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larissa-the-scribe · 6 months

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Terrarium Lights

Part 1 of 3 for @inklings-challenge

An older lady befriends and adopts a ghost she found in her garden

Next part >>here

Michael Goffrey bid his wife farewell as he left for his next shipping job, and Gail Goffrey was once again faced with the fact that her house was cavernously empty.

She had expected the house to feel empty after her children grew up and moved on with their lives; that was the sort of thing one always heard about from the mothers and wives left behind. However, everyone seemed to stress the loneliness—not the rather more intense boredom.

Gail had always preferred quiet and alone time, so she did not take issue with the solitude. However, though she still had to cook and mend and clean and tidy and all the other tasks, it was one thing to do so for six people and quite another, shorter thing to do so for two. It was even less of a thing to do so for one, since Michael had been promoted to first mate and now had to accompany the airships personally, no longer simply loading and unloading at the cloudends as he once did.

Empty and meaningless. That’s what it felt like. With her family, she had people to help and care for. With just herself, she felt as though she were wasting time walking in circles for no other purpose than to exist.

She made it to the second day without any significant issue.

She was out tending to the herb garden when it happened—a bug wandered in front of her. That shouldn’t have been a problem. Bugs were some of her favorite creatures. But after the first smile, it hit her that she hadn't seen a new kind of one in months—this one already had three sketches in her notebook.

She’d run out of garden bugs to document.

Bugs, of all things. Bugs were everywhere, bugs had never-ending variations, bugs were constant. And she’d run out of them.

Stabbing the trowel into the earth perilously close to the offending bug, she sat back on her heels and looked up at the sky.

"Well, Lord, I reckon you put me on your good Earth for a reason. And I don't think it was just to sketch bugs." She smoothed her apron out, flicking bits of dirt off of it. "I also doubt I'm done with what I'm supposed to do down here, otherwise I wouldn't be here. But if you don't mind me saying, I'm awfully bored of where I am, though I do love my house and my husband and my town quite fierce. But I have all the time in the world, and I'd like to do good with it, if I could. So if you could show me what to do where I can—give me eyes to see as who I can do good towards—then I would appreciate it mightily."

Gail had prayed similar prayers before, with varying regularity. She knew the good Lord had heard her, as he always did. And if he answered with more solitude and time and boredom, then she supposed that was where she was meant to be for the moment. But she dearly hoped there might be something new this time.

So, really, she shouldn't have been surprised to see someone under the loquat tree. But then again, it had been raining since before dawn, so no one in their right mind would have been outdoors. She should know, since she herself had been out gathering moss for terrariums and hadn't heard a breath from anyone all day, even near the city.

Her first impression was that the lad was quite young. Younger than her youngest, in fact, who had not too long ago started her career as a professor at the nearby university. Looked perhaps like he could be one of her students. Very slight of build, as though he needed to eat more, and small looking as he sat hunched in the rain and letting the wet drip down his messy hair, full of loose ends that had gotten free from his ponytail.

Gail stood at the edge of her garden for a moment, resting her pail of moss against the stone border as she observed him.

He didn't move, just sat there with his face turned towards the soil, and didn't seem to see her. Part of his shoulder seemed stained, perhaps with mud. With the house not a few feet to the left, she wondered if he'd tried to knock and not gotten an answer, what with her out and about.

Well, unexpected or not, there was really only one thing to do.

Gripping her pail handle resolutely, Gail marched her way through the garden paths and stood in front of him. He shifted at the sound of her approach, turning his face up towards her—his eyes were pale, as if someone had sketched them on and not bothered with paint. What's more, up closer, the brownish stain on his shoulder looked rather like dried blood.

He tilted his head, as if trying to tell where the sound had come from.

"Well then," she said after a long moment of trying to figure out what to say, "who might you be?"

"Oh." He looked more directly at her, and somehow the eyes looked a bit more colored in, like they remembered they could be brown. "Dreadfully sorry, ma'am. I seem to have gotten lost in the rain. I hope you don't mind me taking a few moments here under your tree?"

He hadn't answered the question, but he seemed more surprised than shifty. "Not at all. Unpleasant weather to be lost in, for sure. If you'd like, you can wait it out under a roof."

"Oh," he said again, and looked to his left; this time it seemed like he understood what he was seeing. "I suppose that would be nicer."

"Well, you're welcome to my roof, if you’d like," she said. She wondered how long he would take her up on that.

He awkwardly stumbled to his feet before she could offer her hand. "That's very kind of you, ma'am."

"Would you like anything to eat?" She went ahead and led the way to the kitchen door.

He hummed thoughtfully. "Thank you ma’am, but I don't think I'm hungry."

She didn't think he would be, but, well, it wasn't like she had experience with this. Which concerned her—she had no idea what she was supposed to be doing. At least he didn't seem to be wicked. She supposed he must need a helping hand and, while she needed to figure out what that help was, he was still just a boy; she would do him the courtesy of treating him accordingly.

The porch and floors, old and creaky since long before she and her husband and infant son had moved in decades ago, greeted them with typical fanfare as they trudged over the threshold. She dripped her way over to the stove, where she put the kettle on; it was unlikely that her visitor would want any, but she most certainly did. Setting her pail of moss by the stove to deal with later, she glanced back to see the lad standing in the middle of the space, staring up at the roof.

Gail wondered if he noticed that he wasn't wet.

"Say," she said, carefully pulling teacups out of the cupboard, "what did you say your name was?"

He looked at her sharply. "I… I don't think I did."

"Hmmmm. Well, how should I call you, then?"

He stared at her.

In the background, the rain continued on.

"Should I just call you ma'am, then?" He said, smiling faintly.

Gail squinted at him. "Now then, young man, are you dodging the question deliberately, or do you just not have an answer?"

"Oh." He glanced around the kitchen, then back to her, and blanked. "Sorry, what was the question?"

Gail rested back against the counter. She picked up her glasses from where she'd left them this morning, and stuck them on, pushing the temples through her sodden mess of hair. "I was just asking what your name was."

His eyes widened. "I… don't… Didn't I answer that?"

"Not as I can recall."

"That… that was rude of me, then, wasn't it?" His eyes were still wide, and the brown was fading.

Maybe it was rude of her to keep pressing the matter. He seemed not to know. Gail pressed her glasses firmer on her nose, trying to reach some kind of decision—but whatever was going on with her guest had been set in motion.

"What is my name?" He asked, his voice rising. "I can't remember my name."

"That's alright, dear," she said, trying to distract him, calm him down. "Do you remember where you were before my garden?"

It had the opposite effect.

He stepped back, towards the door, and glanced around with eyes that no longer understood where he was. "No… I-I can't remember… where am I? Do you know my name?"

"I'm afraid I—"

The kettle shrieked into the space between them with a rush of steam.

The lad cast a wild glance in its direction, stepped backwards. Gail, startled into motion, scrambled to shut the thing off.

When she turned back, the space where he had stood was dry and empty. She and the rain and her pail of terrarium moss had been left alone again.

#inklingschallenge #inklings 2023 #team lewis #genre: portal fantasy #theme: burial #theme: visiting the sick #story: unfinished #the santa juliana files #terrarium lights #original fiction #scribe does inklings

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laurelsofhighever · 8 months

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Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins Characters/pairings: Alistair x Cousland Chapter: 9/? Rating: T Warnings: None Fic Summary: The story of the Fifth Blight, in a world where Alistair was raised to royalty instead of joining the Grey Wardens.

Read it on AO3

Morrigan, it seemed, was every bit as unpleasant as suggested by her acerbic remarks back in Flemeth’s glade. Generously, her mood might be blamed on the resentment of being sent from home and turned into a guide by her mother, but Alistair’s own churn of grief and worry left him little room for sympathy. After announcing that she had packed her things, and tutting all the while that Rosslyn needed help into her armour to avoid her injury, the witch had set a demanding pace, and seemed to follow no path beyond her own whims.

Most of the trees slouched too close together for frost to touch the banks of moss beneath their feet, but the cold still found its way in, with the scent of wet earth and the occasional shower of droplets from disturbed branches overhead. He pushed away the discomfort, worried more for Rosslyn, for the sickly gleam of her skin in the half-light. They carried only enough supplies to get them to Lothering – even having left behind his heavy plate armour in favour of quieter, faster movement – but though she bore the least of them, her eyes glazed over, and as the sunlight lengthened and dipped low, more than once ahead of him she stumbled and had to clench a sob between her teeth as the movement jostled her injured arm.

They finally halted on a spur of exposed, striated bedrock above a small pond. A stream fed into it from somewhere nearby, the distant rush of water the only sound through the windless trees, but not enough to disturb its dark, glasslike surface.

“We should set watches,” Rosslyn said. She had already sunk onto a lip of the rock, almost grey with fatigue.

“Two should be enough,” he answered, throwing a meaningful glare at Morrigan.

The witch made no protest, but shrugged off her pack and turned away.

“Where are you going?”

“You wish to eat, I suppose?” she drawled. “We will need a fire and shelter, if that is within your capabilities.”

He watched her stalk into the trees with a huff before setting down his own pack and unstrapping the small hatchet Flemeth had graciously allowed them to take. A firestarting kit had been shoved in the top as well, and this he passed to Rosslyn.

“This is almost like all those times your father dragged us out of the castle to go camping,” he joked, and then mentally kicked himself. “Almost. Fewer things wanting to kill us. Uh… I’d better get started if we want a roof over our heads tonight.”

He was still packing moss onto the roof of the lean-to to block the wind as the final light bled from the sky and stained the encroaching clouds like a cup of spilled wine over a tablecloth. Every so often he glanced to Rosslyn, who frowned as she poked the fire. She had built it well, and even in a short time the narrow hollow between the ridge and the first line of trees had grown almost cosy. The silence, however, had not. It was a relief when Morrigan emerged out of the gloom with a brace of rabbits at her hip and the edge of her cloak folded over an armful of mushrooms and some kind of long, tuberous roots.

The quiet persisted. Night fell without the rustle of deer through the undergrowth or the calls of hunting owls overhead, as if the whole forest were cowering from the darkspawn, with only the slow bubbling of their small stewpot to measure time and Cuno’s snuffling at the discarded innards of their meal to offer conversation, until the oppressive air closed so tight that Alistair wanted to scream.

“We should probably talk about where we’re going next, once we’ve got our supplies in Lothering,” he ventured.

“Would that imply you have a plan?” Morrigan asked in an airy voice. “I had thought this morning it was settled we would go to this Arl Eamon in Redcliffe. Did you forget already?”

He tried not to grind his teeth and turned instead to Rosslyn, wiping her sword with an oiled rag. “What about the treaties? Elves, dwarves, the Circle of Magi… We’ll have to find them all at some point.”

Flemeth’s warnings gnawed at him, the sheer enormity of their task, and beneath it a deeper dread for what would now become of him – what would be expected – even though Cailan had only acknowledged him in the first place because the Landsmeet was growing restless that he had no heirs of his own.

“Rosslyn?”

She started.

“What do you think?” he pressed. “About where we should go.”

“Oh… Redcliffe is closest.”

“You do not sound eager to get there,” Morrigan observed.

A frown drew in across her brows, knotting her mouth in a hard line as her gaze drifted out into the darkness. “I came to Ostagar to find Fergus. My brother,” she clarified, at the witch’s blank look.

“Rosslyn…”

Morrigan cut across him. “If he was lost in the Wilds, then attempting to look for him would be foolish. He is either dead or he managed to flee to the north.”

“Very sensitive.” He glared at her again, because it was easier than watching the way Rosslyn’s fingers clenched in her lap.

“I am simply saying that you have no notion where this man is,” she replied in a slow, careful voice, as if he were an argumentative child. “It would be nigh-on suicidal to look for him when the wilds are overrun with darkspawn and we already have a mission that could decide the fate of everyone in Ferelden.”

“And you don’t want to try and have even a moment of compassion?” he demanded. “Or are witches allergic to that? Have you never lost anyone close to you – what would you do if your mother died?”

“Before or after I stopped laughing?”

“Right, very creepy,” he snapped. “This is the moment where we’re shocked to discover you’ve never had a friend your entire life.”

“I can be friendly if I desire. Alas, desiring to be more intelligent does not make it so.”

“That’s enough.”

Rosslyn was standing. Her features blazed in the glow of the fire, the darkness mantling about her like wings as sparks gathered in the corners of her eyes and the leather of her sword’s scabbard creaked under the strength of her grip. Before he could reach for her, the thread of tension holding her in place snapped. She turned, swallowed by the night. For a moment even Cuno only watched her stalk away, until with a high, worried whine he hauled himself to his paws and padded after her.

Alistair’s gaze flashed to Morrigan. “Happy?”

“I did not –”

But he wasn’t listening, already following the path Rosslyn had taken through the forest. The sudden loss of firelight left him blind until his eyes adjusted, the air too cool and damp against his face, but she hadn’t retreated far, and he found her tucked against the gnarled roots of a yew with one knee drawn up to her chest and the other folded underneath, the way she had once sat on the plush chairs in the teyrn’s study as she took her lessons.

“Are you alright?” he asked, at a loss for anything else to say.

She only sniffed. The Cousland sword lay embraced across her chest like a favourite stuffed toy, with the dog at her side torn between fussing over her like a nursemaid and pinning Alistair with such a baleful glare there could be no doubt of his intent.

“May I sit?”

With one last sniff, she swiped at her cheeks and laid a hand on Cuno’s head to calm him. “Feel free.”

Silence fell over them. He fidgeted. Though he tried to find comforting words, his mind kept drifting instead to the last time they had truly been alone together, to all the things unsaid that had been seething in his gut for the past two years.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, as if such a small word were enough.

She shook her head and dragged a shuddering breath into her lungs. “No. Morrigan’s right. I shouldn’t hope that he’s alive. Part of me – part of me doesn’t want to.”

“What does Morrigan know?” he scoffed. “Maybe Fergus got out, maybe he heard about the army’s defeat and went to Lothering. But… that’s not what I meant.” He licked his lips, hoping for eloquence, that this, at least, might be one burden he could take from her shoulders. “The last time we saw each other, before the Blight, I… the way I behaved wasn’t fair. I just wanted you to know you don’t have to worry about – about me doing anything like that again.”

He had to look down at his hands, twisting them in his lap to avoid the way she searched his face. Until he spoke the words aloud, he had not recognised the traitorous little corner of his heart that still wanted, that hoped she might reach out and cup his face and draw him in for the kiss he had once so clumsily asked of her. Instead, she turned away and let the back of her head thump against the bark, scowling out at the dark in a way that told him he had yet again misjudged, too entangled in the mire of his own feelings, selfish, insensitive, callous as a –

“Arl Howe betrayed us.”

His gaze snapped sideways. “What?”

“Back in Ostagar you asked what happened.” There was a dead, distant quality to her voice. “He persuaded Father to send Fergus ahead with the army – said his own muster hadn’t finished – and then when night fell he had them attack. The defences weren’t seen to, and we were overrun.”

“And the warden-commander –”

“Conscripted me,” she spat, her lips pulled back from her teeth. “Refused to aid us until my father agreed to let him take me. What?”

“I just…” He shook his head. “I can’t believe it. Howe is one of Highever’s vassals, one of your father’s oldest friends. And all this time…” Back when he was still in Starkhaven, had Nate known what his father planned? “I can’t imagine what it was like to see that.”

“Don’t pity me,” she snarled. “I live. And before this is over, I will take my family’s sword and use it to carve Howe the slow, excruciating death he deserves.” Her knuckles strained white on the hilt, clear even in the gloom, her eyes blazing and bright with unfamiliar, feverish intensity.

He wanted to touch her. Offers of shared vengeance and enduring loyalty tripped on his tongue. And yet, with the way her pain already chafed like a splinter caught under his skin, he sat locked, struggling against the fear he might only make it worse.

“I could never pity you,” he told her eventually.

She sagged a little. “Arl Eamon should have mustered at Ostagar. If he’d been there…”

“Cailan expected him to come,” he replied. A sudden image of his half-brother, clapping a soldier on the back in praise of his courage, brought a sting to the back of his throat. “We can ask him when we get to Redcliffe – but first we have to get there, and for that we have to eat. Come on.” He nudged her with an elbow and stood. “The stew should be ready soon, and Nan did always say you can’t go knocking heads on an empty stomach.”

Her small huff of laughter warmed him as he helped her to her feet, though the sound lacked humour and she quickly pulled away from his grip. For an instant, foolish hope took root that she might lean into him, safe from prying eyes in the dark, but only until the dog shouldered him out of the way with a grunt to take pride of place at his mistress’s side. As he followed them back to the camp, he tried to convince himself he had no right to be disappointed.

She woke with a sword in her hand, fully armoured in her own plate. Blood splattered the front of it, though when she touched it, still wet as it smeared on her fingers, she couldn’t remember where it came from, who she had killed to become so filthy, and now shouting bubbled in the air around her, steel and the crashing of footsteps, until the door burst open and the servant’s warning died as the arrow pierced his throat. Shadows loomed in the world beyond – enemies she knew had to die. She charged, a battle cry on her lips, but though her muscles strained they would not move. Darkness sucked at her legs, rot that grew and spread along her armour, like moss, while the darkspawn grinned at her and the orange and white of the Howe Bear danced above them in the light of the flames. She struggled, snarled, struck at them all beyond her reach.

And then the world around her rumbled and the castle fell down in a cloud of dust as the great shadow loomed, a horned head and the leather flap of wings, a gaping maw and a belch of black, roiling flame –

The jolt awake tore at her shoulder. Sickened, she clutched at her arm with a grit of teeth to keep herself from crying out, all while the dregs of the nightmare scuttled through her bones and the scents of leaf mould and smoke coiled in her head to make her dizzy, lost in the battle to keep her stomach from overturning.

