#we could of just stewed in the dirt forever but NO we had to go and invent shit

[loveindefinitely]

༊*·˚ FOREVER WINTER (IF YOU GO) — task force 141 x reader

11 — COME BACK TO REMIND ME OF WHO I WAS

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + (non-endgame phillip graves)

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, enemies to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, pricegaz, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence

series masterlist. read on ao3. read on wattpad. fanfic playlist.

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“I forgot how ugly he was.”

Price, beside you, raises a slightly bemused brow. Taking the binoculars from your easy grip, he too, examines the target standing on the mansion’s balcony. A cigar sits between Price’s lips, mirroring the less sophisticated Marlboro between the Lieutenant General’s.

The man, one of the few higher-ups you were somewhat close with, is a decorated Shadow Company leader. Known for his strategy and persuasion, he was always a good asset.

Shame he was always this side of too touchy, and a general ass to anyone who had a vagina. Or an inclination for the same sex.

Real pity that he’s the one with the information you need, and the one you can’t kill.

“You’re not wrong, darlin’,” Price murmurs under his breath, exhaling a puff of smoke as he slips the cigar from his mouth, the cherry burning in the dark of night.

Ghost, like usual, is found a few buildings down, sniper at the ready. Soap and Gaz were ordered to stay behind for this mission, much to their chagrin. It was the closest you’d seen Gaz fight with his Captain, and Soap was just being generally pouty.

Both you, and Price, had managed to reason that expertise in explosions and protection wasn’t exactly wanted for a quick get-and-grab.

And, maybe, a small part of you needs a break from the two Sergeants. Your night with Gaz has infected your mind, even now, the day after. And seeing him, with his bright smile and dimples and eyes made your heart skip a beat. Especially with how no one could know of your rendezvous, lest you be kicked out of the deal.

Or worse.

You swallow, once, accepting the binoculars once more when Price hands them back to you with another puff of his cigar. He’s surprisingly courteous about it, not blowing the smoke into your face.

“Lt, we have eyes on the target. Over,” you speak into your radio, eyes like a hawk as you watch the Lieutenant General shake off flakes from his cigarette over the pristine white railing. He’s shorter than most, especially considering his rank, and you can’t help a small, private smile growing on your face at that small fact.

“Been around bloody Johnny too much,” Ghost mutters, and you roll your eyes. “No hostiles spotted, you’re good to go.”

Rising into a crouch, Price gives you a curt nod, before gesturing for you to follow him. You do so with quiet movements, the only sound the barely there crunch of dirt underneath your boots.

Your previous Lieutenant General was always an uncomfortably wealthy man, and you see now what he’s chosen to do with such an abundance of money. He lives in an off-the-grid mansion, deep in the middle of nowhere, only hills and trees around him.

Those families in Las Almas, displaced and killed and ruined – they were entirely more deserving of just a fraction of this wealth. Your tongue feels coated with something sour.

Price smells like cinnamon and spice, even in his gear, and it’s a scent that settles in your belly like a warm stew. 

It’s rare, these days, to see daylight. All this recon work done well past midnight, hiding in the shadows and staying low. Not your favourite, but at the same time, it’s kind of… nice, doing this, just you and Price and the moon. No having to tiptoe around what to say around Gaz, or avoiding Soap’s innuendos.

If only it wasn’t for Ghost, too, watching over the two of you.

God, how you hated that man. His snarky comments, the roll of his eyes, his mask he refused to take off. And the way he almost looked down at you, questioned your authority, not unlike all the men you’d known. Worked alongside. Hated, too, in much the same vein.

You wonder, distantly, if he’ll ever come around. If there was at all a possibility of a civil interaction between you both, one that didn’t end in death threats or glares or passing out.

“Somethin’s on your mind.”

Head snapping up, you meet Price’s knowing blue eyes. Calculating, always aware, always ready for the worst case scenario.

“Not really, Cap,” you easily shake off in a whisper, continuing to follow him, until your backs are pressed against the beige, concrete wall. Your assault rifle is pulled to your chest, safety off.

The bandage on your cheek had been replaced just this afternoon, a soothing balm and fresh wrappings alleviating the growing itch that had been forming on your face. What was another scar, even? This one, at least, had somewhat of a neutral memory attached.

Ghost’s chest, his arms, a single threat turned into a promise.

You blink.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed if you underestimate our smarts,” Price says, low, under his breath. His words have you halting.

“Sir –”

“I know you’re used to bein’ the smartest kid in the regiment,” he continues, not unkindly, “But you’d do yourself well to remember that my boys are here for a reason, too. We know more than you give us credit for.”

His voice is deep, gruff, even in the low whisper he’s reduced to. 

A shiver erupts down your spine as you feel out where to start climbing the wall, trying not to look at the man next to you. His words – they hit a part of you that you don’t want to acknowledge.

“Never said you guys weren’t smart, Captain.”

“Actions speak louder than words, Colonel.”

You have nothing to say to that – an irony, all things considered. Instead, you jerk your head towards the bricks that’ll allow you both to scale the side of the mansion. With your gloves on, the two of you make it to the third floor, shuffling through an open window.

It’s pitch black, except for a lone light turned on in your target’s study, just down the hall.

The air is stale, stifling, potent with old filing and decade-old cologne. It has your throat feeling clogged, your eyes slightly glassy as you move towards the light, gun at the ready.

This is, you realise, the first time you’re working beside the Captain.

You’d worked in tandem, obviously, but never so closely knit like this. With him at your six, his body like a furnace when beside your own, it’s an entirely new dynamic. So different to that of his subordinates – more steady, controlled.

Ghost is silent over the radio, a small mercy, as you two find your way into the study, backs to the wall as you quickly clear the room. You never knew when a surprise could be awaiting you.

“Check the drawers, I’ll look through the shelves,” Price whispers, a direct command delivered in a raspy breath.

You nod, immediately transferring your gun to your back as you rush through the desk’s contents.

The room is dusty, obviously having seen little use in recent years, and the drawers are filled to the brim with knick knacks. Old paper clips, photos, receipts – everything, except for what you need.

“Got anything?” You find yourself asking, a harsh whisper in the still quiet of the room.

Price shakes his head, a stern movement, still searching through the shelves with a stealthy yet quickened pace. You focus back on the drawers, going through each one with efficient and expert ease. Some old gum packets, paper clips. Fuck.

Your heart pounds in your chest, your throat feels thick with dread.

The contract you were looking for – it could be the beginning of the end. You needed this like you needed air, right now, and if you didn’t find it –

“Darlin’,” Price calls, smooth but demanding. You instantly look up, drawn to the man like a moth to a flame. “We’re goin’ to find it. Stop thinkin’.”

It’s, obviously, easier said than done.

You appreciate his sentiment – the way he’s trying to guide you – but that sinking feeling of despair has you gripped in its tenuous claws; unrelenting and powerful and cruel. It feels as though everything is riding on this; like your very existence will disappear as soon as you find out the document has.

A hand on your shoulder startles you out of your thoughts.

It’s Price.

“You need to get your head in, Colonel,” he orders, his voice no longer patient or kind. This is the voice of a Captain. “I am not about to waste my time here if you can’t do your job.”

It’s exactly what you need, right now, and he knows it. You know it.

You take a breath.

And you nod.

He claps your shoulder, a firm glint in his eyes as he jerks his head towards the rest of the room. You’re running on a timer – your mini spiral an unnecessary hurdle. All you have to do is block off that side of your brain, and get the bloody job done.

Although Ghost is still silent as ever, you can feel his looming presence even without being at all in his line of sight.

It’s debilitating.

With more meticulous movements and keener eyes, you look through the drawers. Less desperate, more knowing, because if there’s any doubt that you won’t find it –

“Target is leaving the balcony – I’m ‘bout to lose sight on ‘im,” Ghost’s quick voice starts through your radio. The slight tone of worry has every inch of you on edge. Your wide eyes flicker to Price’s – whose jaw sets.

“Copy, Lieutenant,” Price murmurs, voice low.

The gun strapped to your back feels heavier than before, now, and your hand drifts to the pistol attached to your thigh. The same one that’s come in handy time and time again.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Footsteps – down the hall. Heading towards –

A hand on the scuff of your neck. A door being pulled open – pitch black.

Your heart thunders in your chest, Price’s hand pressed against your sternum, his chest against yours. The air is tight, and you’re cornered in a…

Closet.

Price pulled you into a closet – and now, you’re stuck with his thigh between yours and his arm outstretched above your head. You feel entirely weak before him, the Captain of the 141.

If it was at all in question, anymore, you would’ve considered that this would be the perfect time to kill you. To be rid of Grave’s right-hand woman, and to cut off any loose ends.

Instead, all you can feel is his warm breath against your forehead.

The footsteps pause, but the creak of the study’s door has your spine rigid all over again. Price presses in closer to you – and you don’t make a single movement. Don’t speak a single word, in case its very syllables are your undoing.

You can’t see, not in this speckled darkness, but price’s very existence feels so strong against your own that you can’t help but shudder a breath.

“Sir – You can’t possibly be serious. Use your damn brain.”

Your ex-Lieutenant General hisses into what you assume is his phone. And by his grating voice dripping with stress? There’s only one man on this Earth that he could be talking to.

Phillip Graves.

You can’t make out what your Commander says in response – not through the small, tinny voice of the phone, but you can pretty much guess his sentiment.

“Most of our men are gone! We can’t take down that bloody Task Force –” He hisses, his voice palpably furious. Without realising it, you find yourself curling in further to Price – his own head ducking down to shield you subconsciously.

The creak of the study’s floorboards, echoing under the weight of the man’s boots, makes your heart pound.

You feel not unlike a small child, hiding from their parents while the sound of yelling and smashing glasses echoes around the room. The long since buried memory of your father – before he left, before he broke your mother’s heart – of dark hair and angry, pulsing veins. The same veins you inherited.

The ones of which you wish you could carve out of your skin, just to watch the fury bleed out.

“Why the fuck is she so important? Good pussy or not –” Your heart, a thud, thud, thud, “ – She’s just a girl. She’s not worth it.”

Price’s hand tightens his hand, unconsciously clasping your throat like it’s a new necklace of yours. It’s oddly comforting, even if it threatens to block your airflow. His chin nearly rests atop your head, so close, but all you get is the waft of cigars and ink.

Graves must respond with something – something that the man just a few feet away from you does not appreciate.

“At this rate, the worst case scenario is that she finds out,” the man starts to pace, the rhythm of his footfalls matching the heaving rises of your chest, “And then what? Get your fucking head in, Commander.”

Your mind’s flooded with possibilities, what could possibly constitute the worst case scenario, when the next sentence shatters you entirely.

“She’s smart, Commander, and she’s gonna want to figure out the truth of dear old mum’s death soon. Don’t be idiotic.”

Silence.

Your ears ring – your throat closes, and your common sense crumbles at your feet. 

The next few moments happen in easy, recognisable steps.

One. You shove Price off of you – not in a way that’d cause him pain, but forceful enough that he can’t push back in time to stop you.

Two. You swing the closet door open, the light flooding your view, along with the large frame of the Lieutenant General.

Three. You slide your trusty pistol from your hollister, flick off the safety, and aim with a shaky grip.

And you shoot.

The bullet slices clean and true through the man’s forehead, blood instantly dripping between his eyes as he falls forward, body slumping, until the phone clatters to the carpet alongside him.

Price yells something. You can’t hear it past the ringing in your ears, the muffled sound that drifts between reality and thought.

Dropping to your knees, you clasp the phone in your grip, blood staining the face of it. You bring it to your ear, hand no longer shaking. Steady as a surgeon.

Graves says something, sounding desperate.

“When I kill you, Commander,” you rasp, and you think you can hear Ghost’s irritating voice through your radio, “I’ll do it the same way I plan to finish Shepherd.”

“You’re gonna regret –” Graves hisses, but all you do is pull the phone from your ear, and press the circular red button.

The line cuts.

A hand falls to your shoulder, shaking you, and it’s only then that the ringing stops, and all of your other senses fall back into place.

The hand moves to the hair at the base of your skull, Price fisting it and pulling your head back to face him. He looks… angry, but it’s softened, somehow, by the understanding in his blue eyes.

“You had one order, Darlin’,” he borderline growls, and your skin prickles, “Tell me what that was.”

A petulant child is what you are. How he’s treating you.

You answer anyway.

“Not to,” you swallow, throat dry, “Not to kill him. Captain, you have to –” His grip on your hair tightens, and your words stop short.

He shakes his head, eyes narrowing. “If you’re gonna let your feelings get in the way of our mission…”

Even though he doesn’t finish his sentence, you understand the meaning of it. You’re acting reckless, growing impatient – risking yourself and others over petty disputes.

Everything feels so difficult, right now, impossible to comprehend. Like your mind’s on auto-pilot, your body, too.

Price releases his grip from your hair, and you find your gaze moving to the body laid in front of you.

And…

A piece of paper – folded – has fallen just beside his jacket’s pocket. You lean forward, clasping it between your hands without a second thought, and open it up with careful movements.

With every word you read, your mouth falls open wider – until you find yourself standing on unsteady feet, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.

It’s.

“It’s not the contract,” you breathe, realising Price is just watching, waiting, looking out for you. You finally look up from the sheet. 

“It’s something better.”

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#🤍 : forever winter #⌨️ : love's writing #cod mw2 #ghost cod #cod x reader #ghost mw2 #john soap mactavish #mw2 #soap cod #tf141 #tf141 x reader #john price #kyle gaz garrick #captain price #price x reader #gaz x reader #soap x reader #ghost x reader #gaz garrick #cod #kyle garrick #gaz mw2 #gaz cod #soap x ghost #soapghost #call of duty x reader #task force 141 #task force 141 x reader #cod smut #simon riley x reader

[avenging-fandoms]

We need domestic life with Djarin and Grogu (Im still gonna call him Din , IDGAF)

**i deeply enjoyed writing this. i have never loved writing something more than this concept. ugh. maybe i let it go on longer than it had to, but din is my favorite ever.

-

You put the stew at a low heat and wiped your hands, heading out of the kitchen and outside of the cabin where your husband sat on his chair, his beskar in your room as he could finally enjoy the weather in his clothes.

"Grogu, enough with the frogs" he spoke to his son and you roll your eyes, sitting on Mando's right leg with your arms wrapped around his neck. His hand immediately found your back just above your butt.

"Oh, let him enjoy it, Din. How often does he get to play? Look, he's just spinning it slowly" you smile and push your fingers under his collar, inhaling sharply as you touch his back. Neither of you were used to this yet, but you loved every second.

"Din Grogu!" Mando yells and Grogu lowers his ears with a pout and drops the frog and you gasp, standing up immediately.

"How dare you!" you smile as you run to Grogu, sitting next to him and holding your hands out, and he immediately grabs onto your hands. You held him to your chest, rubbing the back of his furry head with your thumb. "He's so mean, isn't he?" you say in a soft baby voice and hold Grogu up on your knees, his teeth poking through his smile.

He coos and jumps next to you, making curious sounds as he looks into the water. “Would you like to get in, my sweet boy?”

He coos again. You smile and hold him under his armpits, dipping his feet in the cool water and he laughs. Din sat up with his elbows on his knees and fingers intertwined as he watched you two.

"Chilly, isn't it? Oh, the frogs are getting revenge, they're going to get your toes!" you giggle and he squeals as you stand up, Din smiling under his helmet. "Don't even look at that mean guy, I made you some stew" you hum and he purrs, nudging his head into you as you walk past Din.

"Flower, wait" he calls and stands up, looking at Grogu and sighing as his son had an angry look on his face. "I'm sorry I yelled, Din Grogu" Mando bowed and you smile, Grogu cooing and reaching for Din.

"Come on, let's go eat" you say in a whispered tone, leading the two inside and getting 3 bowls ready. Grogu sat in his own seat and slurped up his dinner, the both of you looking away as Din took a sip.

"You don't have to do that" you look back at him and smile, holding his hand.

"I have respected your helmet from the moment I met you, and I will forever honor your creed" you smile and he nods, your forehead bumping his Beskar forehead. “Is it good, sweet boy?”

Grogu dropped the bowl on the table with a stew mustache and you smile as Din chuckles. You finish and so does Din and he takes your bowls to wash them.

"Would you like to go watch the stars come out, my boy?" you ask Grogu and pick him up, Din watching your dress push against your body as you step into the breeze.

You walk a little away from the cabin and Mando stands on the porch. "Not too far, Yn" you roll your eyes and turn around, walking back to the cabin a bit and he nods. You turn and sit on the ground, wrapping Grogu in your shoulder wrap and he leans his head on your chest.

"Do you see them, Din Grogu? They're coming" you smile and hear the dirt and rocks underneath boots behind you. Din puts his legs next to yours, pulling you up into him and you laid back. "Aren't they beautiful, Djarin?"

He looked down, his hand rubbing over your hand that held Grogu. "So beautiful" he spoke softly and you look up at him, his helmet touching your forehead as you shut your eyes.

You pull away and lean your head back against him again as you all watch the stars. Your fingertips softly rub up and down Grogu's back softly as you hum a song you used to sing to the other younglings. Din rubbed your arm as he closed his eyes, remembering his first memories of this song.

You were singing to two younglings that night.

"Grogu's asleep, Flower. Let's take him inside" you smile and close your eyes, hanging your head over his arm. "You fell asleep so fast" he chuckles and wraps his right arm underneath your knees and left arm around your back.

You hold in a shriek but let out a giggle as Din stands. He carries both you and your child back into the cabin, setting you down outside of Grogu's room. You put him softly into his bed, kissing him goodnight and heading for your room.

You laid next to Din on the bed, where he sat up against the wall and ankles cross. You move your head into his lap and his ungloved hand holds your jaw, thumb rubbing over your lips. "How I wish to really kiss you, Flower"

You slap a hand over your eyes and laugh. "You must never show your face to another living life, but if I close my eyes I can't see you. Or, wrap something around my eyes"

"No" you peek through your fingers and he puts his hand over. You close your fingers again and halter your breathing once you hear the hiss of his helmet.

"Djarin.."

"Hm.. my flower" he sighs and ties something around your eyes and you immediately grab his face. His nose traced your jaw and kissed your skin, down your neck ever so slowly. He had been waiting for this day, and he was taking in every second.

Your body begged for more, hips pushing up and desperately grabbing at his clothes. "Kiss me, Din, please"

He smiles and brushes his lips against yours and you impatiently pull his head down. You couldn't stop moving your hands, wanting to rip the blindfold off.

"I will follow you until the stars explode, Flower" he whispers and you grip his hair, smiling before kissing him again. You took in every second before he pulled away and you heard the hiss.

You pout and take off the blindfold, Din's head tilted as he looks at you. "Can't you lift your helmet like you do to eat?"

He did, and it worked.

"Why haven't we thought of that before, Flower?"

"I don't know, but that helmet is going to stay like that forever"

He put it back on. "Not it won't, Flower. Get ready for bed, I'll join you soon" you nod and sit up, bumping your forehead with his helmet before getting off the bed.

You look back at Mando, who nodded his head, and you nodded back. It's every word you needed to say in just one gesture. He couldn't keep his eyes off of you, you were everything he dreamed of and he would hurt anyone if it meant saving you - and his son.

#din djarin #din dijarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin imagine #din djarin imagines #din djarin blurb #din djarin blurbs #din djarin fic #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin fluff #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian imagine #the mandalorian blurb #pedro pascal

[otteropera]

Protector (Jon Snow x Reader)

A/N - This doesn't really take place at any specific time in GOT, I kinda got the idea and went on a writing rampage all in one night lol. Its been almost two years since I've posted a fic on here, and I've found comfort in writing these silly little stories. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it :)

Warnings - violence, mentions of blood, attempted kidnapping(?)/adultnapping

Word count - 3.1k

My parents were almost assassinated in their sleep. I was only alive because of the guard who saw the assailant climbing up to my window. My father immediately demanded I go into hiding, and worked hard to find an able-bodied man he trusted to help me get somewhere safely.

The Starks of Winterfell had always been trusted by father, he’d known Eddard and Catelyn longer than I’d been alive. So it wasn't too much of a surprise when I found out who would be taking me to safety, and where I would be going. The journey from Barrowton to Winterfell is about eleven days, if you don't stop for any reason. If you do, then it's closer to fourteen. There are only a few inns and taverns on the way to Winterfell, and I’d only convinced Jon to stop at one of them.

The Riverside Inn was a small establishment in the middle of nowhere. There was a family that owned and ran it, who were very friendly to Jon Snow and I. We'd been on the road for the past few days and I was desperate to sit next to a warm fire and eat homemade stew, rather than biting off pieces of dried jerky and contemplating if my extremities had fallen off due to frostbite. The more we traveled, the farther north we were, and the colder it got. Jon had tied our horses up outside.

"Evenin' you two," the innkeeper smiled at us. The sun had just started settling below the trees. "What can I get ya?" His voice was brash, but welcoming.

"Two rooms and some food." Jon answered. "And whatever you've got that will keep us warm."

He chuckled. "I'll have your room ready right away. And what'll you have? Stew or soup?"

"Stew please," I said.

"Me as well."

He nodded. "You're lucky. It's really good tonight. I made it myself."

We both sat down at a table near the fireplace. It was nice to be sitting inside again. I took off my thick gloves and warmed my hands on the stones, I could have melted right there. I looked up at Jon who sat across from me, but his gaze was making its way around the room, like he was trying to study every inch, making sure it was safe. It was a quaint little inn, with wooden floors and furniture. A staircase led up to a lofted area, with a few doors that I assumed were the different bedrooms. The walls were decorated with tapestries and various antlers. The large hearth dominated the center of the common area. The innkeeper walked over with bowls of stew and some bread. The smell was heavenly, I had to hold back a smile on my face.

"How long has this place been here?" I asked the innkeeper. He put the food down in front of us as Jon fumbled in his pouch for some coins. He gave me a look that said 'Don't be too friendly, we don't know this man.'

"Oh, forever. This is my home," He laughed. "It's been here since before I was born. Me wife and son help run the place." He collected the coins from Jon. Thankfully, my fathers advisor had given us more than enough to get to Winterfell. The Innkeeper headed back to the front of the Inn.

I couldn't imagine it would ever get too busy here, we were in the middle of the woods, only a small dirt road led up to this place. I started digging into my stew, sopping up the bread with the hot liquid. I could eat this meal for the rest of my life. As I was shoveling scoops of stew into my mouth, I felt Jon staring at me. I looked up at him.

"What?" I asked, wiping my mouth.

"Nothing, My Lady," He shook his head. My stomach flipped. Gods, if he wasn't looking at me like that, this whole trip would be much less nerve-wracking.

"There's no need to call me that," I muttered.

He sighed. "Sorry."

"It's fine," I muttered, somehow even quieter.

He glanced at me. "Are you alright?"

I nodded. "Yes, why wouldn't I be?"

"Just checking."

He stared at me for another moment and then turned back to his stew. I ate quietly for a while, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the company of him. I devoured my stew, and finished the last piece of bread. I wiped my bowl clean with a crusty chunk of bread, and placed it on the table.

"That was delicious," I said, looking up at the Innkeeper. "Thank you."

"My pleasure." 

I noticed Jon looking at me again, trying to suppress a smile, or a laugh.

"What is it?" I asked incredulously.

"I've just never seen a Lady eat like that."

I rolled my eyes. I supposed I was being quite sloppy, but in my defense, we'd barely eaten all day. I was famished.

"Well, I'm glad you enjoyed it," I said, standing up, I grabbed my gloves and the pouch of coins Jon had set on the table and walked over to the Innkeeper.

"Excuse me, you wouldn't happen to have any horse feed, would you?" I asked. He turned around, eyebrows raised. "We're riding out tomorrow morning, and our horses are getting hungry."

He smiled. "Of course, I'll be right back." He ran off towards the back of the inn. I heard him rummaging through the shelves. He returned with a sack full of grain.

"Here you go," He handed the sack to me. "Is this enough?"

"It should be," I replied, taking the bag. "Thank you," I handed him coins, which he seemed surprised at.

"No problem," He grinned. "Enjoy the rest of your stay."

I smiled at him softly and headed out the front of the Inn. The snow was starting to layer the ground, it crunched beneath my feet. I heard the same crunching a few paces behind me. It was Jon, not letting me out of his sight. I huffed.

"Do you mind?" I asked, turning around.

"Not at all," He said. "I just don't want you walking alone."

"Why?" I asked, feeling slightly offended.

"I was told to bring you to Winterfell, unharmed. That's what I plan on doing."

I bit my tongue. "You can't protect me from everything, Jon."

"I can try."

I gave up on the back and forth as we approached the horses, holding the bag of grain up to them one at a time. They sniffed curiously at the bag.

"They're pretty well fed," I commented, "I don't think they'll starve."

"I hope not," He chuckled.

The sun had gone down almost entirely, the sky darkening quickly.

"I know it'll be safer for me elsewhere, but I miss my home already," I commented.

"I'm sure you do," his voice was soft. I glanced up at him and saw him looking back gingerly. "But it will be safe there."

"How do you know?" I whispered.

"Because I'm going with you."

Once we finished feeding the horses, we went back inside and flocked to the hearth, but the Innkeeper wasn't anywhere to be seen. We sat by the fire for a while, listening to the crackling flames and talking about nothing important. I found that my eyelids were growing heavier, the warmth from the fire practically lulling me to sleep.

"You should probably get some sleep," Jon insisted.

"You as well. I am tired," I agreed, yawning. I stood up and made my way up the staircase, Jon following me. The rooms were small, but Jon and I each had our own. That was the most important thing.

"Good night, My Lady," he said, trying to suppress a smile. I let out a dry laugh.

"Good night, Jon Snow." I closed the door behind me, finally alone for a moment. I tore off my boots and stripped out of my clothes, leaving only my underclothes, and crawled into bed. I pulled the furs up to my chin and laid there, closing my eyes. I could hear Jon moving around in the room next to mine, the walls so thin. I found it comforting for some reason.

I drifted off to sleep, thinking of home.

***

I'd never been a particularly light sleeper, but this was something different. I'd been a bit on edge during the journey, less so with Jon Snow accompanying me, but still. This was more than I'd ever experienced before. I woke up suddenly, hearing a noise outside the window. I looked over at the wall, seeing nothing unusual. I listened carefully, hearing the sound again. There was definitely something outside the window. I got out of bed and crept over to it, peering out cautiously.

