#He said that my legs are pale white like cheese stick

[minty-bubblegum]

My neighbor calls me chebread

[meg-moira]

The Witch Who Spoke to the Wind

Sequel to Eindred and the Witch

In which Severin, the golden eyed witch, learns that his greatest enemy and truest love is fated to kill him.

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Dealing in prophecies is a dubious work. Anyone who knows anything will tell you as much.

“Think of all of time as a grand tapestry,” his great-grandmother had said, elbow deep in scalding water. Her hands were tomato red, and Severin watched with wide golden eyes as she kneaded and stretched pale curds in the basin. “You might be so privileged to understand a single weave, but unless you go following all surrounding threads, and the threads around those threads, and so on - which, mind you, no human can do - you’ll never understand the picture.”

Severin, who was ten years old and had never seen a grand tapestry, looked at the cheese in the basin and asked if his great-grandmother could make the analogy about that instead.

“No,” she replied. “Time is a tapestry. Cheese is just cheese.”

And that was that.

By fifteen, Severin who was all arms, legs, and untamable black hair, decided he hated prophecies more than anything in the world. He occupied himself instead with long walks atop the white bluffs well beyond his family’s home. Outside, he could look at birds, and talk to the wind, and not think about the terrible prophecy which followed him like a shadow.

His second eldest sister had revealed it - accidentally, of course. Severin lived in a warm and bustling house with his great-grandmother, grandmother, mother, two aunts, and three sisters. All of whom were generously gifted in the art of foretelling (a messy business, each would say if asked), and every one of them had seen Severin’s same bleak thread.

He would die. Willingly stabbed through the heart by his greatest enemy and truest love.

Willingly. That was the worst part, he thought.

Severin, who had no talent in the way of prophecies, but plenty of talent in the realm of wind and sky, marched along the well-worn trail, static sparking around his fingertips as the brackish sea breeze nipped consolingly at his face and hair.

I will protect you if you ask me to, it blustered, and Severin was comforted.

He didn’t care who this foretold stranger was. When this enemy-lover appeared, Severin would ask the wind to pick them up and take them far, far away. Far enough that they could never harm him. The wind whistled in agreement. And so it was settled.

At seventeen, he was still all arms and legs, though his eldest sister had managed to tame his hair with a respectably sharp pair of shears. The wind, who had delighted in playing with his wild, tangled locks, did not thank her for it. Severin did thank her; in fact, he’d asked her to do it. He was of the opinion that his newly shorn hair made him look older - more sophisticated. And he left his family home with a new cloak draping his shoulders and a knotted wooden walking stick in hand, thinking himself very nearly a man. He was far from it, of course. But there was no telling him that.

He set out on a clear, cool morning to find his own way in the world, and was prepared to thoroughly deal with anyone who so much as dared to act ever so slightly in the manner of enemy or lover.

He discovered, soon enough, that this was not a practical attitude to take when venturing into the world. Severin spent his first months away from home making little in the way of friends and plenty in the way of thoroughly baffled enemies.

When you meet his gaze, you’ll know, the wind chided as it whisked in and out of his hood.

“His?” Severin said aloud, lifting a single dark brow. “Do you know something I don’t?”

The wind whistled noncommittally in answer.

The wind did know something, as it turned out. At twenty, Severin stood on the warm, sun-loved planks of a dock. As gulls cried overhead, he pressed his fingers to his lips. The young sailor had touched his lips to Severin’s in a swift, carefree kiss before departing on the sea. And though the feeling was pleasant enough, Severin knew that his enemy-lover was not on the great ship cleaving a path through the cerulean waves.

“When I meet his gaze, I’ll know,” Severin said, golden eyes sweeping the horizon. The seaward breeze blustered in such agreement that the gulls overhead cried out in alarm.

What will you do? The wind asked, delighting in whipping the gulls into a proper frenzy.

“Get rid of him, of course,” Severin replied.

What if you don’t want to?

Severin thought that was the stupidest question he’d ever heard. “He’s going to stab me through the heart. Why in the world wouldn’t I want to get rid of him?”

People are foolish, the wind answered, shrugging the nearby sails.

“Not me.” Severin leaned on his stick and looked out at the sea. “I won’t let anyone get away with stabbing my heart.”

When he was twenty-two, Severin knelt at the bedside of a withered, wilting woman. She was a stranger, but the town’s herb witch was away, and Severin happened to be passing through. Though his true strength would always remain with the wind and the sky, the youngest of Severin’s two aunts had a special way with plants, and she’d taught him a fair bit about the many healing properties of the region’s hardy, windblown flora.

He boiled water, adding the few herbs he carried to make a rejuvenating tea. He helped the woman drink, his hand supporting her head and fingers tangling in her sweat drenched hair. After, he pressed a cool cloth to her head, and in the half dark room, she murmured, sharing delirious fears that she would accidentally speak cruel dying words and lay a curse upon him.

Kindly stroking her forehead, Severin assured her that he was not afraid of curses. Even uttered by the dying, a true curse was rarer than the superstitious soldier’s and barbarians liked to believe. Besides, she wasn’t going to die. Severin, who’d seen just enough of the world to have a taste of wisdom, was certain he could save her.

She died within the day.

Whether her condition had been beyond help, or Severin lacked the skills to twist the herbs to his bidding, he would never know. The wind rustled reassurances through the sparsely-leaved trees, but Severin was beyond consolation. Clouds gathered on the horizon, and by nightfall, great branches of lightning crackled across the sky.

He spent the next year and a half in the wilds. Beneath the jubilant light of the sun, he collected plants, acquainting himself with the earth. And beneath the soft, watchful light of the moon, he whispered to the wind and dared to wonder at the shape of his enemy-lover’s face. He could never seem to summon the slightest picture in his mind. Though it really didn’t matter, he supposed. Their eyes would meet, and Severin would know. And then he’d use all of the power at his disposal to send his enemy-lover away.

During this time, Severin sometimes saw bands of barbaric warriors crossing the plains. He kept his distance, but he doubted any of them were interested in either recruiting or killing a scrawny young man in a worn woolen cloak. Few he encountered ever suspected he had any great abilities, and Severin certainly didn’t go out of his way to advertise the fact that he could command the wind and sky when he wished. The barbaric companies had their eyes on more obviously lucrative targets, anyway. A handful of city states which spread across the great peninsula were openly at war with the barbaric tribes from the north.

It was when Severin was returning from his self-imposed isolation that he had his first real encounter with war. He held his sturdy walking stick in hand and carried a bursting bag of herbs, poultices, and leather-bound journals over his shoulder. Severin was so surprised by the sudden, brutal clash of metal and the primal cries that erupted nearby that he halted where he stood. His curiosity both outweighed and outlasted his fear, and after a minute or two of tense consideration, he pressed cautiously onward in the direction of the noise.

By the time he arrived, the battle was done.

It had surely been an ugly, bloody affair, if the splayed out bodies of the city soldiers and barbaric warriors were anything to judge it by. Holding a hand over his mouth, Severin gingerly navigated the carnage and valiantly resisted the impulse to be sick right there in the field. He was nearly on the other side of it when movement caught his eye. Squinting, almost afraid to look, he glanced from the corners of his eyes, sure that it was some grotesque remnant of warfare which awaited him.

Instead, it was a man.

Just a man.

The movement Severin had spotted was the rise and fall of his chest.

Only after turning a careful look around the terrible and silent battlefield did Severin approach the fallen man.

The barbarian’s eyes were closed and his pale brows drew together, as if reflecting pain. His face would probably have been handsome in a rough, simple sort of way if it weren’t smeared in dirt and blood. His light hair, braided and pulled away from his face, was bloodied as well, and Severin frowned at the sorry state of him. After a second wary look around, he knelt with a sigh.

The barbarian’s leather vest was cut, and his thick, scarred arms had earned several new slices as well. Severin, who had more than enough herbs and poultices on hand, reluctantly tore his only spare shirt into bandages. Within the hour the stranger was fully bandaged and muttering in fever addled sleep.

“Don’t worry,” Severin murmured, knotting the last makeshift bandage. “I’ve learned enough from the plants and trees to save you from both fever and infection.”

Behind closed lids, the barbarian’s eyes flitted anxiously to and fro and he mumbled something that sounded like no. Nose wrinkling, Severin leaned in. He heard the sleeping barbarian say, his voice low and cracking, “The curses will take me.”

Severin frowned down at him, unimpressed. “No they won’t,” he snapped, and yanked the bandage tighter.

The barbarian silenced then, and Severin stared at him a moment longer, pursing his lips in consternation. It wasn’t that he minded using his supplies to heal a stranger. But a part of him worried that healing a warrior made Severin responsible for whatever slaughter he resumed when he rose.

Severin abhorred warfare. It was such a terrible waste. But he supposed there was no helping what he’d already done. The barbarian was already on his way to recovery, and Severin certainly wasn’t going to murder him in his sleep. He reached out, intending to test the temperature at the man’s temple, but no sooner had Severin’s fingers touched his overheated skin than the world bled around him. In its place: a vision.

Shock echoed through him, because he was not like the women in his family, able to see phantoms in time. He’d always simply played with the air. The vision dancing before his gaze, however, didn’t seem to care.

Like droplets of ink spreading in water, a prism of colors twisted, threading together into nearly tangible shapes. From the chaos, rose a blond child holding a knit sheep. He was ruddy cheeked and pouting up at his mother. Then ink and water swirled and the images collapsed and shifted. Hulking shadows loomed over the child. The mother wailed her grief. The formless ink shivered, morphing from one scene to the next, nearly too quickly to follow, and Severin was swallowed up in it, overrun and overwhelmed by violence, blood, and pain. Beneath his fingers, Severin felt the movement of shifting, slipping thread.

Just as abruptly as it had started, the vision ceased. Severin’s knees ached where they pressed against the dirt and the barbarian’s skin beneath his hand was no longer overheated. How long had he been within the vision’s grasp, he wondered?

As Severin shifted back, the barbarian groaned. Severin watched as the man’s eyelids fluttered - and at once, the air turned heavy, as if the wind had drawn and held an anticipatory breath.

Dread flooded Severin and he rushed to stand. The barbarian had not yet opened his eyes, and Severin knew with a terrible nameless certainty that he must not be here when this man awoke. Severin could still feel those elusive, unknowable threads beneath his fingers, and his hands shook as he rose. Awakened by his urgency, the wind roared, lending him speed as he fled the clearing.

By the time the barbarian cracked open a single, world weary eye, Severin was long gone, heart still safely beating in his chest.

Severin endeavored to forget about the barbarian. He convinced himself that the vision had been the hallucination of an overexerted body, and that the sensation of inexorably moving threads beneath his fingers was nothing more than a flight of fancy. Severin did not think about how the threads had felt - certain and unyielding - beneath his fragile, very mortal hands. If he did, he feared he might ask the wind to whisk him away from the world altogether, and that, surely, was no way to live.

In a deep, secret place, however, Severin suspected the reason he was granted such a vision was because the stranger’s thread was woven perilously close to his own. Because of this, he set upon an easterly road, endeavoring to put a healthy distance between himself and the pale barbarian.

After nearly a month of travel, he arrived in a small village which sat nestled in foothills, tucked beneath the shadows of great mountains which stood like sentinels above. Severin hadn’t intended to stay, but when it was discovered he had some skill with plants and medicine, the villagers eagerly led him to a hut some distance from the village. It was empty, they explained, and had been for some years. A healing woman had occupied it, some years back, before she’d passed on. The villagers had been saving it, hoping the space would be enough to entice a new healer to make their isolated village a home.

Severin had nowhere else to go, and he supposed a distant, mountain village was as good a place as any to avoid a blade to the heart.

Two years passed, and Severin settled into his little hut. He spent his mornings taking long walks around the surrounding lands, collecting herbs and specimens. Returning home, he’d throw open the windows to allow his friend the wind a brief but wild rampage through the hut. With the air freshened, Severin spread plants across his square dining table and sorted them into jars to be sealed, dried, or preserved in vinegar. His neighbors in the village visited frequently, just as often for his company as for his medicines, and Severin delighted in visiting the town on market days and making the streamers dance in the wind for the children. Evenings were spent in his rocking chair, with a book in his lap and his feet pressed near to the low fire in the hearth.

He was happy, and hardly thought of the barbarian he’d found bleeding in the dirt. That is, until fate caught up with him.

One day, when he was foraging for moss on the hillside behind his hut, Severin felt the whisper-soft touch of thread against his palm. He sat upright at once, and turning and craning his neck, he absently rubbed his palms against his robes.

A company marched into the village. From up on Severin’s hill, they appeared a swarm of ants overtaking the miniature thatched roof homes. The slipping, shivering feeling beneath Severin’s palm intensified, and he stood. His heart drummed a frantic beat against his ribs, and Severin felt with a terrible certainty that fate, like a hunting hound on the scent, had sniffed him out at last.

When Severin called out, begging the wind’s help, it rushed to him, howling atop the hill.

I am here. I am here.

Cradled in the gale, he begged the wind to take him and hide him away, so that the tapestry’s relentless threads might cease dragging him toward the one he never wished to meet.

So be it, the wind said. If that is truly what you wish, I will take you and hide you away forever.

In that moment, nearly caught as he was, Severin was willing to do anything to avoid meeting this man who would kill him - until the screams rose from the pastures in the valley beneath his hut. Severin’s heartbeat was in his throat, on his very tongue, as he held up a hand to stay the wind.

“Just a moment,” he murmured, and turned bright, pained eyes toward the village. The terrified screams of his neighbors pierced him as surely as any blade, and with a mournful twist of his fingers, he bade the wind disperse.

By the time he reached in the pastures, the shepherd, the blacksmith, and Helvia’s two sons lay dead. At the sight of his friend’s bodies, grief and rage stirred within Severin, and the wind, always nearby to him, trembled in sympathy. Gaze sweeping the warriors, he marked the five whose weapons were stained red. Severin was not violent by nature, but if he was to die this day, he resolved to remove from the earth at least these five men, who with bloodied blades, uncaringly spoke of feasting upon the village’s few precious sheep.

When the warriors turned and finally noticed Severin, he lifted his chin and prayed his voice did not betray his fear. “These are simple people. They have little in way of money or goods. It wasn’t for nothing that the shepherd, blacksmith, and teenagers died. They need these sheep. And I cannot allow you to take them.”

The men glanced at one another, eyes filling with a cruel sort of mirth. They laughed at him, and Severin steeled himself for what must come next. He was friends with the wind, but to call down the heavens was an entirely more serious matter. And he’d never done it. At least, not like this.

Severin turned his palms up and glared at the heavens, daring them to refuse him now when he needed them most.

For a long, terrible moment, nothing happened.

And then, the skies erupted.

He had never felt pure, visceral power in such a way, and as it whined and crackled, Severin, with splayed fingers, used all of his strength to tear the lightning from its home in the sky. It rained upon the warriors, screaming in wild, untamable fury. Severin watched the men cry out in agony, and he felt horror and satisfaction in equal measure.

When a single figure broke from the group, agile enough to evade the lightning and charge across the field, Severin could only look on in exhausted realization. It was the pale barbarian. The man from the battlefield. The child in the vision.

The barbarian charged like a beast, his thickly braided hair bouncing. His brows were drawn down in focus and his lips poised on the precipice of a snarl. It was with a hopeless sense of finality that Severin met the stranger’s gaze.

He met eyes of icy gray, the color of hazy, snow capped mountains in winter, and Severin knew, he knew with a certainty that was sunken into his bones and twisted in his marrow, that this barbarian was the shadow which had haunted him. And he knew, more than anything, the crude blade in the man’s scarred-knuckle hand was fate’s exclamation point at the end of Severin’s ephemeral existence.

Watching as the barbarian pivoted, drawing back his blade, Severin only wished he understood why the women in his family had persisted in calling this man Severin’s truest love. If this was love, the man had a spectacularly terrible way of showing it.

Time slowed to a crawl, and sunlight flashed, reflecting off the blade. As the jagged edge touched the fabric of Severin’s robe, the wind whispered at his ear. Let me show you a piece of the picture.

The wind around him froze, and so too did the world.

Look up, said the wind, a rustle within his ear.

Severin did.

The complexly woven image was shaped by currents in the air - all but invisible to any whose eyes are untrained to look for them. But Severin had a born understanding of the wind and sky, and when he looked up, he saw bits and pieces of an impossibly complex tapestry.

He saw scarred knuckles gently shaping wood. A small child that sat upon broad shoulders. Rocking chairs placed side by side before a glowing fire. Warm hands enveloping his own. Safety. Home.

It was...everything, and Severin’s heart ached with a strange and complex longing for a future that surely could never be.

It’s not impossible, the wind whispered. But the threads will have to tangle and untangle just perfectly so.

“How?” Severin asked, and wondered if he was a fool to feel so desperate a pull towards this life glimpsed in impressions and half images.

The warrior must weep and repent. And a curse must come to fruition.

“And if these things do not happen?”

Then your soul will fade from the earth.

Severin felt torn in two.

The blade has not yet struck your heart, the wind murmured, kind and conspiratorial. There is time still for me to secret you away. I could pull your thread from the tapestry altogether.

“But there would be no hope for that life,” Severin said with a last wistful glance at the scattered mosaic above.

No, none, the wind agreed.

“Okay,” Severin whispered, “okay.” And it felt terrifyingly like surrender.

The wind stirred, and a breeze like a kiss tousled his dark hair.

The blade struck.

It was an intense pressure and then swift, vibrantly blooming pain. Severin wavered on his feet, and looked up. For the second time, he met the warrior’s gaze. And Severin saw and understood that there was no malice in those wintry eyes. Not even frustration or anger. But, instead, an exhaustion deeper than Severin could conceive.

When Severin toppled backward, it was concerning to realize he could no longer feel the grass beneath his body. The man knelt down, and Severin blinked tiredly up at him.

It seemed as though the man were waiting for something. Severin’s slipping mind struggled to think of what - until he recalled the dying woman and her talk of curses. And hadn’t the barbarian said something about curses when he was fever addled and hurt? What had the wind said? Severin was struggling to remember. As his life trickled away in red rivulets which stained the grass and soil, he thought of the boy in the vision - lost and afraid. And he thought of the man he’d become, kneeling stonily over him.

And Severin knew exactly which words should be his last.

Swallowing, he mustered the strength to whisper, “-my hut…it’s just past…the next hill over. In it, I keep medicines and herbs. For the villagers. And travelers who pass.”

For the barbarian would have to stay if he were ever to show remorse. He couldn’t very well continue going about fighting and murdering his way across the peninsula. Which brought Severin to his final words. It took all of his remaining strength to lift his hand. When he reached out, the barbarian startled, as though he expected more lightning to spring forth from Severin’s fingers. But Severin merely tapped his chest and smiled. “May you live a life of safety and peace.”

It was a fitting curse, he thought, feeling particularly clever. And there, on the field, surrounded by sheep, Severin’s heart stuttered and stopped.

It was an abrupt, slipping sensation, like losing your footing on iced over earth. Raw existence rushed around Severin, and he was battered and blown about, like a banner torn loose in the storm. This continued for a dizzying moment, or perhaps a dizzying eternity - Severin really had no way of knowing which. But it stopped when a familiar presence surged around him, blowing and blustering until the wild chaos of existence was forced to let him be.

The wind could not protect him forever, Severin knew, and so he focused his energies until, like a wind sprite, he swirled about the hillside. Below him, he saw the barbarian, his great head bent. Severin, as incorporeal as a breeze, could not resist blustering over the barbarian’s shoulder and observing himself, limp and pitiful in death. Whipping around, he beheld the barbarian - because surely this sight would bring him at least to the verge of tears.

The barbarian frowned down at Severin’s body and rubbed a scarred hand over the patches of stubble on his chin. And then he rose with a great sigh and set off down the hillside, away from Severin and the village.

Severin, who was nothing more than wind and spirit, watched him and despaired. He could do nothing more than whip and howl through the hills as his murderer left him without a backward glance.

Months passed.

Severin did not follow after the barbarian. What good would it do? In this form, it wasn’t as though Severin could speak to him. And if he was doomed to fade and dissolve from existence, he would much rather do so here in the hills he loved than in some strange land trailing after an even stranger man. The wind kept him company, at least, and Severin spent his days whistling through the black, porous stones at the base of the mountains and blowing bits of dandelions across wild tufts of grass.

One day, long after Severin had begun to feel more spread out and thin than was entirely comfortable, the wind rushed to him, carrying with it the scent of dust and dirt and faraway lands.

The barbarian had returned.

Severin was an icy breeze that whipped around the edges of town, and he watched with cool distrust as the man trudged through the streets. His shoulders were slumped and his blond head was turned down. He looked utterly defeated, and any sympathy Severin might have felt was eclipsed by petty spite. He didn’t hold any of the pettiness against himself, though. He was dead, and therefore felt he’d earned at least a little pettiness.

When the barbarian crossed the field, stopping to stand before the place where Severin had fallen, Severin swirled around him, newly curious. The man didn’t look grief stricken, but his face was difficult to read. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and lines of exhaustion around his mouth. Mostly, Severin thought he just looked tired.

When the man approached Severin’s home after having ignored the invitation for months, Severin had a second moment of pettiness and whipped the wind up on the other side of the door, sealing it closed as the barbarian tried to open it. Only when the man shoved it with his great, muscled shoulder did Severin retreat, allowing the door to swing open.

It was with a strange sort of melancholy that he watched the barbarian’s silver gaze sweep over the room. The man looked first at the damp, unkempt hearth before slowly making his way across the room. He glanced from Severin’s well-loved walking stick to the bookshelf built into the wall. He fumblingly ran the backs of his fingers along the spines of the books, as if he was unlearned in the ways of a gentle touch.

Severin was still very much put out about the whole being dead business, but as he watched the barbarian’s almost reverent inspection, he unthinkingly twisted the air in the room, drawing out the cold and pulling in a bit of sun warmed breeze.

By the second day, the man was sitting in Severin’s chair. Severin stewed, swatting at floating dust by the window as his killer rocked to and fro in Severin’s favorite seat. Later, the barbarian stood, stretching his strong arms overhead and twisted his back experimentally. Brows lifting in pleasant surprise, he gave the chair an appreciative pat.

By the third day, Severin had no more dust to swat about. The barbarian had rolled up his ragged sleeves and set about scrubbing every inch of Severin’s little hut. When the hulking man worked open the stiff windows, the wind rushed in, delighting in whipping about the space once more.

He’s done a better job of cleaning than you ever did, the wind sang, slipping once more outside.

He was dead and that meant the wind had to be nice, and Severin told it as much. It’s reply was a soft rustling of chimes that hung from the house’s eaves, and the sound was almost like laughter.

Days passed, and the man began reading Severin’s books. This was probably the most surprising development yet, in Severin’s opinion. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought the large, scarred warrior capable of reading, just - well, he hadn’t thought the large, scarred warrior capable of reading particularly well. But the man seemed to be doing just fine, and sat in Severin’s rocking chair, putting a far greater strain on the sturdy wood than Severin ever had, as he thumbed carefully through the book’s smooth pages.

When little Mykela took ill, Severin knew it well before anyone else. He’d taken a spin through town and as he rode the wintry wind past where she played in the yard, he’d felt the rattle of air in her lungs. But at this point, Severin was little more than a memory on the breeze, and though his worry was agony, he could do absolutely nothing. He spent the rest of the day roaring about the mountain peaks, sending snow flurries spilling down the far side of the cliffs.

Two days later, Severin was idly observing the barbarian, watching the crease between his brows twitch as he slept, when a great pounding broke out against the door. The barbarian rose at once, and Severin watched him cast a brief glance at the walking stick before turning instead to the candle on a nearby shelf. With warm light cupped in his palm, the barbarian approached the door.