In the end, she barely managed to scramble out of the edge of the firelight before her guts heaved and she fell forward to empty her stomach. When there was nothing left, she sat back and found Morrigan watching her, like a hawk considering a mouse, as she pulled the stopper on the waterskin to rinse out the taste.

“Waste of a good meal,” she muttered. “No reflection on your cooking.”

“Then it must be something else that troubles you.”

The witch turned away to poke the fire, apparently satisfied in her scrutiny, and made no comment as Rosslyn eased herself down opposite. Faint snores carried from the depth of the shelter. For that, she was glad; experiencing such weakness was bad enough without having Alistair witness it. She had sat quiet through dinner as she processed his apology, trying to figure out the strange twist in her chest, startled up by his words like a flock of grouse flushed from a hedgerow. Did it even matter? If they managed to end the Blight and survive, fate would lead them down different paths, and already she could feel it tugging, laced with the dregs of the nightmare that crawled under her skin. She should have killed Duncan when Jory gave her an opening.

“No sign of darkspawn?” she asked.

Morrigan waved the concern away. “The wards Mother gave me will hide us for now. ‘Tis a good thing we are headed out of the Wilds, however.” She stiffened, as if anticipating disagreement.

“You seem to know your way well through rather well,” Rosslyn said instead, pushing away thoughts of Fergus.

“‘Tis my home.” The witch offered a shrug. “From time to time, I have travelled beyond its borders, to the village that is our destination. I have watched its people and pondered what curious beings they are, purchased goods from the merchants there. And now…” she added, with a purse of her lips, “Mother wishes me to expand my experience beyond that as well.”

For a long moment, Rosslyn studied her companion, the vulnerable way she hunched in on herself while trying not to make it obvious. She would have made a poor politician, far too transparent for one raised to the nobility, where every glance or twitch of a muscle could betray a person’s intentions. Unless nobody was looking.

She forced her fists to unclench.

“Before I was… recruited, I never travelled outside of Highever, except to go to Denerim or the Storm Islands to visit my mother’s people,” she said. “But I always wanted to see mountains.”

Morrigan tilted her chin, almost in a smile. “As do I – and to witness the ocean and step into its waters, and experience a city rather than just see it in my mind.” She paused, and her face fell into a scowl. “I suppose now I will do all those things… but actually leaving is harder than I thought.”

“Sometimes there’s no choice.”

No reply came, the words spoken with too much bitterness to defy the deep hour of the night with more conversation, and as the silence stretched and let Rosslyn nod once more, only the low hiss of the logs burning offered comfort to her drooping limbs.

#dragon age #dragon age fanfic #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age: origins #dragon age origins #da:o #alistair x cousland #alistair x warden #warden x alistair #alistair theirin #cousland #warden cousland #rosslyn cousland #grey wardens #morrigan

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iammythmaker · 1 year

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“Blue flowers” for @foxtober

When Kotallo saw a blue blanket of flowers with sunny centers, he sighed in surprise. Kotallo loved the color blue: he said that this color reminds him of Sky in his house.

The romantic side of Kotallo could not pass by this place.

He gently laid her on the warm

ground after a hot day, kissing her reddish,freckled cheeks. She gave in easily and kissed his perfect lips.

Smiling slyly, Kotallo whispered at her lips:

"When was the last time you lay in the middle of a meadow?"

She frowned and looked around the completely clean and serene field of flowers, colliding with the evening sky closer to the horizon.

Really. When?

"Fifteen minutes, Aloy. Enjoy it"

She lay down and froze and lay still, analyzing all her feelings.

“Just breathe, love.”

It was so simple and complicated at the same time. Just lie there and breathe. Aloy couldn't say for sure when she had done it last. Carelessly. Without thoughts. Just taking your time. Look at the sky shimmering with evening haze.

There was still time before Nemesis.

The fingers of her right hand felt something magical. They lazily touched the silk petals of meadow flowers, fingered thin blades of grass.

Sometimes she dug her fingertips into the soft, fertile soil.

She took a deep breath of the gentle meadow air, followed with her eyes the soft light of a firefly dancing in a spiral around her face.

She closed her eyes blissfully.

She smiled and with her left hand felt the pigtail of the man lying with the jack and pulled it, teasing the big tenact more.

At the same time, she felt as if she was touchin thunderjaw by the tail with impunity. It was really like that.

Kotallo gasped noisily and grinned.

"You were enough for exactly five minutes. And I'm not pulling your hair."

She smiled broadly, playing with his many braids. The striking contrast between the feeling of the softness of the earth and the night, gently scented flowers and the smoothness of the bone and stone beads in his hair made her purr blissfully.

But maybe that was Kotallo's fault, too. His firm presence nearby, warmth and tenderness gave something different, incommensurable in simple words, a feeling.

Be here. Breathe next to him. Listen to her heartbeat and swear in her thoughts that she hears the measured beating of his strong and big barbaric heart.

She relaxed into his caress while he gently fingered the strands of her hair like silk ribbons.

Kotallo often said that her hair is a pure soft flame that can be stroked and passed through her fingers without fear.

She couldn't resist, and hiding a laugh, said:

"Sometimes I think you like my hair more than me."

"You are as accurate as ever in your conclusions," Tenakth noted with a slight irony. She pulled his braids again, harder this time. He breathed her name reproachfully. "Aloy."

"Yes?" she asked quietly.

"Another ten minutes. Breathe."

"Good."

"My impatient huntress. We have nowhere to hurry. Do you remember?"

There was contentment in his tone and she could feel his smile. The one that was just for her.

And she believed every word he said.

In fact, she was ready to lie there for an eternity. With the man who loved her that calm and quiet cradle of lights. He loved her so desperately, wildly and passionately, as if there was no one else in this world.

Among the flowers, herbs and sparks of the darkening sky. She smiled back at him, knowing that he would feel the same.

Even with her eyes closed, she knew the secret:

«Nemesis is still a long way off. Nemesis will be defeated.»

Twilight descend like a silk veil on their skin.

#hfw #horizon forbidden west #kotallo #aloy #kotaloy #hfw kotallo #hfw aloy #aloy x kotallo #kotalloy #kotallo x aloy #ficbook #ao3 #my fic post #fanfiction #fanfic

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daxieoclock · 7 months

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Hunters Masterpost 2: First Dungeon

(Refer to this post for a summary of the protagonists.)

This will be a summary of all major plot events during the Hunters campaign during the first dungeon: hunting the Celestial Behemoth.

The first few months of sessions had a lot of growing pains, including multiple player characters retconned out of "canon" so I'll be summarizing events with those retcons in mind. Without any further ado...

Chapter 1: Icarus

Our curtain rises on a quiet Friday in January at Belknap College. It's modern day (minus covid), inner state New York, and we find ourselves in the office of Belknap's dean of humanities: Erin Sakio. She's not here. She triple-booked herself with three students at the same time and didn't show up. In the meantime, those students make small talk and introduce themselves.

Blake Leto, silver tongued young celebrity, famous for being falsely accused of killing a police officer and currently on tenuous parole.

Lena Tarr, rough-talking rabblerouser with a visable limp and a penchant for lashing out at teachers and counselors alike.

Ilse Belanger, who comfortably blends into a crowd. They might qualify for valedictorian if people remembered their name.

Awkward small talk is interrupted by a parcel dropping from the ceiling onto Miss Sakio's desk. A paper wrapped object and a very living bluebird, apparently a robin. Curioisity wins over shock, and the trio unwraps the package, finding a letter addressed to Sakio and an ornate dark key.

–ensuring that your standard issue equipment is accounted for, please insert the enclosed Tindalos Key into the nearest corner. You may count yourself lucky to be among our ranks, but please know we consider you and each of your peers to be your own unique blessing. The duty you perform is beyond vital, and your success ensures that your home, your Earth, will survive. The World Must Turn On. Signed, V.P. of the Daedalus Collective.

Blake jokingly calls the bird "Icarus," a name that sticks like glue. Ilse, fiddling with the key, tries to follow the letter's instructions. After touching it to a corner of the room, the key vanishes and the walls peel open, revealing an impossible purple hallway. A gate into another world. Curiosity wins out again, and the trio head inside.

Blake, Ilse and Lena find themselves in an enormous junkyard underneath a violet sky. While they're taking in the sights, they find themselves face to face with another person, a confused looking Camellia Pavel, college dropout, who was personally delivered their own key and letter and stumbled into this world...about a half hour ago.

While Camellia gratefully chows down on a snack Lena happened to bring, Blake and Ilse take inventory of their surroundings. Blake in particular finds a small purple book, a childhood journal they lost years ago, with everything within still as it once was. As they question that impossibility, the four hear a new voice.

The boy’s impish grin widened into a crocodile smile. “My name is Puck, and this,” he gestured to the junkyard around him, “is the Spiral of Forfeit.” He kicked his heels against the backrest of the chair. “It is where lost things are found, where the abandoned flock, where the discarded may be granted a second chance at life. It is also, as you have correctly identified, my home.”

Puck warns the four of nearby "scavengers," and suggests they arm themselves before vanishing as abruptly as he appeared. Sure enough, a swarm of monsters appear: floating Jack-o-Lantern creatures made of scrap metal, shrieking accusations of thievery. Our newfound party grabs improvised weapons from the junk around them and begins to fight.

While they hold their own as well as they can, the monsters and their fire magic is too much, and the party falters. Blake, however, stares down at their journal as light erupts from their left wrist. Silver text etching itself across childhood pages, a voice without tongue.

“Fuck it… no more. I hear you.” Eyes opening again to a determined stare. “Artemis!”

An ethereal maiden, eyes closed and expression drenched in serenity, a moonlit beauty, both her long hair and that gorgeous bow in her hands braided with the same five-petal white flowers. She reached up, elegantly pulling an arrow – wood woven into a beautiful spiral with a silver arrowhead – from the quiver on her back and nocking it.

Blake brushed a stray hair out of their face and locked their gaze at Camellia. A little smirk graced their lips, and their focus turned towards the scrambling scrap-metal monsters. “If I’m to be the Killer Prince, I might as well play the part. Come then, my other self.” And they snapped their journal closed, bright light spilling forth from some glowing sigil across their wrist. “Let us hunt.”

Artemis's first attack scatters the Pyro Junks, and rallies Blake's new allies. And, it seems, causes a chain reaction. Three more glowing sigils etch themselves in flesh. Three more names leap to lips. Three more Personas make their appearance.

Lena tenses every muscle in her body, then goes almost totally limp. "Well, I'm sure not gonna let myself get pushed around by these fuckers." When she lifts her head, her grin is manic and hungry. "Goliath!"

And a brand forms there. A stone, broken in half. And the giant stands by your side, this monstrous ethereal brute, clad in engorged armor. On his shoulder, a knight, sitting as if to direct the violence. Goliath laughs again, and you can all hear the war drums in his voice.

Ilse looks up to from where they hear the voice. Their call is more of a whisper. "Clotho"

And the string is pulled taught. You know where it leads. There is pain, sharp and intense, and it fades in an instant. A brand resembling a pair of scissors, a few inches below your throat. And a newfound strength in your lungs.

Running would be so easy… wouldn't it? … No. They had more pride than that. Camellia clenched the front of their sweater with their free hand and looked to the sky, eyes twinkling as if full of stars. "Hecate."

Everyone, you feel the bells. Echoing in your ears, ringing to and fro. Hecate rears up beside you, a woman's form wrapped in violet dress, but with four canine legs, and three white-fur wolf heads sprouting from her neck. A staff in one hand, a gem at its tip shining with otherworldly energy.

The four new Persona-wielders make quick work of the swarm and head back towards the gate they came through, only to be stopped by a more fearsome beastie: a lumbering Junk Frost.

While the party holds their own, the final blow is not theirs.

"Chorus!" There is a glimmer of light, and a sudden hum. Not a buzzing but a resonance, a dozen voices in harmony. White robed figures, in masks, floating around the Junk Frost. Singing. They raise their hands in unison, and a bolt of light descends from on high. It strikes the top of the Frost's head and pierces it cleanly, smashing into the earth with a loud crash. Those figures, that Chorus, fade. And the Junk Frost just sort of teeters there for a moment before falling back completely.

As the defeated Junk Frost lets off smoke, you can see someone standing behind the felled monster. A figure in the smoke. You can't make them out at first, but then as some nonexistent wind blows away the smoke, and you can see them clearly.

It's a woman, with reddish-brown hair tied into a tight bun. She's wearing something resembling a knight's armor, but it's made of white cloth, light but effective-looking. A cape-like cloth is draped over her right arm. In her left, she carries a rapier, which seems to shimmer in this odd light. And she is staring at you, with blue eyes wide and her jaw hanging open. You know this woman. You know her very well. But you don't quite remember her every having a tattoo – you think you might recall something as audacious as a musical note tattooed on her throat. And you definitely wouldn't have expected to see her here.

And Miss Sakio, dean of humanities, splutters out "what the absolute fuck."

Chapter 2: The World Turns On

Miss Sakio leads the party back through the gate into her office, her ostentatious outfit vanishing as she steps back into reality, replaced with the simple sharp suit she usually wears. Even though she, Camellia, Blake, Ilse and Lena are all exhausted, the five still field a long conversation, with the party catching Sakio up on what they just went through, and Sakio herself pulling back the curtain on the hidden world they've stumbled into.

The junkyard is the Spiral of Forfeit, one of many areas within a world known as Fractals, a dark mirror of our world. The monsters the party faced are variant species of Shadow, birthed from collective fear and imagination.

Shadows tend to obey even stronger creatures, the Behemoths, which act as deities. Before they're even fully born, a Behemoth's personality and whims shape the area they call home, and Shadows in that area will align themselves with this "aesthetic," as servants to their g-d.

Behemoths are not always malicious, but they have an insatiable hunger. Even the kinder ones will eat until they grow large enough to emerge into our world, shattering the barrier between Fractals and reality, ending the world as we know it.

The Daedalus Collective is an organization that funds teams of Persona users, giving them Tindilos keys to access Fractals and assigning them to scout areas or hunt Behemoths, culling them before they can grow large enough to threaten our world.

Erin Sakio, dean of humanities at Belknap College, moonlights as a Shadow Hunter for Daedalus. She's been assigned to find the currently-unborn Behemoth that rules over the Spiral, and kill it. Her Persona is Chorus (and her Arcana is Temperance).

Personas are powerful weapons born from oaths of self-actualization. If a human in Fractals swears this oath, their true inner self will manifest under that human's control, etching a "Brand" onto their skin as proof of their bond. Each Brand is distinct, and only other Persona users can see them.

Now that the party all has their own Brands, someone from Daedalus will eventually notice and scout them. To get out ahead of it, Sakio (who distrust the organization she works for) asks the party to join Daedalus as her teammates.

After some time to think, the party agrees, and are whisked off the next day to an unmarked white office building a few miles from the college, which they can now see ethereal blue lettering on, marking it as Daedalus's HQ. Miss Sakio takes them inside to meet with Amil Fischer, her assigned "Liaison"...and ex girlfriend.

Amil used to be Sakio's teammate, but an injury on the job exacerbated his existing physical disability, leaving them reliant on Daedalus's extremely generous employment benefits. Now they act as a Liaison, ferrying orders to various teams of Shadow-Hunters, and reporting their successes and failures to the hidden higher-ups. An anonymous meritocracy is maintained.

Blake, Ilse, Lena and Camellia work through their remaining concerns and agree to work for Daedalus. Blake, impromptu leader, names the team "the Hunters;" and they are given their first mission:

Travel to the spire within the Spiral of Forfeit, climb it and slay the Celestial Behemoth at its peak.

The next few days pass in a blur as the Hunters prepare in their own ways.

Lena meets up with "Twitch" Blum, a classmate and acquaintance with a campus reputation for his public displays of anxiousness and general jumpiness. Him and Lena hit it off pretty well, but it's still an awkward affair.

Blake has an unexpectedly tense back and forth with their RA, Masumi Saito, well-kept head of the student body and "sharpest motherfucker alive" award four years running. Rumor has it she keeps a gun in her dorm and gets away with it. She also has some manner of history with "Saint Sakio," and treats Blake with cold suspicion for their newfound affiliation. The two exchange veiled barbs and then part ways.

(Masumi, though an NPC, is the creation of @lilyhoshikawa who also plays Blake, and permitted me to use Masumi for this campaign)

Ilse visits Lena (and Lena's longtime friend and roommate Rita) and the two make clear their mutual distrust of Daedalus's shady bullshit, with Lena in particular suggesting that saving Behemoths might be an option, though neither knows how to go about it yet. When Ilse returns to their room, they ponder over an old damaged angel figurine, a knickknack from their childhood friend Stephen. They remember how alone they felt when they left him. They don't feel quite as alone anymore.

Blake sees a patch of flowers near campus and remembers the field of wild sunflowers next to their home, the one they'd sneak out to when their parents would fight. They wonder if it's still there, like the journal is. Lost. To be found again.

Lena heads to the student store to spend her first paycheck from Daedalus, and gets immediately distracted helping out the two deeply bisexual work-study employees: Bee and Theo. Bee is a neurotic control freak and Theo is a former surfer dude, and the two are fucking inseparable, the best of friends. Lena offers to help them find some stolen store product (initiating a detour sidequest with Ilse I won't cover in full) and fun banter is exchanged.

Camellia's rent anxieties drive them to stop by Amil, awkwardly asking about bonus opportunities. Maybe even solo work? Amil gently pushes them to stick to working with their team, and promises to advocate for early assignment pay if things go pear-shaped in Fractals. They've got Camellia's back, same as the rest of the Hunters.

