isn’t it?” I hum in thought to myself as I think over my words going off script now.

“Sometimes you go through things that seem huge at the time, like a mysterious Glowing Cloud devouring your entire community. While they are happening, they feel like the only thing that matters, and you can hardly imagine that there’s a world out there that might have anything else going on. And then the Glow Cloud moves on, and you move on, and the event is behind you. And you may find, as time passes, that you remember it less and less. Or absolutely not at all, in my case. And you are left with nothing but a powerful wonder at the fleeting nature of even the most important moment in life, and the faint but pretty smell of vanilla.” I smile to myself as I pull out a sticky note ready to end the broadcast for the night.

“Finally dear listeners, here is a list of things:

Emotions you don’t understand upon viewing a sunset.

Lost pets, found.

Lost pets, unfound.

A secret lost pet city on the moon. 

Trees that see.

Restaurants that hear.

A void that thinks.

A face, half-seen, just before falling asleep.

Trembling hands reaching for desperately needed items.

Sandwiches.

Silence when there should be noise.

Noise when there should be silence.

Nothing, when you want something.

Something, when you thought there was nothing.

Clear plastic binder sheets.

Scented dryer sheets.

Rain coming down in sheets.

Night.

Rest.

Sleep.

End.

Goodnight, listeners. Goodnight.” I end the broadcast with a smile. I move to the couch in the room and decide to do a little gazing out into the night sky. See what else our little strange town can offer me.

✎ @honey-andmilktea - 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝, 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭, 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭, 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐞, 𝐞𝐭𝐜. [2024-2025]

✎ Thank you for reading! Since you've made it this far please consider reblogging, commenting or getting a coffee at the Coffee Corner! [Ko-fi]

✎ Taglist: @armysantiny, @faywithlove, @moonprismo, @iridescentxstars, @monsterhigh-cb, @mo0nbeams

[pedallingthepyrrhicpindus]

DAY 2 - KRANIA TO SMIXI

Epirus and Pyrrhus So we have entered the ancient region of Epirus, which covers the whole of the North West of Greece. One of its more famous sons is Pyrrhus, one of the greatest generals of antiquity, but whose name is now only associated with a victory that comes at unacceptably high cost.

The name Epirus, Alex tells us means "endless" and was given to the region by islanders coming to the mainland, seeing and endless view of mountains.

A wet start Just as the Trojan horse isn’t in the Iliad, so we seem fated not to have the Sun on this holiday. The forecast was for clear skies. But it's raining as we leave. We all dress a little better and warmer than yesterday. And get away early 8.45.

As we look across the valley, white whisps of cloud float and hug the trees. Everything is a little soft focus through wet glasses lenses.

Punctures and napalm Andy is plagued with punctures. One overnight and two during the day. We stop under a balcony of house to shelter and wait for Andy. The 'plant man' comes past - in a van with a loud hailer. Tomato plants are on offer today.

We talk about whether the English are liked in the region. Alex explains that some of the older generation had welcomed the Brits after the war. But then seen the Brit's choice of Greek government cause the civil war, which then the Brits sought to end by napalming the area (one of the first uses). So there was a feeling of 'disappointment' more than antipathy he said.

Lunch We stop for lunch. The owner of the café tells us he had flown to England for the first time last year the day after he landed, the Queen died. This area is unbelievably remote. Its extraordinary to find an anglophile.  Then he produces  a mini statue of Mr Bean. Presented to Mr Bean to his  'delight'.

We emerge to sunshine. And much shedding of gear.

At the top of a hill with a beautiful view, Martin takes the more direct route to the hotel. The rest of us take the 'extension'. Even Andy who is heroically pushing on despite terrible back pain.

John's matches There have been a few climbs. Piers and Mark have been sparring. Torren has been powering on, clearly supremely fit. The secret as we were told by Silviu in Romania was not to burn all your matches too early. Today there is one bigger climb at the end. We roll down a magnificent descent with stunning views, cross a river looking down a valley with mountain pastures in the lee of a sheer cliff. And then the long climb starts. John, Hamish and Mark start at the back, Alex and Torren set the pace. John has been hoarding his matches, gets them out and starts tossing them, still lit, at his friends. As Boris Johnson might have said, "why care, they are just people". We are all at our limits, so it doesn't take much to 'burn' them. He suggests to Hamish that he will die if he doesn't drink more. Then tells Mark they are nearly at the top. And pulls away. He finally catches Piers, clearly out of matches, and blazes past at a distinctly contemptuous pace - attempting a Lance Armstrong stare as he passes, which got a suitable retort. The slope lessens, and the road runs along a mountain ridge, jaw dropping views on either side. But John, is fixedly focussed on his 'race'. Arriving to loudly claim second place, because Alex doesn't count, he's just 'the guide'.

As we regroup, his behaviour is the only topic of conversation. We are all quite 'surprised'.

The definition of a Pyrrhic 'victory'.

The red mist has subsided. Chastened he is being really rather charming this evening. Especially to me. But the truth needs to out.

Ski resort to Roubaix The ridge finally ends at a ski resort and chair lift. A light rain starts. A long descent to the hotel following Yannis. And then 300m of cobbles to our lodgings. A hotel in the most fabulous locations, unbeatable views on both sides...and in need of much love and attention.

Top 5 ride Mark announces that this has been one of his top five rides ever. But then says that he has a short memory. What a lovely way to live. Where everything we do stands a good chance of being rated top five. Let's all be more Mark and less Pyrrhus.

84km  2,360m climbed

[pretty-face-breaker]

Maybe Not Now

During Pavel’s daily torment of him, Emir sees something in him that he hadn’t seen before.

c.w. military whump, sadistic whumper, forced exercise as punishment, insults, degrading language, captivity, alluding to death as an alternative to torture

 —

“That’s all for now, soldaty. Back to your dorms and make it neat,” General Levkin called. 

With a raise of his palm, collective relief could be heard above the fading grunts. Men rose from the field and dusted their palms on their trousers, snatching up their rifles. Twenty of them clicked sharply as they swung over various shoulders. Some grabbed a drink of water they had been meaning to get for hours as clouds swept over the barren training grounds. 

The drills of the day were over. 

As the soldiers filed after one another, murmuring too fast and foreign to be kept up with, Emir followed behind with a dry throat. His arms ached. He could hardly remember making that many mistakes in his basic training or what were supposedly called mistakes by Stanislav Levkin’s eye. He always seemed to catch him doing something wrong. Inaccurate aim. Sloppy position. Poor posture. 

But he had taken the admonitions, the hits and laps, nodded obediently, straightened his back or concentrated harder on his aim. He didn’t feel like fighting the corrections in front of fifty others and with the amount of sleep hardly managed each night, he didn’t doubt some were his fault. That, and for other reasons. Emir winced as a now clear head focussed on the burning in his bicep. 

The place Pavel had rubbed the salt earlier that week. 

Maybe yes, sir-ing his way through the drills had been also to spare his throat from overexerting itself more than he had torn in, wailing wordlessly among laughter and pleading in broken Russian to a man who likely hadn’t heard the word in his life. Emir grimaced and, feeling a bump of a body behind him, sped up to climb the stairs. Until he felt a hand pulling him aside. 

“Not so fast. Hey, you.” Pavel grinned as he pulled him from formation and back down the steps.

Emir froze and his hand shot to his collar, trying to keep his balance. “Podozhdite—” But Pavel wasn’t one to wait and pulled him fiercely until he tripped on the rocks, barely catching himself on the stone railing. Humiliated, he straightened up glaring. Pavel’s leer was ever present with that same colour of resentment, his eyes cold and devising. 

The taller man chuckled. “Did you even complete your recruit training? With how today went, I thought Stas was going to pin you to that target.”

Emir swallowed, trying not to dignify that with a response. 

Pavel’s face darkened in silence. “Follow me then get on the fucking ground. I’m not done with you.” 

His heart slammed in his throat as he followed without a word, feeling his fingertips grow cold as the group’s noises faded. With each moment, he pushed his feet further to the edges of the terrain where voices ended and the forest began and each step felt harder to take, the closer those trees got. He sucked in a quiet breath when Pavel stopped. 

“Drop. Feet together.” 

Emir obeyed, falling tense to the pushup form, and dug his nails into the earth for a brief moment, just to feel the cool of the grass, to ground himself. Once, he let his lungs expand with a breath and plunged. Pavel didn’t have to say a word for him to begin and he figured he could save him the trouble. Save it for himself too so he wouldn’t have to pay for it later again. 

He bent his elbows, breathing evenly and keeping them tracking alongside his body, until his chest dipped just below the angle of each elbow, then pushed back up, expelling the air. Slow, controlled so his throat wouldn’t burn like it had last time. His eyes were fixed on the trees across from him, the endless stretch of wood and darkness that he watched from his bed sometimes. 

It reminded him of the trip he had taken years ago, camping with his cousins after having convinced his mother that he would bring a gun and that everything would go well. Even now, he remembered the distaste in her head shake and the veiled worry in her tone as she had thrown up a hand in defeat. 

Fine, abni, but if you get mauled by a bear, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

A smile graced his mouth. It was like he was hardly there anymore. Though a few reps more and he felt a shift in breathing as Pavel sunk down onto the log next to him. 

“Feel like this has gotten easier for you. A hundred and fifty reps, nothing, eh?” He chuckled and patted him on the shoulder with enough force that Emir briefly swayed. “Fast learner. You don’t piss me off as much.”

“Then why do you keep hurting me?” Emir asked coolly. His jaw tightened a bit, hearing the huff. As if the question was a challenge. 

“Because you’re fun to hurt. You make fun noises, give me—all of us—a good time.” 

Pavel’s eye caught a nearby stone and he tapped on his knee thoughtfully as Emir plunged into another graceful pushup. The leer he wore quickly grew crooked and he revelled in the tiny spark of fear that stuttered Emir’s breathing. Hearing it was always wonderful because it meant the little shit was listening to him and on his toes more often than he had been. 

“I noticed your back was all fucked up,” Pavel admitted, reaching for the rock which could have easily been five pounds, “when we changed.” 

Emir’s eyes stayed frozen on the hollow of a nearby tree. His chest was beginning to burn with the onset of faint panic but he was surprised as it wasn’t his fiftieth repetition yet where the burning usually started. “Is that new?” 

The pressure of the rock came fully and at once into the small of his back and he jerked and tightened into a plank. He couldn’t move for a few seconds, realizing Pavel’s intention. 

“You haven’t finished. Keep going or the next one goes into your head.” 

Admittedly, the next few repetitions of the pushup were only slightly less comfortable, just a tinge less familiar with the weight on his spine and he felt his elbows wobble only the slightest amount. Still, Emir persisted. He had gone no more than ten before the next rock, larger this time, sat in front of the first. Hearing Pavel’s snicker, a silent rage caved in his chest. 

“You just had to fall into my hands, huh?” he laughed, patting the ground for another. “Unlucky bastard.” 

Emir was beginning to feel the onset of exhaustion seeping into an already worn body. He knew if he collapsed, Pavel would have something to say about it, presumably with his shoe. He winced and exhaled on the wrong motion, had to pause for a moment and focus his breathing before the next plunge and all while ignoring the wry laughter of the man next to him. 

“At least I’m not dead,” he muttered. 

Pavel stirred before he was about to lay the third rock on the next few ridges of his spine. At first, he scoffed off the response but didn’t resume the motion. He stayed silent for a few moments, letting Emir dip into the next less-than-graceful pushup and watched a bead of sweat roll down his dark temple. Something akin to cynical admiration passed across his eyes.

“You’d rather be alive, here?”  

This time, Emir stopped too. He kept his eyes forward, trained as usual, but too long had passed for it to feel like Pavel’s routine. His gaze gradually flickered over to the green eyes and tan skin beside him that so typically fixed him like prey, now staring at him in annoyed curiosity. “Yeah,” he admitted. 

The trees rustled softly in the background, dampening the mechanics from the camp as if they were unpleasant, fading memories. 

“You’re an idiot.” Pavel let the stone go and smirked to himself at the wince but it was less self-satisfied. “For getting caught and for thinking this is going to be better.”

“My pilot got shot and we crashed directly in front of you,” Emir grumbled, feeling a pulling need to defend his honour and that of his late pilot’s. “Didn’t get caught.” He glanced at Pavel warily and breathed out, seeing no brimming violence under his expression. “Besides, I-I have a family at home to think about.” 

The green eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You’re not going home.” 

He swallowed, not quite yielding. “Maybe not now.” 

“Maybe not ever.” 

Emir waited in silence for a minute more, saying little besides the soft, stuttering breaths that whistled in unison with the pines, gull calls, and the dirt twisting under Pavel’s shoe. He sensed it was an exercise to relieve boredom with how often he did it. He didn’t want to think about what Pavel had just said.

He thought about it too often, already. 

Slowly, he exhaled and pushed down again under the weight of three rocks, elbows bending alongside his body, and inhaled like it would be his last breath on his—shit, he had lost count. He mechanically continued, hoping that at a certain point, Pavel would stop him and let him go when he had fulfilled the day’s quota of entertainment but then, froze completely upon realizing that it had always been his responsibility to count. 

Pavel noticed his uncertainness. “What? You lost count or something?” 

Emir did nothing for a minute before lapsing into silent despair and nodding. What was the worst he could do, really? Kick him in the ribs? Big fucking whoop. He waited for the blow anyways, feeling that it would be a welcome relief to the incessant burning in his arms that threatened to have his entire body give out at that moment and crash to the ground onto that asshole’s boot. 

But in the meantime, Pavel had been quiet and uncharacteristically thoughtful. 

“Get up,” he ordered. “That’s enough.” He pushed himself up from the log and stretched to the clouds, wincing himself at the unwise angle he had been slouching in since Emir had begun the exercise. “Go back to your dorm and don’t let me see you again today.” 

Too stunned to move, Emir fixed him with a fearful look until he realized it was a serious order. He could have let himself fall to the ground and really, it was tempting. To lay there and let the exhaustion seep into the dirt but Pavel’s patience already seemed stick-thin and he didn’t want to push today’s generosity. He rolled to let the rocks fall off and bolted to standing, starting his journey back to the camp. When he turned for Pavel’s approval, the man wasn’t moving. 

His eyebrows pricked up. “Maybe not now,” he muttered. “Idiot.”  

Tagging: @straight-to-the-pain @heathenville

 Let me know if you’d like to be added/removed!

[tallstars-rewrite]

Chapter 8

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Tallpaw padded behind Dawnstripe, struggling to see over the long grass and stifling a sneeze as it tickled his nose. “But I’m confused,” he said. “Why did Heatherstar suddenly change her mind?”

Dawnstripe shrugged. “I don’t think Heatherstar ever changed her mind, it hadn’t been decided to begin with. The council makes an official decision the night before the ceremony about how an apprentice will train, and with who.”

“My father sounded so sure about me being apprenticed to Woollycloud…”

“Well, parents always have hopes and preferences, but it’s never definite. I suppose Sandstone decided that on his own.”

“Do you think Heatherstar really only did it because she doesn’t like him?”

“Of course not! Heatherstar would never do that. She made you a moor runner because she thought you wanted to be. You look so miserable trying to dig, and you're such a natural runner. The deputy, medicine cat, and elders must have had an agreement as well.”

I doubt Whitetooth did… But the others...they really thought that? Tallpaw was silent for a moment. 

Dawnstripe paused and looked at him “Do you want to be a tunneler? Heatherstar made the call, but if you really wanted to, she wouldn’t deny you. Cats have changed before. If you want Woollycloud to train you...”

“N-no it’s…” Tallpaw fumbled, still trying to piece his feelings together. “I guess...I’ve never actually thought that much about what I want. I thought it was just what I needed to do.”

“Think about it now. I’d love to train you, I’ve always wanted an apprentice. But it’s your path, Tallpaw. What do you want?”

Tallpaw looked up at her. “I...I don’t want to be a tunneler,” he mewed, a twinge of shame nagging at the back of his head as the words left his mouth. Yet, as soon as he said them, he knew they were true. “I don’t like it...I’m not good at digging. I’m not built like Plumclaw or Woollycloud. I never feel like I’m making progress, and I keep hurting my claws, and I hate feeling cramped in the dark, and...and…”

Dawnstripe purred and rested her muzzle briefly on his head. “Then say no more. This is your first day as an apprentice Tallpaw! Get excited! From today, you start to become a real warrior. Your father may be upset at Heatherstar, but surely not at you. I’m sure he’ll understand if it’s what you want. You are a warrior to your clan, not just to one cat. Now save your worries for later, I want to show you something.”

A real warrior… The thought warmed him from nose to tail tip. It didn’t matter what he specialized in. They were all warriors just the same, that was surely enough.

“Where are we going?” Tallpaw huffed. He hadn’t realized how tall this hill really was until he was climbing it. Dawnstripe shot a wide grin at him as they neared the top.

“The top of Outlook Hill. You can see everything from there. The wind can be heavy without the hill to block it, so brace yourself. It’s blowing hard today.”

Tallpaw leapt up beside her as she finally paused at the top. She wasn’t kidding about the wind. As soon as he’d peaked over the ridge, he was afraid he’d get knocked off his paws as the gust blasted him in the face and flapped in his ears. He ducked back down, fastening his claws tightly into the ground until it died down. 

“Don’t be afraid,” Dawnstripe encouraged. “You’ll be ok, it’s nothing to be frightened of. I’m right here with you. Come see!”

Tallpaw hesitantly straightened back up, braced this time as another gust hit him straight on, he pinned his ears back flat and squinted. When he could blink open his eyes, the sight before him nearly took his breath away. The other apprentices weren’t exaggerating. He really couldn’t believe the world was so big.

 The sun was cresting the horizon behind him, lighting up the parting clouds in brilliant warm hues and bathing the moor in rosy light. The long swaying grass dropped below him in a steep downward slope and spread out almost further than he could see, stretching into a wide expanse of heather and gorse bushes dotting the fields, sparkling and heavy with last night's rain. Hills and mountains he’d never known about lay beyond, tinted blue in the distance, their peaks lit up in gold as the sun's rays touched them. Standing here at the highest point of the moor, he was suddenly aware of how tall this hill really was and almost felt unsteady on his paws at the thought of the wind force sending him tumbling back down.  He found himself wondering if birds felt a similar way while trying to fly for the first time.

“No other cats in the forest can have a sight like this.” Dawnstripe said. “Remember wind isn’t your enemy. It is part of us, and we move with it. It guides our paws over the moor and gives us our swift step. Fierce, but also gentle, a constant presence. If you listen, you can hear her singing.”

As the frightening gust died down a bit, he pricked his ears hesitantly. His whiskers were pinned back and his ears whistled. “I only hear it whipping my ears.”

“Be still for a moment. Close your eyes, and focus on just feeling it.”

He was still as she asked, and just when he was afraid he wouldn’t understand, the gust turned into a more gentle breeze. It whistled down the hill side, ebbing and flowing in strength. A gentle ruffling past his fur, almost like a clanmate brushing along his side. As he closed his eyes, he pictured it moving down the hill, weaving past the sage brush, around the gorse and the scarce scraggly trees. It was all so far away, but letting the scents sink in as they were carried to him, the heather on the far moor sweet on his tongue, a rabbit somewhere foraging in the thistles, it was almost as if he could picture every groove and flower clearly, even the parts of the moor out of sight. All of it connected. And then, quietly at first and then growing in volume, he heard a low whistling. High pitched, and then lower. Almost a hum as it whisked through the fields.

“I think I hear it.” Tallpaw murmured. The moor really was singing to him.

Dawnstripe brushed her tail against him. “It doesn’t always happen, but when the winds are just right, they say the matron of the moors returns to the hills. She lives on in the winds and sings to her children still, always running beside them. You are part of this place after all, the same way it will always be a part of you.”

Tallpaw could hardly believe such a view had been just above his head, towering over camp all his life and he never knew. He only barely heard Dawnstripe laugh over the whistling in his ears. “I never forgot my first sight of the moor. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“How far does it go?” Tallpaw breathed.

“The forest's edge is below those far hills. We’ll head in that direction and then make our way around. I just wanted your first view to be from the best spot, especially since the rain clouds were nice enough to part for us. You can see most of the territory from up here.”

“All of it? This is all ours?” How would he ever memorize such a large place?

“Everything between the tree lines. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

The wind blew from behind Tallpaw, as if it was tugging him forward, and a thrill ran up his spine as he was eager to let it. Fixing his eyes to the farthest point in sight he felt a leap of kit-like energy bouncing around inside him, a near irresistible urge to let that energy out and spring forward, race the wind, let it carry his paws, cross the open stretch and not stop until he reached the other side. This was nothing like looping the camp. Nothing to get in his way at all, he could fly down the hill if he wanted to, and in that instance he’d never wanted anything so badly.

A greeting meow broke him from his trance and he turned to see Briarpaw and his mentor Meadowbreeze trotting towards them. Dawnstripe waved her tail in greeting.

“Good morning, Dawnstripe!” Meadowbreeze called. “We were hoping to join you for a bit on Tallpaw’s first territory tour before hunting practice, if you don’t mind!”

“Not at all Meadowbreeze.” Dawnstripe nodded at the pale tortoiseshell. The two mollies greeted each other as Briarpaw came to touch noses with Tallpaw.

“It’s a lot to take in, isn't it?” Briarpaw purred, looking out at the endless sky. “I almost fell down the hill during me and Shrewpaw’s first day. The wind was much stronger, not to mention a lot colder.”

Tallpaw let his  gaze drift back to the hills. “I feel like I could get lost just looking at it.” Now that he’d seen how big the world was, he was somehow greedy for the sight of more of it. This was only WindClan territory and it looked like so much. 