There was a figure standing by the horses. It was hard to tell in the darkness, but it appeared to be a man. He was dressed in dark colors, and wore a hooded cloak, making it difficult to see his face, but I could tell he was staring straight at me. I held my breath, hoping he would leave soon.

He did not.

Instead, he began to walk towards the inn. I rushed as quickly as I could out of my room and one door over. I yanked it open.

"Jon-" I started, but the bed was empty. Was this the wrong room? No, I remembered hearing him last night before falling asleep. Before I had more time to think, a bag was thrusted over my head, and I felt a blade at my throat.

"Don't scream," A deep voice said. "Or I'll slit your throat."

I froze, terrified. The knife pressed against my neck was cold and sharp. I couldn't move, my heart racing wildly. His grip, wrapped around my shoulders, started forcing me down the steps. I would have tripped if he hadn't been holding me so tight. I tried to keep my breathing even, but my chest sputtered with every breath.

We reached the bottom of the stairs, and I was pushed forward through the common room, toward another pair of arms that grasped me. How many of them are there? Hands roughly grasped my wrists, securing them together with an itchy rope.

"Where is he?" One of the men demanded.

"We don't know sir."

"Well, bloody find him!" The man angrily demanded. I could feel his hands on my back, pushing me further along. I stumbled, and the man grabbed my arm tightly.

"Let go of me!" I yelled, struggling to free myself. "What do you want with me?"

"Shut up," The man growled, pulling me closer. "Keep walking."

I could tell we exited the Inn by the sudden drop in temperature and remembered I was still only in my underclothes, suddenly feeling exposed. It must have been snowing still because the cold powdery substance stuck to my feet and sent a chill up my spine. The man shoved me to the ground. I nearly face planted, but rolled onto my back. I wish I hadn't because the man put his foot down on my chest to keep me from getting away. He made it much harder to breathe. The bag over my head forced me to use other senses to interpret my surroundings, but all I heard was the crunching of snow beneath my feet. And then shouts coming from the Inn.

"Stop! Stop right there!" I recognized the voice as the Innkeeper's.

The man released his foot from me, and I rolled over onto my stomach, gasping for air. I tried to push myself up, but the man kicked me in the ribs. Hard.

"Stay down," He commanded.

I struggled to sit up, but the man kicked me again, this time in the stomach. I cried out in pain, collapsing back to the ground.

"I said stay down!" The man screamed.

I heard the commotion of the men battling with the innkeeper, and from the sounds of it, it wasn't going too well. I took advantage of their distraction and scrambled to my feet, bringing my tied hands to my head and ripping off the bag, running as fast as I could. I didn't get very far before I was tackled to the ground, the force of the impact knocking the wind out of me. I felt hands grabbing my arms and legs, pinning me to the ground. My vision blurred, and I couldn't focus.

"No," I gasped, trying desperately to pull away.

The man threw me to the side, and I landed hard on my shoulder. I grunted, wincing in pain.

"You're no good to us dead, girl." The man laughed. "So you better behave yourself." I lay on the ground, unable to move. No more than twenty feet away was the Inn, with the Innkeeper lying lifelessly on the ground. I could hear the sounds of fighting coming from inside. One of the men seemed to notice the commotion as well and headed inside. I tried to stand on my feet with what power I had left, but the man who tackled me to the ground took notice and slapped me across the face. I fell back into the snow. I could hardly breathe. I wanted to cry. I wanted to see my parents one last time.

Jon Snow came barreling out of the Inn. He was covered in blood. I could see the red splatter on his armor, and he looked furious. The man next to me looked terrified.

"Get away from her," Jon roared.

The man hesitated. He seemed unable to decide whether he should stick to his plan or save his life. He turned to run, but Jon caught him. He held him close, slamming his fist into the man's gut. The man doubled over and Jon punched him again, this time in the head. Hard. The man dropped to the ground, unconscious.

Jon stood catching his breath. His head turned to me and his eyes immediately softened. He knelt beside me, pulling apart the rope that tied my hands together.

"Are you okay?" Jon asked quickly, looking at me worriedly.

"I'm alive," I said shakily. He raised his hand and grazed where the man had slapped me. No doubt the skin was red, it felt tender.

"I'm so sorry. I heard them and went out to see what was going on but there were more than I expected and-"

"Jon," I cut off his rambling. His eyes locked with mine. "It's okay. I'm okay." I wrapped my arms around myself. The snow plus my lack of clothing wasn't helping. He immediately noticed this and took off his cloak, wrapping it around me. It was bloodied but I didn't care.

"Come on," He said, helping me to my feet. "We need to get out of here." He wrapped an arm around my waist, but I hissed at the contact. He'd touched where the man had kicked me.

"I'm sorry," he said with sad eyes.

He led me to the Inn door, which was now open. I could see the fight inside was over. I counted six men in total who laid lifeless on the floor. There was blood everywhere. I couldn't believe Jon had taken them all by himself. He helped me sit down next to the fire, which was now only embers.

"I'll grab your things." He swiftly went up the stairs and into the room I had slept in. I was thankful he didn't have me try to climb the stairs. He came back down after less than a minute with the rest of my clothes, my boots, and the small satchel I had brought with me. I started dressing myself back up, and I could tell Jon was unsure about trying to help me or not. 

“I-I’ll get the horses ready.” I almost groaned at the thought of riding a horse right now. Jon started making his way towards the door but stopped himself. “Are you alright? … Doing that?” It was almost funny to me, how he just murdered half a dozen folks with no problem but felt embarrassed asking me if I needed help getting dressed.

“Yes,” I replied quietly. He nodded curtly and was out the door. He came back after a minute or two, just as I was finishing lacing up my boots.

“The horse is ready, we should get going before anyone else shows up.” Jon held out his hand for me which I graciously took.

“Horse? As in one?” I asked, feeling a nervous pit in my stomach. 

“They um… killed the other ones.” My brows furrowed in confusion. Why would they kill the horses? So we couldn’t escape? Why didn’t they kill me either? They had plenty of chances to.

We walked out the front of the inn for the last time, and I took one last glance at the Innkeeper, who was splayed on the ground, his blood turning the snow red. The horse sighed as we walked over to it. I wondered if it knew that it almost lost its life. Jon got up onto the horse first and I felt my cheeks redden as I further realized our situation. It was a bit awkward trying to get my leg over it, trying to stifle my whimper from the injuries I was aggravating. Did Jon get hurt at all? Did he even have a scratch? If so, he sure was good at hiding it.

Jon reached down and gently grabbed my waist, pulling me close to him. I tried to ignore the way his hands graced my sides. He pulled me tight to his body and I felt the warmth of his chest even through his thick cloak. This saddle definitely wasn't made for two people.

"How are you always so warm?" I asked as he brought his arms around me to grab the reins on the horse. Jon chuckled, his mouth so close to my ear I could feel his warm breath. Goosebumps prickled up my back and down my arms. He whistled and the horse started clopping away from the Inn.

"Maybe you're always cold."

We fell into a comfortable silence, and I felt myself relaxing up against Jon more and more. He didn't seem to mind. This was probably the warmest I'd been while traveling yet. I won't complain.

"Thank you," I whispered, "you saved my life."

"You don't need to thank me, I did what any man would do."

"No, really," I insisted. "You risked your own life for me. You could've run off when you first saw them. You could've left me there."

"I wouldn't be able to live with myself if anything happened to you."

#jon snow #jon snow x reader #jon snow fanfiction #jon snow imagine #got fanfiction #game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones x reader #game of thrones imagine #asoif/got

[frodo-with-glasses]

More Reading Thoughts: The Field of Cormallen

And now, the comfort section of our hurt/comfort story

THE EAGLES ARE COMING! THE EAGLES ARE COMING!

Ooh, so interesting that when Sauron’s attention is turned away from his armies, they all falter. It’s like they’re all a little brainwashed and compelled outside their will.

Still love how poetically Tolkien describes a volcano erupting LOL

The response of the Men of Harad and Rhun is interesting. Some of them stand and fight, and it’s almost as if they have the same noble, against-all-odds courage that our heroes have all this time. Others run, and others throw down their weapons and ask for mercy. They’re not mindlessly terrified like the orcs and trolls, but try to do the smart and brave thing in their situation. I dunno. Kinda cool.

If Frodo and Sam hadn’t walked a little further down the mountain, Gwahir wouldn’t have found them; they would have been consumed by the fire. There’s something deep in there somewhere. Something about obedience making way for blessing.

And just in time, the Eagles bore them away…

AND THEN!! SAM WAKES UP!! IN ITHILIEN!!

And he thinks of the day he made that rabbit stew ;^;

AND THERE’S FRODO LYING NEXT TO HIM AND MISSING A FINGER

AND HE REALIZES IT WAS REAL

Wait, wait, wait, hold on—didn’t I say a long time ago that I headcanon Frodo as a side-sleeper?? Didn’t I draw him like that here and here???

IT HAPPENED AGAIN. I SUBCONSCIOUSLY REMEMBERED/ACCIDENTALLY PREDICTED THE BOOK AGAIN.

AND GANDALF IS BAAAAAAACK *happy crying*

“Gandalf! I thought you were dead! But then I thought I was dead myself. Is everything sad going to come untrue? What’s happened to the world?”

That line. That. Line. I can’t even begin to tell you how much that line has stuck with me throughout the years. One day death will be defeated, and everything sad will come untrue, and we will all rejoice in light and glory forever…

And Gandalf LAUGHS! And Sam CRIES! And then he LAUGHS TOO!

“How do I feel? Well, I don’t know how to say it. I feel, I feel—I feel like spring after winter, and sun on the leaves; and like trumpets and harps and all the songs I have ever heard!”

Aaaaahhhhh it’s so beautifulllll TTuTT You said it plenty well, Sam.

Also the fact that he waves his arms when he can’t figure out what to say. Sam is so heckin’ cute. I love him. X-3

And then Frodo wakes up and HE LAUGHS!! AAAAAHHHH!! All the sad things, all the sad things, all the sad things coming untrue!!

I can’t help but feel like Sam’s stomach must have dropped to hear Gandalf start off with “the fourteenth of the new year”. Like “HANG ON—I’m pretty sure it was MARCH when we made it to Mordor. How long were we out?!?”

AND THEN!!! THEY HAD!!! A BAAAATH!!

It was very glossed-over and only mentioned in passing but THEY HAD A BATH!!

I TOLD YOU BATHS WERE IMPORTANT IN THIS STORY

Can you imagine how good it must feel to HECKIN’ BATHE after weeks of dust and dryness and your own stench? No water, no water, no water, and then suddenly MORE WATER THAN YOU COULD ASK FOR. Sit in it and soak until your fingers and toes get all wrinkly amounts of water. And soap that smells sweet like flowers, and now YOU smell clean and sweet; and the dirt and dust comes out of your hair, and it goes from oily and crusty and heavy to light and fluffy and springy, and the curls pop up again like flowers that just received a spring rain; and your wounds are cleaned, and your skin is soft, and you feel fresh and rejuvenated and ALIVE AGAIN and UGH it’s so good.

I’m forcing myself to go slow here and take in the beautiful description of the land as we go. Just the way that the topography of the place gave Frodo and Sam some privacy as they recovered, while still being open and beautiful to look at, and also hid from sight the armies amassed on the other side of a corridor through the forest—it’s all so lovely and magical and ALIVE. I heckin’ love it when the trees make a “hallway” with walls of trunks and a roof of leaves, and this is the most brilliant usage of it that I think I’ve ever seen (aside from the Treebeard chapter).

AND THEY SEE ARAGORN ON THE THRONE AHAHAHA

AND HE SITS THEM ON THE THRONE IN HIS PLACE!! They must look so tiny and adorable on it oh my WORD—

AND SAM!! GETS TO HEAR!! SOMEONE TELL THEIR STORY!! JUST LIKE HE ALWAYS WANTED! GOODBYE I AM GOING TO C R Y—

And now Frodo and Sam get to change into something nicer, good.

It’s interesting to see the hard line Frodo takes about being a pacifist now. I wonder what’s his thought process there…

And they get little crowns ;u; aaaaahhhh I’m gonna have so much fun drawing this—

Pippin being a self-satisfied little snot as usual ahahaha I love him X’-D

And now they get to sit and talk and catch up with their friends. Aaaahhh, it’s so cozy and nice ☺️

I love how Sam is most befuddled out of everything by Merry and Pippin’s heights, LOL! He’s just a simple lad at heart, after all, and sometimes it’s the closest things to home that are the most amazing and confusing.

Sam: “Can’t understand it at your age! But there it is: you’re three inches taller than you ought to be, or I’m a dwarf.” Gimli: “That you certainly are not.” 🤣🤣🤣

In which Gimli continues to be the Mom Friend. His whole speech to Pippin sounds strangely reminiscent of the “I was in labor with you for TWELVE HOURS” guilt trip that moms use on their kids.

In which Legolas details his career plans and then randomly bursts into song

Samwise Gamgee, who just helped to save the world: “Dang, wish I could’ve seen more oliphaunts.”

#frodo baggins #samwise gamgee #gandalf #aragorn #peregrin took #pippin #gimli #legolas #lord of the rings #lotr #my writing #assorted thoughts

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Hue and Cry II

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape; abuse of power, threats, chase.

This is dark!medieval!Bucky Barnes x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: You find a place to hide for the time being.

Note: Got this done quickly and was surprised with myself. Gearing up to go back to work tomorrow. I’ll try to catch up on responses after work and check in with y’all.

Thanks to everyone and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

You didn’t stop running until the dawn. You didn’t head for the village as you knew that would be the first place the lord and his party would look. You kept to the forest despite the howls and the hoots of unseen creatures. You stopped to bury your cap and apron under an overturned trunk. If it was known that Barnes was searching out a servant, it would be better to be less obvious.

As the horizon turned to a soft amber, you found an overhang and nestled into the small nook. You turned your back to the bitter morning air and tried to sleep. If you kept going, you would only pass out in the open. Your slumber was shallow and fitful. You were stiff as you woke up just after noon and climbed out of the cranny.

You feasted on nuts and berries gathered along your clueless path, eating as the twigs and branches pulled at your skirts. You weren’t sure where you were or where you were going. You could be out of the county or you could be five minutes from the castle. For your luck, you could have just gone in circles.

The second night you found a cave and slept there instead of pressing on through the dark. You were itchy from a brush with poison ivy and your feet throbbed from the endless trek. You got a few hours under your eyelids before you emerged and carried on.

What were you doing? Where were you going? If you did manage to evade the wrathful lord, what then? Knock on the doors of another castle and barter an apron with your fingernails dirty and your face wind burned?

The third night saw your stomach squeezing painfully as you failed to catch a rabbit and drank from a river eagerly. You slept between two broken logs and woke to the sound of hooves. You didn’t move as you listened to the voices. None were familiar and the only prey they spoke of was some doe they sighted moments ago.

“Nolan spooked the creature just behind the hill, my lord, if we hook around the lea, we might catch it by the stream,” a man said.

“I’d rather the stag. He must be close,” a deeper timbre replied, “you and Nolan take your course and I’ll search these grounds for the mate. Whistle if you sight our game.”

“Yes, my lord,” the other responded and the horses cantered away.

You stayed as you were as you heard the remaining man dismount and tramp over the carpet of leaves. You rolled onto your stomach and wriggled away from the noise and kicked yourself out from between the logs. You kept on your knees as you crawled around the other side and headed for the nearest tree.

His footsteps softened and you kept on, hoping your dirty dress helped you blend into the wild. You pushed yourself behind a trunk and pressed your back to the bark. If you sprinted out, he might just think you another frightened creature. If he sought a stag, he would be uninterested.

You nodded and readied for your flight. You took a breath and yelped as suddenly a figure appeared before you.

“I thought I heard a rustle,” the man said as he looked down at you. He was a lord, you could tell by the pin at the nape of his cape, “you look to be lost, my lady.”

“My lord,” you stood and bowed your head, “I only wandered too far. I can find my way back.”

“Way back where?” his hands went to his hips, “you look as if you have been wandering for a time.”

“I only tumbled and mussed myself,” you lied, “my lord, my apologies, I did not realise this forest was noble land.”

“It is easy to break the threshold of the common lands and the noble sprawl. It would be quicker on horseback to reunite you with your home, would it not?”

“I am grateful for such generosity but I would be remiss to accept, I might go on my way and--”

“Where do you hail from, lady?” he squinted.

“The village over yonder,” you pointed away from him, “it was a game and I did go too far.”

“And the village you speak of? What is it’s name?” he asked.

“Ildersin,” you uttered, one of the three nearest villages to the castle you knew.

“Ildersin? That is far and beyond my holdings,” he tilted your head, “one cannot wander there in less than a day so I warn you now to be honest or I would have your tongue out with hot pincers.”

You gulped and looked away from him. He stepped closer and caught your wrist.

“I could chase you down easy on my horse’s back, trample you into the mud, so answer me now or I will take you to the stocks,” he snarled.

“My father,” you said, “my father, he does beat me and I waited until he was abed to leave but I lost the bundle I did prepare for the escape. You see, my spare clothing and my food… I only did want to be upon my own and toil for one who does not lash me.”

He breathed through his nostrils as his thumb brushed the stitching along your cuff. He dropped your arm and his jaw ticked. His blond lashes flicked and he considered you and the dirt as one.

“You seek work?” he asked, “and asylum from your violent father?”

“Yes, my lord, er,” you blinked innocently, “I know not where I’ve found myself but I would serve you loyal if you would keep me from the stocks.”

“You can hold a broom? Empty a pot?” he asked.

“I can,” you assured, “my lord.”

“You have good manners for a farm maid,” he mused, “I might find a place for you in my kitchens.”

“My lord? You might direct me to the nearest village so I might find labour there, instead, I would not presume to further tax--”

“My castle is big enough, another hand would be more help than a burden,” he stepped back and waved you around the tree, “I will accompany you back to my keep and return to fetch my men… you look to have been out here long enough.”

“Truly, my lord, I--” you saw his impatience in the vein along his forehead and bowed your head, “I am most grateful.”

“Let us be off or my men might be lost without me,” he said.

He lifted you onto his horse and climbed up behind you. You’d never been astride with a man against you, it was awkward and crowded. He snapped the reins and the horse fell into step. He steered it away from your hiding place.

“Might I ask where I am, my lord?” you ventured.

“This is Astrens,” his voice rumbled through you, “And I am its lord, Duke Steven Rogers.”

Your heart sank as you recognised his name and your mistake. He wasn’t easily known with his beard, newly grown since his last visit to the Lord Barnes’ hold. He was of the few who were granted company with the miserly lord of the castle but there was a chance yet he did not know you. You were after all, only a servant.

🏰

Lord Rogers handed you over to his steward. You were reassured as you were given a cap, apron, and a new dress. You washed out of a basin and reported for your new duties.

It might just be far enough away that you wouldn’t have to worry about Barnes. He never went far from his estate and Astrens was out of the way of the capital. Even if it didn’t work, it gave you time to plot a real departure.

You were sent to the laundries to sweat over boiling cauldrons as you stirred the linens with a large stick. The steams seeped through your clothing and left you out of breath as you wrung out the sheets. You hung them outside along the line and helped beat out the old woven rugs.

After nights in the forest, your first day felt far from a return to normalcy. You were in a new place, you had new duties, and you didn’t know anyone in the castle. You’d worked in Lord Barnes’ manor since his father was still alive and you were only a kid. It was only a few years before Barnes took over but you remember it being much easy to ingratiate yourself to the staff.

You were shuffled onto a feather mattress in the servants’ quarters with three others. The snoring, snorting, and coughing kept you awake and you missed the chirp of crickets and scratching of critters. You woke more tired than any night spent among the trees and went back to the laundries.

Your days took on this pattern, sleep, eat, work, and do it all over again. You were forgotten among the other servants and it really seemed like you might just be able to hide among them forever. 

Nearly a week into your time as Astrens and the castle blustered to a storm. All the drapes were to be taken down, beat, and washed, and all beds were to be stripped and redressed. Servants littered the corridors scrubbing, sweeping, and running from chamber to chamber. When you asked what the occasion was, the response was vague. Lord Rogers is hosting a guest.

You weren’t used to the rush. Visitors were rare at the other castle and rarely were they accommodated so wholly. If they had a place to rest their head and fill their stomach, Barnes felt they could not gripe. Even his greetings were not required on such an occasion.

You helped with the scourging and scouring of the linens and the drapes. You worked so hard you didn’t even have the energy to gulp down the lumpy stew allotted to the servants. You fell into the heap of your bedmates into dreams laced with your own snores. You dreamt of the forest and the sound of hooves.

Another early morning and the gears began to grind once more. Darcy sent you away from the laundries to help refresh the rushes in the entrance hall with several others. You scattered herbs over the grand carpet that displayed scenes of hunting through the seasons. 

You wondered if perhaps Rogers was to be betrothed at last, the news of his first wife’s passing had sent many into gossip even before she was buried. Or maybe the king would make progress to the ancient grounds of the historic castle. You let your mind wander as your body was led by habit.

You heard the rolling of the carriage and the clip clop of horses. You followed several other servants as the tall doors were opened and you peered out into the yard at the party. You backed away as Lord Rogers emerged from the archway that led to the spiraling stairs and crossed the carpet. You could hardly hide your curiosity as you reluctantly followed the other servants. It would be unseemly to remain as Rogers welcomed his guests.

“James!” Rogers’ voice boomed and you stopped just outside the chamber as you looked down the stairs that led to the servants quarters, “it has been too long.”

“It has,” Lord Barnes’ responded and your eyes went wide as Deandra hissed for you to go. You couldn’t move as you listened and she abandoned you with a flutter of her fingers, “you know my father only ever called me James.”

“Ah, Buck, I’m kidding,” Rogers chuckled, “it is a pleasure to have you drag yourself from your hermitage.”

“You would make me regret it already,” the other lord chirped, “but the king did request my presence at the tournament and he did not allow for refusal. I’d prefer to travel with a friend, my only friend.”

“Oh, the sentiment, Lord Barnes,” Rogers preened dryly.

“I don’t know if I should be able to wait to tussle until the tourney,” Barnes jibed, “oh, this old place, has it been so long?”

You shoved yourself away from the door and clamoured down the stairs. You nearly tumbled down the last few and caught yourself on the wall. You sidled past Agnes and towards the laundries. Harriet called after you as you passed and rushed out the doors past the muddy puddles of dirty water and hanging sheets.

The grass was slick beneath your shoes as you raced for the stables. You only needed to hide there for a time and sneak out before they closed the gates. You didn’t make it past the first stall before you heard the steel whine. You turned as Lester greeted you with the tip of his sword.

“The master has been searching for you,” the toothy guard smirked, “oh and what a reward I shall have for bringing him a prize of his own.”

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #hue and cry #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #dark fic #dark!fic #fic #series #miniseries #medieval au #au #medieval!au #mcu #marvel #winter soldier #captain america

[forever-rogue]

Okay (maybe cos I’m a clean freak) but imagine cleaning dins armour after all that guck! Like he’s in the shower trying to get it out of his hair and he trusts you to help clean it but it’s taking forever and it’s late. He insists he can do it in the morning but you just want to do something nice for him. You guys stay in opposites of the crest cos his helmet is being cleaned but he’s looking at you afar and thanking the universe that he has you 🥺✨

This got soft, but I hope you enjoy! I also realized I read this prompt a little wrong but its still more or less the same 🥺💕

Also! Slight S2 E1 spoilers. Very minor but you've been warned!

The Mandalorian Masterlist

»»————-　♡　————-««

"You are filthy!" you proclaimed as soon as the Mandalorian was within eyesight. Before you can say anything else, the little one is running up to you, coming as quickly as his little legs will allow. Swooping down, you scooped him into your arms, but much to your dismay, he was just as filthy as the Mandalorian.

"Rough....day," he said quickly, unsure if whether mission, day, week, month, or year was the most adequate conclusion. You groaned slightly when you saw his normally pristine Beskar covered in dirt and...some sort of goo you weren't going to question.

"And you stink," your nose crinkled when a got a waft of his stench. Groaning slightly, you lifted the small green bean and gave him the once over, noting that he was in no better shape.

"Really rough day," he said with a tilt of his helmet and a light shrug of his shoulders. You'd spent almost the entirety of the last year with him and you'd gotten adept at reading his body language. You were positive there was an almost sheepish expression on his face - one that matched the expression of his son.

"Oh Din," you sighed lightly before handing off the Child back to him, "I just cleaned everything. But I suppose, honestly, that none of that matters. What matters is that the two of you are safe."

"Yes," he agreed as you started to walk off, the two of them following closely behind. The Mandalorian's stomach grumbled loudly as soon as he smelled the delicious stew you had simmering in the kitchen. A warmth spread throughout his body, and he was glad for the Beskar armor covering his body. Otherwise you might see his flushed cheeks, "I-"

"Any troopers?"

"No."

"Droids?"

"No."

"Ewoks? Jawas? Moon wolves?"

"No, no, and no," he said as you turned on your heel, arms crossed over your chest as you studied him. Despite him looning over you, clad in all of his armor, you were the one making him nervous. He was sure it wasn't just anger or annoyance in your eyes, but something else...was that concern in your eyes? Worry?

"Then what the hell happened?!"

"Krayt Dragon...?" it came out almost as a question as your mouth dropped open, your eyes widening in shock at his confusion. You looked between him and the lightly cooing child, trying to figure out in the hell they survived.

"What in the kriffing heavens!" your voice was sharp and high pitched, reverbing off of the metal walls of the Crest, "a Krayt Dragon! That's insane! And you brought the baby! You didn't think to come back and give him to me?! What if something happened to him, or you, you big dunce!"

"It all happened so fast," he held his hand up defensively as you poked at his chest. He backed up a few steps as the child laughed in amusement, "a-and it was fine. All fine..."

"You could have been killed, you tin can! Is there anything in your head or is that beskar too? And the baby! What about him?" you weren't mad at him per se, but you were worried. A millions thoughts ran through your head as you realized all the things that could have gone wrong. One slightly different move and they could both be dead. Sometimes you wondered if Din was aware of his own mortality.

"But we're okay," he said softly as if that was going to stop all your worries, "safe and sound."

"Judging by the state of both of you," you raised an eyebrow as you pointed between them, "you came close to being very not okay. I hope at least it was worth it."

"We helped the village," he admitted as you nodded sharply, "but nom Mandalorian. Although I found some Armour."

"Well, I suppose that's a start," you said as he nodded in agreement, "now, go and take off the beskar, shower and put on clean clothes. The stew will be ready by the time you're adequate to rejoin less smelly society."