When Dormund, Mykela’s father, entered the hut, carrying a limp mound of blankets, Severin felt a spike of icy terror. As the barbarian poked and prodded the fire, Severin carefully stirred the wind to better feed the flames. Severin would have shouted instructions, had he lungs to shout, but the barbarian already had two jars in hand. He held them up, looking a little lost, before he hurried to the bookshelf and selected a thick book. Muttering under his breath, he flipped hurriedly through pages until he found what he was looking for. And then he was kneeling before the pot of water he’d set over the fire, and Severin watched as he scooped careful measurements of Severin’s dried herbs into the roiling water.

Mykela was saved, and as the barbarian sent the girl and her father off with a bag of herbs, it occurred to Severin that he wished to know the barbarian’s name. He wouldn’t learn it until two days later, when Old Cara arrived at the hut, seeking the barbarian’s help for her arthritic knee. After supplying her with the appropriate poultice, the barbarian helped her to the door, and looking up, she patted his shoulder and asked him his name.

Eindred, was his answer.

Eindred.

Severin wished he had lips to test the shape of the name.

Months passed, and was easier now to watch Eindred move about Severin’s hut. In fact, Severin had even begun to enjoy riding the soft breeze from the windows as it wafted around Eindred’s shoulders, curiously observing whatever small thing he happened to, at any given time, be doing with his hands. One day, Severin was surprised to find Eindred’s hands at work, deliberately whittling the curved back of a rocking chair. When the chair was done, Eindred set it carefully, almost reverently beside the first. At the sight, Severin had a bright, nearly overwhelming flash of recognition, and he thought of the image the wind had shown him - of the rocking chairs before a warm, crackling fire.

Severin was fading, he could feel it. To hope was to court a greater disappointment than Severin could rightly comprehend, and yet - he watched Eindred set out with Severin’s walking stick to join the festival, and saw when Mykela took his hand. The barbarian’s stony expression softened, then melted as the girl tugged him after her.

It was the strangest of sensations, because while Severin didn’t strictly have a heart these days, watching the great Eindred meekly follow little Mykela made something in Severin’s incorporeal being ache with unexpected warmth.

Whatsmore, Eindred had been reading Severin’s journals and he would sometimes stop and stare about the hut, as if trying to picture the ghost of Severin’s life there. Once, Eindred draped a thick blanket over the back of one of the rocking chairs and ran his rough hands over it as he frowned contemplatively into the fire.

Summer had come and gone and Severin feared that parts of his soul had already begun to slip into that other-place. And so, with a tender sort of weariness, he drifted on the sunbeams cutting through the clean window glass, and watched with only mild annoyance as Eindred carefully tore a blank page from one of Severin’s journals.

Lips pressing together in focus, Eindred wrote in with small, precise letters, what appeared to be a list.

Confused, Severin drifted closer.

May your every loved one die screaming in pain.

I hope you die with your eyes stabbed out and your heart in your hands.

You will never know happiness.

Your existence will be suffering.

It was a list of curses, Severin realized. Morbid curses, by the looks of it. The last two, however, caught his attention.

May your greatest enemy rise from the grave and never leave you alone.

And,

May you live a life of safety and peace.

And Severin understood.

When Eindred set out from the hut, looking drawn but resolved, Severin began at once to gather his energy. It had been nearly a year since his death, and he feared that there might not be enough of him left to make a return. The second to last curse would help things along, but Severin knew it would be a mistake to rely on it.

And so, as Eindred entered the village, Severin stretched upward and out, calling wind and storm clouds with reckless, hopeful abandon. For his entire life, Severin had lived, certain in the knowledge that love and happiness were not meant for one such as he. How could they be? When a blade was foretold to make a home in his heart?

But Eindred had changed. And the patchwork pieces of tapestry were there, a life Severin had never dared to dream of, right there - if he could only summon the strength to reach out and grasp it.

Below, Eindred bowed his head before the townsfolk, confessing his part in the tragedy which played out on their soil. Above, Severin swallowed the skies and became the storm.

Severin felt it, distantly below, when the people in the village forgave Eindred. And he felt when Eindred’s bittersweet tears tickled the earth. He felt Eindred return to the hut, and then after pacing restlessly about, return at last to the pastures where it had all begun.

And then came Eindred’s pained voice, calling out from the fields below. “Severin!”

Eindred had never said his name before, and Severin, who was the clouds and the wind and the rain and the sky, rumbled his joy at the sound of it.

“It was my hand which ended your life,” Eindred continued. His deep voice was shaking. “And with your dying breath you gifted what I thought was a nightmare. Did you know that it would turn out to be a dream? I think you did.”

Just wait, Severin wanted to tell him, because he’d seen a future better still. The only question that remained was whether he had strength enough to reach it.

Rugged face upturned, Eindred called to Severin and the sky, which were one and the same. “Though it’s a dream, I’ll never know peace. How can I? When I live in the home of the one I so coldly murdered? I would leave, but the villagers have my heart - as they had yours. In this state, I don’t think I’ll ever truly know true rest or true peace - despite the great power of your curse.”

You will, Severin said, and lightning streaked across the sky. I will.

“Even now,” Eindred said, through wind and rain, “I’m not sure if you are my greatest enemy or ally.”

There it was.

His greatest enemy.

Severin, with every ounce of power he possessed, claimed the title. For he was the greatest enemy the old Eindred, warrior and killer, had faced. With his parting curse, Severin had forced the old Eindred to do the one thing he’d feared most of all: to live and face all he’d done.

Severin felt a rushing, coursing energy thrumming within and without and he knew that he must catch it and hold it, though he wasn’t sure how.

The tapestry threads, the wind whispered. Severin had spread so thin, his old friend was nearly a part of him now.

Severin listened, and felt for that thread which had teased and tickled his palm. And when he was sure he felt it, he wrapped himself around it and pulled. The sky around him screamed as he dragged himself forward toward something - something -

White light was all around him, and then it wasn’t. The air was cool and damp, and the evening sang with the wind’s gleeful gusts and the soft patter of rain on grass. Severin lifted a hand, and looked it over in tentatively blooming relief. Pressing the hand over his heart which beat with a strong, steady rhythm, Severin breathed a relieved, ragged sigh.

Eindred stood in the field, turned away from him. Drawing in a breath, Severin delighted in the sound of his own voice. “May your greatest enemy rise from the grave, Eindred, and never leave you alone.” He smiled as he spoke, and very nearly pressed his fingers to his lips to feel the shape they took when saying Eindred’s name.

Eindred turned. “So you are my greatest enemy then?” He sounded wary.

“I don’t think it’s so simple as that. Do you?”

Eindred’s expression shifted and he shook his head. When he next spoke, it was soft and fumbling, as if he still hadn’t fully adjusted to a world which was kind. “I made a chair,” he blurted out. “A few actually,” he added, rubbing a hand over the back of his head.

Severin wanted to say, I know. I saw. But that would require more explanation than he cared to give at the moment, so instead, he replied, “Do I get the new rocking chair or my old one?”

“Any,” Eindred stammered, “Either. Both?” He looked at Severin, and the earnest weight of his gaze held the promise of all the chairs Severin could want and anything else Eindred could possibly make with his scarred hands.

The fondness that bubbled up within Severin was so abrupt and filled him so thoroughly that he wanted to laugh with it. “Lucky for you, I only need one chair. You can keep the old one if you like it. I trust your craftsmanship.”

Severin turned then, because it was cold and every part of him felt so entirely bright and buoyant that he thought he might die if he didn’t move. However, when he realized Eindred was not following, he stopped. “Well? Are you coming?”

Eindred looked up, as if he’d been startled. “Where?” he called.

Standing there, sodden in the field, Eindred looked after Severin, as if he was afraid to hope - as Severin once had been afraid to do. And it occurred to Severin that Eindred would need to hear it said aloud.

“Home, of course. Where else?”

“Home,” Eindred repeated, as if confirming it to himself.

And when Severin turned again towards home, Eindred followed.

By the time they reached the hut, both were shivering from the cold, and as they crossed the threshold into the warm space, Severin swayed on his feet. He’d almost forgotten the immense power he’d used, and now the harsh ringing in his ears was a stark reminder. Warm, rough hands steadied him and when Severin tilted his head up, he saw that Eindred wore an expression of poorly concealed terror.

“I’m not going to die all over again,” Severin assured him. “I just used a lot of magic.” As he said it, he swayed once more, this time falling forward.

Eindred caught Severin again, one arm wrapped around his back and his other hand braced against his chest. Beneath where Eindred’s palm pressed, Severin’s heart thrummed. And Severin watched, curious, as Eindred’s expression twisted. He no longer claimed the title of warrior, Severin knew, but it was nonetheless with a warrior’s gravity that Eindred met Severin’s gaze.

“These hands will never again harm you. I swear it.”

“I know,” Severin replied, and pressed a hand over the back of Eindred’s rough knuckles. “Help me to a chair?”

Eindred did, and helped to remove Severin’s thick outer robe before Severin sank gratefully in front of the fire. Eindred left him a moment, and Severin closed his eyes. 

He intended to just rest them for a second - maybe two, but when Severin next opened his eyes, the room was darker and he was draped and bundled in blankets, softer and thicker than any he recalled owning. The fire was still crackling, and the warm light made soothing shadows dance across the hut’s wooden floor. The other chair was occupied, Severin realized, and he watched as the hearth’s orange light played across Eindred’s sleeping features. Compared to Severin’s mountain of blankets, he had just one draped over his lap, though he didn’t seem cold. Nonetheless, Severin shifted a bit, and peeled a soft fleece blanket off his own pile to toss it onto him. The blanket fell short, and with a quick whispered word, the wind slipped under the door and flipped the offending blanket up onto Eindred’s chest.

“That’s better,” Severin said.

The wind played a little with the fire before tousling Severin’s hair and departing with a sibilant, save your strength foolish human. You’re still recovering, and slipped out the way it had come.

When Severin turned back to Eindred, he saw the large man was sitting up and his eyes were now open. Blinking, Eindred rubbed a hand over his face and then, stiffening in sudden shock, he whipped to look at Severin. Heaving a great sigh, he rocked back in the chair. “Still breathing,” he said.

“I don’t plan on stopping.”

Something almost like a smile twitched at Eindred’s lips and Severin was enchanted by it.

“You were dead and now you’re alive. Forgive me. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.”

“You’re the one who believes in silly curses.”

Eindred’s brows rose. “Silly? Says the one who was brought back from the dead by one.”

Severin waved a dismissive hand. “The curse might have set the stage, but I was director, crew, and cast.”

And there was another smile, like a glimpse of sun between clouds. Severin was beginning to fear there might be no practical limit to the lengths he’d be willing to go to see another smile.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Eindred replied. “I get the feeling you know a great deal more about the world and magics than I.”

“Well Eindred,” Severin said, scooting his chair a little closer to both Eindred and the fire. “What do you know of grand tapestries?”

Eindred, looking more than a little lost, shook his head. “Nothing. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen one.”

“Well,” Severin said, and grinned. “What do you know of cheese?”

.

.

EDIT: A novel based on Eindred and the Witch and The Witch Who Spoke to the Wind is in progress! I will post news about it on my Tumblr and my Patreon as news becomes available :)

[butterflies-dragons]

SANSA STARK & TARGARYEN IMAGERY

A list of Targaryen Imagery around Sansa Stark in A Song of Ice and Fire

Fire and Blood

Black and Red

Silver and Purple

Dragon's Tail

Dragon Wings

Dragon Eggs

Dragon Skulls

Golden Dragons

Dragon Knights

Valyrian Steel

Dance of the Dragons

Maegor the Cruel

Baelor the Blessed

Aegon the Unworthy

Prince Aemon the Dragonknight

Aerys the Mad King

Rhaegar the ast dragon

Bonus: Fiery Hair

1. FIRE AND BLOOD

Sansa slid off her mare, but she was too slow. Arya swung with both hands. There was a loud crack as the wood split against the back of the prince's head, and then everything happened at once before Sansa's horrified eyes. Joffrey staggered and whirled around, roaring curses. Mycah ran for the trees as fast as his legs would take him. Arya swung at the prince again, but this time Joffrey caught the blow on Lion's Tooth and sent her broken stick flying from her hands. The back of his head was all bloody and his eyes were on fire.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

The point of Ser Gregor's lance had snapped off in his neck, and his life's blood flowed out in slow pulses, each weaker than the one before. His armor was shiny new; a bright streak of fire ran down his outstretched arm, as the steel caught the light. Then the sun went behind a cloud, and it was gone. His cloak was blue, the color of the sky on a clear summer's day, trimmed with a border of crescent moons, but as his blood seeped into it, the cloth darkened and the moons turned red, one by one.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa II

The blood orange had left a blotchy red stain on the silk. "I hate her!" she screamed. She balled up the dress and flung it into the cold hearth, on top of the ashes of last night's fire. When she saw that the stain had bled through onto her underskirt, she began to sob despite herself. She ripped off the rest of her clothes wildly, threw herself into bed, and cried herself back to sleep.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa III

When the king's herald moved forward, Sansa realized the moment was almost at hand. She smoothed down the cloth of her skirt nervously. She was dressed in mourning, as a sign of respect for the dead king, but she had taken special care to make herself beautiful. Her gown was the ivory silk that the queen had given her, the one Arya had ruined, but she'd had them dye it black and you couldn't see the stain at all. She had fretted over her jewelry for hours and finally decided upon the elegant simplicity of a plain silver chain.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa V

Then she realized that the blood had soaked through the sheet into the featherbed, so she bundled that up as well, but it was big and cumbersome, hard to move. Sansa could get only half of it into the fire. She was on her knees, struggling to shove the mattress into the flames as thick grey smoke eddied around her and filled the room, when the door burst open and she heard her maid gasp.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa IV

When she crawled out of bed, long moments later, she was alone. She found his cloak on the floor, twisted up tight, the white wool stained by blood and fire.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa VII

"The dwarf's wife did the murder with him," swore an archer in Lord Rowan's livery. "Afterward, she vanished from the hall in a puff of brimstone, and a ghostly direwolf was seen prowling the Red Keep, blood dripping from his jaws."

—A Storm of Swords - Jaime VII

As the boy's lips touched her own she found herself thinking of another kiss. She could still remember how it felt, when his cruel mouth pressed down on her own. He had come to Sansa in the darkness as green fire filled the sky. He took a song and a kiss, and left me nothing but a bloody cloak.

—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II

2. BLACK AND RED

The queen wore a high-collared black silk gown, with a hundred dark red rubies sewn into her bodice, covering her from neck to bosom. They were cut in the shape of teardrops, as if the queen were weeping blood.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa IV

Tyrion wore a doublet of black velvet covered with golden scrollwork, thigh-high boots that added three inches to his height, a chain of rubies and lions’ heads. But the gash across his face was raw and red, and his nose was a hideous scab. “You are very beautiful, Sansa,” he told her.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III

3. SILVER AND PURPLE

Sansa closed the shutters and turned sharply away from the window. "You look very lovely today, my lady," Ser Arys said.

"Thank you, ser." Knowing that Joffrey would require her to attend the tourney in his honor, Sansa had taken special care with her face and clothes. She wore a gown of pale purple silk and a moonstone hair net that had been a gift from Joffrey. The gown had long sleeves to hide the bruises on her arms. Those were Joffrey's gifts as well. When they told him that Robb had been proclaimed King in the North, his rage had been a fearsome thing, and he had sent Ser Boros to beat her.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa I

"You've waited so long, be patient awhile longer. Here, I have something for you." Ser Dontos fumbled in his pouch and drew out a silvery spiderweb, dangling it between his thick fingers.

It was a hair net of fine-spun silver, the strands so thin and delicate the net seemed to weigh no more than a breath of air when Sansa took it in her fingers. Small gems were set wherever two strands crossed, so dark they drank the moonlight. "What stones are these?"

"Black amethysts from Asshai. The rarest kind, a deep true purple by daylight."

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa VIII

Sansa wore a gown of silvery satin trimmed in vair, with dagged sleeves that almost touched the floor, lined in soft purple felt. Shae had arranged her hair artfully in a delicate silver net winking with dark purple gemstones. Tyrion had never seen her look more lovely, yet she wore sorrow on those long satin sleeves. "Lady Sansa," he told her, "you shall be the most beautiful woman in the hall tonight."

—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion VIII

4. DRAGON WINGS

Tyrion scarce touched his food, Sansa noticed, though he drank several cups of the wine. For herself, she tried a little of the Dornish eggs, but the peppers burned her mouth. Otherwise she only nibbled at the fruit and fish and honeycakes. Every time Joffrey looked at her, her tummy got so fluttery that she felt as though she'd swallowed a bat.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa IV

"What wife?"

"I forgot, you've been hiding under a rock. The northern girl. Winterfell's daughter. We heard she killed the king with a spell, and afterward changed into a wolf with big leather wings like a bat, and flew out a tower window. But she left the dwarf behind and Cersei means to have his head."

—A Storm of Swords - Arya XIII

5. DRAGON EGGS

Butterbumps arrived before the food, dressed in a jester’s suit of green and yellow feathers with a floppy coxcomb. An immense round fat man, as big as three Moon Boys, he came cartwheeling into the hall, vaulted onto the table, and laid a gigantic egg right in front of Sansa. “Break it, my lady,” he commanded. When she did, a dozen yellow chicks escaped and began running in all directions. “Catch them!” Butterbumps exclaimed. Little Lady Bulwer snagged one and handed it to him, whereby he tilted back his head, popped it into his huge rubbery mouth, and seemed to swallow it whole. When he belched, tiny yellow feathers flew out his nose. Lady Bulwer began to wail in distress, but her tears turned into a sudden squeal of delight when the chick came squirming out of the sleeve of her gown and ran down her arm.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa I

In the Queen's Ballroom they broke their fast on honeycakes baked with blackberries and nuts, gammon steaks, bacon, fingerfish crisped in breadcrumbs, autumn pears, and a Dornish dish of onions, cheese, and chopped eggs cooked up with fiery peppers.

[…] Tyrion scarce touched his food, Sansa noticed, though he drank several cups of the wine. For herself, she tried a little of the Dornish eggs, but the peppers burned her mouth.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa IV

6. DRAGON’S TAIL

The morning of King Joffrey's name day dawned bright and windy, with the long tail of the great comet visible through the high scuttling clouds. Sansa was watching it from her tower window when Ser Arys Oakheart arrived to escort her down to the tourney grounds. "What do you think it means?" she asked him.

"Glory to your betrothed," Ser Arys answered at once. "See how it flames across the sky today on His Grace's name day, as if the gods themselves had raised a banner in his honor. The smallfolk have named it King Joffrey's Comet."

Doubtless that was what they told Joffrey; Sansa was not so sure. "I've heard servants calling it the Dragon's Tail."

"King Joffrey sits where Aegon the Dragon once sat, in the castle built by his son," Ser Arys said. "He is the dragon's heir—and crimson is the color of House Lannister, another sign. This comet is sent to herald Joffrey's ascent to the throne, I have no doubt. It means that he will triumph over his enemies."

Is it true? she wondered. Would the gods be so cruel? Her mother was one of Joffrey's enemies now, her brother Robb another. Her father had died by the king's command. Must Robb and her lady mother die next? The comet was red, but Joffrey was Baratheon as much as Lannister, and their sigil was a black stag on a golden field. Shouldn't the gods have sent Joff a golden comet?

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa I

7. DRAGON SKULLS

Within, the dragon skulls were waiting, and so was Shae. “I thought m’lord had forgotten me.” Her dress was draped over a black tooth near as tall as she was, and she stood within the dragon’s jaws, nude. Balerion, he thought. Or was it Vhagar? One dragon skull looked much like another.

[...] After, as they lay entwined amongst the dragon skulls, he rested his head against her, inhaling the smooth clean smell of her hair. “We should go back,” he said reluctantly. “It must be near dawn. Sansa will be waking.

[...] The Others can take my guilt, he thought as he slipped his tunic over his head. Why should I be guilty? My wife wants no part of me, and most especially not the part that seems to want her. Perhaps he ought to tell her about Shae. It was not as though he was the first man ever to keep a concubine. Sansa’s own oh-so-honorable father had given her a bastard brother. For all he knew, his wife might be thrilled to learn that he was fucking Shae, so long as it spared her his unwelcome touch.

—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion VII

8. GOLDEN DRAGONS

"The queen raised her voice. "A hundred golden dragons to the man who brings me its skin!”

“A costly pelt,” Robert grumbled. “I want no part of this, woman. You can damn well buy your furs with Lannister gold.”

[...] Shortly, Jory brought him Ice.

When it was over, he said, “Choose four men and have them take the body north. Bury her at Winterfell.”

“All that way?” Jory said, astonished.

“All that way,” Ned affirmed. “The Lannister woman shall never have this skin.”

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard III

"Petyr Baelish put a hand on the rail. "But first you’ll want your payment. Ten thousand dragons, was it?”

“Ten thousand.” Dontos rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “As you promised, my lord.”

[...] “But he saved me.”

“He sold you for a promise of ten thousand dragons.

[...]“Sansa felt sick. "He said he was my Florian.”

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa V

“Your sister’s had no difficulty finding witnesses to your guilt.” Ser Kevan rolled up the parchment. “Ser Addam has men hunting for your wife. Varys has offered a hundred stags for word of her whereabouts, and a hundred dragons for the girl herself. If the girl can be found she will be found, and I shall bring her to you. I see no harm in husband and wife sharing the same cell and giving comfort to one another.”

—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion IX

Someplace no stag ever found … though a dragon might.

—A Feast for Crows - Brienne III

"A good melee is all a hedge knight can hope for, unless he stumbles on a bag of dragons. And that's not likely, is it?"

—The Winds of Winter - Alayne I

9. DRAGON KNIGHTS

She shouted for Ser Dontos, for her brothers, for her dead father and her dead wolf, for gallant Ser Loras who had given her a red rose once, but none of them came. She called for the heroes from the songs, for Florian and Ser Ryam Redwyne and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, but no one heard.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa IV

"True knights would never harm women and children." The words rang hollow in her ears even as she said them.

"True knights." The queen seemed to find that wonderfully amusing. "No doubt you're right. So why don't you just eat your broth like a good girl and wait for Symeon Star-Eyes and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight to come rescue you, sweetling. I'm sure it won't be very long now."

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa V

They continued down the serpentine and across a small sunken courtyard. Ser Dontos shoved open a heavy door and lit a taper. They were inside a long gallery. Along the walls stood empty suits of armor, dark and dusty, their helms crested with rows of scales that continued down their backs. As they hurried past, the taper's light made the shadows of each scale stretch and twist. The hollow knights are turning into dragons, she thought.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa V

10. VALYRIAN STEEL

Lord Tywin waited until last to present the king with his own gift: a longsword. Its scabbard was made of cherrywood, gold, and oiled red leather, studded with golden lions' heads. The lions had ruby eyes, she saw. The ballroom fell silent as Joffrey unsheathed the blade and thrust the sword above his head. Red and black ripples in the steel shimmered in the morning light.

[…] "A great sword must have a great name, my lords! What shall I call it?"

[…] The guests were shouting out names for the new blade. Joff dismissed a dozen before he heard one he liked. "Widow's Wail!" he cried.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa IV

But she had another longsword hidden in her bedroll. She sat on the bed and took it out. Gold glimmered yellow in the candlelight and rubies smoldered red. When she slid Oathkeeper from the ornate scabbard, Brienne's breath caught in her throat. Black and red the ripples ran, deep within the steel. Valyrian steel, spell-forged. It was a sword fit for a hero. When she was small, her nurse had filled her ears with tales of valor, regaling her with the noble exploits of Ser Galladon of Morne, Florian the Fool, Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, and other champions. Each man bore a famous sword, and surely Oathkeeper belonged in their company, even if she herself did not. "You'll be defending Ned Stark's daughter with Ned Stark's own steel," Jaime had promised.

—A Feast for Crows - Brienne I

11. DANCE OF THE DRAGONS

Later, while Sansa was off listening to a troupe of singers perform the complex round of interwoven ballads called the "Dance of the Dragons," Ned inspected the bruise himself. "I hope Forel is not being too hard on you," he said.

