#could not figure out how to draw a pinecone sorry

[chipsoda]

the wood-davers incident

#somehow i unintentionally made a really sick talking heads reference #could not figure out how to draw a pinecone sorry #the other jpegs are just there for comedic effect #homestar runner #strong sad #strong bad #my art :3

[umbralsound-xiv]

Unexpected Help.

Bexy Amalaryssia reclines back on the overhanging branch, the rigid jut of wood at her back keeping her upright, and somewhat attentive. Sleep had slowly begin to claim her, head falling before sharply jerking upright at the sound of footsteps; she'd attuned herself to listening for them no matter how quiet, gaze settling on the figure they belonged to. She hadn't found any recognition with him immediately, but the place and time was unlikely to be a coincidence. But still... There was a familiarity about him. Dark hair and some air of formality he carried caught her attention, and the name came to her lips as though it was summoned. He's almost walked by the bough before Bexy calls out for him, hidden purposefully out of sight. "...Oliver...?" His name leaves quietly, but loud enough for any Elezen to hear, she speaks with some hesitance.

...He was familiar to me. Only in passing, and only just; i could have confused him for a mercenary, but something bid me look at him closer.

...Was he seeking me, too?

Olivier Theroux: "Fury..." He mumbled, yawning for the thousandth time. The walk hadn't been an awful one, although the rolling threat of a thunderstorm echoing through the trees sent a chill down his spine. He let his steps sound more loudly than he might have otherwise. Considering he was -trying- to be seen. At the sound of his name, however, his hand reached back for his weapon. The man's steps...paused. "We aren't going to get rained out, are we?"

Bexy Amalaryssia: "No. We won't." She seemed sure of her words, encroached on the length of the fallen tree. "...You... Have come to help?" She asks, cautiously hopeful. "...You saw the note?"

Olivier Theroux: "I did," He moved to the side of the road, feeling ill-at-ease to be so out in the open. She could see him, at least, from wherever she was. He turned his head, angling to find the source of her voice. "And I spoke with Mist, she explained a bit more. What help do you need?"

Bexy Amalaryssia slips from the top of the fallen bough, quickly skirting around a corner, out of sight. Dark clothes and a mass of matted hair was all that briefly sat in view before it vanished, the beckon of a bloodied glove in view before that too follows. "This way." She calls, expecting him to follow. "...That would depend... On what help you're willing to provide."

Olivier Theroux is hesitant to follow deeper into the trees. It feels too much like ambush, like a ploy, and Maggie's panicked face swims briefly into mind before he forges through his unease. "I'm not willing to start a war, so, not that..." He jests lightly. His boots are louder here on terrain he's unused to. He can't avoid the sticks, the pinecones. Shrubbery brushes against his knees. "But my eyes are yours. My blade. Whichever will get them both to safety."

Olivier Theroux makes a straight face at you.

Olivier Theroux: "...would you like me to go get you some clean clothes, first?"

Bexy Amalaryssia: "I... Hadn't realised you knew them. I... Know we've not had the chance to properly meet." She speaks as he draws closer, almost clad in crimson herself. Icy blue eyes peered from the mask of blood on her face, the remnants of tended injuries biting through her shoulder, ruining her coat. "No." She simply answers, to that. "...You are in full understanding that this is not in Mist's jurisdiction. I am hunting people, Oliver. And i won't stop until they're home."

I did not know him well. But well enough to know he has some connection with Mist. Well enough to know that she’s likely spoken to him about me.

Which could mean any number of things, really. But still.

I wanted to be clear about what i intended to do. I couldn’t afford any last minute surpises; i had to know exactly where he stood on the matter.

Olivier Theroux nods. "I do." His gaze bounces from blood to blood to fabri-- no, that's more blood. "I'd actually invited them both to dine with my wife and I, just a few suns before..." He shakes his head. "Never mind. I'm sorry to be meeting you properly on such terms, but I hope we'll have time for second introductions when things are better. What have you found out?"

Bexy Amalaryssia: "They have been taken by slavers, who Sayuri has a history with, having been in their clutches once before. They took Eir to get to her, hence her departure shortly after and my following note after the first. She said she'd return, and hasn't. The people who took her are in Thanalan, and though i know approximately where they are being held, it's fruitless to approach it. They have numbers in the two-hundreds." She pauses a little longer, to allow the information to hang. "...You understand why i can not have the company as a whole involved in this. Yes?"

Olivier Theroux crosses his arms, relaxes against the stone to his right, lets himself look as non-threatening as possible. "Which is why I'm here, ma'am. I'm hardly a face of someone who works with them, and I do a fairly good job of flying under the notice of most. I'm grateful for the warning, though." He reaches up to brush hair from his eyes, glancing around the area. "You're not going to ask me to take them all on on my own, are you? I'm not -quite- so good with a weapon as that."

Bexy Amalaryssia: "No, of course not. I just wanted to be clear why i didn't ask people directly. If there are too many of us, they will know, and we will be hunted in turn. I refuse to let that happen... But i am glad for your help." She seems to take in Oliver's stance, watching him with some curiosity, though clearly lacking in care for how she'd presented herself. "They bear red marks on their cheeks... Or at least most of them do, from what i can gather. Likely they have people without, for one reason or another. No distinct race or gender in terms of favourability, and i have seen both melee and mages alike in the few i have encountered. In lieu of being unable to find out more information, i have taken to hunting for it instead."

Olivier Theroux: "I see," It was impossible not to. "And is it the hunting you need help with, then?" His brows furrowed, the silver-aged scars at his mouth tugged with his frown. "Are we looking for where they're being held, then? A location?"

Bexy Amalaryssia: "No... I know where they are. Roughly. I could never get close enough undetected, and even if i could, getting them out would be... Difficult. One of the small roads that leads into the mountains in Thanalan. It draws too narrow, and as far as i can tell it's the only approach. Likely they have guards, and even should we surpass them, there's no telling where they are in the compound itself. I need information. Something... I..." For the first time since speaking to Oliver, she hesitates, keeping her quiet for a little longer than she might have liked. "...I don't know. I am doing the only thing i know with the time i have. And we never have enough time. They... Won't kill her. That is my only comfort. Eir might not be so lucky, but as of the last i learned, he lives still... For now."

Bexy Amalaryssia: "I will find them, see what information i can garner, and dispose of them when i am done."

I do not know this man, no.

But there is something about the way he speaks with me. He does not know me, and yet, does not look upon me like some violent monster, like some woman deranged.

Olivier Theroux sighs, closes his eyes, and lets himself think like a man at war. It's just for a moment, just long enough to make all his edges feel sharp and his morale resolved. "You're looking for a weak link, Bexy." His tone is low, but weighed heavy by experience rather than the grief of it. "You're looking for a way in that's not -you-, but carries your intent. The strongest chain can be reduced to a useless heap of metal if rust gets in just the right place. We need to consider where that might be."

Bexy Amalaryssia: "A weak link. Exactly this." Relief washes over her, as though someone finally fully understood without fear of judgement. Her expression softens only a little, before it returns to the steely expression she'd opted to keep as she spoke. "I find one of them, and learn everything i can from the in whatever means i'm able. And i kill them, and move onto the next. They can -not- be allowed to live as some faint attempt at mercy. Not when they already have two of us, and would come for the rest so readily. So i turn to Thanalan, hunt those i can, and repeat the process until i have a thread to pull and unravel, whilst systematically thinning their numbers." A small, thin line moves over her painted lips, now faded with time and tribulation; the hint of blue flesh beneath them. "I assume Mist has told you plenty about me. Yes?" Her last words, more prying, and perhaps a little unkind.

Olivier Theroux nods. "Enough, yes. What she told me that matters, though, is your loyalty. She doesn't trust lightly, but she trusts you. That's enough for me." He pushes away from the stone and moves closer, hand away from his weapon and an easy expression on his weathered face. "What information have you found so far? I've connections in Thanalan, avenues I can pursue. What other links seem...breakable? Ration supply? Weapons?"

...There’s some relief that i can’t quite express in it. He doesn’t seek to condone my actions, or at least if he does, he hides it well. He knows i am very short of options, and at least putting arrows in them thins the numbers enough.

It makes me feel like i’m bringing some kind of justice, at least.

Bexy Amalaryssia: "...I am glad that she speaks the kindness as much as the cruelty i'm capable of." Her words are given a little clipped, but his approach lowers her shoulders an ilm, a little more relaxed than she had been. "Their location, numbers, and how to identify them. As for links that could possibly even be breakable, i... Do not know. The ones i faced seem comfortable enough in kit and nourishment, and i have my reservations about cutting off their food, even were it possible. Sayuri and Eir are most assuredly not the only slaves there. If they were to be forced to starve, it would not be the rank and file who would suffer first."

Olivier Theroux nods. "Is their only business in slaves? Thinning them out can only help them in the long run if their resources aren't impacted. Hundreds strong, felled by...a dozen? Maybe two at this point, if you've been hunting them so long? That means more rations for the rest, more weapons for the others. Have you thought of how to get others to desert the group?"

Bexy Amalaryssia: "...I don't know. Sayuri told me what she could, but her experience with them was as a child. And now even Mist herself cannot persue her usual avenues, nor is it wise for any of us to use them through fear of connection to her and the situation at hand which i'm desperately trying to avert. Thinning the slavers will only help the slaves; who would want to join a group that is under threat of attack, no matter how lucrative? I wager putting more in the ground will set a target on me, but it is a necessary risk. They will send more capable people full of knowledge, and i will learn more or take them down either way. I've not exchanged words in such a way with any of them where they haven't immediately tried to alert backup with a linkpearl. But your idea holds some weight... Hm."

Bexy Amalaryssia: "...If there's no weak link to be found... I'll make one."

Olivier Theroux slowly shakes his head. "They won't send their best people first. They'll send the fodder, whoever they can spare without a blink. You'll be thinning those first. The ones who are worth something are kept for the last wave of assault..." He massaged the bridge of his nose, hating the familiar taste of the words. "The ones with knowledge will be kept close to the chest once they realize what you're doing."

Bexy Amalaryssia: "And by that time, they will have none left to fight for them. I've killed hundreds... What's a hundred more?" As soon as she speaks it, she snaps her mouth shut in some muted horror, a chill of ice falling around her as she averted her gaze. It takes her a long few moments to speak again, words filled with an uncertainty, then. "...What else am i supposed to do? We don't have the time to sit and wait around while they suffer."

Olivier Theroux's expression fills with understanding. The chill snakes into his clothes as he moves closer, offering what comfort another's presence can. "A hundred more is -still- a hundred more. If you know the number, it will never be any less heavy." He leans back against the tree. "I'm here because I know that waiting isn't an answer. Picking them off one by one might take just as long. Have you found anywhere they trust? Places they barter with?"

Bexy Amalaryssia: "I... I have an old fence i'm familiar with, but even he didn't know much about them. It's where i killed the last four." Her eyes briefly fill with sorrow, as the ice catches on the leaves below her. "...I found their jewellery. Sayuri's and Eir's. I found the twin to the chakram of his we found when we initially searched for him. But nothing else. Just... Things. Of people in their clutches, or unlucky enough to be in those of someone else. It would seem they process their paperwork in the compound, or i was just unlucky enough not to find anything useful." Bexy sighs, resting her head against the tree, a marked frown at her features as the frost begins to gather. But it's almost too comfortable, the lull of sleep too strong, and she quickly pulls it away again. "It might take just as long. But it's better than doing nothing, until i have another path."

Olivier Theroux: "How long has it been since you let yourself rest?" He looks her over briefly, watching the fatigue pull at her eyes. "If you don't give yourself a moment to get your strength back up, 'nothing' is all you'll be able to do until you recover. I've seen it more times than I can count."

No. No. I can’t afford to rest. I can’t afford to sleep properly, and every time i lay down for a few bells i wake from it with an uncomfortable suddenness anyway.

I don’t like that he’s right. But i have to keep going... At least for now, at least for one more sun until i return home. While i can still walk properly and have the capacity to fight... I...

I have to keep going.

Bexy Amalaryssia: "...I had some bells this morning. I'll be fine." She dismissed, pushing the idea away. "...You have all the information that i have. I know that going to Thanalan to hunt people isn't appealing for everyone; it certainly wasn't for Mahi'a or Neoma."

Bexy Amalaryssia: "...But if you think there is another, better way for information... I would hear it."

Olivier Theroux: "I'm good at tracking," he admitted. "If you need help finding people, I'm willing. I don't offer my blade with just words. I've the intent behind it." He sighs. "They have to have more slipping through the cracks, though. If you already have -one- fence who sells with them, you'll have others. Plenty of others. Hmm..."

Bexy Amalaryssia: "...Even if you don't choose to face them, tracing them down to places they're likely to gather would be a great help. I can't possibly be everywhere at once, and thus, i might miss things. Having the right ears in the right places in Ul'dah would help, too. I don't have so many contacts in the city."

Olivier Theroux: "And I've got plenty. My wife's family are merchants, actually, so I wager they know who to avoid." He shrugs a shoulder, weapon rattling at his back. "Which means I'd have a better way to direct my focus. Do you think with your...hunting...you could put a few dents in the hose, so to speak? You don't want them realizing they've been targeted too soon. They'll get careful."

Bexy Amalaryssia: "...I could. I don't know who they trade with, but i can follow a thread to find out, if i'm able. There's plenty of people deserving of arrows in Thanalan, and i wager it wouldn't take much to find them." Bexy slowly pulls her lips to a line. "...I'll do an appropriate amount of research before i strike. Since i can't consult with Mist, i wouldn't want her to think i'm on some murderous rampage..."

Bexy Amalaryssia: "...At least... Not towards the wrong people."

...Hmm. Suppose there’s always a surfeit of bandits, of less pleasant fences. Oliver has a point, but i wouldn’t want to expend too many resources taking down people less deserving.

...Suppose it depends who crosses my path.

Olivier Theroux: "It's not a rampage," The disagreement is easy enough. "I'll be sure to reassure her, though. It sounds like you're doing what you can with the resources you have. It's difficult, when those resources are few and far between."

Bexy Amalaryssia: "I... Just..." She fights the waver in her throat, as the frost laces the trees again, but swallows her words. "...Thank you. Those who meet Mist before me and hear her opinion of me before they've had chance to meet me often think less than pleasant things. And suppose, many of those things are right. It's... Nice. To know that it's not always the case." Bexy swallows, dipping her head. "...How familiar are you with the Shroud, Oliver?"

Olivier Theroux: "Not at all. Almost got lost on the way here," he teases, looking out toward the path. "You're in a difficult position, Bexy. Sometimes there's only one tool in our hands, and few people understand what it's like to wield it."

...To hear him say it... It meant more than he knew. I feel like i can trust him, that he will not just... Condemn me for what i am about to do.

Bexy Amalaryssia: "I'm..." She trails again, looking up with something more of a frown. "Heartened and saddened both, that you know what it feels like. You... Were a soldier, yes? Mist told me some. But not much. While she's usually not one to shy away from her past... She isn't one to speak so much when it comes to that of other people."

Olivier Theroux's smile is tight. "Mm, she's good like that. You...do know what happened to her, though?"

Bexy Amalaryssia: "I do. I knew many cycles ago, when she first came to the Shroud. About the dragon. About Salomont, and her leaving of Ishgard."

Olivier Theroux nods. "I was among the dead, or so was believed. I know what it's like to wait, and I know just how maddening it can be." He looks up then to the canopy, gazing at the odd bits of frost clinging to the otherwise summer-green blanket of moss and lichen on the trunk. "These people you're against are going to work like an army, with numbers their size. Perhaps Mist has taught you a thing or two about such tactics?"

Bexy Amalaryssia nods quietly, listening as he spoke. Her gaze settles on him, gaining some quiet understanding for his words. "...Enough that i'm still alive to tell the tale, and that i've always brought everyone home with me, yes." Her lips are pulled to a line, briefly bitten, and curled into a small frown of consideration as she casts her glance to Oliver once more. "...It's too risky for me to return to the company house, now. But for those who would help me bring them home... I have a house, deep within the Shroud. It is my home, my sanctuary, and precious few know of it."

Olivier Theroux arches a brow. "Is this an invitation, then?"

Bexy Amalaryssia: "It is. So long as you promise not to speak to a soul about it."

Olivier Theroux: "Can I speak to Mist about it? So that Maggie has some reassurance about where I'm going?" His brows furrow. "I don't want to worry her more than I already have."

Bexy Amalaryssia: "You're free to discuss it with Mist, yes. She knows where i live." Bexy slowly dips her head. “...The East Shroud. Follow the river downstream until the fallen Heavenspillar, and then walk in the direction it points. You will find a small house amongst the trees; this is my home. My sanctuary. The door is unlocked... I will tell Clan Karahli to expect you, and offer no resistance."

Olivier Theroux's expression doesn't shift from one of concern. "There's a -clan- I'd have to worry about otherwise?"

Bexy Amalaryssia: "...Have you met Zhav? Or... Perhaps Mhira?"

Olivier Theroux: "Neither is striking any sort of familiarity, no."