"I-"

"Its not open for discussion," you crossed your arms over your chest, "and give the bean a bath too. Leave his dirty clothes with yours."

"I-"

"Now," you insisted firmly and with that, the Mandalorian decided not to argue. Among many things, he was a fool, but he also knew better than to argue with you.

»»————-　♡　————-««

When he stepped out of the refresher, the lights throughout the Crest were off, save for the lights in the kitchen. He called your name softly but no response met his ears. He exchanged a quick glance with the Child before going around and looking for you.

At first he was worried when he didn't see you, but his fears were quickly alleviated when he heard soft singing from your quarters.

He poked his head inside and before he could say anything, you turned and offered him a soft smile. That's when he saw what you were doing - cleaning and polishing each piece of his beskar, one by one.

"Take off your helmet and leave it outside the door. I left it dark so I wouldn't see you. Go on and eat, and I'll leave it back outside the door for when you're done," you told him softly as you finished with another of his pauldrons. He made a small in the back of his throat as he felt his stomach do somersaults.

"What are you doing?" his voice cracked as he set the little one down. He immediately waddled over to you, plopping down at your feet.

"What does it look, tin can?" you teased, "go on and do as I say. Everything will be clean and ready for you soon. The clothes are drying."

"W-why?" he asked softly as you laughed at him, "you didn't have to..."

"I know," you acknowledged, "but I wanted to do this. Its okay to let others help sometimes. For once, let me take care of you."

"Okay," Din's voice cracked as he nodded, his heart melting at your words. Your gentle smile caused his heart to thump rapid, "I'll go...and leave it here."

"You can trust me," you promised, "go on and eat. I'll be done soon."

"Thank you," he almost whispered as he moved out of the doorway and started to pull off the helmet. You listened to the soft clank as a smile crossed your features. Knowing he trusted you was everything. There was a pause for a moment before his voice reached you again, this time soft and unfiltered, "cyare?"

"Yes?"

"I..." he trailed off a second and you just listened to his soft breathing.

"I know," you said after a few moments of gentle silence, "now go on eat! Rest now."

"Of course," he agreed as he started to pad away. Under his breath he whispered to himself, "anything for you."

#din djarin #din djarin x reader #the Mandalorian #the Mandalorian x reader #star wars #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader

[fascination-street-writing]

Somewhere to Begin | Pannacotta Fugo x Ghirga!Reader

He has always adored you, like the sun and the moon and more - but he had a brilliant way of convincing you otherwise.

- 200 Follower Giveaway Piece iii for @idontlikerisottounlessitsnero​ -

Content Warnings: Not SFW Content, Post Break-Up, Emotional Hurt & Comfort, Regret, & Explicit Sexual Content (Aged-Up Characters)

You had promised your brother Narancia to never involve yourself directly with Passione; even the occasional stay for a meal at Il Libeccio made him antsy, yet you failed to see the harm in sharing a plate of bruschetta with Fugo, or a pot of hot tea with Abbacchio – two of his closest companions. It was only fair that you ought to spend time with the men who gave you unbridled protection at the behest of nothing more than goodwill and magnanimity. Not that you needed such security, but it kept street thieves from picking your pockets, at least.

You had promised him indeed, and now that he lies in the casket before you – clad in the suit from your mother’s funeral that you never thought to see him wear again – you intend to keep it. Giorno had offered to have an outfit tailored for your brother, but you refused him with consternation that your he would not be buried in something from the boy responsible for his death.

“No,” you had told him, cold as the wall of ice that has crept around your heart, while clutching the woolly material to your chest. “This one will do nicely.”

And so, the mortician severed the seam along the back of the jacket and draped a silk sheet over Narancia’s legs so that no one would be wiser to fact that his ankles stick out past the bottom hem of his trousers. It was bad enough that you could not afford the casket on your own. You knew better than to believe it when Mista told you that it and the headstone were paid for with the money yielded from the liquidation of Bucciarati’s assets. If that were true, then why not pay for a new suit, too?

Trish snatches a single white lily from the memorial wreath and tucks it between your brother’s still, clasped fingers. She hides her grief behind a pair of sunglasses that do not match the overcast weather that looms above your heads. You had not wanted to wait so long for the funeral – for two months, Narancia’s body had been left in the morgue to chill on ice, par Giorno’s insistence that the service must wait until his transfer of power over Passione has finished.

Thus, for two months, you had lain awake at night, shuddering at the melancholy and its melody that reminds you how you your brother died without saying farewell – his platonic little soulmate. Giorno may have his victories and suffer for them, but you would not let him entomb Narancia in the mausoleum with Bucciarati and Abbacchio.

“He’ll be buried next to our mother,” you said to the new Don with indignancy. “After everything you’ve taken from me, let me have this. Lascia che mio fratello torni a casa – let my brother come home.”

Your wish was granted, though you suspect it only so because he was growing tired of fighting with you over burial rights and passages. The congregation is kept small, consisting only of yourself, Mista, Trish, a tortoise named Jean-Pierre Polnareff, regrettably Giorno, and a handful of bodyguards, though the latter kept their distance from the immediate service; it would not come as a surprise to you, should you learn that the men in black suits were employed to protect their Don from the mournful sister of the deceased.

The handkerchief clutched in your grasp is damp with past tears. Not even your father had come, despite your pleading that he ought to pay his respects to his only son. Too preoccupied with his floozy of a new wife and her children from two previous marriages than to love his own – you never needed him in your life anyways, because you had Bucciarati. Now, you suppose that you must be a proper orphan.

You do not weep when the casket seals and cleaves the line of sight betwixt you and your brother forever. You do not weep when the mechanical apparatus lowers the coffer made of Osage orange wood into the steel vault that already holds your mother in oak. You do not weep when the gravediggers shovel the dirt mound back over the crest of opened earth.

You do not weep until Mista clasps your trembling hand, pulls you to his chest, and embraces you amidst the anguish that burns you alive. His is the consolation that you needed, but never thought to ask for, though it is not his touch that you long for. One by one, the attendees disperse for the train of luxury cars and you remain alone with the gunslinger who had been courteous enough to come without his oddly patterned beanie hat.

“Why don’t we get going?” Mista urges to coax you away from the gravesite – away from yourself and the suffocating agony. “Giorno’s having dinner for us all, back at the estate.”

You pull away. Rivets of mascara stain his white dress-shirt. “You can go on ahead,” you tell him, not quite liking the way your voice strains in your throat. “I’m not hungry.”

“Then, let’s go grab some coffee or something –”

“I’m fine, Mista.” He frowns and averts his gaze. “I have some things I need to take care of.”

“Oh?”

You tug your cardigan closer to your chest. “I’m going to collect Narancia’s belongings from our dad’s house. Not sure what I’ll do with it all, but I know it can’t stay there.”

Mementos of life, from when things were far simpler and your brother far more alive. Family photographs with tattered edges and holes of where your father should have been, wedged between unread and abused schoolbooks. Worn out blue jeans with patches of fabric scraps from your mother’s old dresses that you had sewn on for him. A collection of empty glass soda bottles. CDs and cassette tapes of Snoop Dog, Tupac, and whatever other American rappers had appealed to his tastes.

“Alright, I guess. Promise me you’ll call when you get there.”

Soon to be packed away in cardboard boxes and to be stacked precariously in the living room of your studio apartment – another gift from Bucciarati – with nowhere else to go. You simply cannot afford to rent a storage unit downtown.

“I will.”

Mista does not offer to help, because he knows you will refuse it. With that, he takes his leave of you in the cemetery. Left to your solitary devices, you clench your fists and stew on hatred and loathing for none other than Giorno Giovanna. You do not blame Narancia for his eagerness to trust the boy so quickly; his charisma, as appealing as it entreats to the willing, is an infectious disease.

If not for Giorno, your brother would have been buried two months ago. If not for Giorno, your brother might still be alive. And perhaps you must resent Fugo too, for what he has done – or rather, the lack thereof of doing; yet for everything, you are incapable of such feelings, as you have always been fond of each other. The optimistic heart within you stands that he has saved you from suffering more – that in his choice to stay behind in Venezia, it only meant you would not have to bury him, too.

Because surely, his unrestrained anger would have gotten him killed – if not before, then certainly after Narancia’s death.

With a quivering sigh, you turn from this dreary place and meet his illegible violet stare. A row of crackling headstones separates you from the boy whom you love more than life itself. Fugo clutches a pretty bouquet of daffodils wrapped with parchment paper and a white-string bow – your favorite flowers, though you wonder whether they are meant for you or your brother’s fresh grave.

You do not know, nor will you ever, as he sets the flowers atop the nearest monument and makes off, as if on sabbatical to you.

And it fills you with nothing more than bitterness.

“Everyone misses you,” Mista confesses between a sip of tea and a bite of strawberry cake. “You should come around sometime soon.”

Nearly a year has passed since the funeral, and you have yet grace anyone from Passione with your presence, with the exception of Mista for weekly sojourns to Il Libeccio to catch up on life – because, as you have learned, much can happen in seven days’ time. With each occasion of crossing the archway’s threshold into the private dining room at the back of the restaurant, you find yourself preening for two heads of black hair – one neatly combed and clipped, the other a sprawl held in place with an orange headband –, taut lips painted in black, and Fugo. And every time, you are left with the kind of disappointment that curdles your soul like sour milk.

“Who misses me, Mista?” you reprimand, pointing your icing-lacquered fork in his direction. “I barely even know Trish, and I have no interest in ever speaking with Don Giovanna again.”

You wish Giorno would call off the bodyguard who trails you every waking hour of the day; it makes you feel like a child who has proven herself untrustworthy to her parent. But you have done nothing deserving of such punishment. You suspect that his intent is an extension of the olive branch treaty that does not exist between you two – a reiteration of Bucciarati’s protection that should not have to be reiterated, because he should not be dead, either.

Or, alternatively, he wants to irk you so far that you might barge into his office one day – fuming with unspent determination to admonish him regarding his dominion over your life – just to trap you in a conversation wherein he might attempt to suspend your animosity towards him. Alas, you are simply not interested; you will scorn him, because it is all you can do.

“Forget I asked . . .” Mista trails off, swirling a dollop of whipped cream with his knife. “So uh, by the way, have you seen Fugo lately?”

Just the utterance of his name has you perking in your seat.

“No.”

“Hm, well, rumor has it, he’s working at the public library. Shaking people down for late fees or something like that.” It is not implausible to imagine Fugo in the position of extorting old ladies and young children for overdue fines – but, you know that it is only a jest. Regardless, he has always been the type of boy to surround himself with books instead of people. “Why not visit him sometime? He’s not affiliated with Passione anymore. Or, not now, at least.”

You stab at a strawberry. It bleeds beneath the weight of your fork.

“I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?”

Mista’s question is one that you ought to be asking yourself, as you sit here at the scratched pine desk of the library – pretending to study for an upcoming exam on the history of art in Pompeii – though you look up from your scrawl of notes every few minutes to see if Fugo should pass you by; perhaps pushing a cart of books to be put away, or branding return cards with a plush red stamp to mark the date in two weeks’ time.

You have seen him only once more since his implied attempt of reconciliation at your brother’s funeral. It was by chance that you should wander into the same café as him that day; and by extended odds that – while you stood over his table with a sad smile and a cup of coffee – he stood abruptly and left without finishing his own drink. He had not even bothered to wish you well.

Today, you catch him on your way to the reference section. The look of hurt in his eyes – like salt instead of sugar on the tongue – brings a scowl to your face. “Please, Panni,” you plead, and though your fingers ache to catch his hand with your own, you refrain for you know the gesture is a crossing of the line between you two. “Can’t we just talk?”

“No,” he says, so dry and unrecognizable. “I’m not getting paid to do that. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Panni, I – Please, don’t do this. I already lost my brother: don’t make me lose you, too.”

A fuse switches in his head, and you have been the one to flip it. He clutches the encyclopedia in his hands with such fervor that his knuckles pale, and for a moment, you wonder if he means to hit you with it. And maybe he thinks it too, but he drops it atop the ground as soon as the thought crosses his mind. He takes a step back, as if you have scorned him – maybe, after all, you have.

The cover spills open, and the pages bend against the hardwood floor. You wish he would do the same to you – to disclose his grievances and let you in. Instead, it is the toxicity of acrimony “Don’t ever come near me again,” Fugo warns. “Haven’t you realized by now that I never want to see you again? Get out of my life – get out of my dreams – and leave me alone.”

You will save the tears for when you stand in front of the bathroom mirror tonight before bed to wash away your makeup from the day, amongst other regrets. But you will never understand the guilt that suffocates him – a noose that is just taut enough to keep him breathing – each time he looks at you, and even when he does not. You are everything he has ever wanted and more.

And you are the emblem of everything he has ever done wrong.

“I still care about you,” you tell him with an affirmation that will not fix the desolation. “Doesn’t that mean anything?”

He bites his lip and looks away.

“I know you’re hurting. I am too. So, can’t we heal together?”

“Are you stupid?” You grimace at his words. “I told you to go.”

There is no chance to dispute it, nor to bid him an aggrieved adieu, because he is gone again. Burying him might have been easier, after all; a corpse cannot remind you of what a fool you have become.

And so it seems to you that dying dreams are the best ones.

Adulthood is – as you have found in your years of treading its waters – a dreadful inevitability. You and your brother’s boxes have outgrown that compact studio apartment, though for years, you had made it work perfectly fine. When Giorno pulled the strings to terminate your lease and forcefully relocate you into a sizeable townhouse in the Chiaia district, you wanted to hate him for it – for his reminder that you cannot sever your connection to Passione. Yet, boggled down with university loans, you were in no position to turn down his assistance.

And he knew it, well.

A pretty townhouse located in one of the nicest regions of Napoli cannot bring Narancia back, nor can it attune for every bit of suffering incurred since his death; but if it is a strain upon the aging Don’s wallet, then it is all the better.

On the day of your fourth birthday spent in solitude, you treat yourself to a tub of gelato and a dress from the costly boutique across the street that you will never wear because you have no need to. It will hang in your closest amongst other unworn gowns, still pinched with price tags, that you have impulsively accumulated over the years – a hereditary habit of your mother’s that had caused more than a few spats between she and your father. You know your vice, but there is something so gratifying about it.

You sink into the tweed couch that does not quite match the architect’s vision for the living room – with its crown-mould white walls and hardwood floors the color of wenge; too clean and proper for what furniture you have kept from your former residence. Silver spoon clenched between your teeth as you page through television channel after channel, you balance that melting gelato on your lap. Perhaps you should have grabbed a straw from the kitchen as well.

The evening passes by, uneventfully so. You have spent it spoiling yourself and replying with fabricated enthusiasm to incoming text messages from study mates, who wish you well on this happy day – as if you have a reason to remember your twenty-first beyond the accomplishment of finishing the entire tub of would-be-frozen lemon curd without incurring a single regret or twinge a of brain-freeze. You have gotten rather good at knocking back shots without needing to stop for breaths, too.

At the ringing of the doorbell, you are torn from the real estate program that you have invested so much time these past few hours. Mista, no doubt – come to deliver a gift and takeout because he knows you have not eaten properly tonight. You have no room left in your belly, but whatever he brings will make for a decent meal tomorrow.

You do not bother to tidy up, and when you open the door, you wish you had. Illuminated only by the balcony light stands Fugo with a bouquet of daffodils, a bottle of sauvignon blanc, and a remorseful, sheepish smile upon his handsome face.

Get out of my life – get out of my dreams – and leave me alone.

“Uh . . . “ He trails off before he has even begun, perhaps taken aback by the widening of your eyes and the disheveled appearance that, despite your own judgement, he thinks to be the most beautiful vulnerability in life. He speaks your name with the kind of tenderness that you have not felt since you were teenagers. “Buon compleanno.”

You need not ask how he found you, because you know without question that either Mista or Giorno had told him. “Why are you here?” you ask.

He clutches the flowers a bit tighter. You do not move to take them; however, you have already decided on which vase you will place them in. “I wanted to wish you a happy birthday. And give you these.”

The bottle of wine feels far too heavy in your arms – and the daffodils, as if they might float off in an unforeseen gust of wind. “And, to apologize. For too many things that I can’t ever make right; although, if you’ll let me, I’d like to try.”

“Fugo, I . . . I don’t know.”

“Please, [Y/N]. That day in the library, all those years ago . . . I never stop thinking about the horrible things I said to you. It killed me – it ate me alive; I thought for all this time and before that you hated me, because of what happened to Narancia. Because I wasn’t there to save him.”

“It hurt when you told me to get out of your life, but I listened, and I did it.”

He brings the heel of his hand to swipe at the tears in his eyes. The curling of his other fist is a gesture that terrifies you – although, not for your own sake. “I couldn’t face you. I was scared to look you in the eye, because I thought you hated me,” he mutters like a broken record as his voice cracks with agony. “I thought you hated me, because of him.”

He stops, throwing his head back with a groan. The apple of his throat bobs up and down as he chokes down a sob. He refuses to look at you when he speaks again – too afraid to come undone before he has made his peace with you, his greatest loss. “We were young. Probably too young to even understand what love really meant. But, dio dannazione, you were the most important thing to me, and I understood that more than love.”

His words have always held the capacity for swaying you, as if they replenish the empty spaces within. It is why, as you open the door wider, you let him fill you once again. Fugo contemplates the crannies of your living room, hovering above the couch that you insisted he take a seat upon – he remembers when you bought it, because you had dragged him to the furniture outlet that day. He pretended to be annoyed, though in truth, he was beyond elated that you had chosen him over Mista, or even your brother.

“I guess I should put these in a vase,” you say about the bouquet of flowers. “They’re beautiful, Fugo. Thank you.”

He nods, suddenly entranced by a photograph of Narancia that sits atop the fireplace mantel. You do not notice his unease.

“I’ll grab us some glasses, too.”

You find your vase in the kitchen cabinet niched into the alcove above the refrigerator. Its emerald swirls glisten under the twine of the recessed lights that add no character to the room. So much for a birthday spent in reclusion, you chide alone. Deep within you sits a fire that longs to ignite – to send Fugo away in some thwarted act of retribution for the very loneliness he inflicted upon you years ago; as if to say that the rejection suits you well.

Of course, you cannot deny that your heart leapt into your throat when you saw him standing before the front door, a vision of a man who still held those inklings of boyish charm that you fell for in your adolescence. They say you should not dote over the first person beyond your mother and father to call you pretty; it is weakness to complacency. Your life has never been one of convention – and so by that right, who there is to insist that you must abide?

Bearing a content grin, you trim the stems one-by-one to better fit the vase. In synchronous rhythm to the next, the green stalks bounce from the cluttered countertop to the floor. You have only just stuffed the flowers back into the vase when the shattering of glass resonates its way into the kitchen.

The photograph of Narancia lies amongst bits of broken frame and wreckage. Face buried in his palms, Fugo crumples until his knees meet the ground; he shakes, as if smothered by a chill. When his hands fall to smack the coffee table – baring his grief, in all its pandemonium – you catch them and force his arms around your waist instead; his fingers lock together, holding you in place. He whimpers against your stomach. Already, you can feel the wetness of tears through the fabric of your overstretched shirt.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry, [Y/N]. I’m sorry.”

Your own fingers curl through his strawberry blonde hair – a means of stability as you too have begun to cry. “It’s just a picture frame,” you promise, and it is the grandest thing he has ever heard. But it is more than a box made of wood and glass – it is an impossible longing. “I’m not upset at you.”

“I . . . Okay.”

Mindful of the mess, you rock him backwards until he is lying down. You join at his side, take his hand into your own, and wait in silence for the moment when his misery will dissipate for clarity. Regardless of the circumstances that have brought him here tonight, you are grateful for it – even if your birthday is spent wallowing in irrevocable regret.

Above all else, you know that he has always adored you, like the sun and moon and more – but he had a brilliant way of convincing you otherwise.

Your thumb coaxes over the back of his knuckles. “There’s a crack in your ceiling,” Fugo announces, nonchalant and monotone.

“Where? I don’t see one.”

He raises an unoccupied finger, and you follow its gesture to the corner of the ceiling, just above where the moulding meets. It is no longer than the length of hair from his head, and quite honestly, not an underlying issue of foundational complications. Still, you indulge him. “Oh, wow. I never noticed.”

In this hasty repertoire of patterns, you fall into stillness again. “Panni,” you whisper with the utterance of his endearing name. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He squeezes your hand.

“But it’s getting late. Why don’t you stay the night?”

Truthfully so, you cannot send him on his way in such a state of disarray.

“I can make up the couch for you, if you’d like.”

“Yes, please,” he murmurs.

However, you do not make it far because he has – inspired by a need to express his devotion and apologia – pulled you atop himself, hands braced on your hips as you balance on bent knees and grasp his shoulders. Tenderness is becoming of the boy – no, the man – who looks up at you as if you are the embodiment of everything good that exists in one life to the next. It is a side that he has never shown to anyone other than you.

You covet it like a piece of cherry-flavored candy, even when you lean down to capture his lips and nip at his tongue that likewise explores the long-forgotten caverns of your mouth. It is a distraction of meaning and not; from the broken frame, loss, and perhaps everything in between. Every attempt to catch a breath of air is met with resilient protests of needier touches and not before long, you lie on the couch – shedding your clothing like the skin of the woman you no longer wish to be – and let him in.

Bare chest to bare chest, you cup his hardness as he places his fingers to your untouched folds. You mean to tell him that you love him, but the penetration of unpracticed digits to your core stifles the very thought from your scattering mind. In dark closets and empty rooms, you two have had your share of imprudent experimentation with one another’s bodies in the past – and nothing more than warm, tentative touches that lead to girlish giggles and boyish huffs.

Fugo pinches your nipple, drawing a plush gasp from you; it urges him to do it again until at last you are throbbing with need from your lower half, your pelvis jerking upwards to meet his for the stimulation of wanting. His breath ghosts your face, and you think you smell wine – a drink for good luck, you think, because despite the distress manifesting in his soul, his mannerisms are otherwise as habitual as you might recall from moments of normalcy.

It feels wrong – to be filled with such wanton, salacious desire within the very hour that you have both spent in mourning of your brother and everything else that has been discarded to the wind, to be picked up by someone else. Yet tonight, you will not sleep with Fugo to forget your blue heart, nor for celebration’s sake as you embark upon another year of being – you will sleep with him, because you have grown tired of learning how to end your days without him.

“I haven’t . . .” You trail off, mesmerized by the way his violet eyes look at you; though puffy and stained red from crying, you take them in as he cocks a brow, imploring you to finish your thought. “I haven’t been with anyone else since you.”

“Good,” he sighs, and you think he is trying to hide a smile. “Me neither.”

Braced by his arms, you are flipped onto your stomach. The tweed upholstery bites into the soft flesh of your breasts with each jostle elicited by the curling of a finger within you. You push backwards until you swear you can feel his fingers against your cervix.

“Oh my god,” he groans, flexing out as if to move deeper. “Ti senti così bene.”

“If it feels good, then do something,” you whine, hands dug between the cushions for support.

But, to your chagrin, he takes his time to admire the way your folds pulsate around just two fingers. You glisten like a gem – his gem. Indignant with petty annoyance, you pull away and straddle the lithe, albeit toned, legs that dangle off the edge of the couch. Arms thrown around his neck, you sink down until you have reached your fill of his manhood.

“I did tell you to do something,” you sigh at Fugo’s displeasure, biting your lip as you adjust to the size of his shaft. “Didn’t I?”

He kisses you once and moves grasp your backend. You savor the feeling of him ingulfing you. “I was distracted.”

You would laugh if not for the anticipated bulging inside you as Fugo buckles into your heat. The sight of your jostling breasts with each bounce of you on his cock is a page of some heavenly doctrine – one that he should study and commit to forever. He moves with strength that he reserves for moments of rage, and even his fingers dig into your skin hard enough to leave bruises for the days to come. You do not mind; they will help you to remember the best night you have had in years.

With a cry that blossoms into a moan that tells him that he has treated you well, you ride out your orgasm and slump against his chest in your own exhaustion. When he reaches his peak, he slides out; you reach for him – dampened with your slick – and finish him until white pearls bead at the tip and trickle over your working fingers.

Foreheads pressed together, you flash tired grins before settling against the cushions, your head pressed to his chest and his arm braced around the small of your back while his fingers trace shapes against your perspired skin.

Panting, his heart skips every few beats – like a song, sung only for you. Content with that which has returned itself to you, you fall asleep to the sound of this lovely little love affair.

| 4966 Words |

#pannacotta fugo x reader #fugo x reader #pannacotta fugo #jjba reader insert #jjba x reader

[ohheyitsokay]

echolo-kissing

Pairing: Francisco Morales (Frankie/Catfish) x reader

Wordcount: 1.5k

Warnings: none, shared sleeping space, cuddles, kisses, fluff

Summary: a few adventures of camping with Frankie

Notes: this was (apparently?) Heavily inspired by @scribbledghost I’m begging you, please go check out her fic “Winderness” with Catfish (I swear I didn’t mean to make this in such a similar vein but apparently that fic lives in my subconscious rent free?)

>>

“Baby, what if we just lived in the woods forever?” Frankie was more than half serious.

The two of you were laying in a small tent, cover off so the sun was poking through the holes in the mosquito net. Nearby, a brook was babbling and a breeze floated through the greenery. There was one large sleeping bag and a blanket which cushioned your backs against the hard ground of the campsite Frankie had chosen. You only had a few hours before you’d have to get your fire started, but after the day of backpacking and setting up camp you both were happy to rest for a few moments.

You looked over at him, adoringly, having had versions of this conversation most of your relationship.

“Counter offer,” you said, as joking as he was not. “We have a normal home, with a very large yard.”

He looked so sad you almost wondered if he was exaggerating his pain to make you bend.

“Okay, what about … a camper, long term?” he said, his tone confirming your theory. “I can roll around in the dirt, and then you can still make me take a shower!” he grinned winningly, as though this was a very generous proposal.

You laughed. Frankie was like the sun, bathing you in warmth.

“Maybe a country home, with a promise that do this often?”

He rolled, pulling himself so he was more or less on top of you. His hat bumped your forehead, and he removed it so he could lean in close and kiss you properly.

“A cabin in the woods,” he said, his face still close to yours, his eyes absolutely filled with joy. “Final offer.”

“Deal,” you said, and you knew he was as perfectly happy as you were.

The two of you kissed twice more before he sighed, pulling himself to a kneeling position. His hand fit into yours before he stood, pulling you to your feet in front of him. Frankie’s head was smashed against the top of the tent, making it bump out. The curls on his head, already unruly, were quickly becoming frizzy from the material, and it made your heart feel full.