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard VII

He sang of the Dance of the Dragons, of fair Jonquil and her fool, of Jenny of Oldstones and the Prince of Dragonflies. He sang of betrayals, and murders most foul, of hanged men and bloody vengeance. He sang of grief and sadness.

—A Feast for Crows - Sansa I

12. MAEGOR THE CRUEL

The room where Sansa had been confined was at the top of the highest tower of Maegor's Holdfast.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa IV

In the tower room at the heart of Maegor's Holdfast, Sansa gave herself to the darkness.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa VI

13. BAELOR THE BLESSED

"Baelor starved himself to death, fasting," said Tyrion. "His uncle served him loyally as Hand, as he had served the Young Dragon before him. Viserys might only have reigned a year, but he ruled for fifteen, while Daeron warred and Baelor prayed." He made a sour face. "And if he did remove his nephew, can you blame him? Someone had to save the realm from Baelor's follies."

Sansa was shocked. "But Baelor the Blessed was a great king. He walked the Boneway barefoot to make peace with Dorne, and rescued the Dragonknight from a snakepit. The vipers refused to strike him because he was so pure and holy."

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa IV

14. AEGON THE UNWORTHY

Aegon the Unworthy had never harmed Queen Naerys, perhaps for fear of their brother the Dragonknight . . . but when another of his Kingsguard fell in love with one of his mistresses, the king had taken both their heads.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa II

"A king can have other women. Whores. My father did. One of the Aegons did too. The third one, or the fourth. He had lots of whores and lots of bastards." As they whirled to the music, Joff gave her a moist kiss. "My uncle will bring you to my bed whenever I command it."

Sansa shook her head. "He won't."

"He will, or I'll have his head. That King Aegon, he had any woman he wanted, whether they were married or no."

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III

15. PRINCE AEMON THE DRAGONKNIGHT

He took her by the arm and led her away from the wheelhouse, and Sansa's spirits took flight. A whole day with her prince! She gazed at Joffrey worshipfully. He was so gallant, she thought. The way he had rescued her from Ser Ilyn and the Hound, why, it was almost like the songs, like the time Serwyn of the Mirror Shield saved the Princess Daeryssa from the giants, or Prince Aemon the Dragonknight championing Queen Naerys's honor against evil Ser Morgil's slanders.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

"Father, I only just now remembered, I can't go away, I'm to marry Prince Joffrey." She tried to smile bravely for him. "I love him, Father, I truly truly do, I love him as much as Queen Naerys loved Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, as much as Jonquil loved Ser Florian. I want to be his queen and have his babies."

"Sweet one," her father said gently, "listen to me. When you're old enough, I will make you a match with a high lord who's worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong. This match with Joffrey was a terrible mistake. That boy is no Prince Aemon, you must believe me."

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa III

She pulled a chair close to the hearth, took down one of her favorite books, and lost herself in the stories of Florian and Jonquil, of Lady Shella and the Rainbow Knight, of valiant Prince Aemon and his doomed love for his brother's queen.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa IV

For those who remained, a singer was brought forth to fill the hall with the sweet music of the high harp. He sang of Jonquil and Florian, of Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and his love for his brother's queen, of Nymeria's ten thousand ships. They were beautiful songs, but terribly sad. Several of the women began to weep, and Sansa felt her own eyes growing moist.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa VI

16. AERYS THE MAD KING

"Ser Ilyn has not been feeling talkative these past fourteen years," Lord Renly commented with a sly smile.

Joffrey gave his uncle a look of pure loathing, then took Sansa's hands in his own. "Aerys Targaryen had his tongue ripped out with hot pincers."

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

"The battleground is right up ahead, where the river bends. That was where my father killed Rhaegar Targaryen, you know. He smashed in his chest, crunch, right through the armor." Joffrey swung an imaginary warhammer to show her how it was done. "Then my uncle Jaime killed old Aerys, and my father was king."

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

"You can't talk to me that way. The king can do as he likes."

"Aerys Targaryen did as he liked. Has your mother ever told you what happened to him?"

Ser Boros Blount harrumphed. "No man threatens His Grace in the presence of the Kingsguard."

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa III

17. RHAEGAR THE LAST DRAGON

"The battleground is right up ahead, where the river bends. That was where my father killed Rhaegar Targaryen, you know. He smashed in his chest, crunch, right through the armor." Joffrey swung an imaginary warhammer to show her how it was done.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

"My father told everyone my bedding had caught fire, and our maester gave me ointments. Ointments! Gregor got his ointments too. Four years later, they anointed him with the seven oils and he recited his knightly vows and Rhaegar Targaryen tapped him on the shoulder and said, 'Arise, Ser Gregor.'"

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa II

18. BONUS: FIERY HAIR

Robb and Sansa and Bran and even little Rickon all took after the Tullys, with easy smiles and fire in their hair.

—A Game of Thrones - Arya I

"You will be the most beautiful woman in the hall tonight, as lovely as your lady mother at your age. I cannot seat you on the dais, but you'll have a place of honor above the salt and underneath a wall sconce. The fire will be shining in your hair, so everyone will see how fair of face you are. Keep a good long spoon on hand to beat the squires off, sweetling. You will not want green boys underfoot when the knights come round to beg you for your favor."

—The Winds of Winter - Alayne I

[whatifidontwanttobethesavior]

Bonded

Cadmine slept fitfully the first night in her new home, her brow furrowed and face streaked with dried tears that had fallen from her eyes for a good while before she had finally given in to her body’s exhaustion. She had ached in more ways than one as her new husband had kissed her hand and instead of lying with her in the manner of which a man did with his wife, Vidmir had left her. He had told her she was tired, and that they had all of eternity for such things, but Cadmine hadn’t been able to help feeling a bit… disappointed? She knew that she should have been relieved, that most women would have been glad for the chance to rest properly after such a long day but before Cadmine knew it, she had broken down in tears. Her heart had ached inside of her chest, though whether it was from the beginnings of the change slowing it down or the fact that her husband had decided not to stay the night with her Cadmine couldn’t tell. It could also have easily been homesickness, having to sleep in a new place that she had never been to before or a yearning for her parents who had always bid her a good night before she’d gone to bed. She had stained the satin cover of the pillow beneath her head, the crimson material darkening even further beneath the wetness of her sadness. Eventually she had grown cold without Vidmir’s presence beside her and shifted on top of the covers, fighting with them until she had been able to squirm her way beneath them. It was warmer under the blankets and Cadmine had fallen asleep at last, her hair sticking to one cheek, her hand brought close to her face. She nuzzled against the flannel of  her husband’s pajama sleeve, breathing in the scent of him and causing a fresh flood of crying to be released from her eyes as she felt a sudden yearning for his presence. She wasn’t sure why he had chosen to go elsewhere for the night. Even if he had decided that being with her physically wasn’t something they needed to do right away, she still would have felt better to have him lie beside her. The red room felt much larger, more empty, and a lot more foreboding without him there.

When Cadmine woke it was to the swish of curtains sliding across a rod and the smell of food. She stirred, rolling and rubbing at her eyes, her hair an absolute mess on her head she blinked, trying to take in her surroundings. She was confused momentarily, the place unfamiliar at first until she remembered. She had been married last night. This was the home of her husband, her home now, and this was the room he had given to her. The handmaiden, Gunhilde, had just opened the large velvet curtains, letting in the light of the moon, brightening up the dim settings. Cadmine knew that with the change her eyes would adjust in time so that she would be able to see much better with limited light but at the moment, she welcomed the addition. She was able to more clearly see the room now but even so, she could have done with a few more candles. Or some electric lighting but an old castle like this simply didn’t have such a thing.

“Good morning, my Lady.” Gunhilde greeted in Cadmine’s native tongue, the sound of her words reassuring to the young wife. Cadmine managed a small smile as she began to press back the blankets a bit, but Gunhilde rushed forward holding a bed tray to place over her lap instead. Fine china sat on the gleaming wooden surface, plain white pieces with simple golden rims. Cadmine stared down at her favorite breakfast, a simple piece of sourdough toast with a slice of sharp cheddar cheese and topped with thin apple slices. There were also scrambled eggs and some bacon off to one side, as well as a cup of what smelt like her favorite morning tea. “The Lord said you might be quite tired this morning and to not put you through any unneeded strain. I do hope your night went well, Lady Nezhdanov.”

Cadmine blinked, surprised for a moment as she registered her new name. She had heard it the night before of course, but it hadn’t quite clicked until now that her name was no longer the same as it had once been. She was a married woman and thus, had taken her husband’s surname as her own. How did one even go about spelling something like Nezhdanov? Cadmine would have to learn. Looking up from the tray across her lap, Cadmine’s eyes fell upon Gunhilde, looking all the world like almost every other handmaiden Cadmine had ever had. She wore the usual uniform of a dress and apron, stockings and good shoes made for working in, her hair pulled back into a tight bun. In a way, it was comforting for Cadmine and she felt her nerves easing a little bit, though her eyes flitted towards the door, wondering if her husband was awake yet.

“It was fine.” Cadmine stated simply, turning her attention back to Gunhilde. “Have you eaten? I’m not very partial to eggs if you’d like them.”

“Ah yes. Your parents said that, but the Lord wanted to make sure you got enough of your energy back. Neither of you will be able to partake in any blood except one another’s until after the change is complete, as is the tradition.”

“Oh, right...” Cadmine sighed, looking down at her tray again and noticing the severe lack of her usual blood slushie. It pale in comparison when she remembered the absolute ambrosia that was Vidmir’s blood though. She didn’t know if a slushie would satiate her ever again in the same manner of which it once had now that she knew what it was like to drink fresh from the vein of her husband. “Is he awake, do you know?”

“I’m afraid not. Master Lucero said he was not to be disturbed but you are welcome to do as you wish throughout the castle until you are ready to retire back to bed for the night.”

“Oh.” Cadmine felt a wave of disappointment wash over her, the realization that she probably wouldn’t be seeing Vidmir again until it was time for him to return to this bed. They would drink from one another again and then… what? Was he going to take her as his? Or perhaps he would decide upon that first so they still had enough energy for feeding left. The memory of his lips upon her neck the night before, the way his teeth had sunken into her flesh and then the pleasure that had forced away the pain of his venom. Just the thought of it had Cadmine’s cheeks heating with color, her thighs tightening beneath the red blankets. She had desired him and even now, as she pondered the idea of becoming one with her husband, Cadmine was both nervous and excited. Surely tonight. He had probably just been too exhausted from yesterday’s busyness to continue. And afterwards, he would stay with her. They could lie together, close in that way couples were supposed to. For now, she would simply have to be patient until he came for her.

“After you’ve eaten, I can help you dress and we can do whatever you please, my Lady.”

“Alright then.” Cadmine agreed. She lifted the toast and bit into it, relishing the familiar taste of her usual breakfast. She ate it down heartily, wanting to have plenty of strength for tonight, sipping at her tea. When she was finished, Gunhilde removed the tray and set it off to one side. She moved to the large wardrobe and tugged it open, revealing Cadmine’s usual assortment of dresses. They were pretty things, but very old fashioned if she was to be honest. However, she was still happy to see them at the moment. “May I have the green please? The light one. I do believe that is my favorite.”

Gunhilde appeased her, pulling the sage colored dress from the wardrobe on its hanger, lying it down on the bed. It took time and effort for Gunhilde to figure out how to help Cadmine dress and get into her wheelchair. Cadmine could do most of it on her own, though the many buttons down the back of her dress made things more difficult than they had to be. At least she didn’t have to deal with a rotten corset and back brace today. That had been demolished by her husband in the limo the night before. Her leg braces, however, were more familiar and easy to put on, not making her feel so confined and helping her stay upright easier when she stood up to get her dress down and then, sit in her chair. She leaned back into it with a sigh, letting Gunhilde do up her hair in it’s usual tight bun with a cover. When asked what she would like to do, Cadmine frowned and then shrugged, suggesting maybe they could go exploring a bit. The handmaiden agreed and rolled her out of her chambers, heading down a long hallway that was still more dimly lit than Cadmine would have liked. It was a good hall though and the thin wheels on her old chair moved easily along it, not catching like they tended to on most things.

“Gunhilde, may I go fast?” Cadmine asked after a moment, reaching down to grab at her wheels’ handrails. Gunhilde laughed.

“It’s your house, my Lady. Master Lucero said the Lord was very clear. You can do whatever you desire.”

Cadmine smiled at that and then pushed herself forward, using her arms to get herself going much more rapidly than before. She’d never been allowed to race about back home but it was something she did enjoy. Going slow had never been fun for Cadmine but there was always the worry that she’d fall out of her chair if she raced about. She couldn’t run, so it was the closest she could get. She released a bit of a laugh as she reached the end of the hallway and found herself in the main entrance hall full of paintings from last night. Gunhilde had picked up her own pace to keep up, holding her bun a bit to keep it in place but she had a smile on as well. She wasn’t all too much older than Cadmine to be honest, only in her early twenties. They ended up racing circles around the entrance hall for a bit, Cadmine only getting caught on a rug every now and then when she wasn’t careful and nearly sending herself toppling because her chair couldn’t handle  it. Soon after though, they picked another hallway and started down it, intent on getting the lay of the land for now. Cadmine wanted to figure out where all the main rooms were so she wouldn’t get lost.

[zeldanoel]

Why Should I Change? A Mergana fic

Just posting chapter 1 on tumblr. Read the rest on ao3 here.

Fandom: BBC Merlin 2008-2012

Rating: T for angst (can’t think of any particular tws)

Characters/Relationships: Merlin/Mergana, Aithusa

Summary: Merlin, disguised as an old man, saves Morgana and Aithusa from the Pit. Takes place after season 4. There will be... REDEMPTION and enemies to friend to maybe something more

Chapter 1: Escape

The Pit is dark, and cold, but the cold bothers Morgana more than it bothers me. What’s starting to bother me is the smallness of the pit. If I stand on my hind legs I am only as tall as Morgana, but I can no longer stretch out my wings. This worries her, when she has strength to be worried. She has no color left in her eyes, her face. All is black and gray, and she whispers to me distant memories of forests and castles. We are in a castle, I think.

But there is no escaping this castle, this dungeon, this Pit. It is becoming my whole world. Sometimes men jeer at us, yelling terrible words that Morgana repeats under her breath back at them, her lips drawn back in a snarl. They throw down rotten food, and we weep together for hunger. We cannot seem to die. And I will not let us die, because I remember the skies. It was not for this that I saved her life, I repeat to myself. We will find a way out. Morgana will dream us a way out. And I will keep her alive.

Time is roughly measured by how frequently we are shouted at, but even that is not consistent, so I do not know what day or night it is when Emrys finally comes. It is during one of Morgana’s fitful sleep cycles.

“Aithusa,” I hear. It is a name that only Morgana has said to me. Curled around her, I look upwards. A man’s face peers through the grate. He has a white beard. I hesitate. I do not want to wake Morgana.

“I’m going to get you out,” he whispers, and I realize then that he is not speaking in a human tongue, exactly. It’s a language that I understand deep in my heart. I stir, and Morgana begins to wake.

“Thuse?” she mutters as I disentangle myself from her. She follows my gaze and clambers to her feet.

“Emrys?” she says quietly, incredulous.

“Morgana,” he replies. He’s fiddling with something above, and with a quiet scrape of metal against metal, he unlocks a padlock and opens the grate. It creaks, and he glances away from us, but seems satisfied, and he sets it down gently.

Leave the Pit. We’re going to leave the Pit. Excitement sends a shiver of energy up my spine, and I stand on my hind legs, scrabbling to find purchase on the stone.

“Stay quiet,” Emrys whispers, “I’ll help you float out.”

I hold my breath as my feet and tail leave the floor. Emrys is guiding me up into the air, his eyes glowing. I land next to him and peer down, anxious for Morgana to get out.

Emrys hesitates. He’s wearing an expression of worry, maybe fear. Morgana is making the same face back at him. But then he stretches out his hand, his eyes glow, and Morgana floats out, too. They lock hands for a brief moment as Morgana lands unsteadily on her feet.

She snatches her hand out of his. “I thought we were enemies,” she whispers harshly. Her eyes race around the room.

I look around, too. We’re in something like a cold stone amphitheater, no windows. The only light is from the occasional torch placed in sconces around the perimeter. There’s a stairway leading upward, and a few guards dead or asleep at the base of it.

“I don’t want us to be enemies,” Emrys replies. “We’re both on the side of magic.” He looks at me. “I couldn’t stand by, knowing the two of you were locked away.” He hands her a thick hide coat.

Morgana’s jaw clenches, her gaze lowers to the ground. She takes the coat and shrugs it on.

Emrys smiles and jerks his head. “Come on. Sneaking back out won’t be easy.”

We creep through the castle nearly silently, pausing often to catch our breaths. Morgana and I are weak, and Emrys seems to be as well. His back is hunched, which brings his eye level down to Morgana’s, and he has a slight swaying, hobbling gait. But he seems to have a sense for our path, and for whoever roams the halls in the dead of night. Morgana gathers me close to her when we rest, her frame trembling from either fright or cold.

Finally, we come through a long dark corridor to a padlocked, rusted door. Emrys whispers an incantation, and the chains break and the door blows open. The wind howls through, bring freezing snow with it.

Emrys turns back to us. “The storm is still going,” he says.

“Aithusa and I won’t make it,” Morgana cries, “we’re too weak.”

He grabs her shoulder. “You will make it,” he says, “If I have to carry you both myself.”

He turns and strides out into the storm. I stick close to Morgana’s side as we follow, and Emrys gestures to the door--it closes with a bang behind us.

He nearly disappears in the swirling snow, but cuts a path for us that we follow. Morgana stumbles against the wind, her black hair whipping around.

Finally, we reach a line of trees, and the wind drops but doesn’t die. Now we can hear the clamor of bells in the air.

“They know we’ve escaped,” Morgana says under her breath.

“S-stay here,” Emrys says, and walks back a few paces. He holds out his hands and says something I can’t quite recognize, stands there for a few moments, and comes back to us. “Keep moving,” he says gruffly, and we let the forest swallow us.

The air around us begins to lighten before Emrys finally calls for a stop. Morgana leans heavily against a tree, and he ignores her and grumbles to himself, squinting through the trees.

“Are we... lost?” Morgana gasps out.

“No, no--here we are.” He wades through the snow, plunges his hand into the base of a hill, and lifts up. Snow shifts off of what seems to be a sort of canvas, and Emrys waves at us. “Come on, get in!”

Morgana collapses, and I hesitate. My legs tremble from exhaustion.

“I’ll get her,” Emrys snaps, “Get inside.”

I slither in. In the center of the small space sits a gently glowing orange stone, which gives off heat. The room is warm, and the floor is padded with pine boughs. We seem to be bivouacked against a hill. It’s barely big enough for the three of us, especially with the bundles of cloth in the corner. I press myself against the cloth wall as Emrys re-emerges, dragging Morgana. He practically tosses her into the room.

“I need to cover our tracks,” he says, “I’ll be back.” And with a gust of cold air, he’s gone.

Unsteadily, I do my best to use some of the cloths to get Morgana more comfortable, and move her closer to the warming stone.

Emrys crawls back in, panting. “Ah. Well done, Aithusa. We need to make sure she doesn’t have frostbite. Can you get her shoes off?”

Her shoes are partially frozen. I can’t get them off. He hurries over and presses the warming stone against them until they can come off. Her feet don’t look quite right--purple, in some places black.

He hisses. “Damn. Let’s see, what was that spell…?” He hands me the warming stone. “Hold that against her hands, I need to try a few things.”

I am then able to rest a bit as he holds Morgana’s feet, and I hold her hands. He whispers strings of incantations. Morgana’s breathing steadies as she’s slowly warmed up, and color begins to return to her cheeks, though she’s still so pale in the dim light of the glow of the warming stone. Additional pale daylight ekes in sideways through a hole in the side of the tent, providing air to us.

“Ah. There we go.” Emrys finally sets her feet down, hands visibly shaking. “She’s out of danger.” He crawls over to the mussed up stack of cloths, and pulls out a canteen and a hunk of whitish food. “Eat this, drink some water, and leave the canteen by her head in case she wakes up soon. I need… Sarrum’s men won’t find us, we’re very well hidden. I need to rest, and then we can think about real food.” He waits a beat, looking at me. “You should rest, too,” he says pointedly, and I obediently curl up beside Morgana. The food is cheese, but noticeably fresher than cheese I’ve had in the past, and it’s soft enough that it doesn’t hurt to chew.

Sarrum’s men won’t find us. That has to mean we won’t be back to the Pit. And Morgana’s out of danger. We’re not going to die. We’re going to live. I repeat these things to myself as sleep takes me.

I wake up to the sound of unfamiliar snoring. Morgana is sitting up, her back turned to me. She is watching Emrys, or the warming stone. Emrys lies on his back, puffs of breath stir his white moustache. I nudge Morgana’s arm.

She turns and looks at me. Her eyes are a little glazed over, and I gingerly pick up the canteen in my mouth and put it in her hands. She drinks automatically, coughs, and strokes my head.

“You alright, love?” she says softly.

I nod, and then jerk my chin at her.

“Me too. Just a bit sore.” she draws her knees up to her chest, and her healed bare feet poke out of the bottom of her dress.

We gaze into each other’s eyes, and I can see she’s afraid as usual, but there’s a glimmer of hope there. Perhaps a fear of the unknown.

“I’m going to protect you,” she says. She used to say this often, but it’s a phrase that I haven’t heard for a while.

I hand her some cheese.

She smiles.

Emrys wakes up a short time later, and barely glances at us before he starts rummaging through his rucksack.

“Food,” he mutters, and hands Morgana bread and cheese, cheese for me, bread and cheese for him.

“Aithusa will eat anything,” Morgana says cautiously.

“Gonna boil some jerky for him so he can chew it easily,” Emrys says, and gets out a small cauldron, throws a few brown bits in it, and mutters an incantation over it. The room is instantly filled with the smell of cooked and seasoned meat, plus a blast of warmth.

He scoops the meat into a shallow bowl for me and puts it in front of me. It’s delicious, and soft enough for my aching teeth to get a hold of.

“I assume you two didn’t eat much? You look to be skin and bones.” He’s finally looking at Morgana, but his expression is guarded.

“That’s right,” she says, looking at him evenly.

“We need to get some meat on your bones, but can’t do it all at once, otherwise you’ll both be sick.”

“Why are you doing this, Emrys?”

“Honestly?” he leans forward a bit. “I’m hoping to make an ally of you, Morgana. Maybe a friend’s too much to hope for, after all we’ve been through. But that would be nice, as well, wouldn’t it?” he smiles.

She doesn’t smile back. “So, you want to use us. For what?”

“Camelot.”

Her eyebrows raise, and I see an interested gleam in her eyes. The meat is gone, and my stomach is uncomfortably full.

“That is,” he continues, “I want to spread the peace of Camelot throughout the known world. But we’ll never be able to achieve peace if King Arthur continues to fight against magic. He needs magical allies, powerful ones. He needs us.” He gestures at me as well, and I raise my head and exchange a look with Morgana.

Morgana reaches out and runs a hand down my neck. “You’ve done us… an incredible favor. I owe you a debt,” she says. “And I appreciate your candor. But,” her lips curl back, “I hate Arthur. You know this. I cannot change how I feel, and I will not help you, or him, spread the persecution of Camelot.”

“Camelot’s changing,” Emrys says, heat coming into his voice, “We can help that change. I know we can.”

“Arthur would kill us on sight,” Morgana spits. “He’s like his father in that way. You can’t undo all the wrongs that have been done against him. He’ll never trust us.”

“Or, you’ll never trust him?”

Morgana goes still, gazing over my head. “No. I won’t.”