Chapter 3: The First Hunt

The Hunters assemble in a small break room in one of Belknap's buildings. Sakio used it when she and Amil were on a team together: the Hound Table. It's a windowless room with a single round table, a bunch of chairs, and a plastic potted plant. Still, pomp and circumstance and legacy. Sakio produces a Tindilos Key (rationed to her by Daedalus), opens the Gate into Fractals, and the party heads inside.

And immediately gets seperated, with Sakio landing at the base of the Spire, while the rest of the Hunters are plopped back in Puck's "living room" for another round of Q&A with the fae boy – and a chance to show off the new Fractals-only combat outfits given to them by Daedalus. After reaffirming that he's on the Hunters' side, Puck magically opens the way forward, giving them a clear shot to the Spiral Spire, home of the Celestial Behemoth, where Sakio meets back up with them.

As they all travel inside, Artemis starts feeding Blake environmental information through text in their journal, her navigational skills making themselves apparent. The Hunters go floor by floor of this tower of junk, fighting a number of minor Shadows, each made of discarded scrap. It takes them a couple days of expedition, using an in-built dumbwaiter as shortcut, and taking multiple days of break in between to not burn out.

During one of these breaks, Camellia asks Sakio to come with them on what they present as an impromptu walk in one of Belknap's graveyards. Camellia spends the whole walk cracking wise, to the point where Sakio clearly starts to suspect they're forcing it, when they reach a particularly well maintained grave. "Frey," with the last name carefully scratched out so no trace of it remains.

Camellia's mask slips as they place a metal flower on the grave. This was a friend of theirs. This was their best friend. Sakio silently takes that in, and reaches into her pocket to pull out a small scuffed metal pin with an etching of a rose on it. She places it down on Frey's grave and thanks them for the chance to meet.

Meanwhile, Lena delivers a handmade flowerpot to Amil, Ilse and Twitch visit a nearby museum together, and Blake visits their favorite place: a cat cafe named Le Petit Prince with the very old and very friendly calico Herbert.

Finally, the Hunters return to Fractals and storm through the remaining floors of the Spire. However, on their way back, they end up running into a classmate fighting for their life against a powerful Shadow. They recognize them: Sammy Cabra, college freshman and general Silly Fellow (gender neutral). Sammy found the blue robin Icarus in reality and was guided to and through the gate, where they found themselves in Fractals and awakened to their persona: Neko Shogun The Hunters help rescue Sammy, and after a quick debate, agree to have them become part of the team. Sakio takes Sammy to get registered with Daedalus, and the rest of the Hunters crash, resting up for the Behemoth fight.

Chapter 4: Red Bloom

After a few days of rest, recuperation and bond-building with their new teammate, the Hunters return to Fractals. Sakio, Blake, Ilse, Lena, Camellia and Sammy use the dumbwaiter to ascend the Spire, stepping out into the tenth floor vestibule, beyond which the birthing Behemoth waits in his chamber.

There is someone in their way. Someone who radiates fury and strength. Someone who may not be exactly human.

The moment she sees the woman, Sakio lets out a sound like she's been stabbed, eyes wide and fearful. She stands motionless at the top of the stairs, frozen. Almost shaking.

The woman gazes to the side, through those cracks in the metal of the tower walls. Has the breeze picked up? Or had it always been nearly howling, quiet, like the distant sound of snarling wolves. "My father called me his little primrose, once. I would say that's the best of the names he called me." If her tone was calm before, this is anger. Fire boiling beneath every word. "But flowery language doesn't suit this place. Ugly, and garish." She looks back at you, almost through you, like you're made of paper. "You may refer to me as Prim. Or, if you like, you need not refer to me at all."

[Full dialogue for this scene is available here for those interested.]

Prim verbally dresses down the Hunters one by one, making clear she doesn't want to stop them from killing the Behemoth. She just wants to see if they're worthy of Puck's attention, of being his crusaders. This is a test. And every word is a failure.

Sakio, furthermore, clearly has a history with this woman, a history that fills her with dread. She doesn't take a step.

But Blake does.

They tuck their book under one arm, right hand reaching over and gripping their left wrist tightly. “To answer your question. I do intend to take full responsibility for my teammates here. And if you’re intent on interfering, I ask that you…” they flinch, muttering a curse under their breath. “I ask that you go through me first.”

While Prim isn't phased by this display, Blake's courage does soften her approach somewhat, giving the remaining Hunters a chance to freely advocate for their worth. When Lena openly mocks Prim's sharpness, Prim lists off three names: Vladamir, Amelie, Roland. Three of Daedalus's that she's killed. Three of Daedalus's that Sakio watched her kill.

When she turns her attention to Camellia, Prim finds an odd ethereal resistance, like the air itself wants her to leave them alone.

"How curious. And here I thought he didn’t pick favorites.”

After one last bout of open disdain, Prim manifests a shadowy flicker, like a Persona bathed in dark, and uses it to punch a hole in the vestibule wall, vanishing through it.

The Hunters explode in argument, all ire turned towards Sakio and her festering secrets, but she pleads with them to wait. She'll answer their questions, she promises, but they need to kill the Behemoth still. Begrudgingly, the party makes their way into the room beyond the vestibule and prepare for battle.

The world uncurls. Almost as if it's resisting the motion, pulling back into a form by strength of will alone. You finally see the thing before you, the so-called Celestial Behemoth, in all its horrid glory. His skin is grey and stretched, like a bodysuit pulled too tight, and it's covered in green lines and odd indentations like inconsistent scales. His hands are outstretched, fingers long as his palm. And his wide mouth is full of sharp teeth, and a long black tongue that lolls out the side. Bulging eyes spinning in a reptilian skull. Those eyes focus. First up, towards the sky. Then down, towards you. And he screams. A roar that could spit the heavens.

Blake, your journal snaps open. Shuddering with fear and hunger, Artemis writing not in silver but in crimson ink as dark as blood.

The Celestial Behemoth Star Arcana J A B B E R W O C K

[Full fight and extra art is available here for those interested]

The Jabberwock is a more powerful opponent than any they've faced before, protected by a divine veil and habitually charging up devastating attacks behind an anti-magic barrier. The Hunters are caught off-guard by one of these attacks, explosions rocking the room. Camellia uses their last Salvation to protect Ilse. But Sammy, just out of their reach, is knocked unconscious.

Sakio, in a panicked rush, crushes a golden bead – a late-game revival item – and sprinkles the dust over Sammy, who gasps back to lucidity. Still injured, but conscious again. When the Hunters recover from the shock of seeing their teammate collapse, they turn back to the Jabberwock with vengeance in their eyes and hearts. Sakio stops holding back, and empowers her students with an enhanced version of her Rebel Will skill.

The Counterstrike begins.

The Hunters unload damage on the Jabberwock, bringing it to its knees for Sakio to deliver the coup de gras, sending the reptilian Celestial through the floor of the arena, crashing down through layer after layer of its Spire. It does not rise again.

Part 1 Epilogue: Red Wilt

The Hunters return to the Hound Table, spent beyond belief. Once again, they turn to Sakio, waiting for her. The truth, as promised.

"After I left my first BaSH team – after Amil was injured – I joined a Daedalus operation requiring a large number of Persona-users, to slay multiple Behemoths which had cohabitated together and grown as one." She purses her lips. "The Director oversaw that operation firsthand. And, once it had been completed, that was when she struck." Her tone tense, eyes distant. "She injured multiple Daedalus operatives in a mad gambit to murder the Director. Two of the Director's personal aids were..." Sakio trails off. "From the reports afterwards, all I was told is she is likely some manner of rogue Persona-user who has decided to ally herself with the Behemoths, for whatever reason." And she looks at Blake. "That is all I know."

It's not the full truth. But it's not a lie either. The party leaves, exhausted, frustrated. Victorious and unsatisfied.

Blake, Lena, Ilse, Camellia and Sammy wake to the sound of a robin's song and the corner of their rooms peeling open. A gate not violet, but a steady velvet blue. Through it, they find themselves back in Fractals, in Puck's junkyard abode. The Spire collapsed, but the Spiral remains.

Puck greets the party warmly, congratulating them both on slaying their first Behemoth and being lucky enough to be visited by Prim – a joy he hasn't shared for months now. The two clearly have history, but Prim has resigned herself to solitude, and her visits have become more and more frequent. And, he won't tell the party what her "deal" is. Secrets better kept than confessed.

However, he does expand the limits of his services. Through his permission, the Hunters (Sakio excluded) may freely travel into Fractals to visit him without the use of a Tindilos key. He'll also keep a stock of valuable items, purchasable with simple and generous barter (a little snack here or there). And...should they wish to speak Prim again for whatever reason (Lena and Blake seem especially interested)...he'll find a way to let them.

The curtain closes on a little fae boy's impish smile, and the distant grumbling of a red-eyed murderer.

TO BE CONTINUED...

#the hunters #blake leto #ilse belanger #sammy cabra #lena tarr #camellia pavel #erin sakio #amil fischer #masumi saito #lucy twitch blum #puck #prim

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quantummindclassicalheart · 2 years

Text

rainy days and twisting braids

for @beauyasha-week day 2: hair

During her travels in Xhorhas, one thing Beau’s noticed is that distances seem a lot farther when you don’t have a convenient wizard around to teleport you from place to place. Yasha is leading the way trying to find her old tribe, so the two of them have been trekking across the wastes, but Xhorhas is wide and their moorbounders can only carry them so far in a day. Beau doesn’t mind, though. All told, she could do a lot worse for company.

It’s early afternoon when the gray clouds start to pour, and rain—sharp, acidic droplets—begins to fall from the sky. The two of them barely make it into a nearby cave before the edge of the rain catches up to them.

There’s a breathless moment before they both relax and try to set the moorbounders at ease. Yasha does her Aasimar thing and lights up her sword so they can check for any other creatures lurking in the cave, but it’s thankfully empty.

“Guess that’s as far as we’re going today,” says Beau. Outside, the rain has turned into a downpour, its heavy rat-a-tat rhythm accented by the hiss of acid on the rocky earth below.

“I guess so,” agrees Yasha.

Yasha finds some rocks to which she can tether the moorbounders (who are clearly none too happy to be inside a dark cave). Beau sets up a fire to counteract the chill that’s setting in, and its orange light shifts and flickers on the cave walls. They sit in stillness for a bit, Yasha gazing into the flame and Beau looking over at her.

“Hey, Beau?” says Yasha, breaking the silence. “Since we’ve got some time… would it be all right with you if I braided your hair?”

“Sure,” says Beau, “that sounds pretty nice.” She’s had it tied into a ponytail for a few days now. Come to think of it, she can’t remember the last time someone else did her hair for her.

So Yasha comes over behind her. Beau adjusts her sitting position, legs crossed under her, and closes her eyes while Yasha's hands weave her hair into twisting braids. They're strong hands, and large ones, with just a hint of calluses at the fingertips. Beau has seen those hands clasp a sword in their powerful grip, and she has seen them pluck flowers to press. She’s felt those hands running along her neck and her shoulders and her sides and so much more. She knows Yasha’s hands almost better than she knows her own.

Even without looking, Beau can feel Yasha behind her, quiet and reassuring. It's in the little noises Yasha makes as she's working out a tangle, in the thoughtful humming as she chooses a flower to weave in. It's in the way Yasha's hands softly graze her neck, right where the jade dust tattoo marks her skin, and the touch sends tingles down her spine.

There was a time when Beau had tried to grow her hair long, tried to be the perfect daughter and the perfect son all in one. And there was a time when she had shaved almost all of it off, trying to prove (to herself, and to anyone else who might care to see) that she didn't care anymore, about anything or anyone. What time and distance (plenty of both) had taught her, though, was that the truth—her truth—lay somewhere in between.

"Let me know if it's too tight, okay?" Yasha’s voice, almost a whisper, snaps Beau back to the present.

"No, it's perfect," Beau responds. "You're perfect," she blurts out before she can stop herself. Fuck, that’s corny.

“Aw, thanks,” says Yasha. She finishes the braid and ties it tight, then leans down to give Beau a kiss on the forehead.

The rain has lightened to a drizzle by now. It’s less intense and almost comforting, and the modest fire is keeping them both warm.

“You know, today could have been really bad,” remarks Beau. “It’s all cold and windy and shit, and the rain’s fuckin’ acid or whatever, but… you’re here. With me. In this cave. So it’s not, like, completely terrible, is what I’m saying.”

Yasha just looks at her and smiles. “I love you too.” And Yasha leans over and kisses her again and again and again until the rest of the world—acid rain, biting winds, pointy rocks, and all—all of it just fades away.

#beauyasha #beauregard lionett #yasha nydoorin #critical role #writing #BeauyashaWeek2022 #day 2: hair #it has been a hot second since i've written any fic at all #but i'm soft for these two #and i do love writing beau's voice #please enjoy this little post-campaign scene

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fasterthanmydemons · 1 year

Photo

Mantis was a capable pilot.

However, that didn’t stop her from momentarily losing her focus, her eyes widening as a song started to play, echoing softly through the ship as they left Earth further and further behind. She recognized the song immediately: I’m Not In Love by 10cc. Mantis knew Quill was the one playing it. She knew what that song meant to him. It had been the last song he listened to before he left Earth as a young boy. The last song he listened to before his entire world crumbled down. Of course he would play it now that he was leaving Earth a second time. Peter Jason Quill, also known as Star-Lord, hated his planet and wanted to leave as soon as possible. His last memories of Earth were too painful. Mantis wished she was brave enough to tell him that Ego was her father too; that even though Ego was dead, Peter still had blood family left alive. But… she didn’t want him to be reminded of Ego’s actions every time he saw her.

Letting out a breath, Mantis pressed the ‘autopilot’ button. The Benatar slowed down to pilot itself, at least for a few hours. It was time to sleep… although, in space, things such as night and day didn’t exist. The exterior was always the dark, deep greatness of the sky; bright stars and constellations of blinding beauty. Although Mantis had only been a Guardian for two years, she already loved the galaxy.

But now, she was no longer the team’s newest member. The events regarding Ultron echoed through the whole galaxy, and soon after, a team from Earth known as the Avengers broke up. It left many of them being treated like criminals, like all the Guardians had been back in their day except for Mantis herself. It had been, apparently, a bad fight. Something about some accords. The Guardians had decided to land on Earth and try to help. And Pietro Maximoff was wanted by the law… but only on Earth.

He did not want to leave. His twin, Wanda, who Mantis believed to possess abilities similar to hers, was also wanted by the law, and she was staying on Earth. For some reason, against his wishes, Pietro ended up joining the Guardians. They welcomed him, but he was visibly unhappy. A little hostile, even. After all, they were strangers to him, and he was leaving his sister on Earth. Quill showed him the ship. Gamora offered to train with him. Groot, who was no longer a baby but still a child, was frustrated because this man didn’t understand his language. Drax had been too busy eating zarg nuts to engage in conversation, and Rocket wasn’t the best at comforting others, so he kept his distance.

Be quiet, big boys don’t cry, said the lyrics. Mantis disagreed. She wanted to check on Pietro, and she walked around the Benatar, gently bobbing her head to the tune. It was soothing, despite the sad, difficult childhood memories it carried for Quill. She wasn’t surprised when she found Pietro awake and outside of his room, staring out a window. Space was beautiful, after all.

“Hello…” she said timidly, wringing her hands. His separation anxiety was so intense, Mantis could feel it without touching him. It was radiating off him; he seemed to struggle with co-dependency. If his attitude remained cold and closed off with her, she would understand. “I am Mantis.” She had not introduced herself before. They picked him up from Earth a few hours ago, and Mantis had been pretty silent because she did not want to overwhelm him. This whole situation was probably really difficult for him.

“Do you mind the company?” Even while asking, she sat down nearby, peacefully enjoying the music; the ship was dimly lit, since most of the Guardians were sleeping. But Mantis wasn’t sleepy. She wanted to pilot, and now she wanted to help. Maybe Pietro would ignore her. Maybe he would tell her to go away. But… maybe he didn’t want to be alone. And because his separation anxiety was off the charts, maybe her powers could do something. She hoped she could make him feel less uncomfortable. He looked… tense. He really didn’t want to be there, and it showed. It was easy to tell how much he already missed his sister.

(A potential situation for Guardian!Pietro, maybe? You don’t have to go with it if you think it’s too OOC for Pietro to leave Wanda on Earth! I’m just putting the idea out there. If you do take it, next time I’m thinking about writing 'Speedster of the Galaxy’ at the beginning so you know it takes place in this specific verse! 🛸)

__________

{YASSSSS, I LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT ALL OF THIS!! Also Speedster of the Galaxy.... yes. I love that too. XD I can totally work with this... prepare to receive a BOOK reply, hahaha.}

Pietro had never fit in well with the Avengers. Some of them were nice, like Miss Natasha, but others, like Stark, constantly got on his nerves. Maybe Wanda could forgive Stark, or at least see past their history with him, but Pietro couldn’t. The rules, the tight schedules, the weird looks he got for eating so much, the boredom of not being able to sleep at night... it all bothered him. Not to mention how much they had to fight to get shared living quarters. What the hell was wrong with him sharing a room with his twin? It was a big room, two beds, plenty of space, so what was the problem? He didn’t like everyone implying that there was something wrong with it and using some fancy psychological term to describe their bond and reduce it to a mental illness. Emotional co-dependency. Apparently both he and Wanda had it. Pietro didn’t care. It was none of their business.

He put up with all of it because Wanda seemed to like it with the Avengers. She’d made friends, she was training with her powers, and... well, there was Vision. Pietro couldn’t stand Vision. He was part of Ultron, and Pietro always wondered... which parts? The parts that wanted to eradicate humans? The parts that wanted to kill him? He didn’t want to be around him long enough to find out, and yet Wanda seemed to have some kind of strange affection for him. It was one more thing that bothered him, but Wanda was thriving and happy, and he wasn’t about to take that away from her...