After a moment's silence, Briarpaw cleared his throat and said, “so...moor runner after all, huh? Who would’ve thought?” Tallpaw’s ears set back in slight discomfort. “Y-yeah, I guess so…”

“I always thought you’d be suited for it, you know. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t think you’d be interested. But you used to be faster than both me and Shrew, even though you were younger.” He paused for a heartbeat. “How, uh...how are you feeling?”

Tallpaw knew what he was referring to, though neither of them wanted to directly acknowledge the uncomfortable spat Sandstone and Heatherstar had in the middle of it all. He tried to remember what Dawnstripe said. Now wasn’t the time to worry. “I’m fine. I’m going to be a warrior, right? That’s all that matters.”

“That’s the spirit.” Meadowbreeze broke in. “We’d all better get a move on if you want to finish by sundown! You're starting at the northern border first right?”

Dawnstripe nodded and pointed her nose to the shorter hill. “Yep, it’ll be just over that rise, up the Swift-Step hills.” She winked at Tallpaw. “You can run there if you like. I know you want to.” 

Tallpaw did want to very much.

“Well then, race me there!” Dawnstripe called as she took off in a flash. 

Tallpaw instantly forgot any lingering anxiety as he streaked after her without a second thought, straight down the steep drop. He reveled in the wind whistling through his whiskers, letting gravity carry him down as much as his legs. The sharp incline of the hill made him feel like he was falling with each bound when his paws weren’t touching the earth, but the feeling was more exhilarating than frightening. If anything, it felt more like flying. I’d like to see Shrewpaw try to outrun me! he thought gleefully. The smug brown apprentice would be in for it now. He didn’t even care that the dew in the grass had left him soaked.

Tallpaw was proud of himself for almost managing to match Dawnstripe’s pace to the next hilltop, even if part of him knew she was probably intentionally keeping pace with him. Not too much farther ahead, the ground sloped down again into a thin strip of woodland. Faint rumbles in the distance made Tallpaw’s fur stand on end.

“Is that thunder?” he looked up in confusion. There wasn’t a dark cloud in the sky.

“That would be the Thunderpath.” Dawnstripe said. “Let’s go a bit closer. It’s important for you to know about it.”

Tallpaw wasn’t sure he wanted to. Briarpaw brushed against his side. “It’s not scary so long as you don’t touch it,” he said.

Once they reached the towering row of trees that Tallpaw had seen from the distant hill, he realized they were much bigger up close. WindClan’s camp didn’t have anything that tall. Tallpaw craned his neck up, but he couldn’t even see the tops of the pines past the snaring branches. Through the sparse undergrowth lay a long, black path of what looked like strange flat stone. A horrible acrid stench reached his nose. A rumble of thunder echoed in his ears, coming closer and faster. Tallpaw cowered instinctively and tried to turn, but Dawnstripe held her tail in front of him.

“Don’t be afraid, we’re safe here,” she said.

A massive shining beast came hurtling across the stones, so fast Tallpaw couldn’t even make it out clearly. It streaked past them and over a rise on the path before vanishing into the distance.

Tallpaw didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until he let it out.

“That would be one of the twolegs monsters. We understand little about them other than they always stay on their path, and they can kill a cat with their feet if you ever get in their way.” Dawnstripe pointed ahead with her nose. “Do you see that flat smudge on the path? That was what appears to be a small squirrel.”

This close, Tallpaw could almost smell the scent of old rotting prey, but the red of its flesh was blackened and completely flat. If Dawnstripe hadn’t told him it was a squirrel, he wasn’t sure he’d even be able to tell.

“That is why you must stay well away from those creatures' paws. They just run down everything in their way. Even something as big as a deer isn’t safe, and neither are we.”

“Do they eat cats?” Tallpaw’s voice shook slightly as he spoke.

Dawnstripe shook her head. “They don’t eat anything. They aren’t like animals. The good news is they are so loud, you can always hear and feel them coming. But it’s still best to stay well away from this place, and don’t ever chase prey onto the Thunderpath.”

“But...what are they? Are they like the bad spirits the elders talk about sometimes?”

“No, not like that. Even the elders aren’t sure what they are exactly, we only know they are tied to the twolegs somehow, and nothing good ever comes out of anything that's been touched by twolegs. Sometimes you can even see them inside. There was a time seasons ago when the clans never had to deal with twolegs or their monsters at all, and this path wasn’t here, but then they came in noisy droves and after some moons, the Thunderpath and the monsters were here. That's how the elders tell it anyway.”

“If the monsters aren’t really animals, does that mean twolegs aren’t either?” 

“If they had a proper name, we wouldn't dignify them with it,” Dawnstripe curled her lip in disdain. “They’re tall, awkward, and ugly things with no fur. They can’t be killed, as far as we know, and the animals they keep are often as dangerous as them. Dogs, for one. They bring destruction and danger wherever they go and they don’t behave in any way we can predict or understand. They are no friends to cats.”

“I heard cats live with them,” Briarpaw said.

“Some cats do, those are the kittypets you may have heard the warriors talk about.” Meadowbreeze explained. “I feel sorry for them really, they must have been brainwashed to stay docile and locked up the way they are. Twolegs try to capture a cat's heart so they lose all sense of their natural wild spirit.”

“Would twolegs ever come into our territory to try and make us kittypets?” Tallpaw asked nervously. Dawnstripe rested her tail on his shoulder reassuringly. “We are luckier than ThunderClan and ShadowClan that the nearest twolegs to us live on a farm further to the north, beyond that farther treeline. Twolegs have been edging closer to the other clans' territories for seasons, but StarClan has kept us safe from them so far. We never see them or their kittypets come as far as the moor, so you don’t have to worry. Besides, I heard they are very slow, and we can outrun them easily. Tallpaw didn’t need to be told twice. If he never had to meet a twoleg or their captive animal servants for as long as he lived, he would be perfectly happy with that.

“But that’s not the only thing to be wary about here,” Dawnstripe said and flicked her tail motioning for her apprentice to follow her as she padded along the woodland stretch.

 The Thunderpath was high above them now, and underneath the hill was a long narrow opening that led to the other side. The ground in front of it was squishy and wet, dotted with drowned brown plantlife. Through the other side, thick dark trees tangled together. A disgusting scent reached his nose, not as strong as the monster stench, but strong nonetheless. It smelled of wet moldy dirt and soggy prey he couldn’t quite place. 

“This,” continued Dawnstripe, “is our border with ShadowClan.”

ShadowClan. This was where those cats lived, tangled in those shadowy trees. It looked suffocating, almost as bad as how he pictured the tunnels themselves. In the dark undergrowth and tree branches twining together above them, he imagined the air in there was as wet and muggy as the ground at his feet.

“How can cats be content living in there?” Tallpaw asked. He remembered the elders' tale about how ShadowClan was banished to the dark swamp lands. No wonder they had been jealous of WindClan’s moor if that was where they lived. “Can they even get fresh air?”

“Not really. They must like it, I guess.” Briarpaw shrugged. “They’re a weird bunch.”

“Not a nice bunch either.” Meadowbreeze added. “Some say the heart of their territory is so dark, you can hardly tell the time of day. It must be horribly dreary.”

“This border is dangerous to wander on your own right now. We have no idea what ShadowClan is up to.” Dawnstripe warned. “They seemed to be sniffing around some moons ago, but it’s been quiet since. They’re very stealthy, so we have to keep a lookout for them.”

Tallpaw imagined the dark fox-muzzled cats he’d heard about peering at him from the far shadows. He shivered involuntarily and was grateful when Dawnstripe motioned for them to keep going. 

“We shouldn’t stay here long. We’ve got a lot farther to go. But now you know ShadowClan’s scent. Remember it, and keep an eye out.” 

Dawnstripe and Meadowbreeze began padding away, but Briarpaw dragged a bit behind, staring through the tunnel at the darkened tree line. Tallpaw turned back to him. “Briar? What’s wrong? we have to catch up.”

Briarpaw nodded absentmindedly and followed after Tallpaw, his fur prickling along his neck. 

Tallpaw looked at him quizzically. “You didn’t see any cats did you?”

He shook his head. “Not cats no...those woods just give me the creeps. I mean, more than usual. It’s like I can see the shadows of the trees stretching out toward us like claws, and covering the moor territory. I get such a bad feeling from them.”

The sun wasn’t bright enough to cast such dark shadows from what Tallpaw could see. He hooked his long tail around Briarpaw’s and led him onward. “Any sensible cat would get a bad feeling from there. Well lucky we don’t have to live in it. Let’s just get far away from here--and quickly.”

***

Tallpaw’s march around the territory had gone through the day into dusk. They’d only paused briefly for a short break before they were out again. He’d never walked so much in a day and his head was still reeling with all he had to take in. Dawnstripe assured him he would learn it bit by bit over time. 

The other apprentices greeted him and Briarpaw when they got back into camp.

“Sorry we couldn’t see your first time around the territory with you. We’re nose deep in our training right now since me and Fawn are getting ready for the newleaf race.” Fallowpaw chirped.

Tallpaw cocked his head. “The...newleaf race?”

Shrewpaw snorted. “Yeah, duh! They’ve been talking about it for moons! You spent so much time splashing around in the mud that you didn’t even hear about it?”

“It’s a tradition,” Briawpaw explained. “You know, at the start of every newleaf we celebrate the return of the warm winds by having a whole clan-wide race across the territory.”

“Like our old course around camp, except way bigger and the winner gets a feast and doesn’t have to do the bad chores for two sunrises!” Fawnpaw said. “Mostly it’s about being the fastest, though.”

Tallpaw remembered now, he had heard something about the newleaf race. But his father had told him not to be concerned about it. Just moor runner frivolities.

“It doesn’t mean as much to the tunnelers. You’re already mature for your age, I don’t expect you to get caught up in silly games to see who gets to laze around for a day.” Sandstone had told him.

 Tallpaw hadn’t thought about it as being a big deal. But I’m a moor runner now...so I suppose it is something that matters to me? Frivolous stuff... It was right then the thought he’d been putting off came violently pushing its way to the front of his mind. Sandstone. A familiar feeling of unsheathed claws turning his stomach in knots came back to him. I have to go talk to him.

“Tallpaw?” Briarpaw nudged him. “You look like you’ve just stared down a monster, what’s the matter?”

Tallpaw blinked at him with a start. “Sorry. Nothing’s the matter at all. Have um…” He shuffled his paws. “Have any of you seen my father?”

All four of them looked at each other awkwardly. Their discomfort crept into him, intensifying his own all the more.

“Sandstone? Didn’t Heatherstar put him in time out?” Shrewpaw said.

Briarpaw smacked him on the leg as Tallpaw flattened his ears in irritation. Why did Shrewpaw insist on talking about Sandstone that way?

“Never mind, I’ll find him myself,” he growled, turning away.

 Briarpaw hissed at his brother. “Stop being rude!” 

“What? I just said what happened. It’s not my fault he’s such a--” Tallpaw didn’t want to hear the rest. He was tired of feeling like he was being pulled in three different directions. I just want the cats I care about to get along. Is that so much to ask?

Part of Tallpaw was relieved he couldn’t find his father right away. Would Sandstone be angry at him? Surely he would, he practically hated moor runners. Perhaps I should bring him food...That always puts him in a better mood. Moles were his favorite, and Tallpaw prayed there were some on the freshkill pile. To his immense relief, a hunting party had returned recently. He nosed through the pile absentmindedly and picked up the biggest mole he could find. 

He looked around, still unsure of where to start looking. Where would Sandstone have gone? Perhaps to the eastern tunnel he was always talking about. He always said working calmed his nerves. But Dawnstripe hadn’t covered much about the tunneling system, and Tallpaw could only guess the general area it might be in. He was hoping his father would have already made up with Heatherstar and come back by now. Tallpaw hadn’t even noticed he was pacing anxiously in a circle until he nearly ran muzzle first into Woollycloud, causing him to stumble back and drop his mole.

 “Ah--! Sorry Woollycloud, I-I didn’t see you.” Tallpaw struggled to meet the tunneler's face, afraid of what expression he’d see.

But Woollycloud mostly looked tired, and he regarded Tallpaw with more sympathy than disappointment. “It’s quite alright Tallpaw,” he said. “Are you… looking for your father?”

Tallpaw nodded quietly, unsure of what to say. 

Woollycloud cleared his throat “Well, you’re in luck. He’s talking with Reedfeather now.”

“Is he in trouble?” Tallpaw mewed nervously.

 “It’s nothing you need to concern yourself over Tallpaw, its…'' He looked down. “Well, it is all certainly very unexpected. We’re in a rather tough spot at the moment. The project Sandstone and I have been planning for so long has hit a snag, and on top of that Heatherstar just got news again that ShadowClan may have been seen lurking outside their territory on the other side of the Thunderpath. Everyone is on edge, is all. Sandstone and Heatherstar have a bit of a tense relationship, and this came at a bad time. But this is really very normal. Reedfeather and I will smooth things over. Here they come now.”

Tallpaw saw Reedfeather’s brown tabby pelt pushing through the long heather that bordered the camp. Tallpaw dipped his head respectfully as the deputy walked by. Woollycloud started whispering something to him, but Tallpaw’s attention was fixed on Sandstone. 

His father lay stiffly next to the sunning stones near the elders' den. His tail was wound tightly around his body, and his eyes were closed like he was trying to appear at ease, but Tallpaw could plainly see his thin fur ruffled around his neck and his whiskers twitching in the way they did when he got into a bad spat with his mother. Tallpaw knew this look very well, that his father was angry, even if he wouldn’t say it aloud. Like a dangerous undercurrent hidden beneath a deceptively gentle looking stream.

 Picking up the mole he’d dropped and ignoring the heaviness weighing his paws down, Tallpaw forced himself to walk forward. It was like Dawnstripe said, Sandstone was just surprised. Maybe he wouldn’t be angry with him for not wanting to be a tunneler. There would be other cats! He tried to go over what he would say and how to make his father understand, but he didn’t even believe his own encouragement. Before he knew it, he was standing a tail length away with his tongue feeling very dry and useless in his mouth around the mole’s dusty fur. 

Sandstone opened one dark amber eye to regard him. Tallpaw remembered dimly the warmth that used to light up his gaze whenever his father saw him as a kit. He’d lived for that expression. Now those same amber eyes looked fiercely cold and hard, like frost covered stone. But after a couple heartbeats, Sandstone's tail flicked to the side, leaving an open space beside him. Tallpaw let a small bit of relief flood through him. Maybe they could pretend like nothing had happened, and they could just sit and eat together like they often did before.

Tallpaw carefully placed the mole at his paws. “I brought you some prey. I uh...I thought you might be hungry.”

Sandstone eyed the mole, his nose wrinkling a bit. Tallpaw suddenly noticed the slobber that he’d left behind on the ruffled brown fur. He’d unknowingly been anxiously chewing a hole through the side of the tiny animal during his pacing, leaving it looking ravaged and soggy. He winced and scolded himself, Ugh, you useless absolute mouse-brain!

Sandstone cleared his throat and tentatively rolled the mole over. “Did you catch this?” he asked. His tone sounded casual, but there was strain behind it as his whiskers still twitched and his ears were slightly set back with displeasure.

Tallpaw was taken aback. “Well...n-no. We spent all day touring most of the territory, so…” Tallpaw was suddenly second guessing himself. Was he supposed to have been on the lookout for prey during the tour? Was that expected of apprentices? Maybe it was a test, and I didn’t even stop to look once! Did I already mess up my training on the first day?

“Hm.” Was all Sandstone said in response. Tallpaw suddenly wanted to vanish as he wound his anxiously flicking tail around his hind paw to keep it still while his father continued, “If you’d been training in the tunnels with me and Woollycloud, you’d have already caught prey by now. I caught two moles on my first day of training. Mole hunting is a tunneler specialty.”

Tallpaw didn’t reply. He just focused on his tail, curling around his back leg.

Sandstone sniffed. “That’s not your fault, Tallpaw. It’s just how moor runners train. They take things so slow and their apprentices take ages to toughen up into warriors. You got bad luck is all.”

“Yeah, that’s it…” Tallpaw mumbled. “But I can still be a good warrior as a moor runner, right?”

 “You just won’t stand out as much is all, with so many moor runners.” It wasn’t the same as the encouragement he used to give. Sandstone always said his son would be the best warrior in the clan. “But it’s only for right now.” Sandstone added. 

Tallpaw glanced up, clearly confused. His father stared at him like he should know what he meant as he continued, “Heatherstar wants you to start training as a moor runner, and that’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with learning other skills. But you can tell her you want to train in the tunnels with Woollycloud. She can ignore me if she wants, but it’s your training and you’ll never be any good at something you weren’t meant to be.”

Tallpaw curled his tail even tighter around him. “Do you want me to tell Heatherstar that I want to be a tunneler now?”

Sandstone blinked in surprise, then his gaze narrowed at Tallpaw’s hesitant tone. “Isn’t that what you want? You’ve been working so hard practically ever since you first left the nursery!”

Tallpaw opened his mouth, but he just couldn’t think of anything to say that would make this go well. He remembered what he’d told Dawnstripe. I don’t want to be a tunneler, I hate it. It’s stuffy and dark and exhausting, I just want to learn how to run and hunt on the moor.

But Tallpaw didn’t say any of that, instead he said: “I’m just...not good enough to be a tunneler. I’m not as strong as you and the other tunnelers, and my paws aren’t as tough, that’s why...that’s why it’s better for me to settle for being a moor runner.”

Sandstone’s posture immediately relaxed ever so slightly, his familiar rumbling purr rising in his throat that momentarily eased Tallpaw’s dread.

“Nonsense Tallpaw, tunneling is in your blood! Your mother struggled as a tunneler at first too you know, but when she worked at it, she became a fine tunneler! That’s all it takes. Why, if I knew that was what you were concerned about, I would have pushed Heatherstar harder.”

Dumb mouse-brain, you shouldn’t have said it like that, say something else!

“B-but now I've…” Tallpaw faltered, “I don’t want to offend Dawnstripe, she was so excited about getting an apprentice and it’s only been a day. I can’t just leave now, it would be an insult.”

Sandstone rolled his eyes “Oh she’s young, she’ll have another apprentice soon enough and probably forget all about it. But I suppose you’re right…”

Thank StarClan… 

“Even so,” Sandstone continued, “you can’t hold off training for too long just to spare her feelings, it’s better to build your muscles up while you're young.”

He still thinks you want to be a tunneler, just say you don’t! 

Why couldn’t he make the words come out? His father’s eyes were lit up again in that encouraging way he remembered so well, looking more pleased than ever. Tallpaw had to focus hard on stopping his tail from lashing with distress.

“Well I...I will train in the tunnels soon. Shrewpaw’s mentor, Hareflight, told me all apprentices learn a little bit about the tunnels, perhaps...perhaps after the newleaf race?” He said quickly.

“The newleaf race? I’d forgotten all about that silly event.”

“Yeah, er--Dawnstripe wants me to train for it. She thinks I’ll be good at it, and maybe after I’ll have more time…”

Maybe if I show him that I'm just better at being a runner, he’ll give up on the idea and I won’t have to tell him I don’t want to tunnel at all…

Sandstone seemed at least a bit satisfied with that. “After the newleaf race then, we’ll talk about it more. But just remember Tallpaw, born tunnelers usually don’t do so well in those sorts of competitions. It’s just a moor runner's way to show off since they think pure speed is all that matters. It doesn’t do much to show your skill and strength, so don’t let it get to you if you don’t win. I know that little moor-kit Shrewpaw likes to boast about racing and what-not, but it’s just vanity. He really doesn’t have anything else going for him, unlike you. So much like his father in that way.” 

Tallpaw just nodded. Sandstone seemed happier, and he even began to eat the mole Tallpaw had brought. Surely this topic could be held off for a while yet. The newleaf race was at least a quarter moon away, maybe more if he was lucky. He wouldn’t worry about it now. The rest of the evening with his father was pleasant enough as Tallpaw stuffed the clawing grip at his belly further down like he would a thorn under his nest.

chapter list / previous / next

[woahitslucyylu]

Sleep.

GIF credit to @intimacypng​. 

Author’s Note: Here is Smut Sunday. Please forgive my lateness. I am a teacher in my real life, and it’s rough in these streets for teachers right now. Thank you for your never ending support, sleazies. You make writing so much fun! 

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You leaned into the pillows - the TV’s light bathing your room in a soft glow - as you watched Snapchats mindlessly. Selena was visiting a winery with her new boyfriend, Tina was thrifting somewhere in LA, and he was at a party - was that the clubhouse? You couldn’t be sure. Your thumb hovered over his name again, weighing the implications of watching it again. Swallowing thickly, you replayed his snap again and again - he would already see your name in his notifications, so it seemed harmless to indulge in endless views. 

There he was - his dark eyes staring through you - penetrating your soul even through the video. He was at the clubhouse - Angel’s hulking frame towered behind the pool table as EZ and Gilly flipped off the camera as it panned around. 

“Ay, come through for me and my brothers,” He requested as he winked in the snap, “We trying to hang out with you. Come on, ma!” He spoke as if he were asking for you. His eyes held yours and his smile made your pussy tingle as you watched it again. Why were you torturing yourself? You hadn’t viewed his snap in two weeks and hadn’t texted him in nearly the same. You had pushed him away - worn down by late nights and half-truths, and not even his golden dick could keep you satisfied. You wanted more. You begged for more, and that’s when you knew it was too much. The fight was explosive - the truth dipped in insults, reminding each of you why this wasn’t meant to be. 