Bexy Amalaryssia: "Warmaiden and Matriarch of Clan Karahli, respectively. I live on the outskirts of their territory, and they, i, and the company have something of an accord with eachother. They watch my house in my absence, but it's not likely you will see them."

Olivier Theroux nods slowly, unsure. "Then I'll meet you there. I'll see if there's any sort of information I can drum up in the meantime. Surely someone knows -something- of actual value."

Bexy Amalaryssia: "...I pray that your investigations are more fruitful than my own." Bexy moves back away from the tree, taking a deep breath as she fights her eyes to focus. "...I'm going to continue my hunt in the meantime."

Olivier Theroux: "You'll stay safe, as much as you can?"

Bexy Amalaryssia: "...As much as i can. I'm no use to anyone dead, save my enemies."

Olivier Theroux nods. "Remember that hunger can kill, and lack of sleep. I've seen men felled for it."

Bexy Amalaryssia: "...I... I know." She backs away, steeling her resolve to continue. "...I'll see you at my house soon enough. There might be others inside. Anyone within is to be trusted."

Olivier Theroux nods to you.

Olivier Theroux: "May her spear guide you, then."

Bexy Amalaryssia gives the faintest flicker of a smile before it fades; her eyes are wide, as though sad or fearful, before she runs into the darkness of the Shroud, once again.

...I need to keep looking. I have to keep looking. Though it brings me some joy to know i am not alone in my effort to bring them home...

...I can’t afford to be any less dilligent with my duties.

#Muse: [Bexy] #Chapter: [Without Mercy] #[What We Want Most] #FFXIV #IC #Screenshot #Writing #Textlog

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

scopaesthesia 👁️ chapter 4

chapter 1 chapter 2 chapter 3

Warnings: nonconsensual sex, death, murder, violence, stalking, paranoia, blood, gore, and other warnings to be added

This is dark!Bucky Barnes with a likelihood off dark!Steve Rogers as well and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Not everything is what it seems.

Note: I’m getting this chapter out before I’m clogged up with work. Y’all take care of yourselves and I hope you have a Happy Halloween.

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

Despite your agitation, your isolation slowly reinstilled a sense of stability in you. Even if you were trapped, even if you had little choice in being there, the cabin with the bullet proof windows and advanced security system calmed your wearing nerves. And without a phone, you could not be reminded of, or harassed by the faceless villain who had turned your life on its head.

The first day dragged by as you spent hours pacing in your room and tossing and turning on the mattress. Sure, you were annoyed with Bucky and his demands, his often mercurial moods, but you recalled Steve’s words and they abated your irritation. You could still be in your apartment, still be entirely clueless to your shadowy stalker, still be a sitting duck swimming through dark waters. But you were safe with two super soldiers, even if the circumstances weren’t ideal.

Steve brought you a pre-packaged meal and you ate alone at the desk after trading him for your grocery list. 

You stared out the window at the shedding trees and the frozen ground, the critters gathering what they could for their nests and burrows. The preserved potatoes were powdery and stuck to your tongue; the gravy lumpy and bland. You tossed the tray in the bin under the desk and rolled yourself in your covers.

That nail in your skull hadn’t quite relented yet and the knot in your stomach only wound tighter. You were still tender between your legs but the levee had yet to break. You laid awake through the night but for the few hours before sunrise. You awoke with stiff muscles and a heavy head. No longer a sharp pain at the top but a dull pulsing just above your neck.

You went back to the desk, wrapped in the quilt formerly folded over the end of the bed and slid open the drawer. You stirred through the hotel quality contents; cheap pens, a notepad, and a handful of mints. Odd but you supposed you weren’t the first occupants of the safe house.

You took out a blue pen and the pad of paper. You looked out the window and etched in ink the scene on the other side of the glass. You weren’t particularly skilled but the points of the tall pines and the sprawling arms of the walnut tree were simple enough. Little scribbles to show the twigs and pinecones at their feet. You blindly scratched the nib against the thin paper until you heard a knock at your door.

“You awake?” Bucky’s voice came clear through the door.

You put the pen down and cloaked yourself once more in the quilt as you stood. “Yeah,” you called back as you leaned against the edge of the desk. “What is it?”

Bucky carefully turned the handle and opened the door. He wore his high collared jacket with its chest pockets and two more lower down. His leather-sheathed knife hung from his belt, its tip poking out from beneath his coat, and he twisted a pair of gloves in his hands. He let the door fall completely open and lingered in the frame.

“I’m going into town. Steve will be here.” He said as his blue eyes bore into you. “You okay?”

You shrugged and pulled the blanket tighter around you. 

“You want me to turn the heat up?” He asked. You didn’t answer. “Look, I’m sorry about last night. About being so blunt but you have to understand, you panicking isn’t helping anyone.”

“Why wouldn’t you at least tell me about something like that? About the drawings?” You snapped. “I have a right to know.”

He sniffed and let out a long breath. “You really don’t want to know everything. Alright. I was just coming to make sure your list was final. Anything I need to add?”

“Just sweeping it aside? Just like that?”

“Honey, you don’t need to worry about this creep. Me and Steve will. You just need to be patient,” He neared you with decisive steps, “And listen to us. We’re your lifeline, it’s about time you start using it.”

“Don’t.” You huffed. “Don’t call me ‘honey’.”

He tilted his head and his eyes sparked. His lips curved slightly as he considered you.

“Sorry,” he said rigidly. “I guess… I didn’t realise I was doing that.”

You watched him as he pulled on his gloves and bent his fingers, flexing his hands as he pushed his shoulders back.

“So, I don’t need to grab anything else while I’m out?” He prodded. “You got enough clothes--”

“Yeah,” you said sharply, “I should be fine. I’d say that list is the least of my worries.”

He smiled and scoffed. “Alright, h-- You need anything, you let Steve know. He’s downstairs trying to figure out breakfast.”

You nodded as he stared at you. He rubbed his hands together and backed away. He turned and stopped at the door.

“If you really want the truth,” he looked over his shoulder, “He killed again. Two girls in as many nights…” He shook his head and tutted. “He seems pretty desperate. It’s a good thing you’re here. With us.” He stepped out into the hall and you barely heard his last word. “Safe.”

👁️

You found Steve in the kitchen grimacing at a bag of oats. His hair was slightly askew and he wore a sweatshirt which would be loose on any other man but clung to his broad chest and thick arms. His blue eyes bore a semblance of fatigue and he looked up as you neared the other side of the long walnut island.

“There’s coffee,” he smiled. “Do you like oatmeal?”

“It will do,” you climbed up on a stool and bent your arms over the counter. “Bucky gone?”

“Yeah,” Steve set down the bag and turned to the cupboard. He pulled out a metal mug in the military style and filled it with coffee from the pot. He slid it over to you. “You like sugar? Cream? Because we have neither.”

“I’m fine,” you chuckled. “So… is this something you do a lot?”

“What? Make coffee?” He asked as he bent and searched the cupboards.

“No, whatever it is we’re doing here. Hiding?”

“I’ve been sent on protective missions before,” he stood and clunked a pot on the counter. “Can’t say it’s ever been this… intense. Usually political,” he opened the bag of oats and poured them into the pot, “Escort from point A to B. Nothing overly complicated.”

“So why exactly has S.H.I.E.L.D. taken the lead and not the FBI?” 

He looked at you and raised his brows. He turned to add water to the pot and placed it on the stove. He turned the dial and spun back to you.

“If I tell you, you can’t let on to Bucky that you know.” He warned as he neared the island. “I mean it. I really shouldn’t. He’s right, you know? The less you know, the better.”

“Tell me. I’ll keep my mouth shut.” You urged. “Please.”

He sighed and pushed back his blonde hair. His short stubble caught the light as he dropped his arms.

“We have reason, strong reason, to believe that this… guy has ties to an association known as HYDRA. An organization which has been working to undermine democratic peace for decades.” Steve lowered his voice as he leaned across the countertop. “The hotel room that was… an unexpected and uncharacteristic slip-up. Before, he was stealthy, smart, we were barely able to string it all together. He was all over the city. But… I’m starting to think that it’s all deliberate on his part. He wants to distract us with the overwhelming evidence so that we make a real mistake.”

“But why-- Why would an operative want anything to do with me?”

“Oh, well, we don’t think he’s with HYDRA anymore and that makes him even more dangerous. He’s taken everything they taught him, all the evil they instilled in him, and now he’s working for his own agenda.” 

Steve searched your face, “Why he chose you; who knows? Maybe you said ‘hi’ to him and he liked the way it sounded or maybe it’s entirely at random. The FBI handed this case over because they can’t figure him out and I gotta be honest, we’re not any closer than they were. The only upper hand we have is that Bucky saw him. That’s it. We don’t have a name or anything else. Just a face and there are an awful lot of those in New York.”

You trembled and ran your fingertips down your cheeks. You gulped as you sat up and your eyes threatened to well.

“Thanks for telling me.” You whispered.

“Right, but I need a favour in return.” He said.

“What?”

“Stop snooping around. We’re all stuck in here for a while. It doesn’t help anyone, especially not Bucky. He’s just trying to do his job and he’s already had to call in back-up. He’s feeling beat up right now.” Steve explained. “Besides, you really can’t give him a hard time after he got all bloodied up for you.”

“I… I’m sorry. I’m just scared.” You muttered, “I’ll cool it. Okay?”

He smiled and turned back to the stove. He grabbed a wooden spoon and stirred the oats. He swore under his breath.

“I really hope you’re a good cook because we’re all gonna be miserable if I’m in charge.” He tutted at the steaming pot. “Or at least, half-starved.”

👁️

“So we ended up getting lost on the beach,” Steve hit his empty bowl with his elbow as he talked. “And the bozo says he’s gonna get seasick. On land!”

You laughed as Steve’s eyes twinkled but quickly stopped as you heard the beep from the front door. It opened and closed, followed by the tap of fingertips on the panel. You looked over your shoulder as Bucky entered. You hadn’t realised how long you and Steve had been talking. A couple hours even after finishing the chewy porridge.

“There’s more in the car,” Bucky crossed to the island and plunked two bags on it. 

“Oh, I’ll help,” you slid off the stool and Bucky caught your shoulder.

“You should stay inside,” Bucky said, “Steve.”

“Alright.” Steve rolled his eyes.

“I’ll clean up in here,” you offered.

“Don’t you dare,” Steve warned as he rounded the counter. “But since you promised to cook tonight I’ll be more than happy to let you do so then.”

“Deal,” you said and watched him pass into the hallway. 

Bucky’s hand slipped from your shoulder and he gripped the lip of the counter. “You two get along.”

“Figure I should try, considering,” you moved so that the stool was between you. 

“It’s gonna start snowing soon.” He said awkwardly. “Calling for a storm next week. Could be snowed in here.”

“Well, maybe that’s a good thing,” you said.

“Maybe,” he reached into one of the bags as he spoke, “I got you this.” He pulled out a bottle of red, “Figured I might as well.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to but… thanks,” you tried to smile. You heard Steve behind you and Bucky’s jaw squared as he looked over your shoulder. “At least let me help unpack.” You insisted as Steve placed the bags beside the others. “I mean, it’ll be something to keep me busy.”

“Twist my arm,” Steve said, “Alright, I’ll get the dishes and you started putting all this away. Bucky, do you mind helping?”

Bucky nodded and blinked slowly. “Any coffee left?” He asked.

“I’ll make a fresh pot,” Steve said as he gathered up the bowls, “But I wouldn’t recommend my oatmeal. There’s probably something better hidden in those bags.”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Bucky muttered, “It was a long ride.”

👁️

You decided that while you weren’t in control, it didn’t mean you were helpless. It only meant that you needed to let those who knew what they were doing take care of it. Bucky and Steve had years of experience in security and combat. You were just a secretary scared for her life. You had no idea what to do or what you were doing.

After the first couple days, it grew easier. You grew comfortable but not complacent. The few times of day you could cook kept you busy enough to distract you. Steve and Bucky were easier to be around as you grew used to them, even just used to having others in your living space. Mostly, you kept to yourself but managed some decent conversation when you ate or stumbled upon each other in the cabin.

It was quiet and you were bored. Again. There were a few books you'd found to read and your doodles had grown frustrating. You decided to take a shower and try to relax. Your isolation made you restless and your restlessness made you think of why you were hidden away in the middle of nowhere.

You locked the door behind you and hung your towel. To your surprise, Bucky had managed to pick out the exact soap you used. You couldn't recall if you'd been finicky enough to have written it on the list. You stretched and undressed. You still didn't sleep very well but it wasn't as if you did very much either.

You stepped under the showerhead as the pipes whined. In the evening, if your keepers were busy, you'd read by the woodstove. The smell was calming and the crackle filled the dead air. Maybe after you would sneak down and try to warm up in front of the fire.

The shower fogged up and you closed your eyes as you scrubbed your body. The smell was reassuring. It reminded you of when your life was normal. It made you think that maybe you could go back to before. That this might end and you might be free to live again.

You let out a breath and cranked the shower off. You pulled back the curtain as the steam cleared and you patted your skin dry before wrapping yourself in the towel. As you picked up your clothes, you froze. You stood and neared the door. Had you not locked it? 

It was half-open and let in a draft from the hallway. You poked your head out and peered up and down the hall. Nothing, no one. Well, you were careless, you could've left it unlocked, not pushed it enough for it to catch.

You tiptoed across the hall to your room and pulled the door shut. This time you made sure it was closed though there was no lock on it. You tossed your clothes on the bed and pulled out a new set. Loose sweatpants and a cotton shirt. You needed to do laundry already. Well, another task to keep you occupied.

You pulled on some socks and crept out into the hall. You descended the stairs and listened for any sign of disturbance. Usually the men worked in the dining room or in the small office on the other side of the stairs. 

You got to the bottom of the stairs and neared the front door. You looked out at the grey forest. It was supposed to snow that night, that's what Bucky declared at breakfast. You grasped the handle but it would not turn. You reached to the panel just beside you but it rejected your fingerprint with a loud beep. 

"Going somewhere?" Bucky asked and you spun to face him, startled.

"No, I just… haven't been outside and I just wanted to… smell the air. I guess that's, uh, weird." You rubbed your hands together.

"It's freezing. You can't go out like that."

You stared at him. "But can I… go out?"

His blue eyes clung to you and his long lashes flicked. He lifted his brow and stepped closer. He stopped and slid your boots over to you with his foot. 

"Stay close," he grabbed his coat, "And wear a hat."

He handed you a wool beanie from his coat pocket before he pulled the ends of his hair from beneath his collar. You took your coat, in slight disbelief, and smiled.

"You sure it's okay?"

"Well, you shouldn't be pent up in here for so long and once it snows, you won't wanna go out much at all."

He opened the door as you tucked your hands into your gloves. You stepped out and he followed you closely as the door clicked shut behind him. You tramped down the steps and bounced on your heels at the bottom. It smelled like pine and cold.

Bucky walked evenly across the clearing and you trailed behind him as he neared the trees. He stopped and waited for you to catch up. He waved you ahead of him. "Just follow the path."

He wasn't far behind as you did as he said, the path winding between trees and petering out before a frosty brook that would freeze over with the first snowfall. Your teeth chattered as the looming winter nipped through your layers. You were quiet as you bent to pick up a pinecone and admire its scales.

You felt Bucky watching you as you turned back and walked around the small clearing amidst the trees.

"Hey," you faced him and tossed the pinecone away, "I'm sorry I was so… contrary. I was afraid."

"It's fine," he shooed away your apology with his hand, "I've dealt with worse."

"Sure but… I owe you a thank you, too. You saved me. More than once. And I know I wouldn't be alive without you. So thanks. Really. And… I am trying. I trust you. I know you're going to get this guy."

He gave a small smile and kicked a stone as he came closer. "Well, let me just say, this is one of the only jobs I've been assigned that hasn't been a complete pain in the ass."

You scoffed and resisted your urge to back away from him. "Flattering, really."

"Twenty minutes," he said, "Then we gotta go back… before Steve notices and gets worried. Or worse, he'll think we left him out of some fun."

"Ah," you snorted, "Yeah, wouldn't want him to think that."

👁️

Another day and then another. Time fell as lackadaisical as the snow. At first, it had been a storm but it had slowed to a powdery lull. Neither Steve nor Bucky spoke of the killer and you didn’t dare to ask. What good would it do you to know he had killed another? Or that some other grisly piece of art had been found? Ignorance was bliss or at least solace.

You found yourself moving from room to room. First, your bedroom, then the kitchen for a cup of tea, the living room to feed the stove and watch it burn, and then back upstairs. You ran into Steve on your way up. He seemed distracted if not a bit perturbed. You noticed that in the last day he and Bucky had been quiet. More so than usual.

You continued up to your room and opened your current read; a classic you refused to read in high school and opted for the Sparknotes instead. You laid on your bed, one leg bent under the other as you swayed back and forth. The words didn’t stick in your mind and you found yourself rereading the same page until you clapped the book shut and snarled.

You sat up and tapped your foot on the floor. You heard voices, muffled by your door. You eked it open and slowly approached the top of the stairs. You listened as the argument came clearer.