...until the Accords. Until Wanda made a mistake - everyone did now and then, and if you say you haven’t, then you’re lying - and everyone jumped on her like it was the worst thing ever. Yes, people died, and yes, she felt terribly for it. But what about all the people Stark had killed with his weapons, his recklessness, and his poor planning? No one seemed to care about that except, ironically, for Stark himself. Nevertheless, the Avengers were split over what could only be called a flawed set of legislative bullplop at best. Everyone except for maybe Steve was coming down hard on Wanda, and that pissed Pietro off. It had foreign scapegoat we can’t control and want to eliminate written all over it, and he went into protective brother mode immediately.

Pietro had read the Accords cover to cover, but no one believed that. Partly because it was a huge document, but also because no one believed he could sit down and pay attention to anything for that long. The only reason it took him twenty minutes instead of half that time to finish reading it was because he read it twice. He was no lawyer or legislator, especially not in America, but he fired back with every loophole, pointed-out flaw, logical fallacy, and failure of oversight he could think of after reading the contents of the Accords. But this pompous ass of a guy named Ross couldn’t care less. He’d already made up his mind, that much was clear.

It... came as a devastating surprise to see just how many of the Avengers were on board with the Accords. Even Natasha was on the fence about it, though Pietro supposed she was just trying to keep from putting herself on either side for strategic purposes more than anything else. But Stark and Vision wanted to sign it. Steve and Clint didn’t. That said all Pietro needed to know. Joining Team Cap had been a no-brainer... but it had all gone terribly wrong. Everyone on their side was arrested in Germany, except for Pietro and Wanda. No one could catch them because Pietro spirited her away before anyone could get their hands on her. No way in hell was anybody going to put his sister in another cell ever again.

Being on the run had been hard, especially since Wanda insisted upon continuing to see her robot boyfriend. Pietro didn’t trust him as far as he could throw him. Which... actually wasn’t far, Vision weighed a ton. A literal ton. He didn’t want to take that away from her because he could tell she loved him, but at the same time, he wondered how much information was being sent back to Stark. Wanda lay low otherwise, only putting herself out there when she met with Vision. She was careful and prudent. And Pietro... was not.

He just couldn’t help it. He had to be out and about, active, meeting people, helping people. It wasn’t in his nature to hide or sit around an apartment all day. Wanda tried to explain to him that he had to be careful, that he was wanted worldwide and all it would take was one person to recognize him and alert the authorities to land him in jail. But Pietro, left cynical by governments, Avengers, and laws, always replied with, only if they can catch me. Wanda was worried, and Pietro could see it was affecting her appetite and sleep. That... wasn’t okay. So he tried. He really did. He tried so hard to sit still, to hide, to be quiet, to not go anywhere or do anything, for Wanda’s sake... but then it was his appetite and sleep that began to suffer. He lost weight, something Wanda began to notice.

Through Vision, Wanda had heard of a group called the Guardians of the Galaxy. They were like the Avengers of space, is what she understood of it. If Pietro could join them, he could help people all over the galaxy. Plus he was a complete child when it came to space and Wanda knew he’d be ecstatic to be traveling up there somewhere. It came from watching Star Trek on TV as a child. Wanda had her sitcoms, Pietro had his sci-fi shows. Although she couldn’t imagine being separated from him, it would get him safely away from anyone who wanted to do him harm, at least on this planet. And it wouldn’t be forever. Maybe for a few months or a year, just until this whole mess with the Accords blew over.

All of this Wanda had explained to Pietro, and as expected, he answered too quickly. No. He didn’t want to leave her. But after a long discussion and much convincing, he could see the merits in it, even if he still didn’t want to leave her. She assured him she could protect herself, and Vision would help, but that if his nature was to be out there helping others, well there was no greater “out there” than space.

But as he stood on this ship the name of which he’d already forgotten, awake because his biological clock was all screwed up, staring out at the vast reaches of space, all Pietro felt was loss. I’m so far away from Wanda. That made him a bad brother. It also made him sad, lonely, angry, and frustrated. How the hell had he let her talk him into this? Instead of being so excited to be in space and thinking that it was beautiful and amazing - which it was - he just wanted to be back on Earth with his twin sister.

Pietro was instantly annoyed when he heard a voice. He just wanted to be left alone. However, when he turned his head to see that it was Mantis, the annoyance seemed to melt away. She was so.... ugh, just gosh-darned cute. How could he be mad at her? It wasn’t her fault that he wasn’t in a good headspace. “Hello Mantis,” he said, trying to be polite despite the pang in the pit of his stomach. When she asked if he wanted company, he shrugged. “Is your ship, you can do what you want.” As soon as he said it, though, he actually worried that it sounded... kindof assholey. Swallowing his emotional discomfort, he tried again. “No, I don’t mind,” he said a little nicer.

#pietro rp #speedster of the galaxy

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theminecraftbee · 2 years

Text

Joe finds her, to her mild regret. Not that he finds her, exactly. It’s that she’s packing when he finds her that makes her feel regret.

He stares at the shulker filled with emergency resources and an armor stand book and a few valuables. He looks tired as he looks back up at her. Cleo won’t feel guilty, because she’s not, she’s being sensible. She won’t feel guilty. Still, she’ll feel a little bad at the look in Joe’s eyes.

“You’re planning on running,” he says, finally.

“Yeah,” she says. “It didn’t work. Honestly not much left to do but plan on escaping when things get too bad to stay.”

Joe is quiet.

“It’s hardly our first time hopping worlds,” Cleo explains. “And it’s not like everyone else doesn’t also know things are getting bad. Hard not to see it if you aren’t willfully ignoring it at this point. Sure, X hasn’t set up anything organized, but I’m not—if it gets bad enough I’m running it’s everyone’s choice if—”

“I know,” Joe says.

“Okay. Good. Because, like, I’m overpacking, just in case.”

“I never doubted you. You’re only abandoning…”

Cleo winces.

“I’m not. I’m just…”

“Sometimes giving up is the smart option!” Joe says, and that’s when Cleo looks at the box and looks at Joe and knows exactly what the man who conquers death is thinking.

“…I don’t want to,” she says, finally. “I wanted it to work. I wanted literally anything to work, actually.” She turns to look up at the castle. “I mean, we did pretty good, didn’t we? It’d be a shame. But sometimes, it’s… if we all die, no one will be around to remember how good it was, Joe. How great we all felt. And the walls! We actually finished the walls!”

They’re both silent for a minute.

“I don’t want to leave yet,” Joe says, quietly. “I know you’re right, Cleo, but I don’t want to leave. I mean, I don’t want to die, either, but I don’t want to plan for… I’m ready to prepare! Just not ready to leave. Not if there’s a chance! There has to be a chance, Cleo, there…”

“Yeah,” says Cleo. “I know.”

Joe looks at the boxes. His shoulders slump in a way that Cleo thinks they are not really meant to. It hurts to look at.

“Should I…?”

“No, don’t bother. I was already halfway to packing for two anyway. I knew I wouldn’t be rid of you, even if I didn’t bring you with me. You’d show up.”

“Oh, you bet I would,” Joe says. “I’m like a fungal infection that way!”

“Why on earth would you say it like that,” Cleo says, fondly, and she returns to splitting up her valuables between boxes, so that even if she’s caught without one, there will be one nearby she can grab and they can escape with. “Oh, but you know what? If you come up with more ideas for what to do, or more data, I’m all in. I’m not giving up, Joe. I promise I’m not.“

“It’s fine, Cleo,” says Joe, aching and fond as well. “Besides, we haven’t finished the interior yet.”

“Can’t die until that’s done, you’re right.”

In the sky, the moon is closer than it was yesterday.

“Exactly.”

#hermitcraft #joe hills #zombiecleo #a bee fic #existentialism a bit here #I think for all they’re friends they’d have a slightly different outlook here #could be wrong though #Cleo’s current response being to flee is VERY interesting to me though #so I wanted to write something for it

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hobidreams · 3 years

Text

november 1871.

how do you even begin to navigate this new world?

pairing: joseon king!yoongi x reader words: 1.2k historical note: “mama” is the korean equivalent of “your highness” & the proper address for a queen. her family can simply call her that, but others must add her official title as well.

moonlit throne index. this is drabble 40. start from the beginning?

Your head slightly upturned towards the grey sky, you hope to outrun the threat of rain as you hurry towards your apothecary with new supplies in hand. The first drops dampen your white sleeves moments before you slip through the open door and exhale in relief. There is much to do today; you cannot afford to waste time drying your clothes. Still, you leave the door open behind you as you walk in, wanting to see the earth nourish itself, the quiet falling one of your favorite sounds.

Recently, there’s been a disease spreading through the soldiers. It’s some sort of itchiness that is as persistent as it is pervasive. None of the doctors have been able to find a solution, but they are still reluctant to work with you since you are an inferior woman. You scatter new herbs across the sturdy wooden table, preparing for another long session of experiments. You’ll prove them wrong, even if you have to sacrifice sleep to do it.

All this to distract from the truth that you haven’t seen the man you love in nearly three weeks.

Just like you expected, despite his promises, despite your hopes, things changed. Something shifted, that day of the wedding ceremony. Or was it more like something locked into place? Yoongi became a married man even while the ghost of you lingers around him. And he hasn’t summoned you in so long, nor have you dared to even attempt to seek him out.

These days, no matter if you are within palace grounds or out in town, you can hardly go a few hours in the presence of others without hearing about the new jungjeon-mama. She has visited her people twice already, surveying her citizens with a retinue of guards. Her popularity continues to soar on powerful wings, judging from the awestruck whispers that travel far across the land. She has accomplished exactly what the advisors intended. The townspeople are distracted even as the king must deal with yet another treaty from America.

You wonder how long it will take for there to be an heir.

Shut up, you tell your mind as you force your fingers to begin working. At least medicine is something you have control over.

You end up so absorbed in calculations and properties, you don’t even notice someone has entered the room until a deep voice calls your name. You look up into dark eyes and long hair that seems to glow despite the lack of a moon tonight.

“J-Jeonha!” You sink into a deep bow without thinking, even though he insisted you dispense of this particular formality some months ago. Your heart aches with happiness, with want.

The king, achingly beautiful as always, stands on the opposite end of the table. “Are you busy?”

“No, no.” You give the mixture you’re heating a last stir, knowing it must cook for some more time. “Not as you are, I am sure.”

He inhales deep at that, shaking his head. “Like you would not believe. There is new pressure coming from Japan, and the Americans have still refused to relent. I don’t know if they will retaliate like they did at Ganghwa. I refuse to let that happen again.” He lets you lead him to a nearby bench, sitting down as his eyes continue to cloud with heat and irritation. “At least some of the advisors are now more reasonable.”

“…Because of the wedding.”

His hands press into the seat. “Yes.”

Part of you immediately wants to change the topic that you brought up yourself, but the other part knows it must be had. That you have to be able to discuss these things, even if it makes your limbs seize up. “The advisors must be afraid to be too rude when she is present.”

He pauses, as if considering his words before he says, “they are used to my mother shutting them up, I suppose.” Then silence comes in once more to fill, to suffocate the space between you as you process what he has just confirmed—she, as queen, is allowed to participate in the daily meetings. And she is aiding him in a way you cannot.

God. It’s almost comical how stilted your voices are, your words so formal it’s as if you’ve gone back years. Like neither of you want to acknowledge how odd it is to be this close to him and not have him touch you. He is usually, at the very least, brushing your hand with his fingers. Or pulling you into him to mingle your warmths together. But now, nothing. Promises shattered before your very eyes.

You bite your lip. “I’m glad she has been helpful then.”

“Yes, well.” He deliberately cuts himself off, clearing his throat. “Damn it. I am not here to talk about her.”

But your control is slipping. You know you’re ruining this precious time you have together but you have been so damn upset, so pitifully lonely that the startling jealousy writhing through you becomes too hard to resist. “No? She is your wife after all.”

You get what you wanted. Yoongi’s anger riles quick, flashing hot through his hardened eyes, but it doesn’t satisfy you like you thought it would. It only cuts you more, a fresh, scalding burn on your heart when he scowls, grits his teeth and says, “No, mama is—”

Mama.

Whatever he says next, you don’t register. The inhale you instinctively take is so sharp it steals every other breath from your lungs. These few weeks have been enough for him to pick up the habit of calling her as such, even in your presence. The word detached from the full title implies with no uncertainty that she is his family. She is his.

You pitch forward, elbows pressed to your knees, burying your face into chilly palms. The first sob betrays you, rattling violently through your body even as you try to choke the rest of the onslaught back. This is the first time you’ve cried since learning of the official engagement. Everything that’s built upon you since then, every bit of pain you’ve swallowed and shoved down and tried to forget slams into your body like a closed-fist blow. It’s all you can do to breathe through the wet hurt.

There’s a clattering, a shift in weight as he must leap to his feet. “Shit. Shit, I… Fuck. I did not mean…” His panic is palpable but you can’t handle it, can’t handle anything that might leave you hoping and wanting and pathetic.

“Please… Please l-leave,” you gasp, knowing how long you have waited for this, waited for him but like a small animal, you are all wild fear, needing to lick your wounds in solitude. You are so terrified of what more he might say, or what he might do. He already holds all the power over you. You want a pittance of it back. “Leave.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you like this,” he mumbles. You hear the wood creak as he steps away. “I never wanted this.”

But I’ve always wanted you is the only thing that lingers through your tears before the door thuds shut.

a/n: drabble forty. wow. thank you for being here. thank you for trusting me with these two. it means more than i could ever express and we are so close to the end now! i hope you’ll all stick around to see what happens ♡

chat with me | support me on kofi ♡

#btsghostie #networkbangtan #bts angst #bts fluff #min yoongi #yoongi x reader #yoongi fluff #yoongi angst #bts imagines #bts scenarios #historical au #moonlit throne #rain writes #... sorry

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heliads · 3 years

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Our Paths are One

You recently became a Ranger, traveling the North to protect the land and its people from monster attacks. When you meet Strider, you cannot help but wonder why you seem to keep finding each other in the wilderness, even by accident.

masterlist

The woods of the North are cold this time of night; cruel winds whisper between the trees, carrying with them reports of steel blades to the West and monsters to the East. There is no safe place to rest without keeping one eye open and one hand on the hilt of your sword. It’s a dangerous place, out here in the wilderness, and the threats only grow in number once darkness falls across the hills. All the same, you prowl in the dark with a smile on your face.

Your footsteps, at least, are silent. You’ve been in the forest many times before, and it knows your scent. It’s best not to let it know your footfalls too. That being said, you can still hear a dense shuffling and stomping sound coming from the trees to your right, down a ravine. Your fingers close around your sword, slipping past the pommel to wrap firmly around the grip. The air is thick with the promise of a coming fight. You can only hope to strike now, while you still have surprise on your side.

You’d heard rumors of a pack of orcs traveling somewhere in the vicinity, after a harried traveler had collapsed in a nearby pub last night, bawling stories about how his party had been attacked and had to flee for their lives. There are no doubt many boastful groups looking around for the same monsters, but the title of killing them can only go to one, and you intend it to be you. You only became a Ranger recently- it’s time you earned your stripes and cemented a place for yourself amongst their ranks.

You drop down into the ravine silently, using a patch of moss to disguise the sound of your heels landing on the packed earth. You unsheathe your sword, paying no heed to the bitter glint of moonlight along its edge before you begin your work. You’re able to stab two orcs in the eye and slash one’s throat before one of the beasts finally lets out a dying gurgle of blood and the rest discover that you’re there.

They yell gutturally at you in anger and charge, although you’re ready for them. Their lunges are strong but clumsy, and you’re able to dance around them as if you were part elf instead of fully human. You parry a fierce blow, forcing the nearest orc’s weapon down into the earth before quickly riposting to cut through its chest. Normally, you keep your sword as sharp as possible; tonight, it slices through orc flesh as if it were the thinnest of silks. You smile. It is not the gentlest of looks.

You move steadily through the pack. Trapping them in the narrow ravine had been a smart move, and they’re limited to attacking you in groups of two or three, which you can dispatch quickly before more manage to climb over their fallen brethren to reach you. In fact, you’re just readying yourself for a final swing towards the last pair before the orc in front of you lets out a startled sound, strangled by the blood knotting in its throat and the sword suddenly jutting out of its chest.

The blade is quickly removed, and seconds later, the final orc’s head is spinning off into the ground near its feet. The body falls as if kicked, and you’re face to face with your apparent savior. However, you don’t feel grateful for the rescue, only annoyed. “I had them down. Why would you interfere?” The man before you is tall and dark-haired, his eyes piercing even when lined by a splash of orc blood. His lips are slashed by a smirk. Evidently, he’s proud of himself for ruining your string of kills.

“I wanted to make sure that you would not be hurt. You are one of the newest Rangers, after all. I have yet to see you on this side of the forest before.” You raise an eyebrow. “Are you this welcoming to all new Rangers, or only me?” The corner of his lips twitch again. “You could simply thank me, you know. Let’s just leave it at that.”

You scoff, reaching forward to wipe the blood from your sword on a nearby patch of grass. “Oh, of course. I shall sing your praises to the archangels themselves, mysterious stranger. Now, if you don’t mind, I will be on my way. Or are you going to take over my later travels as well?” There’s a glint of something in the man’s eyes. It could be irritation, could be satisfaction. Perhaps a bit of both.