You collapsed into the pillows - your phone sliding from your hands as you sulked in frustration. Closing your eyes, you took a deep breath, trying your best to focus on the rerun of Real Housewives - feigning interest in Kyle and Lisa’s current catfight. Yet, your mind and your pussy continued to dream about Coco. Your phone vibrated in the blankets and the screen illuminated with a notification from Snapchat. Your breath caught in your throat as you opened the app - finding a little blue bubble beside his name. 

“Oh,” You whispered as you clicked the conversation thread and read it again and again. 

go to bed, ma. it’s past ur bedtime. 

You smiled at the audacity. He taunted and teased for foreplay. You knew this game well. 

You held the phone at an angle, snapping an off-center photo of your bent legs and lace panties. You rolled your bottom lip through your teeth - analyzing filter choices and  listening for your conscious to remind you that this was a bad idea. No warning came as you typed a simple caption - 

Can’t sleep, i’m not tired

You held your phone in your hand as you settled back into the pillows. Your heart beating fast as you waited for a response. Would there be one? It was early by club standards. Your home screen read 1:17 - early hours for Mayan mischief. Your phone brightened again - another notification. Your mouth dropped as you opened the thread - his hooded eyes staring at you as he inhaled a blunt, blowing the smoke at the camera. Watching him smoke made you wet. There was something about the way his hands held the blunt and his lips formed the most perfect ‘o’ that left you panting. 

The video was tagged, and you cursed yourself for not reading it quick enough. You replayed the video and reread his message. 

I’ll put u to sleep. 

Your hips wiggled into the mattress as your thumbs hovered over the keyboard. Who was going to speak for you? Your pussy or your heart? They were both lonely, but only one wanted to invite the boogeyman over for the night. 

Shedding your t-shirt, you held your breasts behind your forearm and opened palm. Your nipple piercing peeked through as you chose a black and white filter - sending it without reservation. You held your breath as you sent your reply and waited for his response. 

key still under the mat? be there in 10. 

You squealed as you replied with a simple smiley, dropping your phone onto the plush comforter as you waited for the familiar rumble of a Harley to light the fire in your belly. 

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The door creaked as you sat up straighter - waiting for him to shadow your door frame. You stopped listening for footsteps early, when you learned that El Coco didn’t make any noise - a shadow in the night. 

“Hey mami.” His wiry voice electrified your body as you sat up on your knees, drinking in his slender frame leaned against the door. His henley clung to his arms as his eyes studied you up and down. You suddenly felt exposed in just your tank top and panties and for a second, you wondered if it was a good idea. 

“You still not sleepy?” Coco’s half smile was deadly as he shed his kutt, hanging it on the edge of the door, and slipped his feet from his Vans. 

You shook your head in response, your voice was trapped in your throat, but he liked your submissive side anyways. He stood at the end of your bed, his gaze holding yours as he stripped. His pants pooling on the floor, his belt clattering on the hard wood as he stripped his shirt - your breath catching at the sight of his tattooed body. Only two weeks apart, but yet you raked your eyes up and down him, memorializing his image in your mind. 

Coco climbed onto the bed - the mattress dipping as he pushed blankets and pillows to the floor until he kneeled in front of you, matching your pose. The air was thick with lust and forgotten promises as he reached for you. His hand roughly palmed your breast - his fingers rolling your piercing as your nipple hardened under his touch. Coco sat on his heels - watching your body give into him with each swipe of his finger. Your panties wettened with each twist of the metal bar as he tortuously teased you. You could beg or you could play, and you chose to play. 

You held his gaze as you licked your palm and reached for his dick that rested against his thigh.

“Shit.” He hissed as his hand froze - holding your breast as his head lulled back, enjoying your tight grip as you jerked him. Your clit throbbed at the erotic sight - nothing made you come wet like this, watching his eyes flutter behind his eyelids, his mouth slack as he breathed deeply, letting his dominance melt into need as you swiped his tip with the pad of your thumb - his hips rising to meet you. The giggles were reactive; your body flushing with desire as Coco pushed you backward - your elbows catching your body. 

“Don’t laugh, querida,” His knee forced your legs open as his hand slid over your panties, pulling them down, “I can play all night with you.” Two fingers filled you without warning and your hips arched, pushing him deeper as you rocked. “Oh fuck.” You clenched at his fingers and his gravely laugh left you dripping as he called to your orgasm - curling his fingers into your soft walls. “Is it funny now?” He taunted as his thumb pressed against your aching clit. “Oh Johnny, don’t move,” Your hips moved, grinding against his palm. “I found the spot, huh?” His hand rested heavy against your throat - the sounds of your gushing pussy filled the room. The sounds and the sight of Coco’s face above you was enough to send your body sliding into his hands. 

“That’s it,” He mumbled into your neck, his teeth nipping your collarbone, “Is she feeling sleepy yet?” He pulled back - his fingers still inside of you. His gaze stilled you as he pinched your clit - pulling the glistening nub as he dropped a trail of saliva - the sensation strangling moans in your throat as you went limp against him. 

“Not yet. I think she needs one more.” He nudged you - pushing you to roll over. “Fuck, you’re so pretty.” He rubbed himself against your raised cheeks, sliding his tip across your swollen clit as his hands danced across your body - trailing your sides. Each touch left your body tingling. You pressed yourself into the mattress - wiggling your ass against him - begging for his touch. “Don’t be bratty.” His hand came down heavy on your thigh and it jiggled under his assault. 

“Johnny,” You whined as you turned your head, pouting as you looked back at him. “Tell me how bad you want it.” His eyes were clouded with lust as he gripped himself - slapping your glistening lips with his dick. You sighed - he was so close, yet so far, “You feel so good when you’re in me. I dream about it.” Your hand slid between your legs as you slid your knees apart - your fingers sliding into your creamed center. 

“Damn, ma. You really got my attention. Do it again.” He strangled a command as he wrapped his hand around his length - jerking himself in tandem with you as you rubbed your clit - your hips rocking against your own hand. 

“Baby, you feel so much better. Fill me up, please.” You felt yourself dripping down your leg and Coco noticed too as he dipped low - licking your arousal from your thighs. “Johnny, please. I just want to come on your dick.” You pleaded - the edge in your voice clear. 

You felt him press against you as he slid his dick between your folds - pushing into you all at once. 

“Fuck, papi, fuck.” You panted. Coco felt your heartbeat in your pussy - your walls pulsing around him, edged to the brink. Your nails gripped the sheets as you steadied yourself against his powerful thrusts - each time, his sack hitting against you, sending quivers through your body. 

His long fingers tangled through your hair - pulling your head close as he leaned into you. “Oh my god, right there.” Your hips pushed back against him as he buried his head in your neck - hot kisses searing into your skin. Grinding against him, you felt the burn in your belly as his strokes slowed - letting you feel every ridge of his heavy dick. “Yeah, baby girl, I feel you.” His praise was enough as your legs shook with your orgasm. Coco’s tattooed hand slid over your throat, pulling you into him, as you came hard - spilling over the sheets. “Fuck, it’s too good.” He groaned as he fell onto you - his cum warming your insides. 

Your breaths came in unison as you laid connected - his hands intertwining with yours - the most intimate gesture. “Ah, come on, mami, let me go.” He teased as he pulled out - you and him sliding down your thigh as you rolled to your side - wrapping the sheet around your naked body. 

The air was still once more. The passion bubbled over, leaving steaming questions and faint regret in its wake. His hand found yours once more - his tattoos in stark contrast to your unblemished skin. You smiled lazily as your eyes fluttered as sleep slowly came - your last vision of a sleepy Johnny with his lips parted and eyes closed. 

[crash-cinematic-universe]

Hey Lover

pairing: Peter Maximoff/reader

summary: Peter agrees to be Erik’s best man at his wedding despite one problem: he can’t dance. Thankfully, you’re there to help him

warnings: panic attack description, Peter is insecure (no surprise there)

notes: hhh it’s 4am. this is based off the song “Hey Lover” by The Daughters of Eve. listen to it while reading for maximum immersion but also it doesn’t really matter whether you do or don’t. YES Erik is marrying Charles 

taglist: @lokiqueenofasgard

            Peter Maximoff never thought he’d get to meet his dad, let alone be his best man at his wedding. Yet, there he was, his father standing in front of him asking the question, the ‘I’m-getting-married-to-your-teacher-will-you-be-my-best-man’ question. Peter was at a loss for words, his mouth going dry as his jaw absentmindedly opened and closed as he searched his brain for an answer. His head was spinning, his thoughts floating around in his head like dandelion fluff. Eventually, he found his voice and reigned in his jumble of thoughts.

            “D-definitely!” Peter’s voice is forced and unnatural, but his father didn’t seem to notice. Erik beamed before pulling Peter in for a tight hug before disappearing down the hallway, saying something about details as he left. Peter stood in silence for a moment, trying to process what the fuck just happened. His father, whom he had only known for about two years, just asked him to be best man at his wedding. His father was getting married to his TEACHER, who he had only known for about 2 years. Worst of all, Peter agreed. With enthusiasm. Peter knew exactly 0 things about the responsibilities of the best man, hell, Peter didn’t even know how to dance properly! The chaotically stressed man paced around his room, searching for a solution to his endless questions or a reprieve from his unending stress. Then, like a guardian angel sent from the heavens, like a beam of light at the end of a tunnel, you pop into his brain. 

            Peter finds himself knocking at your door before he realizes he’s doing it, his heart skipping slightly at the gentle sound of footsteps and the jiggling of the bronze door handle. The mahogany door swings open to reveal your smiling face, the bright grin faltering slightly once you notice the panic in Peter’s eyes.

            “Hey, Maximoff, what’s up?” you speak softly, watching as his eyes dart around the pattern on the carpet. It’s easy to see that Peter is having a panic attack, his hands shaking as his breathing becomes more and more uneven with each breath. You quickly invite him into your room and watch as he sits down on the ground at the foot of your bed. His hands tangle in his silver hair, gripping the shiny strands tightly as he pulls, a strangled whimper escaping his lips. Your long fingers slowly grab his wrists and pull them away from his hair, lowering them to your knees as you sit in front of him. His eyes meet yours, and Peter wordlessly conveys his panic to you. 

            “Peter, take a deep breath. Can you do that for me?” your voice is steady and clear in an oddly calming way. It grounds Peter to reality as he inhales deeply, feeling the air fill his lungs until he releases; his eyes focus on the small paper balls that you began weaving through the air as a means to distract him. Peter is in awe over the power you have over him-- within a few minutes, you managed to take Peter from mid-panic attack to completely calm, his perilous thoughts subsiding into a gentle stream of emotion. You smile once you realize Peter had settled, the paper balls falling to the floor as you turn your attention to the man on the floor.

            “You wanna talk about what got you so worked up?” Peter nods slowly, the image of his interaction with his father flooding back to him. He takes another deep breath before speaking.

            “Erik asked me to be best man at his wedding.” His voice is shallow, a wispy undertone flying with his words. 

            “Okay, I can see why that’d be stressful. Did you accept?” Peter was slightly shocked at your understanding but continued.

            “Yes, I did, and I don’t know the first thing about being a best man, and I’m fucking terrified that I’ll ruin Erik’s fucking wedding because I’m so fucking stupid that I don’t even know how to dance properly, and Charles will probably kill me if I fuck up his day and--” You gently silence Peter by pressing a finger to his lips. He shuts up immediately, his eyebrow cocking at your actions.

            “First of all, you’re not stupid. I know right now it might feel like you are, but you’re not. Erik put a lot of pressure on you and now you’re feeling the effects of that pressure.” Peter takes your hand and rises to his feet, his eyes meeting yours as you speak. “You’re going to be okay, okay? I’m going to help you, and you’re going to go down in history as the coolest, raddest best man to ever exist.”

            “You’d do that for me?” You laugh slightly at his words, taking his face in your hands.

            “I’d do anything for you, Peter,” you lightly pat his cheek before turning away from him, walking towards the old record player in the corner of your bedroom. 

            “What are you doing?” Peter questioned as you sifted through your box of records, countless classics flying through your fingers. You’re searching for a specific song, though. You grin as you spot the record, gripping it in your hands as you remove the vinyl disc from the plastic casing.

“You said you didn’t know how to dance, right?” The record is placed in the player, the small metal arm hovering over the gentle ridges. You lower the arm and turn to face Peter, walking towards him as the opening notes to “Hey Lover” by The Daughters of Eve rings throughout the room. “Well, I said I’d help you, didn’t I?”

            Peter’s eyes widen as you move closer to him, reaching out for his hands. His fingers grip yours a bit too eagerly, but you don’t mind. The silver-haired man watches you intently as you place his hands around your waist, humming the melody of the song. You catch his gaze and smile, and Peter can feel his heart flutter in his chest. It’s moments like these that Peter really understands the depth of his feelings for you, the dull ache in his chest amplified by your million dollar smiles and your warm touch. He tries not to let his feelings cloud his judgment; Peter came too close to confessing his love for you too often.

            “Alright, Peter, now you just have to feel the song. Just… follow my lead and try not to step on my toes.” he chuckles. The two of you glide through the room, and the joy in the moment somehow makes Peter sad. He loves being this close to you, he’s cherishing and savoring the hope that you might love him as much as he loves you but then it hits him; you deserve better than him.

            “Whatcha thinking about, Peter?” Your voice breaks him out of his thoughtful trance, a smile forcing its way onto his face.

            “Nothing too important.” He knows you can tell he’s lying, but you also realize that he simply doesn’t want to talk about it. You pull him a bit closer.

            “So, your dad is getting married.” You say as you extend your arm a bit. “Do you ever think you’ll get married?” Peter swallows hard at your statement. He almost spills his guts right then and there, those three simple words caught in the back of his throat. Instead, he splutters the first thing that comes to his mind.

            “If I can find someone who stands me for that long.” Peter cringes at your reaction to his answer, a sadness overtaking the cheeriness in your eyes. 

            “You’re a good guy, Peter. It makes me sad that you can’t see that.” He scoffs.

            “I’m a total loser, I’m incredibly annoying and clingy and I own almost nothing of value. I’m surprised that you stuck around so long-- whoever decides to marry me probably deserves better.” Hurt flashes through your eyes and Peter hates himself for being so honest. His wishes he could take it all back and say something shallow and meaningless but you made him feel so safe and so welcome that he decided it’d be a good idea to throw a pity party for himself. The graceful movement stops, the song that as playing looping for the third time as you gaze at Peter sadly. 

            “Peter, please don’t say that about yourself.” You whisper, raising your hand to brush his cheek. Peter stares at the floor, his hand coming up to cover yours. “I care about you, Peter, and I can tell you now you’re not annoying or clingy-- you’re charming and caring, and even if you’re not the wealthiest person on Earth that doesn’t matter. You’re kind and generous and passionate and smart and--” You stop mid-sentence, contemplation crossing your face. You seemingly make a decision, because you grab the back of Peter’s neck and pull his lips to yours. Peter’s grip on your waist tightens as he pulls you flush against his body, his heart racing faster than it ever had while he ran from bullets. You pull away slowly, Peter’s nose brushing gently against yours.

            “Just listen to the song.” You whisper, and Peter takes a moment to listen to the lyrics following the gentle melody, his breath hitching as your eyes pour into his with the same burning passion that his heart has been feeling for years. At that moment, all his stress and panic and doubt melt away and all he feels is love.

            Hey, hey, hey, lover

            You don't have to be a king

            Hey, hey, hey, lover

            You don't have to have a thing

            For I'll be satisfied

            Long as you are my guy

            Just give me

            True love and understanding

            True love and understanding

[adulttrio-imagines]

Yandere!Illumi x Reader Pt 2

Part 1 here

A/N: Standard Illumi warnings and more apply here. 

Prompt:  “I would give up everything for the chance to see your laugh again.”

It is difficult to recount the weeks that happened after the incident. As if the switch in your brain was flipped off, and the single light bulb illuminating the empty crevices of your mind was unscrewed and tossed out. You remember floating in and out of an endless sea of fog, drifting aimlessly as you wandered around the shattered remnants of your brain, slowly piecing whatever fragments you could scavenge from the brief moments the fog would clear.

It should be scary. You remember thinking, as you stared blankly into your hands, numbly repeating the simple motion of opening and closing them, counting each broken finger that curled into the palm of your hand, the bloodied crescent moons they leave on your skin greeting you when you forget and apply too much force.

But it isn’t.

Some days you forcefully push the fog clouding your mind away, and you awaken chained to the bottom of the ocean, anchored and weighed down as you push yourself through the freezing depths, dumbly dragging your feet through coarse sand and shards of glass as everything gathers around you in shapeless masses, their slurred voices reaching you in meaningless bubbles.

You kiss the high ridges of your knuckles, falling back into the fog, and the taste of iron that never comes from the warmth that fills your mouth feels alien.

This body can’t be yours it can’t it can’t- On the days where your captor was home, Illumi would sit you in front of the single gilded mirror in the shared room, humming the same empty tune on repeat as your mind slowly flipped itself inside out and melted whatever remnants of intelligent thought you had left. Some days you would look into the mirror too, and the gaunt hollowed out face that stares back at you is not yours so you settle for staring at the corner of the dressing table and count the number of grains on the wood instead before you mind snaps in two again and Illumi cracks your bones for misbehaving

Nimble fingers that resembled pale spiders deftly braid the long sheets of hair you once so prized into simple braids as he plainly recounts his day to you; it’s his imitation of normalcy and version of an extended olive branch. You know better than to do anything but placidly agree to his statements and nod your approval of his actions as he describes to you in detail the way the human neck bends before it snap, or the angle one slashes another’s chest to minimize spilled blood.

Now days, you just slip into the corners of your mind when the violence overwhelms and you need to numb yourself from everything. The ocean does plenty to tune him out, and it’s easier to interact with the formless blobs that croon contained poison.

It’s not that he loves his brutality, but that Illumi is violence personified, as if inhumanity itself had its essence filtered into a form capable of striking others with such ruthless acts, from the way he so callously strikes out at you for no reason or to the casual manner he stated his gory deeds as if he were just describing the weather.

He reminds you of your old dance instructor, you think, as Illumi snakes his arms up your dress. He too too seemed to struggle acting human, with his rigid movements and mechanical mannerisms, although the void that was Illumi somehow decided to thrown all pretenses out of the window and revel in his emptiness instead.

You don’t flinch, even when he slowly trails the inside of your neck with kisses, you barely breathe when he tilts your face up and forces you to look into his horribly empty eyes twisted into such unconcealed malice, and you never pull back when he forces his mouth against yours, stealing every single life-giving breath away from your lungs as his hands trace the name he forceful carved into your chest.

It’s faster, quicker and less painful letting him do as he pleases, easier to let it all go than to fight and find yourself strangled and thrown around like a rag doll.

Your body moves on its own, pressing yourself against him as you link your fingers behind his neck, and murmur sweet praises into his kisses.

It’s not difficult, you think, cording your fingers through his hair (you’re careful not to pull them too hard, the slap you received from him last time still rattled your jaw when you chewed). A healthy dose of practice, consistency and fear did wonders to remove every bit of resistance from the human psyche, as you have so learned.

While your tongue twists to form unfamiliar words of comfort, you release the reigns of consciousness and drifted back down into the fog, letting it envelop your being and shelter you from the horrors above.

It’s better than being fully aware and spending one more fucking second with that monster

.....

The fog lifts itself in fractions.

It’s a snowy afternoon, and you’re performing your ballet stretches for Illumi’s amusement. He hasn’t out rightly demanded a performance since the incident, but your basic forms placate his unspoken wishes.

You close your eyes, breathe, and fall back into the shades of grey.

You’re both in the sun room, his hands trailing the blades of your shoulders as he continues to hum the same eight notes on repeat. It’s impossible to stop your eyes from watering as the familiar tune from your childhood floods the empty room, and you let the fog cover your last thoughts right as the first warning bells before his imminent punishment sound.

It’s night time, and the branches are dangerously close to snapping from the weight of snow piles upon them. He’s towering over you, nails digging into your wrist as he pins you to the bed, roughly nipping at your collarbones and pressing his naked form against yours. You became all too aware of the force behind his touch, and the clamminess from his skin as he pushes himself into you. Everything ignites in flames and it’s just unbearably hot, and nothing about this feels right, so you squirm and writhe desperately for any escape from him.

Illumi simply backhands you across the face as a response, dead eyes blinking down at your exposed body, paying no heed to your continuous struggles. He simply adjusts himself, forcing his weight into holding you down as he carves words of his ownership over you into the flat of your abdomen with sharpened nails, humming the same tune on repeat.

Your screams sound especially empty as you drown yourself back into dark murky waters for what felt like a seamless eternity.

In those times, the faintest whispers of the past get dredged up by the waves, intermingling with your present day horrors, and you see flashes of a monstrous beast emerging from the depths of your mind, relentlessly hunting for whatever semblance of sustenance it could find, and this time, not even the fog in your head could save you from it when it finally wore you down and swallowed you whole.

The next time you emerged from the fog, your head is pressed hard against the marble floor of an unfamiliar room.

You force your eyes forward, and see Illumi kneeling before a man with the frame of a giant and eyes of a lion, who’s mouth is twisted into a snarl that spits words of venom capable of melting flesh to the bone. You can’t hear anything he’s saying from all the cotton in your head, but each muted syllable feels like a punch to the gut.

You blink.

A ringing slap sounds, and like a broken marionette Illumi falls to the ground, nursing a bloodied lip, blank eyes boring holes into yours. You close your eyes, allowing the fog in your head to creep back in and silencing your thoughts. .....

“Why do we suffer?” You asked him once, tending to the slashes carved into the high cheekbones that support his face. He is sitting cross legged across you, cocking his head to the side as he lazily shrugs in response.

“Because we deserve it.” .....

Cruelty is a given.