Emrys sighs, and is silent for a long moment. “Very well. I… may yet be forced to kill you, Morgana, in order to defend my King. But,” he holds up a hand as Morgana starts to speak, “That is a future that I hope with all my heart does not come to pass. And to start to undo some of the wrongs that have been made against you, I want to help you. Will you let me, at least, let’s say, for a year?”

She frowns at him. “A year? How?”

“There’s a small hut beneath the shadow of a mountain. Aithusa might be able to take up residence in the caves there, once he’s grown a bit. But I want to help raise him--that’s what I get out of it, you see. I’m the last Dragonlord. Only one other person in the world knows where it is, and he won’t bother us. It’s safe. It’s away from people.”

“And after a year, you’ll leave us there alone, to live in peace?”

He’s silent, watching her. “If you are no longer a threat, then yes.”

“I don’t understand you, Emrys,” she says, “but I accept.”

He smiles with a bit of relief on his face, and she leans forward.

“But at the end of that year,” she says, “I might be the one who kills you.”

His smile doesn’t crack. “That would be about what I deserve.”

I look between the two of them. I’ve gotten better at reading human emotions, and neither of them look wholly afraid. More like, there’s a challenge in front of them, and they’re ready to rise and meet it.

I give a little trill, and hope that they understand that I’m here to help them meet whatever challenge this is.

We travel for many nights in a row, walking quietly as Emrys pauses periodically to cover our tracks. Sometimes the snow is melted enough that he doesn’t need to. Emrys and Morgana carry our food in rucksacks, but they don’t make me carry anything. I get to play in the snow alongside them as they walk, or rather, trudge along. Morgana has me start stretching out my wings whenever we take breaks, but that hurts.

“They’ll get better,” she insists, rubbing at the joints as I grumble, “we just need to keep working at it.”

Emrys and Morgana talk little to each other; there’s a sort of tension between them. So I start reaching out to Emrys, nudging him in a friendly way or chirping at him, just so Morgana knows I like him.

And what’s not to like about Emrys? He saved our lives. And he’s kind, if a little gruff about it. I can’t forget the worried way he looked at Morgana that first night when he was healing her feet. I wish I could tell Morgana about that.

I wish I could speak.

On the fifth or sixth night, we push on longer than usual, and I can feel my strength beginning to flag.

“Emrys, it’s nearly dawn,” Morgana says. Light is beginning to fill the air around us, reflecting off the snow so I can see better than I ever have before. Ice coats the branches of trees--it’s beautiful.

He turns back to us with an excited smile. “We’re nearly there.” He pauses and raises a hand, and the tracks behind us fill in. He gives a little wheezing laugh, tottering ahead. “Not much farther. There! See?”

We’ve broken through the line of trees. In the rising sun, there’s a valley with a frozen lake far below, and huge mountains.

“Pull,” I mutter experimentally. It was meant to come out as ‘it’s beautiful’, but Morgana seems to understand. She rests a hand on my head. Her eyes are shining with some expression caught between wonder and gratitude, but when she sees Emrys grinning at her, she steels her expression.

“It’s nice,” she admits, “but what about the hut you mentioned?”

“Ah, yes. This way.” He steps into snow that sinks him up to the hip, and Morgana gives a little sound of surprise and grabs him before he falls in face-first.

[jay-and-dean]

I don’t need you  Chapter 5 : Home

Dean x reader

Summary : She’s a warrior, she’s a loner. Nothing can stop her, nothing ever had. She doesn’t need Dean, does she ?

This is a request by @magssteenkamp​ that I decided to turn to a serie, see the original request on the serie Masterlist.

Serie Warnings : Swearing (duh). Mention of death. Smut, probably all kind from rough to fluffy, I’ll precise in the chapters if there are specific warnings. Fluff. Angst of course.

Chapter warnings :  Swearing. SMUT, unprotected sex (you are smarter than this !) and I don’t know... a hint of angst and fluff ?

Words : 3.4 k (Yeah, I know... but smut...)

Note : I’ll try to stick to the 3k rule, like for Rescue You

If everything goes as planned, you’ll get one chapter every wednesday (Thanks to @magssteenkamp, I call it WednesJay, lol. Sorry okay, I shut up).

***Want to read more ? => MASTERLIST***

*** I don’t need you MASTERLIST***

_________________________________

5.      HOME

 Dean’s Pov

             She doesn’t say a word.

           Her pale face turned toward the car window, I can see how bad she’s trying to stay strong. If only she knew she doesn’t have too. I will never think she’s not, this woman is among the toughest person I have met, and nothing will change how I see her.

“Y/n…” I say cautiously, my hands tight around the wheel. “Can you tell me what happened ?”

She turns to me, her tired eyes piercing me, she clears her throat and takes a deep breath.

“I… woke up surrounded in flames. They found me, they found my address, my work… And they decided the war wasn’t over” her voice is calm but her body is tense. “I passed out after…” she stops, looking down.

“Yeah…” I just say to encourage her. “I’m glad you woke up in time.”

“They don’t have magic fire so the flames were eating the entire building, people will lose their home, or be hurt or worse…” she turns to stare absent-mindedly at the road. “Then I thought… If they found my apartment, they found my identity, so I ran to the bar and it… They locked the doors from outside and set it on fire. Joe was working this night, Lina too… Because of me, the main hunter shelter of center city burned, with the hunters in it.”

“It’s not your fault” I state, knowing this won’t reach her heart ; I heard that a thousand times myself, and never believed it.

“And the cops, they will make the link” she continues, ignoring my words. “I’m used to hide, but not both from monsters and the authorities.”

“They won’t find you, I’ll make sure of that.”

           She doesn’t answer but her stomach gurgles loudly.

“When was the last time you ate ?”

“I don’t know… Two days ago or something like that” she opens her hand to stare intensely at her palm. “I didn’t call you right away… I wanted to get through this myself but…”

“Hey Y/n, you can’t do this alone, no matter how… well badass you are. You need a team. I am your team now… We are. And you need to eat.”

“I have nothing left, Dean, not a cent, not a toothbrush, and all my work is gone” she sighs.

“I have fake credit cards and a home I don’t have to pay. Sweetheart, let me share.”

             I turn right, to that mall big ads praise for a few miles now, trying to make believe you could find everything that could built your happiness here.

In our case, maybe that’s actually true.

While she gets out of the car, her hands around herself, looking to the entrance in a frown, I grab my bag on the backseat, and find the green jacket I was looking for.

“Here” I state, giving it to her.

She hesitates but takes it in a sigh after a look to her corset, and the goosebumps on her skin.

“Thank you, Dean…”

I smile.

I know it’s a pretty awful time to smile but I can’t help it, being able to take care of her just makes me happy somehow.

           This place is huge, colorful, noisy, and I’m pretty sure she hates it as much as I do. But we need a few items.

“Take this” I say, handing her one of my fake credit cards. “First we eat something, then we go buy the things you need to stay with us a few days or weeks” I state, not giving her any choice to decline my offer.

           She just nods, biting her lips. She’s not used to ask for help, and I can see how uncomfortable that makes her, so I try to act as casual as I can, even with my heart pounding in my chest because of that pain I feel for her… and that persistent desire.

           In the little diner inside the mall, a loud group of teen and a tired waitress. Y/n’s steps are unsure, and I can only imagine how exhausted she is.

           The waitress doesn’t even look at us when she approaches, and Y/n doesn’t look up, her eyes on the table, a hint of shame in her eyes, something I hate deeply.

“I’ll take a bacon cheese burger and a coffee please” I say, hoping she would know what she wants, but of course, she mutters something about only a coffee. “Two bacon cheese burgers, please.”

She lifts her eyes on me and sighs.

“I’m not eating alone” I shrug.

           She eats pretty slowly, and by the time she reaches the pickles in the middle of it, I’m done with mine. I try not to stare at her but everything she does, every move, is fascinating to me. She licks her fingers, she’s not doing it on purpose, cautiously trying to eat cleanly… and it’s even better.

           Eating gave her a little strength. I’m sitting on the chair of the store, waiting for her to choose a few panties, jeans, maybe a t-shirt or two. I can see she only picks necessary things even though I repeated her several time that it was not, technically, my money.

           Going through my phone, I read the articles about the fire, but nothing is more detailed than what she said for now. They don’t seem to have made the link to her yet, or at least, the media don’t know.

“I’m done” she appears in front of me, a bag hanging in the end of her arm, my jacket too big for her, hiding her hands, the shoulders seams falling too low on her arms.

“Do you need anything else ?” I ask, getting up.

“I guess you have soap at home, considering you don’t stink too much” she gives me a corner smile and it warms my heart.

             She’s fighting sleep. I try all I can to make her feel comfortable, but she is still fighting, her eyes struggling to focus on the road.

“You can sleep” I state, my voice hoarse for saying nothing for a long time.

“I know” she smiles kindly.

“Do you want to stop for a few hours ? I could use a little rest too you know.”

She turns to me and frowns.

“You drove seven hours in a row, and you’re driving back… You must be exhausted” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m okay sweetheart” I chuckle at her concern. “There must not be a lot of motels around here, but I’ll find one.”

She looks down and smiles, nodding for herself.

“What ?” I ask, intrigued.

“It’s stupid” she tries to sweep my question away but my whole face insists, so she surrenders. “When I was… When I had no home, I used to dream that you would… show up, and that I could share a motel with you” her smile fades and I swallow. “Because it was so much better than the street…”

“I’m sorry I never showed up before” I state very seriously but she starts to chuckle to make that moment fade.

“I actually never went to one, it will be a first” she smiles now, her mask back in place.

             She puts the store bag on the bed and looks around.

“I’m officially a Supernatural character.”

I smile, entering behind her.

“I’ll take the other room” I say looking in my hand for the right key. “I’ll go buy food, you take a good shower…”

When I’m about to go out, she stops me.

“Dean ?” I turn around, instantly high on her voice saying my name. “Can you lend me a knife or a gun while you’re gone ?”

 Reader’s Pov

             I sit on the bed, trying to take in everything that’s happening, staring at the ugly decoration, waiting for him in my brand new sweatpants. I never wore this kind of pants before, but I never lived with someone, so I figured I couldn’t sleep in my underwear as I usually do.

           The shower really helped, and now I use Dean’s shower gel, it seems that the entire room smells like him. I look at the green jacket and take it in my hands, playing with its collar while I list the events in my head. Playing the scenes over and over, like it could give them a sense.

           My phone rings, and I look at it, plugged on the nightstand. It’s a number I don’t know so I just stare at the screen, not making a move.

“Did you know” Dean says, suddenly entering the room with a white plastic bag in his arms. “That this shithole doesn’t even have a store ! Only a Gas station !”

My eyes follow him, amazed by this way he has to move, so Dean, like it was described in the books. I get up, tugging at my brand new black t-shirt, to help him with whatever he found.

“So on tonight’s menu, Madame… Coke, chips” he gets everything out of the bag naming them one by one. “Twinkies… this thing, whatever it is, Cheetos, M&Ms… and that.”

“Yummy” I chuckle, frowning at the packs in front of me.

“You need to sleep” he states. “I’ll be in my room.”

“No” my voice is a little too enthusiastic. “Maybe we could eat together before you go to sleep…”

He smiles.

           This is a simple smile, but it makes my heart miss a beat because of how pure it is. His wrinkles highlighting it with the charm of his age, wearing every adventures he lived like crowns of bravery.

           He’s not the young impetuous wolf he was in those books anymore, he grew in the best way possible : nobly.

           And still the afraid little girl inside is exited to meet her superhero, because he really is exactly that.

           I can’t let myself be blinded by that smile… Life doesn’t work like that.

“I swear this stupid town, not even beers ? Come one !” he grunts, putting all the packs on the bed, before sitting on it. “Can’t wait to be home.”

I sit next to him, enjoying the sight of his large, manly hands grabbing those tiny M&Ms to stuff his mouth with it.

“Tell me about your home” I say, crossing my legs.

He turns to me, a serious look on his face, searching for his words.

“It’s my very first home…”

“Yeah” I nod, remembering the books I read a hundred times.

“It’s huge” another, tinier, smile. “And it’s legacy…”

           While he explains how he got the key to that bunker, I nibble on the little balls of chocolate, trying to keep my mind off the deaths I caused, and fighting the urge to yawn, because I really don’t want him to think he has to leave right now. I’m exhausted, but I desperately want him to stay.

           His story is fascinating, and for me, it is a fairy tale. Discovering you own a place like this, after a life of roaming… It was the best my brave hero could get after the end of the books. I spent my life trying to build a home for myself but maybe I just don’t deserve one.

           Like I don’t deserve that friendship Dean is offering me so naturally, his whole tall body spread in the bed so casually, as if we had been close for years. His long legs crossed, heavy shoes on the mattress, his elbow holding him up, turned toward me, bathing me in those legends that belong to him with such a simple trust.

           Flashes of my phone call to him fight to come back, and the more I try to chase them, the more I remember my body craving, clenching around my own fingers in frustration.

           And it’s already too late.

           I’m suddenly too aware of his arms muscles flexing to grab the chips, of the leather belt at his waist, resting on the little piece of skin showing there, of the perfect line of his jaw and his delicious smell.

           There is something about Dean Winchester. Something that has nothing to do with this deep respect I have for him, with the fascination I feel for a hunter so legendary, with that trust I could give him way too soon and the one he is offering me without any question…

           It is something physical that I never thought I would feel. Sex, for me, was always a way… A way to pass time, not be alone, let go some stress, forget, or even manipulate –even if I’m not proud of this one-. It was never a need.

           Dean makes me want, that’s annoying enough. But the bastard makes me need.

           I have to get rid of that, before my brain mixes it with this stupid hero myth it created, and start confusing want with feelings. I really don’t need feelings…

           I put the M&Ms down and lick my lips.

Get rid of that need.

Take what I want and make him fall from his pedestal.

“Dean…” I cut him in the middle of the British Men of Letters story, and he looks up at me while I sit up.

If he doesn’t want that, he’ll make a sign or say a word, but I heard he’s still pretty fond of one night stands.

           In a deep sigh, I loose no time, and get closer to straddle his lap, the simple gesture of spreading my thighs above him, without any contact, starting a fire inside me.

“Y/n…” he groans low, his pupils dilating right away and his face changing radically, from a friendly puppy to a wolf in a split second.

           His hands firmly grab my waist, the pure strength irradiating of him already making me drip in anticipation.

           I bend and, for a second, I see he’s ready to kiss me. But I won’t kiss him. I won’t indulge in giving him this tender gesture, something that might let him think this is anything more than sex.

Kisses are too important.

My lips find his neck instead, and I sensually roll my body on his while they start to suck at it.

“Y/n” he lets his head fall on the pillow and lifts his hips a little, pressing his crotch between my legs in a help back moan.

“That phone call left me craving for the real thing” I murmur in his ear.

“Me too…” he groans, his fingers digging in my thighs harshly. “You have no idea…”

           I finally sit on him, fully enjoying the hard feeling of his too full jeans on my folds, starting to rub through the fabric, desperate to finally feel in there.

“Fuck, don’t tease me” his voice is hoarse, veins showing on his neck that I want to kiss.

           But kiss is too important.

           So my hands find his belt, and while I open it, I stare at his mouth, agape and plumb, and at his chest going up and down.

           The second the belt and the button of his jeans are open, he lifts his hips to wriggle and push it down with his underwear, just enough to free his cock.

           I want to kiss it too… And its veins are calling me like the veins on the side of his throat. But instead, I wrap my hand around the velvety skin and lick my lips, guiding it to my still covered entrance, just to tease both of us, his precum joining the wet stain between my legs.

“The real thing, Sweetheart” he grunts, unable to keep himself from pushing up in my hand and against me.

           When I move again, it’s only to take my sweatpants and panties off, immediately straddling him again.

“Fuck yes” he moans, his piercing eyes between my legs, and his lip between his teeth.

I’m high.

A drop of my own juice falls on the head of his cock heavily, and I know I’m already panting but I don’t really care.

           Taking his length in my hand, I lift my hips, starving for him, and push the head to my entrance.

“Shit” I gasp, feeling my body resist just a little before it swallows the first part of him hungrily.

“Oh God, Y/n…” he cries out, short nails digging in my sweating thighs.

           It only takes me a few seconds to welcome him entirely, stretching myself faster than usual because of how wet and eager I am. And when I do, I don’t lose a second.

           Placing my two hands flat on his chest, I start rolling my hips, grinding, and finally bouncing up and down in haste, unable to get enough of the feeling of him so deep inside of me, twitching hard and stretching me with no mercy.

“Sweetheart, easy…” he pants. “Or I won’t l-last long.”

But I’m too far gone, and I want him to come so bad.

In my high, I start needing things I never thought I needed : I want him to let the wolf out, to push me down on that mattress and take everything, to force a kiss on my mouth, to make my defenses shatter…

“Fuck… Dean !” I moan loud, my stretched out arms still keeping me from being too close to that temptation that could break me, too close to that dangerous man.

“Yes… Yes… Fuck…” he praises, now closing his eyes tight, his daring huge hands going under my shirt to hold my waist, his thumb digging in my ribs.

           And, surprising him totally, I come first ; hard and brutally in a desperate groan.

“OH MY… F-F-FUCK” he cries out, feeling my walls strongly clenching around him and my restless thighs crushing his hips.

Grabbing me fiercely by the neck, he makes my lips crush on his, almost making us break some teeth, while he empties himself deep inside of me, not really kissing me, but panting and biting my lips and moaning with his jaw clenched.

           This is the hottest thing that even happened to me, and my orgasm becomes so long I’m afraid I might pass out… My face now buried in his neck, I hold on to his shoulders.

             Then nothing. Silence and heavy breathing ; his hand lazily stroking my back slower and slower.

           I wait a minute before I grab his softening cock to take it out in a hiss… and a few more minutes before I dare looking up.

           He is asleep.

           I smile for myself, adoringly admiring his face, and take a deep breath.

You had it. It’s over now.

           I get up slowly, and grab my pants, along with the key to the other room, looking one last time to him.

I really hope it’s over now.

             He didn’t say a word when he came to my room to wake me ; and he didn’t say a word in the car during the four hours drive left to reach the bunker. He gave me the rest of the snacks from yesterday with a smile, a coffee in a plastic cup, and put some music on…

             By the time he enters the garage, my heart is beating fast. I’m nervous for so many reasons, overthinking everything.

Hoping it wouldn’t damage our young friendship. Hoping I won’t feel like I felt in the shelters I tried a long time ago. That I won’t be a burden, that I will have my freedom, that I will find the vampires that killed the closest I had to friends, that I will win this war…

           When I enter the bunker for the first time, my breath gets stuck in my chest, and my eyes can’t take everything.

This place is a palace, and the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

           And when Dean kindly offers me a visit, I understand the true value of it, and I have to hold back my tears :

It is not its size or its warmth that makes it a true home. It’s the perfect details that are witnesses of the life going on here.

It’s the glass that someone forgot on the table, the phone charger lazily dangling from the wall, the smell of coffee in the kitchen, the flannel on the chair of the bathroom, the toothbrush stain in the sink, Sam’s smell coming out of his bedroom, the post-it that says “Jody bday Friday”, the initials carved on the library’s table, the pie in the fridge…

And Dean’s voice. Dean’s voice calling me to show me the control room.

His voice so new to me, and yet so familiar.

That’s what makes it a home.

And I wish I was legacy, that it could be my home too…

________________________

***FEEDBACK IS GOLD***

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[iamtaran]

Rendezvous* AU

Jaskier is a professional, usually. He had worn out all the rough edges of this particular character over the years until it felt almost more comfortable than returning to being Julian��at the end of the week. It may have taken a few years to curb his decidedly modern mouth and gain the respect of his fellow re-enactors, but during the open weekend when the visitors poured in? He was always on pointe. Spending the greater portion of an entire weekend in performance, in character-- it exhilarates him. The joy from the visitors, their laughs and surprise and unprepared blushes when he singles them out for a bit. If he could, he would eat it and live on it forever. Except, well, a man has to eat real food as well, and Jaskier had skipped breakfast in his rush. Normally, that wouldn’t be a problem. This particular Rendezvous at Alafia River always has more bakers, potato roasters, and poorly disguised Highland Games food carts peddling fish and chips than one could shake a stick at. Jaskier had simply followed his nose. It wouldn’t be a problem... Except the baker is the most attractive man Jaskier has ever clapped eyes on. “Essi, Essi, Essi,” he chants. “Essi, you’ve- I swear, if you don’t turn around-” “Jaskier, for god’s sake,” Essi hisses, sandwiched between a wooden stall and the shielding curtain of his body where she is attempting to subtly adjust her slipping décolletage. “I’m a little busy.” “Not too busy for this! Essi,” he whines. A hand smacks his arm, hard. “I’m not getting thrown from the Voo over a nip slip you f--forking child,” she grumbles into her cleavage. That adjusted, she nudges his shoulder out of the way. “Now, what are you whining about?” She looks, as usual, gorgeous, even with the momentary fashion crisis. No one looks better in crisp white chemise and dusty rose robe anglaise in linen. Well, except- “Him.” *** (*A Rendezvous is a historical reenactment/ living history event that may last an entire extended weekend, an entire week, 9 days. Participants camp on-site in pre-1860s period clothing, using as much historically accurate gear as possible and disguising any absolutely necessary modern amenities to keep from breaking immersion. Sometimes, the last weekend of the event is open to the public non-participants to wander through, purchase from artisans and craftsmen, often including folks from local tribes, and enjoy the musical or martial performances, historic rifle ranges, archery, delicious food, hatchet throwing, and more. This encounter may or may not be inspired by a memorable Rendezvous encounter as a visitor.)

Jaskier has never in six years seen this particular baker at this particular Rendezvous. Would that I had, he thinks somewhat wildly. It’s not one thing, really, that catches his attention, which sometimes does happen. He has fallen in love with a stranger’s heavy-lidded eyes, or a singular profile, or even the way someone tucked their legs up under them in a library chair. It is the way his pale, silvery hair wisps and half-curls around his face and across his forehead, where heavy brows furrowed in concentration. It is the shocking softness of his mouth compared to the granite cut of his jaw and the roughness of his stubble. It is his hands. Jaskier thinks they might be the most beautiful hands he has ever seen. The strength, the gentleness, the competence with which they folded and kneaded, then with swift, short turns tucked the dough into a boule to add to the nearly filled board behind him. Jaskier isn’t the only one watching. The man, whether it be what Jaskier sees or the smell of his already-baked loaves, has drawn a crowd. (And he really does suspect it is a mixture of both. No one should look so good with the sweaty, unwashed Rendezvous look. Most people look as you might expect after a week-long historical camping trip. This man looks like a rugged wet dream.)  Even as Jaskier looks, the baker slices the top of the dough with a slender knife frankly dwarfed in his grip, settles the boule on the board, and with a sharp flick of his elbow slides the whole dozen of them into the mouth of the clay dome oven radiating heat at his back. Even presented with the man’s astonishing back (and astonishing backside, lord, blessed be the fall-front trousers)--even then, Jaskier finds he can’t stop staring at his forearms, revealed by his rolled shirtsleeves.  “Oh, you’ve got it bad,” Essi murmurs, and laughs when he jumps. “Well, go on. Go buy your bread and flirt with him. I’m going to get chowder from the fish  and chip tent.” “But- Essi,” Jaskier flounders, “we, it- the performance!” They had planned to spend the last couple hours of morning trolling the main drag and the surrounding lines of tents and stalls, singing and playing, he on accordion and she the violin. They even have a couple new bits he is dying to run through. Jaskier thinks of his wallet and all the tips they might be making even now and whines. That being said, his eyes draw back to the dimple along the muscle of the baker’s forearm without his permission. Essi pats his back mockingly. “Frankly, my dear, I refuse to perform with you like this.” “Excuse me! Like what?”  She doesn’t deign answer. Instead, with a wink, she steps back into the crowd, calling, “I’ll meet you at the Live Oak Stage for the noontime performances!” and leaves him there. Which is also when Jaskier hears the first keening notes of a familiar song. He already knows he is ruined before turns to take in the scene-- the baker with the fiddle pressed under his chin, the bow so delicate in his blunt-fingered hand that Jaskier’s heart leapt into his throat. The angle of his wrist, the tilt of his brows-- then he glances up through unexpectedly dark lashes and his amber eyes flash golden in the light. “Oh, Jesus wept.” *

As it would turn out, the handsome baker’s name is Geralt, and his rendition of Tiersen’s sur le fil is so beautiful that Jaskier can’t help but draw closer, like a moth to flame.