He grabbed his hat again, and tugged you out of the tent, zipping it up behind you.

There was a rhythm to your actions, both of you knew what to do. This was only your third camping trip this summer, and you’d been together a couple more months than that, but you were already familiar with each other’s minds. There were unspoken words to this, the same ones that found their home under your conversation about future homes. You were it, for each other.

You organized and sorted his supplies and fishing gear, making sure he’d know where to find it in the cold, early hours of the morning. You tucked one of his favorite jackets nearby, too. He made sure to pack your favorite snacks and put them in the tree bags so the bears would leave them alone. As he made his was back, you were beginning to clear a space for your fire, and you remembered something.

“Frankie, did you set aside the bag I made for dinner tonight or is it up in the tree already?” You didn’t look up; you knew his footsteps.

“I have it right here,” he said, settling next to you and contributing a pile of dry branches from his free arm. The other set the correctly labeled sack next to you, and you gave your thanks.

“What’s in there, anyway, junebug? It was heavier than you normally pack,” his brown eyes were curious, but he didn’t investigate on his own, much to your relief.

“Just normal dinner stuff,” you said, kissing his cheek as you reached behind him to get the pan you’d brought. “And I have a surprise for after.”

In that moment you could’ve sworn Frankie’s eyes were filled with stars.

“S'mores?” he said, equally hopeful and reverent. You just smiled at him and went back to your task.

You loved these trips. When Francisco Morales was able to escape into the woods and he was at peace, able to be more himself than in the rest of the world, unless he was flying.

He talked happily, telling you stories, and sharing rare glances into his past. You began to cook for the both of you, content to listen and let him do other, more tedious tasks.

After mixing various things and waiting awhile, you refilled one of the jars you’d emptied with stew, and he took it with a thanks, fishing out your little sets of utensils. Before he was halfway done with his portion, you noticed him pause, looking at his makeshift bowl and then towards the bag by your side.

“You want to know how much room you should save,” you said, not really asking. He looked a little bit guilty, and you took pity on him. The sweet pilot would never pressure you, but he always did hate secrets.

You poured out the remaining contents of the dinner bag on the ground where he could see.

“Ta-da!” It was a can of apple pie filling, a tiny Tupperware of butter, and some slices of bread.

Looking up at your love, proud of your surprise, you found him in a state of bewilderment and mild betrayal. You laughed, fumbling around in your backpack until you pulled out what looked like a large, strange pair of tongs. Instead if grabbers on the end, there was a shallow bowl on each side, aligned so they would make a pocket when closed.

“Does this help?” you asked, handing it to him to examine.

In all your years of friendship and months of dating, you weren’t sure you’d ever seen Frankie look so confused.

“It’s for making campfire pies,” you said, taking the device back from him. “See? I’ll butter both of the insides of the bowls, put one piece of bread in each, and then fill it!” you demonstrated, and then closed it, the two halves pressing together. The corners fell off and the edges sealed together, and you handing him the whole thing to toast over the fire. “Just rotate it for a few minutes and I promise it will be magical.” He did as you bid, the excitement overriding his initial shock.

As you promised, the pocket pie was wonderful, crunchy and buttery on the outside and soft and sweet on the inside. Frankie forgave you for the lack of s'mores after his first bite.

The evening wore on, and the of you were fools in love. You talked and laughed and for the first time in awhile, the rest of the world spun on without you. He pulled you close to his side, talking into your hair, and you cuddled into his chest.

When you began to yawn, you split up to clean, and get ready to head to bed. Maybe soon you’d stay out later under the stars but neither of you were in a hurry. The few days you had felt heavy with potential, like you could stretch them into eternity.

Frankie came into the tent after you, patting around in the darkness so he didn’t smush you.

“Junebug?” his voice was quiet, but filled with love.

“Here,” you responded, tone matching his. You felt him move closer before a kiss planted itself on the outside corner of you eye. You laughed, the sound making the tiny tent feel like a home.

“I missed, didn’t I?” Frankie’s voice was bashful this time.

“Yeah,” you said, before you felt another kiss on your nostril. You squeaked.

“Here, let me,” you said, hand finding his chest, floating in the darkness above you. You leaned up, only for your forehead to hit something hard.

You both made pained noises and pulled back.

“Okay wait,” you said and he stilled. You made little kissing noises with your mouth, puckering your lips. His laughter filled the moment as much as yours had before, but it didn’t take long before his mouth found yours. Finally, you were back in sync with each other. You sighed, and he deepened the kiss, lowering himself into the blankets.

“I love you,” he whispered, and you repeated it back to him, meaning every word. He kissed you one last time before he settled fully, pulling your body into his as much as he could. Your head found its place over his heart and you tossed one of your legs over his. His arms were wrapped around you, hands rubbing gently as the two of you listened to the sounds of wild life.

There was an owl nearby, and you were thankful it was something you could identify. You listened to its calls before you heart some thing else above you.

Frankie was making tiny kissing noises.

You knew he could feel your laughter more than hear it, but you leaned up anyway. Your lips met his, first try.

Taglist (??):

@fangirl-316

#francisco morales #francisco morales x reader #francisco morales x you #frankie x you #triple frontier #lowkey based on a true story #maybe i don't know people

[cicada-bones]

The Warrior and the Wildfire

Chapter 2: Foreboding

Im hoping to get a bunch of updates out before i have to get back to school - So here we go! Second chapter already! This one is a little short, but it was the only place that made sense to end it, so I hope you will forgive me. 

word count: 2885

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

There was once a male gifted by Hellas. He was born into nothing, was born into dirt and ash and squalor. He ate when he was hungry, took what he wanted, fought, stole, and whored.

Until a queen of darkness found him.

She raised him up from the slums, and turned him into a weapon of war. He gave up everything to serve her, pledged himself to her always. Even loved her.

She scorned him, but the male endured it. For he would lay down his life for her, had already given her his freedom. And what was his dignity by comparison?

The years passed, and time started to become meaningless. Courts rose and fell, warriors grew into power and others’ names were lost to time. The male built a company of soldiers to rival any throughout the land. They suffered loss, betrayal, and battles too numerous to count. But they stood strong through it all.

Until a princess of fire sailed in from across the sea, and stole his brother away.

Now his queen was lost, was blinded by her own desire for power. And for the first time in his long life, the male was unsure of the way.

A choice lay before him, two paths diverged. And time was running short for the decision to be made.

The male closed his eyes, letting his tense shoulders drop.

Both roads were fraught with darkness and difficulty. One would take him across the sea, and label him a betrayer, an oath-breaker. The other would chain him in place, to a throne whose foundation he was worried had already begun to crack. One would take him from his queen forever, but might save her from herself. The other would allow him to stay by her side, but only to watch as her greed slowly destroyed her.

One breath in, one breath out. Slow and even.

Lorcan Salvaterre opened his eyes to examine the golden ring in his palm, those two paths appearing before him, closer than ever.

And he had no more idea of his decision than he had from the beginning.

His feet shifted on the floor, rasping slightly on the stone. The sound was quiet, but it was just enough to cause his queen, asleep across the room, to stir.

Lorcan’s breath caught in his throat.

The moment stretched, twisting and pulling under the pressure. And he knew that his time had come.

But which? Which? Which?

The bedcovers ruffled, a slow sigh escaping his queen’s pink lips. Her face was clear, relaxed. And she was just as beautiful as the first moment he had beheld her. A dark majesty, like black cliffs of stone overlooking the sea, like the violence of dark water tossing itself at their feet.

Lorcan breathed deep, closing the golden ring in his fist.

And he darted from his queen’s chamber, slipping into a run. The fastest of his life.

···

Rowan lifted a spoonful of stew, then let it drip back into the wooden bowl, its soft trickling echoing between his ears.  

He had been sitting in the kitchens for what felt like hours, but by the movements of the sun, it couldn’t have been more than a quarter–, or maybe half an hour. If he was being generous. And he was not in a particularly generous mood.

Rowan was exhausted.

Not, in-need-of-a-few-hours-sleep-and-then-he-would-be-fine exhausted. More fall-asleep-standing-up exhausted. Sleep-for-three-days-straight exhausted. And it was only made worse by the fact that he knew he wouldn’t be sleeping well anytime soon.

Today had been a quarry day, and after his morning run, Rowan had spent hours under the baking Wendlyn sun, slowly coaxing rock from the earth. His magic had helped, as with it, he could make blades of ice to cut into the stone, shaping it like clay. It was far quicker, but it was just as exhausting as doing it the normal way, with arms and back and legs.

It had gotten to the point that Rowan was desperately catching minutes of rest here and there, lying awake for hours begging for sleep to come. But the nightmares just wouldn’t leave him be. And both the source of all the trouble and its only antidote was now over a month away. Even if he left that very moment.

He was too tired to even be properly angry with her.

Rowan raised the stew to his lips, swallowing the mouthful somewhat gingerly. It had gone cold. He just sighed, and swallowed another.

It had now been ten days and over two hours since he had last seen Aelin.

Luca rushed into the kitchen, knocking over a chair and causing Rowan to slosh soup all over the wooden table. The boy just grabbed something from the storage area beneath the sinks, and then rushed right out again. Rowan frowned at him.

It took him quite a bit longer than he would’ve ever been willing to admit, but eventually he realized that Emrys, who was scrubbing the stove clean at the other side of the room, was smothering a fit of laughter at his expense. And failing.

Rowan’s frown deepened as he wiped up the mess. Emrys started laughing even louder.

At least the room was nearly empty.

But honestly, he was past caring.

Rowan was patting at his damp shirt when Emrys walked over to him, bearing a washcloth and a fresh bowl of stew, steaming slightly in the light from the open door.

“Here,” he said, already walking back over to the stove. Rowan held in a sigh as he mopped himself up, then gratefully started spooning the warm stew into his mouth.

Rowan and Emrys were the only two people remaining in the kitchen. Now that the rainy season was over, Emrys’ evening storytelling was getting more and more rare. Demi-Fae now spent their evenings out of doors, taking walks through the woods and eating below the stars.

Though he didn’t miss the wet weather, Rowan couldn’t say that he didn’t miss the evenings spent with everyone sprawled in front of the hearth, listening and laughing and crying as Emrys spun his tales. It reminded him of listening to his mother, curled up next to her in bed. The sound of her voice lulling him to sleep.

Something he desperately needed now.

A clatter sounded from the front of the room, startling Rowan from his trance. It was only Emrys, who had now moved on to the dishes, and had dropped a bowl when moving them to their cabinet to be ready for breakfast in the morning.

Once again, the old male didn’t miss Rowan’s reaction. But he didn’t say anything, instead moving to wipe down the counters and tabletops. Another moment passed while Rowan finished his stew, then stood to wash his bowl and put it away with the others.

But Rowan knew Emrys’ silence wasn’t going to last.

And sure enough, just as Rowan put the bowl in the cupboard, the old male spoke up.

“Luca told me he liked training with you the other day.”

The statement was tentative, probing. Rowan didn’t say anything.

Emrys pursed his lips, even as he continued rifling in the store cupboard for some hard-to-reach item. Another breath, then, “He said that you talked about Bas.”

Still, Rowan kept silent.

Emrys sighed. “In the weeks after the battle, Luca…” he trailed off, eyeing the bags of potatoes and onions he was supposed to be counting. “He retreated into himself. He wouldn’t talk to us, to me or Malakai. I know that we aren’t his parents, that we have no right to him. But Luca doesn’t have anyone else. His mortal parents abandoned him, and he never knew his Fae parentage…” he trailed off again.

Rowan found himself nodding to fill the silence. “You care for him,” he said softly. “Anyone could see that.”

Emrys’ eyes met his for a moment, then turned back to the potatoes. “He has become a part of our family. And to have him hide from us in that way…it was hard.”

Rowan nodded again, his brow furrowing as his thoughts began to twist. Where was Emrys going with this?

The male seemed to rally himself. “So I need to know, what happened to Bas? Was – was he really the one who betrayed us to the soldiers?”

Rowan frowned. “Luca didn’t say?”

Emrys scowled. “You weren’t here for those weeks after the battle, you didn’t see. At first, the whole fortress was in chaos, so wrapped up in healing and recovery and relief. And you – you had other things you were paying more attention to.”

Rowan’s face twisted in acknowledgement. He wasn’t sure he’d spent more than five minutes away from Aelin that week.

Emrys continued. “But then, once everything began to calm, Luca went silent. He wouldn’t eat, wasn’t sleeping. Eventually he just came back, like nothing had happened. But it was too delicate. We were afraid to ask him, to push it.”

Rowan nodded. Emrys looked at him expectantly. “What happened to him?”

Rowan steadied himself, then began to explain. By the time he was done, Emrys’ eyes were lined with silver.

“So he killed him?” the male’s voice was soft, heartbroken.

Rowan nodded, and Emrys turned back to the onions and potatoes, cutting off the growths that had sprouted, and tossing away those that looked close to rot. Distracting himself.

“To think, a few months ago I never would’ve thought that I would see you so calm.” Emrys said, almost sardonically. “The state that girl was in this spring – and you two fighting like alley cats. Always at each other’s throats.”

He stood, hauling the discarded vegetables to the compost heap, and moved on to the case of fresher vegetables that had been carted in a few days ago from a nearby farm. “And yet by the end, I thought you two inseparable.”

Rowan averted his gaze just as Emrys glanced up, his eyes sharp. Rowan knew that there was a question there, one that he had no intention of answering.

Emrys voiced it anyways. “And when do you think we will be seeing her again?”

Rowan gritted his teeth. Emrys seemed to sense an uphill battle.

“I – I need to know that she is alright. That she’s going to be alright.”

“No one can know that.”

Emrys frowned. “What will she be facing in Adarlan? Does she seek to confront the king – ”

Rowan cut him off. “Elentiya, has not shared her plans with me. Nor would she have a reason to. I serve another. She is on her own.”

Emrys’ face tightened, but he took it with grace. They were silent for another long moment, or at least until Emrys began tossing sweet peas and lettuce and leeks into a pile, murmuring about old greens and dishonest farmers.

But before Rowan could escape back to his rooms, to see if perhaps he could finally get some rest, Emrys stopped him once again. “In that case, how long do you think you will be with us, Prince?”

Rowan sighed, stalling in the doorway. He’d been avoiding this question too. “I’m not sure.”

Emrys raised his eyebrows. “Won’t your queen be summoning you soon? Now that your training with the girl is done?”

Rowan gritted his teeth. He couldn’t say anything to the old male, no matter how trustworthy he might seem. “Our Queen has ordered me to stay and assist with the repairs around the fortress, and I will stay until she orders me otherwise.”

“And you have no idea when that will be?”

“None.”

“So…” Emrys started, “While you are here…would you consider training Luca?”

Now it was Rowan’s turn to scowl. He should have known that this was where Emrys was heading. And for some reason, the offer set a wave of melancholy though him. Strong enough to take him by surprise.

“I know that the boy is not up to your standard, but when he came back from his run with you yesterday – he was different. Lighter.” When Rowan didn’t say anything, Emrys continued. “You helped him.”

Rowan shook his head, “I didn’t do anything that anybody couldn’t have.”

“Maybe so, but – ” Emrys dusted off his pant legs, making to stand. "You’ve made yourself one of the finest instructors I’ve ever seen come through here. You made that girl into what she is. And Luca was always talking about how much he wanted to go to Doranelle, to escape, and become a great warrior of the land.”

Emrys’ eyes twinkled. Rowan was still shaking his head.

“Just – please consider it. For Luca’s sake.” Emrys threw the remaining vegetable scraps onto the compost heap. “We only want him to be happy.”

“I know, but – ”

“But what, Prince?” Emrys’ eyes seemed to bore into him. “What is keeping you? If you must stay here, might you not be useful, as more than just a workhorse in the quarry?”

Rowan’s breath was tight in this chest. He wanted to say that Luca deserved someone better than him. To say that he would only disappoint, that he could never give the boy what he really wanted. Particularly since he so obviously looked up to Rowan.

But the real reason he was so reticent was because it was exactly what he wanted. In a different time, and in a different place. To settle, and build a home. To rebuild and teach and heal, from a lifetime of hurting.

It was so close.

But there was a massive, impassable cavern between here and there. Because Aelin was not with him. And the world around this fortress was far from peaceful.

War not only threatened, but snapped at their heels. Waiting to strike. Rowan could feel in it his bones. There were far too many storms to weather, and enemies to defeat, before that future could possibly be his.

So Rowan only said, “I will think on it, Emrys. And I will agree to spend time with him in the mornings. But just remember, I have no idea when I might be called away. It could be tomorrow or months from now. I can’t make any promises.”

Emrys nodded. “I didn’t really expect you to, Prince.” And he turned back to the storage cupboards, sealing things up for the night.

Rowan turned to leave, but then paused. “And Emrys – you could see about trying to talk to the boy again. Im not sure – but I think he might this time.”

Emrys gave him a small, but warm, smile. “Thank you, Prince.” And Rowan walked out.

···

Rowan jerked from sleep, his body shuddering uncontrollably. This time, the dream had been different. Had been worse.

Instead of him torturing Aelin, and listening to Lyria’s screaming, he had to watch as Aelin gave up. As she let the grief and pain overwhelm her, and she retreated into that shell of a person she had been when they first met.

Maeve threatened to have Cairn whip him, a punishment he had borne numerous times. Pain that, under the circumstances, he would take gladly. That he would take and be grateful.

But Aelin could not take it.

When Maeve threatened to whip Rowan, Aelin gave in. And she handed over the Wyrdkeys.

And Rowan could only watch as the dark queen laughed and laughed and laughed. And destroyed everything in the world that he loved.

It was knowledge that Rowan kept locked up so tight it could only come out in his dreams. The knowledge that Aelin would hand over the Wyrdkeys for him. It was their greatest weakness, their bond. But Rowan couldn’t see what he could do about it.

They were both weaker, and stronger, together. It was a problem he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to solve.

Rowan breathed, calming his wracked body, then stood up and began pulling on fresh clothes and strapping on his many blades. He shifted, then tore out the window and into the waiting sky.

It had been a few days since his conversation with Emrys, each of them longer than the last. It was like he was walking upstream, fighting against the rushing current. Time flowed around him like molasses, sticky and slow and uncomfortable as all hell. But pass it did.

It had now been nearly two weeks since he had last seen Aelin. It felt like a year.

Each of the past three mornings, Rowan had trained with Luca. Guiding him through the bare bones of his morning routine. Even though it had only been a few days, Rowan could already spot marked improvement in the boy’s endurance and speed. In quiet moments, when laboring around the fortress, Rowan even caught himself planning lessons for the boy. Figuring out what would suit him best.

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the sadness that filled him whenever he corrected the boy’s stance, or reminded him to keep his core muscles tense. Nor could he escape the increasing feeling of foreboding whenever he thought about the future.

This tense peace was not going to last much longer, he was sure of it.

And as he shifted his wings to turn back towards Mistward, Rowan’s conviction was all but confirmed.

For wafting towards him on the western wind, was the unmistakable scent of Lorcan Salvaterre.

···

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#warrior and the wildfire #rowaelin #rowan pov #rpov #rowaelin fanfiction

[marshmallow-phd]

Catching Rain

Part of The Untamed - EXO Wolf Universe

Genre: Wolf!AU

Pairing: Minseok x Reader

Summary: You were more than satisfied with your life. You attended a nice college, had nice friends, a nice boyfriend. That’s what your life was: nice. You weren’t looking for anything more, so what were you to do when this seemingly harmless boy walked into your life and turned your nice little world into one much more dangerous?

Part: 1 I 2 I 3 I 4 I 5 I 6 I 7 I 8 I 9 I 10 I Epilogue

**

You didn’t have any destination in mind, only “away”. Away from the dorms where Willa was sleeping, away from campus where someone else might see you. By your side was your trusted camera. Why you brought it, you weren’t sure. Its not like the two of you were going for a portrait session. You hated those types of shoots anyway. But you felt better with it. The bag was like an anchor, keeping you grounded. If things grew awkward or too silent, you could simply pull out the camera and start shooting. A handy distraction.

For the first few blocks, Minseok walked half a step behind you. Once the campus was merely an outline on the skyline behind, he stopped you with a warm hand on your wrist. It was a gentle tug, nothing forceful or demanding.

“Where are we going?”

You pursed your lips nervously. He hadn’t let go of your wrist and your skin was sparking from the contact. There was an urge to step forward and envelop yourself with him to feel that electricity all over. “You said you wanted to talk.”

“Yeah, I did. But all we’ve done is walk.”

“Just a little further.”

His jaw twitched with the want to argue, but he dropped your wrist and waved for you to continue. Yes, you were simply putting off the actual talking part. He didn’t need to know that. Or he’d already guessed that and was simply allowing it to happen. You were scared of what might come out of your mouth if your feet stopped. But you couldn’t walk the earth forever. When a line of trees came into view, you sighed silently in your head. There. That would be the place to talk. You beelined for the forest, Minseok hurrying to catch up. You went in just deep enough to be invisible to the city.

“Okay,” you said as you turned around. “Talk.”

Minseok looked taken aback by your sudden attack. “I… um, I just….” He finished off with a sigh that blew up his rounded cheeks. When he didn’t continue, you pulled out your camera and snapped a picture of him. He blinked at the sudden flash. “What was that for?”

You shrugged. “You weren’t doing anything else.”

You continue to take pictures of nothing. It felt wrong to not actually think about what you were capturing, but it was all an act. You needed to be doing something so you didn’t spiral into an interrogation. By it’s own will, your camera turned to Minseok and snapped another candid.

“Are you going to keep doing that?” You could tell he wasn’t used to being the subject of a photo. He’d shoved his hands in his pockets and looked off to side, only giving you profile.

“Yup,” you answered gleefully, snapping another picture. “At least until you tell me what you wanted to talk about.” Now you got a slight smile. He moved back to face you fully and reached out for the camera.

“Come on. That’s not fair.”

You easily evaded him. “No, what’s not fair is showing up randomly at my dorm and saying you need to talk and then not saying anything.”

“Okay, that’s fair.” You took another picture. He pounced again. You dodge again. So, he mixed up his strategy. Instead of going for the camera, he went for your waist. That, you couldn’t dodge and the two of you crashed down on the grass below. The camera flew from your fingers and a horror ran through you at the thought of it being damaged. Being the hero with incredible reflexes, Minseok caught it safely in his palm. The strap swung calmly in the breeze, unaware of what almost was.

“Oh, thank god.” You tried to take back from him, but he held it out of reach. The position the two of you were in gave him the advantage. So close was his face that you could feel his quick, shallow breath against your nose. Everything stopped. No longer could you hear the soft rustling of the leaves or the distance hums of car engines. Only Minseok was in focus as the two of you lied on the forest floor, mere feet from the city but so far away at the same time.

“(y/n), I….” His voice came out scared, unsure. He frowned and looked away like he was chasing after the words he wanted to say. Finally, he caught up with them. “What I wanted to say was... I… like you.”

Your breath halted in your throat. When the tension was unspoken, it was safe. But with his confession you were now forced to examine that fork in the road. It terrified you. Making the wrong decision terrified you. If only you could have avoided it forever. A luxury that never existed. “Minseok, I-”

“I know we haven’t known each other long,” he said, cutting you off. “And I know you have a boyfriend, but I just had to say… something.” It didn’t feel like the end of what he wanted to say, but nothing else came out.

You left his words hang in the tiny space between you and him. I like you, too. That’s what you wanted to say. He’d been brave enough to tell you and yet, you were a coward. In your silence, he lifted his hand and brushed away a blade of grass from your cheek. The electricity that you should have expected still stunned you. How could he transfer so much energy with the slightest of touches? It was only the tips of his fingers, but your whole cheek was aflame.

Minseok’s eyes flickered down to the bottom half of your face, to your lips. He snuck another peek at you as if asking for permission before looking down once again, leaning in closer. And you let him. You let him come closer at a snail’s pace. He was giving you time to pull away. But you didn’t want to. How many times had you accidentally found yourself fantasizing about a moment like this? Far too many. You’d asked yourself if his lips would be soft, if they would be warm and gentle. Now you could find out.

But it was spoiled by circumstances. You couldn’t do this. Not now.

At the last second, you pulled away, standing. “I have to go.”

“(y/n)-”

You grabbed your camera and shoved back into its bag. “Good night, Minseok.”

“At least let me see you back to your dorm. It’s dark out and-”

“I’ll be fine.” You ran out back into the city, back to reality, not giving him the chance further a logical argument. You needed to get away before you turned around and found the answers, right or wrong.

The whole way home you beat yourself. Leaving with him in the first place was wrong. It seemed you were constantly making the wrong decision these days. Back at the dorm, you quietly slipped into your room, careful not to wake Willa. It didn’t work.

“(y/n)?”

“Yeah, its just me,” you whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

“M-kay.” In the dark you could barely make out the lump on her bed flipping over.

As you headed for your own mattress, you stripped off your clothes and blindly felt for the t-shirt you typically slept in. Under the covers, you lied there, staring at the wall. A single tear fell down your cheek. You stopped it in its track. It stayed on the tip of your middle finger as you brought it out in front of you. Great. Now you were crying.

What the hell were you going to do?

**

Minseok was unable to move. He couldn’t comprehend what had just happened. It had all gone so quick. First he was silent, then he was speaking words and almost kissing you. His confession – if it could be called that – hadn’t done any good. It was stupid to go about it in this manner.

He’d wanted to tell you everything and all he gave you was a small sliver of the truth. The word “like” was an understatement. Mate or not, he was falling in love with you. He was fascinated with the way your mind worked, like an artist’s. It was so different than his more analytical nature. The way you smiled, the way you laughed. To him, those sights and sounds that belonged only to you made him feel like he’d been living in an isolated cave his whole life and was only now coming out to discover the surface.

Grabbing a fist full of grass, Minseok threw the blades into the air in front of him. The anger still didn’t dissipate. He fell back, his head hitting the dirt with a thunk. The pain was easy to ignore. His focus was completely on how stupid he was. How stupid this whole mate situation was. Maybe Jongdae had the right attitude all along.

No. Minseok wasn’t that bitter about life. Maybe he would have been if his parents had dropped him off at a relative’s house with absolutely no explanation of his heritage, but Minseok grew up in a fun, loving home. He was raised to be optimistic.

Sitting up, Minseok sighed. He wondered if he’d messed the whole thing up. For now, he’d give you space. Even though it felt impossible not to follow his instincts. He didn’t want to come across as desperate as he felt. He just hoped that the two of you could come together, before the consequence came to light.