Mercy cannot be free. But even in the hollowness of this God forsaken household where demons abide and immorality abounds, do you continue to repeat the motions of your dance as you jumped around empty halls filled with unheard screams, slowly and surely losing pieces of your own humanity

......

“I am going to be honest with you,” Zeno says on the first morning you’ve seen him in months, “I thought you were dead.”

You lower your gaze to the board, absent minded lay pushing a knight forward, “I’m sorry to disappoint.”

“I’m not disappointed.” He stops, and takes your rook with a sweep of his pawn, “just surprised.”

“I’m just full of them.” You chuckle, push your queen forward and he returns the gesture with his king. He gives you an unreadable look, and shakes his head.

Even your laughter is beginning to sound like his The quietness of the library is a comfort to the oppressing silence from the rest of the house, its strong scent of aged leather and cinnamon a stark contrast to the pristine sterility that marked Illumi’s wing of the house. You mimic Zeno’s motion, taking a sip of tea and sigh at the strange familiarity of the situation.

“What would you ask for, if you win?” He asks, balancing his chin on one hand while twirling his mustache with another. Between his wild white hair and eyes that shone like the sky, he looks absolutely nothing like his grandchild.

You turn your attention back to the board, barely evading his queen. “My freedom, of course.”

He eyes you with what you deem as pity, your stomach churns and an unknown beast inside you rages and presses on.

“You’re expecting too much from me. I have no control over that boy.”

“You’re his grandfather.” Ignoring the cold pit that sinks in your stomach, you can only shake your head in disbelief.

He smiles, and moves his knight forward, cornering your king.

“True. But I am not the head of the house.”

A pensive silence falls between the both of you, and you throw yourself back into the chair, staring forlornly into the scenes of death carved into the gold ornate ceiling.

“Will they return my body to my family when I finally die?” You asks in a whisper so low that no one but him could hear it. Zeno follows your gaze and the sigh he releases sounds too old, even for him. “They don’t exist here. And neither do you.” .....

“Oh, hello? I wasn’t aware Illu kept little birds in his room.”

You look up from your book, and come face to face with a stranger dressed in colorful clothes, perching precariously on the windowsill you had so surely locked hours ago. Eyeing his delicate swinging earrings and wild ginger hair fills you with an unknown hunger so strong that your mouth waters and sends you into a trembling fit. He is, after all, the first living person you’ve seen in months who isn’t a Zoldyck or a butler, and stands as a break in the endless monotony you’ve resided in.

“Can you not speak? I don’t bite,” he smirks, helping himself into the room as he peels back perfectly shaped cupid bow lips to show off a nice collection of canines, “hard.”

He saunters around purposefully, curiously examining the array of perfumes that line the dressing table with the controlled presence of a predator. From your seat, you note the ease at which he walks, born of confidence that nothing in this house bore a threat to his existence, and each light step he takes sends a pulse through your being. Turning back to your book, you frown upon noticing its edges were torn from the force it’s taken you to stop shaking.

“Sorry,” you apologize half-heartedly, “I wasn’t aware clowns could actually talk.” The strange man laughs, and it’s a strange light combination of charm and malice. Like poisoned cherry blossoms, you supposed.

“You’re thinking of mimes, my dear. Besides,” he leans dangerously close over you, tilting your face upwards as he conjures an ace of hearts somewhere behind your ear and places it delicately on your lap, “I’m a magician.”

You twirl the card in your fingers, and toss it to the floor, unamused. “Can you make me disappear then, Mr Magician?”

He picks the card up and it seemingly disappears into his armband. “For the right price, but I’m a good friend of Illu’s and you don’t have anything I particularly want.” You almost laugh from the absurdity of the statement.

“He doesn’t have friends.” No, Illumi’s head was far, far too empty to have the closest semblance of a relationship with any living thing.

The man smiles, baring his teeth, but it’s more of a threat from your angle.

“Well, if you see him, pass him this card, he’ll know what to do.” A joker unknowingly appears in your lap, and he hops onto the windowsill again. In a panic, you realize your last connection to the outside world was leaving, and the thought of it was so unbearable the next sentence flies out before you could stop yourself.

“Can I be your friend too, Mr Magician?”

He freezes, and looks with you with death in his eyes, eyeing your limp arm, and his voice is cold when he tells you this:

“Sorry little bird, but I don’t like broken toys.” .....

You’re not too sure how long you stood staring towards the outside world after the man left.

But you do remember falling on your knees, tears piling down your cheeks like torrents, the shattering pain or cool hardness of the floor nothing compared to the explosion erupting from the very core of your being as you struggle helplessly to maintain steady breathing.

You’re broken.

“I’m not.” Was this scar always there?

You’re broken. “I’m not.” How long have you been on fire? You’re broken.

Two words. Two simple words was all it took to blow away the safe haven of fog you created in the confines of your mind to cope with the monstrosity of your situation, and those words, spoken so cruelly, threw all your pretense, and left you exposed to the real horror of being set aflame.

You wrap yourself in fine linen sheets, still on fire, still burning, and scream until your throat is aflame and splotches of red dye the white sheets. ......

“I would give up everything for the chance to see you laugh again.”

The laughter that echoes the room sounds hollow and spiteful, and you slap his hands away as you glare at the shadow before you.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Illumi.” You bite out each wretched syllable of his name with so, so much hate that he blinks, the gears in his head whirring to a boil before he chooses to ignore the hostility in your voice.

“If you really love me,” you push yourself to shaking feet, voice far stronger than your legs. It leaves a bitter taste and you want to tear your tongue out and toss it into the nearest fire to forget everything,

“let me go.”

He blinks again, and you can almost hear the cogs in his brain rattle as they jolt to life and begin to slowly turn. “You’re my wife, do I not mean anything to you?”

“Oh Illumi,” you press yourself against his chest, the name he carved so lovingly into your skin tingling. The thumping of his heart is irregularly slow, even at your proximity does his heartbeat feel nonexistent, and if you weren’t any wiser you would have assumed he were a corpse (you’re not wrong). The coldness of his skin is freezing when your skin brushes past, and he tilts his head to the side, unable to comprehend the rage and disgust pooling at the top of your tongue, eyes huge and empty, like dead fish, as he continued to wrap himself in layers of denial and lies. The laughter that escapes you is impossible to stop, for how can a man so deadly be so, so stupid?

You cup his cheek, brushing errand strands from his face, “how can anyone ever love you?”

An explosion of poison consumes you, and your dinner from last night reacquaints itself with your mouth before you empty it all out onto the floor. Something fragile cracks, and the pain washes over you immediately. Your wrist is shattered, and you can tell from the splintered bones that jut against your skin that it isn’t a clean break, that bastard.

He sends a swift kick to your knees, the force of which destroys your knee caps (you know deep down that you’ll never walk again after this).

“You are my wife. You will love me.” He forces you up by your hair, not caring that the force nearly breaks you neck “nothing will change that.”

You spit at his face.

“I didn’t choose to be your wife.” This budding anger, this itch of rage, which grew and grew over these months, exploded into a torrent as you screamed each word out, dripping with poison, acid burning the flimsy thread that held your peace until your throat is raw and you can’t muster the strength to shout anymore. Somewhere along the way, you wondered if that really was your voice and when it became full with this much hate?

Broken toy.

“I didn’t choose any of this.” You heaved out, “I didn’t want any of this.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the steady pressure he applies blocks off your oxygen intake as he easily lifts you off the ground by the neck, slamming you against the wall as you helplessly kicked at him. He gently brushes your hair away from your face, and leans in close enough for you to stare at every single scar that lined his porcelains skin.

“I love you so, so much. And I will help you see it too.” The sharp prick and a wave of panic washes over you, stomach twisting as your crushed ribs forced the air air out of your very lungs, eyeing the offending yellow capped needle Illumi inserts another at the base of your collarbones, right above his name.

Everything turns black. .....

Illumi isn’t often enamored by the sights the world has to offer the way other people are. To him, the flashes of color mean just that: simple, meaningless forms.

But you, in your simple, meandering way and silly little dances made his heart pound in a way he never thought would ever be possible.

It was just simply irresistible.

You dance across the room, full of grace and delicate steps. The warmth of your hand grazes his cheek as you slowly dip down to plant a kiss on his forehead, smiling down at him with so much love that he feels drunk of it.

Illumi smiles, humming the same eight notes of the song as you begin to repeat the motions of your dance once again.

[s11e17]

wehhh so i'm working on this big spn wip and as some of you may know i abandoned a big one a few years ago (i am working on it again hopefully to finish it finally bc of everyone's nice comments but i don't want to give anybody false hope!!) so these days i only post once i've got the whole thing down. BUT i have no motivation to finish this other one so i'm just going to post this excerpt here for Validation™ lol read on if you want to see sam angst

Sam decides to take a desert route back, hopes for the bitter and blistering heat to burn out the persevering cold in his bones. On a sharp right just before Twin Falls, Sam veers southward towards the Nevada border. He keeps driving down, crosses 80 and waits for a good place to turn eastward.

From up where the eagles can see, Nevada is pockmarked with greenish fissures made of brown-green mountains and wet farmland, like mold biting through a loaf of bread. Sam’s nearly fifty year old Torino rattles down along wire-thin highways with presidential names underwritten by numbers. He wonders if the concession to American tradition came before or after the numerical classification, if Eisenhower’s real name is Route 80 or if it’s the other way around.

At the intersection of 80 and 93, where Eisenhower meets Lincoln, the Nevada State Department of Transportation makes itself known with a building and a tree the size of an anthill compared to the vastness of the desert. To the north, a farm’s sweeping green circles like radar scanners interrupt the sandy white ridges overlooking Nevada’s moldy fissures. Military outposts, all of it, strategic camps set up to surveil the unclaimable desert.

The DIY Enochian anti-possession sigil he inked in just above his hip itches. Sam shifts in his seat.

The sky darkens — or it’s been darkening, already, and Sam’s only just noticing — and Sam glances at his rearview. Dark storm clouds gather behind him, covering up the sun. The thing about flat land like this, open country, is that you can see the storm coming miles away. A column of clouds hails down twenty miles behind him. The lightning makes him flinch, and he looks back to the road, clear ahead of him.

And then, too soon, the storm comes over him. He shouldn’t be out here in this weather — good God, he shouldn’t be in anything metal in this weather, that’s for damn sure. Lightning comes down half a mile ahead of him and Sam pulls over, gets a tarp out of the trunk and huddles down ten yards away, waiting for the sky to strike him.

Rain clatters over him, loud, ungenerous. The thunder’s so goddamn loud he feels it in his bones. He peeks out of his plastic home to look at the sky.

It’s pink behind the clouds, the hidden sun, maybe. The stormclouds tower like gods, greater statues than Sam’s ever seen, than any place he’s ever been. Everything is red. That’s the trick of it, of the desert — there’s nowhere to hide on the bare and raw earth.

Rainwater rushes past his feet. The stream picks up, turns into a brook — and then into a river, barreling under that Torino, cutting a new road. Sam hides from it all, hunched under his tarp.

It's warm, but Sam's cold. That's the worst of it: that the water is warm, or rather that the water is cold on a hot day which is supposed to even out, but he's still freezing. Sam has been cold for so long he isn't even human anymore, a cold-blooded creature so low-down even the dogs won't fight him, 'cause there's nothing left to fight. Not much for anyone to chew off these bones. The water makes him ice. The water cracks down sharp on the plastic, an inch away from his eardrums, the water pours heaven down and makes him shiver, and the water doesn't make him clean.

Sam closes his eyes. It's so loud. Thunder roars and he flinches at the sound of it, the feel of it, opens his eyes and looks at his feet and sees red mudwater sluicing by and thinks, that's my blood. My blood is running across my body which is the sand. Sam's blood pools around his car's tires. His car is waiting to be struck by lightning.

He shivers under his plastic and the rain keeps coming, endlessly. An inevitable brute. The rain is his father. Lightning, and then one-two-three seconds later, thunder. "Fuck off," Sam whispers, teeth chattering together, and his face is wet even though he hasn't moved out from under his cover. What he can see of the sky is more purple than pink. "Fuck you," he says, louder, trying to speak the warmth back into himself, the heat, the fire. Dean's fire. The fire Dean has in him that makes him throw furniture when he's mad, that makes him punch walls and break bottles. The fire Dad stoked in Sam's older brother without an exit sign, the fire Sam used to have. Sam wants that fire back. Can't he have it? Dean doesn't need it, Dean doesn't want it— it's Sam, Sam's the one who needs something, anything in him that's his and his alone, see, he'll even take a hand-me-down.

The clouds die off and the rain stops. The sun comes back. Sam's blood shudders next to his car. Sam carries the tarp on the crown of his head like a businessman holding a newspaper over his head in Manhattan rain. He shakes it off and puts it in the trunk. The car wasn't even struck by lightning. He didn't need to wait outside.

Once he's inside the car, looking out of the windshield at the endless, inevitable, unclaimable desert, it hits him.

Sam is, suddenly, for the first time in many, many years, very angry.

He looks at his hands which are shaking with the residual cold despite the car's heat and he— he storms out of the car and leaves the driver side door open and he kneels down and he grabs handfuls of mud, presses the mud between his fingertips. His whole body is shaking. He's so angry. He's so angry. He didn't deserve that thunderstorm. He didn't deserve— it itches, the Enochian on him, the brand he took as the lesser curse— the sand is gritty in his palm, he's never felt the earth like this— there's no mud in the cage— he's nothing, he's nothing, he's a dog, he's less than a dog, but he's human, isn't he? Isn't he?

"Fuck!" Sam yells at his hands, his voice cracking with disuse. He hasn't yelled in years. He can't even remember it. What does Sam Winchester have to yell about? "Fuck!"

He looks up, straight ahead at the length of mud that stretches in front of him like an ocean. He looks at that horizon.

Sam opens his mouth, and he screams.

[pcttrailsidereader]

Tehachapi to Lone Pine: Hell Comes in October -- Part 1

By Dave Baugher

Dave is nearing the end of his MYTH, as he refers to it (Multi-Year Thru Hike).  He completed the southern half of Washington State this year ending at Snoqualmie Pass.  This story is from a hike he took in autumn of 2015.  As he notes, it is in crisis that we learn the most about ourselves (and the trail). 

This is a two-part account.  You will have to wait until Monday to read the rest of the story.

Figuring I did not get enough of the Pacific Crest Trail in the spring of 2015, I asked my wife Luann if I could go back on the trail that fall. According to my copy of Gray's Anatomy, the human head weighs between 8-12 pounds.  The variance is probably due to the absence of common sense, at least in my case.  Brutal?  Yes, on that September trip, I discovered several valuable lessons about the trail and myself.  Especially learning there are Trail Angels always looking over you.  It was a tough trip, to say the least. Let me tell you about it.

Pack loaded, Luann drove me to Modesto, CA, where I boarded an afternoon southbound train to Bakersfield.  After a warm kiss goodbye, Luann returned home, and I headed south.  Amtrak runs down the sun-drenched eastern side of the San Joaquin Valley in California.  The train sped past emerald green fields of alfalfa, endless almond orchards, and golden waves of dry autumn grasses.  This was the section where Theodore Solomon first looked at the Sierras and thought about a concept: "The idea of a crest parallel trail through the high sierra came to me one day while herding my Uncle's cattle in an immense unfenced field of alfalfa field near Fresno," he reflected in the Sierra Club Bulletin in 1940.  That idea became what we know today as the John Muir Trail, an essential part of the Pacific Crest Trail.

Earlier that spring, I had hiked solo from Idyllwild to the PCT crossing at Cameron Road and Highway 58, between the California cities of Techappi and Mohave.  Ending my 400-mile hike at the highway overpass, I called Kern County transit. The passing bus picked me up and dropped me off right at the Bakersfield Amtrak Station for my return home. 

Contemplating the JMT, PCT, my spring hike, and Mr. Solomon's notions, the arrival at Bakersfield swiftly arrived. I departed the train and walked out of the train station to the local car rental office, where I had reserved an SUV for the final leg of the trip to Techappai.  I would spend the remainder of my day preparing to return to the Pacific Crest Trail the following morning. 

Speeding down Highway 58, a short hour's drive took me to the town of Tehachapi, where I rented a room and unloaded my gear.  Then to Walmart, where I purchased gallons of water and some snacks.  Car loaded, music playing, I headed out into the hot California afternoon, driving to pre-determined locations along the PCT to cache water.  I spent the day hiding the jugs along a 70 mile stretch of the PCT, where the trail crossed near local roadways. 

With my trail preparation chores done, I returned to the hotel and called it a night.  Tomorrow would be my first day back on the dusty trail, the heat outside was omnipresent, yet I was excited to return.

I woke up to a bright clear day greeting me on that September morning; it was one of those sun-stricken Pacific Crest Trail days that you get in September, and I was ready to go!  I returned the car, walked back to my hotel, enjoyed a last cool shower, and checked out of my room. Then, pack on my back, I walked to the bus stop a few blocks away from my motel.  Where the Kern County transit was right on time, magically appearing along the roadway. Just like a time machine, the bus was rolling away in a cloud of dust, and I was right back where I stopped last spring at Hwy 58 and Cameron Road.

The Pacific Crest Trail crosses the highway via the Cameron Road overpass then parallels the highway eastwards for a few miles before turning northwards into the "Wild." So I stood was the infamous starting point where Cheryl Strayed, author of the book "Wild" began her journey northwards in 1999.

Cheryl chronicled her 900-mile trip along sections of the Pacific Crest Trail.   At the age of twenty-two, she thought she had lost everything, her mother's passing, the family scattered, and a defunct marriage. So she made an impulsive decision with nothing more to lose: To hike the Pacific Crest Trail from the Mojave Desert through California and Oregon to Washington. But, having no experience as a long-distance hiker, she had a tough time on the hike.

My trip did not start as Cheryl's, as my start was hot, dry, and I started hiking late that sun-baked morning.  After leaving the highway, the path immediately began gaining altitude. Still, it was great to be back on the trail with songs running through my mind. In the glaring southern California sun, my body took a toll from the heat, and I realized it was time to get out of the sun.  Five miles was enough at this point, and a beckoning grove of Joshua trees looked just like the shady ticket I needed to get out of the sun. 

Approaching the trees, I was surprised to see two pairs of eyes, bright and alert, as a couple of teal ducks looking back at me.  Saying a cheery "Hello!" to the two girls lounging in the shade, I asked if I could join them. "No Problem!" Unloading my pack, I relaxed on a clear patch of ground in the shadow of the trees.  Then looking at them, these two hikers, what a surprise, because, at the sound of their voices, I knew immediately who they were from an earlier encounter that past spring.

Angie and Claire were two young ladies from England who had read the book "Wild" and impulsively decided to quit their boring jobs and hike part of the PCT.  My wife, Luann, and I had met them earlier in the summer as we returned from a High Sierra Camps outing in Tuolumne Meadows.  They were just starting southwards on the PCT with large packs and a copy of "The John Muir Trail" by Elizabeth Wenk clutched in their hands.  Knowing the book well, we said hello and asked about their plans.  Their goal was to hike the JMT/PCT into Southern California. We chatted for a bit while standing on the bridge spanning Lyell Creek, and their enthusiasm for adventure was contagious.  They were so excited!

Fast forward to lounging in the afternoon shade of a Joshua Tree, reunited along the trailside.  We talked about our trips, people we met, and experiences along the trail for a couple of hours.  Their plan was to catch a ride at Highway 58, then make their way to Disneyland for a couple of days before the trip home.  Time passed, and as the sun lowered toward the western horizon, we bid farewell; best luck and continue onwards. 

That night I camped near a noisy windmill farm, and hence the days began passing in a blur of heat, incessant gnats, glaring sun, nights spent on the unforgiving hot ground. The sun was vicious, the land stagnant.  I could not even remember what a cool breeze felt until I reached the Walker Pass public campground.  There I found water and a campsite.  The trip had been brutal, and my body in poor shape.  Not realizing it at the time, but I was dehydrated, and my electrolytes were off, and I was not thinking clearly.  Logically felt that I would be ready to continue on the following morning; I wasn't.

Sunday morning, I wearily broke camp and shuffled to the PCT-Highway 178 crossing at Walker Pass.  The sun breaking the horizon, I stared up the monumental ridge before me, and I resignedly said to myself, "I can't do it." Turning my back to the trail, retreating down the road, with songs playing in my mind, I told myself: Dave, "Sunday was a day of rest, and your soul needs some," I told myself.  My trail guide noted local trail angels hosting hikers at their place, allowing backpackers to use their converted garage as a rest stop, so I headed in that direction.

[agoodgoddamnshot]

Nobody - Geralt/Jaskier [M]

[Gif isn’t mine]

Warning(s): Mild Smut

Word Count: 8,014

Originally posted to my AO3

Jaskier spends his first winter at Kaer Morhen.

Questions perch on the tip of his tongue. Kaer Morhen isn’t on any maps; not that he knows of, anyway. The mountain range to the north shields the northern kingdoms from the worst of the far north and whatever weather tumbles down from those lands, but apart from that, he can’t find the keep anywhere. And that’s probably for the best.

The first mention Geralt ever makes of it is when the winds started to change. A shiver rattles through the length of Jaskier’s spine and he regards the heavy blanket of clouds in the sky with disdain. The village is still a mile’s walk away, but at least they made good time. Roach snorts, nodding her head. A rest for them a rest for her; gods only know that they all need it. His feet protest every step he takes and he adjusts, for quite possibly the millionth time, how his bag and lute case sit on his shoulders.

The walk drifts by. By the time they feel the first drop of rain, the Witcher is already leading them into the inn’s stable yard.