As it also turns out, the baker whose name is Geralt lowers the well-worn but immaculately tuned fiddle after the one song, allowing Jaskier to step close enough to embarrass himself. He gets half way through a too-long ramble about Tiersen’s works and praise for the man’s performance, and I’m a musician myself, can’t often be convinced to pick up a fiddle but-- when the baker grunts, points to the not-exactly historically accurate but not-not period appropriate accordion in his hands and asks, “Do you know La Noyée?” Which is how they end up playing together for the next thirty minutes until the bread has baked.

Which is also when Geralt introduces himself and gruffly thanks him, mentioning how his assistant usually accompanies him but he gave her the morning off, and then pays him in bread with a healthy slab of butter and aged cheese on top. Jaskier learns quickly that he is a man of few words. Somehow, however, he can read the sincerity in his thanks in his minute expression. They had drawn in quite a crowd, and Geralt is quickly made busy on the next batch of orders.

Jaskier knows when his presence is in the way. He is a little sad to go, but still, he knows he will be buzzing with the energy of their performance and the electric current that had passed between them every time Geralt glanced his way to time his accompaniment or signal a flourish. That can be enough. “Well, it’s been- ah, absolutely lovely playing with you, dear Geralt, but it seems I will only be in the way from this point- can’t bake to save my life, I’m afraid-” as he begins to slip away.

“Bard.” Jaskier freezes, surprised. Geralt cleans his hands off on his equally floury apron and pulls a tiny folded up pamphlet from inside its deep pocket. Jaskier takes it without thinking, on autopilot. “I’m part of a demonstration around 2, over at the fencing pit next to the musket range.” Jaskier can’t be blamed for how long it takes his brain to catch up with the unspoken invitation; but when he does, he beams.

He goes, and is promptly bowled over to find Geralt changed from his frankly too-flattering baker’s smock and fall-fronts into the traditional kilt and shirt sleeves of a highland foot soldier-- sans coat. Jaskier sees why when he lunges forward into a fast-paced mock battle with a broad sword that he slings about as if it were light as a rapier. Jaskier is... he needs to sit down.

He spends the rest of the weekend finding every excuse he can to go visit Geralt the too-handsome baker, and gets to meet his apprentice, who is also his daughter. Jaskier is stricken dumb for all of two seconds before he realizes they get on like a house on fire. Geralt has to chase them off when their chatter on historic social norms, musical trends, and current pop stars gets to be too much. Then they both have lunch with Essi, and the conversation turns to hsitoric fashion, materials, and ends with the two ladies roasting his poor man dandy outfit alive. He stands up for himself nobly. The high waisted trousers make him look trim! And braces were designed in the early 1820s, just like the accordion, thank you! Yes, he DOES know that it is considered terribly risque for his braces to be visible and not worn beneath a coat, why do they think he did it? No, he doesn’t think that they clash with his silk cravat in the least! He might be a rake and a rogue but he is still cultured. And well bathed, unlike most of the brutes around here! Essi calls him a floozy; Ciri, 16 and the least shy girl he has ever met, agrees. (He loves the two of them all the more by the end of it.)

Jaskier plays with Geralt a couple more times, after Essi gives him her blessing. She had found a bluegrass group in desperate need of a violinist after theirs abruptly came down ill, and she is more than happy to flirt with their cellist there, especially since they pop up stage in the middle of the Rendyvoo garners huge crowds of tip-happy listeners. She does chat with Ciri when she stops by, however, and Geralt. Jaskier doesn’t hear what happens, but she manages to get the big man to flush. Jaskier wonders on it for the rest of the day. Will she reveal her secrets??

The Voo ends and Jaskier is a besotted wreck. He tries quite hard to make his goodbye to father and daughter not the least bit tearful-- and immediately fails when Geralt pulls out a smartphone and gruffly tells him to put his number in. 

They live much closer than they might have assumed. I can’t decide if Geralt really does own a bakery, or if that’s just his somewhat secret hobby and in reality his profession better matches his dangerous strongman persona-- a garage, a historic fencing and swordplay gym, perhaps a high-paid security professional. All of them have some interesting possibilities, I’ll be honest. Regardless, working Rendezvous’s and ren faires is half hobby half side-profession. Jaskier is thrilled to find that, since moving to the area recently, he and Geralt will be working a lot of the same events. He is excited a completely normal amount.

Y’all know what’s up. Wooing. Courting. Two idiots who don’t recognize their emotions (because, yes, Jaskier might have realized Geralt is a looker, but it takes him much longer to realize what the fuzzy feeling in his gut is whenever Geralt is particularly soft, or speaks gently to his daughter, or smile when their huge great dane comes barreling out to greet them and oh, no.) Also, historic costumes that just, they just really inspire some thirst.

If y’all think for a moment Geralt looks any less handsome in modern clothes, you are surely mistaken. Jaskier despairs the first time he sees him. It’s just... it’s not fair!

Except the local ren faire comes around and it’s Geralt’s turn to despair. He may, in fact, never recover. Y’all know that post that’s been going around...

ok fin. that’s all i got, i hope yall enjoyed.

[writer-rochelle]

Statesman: Ablaze  Ch.2: Off the Grid

(a/n: here is chapter 2 of the one thing im super frickin proud of. thank you @pomelloe-me​ for bullying me in our shared google doc to make sure i get things done. ily <3)

“Can you leave the window down? My car smells like fucking fried chicken, and while it may be your fave food it's not mine.” Alicia said, shutting her car engine off. Pom chuckled, obliging her friend’s request. Both women stretched, their joints popping, as they clambered out of the small car and started their walk up the small driveway. 

The Agents had opted to live as far away from the brewery as they could, wanting to make a safe and work free environment for them to escape to. It was a pale green  3 story victorian house with white accents, and a small front porch. Two white rocking chairs moved slightly in the wind, and a white porch swing on the far right end swayed with them. A black and white rip n dip doormat sat under a black double front door, the words "go away" floated next to a white cat flipping any visitors off. A purchase Pom had made while online shopping in the wee early hours of the night. One that Alicia and Dena had found rather hilarious and Carey had simply shaken her head. 

“I’m gonna murder your boyfriend, he’s as dumb as a fucking rock, I swear it!” Alicia exclaimed, walking towards the front door of the shared home, twisting her head this way and that in a vain attempt to pop her still stiff neck.  She could hear Pom curse at her under her breath. “What was that? Use your words miss ma’am” Alicia teased, knowing Tequila was a nuisance for Pom. He had been Alicia's friend first, and one-day on a whim she had invited them to a carnival accompanying the rodeo that was in town. Soon, the three of them were inseparable. Tequila however soon developed feelings for Pom, his endless pining no secret to anyone. The ex-rodeo clown meant well, and when he wasn't trying to convince the southern beauty to go two-stepping with him, the two got along very well. 

“I said he ain’t my fuckin’ boyfriend,” Pom responded, she was frustrated but smiled all the same. She reciprocated the crush but put her job as a Statesman agent first. She refused to let anyone or anything jeopardize her career. The brunette removed the brown cowboy hat sitting on her head, using it to fan herself in the heat, waiting for Alicia to unlock the front door. 

“Whatever you say!” Alicia sang, throwing the door open. Pom followed the woman into the entryway, shutting and locking the door behind her. The smell of delicious food wafted towards where the two girls stood, as they began dispensing the arsenal of personal weapons they had into their designated shelves in the entryway. Pom hung her hat on the hook on the wall next to the door. Alicia groaned, taking her box braids out of the ponytail she had forced them into, massaging her scalp. 

"I don't know how you can stand having those things pulled back like that!" Pom said, emptying her pistols before placing them back in their holsters. 

"Trust me, one I'm gonna shave my head, and I only kept them in because I spent so much on them for that one assignment. Why waste money? Carey Ann, is that your cooking I smell?" Alicia called, making her way further into the house. She paused a moment, kicking her shoes off in the mudroom off to the left. 

“Yup! I’m in the kitchen, y’all! Make sure you leave your shoes in that mudroom, I just swept!”’ Carey called out to them from the direction of the kitchen. 

Whatever she had been making since she had come home had made the house warm and cozy, the warmth of the oven lightly combating the aircon. Carey was the oldest of the four women living in that house. She had recently moved to New York, assisting Agent Whiskey in running the New York office. Occasionally, she would return to their humble abode in Kentucky. Most household responsibilities fell on her, their other roommate Dena had been away for almost a year on assignment in Europe seeking out an alleged brother agency. Usually, Pom and Alicia were left to their own devices, sticking to take-out orders, or the occasional soup and grilled cheese combo Alicia cooked up. It wasn't often Alicia or Pom cooked, let alone cleaned. It was nice to have their Agent Mom back in town.  

Pom hastily unzipped the sides of her boots, sliding them off to reveal her cute space patterned socks, ‘The best feeling ever is taking your shoes off after a fuckin’ long day of work.’ she thought to herself. Pom’s hair stuck up in odd angles, no secret the hat that had been resting on her head all day. She combed her fingers through it, the brown tresses fell to her shoulders in thick, uncontrollable waves. 

“It’s good to see you here, and not on a fucking screen, ma’am.” Alicia snooped through the pots on the stove, hungrily eyeing Carey’s homemade fried pork chops, mashed potatoes, and mac & cheese warming idly on the stove. Alicia only two kinds of southern cooking, her Grandma Beaulah's, and Carey's (a close second).  

"Yeah, bitch. I thought you might have forgotten about us.” Pom called out from the living room, where she had placed herself comfortably down on the couch, flicking through something on her phone. She sighed, still no response from Whiskey. Had she upset him without realizing it? ‘Fuckin’ Whiskey, I wish he could’ve told me instead of ignoring me like a dumbass.’ she thought, shutting off her phone and tossing it to the other end of the couch.

“Well, if y’all acted 24 and 25 years old and not little children, you wouldn’t need me to come home to cook and clean for y’all. Dena hasn’t even been here and she still keeps her room clean!” Carey teased, swatting Alicia’s hands away from the food. Even if she had been present, Dena and Carey were definitely the neatest of the four. Carey had tried in vain to get the other two younger women to help, even going so far as to leave everything to pile up. It had taken a roach crawling across Alicia's face one night in her sleep to finally get them to step up. Now they kept a chore list on a dry erase board in the laundry room, and the katsaridaphobic agent no longer left dirty dishes in her room. 

“Girl, they’re clean. And for the record, Pom and I do take care of ourselves! For example, I did all the laundry in the house and Pom got rid of that possum that was living in the roof. Perfectly responsible.” Alicia said smugly, giggling as Pom chimed in quietly from her spot on the couch about the ‘Cunt ass possum that tried to eat her fucking face even though she had given him a slice of ham as a fucking peace offering headass’. 

“Pom, why don’t you come join us instead of mumbling with your colorful vocabulary from the couch; the food is ready.” Carey laughed, shaking her head at her roommate's antics. She grabbed the rolls out the oven, before removing her apron and oven mitts. She moved to pull a pitcher of sweet tea out of the fridge, and then stood back proudly to admire her work. Dinner was served. 

“You sound like my fuckin’ mom,” Pom uttered as she hoisted herself up from the couch, making her way into the kitchen to wash her hands. 

“I may as well be. But enough bickering, I missed y'all two!” Carey said, carrying her plate of food to the table where Alicia already sat eating. 

“I’m not really hankerin’ for anything, but thanks, Carey. I love you…fuck head.” Pom told Carey with her unique version of affection, leaning against the island in the kitchen and removing her rusty-colored jacket from her body. Pom's jokes and colorful nicknames were her own brand of love, and while it was offputting the first time she called you something like "hoe bag", you learned to acknowledge the underlying "I love you".  

“Well at least stay and sit with us, I’ve got something to tell y’all,” Carey said, patting the chair next to her. She needed to tell somebody about how she and Jack had recently started seeing each other. She figured he had already told Tequila, and felt justified in telling the girls. Pom sat down in the chair with a grunt after placing her jacket on the table. 

“Oh do tell, this wouldn’t happen to do with a certain mustached cowboy would it?” Alicia batted her eyelids, and suggestively wiggled her eyebrows. Pom knew exactly what this conversation was going to lead to. She wasn’t a fucking idiot; she noticed every small exchange between Carey and Whiskey, it was just something she had an eye for. The two had known each other for over two years and had recently started to go out with each other seriously. It was a wonder they hadn't started fooling around sooner.

“W-well...about that” Carey giggled nervously, maybe she wouldn’t tell them after all. 

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Carey Ann! Are you fucking Ole Jack Daniels?!” Alicia exclaimed, pointing her fork accusingly at the shorter Agent. Pom couldn’t help herself from letting out a loud chuckle, moving her long legs to sit cross-legged on the chair. 

“Alright, fine. Whiskey and I may or may not have been seeing each other exclusively for the past year while I’ve been back and forth from New York.” Carey said, casually taking a sip from her glass of tea, the clinking ice cubes being the only sound for a brief moment. 

“I fuckin’ knew it!” Agent Rum pronounced with great amusement, looking over at Carey with a menacing smile. 

“YAS BITCH, OH MY GOD! Tell us everything, and I do mean everything!” Alicia said, standing up and playfully pulling Carey into a noogie. 

The girls laughed, Carey pushed Alicia back into her chair before smoothing out her blonde curly hair. Carey was glad that the girls hadn’t reacted negatively like she thought they would. She had missed this comradery with the girls while staying in New York; she leaned forward fully retelling everything that had been happening. It was nice to finally be home. 

* * * * * 

Pom Graham was awake earlier than the rest of her housemates, as usual. Most nights she would stay up until midnight listening to her favorite kinds of music and trying to gain motivation to do her beloved hobby of painting. But she never slept for long as her natural body clock woke her up just a few short hours after she fell asleep. Still, she was always filled with so much energy. 

Pom tip-toed out of her room and down the flight of stairs in hopes of not waking her friends. She was already dressed in her usual outfit that the others rarely saw her out of. The living space downstairs was decorated with rustic, but comfortable furniture and pots of greenery scattered around. Photographs and posters could be found on the walls. 

She threw herself on to the couch in front of the large, technologically advanced television. With a press of a button on the remote, the screen came to life with the morning news channel. ‘Boring.’ Pom thought, ‘Carey must have been watching it last.’

“The daughter of beloved Kentucky senator, Xavier Dobios, is still missing and it’s sending everybody into quite the state of distress…..” Said the monotone voice of the news reporter on the TV. Pom scoffed at his words. 

“Fuck off, ‘beloved my ass’” Pom returned in a sharp whisper, smiling with amusement. She clicked another button and the kid’s channel started to play. Pom never really liked to watch television, but when she did, she would always turn on the channel that entertained her most.

“Good morning, Pomegranate.” Came Carey’s sweet but groggy voice from the doorway leading into the kitchen. Carey was dressed in cute, pink pajamas and her hair was quite the mess. She let out a big yawn. 

“Mornin’, you’re up early,” Pom responded, turning her head to give Carey a nice smile. Carey walked back into the kitchen to start preparing coffee and breakfast for herself and her housemates. 

“What do you want for breakfast? And I know you don’t like coffee, so what do you want to drink?” Carey asked from the kitchen to Pom. She sat there thinking for a moment before answering. 

“Peanut butter toast. And some water. Bless your heart, Carey.” Pom returned gently. Carey was surprised to see how calm she was. She was used to seeing the hot-tempered, mischievous, and swearing version of Pom. But she appreciated seeing this side to her too because Carey knew that’s who she really is. Pom never failed to make her laugh and smile. 

Carey made food and coffee with the sound of Pom watching the kid’s channel playing in the background. Alicia probably wasn’t going to be awake for a few more hours but Carey poured her a cup of warm coffee just in case. 

“I don’t know how you have so much energy all the time, Pom,” Carey said as she sat on the couch next to Pom, handing her the plate of peanut butter toast and a glass of water. She sipped on her own cup of coffee just the way she liked it. 

“I’ve consumed so much fuckin’ sugar in my life that I’m constantly on a sugar high.” Pom joked to her friend, smiling. Carey laughed, the sound mixing the soft sounds of the old Victorian settling over them. It wasn’t often they got a morning to themselves, and they knew they’d have to head to work soon, but for now, HQ could wait.

“GOOD MORNING VIETNAM!” Alicia yelled, bounding in the kitchen shattering the quiet moment the girls had settled into with their breakfast. Carey and Pom sighed, watching as she effortlessly leaped onto the island in the middle of the kitchen. Her gray sweatpants slung low on her hips, her lilac sleep shirt wrinkled, and her braids still wrapped up in the bonnet on her head; she looked crazy.

“What in Sam Hill are you doing?!” Carey said, standing up and rushing to try and push the taller woman off. 

“I have some good news, bitches! Dena’s coming home sooner than we thought!” Alicia was elated, it had been almost two months since Agent Sangria had been in contact with Statesman, and more importantly her roommates. She had been advised to keep all communications, few and far in between. Should there be a brother agency, it would be in Statesman's best interest to not alert them of their presence in their territory; what if they were a rogue organization? The return of the lively Latina was definitely a cause for celebration. 

“Wait, how do you know?” Carey asked, realizing that Alicia wasn’t budging off her pedestal. She looked over at Pom who looked just as puzzled as she was, no one had any recent contact with Dena. Everything had been dark. Pom got off the couch to get closer to them.  

“Well, as y’all know, I spend most of my free time in the lab with Ginger. And I was able to create a concealable communication device!” Alicia said proudly, taking what looked like a normal bottle of concealer. But the girls knew better, Alicia was a crazy tech wiz and inventor. Her and Ginger both could put Tony Stark to shame.

“How does that shit even work… it’s fuckin’ makeup.” Pom questioned. She couldn’t remember the last time she had set foot in the lab, or the last time she wore makeup. Pom would rather be training and being troublesome with the male agents than behind a vanity or in a lab coat. 

“Listen, I know it looks a little out of sorts but I promise it works! And the cosmetic part of the contraption is fully functional.” Alicia opened the packaging and did a swatch of the makeup on her arm. A perfect match.

“Say we can’t take any phones or even our glasses with us? Who’s gonna suspect a woman with a compact mirror and bottle of concealer? The idea is we use the idea of the fragile female that men have created against them. But my feminist spiel aside, I talked to Dena and she should be here by the end of next week!” Alicia got down from the counter, slipping her “concealer” into the front pocket of her black backpack. 

Pom leaned against the counter as she smiled, "You’re a genius.” She said to Alicia softly.

“I’m no Ginger Ale, but I try! Also, I’ve been making a bat prototype for you in the lab! I meant to surprise you for your birthday but I can’t wait any longer.” Pom smiled at this. Alicia started to continue but paused. The Statesman designated ringtone grew louder from where it was playing on their tv. Well, duty calls.

The three agents made their way into the living room, Carey grabbing the remote from its spot on the ottoman. Once they had all settled themselves on the comfy couch, she pressed the answer button. 

“Good morning, Angels!” Champagne greeted; the great window behind his head visible on the tv screen. It wasn’t uncommon for Champ to contact them while they were at home; saving more discreet missions for the four of them to take care of. It saved time, resources, and quite frankly more lives than if they were to send Whiskey, Tequila, or any of the other male agents instead. Hence the moniker, “Angels”.

“Good morning, Champ!” Alicia crowed, shifting to sling her legs across Pom and Carey’s laps making herself comfortable. Pom hastily grabbed Alicia’s feet from her lap and started to tickle them with no remorse, and her loud and mischievous laughs filled the room. 

“Would y’all stop? Jesus Christ.” Carey said, pushing Alicia’s legs off the couch and inserting herself between her and Pom. “Sorry, Champ, continue please!” Carey said, turning her attention back to the man on the screen. Pom was holding back her laughter as best as she could. 

“Well, when y’all are done horsing around, I have something for y’all to take care of. As you know, the senator is hiding his daughter trying to make it seem like she’s been kidnapped. Tonight, he is hosting a gala to impress some of the big wigs in the country and gain more support. I need y’all to infiltrate the gala and expose this sun’ a bitch before he can carry this tomfoolery on any longer.” 

“Do I gotta dress all fancy and shit?” Pom asked, pulling her jacket tighter around herself. She had makeup, she hated dresses, and if she didn't hate her unruly hair getting in her face, she'd hate doing it too. 

“I would prefer it if you did. The senator is very conservative, and has a strict dress code for this event.” Champagne said. Pom sighed angrily at this. 

“Awe, c’mon, Pomegranate. I thought you liked playing dress up.” the screen expanded to show that none other than Agent Whiskey sat next to Champagne at the grand mahogany meeting room table. 

“Whiskey!” Pom exclaimed with joy. A big grin was on her face now. She tucked her messy waves of hair behind her ears. Pom could feel her heart racing with pure happiness. Whiskey was the closest thing she had to a father, and she practically glowed in his attention. 

“Howdy darlin’, you ready to join your old man on the dance floor?” Whiskey tipped his hat, grinning at the young agent. 

The adopted father and daughter duo were the best partnership to come out of Statesman; Whiskey having taken Pom under his wing, saying that he saw himself in her. A troubled girl who needed a little guidance and TLC, and had unfathomable potential. Whiskey had promised Pom’s mother that he would ensure that the young woman would be taken care of while she was in the states. A promise that had been well kept. 

“While I’m all for sappy reunions, I need you, girls, to get gussied up and make your way to that gala ASAP! I’m sending Whiskey to pick y’all up at 0800, We got a party to crash.” Champagne said, ending the video call. 

Alicia stood and looked at her phone, an invitation addressed to a Penelope Vontrapp, and associates lit up her screen. “Well Miss Pom, or should I say Miss Penelope; it looks like you get to play the part of the daughter of some rich oil tycoon.” 

“Fuck you, I’m not wearing any fuckin’ makeup!!” Pom said while jumping off the couch to sprint up to her room before the others could stop her. 

“YOU’RE LUCKY THEY’RE MAKING A BIG DONATION IN YOUR HONOR! OTHERWISE, I’D BE FORCING YOU INTO A DRESS AND PUTTING SOME BLUSH ON THOSE CHEEKS!” Alicia shouted up the stairs, knowing that Pom was going to put on the same suede pantsuit she wore to all Statesman functions. It would be a cold day in hell before anyone forced her into a dress, and Alicia knew better than to even try and wrestle her into one.  

“Will you curl my hair, please? May as well get some joy out of tonight.” Carey remarked, making her way up the stairs. Alicia noticed the sad air around her friend, she stopped reaching out to grab her friend's arm. 

“What’s wrong? You were all chipper early, now you’re all….” Alicia made a fart noise with her mouth, hoping it would bring a small smile to her Carey’s face. 

“It’s nothing, I promise. Just forget it, okay?” Carey pulled her arm away, continuing up the stairs. But it wasn’t really anything. Was it right for her to feel a little envious that Whiskey hadn’t acknowledged her? Had Champ told him something? Or was she just overthinking? Either way, they had a mission to focus on, and this worrying and pining could wait. 

(a/n: thank you all for reading and standing by while i get in the swing of things. i now have a masterlist, and post with who and what yall can request will be coming soon. <3 roach)

[kpopisthereasonihavenolife]

His Trigger-Happy Lady

BTS

Kim Taehyung/Reader [F]

Genre: Drabble, Mafia AU, Friends->Lovers

Warning(s)?: Violence (duh((It’s at the end pretty much. Oops))

Words: 2.7k

“You know I’ll do anything for you.” 