**

It had been three days and you were still stewing over Minseok’s confession. Your heart went back and forth between being elated and being bogged down with worry and guilt. While Erik sat across from you at the table in the student cafeteria, you clicked through the pictures you’d taken of Minseok that night. A smile subconsciously pulled at the corners of your lips.

“(y/n)?”

Your head snapped up. “Yeah?”

Erik pushed his glasses up his nose. His pen was bouncing off his textbook. Thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk. “Are you okay? You seem distracted lately.”

You feigned ignorance. “I’m always distracted.”

“This is different. I feel like you’re so far away lately. Something’s happened in the past few weeks.”

“Nothing’s happened!” Because acting defensive always worked. You slid back the chair, the legs scarping against the tile with a high pictured squeal. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

Erik didn’t try to stop you at all. You’d left your things behind so he knew you’d be back. Luck decided to throw you a bone and give you an empty bathroom to sulk in. Letting the water run, you waited until it was freezing before splashing your face. The burst of cold to your skin made you gasp. With a paper towel you dabbed at the water droplets left behind until you felt somewhat dry again. In the movies, a scene like that came with clarity, a decision and an answer sparkling in the mirror as realization hit. No such moment came for you. All you were left with were two wet eyebrows and smeared makeup. Wonderful. Tossing the paper towel into the trash, you left the restroom and headed back to the table.

When you arrived, you couldn’t sit back down.

Erik had your camera. His thumb hit the arrows back and forth. He flipped through the film furiously. It didn’t take a psychic to know which photos he was looking at. “You used to take pictures of me like this.”

“Erik-”

Sighing, he put the camera back down, pushing it gently to your side of the table. “I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised, huh? Freshman relationships don’t usually last as long as ours. It was only a matter of time.”

“No! It’s not like that!”

“If you say it’s not, then I’ll believe you. Everyone’s allowed to have friends. But… you don’t even use the notebook I gave you anyone.”

You flinched back at that comment. “I… lost it. I’m sorry.”

Erik’s reply was a nod. He stood up, gathering his things and putting them into his bag. He started to walk away but paused just as he passed you. “I think we should take a break.”

“A break?”

“For now.”

You collapsed in the chair as soon as he was gone. What a mess you’d made. And you hadn’t even really done anything. Were changing feelings really such a crime? Being here wasn’t giving you any room to think. You needed solitude, space.

The woods.

You were in the car and down the street before you could blink. The road was so familiar by now that you didn’t even remember actually driving. Getting out of the car, you threw your unneeded school supplies in the trunk while keeping some essentials and personals. For good measure, you turned your phone off. You didn’t get great service out here anyway. It was a spin wheel if the call came through or not. So, the trek began.

You pushed your way through the trees in the direction of the clearing. More leaves had fallen since your last visit, leaving a fresh carpet of brown and green for you to walk on. It muffled your steps. The forest sounded quiet today. Hardly any birds chirped and no bunnies came running across your path. The lack of wildlife caused your heart to race. You worried if you’d made a mistake coming here. When the clearing came into view, you stopped.

Near the middle of the field lied the wolf. He was alone. His ears flicked every few seconds or so, possibly picking up on the noises of life around him. But why was he just lying there? It was odd behavior for a wolf. Or, so you figured. Zoology was not your major. Your fingers twitched towards your camera, but you thought better of it. You didn’t know why, but you wanted to simply… watch him. It was calming, being in this wild animal’s presence. He looked so peaceful. You didn’t want to disturb him so you decided to stay on the outskirts.  

Ten minutes went by and the wolf decided he was done. He stood up on all four legs and turned to walk in the direction opposite of you.

Follow him.

You blinked. That reaction came from nowhere. Following a wild animal deeper into the woods was something only a crazy person would do.

Apparently, someone needed to put a jacket on you and call you crazy.

You kept your distance, far back enough to not spook him but still be able to keep him in your line of vision. He walked for what felt like miles. You’d never been in this part of the forest before. Which made this even more of a ridiculous adventure. The only consolation prize was the fact that he didn’t zig zag around, so you had a straight shot back to the clearing. You should be able to make your way back to your car from there. Up head, the tree line broke. It gave way to another clearing, but this one was far larger with two buildings sitting near the center. You stayed back, clinging to one of the last trees for cover as you watched the wolf walk towards the front porch. A familiar looking man stepped out and waived to the wolf. Was he their pet?

No.

The answer was a big, glaring No.

The wolf’s shoulders shivered and rolled. His body morphed like clay until he was no longer on four legs. You gasped.

Minseok.

Both men’s eyes snapped in your direction. You made eye contact with them both, then you turned and ran for your life.

You didn’t make it far. Minseok caught up with you easily.

“(y/n), wait!”

“Stay away from me!”

He did exactly the opposite, tackling you from the back. You both rolled in the leaves as you fought him off.

“Let me go! Don’t touch me!” Your last scream was enough to make him step back. You pushed yourself to your knees. Each breath was a huff as you tried to recover from the sprint. You could feel the fear emanated from your eyes.

Minseok held his hands up as if that would be enough to convince you he was harmless. “I can explain.”

“What are you?” you demanded.

“I’m….” He cringed as he sucked back the word you both knew he was going to say. “I’m a… werewolf.”

“Its you, isn’t?” You pushed yourself up onto shaking legs. All the stories you’d read as a child, all the movies you’d consumed, and all the folklore from around the world told you what kind of creatures werewolves were. “You are the one who killed those campers, aren’t you?”

“No! It was another wolf. A rogue!”

You shook your head. “How am I supposed to believe that? You’re not even supposed to exist! Was this all a game? Lure me into a false sense of security before you ripped me apart?”

“No, (y/n), listen to me!” He was in front of you, hands on your shoulders before you could react. “I. Did not. Kill. Them. And I would never hurt you. There’s a rogue omega around here and we haven’t caught him yet. Please, I’m begging you. Come back to the house with me and I will explain everything.”

“Why do we have to go back to the house?”

“So I can put on some clothes.”

You coughed and shifted your eyes high to the sky. “Oh, right.”

Minseok held his hand out for you to take, but you let it hang there in the air as you passed him. You heard him sigh behind you then his footsteps fell into rhythm with yours.

#exo #exo wolf au #exo wolf!au #minseok x reader #kim minseok #xiumin #exo werewolf au #exo werewolf!au #exo supernatural au #exo series #exo fanfic #exo fanfiction #The Untamed Universe #Catching Rain

[jeongyunhoed]

Past-Present-Future Black Dahlia

Two major tragedies bring Lee Mirae closer to the edge as she goes through the stages of grief in a more violent manner that would affect not only her relationships with her boyfriend Jeong Yunho and her half-brother Choi San, but also has her becoming closer with the immortal mutant Kang Yeosang. Fueled by rage, grief, and pain, along with a very rude awakening that has Mirae spiraling out of control and questioning everything she holds dear.

Group: ATEEZ Member: Yunho Pairing: Jeong Yunho / OC Genre: Action, adventure, angst, fantasy

Watch Out! : Violence, blood, death, grief and loss, major character deaths, use of weapons, some jealousy (but no cheating ofc), implied smut (not sure if there is any but i’m putting it out there nonetheless), mental illness (probably?), gambling and alcohol

Anything else? : Mentions of other idols of course as well as other characters. SuperM, Dean, Chanyeol, Zelo, soloist Park Jihoon to name a few.

Author’s Note: So, a lot of stuff happened. The ideas of this chapter have been stewing in my head for the entire week so I’m glad to have written the chapter in one go. Also, lovers quarrel. I hope this chapter did good in terms of the emotional nuances? 

Listen to: Tomorrow - Chanyeol, HWA - CL

Masterlist

Chapter 2 

Yunho tried to pull Mirae up, as she broke into sobs. One hand was holding Hyuk’s, and her arm was around Chanyeol’s lifeless form. He didn’t need to read her mind to know how she felt and what she was feeling. The rest of them stood by, crestfallen expressions even with some scratches here and there. San put his hand on her shoulder while she rocked back and forth. 

An inescapable pain came over Mirae as hot tears kept falling down her face as she held onto them. Their lifeless forms. Just when she thought losing her adoptive parents and losing Jihoon was painful, this was undoubtedly the most painful of all. It was more painful than any physical injury she had ever sustained. Her two best friends were gone, right in front of her, in her arms and she couldn’t save them. 

“Mirae,” Yunho said quietly, breaking the silence that came over them. He bent down and placed his hand on her other shoulder. “Mirae.” 

She didn’t look over at him. “Mirae,” San squeezed her shoulder.

“We’ll- Well, I-” Junhong managed to say, unsure of how to say what else he was thinking. “We should inform their loved ones, then.” 

“Where’s Ino?” San asked. 

“I don’t know, he just disappeared again for some reason,” Junhong shrugged, looking around what was left of their safehouse. 

“Mirae,” Yunho said softly. Reading her mind, he realized she was replaying all of those losses in her head, even when she lost him. She was replaying the last moments they had, and he felt the pain she was feeling. “Mirae, come on. We need to clear out of this place, it’s getting dark. Let Seonghwa bring them to a safer place,” He said, glancing at the other telekinetic, whose eyes were also welling with tears at the sight of her. 

Mirae knew she should move, but it was as if her body refused to go anywhere. To let go would be like losing them forever, and she already did. “Mirae, let Seonghwa bring them to the van,” San looked over, seeing Junhong approach the house beside the building and open up the front, revealing a garage that had the van. “Let Seonghwa bring them to the van, hmm? We need to go somewhere else for this.” 

~

The following week was the funeral after several days of crying family members, friends, and even colleagues from the restaurant and from Hyuk’s entertainment agency, TRBL Music. The rest of them made sure to dress for the occasion. The idol group Silver was also present, all of them wearing black suits and ties. Midam’s eyes were puffy as he watched the proceedings with his head hung low. 

Chanyeol’s parents and Hyuk’s best friend, Woo Jiho, had asked Mirae to be one of the pallbearers, assisting in bringing out the caskets to the hearses. 

Mirae hadn’t slept, even whenever Yunho came over to sleep, leaving Seonghwa, who now became his roommate, to tend to their apartment. She couldn’t get through the day without crying every five minutes, she couldn’t look at the pictures on her walls as she felt looking at it would remind her of those last few moments again. She couldn’t even bring herself to say a eulogy, and was often staring into space whenever she was alone either in the backroom of the store or in the apartment. 

Junhong took up another apartment in the same building as them, putting two other apartments for Hongjoong, Mingi, and Jongho to live in. They would stay there until they’d be able to set up somewhere else. The landlord seemed to welcome the fact that there were more tenants despite the somber mood that they were all in. 

Even as the rites were all performed and the dirt poured over with everyone else leaving the area, Mirae stayed, looking at the epitaphs for the two of them. 

Park Chanyeol Son. Brother. Friend With fire in his eyes and a big heart. 

Kwon Hyuk Son. Brother. Friend. Producer. 

Who moved the world with his mind and musical talent. 

More tears fell down the sides of her face as she reread the inscriptions and she wiped it away with the sleeve of her coat. “Come, let’s go home,” Yunho said, wrapping an arm around her. “Or we can stop by the convenience store? Get ourselves something to eat? I forgot to buy groceries.” 

“Really? At this time?” San gave him a look. “But we did run out of cereal.” 

“I don’t feel like eating,” Mirae shook her head. 

“You’ve barely eaten anything since that day, Mirae. You have to get something in you,” Yunho squeezed her side. 

“Unless you can bring them back, then I’ll eat,” Mirae moved away and walked back to the car. 

“You know, that’s what she looked like when she lost you, only she didn’t blow anyone up this time,” Seonghwa said as they caught up with her to the vehicle. 

“I know,” Yunho replied, getting in the passenger’s seat. 

~ 

The rest of them quietly assembled in Junhong’s place. Half the apartment was converted to a computer station, with Junhong taking apart the monitors and the system from the van and placed them inside the living space. “I guess, we’re on our own in practicing our powers, aren’t we?” Mingi glanced at Seonghwa, who nodded. 

“What’s that look about?” Jongho noticed Wooyoung, who stood in the corner of the room. He was blinking several times. “What did you see?” 

“I don’t know if it’s the right time and all,” Wooyoung looked hesitant, making careful glances at Mirae, who was still staring into space in her seat at the dining room. “But, in the Danger Room, while we watched? I sensed that someone was in the booths,” He revealed. “Someone other than us, other than Junhong, two people actually. I feel like they tampered with the system or something, whoever they were.” 

“You mean to say someone infiltrated the safehouse? That’s impossible. I would’ve seen them,” Junhong shook his head. 

“Then why would those two people be in there?” Wooyoung asked, making another careful glance at Mirae, who was now looking at him. “But I wasn’t sure if it had already happened before or it was about to happen so I didn’t say anything.” 

“The only other way for other people to come in there is if any one of us invited them in, and we hardly had anyone new there. The Danger Room was under construction even,” Junhong argued. 

“What about Ino? Did he invite anyone to go in there?” Mirae suddenly asked, the room falling silent at her words. 

“Not that we know of. He disappears every now and then, though,” Hongjoong said. Junhong nodded in agreement as did Jongho and Mingi. 

“I don’t know, but Ino hyung did look at me like he knew something,” Wooyoung said carefully. He could tell how she was feeling, and it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. 

“From what you’re saying, it sounds like…” Junhong trailed off. “It sounds like Ino knew the safehouse would explode and… that Chanyeol and Hyuk would die…” 

Yunho immediately exchanged knowing looks with San, who sensed what she was going to say next. “Where is he, then?” She asked, her voice calm. 

“I have no idea,” Junhong shrugged. 

All of a sudden, Ino had materialized in front of all of them. He looked just as sullen, and he immediately saw Mirae staring at him. “This isn’t a bad place. Good on you, Junhong, to be able to find a place for us to stay in,” He said. 

“You knew the Danger Room would overload and explode, didn’t you?” Mirae asked bluntly. 

Ino stared at her. “Mirae, what are you talking about-” 

“You knew someone tampered with the Danger Room, didn’t you? I’m not a psychic so it would help me a great deal if you told me the truth,” Mirae repeated, a sudden coldness in her voice that made the rest of them step back. “Chanyeol and Hyuk are now lying six feet under because someone tampered with the controls in the Danger Room. Tell me, Ino, did you know it would happen?” 

“Mirae,” Ino looked at her incredulously. “Mirae, I-I had a feeling something was wrong, but I figured it would’ve been-” 

Ino was pinned against the wall. Mirae was glaring at him. “You knew and you let this happen anyway?” She said, tightening her hold on his necktie. “Jang Ino, you knew what would happen to Chanyeol and Hyuk and you let them die?” 

“Mirae, I didn’t expect them to die-” 

“What did you expect then? That we wouldn’t get ambushed or something? That this was still part of a simulation? That their injuries aren’t real? That they wouldn’t actually die?” Mirae hissed. “You just disappeared when it happened. It’s what you do best, isn’t it? Disappear?” 

Yunho and San gently patted her arms. “Mirae, this isn’t the answer, calm down, please,” Yunho urged her, making her let go of the elder. 

Ino coughed as he straightened himself up. “Mirae, I didn’t expect them to die, I thought you three could handle it if anything happened.” 

Mirae shook her head, pulling away from Yunho and San’s hold. The sadness in her slowly being replaced with rage. It was boiling and bubbling inside her. “That’s what you always do. When the going gets tough, where do you go? You run and hide like everyone else. You always get us to do the dirty work for you because you’re not willing to step out there. You tell people to use their powers and you can’t even use yours, not even for everyone else’s benefit. For an omega-level mutant, you couldn’t even bother to do something.” 

“Mirae you know it’s not as simple as that-” 

“Yes it is!” Mirae shouted, her whole body trembling with rage. “Yes it is and you know it! You’re a coward, Ino! You can’t even be bothered to save people out there! With everything you can do, doing nothing seems to be what you do best.” 

Tears fell down her face. “Mirae, you know I still have trouble with my powers-” 

“That’s bullshit! How did you think I was able to control mine?!” Mirae yelled, her eyes glowing red. “How did you think Chanyeol and Hyuk were able to control theirs? There wasn’t a manual when we got our powers,”  Her fingertips were glowing. 

The decor on the walls shattered and burst around them. “Mirae! Please!” Yunho called out, seeing Ino try and keep everything else intact. 

“If you wanted me to go back to the old ways, you probably should’ve just asked,” Mirae growled, the dining table exploding and making Junhong hide behind the kitchen counter. 

“Mirae, please-” Ino coughed as Mirae had her hand on his throat. 

“You couldn’t even stick up for us when we needed you, even when the goblins tried to take over the country from below, you were standing by the sidelines acting like you couldn’t do anything when you of all people could end any conflict with the blink of an eye,” Mirae tightened her grip on his throat, her eyes glowing brighter than ever. 

“Mirae!” San called out. 

She let go of him, her eyes still glowing. “I’m tired, Ino. I really am. Tired of listening to you, tired of going to you for answers. I’m tired,” and she kicked him, sending him flying to the other side of the apartment before leaving. 

Hongjoong and Jongho helped Ino up from the shelf he crashed into. “Where is she going?” Seonghwa asked, trying to put the dismantled bits and pieces of the furniture to one side. 

Yunho got up. “Back home,” He glanced at San, who also wondered. “She’s- I’ll go check on her,” He ran towards the dark hall leading to the door and vanished. He reappeared in the bedroom, seeing Mirae seated on the edge of the bed. He heard the sound of the front door opening, figuring it was San that came in. “Mirae,” 

“Tired of saying my name already?” She looked up at him. 

“No, but I know you’re not thinking straight right now,” He said. 

“Really? Only now? The other times I probably wasn’t thinking clearly either,” Mirae replied. 

Yunho bent down in front of her. “I know you’re mad at Ino, but you probably shouldn’t have used your powers on him, much less kicked him.” 

“You would’ve done the same thing. You lashed out at them before, it’s not going to stop you.” 

“Mirae, please, I know you’ve been hurt-” 

“You know what hurts? Your two best friends getting killed and the one who knew what was going to happen didn’t even dare do anything,” Mirae stared at him. “What hurts is that more people I love have been taken away from me. What hurts!” Her voice raised, and she inhaled. “What hurts is that the people who have been with me through thick and thin, all this time, were taken away by someone, whoever they are, and Ino just let it happen.”

“I know-” He tried to hold her hands, only for Mirae to pull away. 

“No you don’t. No matter how much you read my mind, you weren’t there, you didn’t go through what I’ve been through with Chanyeol and Hyuk the past several years, especially since the Seoul attack. Now they’re gone, so that leaves me left,” Mirae was still staring at him, getting up from the bed. 

“That’s unfair of you to say-” 

She scoffed. “Really? Dump me then, go to that girl who’s been making eyes at you at the store whenever you’re there. You think I didn’t notice?” 

Yunho couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Mirae, are you actually insinuating that I’d like her?! When you’re there?! Is that what you’re trying to say?!” 

San was standing by the door, trying to wrap his head around what was happening, what he was hearing from the two of them. “You don’t think I noticed how she was flirting with you and you’re just there flirting back like some idol with a fan? I even noticed that she slipped her number in the bill she paid you-” 

“I threw that number out?! How could you say I liked her?!” Yunho’s voice was also raised. 

“Yunho would never do that to you, and you’d know if he did,” San couldn’t help but chime in. 

“Stay out of this,” Mirae shot at him. 

“Mirae, please, I never intended for it to be that way, she’s a customer, nothing more,” Yunho said. 

“Really? Is she really?” Mirae gave him a look. “If they took away Chanyeol and Hyuk, they probably should’ve taken away literally everyone I’m around-” 

“Don’t you dare say that, and tough luck for that to happen because I’m not going anywhere,” Yunho grabbed her hands. “I’m not. I love you, and you’re all I see.” 

Mirae looked into his eyes. She knew it was true, just by reading his mind. Yet the anger she was feeling wasn’t going away. “If you’re not going anywhere,” She pulled away from him. “Then I am,” She took her jacket and staff, brushing past San, whom she pulled her hand away from when he tried to get her to stay. 

~ 

Mirae ran through the streets, not caring if she was getting wet. She needed to run away, to get away from everyone she knew. The last thing she wanted was to stay with them. The anger in her remained as she passed by several shops, the sight of Viva Polo made her want to walk away further. 

She kept replaying their last moments together, from their last meal together at the restaurant, the last car ride, and the incident in the Danger Room. Mirae couldn’t believe that Ino would allow it to happen. She felt betrayed by the very person she would turn to for advice and help. 

Fuck them, fuck them all, she thought as she pressed on, pausing when she felt her stomach grumble. The hunger set in, and Mirae looked around. The convenience stores she passed by were all occupied by groups of people, until she saw a quiet, authentic sushi bar. From the outside, she noticed that there weren’t many people around and she went in, passing through some tables that were occupied by couples and sat at the bar area. 

“Alcohol, if you have it, whatever’s available,” She said quietly, taking a few plates of the sushi servings from the conveyor belt at once. The clerk behind the conveyor belt nodded and took out a bottle of soju and a shot glass, placing it in front of her. Mirae devoured every serving, several plates piling on top of another, taking sips every now and then. 

The food calmed down the rumbling in her stomach as well as the mood she was in. By now, Yunho would have known where she was. If not Yunho, she knew San would already be on the search. 

“You eat so well.” 

Mirae saw a middle-aged man in a suit occupying the seat next to hers at the bar. “Excuse me?” She asked. 

“I said you eat so well, you’ve got some of that soju down the side of your mouth,” He pointed out. 

She knew what he was trying to do. “Be direct with me, mister. Do you want to screw me?” She asked. The man only giggled. “It’s not funny. Do you?” She asked again. 

“You’re a beautiful girl, you know. I bet so many guys have tried their luck on you.” 

“You didn’t answer my question. Do you want to have sex with me? A one night stand?” Mirae raised a brow. 

“Yes.” 

Mirae nodded. She placed a few bills down on the table. “Here you go, thank you for the meal,” She said, and beckoned the man to follow her. “Come with me, why don’t we get it on in the restroom if you can’t wait.” 

The man eagerly got down from his seat and followed her down the red-tinged hall and into the men’s restroom. “Come on, let me see you,” The man grinned. 

Mirae smiled. “So eager, aren’t you?” Her eyes glowed red. “Well I’m not,” She kicked the man in the groin and kicked him into the empty cubicle, knocking him unconscious as his head was in the toilet. The glow in her eyes faded and she left the restroom and the restaurant. 

She was out in the rain again, determined to stay away from home as much as possible. Mirae stopped in front of a billiard hall and went in, the smell of cigarette smoke was in the air. Groups of men and women, some evidently drunk, were haphazardly playing billiards on the tables around. She wasn’t much of a billiard player, remembering that Yunho and San played a game or two on a day when they closed the store early, but mostly went to an internet cafe to play their games. 

“Your strongest alcohol, and a bowl of ramen please,” She told the employee. 

“We only have soda.” 

“Then soda it is,” Mirae said, seating herself down by an unoccupied billiard table. The doors opened and in came a man with a woman who was evidently his wife, along with a group of what looked like bodyguards. “Who are they?” She asked the employee who was preparing her order. 

“Who? Oh them? They go to the tables. Between you and me,” The employee set down her meal on the table. “A round of poker and blackjack in that room. Gamble if you’ve got the money.” 

“I’m not much of a gambler either, but I like card games,” Mirae felt the deck in her jacket as she thanked the employee. She put down the money and got up, casually following the group of people into the room that had several tables. Businessmen, some flamboyantly dressed, were playing rounds of poker and blackjack in the respective tables along with stacks of money and poker chips that amounted to the same value. She sat down at a blackjack table, the dealer immediately sliding two cards towards her and setting up two more in front of them. 

The dealer opened the first card she had. “Eight” the dealer opened the second. “Nine.”  

Mirae sensed that some of the people at the table were watching her. “I’ll stay.” 

The dealer opened their own cards, revealing a three and a two. “Seventeen beats five. Congratulations,” the dealer slid a few chips in front of her. 

~ 

Mirae left the billiard hall with pockets stuffed with wads of cash and the bottle of cola she ordered in her hand. She was about to go on her way, throwing the empty bottle in the recycling bin when she saw a figure emerge from the shadows of the alley next to the building. “What do you want?” She said.  

“I want you to come home, you’ve been out long enough,” Yunho said. San stepped out from behind the taller male. 

“Come home, Mirae, please,” San chimed in. “You’ve had a hell of a day, we’ve had a hell of a day, but it’s time to go home, to rest, you need it.” 

“How do you know what I need right now?” Mirae asked. 

“I don’t need to read your mind to know what you need. You’ve barely slept, you barely eat, that’s messing with your head right now,” San said. “If you don’t come home, we’ll bring you home.” 

Mirae stared at them. “Is that a threat?” 

“No,” San sighed. “But I know it’ll do you some good.” 

“What will do me some good is being away from everyone. Let me on my way or else I won’t have to kick your asses,” Mirae said. 

“Mirae, how could you say that? I know you’re probably still seething, and I know the shit you’ve put up with while you were out here, but just come back, come home, okay?” Yunho asked, taking a step forward, but she stepped back. 

“I’ve thought about it, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t belong there anymore, the building wreaks of betrayal,” Mirae turned to walk, only for Yunho to grab her wrist. Her eyes glowed as she kicked him away, sending him further in the alley. 

“Mirae, please-” San stepped forward, only for Mirae to push him back. San hit the side of the dumpster. 

“No,” Mirae said, the glow in her eyes remaining. 

“I hate to say this, but Chanyeol and Hyuk wouldn’t want you acting out like this,” San groaned as he got up. 

“You’re right, Sannie. Chanyeol and Hyuk wouldn’t, but I would. Go home,” The glow in Mirae’s eyes faded and she ran away. 

#kdiner #ficscafe #ateez #ateez scenarios #ateez timestamps #ateez angst #seonghwa #park seonghwa #ateez seonghwa #hongjoong #kim hongjoong #ateez hongjoong #yunho #jeong yunho #ateez yunho #yeosang #kang yeosang #ateez yeosang #san #choi san #ateez san #mingi #song mingi #ateez mingi #wooyoung #jung wooyoung #ateez wooyoung #jongho #choi jongho #ateez jongho

[virgil-writes]

ash & soot

Long before the Winters come into play, a monster stalks the Forbidden Forest that surrounds the Village. Karl Heisenberg is sent to investigate, and heads deeper into darkness to find his prey, a thorn on his side and someone just like him. (Heisenberg x OC)

on AO3: chapter one | chapter two | chapter three | chapter four | chapter five | chapter six | chapter seven (ao3 only) | chapter eight | chapter nine | chapter ten

chapter 10 - ashes and soot

SFW, around 4K words.