“Only if I was certain that you would be this upset over it. Who are you, then?” You consider him for a second longer, then nod. Whoever this man is, he’s a fellow Ranger, and committed to ridding this world of orcs, even if the kills are meant to be yours. “Y/N. Y/N L/N.” He inclines his head. “They call me Strider.” You sheath your sword, tapping the hilt once before making for the hills once more. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Strider. With all respect, I hope our paths should never cross again, or I’d fear for my other quests lest you add yourself to them as well.” You can practically hear his grin as you walk away. “The same with you, Y/N.”

You assume that your leaving will be the end of this. The forests and grasslands scattering the North are vast; canvassing them by yourself could take years. The chances of running into this Strider fellow are slim to none.

That being said, when you find yourself crossing through a particularly dark patch of the wilderness and hear the sound of conflict carried to you by the winds, you can’t help but shake your head. You can hear the clang of steel and the snarl of what appears to be half-trolls, but every now and then, you hear a grunt of exertion coming from the swordsman taking on these monsters. It’s a familiar sound, and a familiar voice, despite the fact that you’ve only heard it once before. You grin to yourself. This is going to be fun.

You come across the scene soon enough. You have to admire Strider’s courage- he’s taking on a trio of these half-trolls without an apparent care for his own safety. Then again, you can spot the fleeing silhouettes of a family of travelers. Strider has likely taken on these monsters to save the journeyers, but he’s now left with the difficult task of saving his own skin. He’s so concerned with making it out alive that he hasn’t spotted you yet.

You wait until his back is turned to you, sword holding back the blow of one of the half-trolls’ stone clubs, until you strike. You can see Strider’s eyes widen slightly as your knife buries itself in the chest of the monster in front of him, which sways back and forth before crumpling to the fallen ground. It was an excellent throw, you can admit that yourself. You drop to the ground, rolling under a looming fist before coming up on your feet behind the beast, your sword already in your hand and slashing at its back. The half-troll groans in agony, twisting around to swat at you, but by the time it’s facing you again you have relieved the monster of its arm. It cries out again before turning to run, although it doesn’t make it far before Strider’s sword lodges firmly between its ribs.

When you turn to face the battle scene, you note that the other troll has been dispatched. The clearing is empty save for you, Strider, and a few half-troll carcasses. Strider moves towards you, eyes roving over your arms to check for cuts and scrapes that aren’t there. “May I ask why you chose to intervene?” You can’t help a satisfied smile. “I wanted to make sure that you would not be hurt. You are one of the most maddening Rangers, after all. I couldn’t just leave you to die.”

You walk forward to retrieve your knife from the chest of the fallen half-troll, so you don’t see the slight incredulity washing over Strider’s face. You can hear it in his voice, though, along with the undercurrent of humor that always seems to be present within him. “I appreciate you looking out for me. That’s the sign of a good Ranger, you know. However, seeing as I wouldn’t want you to get hurt, I might advise you to not take on enemies that might be too much for you.”

You stare at him now, before roughly yanking your dagger from the dead monster’s trunk. It comes directly from its heart, and shines darkly from the blood coating it down to the hilt. You hold it up, heedless of the scarlet starting to drip down over your knuckles. “If I thought I couldn’t handle those things, I wouldn’t have gotten involved. I’d argue that I’m worth a little more than you might think, Strider.”

You step forward slowly, until you’re only a few feet away. “We are both Rangers now. It would be best for you to stop seeing me solely as a commoner who stole a weapon from a nearby blacksmith.” You say, yet Strider’s hands close quietly over your knife. You’re not sure why you let him take it, but you watch as he walks a few feet away to wipe the blood from the metal. He does not say another word until he has come back to you, pressing the weapon gently into your awaiting palms. “I would not dare, Y/N.” Something almost like a smile plays over your lips. “I should hope not.”

You see Strider again, and then again. You don’t plan it, honestly, this meeting up with him, it just happens. You’re trying to rid the forest of some thieves, he appears on the path behind you to stop you from being cut off at all sides. He’s cornered by some rogue orcs, you find yourself charging the lot to ensure that the one Ranger you know won’t find a lonely death in the forest. You’re not sure whether you would consider him a rival, a friend, or any mixture of those terms, only that it does make you smile every time you see him.

Then, in the midst of a nighttime journey, you get the sensation that something is wrong. The feeling washes over your skin, raising the hairs on your arms and chilling your bones. You dismount from your horse, walking forward to look over the edge of a nearby bluff for any signs that another conflict has come upon you. You see it then- a rocky outcropping not far from you, a single curl of smoke piercing the sky. It is quiet, and suddenly a shriek shatters through the night.

You clap a hand over your mouth to stop a gasp of shock. You’ve never heard that deathly wail before, yet you can recognize it instantly: a ringwraith. It could be nothing else. Even by hearing the sound, you can conjure up the mental picture: darkly clothed figures, rattling breaths, the stench of death even before they strike. Somehow, you know that the wraiths are approaching that mountaintop, and somehow you know that there is a Ranger there who will attempt take them on alone.

You’ve jumped onto your horse before you can muster up a second thought, lashing the reins and charging forward in a thunderous gallop. You’re not bothering with silence this time, only speed. Your steed canters forward as fast as it can, racing between low-hanging boughs and up the side of the rocky mountaintop. You can only hope that you’ll arrive fast enough. The thought alone is not enough to stop your nerves from threatening to tear you asunder.

You approach the rocky clearing soon enough, and your heart catches in your throat to see the scene. Across the space from you, you can see four of what appears to be hobbits, one of them lying painfully on the ground as if injured. Then, closer to you, one man armed with a torch and a sword, taking on five Nȃzgul as if they were no more than garden-variety thieves. You could almost laugh at his selflessness, were it not for the fact that he’s about to get himself killed.

You have a torch of your own, and hold it in the air. Your horse raises itself on its hind legs, neighing loudly in the still air. The attention of the ringwraiths is diverted to you, as is Strider’s, although you cannot tell whether or not the look in his eyes is driven by relief or regret. You charge forward, torch held at the ready. Your horse bears down upon the cloaked beings, moving forward swiftly despite their shrieks and calls. You swat at first one then the other, beating them back with the fire.

You can feel your horse panicking beneath you, so you jump down after a second, trusting it to remain close. You and Strider fight side by side, forming a barrier of flaming torches and steel that does not allow any of the Nȃzgul to approach. At last, Strider lunges forward, forcing the last of them back. All of a sudden, you are alone once more, the air seeming to heat up again now that the soul-sucking chill of the ringwraiths has been removed.

You do not have a chance to speak with him immediately. The dark-haired hobbit, Frodo, is gravely injured from a wraith’s blade, and is rushed away with an elf who smiles at you briefly before taking off once more. Then, you have to watch over the remaining hobbits, and make sure they don’t manage to call attention to themselves once more. Only once it is far later into the night, when Strider has allowed the three hobbits to rest, do you follow his unspoken request and go with him a ways away from the meager camp to talk.

Strider waits until you’re sufficiently out of earshot of the camp before he begins. He is pacing away, away, and then he whirls back to you. There’s a fierce sort of light in his gaze that has never been there before; it becomes him, in a way. “What were you doing here? You could have been killed!” You raise an eyebrow. “You could have been killed as well. That’s why I was here, actually, making sure that you weren’t murdered when you tried to take on a swarm of Nȃzgul.”

His eyes flash in the darkness. “Do not put the blame of this on me. I will not have your death on my conscience.” You let out a surprised, bitter laugh. “You won’t, I’m still alive. How are you upset about this? This is what we do, we save each other. You want to avoid thinking that I could have died because of you? How do you think I would feel if you died when I did nothing about it? I would rather have been killed than know that you were going up against ringwraiths while I sat back and watched.”

Strider’s expression is merciless. “I would rather have your grief if it meant you were alive. There are only so many rangers in the forest. We cannot afford to lose one because you wanted to get involved in something like this.” You shake your head, disbelieving. “That’s what this is all about? You would chide me for saving your life, all because you are worried about the numbers of rangers?”

There’s a pause, and then he speaks again. “No. It is not for that.” All of a sudden, his fierce stance is gone, replaced by a man, just a man. Out of some indescribable emotion, you reach forward and take his hand. He stares at your interlocked fingers, and so do you. “Then what is it, Strider? What would make you speak this way?” He looks at you for a second longer, then his gaze flicks away again. “Aragorn. That is my true name. I would have you use it.”

Your fire is gone now, as is his. All that remains is a few embers, catching light in the dark night of this section of the forest. “Then, Aragorn, what would make you afraid to lose me?” Your tone is light. You cannot think about the consequences of what this all means. “This is a lonely life, Y/N. All the same, I have still had you. Do you know how large the wilderness is, how great the expanse of territory that we rangers pursue? Yet, every week or two, I still see you. Somehow, our paths keep crossing. If I lost you tonight, and I had to go back into the forest without knowing that you were there somewhere with me, I would feel more lost than the first time I stepped from my doorstep.”

His voice is quiet. Yours is too. “Then you understand why I had to fight too, don’t you? It is the same for me. Your loss is mine.” Aragorn looks up at you. “The same?” You nod. His eyes have warmed again, the fire warm this time, not meant to burn but to encourage you to stay a little longer. He glances towards the camp, no doubting wondering what trouble the hobbits have managed to get themselves into. “We go to Rivendell, after Frodo. Will you go with us?” You smile at him. “Anywhere, Aragorn. My path is yours.” He kisses you before he goes, and you watch him walk back to the camp, silhouetted by the soft starlight. You will follow soon enough. For now, you sit and think to yourself, wondering how you managed to get this lucky.

lotr tag list: your compliments would lead me to swear undying allegiance to you @underc0vercryptid

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snelbz · 3 years

Text

Life As We Know It {Chapter 9}

Summary: After the sudden deaths of Nesta’s sister and Cassian’s best friend, they gain guardianship of their nephew, Nyx.

Based on Life As We Know It (2010) and a prompt sent in by anonymous for our Nessian fanfic contest. This is a modern au.

Instead of doing a tag list for this story, we have decided to have a set posting schedule. Chapters will be posted weekly on Mondays and Thursdays. Chapters will be posted on both my and Shelby’s blogs! >> @snelbz

Life As We Know It Masterlist

Shelby’s Masterlist

Tara’s Masterlist

A/N: SURPRISE. Enjoy this chapter a day early. I had my days wrong and legit thought it was Thursday, but since it was ready…. Y’all get to enjoy the spoils of my frazzled brain. 😘

Nesta waited with Nyx in the waiting room of the pediatric office.

His rash didn’t seem to be bothering him much, but she wanted to get ahead of it before it became a problem. He was absolutely enamored with the TV playing a bright children’s show in the corner, and Nesta couldn’t help but smile down at him as she checked her email.

The usual stuff greeted her, some open catering order invoices for the restaurant, a few wayward resumes from high school kids that had managed to get her personal email, and, of course, spam.

“Nyx?”

Nesta’s head shot up, and Nyx began looking around, wondering who had called his name. Nesta was instantly on her feet, pushing Nyx’s stroller toward the door that the nurse held open.

She smiled. “Hello, Nyx.”

Nyx babbled in greeting.

The nurse chuckled. “Such a cute little guy. You’re Nesta, I assume?”

“I am,” Nesta confirmed. “I’ve not been here before. It’s a nice office.”

The small talk went on. Nesta had never been a fan of small talk, of polite pleasantries.

It just made her feel awkward.

Nyx didn’t seem to mind. He just kept babbling and babbling and babbling, without a care in the world.

The nurse led them into a room and she checked Nyx’s height and weight before telling them that the doctor would be there shortly.

Nesta had picked Nyx up, looking around at all the educational posters on the walls, when a quick knock sounded on the door and a man cracked open the door.

Nesta blinked once as he stepped inside, not expecting the tall, muscled man that appeared in front of her.

“You must be Nesta,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Dr. Kamaras.”

This man was Nyx’s pediatrician? She had known that Nyx’s doctor was male, Feyre had mentioned him in some stories a few times, but Nesta had always pictured an elderly man.

Not this sculpted, handsome man, who could easily graced the cover of one of the ridiculous smutty books she kept well hidden in her bedroom.

She shook his hand, finally remembering how to speak. “Yes, I am, it’s nice to meet you.”

Very nice to meet you, she added in her head.

His face sombered. “I was very sorry to hear about Rhys and Feyre. They were great people.”

And just like that, Nesta was back on earth, holding her sister’s son in her arms, standing where her sister should have been. She tried to keep her smiling from dimming, but she cleared her throat. “Thank you. It’s…been an adjustment.”

As if they both remembered why they were here, Dr. Karamas blinked and said, “Yes, Nyx, right. You told the nurse he has a rash of some sort?”

“It’s just a diaper rash but it seems to be getting infected,” Nesta explained. “I’ve tried a few different things but nothing seems to be working.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding. “Well, let’s take a look.”

Dr. Karamas took one glance and whistled. “Definitely infected. I’m going to give you a steroid cream. Put it on after every diaper change. It should clear up within the week.”

Nesta let loose a breath. “Oh, great, thank you.”

“Absolutely,” he smiled.

He had a nice smile.

He scribbled something down on his clipboard, signed it, and handed it to Nesta. “The number on the bottom is my office number. If you have any other concerns, no matter how small, give it a call.”

Nesta looked at Nyx’s prescription and the number that was beneath it, along with his name.

Balthazar Karamas.

“Thank you, Dr. Karamas,” Nesta said, and she meant it. She was still new at this, and every little medical thing concerned her.

If it wasn’t normal, she was freaking the fuck out.

“Bal, please,” he said, taking her hand again, shaking it. At the look on her face, he added, “I work with kids. They do better on a familiar name basis than with titles like doctor and mister.”

She nodded, smiling. “Bal, then.”

Nesta was getting Nyx resituated in his stroller in the waiting room, about to head back out into the bright sunlight, when she felt someone approach. She wasn’t expecting to find Balthazar standing a few feet away. She quickly checked the stroller, making sure she had her purse, the diaper bag, and, of course, Nyx himself. “Did I forget something?” She asked, finding everything exactly where it was supposed to be.

“No, no, it’s not that,” he said, pausing in front of her. “I just…can’t shake the feeling that I know you from somewhere.”

It was strange, since Nesta felt the same way.

“You’re not Illyrian,” he said, and it wasn’t a question, nor was it rude. Just an assumption. She only knew of a few other Illyrians in the area, and Balthazar definitely had the same coloring as Cassian and Az. And Rhys used to have. She, pale skinned and blue eyed, certainly did not.

“I’m not,” she said, at last.

Bal chuckled.

That smile, yet again, had her toes curling.

“Interesting,” he said, that smile remaining. “Well, maybe we can figure out just where we’ve run into each other before...over lunch this weekend?”

Nesta blinked. A date?

“Not a date,” he said, quickly, reading her mind. “I would never ask the aunt of my patient on a date. That would be incredibly unprofessional.” Nesta laughed. “Just…two acquaintances figuring out where they were previously acquainted.”

“Lunch sounds nice,” Nesta said, unable to shake her own smile. “Saturday, then?”

“Saturday,” Bal agreed.

They set up a time and place and then Nesta was out the door.

Cassian’s day had been as long as it was the day before. It seemed that the teenagers visiting Velaris had gotten the message from their friends that Cassian’s bar was checking every single ID of every single drink that was ordered. So instead of being slammed and busy and frustrated the whole day, he had been bored out of his mind.

He’d gone through his inventory sheets twice, ordering anything they might remotely run out of in the next few weeks.

It didn’t help that Kallias had the day off, covering the evening shift tonight, leaving him alone with his thoughts all day.

And those thoughts constantly reminded him that he’d been an absolute dick to Nesta the night before.

As he drove home, he contemplated the apology he needed to make.

Although Cassian believed his intentions were typically good, apologizing wasn’t one of his strengths. He ran through what he’d say a hundred times, had come up with an unbearable amount of ways in which he could apologize, but everything he thought of wasn’t good enough.

He knew Nesta well enough to know when she would laugh in his face.

He’d come up with about fifteen different scenarios of how this could go by the time he pulled into the driveway, parking next to her little car. He took a deep breath before unlocking the front door and letting himself in.

The house was quiet, neither Nesta or Nyx were anywhere to be found. It was barely six-thirty, but he knew Nesta was taking Nyx to the doctor earlier in the day, which may have tired him out so thoroughly that he was already down for the night. A peek into his cracked bedroom door confirmed it, his little hand curled next his face as he slept.

When he finally tracked down Nesta, on the back patio, her feet propped up in a lounge chair, he definitely hadn’t expected to find her with a bottle of wine. Or what was left of it, at least.

The mostly empty bottle of wine sat next to the baby monitor.

He cleared his throat, announcing his presence.

Nesta’s sigh was the only acknowledgement she showed.

“Everything alright?” He asked.

She shrugged and took a sip from her glass.

“Bad day?” He continued.

She shrugged again.

“Is this the silent treatment?” He asked.

“I assume you’d know,” she said.

Cassian began rubbing his temples. “Look, Nesta-.”

“I’m a little busy if you don’t mind,” she continued. “I prefer to relax alone.”

“This is my house, too,” he said, shutting the sliding door behind him as he made his way onto the patio. “What if I want to sit out here with you?”

“Then I’d suggest continuing the silence,” she said, not looking at him, her face tilting back up to the sky, where it had been when he’d come outside.

So he sat down on a nearby lounge chair, and didn’t say a word.

Or he tried, but he didn’t last five minutes. The words that had building inside him all day needed to come out. He’d rehearsed different things he wanted to say, with reasons for why he was such an asshole, and promises to try and be better from now on. But as he looked over at her, the starlight on her face, all he could get out was, “I’m sorry.”

For a moment, Nesta said nothing. “About?”

“The way I acted last night,” he replied, keeping his eyes on the lawn. “It was uncalled for, and I’m sorry.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, draining her glass.