XXX

Kim Taehyung.  A familiar and well-known name.  A ruthless killer who still remained an almost decent human being.  Refusing to kill those who didn’t deserve it.  Respecting women and being almost protective of children.  Going after men who disobey, attack him or innocent as well as holding the title of a fair share of his own crafty crimes he’s committed before.  

He was no mystery.  Doing what he wanted when he pleased and hardly anyone would stand in his way.  He had a lot of connections and many partnerships in his line of work.  He even managed to pull some very fine strings to keep the cops off his back.  

Now, here he was on his way to meet a very dear friend of his.  Someone he’s known for a very long time and planned to never separate from.  Walking right into a den of some ferocious, fanged women. 

Going through an alley and down a set of long-forgotten stairs that honestly could use a touch-up or two, he entered a pretty secret door.  The place itself wasn’t a secret, but with people being too on edge to come this far down an ally in this day and age, it was pretty secretive.  

Inside this door was a bar filled with women he recognized.  The bar was run by an older woman, tattoos on her arms and a tan cropped shirt with her skinny jeans on.  He could see her tense muscles relax when he recognized it was just Taehyung coming by again.  

His loose white tank top covered by a black flimsy cover and his brown jacket that his thighs and his black pants, he walked to the bar, sliding into a stool. Some ladies who recognized him gave him a slap on his back or a quick wink. Some were new and were almost nervous that someone like him just came in through the door.  He’d make it a point to go say hello to them all, later on, to calm their nerves.  He wasn’t their enemy. 

His eyes scanned the crowd as his heeled boots tapped slowly on the tile floor.  A glass was placed in front of him filled with scotch.  He ticked his head with a smirk as he took it and raised it to the woman behind the bar.  

Scanning once more, the one thing he always saw was a tattoo on every woman.  Whether it be a sleeve covered, a tattoo here or there, or just the one on their shoulder, they all had exactly one tattoo in common.  

A butterfly with a torn wing. 

Nursing on his alcohol, the woman behind the bar finally got the time to slide over to him and start a conversation. 

“If you’re looking for the boss, she isn’t in yet.  She’s been out all morning.  Something about some dickbag who tried to scam her out of money.”  Taehyung chuckled.  

“She always takes all the fun and never brings me along.” He took a swing of his scotch, keeping the glass by his lips.  “I see some new faces.  How many?” 

“Within the last week?  5 new ones.  Poor things.  I’m pretty sure Y/n walked right into sex houses and found all the miserable souls before tearing up their contracts and walking right out with them.”  

Taehyung busted into laughter.  “Yes! That is something she would do.” He sighed in peace as he set his glass down, nearly empty on his toxin.  “I’m proud of how far she’s come in her goals.” 

The woman smiled as she grabbed a bottle and topped Taehyung’s glass.  “We’re all grateful for her and her efforts. Even I, an older woman, respect her.  Taking us off the streets or ripping up our stupid contracts made for men, we’re grateful for the freedom she’s giving us.”  

Taehyung spun in his stool to face the crowd.  The bar was lively.  Women sitting on velvet couches and booths.  Some at tables with cards and beers.  Some with darts as they tried their luck against a comrade.  Some arm wrestled and a few newbies admired their tattoos together.  Every type of woman was here.  Heavy set, or a heavy heart.  Pale as snow or dark as chocolate.  The tallest to reach the best type of booze and the shortest to punch you somewhere below the belt with their shiny new brass knuckles.  

It was a wide family and it was yours.  You created it.  

“Any idea when she’ll be in?” The woman was going to reply when the door to the bar opened and revealed you.  Walking in with your garter shorts strapped around your thighs and your breast tight shirt.  A cropped off bomber jacket and your shoulder cut hair swishing around your neck and cheeks when you moved your head.  Your sneakers on your feet seemed far too clean coming from what Taehyung was assuming turned into a messy job. 

He downed the rest of his drink before sliding the glass to the woman and hoping up from his seat and walking over to you.  Shedding off your jacket, it revealed your tanktop that use to have sleeves before you cut them off and showed your own torn winged butterfly.  The first butterfly of your nation you created.  

You looked up and saw your long term friend striding towards you, thumbs looped through his belt loops as he stopped at your side.  

“I didn’t know you were going to stop by today,” you told him as he took your jacket from you. He snickered.  “I would've stayed in to greet you.” 

“Oh please, don’t stop your work on my account.”  He hung your bomber up on a jacket rack as he stood as close as he could to you.  Tempted to sling his arm around your shoulders, but refrained.  “I see a few new faces in your little army.  Care to introduce me so the pretty little ladies don’t think I’m here to massacre them?” 

You laughed at him.  He was always one to want to meet new people.  Especially your people.  An all-female mafia unit was rare. And you were awfully proud of your considering your track record was flawless.  Carrying out successful missions after successful missions and creating a name for yourself.  In this world, if you were a woman of violence and crime and you had men after you to try and soothe their damaged masculinity, it was a win. 

Though, those after you didn’t get far.  Taehyung wouldn’t let them lay a dirty fucking finger on you.  

You lead the nosy mafia high-head through your girls as you located each new one and introduced them to the ‘scary boss Taehyung’ and watched as they all either sobbed from nerves or laughed at themselves when he smiled and introduced himself like a decent man.  It was something that happened every time and really made sense.  

When that was all done, you went through a door at the back of the bar leading to a small home like area.  A bed, a small kitchen area and a closet and dressers for you.  You did own a real penthouse-courtesy of Taehyung’s generosity that you tried and failed to refuse- but you came here more often than you visited your own home. In fact, you were only here to grab some things before heading home. 

“You’re going home tonight?” He questioned as he followed you in your room and you fell onto your bed, dropping your facade.  You finally winced at something that you hid from your girls.  Taehyung jumped into overdrive as he was kneeling at your bedside looking you over. “Where?  Where do you hurt?” 

Legs were fine, arms clean.  He looked behind your neck and didn’t see any bruises or marks.  He even took off your boots and checked your ankles and feet. You swatted him away as you lifted your black shirt showing a nasty gash on your belly.  

Taehyung ran his fingers around it.  Two solid, scabbing and still bleeding gashes in your skin.  The skin around the wounds was red and violently threatening infection.  Dirt and what looked like soot were mixed into your bloody wound as well as some fabric from your shirt as you hid it.  Taehyung growled as you explained your last job didn’t go as smoothly as you wished and you found yourself on the receiving end of a fire poker being swung at you.   

“Take your shirt off. We can’t let the fabric stick to your blood anymore.” 

“No,” you denied.  “If I did, the girls would see and the whole point of me faking was to not worry them.”  Taehyung stood, grabbing your tanktop before starting to slide it up your body for you.  You squawked as you fought him, but ultimately your squirming made you wince, irritating your belly as Taehyung soon ripped your shirt off you.  Leaving you in your bra, you shivered slightly. 

Taehyung slid off his brown heavy jacket before removing his black, sheer cover from his own white tank.  It was dark enough to cover your wound from eyes and light enough to not irritate it further.  Plus, Taehyung always preferred his own clothing on you anyways.  

He tied the bottoms together in the front to hide your body from view as you rolled your eyes at him.  

“Overprotective as always.  You don’t change, do you?” 

“When it comes to you?  Never.”  He stood you up as he followed you like a shadow as you grabbed a drawstring back, shoving papers and books into it before pulling it shut and slinging it over your shoulder.  

Taehyung helped you out of your room, out of your bar and said goodbye to the familiar faces of your girls before he walked you home.  He knew was it was, obviously.  When you both entered your top floor penthouse, Taehyung moved around like he would any other time.  He knew this place like the back of his hand.  He’s been here more than one time to visit you. 

He started by taking his sheer cover back and pushing you into the bathroom where he took to clean your wound before sticking a hefty amount of gauze and plaster on it.  

Things started to ease up when you made Taehyung reheat your leftover mac and cheese from your fridge for the both of you to eat.  With a game of cards, some stupid jokes and a conversation later, you were found by Taehyung sleeping on the couch when he came back from the bathroom. 

He rolled his eyes in pure endearment as he as easily and gently as he could relocate you to your room and onto your bed.  It was a fine bed Taehyung purchased for you. Wine red bed skirt to hide the frame and box spring with matching covers and black sheets.  Two fluffed pillows with a single long body pillow he gave you as the backboard was dark wood.  

The sultry colors matched you perfectly in both beauty and fundamental standpoints.  It really was no mystery that Taehyung was completely in love with you.  Everyone and their mothers knew it.  You yourself knew it, but you were terrified of a committed relationship just in case something happened to either one of you. 

Taehyung didn’t care though.  He sat on the edge of your bed, brushing your warm cheek with his fingers as he occasionally pushed at the plush skin of your lips.  He smiled down at you.  

“You know I’ll do anything for you,” he told your sleeping body.  He hated it, but he had to leave you now.  He left you a written note pinned under a glass of water and boxed medicine he instructed you take when you wake up for the pain of your wound.  Along with word of him coming back tomorrow so you were to stay home and wait for him.  Absolutely no going outside allowed. 

When he left your penthouse, he pulled his phone from his jeans and pressed 1 on his phone before he made a speed call.  Two rings and his call was answered.  

“Run some camera’s from the western part of town for me.  All of them. I want to take care of some.. personal business.”

That next day, it was afternoon when Taehyung came back into your penthouse.  He found you walking out of your kitchen wearing a loose cropped off shirt to let your plaster covered wound breathe without a shirt.  That coupled with the lousy excuse of underwear only covering your lower half made him almost walk out the window. 

“Have you changed your gauze today?” He asked as he brushed his fingers over your belly.  

“I have.  I did when I woke up. thanks for the medicine by the way, though it tasted awful.” 

“Oh please.  Pills don’t have a taste.” 

“Oh yeah? Tell that to the little bits of it that stayed on my tongue.  It’s fucking bitter.” 

Taehyung rolled his eyes at you.  “I have something for you back at my warehouse.  Want to come to check it out? It’s a present.”  

“A present? For little ole me?  Why you shouldn’t have.”  You chided as Taehyung smiled boxily down at you.  sliding his hand around your waist, taking in your soft skin under his. He had forgone a jacket today.  Just a simple short sleeve shirt in grey and his blue jeans. 

He was soon escorting you out of your home and half an hour later was standing outside his warehouse.  His men were stationed there waiting and expecting his arrival.  He walked over to a man holding a wooden box as he flipped it open and pulled out a gun.  

Taehyung sauntered back to you, his personal favorite old school 6 round revolver.  He had always been a fan of old time firearms.  He didn’t use his revolver often though. Dare you say you were almost excited for what was behind that giant, heavy metal door. 

Placing his hand on your back, he leads you in.  “After you,” he smiled. Inside he had cleared a special place where a man sat beat all to hell and chained down.  Some of his fingers and toes were broken, coupled with and a nasty shiner forming under his eye.  Swollen and beaten, he looked pathetic.   

You whistled in recognition.  This was the man who swung that fire poker at you and resulted in your current wounded state. You looked up at Taehyung who looked at the man he had the pleasure of capturing and beating half to death sitting in his pathetic little spotlight.  No wonder his knuckles were a touch raw and red when he came to get you. 

The man seemed to stiffen when he saw you again, standing next to Taehyung.  Obviously, he had no idea you both knew each other.  Know it made sense to him why Taehyung captured him in the first place.  this was a revenge game and Taehyung just played checkmate. 

Taehyung who stood at your side, brought his hand from your back to around your shoulders and under your chin as he tipped your head up.  Capturing your lips between his, he smirked as he kissed you.  His men looked away as the man sat in his chains shivered.  

Taehyung overpowered you as he pulled on your lips with his teeth and flicked his tongue around yours, encapturing your whimpers and breathes like they were the tobacco of a cigarette. 

Pulling up and away from you, he licked his lips that tasted of you before he flicked his brows up playfully and quickly placed his revolver into your hands.  

“Go trigger-happy my love,” he told you with a smirk.  

“Only if you promise a date after this.” He moved to be at your ear, nipping at it slightly as he grinned. 

“Absolutely,” he let you go, tapping your ass as you walked to the man who shivered in his chain.  Bringing the gun to his head you then moved to his shoulder, his thigh, his gut then forced his mouth open and placed the guns point straight into his throat.  

Smiling a happy goodbye, you pulled the trigger and watched as the bullet ripped through his throat. Then you shot his right shoulder, then his gut, then his thigh and foot. Finally, you pulled the gun up and put him out of his misery by placing the final bullet in his head. 

“Sorry,” you told Taehyung as you gave him his gun back.  “I used all your bullets.  I’ll get you more?” You apologized as he just stuffed the empty gun in his belt loop.  