He followed her into the house while trying his hardest not to laugh. She seemed satisfied with her own answer, hoped that it would quell his questioning. Her pacing was erratic once they made their way inside, all manners of ice-breakers and harmless comments flung at him in a very obvious, desperate attempt to divert his attention. It was the first time he saw her lose her composure, fumble with her words, a bead of sweat on her brow as she tried to hide her nervousness. It was hardly a difficult question - did she mean to keep her identity a secret?

The house looked much the same as it did yesterday, perfectly tidy and beyond cozy. The dog pushed past him when he lingered on the door’s threshold, lazily walking towards his spot in front of the fireplace. It tossed and turned for a few moments, finally curling up into a ball, not at all concerned with human matters. Heisenberg approached to see there was no bubbling stew this time, no cauldron over the fire, his stomach grumbling in response. Amidst her anxiety she had taken a moment to ask him to take off his boots as he came in, a casual wave of her hand signaling when she would not face him. The weather had warmed up a bit overnight and the snow had melted some. She would prefer it if he left the mud outside, she explained as she brought over a pair of woolen slippers that were definitely too big for her feet. They looked handmade, but brand new, a sober color that wouldn’t show dirt and matched his usual color scheme. Did she… Prepare for his return?

“I meant your real name,” was his first attempt at prying the truth out of her. He obliged to her request, removed one damp boot and then the other, looking down to slide into the house slippers that, he was convinced, had been made especially for him. “Don’t much care for what the villagers like to call you.”

Heisenberg left the iron pot at the end of the table, trying his best to ignore the sensation of walking on a cloud in those fuzzy slippers. She remained quiet, watched him carefully, as if weighing her options and deciding on the best course of action. He made his way to the couch, grabbing an embroidered cushion before plopping himself down unceremoniously, toying with the stitches on the fabric with his dirty gloved hands. It was as comfortable as he had imagined, comfortable enough to make any of Alcina’s fancy chairs envious. His other arm placed on the backrest, he spread his legs to make himself at home, wiggling his butt almost imperceptibly to seal the deal. He might be having the time of his life, but she for once trembled under his watchful eye.

“I’m afraid that I cannot give you, my lord.” She said at last, her confidence building up after her momentary stumble. He caught the rise and fall of her shoulders as she took a deep breath to steady herself. “I have lost it long ago, in a faraway land whose name slips my mind.” He quite liked the hint of drama - a woman after his own heart -, but the charade would have to end sooner or later.

“So you’re telling me you’ve lived this long without a name?” There was a pregnant pause, her hands stuck midair as she made to reach for a jar high up the shelf, as if she had never once stopped to think about it in that light. Finally, she nodded, let out an embarrassed sigh as she brought the jar of spices to the kitchen counter. “Your parents never thought to give you one?”

“They did, naturally.” Naturally - even some poor family in the back of beyond had the decency of giving their child a name. “But it was never mine.” She finally turned to him, defeated, eyes pointed towards the gaps on the floor, the ones on the ceiling, the candles on the shelf. Anything to avoid his gaze, anything to get this topic over with as soon as possible. For a moment he wondered if this, too, was nothing but a clever way to manipulate him, to have him look kindly upon her. Heisenberg gestured for her to continue, cigar between his fingers, genuinely intrigued by this messed up human being that interested him so, even if she was trying to play him for a fool. “They had lost a daughter before me - Mihaela, she was called. A beautiful girl of ashen blonde hair who never came to see her tenth winter - consumption took her before then.” Her voice was velvet smooth, charming as a storyteller’s should be. “When they found a sickly girl lost in the forest, they felt like God had answered their prayers, returned their most precious gift to her rightful place. I never did look the part, much to their disappointment.” What she said next he could barely hear: “A dead girl’s name for a lifeless girl.”

If it was all a ploy, she was an actress worthy of praise. There was something about the way that her eyes seemed to lose color, her smile turn ever so slightly downwards, that told him she had opened her heart and let him in, entrusted him with knowledge she had been unwilling to part with. Heisenberg found himself averting her eyes without meaning to; not because he felt uncomfortable, not because her story brought back memories. It was a way to relieve her, to allow her breathing room. His presence seemed to burden her, compel her to say more than she ever meant to. It was a courtesy he was sure she would repay in kind.

“It was never mine, but it made them happy. It was the least I could do.” He looked around to try and find any evidence that someone had lived there with her, before her. No picture frames, no yellowed embroidered designs. No knick-knacks that looked too old for a woman her age, no shoes or clothing that hinted at anyone else having set foot inside her home. If Mihaela had truly existed, there was no trace of her left behind. “I much prefer being called what I am.”

Being called was she is, he mused, a multitude of words jumping at him within a moment’s thought. Alluring, Appealing, Beautiful; Charming, Exquisite, Fascinating; Gorgeous, Ravishing, Stunning; Sinister, Mysterious, Divine.

“Well, if you ask me,” he took one last drag of his cigar before putting it out on the ceramic ashtray that hadn’t been there the night before. “That just means we get to find you a new one. I could certainly think of a few words to describe you. I’ll even let you throw a few at me. What do you say?” The challenge in his voice seemed to revitalize her spirit, fire and defiance in her eyes when she placed her hands on the tabletop. “Doll.” Her face contorted in disgust at his first attempt, but that was not what he was looking for. No, he wanted to see her cheeks flush, her breath catch. He wanted something uniquely theirs, reserved for their little rendezvous on cold winter nights such as these. Something that would bind him forever in her mind, so that he could forge loyalty out of her with curiosity for an anvil and charm for a hammer. “Honey bun.” Nothing.

“Sweetheart.” She made her first try, eyebrow raised. Not a scratch. He had expected more of her. “Snickerdoodle.” Gross, but not close enough.

Through dears and darlings and sugarplum and buttercup she stood an impenetrable fortress, even having the gall to mock him and use the words against him in a sickeningly sugary voice. He visibly cringed when she reached a new low with stud muffin; her eyes filled up when her laughter turned to tears after she sent him reeling by calling him her cuddle bear.

They had both been struggling to catch their breath when all merriment seeped out of him, replaced by a burning feeling of disgusting, reprehensible sincerity. For once he had let go of the joe, for once he had let his guard down and the dark corners of his mind do the talking. A lapse in judgment, he would come to chastise himself later, but he could not deny he had begun to see her differently then. It had dawned on him that he had long abandoned the desire to kill or bind her, the turn of events so quick in the brief twenty-four hours they had known each other for. When he opened his eyes he did not see a tool or a weapon, a menace or nuisance; he saw a woman whose laughter brought him joy, who looked wonderful when she replaced the mask of sorrow with a candid smile. He saw someone who could sit with him by the furnace turned fireplace at his quarters in the factory, who could listen to him ramble and not understand a thing but not mind it at all. Someone who could talk away his worries, distract him from his problems. Someone who could pet his hair as he laid with his head on her lap after a long day, who could hold his hand and ground him when the worst of the nightmares came. Worst of all, someone who would, if he gave them both a chance. The word slipped unbidden, a final blow dealt to both of them:

“Liebchen.”

Liebchen, like father would call mother when they thought no one could hear them, when times were better and tragedy had not engulfed them. When he would tuck an unruly strand of hair behind her ear and pull her into a tight embrace that promised everything would be fine. It always made her smile, Karl remembered, and he wished one day he would find someone for whom he could do the same.

It frightened him to see the honesty in his voice reflected in her eyes, how it had pulled on something deep within both of their hearts. They both fell silent as they digested the tension that floated above them, his words both his declaration and his admission, her unguarded expression her own in return. They were under no illusions of what it all meant, he told himself; there were no dreams of a happily ever after together, no plans of eloping and living out their immortality while holding hands. There was no love at first sight, no uncontrollable passion, unconditional devotion. But there was an openness neither had felt in many years of solitary existence, a baring of souls in the comfort of their laughter. They would keep each other at arms’ length and never speak of it, he knew, although he felt it would be impossible to ignore the feeling that they had found the safe harbor they had long given up looking for.

Now was definitely not the time to unpack all that.

She was the first to recover, a click of her tongue too little time to prepare him for the worst that was yet to come. “Silver fox.” He mockingly heaved as he turned away, letting her have her fun, allowing her to trample on the sentimental standstill at his expense. If it had lingered any longer, he feared one of them would explode into a pile of sugary mush.

“I brought you something, pumpkin.” He said once their laughter died down, approached the dining table where she still stood, suddenly all too aware that the damn slippers were warm and comfortable. “You scratch my back, I scratch yours, right?” Heisenberg reached inside the pocket close to his chest to pull out the knife he had spent the afternoon carefully forging, the details far more delicate than the work he was used to. He slid it over to the other side of the table and she caught it a moment later, a wide smile on her face, fingers tracing over the carvings on the handle. It was made of steel, naturally, the relief of a horse and horseshoe, flowers adorning the space around it. His house’s crest, a little bauble so that she would always remember him. He doubted she would forget him anytime soon, anyway - he was quite the character. “Should be better than… Whatever it is you were using before.” He went over to the kitchen counter to fish her old knife out of a ceramic jug, inspecting it closely. The craftsmanship was admirable, masterfully done intricate designs on the burnt wood of the handle. “Bone?” She nodded, still admiring the blade in her hands. He did not imagine gifting a deadly blade to a woman could thrill her so, but she was definitely anything but common.

He just hoped his little display of goodwill was not a ritual binding of souls in marriage in the eyes of some forgotten god.

Heisenberg looked around the house more closely: witch was definitely the right way to describe her. A piece of twine hung from the ceiling, an assortment of herbs and flowers left to dry long before winter had come. The few pots and pans she owned were stacked on a shelf, next to cups and bowls, plates and saucers. Most of it ceramic, some of it wood, the odd one made of cast iron that looked ancient, but was in good shape. A basket of grains, a barrel of produce, an empty milk jug beside the wood stove. The curio was practically a fossil and had lost its glass panes, books of all sorts organized inside it, as well as mysterious flasks with drawings he couldn’t make out. Mortar and pestle made of dark gray stone containing something fragrant, half burnt candles with various motifs carved on them. The rug was a patchwork of animal pelts, visibly sewn by hand with care and precision. It made sense, he supposed, that she seemed to make everything from scratch; no one had ever seen her around the village, neither to visit nor to trade, and if she truly was as old as she claimed to be, modern life was but a distant thought for her.

“Anything in here that you don’t make yourself?” He asked when his curiosity got the better of him, and she answered by showing him the back of her hand, the red nail polish all too apparent in contrast to her skin. There was a childish smile on her face, as if she was betraying something with that small action. The piece de resistance of modern times in her anachronistic little world.

“This is a beautiful gift, my liege.” She curtsied as she spoke, her movements slow but fluid. That, he concluded, was what amused him so, how she seemed to move without ever touching the ground. The airiness in her step made her look like the picture of happiness, of carefree living; one had but to look at her closely to see that her burdens were many, her soul tainted with poisons unknown, and the she seemed to enjoy the wickedness of it all. He could forget his problems and watch her strut forever, wish that he, too, felt willing and able to let himself be, to let his body and mind run free without a care in the world. His little witch in the woods stopped her dance-like pacing then, suddenly serious as she watched him. “But I am afraid you will have to stay for dinner.” She followed suit when he burst out laughing, throwing himself once more on the couch and resting his feet on a nearby stool.

“Planning to fatten me and eat me, you little minx?” His face turned jokingly serious, head moving left and right as he clicked his tongue in disapproval. “I don’t think I can fit in that tiny cauldron of yours.”

“Oh, please, don’t give me that look,” she began, turning her back to him to dedicate her attention to the slabs of meat that needed cutting and the pans that needed scrubbing. “Dinner time is sacred, you know. Besides,” the mischief in her eyes mingled with something else when she turned to look at him, that sense of affection foreign to him that they had shared not long ago. “You are a sturdy man.” The word had been used against him before, a reprimand when he had settled into a life of comfort after he returned from the overseas. “Have to keep the meat on those bones.” She pointed and shook the knife at him as she spoke. There was something in the tone of her voice that made him feel like an unruly child; she seemed to know how little he cared for himself, how little effort he put into keeping his body up and running from one day to another. “An empty sack can’t stand upright.” As if to finish making her point, she brought the cutting board over to the wood stove, a mountain of cut pork sliding into the pan that smelled of onions, garlic and all manner of spices he would never recognize. He certainly wouldn’t complain, he thought to himself with a snicker. “I hope the stew was to your liking.”

The best thing he had had since the summer of 1931, when his mother was allowed to splurge on ingredients and baked them a cake so delicious he would never forget it. “Jury’s still out,” was what he retorted instead. “Need to run some more tests.” She seemed happy with his response.

Dinner was quiet in the best of ways. The menu tonight was fried pork and creamy, cheesy polenta, served with a side of vegetables and fresh-baked bread. It was simple, filling, and better than anything he had tried before. He could get used to this, he caught himself thinking once more. He glanced upwards towards the mezzanine while they ate, wondering if there was room for a broad man of considerable stature in her almost dwarf-sized bedroom - the couch wouldn’t hold him. Easier than walking here every day for breakfast, lunch and dinner, like he intended to do whenever possible.

His mother had been a “mash everything together and season it with salt” kind of person, aside from the rare moments of inspiration that overtook her, and Mother never cooked for them. He had grown used to quantity over quality, his meals more of an obstacle than a moment to catch a break and enjoy himself. He has to resist the urge to gobble everything down in a couple of mouthfuls like he is used to doing, food finished within five minutes so he could return to his work. She treats dinner like time is of no concern, savors every chunk and every spoonful, but doesn’t seem bothered by his lack of manners, his clumsy way of holding the silverware. It feels awkward at first, her treating his presence like it was familiar. Familiar, that was the word, she had taken him in without question, even though she knew who he was, probably had an idea of the things he’d done. She had taken him in and he had done the same though he would not like to admit it. Was she afraid of him at all? She should be.

“So tell me, sugar plum,” Heisenberg began as she rose to put the dishes in the sink. The witch returned with a pot and two small cups, the smell of coffee filling the air. “You this friendly to everyone? Not afraid some evil monster is going to barge in here and besmirch your reputation?” She chuckled at his words; whether because she feared nothing or because she no longer had a reputation to smear he did not know.

“Not to everyone, no.” For a moment, all one could hear was the crackling of the logs in the fire, and the liquid hitting the glass. “Only to those who don’t run away.”

The coffee was bitter and brewed to perfection - that is, as far as his knowledge of coffee beans went. He always found the beverage too time consuming to make on a daily basis, especially when one-liter bottles of energy drinks were always at hand. If he ran out, he could always turn to instant coffee: cold, burnt and disgusting. He couldn’t think of a better combination for someone like him.

“Why would anyone want to run away from you, beautiful?” He offered with a charming smile, and she looked at him like he had grown a third arm. Had he lied? She was beautiful, nice and kind, to boot. How had she managed to stay hidden for so long?

“Well, I suppose it has something to do with the goat-deer hybrid monster, the quiet of the forest and the impaled heads at the tree line.” Her tone was nonchalant and sarcastic. Why yes, that made sense. Heisenberg nodded in agreement. To a random, god-fearing villager, she would be the equivalent of the Antichrist. It was surprising to know some still sought after her, often enough that tales of her were spun and shared among the locals. It was more surprising still that news of her existence had never reached dear Mother, the riffraff tight-lipped because of a witch who seemed to go against everything they stood for.

“Eh, seen worse,” was his only response. Would she still treat him as kindly if she knew he could turn into a giant metal monster with even deeper seated anger issues? Would she welcome him in with a warm smile if she knew that he dug up and dismembered the corpses of the recently deceased to perform sordid experiments? She smiled as if she did. Who, for fuck’s sake, was she? “You some kind of mythical creature?” She shook her head no, though she reminded him of legends of witches living deep within the woods, sometimes in houses made of sweets, sometimes bearing chicken legs. Or maybe she was a fairy that danced naked under the moonlight, tiny bells tied around her ankles. “Immortal entity?” Another negative, though there was a second of hesitation that did not escape his notice. “A goddess then? Oh, I would love to worship at your shrine, honey.” He finished with a wink, drank the last of his coffee. Your move, gorgeous.

“Nothing but blood and pain in this temple,” To his surprise, her expression is serious, something he had never truly seen before, as she sighed and gestured to herself. “Is it not enough for your lordship that I am your friend?” Her voice is serene but her words sharp. “What more do you need me to be? Name it, and it will be so.” Powerful, he needed her to be powerful, strong, resilient, loyal to a fault. He needed her to stand by his side as the only one he would trust, to aid him in overthrowing the tyrant he was forced to call a mother. He needed her because try as he might to keep going, he was running out of options, out of hope. He didn’t need her friendship, he reminded himself, tried to convince himself. What he needed was to enchant her and control her. “I certainly appreciate the compliment, though I would dare say we are quite incompatible, my lord.” The woman who spoke to him now was no longer the kind lass he’d had dinner with. She was poised, guarded, cold and distant. “Little blood witch in the woods, sturdy metal man in his factory. Wood and steel. Ashes and soot. What good would that be?”

“The way I see it, pumpkin,” he rose from his seat to make his way out the door, having overstayed his welcome and stepped too far. The analogy hits him like a stroke of genius, the missing puzzle piece in his plan as the curtains draw and he exits the stage. “We’d make a damn good axe.”

#resident evil village #karl heisenberg #karl heisenberg x oc #karl heisenberg x reader #eeeeeeeeeh #virgil writes

[dingobait]

SPN 15x20 - rewrite script notes ‘Carry On’

SPN 15x20 - rewrite.  

Saving Cas from the empty is the only thing left for Dean and Sam to do. 

2735 words: script notes- Destiel, Fixit, Happy, All the gangs here to help saving Cas. Half Ficlet / half mad writings of a grieving Fan requiring happiness and true love and closure- gonna use this as the starting point for some writing practice and probs eventually write a fan / spec script.

* 

Id start it with Dean on the road, fuming and stewing over his grief for Cas. Ignoring Sams calls. Maybe a moment where he hesitates near the trunk of the Impala when Sam comes out of the bunker to be like ‘Dude?! Stop ignoring me!’ And Dean guiltily hides what will later be revealed as Cas’ coat.

All the alternate world hunters are staying in the bunker and established as being back. They’re reorganising, gathering info figuring out what’s changed in this new world post dusting. Sam can’t keep his eyes off Eileen as she works. He keeps getting distracted and almost missing the table when trying to put down his coffee mug. Not wanting to miss a word she signs. She gives his wrist a gentle squeeze when she moves past him, signing that ‘She’s not going anywhere, Promise’.  

The bunker is too crowded for Dean, too noisy, he gets busted sitting in Cas’ room, holding the mixtape between his hands.

Sam and he talk about feelings, well they talk around feelings at least. The ‘I love you’ confession will be saved for the very end for Cas’ ears only.

Our inciting incident of the episode starts off screen. Deans choking on his words about missing Cas, Sam amazed at how many words he’s finally coaxed out of his brother- and then from the other room there’s shouts of shock and alarm- there’s a dark smear growing in the air of the main room of the bunker. And for a brief moment a face struggles to push itself out of the muck-  Dean and Sam arrive in the room just as the goo shimmers like oil vapours in the air and disappears. Cas? Deans afraid to voice it aloud but Charlie beats him to it. Sams nodding. Freaked out. Everyone agrees it looked like Cas.

They have a smear of the Empty left behind to work with. And A room full of witnesses who all want to help.

Jack shows up saying ‘so sorry I can’t play favourites’ while clearly playing favourites and guiding them to the book that contains the magical solution they need (ala Cas’ telling Dean about the arch angel attached to the profit Chuck in season four, ‘so sad I can’t help WINK if only I could ‘continues to give gives blatant info haha)

For the first step of the spell, we’d need a psychic to establish a tether to the Cas in the empty, we’d have to go and check in on the Wayward Sisters to ask for Missouris’ granddaughters help. We’d see Kia and Claire together as a couple, and Sam would catch Dean looking at them trying to hide how happy they are in the face of Deans misery.

Patience needs something of Cas’ to create a tether, Sam freaks that they don’t have anything with them and Dean has to clear his throat twice to get the words out that he does.

He retrieves the trench coat from the trunk. (Or maybe his own jacket with the bloody handprint still on its shoulder-  Sam’s all ’ew dean you still haven’t washed this?!’)

The first part of the spells in place. Patience says something cryptic to Dean as she hands back the trenchcoat, his grip is perhaps a bit too tight to be read as anything but casual. Jodys attempt at getting Dean to open up is less subtle, everyone’s trying to get Dean to admit If he’s okay or hurting or something worse.

‘You’ve gotta talk about it eventually’, but Sam can see the explosion building in Dean, but then it’s an implosion as instead of getting mad Dean just shuts down, shoulders caving in,  and Dean just has to go

‘Pick you up later Sammy’ and he’s out the door.

We finally see the tears once he’s alone in the car

Driving, he almost hits the smear of black ooze absorbing the glow of the impalas headlights growing in the middle of the road, he skids and frames the scene with the headlights, jumping out of the car as Cas tries once again to pull himself from the empty, this time the oil parts slightly and Cas’ hands push through, Dean sprints forward, and almost has Cas’ hand tightly in his own before the oozey hole in the universe blinks back closed.

Jack will pop in briefly, commenting about how how well the first part of the spell worked with Patience’s help. He’d plant another hint about the next step of the spell, and Dean would sheepishly head back to pick up Sam to tell him the news.

Together the whole gang discuss the case over a family dinner, food everywhere, no more emotional pushing from anyone, Dean’s allowed to stay quiet and is offered additional serves as everyone brainstorms how to interpret / fulfil the next step of the spell to save Cas.

Sam quietly checks in with Dean, elbowing him as Jody and Donna and the girls talk at the other end of the table. Sam assures Dean that everyone didn’t mean to freak him out earlier and Dean cuts him off.

‘I think I needed the reminder that we’re in this together’ he admits.

Sam agrees, ‘You’re not the only one who wants Cas back Dean.’

With Charlie’s remote hacking help, we find the location of next relic we need / the next spell component. We see Stevie helping with the research, we see Bobby breaking a code and Garth adding some new piece of lore that’s vital to the puzzle.

We have a classic heist sequence with Dean and Sam doing what they do best, breaking into places to steal shit from museums. It’s dope, music sequences and everything ending with Dean almost tripping a lasor sensor before Sam pulls him back at the last moment. Dean thought he saw another hint of Black ooze and drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

Later on the side of the road and with the first hint of hope /excitement from Dean, we preform the next part of the spell.

Almost instantly, another black ooze rifts appears, Cas struggles to pull himself free, but this time Sam and Dean manage to grab his arms together, they pull with all their might, the ooze is retreating back from Cas’ shoulders, neck, and slowly his face, and we finally see the fight in his blue eyes, the desperate hope, struggling to get back to our world.

Dean and Cas make eye contact, Deans grip on his arm turns bone tight- but the ooze is reclaiming Cas’ throat, cutting off his attempt at Deans name. A deep voice rumbles from beyond the rift ’I said forever!’- and SNAP! The ooze rift slams back shut. And dean and Sam are left sprawling on the ground.

Deans hands close on handfuls of dirt and grass, and then Jack appears. Jolly and smiling.

‘That was very close! I almost thought you wouldn’t need the final spell component!’

‘A rare dagger and one other other thing is required to walk through the Empty unscathed.’ Jack hands the the dagger to Dean. He weighs the stone dagger in his hand.

‘Whats the other requirement?’  

’Love willingly given’ Jack tells him and Dean gives a wobbly grin and just nods and opens his mouth to say something but Jack shakes his head, ‘no, I’m not the one who needs to hear it’.

Sam thanks Jack for his help making things right as Dean walks back to where the oozey tear appeared. He clears his throat, once twice, gripping the ancient dagger in his hands. He turns back to Sam and Jack who confer back and forth, Jack looks over and just nods back towards the afflicted space, a ‘go on you can do it’ but they both give Dean his space.

Dean flips the dagger about, changing the grip with finesse and gathers himself. He stares at the point in space that had so recently held Cas.

‘We’re not done yet’ Dean finally admits as he stabs the dagger into the air and slices through universe, the dagger vibrates in his hands, the rift trying to resist, but Dean leans into it, whispering

‘it’s my turn to save your, ass you ass’ and the dagger slices clean through the worlds.

Dean steps through the door he’s created, the void empty sans his own reflection beneath him, but the daggers glowing in his hand now, a beacon that grows hot and cold as he waves it before him. Dean follows the bacon of light, and meets Cas half way, the angel is struggling against the ooze at a snails pace, drowning in the thick liquid and Dean grabs his shoulder and heaves, using the dagger to hack at the muck, and then Cas is falling into him and this time Dean drags Cas through the darkness, a perfect reproduction of Cas herding Dean through the halls of the Bunker when Billie came after them, but now Dean’s the one to throw Cas to safety through the door before leaping through it just a footfall behind him.

And they land in a tangle of limbs in the grass on the side of the highway with Jack and Sam watching on.

‘Ow’ Cas says in his familiar deep rumble. Dean chokes back a half gasped laugh as he lifts himself of Cas’ chest, but then - movement from the corner of his eye. He spins, blade in hand.

An arm of ooze streaks out towards Cas, greedy and grasping but Dean cleaves it in two before stabbing the dagger into the ground at the base of the rift. The rift blinks out of existence and we’re left alone on the side of the road.

Cas lays on his back, blinking up at the night sky. ‘So It worked?’ Dean looks down at him, grabbing his hand and pulling him into a clumsy seated embrace, Dean buries his face in Cas’ shoulder.

‘Hello Dean’ he says warmly. Dean gasp laughs into Cas’ shirt collar.

’You can have it. You’ve always had it.’ He whispers the words into Cas’ neck who stiffens in surprise, looking down at Dean incredulously as Sam and Jack engulf them all in a full embrace. Any other words are stuck in Deans mouth.

’It’s been too long!’ / ’Welcome home!’ a sweet short lived reunion. They get up, Sam jumping on his phone to spread the good news as he walks back to the car, Jack explains the status quo. Giving Cas a wonderful speech about well deserved places in the world and how if you’re lucky you can carve out a family of your own and he thanks Cas for being a wonderful dad and promises that they still have to work to do and he of course he’ll be around.