Cassian’s eyes shot her direction. “I’m trying to apologize. You can at least accept my apology so we can move on.”

“Apologies mean nothing,” Nesta said, shrugging. “Words are meaningless.”

“Not mine,” Cassian argued. “I mean what I say.”

“Then you meant what you said last night?” Nesta pushed.

Cassian’s lips snapped shut and his jaw hardened. “No.”

“So, you’re a liar, then?” Nesta asked.

He groaned in frustration. “You’re infuriating.”

She didn’t deign to reply to that.

He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I was an asshole last night. I was…embarrassed about how you found me the night before. I don’t… I don’t like to be seen like that.” He paused, but then he held a hand out in between them. “Not- not that that happens often. I mean, I don’t make a habit of having emotional breakdowns.”

She didn’t say anything. Just stared at him.

He cleared his throat again, remembering little things he had felt badly about through the day. “Nesta, I’m sorry I acted like an ass. I’m sorry I didn’t appreciate the dinner you made me. I was rude as hell and you did nothing to deserve it.”

After a second, she glanced away, out over the pool. He figured she wasn’t going to reply, and he stood, heading back for the back door.

He had slid the door open and was halfway inside when she said, “If you’re hungry, I made lasagna for dinner. It should still be warm on the stove.”

He turned back and found a hint of a smile on her face. “Thanks, Nes.”

A continuation of his apology, Cassian had told Nesta he'd be on baby duty for the rest of the night, waking Nyx up for his bottle, granting her leave to do whatever she wanted. She elected to finish off the bottle of wine, open another, and relax in the bathtub with a book.

The book of choice was definitely not appropriate to read in front of Nyx.

Or Cassian, for that matter.

She had appreciated his apology, even though a part of her still wanted to be pissed. There were very few things that agitated her more than male bravado, and Cassian was the spitting image of it. Embarrassed because he was emotional? Please. Get the fuck over it.

Then again, she could say that all day, but in honesty, if the positions were reversed, she would have reacted very, very similarly.

If not worse.

Nesta had always felt too much, far more than either of her sisters. It wasn’t like they were robots, of course. Elain had a bigger heart than anyone Nesta had ever known, and Feyre had been a light to be around.

But, Nesta…

She felt it all, and she felt it far too deeply. She had learned long ago to shut those emotions off, to let them go, to not let her emotions show. They could just be used as a weakness.

And she found life worked better that way.

There was a soft knock on the bathroom door.

Nesta sat up straight, even though the door was locked, in a sudden panic over the fact that she was nude and reading smut.

“Yeah?”

“Nyx is going to bed,” he said. “Just thought you’d want to say goodnight.”

“I- Ah- Just a minute,” she called, setting the book down and reaching down to grab for her towel. She was out and damn near opened the door in just her towel again, but remembered their agreed upon rules. She snatched her robe, wrapping it around herself, towel and all.

She opened the door, Cassian standing just by her bed, and Nyx had his head resting on his shoulder, rubbing his little eyes.

The image was so pure and innocent that Nesta couldn’t stop herself from taking a few steps towards them, reaching out to brush her fingers down Nyx’s soft cheek. “Sweet dreams, buddy,” she breathed, leaning up to press a kiss to his forehead.

She regretted it almost immediately, as bringing herself that close in Nyx also inadvertently brought her to Cassian. His heady, nutmeg-and-campfire scent enveloping her, reminding her of the morning she’d come downstairs and found him as naked as she was now. She stepped back quickly, clearing her throat. “And goodnight to you, Cassian,” she murmured. She pointed back behind her towards the bathtub, towards her book, and said, “I’m going to read a little longer and then go to bed myself.”

He nodded. “Alright, I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight, Nes.”

The nickname didn’t bother her as much as it previously had, she realized as he made his way back out of her room, shutting the door behind him.

She didn’t let herself think about that, did her best not to think about him, as she sunk back into the warm water.

Nyx had gone down easily for Cassian, for the first time ever, thanks to the frozen toy he’d gnawed on to relieve the pain of his incoming tooth. He’d decided he deserved a treat, too, after that, and had sat down to watch the hockey game, a beer in hand.

Fifteen minutes later, there was a knock at the front door.

Cassian paused, glancing down at his watch, seeing that it was pushing nine o’clock. He stood, after a second knock sounded, making his way to the door. He opened it to find a woman dressed in a suit on the other side. “Can I help you?”

“Mr. Nazari, I assume?” She asked, extending her hand.

He took it, on instinct, shaking it, but he blinked. He repeated, “Yeah… Can I help you?”

Her brows twitched together. “My name is Alis Birch. I’m with social services.”

Cassian continued to shake her hand, staring.

“The courts told you we’d be making random visits to check in on Nyx,” she continued.

Oh, fuck, Cassian thought. Oh, fucking hell.

They’d completely forgotten about those random visits, in the past few weeks they’d been doing this, distracted by getting used to not only being parents, but getting used to each other as well.

“I see,” Cassian said, nodding. “I… I’ll…be right back.”

“I’d like to come in-.”

Cassian shut the door, quickly set his beer on the table in the entryway, and hauled ass upstairs.

He threw open the door to Nesta’s bedroom, only to found it empty, so he continued on, throwing open the bathroom door.

Where Nesta was still in the tub, completely nude, a book in hand, one hand disappeared beneath the water. Her head was thrown back in utter ecstasy.

Until Cassian barged in, anyway.

“Shit!” he yelled, just as Nesta gasped and sent the water sloshing out of the tub, over the porcelain edges.

Cassian quickly shut the door behind him, closing them into the bathroom together, and put his face in his hands. “Sorry!”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she yelled, and he could hear her pulling the plug.

“It’s important, I swear,” he said, his voice muffled by his hands.

“If the house isn’t on fire or Nyx isn’t dying, it’s not important,” she cried, ducking behind the walls of the tub.

“It’s pretty fucking important,” he said, turning to give her a semblance of privacy. He heard her stand up, water moving and quiet dripping, before her feet landed on the rug outside the tub. “The social worker is here.”

She froze and he dared a look back at her. Thankfully, she was wrapped in her towel again, one arm pushed through her robe. “The social worker is here? Now?” He nodded, and she looked at the nearly empty bottle of wine next to the glass on the small table by the tub. It was the second one she’d had that night. “But it’s late,” she protested.

“It’s a random, surprise visit,” he replied. “I left her outside, but-.”

“You didn’t let her in?” Nesta demanded, eyes widening. “Cauldron, Cass, that makes us look so guilty.”

He blinked. “Of what?”

“I don’t know,” she said, throwing her hands in the air. “But it doesn’t make us look good.”

“Well, I didn’t know what to do,” he sighed, exasperatedly. “I sure as hell wasn’t expecting to come up here and find you doing that.” He gestured to the tub.

Nesta’s cheeks heated. He figured his own were going to permanently be the shade of red they were now.

No, that was the last thing he ever expected to catch Nesta doing.

“Just… Go let her in and stall her while I get dressed,” she sighed, crossing her arms, waiting for him to leave.

Cassian hesitated, then nodded, and hurried back down the stairs. When he reopened the front door, Alis Birch stood there. Her expression was hard, intimidating.

Cassian could feel himself sweat.

He prayed that Nesta somehow sobered up and got the fuck downstairs, because there was no way in hell he could do this without her.

#snacmc lawki #life as we know it #nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acofas #acosf #snelbz tacmc collab #snacmc

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flightofaqrow · 1 year

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tag refresh, relationships ( ‘+’ is platonic, ‘x’ or ‘ship name’ is romantic/sexual, ‘branwen twins’ is face value lol )

#* suddenly you're ripped into being alive = qrow + clover *#* her sentences were icebergs / the tip from her mouth / the rest kept in her head = qrow + summer *#* they're always like this = qrow + glynda *#* get my gray hairs from you = qrow + winter *#* it's all an adventure that comes with a breathtaking view / walking the tightrope with you = branwen twins *#* caught between brains and heart we both suffer = qrow + james *#* i always knew that in a crowd of thousands i'd be able to find you = cloqwork *#* they slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered = fair game *#* the world is too quiet without you nearby = earth and sky *#* something pretty magical about it = otp ** right hand witch and left hand familiar *#* love me and tell me that i'm good for you = taiqrow *#* we met / i looked up / i knew i would love you because even the sky looked different = feathered bandits *#* went from one conversation to your lips on mine = songbird *#* separate pieces of the same whole = double down *#* a person's imperfections make them perfect for someone else = calamitous harmony *#* we are products of our past but we don't have to be prisoners of it = snowbird *#* seek those who fan your flames = wildfire *#* she became more and more beautiful the longer i looked = qrow x summer *

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moonbaby26 · 3 years

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Title: The Man from the Sky

Pairing: Loki x Goddess!Reader

Summary: You were a Greek sea goddess, just enjoying a typical day of nothing when a strange new god dropped into your land.

Warnings: None yet. There is smut in future chapters already written. Will post more soon.

Notes: I’m aware that what we’d think of as ancient Greece well predates who we’d call the vikings and their like cruising around the seas. This doesn’t take place at the height of the Greek pantheon worship, but old enough in human history that some men still believed in both sets of deities.

Chapters: Next Chapter Here

My Masterlist

—————————

You dipped your feet a little deeper into the warm water as it lapped the edges of the rock you sat upon. The sea was calm today, and the wind gentle as the nymphs chatted around you about the usual things. A bit of gossip one had heard from a local river nymph, a new shipwreck one had found, status of a fish migration from another.

You wouldn’t exactly call it boring though, you specifically chose these more remote areas when you came ashore for this very reason. It was so much more unlikely for you to run afoul of mortals here, or even others of your own kind that you may not feel like putting on airs with at this very moment.

It was so quiet in fact, that you were considering getting up to go lay in the sand on the beach in a few minutes and enjoy a nice nap in the sunlight.

That was before the boom which echoed through the air all around you. Somewhat like thunder, but not quite as all the nymphs fell silent.

When nothing came after, you felt all their eyes then turning to you. Their voices piped back up soon enough, though the tones in them changed to all nerves now.

“Do you wish to leave, milady?”

“Could it be Zeus?”

“But it didn’t sound like him.”

“Is there a volcano nearby?”

“What else could it be?”

“I don’t know what it was, I’ve never heard that sound.” You finally said, though now looking inward to the land. You were at least sure that the sound was not of the sea. But you refused to give in to the nymphs’ skittishness too quickly. And without real reason to leave, eventually you all did start to relax again.

Yet then came the cries. “Goddess, mistress please!” That cry absolutely was from the land as you looked in time to see the river nymph you’d met earlier in the day now running from the tree line and down onto the sands. She stumbled slightly, just before reaching you where the sea met the rocks.

She was panting, clearly having run some distance as she continued. “I’m so glad to still find you here,” She bowed slightly, only because she didn’t know you well enough to realize you didn’t require this.

“What is it?” You asked simply, honestly more curious now than anything else. What could she have seen that would strike her so alarming? Any nymph worth their ilk would know every creature, every natural occurrence, all that existed within their lands.

“There is a man in the forest, he came from the sky!” Yet she continued quickly, sure you would only think of Olympus. “But I do not recognize him as one of your own family. And his clothing, he is not of our territory. This I am sure, my goddess. I watched him only long enough to see that he was very angry. I am afraid of his intentions here.”

A man? But not truly a man. Mortals did not come from the sky.

“An angry god?” You said, now standing as you then stepped down from the rocks. The forest belonged to Artemis truthfully. But being this close to the sea, you thought that the older goddess would forgive you this if it came down to it. She would rather the nymphs be protected you were sure from any childish acts of a god’s wrath that may now come into play here.

You had brought no armor, the possibility of battle so far from your mind when you’d come ashore today. But that didn’t mean you travelled completely defenseless. “Bring me my spear please.” You requested of the sea nymphs.

Though they were still anxious, they responded dutifully, one sinking beneath the waves before reappearing with the glinting weapon in hand. It shone a brilliant silver, sea foam still running off its blue spear tip as she handed it to you out of the water.

“Show me the way, and I will investigate this stranger.” You spoke plainly, hopping down onto the sands as you strode barefoot towards the forest, spear in hand. “We will keep our distance as best we can, we don’t seek conflict, understood?”

“Yes, milady.” You heard, the sea nymphs staying behind you as the river nymph moved in front to lead you upward, the sand transitioning to rocky soil and the sparse vegetation and trees beginning to increase as you climbed the hillside.

For the sea nymphs, you could hear them losing their footing here and there in the loose soil, themselves of course far more adapted to swimming the ocean’s depths at your side rather than hiking up into the forests.

You did hope you were not putting any of them in danger. But if you felt they truly were in harm’s way, you would have no qualms in telling them to retreat back to the water at once.

“Up ahead,” The river nymph whispered to you, pointing towards a clearing you could now see leveling off in the distance. But the opening looked so strange with the density of the other trees now around you.

“Was that always there?” You asked her, knowing something unnatural when you saw it, even when this far from the water.

“No,” She confirmed. “When the sky opened up, it carved out the land as well. He appeared when that force receded.”

“Understood.” You replied, though in truth not really understanding at all as you motioned for all the others to proceed no further. You’d never seen something like this. “I will go alone. If he should attack me, please return to the sea to seek help.”

They fidgeted, looking unhappy but not arguing your choice. “Please be careful, goddess.”

You nodded, but kept on slowly. You tried to remember what you’d been taught as a little girl about stalking and hunting on land. So many moons ago, running through the forests with Artemis and at times Pan, being mentored before returning to the sea to your father, mother, and so many siblings.

But the closer you came, the more you realized that the stranger would likely not notice any sound of light footsteps approaching or ground shifting. As you neared, you saw his form pacing back and forth in the clearing, seemingly cursing to himself in a language that was not your own.

Yet it still sounded familiar. Abruptly you knew where you had heard a dialect like this before. It sounded so much like those voyagers from the northern seas. The ones with their longboats and course beards, sometimes with hair as red as fire as they fished and sang and fought.

And he did look as pale as them as well. But with hair like black of night, and a frame far more slender than the burly mortals you’d seen rowing those northern boats along. And just as the river nymph had warned, his clothing confused you as well. Rich green robe, but with black and gold as well. It was wholly foreign and exotic to you in its styling, as was he.

When she’d said a strange man had arrived, honestly you had also expected someone older in appearance. He looked quite youthful to be honest, even as his brow remained furrowed and his fists clenched at his sides.

And just when you thought his feet may actually cut a path in the earth from his agitated pacing, he finally slowed, then stopped all together.

This is when you froze as well, knowing you now had a decision to make. Should you keep to your hiding, just to hope he should eventually leave in whatever fashion he came? Or should you reveal yourself to question his identity and purpose here?

“Done spying yet, or do you intend to actually do something with that spear?” A cutting voice spoke abruptly to your side, so suddenly that you almost lost your footing, shocked as the same man emerged from behind other trees only feet from you.

But you still saw him in the clearing as well, at least you did momentarily before the image of him there dissolved, leaving only the form now nearest you.

“You speak my language?” Was all you questioned instead of answer him though, as he had said those last words only in your tongue. You also kept focusing on backing away as you chose to keep a safer distance. He was some sort of illusionist at least then, which could escalate the danger here very quickly if he made you lose your bearings.

And he was starting to circle you a bit you realized as he began to walk again. But you willed yourself to keep your spear at a neutral position, rather than aim at him, still not intending to provoke attack if it could be prevented. You had no idea what other strengths he might have, and your primary goal was still to keep the nymphs from getting caught in any crossfire.

“Not all of us are so uneducated,” He snapped back at you, still in your language, though you could detect that foreign accent underneath.

You were not wholly unused to rudeness though, yet it had been a very long time since you could recall being spoken to directly in such a manner. It was more the bickering between others in the palace that you were sometimes forced to be party to. Which was only another reason you often favored the relative isolation of the mortal world.

“You need not be so offended, stranger. I only came to see who had entered our land, and to protect my friends if need be.” You answered as reserved in tone as you could.

“Then you have done your duty, girl, and can now be gone. I came here to be alone. If I was actually intending to plunder this wasteland of nothingness, your little cohort never would have made it back to you to begin with.”

You stared, a little coldness entering your eyes then. So that was what had given you away. He’d already been aware of the river nymph to begin with, and had been waiting for someone to return the entire time while leaving that illusion of himself still in the clearing as distraction.

And he’d actually referred to you as ‘girl’. Did he really think you just one of the nymphs then? It was hard to say if he was intentionally trying to goad you, or if he really was so unfamiliar to not realize you for what you actually were.

You straightened a bit, replying, “Insults to our homeland aside, I will leave you to this quiet then, if you should at least tell me your name. You are clearly not of Olympus, and we still have right to know who it is who traverses into this particular land of mortals which we hold sovereignty over.”

He scoffed, clearly wishing to not speak to you even a moment longer. But in the way his chest puffed slightly, you thought it was only pride then that made him physically incapable of denying his identity.

He actually moved closer to you as well, that agitation still rising further in his voice. “Little fool, you stand before Loki! Son of Odin the Allfather. I am god of mischief, prince of Asgard. Your witless mortals should count their blessings that an Asgardian should ever see fit to even set foot here!”

You didn’t know if you’d been quick enough to mask the true surprise from your face. You had already assumed him a god. But never...never had you actually laid eyes on an Asgardian. They never came to this part of the world as far as you knew. And was he telling the truth? Was he really a son of Odin?

This stranger’s arrogance aside, if he were a child of Odin, you knew your own father would be furious with you if you were intentionally insulting now. Asgard and Olympus had never had the closest ties, but you were not enemies either. Asgard was honored by the mortals of the north, and Olympus still honored by those of the south, though perhaps not quite as much as the true olden days.