“All is forgiven, angel.”  Taehyung ushered you both out since he had a date to plan, leaving his men to clean up the broken, bleeding mess of a body.  

~~~~~~~~~

a/n: I think I got a tad bit out of hand >>;;;; yiKES 

[blurry-fics]

Chapter Five

Realize That It’s Gone | Series Masterlist

Warnings: Little bit of angst

Word Count: 2177

Author’s Note: I hope you enjoy this chapter! :) (picture credit)

You must have looked between the text from Tyler and the number on the door at least three times before knocking, just to make sure that you weren’t showing up at some stranger’s apartment. Your hands were shaking a little as you finally stuffed your phone back into your pocket and knocked quietly on the door. Before it had even opened, you heard Tyler’s familiar laugh. Your shoulders instantly relaxed.

“Hey,” Tyler smiled as he opened the door. You took in his plain white t-shirt and basketball shorts, biting back a smile. “You made it.”

“Barely,” you laughed, stepping through the open door.

Your eyes went wide as you took in the new apartment. Tyler hadn’t been kidding about it being a lot nicer than his last one. His keyboard was no longer crammed into a corner, in fact, it was nowhere in sight, meaning that his bedroom was probably big enough to actually have more than just a bed and a closet. The living room was decently sized, with space for multiple couches and a bookshelf that the boys had filled with movies and band-related objects that you didn’t yet know the significance of. Not to mention that you weren’t practically in the kitchen as soon as you walked in the door, there was space for you and Tyler to stand comfortably.

“Wow,” was all you could manage to mutter at first.

“Nice, isn’t it?” Tyler said, looking around with a proud smile.

“I don’t think nice covers it. I mean, you said this was nicer than your last apartment but this… are you sure you’re not famous?” you laughed.

“Not famous.” Tyler shook his head, but he was laughing quietly.

“Hey, Y/N.”

Your eyes shifted to the voice. Josh - who you hadn’t entirely registered as being in the apartment - was sitting on the couch, his tattooed arm slung over the back. He smiled when you met his eyes, making your heart skip a beat.

That was new.

“Hey, Josh.”

You kicked your shoes off by the door and followed Tyler in the living room, still allowing your eyes to wander around the space. He took a seat next to Josh on the couch, so you settled for the armchair that was pushed against the far wall. You kicked your legs up and over the side, letting your feet dangle in the air.

“How was the drive?” Tyler asked.

You shrugged, “Not bad. A lot farther than your old place, for sure, but I actually didn’t mind it too much. I think there’s some back roads that I’ll be able to take to avoid traffic, which will be nice.”

“I think I know which ones you mean,” Josh chimed in. “I take those ones to visit my family.”

“How are they?”

“Not bad. They definitely help during traffic, like you said. There’s some pretty cool scenery, too.”

“Oh, nice,” you grinned.

You took a moment to look over Josh’s appearance, now that he was sitting directly across from you. He had pierced his nose since the last time you had seen him, probably a result of the tour antics Tyler had kept you filled in on. His once dark hair was now a pale blue and sticking out at all angles. And then there were his eyes, a beautiful deep brown with crinkles that formed at the corners when he smiled or laughed.

He must have noticed you staring, because he caught your eye and raised his eyebrows slightly. You pressed your lips together and turned away from him, too embarrassed to keep making eye contact.

“Hey, weren’t we about to make lunch?” Tyler asked, turning to Josh.

“Oh right, I forgot about that,” Josh answered without missing a beat.

Tyler stood up from the couch and started to wander into the kitchen, followed closely by Josh.

“Coming, Y/N?” Tyler asked, looking to you.

“Yeah, I’m coming.”

You swung your legs down and followed the boys to the kitchen. Based on the variety of ingredients that the two of them collected, you were having grilled cheese for lunch.

“Do you want any help?” you asked, drumming your fingers along the edge of the counter.

“You can just sit, if you want,” Tyler answered. “I can make your grilled cheese.”

“Thanks, Ty.”

The boys chatted happily as they made their sandwiches. Tyler was in charge of preparing all of them while Josh got the stove heated up to actually cook them. They were taking their jobs very seriously.

“How long have you two known each other?” Josh asked. He was holding a hand over the pan in front of him, testing how hot it was.

“Careful,” you muttered, eyeing his hand. He smiled. “And, um, we met when we were freshmen in high school. Our English teacher sat us next to one another and the rest is history.”

“Only because I wouldn’t leave her alone,” Tyler laughed as he spread butter onto a piece of bread.

Josh looked to you with furrowed eyebrows. You shook your head slightly, remembering what Tyler had been like when he was fourteen.

“He was always asking me for help on projects,” you explained. “And after awhile I actually started to feel comfortable around him and we talked about stuff that wasn’t related to school. Actually, I don’t think we ever really stopped talking in that class,” you laughed.

“Yeah, Mr. Brown wasn’t really a huge fan of us,” Tyler chimed in.

“That’s cool that you two have known each other so long. I don’t really talk to many of my high school friends anymore,” Josh said. “Also, Y/N, did you want anything to drink?”

You looked to Tyler for a moment, “Do you still keep all of my favorite drinks in your fridge?”

He scoffed, “Obviously.”

“A vanilla Coke would be great,” you said to Josh.

“Coming right up. Did you want anything, Ty?”

“I’ll take a Red Bull.”

Tyler caught your eye as you were waiting for Josh to grab you a drink. He subtly raised his eyebrows, silently asking for your opinion on Josh so far. You smiled and nodded, hoping that it got the right message across.

“Here you go,” Josh said, holding the can out towards you. You hadn’t even fully realized that he had come back.

“Thanks,” you smiled, reaching out to take it from him.

Your fingers briefly brushed against his as he passed the drink to you. Tingles ran up your arm, nearly making you shiver. Tyler shot you a look, but you simply smiled and popped the top of the can open.

“Here’s the first sandwich,” Tyler said, passing it to Josh without looking at him. There was an edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before.

Josh thanked him and tossed it into the pan. The butter began to sizzle. adding another layer of noise to the kitchen.

“Tyler was telling me the other day that you got a cat,” Josh said, his eyes never leaving the sandwich.

“Yeah, my parents got him for me when my brother moved out. I guess he was supposed to keep me company, which he does, but he’s also a pain a lot of the time. He’s constantly breaking stuff.”

“That sounds like a lot of fun,” Josh laughed. He had a nice laugh.

“Not really. Do you have pets? I mean, not here, obviously. But your family?”

“We had a couple different pets growing up. I’ve always wanted a golden retriever, you know, a dog that I could take on runs and stuff. Plus, I could register it as an emotional support animal for anxiety and all that. Maybe even take him on tour, when we’re doing that again.”

Josh turned to Tyler and smiled. Tyler returned his smile, but something about it didn’t seem entirely genuine. There was definitely something going on with him. You made a mental note to ask him about it later.

“Hey, Y/N, watch this.”

Your attention turned back to Josh, who had taken hold of the pan and was now holding it a few inches above the stove. You watched with wide eyes as he flipped the sandwich over, making the fresh butter start to sizzle once again. He turned to you with a proud smile.

“Impressive,” you nodded.

“I’m a man of many talents,” he laughed, shooting you a wink.

You pursed your lips for a moment, allowing your eyes to slide down to the counter in front of you. It was a rare occasion that someone flirted so blatantly with you, but the attention was a welcome occurrence.

*     *     *

Once all of your sandwiches were made and the three of you had your drinks of choice, you made your way back to the living room. Even with adequate space for a dining room table, it seemed the boys still preferred to eat their lunch on the comfort of a couch.

You managed to claim one end of the couch, and Josh was quick to take the other end. Tyler stared at the middle spot for a moment before deciding to sit in the armchair that you had previously occupied. You would have sat there again, but you didn’t want to risk balancing your drink on the armrest and spilling soda all over their brand new apartment floors.

“Damn, this is really good,” you said after finishing your first bite of grilled cheese. “Who knew you were talented musicians and chefs.”

“I couldn’t have done it without him,” Josh laughed, vaguely pointing towards Tyler with his elbow.

“I still don’t know how to cook these things to perfection,” he chimed in.

“He tried many times on tour.”

“Oh, hey, speaking of tour,” you said, setting your sandwich down for a moment. “I was reading through the postcards last night, Ty.” His cheeks started to turn a little pink. “And I noticed that you didn’t get one for Columbus.”

He shrugged, “I figured you wouldn’t want one since you live here.”

“I would have wanted it if it had a little note from you,” you smiled. “I really liked reading all the other ones.”

“I’m glad,” he said, finally allowing himself the smile he had been holding back.

You were happy to see Tyler smiling. He had been acting off all day, but you figured it was just because he was still adjusting to being home again after tour. Even while he was sitting in the chair eating his lunch, it seemed like he could fall asleep at any moment.

“So, what have you been up to these last few months, Y/N?” Josh asked.

“School, mostly,” you laughed. “That, and trying not to go crazy without Tyler here.”

Tyler met your eyes when you said this, his eyebrows raising slightly. You shot him a smile, hoping it would make him feel a little better. Based on the giddy smile he had as he looked back down to his lap, it had done its job.

“Yeah, it’s nice to be back in Ohio,” Josh said. “There’s a lot of people here that I want to get to know.”

Once again, you found yourself trying not to smile like a total idiot. Instead, you settled for taking a bite out of your grilled cheese and hoping that would cover your expression. When you met Josh’s eyes, he was wearing the slightest hint of a smirk on his face.

“I’m sure those people want to get to know you too,” you answered. It wasn’t like you to be forward, but something about Josh’s blatant interest was making you feel bold.

When you looked to Tyler, he was staring straight at Josh. His eyebrows were low over his eyes, but you couldn’t quite place his emotion. He must have realized you were looking at him, because his eyes shifted to meet yours and his expression immediately softened. He only held your gaze for a moment before dropping it back to his lap like he had been doing before.

You definitely had to find out what was going on with him.

“Y/N?” Josh asked.

“Yeah?”

“I asked if you’re from Ohio,” he said. His smile was back.

You told Josh all about how your family had roots in Ohio, which probably bored him more than he would have liked. If it did, he was doing a fantastic job of masking it. The only other person who seemed to enjoy the story - aside from your family, of course - was Tyler.

Tyler. Even as you told Josh all about your family history, you couldn’t stop stealing glances at him to see if he was ok. His eyes had slowly fluttered closed, one half of his sandwich still sitting uneaten on his plate. You were hoping that whatever was going on was nothing more than your run-of-the-mill sleep deprivation, but your gut told you that it ran deeper than that.

You pushed the thought from your mind and focused on Josh. Whatever was bothering Tyler could be figured out later, between the two of you.

At least, that’s what you hoped.

*     *     *     *     *

Taglist

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[caseydreamer]

Unconditional: Hansel and Gretel

(More fairy tale retellings)

------

Rumor said that the witch Gothel lived in a tower deep in the woods in the shadow of the mountains. 

Hansel and Gretel were strange children, the villagers said the twins had a bit of the devil in them. The twins had been born with white hair and pale skin that burned in the sun. Each sporting a pair of big pale blue eyes that seemed to see too much. They had this way of staring at you, like they wanted to see inside your soul. They often kept to themselves, though when one was around the other was never far away. Almost like two sides to the same coin. Sometimes the villagers would catch them playing together on the hill at dusk, making strange shapes in the dirt with sticks and stones and singing ancient children’s rhymes. Their house was littered with strange objects they had found, stones, feathers, sticks, bones and half dead flowers. 

Hansel dragged his feet as he followed Gretel and their father through the forest. Their father carried the big woodcutter axe while Hansel had the little hatchet and Gretel carried their lunch wrapped up in a kerchief. 

“Why is it so hot?” Hansel wined almost drooping as patches of summer sun peered through gaps in the canopy. 

Gretel stopped her skipping and looked at him, grabbing the brim of the large straw hat she wore tied beneath her chin with a scarf, “That’s why you should have worn a hat like me.” She paused for a moment, glancing ahead at the path then back at Hansel. “You can  borrow my hat for a bit.”

Hansel wrinkled his nose “I don’t want your girl hat.” 

“Ok then, get a sunburn. Don’t cry to me when the skin on your face peels off,” She retorted skipping on ahead to keep up with their father. 

Hansel’s eyes went wide “No wait, I’ll take the hat!” He called running to catch up. 

“You said you didn’t want a girl hat,” Gretel sang, sticking her nose up in the air, hiding a snicker.

“No, I take it back, we can take turns with the hat,” Hansel begged. Their father glanced back at them, soldering his axe as they continued deeper into the forest. 

Gretel sighed, “Ok fine.” She untied the scarf and plopped the hat on his head before tying the scarf back on her own head. 

They came to a place in the forest where a big old tree had fallen down in the recent storm. Their father stopped and looked over the tree. “I’ll start work on this tree here, you two can go deeper into the woods to collect smaller fire wood,” He said, setting to work chopping the trunk from the upturned roots, the sound of his axe ringing out through the quiet forest. 

“Come on,” Gretel said, lifting up her skirts as she picked her way around the underbrush. Hansel held on tightly to the brim of his hat, shouldering the hand axe as he followed behind.  Gretel tucked the edge of her skirt into the waistband of her apron and began to pick up branches and sticks. She found a bigger branch and looked at Hansel. “Can you chop this up?” She said nudging it towards him with her foot, her arms full of kindling. He started to work at it with his little hatchet, the smaller kuchthunk sounds mingling with the distant katch katch katch Of their fathers larger axe. 

Gretel took a length of rope that was tucked in her apron and tied it around the bundle of sticks she had collected. Once she finished she set it all down and watched her brother bouncing on her heels for a moment before speaking, “Can I have my hat back?”

Hansel looked up at her pushing the brim of the hat out of the way with his free hand, “You just gave it to me. Five more minutes.”

“But it’s so hot out, and my nose hurts.” 

“I don’t know, cover your face with your scarf or something,” He said, returning his attention to the branch he was cutting into segments.  

Gretel scowled, but she also moved to stand in a better portion of shade. She poked at the ground with the tip of her boot, then squatted down to overturn a large flat rock. Little crawly things with many legs scurried away and dug themselves deeper into the dirt. She grinned, eyes lighting up. 

“Hey, Hansel, look what I found,” She said. Hansel looked up to see a thing with too many legs crawling and writhing in the palm of her hand. 

He shrieked, jumping back, the hat falling off his head, “Keep that away from me! Put that back.” 

Gretel doubled over laughing sitting back on the ground still cupping the crawly thing in her hands. 

Hansel scowled “Put it back,” He pleaded, still lingering several paces away. 

“Ok, ok,” Gretel relented between fits of stifled laughter. “But you should have seen your face,” she added as she returned the crawly thing to where she had found it and picked up her hat plopping it on top of her head. 

Hansel scowled, “Hey, that’s not fair.” 

“I’m not the one who forgot his hat,” She said folding her arms over her chest.

“We’ll I’m the one with the axe.”

Gretel picked up the bundle of sticks and scoffed “Like you would ever,” Then Gretel went quite a frown crossing her face as she looked into the forest back the way they had come.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s quiet... we haven’t heard pa’s axe in a while...”

“Maybe he’s just resting?” Hansel cocked his head not convinced.

“Lets head back,” Gretel slung the bundle of sticks over her shoulder and started trekking back through the forest to where they had left their father. 

When they returned the clearing was empty. The tree partially cut into and no sign of pa or his axe. Gretel looked up at the cut notches in the tree then around at the surrounding forest. 

“Pa? Paa!” Hansel cupped a hand to his mouth and called out. 

Gretel looked back at him, her brow furrowed. “He’ll probably be back in a minute... I’m sure,” She said sitting down on a stone. 

Hansel started back out in the forest for a long moment before turning back to his sister “Ok...” 

Ten minutes passed and he hadn't returned. Hansel paced in circles. “He’s not coming back. What happened to him? We should go looking for him,” he said. 

“Stop spinning your making me dizzy,” Gretel moaned holding her head in her hands and staring at the ground. 

“Come on, we need to go find him.” Hansel tugged at her arm. 

“But where would we look?” Gretel protested.

“I don’t know, we came from that direction so we know he can’t be that way. Let's go this way.” Hansel pointed into the forest in another direction taking his sister's arm and leading her into the woods. 

“Pa! Hey Pa! Where are you?” He called as they trudged deeper and deeper into the trees. The sound of cicadas answered back. The trees began to grow denser, changing from deciduous trees to evergreens, the crunch of dead pine needles following their every step. 

“Maybe we should head back?” Gretel said tugging on his arm reluctantly. 

Hansel stopped and looked around at the trees. “Ok, It doesn't look like he came this way.” 

They turned back and started through the trees but after five minutes Hansel stopped again and scowled at their surroundings. “This doesn't look familiar,”

Gretel’s lip quivered and tears welled up in her glassy eyes, “Are we lost?” 

“Um... No?”

“We’re lost,” Gretel cried. 

“No we’re not,” Hansel stated with more confidence this time, “We can follow the sun. If we head south we should find our way out of the woods eventually.” He looked up at the sky, his face falling, the sun glared down at him from the peek of the sky. He looked back at Gretel who was rubbing tears from her eyes with her sleeve as she fought the urge to cry. “Let's stop and eat lunch first. We still have the food you brought,” He said. 

Gretel sniffed and nodded. She handed him the bundle of food and gathered her skirts so she could sit down under one of the pine trees. Hansel sat down next to her and untied the bundle of food in his lap. There was brown bread with nuts in it and a piece of cheese for each of them. There was also their father's portion. Gretel stared at it, tears welling up in her eyes again. 

“Don’t cry, we’ll find him, it’s going to be fine.”  

“Then why didn’t he answer? Where did he go?” She sobbed pulling her knees up and burying her face in her skirts. 

Hansel looked awkwardly at the food in his lap then placed a reassuring hand on Gretel’s shoulder. “Pa is strong, he can handle anything. Maybe he went to get more water. Or maybe he went looking for us and we just missed each other,” he reassured. He glanced back up at the sky for a moment before taking a portion of bread and cheese and holding them out to his sister “Come on now, eat something and then we can head back home. I’m sure he will be there waiting for us.” 

Gretel lifted her ruddy tear stained face. She took a hiccupy breath as she tried to calm herself and wiped her nose with her apron before taking the food from him. They ate in silence and when they had finished Hansel tied their father's portion back up in the kerchief and tucked it in his belt. 

“Come on, let's go,” He said, helping Gretel up and glancing at the sky. The sun was still directly overhead. He tried to remember the way they had come. “It’s this way,” he said, choosing a direction and leading his sister into the woods again. 

As they continued to walk the forest only became denser, the sky became over cast and even though it was no longer noon they still couldn’t see the sun. Hansel scowled, glancing around at the trees. 

“Were never getting home,” Gretel wailed. 

“That’s not true. When the sun comes out we’ll be fine,” Hansel said

“That’s what you said last time and we are still lost,” Gretel whined. 

“That’s because the sun hasn’t come out yet... wait... do you smell that?” Hansel stopped and took a long sniff.

“What? Pine trees?” Gretel wrinkled her brow.

“No, apple pie!” He started in the direction of the smell, the both of them slowing down as they came to the edge of a clearing, in the middle of which was a tall tower of stone. They crouched down in the underbrush and watched as a raven flew from the yard to perch in a nearby tree. A small vegetable garden grew next to the tower and crawling vines covered in flowers clawed their way up the stonework. There was a painted green door with a brass handle in the front of the tower and a window stood open on the side of the tower leading into the first floor. And on the windowsill sat a steaming fresh apple pie. 

Hansel’s eyes lit up and Gretel smiled. The twins looked at each other and nodded before sneaking across the clearing and around the garden. They crouched beneath the window listening for a moment, there was silence. Gretel reached up and lifted the pie from the sill setting it down between the two of them. 

It was the perfect temperature, not too hot to touch but still quite warm. They dug their hands into it eating it with their fingers stuffing their faces with the warm cinnamon apples and buttery crust. Licking sticky fingers they traded joyous looks as they wolfed down the delicious pastry. 

“What are you two doing!” an angry voice called from the window. Gretel jumped and looked up. An older girl with long black hair and pale skin leaned out the window glowering down at them. “Who said you could steal my pie! You really shouldn’t be eating that. Get up, get out of here before I decide to eat you!” She cried waving her arms trying to shoo them away. 

Hansel didn’t seem to notice, everything was swimming. Were the walls made of candy? 

“Why is Hansel licking the wall?” Gretel asked before giggling uncontrollably, her hand’s felt funny. “I have a lot of fingers.” She giggled.

The girl sighed climbing out of the window, she was dressed in trousers and a linen shirt, her black hair braided down to her knees. “That is why you’re not supposed to eat the pie. Stop licking the wall,” She pulled Hansel away from the wall and he sat down and started licking his fingers which were still sticky from the pie. “How did you even get here? people aren’t even supposed to find this place.”

Gretel blinked at her still giggling and pointed at the forest. “We came from the trees, the tree’s have eyes... When did those get there?” 

The girl groaned and looked at the sky. She looked back at the two children sitting on her lawn then at the half eaten pie. She picked up the pie and climbed back through the window with it. A moment later Gretel clambered through the window falling to the floor with an unceremonious thump. 

“No. No. You are not allowed in my house.” The girl jumped up from where she was leaning over the fireplace and grabbed a broom striding towards Gretel to shoo her back out the window. Gretel crawled under the table, her giggles evolving to fits of unstoppable laughter. The girl poked the broom under the table smacking Gretel with the straw end of the broom. “Get out from under there! You little monster. I am going to eat the both of you. Stew you in a pot and eat you!”

“Eat us?” Hansel queried as he peered in through the window and draped himself over the sill like laundry out to dry.

The girl switched to prodding Hansel with the end of her broom and Gretel took the opportunity to crawl out from the other side of the table, her laughter turning to tears as she started to find it hard to breath. Hansel slid over the sill and rolled onto the floor. Gretel crawled into a corner and started rocking back and forth still crying and Hansel stared up at the ceiling “Look stars,” he muttered wide eyed.   

The black haired girl looked around the room pulling her hair before turning to the full length mirror that stood in the corner of the room. “What am I supposed to do with hallucinating children? This is your fault. They weren’t even supposed to be able to find this place,” 

“The man in the mirror says you should give us candy,” said Hansel from the floor. 

The girl looked down at him crossing her arms. “No. I’m not dealing with this. Nope, not dealing,” She said turning on her heel and heading up the stairs. 

Hansel peeled himself off the floor and crawled over to where Gretel sat. She had finally stopped crying and was staring at her fingers. “My fingers are weird,” she whispered her tear stained face quite red from crying and laughing. 

Several hours later the black haired girl came back down the stairs and looked about the trashed kitchen, the two children having fallen asleep on the floor, Gretel on the hearth and Hansel in a patch of sunlight. The girl scowled and then turned to the mirror. “Alright, show me what happened.” She picked up a jar from the mantle and taking out some powder she blew it on the mirror. The image in the mirror shifted and showed the twins rummaging through the kitchen in fast motion, turning over baskets, at one point Gretel climbed up on Hansel’s shoulder so she could reach a top shelf. The chair was thrown out the window with some effort and a tower was made with firewood. 

The mirror faded back to reflect the girls tall slender figure. She buried her face in her hands and groaned “Why me,” She muttered. She glanced back at the mirror, “Too bad I can’t actually eat them.” She sighed, turning back to the room and picked up an empty basket from where it had fallen and righted the rest of the stack of baskets. She looked over the rest of the room pursing her lips at the smashed glass and pickling juice on the floor by the table. She shook her head and turned on her heel hedging out the door with the basket. Heading out to the garden she began picking peas, the long green pods rounded with large fresh beans inside. She picked the peas, dropping them into the basket, humming as she worked. A raven flew down from a tree and landed on the upturned chair. It cawed at her and she glanced up at it. “I know, they’ve disturbed our home. Don’t worry, they’ll be gone soon. No, I’m not actually going to eat them, that would be gross,” She shooed the raven off the chair, it hoped to the ground and she righted the chair sitting down in it as she began shelling the peas. 

The raven cawed again and hopped about on the grass hopefully. She sighed and threw him some of her peas “You are going to get fat you know.” 

There was a sneeze from behind her and she turned around to see Hansel and Gretel staring at her through the window. Their head bobbed back down beneath the sill out of sight.  

The girl jumped up “Oh no you don’t, you two wrecked my kitchen.” She marched over to the window and leaned inside to look at the two children on the floor. Hansel paled and Gretel looked back up at her and scowled.

“So you are not going to eat us?” Gretel demanded crossing her arms over her chest, her hat falling off and landing on the ground next to her.

The girl sighed. “You are too skinny and would taste bad. Instead you two can help clean up the mess you made and then I can show you the way out of the forest. 

“Clean?” Hansel’s nose wrinkled as he looked at the disaster of a room that the kitchen had become. 

Gretel smacked him with her hat before putting it back on. “Yes, clean. She is going to take us back home.” 

Two hours later the setting sun peered through the window into the spotless kitchen. 

“Honestly, I say, it looks better than it did before,” The girl smiled, shouldering the broom and looking about the space. 

Hansel’s fingers felt raw from scrubbing the floor, and Gretel never wanted to sort another vegetable again, but a small bubble of pride and satisfaction welled up in both of them as they looked at their handy work. 

“Alright, a promise is a promise, time to send you home,” The girl took the jar of powder from the shelf and handed it to Gretel. “Blow this on the mirror and tell it to show you your home.” 

Gretel blinked and looked at the jar for a moment Hansel leaned in to get a better look, it was a pale peach color with flecks of green and copper. He breathed in too deeply and turned abruptly as he sneezed. 

“Stop wasting time, I don’t have all day.” The girl said. 

Gretel took some of the powder in her hand, glancing at the girl skeptically as he stepped up to the mirror and blew some onto the glass. “Show me home.” 

The image in the mirror rippled and shifted, trees and a log cabin appeared, a woman in a blue dress and apron stood outside wringing her hands and staring at the woods. A moment later the image of their father came out of the house and gently led her back inside. The image rippled again and a moment later Gretel’s pale blue eyes stared back at herself, her brother lingering over her shoulder. 

“Alright, that should do,” The girl said, taking the jar back from Gretel. She took a handful of the powder and drew a circle on the floor with it. She took a handful of wood chips and set them down at the south-east corner of the circle. “I am going to need your scarf.” She said holding out her hand to Gretel as she crouched over the circle. Gretel hesitated a moment then Hansel grabbed it from her and handed it to the girl. She set it down at the north-west corner of the circle and stood up brushing her hands off. 

“Alright. Now just stand in the circle and think about home.” 

Gretel bit her lip staring apprehensive at the circle. 

Hansel grabbed her arm and dragged her into the circle “Come on, I’m sure it will work, you saw what the mirror did!” 

Hansel held Gretel’s hand and Squeezed his eyes shut but Gretel started “Wait,” she called “What’s your name?” 

The girl smiled “Gothel,” She replied, “Now send these children home.” She clapped her hands together, there was a flash of light and the children were gone. 

Gothel sighed and looked around the room, her stomach grumbling, “And I didn’t have time to make dinner... maybe I should have eaten them.”

------

There was a flash and Hansel and Gretel were standing on the edge of the forest, their log cabin in front of them.

“We should sneak up and burst through the door to surprise them,” Hansel whispered. Gretel nodded and taking his hand they crept up to the front door.

They paused in front of the door, the murmur of voices could be heard inside, Gretel's hand hovered over the door knob.

“It’s for the best,” Their Father's voice carried through the door and the sound of their mother crying could be heard. Hansel and Gretel glanced at each other. Gretel pushed the door open and peered inside. “Ma?” 

Their mother lifted her head from where she was crying into their fathers shoulder, her tear stained face lit up with joy. Their mother rushed forwards still crying as she hugged them and showered them with kisses. Looking them over to see if they were injured, straightening Gretel’s dress and rubbing dirt from Hansel’s face. 

Their father stood quietly watching from the corner.      

[turtle-steverogers]

Fugitives- Chap 8

its 1:30 am and this is trash, so forgive me, but its worth reading to the end because PLOT POINTS!!

also idk why but this chap was really hard to yeet out.  i have like the whole fic planned, but i needa get there first if that makes sense so writing the shit leading up to the REAL SHIT is hard but stay tuned cuz it gets really fucking saucy in the future oooooo

warnings: non graphic gunshots and kinda death shit but its really nothing compared to previous chaps so its fine

ship: eventual ralbert

editing: no and its obvious.  sorry

Although Albert’s mental state was far from okay, it was in his nature to be optimistic.  As much as everything had gone to shit in the past week, he forced himself to get up every day and assimilate as best as possible into gang life.  The nightmares hadn’t stopped yet, though.  Every night, he was plagued with clear images of Elmer, dead against the wall of Sarah’s apartment, brain matter splattered aimlessly on the eggshell white walls behind his lifeless form.  But he learned quickly that a hot shower almost always brought him down, and since the night that Race had confessed his experience with Rockefeller to him, he had learned to keep quiet during a breakdown.

Ever since the night of Albert and Race’s talk, the dynamic between them changed significantly.  Albert found himself relaxing around him, and would often join him for breakfast, which for Race never seemed to deviate from a singular banana.  They got into the habit of playing various card or board games in the rec room after trades and Albert learned very quickly that Race had a talent for strategy.  He rarely won against him, but his competitive disposition forced him to continue game after game.