But eventually he catches on to the energy in the night air, Dean hovering over Cas’ shoulder, Jack ‘Jacks’ and states an obvious ‘ohhhh this is one of those situations Sam told me to help facilitate, I’m going to * obvious wink* remove myself’  and he Bamfs out.

And Dean grabs Cas’ shoulder, half trying to brush off the black handprint he’s left there in dirt or ooze, half trying to gather his courage and Cas watches as Dean finally looks up and meets his eyes.

‘They’re hard words to say aloud.’ Dean admits, but Cas hears them anyway, and a surprised heart warming smile forms on Cas’ face, and maybe it’s a little bit wobbly.

‘Love is patient.’ Cas offers but Dean winces. He grips Cas’ shoulder tightly, but forces his grip to relax. His hands settling into something almost soft at Cas’ sides, bracketing his elbows. An almost embrace as Dean leans closer.

‘No fuck that. You deserve’ - he scrunches up his nose at the word, ‘You’re… wonderful. You have to know you’re wonderful-  I, goddamnit I’m not good with any of this. You shouldn’t have to be so patient.’ Cas is watching him with a warm smile, basking in the words, in the words he can now see between them, and Deans hands are gently drifting up and down Cas’ arms. They finally settle on his waist. Cas would never tell Dean he could feel their shaking.

‘I love you as you are Dean Winchester’ Cas tells him solemnly.

And Dean kisses him. A brief fierce thing, before he buries his face once more into Cas’ neck, engulfing him in a soul squeezing hug.

We see Deans lips move to form the words we so want to hear, but the words themselves are for Cas’ ears alone as we see Sam watching them from the Impala.

His expression is pained, Half ‘gross that’s my brother making out with an angel’, half ‘my fucking god FINALLY’.

His phone going off in his hands, Eileen and others excited about the news of Cas’ return, and Sam hesitates for a moment before raising the phone. Just as Sam predicted, Dean and Cas kiss once more, the shadows soft about them in the half light on this stretch of remote road. Sam takes a photo and sends it to Eileen…  A whole new flurry of texts flood his screen: OMFG WHAT FINALLY?! YOU OWE ME $$$$ and the radios bubbling softly in the interior of the Impala. The first few notes of ‘Carry on my wayward son’.

Dean knocks on the drivers door, Sam jumps and hides his phone guilty.

‘Outta my seat Bitch’ Dean opens the door for him, Sam goes around to get into the passenger seat, only to see Cas already sitting in it, still glowing but trying to play it cool. Cas’ eyes slide to the backseat and Sam humfs before getting in.

‘You’re both jerks.’

Cas and Dean share a look. Sam groans and slumps down in the backseat. But his happiness about the situation is clear.

The music kicks in, the night sky is endless, and the family are together on the backroads of America, ready to take on whatever comes next.

THE END

Maybe a quick shot post credits scene of Gabriel and Crowley and Balthazar exchanging money with all the other angels and demons now awake and creating chaos in the empty.

#spn fanfiction #spn spoilers #15x20 #fix it #I eventually come back to Destiel #god!jack #Sam #Dean #Cas #HAPPY #rewrite #fanfiction #ficlet #drabble #Supernatural spoilers #supernatural fanfiction #fix it fic #I dont know how to hide more text below a cut #c[__] #the whole gangs here #SPN FAMILY #saving cas from the empty

[dreadwulf]

The scars of your love, they leave me breathless

The prisoner lies unmoving in a darkened tent.

Her wrists and ankles are chained heavily and staked to the dirt below. They needn’t have bothered. Though she was as dangerous once as anyone alive, there is no spirit left in her now. What lies bound and chained on the ground is only a body.

The prisoner had been a hedge knight, armed and armored. She is also a woman, though one might have to unclothe her to be sure. Tall and broad, well-muscled and masculine, and ugly besides. Her face is scarred horrifically, her body bruised and broken. She does not appear to have any fight left in her, but still they chain her to be certain. 

Beauty, they call her mockingly. Once she had been astonished at the consistency of her nickname, how from place to place it would follow her among strangers like a stray dog trailing behind her. No one can resist the irony of her hulking form with a name so delicate and pretty, and every man thinks themselves brilliant for thinking of it anew. In this camp here she no longer takes note of her nickname. She hears very little now.

Since they brought her to the Lannister camp, Brienne has done nothing but lie here lifelessly in the dark.

Soldiers come in from time to time. They sneer at her, check her bindings and change her bandages with rough hands. Each time she expects, dully, that this is when they will beat her, rip the clothes from her, but their manhandling is half-hearted at best and she remains unmolested. Brienne the Beauty is too hideous for that, she is told. There is some grumbling about orders, that she is to be kept undamaged, and that is a mockery as well. There is nothing undamaged about her. 

Brienne the Beauty. She knew that woman once. Even that is a distant memory. Now she is Brienne the Beaten, Brienne the Broken. 

She has betrayed everyone. The Starks will remember only that she broke faith with Catelyn Stark and absconded with the Kingslayer. The Brotherhood Without Banners calls her Kingslayer’s Whore and the Lannister Camp calls her beast and traitor. She brought Jaime Lannister to Lady Stoneheart to save her squire Podrick, and now Jaime imprisons her and Pod is gone. Hyle Hunt is gone. Her magic sword is gone, her horse and her armor and the shield she had brought with her from Tarth. All gone. She has failed in her knightly quest, failed in her life. Failed King Renly, failed her father, failed her Lady Catelyn, failed Podrick Payne and Hyle Hunt, failed Jaime Lannister. She has had nothing but her honor to sustain her, and now she has no honor left. 

And what is she without her honor? What use is she, what is the point of her? Without that she is only a body, as battered and broken as it is. Without it she is nothing.

There is nothing more for her in this world but the stubborn insistence of her body to keep living, her lungs still breathing and her heart still beating. But even that will cease, given time. 

The hours crawl by while she is awake and dreaming she slides into horror. 

She is hanging. Hanging and choking and clawing at the air. And all around her are all the people she has failed, in a ring surrounding her. As the rope twists she can see each face in turn, spinning and spinning, and it seems to go on forever. So many faces. Her father, Renly, Septon Merribald, Catelyn Stark, Randall Tarly, her old quartermaster, Ronnet Connington, half a hundred more she cannot put a name to. She wants to beg them all for forgiveness, but she can’t breathe. She pulls urgently at the rope around her neck, trying to loosen it enough to get the words out, but she can only rasp and suck in small gasps of air that taste like death and decay. It goes on and on, the world spinning around her while her life drains out. Kicking, dying, issuing faint, animal cries for mercy.

No matter where her dreams begin they end here, with the agonizing pain of the noose choking the life from her as the onlookers cheer. She wakes gasping for air and feeling for the rope around her neck and it is no better. Awake there is no ending to her suffering. Her wounds pain her, old and new, and the knowledge of her betrayal pains her even more. Somewhere beyond this tent is Jaime and he will not come to her. Her most painful wound is from him, a dagger sunk into her shoulder without hesitation or mercy. It throbs even now, and bleeds through the bandages still tied there.

The last she had seen of him, he had cursed her for a traitor and ordered her taken captive by his arriving reinforcements, lead by the silent headsman Ser Illyn Payne. Somehow he had followed them, turned back, and brought a rescue party. Somehow he had been in time to stop the Brotherhood from murdering his liege lord. He had not been in time to stop her betrayal of him, his capture at her hands. 

Ser Illyn had dragged her away from Lady Catelyn’s body. Threw Brienne over a horse and rode her roughly to a new camp, somewhere in the Riverlands, she knows not where. She could hardly see her surroundings during the ride for weeping. Then she had been thrust into irons and left here, alone, ever since. 

Periodically a bowl of stew is put before her, which she ignores. She has no stomach for it, no use for food anymore.

A guard kicks her when he comes to collect her bowl. “Eat up, Beauty. The Lord Commander will have my head if you don’t get a meal in you before we march.” Later he kicks her again, but it does not improve her appetite. The bowl is taken away untouched.

She is wasting away, drifting. It is almost peaceful, to leave behind the striving and struggle. Hope is a cruel weight, and without it she is light as a feather.  

But when she closes her eyes…

A weight atop her heavy as a boulder that she cannot lift with all of her strength, pinning her back to the ground. A weight that claws and scrambles and tears into her with teeth like knives. Biter. Biter tearing at her face, Biter eating her flesh. And all around a faceless crowd of soldiers from the Baratheon camp, from the Lannister camp, from the Vale Knights, from every camp she had ever encountered, watching her struggle and die and doing nothing. They could even be cheering, but she cannot hear them over the wet ripping sound of another bite –

Brienne jerks awake from these violent dreams out of breath and with her heart racing. Such terror afflicts her in these moments that she cannot take in where or when she is or what danger exactly surrounds her. She reaches out for Oathkeeper every time, hands fumbling at her waist where her sword-belt should be, at the space beside her where she would keep it at the ready. Her magic sword can soothe her at such times, and just to hold it in her hands makes her feel protected and strong. But Oathkeeper is gone. Jaime took it from her, when he locked her in shackles. 

Oathkeeper comforts her as much for its deadly effectiveness as for the memory it brings of the man who bestowed it on her, she is beginning to realize. The blade has been her connection to Jaime, and when she holds it, she feels him with her. Her protector. Her source of strength. Now its absence punctuates the breaking of that connection. Her hands fumbling in the dark cannot find the lion pommel that her fingers know so well, and she remembers now that Jaime despises her.

She remembers this and shuts her eyes against the reality of her surroundings, the hard iron around her wrists and ankles. She would rather sleep and dream of dying than live in a nightmare she cannot wake from. 

At last, in the monotony of her drifting days, a well-familiar voice interrupts her half-dreaming state.

“You aren’t eating.”

She doesn’t look at him, nor reply. In the corner of her eye she can still see his shape hovering there in the flap of the tent, shifting unsteadily, unable to hold still.

“If you intend to spite me by starving to death, you should know it’s a very slow process. We will have reached King’s Landing before that can happen.”

He says it casually, almost conversationally. There is only a hint of the bitter edge in his voice that she knows she will see on his face, if she can bring herself to look.

“You have to eat,” he insists strangely.

Why? What would be the point? It doesn’t matter even enough to respond. She just looks at his shadow stretching across the ground, how it reaches past her, carried in the moonlight.

There is a rustling sound, and then movement. The tent flap closes, and the moonlight winks out. The shadow is replaced with fine leather boots, and Brienne has to close her eyes.

Then he is crouching down beside her.

“I’ve spent a great deal of time pondering what to do with you,” Jaime Lannister says quietly, directly above her face.

He waits.

“Are you going to ask me what I’ve decided?” He pauses again. She can feel his eyes on her steadily. “No interest?”

His presence sparks something in her, feeble but present. She is more awake than she has been in days. Her wounds ache in his presence. The one in her shoulder sharpest of all. 

“Come now, you are disappointing me. Where has your cunning gone? You playacted so earnestly to entice me to my doom, and now you lay there like a lump. Will you not argue for your release, at least?”

She has nothing to say to that. There is nowhere for her to go, if he releases her. 

Her inaction is upsetting him. She is realizing it slowly, but can’t understand. She is so tired. She wants everything to be over.

He repeats his order, a little bit louder. “You have to eat.”

“What for?” she murmurs weakly.

He comes nearer, satisfied perhaps that at last she has responded to him. “Your wounds won’t heal if you don’t eat.”

Her wounds won’t heal anyway. She is more wounds than flesh at this point. Why is he bothering with her? He should go away and let her sleep.

Confused, she opens one eye and takes in his blurry shape. When she glimpses his face she gasps, despite herself. He looks awful. There are dark rings around his eyes, and a cut on his forehead from the melee with the Brotherhood. He looks pale and exhausted, aged, haunted. 

“You stabbed me,” she says in a hoarse whisper.

He makes a noise that resembles a laugh, but sounds a little more like a punch in the stomach. “You betrayed me. How else should I respond?”

Does that make them even? Probably not. She is chained to a stake in the ground. That does not suggest forgiveness is in the offering.

He goes on. “Let’s have it then, your excuses. You did not mean to do it. You were forced into it. Your liege lady commanded you and you had to obey. Which tale will you go with? Tell it to me.”

Jaime’s voice breaks on this last and he glares at her, furious, or so she thinks.

It will do no good. She could tell him any number of things, and it will not matter. Her reasons are not reason enough, and anyway he will not believe her. 

She stays silent, watching him.

“Do you mean to die now? Is that what this is?” His words are heavier now, laden with feeling. “But you will not die. After all this? You should be enjoying your victory. You had me fooled, Brienne of Tarth. You made me believe in honor and justice again. Me, the Oathbreaker, the man without honor. A stunning achievement. You should be proud.”

He doesn’t wait for her to reply this time. 

“I suppose I should thank you. Here I have been wasting my time trying to make a hero of myself, and you have reminded me of what I truly am. It does not matter what I do, my whole life long. I shall always be a villain. The Smiling Knight forever.”

He laughs at it again, and it is awful.

“How is it you are suffering so? Do you mourn your liege lady? Don’t take well to imprisonment? Sore loser? Or do you expect a cruel fate at my hands? Shall I tell you what I have planned?”

She doesn’t mean to speak. The words slip out without her notice, accusingly.

“You stabbed me.”

Jaime seizes her by the shoulders. He moves so suddenly she jerks in surprise, gasping audibly. Before she knows quite what’s happened, he is atop her, holding her down. His lips are pursed in grim determination. But his eyes are wild.

"The neck," he tells her through gritted teeth, his voice lowered, "will kill at the slightest cut. The groin will spit blood to ten paces and empty you in under a minute. The belly - that would kill you slowly. The knee, that long cord at the ankle, you'd live, but you'd never walk rightly again. But here --"

He pushes his hand into her wound roughly, painfully, until his hand is bloody and she is wincing so her face nearly collapses in on itself.

"- this will heal," he finishes, with great emphasis. "It will heal."

He glares at her, wild with worry, completely unable to look away. 

Her mind reassembles itself slowly. Takes in what he has said. 

"I would have-" she tries to say, but he stops her. He cannot help himself.

"You didn't. And now no one we left alive will believe you came willingly. My forces destroyed the Brotherhood, killed their leader, and took you prisoner. When you escape the villainous Kingslayer in the Riverlands you can safely journey North, or wherever decent people go now."

She swallows several objections, her sluggish mind parsing through his intentions. 

He manages to sound accusing and spiteful even as he offers her a lifeline. She cannot understand it.

Escape. He means her to escape. He means to let her go? Why?

"And if I don’t?" she manages to ask.

"We don’t keep prisoners. Do you want to be hanged again?"

She turns her face away from him. That, she does not want. Anything but that.

His hands holding her down grow heavier. The metal hand and the flesh one.

“We will march soon for King’s Landing, and there is no reason I should ever see you again. Is there anything you would tell me? This is your last chance.”

Brienne looks back up at him, as much as it pains her. She owes him that at least.

She remembers the look on his face when the Brotherhood took him. It was not merely betrayal, it was devastation. A wound struck to the core of him, one he would never forgive. She realized then how completely he had trusted her and how badly she had broken him.

She had not thought, in her wildest imaginings, that she could ever hurt him that way. Even knowing she would betray him, she had not known how much he would be injured by it. She shouldn’t have the capacity for that, the power over him. And yet there he was, wounded.

She thinks on it and she looks directly into his eyes, something she has never quite dared to do. Like everything else about him, they are stunning - the green so green, his eyelashes long and delicate and pretty. He is too much for her, she cannot take him in. He is too beautiful, too volatile, too… Jaime. 

She has hardly strength enough to raise her voice, but she spends it here. It is the only thing she wants him to know. 

“Jaime... I am so very sorry...”

Right away she sees that there is nothing she could have said to hurt him more. For a second, he wavers. All around his eyes his face tightens into an expression of deep sorrow. Behind his grass-green eyes she can see the wound that she has struck, raw and bleeding. Then his jaw clenches, and he swallows hard, and he makes himself smile. An awful, painful smile.

“Call me Kingslayer.” 

Then he releases her and rises slowly to his feet. He leaves her alone in the tent, and the nightmare goes on.

#angstfest #the good news is there is more after this #the bad news is it will get worse before it gets better #I'M SORRY #Ring of Fire #(working title) #tumblr fic

[stumacherstan]

Hey if youre still taking monster requests, can we get a orc x reader where the reader is either a kumiho, a nixie, or a naga? Sorry if not and thank you if you can!

Orc x naga!Reader One-shot:

The forest was beautiful was as always. The lights scattered in between the trees. The birds were singing their melody to soothe any wandered and the inhabitants of the land. The sweet smell of trees and and suffocating pollin.

A loud booming of a newcomer disrupted the peace. The tall orc panted as he was running through the trees, as if he was escaping something. Orcs are usually strong and feared, hardly anyone tries to attack them. However if a group of people are rallied up, people tend to gang up. And unfortunately Orc’s tusks sell high in black markets.

The muscular orc, Wraog, was trying to lose the people behind him. He was just trying to get the next closest village for his people who need a certain plant to heal the ongoing sickness that was going on. He was already tired of 3 days of walking and didn’t have the strength to fight off a group of mages. Wraog was slowly getting lost himself, forgetting trees and saw himself trapped between wilderness and a cave.

“You’re trapped now Orc, we can either do this the easy way or the hard way.” A sleazy voice called out to him, almost too smug for comfort.

“It doesn’t matter really, we’ll try to make it painless. Choose the easy way.” Another light aired voice, as if they weren’t going to saw off his tusks and cut his hair.

Wraog saw 3 other people emerge and he didn’t know how big the cave was. He quickly grabbed his dagger and got into a fighting position. “You can try it, but I won’t go down without a fight.”

“Ah so the hard way it is, I was hoping for this. I was getting bored of easy targets.” The once again annoying sleazy voice said.

Meanwhile, you were napping in your cave. A whole day of picking herbs for your tea and drinking in the sunlight on top of your cave. It was a productive day and you fed a couple days ago. Life was great. Peace was yours. Then it wasn’t.

You felt the ground beneath you tremor which woke you up from your slumber. You groaned and strained your ears to detect anything. You heard voices and curiosity was caught on the hook. You slowly slithered out, but not enough to be seen, to see what was going on. You cringed at the whole commotion, lowlife hunters ganging up on another victim. You hated weaklings that felt hunting in numbers were better.

You saw the whole fight go down and the orc was slowly losing no matter how much he countered. You normally didn’t care too much about others, as you only had to take care of yourself to survive. But they were on your territory and you had time to spare.

You quickly striked out and grabbed one with your tail and slammed them down on the dirt. You grabbed one that was on the orc’s back and bit into his arm, ejecting some venom that was gonna hurt for weeks. “You’re all dissssturbing my sssssleep!” You hissed out.

“Holy shit, a naga. We’re in luck! Get them!”

However they were outnumbered by the strength of an awoken naga and an orc. You both quickly defeated them. They had to run off with their numbers dwindled.

You spit on the dead and shook your head. “I hate mages. Little shitheadssss.” You looked up at the slightly beat up Orc. “I don’t really care in particular, but are you okay?”

Wraog’s legs shook and he fell onto the floor, clearly tired. As any normal being would after trying to fight off five mages by themselves.

“Hey! Get up!!” You shouted at him. You poked his side and groaned. “I guess I’ll take care of you,” you grumbled. You heaved and grabbed him by the legs, you started trudging in your cave. “By the stars, you’re so,,, heavy!”

You finally got him inside and wiped your forehead if any sweat. You got a rag and wet it with well water and cleaned his dirtied faced, rinsed the rag in a bucket, and soaked it in clean water once again. “You poor thing, never seen a orc almost be defeated.” You uttered softly as you placed the wet rag on his forehead.

You quickly cleaned up any of his wounds and fed the starving fire in your cave. You checked him once again just to make sure there wasn’t any other harm done and went into your corner of bedding to pick out a warm blanket to put over him. “Sleep well big one.”

Wraog’s purple eyes burst open. A wonderful smell of stew lowed into his nostrils like a sweet dance. He groaned as he sat up. “Where am I?” The slightly moist rag fell onto his lap, he picked it up and inspected it.

“A ssssimple thank you would ssssuffice,” you answered. You stirred the cauldron and added little pinches of seasoning. It was already done but you were adding finishing touches.

“Oh, you’re the one who helped me.” His eyes traveled down to your tail and widened in surprises. Usually Nagas were selfish creatures and kept to themselves. “Thank you very much, I’m Wraog.”

“I’m (Y/N).” You got out a bowl. “It was really no problem, someone had to teach those poachers a lesson at some point.” You poured the stew into a bowl and handed it to him as well as a glass of water.

He sloppily smiled at you, tusks in the way and all, and grabbed the bowl and glass. “I very much appreciate this.” He slowly ate since he wanted to savor it.

“May I asssk why you were in the foressst?”

“I was trying to get to the next village as mine own has been struck by a sickness. I don’t know the herbs name but I have the notes as to what it is, I was seeking help before I got ambushed.” Wraog wiped his mouth of any excess. “This is really good.”

It wasn’t your place, and you didn’t really care about his people. But you kept getting reeled in. “How bad is the illness?” You noted that he complimented your food. A very respectful orc.

“None of the witch doctors can help without the herb. It’s slowly spreading and getting worse. I hate seeing my people get quarantined.” Wraog looked down. “I hope I can heal soon so I can stop bothering me. You’ve done so much for me already.”

like most nagas, you couldn’t really express emotions well. “Well that sssucksss, let me see your list. Maybe I could be of sssome assssitance sssso you can leave ssssooner. Let me see your notessss.” You stuck out your hand patiently.

Wraog’s eyes lit up like a puppy, excited and cute. “Really? This means so much, I’ll make sure to never bother you again.” He dug his big hands into his pockets and pulled out a small black book. “It’s right here.” He flipped to the page and handed it to you.

You read through everything, your tails tip sticking around impatiently as you drank in the information. “I know what herb thisss isss, I don’t ussse it often unlessss I’m ssssick as well. A very good rememdy that helps. I have ssssome and know where to fetch ssssome more.” You glanced at him then looked away. “You can sssstay here, don’t make too much of a messss.”

“Isn’t it too dark by now? Shouldn’t you also rest after fighting?” Wraog cocked his head like a concerned dog. “Don’t overwhelm yourself.”

Your stomach fluttered but you clicked your tongue in annoyance as to not show your true feelings. “Then I’ll go out in the morning if that’ll ssssoothe you, I don’t want you messsing up your ssstitchessss like the big oaf you are.” You quickly served yourself and ate it delicately.

Wraog wasn’t use to silence, he was use to boasting and chatters filling up the air. He looked around your cave that was big enough for him and you. “Very homey. Suits you.”

You raised an eyebrow. Ah orcs, always the talkative ones. “Thank you.”

Wraog nervously chewed on his lip, he hated awkward silences. He could talk on forever. “Your scales are also very beautiful! Hard to believe you live alone with your beauty.” The word vomit came out and his green face exploded into a darker shade.

Your tail stopped rattling and your ears once again heated up. You coughed awkwardly, trying to make sense of the scene. “I, I choose to live alone. Male nagassss are too ignorant for my liking. No point of mating with sssomeone who I won’t enjoy ssspending time with. What about you? A mate?” You inquired, not because you wanted to pursue. It was just a curious thing seeing it was brought up.

“Ah I see, a beauty against the world. No wonder, I wouldn’t have expected you to be mateless but by choice makes more sense,” Wraog warmly smiled, “I don’t have a partner either. Haven’t found anyone specifically who’s peaked my interests.”

You decided to flirt a little, “I wouldn’t expect a handsome sssweet orc like you to be sssingle. I’m sure you have the ladiesss lining up.”

Wraog felt his heart beat a little faster. “Not normally or maybe Im oblivious to it.” He accidentally yawned, killing the mood.

“Well-“ You grabbed his empty bowl and cup, “I sssuppose it’s time for us to sleep. I gotta get up early to fetch your herbs. Rest well Wraog.” You coiled up in your comfy corner with pillows and blankets and fell asleep peacefully.

Wraog had a more difficulty falling asleep, he couldn’t help be marveled by you. A sweet beautiful naga out here by themselves? You were sweet and sour and it certainly peaked his interests. His eyes wandered all over your form till he himself fell asleep.

————————————————

The next morning, you stretched and cracked any stiff bones. You looked to see Wraog sleeping and smiled softly. You quietly slithered to him and looked at his face with deeper insight. You noticed how his look hair draped over him with delicacy, how he breathed heavily due to tusks being in the way, how sharp his tusks were, and how he just seemed at peace. Your hand swiftly caressed him before you giggled and left the cave by yourself with a basket.

You inhaled the sweet air and listened to the birds sing their song. You looked for the sweet purple and orange plant that could help save his village. You went by the river that held the most of the herb. You carefully picked them without cutting yourself on the prickly thorns at the bottom and laid it down in your basket. You repeated this action until your basket was full and made your own way home.

Wraog had woke up and sat up rather quickly when he saw you were gone. “They’ve gone out to get the herb, right.” He told himself. He tried to make himself busy as by making some breakfast, although he wasn’t sure what you liked or where most of your utensils were.

Still, Wraog tried his best. He carefully broke the eggs and beated the yolk and poured into the skillet. He added salt and pepper and left it to sit. He started on the small rations of the mysterious meat, he tried not to think about it. He cut it into pieces and mixed it with the eggs and folded the eggs with meat inside. Wraog was sure to add spices and although he was confident it tasted good, but it didn’t look appealing. Your food looked appealing and his looked like a mess.

He carefully scooped portions out in your bowl and his bowl. He poured water for both of your cups. Wraog decided to be cute and go outside and pick some bright (colored) flowers that matched your tail. He put in the middle of the table. “Damn, I’m stupid. I don’t know when they’re getting back.”

“I’m back?” You declared. You raised your eyebrow to the messy breakfast before you. “I see that you prepared food for the both of us, thank you.” You set your basket down and coiled up next to the table. “You worked really hard on this. I appreciate it.”

“It’s the least I can do since you helped me so much.” Wraog’s face darkened a deep green as he felt his stomach flutter with butteries at your soft smile. “Those are enough for those of the sick, I should be thank you the most.”

“You can thank me again when I escort you out the forest. That’ll be the last thank you.”

“I don’t think I’ll need an escort. I can handle myself.” Although he secretly wants to spend more time with you.

“Do you even know how to get out of here?”

“Oh-“ Wraog felt even more embarrassed and probably looked like an idiot in front of you now. “No.”

“That’s why you need an escort you oaf.” Your words were not bitter, just playful. You started to eat and your eyes turned into slits at the taste. “This is amazing!”