Geralt looks at the sky, regarding the clouds as grumpily as he regards most things. He hums, turning back to unlatching the last of Roach’s saddlebags. “I’ll be heading to Kaer Morhen soon,” he says gruffly. The inn’s stables are quiet, with the last of the patrons already huddled inside out of the cold. Jaskier stands just outside of the mare’s allotted stall, shifting his weight from foot to foot to prevent them from freezing over as he waits for the Witcher. Their rooms are already sorted, as is dinner. A woman who’s weathered her fair share of storms waved them through, promising warm stew and beds as soon as they were reading putting the horse to bed.

“Oh, good,” Jaskier nods, rubbing his hands together to try and get some feeling back into them. He really ought to invest in gloves, but the promise of a lit hearth inside of the inn will do for now. “When do we leave?”

Geralt looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “You aren’t coming,” he says simply, turning back to Roach and unlatching her saddle. The mare huffs, and for a brief second, Jaskier thinks the mare might actually be laughing at him. Or at least the look on his face.

You aren’t coming is something Geralt says a lot, usually in relation to hunts and contracts. And Jaskier always comes along anyway, because even though Geralt has an almighty sour glare, he will never actually force Jaskier to stay. He’ll just be really bloody grumpy about it for days on end.

But when Jaskier meets his gaze, he recognises something different in this one.

He really isn’t allowed to come along.

He manages to hold back a balk. So he sets his hands on his hips instead. “Why not?”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Kaer Morhen is for Witchers. And you aren’t one.”

His face screws up at the name. Years of being the son of nobility, having the names of every holdfast within the Continent drilled into him by a tutor. And the years after that at Oxenfurt, meeting people from all walks of life, from places he dreamed of visiting one day. And not once did he ever hear of Kaer Morhen.

There are a lot of people on the Continent who like to think that they know everything there is to know about Witchers. What those people actually know are rumours peddled by scared people who know nothing, and refuse to learn anything, about people different to them. Rumours travelled with the wind and they evolved into their own monsters, distorted and vile things. Jaskier might have believed some of these rumours at the beginning, but in the few years of travelling with the Witcher, he’s set to throw each and every one of those vile rumours into the wind and let it carry them away. He’ll sing songs about the Witcher to garner favour, and to earn coin, of course. Travelling around the Continent isn’t cheap.

He’s intrigued. “What’s Kaer Morhen, anyway?” he asks, even as Geralt puts the last of Roach’s’ tack away for the night, letting the mare lie down and roll in her bed of hay. When Geralt strides for the inn, Jaskier follows. “Geralt? Geralt, stop ignoring me. I know you can hear me, Geralt. What’s Kaer Morhen? Why can’t I come?”

The first time Jaskier is invited to Kaer Morhen is when a rumour starts travelling with the changing winds that the coming winter is to be a harsh one. The Continent had a wonderful summer. Months of endless sun and harvests. Wine flowed out of Toussaint’s vineyards and celebrations seemed to be never-ending. A peasant’s saying was that if the land experienced a harsh summer, an equally harsh winter was waiting for them at the end of the year. Everything must stay in balance, and all of that. Jaskier never thought anything about it. Three seasons were spent on the road with the Witcher, weathering sun and wind and rain. And when the winds change again, carrying some sort of voice with them that Geralt listens out for, they part ways and go where they need to. Jaskier weathers his winter in Oxenfurt and Geralt goes to his castle on the mountain.

But with the gods’ apparent promise of a harsh winter, with thick snow set to clog the roads and winds whipping and lashing through each and every town and village on the Continent, the mumbled question comes.

“Do you want to come with me, this year?”

The question is almost lost to a blustering wind that howls outside and seems to shake the tavern’s thin walls. Jaskier looks up from his dinner, a spoonful of stew hovering in front of him.

Geralt doesn’t meet his gaze, but rather looks down at the fraying tie of one of his vambraces. He picks at it. “To Kaer Morhen. It will be safer there. For you.”

A piece of venison drops off of his spoon and back into his bowl. Not once, in the years they’ve travelled together, did Geralt ever extend the invitation his way. And Jaskier has asked for it. Teasingly, of course. But sometimes, when he knew that they were parting, sometimes literally as they stood on forked roads, he felt the slight pang in his chest when Geralt shrugged him off and left.

This...is new.

Jaskier manages to splutter out a response. “Uh, yeah,” he sets his spoon down, “yeah, of course.”

And that’s apparently that. After a night of rest and an early start, Jaskier rubs the last of sleep from his eyes as he stumbles on to the road with the Witcher perched on his horse. Roach’s gait is springier than usual. Maybe she knows that she’s heading home and wants to get there now? Who knows? Jaskier does watch her, though, smiling softly at how pricked her ears are and how she snorts and throws her head, desperate to pick up the pace.

Well, duchess, Jaskier thinks, sparing a quick glance up to the Witcher, if your master wasn’t so particular about me getting on you, we could go off at a gallop and get you home sooner.

He manages to clear a handful of roads before the question perched on his tongue slips out.

“Whatever happened to Kaer Morhen is for Witchers. And you aren’t one?”

Geralt just about manages to not roll his eyes. Jaskier’s impersonations of him are...questionable. “That’s the general rule,” he instead answers, keeping his eye on the road ahead. With the weather turning as harsh as it has, the roads are dreadfully quiet. A few passing merchants and their carts meet them, but they look just as glum as the rest of the Continent. A harsh winter tends the sour even the cheeriest of moods in people. He glances down at the bard. “Unless people are invited.”

Hmm.

Jaskier tightens his hold on the strap of his lute case. “Well, thank you,” he says, turning his eyes back on to the road. “It’s much appreciated.”

They’re closer to the keep than he thought. The journey to the foot of the mountain takes them a week. To Jaskier’s surprise, a village sits nestled into the rocks of the mountain. A last place for Witchers to get their rest and supplies before heading up the steep trails – so Jaskier is told. The innkeep steps outside as soon as Roach lets out a small whinny. She definitely recognises home, and just how close they are to it. The lady, worn by the harsh climate here and with a long ponytail of grey hair tumbling down her back, offers Geralt a small smile. Geralt hums, halting Roach and hopping down from her.

“The boys are in the yard with a stable ready for her,” the woman says, bundling her shawl tighter around herself. Another howling wind rolls through the village. Jaskier just about manages to clamp down on a shiver. The woman notices, though. “Come lad,” she waves him forward. “We’ll get you warm and fed.”

Geralt is...different. When the Witcher joins him for a bowl of hearty stew, settled by a lit hearth, he seems lighter. The ever-present scowl on his face has smoothed out, and his eyes seem brighter. Jaskier watches him take a bowl of stew from the innkeep, offering her a small smile in thanks. Interesting.

Seeing all of this, it’s intimate. It’s a version of Geralt he knew existed, buried somewhere deep, deep down, but seeing it lift to the surface is odd. Jaskier struggles between lowering his gaze to his dinner, eating it in silence, and watching the Witcher.

The question came in the same year as their first kiss. The first of many, Jaskier can attest to.

Even with that, managing to deal a few cracks in the Witcher’s resolve any time he presses their lips together, or dusts a gentle kiss to the ridge of Geralt’s cheek or jaw, there is still so much hidden behind those golden eyes. And Jaskier cannot wait to unravel as much as he can.

The hike up to the keep goes as smoothly as he expected, insomuch as it doesn’t. One of the main paths is already flooded, with them having to take another. At some point, Geralt catches Jaskier by the waist and lifts him up, perching him on Roach. The amazement of finally having to sit on top of the mare meets the slight disappointment of the Witcher’s hands slipping away from him. Oh well, Jaskier thinks. He has all winter.

When the keep comes into view, perched on one of the mountain’s highest peaks and towering above him, it steals Jaskier’s breath. Geralt has Roach’s reins caught, so all Jaskier has been doing is craning his neck up and around to see the landscape change in front of them. When another biting wind rushes over them, he gathers the lapels of his cloak and bundles it around himself.

Some of the walls are in a sorry state, crumbling and cascading down the slopes. But for all the history the keep has weathered, he’s surprised anything remains of it at all. Geralt told him some things; past battles, the last Witchers, a handful of stories about the Witchers they’ll find within the keep. But nothing too revealing just yet.

Armed with as much as Geralt felt comfortable telling him, seeing two young-looking Witchers meet him doesn’t shock him at all. If anything, their names perch on the tip of his tongue.

They embrace Geralt first. Embrace being a strange word to use, as it’s more of a grapple and a fight to headlock the other. Jaskier slowly slips off of Roach’s back, giving the mare a firm pat on her neck as thanks. She only regards him with a mild form of disdain this time.

When the Witchers eventually pull away from each other, Jaskier is quickly gathered into a firm hug by one of them. Eskel, he thinks. The one with blond hair and a collection of scars marring one side of his face. The fire-haired Witcher stares at him for a moment, glowering in the same way Geralt used to do. Maybe it’s a School of the Wolf thing, he thinks, before offering the Witcher a small smile. He introduces himself, just because his mother raised him right. And while Eskel returns said smile and inflicts a colour on to Geralt’s cheeks at the mere mention of giving the bard endless stories of their youth to use for his songs, Lambert stalks off.

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Don’t mind him,” he grunts, leading both the bard and Roach to some stables to the side of the keep’s courtyard. “Lambert isn’t good with people.”

“Must be a Witcher trait, then,” Jaskier offers simply, luring a small smile out of Geralt.

The horses already fed and stabled neigh and nicker at the sight of Roach. And she does the same. Even as Geralt tries to strip the last of her tack from her, she paws at the ground and stretches out to puff at a black stallion stabled next door. Jaskier tilts his head. “Who’s this?”

Geralt doesn’t even look up from his work. “Scorpion,” he replies, “Eskel’s horse.”

Jaskier makes a sound. “Do you Witchers deliberately choose horrid names for your mounts?” He settles a hand on to Roach’s neck. In the days following his first kiss with Geralt, he’s noticed that the mare has suddenly stopped trying to nip at him if he ventures too close, or lash out and kick at his shins. It’s the little things he appreciates with Roach.

Geralt huffs a short laugh, but Jaskier never gets his answer.

Wintering in Kaer Morhen isn’t what he expected.

What he managed to lure out of Geralt once was that the Witchers return to their homesteads to rest and recuperate. Geralt assured him that Vesemir, a father-figure to the pups of the keep, would keep them busy with tasks and chores to be done around the place.

But it’s been a week, and all Geralt has done so far is eat and lounge and sleep.

Jaskier doesn’t complain. If Geralt eats and lounges and sleeps, that means he does too. He spends his days practically tied to the Witcher, never more than an arm’s reach away. Whether they’re in bed, tangled together and content, or walking the halls and the courtyards outside, Geralt keeps close.

Geralt is softer in Kaer Morhen. And Jaskier is borderline freaked out by it.

It’s nice, don’t get him wrong. Watching the normally grumpy Witcher lounge about in a loose shirt and breeches for hours on end, never too far away from Jaskier and bundling him into an embrace whenever he draws too near, it’s nice. It’s just...odd.

Distantly, he wonders if this will all melt away once they leave the keep. When they step back out on to the Continent’s roads, will Geralt the Grump return? Possibly. So Jaskier bundles closer to the Witcher, eager to make the most of this while he can.

Geralt’s room is perched in one of the towers. It’s big, possibly bigger than any room Jaskier ever had as a child of a viscount. He’s told that the room originally belonged to one of the teachers in the keep. After the battle, when what pups remained returned to their home, they took ownership of the building and its history. Rooms that were occupied by their teachers – or tormentors, as Lambert grumbled under his breath one night, earning him a glare from Vesemir – now belonged to them. Vesemir, the elder Witcher, seemed to be the only kind soul up this high. Names that escape him might have been kind too, but Vesemir lingered in the lives of the pups. When he staggered out of the siege of the keep, he took it upon himself to shield and shroud the castle from prying eyes. Jaskier’s stomach churns at every mention of the attack. He can only imagine what it must have been like.

One night, when a storm rolls in from a nearby ridge and the winds howl outside, Jaskier shuffles closer to the Witcher in his bed. Geralt lies on his back, one arm pillowing his head while the other is curled around Jaskier’s shoulders, keeping him near. With linens and blankets pulled up to their shoulders, furs lining the foot of the bed, a hearth still crackling and glowing nearby, it’s easy to forget about the storm outside. Geralt is warm too. He’s Jaskier’s favourite way of staying warm. Even though the heart beneath his palm doesn’t beat as quickly as his, somehow Geralt’s body manages to retain enough heat for the both of them.

The Witcher stares at the rafters above them, regarding them quietly for a moment. The familiar fingers Jaskier has come to know skims his bare shoulders, tracing illegible patterns. It’s almost enough to lull him to sleep. But a deep rumble comes out of the depths of Geralt’s chest.

“Did I ever tell you how Witchers are made?”

The words take a moment to catch. Jaskier frowns – a soft thing, something that barely knits his brows together. He glances up at Geralt. He knows he’s asked before, in the early days of their travels together, and was shot down by Geralt’s usual glare.

He’s careful with his words now. Especially when Jaskier notices that Geralt isn’t looking at him. “No,” he mumbles. He’s torn. You don’t have to tell me battling alongside a gentler side of him desperate to help Geralt process what he thinks about. There’s a maelstrom still waging behind those eyes. Jaskier can see it. His only wish is that he could try and temper the worst of it.

A long silent moment stretches out between them for a moment. Geralt’s fingers still brush the bard’s shoulders and the fire still crackles nearby.

Geralt’s jaw tightens.

And he tells him. He tells Jaskier everything. Even when his breath starts to hitch and thin, and the heart beneath the bard’s palm begins to quicken, he keeps going. Jaskier’s tongue sits heavily in his throat. It’s alright, he wants to say. You’re safe. I’m here.

He doesn’t cry. Tears don’t brim his eyes, but Jaskier gets the feeling that Geralt has probably cried himself dry years ago. There’s nothing left inside of him to expel – except for words. Words caught behind a clenched jaw and teeth and a soured scowling face.

For the first time, Jaskier realises how close he’s embedded himself into the Witcher’s life. They’re moulded together now, infused and entwining, unsure of where one ends and the other begins. He’s loved a fair number of people in all sorts of capacities, but no one – not even the Countess – has had this much of an effect on him.

When the words start to thin and fray, when Geralt has said all that he can, Jaskier leans up and presses a firm, assuring kiss to his cheek. He feels a breath hitch in the Witcher’s throat. “Thank you for telling me,” Jaskier mumbles against a stubble-prickled jaw. Geralt turns his head, catching Jaskier’s lips in a deep and desperate kiss. A grounding one. One that Jaskier pushes back against and lets Geralt know that he’s here, with him, and that he’s safe with him.

The leave that story to that night. Jaskier knows what he needs to know and leaves the rest of it. Neither of them mentions his songs. He wouldn’t betray Geralt’s trust like that. But it does make all the times people hissed monster and mutant under their breath as they passed all the more vile. If those people knew—

When Jaskier wakes, the world outside is quiet. He wakes looking to the tall, lancet windows of the room, looking out on to a segment of forest that surrounds and shrouds the keep. Even though the winter has shorter days and longer nights, he has to wonder just how long he’s been asleep as watery, bright morning light stretch into the room and reach for the end of their bed.

A heavy arm is slung around his waist, not quite tight, but not loose either. Jaskier buries his smile into his pillow. Sleep lures him back under.

Geralt leaves most mornings. Whines catch in Jaskier’s throat, with some of them slipping through his lips on the occasional morning. Geralt slipping away from him is awful. Even though it’s only been a few days of their stay here, he’s gotten used to having the Witcher so close to him.

But eventually, Vesemir comes knocking.

Geralt buries his grumbled curse into the back of Jaskier’s neck. Three loud and echoing knocks, followed by a curt order to get up. “Not you, bard,” Vesemir calls through the heavy wood of the door.

Geralt pokes Jaskier’s side. “Enjoy your sleep,” he mutters under his breath before slipping away.

And Jaskier can’t go back to sleep. He’s gotten too used to having the Witcher curled around him. When sleep comes, it takes them both. And now here’s Vesemir, ruining all of it.

It’s far too much of an effort trying to roll on to his back, but he manages. Geralt’s side of the bed is still warm and, to Jaskier’s delight, still smells like him. He paws around for a pillow on the other side of the bed, dragging it over to huddle it against his chest. Towards the other end of the room, Geralt pads around. He’s pulled on his breeches already – sadly. Jaskier mourns the loss of sight of glorious bare thighs that he delights in having bracket him during the night.

Geralt eventually catches him watching. A small twitch to the corner of his lip is all Jaskier gets. “Some of us have to work, you know,” he offers simply. The mornings leave his voice deeper and more raspy than usual. And it rumbles through Jaskier’s whole body.

The bard lifts an eyebrow. “Excuse me?” he asks. “I’ll have you know that I’m seeing to that library Vesemir has. It’s in desperate need of a cleanup.”

Geralt huffs a short laugh. He pulls a loose shirt over his head, and Jaskier mourns the loss of the man’s bare chest too. “It’s hardly climbing on to the battlements to repoint stones.”

Jaskier hums. “True, true. I’ll leave that work to you and your brothers.” Because Jaskier can see himself tripping over something and falling down the length of the mountain, hitting every slope and jagged rock on the way down.

The Witcher stalks back to him, a small smile curling the corner of his lip. More or less dressed for the day, the next time he’ll be able to lure Geralt back to bed is in a number of hours once they’re full with dinner and warmed by the fire, finishing the last of a drink Lambert insists they end the days with. White Gull stays with the Witchers. The only ever time Jaskier tried it, much to the protest of Geralt, was a single small sip. And he’s never been near the stuff since. It’s too strong; rivalling the strength of the spirits brewed on the Skellige Isles.

Jaskier frees an arm from his cocoon of blankets and manages to grab the front of Geralt’s shirt when the Witcher bends down to kiss him. Geralt chuckles against Jaskier’s lips. The bard is always loath to let go of him in the mornings; maybe hoping that by running his tongue along the seams of their lips, deepening their kiss, Geralt would climb back into bed with him.

And for a moment, Geralt considers it.

Geralt stays away, much to Jaskier’s annoyance. Fine, the walls of the keep have to be maintained. And Jaskier certain isn’t going to do it. He doesn’t even know where to start in repointing stones and making mortar. When he does eventually stagger out of bed and down the empty halls of the keep, his first point of call is the courtyard. The sun manages to break through the cloud today, offering some slight warmth against the wind.

In the wake of the storm, some looser stones have been knocked out of place. Jaskier squints against the sun, looking up to Geralt and Lambert hauling the last brick of limestone up on to the battlements. They work quietly, in-tune with each other about what needs to be done and who is to do it. Lambert slaps on freshly churned mortar while Geralt pulls the brick into place, setting and pressing it down. They’ll work like that for hours on end before the winds grow too much. Eventually, Jaskier will have his Witcher back.

He bundles the lapels of his jacket around himself. The wind is too much for him, even now. It’s shaking the last few webs of sleep out of him. A library buried somewhere in the keep calls out to him. Vesemir’s pride and joy, alongside the gardens and the apothecary lab the elder Witcher keeps in the higher floors of the castle. Stepping back inside, he’s thankful for the strong, sturdy walls around him, shielding him from the worst the season has to offer. Even in the early days of winter, the winds are already harsh and lashing. He can’t imagine what it will be like in a few weeks, when winter will have settled over them.

Vesemir meets him at the library. Jaskier watches the elder Witcher. He moves just as quietly and surely as his pups, but occasionally, Jaskier catches him wincing slightly when he reaches up too far. He sets his hands to the small of his back and flexes out, grunting at the slight click of joints.

Geralt is old. Jaskier isn’t sure how old because Geralt has lost track of time. Apparently, every year just bleeds into the next and before long, so much time has passed it’s hard to know when something started and something ended. Jaskier can’t even imagine all of the life Vesemir has seen. He can see most of it on the man’s face. Wrinkles deeply set into his face and haunted eyes. Geralt has told him what he can about some of the ghosts of Kaer Morhen.

They must haunt the elder; the only one of them that spends all of his time here. Jaskier shadows Vesemir as they strip the shelves of every book, stacking them into neat piles, and set about dusting. Questions perch on the tip of his tongue. He suspects that it might be easier luring more answers out of the elder Witcher than Geralt. Although, Jaskier has been levelled by some pretty intense glares from Vesemir. Geralt had to learn how to glare from somewhere, he supposes.

The library will take them a few days to rebuild. Jaskier tries not to look at the fading names of each leather-bound tome he handles, but it’s difficult not to. Most of the gold-work has long since been smudged away. What any of these books are, he has no idea. He could ask Vesemir, he supposes, but the Witcher keeps to himself, darting in and out of shelves and restacking them. Eventually, he slips away to grab them something to eat.

Alone in the hallowed library, he stares up at the lanes of aisles, heavy with leather-bound books. Most of the dust has been cleared away, with most of it fanned out through the opened windows.

Vesemir returns with two plates of cured meat and slices of cheese. Jaskier sets down his pile of books, wiping his hands on the legs of his pants. “Thank you,” he offers the elder a small smile.

Vesemir waves his hand. “I can’t let you starve,” he reasons, sighing heavily as he falls into a chair. “Geralt wouldn’t be very happy with me if I did.”

A light laugh bubbles up through Jaskier’s throat. “He does like me alive,” he says, sitting down beside the Witcher. A small desk supporting the last of their stacks of books. They’ll have to come back in the following days to try and catalogue everything, but for now, he’s content to sit with Vesemir and nibble at what lunch the elder brought up for him.

A moment stretches out between them before Vesemir speaks again. “He likes you very much,” he hums, picking at a dried fig. The stores in the kitchen have been made strictly off-limits. The kitchen is Vesemir’s domain and that was the end of all of that – even when Lambert tried his apparent annual attempt to steal some snacks earlier on in the week.