“Goddamn it, Bucky, after everything I’ve done for you. What the fuck are we here for? Well, what am I here for?” Steve growled.

“Stop yelling, alright.” Bucky snipped. “Have a little fucking patience. You know this hasn’t been easy.” You heard something slam but couldn’t guess at what. “Don’t fucking blow it. Shut up and have a little faith in me.”

There was grumbling but nothing more as a door closed and blocked out the voices entirely. You felt that heat along the back of your neck. The sudden burst of instinctual fear that nestled along your shoulders. The goosebumps that told you that not all was as it seemed. The creeping, inescapable sensation which had lingered for weeks now.

You pushed yourself up to your feet and headed back to your room. It was a stressful mission, you couldn’t blame the two for getting frustrated. That must have been what it was. They were anxious to get this guy and be onto their next mission. You doubted it was their ideal job to be locked away in the snow.

You stopped as your hand fell to your door handle and you peered down the hall into Bucky’s room. The door was mostly open, only a slight angle blocking out part of the room. Slowly, you dragged your hand away from the knob and felt along the wall as you continued down the hall.

His bed was unmade, the pillows strewn about, and a familiar patch of fabric stuck out from beneath one of them. You glanced behind you and took a breath. You took a step inside and waited as if testing it. Would he know? He seemed to know everything.

You placed one foot in front of the other as softly as you could. You leaned a knee against the mattress and reached beneath the pillow. You lifted up your panties and blanched at the little daisies speckles along the cotton. You’d gone all week without a pair, the mystery of their disappearance forgotten as your own carelessness. You mouthed ‘what the fuck’ as you dropped them back to the bed.

You turned around and went to the tall dresser near the closet. You inched the top drawer open; the rest of your panties bunched up with his briefs. The pink pair with the hearts you didn’t dare to touch as dried white strings stained the lacy edge. You slid the drawer shut and gasped as you were suffocated by your shock.

You spun around and peeked out the open door. You heard nothing but the winter gales outside. You rounded the bed and went to the table in the corner; a monitor, a mouse, a keyboard, stacks of folders and papers. 

Your fingers shook as you took your wallet from the mess and opened it up. Your cards, your IDs, and even the cash remained within. You put it back and took the envelope that was hidden beneath it. You opened it and flipped through its contents; your college ID from years ago, the one you got replaced after presumably dropping it in the library, your graduation photo, pictures of your family and you… all things you’d thought you lost.

You replaced the envelope and lifted the top of a file. The same drawing as before and several more, each one bloodier, more gruesome than the last until the final one. A metal arm around your neck…

Your hand hit the mouse as you retracted it in disgust and the monitor lit up. The sudden glare stung your eyes. A dozen different frames across the screen; each one a room in the house, including yours and even one in the shower. Bucky and Steve were in the office, deep in conversation.

You let out a shuddered breath as tears pricked.

You moved the mouse slowly and clicked on the file explorer. Folders sorted by date and then another simply labelled with your street name. You hesitated before you selected it. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of video files sorted by date. You bent closer as you clicked on the last day.

You hit double speed as your empty apartment greeted you. Then you came home, poured your wine, then Bucky arrived, you ordered food… You slowed down the footage as you slumped against the arm of the couch. The wine and the terror of that video call had left you senseless.

Bucky stood and pulled you down to lay across the couch. He backed up and watched you for a while then neared you again. You watched in horror as he bent over you and rolled your pants down. He climbed between your legs and buried his head between them. He shoved his metal hand beneath his mouth and your entire body jolted as he fingered.

You gasped as he finished and pulled your pants back up. Then he stood near you and used your hand to pleasure himself. You exited out of the window before your stomach turned entirely. You stood as you looked to the live feed. The office was empty.

You were suddenly pulled back as a rope wrapped around your neck. You kicked out as you were strangled, a figure flush against your back. You flailed and grabbed at the robe as you were shoved towards the bed. The body fell down onto you and the rope tightened.

“Baby girl,” Bucky’s voice slithered in your ear, “It didn’t have to be like this.”

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes x reader #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #dark bucky barnes x reader #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #fic #dark fic #steve rogers #dark!fic #mcu #marvel #captain america #serial killer #serial killer au #series #short series #scopaesthesia

[rattyoakenbitch]

The Hobbit: Lucky || The Company x Hobbit Reader

Pairings: Thorin’s Company x Female Hobbit Reader

Warnings: angst, insecurity, language, fluff.

Gods, why did you think it’d be a good idea to come along? You didn’t fit in. You were no good at cooking, fighting, scouting, or even sneaking around. All you’ve done so far was get in yourself and The Company in trouble. Like when you accidentally alarmed the trolls about your presence, resulting in getting The Company thrown in sacks. And when you almost lit yourself on fire with a pinecone that Gandalf handed you. Or when you kept them behind by losing your pack with all of your personal provisions, which happened today.

Come night fall, Thorin decided to make camp in a secluded area in the center of a small forest. The Dwarves chatted and laughed together, while you sat away from them, grumbling and feeling bad for yourself. Bilbo, your life long friend, walked over to try and cheer you up, but you politely dismissed him and made it clear you didn’t feel like talking. Everybody seemed to warm up to Bilbo. Even Thorin, which was rare for the sour Dwarf king to do. But you were an outcast. You only spoke with Gandalf, barely even able to hold a conversation with him. 

Kili & Fili noticed Bilbo returning to the group with a defeated look, and asked him what the matter was. You were out of earshot, only able to pick up faint mumbling, followed by a pair of footsteps getting closer and closer. You looked up to see Kili & Fili approaching you. When they got a quick look at your face, their eyebrows furrowed in confusion and concern.

“Y/N? What’s made you like this?” “Yeah, you’re practically sitting in a puddle of your own tears!” “Okay, not very helpful, Kili.” “Yeah, sorry..”

You shook your head, wanting to laugh at the awkward exchange between the brothers, but you were still upset. You sniffled, before saying,

“I’m surprised you even remember my name..”

“Huh? Why wouldn’t we?” Fili questioned, taken back at the remark. You sigh and shake your head once more, “It’s nothing. Go back to your company.”

“Hey, you’re a part of The Company, too,” Kili added, causing you to scoff.

“It doesn’t look that way.” Your eyes shoot past the two, watching the circle of Dwarves longingly. “You should probably walk away before I manage to fuck something up somehow..”  Their eyes widened slightly at your choice of words, and were once again taken back.

“Y/N, what’s this all about?”

“Will you please tell us? We’re worried about you..”

You cried, frustrated. “Gods, you wanna know? Okay, here. I regret coming on this journey! I should have stayed in The Shire where I at least felt welcome or useful! I’ve just been a burden this whole journey, and I have no skills. All I ever do is get myself in trouble and feel sorry for myself, and it’s no wonder nobody likes me. It’s only a matter of time until I get myself killed.”

Kili & Fili look at you in shock, unable to speak. 

“See, I shouldn’t have vented. I’ll just--”

“Is that what you really think of yourself?”

Your eyes dart up to a third figure in front of you. Thorin. And behind him, the rest of the Dwarves, who were watching you. You felt your cheeks flush in embarrassment; They too must have heard your rant.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know--” You were cut off when you were abruptly pulled up and engulfed in a tight embrace. Was Thorin Oakenshield really hugging you right now?   Then..

“Group hug!”

Suddenly, you were surrounded by even more welcoming arms. It was overwhelming to say the least, but you felt appreciated. You didn’t know these serious, aggressive Dwarves could be so soft and loving.

When you all pulled away to give each other space, Kili spoke up. “Y/N, you’re none of those things you say you are. For a woman--”

“And a Hobbit..” Bilbo coughed, and gave Kili an apologetic look before letting him continue.

“--you really are brave and strong. You may not be the best warrior--”

“Everybody knows I’m the greatest warrior,” Thorin whispered to you, causing you to roll your eyes.

“Thorin, we all heard that,” Dwalin deadpanned. “I’ve defeated you numerous times, therefore, I’m the greatest fighter.”

“Oh, you wanna bet--”

“Will you just listen?” Kili nearly shouted, drawing the attention back to him. “As I was saying before I was very rudely interrupted.. Y/N, you may not be the best fighter or burglar, but you’re not a burden, either.”

“Yeah, remember when I nearly fell off the cliff, so you pulled me up?” Bilbo inquired, making you smile at the memory. It wasn’t the best of situations, but it made you feel useful.

“And when I was going to get my head cut off in the Goblin tunnels, but you pushed the Goblin off me?” Thorin added. 

“See, we can go on, lass,” Balin started, “You’ve proven yourself to be helpful. You’re family, now. You always have been.”

You almost teared up at Balin’s kind words. 

“Thank you guys,” was all you managed to say. Though you couldn’t express how grateful you were, they got the message. Afterwards, The Company carried on with their duties, and eventually everybody started to lay out their bedrolls to sleep. Fortunately, you still had yours, but your coats & blanket were long lost.

When Thorin noticed, he offered you his furs, which you were hesitant at first to take, but it’s either that or you freeze to death. Finally things were starting to turn up.

“Maybe I am lucky, after all.”

#thorin x reader #thorin x you #bilbo x reader #the company x reader #the hobbit #the hobbit angst #the hobbit fanfiction #the hobbit imagine #the hobbit fandom #the hobbit fluff #thorin's company

[thehopeofitalll]

2. enchanted.

THEY MEET! THEY MEET! anyways...just a suggestion, but you should probably listen to taylor swift's "enchanted" because, well it's an amazing song, what more can i say?

read it on ao3.

~

“Look who’s here!” Thalia said, grinning. “My…” She drummed her fingers against the table, making up for an imaginary drum roll, as a figure walked towards Annabeth, Jason and Thalia.

“...girlfriend!” Thalia finished, a rare smile on her face that she always showed to her aforementioned girlfriend.

“Reyna!” Annabeth exclaimed, smiling as she stood up to hug her friend. “You’re back? I thought you said it’d take you a few more months!”

“As you know,” Reyna began in a horrible imitation of a British accent, struggling to hold back her grin. “I am very well versed in the art of lying.”

“One of the truest things you’ve said in, like, your entire life I think,” Thalia added, getting a playful punch from her girlfriend.

“Still know how to be a badass, Chase?” Reyna asked, raising an eyebrow.

Annabeth smirked. “You should have figured that being a badass has been in my blood since I was born,” She replied.

“Maybe I could race you,” pondered Reyna. “It’d be fun to see you lose.”

“Hey! That’s not fair,” Annabeth muttered, folding her arms. “You’ve literally got a sports scholarship based on your running, and I bet you’ve practiced a lot all the way back in Berkeley.”

Reyna shrugged. “Yeah, you'd lose either way. So, it’s been a few years since we’ve seen each other and things have certainly changed. Someone’s got a little famous.”

“All because of her wonderful manager,” Thalia said, proudly.

“Oh shush,” Annabeth said, folding her arms. “Also, Thalia, about the whole getting-away-from-the-world-for-a-few-hours thing, I’m planning on sneaking away to Coney Island.”

“Coney Island?”

“Hey, I’ve wanted to go see it for a long time now, and this might be the perfect opportunity,” Annabeth reasoned.

“But so many people there could see you!” Thalia argued. “Like, thousands! It isn’t exactly the most secluded place for someone who wants to be anonymous and all that shit.”

“Relax, you know how good I am at disguising myself. I promise not to let the paparazzi get a hold of me. Okay?” Annabeth asked.

Thalia hesitated, then sighed. “Well…” she began. “Okay, fine. But you better be careful, young lady.”

“Yes, mom,” Annabeth said, rolling her eyes in Classic Annabeth Style, her voice dry with irony.

Usually it was Annabeth who was called “The Mom Friend” of the group (though she preferred to be the one who always advises her friends to not do the dumb shit they eventually end up doing. It wasn’t her fault she was the only one who had common sense).

“So?” Annabeth asked. “What’s the schedule for today?”

“Well, I’ve managed to give you around roughly two to three hours of free time, but besides that we’ve got the usual shooting. Thankfully, I think you have only a few scenes today, and I’m guessing the other stars are shooting most of their scenes today,” Thalia said, whipping out her clipboard.

“Fun.”

—🎡—

“Late to work again, Perry Johansson?” Mr. D exclaimed, with a groan.

“Sorry, Mr. D!” Percy said, sheepishly. He’d thought it was a Sunday morning, pressed the snooze button on his alarm five times and was late to the cafe for work. “Won’t happen again!”

“That’s what you told a week back!”

“Rough morning, huh?” Percy’s best friend, Piper McLean, asked, her eyes surveying his more-dishevelled-than-usual hair.

“That would be an understatement,” Percy replied, groaning.

“Nightmares?” Piper asked.

He nodded, as she gave him a sympathetic look.

It was common knowledge to all of his friends that he had nightmares, caused by his abusive past. Sometimes he woke up, sweating, his throat sore after yelling in his sleep. When he stayed with his mom, and his stepdad, she would usually rush into the room as soon as the screaming began. But once he moved out, he learnt to calm himself down. It didn’t help though, he found himself having panic attacks while thrashing around in his bed.

“And, hm, let me guess,” Piper began, feigning to be in deep thought. “You stayed up all night painting?”

He rolled his eyes, confirming that she was correct. “The nightmares were getting too much for me,” he mumbled.

Piper nodded, staying silent. She, and all of his friends, knew about his past. It wasn’t exactly easy to hide the long scar that ran down your back, when you were the captain of your swim team back at school.

“Well,” he said, drawing out the l. “How are things with Jason? Didn’t you tell me that you started dating?”

“Yeah…” Piper smiled. “He’s amazing, Percy. He cares a lot about me. I think he’s...perfect.”

He grinned. “Well, years of screaming at both of you to date each other finally paid off,” he said.

“Yes, Jackson, I truly appreciate it,” Piper said sarcastically. She turned around to greet the customer who had just come in, with a perfect smile on her face. “Hello and welcome to Olympus!”

Percy pulled out his phone, scrolling through his nearly non-existent proof of his social life, not really paying attention. He eyed a few messages from his cousin, Thalia Grace, planning to reply to it later, when a single word caught his eyes:

Annabeth.

Wait, what about Annabeth? he typed back hurriedly, fixing the typos that came along the way.

She replied almost immediately.

Knew that would catch your eyes, Kelp Head. - Pinecone Face

He let out a soft huff, but grinning affectionately nevertheless. He could literally hear the smirk in her message.

We’ve talked about this, Thalia. But what did she say?

Don’t worry, she didn’t say anything. I just mentioned her while reminding you about how dad wants you to come to dinner. And I know you well enough to figure out that you’d never check a message the first time you see it, unless it mentioned someone like, you know, Annabeth. - Pinecone Face.

You’re an asshole, Thals.

I know right! It’s one of the many things I’m good at, thinking of adding it to my resume~ - Pinecone Face.

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. His eyes were trained on his phone as Thalia continued to be typing something more.

Don’t forget about the dinner! Dad specifically requested that you and Nico must be there, or something. - Pinecone Face.

He was going to type back a quick yeah, okay and head back to the front, where Piper was greeting customers, when another message from Thalia popped up.

Hey, if you’re lucky, we might even run into Annabeth ;) - Pinecone Face

Not the winky face, he replied, unable to stop the grin from coming on his face.

—🎡—

There I was again tonight forcing laughter, faking smiles Same old tired, lonely place Walls of insincerity Shifting eyes and vacancy vanished when I saw your face All I can say is it was enchanting to meet you. —🎡—

Percy yelled, “I’m leaving as soon as I finish three more orders, you hear me?”

“I hear you, alright!” Piper yelled back, as she picked up her phone and walked towards him.

“I honestly wonder why I’m such a good friend,” Percy said, leaning against the counter. “Why am I always the one who covers the last 15 minutes of his friend’s shift?”

“Because you love me, and think I’m the most amazing person to ever walk on earth,” Piper replied, grinning proudly, as she flicked her dark brown hair over her shoulder.

“Of course I do,” Percy said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Now, go meet Mr. Loverboy.”

“And you?” Piper asked. “What are you gonna be doing this evening?”

“Visiting the Ferris wheel in Coney Island,” Percy replied.

“Again?” Piper asked. “You were there, like, three weeks back. You need to get a social life, Perce.”

“Mm, I was just planning on spending my life with blue cookies,” he said. “And, it isn’t a waste of time. I learn more about landscapes and silhouettes, you know.”

“Ah yes, painting stuff,” Piper summed up. “Honestly, I don’t understand you at times, and we’ve been friends for so long.”

“I’m an artiste, Pipes,” Percy replied, grinning, with a terrible French accent on the artiste.

“Mhm, sure,” Piper mumbled. “Okay, don’t mess up the rest of the orders. I’ll see you soon.”

As Piper made her way out of the shop, Percy sighed. While he lazily waited for someone new to come in, he found himself bored, again.

He could blame his restlessness on his ADHD but in reality he never wanted to work here, he just needed some money while he struggled with becoming a popular artist, and he had to work here until the aquarium nearby finally accepted his resume. Then he’d be out of here.