“I tried my best, I’m glad you like it.” Wraog smiled with pride. “After all, you deserve the best.”

You hummed in acknowledgment as you continued to eat.

____

After breakfast was finished, you put the plates into a corner where you would wash them later. You grabbed a sun hat and bag full of water so you wouldn’t dehydrate on your small journey. “Do you have the strength to carry the basket all the way home?” You asked the orc who was standing outside your cave now.

“Yes, I’m fully rested now and you’ve taken care of you quite well, and fortunately I heal fast thanks to your herbs.”

You pursed your lips. “Okay give me a couple of more minutes.” You remembered how he said it took him three days to get where he was before he was ambushed and packed him a different bag for his own supplies so he can be okay for the trip. You hated seeming soft so you exited your cave and gently threw the bag at his feet. “Your supplies so you don’t die on the way back, your people depend on you.”

“You’re too kind to me.” Wraog couldn’t help but give you smooth forehead a smooch. “I’m glad I stumbled up on even if it was caused by those damn mages.”

Your face blossomed with color and you looked down so he couldn’t see your slitted eyes. “Whatever, let’s go.”

You led the way the whole time, you rarely leave the forest. Only leaving when you need specific supplies, but you usually take short cuts and use your speed to your advantage. Orcs aren’t as fast as nagas so you slowed down your pace for Wraog.

“You know, when I’m not running from mages. The scenery is very beautiful.” Wraog commented, once again hating the silence.

“I suppose it is, I never really took the time to stop and smell the flowers. I usually go wherever I’m headed without slowing down.”

“Fast paced life huh?”

“I guess I’m just use to do everything by myself and just keeping myself busy since I live alone that my set routine stops me from doing new things.”

“Doesn’t it get lonely?”

“Nagas are usually lonely creatures. Too territorial unless they have a mate or kids. So I guess you can say I’m use to it.”

“Well does it get boring?”

“I sleep away my boredom.” You paused. “I also read books and imagine myself as the character. It’s really nice.”

“Well, if you’d like, I can always stop by and hang out with you. I have a good sense of direction.”

“It took you three days to even get here, why would you do that just to see me?” You turned your head to look at him as you kept on slithering your way through.

Wraog shyly looked up at the sky, “You’ve really peaked my interest, and I think you’re really cute and interesting and kind. I wouldn’t mind traveling to see you.”

You turned your head back as your face flushed, “Well, I suppose I wouldn’t mind. In fact, I would like that. You’re kind too and cute as well.” You muttered the cute part although he heard you pretty clear.

As you guys chartered more, soon enough the clearing. The clearing showed the path of where Wraog was walking.

“Well, I guess this is where we say goodbye.”

“Not goodbye (Y/N), see you later.”

“Oh right! See you later.”

“I’ll see you soon.” Wraog bent down a little bit to peck your cheek. “Thank you once again for everything, maybe one day we could be more.”

Your eyes turned into slits once again and your ears burned. You closed your eyes and hugged him, taking in his scent so you could remember it until he came back. “Thank you for giving me a chance. See you soon.” You let go although it took him a little longer to let go of you.

Wraog waved as he started walking, and you watched him till he was nothing but a speck.

#orc #monsterlover #monster boyfriend #orc boyfriend #orc x reader #monster x reader #exophilia

[here4theheartbreak]

Peace & Quiet... And a Centaur (Sope)

AO3 Link Here!

✩ Relationships: sope (Yoongi x Hoseok) ✩ Genre(s): fluff

✩ Rating: General Audiences ✩ Tags: fluff, crack/humor, centaurs

✩ Summary: Yoongi and Hoseok intended for a night of camping to be peaceful, to get away from everything in their life. And then they found the cave.

✩ A/N: Written for @namjinsmaknaes​ for the drabble requests, prompt #20: See, this is how we get eaten.

✩ Word Count: ~4.2k

“You know, when I said we should have a romantic getaway… I imagined some place a little more brightly lit,” Hoseok said, kicking at the branch in his path. “And with a roof. And running water.”

“Oh, stop complaining.” Yoongi pushed a splay of leaves out of the way, letting Hoseok pass in front of him to their designated camping area. Yoongi had come out earlier to set the tent up and get everything ready for dinner. They were near a stream, the quiet burble relaxing in the otherwise quiet night. And it was strangely quiet. Though Yoongi didn’t expect to hear many animals around a human populated camp area, he expected something. Squirrels, birds, maybe even a branch or two breaking from a nearby fox… But it was silent.

Yoongi brushed off the strange feeling and set to work starting dinner, setting up a comfortable chair for Hoseok and turning on some music.

“It is nice to get away,” Hoseok admitted when the two had been sitting in a comfortable silence for a while. Yoongi looked over. Hoseok had stretched his long legs out, sunglasses atop his messy dark hair and his jean jacket becoming a neck pillow as he leaned his head back. He was looking up at the night sky through the trees, stars just beginning to twinkle out of the blackness.

“It is. Things have been stressful, huh?” Yoongi rose, going behind Hoseok’s chair and rubbing his shoulders. Hoseok groaned contentedly.

“Less with you around. Thank you.”

“Don’t be cheesy. We both know it doesn’t suit either of us.”

Hoseok smirked, shutting his eyes. “You’re right. Is dinner almost done? Did you bring anything to drink?”

“Yes and yes, beer and water. Cooler over there by the tree.” Yoongi motioned when Hoseok cracked open one eye to look. He walked back to the fire, fiddling with the stew he’d thrown together that was cooking. Hoseok grabbed two beers, passing one to Yoongi and crouching a bit nearer to the fire.

“Did you remember blankets?” He asked.

“Of course. I’m about to have to remember to untie you from the tree in the morning. Stop worrying, Hoseok. I promised you could relax this weekend, didn’t I? So we can relax. Come over here and get some food.”

He grabbed a bowl and dished up the stew, holding it out to Hoseok.

“I’m sorry. You know how I am.”

“I know. I also know you need a break. Trust me, okay?”

Hoseok smiled, his shoulders sagging a little. “You’re too patient, Yoongi-hyung.”

“Not in the slightest. I just know you.”

Hoseok settled back into his chair. Yoongi followed, sitting in one next to him. The two ate in a comfortable silence, watching the fire eat the logs they’d placed and listening to the gurgling brook nearby.

“Tomorrow, I should take you to fish,” Yoongi said, “there’s a lake this brook opens into about half a mile up.”

“You know I’m not very good at that.”

“No, but it’s still quiet and relaxing, and a good excuse to get some nice air and views, isn’t it? Plus, even if you don’t catch anything, I probably can, we can have fresh fish for dinner.”

 Yoongi wandered over to the brook to clean out their bowls and silverware and the pot, looking up at the full moon dangling above his head. Even out this far, he could hear nothing. Even crickets were quiet. The silence was beginning to get unnerving. He rose, turning to head back to the campsite, when something shining in the moonlight caught his eye. He walked toward it, surprised to find the entrance of a large cave. The rim was laced with little veins of metallic looking stones, the cause of the glinting.

“Hoseok,” he called. “Tamp out the fire and come here.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Hoseok padded over a few minutes later, using his phone flashlight in the dark. “What’s wrong?”

“Let’s go exploring.” Yoongi motioned to the mouth of the cave.

Hoseok turned the light toward it, watching the beam get swallowed by the darkness just a few feet in.

“Hm. Let’s go back to the tent.”

Hoseok turned away. Yoongi groaned and reached for him, grabbing his wrist. “No, come on Hobi.” He pouted.

Hoseok groaned. “Don’t do that to me.”

“Do what?” Yoongi said, pouting deeper. “Come explore with me.”

“I don’t want to die.”

“Worst thing in here is probably a bat.”

“And then we get rabies.”

“Only if we get bit,” Yoongi argued.

“Hyung—”

Yoongi scowled, then pouted as deeply as he could manage. He felt downright ridiculous doing it, but the cave felt… Different. He felt a strange draw to it, but couldn’t put his finger on why. All he knew was that he desperately wanted to know what was inside.

Hoseok groaned. “This, Yoongi-hyung. This is how we get eaten.”

“Nothing’s going to eat you,” Yoongi lamented, but grinned. He grabbed Hoseok’s wrist and pulled him forward into the cave.

 It was a relatively straight and narrow path through the darkness. Yoongi could hear the drips of liquid from stalactites, and every now and then a chilly wind seemed to blow through the tunnel from an unseen source. The two walked in silence for about five minutes before they reached a fork in the path.

“Right or left?” Hoseok whispered.

“I don’t know… Either is just as good… Make a note in your phone which one we pick though, so we can retrace our steps and not get lost. Maybe take a photo if the flash will show it?”

Hoseok nodded. He let go of Yoongi’s hand to snap a photo and then opened his notes app.

“I say right,” Yoongi finally said. Hoseok tapped out a note before the two headed down the right fork.

They moved forward, marking which tunnel they went down, taking photos when they spotted neat structures and to mark their path. The cave seemed to go on forever, and Yoongi had an unsettling feeling that they were slipping deeper and deeper into the earth. It didn’t feel flat anymore, so much as a downward angle. He didn’t say anything to Hoseok, not wanting to scare him.

After nearly forty minutes of walking, they reached yet another three-way tunnel split.

“We should head back,” Hoseok worried.

“It’s early yet, how’s your battery?” Yoongi argued.

“Still mostly full.”

“Then let’s keep going. Center.” Hoseok snapped a photo. Just as he brought his phone down to tap out the next note, a loud shout echoed from the tunnels. Both jumped back, grabbing onto one another, and Hoseok’s phone clattered to the ground, the flashlight shutting off.

Another sound echoed off the walls of the tunnels, sounding like a snarl.

“Run!” Hoseok cried, dragging Yoongi backwards.

“Stop,” Yoongi tried, nearly tripping over the rocks as they raced toward the entrance. “We’re gonna get lost!” He tried again, but another groan, sounding far too close for comfort, buried his words.

“I told you we were going to get eaten!” Hoseok hissed.

Yoongi tried to glare at him, but it was frankly too dark to see an inch in front of his face, let alone Hoseok in front of him.

Unfortunately, the darkness also meant that he didn’t see the rocks under his feet. The toe of his sneaker caught on a large stone and he jerked forward, wrist slipping out of Hoseok’s grip as he went down, slicing his palms on the rough, wet ground. He cried out sharply, echoing through the cave.

“Yoongi-hyung!”

“I’m okay. Where are you?” Yoongi asked, slowly standing.

“Here. Where’s your phone?”

“I left at at the campsite in the tent.”

“Uh…” There was a scuffle of rocks. “Can you hear my feet?”

“Yeah, but the echo—Just um… Maybe shuffle to your left and try to find the wall. I think this part was pretty straight so we can meet at the wall.”

“Okay.”

Yoongi heard Hoseok shuffling, and tried to discern if it was coming toward him or away. Before he could figure out much, a strange noise, similar to the previous growling, groaning, snarls as before, ripped through the cave.

A second noise followed, and it was one that had Yoongi scrambling for the nearest wall. It sounded like the galloping of a horse, shaking free debris from the roof of the tunnel as it echoed. Yoongi worried the tunnel would collapse, crushing them.

A distant light seemed to appear, yellowy-orange and flickering, nearing as the clopping noises neared. Was it a man on horseback? Ridiculous; no one rode a horse in a cave. Another groan echoed through the cave. Yoongi’s heart began to thud louder in his ears. The light brightened the tunnel, and he could see Hoseok only a few feet away. He grabbed for him, shoving him behind him as the figure approached. It was a horse. But it wasn’t. Where the head of the equine should have been was instead the bare torso of a man. Whatever it was was holding a lantern, the source of the light. The thing stood just about half a foot taller than Yoongi, with shoulders as broad as a normal horses’ shoulder span would be.

Yoongi tensed. Running was an option – but they were already lost and four legs were far faster than two. Without thinking too long, he drew his fist back and swung, connecting with the thing’s face. The horse-man thing reared back, a very human-like cry erupting from his mouth as he grabbed his face. Yoongi turned, shoving Hoseok down the tunnel. They might be lost, but perhaps slowing the thing down would be the head start they needed.

“I told you we were gonna get eaten! Bats,” Hoseok panted, “Bats! That’s a fucking monster!”

“I’m not a monster!” Cried a pained voice from behind them. “Why would you punch me? My God, that hurts,” the thing groaned, it’s hooves clopping against the dirt.

Surprised, Yoongi slowed, earning an annoyed groan from Hoseok. “Let’s go.”

Yoongi raised a hand, turning back.

The thing was still where they’d left it, now holding it’s face. It was a man, most definitely, his expression pinched in pain. Yoongi could see a wetness in the corners of his eyes where the light was flickering; he was nearly crying.

He looked at his hand, sighing. “No blood… Do you humans always go around punching people?” He scolded, waving his open hand at Yoongi. Yoongi stepped back, blinking in surprise. His mouth formed a confused pout. He was standing in a dark cave being yelled at by a…

“I’m not a damn monster either,” the horse-man continued. “I take offense to that. You wonder why we don’t ever appear to your kind, it’s your taking to calling us all monsters and horrible things! I’m a centaur, dammit.”

“A centaur.”

“Yoongi-hyung,” Hoseok whined desperately. “We gotta go…”

“I don’t think he’s going to hurt us…” Yoongi said softly, trying to soothe his boyfriend’s desperate pleas.

“We’re gonna get eaten.”

“We don’t eat people, you imbecile,” the centaur snapped, glaring. He jutted the arm with the lantern out, casting more light on the two. “What are you two doing in here? Nobody ever comes in this cave.”

“I was curious,” Yoongi admitted, now that his heart had slowed to a much less dangerous speed. He approached the centaur carefully, looking him up and down. “You—Was that you trying to scare us?”

“Scare you? Nobody was trying to scare anybody! You certainly gave us a fright though, all that caterwauling.”

As if on command, the loud snarling shout echoed again. Hoseok shouted, grabbing onto Yoongi.

“That!” Yoongi cried.

“Oh!” The centaur rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s not trying to scare you… It’s my little brother.”

“Your b—Brother?” Hoseok stuttered. “What the fuck is he, an ogre?”

“He’s sick,” the centaur whispered.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“We don’t know. He was near humans and we are part human… We wonder if he picked something up. He’s been hotter than he should be, and sneezing terribly. And saying his throat hurts.”

“Do you want me to look at him? I’m not a doctor, but our best friend is prone to getting sick. Maybe we could figure out what it is for you and how to treat it?”

“What?” Hoseok hissed. The centaur perked up.

“You’d do that?” He asked.

“Yeah, of course… Apology for me punching you in the nose.”

The centaur chuckled. “I suppose that’s fair. Sorry for scaring you. I was concerned someone was coming to hurt us. My name is Seokjin.” He stuck out his hand.

“Yoongi. This is my boyfriend Hoseok. Lead us to your brother, if you would?”

Seokjin nodded. He turned in the small tunnel, and Yoongi was forced to back up to allow room for his long body. The humans followed him down the tunnel, deeper into the bowels of the cave.

Hoseok grabbed Yoongi’s hand. “Why are we doing this?”

“He doesn’t seem malicious, Hobi. If your sister were sick, wouldn’t you want someone to try and help her?”

Hoseok sighed. “You have a point, I guess. How are you so calm? He’s a freakin’ horse.”

“Well, he’s only half horse,” Yoongi corrected. Ahead of them, Seokjin chuckled.

“My hearing is also quite excellent.”

Hoseok shut his mouth so quickly his teeth clicked, and Yoongi was sure if it weren’t so dark, he would have been able to see his cheeks reddening.

“Sorry, I just—You’re not something… I mean there’s fairytales but…” “You never figured those would be true.” Seokjin looked over his shoulder, smiling a little in the flickering light. He was stunning, frankly, and if not for his lower half, Yoongi would have wondered if he was a model.

“There’s a lot you probably don’t realize exists, Hoseok. Otherworldly creatures have become quite good at hiding themselves away. Where do you think the stories came from?”

“You mean… There’s others?”

“Sure. You name it, it probably exists?”

“Vampires?”

“Extinct, but they used to.”

“Werewolves?”

“Sure, my best friend is a werewolf.”

Hoseok gulped audibly. “Selkies?”

Seokjin glanced back again. “Why do you seem more scared of a seal person than a werewolf?”

“I have a thing with water monsters.”

“Well, they exist. And they are very kind. They get a bad rap, as do werewolves, goblins, and my kind. We’re not near as monstrous as you humans want to believe.”

“You seem like you don’t have a very good opinion of humans,” Yoongi commented.

“Damn right I don’t. Your people have hurt us for centuries. And now all these diseases, my brother is laid up sick with something I’ve never seen because of humans and their stupid—” Seokjin drew a deep breath, his shoulders rising and sinking. “I’m sorry. You offered to help and here I am snapping about your species.”

“It’s alright. Humans are pretty much garbage,” Yoongi said. “For the most part. There’s some good ones but… You’re right.”

Seokjin made a small noise, turning them down another tunnel. His brother’s noise ripped through the air once more, sounding much louder and closer.

“You are a queer human, Yoongi.”

“Well, I hope so,” Yoongi chuckled. Seokjin glanced back, tilting his head a little.

“That word – For humans nowadays, it means gay, not weird so much anymore. Like romantically interested in your own gender. I’m dating Hobi, so…”

“Ohh…” Seokjin nodded. “I understand. Well, strange then. Strange human.”

“What do you mean?”

“I feel as if… A majority of your kind… If you’d seen me, you would have done more than punch me then apologize. They would have hurt me, or run screaming.”

“Well, I’m not most humans.”

“Which is what’s strange.”

Yoongi licked his lips. “Let’s just say I know what it’s like in your position. I may not be a horse person, but… Being alone, with someone you care deeply about in a bad way…” He paused. “And no one caring enough to help. I get that. And I just don’t think anyone should go through that. Ever.”

“You’ve had a great loss.”

Yoongi nodded. Hoseok reached out, squeezing his shoulder. “Hyung…”

“I’m okay.”

Seokjin watched them a moment more before turning and heading down another tunnel. “Almost there.”

True to his word, this tunnel opened into a large cavern, moonlight filtering through a opening far above their heads. A fire was crackling in the center of the cavern. Tunnel entrances were littered in five other spots throughout, all dark as the one they’d just come from. There were clay and woven jars littered around the edges of the cave, as well as some beat up camping coolers and other items clearly scavenged from the nearby campsites. Near the fire was another centaur. His hair was much longer than Seokjin’s, but like Seokjin, his horse half was a rich, chocolatey brown. He was lying, his long legs folded under him. His nose was bright red, and his eyes were watery.

As soon as they entered, he sneezed hard, the sound echoing and distorting through the tunnels. So that had been the noise. He groaned helplessly. “Jin-hyung? Who are they?” He rasped, his stuffy nose thickening his voice.

Yoongi circled around Jin and bowed. “Hello. My name is Yoongi. I’ve come to see if I can help figure out what’s wrong with you.”

“You’re a human.”

“I am. My boyfriend and I were wandering in the cave. Your brother found us.”

“Talk to him, Taehyung. I’m worried for you.”

Taehyung tilted his head, looking Yoongi up and down. Despite the glassiness from his fever, he had an inquisitive gaze. “Alright.”

Yoongi sat down next to him.

Jin came around, leaning his torso over and grabbing a bowl. He filled it with water, offering it first to Hoseok.

“Thank you,” Hoseok took a small sip. He crouched near Yoongi.

“I’m gonna feel your forehead, okay? Get a read on your temperature.”

Taehyung nodded, sniffling. He wiped his stuffy nose, leaning forward so Yoongi could reach his forehead.

“Hm… You are warm, but it doesn’t feel too bad. What does your kind normally run? May I check you, Jin? To compare.”

“Of course.”

Yoongi rose, feeling Jin’s temperature. “Okay, so he’s not much warmer than you. That’s good.” He sat back down, letting Taehyung drink water before speaking again. “Where does it hurt?”

“My nose is horrible, and my throat feels thick and clogged. I can’t barely eat, it doesn’t hurt, I just don’t have an appetite. And I feel like my head’s all…” He waved his hands.

“Foggy?” Yoongi supplied. Taehyung nodded. “Right. Like I can’t think.”

“When did you start getting sick?”

“A few days ago.”

“After you were near humans? Where were they?”

“Camping in that campsite nearby. Sometimes we sneak stuff for our home.”

“That’s where we came from. So, if they were camping, chances are they weren’t too sick. Did you hear any of them sniffling or coughing?”

“The kid, yeah,” Taehyung confirmed, nodding.

“Okay.” Yoongi frowned in thought. “I need a light. It could be a couple of things, but I wanna rule out some simple stuff. Do you have a light like a flashlight? Hobi dropped his phone in one of the tunnels, so we don’t have that…”

“Flashlight… Oh! Yes, I think so.” Jin hurried over to a cooler, digging around in it. He came out with something, holding it up. “This?”

Yoongi motioned for Hoseok to go grab it, counting Taehyung’s temperature.

“Yep, that’s it,” he heard Hoseok say.

“Pulse is normal…” He took the flashlight and turned it on. “Alright, close your eyes, and this will feel silly but it will help. Stick your tongue out and go ahhh,” Yoongi did an example. Taehyung laughed a little but nodded. He stuck his tongue out as far as it would go, making as close to an ahh noise as he could. Yoongi shined the flashlight into his mouth, moving a little closer.

“Hobi, take a look… No white?”

Hoseok took the flashlight, peeking into his mouth as well. “Looks red, but not strep.”

“Good.” He clicked off the flashlight. “Alright, you can stop dancing around now,” he said.

“What is it?” Jin asked, pacing around behind Taehyung.

“Honestly? I think he’s just got a cold,” Yoongi said. “I can’t say for sure, like I said, I’m not a doctor, but this doesn’t seem any worse than what your average human would get. Especially if he was around a kid – I’m guessing he doesn’t hang out with human kids much, so his immune system is probably crap.”

“So, what do we do?” Jin worried.

“Nothing much you can do. It’ll pass on its own if it is a common cold.”

“I’m not dying?” Taehyung asked, sneezing hard again. He groaned. “I feel like I’m dying.”

“You will for a few days, but you should be fine. If it gets worse though… You might need actual medicine. I have a first aid kit, I can give you some stuff to help a little with the fever and sleep, but if it’s more serious you might need actual medicine, from a doctor.”

Jin shifted uncomfortably. “Well, let’s hope you’re right then, and it’s not that serious.”

Yoongi nodded. “It seems not so bad. Jin, if you’d walk Hobi and I back to the entrance, I can run back to our campsite and grab some medicine for him, he can take it at least to rest easier, so he’s not sneezing quite so much.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

Yoongi rose, shaking Taehyung’s hand. “Feel better, okay?”

“Thank you,” Taehyung said honestly.

Yoongi grabbed Hoseok’s hand, allowing Jin to lead them back through the tunnel system quietly.

When they reached the entrance, Jin shifted his weight, his hooves scuffing in the dirt.

“I’ll go grab the medical kit,” Hoseok offered, rushing toward their campsite.

“I want to thank you, honestly, for offering to look at my brother,” Jin said softly to Yoongi. “It means a lot.”

“I just hope he’s okay. Like I said, these meds won’t do much, but it’s something to help him rest. If it is a common cold, lots of fluids and rest, and it should pass in a few days, if he’s anything like a human with it.”

Jin nodded. He shifted again. “I know this may seem quite strange. But you are welcome back, if you’d like to visit us.”

Yoongi chuckled. “Thank you for the offer, but I’m afraid we’d never find our way back there. The caves are just too big, and our sense of direction isn’t near as good as yours.”

“Oh, of course,” Jin slapped his forehead. “Silly of me. This brook.” He pointed. “In the daytime, you can see a dirt path on the other side of it. Follow it up and it curves and splits into two. One goes toward the lake, the other looks like it dries up and disappears, but it’s actually diverted into our cave system. If you follow that path, you’ll find a smaller entrance hidden in the rocks. It’s a straight path to our main cavern. We keep it hidden with leaves and such, and most people don’t bother to wander this way.”

Hoseok returned with the medical kit, passing it to Yoongi. He dug in it, grabbing a box of Nyquil and a bottle of pain killers.

“Here. Have him take two of these blue ones every night before bed. They’ll help him sleep. And then once or twice a day he can take these other ones, they’re painkillers. I don’t want to sound ignorant but do you… Know how to read?” He held up the bottle.”

Jin nodded. “I do. Our parents taught us before they passed, so we could get things safely from human places.”

“Oh good, great, so there’s instructions on both of them, in case you forget. He can’t take them too close together or too many, or he might get sick, so just try to keep time between them if you can.”

Jin nodded, taking the pills. He smiled softly and looked between the two. “You are good humans. Thank you so much.”

Yoongi smiled. He squeezed Jin’s hand. “Hope he feels better.”

“The offer stands, come visit, if you’d like.”

“We might,” Yoongi said. He watched Jin trot back into the cave, the reality of what had just happened hitting him. He chuckled and looked at Hoseok.

“We just met a centaur.”

“And his brother has the sniffles,” Hoseok responded, scratching his head. The two turned back to the campsite, their hands naturally finding one another and twining together.

“We didn’t have too much to drink, right?” Hoseok asked.

Yoongi laughed. “I don’t think so… So much for peace and quiet. This is an adventure for the books, isn’t it?”

The two reached their campsite, and Hoseok tucked away a few of the items before crawling into the tent with Yoongi.

“You wanna know what’s weird?” He asked as they laid in the dark, looking up at the stars through the netting.

“What?”

“I kind of want to go see them again. Make sure Taehyung is okay.”

“Me too,” Yoongi admitted.

“Next weekend?” Hoseok asked.

“It’s a plan… Get some sleep, Hobi.”

“You too.” Hoseok pressed a gentle kiss to Yoongi’s cheek, snuggling up against him in the darkness.

Yoongi laid awake for a while longer, gazing up at the stars as he came to terms with the new reality he’d discovered tonight. Otherworldly creatures were real, and he’d accidentally made friends with one. That was okay, he decided as he drifted off to sleep. One could never have too many centaur friends, could they?

#sope #fluff #bangtanarmynet #armiesnet #btsguild #thebtswritersclub #networkbangtan #btsbookclub #bangtanhq #btswriterscollective #bangtanidx #boymeetsmxm #kwritersworldnet #bangtanxm #yoongi x hoseok #hoseok x yoongi #suga x hoseok #hoseok x suga #mywriting #jhope x suga #suga x jhope #jhope x yoongi #yoongi x jhope #bangtan mxm