It took real will, but you bowed graciously to him in return. “It is an honor to meet you then, Loki, son of Odin.” As you straightened up, in his eyes you could see he was trying to judge you as sincere or not. But you just continued smoothly. “As promised, I shall leave you to your thoughts then. But I would be unmannered to not offer my assistance should you need a hostess in your time here as a guest in our land. My name is (Y/N), daughter of-”

You hesitated only the briefest moment, “of the sea,” is what you decided on though. Unlike Loki, you preferred a little anonymity with strangers. You didn’t wish to be targeted just for your lineage.

And with that, you turned, beginning to walk back towards the beach, even as you finished talking. “If you should need me, you need only find the sea’s edge and call for me. One of our creatures will hear you soon enough and seek me out.”

But some odd part of you regretted not being able to see his expression as you left. You wondered if you only would have seen more disdain and condescension at your offer.

Regardless, he said nothing else and soon enough you were back on the sand, the nymphs chittering in a mix of horror and awe around you.

“Who does he think he is, speaking to you that way!?”

“Do you really think he’s of Asgard? Shouldn’t we alert your father?”

“Why would he even come here? He seemed so bitter. Do you think they cast him out?”

“I’d cast him out, with a dirty attitude like that!”

You looked to the horizon, just taking a breath. “I don’t think we need to rush and tell my father just yet. But I do know where I want to go now.” You looked to the river nymph briefly though, “Please have those in the forest keep a distant eye on him. Should he leave or do anything else of note, please let us know.”

You glanced back to the sea nymphs then. “The rest of you return to the oceans. I’m going to Olympus, to the libraries there. I want to find out more about Asgard, to see if he is who he says he is. I’ll return to the water soon.”

They all nodded, “Yes, milady. Please let us know what you find!”

“I will,” you agreed, just watching them dissolve back into the waves.

Were you excited perhaps? Or just very curious? Nothing interesting in this way had happened in ages. You were determined to learn all you could on this new arrival.

—————————

The Olympians had been a little surprised to see you gracing the halls there. So many of your cousins had dropped in time and again to say hello, curious themselves of why you were out of the water this long and seemingly such a bookworm all of the sudden.

And you did read for days. All you could find on Asgard, on Odin, the Norse mortals, and their language. You found record that Odin had born two sons, honestly an oddly low number you thought in comparison to the many children of your own kings.

But there in these tomes, were those two names, Thor and Loki. Thor, god of thunder, amusing of course in comparison to Zeus, king of all, including lightning. But also Loki, god of mischief, just as he’d said.

You were surprised, but enthralled as you actually found a drawing of Loki within the book. Though not completely accurate you thought, you still recognized that type of clothing. The green and gold, and the pale skin and black hair with his icy blue eyes. You tilted your head a little, looking at the gold helmet he wore in the artist’s depiction, with long horns curving from it like those of a great beast.

Was he really a beast? Or just a too arrogant manchild? And why did you increasingly wish to find out?

—————————

(Continued in next chapter here)

#loki x reader #loki fanfic #loki imagine #loki odinson #loki laufeyson #loki #loki fluff #loki fandom #marvel fic #loki x you #loki x y/n #loki x oc #loki x original female character #loki layfeyson imagine #loki layfeyson x reader

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dapandapod · 3 years

Text

Two Pillows

Hello there! Here be a little story (2098 words only) of Geralt and his loneliness. And how he fights it and how he fights himself!

Here on Ao3 and thank you a billion @damatris for helping me reading through it and giving me a thumbs up! The ending has been glaring at me for weeks...

Please enjoy <3

Geralt has picked up a habit over the years he has been traveling. He isn’t a lonely man per say. He doesn’t feel the need to be close to others necessarily. He just sleeps better with two pillows. One he is propping under his head, it is a bit flat and worn out, just perfect. The other one is a little bigger. Just a little fluffier. No one asks about the two pillows, why should they? Who cares about a mutant's sleeping habits?

So when no one but the stars are watching, Geralt cradles it in his arms and holds it close. Curls around it and keeps it safe. It smells like him now. He doesn’t mind, but he prefers when there is someone else's smell on it sometimes. It happens that he hides a soap from Kaer Morhen inside it, when leaving the empty halls hurts more than usual. It smells of pine, if Lambert was the one doing the soap that year it sometimes smells like beer.

It’s not that he pretends that he is holding someone. It just is. It’s fine. Geralt sleeps in his bedroll with his pillows, and the aching loneliness inside is kept at bay. Sometimes he thinks of Renfri. Sometimes he thinks of Eskel. Sometimes he thinks of his mother, faceless after all these years.

Sometimes he thinks of arms returning the embrace, of a heart beating under his ear, of a hand stroking his hair as he falls asleep. But it’s the wind stroking his hair as he falls asleep. His pillow pressed against his chest. The only heartbeat is his.

It happens that Geralt travels with people. Sometimes it’s a merchant going the same direction, sometimes it’s a hunter or just a farmer bringing their goods to the market. Those shared nights are complicated. Instead of holding his pillow close, he watches the star travel across the sky. When morning comes the only rest he got is meditation. Which is fine, he can make due.

Then Posada introduces him to a certain bard, and he finds his nights changing. He doesn’t trust the bard. Doesn’t like him. He brought nothing to their travels, not even a bedroll. He managed to talk Geralt into letting him borrow the fluffy pillow, but failed at getting a place in the bedroll. The summer nights are still warm and Geralt is kind enough to make camp where he finds the grass thicker, the moss richer. He learned that first night that Jaskier sleeping poorly is a Jaskier that won’t shut up.

But that means Geralt only has one pillow. So he meditates the nights away, because truly it is fine. He can sleep without holding something, but he doesn’t trust the bard yet. That’s it. He listens to Jaskier snuffle in his sleep, his snores and hums. He is never quiet, that man, and Geralt finds it settles him. It becomes a backdrop, a constant he doesn’t even realize he needs until it leaves. Jaskier does that sometimes. Leaves.

They spend winters apart. Sometimes a whole year. Jaskier still borrows his pillow, after all this time. And that first night Geralt holds it, it smells like spices and warmth, achingly familiar. And if he holds it a little closer, digs his fingers into it a little harder, only the stars are there to see it.

What irrevocably changes things however is when Geralt falls asleep with Jaskier in his arms. They don’t mean to, but the summer festival had them both in a merry mood and deep in their cups. Jaskier can’t seem to find his own bed, and decides Geralt's bed is good enough. Some shuffling, wrestling and resignation later, Jaskier steals Geralt's fluffy pillow once more and wriggles into the circle of his arms.

It is late. So late it is bordering on early, and Jaskier falls asleep immediately. But Geralt’s mind is spinning. He has held people before, of course he has. But something settles in him, clicking into place. He is home. Geralt doesn’t even notice falling asleep. Doesn’t wake when the sun shines in through the window, doesn’t stirr when the smell of cooking breakfast drifts up towards them.

When he comes to, there is a heartbeat under his ear. There is a hand stroking his hair. Someone holding him close. They smell like spices and warmth. And Geralt knows he is well and truly fucked.

They don’t talk about it, why on earth would they talk about it? But when they part, the pillow is not enough anymore. The smell of Jaskier quickly fades from it, and he finds that he is saving it. Savouring it. So the pillow sits unused, waiting for Geralt to break or for Jaskier to come back.

Winter is hard. Too hard. Geralt breaks first, holding the pillow tight. When spring finally comes he is more exhausted than he has been for a long time. Lambert and Eskel share a worried glance, but Geralt doesn’t have time. It’s not that they usually decide a time and place. But this year Geralt wishes they had. He is not sure what he wants, and how to express it. He needs Jaskier close, even if it is only him borrowing the pillow. A something to make the path easier.

Their roads don't cross. Sleep eludes him, keeping his sanity hostage. Geralt breaks again, and finds himself in Oxenfurt. Jaskier is there, surprised to see him. On his arm is a beautiful blonde, Priscilla is her name. They performed together during the winter and made a contract with one of the local inns to stay until summer. It’s not fair.

Geralt leaves without his bard, returning to his sorceress. Lilac and gooseberry stick to his skin as they again soar, crash and burn together. On a mountaintop far above the world, it is for the last time. Jaskier is there, caught in their flames. It is not fair, Geralt knows it is not fair. But Jaskier brought his own pillow on this blasted hunt, and Yennefer pushes him towards an edge he has been toeing for years. He doesn’t even notice falling until it is too late. And he is pushing Jaskier out of the way, shoving him out of reach with all his might.

Time is strange. It passes him by, he is a pebble sitting in a stream watching the world pass by. And like water eats away stone, so time is wearing Geralt down. Geralt returns to Oxenfurt. Searching, looking, aching for his friend, his bard, his home. Priscilla meets him with an acid tongue. Jaskier isn’t there. He didn’t return at all, sending word that he is taking some time off and going to the coast.

He knows he is a bad friend. Knows he is a bad man, a bad witcher for risking human lives for his own stupid longing, his need to keep Jaskier around. But he can’t help it.

Geralt finds Jaskier at the edge of a cliff. The wind is raging, tearing at his hair and clothes. The waves crashing against shore with an anger he can only find in nature. They watch each other against the backdrop of a grey sky. Jaskiers face is impassive, strange, guarded when Geralt walks up to him, falling to his knees. He can’t keep going any more. There is nothing left of him but the aching sadness and loneliness. The absence of friendship, laughter, spices and warmth.

“I'm sorry.” He croaks out, words stolen by the wind. “I’m so sorry.”

Every beat of his heart is agony, his eyes burn and his chest aches.The ground is cool and slightly moist under his knees, sand and salt seeping through his trousers. He can’t look up at Jaskier. He watches his shoes, well worn and a little stained.

Then there are warm hands on both sides of his face, and Jaskier tilts his chin upwards. So many emotions are swimming behind Jaskiers eyes, his brow set and lips a firm line.It feels like he hasn’t aged a day.

Jaskier doesn’t say anything, just wrapping his arms around Geralt's shoulder and tugging him into a hug. Geralt's face is pressed against Jaskiers stomach, and he can smell the warmth, the spices, the fabric soft under his cheek.

Geralt didn’t plan ahead, didn’t think any further than finding Jaskier again. He should have, and they end up sharing Jaskiers room at a nearby inn. Geralt almost wants to offer him his pillow, selfishly collecting his scent for that inevitable parting. But he can’t, not when the inn already has enough. There is only one bed though, since Jaskier didn’t count on company. Geralt offers to take the floor, and Jaskier almost lets him.

But he scoots over, making room for Geralt on the bed. They don’t speak, just lay down facing each other. Jaskier has obviously been sleeping here for a while, and being surrounded by his scent makes something inside Geralt unclench. They watch each other, waiting. Waiting for what, he doesn’t know, but wait they do.

“Why?” Jaskier asks him finally. His voice is hushed, as if afraid to disturb the silence.

“I had to. I couldn’t pull you down with me. You-...” You are too precious to me. Geralt almost says it, it is on the tip of his tongue before he stops himself.

“I what Geralt? I can’t read your mind.”

“I don’t need you.” Geralt mumbles, and Jaskiers brows furrow in hurt. “I don’t need you, but I want you. So much. When you are around, I-..:” Geralt falters again, and Jaskier waits in silence.

“When you are around, I settle. I can’t describe it. I want you around, and that is selfish of me.”

“That sounds like need to me, Geralt, and it is not selfish. You are allowed to want things.”

“You are not a thing.”

“No, I’m not.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You said.”

They don’t talk anymore after that. They look at each other, and then Jaskier hands Geralt another pillow to hold and turns his back on him. He knows. Of course he would have noticed. Shame burns in Geralt, and he wants to hold Jaskier, but he isn’t sure it would be welcome. So he burrows deeper into the blanket, surrounded by Jaskiers smell, and holds the pillow tight.

When he wakes up, he is still holding the pillow. It is warm and sweaty, and Geralt soon finds out why. Jaskier lies pressed against his back, arm slung over his waist, forehead leaning against the back of Geralt's neck.

Geralt stays still, no matter how sweaty he is he doesn’t want to break this hold. It is a little unfair of him, because Jaskier likely did it in his sleep rather than by choice. He lies there and waits for the inevitable, for Jaskier to wake up and pull away. When Jaskier finally wakes up, it is at least an hour later. Geralt possibly slumbered a bit too, feeling too safe and comfortable to fight it. And now, Jaskiers heartbeat is picking up and he is getting tense. Before Jaskier can do anything, say anything, Geralt places his hand on Jaskiers.

“Stay?”

He regrets it the instance he opens his mouth, but somehow, for some reason, Jaskier stays.

“You are right.” Geralt confessess. “It’s a need. I need you. You are-” And he falters again, pulling in a shuddering breath. Jaskiers fingers flex under his, but he waits silently until Geralt is ready.

“Missing you is like missing home. You are home to me.”

Geralt wants to flee. Wants to run. Wants to take back his words and hide them again, shove them back into the deep darkness. But they are out. And they were heard.

“Geralt…” Jaskier is shuffling backwards, cold and empty space between them.

He knew it. He knew it would be too much, too soon. But he was ready for it, but it still hurt.

“Look at me.” Comes from behind Geralt, and he turns, shifting with the pillow still in his grip. Jaskier's eyes are gentle, but he can’t read them. Doesn’t know how to interpret them.

Jaskier grabs the pillow and pulls it out of his grip, eyes never leaving his. He tosses the pillow on the floor carelessly, and it’s strange, so strange.

“You are my home too.” Jaskier says quietly, placing his hand around Geralt's wrist, pulling him closer.

Oh.

Geralt breaks again and again and again, and he reaches out with both arms, pulling Jaskier to his chest, holding him close.

Finally holding him close.

#geraskier #the witcher #the witcher netflix #geralt of rivia #geralt sleeps with two pillows #geralt is a wee bit lonely #lonely geralt #the mountain scene #you know the one #soft #dapanda writes #julian alfred pankratz #jaskier the bard #witcher geralt

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hxwks-gf · 4 years

Text

» 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖊 𝖇𝖆𝖈𝖐 𝖙𝖔 𝖒𝖊

𝖑𝖊𝖛𝖎 𝖆𝖈𝖐𝖊𝖗𝖒𝖆𝖓 𝖝 𝖋𝖊𝖒!𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗

𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚢. 𝚠𝚑𝚘'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐?

𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎: 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚜𝚝, 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚏𝚏

𝚠𝚌: 𝟸.𝟼

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 & 𝚒𝚗𝚓𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜, 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐

That familiar stench of thick, viscous blood stretched far across the open field in which you stood, breathing heavily with your fingers gripped tightly around the hilts of your swords. They, along with half of your face, were stained red with it.

You were so tired. Every muscle in your body ached with exhaustion. But no matter how many Titans you viciously cut down, more and more seemed to take their place. Fighting them in an open field put you and the rest of the squad at an enormous disadvantage, and now you were paying the price.

You clicked the bottom triggers and listened to the empty space within the gas canister. You had maybe one or two good forward pushes before you were completely out.

“Fuck,” you muttered, sheathing the swords and wiping the blood out of your eyes. Looking around, you could see no one else nearby. You were completely alone after you had been separated on your horse by a handful of Abnormals. And as soon as you had vaulted from your horse’s back to attack, it got in the way of the onslaught of Titans and was ultimately crushed beneath one of their enormous feet.

Their blood had evaporated, leaving behind only your own from a wound at your hairline. Your eyes were getting heavier and heavier by the second, and the soft patch of grass underneath a lone tree nearby was suddenly calling your name. Dying in comfort didn’t seem like a bad way to go….at least it wasn’t getting eaten alive.

But the sun was already setting, slashing the sky with vibrant reds, oranges, and purples. You couldn’t remember what phase the moon was in tonight; all you could do was pray it didn’t give too much light for the Titans to walk around after the sun disappeared.

No food, no gas, no back-up. In the middle of Titan country. No matter how you looked at it, you were fucked. The fields stretched on and on as far as the eye could see—the rest of the squad could be miles and miles away by now, having absolutely no idea where you were.

You decided to at least take a rest under the tree while you figured out how much longer you had left, and what you would do with that limited time. You leaned back against the trunk and stretched your legs out in front of you, watching the sun sink lower and lower behind the mountains that loomed in the distance.

It was strangely beautiful, you thought to yourself as you rested your heavy head against the tree and stared at the sunset through half-lidded eyes. The winds whispered through the grass and brought with it the scent of the forest, extinguishing the putrid odor of Titan blood that had lingered behind. If these were your last moments on earth, you weren’t complaining too much. It was as close to peace you would ever get.

Movement out of the corner of your eye made you sit up abruptly, nostrils flaring with alert.

“Shit,” you muttered, seeing the gangly limbs of a ten-meter ambling across the field. You could feel each of its footsteps reverberating through the earth.

It was the only one you could see, and you could take it down easily enough. But that would use up the last of your precious gas and leave you truly helpless if a more pressing matter arose in the future.

You tapped your finger against the trigger of your sword in thought, weighing your options. The Titan hadn’t seen you yet, but if you moved, it most definitely would. If you sat still for long enough it just might pass you without noticing.

Decisions, decisions.

What would Levi do?

“Tch,” you scoffed, glaring toward the Titan. You knew Levi never would’ve gotten himself stuck in this situation to begin with. And you could already hear the earful he would give you if by some stroke of luck they found you alive. You’d be stuck scrubbing the floors for months.

You raised your eyes to the sun that had sunk behind the mountains, casting the valley below into hues of dark blue and black. The moon was nowhere in sight. Could you have been fortunate enough to have a moonless night?

The Titan in the distance still meandered about languidly as the last few remaining rays of the sun stretched over the mountains. Just a few minutes more and you would test Hange’s theory about the Titans’ inability to move without a light source.