He was tired. Tired of faking smiles, tired of seeing people bustling around in here, tired of vacant spaces. He couldn’t wait to leave this place behind him.

While he ruminated about this, another customer walked in, wearing a dark blue hoodie, with the hood pulled all the way down to their nose.

Percy stifled a groan and took his place at the counter. “Hey, welcome to Olympus Cafe. What would you like today?”

“One Chocolate Creme Frappuccino, please,” came the woman’s voice. He nodded, slightly pleased that he wasn’t the only one in the world who liked that drink off their menu.

He went inside to prepare her drink. When he came back, she was resting her head on her palm. “Name?” he asked.

“Oh? Uh, Annabe-Annabel,” she replied, stuttering a little bit.

He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t question her. Writing Annabel on the cup, he pushed a straw in her drink. “That’ll be $4.95,” he said.

She nodded, reaching to her pocket. Percy always hated this part of delivering an order: that awkward silence while the customer got out their money.

He looked at the woman before him, as she fumbled around while bringing out her wallet. He could barely see her, but she had tan skin and maybe he caught a few wisps of golden hair. A five dollar bill fell out of her wallet, floating towards the ground.

“Shit,” she muttered.

Percy tried to hide a smile at that. He didn’t know why a random woman before him mumbling profanities was amusing to him. She bent down to pick up the dollar, and when she stood up her hood had fallen. Percy looked at her, then suddenly stopped fidgeting around.

Was it…? It was.

He knew how she looked from their time in high school. Stormy grey eyes. Honey blonde hair. He definitely knew her, knew her all too well.

She quickly pushed the bill towards him, and pulled her hood back up. A faint flicker of recognition passed through those intimidating eyes, as he took the dollar.

He picked up the cup, and handed it to her. She reached out for the cup, her fingers slightly brushing against his. A little spark seemed to drive up his arm, and despite himself, he grinned goofily.

“It was enchanting to meet you,” He said, then winked at her.

She rolled her eyes in annoyance, a faint blush of red coating her cheeks nevertheless. “That’s the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said, her voice low.

He continued to grin as she looked up, sea green eyes meeting grey, then turned around to leave the shop. There was no mistake about it. It was her. Annabeth.

Annabeth Chase.

#percabeth #percabeth au #the fast times #coney island #maybe i'm just biased but enchanted is an amazing song #still horrible at tags

[cold-ugly]

🥀 𝖈𝖔𝖑𝖉 & 𝖚𝖌𝖑𝖞 chapter 2

When the counsellor called my name, to stand up was a tedious endeavor. I tried not to let my soul slip out of my body, while white haze obscured my vision. Thumping in my chest, my anxious heart held its breath, as he gestured for me to follow him. I pursued him blindly. He closed the door behind me, and I took a seat on the cushioned chair. "Sorry to pull you out of class," he began, "how are we feeling today?" My blood boiled under my skin at his cautious tone, as if I were a pane of glass, and I would shatter if he spoke to me as an equal. I replied plainly, "I was in the middle of a test, but it's okay."

"I'm sorry about that, but let's be truthful; you know why you're here." I fidgeted with the jacket's zipper, silent. "Why do you think that is, Ren?" he urged. Sheepishly, I asked "Is this because of my algebra grade?" He folded his hands on top of the desk. "Actually, you brought all your grades up recently. That's great, keep up the good work. Today, we're here to talk about some recurring harmful behaviors your teachers have noticed," he stared through me, searing holes into my patience. Recurring harmful behaviors sure is a nice way to say self-mutilation. "I'm working on my nail biting," I dodged the implication of self harm. He sighed, and leaned forward a bit. "Ren, c'mon. This is about the cutting." 

I offered no response. He pleaded, "Why do you feel the need to hurt yourself?" If only I could figure that out... "I don't cut," I denied the allegation. "Then you won't mind showing me your arm," he coaxed. I rolled my eyes, and fought to push up the snug sleeve of my right arm, exposing unmarred skin. He inspected my arm, appearing simultaneously satisfied and disappointed. As I tugged at the sleeve, which remained stuck at my elbow, he watched. I bet he's thinking, 'look at this gross cow's fat arm.' He leaned back in his swivel chair, and declared, "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, if you promise me you aren't hiding any cuts somewhere else."

"I'm not, I promise," I feigned an innocent voice, "I learned my lesson last time, remember? My mom got so angry." He smiled, and said "Well, I'm just glad you're okay. Sorry again about your test," he began scribbling onto a sticky note. "If you need to talk, just give this to your teacher, and come see me," he gave me the tiny pink paper. Great, a special snowflake VIP ticket to the see counsellor. "Thanks."

I returned to class hurriedly, beaming with pride. Today, I achieved the ultimate deceit. As I returned to my seat, I was relieved to notice that a couple of students were still working on the test. My stomach growled amongst the rustling of papers. I sipped my water while I worked on the last questions, finishing just as the bell rang. I tucked the pink sticky note into my textbook, and filed out the door.

As I waded through the halls, I strained to catch a glimpse of half-lavender hair, disappointed when I arrived at my locker to no avail. I switched out my textbooks, and lingered to check my phone. A text from mom -- “If you don’t clean your room tonight, I’m taking your laptop!!!!” accompanied with plenty of angry emojis. I sighed and went to class. A dull famished ache in my stomach startled me, like I’d swallowed a stone. I should be used to this by now. Almost halfway excited for this class, I laid my notebook out on the desk, and examined yesterday’s notes. My teacher, Mr. Brooks, stood at the board drawing an outline of the day's to-do list. After the other six students took their seats and the bell rang, Mr. Brooks perched himself on a stool at the front of the class. He began, "You all did great work on last week’s publication. Today, you’ll choose the topic for your next article, and of course with the holidays coming, I’d like someone to cover Thanksgiving. Who’s up for it?”

No one raised a hand. I sipped my water.

Pleading with his eyes, he stared at each of the few students intensely. “No one? Seriously? How about, um, I don’t know…” he made eye contact with me; I averted my gaze to my hands that lay fidgeting on the desk. “How about Ren?” he commanded. “Okay,” I complied, and turned to a new sheet in my notebook. “Fantastic,” he scribbled my name horridly underneath my given article in blue marker, that smudged as he slurred the three letters. I would rather write an article about pinecones.

As the other students were assigned their articles, I retrieved a laptop from the class set, and opened a fresh blank document after logging in. I stared at the white screen, annoyed. I would seriously rather write about some fucking pine cones right now. I opened another tab and searched for Thanksgiving articles to inspire me, and combed through pages of recipes, and recipes. Unhelpful. I took out homework for other classes that had been neglected, and finished them as my classmates produced their articles. Near the end of class, Mr. Brooks passed out the QR codes for the new publication, ten for each student to give to friends, or tape on walls. I’ll be doing a lot of taping on walls.

My peers packed up their books and threw their backpacks over their shoulders as the lunchtime announcements droned over the intercom. After the bell rang, I merged into the hall on my way to finish the test from my first class. I examined every person I passed, hoping for elusive half-lavender hair. Disappointed again. I returned to my teacher, received the test, and took my seat. I exerted my knowledge to its fullest extent in a determined effort to get this stupid thing over with. Finally, once I had returned the completed test to my teacher, I headed towards the library. I stopped by the vending machine on the way, and injected a handful of quarters into the slot, in return for a cold gatorade zero, and a crisp diet coke. With my treats, I went into the sparsely populated library, and claimed an empty table by the window.

I twisted the cap of the coke open with a satisfyingly carbonated sssstt. In the silent library, the growl of my stomach seemed to echo. I hastened to quiet my hunger with a fizzy gulp of zero-calorie chemicals. Relieved to have all my homework finished for once, I plugged in my headphones, and gazed out the window to watch the cows meandering in their pasture across the road, snuggling into the cozy yellow jacket. Nearly a few minutes of false peace elapsed before I realized…

I shouldn’t just be sitting here.

I should be doing something.

I dashed out of the library and passed faceless people in the halls as I approached my destination. I pushed through the double doors, crossed through the gym, and hustled up the narrow stairwell. I dropped off my backpack on the bleachers, and briskly paced the track. With my favorite music in my ears, I looped the track countlessly. My heart sprinted. I caught myself before a fall each time my knee buckled, and glanced around anxiously, hoping no one saw. I labored the track until the bell rang, and finally collapsed onto the bleachers in gasps. I sipped my water, then stood up, and tried not to wobble as I pushed myself towards the next class.

As I turned in my homework to its folder, my teacher shot me a thumbs-up. I returned an awkward smile, and hurried to my desk. I think the last time I got a thumbs-up from an adult was in kindergarten. As the assignment was given, I scowled about that irritating thumbs-up. I endured the remainder of the class, miffed about that stupid fucking thumbs-up, sipping my water as I tried to hide my annoyance. While the teacher was distracted by his phone, I checked mine to see no texts.

Minutes before the bell would ring, the students apprehensively zipped up their coats and put on their backpacks. The afternoon announcements were stifled by the students’ excited chatter. I plugged in my headphones and put on my gloves. My classmates poured into the hall and towards the front doors. I lingered by my class a moment to let the herd thin out before I dared venture into the hall. Once outside, I braced against the cold and searched for my bus. I realized I left all my juice-soaked clothes in my locker, but didn’t have enough time to go back for them. Damn it. For an instant, out of the corner of my eye…

A glimpse of half-lavender.

I propelled myself towards my fixation. As I caught up to her, she turned to me, and beamed a perfect smile. “How’d it go?” she urged. “It worked,” I grinned, “he didn’t even check the arm I cut!” She bounced and congratulated me. “Thank you so much, you have no idea how much that helped me,” as I began to slip off her jacket, she interrupted with a hand on my shoulder. “Keep it for the bus ride. Trust me, I know” with a knowing smile, she retrieved a pink sharpie from her purse, and reached for my hand. I let her pull down my black glove enough to scribble her phone number in perfect writing. “Tomorrow at lunch, text me where you are, and I’ll come find you for my jacket,” she squeezed my hand gently, waved, and climbed into the bus before I could say thank you or goodbye.

#chapter2 #chapters

[nour386]

Ballad of the Past

My gift to @lyeox for the @pinesconessecrets 2019 event! I apologise for the wait. I hoe you enjoy your youtuber au.

(also on ao3!)

“It’s so beautiful.” Dipper’s fingers trembled as they neared the golden plaque. “If I were to die right now, I would have no regrets.”

“Hey! No dying yet. You still owe me dinner.” Wirt placed his hands on his hips. 

The pair stood in Dipper’s bedroom, hastily cleaned for their impromptu recording. Dipper had just received his 1 million subscriber award. The golden plaque had arrived that very morning, and every person and cryptid within a 3 mile radius was made well aware of its delivery. But in this present moment, Dipper was hoping to let his fans know how grateful he was for their help in reaching this milestone.

Dipper pressed his finger to his lips. “Hush, I’m celebrating.”

“This is what I have to deal with.” Wirt said. He turned to the camera at the foot of the bed and pointed to his boyfriend, who had started to weep over the golden plaque.

“I’d like to thank the academy,” Dipper sobbed.

“Okay, we’re going to cut recording for now. Dipper needs some time,” Wirt said. “See you guys in a few minutes. Or an hour if his uncle sees the gold plaque and tries to pawn it off.”

Wirt clicked off the recording and turned to his boyfriend. “Are you feeling okay?” “Yeah, yeah, I just need a second.” Dipper wiped his eyes.

“Oh my gosh, I thought you were just being dramatic.” Wirt withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket. He gently pressed it against Dipper’s cheek, wiping away his tears. 

“I’m fine.  No, really.” Dipper took the handkerchief and wiped his eyes. “I haven’t been able to cry properly for years.” “Yeah…that doesn’t sound anywhere near the definition of fine.” Wirt crossed his arms.

“Don’t get your antlers in a twist.” Dipper punched Wirt’s arm. 

“Rude!” Wirt gasped.

“Says the man who speaks in demonic tongues when he stubs his toe.” Dipper stuck out his tongue.

 Wirt stomped his foot. “Your cabinet is made of redwood! It hurts!”

“Well, good to know what the biggest weakness of a tree demon is.” Dipper rolled his eyes.

“I refuse to be insulted this way,” Wirt said.

“How would you prefer to be insulted then?” Dipper smirked.

“Not at all. Thank you very much.” Wirt sat down heavily on the bed, making Dipper jump.

“Guess these are sticks in the mud then.” Dipper tugged at Wirt’s antlers.

“That tears it.”

Wirt tackled Dipper onto the mattress. He mercilessly tickled the other boy, smirking wickedly as Dipper begged for mercy between giggles. Dipper tried to fight back, but Wirt was wiggly, like a palm in a hurricane.

“Uncle! Uncle!” Dipper cried between giggles.

Wirt stopped his assault, giving his boyfriend a chance to catch his breath. Dipper took  this moment to attack Wirt back. Reaching under his boyfriend's arm and tickling his sides. 

“That isn’t fair!” Wirt gasped. “You gave up.” “All’s fair in love and war,” Dipper grinned. He decided to grant Wirt some mercy and got off the bed. 

“That has to be illegal,” Wirt said after a few deep breaths.

“Under the Geneva Convention, probably, but in the Pines house hold it certainly isn’t.” Dipper stuck out his tongue.

“Ugh, my own boyfriend assaulting me in my time of need.” Wirt rolled over, turning his head away in faux disgust. “I knew I should have stayed in the forest.”

“Sour puss.” Dipper flicked Wirt’s ear before sitting back down onto the bed. 

He laid the plaque on his lap.  Inside the rectangular frame was the Youtube logo, a play button. Below were the words, warded to Cryptid Hunters Anonymous for passing 1,000,000 subscribers”. Not to mention the most important detail: it was entirely made of gold. Dipper gently ran his hand over it. The cool metal reflected his own teary eyed grin.

“So, do you have any plans for your big one mil commemorative video?” Wirt asked. He sat up and rested his chin on Dipper’s shoulder. “A special cryptid hunt? A behind the scenes tour?”

“Bleh, I’ve already shown my recording equipment. Although, I guess I could try an AMA for the multibear. He seemed to enjoy the interview last time.” Dipper furrowed his brow.

“What about unreleased hunts?” Wirt asked, wrapping his arms around Dipper’s waist.

“I already posted everything,” Dipper said. “Well...there is one. But, um...”

“Yes? What’s the problem? It can’t be the video, you’re a wonder on your laptop.” Wirt flourished his hand. “You colourised an old video that was dyed grey from those monochrome goblins.”

“It’s not that.  I did need to replace the camera after that one, though. And funnily enough, I also couldn't edit the footage whatsoever.” Dipper shrugged awkwardly. “I guess it’d be easier to show you. But you have to promise to not make fun of me.”

“Dipper, please. I would never. I’m a respectable tree monster.” Wirt nuzzled into Dipper’s neck. “Besides, I watched your earlier videos. I’ve seen you at your worst. How bad can  it be?”

Dipper brought his laptop to the bed. With a couple of clicks, he opened up the video he had hidden away from the public eye. He gave a heavy sigh as he sat back and cuddled up to Wirt.

“So, remember when we met up at that cafe on Fifth Street for the first time?” Dipper asked. “And how you said it was really lucky that I decided to sit next to you that day?”

“Yes, I remember Mabel waving to you from across the cafe and pushing us to spending the day together.” Wirt tapped his chin.

“It worked out, didn’t it?” Dipper grinned. “You even said yes to a date with me by the end of it.” 

“What could I say? You were adorable. Especially when you snuck looks at that script you wrote on a napkin,” Wirt teased. “Who even does that?”

“Someone worth dating, quite obviously.” Dipper raised his nose in pride.

“C’mon, start it up, Francis Ford Coppola.” Wirt nudged him with his elbow.

“Fine, fine.” Dipper reached forward and started up the video.

The screen was dim. A squelching noise came out of the laptop’s speakers as the image focused on the muddy ground. Leaves lay strewn all across the forest floor while Dipper detailed his goal for that day’s hunt. Mabel occasionally called out her opinions to ‘lessen the nerdiness,’ as she phrased it.

“It’s been raining really heavily for the past few days, so I decided to check out if this affect anything in the forest. I mean obviously it would, it’s not like rain was invented yesterday.”

He kept talking, leaves squelching underfoot as he walked.

“I know the gnomes are probably not too happy about this. They had an outdoor barbeque planned for today. They handed out invites and everything.” Dipper flashed a crudely drawn greeting card. It showed a crayon drawing of a short man with a pointy red hat and a white apron standing behind a smoking red barbeque. 

“But no one shows up to their barbeques!” Mabel’s distinctly cheerful could be heard behind the camera.

Dipper turned the camera to show his sister sticking out her tongue. “When the only thing on the menu is pinecone, roast pinecone, and pine cone steak, I doubt you’d have crowds flocking over.” 

“Maybe they’d have more people come if they didn’t kidnap people all the time,” Mabel teaseded. 

Dipper turned the camera around and continued his hike through the woods. He would occasionally stop to point out different tracks and markings he came across. Mabel would drop in a comment or two, often at her twin’s expense. After concluding that the venture was uneventful, the pair agreed to head back.