Jaskier swallows. A piece of cured meat almost lodges in his throat, but he sets a hand against his chest and swallows thickly.

The elder sighs, keeping his eyes on his plate. “A Witcher works best when he is on his own,” Vesemir says. The words that flow out of him aren’t his own. Jaskier knows, narrowing his eyes slightly at how they’re sighed and lamented, as if Vesemir has said them again and again and again. He can only assume that he has.

But something else perches on the tip of the elder’s tongue. Something barely held back through his teeth.

When it manages to wrangle out of Vesemir’s throat, it’s quiet and mumbled. “But you’ve been good for him. And I appreciate that.”

Jaskier’s chest tightens. The elder Witcher doesn’t look at him; rather, he nods and returns to his lunch. The silence that settles over the both of them is deafening. Jaskier wonders if the Witcher can hear how quickly his heart is beating. He probably can, though he doesn’t say anything. Thank the gods.

Jaskier eats what he can, ignoring the tightening in his chest. He holds a special sort of reverence for Vesemir. The last teacher of Kaer Morhen, the eldest Witcher that Jaskier has met. And he’s the closest thing to family Geralt has. He might have been Geralt’s teacher at one point, but now, in the shadows cloaking the keep from prying eyes, he’s much more than that.

Jaskier’s throat bobs as the words from the elder Witcher sit with him. Vesemir finishes his lunch first, setting the plate to the side before standing with a slight grunt. Old bones groan and joints click and protest, but he’s still able to shake himself off of any lingering pains and walk back into the maze of aisles.

The forest that shrouds the keep from prying eyes is thick and dulls the worst of the winds. It’s clear of any monsters, which is a given considering of where it is. It’s been a long time since Jaskier has been able to walk through a forest with his shoulders lax and a carefree air about him. Too many days and nights spent travelling with Geralt have always kept him on edge; if not from monsters, then bandits and bigots. And Jaskier isn’t sure which is worse.

On one of the clearer days, they go for a walk. Worn paths embedded into the undergrowth wind around the mountain’s slopes. Most of them are hunting trails, while others are for the horses to stretch their legs out so they don’t freeze over. While the forest might be quiet and Jaskier might be able to breathe in as much fresh, crisp air as he can, he does regard Geralt for a moment; the Witcher keeping one of his hands perched on the top of his sword. It swings by his side, always sheathed, but he just likes bringing a blade just in case.

He likes walking with Geralt. On the path, the Witcher is ever-scowling and plotting out the quickest way to reach the next village or town before the sun sets or a nearby rainstorm rolls in. Now, with nothing to do and nothing for him to worry about, there’s a quiet moment when he looks up and watches the canopy stretch over them. A few beams of light break through and stretch down towards the forest floor, lighting their way. And the worn path takes them around a few slopes and towards a basin. A gentle fog sits over the water, barely touching it. Everything is so still and quiet.

They could spend the rest of their years up here. And they would, if not for a pesky thing called destiny always seemingly tugging at Geralt’s sleeve.

He doesn’t mention it up here. He doesn’t mention anything about Cintra or the child or anything else. Instead, Jaskier takes a measured breath and watches the water for a moment. At the first change in the wind, when clouds start shielding the sun and the air gets chillier, Geralt brings them away.

Their hands brush with each step they take. Within seconds of stepping out on to the paths, their footfalls fell into time with each other as they stroll towards the forest. Up here, on the mountain and away from prying eyes, Jaskier’s cheeks flush warm when their hands coil together. Fingers intertwined and palms flush against each other. Geralt’s skin feels so warm against his, chasing the worst of the chill away. Jaskier squeezes. And Geralt squeezes back. Even with the wind nipping, trying to chase them out of the forest and back towards the warm keep, Geralt brings Jaskier against his side, their hands swinging between them.

He tries not to tighten his grip when the keep comes back into view. If Geralt’s brothers are in the courtyard or Vesemir is nearby, watching some drills or fight practice, he doesn’t want to let go of Geralt just yet. He doesn’t have to. They spend so much of their time entangled in each other anyway. He wakes up and goes to sleep with the Witcher around him, and after dinner when their bellies are full and they’re warming themselves by the hearth in the great hall, Jaskier will stretch his legs over Geralt’s lap and burrow into his side. They’ve been seen close before. And Jaskier isn’t shy. But Geralt is. His cheeks colour and flush when Lambert makes his comments about keeping themselves to their room, or when Eskel’s eyes linger a bit too long on them when they’re sitting close to each other. And Geralt just flees a room entirely whenever Vesemir calls Jaskier Geralt’s bard.

He loosens his grip, and it takes everything in him not to tighten it again. If Geralt wants to slip away, he can.

His breath catches when Geralt’s hand tightens around his, even when they start walking through the first battlements and walls of the keep. When they step into the courtyard, with Lambert and Eskel caught mid-practise, parrying against each other, Geralt pulls his bard closer. He lets go of Jaskier’s hand then, but only to curl an arm around the bard’s shoulders. Jaskier’s breath almost catches in his chest. But his arm lifts, curling around Geralt’s back and keeping him near. Geralt is familiar and warm and everything he ever needs; why let him drift away? How did he survive the winters apart? The thought of them has his throat bobbing.

Being this far down into the keep, he’d forgive himself to think that there is a world outside at all. A storm rolled in from the nearby ridge, cutting their day short. The sun never managed to break through the clouds in the morning; and that was the first sign. Vesemir stood at the keep’s main door, regarding the sky, while his pups trained and did their drills. Jaskier stood nearby, not really knowing what to do with himself when everyone else was busy.

He didn’t hear the roll of thunder, or the howl of wind.

But something in the air changed that had all of the Witchers turning their ears and eyes to the sky. Before he knew what was going on, Geralt’s arm wound around him and they were all but barricading themselves indoors.

It was an hour before the wind started to pick up.

Now, an undetermined amount of time later, Jaskier groans as he sinks into the warm, lapping waters of the underground springs. He has a small collection of oils and lotions and salves sitting on the edge of the bath, ready to be uncorked. But for now, he lets himself sink further down until the water laps at his chin, and his muscles tingle and relax as heat blooms through him.

The baths stretch out throughout the room, sitting in different tiers and heights, all moulded out of stone. Geralt told him of the baths, and a promised visit always sat on the tip of the Witcher’s tongue. But baths were kept to their room, just in case of any wandering eyes. Jaskier liked touching his Witcher on most occasions, but especially when he’s lounging and languid in a bath, willing to let the bard smooth sweet-smelling lotions and oils all over him.

But Eskel retired for the night and Lambert is drinking in the main hall with Vesemir, so they have the baths to themselves.

Jaskier spots Geralt resurfacing, wiping water back from his eyes and smoothening down his hair. The further into the bath you walk, the deeper it gets, until eventually, you have to drift and swim. Jaskier keeps himself to the edge of the pool, perched on one of the many ledges and benches carved into the sides. When his muscles and prone enough, he reaches for one of his vials perched on the ledge beside him. It’s one of complex glass work, plucked from a merchant’s stall in Redania. The liquid soap inside is sweet and smells like vanilla. It had cost him more gold than he was ever going to admit, but being on an Oxenfurt salary at the time helped.

He knows the instant Geralt has scented it when the man stiffens and casts a quiet look to the bard over his shoulder. The Witcher might be a cantankerous old bastard who keeps bathing to getting into a bath, washing off the worst of the dirt and monster guts, and getting out again; but time spent with Jaskier has made his senses soft. He likes smelling all sorts of scents on the bard’s skin. And Jaskier has spent enough time with Geralt to know what scents are his favourites.

He pours an ample palmful of soap on to his hand before slathering it over every stretch of skin he can find. Fresh water rushes in from higher tiers nearby, while any used water leaves through drains and flows down the slopes of the mountain. Jaskier cups a handful of water to pour over his shoulder when the Witcher drifts over and joins him.

Soft, plush lips press against his, and Jaskier’s thankful that he’s sitting on something, just because he isn’t sure that his legs would be sturdy enough to support him. Jaskier’s hands settle on to the Witcher’s chest, fingers splayed and feeling the muscle underneath his palms. After a moment, Jaskier hums. Begrudgingly, he has to push the Witcher back slightly. “I love you,” he hums, “but I do actually need to bathe.”

Geralt’s cheeks flush with colour. They always do whenever those particular words spill out from Jaskier’s lips. And the ensuing maelstrom of emotions storming behind golden eyes follows as he tries to wrestle his feelings into something manageable. Geralt hums – because that’s the only ever response Jaskier seems to get when he’s caught out by declarations of love, no matter how small or fleeting – and moves away. He doesn’t get very far, merely perching on the bench next to Jaskier and lounging in the lapping water.

Geralt’s nose wrinkles and flares as he scents the different soaps and oils and lotions Jaskier treats himself with. He’s learned to lessen the strengths of the scents; choosing things he knows Geralt likes, or won’t smell too strongly for the Witcher and his enhanced senses. He’s fond of sweet vanilla and the musk of desert roses.

After a moment, he realises Geralt has shuffled a bit closer. And under the water, a hand wanders and skims his upper thigh. Jaskier musters the best glower he can. “Geralt of Rivia, I swear,” he clicks his tongue.

Before he can gather anything else to say, strong arms coil around him and he’s lifted. Jaskier gasps, managing to thread his arms over the Witcher’s shoulders just in time for him to perch Jaskier on to his lap. The water ripples and sloshes, but eventually settles. Jaskier levels his Witcher with the sternest of looks. “Now what was all that for?” he asks. “I come here to relax and you have your brutish way with me.”

A chuckle rumbles out of the Witcher’s chest. Firm familiar hands settle on to Jaskier’s hips, holding and keeping him close. Not that Jaskier would think of going anywhere else. He’ll grumble and rolls his eyes at his Witcher’s antics, but he would spend the rest of the season exactly where he finds himself now. Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Honestly,” he sighs, “I can’t get a moment’s peace with you.”

“You shouldn’t have taken up with my invitation then,” Geralt rumbles, leaning up to lure a kiss out of Jaskier. The bard hums. Geralt is a good kisser. Jaskier has done the appropriate amount of research into the matter. He lifts his hands, framing the Witcher’s face and deepening the kiss. At the first swipe of his tongue along the seams of Geralt’s lips, they part and Jaskier’s core tightens and swells at the lure of Geralt’s tongue. The hands on his hips tighten, holding him closer and closer. Beneath him, Jaskier can feel the first small twitch of interest from the Witcher. Something that probably has been brewing ever since they both stepped into the baths.

Jaskier's hold on him tightens. Fingers card through the Witcher’s hair, tangling in the soaked soft strands and holding on. Geralt’s hips lift to roll against Jaskier’s. His breath catches in his throat. Jaskier pulls back from the Witcher’s lips, setting his forehead against Geralt’s. The lithe groan slipping out of him is thin and shaking. Tremors of pleasure shake through him.

Geralt’s lips go to his neck; dusting kisses along the ridge of his jaw and down the column of his throat. Jaskier lets his head roll to the side. The Witcher can do whatever he likes. At the first rasp of teeth, Jaskier’s arms tighten around the man’s shoulders. It’s a struggle to open his eyes. He wants to leave them closed and languish in the sensations lapping over him; the warmth from the bath, the lingering scents of oils and lotions, Geralt’s touch scalding every stretch of skin he can find.

But he opens them nonetheless and regards the portal leading into the baths for a moment. There’s no door, which could be a problem. If anyone were to pad down the stairs and step into the baths, he wouldn’t notice. Maybe Geralt would, with all of the enhanced senses he has. But he’s busy conducting an assault on Jaskier’s neck and hips. The Witcher’s fingers dig into the arches of his hips. Marks might be left. Jaskier’s breath shakes out of him. He wants marks. He wants to be littered in them. He can’t leave them on Geralt – his skin heals too quickly.

Jaskier’s fingers tighten in the Witcher’s hair. “Geralt,” he gasps at a particularly sharp rasp of teeth against his neck. The words are perched on the tip of his tongue. They should stop. Or at least pack it all up and scramble upstairs, to Geralt’s room. Jaskier would even make his peace with a room with a door. “Geralt—”

The Witcher hums. “They already know we’re together,” he rumbles. Geralt’s hips continue to roll up and against Jaskier’s. “And these walls have seen far too much over the years.”

He can only imagine. Some sour part of his mind wonders who else Geralt has brought up here. The gentler, calmer, more reassuring side whispers that from the surprised looks on Geralt’s brothers when they finally saw Jaskier, he must be the only person Geralt has ever brought up here.

He can feel himself starting to fill. His core tightens and curls and Geralt’s touch scalds his skin. Fine then, Jaskier huffs to himself. He isn’t shy. He doesn’t have that reputation at all.

He leans back, bringing his gaze back on to his Witcher’s familiar golden eyes. Jaskier frames his face and brings him back into a deep kiss. Geralt moans into it, and they rock together. Jaskier perched on top of him is one of his favourite sights. And Jaskier is quite fond of having his Witcher below him, in whatever capacity he can get him. Geralt is strong and can easily get out of any hold Jaskier tries to get on him; but knowing that he has a strong Witcher pliant and warm underneath him, it has his core tightening.

“Oh for fuck sake—”

A familiar voice lashes out through the baths. It echoes against the stone. Coldness washes over him as Jaskier lurches back from Geralt, not knowing whether to jump back into the deeper parts of the bath – and possibly try and drown himself at the humility of it all – or burrow into Geralt’s chest and hope that the bigger built man will be able to shield him from view of whoever has stumbled upon them.

Jaskier does manage to sneak a peek over Geralt’s shoulder, and his stomach sours at the sight of Lambert. Of all people—

Geralt’s growl clambers up his throat. “I held my tongue when you brought that Cat up here,” he rumbles over his shoulder, sending Lambert the most harrowing of glares. “And you two were everywhere.”

Lambert sets his jaw. An argument sits perched on the tip of his tongue for a moment before it’s swallowed. Clutching his spare change of clothes and his own vials of soaps to his chest, he storms out, grumbling something or other under his breath.

A deafening silence laps over them both. Jaskier blinks, trying to comprehend the maelstrom of events that just happened. Geralt turns back around, setting his back against the rim of the bath. They regard each other for a moment, before a laugh shakes up Jaskier’s throat.

He likes Geralt’s laugh. He didn’t hear it that often in the first few months of them knowing each other. The most he was ever gifted were quiet huffs at the end of stories – and Jaskier took them, because that’s all he was ever going to get. Maybe the sacrifice for Witcher abilities is a sense of humour, he thought one night. But when the Witcher became more pliant and soft in his hands, more sounds were lured out of him. He remembers the first time he heard Geralt laugh; and he hasn’t stopped luring them out of him ever since.

Jaskier curls into him and Geralt holds him close as they laugh until tears sting Jaskier’s eyes. An I Told You So perches on the tip of his tongue but doesn’t take flight. Once their giggles start to wisp away, and the silence laps back over them again, Jaskier pulls away just enough to look down at his Witcher’s face. His eyes are soft and a smile curls along his lips. Jaskier brushes the back of his finger over the man’s cheek. He likes this Geralt. Winter Geralt is fast becoming his favourite. He wonders vaguely about what will happen to the poor sod once they step back out on to the path for the year; will he disappear completely or will he only be seen in quieter moments, when Jaskier has Geralt to himself in tavern bedrooms and campfires out in the wilds?

He isn’t sure. But he’s excited to find out. Until then, Jaskier leans down and lures his Witcher into another languid kiss.

[curiosity-killed]

a bow for the bad decisions

canon-divergent AU from ep. 24 (on ao3)

part 1 | part 2 |  part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11 | part 12 | part 13 | part 14 | part 15 | part 16 | part 17 | part 18

The office still looks the same. In the space between blinks or in looking up from the desk, he keeps expecting to see Uncle Jiang behind the desk instead of Jiang Cheng. The dissonance leaves him a little unsteady, like he has to blink away the afterimage to see the present. He doesn’t mention it. No sense troubling shijie and Jiang Cheng with it. It’s not the only ghost lingering in his periphery anyway. “Yu Bujue can take over the upper level cultivation lessons,” Jiang Cheng says, “and Cao Xingtao is strong enough to take over the sword lessons.” He hates this, this calm delineation of his own weaknesses. These have been his duties since he was fifteen, since he passed half their own teachers and stepped fully into his role as Head Disciple. He’s supposed to be the one training their disciples, running them through their paces and building them back up stronger. He hunches a little into his shoulders, fiddling with Chenqing’s tassel. He doesn’t have room to object, he knows. He’s the one who told them how useless he was. They’re only doing what’s right, taking care of Yunmeng Jiang.

“Rumors are going to start if your da-shixiong is passing off all his work,” he points out.

This is why it would be easier if he just left. If he passed out of Lotus Pier in the night, he could just disappear into the shadows, let the resentment dissolve him into ash. Everyone the world around knows how inconsistent and capricious he is now. Sure, there’d be plenty to say about his own character, but at least it wouldn’t come back on Lotus Pier. At least they wouldn’t have to deal with his own shortcomings. “You said you had some ideas about defensive arrays,” Jiang Cheng says. “Defense is a higher priority than teaching a couple lessons.” Wei Wuxian stills, studying his brother. He can’t seriously be suggesting Wei Wuxian use demonic cultivation here in his own home. It was one thing during the war; Jiang Cheng has always been pragmatic, strategic in his own way. They were fighting a war and Wei Wuxian was a weapon, no matter how unsightly or unorthodox. No one looked too hard at the blood on a blade as long as it was pointed in the right direction. “You’d have demonic cultivation in Lotus Pier?” he asks carefully. Jiang Cheng catches his eye and shrugs, uncomfortable, as he looks away. “The old defenses weren’t strong enough. I promised I’d never let anyone take Lotus Pier again. So,” he says. He clears his throat. “Anyway, if our Head Disciple is the grandmaster of a whole cultivation path, it’d be dumb not to use it.” Something warm and unfamiliar uncurls in Wei Wuxian’s chest, more comforting than any embrace. He swallows and gives a short nod instead of saying any of the ridiculous things that press against the back of his throat. “Don’t do any dumb shit, I mean,” Jiang Cheng adds brusquely, “and tell me what you’re doing so it doesn’t backfire and kick your ass.” He laughs, and shakes his head. He’s had his ass thoroughly kicked by resentful energy, and he knows it would flatten Jiang Cheng if it wanted to. Still, he’s — touched by the trust. “Alright,” he agrees. “You could also teach some of the classes that don’t require as much spiritual energy,” shijie says. “The early classes on meditation and the talisman courses. It might help with rumors, and it could help stabilize your qi as well.” She sits primly on the third side of the desk, hands folded neatly in her lap and expression solemn. He forgets, some times, that she was there for all the war too. It’s easy to do when the marks of violence are so much starker on Jiang Cheng and the rest of them. He’s grown used to seeing his brother steeped in blood, grown familiar with the cold flat look in his eyes when he kills someone. Shijie isn’t half so obvious. She still smiles for them, still mothers them with that soft love she’s wielded for nearly as long as he remembers. Her scars are subtler, tucked in the tight frown she wears now as she contemplates their next steps and the quiet tears he’s caught her shedding a few times when she doesn’t realize he’s passing by. He and Jiang Cheng were out killing men on the frontline, but she followed in their aftermath, trying to hold together the wounded and dying. He wrinkles his nose, releasing Chenqing. Across the desk, Jiang Cheng’s expression is equally doubtful. “Meditation?” he says. “Shijie, I got kicked out of our meditation classes more than anyone in the history of Yunmeng Jiang.” A smile quirks at the corners of her lips, but the look she turns to him isn’t the fond exasperation he expects. There’s something knowing, something tinged with sadness, instead. “You meditated during the war,” she points out gently. This time, he’s the one to look away. He’s been trying to keep everything tucked away since he came back. It’s one thing for them to know he doesn’t have a golden core anymore, but he will not tell them about the Burial Mounds, about the resentful energy still spooled in the marrow of his bones. It lies quiescent and idle as long as his own emotions aren’t drawing on it, and he can stop that either through white-knuckled control or through the hazy buffer of liquor. He couldn’t afford to loosen his grip during the war, so he’d meditated to fine tune and strengthen his grip. Now, though — now he doesn’t want to have control over it. He doesn’t want to have to spend his every hour painfully conscious of the resentment that moves through him, alive and vicious and waiting. “Alright,” he agrees reluctantly. “Fine.” There’s a small quiet after his concession before shijie reaches out and gives his wrist a squeeze. He glances up to see her offering him a softer smile, reassurance. Releasing his wrist, she turns back to the papers laid out on Jiang Cheng’s desk. “Outside of Lotus Pier, there are still challenges from the other sects,” she points out. “Jin Guangshan’s frothing at the mouth to get that amulet,” Jiang Cheng agrees. Immediately, Wei Wuxian’s hackles rise, hand tightening around Chenqing’s neck. “He can’t have it,” he says flatly. “I’ll destroy it before he can touch it.” He doesn’t know how to explain the amulet to them. It and Chenqing were made of the yin iron sword just the same, but they’re wholly different beasts. Chenqing is his. She hums under his skin, a needling purr, hungry and ready at his call. The amulet is…different. Other. It’s more the sword than anything else and it still retains that presence. He can wield it, use it, but it’s borrowed power. It remembers what it was like to unmake him, and its teeth trace lovingly against the tender skin of his neck. It remembers their promise, their bargain. It waits. “Of course,” Jiang Cheng says, waving off his answer like it was obvious from the start. “But the fact remains the Jin Sect came out of the war nearly unscathed. They’re strong enough to take us down with one hand behind their back. And it’s not like you made a lot of friends in the war who’ll stand up to stop them.” Wei Wuxian purses his lips, annoyed that Jiang Cheng isn’t wrong. “We need alliances,” shijie says. Jiang Cheng sighs, presses a thumb into the ridge of his eye socket like he’s warding off a headache. Wei Wuxian sympathizes. He’d rather fight another legion of cultivators than wade through the tangled net of politics. “Lanling Jin’s already wrapped everything so well around them with Gusu Lan and Qinghe Nie,” Jiang Cheng says. “We should’ve petitioned for Wei Wuxian to be granted sworn brotherhood, too, I guess.” “Me?” Wei Wuxian asks, startled. “But you’re the sect leader, it would’ve made more sense for you.” The look Jiang Cheng shoots him is scathing. “Who took Nightless City?” he snaps back. “We weren’t winning the war till you came. Three months of skirmishes didn’t give us much in the way of victory.” He subsides at that, feeling strangely chastised by the praise. Shijie frowns, her lips pressing together in thought. “It won’t hold the political strength of a sworn allegiance,” she says, “but you were both close with Nie Huaisang before the war. Chifeng-zun has always cared deeply for him. Perhaps you could rekindle that friendship. He could visit Lotus Pier for a time.” Sourness rolls unsteady deep in stomach at the mention of Huaisang. The three of them spent childhood summers together, towed back and forth between Qinghe and Yunmeng depending on the year. He remembers dunking Jiang Cheng under the lake water and Huaisang squealing when they teamed up to drag him into the water. He remembers laying on his belly, feet waving in the air, beside Huaisang as they painted mountains and clouds and each other. He can’t remember the last time he lifted a brush to paint anything but talismans, to create anything but ruin. The last time he saw Huaisang, he’d flinched away, shuddered up a fearful barrier between him and his old childhood friend. Guilt is an uneasy squeeze under his ribs. “And a-Xian,” shijie says, turning to him, “you should talk to Lan Wangji.” He balks, recoiling. “Lan Zhan?” he demands. “What— why?” He hasn’t spoken to Lan Zhan since the war, since the fall of Nightless City. There’s no point to it anymore, he thinks and stubbornly ignores the way his heart twists. Shijie looks at him with endless patience. “I thought you two were close friends and confidants,” she says and doesn’t give him a chance to protest. “He was dedicated in helping you during the war.” “To exorcise the evil out me,” he scoffs, looking away. “So I should tell him everything so that the great Hanguang-jun can come save this feeble man from my own wickedness?” Bitterness scrapes across his tongue, sour speckling his throat. He once thought Lan Zhan was his equal, his match. Now, he thinks of his scowl, his voice coming hard and reproachful and all the times he said that he was committing evil, practicing wicked tricks that would leave him burnt and ruined.    Telling him he has no core, that he is broken in a way no song of healing or clarity can remedy— No. Wei Wuxian knows he wouldn’t be able to stop there. If he let Lan Zhan close enough to tell him that, it would all spill out of him, all this bad blood clotted up in his heart. He would drain himself dry, and there would be nothing left when Lan Zhan inevitably recoiled, horrified and disgusted, and turned his back. He won’t do it. He can’t. He’s too selfish. He can’t have Lan Zhan’s friendship the way he once did, but he’s not strong enough to end it for Lan Zhan, to provide him this easy justification for walking away. He can’t bear to see those dark eyes wide with pity, not for him. He’d rather be hated than pitied. Rather bite back than open up his tender underbelly.