It was getting harder and harder to see with each passing second, and soon enough your vision of the wandering Titan became just a dark speck on the horizon. The air was still and quiet, save for the whispering breeze that ruffled your hair and your green cloak. As you slowly got to your feet, your eyes scanned your surroundings to the best of your human ability and saw that you were completely alone again.

Trost was east of you. You wondered how far you would get before the sun rose again or you collapsed from exhaustion. The wound along your hairline had stopped bleeding, but it was giving you an excruciating headache.

“Just get as far as you can,” you commanded yourself, leaving behind the comfort of your tree as you started walking east. Your footsteps were silenced by the soft grass. “Push as hard as you can, and we’ll figure out the rest from there.”

You could hear Levi’s voice in your mind. “Don’t give up on me, cadet,” he’d say. “Come back to me.”

“It’d be easier if you came to me,” you argued with his voice aloud as you picked your way across the open field. “You’re the one with the horse.”

No one answered except the crickets chirping in the grass. The stars twinkled overhead, as if trying to keep you company while you walked on foot in the most dangerous part of the country—alone, with scarcely enough to defend yourself, and no food to give you energy.

If you were fucked, at least your last thoughts would be about Levi.

“There’s still no sign of her,” Jean called down from atop the abandoned farmhouse. “I can’t see anything without the moon.”

Levi tried his best to keep himself under control. Goddammit, why did she have to be the one to get separated from the group? He looked up at Jean and nodded stiffly. “Keep looking.”

“Yes, sir.”

He paced the length of the farmhouse with his hands folded tightly behind his back. He had half a mind to go out and look for her himself, but Jean was right. Without the light of the moon, he wouldn’t be able to see much of anything. And he couldn’t risk overexerting his poor horse.

Levi felt a hand on his shoulder. He closed his eyes and sighed, wishing he could tell the rest of his squad not to bother him until they had any useful information regarding [Y/N]’s whereabouts.

“She’s resourceful,” Hange said softly, and Levi let his shoulders relax. “And she’s smart. Too smart for her own good, to be honest.”

“I know we should have made for Trost hours ago,” Levi muttered, kicking a rock with his boot. “I’m putting everyone at risk for making us stay behind and look for her.”

“We take risks every day. What’s one more?”

“You’re the only one who knows why I took this risk.” He glanced over at them. “You’re the only one who knows what she means to me.”

Hange smiled knowingly and patted his shoulder. “We’ll find her, Levi. I know it.”

You lost track of how many hours had passed, and you could no longer feel your feet. Your legs felt like jelly. You could barely see straight. At some point during the journey, your wound had split open and dripped fresh blood down your face.

You were so tired. Every inch of your body ached.

Come back to me.

“I can’t!” you sobbed into the open air, feeling salty tears spill from your eyes and mix with the blood on your face. “I can’t do it!”

As you cried out in anguish, your knees buckled with exhaustion and you fell to the ground with a pained grunt. The grass felt so soft against your cheeks as you pressed your face into it, sobbing uncontrollably into the dirt. Pretty soon the sun would rise again, and the Titans would wake to hear your cries. You knew for a fact you had no strength left to fight them.

Come back to me.

You sniffled, wiping the snot and blood from your nose with your sleeve. Levi would be disgusted by the state of you, but the thought of his repulsion made you crack a smile.

With some effort, you rose into a kneeling position and tilted your face towards the sky. You could hear birds beginning to chirp, and the glow from the rising sun in the distance slowly started to illuminate your surroundings.

You closed your eyes and exhaled softly, feeling the cool morning air on your bloodied cheeks. Mornings have always been your favorite time of day. It was quiet, still and peaceful, before everyone else in the world had a chance to wake up. You wondered if this would be the last early morning you would ever get to see.

You opened your eyes and looked forward again, expecting to see Titans milling about. But to your fortune, there were none in sight.

But what was in sight was a cluster of old, abandoned houses. A village.

Shelter.

“Holy shit,” you breathed, struggling to get to your feet. It wasn’t Trost, but it might as well have been a chest of treasure waiting for you. There would be rations hidden somewhere, and maybe a bed to sleep on. Protection from Titans. Maybe you would live to see another day.

Each step forward was agonizing, but you ground your teeth so hard you thought your jaw would fall off to keep yourself from faltering. A hundred yards. Fifty yards. Twenty—

“Captain!” you heard someone shout. You froze in your tracks and tried to find the source of the voice, and your eyes landed on a familiar face standing on top of the one of the houses. It was Jean. You had found them.

He slid from the roof and landed not-so-gracefully in the grass, running full speed towards you.

“Jean,” you said weakly, reaching out a hand to him. He caught you right before you could collapse to the ground again, hefting you up in his arms and carrying you towards the village. Your head lolled to the side and fell against his warm shoulder. You couldn’t stay awake any longer. The last thing you saw was the rest of the squad running towards Jean carrying you, but the only face you could focus on was Levi’s.

Levi rescinded his normal post at the head of the squad to sit beside [Y/N] in one of the wagons as they began their journey back to Trost. He still couldn’t believe it. She had survived a night alone, with no food, barely enough gas for one launch, and blades that were one strike away from snapping. If she had been anyone else, she would be dead.

The others had said nothing when he held her hand the entire time Hange stitched up the wound that had split open along her hairline. They said nothing when he ran his fingers along her jawline and over her parted lips as she slept. It was as if they had known the entire time.

Levi watched [Y/N] carefully in the back of the wagon, his grey eyes never once leaving her face. She hadn’t woken up yet, not since she had passed out in Jean’s arms after he found her in the field. He was concerned her head injury had forced her to slip into a coma, but Hange dismissed it.

He vowed that once [Y/N] awoke, he would tell her how he truly felt.

White light filtered in through an unseen window, and you were certain you were dead. This was what came after. Eternal blankness.

But pretty soon your surroundings came into clearer view. You were in an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar bed. Sunlight was trickling through an open window nearby, and the sounds of a city spilled over the sill.

You blinked your groggy eyes and groaned in pain. God, everything hurt. With a weak hand, you reached up and felt the coarse bandage that was wrapped around your forehead.

You had survived.

“You shouldn’t touch your bandages,” a voice said beside you. “You’ll get them dirty.”

You slowly turned your head and focused on Levi sitting next to you, a book in his lap. The dark circles underneath his eyes were harsh against his skin, as if he hadn’t slept in days.

“How long have I been asleep?” you croaked, wincing at your voice.

“Two and a half days,” he replied, closing the book and setting it aside.

“Shit,” you muttered. You shut your eyes and swallowed painfully. “I thought I had died.”

He was quiet for a moment before scooting his chair closer to your bed. You cracked an eye open and watched his furrowed brow and concerned expression as he folded his hands atop the sheets. Something was bothering him.

“What is it?” you asked.

Levi didn’t look at you, but his eyes narrowed while he studied his folded hands. “Everyone I’ve ever cared about has been lost,” he spoke, and you could hear the emotion hidden behind the words. The muscle in his jaw twitched. “But you—you’re the first one to come back.”

You were stunned into silence and the only thing you found you could do was stare at him in shock. Levi...cared about you? “What are you talking about?”

“I...I thought I had lost you,” he said tightly, still not meeting your eyes. “I was willing to force the entire squad to stay behind and look for you, even if it put them at risk. I couldn’t leave you behind, not knowing if you were alive or not. I just...couldn’t do it.” He looked up at you then, his face hardened with determination. “[Y/N], I can’t bring myself to say the words because I’m convinced I’ve been cursed and you’ll be taken away from me again if I do, but…” he trailed off and focused on his hands again.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you said softly. “When I was out there, all alone and trying to find the strength and courage not to die in some forgotten field, you were the voice in my head telling me to get up and move. You told me to come back to you.”

Levi’s jaw twitched again, and his dark hair fell into his eyes as he bowed his head to his folded hands.

“And I did,” you murmured. “Because I knew you would kick my ass if I disobeyed an order.”

A flicker of a smile passed across his face, so fleeting you almost missed it. He stood up and tenderly placed a hand on top of your head, ruffling your hair. His thumb stretched to gently caress your bandaged forehead as he watched you with those tired eyes.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said, picking up his book. “Get some more rest.”

You nodded and he turned towards the door.

“Levi?” you found yourself saying.

He glanced at you over his shoulder with his hand resting on the doorknob. “Yes?”

Your lower lip trembled as you looked at him with glistening eyes. “You’re not going to make me scrub out the mess hall for being reckless, are you?”

Levi arched an eyebrow. “We’ll find out.”

Before you could sputter out an answer, he was already gone. You settled back against your pillow with a happy sigh and felt the exhaustion sneaking back into your bones. Another nap sounded nice. As you slowly closed your eyes and slipped away to the dreaming world, your last thoughts were of Levi.

They would always be of Levi.

#this is so self indulgent #levi ackerman #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman fanfiction #attack on titan #attack on titan fanfiction #shingeki no kyojin #shingeki no kyoujin levi #shingeki no kyoujin fanart #shingeki no kyoujin imagine #levi ackerman imagine #attack on titan imagine #my writing

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dcforts · 3 years

Text

[like today]

ao3

Dean wakes up without a weight on his chest.

He stretches on his bed, rolls on his stomach and smiles into his pillow that smells of fresh laundry. He feels comforted by his room, and the simplest event of finding his slippers right next to his bed.

On an off day like today, he usually puts on his robe and makes his way down the chilly hallways with only the sound of his steps and the faint buzzing of the generator for company.

Some days, like today, Cas is already in the kitchen. Dean makes eggs while he sits at the table munching on cereals. It’s just a habit he picked up from Jack; he can’t really tell what they taste like. Dean used to snap at the kid for the constant crunching in his ears so early in the morning - now he’s used to it. He sits across from Cas and eats his breakfast.

Every other day, Sam walks in and wants to talk about a weird dream he had and what it could mean. Rowena tells him he’s got a gift he needs to learn to control, but Dean is not sure there’s much to interpret about a cart full of expired food. Sometimes Sam talks about a case he heard about or an article he read.

Some days he says there’s case not too far from there, and he’s thinking of going ahead, check it out, see if it’s something up their alley. Some days Dean even agrees to let him go alone without putting up a fuss.

Today, Sam leaves and Dean asks Cas, “You sticking around for this one?” – back turned, eyes down, hands busy. Sometimes he doesn’t feel brave enough to do that either, so he just goes back to his room and hopes to find him there when he returns.

He makes his bed, carefully smooths out all the creases. He takes a long hot shower, humming a song he got stuck in his head, styles his hair, puts on some clean clothes.

Then he goes to the map room where Cas is usually squinting at Dean’s laptop screen. Not too long ago, he used to knock on his door and ask, “May I borrow your laptop?”; now Dean just leaves it around, and Cas doesn’t ask anymore. Dean doesn’t mind.

It’s curious – he uses only three fingers as he types, one index of his left hand and the index and middle finger of his right hand. Dean had been about to bring it up to Sam one time, but then he thought of all the things Cas knew about him and never mentioned and decided to keep this one about Cas for himself.

While they research, they’re quiet for the most part. Some days, the table between them is covered in books, in pizza boxes, in weapons, in blood. Some days, they argue and storm off and some days, Cas makes Dean laugh and Dean makes Cas do that face that Dean likes.

If he's had a long night, sometimes Dean dozes off with his head on his hand and his gaze in Cas’ general direction. Bitter thoughts drift him away, like, how Cas probably shouldn’t be there, and how this was never a place for an angel.

A titan of the sky, confined in a human body, squeezed on a chair in an underground box. How his skin must prickle, and his wings long to be stretched. How long it will be before he won’t take it anymore.

Dean doesn't like those days. He gets snappy and irritable and Cas leaves and it makes everything worse.

Most days though, like today, he looks like he's exactly where he's supposed to be and when he meets his eyes across the table, maybe even exactly where he wants to be.

Sometimes Dean relaxes a little too much and he’s woken up by the sound of the coffee mug Cas puts down next to the book he fell asleep on. His brain register a looming presence and his insticts tell him to jerk away, but before that can happen, there’s Cas’ hand on his shoulder, heavy and familiar.

Dean heart slows down, he sits up and drinks his coffee.

Today is peaceful, but Dean feels a little more alive, like on those blue early mornings on the road that make you regret stepping out of your car without a jacket and the smell of gasoline filling your nostrils seems stronger than it’s ever been.

Dean opens up the police scanner on Sam’s laptop and checks his texts. Most days there’s one from Jody who just wants to check in, like she’s patroling outside of their bunker. Today there’s one from Claire, replying to a text he sent her the night before.

you on a job?, he asked

no, just finished one, is what she wrote back.

He writes, come by for the w/e. Then adds, he wants to see you and sends attached a picture of Cas that he snaps on the spot without him noticing.

A few seconds later Claire writes back, just admit you miss me. And right after, ok. And then again, kaia wants burgers.

Dean grins and shots back, just admit you love my cooking

She sends a rolling-my-eyes emoji. Dean snorts and Cas looks up.

“Claire and Kaia are spending the weekend,” he explains.

"Good," Cas smiles and then says, “You should make burgers. She loves them.”

Some days Sam calls and says there’s nothing for them, and some days he calls and says there’s something for them.

Today Cas is typing away and Dean has just sat down with a fresh cup of coffee when Sam calls and it’s something.

Dean is not too bothered. Outside the weather is bad, but the place it’s nearby, the job seems easy and they can be home in time for dinner. And if they hit the traffic, well, Cas will be there. They will be fine.

He will roll down his window a little even if it rains and Dean will turn the radio on, and a familiar track will start in just the perfect spot, right before the chorus, and Dean will sing along quietly, tapping his fingers on the wheel, under the grey and the wet and Cas’ gaze, curious and slightly amused.

Cas asks again if they have everything, like he’s packing for a kid going to summer camp (Dean tells him), and takes one of the duffel bags from Dean’s hand without asking, and walks past him, like he’s used to carry Dean’s clothes and weapons. “Do you have your snack for the road?,” he asks, climbing the iron stairs and Dean stops in his track, glosses over the snarky suggestion that he’s the kid going to summer camp in the scenario, and instead actually wonders if he’s got time to run to the kitchen real quick, but then he shrugs, shoulders his bag and says “We’ll stop along the way.”

They can stop along the way, like they sometimes do. He will get a hot bagel and Cas will down half his coffee, and they will stand right outside the store, where they can’t get wet but they can breathe and hear the rain. And Cas will say – well, Dean can never anticipate what Cas is going to say, but that’s the good part.

Dean tells him to wait for him outside as he brings the car around but when he does, Cas is not there. Dean turns off the engine just as the first raindrops hit, hit, hit the windshield. Today there’s something different, he feels, in the familiar, comforting smell of the Impala, something fresh, new, something that whispers to him that he’s got the whole day ahead and all the time in the world after that.

By the time Cas gets out of the metal door, rain is falling heavily all over the roof and Dean feels nowhere on Earth, surrounded by water. Dean doesn’t hear the door shutting, but spots the blurry silhouette of a trench-coated figure approaching. He turns the key in the ignition and as the lights go up, he’s on Earth again.

Cas is unbothered by the rain, as he is unbothered by most natural events. He takes his time opening up the backseat door to toss the duffel bag in, before slipping in the passenger seat, trenchcoat soaked, hair dripping and raindrops running down his cheeks. Dean’s lips quirk up. Cas says, “I had forgotten a book.”

Dean doesn’t care. He says, “You should dry your hair,” but Cas shrugs, “There’s no need.”

Dean reaches towards the backseat to take a t-shirt out of his bag. He throws it on Cas’ head and starts rubbing his hair and he's so startled that for a moment just lets him.

“Dean,” he complains then and pushes his arms away, “I’m not a child,” he says. His face is red and his hair wild. Dean counters his annoyed look with a grin, “What?” he says.

Cas shakes his head, “Can we go now?”

But Dean is not ready yet. Sometimes, when he's alone with Cas like this, he feels something grip his insides and tug at him to say something.

He usually wants to say, I’m glad you’re here, but today he also wants to say, we could let Sam handle this one and just go for a ride, we could stop only when we get out from under the clouds and we could watch the rain from a distance and we'll be standing in the light, and if we’re lucky it won’t be too cold but if it is, who cares? You won’t be bothered by that and I won’t be bothered by that either cause you’ll be there, he wants to say aren’t we lucky? aren’t we lucky that you’re with me and I’m with you right now? and I have this feeling swelling in my chest, I don’t know what it is.

And I wish everyday was like this, exactly like this, but I’m not sure what this is.

But when Cas’s expression blends into confusion and he blinks, “Dean?”, he shakes his head.

They’re fine. With the whole day ahead and their whole lives after that. He feels like tomorrow he can have anything, but today – he likes today just the way it is.

“Just thinking,” he says, starting the car and taking the road, “Having a good day, is all.”

With the corner of his eye he can see Cas dubiously looking out at the pouring rain and back at him.

Dean meets his eyes and gives him a smile to see if he can prompt one in return without saying anything.

Cas’ lips twitch for a moment and then he smiles back.

*about Sam's dream: to my knowledge expired food in dreams mean unfinished business and stuff of the past we carry with us (sorry sammy i thought it was fitting - i had the same dream if that's any consolation)

#deancas #deancas ficlet #destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic #destiel #domesticity #1.7k #dean feels good #and nothing out of the ordinary happens really #idk what this is abt #it's just that some days are not that special but you still feel good for no reason - i just tried to talk about that #truth is that it may be raining but dean's got his sunshine w him :))) bleah #you have no idea how long this has been in my drafts unfinished #i just NEED to get it out - maybe it'll magically solve my block #since it seems that i cant read or write anymore #i did it - i used the word 'squinting'#my writing #spncreatorsdaily

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