“Dipper, if it starts raining on me and my hair gets ruined. I will never forgive you,” Mabel said from off screen.

“Let me just check that next clearing.” 

“Fine, only because I know you need the exercise,” Mabel teased.

The camera was pointed at the clearing in question. It looked rather dark, much like the rest of the woods, thanks to the dark clouds above. As Dipper neared, a figure came into view, standing in the centre of the clearing.

“Hey, I see something over here!” Dipper cried, walking further into the clearing. 

Before him stood a wooden statue of a gnome no taller than his knee, including the hat. The statue’s face was caught half way through a scream of terror, mouth openwide, eyes half closed andarms raised defensively.

“Is it petrified?” Dipper tapped the statue with his finger. “It’s too detailed to be handmade.”

“Dipper, look out!” Mabel’s voice was distant.

Before he could realise what his sister meant, Dipper bumped into someone he hadn’t noticed. The camera fell to the ground, pointing upwards, showing a tall, shadowy figure with antlers that seemed to meld with the branches of the trees above. They stared Dipper down with shining eyes.

“Oh no, he’s hot,” Dipper muttered just before he was dragged out of shot. “Wait no the camera!”

“Camera later. Staying alive now!” Her voice faded out.

The creature looked down at the camera before the picture cut to black.

“And that was that,” Dipper said. He did jazz hands.

“That...oh, no.” Wirt rested his head in his hand. “Oh cheese and crackers. Please tell me I didn’t chase after you.”

“No, we got back to the Shack safely. The camera, on the other hand, showed up on our doorstep a week later, covered in oil with the SD card being the only thing still intact.” Dipper rubbed the back of his head. “This footage was kinda messed up, so I couldn’t really edit out that last comment at the end there. So I kinda shelved it.”

“Oh no. I can’t believe this is happening right now.” Wirt’s face was now completely buried in his hands. “Please just kill me now.” 

“Sorry, fresh out of holy water,” Dipper said. “So, um you wanna explain what was going on there?”

“Okay, so long story short, I was working off some steam and petrified a gnome in the woods.” Wirt had laid back on the bed.

“Wait, that was an actual gnome?” Dipper asked. “You just petrified someone?”

“He was a fairy dust dealer.” Wirt rolled his eyes. “It was a moral freebie.”

“Right.” Dipper didn’t sound convinced. “And why were you so peeved?” “Oh my gosh you would not believe.” Wirt sat up fingers rubbing his temples. “Alright so, the elves in the wood hold a poetry competition once every 5 years. So I enter, all wide-eyed and hopeful thinking that my poetry has a chance of making it in, right?” Dipper laid back, rolling his eyes at his boyfriend’s enthusiastic narration. A soft smile spread across his face as he leaned against Wirt.

Wirt started waving his arms as he spoke. “I walk up to the stage, my nerves making me feel sick after waiting 3 hours for my turn. I stand up with my ballad. I had spent months writing, re-writing, re-writing again and re-writing one more time for luck. Not to mention rehearsals. And then after sitting through the extravaganza of elvish poetry, which can last for days at a time, I leave the competition wish last place! The judges said my entry was ‘too short’.”

“What was an acceptable length? 2 weeks?” Dipper chuckled.

“Apparently! “ Wirt threw up his arms. “I thought for sure I would have scored higher than the one elf who just stood there and gave a failed improv routine. He didn’t even rhyme! Not even once! And he somehow left with third place.” 

Dipper leaned over and lightly pecked Wirt’s cheek. “I would have given you first place.”

“You’re my boyfriend. That would be cheating.”

“How about you read your poem to me and I’ll judge it,” Dipper said. 

“Interesting.” Wirt tapped his chin. “It would give me the opportunity to show off my prowess. Sure, why not. I’ll be back in a few.”

As he watched his boyfriend scurry out the door; Dipper smiled fondly. He grateful for that fateful day in the woods. And while he made himself comfortable in bed, he wondered if he could have poetry reading be his one million subscriber special. His fans were interested in his love life, so maybe a small preview wouldn’t hurt.

#Pinescone #Pinescone Secret santa #Dipper #Dipper Pines #Wirt #OTGW #GF

[gyromitra-esculenta]

‘Jack the Stag, and Other Works Penned by the Esteemed Songstress Sombra’. It’s an inside joke, probably. Kind of Part 4 tumblr edition. Mostly unedited. Personally, I’m liking this story more and more.

Otherwise: a bad Witcher AU but not because of the TV series (rest is somewhere here either under totally not witcher au or murder-deer tag)..

Warnings: I have no idea, sexy-times? Idiots? Lots of confusion?

*

It's only natural for Gabriel to tug on Jack's hair to pull him down until their lips meet and he coaxes the mouth open with his tongue, slow and unbothered - nothing to wax poetic about the kiss itself - but there is something zesty to the flavor, and he knows it's magic. He is not the one for flowery words - it's been always Jack's domain - but it's pure unbridled chaos burning bright he savors, and he wonders if what Jack tastes himself as his eyes flutter closed are bitter remnants of the tincture on his own tongue. Just a kiss, nothing special

He breaks it off, not really to breathe but rather to admire the content expression Jack sports.

"How's that for a proper kiss?"

"I think I should tire myself more often if that's what waiting for me then," Jack licks his lips, a meticulous and deliberate affair, almost teasing. Gabriel moves to repeat only to be stopped by the light but insistent press of the hand on his chest and he looks into now somber face. "Do not force yourself any more for my sake, little cub," Jack speaks with a note of melancholy. "You do not lie with menfolk."

If Gabriel had ever needed any proof of Jack honoring the privacy of his mind, this was it - or maybe the testament to Jack's presumed duplicitousness putting to shame any given scheme of the Lodge, if he weren't too impulsive for any plot of his to last for more than few days. So he just laughs, bumping his head against the ground, enjoying the confusion flitting across Jack's face as he stares him down.

"I didn't get the impression... it is a laughing matter, cub?" He asks in a strangely conflicted voice, at which Gabriel can only laugh more.

"No. No, it isn't," Gabriel chuckles. "But you know what's the laughing matter? Your face."

"Not very nice, little cub," Jack huffs, still obviously lost, and Gabriel raises his palm to his cheek to cup it - mindful of the cut.

"I don't fuck men because of you."

"I fail to see how that pertains to..."

"Bloede Arse," Gabriel grins and unbalances him with a push, easy with Jack only keeping his weight on one elbow, and rolls, landing on top of him - which doesn't go at all according to the plan judging first by the hiss, and then a squeal.

"Sorry. Forgot about the..."

"Nature's all fun and things," Jack shifts uncomfortably under him with his face scrunched in vexation, "until you've got a pinecone up your asscrack."

"What?"

"Just move, cub, now."

And Gabriel loses it again, laughing with his face buried in his neck

"I'm serious! Get off!" Jack swats at his head with the free hand. "I'll fucking bite you!"

"Sorry, sorry, just..."

Gabriel backs off and sits up, observing as Jack moves too -wincing and awkwardly leaning to the side, until he reaches back to dig out the offending pinecone.

Which is no pinecone at all, only the most curiously shaped stone, porous, full of holes and dimples, with surface strangely polished.

"Oh," Jack clicks his tongue, "it's starmetal."

Gabriel may as well embrace the fact the world itself, and all the powers that be, conspire against him in his moment of vulnerability - and that moment might be lost.

"How would you even know, you never paid any attention to those lessons?"

"Because you could use a new sword, so I'd been looking out for it." Jack turns the lump in his fingers.

Or not.

He catches Jack's wrist and pulls him close.

"N'te dice'en an me a'baethe, en'ca minne." Seeing the blue eyes widen for a heartbeat and a breath before Jack turns his face away...

"Thaess aep widenn an. Your pronunciation is still as bad as the first time you'd tried to speak."

"Me thaess aen a'baeth."

"Ire tedd, rhenaweddin."

Jack shies away, as if wanting and having are irreconcilable concepts suddenly, but Gabriel's not letting him go, not now, not yet. He tips Jack's chin up and brushes his thumb against the lower lip.

"Que tedd, allder nawr?"

Ever so slow and halting every other moment not unlike a wild animal waiting to be spooked and take off back into the woods, Jack leans in with his head tipped to the right. At first, it's a graze of his breath, just before he presses his lips to Gabriel's smiling mouth.

He allows Jack to take the charge, and the kiss is many small kisses gaining in conviction with each successive one until Jack is straddling Gabriel's legs with fingers threaded into his hair, trying to draw him closer into the embrace. The muscles under Gabriel's palms resting on his back shift and twist as pure want seeps into the kiss with each grain of quartz falling somewhere in an invisible hourglass.

This time it is the need for breath that makes Gabriel push back.

"Voe'rle, en'ca minne."

A flicker of confusion flits over Jack's flushed with blood face before he chuckles.

"I believe, little cub," he whispers, "that the word you're looking for is neén'le, because you told me to stop moving."

"Just need to breathe before I drown."

"Hush. Let me enjoy this."

He has a demure look to him, one Gabriel had only seen before on sorceresses, or strumpets seeing an absurdly generous pay in their immediate future - occasionally on Sombra when she was determined to get under some wench's skirts - but undercut with an edge of authority. He gives in to the insistent hand on his collarbone and lets himself fall back into the blankets. Jack, with his spine bending in a flowing curve, now straddling his hips, stares at him - there is a single-minded commitment in his eyes.

"Fuck," Gabriel utters.

"That's the idea." The voice he is not sure comes from Jack or the grove wraps around and curls in his ears as Jack leans in putting his lips just below his jaw, exactly where he feels the blood thumping under the skin, and bites lightly with teeth that feel too sharp to be human. It morphs into an open-mouthed kiss moving slowly down, and then another, and another, sometimes punctuated with a little nip - each prying a subdued hiss from Gabriel - and maybe he should have taken the chance to bathe, the overly curious dryads notwithstanding. At least, as a basic courtesy, even if Jack does not seem to give a damn about it leaving a trail of kisses on his stomach as Gabriel's palms slip from his shoulders to comb through his hair. 'Fuck' is an understatement, but that's more or less the only comment he has.

The reality of the situation sinks in with fingers tugging at the hem of his pants, and the thought that maybe this isn't the best idea he's ever had filters in, which - in the grander scheme of things - somehow fits neatly into the whole puzzle of whatever this is. Because the worst of it was that not only Jack had always been full of bad ideas himself, but he also enthusiastically went along with any bad ideas Gabriel ever had on his own - and even before he goes anywhere with those deliberations the belt is off, and gone. The same goes for the laces, figuratively, and he tenses, probably pulling too hard on the hair he grips between his fingers, curiously angry over the question where and when - and from whom - did Jack learn that particular thing? But then there's too much to feel and not enough to think about, and there's only so little Gabriel can focus on with Jack's mouth on him.

Later, Jack drapes all over him, nosing at his neck, and Gabriel knows the things will change, they have to, and he dreads it. But Jack turns his head to the side with a palm on his cheek, and, Melitele, his eyes are as blue as the mid-day sky. His lips, red and swollen, part with a smile and a whisper.

"Me esseath."

Again, Gabriel traces their graceful arch with his thumb before he takes the plunge.

"Eich'en a'bleth essea."

#sometimes I write #r76 #reaper76 #murder-deer #totallynotwitcher!AU #big big big coput #i don't know if i should put up translations because it's also sweet without them

[lickstynine]

Consequences

A/N: this was an idea I’ve had for a week or two, but the first part came in spurts late at night and during breaks on my job, and the second half came between three and six this morning, so I apologize in advance if it sounds awkward once I read it back over after sleeping. On the off chance this doesn’t suck, I’ll dedicate it to my favourite hoes, @ocsickficsideblog and @emetoandotherthings, who both love Kit and The Big Angst.

Story-Relevant Notes: This is set when Kit was about sixteen, so he and Alistair were not in contact. TW for violence, hospitals, underage drinking, and abuse.

Kit couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so content. His father had gone golfing up in Scotland for the weekend, so he had the manor all to himself. Rather than spend the weekend with just his servants, he'd invited a guest. Lucian Winters was a year his senior, significantly taller than Kit, with dark, curly hair, striking blue eyes, and enticingly full lips. He was the captain of the debate team, and Kit had hit it off with him earlier this semester. Practice turned to off-topic banter turned to flirting, and before long, they'd been making out in an abandoned classroom.

Now that the two had a place to meet properly, they were hip to hip on an old velvet loveseat, cozied up near the library fireplace. They'd nicked a bottle of wine from Reggie's never-locked cellar, and several glasses later, Kit was climbing into Lucian's lap to better reach his lips.

Though the wine had eased his inhibitions, Kit was still a bit nervous. Lucian was older than him (likely more experienced, too), and gorgeous. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he was sure Lucian could feel it. He wondered what would happen if they went further than kissing. Kit barely knew what he was doing now. Would he make a fool of himself? His chest tightened at the idea of stripping - what would Lucian say when he saw the scars? Kit was pulled from his thoughts by a gentle voice.

"Are you okay? Your heart is racing, and you're shaking."

Kit nodded, his cheeks burning red. "Sorry. Just nervous."

Lucian nodded, reaching over to the side table to refill Kit's glass. "Have another drink. That should help." When Kit took the glass, Lucian's hand moved to rest on his back, fingers tracing gently up and down his spine. Kit sipped his drink, leaning against Lucian’s sturdy chest. The older boy's heartbeat was steady and soothing, and Kit's face flushed in a very different way as he continued to drink. Lucian was so kind and calm, and he smelled like spicy, alluring cologne.

Kit finished his wine, setting it aside and leaning up to kiss Lucian's jaw. Lucian smiled down at him, lifting Kit's chin to properly kiss his lips. They pressed closer, Kit's arms around Lucian's neck, and Lucian's fingers in Kit's long hair. It was a fiery, passionate moment that seemed to last forever. That is, until a strong hand yanked on each of the boy’s collars.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Kit’s face went white, and he could almost see his life flashing before his eyes. He’d been so absorbed in Lucian, he hadn’t even heard his father walk into the library. Reggie was fuming, holding both boys at arm’s length like bags of trash. While he didn’t look scared to death like Kit, Lucian was clearly a bit alarmed, and he looked at the angry older man, trying to figure out what to say.

“I’m… so sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to intrude. We didn’t know you were home.” Lucian kept his tone calm and even, trying to counter the tense energy crackling in the air.

“I bloody well know you thought I wasn’t home! That’s why you faggots are in here drinking my wine and sucking each other’s cocks!”

Now Lucian was properly taken aback. “We were not! I do apologize for taking the wine, but it’s not like we were desecrating your couch! Kissing someone isn’t a crime!”

Reggie’s face was crimson with rage; he wasn’t used to being talked back to. His fist tightened on Lucian’s collar, and he pulled the boy closer to growl. “It is when you’re putting your hands on my faggot son in my bloody house! Get out before I break your wordy fucking mouth.”

Lucian cringed; he was nearly as tall as Reggie, but the older man was easily twice his weight. As soon as Reggie let go of him, he bolted for the door. A twinge of guilt panged in his chest as he realized he was leaving Kit to his father’s wrath, but his sense of self-preservation was stronger than his boner, and he nearly tripped as he ran off down the stairs.

Meanwhile, Reginald’s hands were now both free to drag Kit away from the couch. Forceful paws locked around Kit’s shoulders, and he withered under his father’s roar.

“What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I… I don’t… I wasn’t.” Kit mumbled uselessly; he didn’t know what to say, especially after Lucian’s defense had gone over so poorly. “I’m sorry.”

“You’d better be!” Reggie barked. A sharp crack echoed through the halls as his fist connected with Kit’s cheek. The boy yelped, stumbling but unable to fall with his father still clutching his shoulder. Tears were stinging in his eyes, but Kit knew better than to run, instead just mumbling another hoarse apology.

“It… It won’t happen again.” All that earned him was another punch, his head rattling.

“Oh, how nice!” Reggie scowled. “Because that totally makes up for the disgusting scene you were making on my couch!” This time, he threw a kick, and the horrible, snapping pain in his leg made Kit crumple. He dangled limply from his father’s grasp like a half-cracked piñata.

Reginald’s fury-reddened face twisted into a vicious sneer. “Look at you. Sniveling, whining, drooling after boys. Can’t even take a hit like a man. I’d be better off having some dumb bitch daughter.” He dropped Kit as his feet, and the boy landed like a sack of cement. Reggie scoffed. “Francesca’s boys may be dumber than rocks, but even the little embarrassment is tougher than you.” The toe of his sleek black shoe connected with Kit’s ribs, eliciting little more than a pained groan.

“Bloody hell!” Reggie shook his head. “You couldn’t even fight back if you tried. Pathetic.”

Without warning, he yanked Kit up by the arm. Instead of hitting the boy, Reggie flung his son aside like a child discarding a toy. Kit was too stunned to even see straight, which made the sharp corners of the stairs even more of a shock to hit. His head cracked against the unyielding edge, splitting the skin. He yelped in pain, tumbling and smacking into the wood like a pinecone falling through branches.