[antichristsxbox]

Knight in Shining Armor - Part Three

Read part one here!

Read part two here!

Summary: You and Michael begin to plan your wedding but encounter some trouble. Also, warning, this is a little smutty! :)

From the writer: Hey guys! This is my favorite chapter of this fic I’ve posted so far. Please excuse any typos, I proofread it a few times but there’s so much to proofread as this chapter is fairly long; I think I got carried away. Huge shoutout to @jocelynscloset​ for proofreading this for me as well! All likes and reblogs are appreciated + if you liked this fic, feel free to check out my masterlist! :) Update— here’s part one, here’s part two, and here’s part four + here’s my masterlist with more fics!

Word count: 2,329

Darkness looming out your window with a faint orange glow in the background. Grey clouds gather in the sky and high branches on dark trees release dead leaves, blowing across your viewpoint in the dry, warm wind. Hot, but not humid, Stagnant, but not predictable. Every day similar, but not precisely the same as the last. Rising up from your soft pillowcase, silky sheets run past your fingers as you lift them from your body and stand up. Today was the day to start planning the wedding, and you were fairly excited to begin this journey with Michael. More importantly, you were excited for your new life ahead with your soon-to-be husband. 

Quickly dressing in a simple black gown and cast-iron tiara, you make your way to the dining room for breakfast. Always punctual, Michael is sitting at the opposite end of the table. Previously focused on what he was reading, his head perks up and his curls oscillate near his face when he hears the door open. Standing to greet you, he gives you a small hug and kiss on the cheek, then makes his way back to his side of the table. In the middle of the elongated table, there’s fresh fruit, fluffy biscuits, oatmeal, sausage, eggs, yogurt, many different kinds of muffins, and a few more indiscernible items— all at your disposal. You begin to think this enormous spread is excessive for every meal, but who else would eat this food from Hell anyways? Certainly not the already-dead (or undead?) residents. 

���I was just looking over the invitations for our wedding, Dear,” he says, looking up from the cards in his hands. Invitations, you think. This must mean this is going to be a long, drawn-out process. You can’t complain about him wanting to get this right, but at the same time, you are growing more impatient. You were plucked from the relative safety of your tower, dragged to Hell, and now stuck here to wait for a wedding. But, you must remind yourself to respect his wishes and go with the flow of his elaborate wedding plan— it would be the least you could do to thank him for rescuing you. 

“I am certain they look wonderful,” you affirm, sitting down and pouring a cup of coffee. You reach for a blueberry muffin and set it down on your place.

“More importantly, you should choose a dress— we can decorate to revolve around your choice,” he says, looking up and giving a bright, excited smile. You give a small smile back before your attention trails back to your muffin as you slowly peel the paper back, letting it fan out little ridge after little ridge.

“Of course, I’ll choose a dress today,” you say, still looking down at your muffin, now picking at the loose crumbs. 

Realistically, Michael says they could pull off the wedding Saturday or Sunday. Having lost track of time, you learn it is now Monday, looking at the calendar Michael sends to your side of the table via telekinesis. For the remainder of breakfast, you sit and make small talk with Michael. Further planning of the wedding cannot be done without a central theme or color to follow. For the Antichrist, Michael seems pretty sociable and knows how to hold a conversation well. He knows of many things Above that would keep you entertained— sports, politics, and the latest fashion trends in the major cities. Perhaps a dress modeled with a wide skirt and big sleeves, such as what’s popular in London, he insists. Or, taking inspiration from the wide skirts, elaborate lace details, and parasols from Charleston, similar to the styles you grew up with, he says. Perhaps Hell could put together a lacrosse team, as you’ve expressed your enjoyment of the sport to Michael before. Many great athletes are sitting down here doing absolutely nothing. There would be no task too great for Michael to attempt in effort to make you happy. You try to convince him that any dress in your closet would do, yet you have had a traditional, white dress in mind. Asking about further details, you said you would let him handle the specifics and other decorations, as he clearly has good taste— this castle is beautifully decorated and perfect for a wedding, you assure him. The castle would be perfect even with no special preparations, you guarantee. 

Eventually, you excuse yourself from the table so you could go back to your room. As you open the door, an almost sickeningly-sweet smell surrounds you and wafts itself near your face with every step you take— similar to how when too much vanilla extract is added to baked goods, the taste becomes bitter rather than sweet. As you search for the offending foodstuffs, a note is laid flat on your bedside table along with five slices of cake, each a different flavor with a different icing. The note is from Michael reading that you should try these, then let him know which you would like at the wedding reception. Simple enough, you think. Going in line from chocolate, to vanilla, to lemon, to carrot, to red velvet. All are delicious, but red velvet has always been your favorite flavor. You must have experienced a small sugar high from tasting those cakes, because now you’re bone-tired and ready for a nap, despite it being only a little past eleven. Seeing as the details for the wedding have been mostly sorted out at this point, you feel no remorse sinking back into your silky sheets and velvety pillows. 

Waking from your nap, you check the clock to see how much time has passed— it’s only noon, almost time for lunch. Stepping off your bed, you walk towards your mirror and reach for your hairbrush. To your surprise, your once (y/e/c) eyes are now a pale silvery-white color. Perhaps Hell is taking more of a toll on you than you thought. Running the brush through your soft hair, you begin to let your thoughts wander about Michael. How could he deny you in your advances to be intimate? After the wedding, it would happen eventually anyway, so what does it matter? You’re on edge, pent-up, and in need of gratification that only another could provide. Sitting around and playing with yourself has become a daily ritual at this point, but more importantly, it’s boring. There’s only one option left for you to have your much-needed alone time with Michael— seduction. 

One element of seduction is having a somewhat-unattainable nature. When leaving for breakfast, Michael asked if you would join him for lunch. You said yes, but decided to ditch last-minute. Why? Because that makes the next time you see him even more precious. You’re hard to get. Another key to seduction is looking appealing for the one you’re trying to seduce. You begin to brush your hair up and pin it in a loose bun then pull a few of the shorter, loose pieces out to frame your face. Scouring the seemingly endless supply of makeup on your vanity, you find a faint red lip gloss. Having big, glossy lips appealing for most men, you think. Sure— they’re kissable, but they’re also useful for other bedroom activities as well. Picking up a small mascara wand, you open the compact that holds the dark powder and add a drop of water. Mascara helps make your lashes darker and eyes appear more open and awake. Some more face powder is applied to even out your skin, then blush is used to make you seem flustered and ready for Michael.

Time passes slowly when you’re anticipating something, but you manage the rest of the day by reading as well as relieving yourself of your pent-up desire. Many times, you thought of Michael as your hands traveled down to your warm heat. Fingers dipping in and curling up inside, hitting your innermost walls. Your muscles would clench around your fingers, wetness turning into sopping mess. As you became more relaxed each time, you were able to fit two, then three inside. A fourth was attempted and achieved, but the pinky doesn’t do much for you, being so small— you’re able to go harder with only three anyways.

Eventually, it was five o’clock. Michael normally returns to his room between five-fifteen and five-thirty to begin getting ready for dinner at six. Your hands make their way to your back, and you untie the corset you were wearing. Next, the slip you were wearing under your dress goes. In your armoire, you find a red, silky robe with a matching tie. This will do, and it’ll be very easy to take off. 

Peeking out the door to the hallway, you scan the area to make sure nobody is out there. It would be embarrassing to be caught in only a robe by anybody other than Michael. After realizing the coast is clear, you run towards his bedroom and open his door. Quickly shutting it behind you, you walk towards the bed and let your robe drop to the floor. Climbing on his bed, his sheets feel just as soft as yours. A slippery sensation occurs when your freshly-shaved legs glide across the bedding as you spread your legs. Your hand travels down once again and begins rubbing circles on your clit. As your wetness grows, two fingers circle around your entrance until they can be submerged. Small moans escape your mouth when you push your fingers up, hitting a sensitive spot inside. 

Clunk! you hear as the heavy door is pushed. A slightly louder moan ensues, realizing that it is likely Michael at the door. Immediately after the door opens, a loud boom! ensues as Michael quickly closes the door. Slowly, a creaking noise reveals the door just slightly ajar, and you can make out Michael’s voice clearly when he speaks. 

“Darling, I believe you’re in the wrong room.”

Your feet hit the cold floor as you stand up from the bed and walk towards the door. Loose tendrils of hair bounce next to your face, glossy lips are reflective in the candlelight, breasts bounce slightly as you walk. You open the door, grab Michael by the tie and yank him towards you, then shut the door behind the two of you. He would have resisted, but he is so surprised that you would have the audacity to do something like this, it’s stunning. 

“I’m right where I need to be,” you say, taking your hand and resting it on the side of his face before leaning in for a kiss. He abruptly pulls away before you get the chance to make contact. Michael turns to the coat rack in his room and throws you the first thing he could grab. Begrudgingly, you wrap yourself in his long coat then step towards him again. 

Once he turns to face you again, you step closer and hook a leg around his waist, pressing into him as close as possible. A moan slips past your lips as your cunt makes contact with his pants, but your pleasure is cut short as he gently shoves you away and steps back. He is now visibly upset, looking down towards the floor, sighing, then biting his lower lip. 

“I cannot describe how this makes me feel, even after I explained why I was doing what I’m doing,” he says, stepping closer again— Michael is attempting to seem stout and serious. You look up to meet his captivating blue gaze. His lips are pressed together in a firm line. As you make eye contact for a few more seconds, Michael’s brows begin to furrow in confusion rather than anger.

“Step into the light, Dear,” he says, moving towards a table with a tall candlestick. Your eyes are pale, demonic, and possessed. This is not you. 

“Also, the red velvet wins,” you say nonchalantly, crossing your arms over your chest.

“What?” he questions with an even more confused tone than look on his face.

“That cake you left me? To try for the wedding?” you say, a slightly annoyed tone in your voice. 

This is a big ‘aha’ moment for Michael. The imaginary lightbulb has now been lit above his head. 

“Go to your room, please. Do not eat any more of that cake. I will be there soon.” 

Michael then goes to the foot of your bed and collects your robe for you, turns his back as you dress, and sends you off out to the hallway— after checking if anybody else was there, of course. Once you’ve left, Michael looks for his knife with the silver hilt and rubies on the end as well as on the sheath. It’s time for a nice, long father-and-son conversation. 

“Ave Satanas,” Michael says softy, allowing his blade to pierce the skin on his wrist as he drags it up the length of his arm. He repeats this with his other arm, and blood begins to fall from his body to the floor, joining the bloody pentagram he is kneeling above. He closes his eyes focuses on summoning his father, in need of an explanation and guidance as to what is happening. 

“Son,” a raspy, ominous voice says from nowhere, the voice just as prominent in every corner of the room— coming from an all-encompassing, all-powerful force. 

“Father, please, what have you done to my bride? How can I fix it?” Michael pleads, voice breaking mid-question. 

“You must give yourself a chance at producing an heir. Give her what she desires from you and she will return to her original state.” 

Satan’s words lingered in Michael’s head; this is a sad predicament to be in. An emotionless, sex-hungry woman fiending after a well-protected integrity. Determined to keep his original promises to himself, Michael knows what he must do. Standing to clean the blood from his arms and body, he checks the time to see if the officiant has gone to bed yet.

///

Tag list: @langdonsoceaneyes​​ @ms-mead​​ @daydreamingofcody​​ @psychobitchtess​​ @swampwitchh13​​ @ahstmblrupdates​​ @forgivemelucifer​​ @wroteclassicaly​

[halfblood-fiend]

Fictober 2019 - Day 2

Prompt 2 : "Follow me, I know the area."

Original Fiction

Words : 906

Warnings : death mention, the character Sparrow in her original iteration belongs to @vaffaznculocolmpadrter

"Follow me, I know the area." Modern!AU Trey x monster!AU Sparrow

There was no helping it now, Trey realized with a pang.

They were, beyond a doubt, hopelessly lost, and far too hopelessly late.

Trey shook his head and slid from Sparrow’s back as he took in their surroundings.

The clearing held nothing but broken and twisted trees, blackened branches sticking out at odd angles, like the sooty fingers of grasping, dying men. Gone were all the bushes, the ferns, all traces of lush life that had thrived in the forest where The Embeast had made her home. Nothing stirred and disturbed the graveyard in this clearing nor any beyond. Thick, choking ash coated everything in sight. Anything in sight for miles was touched by shades of grey. A grim, black and white landscape of devastation. A ghost of the life before.

And hanging in the air, mingling with the lingering acrid smoke, was something that made the hairs on the back of Trey’s neck rise. Beneath the quiet horror was the darkness of intent.

Someone had to know... Someone had to stop...

Sparrow lowered her monstrous head to the ground and began pacing the clearing. Without her passenger atop her back, the raging plumes of fire sprung to life over her spine and curled around her neck like a mane. Her long-taloned feet raked at the ash and she pressed her skeletal snout to the base of a tree. So began Sparrow’s slow sniffling circle of the clearing, the ash curling beneath each crush of her paw.

Trey watched her quietly for a few moments, feeling the gnawing in his chest as surely as it was in hers. If anyone could find their way home, it was Sparrow. But in the meantime...

He reached into his shoulder bag and gingerly pulled out his camera from the inside pockets. With the practiced efficiency of habit, he fitted a wide camera lens and checked his batteries and fixed his settings. Then he knelt in the ash, held the viewer to his eye, and started doing what he did best: snapping pictures.

If he could bring them back—if he ever got back—if he could just make the rest of the world see...

Sparrow paused with one talon raised and peered at him from smoking black eyesockets. There was a smear of ash on the tip of her nose.

Trey smiled to himself and took her picture.

You aren’t even getting my good side, Sparrow protested in her booming voice that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere.

Checking his display, Trey answered, “All sides are good sides on you.”

Sparrow growled and shook herself so that the unsettling sound of rattling bones filled the empty clearing.

Trey glanced up at her, a smirk on his lips, and winked.

She turned away in a huff and pawed at the ground as Trey resumed taking pictures. This time, he was sure to include the lovely forest guardian when she resumed her rounds.

After a few moments, she spoke. We don’t have much further, whenever you’re done being annoying.  She stalked back to Trey’s side and dropped heavily behind him. A large cloud of ash burst into the air. His back grew hot as Sparrow curled around him, and he felt the heaviness of her great skeletal head in his lap.

He glanced away from the viewer. “We aren’t lost?”

Sparrow snorted and a stream of smoke shot from empty blackness where a wolf’s nose should have been.  Don’t make me laugh. This is my home no matter who tries to burn me out of it. Just follow me, tiny one. I know the area well.

She moved to rise, the fire already leaping to life along her ridges when Trey’s hand shot out and caught the cheek of her massive head in his palm. He turned her to look at him. That heaviness of understanding that had nagged him before suddenly blossomed like an ugly flower in his chest, taking up all the space. He couldn’t breathe.

“You should think about lying low,” he said quietly. “Whoever did this... they’re trying to expose you. You know that, right? There’s nowhere to hide if your forest is burned. I just...”

Sparrow leaned down and gently bumped her face against Trey’s. He stowed his camera away with one hand before he reached up and wrapped both arms around her great neck. He rubbed his face into he space there, the strange shifting shadows and curling smoke that made up her body. It shouldn’t have felt so solid, but here she was, real in his hands.

Real, and so very in danger.

Trey pressed his lips to the space and watched it light up with glowing swirling embers. Sparrow’s head was heavy on his back as she pulled him closer.

You think I haven’t been hunted before? Men have tried for thousands of years to catch The Embeast and many more will in the future. None have succeeded, and none shall. As for the forest, there is life and there is death. It is an endless cycle. Sometimes the death comes too soon. This is also part of the cycle. A heartbeat. But I appreciate your concern.

Trey hoped that she was right. He hoped he was wrong. But he still couldn’t help remembering the strange men that had arrived in Orbey a day after he had. Something about their long glinting rifles and twisted faces stayed with him. Unsettling, and nauseating.

[radiojamming]

hungry-hobbits

tom hartnell and his dad crozier hang out

@hungry-hobbits YES VERY YES

tom, pointing at francis: is this a father figure?

(or; francis crozier and his newly-adopted son have a heart-to-heart on the gunwale)

- - -

It’s one of the few fine nights they’ve had. That is to say, there’s no frozen fog or heavy snow riding on merciless winds. Visibility is clear for miles in every direction, and even the clouds seem to have bowed away for a time, allowing for an indescribable view of the heavens and the moon. For a late winter evening in the Arctic, it’s not the worst they’ve had, and Francis intends to make the most of it. Besides, time away from his cabin will do him good.

He leaves Jopson to a moment of well-deserved rest (”Oh, oh, thank you, sir,” Jopson says, trying to sound less weary than he is, and he hardly offers another word of protest before making for the tables like a man possessed) and takes to the upper deck. Unlike his time in the Antarctic, being locked in the ice does not mean they discard the watches--the beast has seen to that. Under the canvas and in the thin shafts of lamplight, Francis sees the shapes of men in the form of shapeless lumps of wool, marked only by the crests of their hands or the frosted barrels of their guns.

A few greet him with a surprised but respectful, “Evening, Captain Crozier!” Samuel Crispe almost runs into him but literally stops on heel with a gasp. He makes his way through about five apologies before Francis eases him and pats him on the shoulder, telling him that he’s doing well. Crispe gives him a sharp salute, grins, and then makes his way back under the canvas.

Aside from these greetings, there’s not much activity on the upper deck of the Terror. Two men near the foremast are talking about summer in Hyde Park. William Sinclair hums to himself and punctuates his song with little skips in the march of his patrol. And Tom Hartnell--

Well, he can’t be blamed for nearly jumping out of his skin when Francis approaches his post near the mizzen. The boy is nervous on a good day, and after all of that reprehensible business with Mister Hickey and Mister Manson, he’s acted as a dog shying from a particularly violent master. Not that he’s done anything terrible since. Quite the contrary, according to hearsay; he’s been good as gold. 

He fumbles to switch his gun to his left hand, giving Francis a shaky salute. “My apologies, Captain. I had no idea--”

Francis waves him off with a smile. “At ease, Mister Hartnell. I come unannounced.”

He watches Hartnell’s shoulders relax, but only just. Again, the boy could be forgiven for thinking that Francis comes with dual purpose. To further ease him, Francis walks towards the gunwale, looking out at the endless fields of ice, shattering now to form crooked pyramids like a sea of ancient ruins. The half moon peers down with indifference, but provides enough light to make out the strange shapes that the Arctic freely provides. Out of habit, even at this wistful point in the winter, Francis’ eyes look for telltale marks of leads. Of course, he finds none.