Despite the disorientation pounding in his head, Kit’s most basic instincts tried to ease his landing. His hands stretched out, desperate to keep his face from hitting the floor again, but when his palms smacked into the polished wood, the force of his tumbling weight made his wrist crack. He let out another shriek, collapsing and clutching at the newest source of pain.

The commotion had attracted a few servants from their quarters, but most knew better than to approach. Melinda, however, couldn’t just stand there and watch while a child was in pain. She hurried over and knelt next to Kit, hesitant to touch him after such a nasty fall. All her instincts were telling her to scoop him up and carry him off somewhere safe, but that wouldn’t end well for either of them. Instead, she just ran off to grab a dish towel when she saw the blood pooling on the walnut floor.

“Oh, dear… you just… can I help?” Melinda asked.

Kit sniffled, barely able to shake his head. “Hurts…” he mumbled, his good hand pressing the towel to the fountain of blood pouring down his forehead. He squinted to keep the red drips out of his eyes, whimpering and resting his head on Melinda’s lap. She very carefully stroked his hair from his face.

“I know, love. Try to relax. Deep breaths.”

Kit tried to obey, but drawing breath brought out a pain in his chest. He winced and groaned, taking shallow, rapid gasps as he started to panic. Melinda cringed, stroking his hair again and humming softly.

“Easy. Easy, it’s okay. You’re gonna be okay. If you’re really hurting so bad, I’ll call you an ambulance.” She reassured.

“No the hell you won’t.” The ominous growl from the top of the stairs made both Kit and Melinda start. Reginald’s shadow stretched down the steps, jagged and looming. “You will not call be calling anyone.”

“But he’s hurt! Pretty badly, too!” Melinda cried, not moving from where she sat.

Reggie stomped down to their level, towering over them both even standing on the same floor. “You’ll go back to your room and forget you saw anything if you like working here.”

Melinda’s shoulders sagged, the scowl on her face fading into fear as she thought of the three kids she was still putting through school, the eldest crashing on her couch after a job had gone under. As much as her general motherly and moral instincts wanted to help, she couldn’t throw away her family’s main source of income. She lifted Kit’s head off her legs with the gentlest touch, folding another towel under him before standing. The guilt pooling in her chest was overwhelming, and she started to cry as she shuffled away.

Reginald just scowled as Melinda walked off, sneering down at his son. “She’s almost as soft as you.” He prodded Kit with the toe of his shoe, making the boy wince and shrink away. “Get up already, stop ruining the view in my hall.”

“I… I can’t…” Kit croaked. Even if he tried, he only had one good arm to push himself up, and the leg Reggie had kicked earlier screamed when he tried to move it. “I think I do… I need… an ambulance.”

“As if! You’re not even that hurt, you’re just a sniveling pussy who can’t take a hit!” Reggie snapped. “Get up!”

Fear surged in his veins, and Kit did his best to force himself up, terrified of what might happen if he didn’t. He pushed his torso up, managing to ignore the pain in his wrist, but when he shifted his body, the pain in his chest dropped him back to the floor. “I… I really… it hurts… doctor.” He couldn’t focus enough to argue, so he just begged. “Please… I need… Please.”

Reginald was quiet for a moment, the tiny gears in his head struggling to turn. The last thing he thought Kit deserved was pity, but at the same time, there was a lot of blood collecting on his floor. He did not want to deal with the repercussions of his son dying in his house. The cleaning crew would be in the way for days.

“Fine. If you’re really so desperate to see a doctor, call Taddy. Have him take you. But you fell down the stairs of your own fucking accord. Do you understand?”

Reggie didn’t have to add an ‘or else’ - they both knew Kit knew better. The boy nodded feebly, desperately patting his pockets until he found his phone. Not actually caring whether Taddy came, Reginald walked off to the bar, leaving Kit to fumble with his cell in peace.

------------------------------------

Taddy had just sat down for the night when his phone started to buzz. Normally, he didn’t dare settle in before two, but Reggie had come home from his failed trip in the mood to be drunk and angry alone. Taddy had hoped he might get the rare early night, but he didn’t hesitate to pick up his phone at quarter to twelve.

“Yes, Master Kit?”

“Tad… Taddy… help.”

That was enough to get the chauffeur on his feet, already going for his jacket and his keys. The pain and panic were audible in Kit’s voice, and Taddy sounded as worried as Kit did scared when he replied. “Help with what, sir? Where are you? What’s going on?”

“Home.” Kit forced another breath, trying to keep talking despite seeing spots. “Fell… really hurt. Need a doctor.”

Taddy already had a feeling that Kit hadn’t simply fell, but now wasn’t the time to delve into that. He yanked on the first pair of shoes by the door, wedging his phone between his ear and shoulder to tie them. “Alright, alright, don’t worry. I’m on my way.”

“Hurry…” Kit begged, trying not to sob because he knew it would make the pain worse. “Hurts… really bad.”

“I’m coming. I’m getting in the car now. Stay on the phone with me, okay?” Taddy babbled, his usual relaxed tone replaced with a frantic edge. He sped off down the road, rushing from his modest block of flats towards the most deceptively beautiful part of town.

By the time Taddy pulled up in front of the manor, the other end of the line had gone quiet. There was a nagging fear in his chest that he might be unlocking a crime scene, but he rushed inside the grand double doors anyway. Luckily, Kit’s phone had simply fallen from his grasp, skidding out of his reach on the polished wood. Taddy’s relief at seeing Kit wasn’t dead faded the second he saw the crumpled figure on the ground.

“Master Kit!” The chauffeur rushed over at once, and Kit’s blood-heavy lashes fluttered to look up at Taddy. “Good Lord, what happened?” He cried, picking up the fragile boy as carefully as he could.

Kit groaned, leaning against Taddy’s chest. “I had.... someone... over for a date... Father wasn’t supposed to be home.  He got… he was so mad.”

Taddy scowled, half considering calling an ambulance for Kit so he could go upstairs and strangle his boss. Instead, he just sighed. “Violent bastard… come on, let’s get you to the hospital.”

“Taddy, don’t… you can’t… don’t tell anyone what happened.” Kit mumbled. “Make something up if you have to, but Father… he’ll kill us both if word gets out.”

“I’ll kill him first once you’re taken care of.” Taddy grumbled, setting Kit in the passenger seat as carefully as possible and buckling him in place. He climbed back into the driver’s seat, gunning it off down the street again. Kit groaned when the seatbelt tightened slightly, and Taddy gave him a hand to hold, which he quickly latched onto.

It was late night on a weekend, so the typical A&Es were full of shady trainwrecks. The waiting room of the posh hospital, however, was a ghost town, and the pair of secretaries looked at Kit and Taddy with wide, horrified eyes. One of them quickly called for a nurse.

“Oh, lord, what happened to you?” She asked, guiding Taddy to set Kit on a stretcher. Kit was barely conscious, and didn’t provide an answer. Taddy instead provided the excuse he’d figured out on the drive.

“He was studying late at the library. Half asleep by the time he left, wiped out on the stairs. I’m sure you’ve seen that old stone hazard downtown.”

The nurse clicked her tongue disdainfully. “That thing should have been torn down and re-done twenty years ago.” She huffed, pulling the stretcher down the hall to a proper room so she could clean and stitch up Kit’s cuts. He winced and groaned as she moved him, and she frowned in concern. “What hurts, dear?”

“Everything.”

While the answer was understandable, it was also useless. “I need specifics so I can help. Try to focus. What hurts the worst?”

“Chest… wrist… head.” Kit mumbled, doing his best to think. “Leg… head… head…”

The nurse jotted something about concussions on her clipboard sitting nearby. “Okay, once I stitch you up, we’ll bring in a doctor. I think you need X-rays.” She turned to Taddy, who had been given a stack of paperwork to fill out by the front desk. “Are you the father?”

Taddy shook his head. “Just the chauffeur I’m afraid.” He was suddenly all too aware of his haphazard outfit - a heavy coat over only an undershirt, faded pyjama pants, and shiny dress shoes. “This was a bit of an… unexpected… call.”

“I see. Once you’ve got the paperwork taken care of, you’re free to go. We can contact the parents.” The nurse told him.

“Oh, no. That won’t be necessary.” Taddy said at once. “I’m staying."

#whump #injury #angst #violence #blood #broken bones #bruises #concussion #tw abuse #tw violence #tw hospital #kit #raycraft

[thedefinitionofbts]

Autumn: My Old Story

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Part of “Tell me of an Eternity” { Autumn | Winter | Spring | Summer }

Pairings: Jeon Jungkook x Reader

Genre: Angst, Werewolf!Jungkook

Words: 9.5K

Description: Tonight, tomorrow night, and the night after, he’ll wait for you forever.

The faint crackle of the fireplace is the only sound drifting afloat the peaceful atmosphere of the taciturn room, flames emanating from the pile of logs mesmerizing the gazes of all those gathered around, growing and fading like the waxing and waning of ocean tides pulled by the moon.  

Sitting on a rocking chair in the comfort of the old-fashioned living room, in the familiar company of your grandchildren, you bask in the calming ambiance of the night, a tranquility numbing enough to lull you into unadulterated slumber. But the bold voice of a small child pulls you away from your oncoming doze.  

“Grandmama, tell us a story” Your young granddaughter eagerly requests, tugging at the hem of your blouse. Her clear doe-eyes were dripping with enthusiasm as she peers at you gingerly, waiting for the response she hopes to receive.

You smile down endearingly at the youthfully innocent child, brushing her silky hair tenderly with your trembling hand. “Oh alright, I guess I do have one interesting story that has yet been told.”

It’s a story you should have forgotten long ago, one that is tucked away in the deepest layer of your vanishing memory. But there was something about the way the moonlight was elegantly flowing through the glassy panes of the open window that makes you take a deep, sedative breath, reminding you of something that had long been lost to time and this mysterious universe. Shifting your gaze toward the direction facing the dark forest outside, trees densely packed only a few meters away from the quaint little cottage, you nostalgically begin recalling the age-old tale.

“I was young like you when I moved to the forest covered oceanside…”

…

  “Honey, come help me with the boxes!” You hear the sound of your mom call from upstairs. Quickly dropping the roll of tape you were playing with, you scramble to your feet and run to her aid.  

It was one of your earliest memories. The time when your small family of 3 had just moved to a new house, one that was built by your father who was an expert carpenter and had always fantasized of living in a house built with his own hard fought labor. It was a relatively isolated villa, located where no other homes could be seen from miles around, facing the vast blue sea on one side and nested beside an endless forest on the other.

“Mom, I want my room to be painted pastel blue” You request, after helping your mother unpack until the sun was beginning to set below the horizon in the distance, leaving the colorful gradient in the sky to appear as if it was pulled straight out of a painting.

“We’ll get your father to do that.” She replies, smiling proudly down at you and satisfyingly around at the furniture and decorations you had just helped her set up.

At the time you didn’t know why your mother was so adamant about moving away from the life she had always known, but you suspected it was because she had grown tired of living the fast-paced life of the ever-changing city and wanted to settle down in a more peaceful place where she could paint to her heart’s content. As an aspiring artist, surrounding herself with picturesque natural scenery was a way she believed would allow her to reach her artistic potential, and there was no doubt in your mind that everything inspirational around your new home will eventually be captured splendidly on canvas.

You loved your mother’s paintings because they always revolved around landscape imagery, utilizing it as a metaphor for the mind and psychological states of being. Her art conveyed emotions that your age at the time barred you from understanding wholly; nevertheless you still thought they were beautiful. 

“Mom, what are you making for dinner?” You inquire just as your stomach makes a grumbling noise, reminding you that you hadn’t eaten since lunch on the drive over, and you were too busy up until now to snack on anything.

“Something very special to celebrate the start of our new lives.” She announces, as you follow her down the stairs, hoping down each step of the staircase in buoyant delight.

Sitting by the windowsill as your mother prepares dinner, you turn your attention to the gradually elongating shadows cast by the trees in the woods, initially not noticing anything particularly strange. The sun was no more than a dwindling glow in the distance just as the darkness was beginning to saturate the foreign land in serene waves of haze. But upon squinting your eyes and making a closer observation you think you can see the figure of a small child, half hidden behind a tree in the distance. You don’t ponder over it initially, thinking it must just be your imagination combined with the exhaustion associated with unpacking for the last 5 hours.

“Honey, dinner’s ready”

You snap back into reality at the ballad of your mother’s sweet voice, blinking a few times before answering her with a response that you’ll be right over. The delicious smells wafting over from the kitchen were enough to take your mind off of whatever imaginary realm you were getting lost in. Taking one more look back at the very spot you were staring at through the window, you see that there is, in fact, nothing there.  

  …

  But your curiosity eventually gets the better of you the very next day.

The forest behind your new home is both spellbindingly enchanting and grippingly terrifying, with the first light of dawn gradually illuminating the dewy vegetation. The morning air was crisp and clean, temperature typical for those of transitioning autumn days. You can see the faint fog of your warm breath lingering in the still air as you breathe out. The crackle of dried leaves and the snapping of brittle twigs beneath your feet was becoming more apparent with each step you took into the woods.

With anticipation mixed with notes of apprehension churning in the core of your stomach, you aren’t quite sure of what exactly you were hoping to discover. The vastness of the unacquainted area was more than intimidating, but the fact that its beauty and mystic had lain untouched was enough to draw your undivided attention.

Enthralled by the bright colors of the fallen leaves, the flowering spikes of pinecones large and small, and the blinding sunlight filtering through the splayed out arbors of half empty branches, the warm hues of the evanescent scenery leaves you with the tranquil remnants of the summer than had just passed. You’re almost able to find peace between the growing excitement and faint hint of unease, but that finely tuned balance doesn’t last long before you hear the sound of someone moving behind a bush eerily near the place you were standing. 

“Hello?” You call out, whipping your head around to the source of the sudden noise, you can feel your heartbeat gaining momentum and rising to your throat. “Is anybody there?” 

And that’s when you see him, a little boy who looked to be about your age.

His face looks too flawless to be natural, skin smooth and silky with ethereal eyes large and gleaming like that of a majestic doe. You can’t quite read the expression conveyed by his face. It was a mix between curiosity, interest, and some emotion that seemed non-human, but not exactly artificial in any way. Oddly enough, you get the feeling that he was glad to see to you; maybe it was the slight upturn of his lip or the delicate tilting of his head to the side, but you don’t get hit with the fight or flight response that your peripheral nervous system would normally give.   

“W-who are you?” You manage to voice, albeit shakily, but the boy did not seem threatening, and you pray that your instincts are not wrong by telling you to stay and not make a run for it while you still had the chance to.

He doesn’t respond right away, opening his mouth and closing it like he wasn’t sure how to make out the words. Did he know how to speak? You wonder, but just as you were just about to ask, he clumsily voices the syllables that kept getting caught in his throat.

“J-jung…k-kook” He stutters, as if he had to search for the right response because he wasn’t sure of his own name.

“Are you lost? Do you live here?” The questions proceed to tumble out of your lips before you’re able to catch them.

He looks at you, tilting his head again, but to the other side this time.

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer those. I realize we’re both still strangers.” You apologize, scratching the back of your neck and flashing him a timid smile. “I’m Y/N. It’s nice to meet you Jungkook.”

At the sound of his own name formed with the tenor of your voice, he smiles, large eyes now crinkled at the edges and nose slightly scrunched into a small nub.

“Y-Y/N” He repeats, smiling again as he hears his own voice call out the syllables that had just originated from your mouth and drifted over to his eardrum.

You eventually learn that Jungkook cannot speak, or at least not the language that you are able to. Who he is and what he is, is completely shrouded in mystery, but the fact that he’s a lone boy out in the wilderness leads you to believe that he may in fact not be human. And you convince yourself that the only way you can learn more about him is if you teach him to communicate with you in your tongue or at least in a way that you can understand.

At the tender age of eight, you were far from experienced at teaching languages. You had attended a public elementary school in the suburbs of the city you were born in up until you moved, and now being home schooled by your artist mother, you gather all the knowledge you’ve acquired up until now and attempt to transfer it onto Jungkook. A feat that is easier said than done. 

Surprisingly, it was a relatively natural process, akin to how children from various countries pick up languages just by being thrown in the right environment. Nevertheless, it was almost hopelessly frustrating in the beginning stages because even the most basic form of communication was as daunting as an arduous journey.

“Age” You repeat slowly, enunciating the short word as clearly as you can.

He stares at the movement of your mouth, eyes softly widening and drooping as he attempts to interpret the meaning conveyed by the word. Parting his lips, he begins to form a response.

“T-time” He murmurs, eyes landing on yours, pleading for confirmation. You slowly nod back, thinking that it’s not exactly what you were looking for, but the two were somewhat relevant, right?

“Your time” You say, hoping to inch him towards the right direction.

“84 moons” He says, glancing up at the sky and then back at you.

“84…” You voice, wondering whether he was referring to days, months or years. “Days? Months? Years?” You inquire, before realizing you’re probably getting ahead of yourself again. It was unlikely to be days or years, but then again, you wouldn’t be surprised if the measurement system for creatures like him were completely different from the mundane ones you as a human were familiar with. 