“You boys came from Chatham, correct?” he asks over his shoulder.

A pause. “Yes, sir,” Hartnell says, his voice much softer now.

Francis nods and turns his gaze back out towards the pack. “I’ve had plenty of occasion to be in that area. The Dockyards, and all. Did your father ever take you fishing upriver?”

He can’t mistake the soft draw of breath, and knows his mistake before Hartnell speaks.

“No, sir,” he replies. “He died when I was ten years old, and worked for most of the time I remember him.”

That seems to be the story of most of the Terror’s crew; broken, half-dead families and bruising heartache. In Hartnell’s case, he’s lost more even in the time they’ve been away. 

“My apologies,” Francis says, and means it wholeheartedly. He turns away from the gunwale, resting his back against it. Hartnell, apparently detecting that Francis means to speak with him for more than a cursory minute, has made his post at the base of the mizzenmast, cradling his rifle in the crook of his left elbow. In the pale moonlight, he looks like some sorry spirit from a story, cast from the sea to warn for dangers ahead. It’s what struck Francis about him, the way he carries his sadness even in times of levity. 

And it strikes him even more now, as Hartnell eases out of the stiff posturing of a man meeting his captain, and into his usual structure like a bent church steeple. There’s a fanciful part of Francis that considers him in the amused, poetic way that Fitzjames might; Hartnell acts as if he’s at a moment’s notice of offering the entire world an apology.

At first, Hartnell makes no immediate sign that he’s accepted what Francis has said. Then, at last, he bobs his head a bit and turns his gaze downward. Francis doesn’t miss the way he bites down on his bottom lip. Then, quietly, “It was a long while ago. You’ve nothing to apologise for.” He shakes his head, and offers something of a shy, watery smile. “My brother, however, did take me fishing.”

Francis returns the smile. It marks something--progress, perhaps--that the late elder Hartnell is invoked at all. “Did he now?”

“Aye, sir. We were both awful at it. Half the time we would end up in the water rather than out of it.” He gives Francis a look that can only best be described as conspiratorial. “I’d take lashes over how our mother would scold us for coming home soaked.”

That draws to mind some charming tableau of two knock-kneed little boys trying their best to avoid their mother’s wrath. He can almost see it, their soft giggling as they dare each other to hurry upstairs before she could catch them, and their twin looks of horror once they hear her voice. It warms him far more than the sputtering lanterns on the hooks around them now.

“He was a good man, I’m sure,” Francis says. He means this, even though he saw the elder Hartnell in brief glimpses in his life, and for the longest while during his funeral. His brother’s portrayal is by far more pleasant.

Hartnell nods, and even though he wears the same sadness, it seems to be cut of a lighter cloth now. Then, hesitation sparks across his face like it’s been struck from flint. Francis recognises it as a statement or question that fights to be asked, but is only kept in place with something like propriety or deference to authority. Aside from dour situations and unruly sailors, Francis has never enjoyed that look on his men. Hartnell may be an Erebus transplant, but Francis has resolutely counted him among his ranks regardless.

“You have leave to speak, Mister Hartnell. The only things that will hear you are myself and the ice, and the ice is not a keen listener at all.”

Hartnell nods, and perhaps tries to smile for Francis’ benefit (an amusing conversation partner he is not, and Hartnell doesn’t have to pretend). “Sir, I... I feel as if I haven’t properly apologised for my... for my actions with Mister Manson and Mister Hickey. I--”

Francis cuts him off. “No need, Mister Hartnell. A lash is a strong apology in itself.”

“There is a need,” Hartnell persists. He looks stricken now, and Francis knows with a sort of sense (parental, perhaps, in a way that comes only with his men) that this thought has been weighing on him. “What I did was reprehensible, and that I acted without consulting my captain is...” He pauses, thoughtful. Then, “I wouldn’t have forgiven myself, sir.”

The fact that Hartnell seems to believe that being coerced into Hickey’s company and machinations is on par with mutiny is striking to Francis. And although he holds all his men in similar esteem, Francis also knows that the weight of grief is not one easily alleviated, let alone one that causes men to make sound decisions. If anything, Hartnell was the one that Francis was most inclined to forgive for such an action. The fact that he felt no need to tell Hartnell that he expected better of him (the look on his face had been enough to tell him that the words needn’t be said) spoke of that esteem. 

Francis furrows his brow. “Is there any reason you feel a need to say so?”

Hartnell swallows hard, and then nods. “John would have had a fit if he knew what I had done,” he says quietly. “When he was... When he--”

When he was dying, Francis fills in, watching the strange contortions that the thought makes on Hartnell’s face. “Towards the end,” Francis provides.

Hartnell lets out a breath, and seems grateful. “Towards the end,” he repeats. “When he could barely speak, I told him that he didn’t have to worry. I’d do him proud, I said. And he... Well, he seemed to understand that. Smiled at me, even, like he believed me.”

Guilt, then. That’s been the weight on him. Lord, does Francis know every pound of that same weight to a degree that he’s ashamed of.

Hartnell presses on, blinking hard in the moonlight. “After all of that business with Mister Hickey, I had this awful dream that John stood beside me during the lashing, and he was furious. He didn’t say a word. It was the most miserable dream I’ve ever had, sir. I woke feeling like I had let him down.”

It explains nearly everything: Hartnell’s flawless behavior since the incident, the way he pointedly avoids both Francis and Hickey in equal measure, the way he stoops like a penitent, and, if Francis means to get poetic, the way he frequently turns his eyes north like Beechey Island is just over a ridge--where the source of his guilt is quietly ensconced in ice and gravel. 

Francis concedes this. God above, does he understand. His own heart weighs him down like a stone about his ankle, frequently causing him to spill into maudlin moods. Again, Terror is nothing if not home to heartache and old wounds. It’s been something that Fitzjames and Sir John had prodded him for before, but the truth is as stark as the white stripe on the bow. Hartnell is, if anything, a darkly amusing testament to this. Faced with his own grief, he turned to Terror like he knew that its hold was the place to store his sorrows.

(“It may be disrespectful for me to say, Francis,” Blanky had told him, not so very long ago. “Has it ever struck you as coincidence that we were the first ship to lose a man? Serves our reputation right.”

Francis had only offered him a wan smile. “And Erebus still had to upstage us somehow by losing two.”

Now it seems a brittle thing to have joked about the second loss.)

It may be the state of the night, with all the cold clarity surrounding them, but Francis motions for Hartnell to join him on the gunwale. Hartnell does so, settling himself against it and turning his gaze to the mizzenmast. 

“If it means anything at all to you, Mister Hartnell, I’m proud of you,” Francis says. He’s not an expert on finding the right words for heartfelt speeches the way Fitzjames is or Sir John had been, but it feels like the correct thing to say. Hartnell has had no father to say those words to him, and has lost the only other man who may have done so. Far be it from Francis to try to take their place, but all the same.

Hartnell looks at him, eyes like clouded starlight. “Sir?”

“For your honesty, which is always commendable. Never once did you try to hide your involvement or lie on your own behalf. And for your resolution to do better once the punishment had been doled out.”

“Sir, I--”

Francis waves him off, and then redirects the movement to clap on Hartnell’s right shoulder. Hartnell looks at his shoulder like Francis has just pinned a medal to his overcoat. “I did not know your brother, and I’m sorry for that. However, I believe he would be proud as well, for those same qualities and for what you’ve accomplished in the time since.”

“Th-thank you, sir,” Hartnell replies. He ducks his head down, hiding his face from the moonlight. Lamplight, instead, makes a warm golden stripe on his face. Then, softer, he repeats, “Thank you.”

Francis lets his hand stay on Hartnell’s shoulder for a moment more. And in that moment, it feels like that’s the only weight on Hartnell at all. 

“I’d like to hear more of those stories of yours,” Francis tells him as he withdraws his hand. “Fishing or falling in the Medway, which ever you’d like to tell.”

“Of course, sir,” Hartnell says with a shy smile. “Which ever you’d like to hear.”

[chaostheoryy]

No Man Left Behind [Han X Reader]

Summary: When Han is shot down in a fight, Beckett orders you to leave him behind and head for safety with the rest of the crew. You, however, have other plans in mind.

Word Count: 1,865

Rating: General

Warnings: Canon-typical violence

A/N: Special thanks to the anon who sent in the request for this one! Ironically, it’s almost the opposite of “Out of Luck” which made this an absolute blast to write. Hope you all enjoy!

Things had gone south far quicker than any of you had imagined. You and the rest of Beckett’s crew were all in range of the rendezvous point with your respective loots when Enfys Nest and the Cloud Riders swooped in and blew your getaway ship to hell. The massive explosion vibrated through the trees, alerting the nearby trooper camp to your position.

“I hope you’ve got a backup plan,” Rio said as he stared at the inferno of his decimated craft.

“Yeah,” Beckett replied in irritation, “You find us a new ship and we get the hell out of here.”

“Great plan. Why didn’t I think of that?”

Rio bounded off into the underbrush of the forest and headed for the eastern landing pad just a few clicks out. Moments later blaster fire began pouring out from the trees as waves of stormtroopers arrived on speeder bikes. Beckett’s crew scattered, taking cover behind trees and boulders. Each member took out about half a dozen soldiers before the opposition began flooding forward so quickly there was no way to hold them off.

“Fall back to the mountain,” Beckett called out to you and the rest of his crew, “We ain’t gonna last very long against a whole damn army on even terrain!”

Following his orders, you turned and bolted for the high ground. It was a straight shot to the lowest ridge with very little cover which, unfortunately, meant the only strategy you had was speed and luck. Several laser blasts whizzed by you on both sides as you sprinted. Out of the corner of your eye you could see Han just a few meters away making the break for it as well.

Suddenly a blast struck him in the calf and knocked him off of his feet. Your heart froze in your chest, your lungs refusing to oxygenate your blood for the longest second as you stared in horror.

A laser blast singed the cuff of your jacket and snapped you right out of your daze. You ducked behind a tree stump.

“Beckett,” you shouted into your comm device, “Han is down!”

You could hear blasters firing off on the other end of the line. “Nothing we can do about it right now,” Beckett replied, “Get up to that ridge before they roll out the walkers!”

You frowned. Beckett was condemning one of his own to death. And that was something you simply could not stand.

“I’m going to get him.”

“What?” You could almost see Beckett’s dumbfounded expression. “Like hell you are!”

You spotted Beckett a few meters west, taking cover in the trees. He waved his hands in the air, ordering you to hold your position. But you didn’t listen. Instead, you bolted out from your cover and headed straight for Han.

“Oh for the love of-“ Beckett’s groan was cut short when you ripped the headpiece off and tossed it behind you.

You ran like hell, managing to avoid the seemingly endless wave of blaster fire. You tucked your knee beneath your other leg and slid into position beside Han. You immediately grabbed onto his jacket and heaved with all your strength, dragging him to temporary safety behind a jagged boulder. 

“(Y/N),” He muttered between raspy breaths, completely baffled to find you in front of him, “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” You pulled off your jacket and tore one of the sleeves from your shirt to use as a tourniquet. “I’m saving your skin,” you said as you began wrapping his leg.

Han hissed at the initial contact and grabbed your arm. “Stop.”

You shrugged him off. “Sit still would ya? I need to stop the bleeding or you’re not gonna get very far.”

“No. Stop.” He grabbed your wrist firmly and pulled you away from the injury.

You frowned at his stubbornness and turned to lecture him only to find the words catch in your throat. The normally bright and innocent look in Han’s eyes was gone, replaced by anguish and fear.

“Get out of here,” he begged quietly, squeezing your wrist in desperation, “Please.”

You gazed at him in disbelief. He wanted you to run, to leave him behind and let him die. He was valuing your life over his and completely disregarding any possibility of his own survival. Though he didn’t say it, he made it pretty damn clear what he meant — he cared about you more than he’d ever let on.

You shook your head. “No,” you replied, grasping tightly onto his hand, “I’m not gonna leave you behind, you hear me?”

A thermal detonator went off a few meters away. Han wrapped his arms around you and pulled you down to shield you from the rocky debris of the blast. It took a moment for the dust to clear then Han released you. You propped yourself back up.

“Look,” Han retorted, “I don’t wanna die. I really don’t. But the last thing I want is for you to-“

You firmly covered his mouth with your hand. “Y’know, you’re really starting to make me regret being the hero.” 

A laser blast struck the boulder and sent chunks of rock flying in every direction. You tore Han’s blaster from its holster and propped yourself up on the stone barrier. With a blaster in each hand, you unleashed a storm of fire. One, two, three, seven troopers fell from your barrage only to have just as many emerge from the trees and retaliate.

You were overwhelmingly outgunned but, as much as you were of that fact, you kept on fighting. You had to.

A single shot struck your shoulder, causing you to cry out and fall back. Han immediately caught you, pulling you back to safety behind the boulder. You groaned in pain as you pressed your hand to your wound.

“Dammit,” Han muttered as he helped put pressure on the injury, “I told you to get outta here.”

“And I told you it’s not happening.”

You reached out to grab your blaster again, but Han held you back. “That’s enough, (Y/N).”

You frowned. “Han, just let me-“

“Stop!” His shout caught you off guard and, judging by the look on his face, it surprised him too. “Just…stop, alright?”

He went silent for a moment, the immediate anger and urgency gradually fading away as he looked at you. You stared back and were surprised when his hands found their way to your face. With the gentlest of touch, he cupped them over your cheeks, fingertips ghosting over your skin as his eyes scanned yours.

“If you keep fighting like this,” he said in an almost whisper, “They will kill you. And I can’t…” He trailed off. You could see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed and caressed your cheek. “Having to let Qi’ra go was one of the hardest things in my life. But I won’t — I can’t — lose you.”

Your heart stilled in your chest at his words. He loved you. The words never came out of his mouth but you knew. You knew exactly why he couldn’t let you die on his behalf. He loved you just as he had Qi’ra.

You opened your mouth to respond and tell him how much he meant to you, but you were cut off by the muffled shout of a stormtrooper.

“You there,” he shouted, blaster pointed at you and Han, “Hands where we can see them!”

You and Han turned toward the trooper. Unable to lift your arm, you held your hands out in front of you. Another trooper emerged and circled around behind you, kicking your blasters out of reach.

“On your feet,” the first soldier ordered. With his injured leg still causing him a lot of pain, Hans struggled to rise. The second trooper jabbed him in the back with his blaster. “Move it!”

Han stumbled, crying out in agony when he was forced to put weight on the wound. You hurried to grab him despite your own injury, placing a hand on his chest to hold him up.  “You alright?”

He hooked his arm around your torso and used use a crutch. “Never better,” he said through his teeth.

Leaning against one another, you and Han prepared for your capture. No longer would you be able to find joy amongst the ragtag crew you had called family or marvel at the stars through the window of your own ship. Within the hour, the two of you would be split apart and interrogated by Imperial forces before being tossed in a windowless cell for the rest of your life. 

The pair of troopers led you back toward the underbrush, their boots clamoring heavily upon the rock. Every few steps, Han would stumble and hiss in pain only to have the barrel of an Imperial blaster jab him in the back once again.

A flash of light caught your attention and, when the troopers both looked skyward, you realized your mind hadn’t just made it up. Suddenly, massive laser blasts rained down from the sky, striking the troopers with the fury of hellfire. You and Han stumbled backward and gazed up to find an Imperial cargo ship descending from the clouds, its emergency ladder dropping down just over head.

“You idiots need a lift?”

Through the hatch above you could see Beckett smirking as Chewie made his way down to assist you and Han. 

You grinned. Time to go home.

Safely on board and en route to a nearby system where the crew could gather supplies, Val carefully tended to your shoulder.

“You got lucky,” she said as she worked to clean out the wound, “A few inches over and we’d be peeling your corpse off the rocks.”

“Boy, do you know how to light up a room,” you teased.

She pressed a little harder on the raw flesh in response to your comment. You hissed. She smirked. “Oops. Sorry.”

When you were all patched up and ready to move again, you made your way over to the bench where Han had fallen asleep. Unlike Val, Beckett hadn’t been so tender with his stitch-work. With all the “quit whining”s and slamming fists, it was no surprise Han knocked out immediately after getting his wound sealed.

You sat down by his head and watched as his chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. His breathing was soft, his body completely motionless as he dreamt in peace. You smiled. If anybody deserved some sleep, it was him.

You began combing your fingers through his hair. It was an impulse you couldn’t keep from acting on. You wanted to be there for him, comfort him in any way you could even if he wasn’t awake to realize it. You cared about him deeply and, after what had happened on the battlefield earlier, you knew very well that he cared about you too.

It didn’t take long for you to drift off as well. With your hand tangled in his hair and your head resting comfortably against the wall behind you, your eyes slowly drooped shut as sleep overcame your exhausted body.

The whole journey over, you dreamt of Han.

[sky-whale-creations]

Titan war journals: Zeus

There comes a time in every warrior’s life when they have to face an enemy they have no business fighting.

You’ll stare at your opponent the same way you do a mountain, trying, and failing, to size yourself up and make a comparison. You’ll be completely out of your depths. They’ll be bigger than you… and stronger… and faster… and more experienced… but you know what? All of those factors, all of those things that stand against you?

They don’t determine the outcome, just the odds.

What really matters is heart. The righteous fury you hold deep in your soul. It’s about that spark inside, that great big swirling storm you can call upon to pull you through.

At least, that’s what you have to try and tell yourself.

It’s a rainy day in early spring. The gray clouds are hanging lazily overhead as a light trickle becomes a steady downpour. The air is hot and still. Not a single breeze can be found.

The mountain valley was empty and quiet. A long figure, as tall as the mountain stood there like a statue, towering over their surroundings. Their skin was a gradient of black and white, stretching from pitch hands and feet to long gray limbs to their bare, pale chest. Their face, chiseled like a marble statue, hid their cold, empty hollow eyes. My heart began to race and my lungs refused to hold in air.

It has to be him, it has to be my father.

It has to be Kronos.

He’s exactly as terrifying as everyone makes him out to be. Everyone fears him and they are right to. He’s massive. His body is unnatural and his gaze is as intimidating as the endless wheel of time. I’ve only met him once, when I was very young. I saw my father from a distance. He was storming over the hills, shouting and demanding for mom to give me over to him. His eyes burned black and his voice boomed. He was a monster. No, not was. Is.

He is still a monster.

He devoured my siblings, swallowing them whole. He hurt my mother. He ruined my life and for that I have to make him pay. Even though he is big and tough and scary, I have to do it. It has to be. Not just for myself, but for everyone else. For mom, for my brothers and sisters I never even got to meet. Kronos took everything from me and it’s my time to take it back.

I’m going to kill him. I’m going to kill him and damn the consequences. The Titans had their reign. They had their day to lord over everything, but not anymore. Not today.

It all starts right here. It starts right now. Just me and him, no one else.

I’m going to make him pay.

I’m hiding behind a boulder, trying to make sure he can’t see me. I sink close to the ground and crawl through the tall grass, only stopping when the giant looked in my direction. The dirt and mud smeared across my arms, legs, and chest and by the time I finally made my way down the ridge and to the treeline, I was almost as dark as he is. Sticking close to the trees and moving only in short bursts, I pray he doesn’t find me before I get close.

I make it only halfway through the woods when I hear the sound. The sky roared with intensity, shattering the calm. The rain becomes even more intense, becoming deafening. With this cover, with the storm overhead, I have my chance. He won’t be able to find me.

The forest ends, leading to a large field of short grass. The downpour has made the earth soft and Kronos’s sentinel marching has stopped. He’s standing there in the center, unmoving. I know he hasn’t seen or heard me yet… but I can feel a weight on my shoulders. He hasn’t noticed me yet… and that was the key. His sense of yet is so much different than everyone else's. He might just be waiting for me at this point… but if I can rush him, if I can overwhelm him for just a moment, then I can win. I can free my siblings. We can stand a chance.

He might be a titan. He might be the lord of time. But he isn’t unbeatable. He isn’t unstoppable. He can fall. And I’m going to make him. Even if it’s the last thing I do. Even if it costs me my life, I’ll go out there and make a stand. My heart is pounding and I can’t feel my feet. It takes all my courage just to stand… and then I remember the words of my foster mothers, the women who raised me in secret. Close my eyes and open my heart, breathe, and let the world speak to me.

I try to calm down, chill my nerves and focus, but I can’t. There’s too much. Too much anxiety, too much anger. The storm is so loud, so violent, it’s all too much. The crashing sound of rain, the booming of thunder, the bright flashes of lightning that cut the sky open. It’s too much, it’s too much and in the chaos something hits me. Something hits me harder and faster than anything I have ever felt.

My skin is burning and I’m surrounded by bright white and in a flash everything falls away. The world is collapsing around me. I can’t hear, or see, or feel. And in an instant, as fast as it came, it leaves… but it left something behind.

My hands stopped trembling and I didn’t even notice, but they’re balled into fists now. My legs don’t hurt anymore. My heart is calm and steady. This storm, this lightning, woke something up inside of me… something I wanted, something I needed. It gave me exactly what I need to beat Kronos, to rip him apart and destroy him. To make him pay.

It gave me power.

I run out from the forest to the clearing, away from safety and headlong towards danger. I can feel energy courising in me, it’s like a high. Everything is so clear, so vivid.

I feel infinite.

I rush towards the titan with the speed and strength of the storm, never once thinking about what to do next, never even for a moment doubting myself.

This is it. Right here, right now.

I will kill him.

- - -

Heeey so this was part one of a little writing project I’m working on! Hope you liked it!

I’m really not super comfortable with first person, so I’d appreciate any feedback!