He does nothing other than tilt his head to the side once again, causing you to let out a weary sigh. This was going to be much harder than you had predicted. 

The seemingly impossible task of teaching Jungkook how to communicate with you is made more promising when you realize how quickly he is able to absorb new information, his memory was almost unmatched by anyone you had ever met before. He is able to retain knowledge in unprecedented amounts, piecing together relevant material and separating them in accordance to application. You also find out that he has a real talent for expression through various art forms such as shapes and abstract drawings.

As an experiment out of pure curiosity, you make it a mission to sneak some of you mother’s art supplies and used canvases to see if Jungkook wanted to learn how to paint. Astonishingly the word “learn” would not even come close to describe what he actually did.

“Light” He says, showing you the finished piece of night contrasting with day. You are absolutely amazed at how professional the painting looked, almost vaguely reminiscent of your mother’s own paintings but conveyed more of a spiritual emotion that you found difficult to pinpoint.

“The sun?” You inquire, reaching out to touch the yellow circle bursting with dazzlingly radiant rays, placed high above the dark green forest canopy.  

“Moon” He says again, pointing at the other sphere reflecting against the dark ocean waves on the other half of the picture.

“Full moon?” You trace the rounded edges. You assume he’s trying to tell you something he does not have the words for, but your meekly young mind was unable to comprehend such complexities at the time.

  …

  With the winter soon approaching, you quickly become aware that his cloth covered lower body is not going to be warm enough to protect him against the piercing winds and frozen nights of the cold season. You wonder if supernatural beings like him ever get cold or if they don’t feel the same sensations human do. Whatever the case, you figure it can’t hurt to provide him with more clothing options.

Telling your parents that you were growing to like oversized male clothing that was both comfortable and casual was not exactly a walk in the park, but luckily they didn’t think too much of it, not even bothering to question your changing tastes and most likely figuring it was part of the natural process of growing up. 

So that’s how you end up dressing Jungkook, for the next few years in fact.

He was growing quickly, body maturing and muscles becoming more and more defined with each pass of the season. His chiseled features made him look both more human and more supernatural simultaneously. His previously dark irises were lightening to a greyish blue hue and his pitch-black hair was transforming into more of a chestnut brown shade. Before you knew it, it was already the seventh winter that you had spent with him.

“Y/N!” You hear the familiar husky voice call from behind. Turning around you’re hit flat in the face with an oncoming snowball, it’s fluffy ice crystals bursting upon impact and falling back into the severed pieces it was originally composed of.

“Jungkook!” You shout frustrated while scrambling to get him back for that sneak attack. Quickly bending over, you gather a sufficient amount of the freshly fallen snow and squeeze the substance tightly into a ball. Smirking and standing back up, you’re eyes dart around to see where he had run off.

Nothing but the untouched white expanse can be seen, the icicles hanging down from the frozen branches are stationary, and not even the chilly breeze can force them to sway.

“Jungkook?” You call out, voice echoing in the emptiness as the seeds of panic beginning to sow.

A momentary pause, and then a pair of sturdy arms wrapping around you body, locking you in an embrace that forces you to drop the snowball clasped in your hand.

“Miss me?” You hear the comforting voice whisper in your ear, warmth from the lean figure back hugging you tightly, searing through the thick cloth of the matching coats dividing both of your connected bodies.

You let out a defeated smile. “This is so unfair.” You whine. “Why can’t you just let me get you back one time?”

He chuckles, vibrations cast as a low rumble that emanates from his throat.

“Ok, I’m all yours.” He says, opening his arms and stepping in front of you.

You grin at him mischievously, pretending to bend down and make another snowball, making sure the crunching sound of squeezed snow can be heard. You glance back up to see that his eyes are closed as he waits for the pending hit of semi-solid ice, but before he has a chance to ask what’s taking you so long, your tender lips are already connected to his. Even in the frigid air, his skin remains scorching hot, a good couple of degrees higher than your own. It was like a full taste of the burning summer sun in the middle of a winter storm, analogous to a cup of hot chocolate just warm enough to sip but not swallow in large gulps.

Jungkook’s eyes flutter open in disbelief, not registering how an oncoming snowball was replaced by the tender touch of gentle lips, moistened from the natural oils of your homemade lip balm. But the second of shock does not last long because you begin to wrap your arms around his neck, parting your lips to instigate a deeper kiss in which Jungkook more than gladly accepts, moving his own lips in rhythmic sync with yours, passionately and hungrily. He’s so caught up in the moment, kissing you into oblivion, that he forgets to pause and allow you to breathe.

“Woah” You gasp, pulling away to catch your breath. “Human remember?” You grin, nudging him in the shoulder.

“Oh, right” He breathes, scratching the back of his neck as a rosy tint blossoms on his cheeks.

You recall the first time you saw Jungkook transform exactly four years ago. It was a crisp winter day similar to today, only it was late in the evening and the mystical full moon had replaced the glittering sun. You had snuck out of your house when both of your parents had fallen asleep, wondering why Jungkook kept insisting there was something he wanted to tell you but could only do so under a clear starry expanse.

It was that day you found out what he was, finally getting the answer you needed for the unwavering confirmation that he was indeed not of your world. His silky body of fur reflecting the luminescence of the imposingly circular moon would have been terrifying had it not been his pleading eyes that begged for you to not leave him.

Jungkook was a werewolf, unlike any that you have heard from made-up stories or seen in fictitious movies. His revelation explained the source of his superhuman strength and intelligence, as well as his innate gift for an art of expression that was not fully comprehendible by beings in the realm of the mortal. He was the spirit of the forest, obligated to watch over the area for an eternity.

  …

  Along with the unending changing of seasons, and the aging of your naturally limited lifespan, you know your years of being together with Jungkook were slowly reaching expiration. In just three years you would be heading off to college, leaving the forest-lined ocean side that you grew to love so sincerely. Three years sounded like a long time, but once you realize that it’s less than half of the period that has already passed between you and Jungkook, you aren’t as accepting of its unfulfilling form of consolation.

“What happens if you leave the forest?” You inquire one particularly frigid winter morning. You were taking a walk with Jungkook, admiring the rolling hills encased by smooth ivory sheets, the sunlight casting strips of chromatic aberrations onto its untouched surface.

“I can’t.” He replies simply, stopping in his tracks to stare at the large snowflakes that are beginning to fall from the sky.

“Will you like disappear or something?” You proceed to prod, making your way to his side and examining his side profile as he basks in the daylight, breath foggy in the cold air.

“I’m supposed to return to my home one day.”

Your eyes widen as your own breath hitches in your throat.

“Why? When is that? And where?” The questions were pouring out again, an intrinsic habit of yours that you’ve had since you were young.

Jungkook turns to look at you, eyes as glassy as the gemstones floating in midair.

“Whenever I choose to. And it’s somewhere very far away, I’m not sure if I can explain it with words.” He scratches his head innocently. “I can draw a picture of it.” He offers.

You smile. “No, that’s ok, I probably won’t be able to interpret it anyways.”

He tilts his head. “You sure?”

“Yeah”

The sun was still shining high in the cerulean atmosphere, making the sparkling rainbow crystals look like airborne diamonds. You continue to walk along side Jungkook, gripping his hand tightly in between yours. Even though your hand was much smaller than his, you had gotten used to the way they seemed to fit perfectly in their own way, despite the mismatch in size.

“So if you return to your…home, will you ever come back here?” You ask after a long period of comfortable silence had passed between the lengthening trail of footsteps in the snow and the thick rows of evergreen trees coming back into view.

Jungkook doesn’t respond right away, and you wonder if he’s reluctant to answer your query.

“I think if I go home, I won’t be able to come back here anymore.”

You furrow your brows, wanting to ask why, but realizing it would be futile.

“So…” Your voice trails off, reaching a minor blank in your confused mind.

“I’ll stay here as long as you want me to.”

Time spent in the winter wonderland of seemingly endless adventures in the snow covered landscape and the taste of intricately unique flakes of frozen crystals on the tip of your tongue were coming to another inescapable close. 

When the snow begins to melt and the first signs of spring are sprouting from the ground, Jungkook takes you back to the place he’s been taking you every spring, a part of the woods that had been converted into a special sanctuary of sorts, over the years you had been there with him. It was the safe haven where he had gifted you the most unforgettable piece of art you’ve ever seen while smiling at you beneath the fluttering leaves of a blossoming tree.

The sound of the rushing water brings back every sensation you felt on that cherished day, filling the world with the scent of grassy meadows in rare clearings and wild flowers bursting with the colors of the wind.

“Jungkook, I never fully understood the meaning of that painting you gave me,” You confess, watching the translucent water cascade over jagged rocks and sandy shores as it made its way out to the glittering sea.

“The one of you?” He questions back, dipping his own hand into the water of the stream connected to the roaring waterfall displayed in front of you two.

“T-that was… m-me?” You voice back, astonished.

Of all the things you suspected that painting to be, that fact that it was actually a portrait of you had never crossed your mind. You clearly remember thinking the pink and blue flower was just a metaphor for the inexplicable beauty of life, the way it stood out in a flamboyant meadow of hundreds of other flowers, ones that you could surprisingly name off the top of your head. There were even other plants thrown in the mix, all of which could be found around the forest.

“You can think of it as a parallel to the moon amongst the starts in the night sky.” Jungkook explains. “Only flowers and earthly elements are subject to fleeting lives.”

“So you’re saying I’ll eventually die?” You raise an eyebrow, purposefully trying to slip past the other side of the meaning he was trying to convey as to get him to say it directly.

“The centric flower in that painting is much more beautiful than the moon. I think the moon itself would view it in awe.” He sighs with a dreamy look in his fluttering eyes.  

“But that flower will one day die.” You protest. 

“And still the moon will continue to shine its light on that spot in the meadow.”

  …

  Summers were always heartwarmingly blissful, filling the air with the musky scent of mossy bark in the morning when the sunlight filters through the thick canopy and drying out to a floral fragrance of flourishing shrubbery and seeded plants. The calm salty breeze that blows by tells you you’re sitting on a cliff over looking the ocean that extends towards the curvature of the earth. You open your eyes to the scenery that you’ve seen countless times, and yet it never fails to make you shudder in excited chills that crawl up your spine.

“I wish there were words to fully describe this,” You murmur as you lean back against Jungkook’s sturdy, heated chest, firmly secured in his gentle embrace.

“There are,” He hums. “just not in this world.”

You smile, as you turn around to face him, unprepared for the temperate curvature of his nose and his gleaming eyes reflecting the rainbow gradient of the twilight painted sky. Even though you’ve come to recognize every inch of his ethereal appearance, you still have a hard time believing he is real.

“Rub it in won’t you?”

He laughs, the sound of his familiar chuckles emanating as low rumbles from his vocal cords.

“I like it that way.” He says, returning a smile that is a bright as the sun’s last rays peeking over the horizon. “Sometimes not being able to express something explicitly makes it more remarkable.”

“Like back when you couldn’t speak in my language?”

“I’m just glad I was able to understand you, and that you stayed to teach me.”

You nuzzle him playfully. “What other choice did I have?”

“I’m glad you didn’t run away.”

You lift your hand to caress his cheek, fingers gently brushing back his fringe ruffling in the wind. It takes you a few seconds to notice that he’s still staring at you, lips parted in a daze-like manner, cheeks flushing a rosy coral hue, and boyish gaze causing you to momentarily forget he’s not human.

 On days you are not sitting by the ocean, you spend them rolling in lush green grass, creating sculpture-like corsages out of the multiple species of vibrant flowers dispersed on the flourishing hills and steep mountainsides, arranging them with leaves ranging from shades of chartreuse to emerald.

Now perched on the highest branch of the largest evergreen tree for miles around, you wait for the pending rain that is already making its presence known through the humid air but never actually condensing to form the droplets that fall from the sky.

“I’m leaving soon” You finally break the news you had been hesitant to reveal to Jungkook the summer before going off to college. In your defense, the acceptance letter had come in the mail merely a week ago, so you technically didn’t hide it from him for that long.  

His ears perk up at the sudden information. “Leaving...?” He repeats, the sound originating from his vocal cords trailing off as it ended in a query.

“I have to attend university in the city” You explain, “It’s part of the human lifespan. We go and receive higher education, so we can eventually get a job and make a living.” Its sounds dull and lackluster, even to your own ears. You wonder if Jungkook will also think the system the human world runs on is strange and senseless, especially since you’ve never exactly gone into any of the details of society outside of the isolated home you grew up in.  

But what surprises you is the response you receive from Jungkook. You were expecting a series of whys, whats, and wheres -Why do you have to go? Why do humans need jobs? What does making a living entail? Where is this city? Because it only made sense and it was only natural for him to do so, especially the way you were throwing this new information on him so suddenly and being so cryptic about it at the same time. But Jungkook doesn’t ask you any of those questions because he only cared about one thing.

“Will you come back?”

You’re left stunned for a fraction of a second, looking at the way his eyes are fixated on your own, the stars in his speckled pupils flashing in a way that is so uncannily reminiscent of the first time you saw them sparkle. It was that look of pleading, that beg of please don’t leave me that’s never voiced, never conveyed concretely, but only lingers subtly on the windows to his soul.

“Of course, I’ll come back every summer.” You smile, brushing off the fact that deep down you knew you would have to part from this place permanently one day. But until then, you would continue to make these precarious promises because you weren’t strong enough to face the hard held truth.

At least not yet.

So you end up spending more summers with Jungkook than any other season, mostly because the other three seasons where already booked by your college classes, and you had promised to go back to him when the leaves turned green. You’ll always remember summer as a blissful period, roaming the grass covered hills, diving off cliffs into the cool ocean waters, and gazing at the endless landscape atop the tallest of trees towering over the forest.

  …

  But as all good things do, those blissfully timeless summers come to their inevitable end, and you are powerless to things outside of your own control. And even though summer was always a promising season, a time you had looked forward to each and every year, the last summer you spend with Jungkook is not as magical as the others; in fact, it is quite the opposite.

Your mother falls sick soon after you graduate from college, a disease that does not take her life in one fellow swoop but instead saps the life out of her in painfully lagging millimeters of dripping honey, the gradual fall of a feather from a distance as high as the furthest clouds in the earth’s stratosphere.

Twenty years. The doctors had said. She had twenty years left in this world, but she would need to be hospitalized often, something that wouldn’t be possible if your family continued to reside in the wilderness.

“Hurry up, we’re leaving soon” You father calls from downstairs.

“Dad, can I just get a last look at the forest?” You call down, heart beating frantically as you watched the rain pour from the thickly gathered clouds.

“Why would you do that? It’s raining.” You hear his voice shout back. “I have no desire to be in this place for any longer than I need to.” The hatred your father was harboring for this home was evident in his voice. Ever since your mother fainted for the first time, an event that you had not personally witnessed because you were away at school, he has been wary of the surrounding area, claiming that there were angry spirits residing in the forest. You couldn’t blame his illogical notion completely because it was evidently born out of the pain and anger he he had to face, and seeing how frail your mother had become, you can only imagine how frightening it was for your father at the time. 

“Honey, just go.” You hear your mother murmur weakly from behind. She had walked into your room unnoticed. “I’m going to stay a bit longer to try and finish this last painting before we go. I’ve been attempting to complete it for years, but just can’t figure out how to fill in the last part.” She pauses and smiles wistfully. “I’m afraid I’ll never get the chance to after I leave this place.”

You smile at her and mouth a muted thank you before rushing down the stairs and out the front door.

It might have looked more intimidating if it wasn’t daytime because even with the liquid trickling from the sky, the lush green forest stood unwaveringly veiled in the light mist. The humid air was beginning to settle stickily on the surface of your skin, breeze feeling warm and moist upon entering your lungs. Your eyes gloss over the view of the lined tree trunks, soaking in the scene that had made the most permanent of imprints in your ephemeral memory. It was a place you had come to know inside and out, and yet you still swallow hesitantly as you trek towards the ever-thickening foliage.

You didn’t have a speech prepared, your thoughts were loud yet indiscernible, all jumbled into an untamable frenzy that did not match the calm pitter-patter of water droplets on fresh green leaves or the sentimental calmness that last farewells should provide.

The rain was beginning to come down harder, chaotic sounds growing in frequency. The ground was getting softer and squishier, mud under your shoes sticking relentlessly and gradually weighing you down. Your mind was receding into a sort of numbness that drowned out your surroundings much like the rain itself.

“Jungkook!” You shout, squinting through the water that was blurring your vision. The umbrella you were holding was absolutely useless at this point, the liquid falling in sheets made it impossible to see further than a couple of feet in front of you. Luckily it was still relatively light out, as night would have casted the stormy area in complete darkness.

“Y/N!” You hear a familiar voice calling from the distance.

You turn to see the figure hidden under the thick canopy of a nearby tree, its branches curving down to create a secure space under the rain.

“I came to tell you I’m leaving. My parents are leaving. I’m-“ The words spew out rushed, but you aren’t able to finish before Jungkook has pulled you into a warm embrace that is both strong and gentle just like him.

“I know. I know you have to go.” He whispers, chest rising and falling against yours.

“I don’t know if I’ll…” You try to force yourself to say it, waiting for that twenty seconds of courage to hit you so you could just get it over with, but it never does, not when his heartbeat is so close to your own, and his soft cheek is rested against your shoulder.

“It's ok, I’ll still be here.” He says, pulling away from the hug so you could see the words conveyed by his eyes.

“But I-I-” I’m not coming back. “Jungkook” You don’t know why, but whispering his name was easier than voicing what you otherwise should have. Pathetically hoping that the look in your eyes would convey to him what you didn’t possess the strength to say. But you weren’t as skilled as he was with nonverbal communication, you weren’t an ethereal being with otherworldly artistic ability, and you didn’t have all the stars in the universe contained in your eyes.  

And before you can open your mouth again, Jungkook’s lips are already connected to yours, that familiar warmth spreading from his succulent flesh like wildfire across the damp surface of your clammy skin. The shock of his touch making you drop your umbrella, raindrops evaporating as they trickle onto your exposed skin that is now surging with the heat extending from Jungkook’s body. His movement is calm and tender, slow and patient, delicate and controlled because he knew you were human.

“I’ll try to come back” You as gasp as he breaks away from the kiss, eyes swelling with oncoming tears. It’s a promise that made it’s way out of you throat in the spur of the moment, one that you yourself knew was a lie.

“I’ll wait for you.” He flashes you a faint smile as you turn to leave.

“Good-bye, Jungkook” You shout back as you begin sprinting back to your house, not allowing yourself to look back because that would only hinder your resolve to leave.

“I always will.” He says, so softy that you can’t here him from the widening distance between the two of you.

 And just as your story had begun in the earthly autumn, it also ended when the colorful leaves atop the forest canopy shed for the fifteenth time.

 …

 “Did you finish that painting?”

 “Unfortunately, no I didn’t.”

 …

  As the home of your childhood diminishes farther and farther into the distant past, leaving you with an insatiable yearning that you always made an effort to disregard, using the changes occurring in your life to distract you from that raw aching stubbornly attached to your heart. An aching that would always leave you watery eyed and inconsolable.

The transitory projection of the world is ruthlessly inflexible, never pausing to wait for those who fall behind or those who long for a past with different outcomes. No matter how much you long to preserve the evanescent nature of reality, the flowers that blossom in the spring or the rushing of the waters that eventually turn to ice, you still find yourself racing to catch up to a destiny that was decided since the beginning of time. 

And it had been an event much like those rooted in fate itself that in your last year of college, before the turbulence of that fateful summer, you had become friends with a fellow undergraduate named Kim Taehyung. Although you were nervous to befriend him at first, not exactly the most socially adept student on campus due to growing up in the wilderness, he was more than eager to meet you and get to know about your interesting life. He was handsome, and also somewhat of an outcast like you because of his eccentric mind that some found off-putting. But being the extroverted social butterfly type he was, your friendship developed quickly, starting from the first day of class when he professor had paired you guys up randomly to work on a semester long project, and the rest was just history.  

He stuck with you through your mother’s illness, through the years your father never gave up on a cure, throwing everything he had into searching for various treatment options, and the times you would come off detached and grief stricken for reasons unknown to him. He assumed it was just because your mother was sick, and you had continued to allow him to believe that that was only thing bothering you. 

Strangely enough, you never told him about Jungkook. You never told anyone about the boy you grew to love more than the way the ocean’s wave crash against the shores in tingling rushes that surge through your nerves, more than way the sunlight that filters through the speckled arbors of lush green trees lights up your entire world, more than the transitioning of endless seasons changes into chromatic rainbows that cause you to gape at nature in awe. And even when you eventually married Taehyung ten years later and came to raise two beautiful children with him, you kept your longest held secret for so long that it eventually turned into a distant memory, one that you slowly persuaded yourself couldn’t be differentiated from a dream.

“Mom, what’s the matter?” You move closer to her bedside, taking her aged hands within your own. Daily visits to the hospital after work were becoming a staple in your own settled life, besides taking care of household chores and making sure your children were keeping up with school, the visiting room at the clinic had become your home away from home.

“Oh, it’s nothing really.” She sighs, turning to face you and reaching up to tuck a strand of loose hair behind your ear.

“There’s clearly something bothering you.” You frown, waiting for her to respond. Her speech had become slurred, movements lagging, and now completely bed ridden, you knew her days on this planet were expiring.

Her eyes were almost transparent as she gazed at the glow of twilight out the window.

“Remember that painting I never finished?”

You pause, attempting to recall the specific piece she was referring to.

Despite never finishing her most prized painting, one that she had been working on for the years you were away at university and the same one that she had attempted to complete the last time she stepped foot into that house hidden by the forest, she requests to see it one last time, a dying wish that neither you nor your father could refuse.

Which is how you found yourself going back to that house by the forest-lined ocean, twenty years later.

  …

  The drive up to the old house is just as bumpy as it had been 35 years ago, on that mildly vivid day in early autumn. The tracks of your car tires are stumbling over the mismatched pebbles on the rocky road and the sunlight is disappearing behind that line where the sky meets the sea. As the clearing of the wide front lawn comes into view, you have a hard time not being anxious of what you could possibly find today. Coming here at night not being the best of ideas flashes by as a passing thought, but there was little you could do about the long drive.

Your husband, Taehyung, had insisted to come with you, after hearing that your father still refuses to go back to the place where he was reminded of so much sorrow. But to you it remained the magical place of your childhood, a place that you had grown to be so dearly fond of, so you convince Taehyung that you would be fine, and that you wanted some time to think alone. Which was entirely true, but there was also someone in particular you wonder if you would be able to see again, even if it was just a faraway glimpse or just a silly wish you were still clutching onto but could finally put to rest after today, because another part of you hoped more than anything that he had moved on and forgotten about you.

Pulling up to the old, now dilapidated building with unhinged window frames and chipping paint, you pray that your mother’s painting has not been stolen or ruined by natural wear and tear like the house itself was. After all, twenty years is a long time to preserve such fragile objects.

Lifting a hand to tentatively unlock the door, you notice that the lock has long been worn down. You pause out of early apprehension, wondering if someone had broken in and was still inside. You hold your breath, listening carefully to any suspicious noise only to be met with eerie silence. Judging it safe to enter, you take a cautious step forward, raising your lantern to illuminate the room enough for you not to trip over your own two feet.

To your utter surprise, the floor is scattered with canvases. Not empty ones, but filled with images painted with shapes and figures both abstract and real, their beauty visible even under the dim glow emitted by your lantern. You begin to get the feeling that these were not your mother’s artwork; they were too indescribable, too otherworldly, and all too familiar. You decide to continue up the stairs to your mother’s art room, reckoning she kept her coveted painting in there, but you can’t help but reach down and pick one of the chill inducing portraits up, the face engraved on it spellbindingly breathtaking. It was like looking through a magically timeless mirror, because the person staring back at you was an alteration of the you from 35 years ago.

A creak of the floorboard snaps you out of your trance, causing your body to stiffen and your eyes to immediately dart around the room. The growing panic is slowly replaced by a surge of bravery when you see a dark figure at the corner of the confined space. The shapes of his features are just as you remember them; even though it has been twenty years his youthful appearance has not changed in the slightest.

Initially you are skeptical of your eyes, thinking that your age has finally caught up to you and your mind was playing illusory tricks on you. But the excruciatingly heartfelt look in his eyes, those that seem to contain every ounce of his ethereal being, the same ones that you were met with on the life defining day when you were only eight years old, are impossible to mistake. And the spark of a familiar plead in them keep you steadily rooted to the ground.

“Jungkook?” You murmur in disbelief, shivering from the skin crawling anticipation gripping your lungs.

“Y/N?” He answers with a twitch of his ear. You cautiously walk up closer, the flickers of the flame inside your lantern faltering as he steps out of the shadows to meet you.  Meticulously examining his unchanged figure, you hesitate to reach out, fearing that he’ll disappear upon contact. He really does look exactly the same as the last time you saw him.

“You waited for me?” You breath out, eyes frantically looking around the messy room once again, the truth of why he was still here hitting you like a gust of strong earth shattering wind.

“You said you would come back” He responds, declaration refined enough to penetrate the silence between stars.

“But I-I” You’re too stunned to form a coherent thought. You wanted to say you only said what you did back then to make the departure less depressing, that those were merely words of consolation, like the white lies family members and friends tell to each other, that you weren’t actually planning to ever come back, and that you didn’t think he would actually wait for you. Not for this long.

“W-what if I didn’t?” You manage to voice instead.

“But you did” He confirms back innocently, unaware of any of your racing thoughts.

“But what if I didn’t?” You ask again, this time more stern as an uncalled for frustration tangled its way into your tone.

Jungkook doesn’t respond, only staring at you with lost eyes conveying nothing but confusion because he was unable to comprehend what you were asking.

“I’m here to find a painting.” You announce stoically. “And I’ll be leaving first thing tomorrow morning.” You feel the air still, almost regretting sounding so harsh, but you needed him to realize that today was a mistake and you weren’t supposed to meet him again.

He wasn’t supposed to wait. 

“The one with a void?” He asks as he trails behind you up the stairs.

“Yes, the unfinished painting my mother left behind.” You reply, wondering if he knew where it was.

“I finished it,” He says, making you come to a halt.

“What?” You snap back. “Jungkook, you’re-“ You were about to scold him, but then realized he wouldn’t know not to mess with something that was clearly discarded at the time. “Nevermind, just tell me where it is.” You sigh.

Jungkook makes his way over to the corner by the window, bringing you the covered canvas that had been resting against the wall. You lift the edge of the covering, glancing to make sure it was the right painting, but not bothering to view the entire piece as your mind was too focused on how to get through the night and leave by dawn. Your mother didn’t have many days left, and you don’t want this trip to end up in vain.

“I’m going to sleep” You announce, before you had actually given the statement a reasonable thought. This was the part you hadn’t anticipated, the part about not having an actual bed or blanket to sleep on. The temperature was dropping as the night grew older, and although your car was an option, you will most definitely wake up sick the next morning unless you left the engine running, and you needed to conserve gas for the long drive tomorrow.  

“Here?” Jungkook murmurs, most likely recognizing your dilemma.

You mentally curse your forgetful mind for not planning this out thoroughly. Searching for a response, you hastily decide that you’ll just lie on the ground, catching a cold the next morning was inevitable at this point no matter what you did anyways.

You lay awake with your back towards Jungkook. You didn’t know if he normally spends his nights in your old abandoned home, but it was clear that he wasn’t leaving tonight. You close your eyes and try to lose yourself to slumber, but you can’t fall asleep, no matter how many sheep you attempt to count, and the fact that you were shivering did not aid the situation at all.

“Are you cold?” You hear his voice question from behind. So he hadn’t fallen asleep either. Does he even sleep anyways?

“I’m fine” You reply, curling up more tightly into a ball.

“You’re shivering,” He says back.

You hear a shift of movement and the light touch of his hot hand on your arm. You fight the urge to turn around immediately, wanting to leave the impression that you had moved on with your life and he was nothing but a past that you had long let go of.

“If you’re doing this because you are angry at me, I’m sorry,” He whispers, the words slicing into your heart like the edge of a blood stained sword. The reality of everything has always been impossible to ignore, but only now are you choosing to face it square on.

“Jungkook, you don’t have to apologize. If anything, it’s my fault.” You confess, biting your bottom lip to prevent the tears from spilling over. “I shouldn’t have made that promise to you. I shouldn’t have lied.”

“But you didn’t” He says rather emptily. “I chose to stay.”

“Jungkook” You repeat. “Human, remember?” You use the same words you did every time you had to remind him that your life was fragile and fleeting, in an attempt to show him that you could never be the one to stay by his side. Not for an eternity. “Do you not see how old and weak I’ve become?”

His grip on your arm loosens, and you feel his touch leave the surface of your skin. You think he’s realizing you’re not the same young lady he had known twenty years ago, and he’s finally planning on letting go of whatever thread he was gripping onto.

“The you that I see has never changed.” He murmurs.

You feel your heart stutter, harden façade breaking down before you even had a chance to call for reinforcement. Jungkook’s mind was always running faster than you could keep up with, much like the unremitting flow of time itself. His voice was sincere, just like it always was, a purity that no human could ever grasp entirely.

Finally giving in, you slowly turning to face him, who was lying closer to your trembling body than you had thought. Facing his untainted moonlit eyes, you momentarily get lost in them once again, sinking into the yearning of staying like this forever.

You scoot in closer as he reaches out to you once more, nuzzling your face into his warm chest. He wraps his strong arms around you just like he always did back then, the heat of his body wiping away every last goosebump on your matured skin. It felt just as good as it did ridiculous, knowing you had a husband and two children back at home, and yet no one in your life knew about Jungkook. It felt even more absurd to realize you were going to leave him forever once the sun rose tomorrow and yet you were still relishing in these last moments with him.

To say that you had never wished he were a human would be the biggest lie of the century. Truthfully you had wished upon many stars, gazed up at countless clear nights in hopes that some miracle would happen and that you could turn into a spirit too or if he could join you in your world, any scenario where you wouldn’t be separated by the deepest chasm between two domains of existence.

But that would never happen, and it took you years to finally accept the hard held truth.

“This is the last time. I don’t want to come back, and I never will” You say before finally drifting to sleep. You eyes don’t stay open long enough to hear his response, but you believe you’ve made yourself clear and pray that he trusts the lie you’ve forced yourself to tell.

 So the next morning, when the first signs of light filters through the dusty windows, you slip out of Jungkook’s arms, glancing at his peacefully sleeping form one final time. You almost want to touch his face, just to feel the heat of his being connect with yours one last time, but you hold back, grab the painting you had come to retrieve, and return to the life you were actually meant to live.

  …

  You don’t have the strength to stop the flooding of tears as you drive off, away from that place your heart is so reluctant to depart from. A part of you wants him to wake up and rush out to stop you from leaving, but it’s so outrageous you’re laughing in between your streaming tears. You’re thankful that your driving alone in your car because this way, no one can hear your ugly cries and you can let everything out before you’re back in the company of friends and family.

You make a promise to yourself that you will indeed never return to this home, knowing that going back would only strength Jungkook’s resolve to wait for you and cause all of your words to lose credibility. And because your word was the only foundation you had now, the only reliable bargain your powerless being has the ability to uphold, you bite back the urge to turn around and try your hardest to erase you memories of him, hoping with the permanent soaring of time that he will eventually do the same to you.

Making it back to the city by late afternoon, you bring the painting to the hospital the next day, entering the sterilized private room that you had been spending most of your time outside of work and family in. 

There’s a dragged out pause as you watch your mother uncovers the canvas she had wanted to see. The trembling of her tired eyes makes you wonder what on earth had filled the previous void, and you’re almost afraid she’ll be disappointed that it’s been ruined.

“Honey?” You hear your mother’s voice for one of the very last times.

“Yes mom?”

“Thank you. Thank you so much.” Her smile, although weak and expiring, speaks volumes of gratitude and peace. “I couldn’t have done a better job myself.”

You slowly walk over to her bedside, viewing the painting for the first time, not knowing what to expect. You vaguely recall what the unfinished product had looked like, the piece was originally a depiction of a meadow-like space, ordinary yet bizarre, a metaphor for that which is inexplicably ghostly yet physically tangible, but with a vacant, white spot in the middle, the precise part of it that had been left unfinished.

As your eyes land on the completed landscape, your breath catches in your throat, heart freezing in mid-beat. In place of the meadow’s void is a pink and blue flower, one that you are more than acquainted with, and one that does not perceptibly exist in this world except in the mind of its creator, representing an enduring beauty that the moon itself would shine towards for an eternity.

  …

  “And you never saw him again?” Your granddaughter’s despondent voice catches your attention as you finish your story, pulling you away from the dream-like world of your surprisingly vivid recollection.

Looking back down at her, you smile, unaware that a single tear has already escaped your eye. 

“Grandmama, why are you crying?” She questions, quickly reaching up and wiping the moisture from your aged cheek with her tender palm.

“I-I’m sorry” You apologize, not knowing what had gone over you. It had been years since you last visited that childhood home by the ocean, and you had long chosen to let that timeworn past fade away in your memory. But you can’t seem to completely forget about him, not until your memories are completely wiped clean at least. “I must just be getting overly sentimental.” You respond, delicately brushing it off out of habit, but your granddaughter’s inquisitive nature is hard to elude.

“Do you think he’s still waiting for you?” She suddenly asks, eyelashes battering slowly and watching the change in your expression ever so attentively.

It’s a question that you’ve always avoided asking yourself, one that you’ve continuously evaded throughout the countless years of your fading life. A subject of fictional uncertainly, which you’ve convinced yourself that you are partially unsure of where the answer lies, but even with the perennial passage of time and the everlasting cyclical turning of the seasons, somewhere deep in your heart you’ve always known.

“Perhaps. Perhaps, he still is.”

...

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