“Check,” Race exclaimed, eyes glinting triumphantly as he moved his bishop in line with Albert’s king.  It was Saturday night, exactly a week after Albert’s arrival in Empire, and trades had been particularly slow that day.  Romeo and Jojo had gone to handle the one trade they had in Staten Island, leaving the rest of the group to mill about the theatre lazily.  Snow had begun to fall rapidly outside, so the prospect of leaving was quickly shot down.

“Bullshit, you cheated,” Albert countered, squinting at Race, “We’ve been playing for, like, two minutes.  There’s no way you already have me in check.”

“Not cheating,” Race said, loftily, “Just really good.”

Albert shook his head, scanning the board for any moves he could make in an attempt to escape Race’s bishop.  He sighed when it became evident that he was stuck.

“You’re a motherfucker, Higgins,” Albert mumbled as Race took his king, cackling.

“I may be,” Race grinned, “But I’m a smart motherfucker.”

“In some respects, but don’t give yourself more credit than you’re worth.”

“Rude,” Race pouted.  Albert snorted, glancing to the side at the TV, which was playing the local news, as per usual.  He frowned when the camera zoomed in on what looked like a crime scene.  Race followed his gaze and both boys blanched as the reporter spoke.

“This morning, Soho residents, Elmer Kasprzak and Sarah Wilkinson, were found dead in their apartment,” He said, solemnly, “Officials predict that they had been dead for nearly a week before their discovery.  Several gunshot wounds were found during the autopsies, clarifying the cause of death.  But perhaps the most disturbing detail, was the graffiti found on the wall at the scene of the crime,” The camera zoomed in on the symbol for death that Race had spray painted that day, “This notorious symbol is known to be used by Empire and Prospect.  Two of the warring gangs here in New York City.”

Albert hadn’t even noticed he was shaking until Race reached out and tentatively took the pawn that he had been holding out of his iron grip.

Albert’s tongue felt heavy as he spoke, “Sarah was, uh, she was killed, too?”

Race set his jaw, eyes fixed on the chess board, “I didn’t know.  But, yeah, I guess Jack and Davey didn’t wanna risk it.”

Albert closed his eyes, desperately trying to stop the tremors in his chest.  He could feel Race watching him, but he couldn’t stand to look at him right now.  Sure, he had predicted that Sarah wouldn’t be let off the hook, but seeing it become a reality felt like someone burning an exposed nerve.  He felt sick.

“I’m gonna shower,” He said, after another few seconds of tense silence, save for the disturbing murmur of the TV.

Race didn’t say anything as Albert walked out of the room on shaky legs, numbly venturing to the showers.  He stopped along the way to grab a towel from the bathroom bin, but frowned when he found a note saying all the towels were being washed.  Scowling, he turned down the adjacent hallway to the bathrooms and entered he laundry room.

He startled slightly when he found Crutchie, perched on top of the washing machine, pulling towels out of the dryer to fold them.  He looked up when Albert entered.

“Heya, Al,” He chirped, smiling too widely for Albert’s liking, “Need something?”

Albert licked his lips, acutely aware of the nausea that still thrummed in his stomach, “Uh, yeah,” he croaked, clearing his voice a bit, “Just, uh, just a towel?”

“Ah,” Crutchie hummed, taking a folded towel from the top of the pile and tossing it to Albert, “Sorry ‘bout that.”

Albert nodded his thanks and turned to leave, but was stopped by Crutchie’s voice, “You okay?”

Albert plastered on a fake smile, “Peachy.”

Crutchie studied him for a moment, “You’re pale.  You sick?  I could get you some-”

Albert waved a shaking hand, effectively quieting the other man, “I’m fine, man, I just wanna shower.”

Crutchie’s looked like he wanted to say more, but he simply shrugged, pulling another towel out of the dryer, “Alright,” he sighed, “Hey, I know we’re part of a gang and soft shit ain’t really, like, a thing.  But if you ever need someone to talk to…” he trailed off and Albert shifted uncomfortably.

“Uh, thanks,” he said, hand on the doorknob.  He really just wanted to shower.

Crutchie seemed to sense this, “Alright, I’ll letcha go, man.  Have a nice shower.”

Albert shot him a thumbs up and left the laundry room.  To his relief, the bathroom was vacant and he locked the door, savoring the solitude it provided him.  He turned the shower to the hottest setting and stepped in, allowing the water to wash over him.  He breathed deeply as the shivers that wracked his body slowed to a stop.  Ten minutes later, his mind was significantly clearer and he couldn’t help but think that he was getting better at handling this.  

He climbed into bed, stomach rumbling, and with a jolt, he realized that he hadn’t eaten dinner.  He considered getting up to find a snack, but decided against it.  He’d just eat extra in the morning.  Besides, everyone else seemed to have gone to bed while he was in the bathroom and he didn’t really know how to cook.

He settled into his blanket, taking his phone off the floor and clicking into his Snapchat.  A lot of his streaks were lost in the last week, but he decided to send out a few just for the sake of it.  He didn’t want to lose all connections to his previous life.  His friend, York, answered a few moments later, demanding to know where he’d disappeared to.  Biting his lip, Albert decided to leave him on read.  It wasn’t worth the trouble.

“Hey, Al, you up?” Albert lifted his head off of his pillow.  Through the curtain, he could see the outline of Race’s curly hair propped on his hand.

“Yeah, what’s up? You good?” He whispered back, shifting so that he could hear better.

“No, yeah, I’m good. I was just gonna tell you to follow my meme account.”

“On Instagram?”

“Yeah.”

Albert suppressed the urge to laugh, “I mean, uh, sure.  What’s your user?”

“Uh,” Race pulled back the curtain and peered around, making eye contact with Albert, “It’s a shit ton of underscores, then hotdogmilk- all one word- then another underscore.”

This time Albert really did laugh, but more out of disbelief than anything else, “You’re kidding.”

“No?” Race’s eyebrows furrowed, “That’s it.”

“No, no it’s just that I’ve been following you since you were at 400 followers.  Good content, man.”

Race was practically glowing, “Thanks!”

“Yeah, no problem,” Albert hesitated, then asked on a whim, “Wanna go make mac and cheese?  I haven’t eaten since lunch.”

Race smirked, already moving to put on a pair of socks, “Yeah, man, I’m down.”

They tiptoed to the kitchen and quietly got out the ingredients.  Albert was reaching for a box of elbow macaroni, when Race stopped him, “Ah, ah, let’s use my stash,” he said, winking.

Albert frowned, “Your stash?”

Race nodded, kneeling on his hands and knees to reach under the sink.  He brought out a gallon sized plastic bag, filled with penne pasta.

He held it up, grinning, “No one else knows about this, but it’s a Higgins family specialty.”

Albert’s eyebrows shot up, “You make pasta?”

Race blinked owlishly, “Yeah,” he said, sounding vaguely condescending, “I’m Italian.”

Albert jerked his head back in surprise, “You’re Italian?”

“I know,” Race said, “The blonde hair and blue eyes are off-putting, but yeah, I’m Italian,” he moved to put water on the stove, “Weren’t you there when I cursed Jack out in Italian after he won poker the other night?”

Albert put a saucepan on the stove next to the pasta pot, “I mean, I was, but I thought you were just extra like that.”

“Nope,” Race said, “I mean, you’re not incorrect, I am extra, but that was legit.”

“Wow,” Albert said, starting to melt butter for the cheese sauce, “The more ya know.”

“So, tell me about yourself, Al,” Race said, conversationally as he waited for the water to boil.

Albert glanced sideways at him, adding some flour and milk to the butter to create a bechamel sauce, “What do you want to know?”

Race shrugged, sticking out his bottom lip a bit, “I dunno, what do you like to do?  What are your interests?”

Albert stirred the pot thoughtfully, “I don’t really know.  I was studying to become a mechanical engineer before all this shit went down, so I dunno.  Stuff like that.”

“Damn,” Race breathed, “Mechanical engineering’s pretty intense.”

“Nah, s’just numbers and stuff,” Albert said, nonchalantly, “Couldya pass me the cheddar cheese?”

Race passed him the bag of cheese and watched as he added it to the now thick sauce.

“What about you?” Albert asked, “What are your interests?”

Race scuffed the floor with his toe, looking mildly uncomfortable, “I dunno, I haven’t done much outside of shit for Empire,” he paused for a moment, “But I do like to read.  I’m not great at it, but I like doing it.”

“Yeah?” Albert was a little surprised, Race didn’t seem like the reading type, “What do you like to read?  Also, the water’s boiling.”

“Shit,” Race scrambled to turn down the stove, then added a fair amount of salt to the water before pouring his pasta in, “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“Anyway,” Race continued, probing the pasta to break the pieces apart, “I like books that make you, like, think, ya know?  Like, 1984, and shit like that.”

Albert clicked his tongue approvingly, “That’s a goodass read.”

“Ain’t it?  Like, it’s not like the other shit dystopian novels.  It’s got hella depth and is more than just, death and destruction and shit.”

Albert nodded, “I feel,” he brought the cheese sauce off the heat and covered it with a lid, “That’s definitely on my list of favorites.”

“I thought I heard voices,” Albert and Race jumped violently at the new presence.  A boy, who looked no older than 10 years old, was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, wearing a white undershirt and Star Wars themed pajama pants.

“Les!” Race blurted out, “It’s, like, near midnight.  You should be asleep.”

“I’m 11,” Les said, looking slightly offended, “I don’t have a bedtime.”

Race floundered for a moment, but Les was already moving to seat himself at the counter, “Anway,” he smiled, “Hi, Albert.”

Albert blinked, “How did you know-”

“I heard there was a new guy and I don’t recognize you.  I put two and two together, it’s not rocket science.”

Albert and Race exchanged a bemused look, “Anway, what’re you guys making?” Les questioned, gesturing to the pots on the stove.

“Mac and cheese,” Race said, draining the cooked pasta, “Want some, squirt?”

Les rolled his eyes, “I stopped being squirt when I turned ten, you useless Italian.”

“Geez,” Race looked slightly wounded, “Harsh crowd.  Guess you don’t want any.”

“Bitch!” Les squeaked, “Of course I want mac and cheese.”

“Then you better respect your elders,” Race sang, transferring the pasta to the cheese sauce pan and stirring.  

Les hopped down, peering over his shoulder at the mac and cheese, “That’s what good pussy sounds like.”

“Les,” Race scolded, as Albert and Les cackled,  “No vine references.  That’s my thing!”

“Who said!”

“I did!”

“So what?”

“Listen, you tiny shit-”

“Guys!” Albert cut them off, “Can we just eat the goddamn mac and cheese?  I’m starving.”

Race huffed, but served three bowls of the dish nonetheless.  They all sat at the counter, digging in right away.

“Holy shit,” Albert said, mouth full of pasta, “This is really fucking good penne, Race, what the fuck.”

Race smiled, cheeks stuffed with food, making him resemble some sort of blonde chipmunk, “Thanks!”

They ate in silence, the only sound being the scrape of forks against ceramic bowls.  Each of them helped themselves to seconds, then thirds, until it was all eventually gone.

“Wow, I have a massive food baby, now,” Les commented, patting his stomach idly.

“Me too,” Race groaned, “And I forgot my lactose pills, so I’m aboutta die.”

Albert choked on the water he was drinking, “You’re lactose intolerant, too?”

“Yeah, wait,” Race said, eyeing him, “Does this mean you also forgot your lactose pills?”

Les looked between them a few times, “Rip,” he muttered.

They cleared their dishes, then got to work tidying up the kitchen.  They finished fairly quickly and made to go back to their beds, but were stopped short by a very annoyed looking Davey outside the kitchen.

“Lester Jacobs,” he reprimanded, arms folded at his chest.  He looked like a mother.  A very terrifying, murderous mother, “What are you doing still awake?”

Les shrugged, pushing past him down the hallway, “Midnight snack!” He called over his shoulder.

Davey sighed, “Kids,” he muttered, addressing Albert and Race for the first time, “Did I miss mac and cheese?”

Albert glared at him, hatred bubbling in his stomach.  He hadn’t had many interactions with Davey since the day of Elmer’s murder.  Only a passing glance here or there.  He still made Albert’s skin crawl.  His authoritative and oddly stoic demeanor sat badly in his stomach and that, combined with the fact that he quite literally shot his best friend in the head, made him a candidate for the top of Albert’s enemy list.

“Yeah, sorry, bucko,” Race said, clapping him on the back apologetically.

“Shame,” Davey said with no real emotion behind his words, “Anyway, do you think you two could pick up a trade in Queens tomorrow?”

Albert opened his mouth to snap something, but Race interjected before he could, “Sure, what time?”

Davey clicked into his phone, pulling up a photograph of some graffiti, “It looks like, um, 7:15.  Heroin trade.”

Race’s jaw dropped, “7:15 am?”

“Looks like it,” Davey said, “Here, I’ll send you the picture for reference.”

“Thanks, Davey-o.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Sorry.”

XXX

Albert woke up to a faceful of shaving cream.  He choked, spluttering for a minute, before gathering his wits enough to wipe the cream off of his face.  

He sat up, glaring at Race, who was holding a can of shaving cream, an innocent smile plastered on his face, “I tried to shake you awake, but you were comatose.  I had to resort to extreme measures.”

Wordlessly, Albert took a handful of cream off his face and chucked it at Race, who dodged it skillfully, “Bitchass,” he grumbled.

“C’mon, I already letcha sleep in some,” Race said, nudging Albert’s exposed leg with his boot, “We gotta get going.  Wash up while I get the shit from Finch.”

Albert flipped him off, but got up nonetheless, getting clothes from his bin, before heading to the bathrooms to clean off his face and freshen up.  Ten minutes later, the two of them were exiting the theatre into the snow, bananas in hand.  It was 6:45 and still dark, casting a calm atmosphere over the city.  They were to be in Corona, Queens in a half-hour, so they opted to take a taxi rather than the subway.  Albert was still fairly tired, so he took the ride to doze against the window.  They arrived 20 minutes later and trekked through the cold to the location of a trade, teeth chattering in the wind.

“I think it’s in here,” Race said, nodding his head towards an old furniture store on the corner of one street.  

They entered the shop and Albert frowned, “How will we know who to give the trade to?” He whispered as they made their way to the back.

“A code for heroin in our circle is ‘powder’, so I’ma ask if they have any and see what the guy responds with.”

Albert nodded, following him to the counter, where a young man, probably around twenty, was sitting.  He looked half-asleep, but perked up when they approached, “Can I help you?”

“Yeah,” Race said, “Got any powder?”

The guy raised his eyebrows skeptically, “You Empire?”

Race reflexively looked over his shoulder, tensing up slightly, but he recovered quickly, “Depends who’s asking.”

“Trevor.”

Race relaxed upon hearing the name, “Beautiful, yes.  I’m Empire.  Got the dough?”

Trevor nodded, opening the cash register and pulling out fifty dollars.  Race grinned and held out his hand expectantly.  Trevor rolled his eyes and reluctantly placed the cash in his outstretched palm.

“Kay, there’s your shit,” He snapped, “Where’s mine?”

Race pocketed the money and reached into his jacket, pulling out a neatly folded paper bag and placing it on the counter.  He waited while Trevor poured out the contents and studied it for a moment before nodding.  He looked pleased as he spit into his palm and held it out for Race to take, who returned the gesture.

“Thank ya,” He said.

“Welcome,” Race said, pumping his hand too enthusiastically for 7 am, “Pleasure doing business.”

“Likewise.”

They exited the store, delayed only briefly by Race getting sidetracked by an ugly carpet purse, claiming that Romeo would love it.  Eventually, Albert was able to drag him out and down the street, but before they could hail another taxi, Race let out a yelp and pulled Albert into a small bodega.

“What are we here for?” Albert hissed, tugging on Race’s sleeve as he browsed the aisles.

“I’m tryna get high tonight,” Race said distractedly, plucking a bag of jalapeno cheetos off a shelf, “And these,” he held up the bag for Albert to see, “Are wonderful when the munchies hit.”

Albert bit his lip, annoyance and vague fear pricking the back of his neck, “And we couldn’ta done this, I don’t know, in our own turf where we aren’t at risk of getting fucking killed?”

“Please,” Race scoffed, “We’re always at risk of getting killed.”

“What if some Prospect guys catch us?”

“I’ve got a gun and a knife, we’re fine.”

“Okay, but what if-”

“Jesus Christ, shut up and let me buy fucking cheetos, it’ll take two seconds.”

Albert squinted at him, but stopped talking nonetheless.  Race began to scan the shelves again and Albert glanced around, zeroing in on a packet of gum.  In a sudden moment of impulse, he reached out and opened it, taking a singular piece of gum out and popping it into his mouth.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Race asked, cocking his head, making him look like a confused dog.

“I’m a criminal now,” Albert said, chewing, “May as well live up to it.”

“By stealing gum?”

Albert blew a bubble, popping it loudly, “Yes.”

“Alrighty then,” Race said, slowly, “Lemme check out, I’ll be right back.”

Albert wandered around the store for a few more minutes before Race met him by the milk, “Ready to go?”

Albert nodded, putting the gallon of chocolate milk he had been studying back in the refrigerator. They got out of the bodega to see that the sun had risen completely and Albert had to squint to see clearly.  

Race clicked into his phone, mumbling something about ordering an Uber this time, because they’re cleaner, but shouts from the alley they were next to put them on alert.  Race and Albert frowned at one another before scooting closer to hear.

“What the fuck is this?” A low, gravelly voice, thick with a Brooklyn accent, growled.

“Uh, it’s uh, it’s weed, man, like I said,” Another voice said, fear dripping in their tone.

“No, asshole,” The Brooklyn accent snarled, “This is fucking oregano.”

“I didn’t know, man, I’m-”

“Save it.  Hotshot, take care of him,” Brooklyn accent barked, “Motherfucker really thinks he can trick the King of Brooklyn.”

“You got it, boss,” A new voice said.  Albert spared a glance at Race, who had turned a scary shade of white.  He looked like he was shaking and Albert frowned.  What was happening?  A gunshot brought both of them out of their trances and Race cursed under his breath, grabbing Albert’s arm and running in the opposite direction.  As they sprinted, Albert couldn’t help but be reminded of the day they met, when Race was running from the police.  Albert grimaced to himself as he thought about how simple his life had still been then.  He missed it, but this was his life now and there were more pressing issues at hand.

They stopped in a new alleyway, several blocks away.  Albert leaned against the wall, sucking in air in an attempt to catch his breath.

“So much for an Uber,” He panted, “What the fuck just happened?  Were those Prospect guys?”  

He looked up at Race, who had his back against the bricks, eyes squeezed shut and arms laced behind his head.  He seemed to take a moment to compose himself, before opening his eyes and locking his gaze with Albert.  His expression was indescribable and Albert couldn’t help the wave of dread that flooded his body like ice water.

“That was Prospect alright,” Race said, swallowing, “That there,” He paused, taking a deep breath, “that was Spot Conlon.”

-

OOO SPOTTIE BOY IS HERE (BROOKYLNS HEREEEE)

thanks for reading, chiefs

hmu to be added to my tag

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[themockingcrows]

Two Fates, Two Kingdoms Ch. 16: Survive

This chapter is SFW! cw: animal death, blood, animal attacks This chapter is available on AO3! John/Dave, Jake

Long distance travel is difficult as it is, but long distance travel in winter conditions through rough terrain can feel damn near impossible. With their feet finally on the snowy terrain of Derse, the trio finally get a taste of just how dangerous this mountainous territory can truly be.

    Dave woke warm in his bundled bedding, with the heavy press of a prince at either side of his body from how closely they'd slept in their fireless camp. An extra weight pressed down atop him, feather light and barely noticeable till he'd started to move in place, trying to buy himself more time before he needed to get into the cold air to pee. He shuffled his legs a few more times before lifting his arms to open up the head space, flinching when powdery snow fell in on top of him and letting out a gaspy yelp. John and Jake snorted and immediately rolled his direction as if trying to cover him over before they'd even opened their own bags up, a nice thought in context but in reality a terrible idea as all it did was share two people's worth of snow collection onto his face as well. There was no describing just how thankful Dave really was that there wasn't more than half an inch of snowfall thus far, and that what was still currently falling was in the form of big, fat, slow falling flakes.

    “Whatsit, where's--? Shit,” John muttered, thrashing to get his head out, then immediately changing his mind and retreating. “Fuck me that's cold!”

    Jake, alert now but not as rushed considering Dave hadn't continued to make sounds or give them any follow up information, peered out and around with a yawn before snow lit upon his bangs and eyelashes. He groaned under his breath and dropped back flat on the ground with a few rubs to his face.

    “The horses're still there, right?”

    “No idea, I haven't looked,” Dave said. The pressure in his bladder had only grown with the cold exposure and he knew he had no choice but to carefully get out into the open air, put on his boots, and make his way into the fresh canvas that surrounded them. He cast a glance towards the last place he'd seen them, listening closely in the dark gray of morning to make up for the lack of depth perception making the distance a bit harder to interpret between the trees. A soft nicker from one, then another horse in the gloom answered the question for him.

    “Good horsies. Good,” Jake said to the air in reply. “Sleeping was a good plan, I don't want to imagine how I'd be after a round of guard duty on top of how sleepy I already feel.”

    “Five more hours, please,” John mumbled with his mouth behind the material of his sleeping bag, not wanting to rise again to the crisp air. Dave had slowly sat up in the chill and unfolded the top edges of his boots to rid the entire mass of snow, shaking them a few times before extracting himself from the sleeping bag and rising up into a boot at a time. A brave Dersian approaching uncomfortable but familiar territory, far braver than the Prospitians who were already in their worst element with more to come in their future.

    “Oof.. It's not as bad once the rest of you is out in it,” he promised, rubbing down his legs and the sides of his arms before traipsing off through the far side of their camp to the brush, knocking balanced snow like piles of sugar down from the tops of low bent branches as he passed them by. In the stillness of the morning it was honestly gorgeous out there, cold or not, standing as a stark wonderland of crystals and soft grays and blues over glistening white. It nearly made it worth it to have to get out of bed and start moving.

    Nearly.

    “You're a filthy liar, Dave, but I still love you,” said John as he slowly extracted himself from his own nest with a displeased shiver. “Oh what I'd give for my fireplace.. Or a hot bath. Or a hot bath with breakfast on a tray to the side,” he groaned.

    “Hot bath when we're in Derse, and breakfast is from the bags.”

    “Can we warm it,” John asked hopefully, already knowing the answer long before Jake sighed and shook his head. “All the more pity, then.”

    “We'll be able to have a better camp the further along we go. Eventually we'll have fire, even. We'll need to, to keep ourselves going and to help the horses,” said the elder prince as he too rose to face the day. “We're already going to be running them quite hard. Should rub them down before we set out again, actually.”

    “Poor things. I don't even want to be out here, I can't imagine they're thrilled to be away from their cozy pens,” came Dave's voice as he shuffled back into view, tucking his trousers into place beneath the top edge of his tunic.

    “The horses will survive, but I might not,” said John. “Isn't Derse colder than this? Are we just heading into an ice flow?”

    Dave's nod made him pout.

    “Derse gets colder than this, yes. But there's a chance we'll have missed the worst of it. And don't forget, we'll be able to have fire eventually! We'll be able to warm up when it gets colder out!”

    “When we stop. We'll be icicles while riding,” snuffled the younger prince as he rubbed his own arms and tramped off through the snow for his own turn with the bushes like a changing of the guard before a vast estate.

    “We're still in Prospit you know. How do you plan on surviving for any length of time in Derse if we're still there by this season next?” Dave asked as he crouched and grabbed his bedding, shaking it off before starting to roll it up tight. It'd be suitable to sit on till they headed out at least and would give him a comfortable place to eat his breakfast before the saddle once more claimed him. There wasn't much time to waste, but time was still precious.

    Jake seemed to be of similar mind, already following Dave's lead of wadding up his bedding before rummaging in the bags for some food. Cold jerky and a bit of bread wasn't that filling but it would be enough to start out with. The dry tug at the back of his tongue had him craving other, more familiar foods already. Oatmeal with thick cream and spices. Hot eggs and bacon. Melted cheese and ham over soft bread gently crisped by the heat of a fire. Hot, satisfying tea.. He had to rip his mind away from the pleasant things by the end of his meal, pulling up from the soothing bit of daydreaming in the fact of things that needed done. The horses needed rubbed down before the saddles could go on them, the rest of the camp needed packed and tucked away, and then they needed to get going as soon as possible.

    John's more even stride back to their disjointed circle was a welcome sight, and their simple breakfast was spent with a bit of conversation, teasing back and forth, discussion of the map Dave had found in his sleeping bag before to plan routes, and eventually even conversation towards the horses who continued to shuffle and make soft sounds where they were waiting. With gloved hands the animals were tended, the supplies were eventually loaded, and all too soon the trio were once more moving. They had their goal, and now had a better way to actually obtain it. So long as they kept a good clip, their escape plan should bear sweet Dersian fruit.

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

    The trio made good time over the next few days. The snow proved thicker as they progressed out of Prospit and into Skaia, keeping off the main roads whenever they drew too close to civilization whenever possible. A few times they had to resort to keeping their hoods firmly down and their ears closed to the world around them, walking in a line from one side of a town to the other without so much as looking up save for stops at different places that seemed likely to have some feed for the horses. At least in Skaia Dave didn't stick out nearly as much as he did in Prospit, though they all still gained a few curious glances just for how mismatched they appeared, a single small figure between two larger ones in absolute silence within earshot of others.

    Nights were cold, bitterly cold even when Jake decided that it was safe enough to start using fire, and none of them wanted to even imagine how impossible their travels would have been without Kanaya's expert sewing of the bedding. It wasn't all bad, though. To pass time between when the fire was first struck and when sleep claimed them they traded stories, the brothers regaling Dave with varying versions of adventures and incidents of their youth while he in turn told them of parts of his own home as if wanting to prepare them for the castle ahead. The horses were displeased with the extended time away from home, the unknown directions, the deer trails or the snowy paths that lay untouched ahead of them in the more out of the way locales. With the stark, darkened mountains of Derse in the distance, hope and trepidation sprung up in their hearts.

    John's introduction to Dave's homeland wasn't the most pleasant one. The horses kept spooking, reacting with displeasure to all the sounds around them in the distance, crackling branches breaking like glass and stone in the distance under the collected weight of the season. It made it almost impossible to tell what was environment and what was a threat, made worse by Dave's warnings. Most creatures in Derse were excellent hunters, used to the lush needle treed woodlands and craggy mountains, most of them ghostly pale or black as pitch and all bearing far more eyes than anyone outside of Derse seemed to feel was appropriate. Sharp teeth and claws, gigantic sizes and extreme stealth were another common trend among many of the beasts, though even the prey animals slid into that category of monstrosity. Jake was torn between wanting to hunt some of the creatures to eat or to capture one alive to study it. John said he'd be content to see no animals beyond mice till they arrived at the Dersian capital.

    “We may need to leave the horses soon,” Dave said at camp that night as he rubbed his hands by the fire that put off sweet white smoke from burning pine needles and sap. The night had come early on them once more, skies darker the deeper in Derse they went and the heavier fatigue hung over them as it had become imperative to take turns at keeping watch to avoid attack by creatures of the night or those loyal to the Dersian crown recognizing rogue Prospitian's on their territory.

    “So soon? Surely they could go longer,” Jake said, glancing upwards towards the sky before focusing on the pot again. Melted snow to refill their water skins, heated water to wash their faces and hands with in small amounts, then more snow and the foods that would be going in to making a soup. Not super filling when most of it was water, but they were going through their food faster than anticipated thanks to the weather and hunting was limited due to the snow and need to keep moving. Who knew such temperatures made food more urgent a need? “Is it because of the snow depth?”

    “Well. Yes and no,” Dave admitted, turning to pull the map closer to the light, tapping at it. “I remember this pass. The path is steep and narrow, it's usually best for foot travel.”

    “How does anyone transport anything from Derse to Skaia for trade with such inaccessible roads,” grumbled John, huddled close to the fire with the top and bottom ends of his bedding wrapped around his shoulders, wanting to be as covered as possible without actually taking off his boots to get into bed just yet. He knew this was Dave's homeland and that's why he seemed fairly comfortable with the same amount of warmth as he'd been dealing with through their journey, but it still made him more than a little jealous. If there were a way to sap some of Dave's ability to keep toasty with just basic layering, John would do it in a heartbeat.

    “Easily: they use roads made and maintained for trade, which tend to go around higher mountains as opposed to cresting the hills directly,” said Dave with a straight face. “But yes, the snow will be a problem for them I think. It'd be easier to shuffle on foot and not drop off the edges of things than to drive horses through the worst of it and hope they can get over the rock and ice. ...It'd be better to leave them somewhere nearer to people too, so they could be found and maybe taken in.”

    Jake's eyes flicked to their horses and his chest ached, but if something like that was to happen then it made sense to give them a chance instead of leaving them to fend for themselves in such hellish weather.

    “I wonder if they'd head back towards home. We're terribly far now, but they know the way I bet.”

    “If not,” John offered, “maybe they'd run into someone who's trying to follow us and they'd get help that way.”

    “Or they'd turn up on a farm where someone needed horses and couldn't afford them,” Dave added somewhat hopefully. “They're fine steeds and have done well by us. They'd probably settle in to new surroundings just fine and be tended by people who care, if they were needed.”

    “We're fleeing for your life at this point and here you are making me sentimental about the horses, Dave, you're a monster,” Jake said with a soft chuckle and a shake of his head. “Are there any villages ahead of us? Between here and the point they'd be most at risk, I mean. Are there alternate paths we could take? Would it be worth it to take the longer path?”

    “The longer path is way more populated, it's a trade route after all. We'd be running into more people every step of the way and you two don't exactly blend in with Dersian's.”

    “Maybe we could just say we're Skaian's with Prospitian ancestry,” John said. “I'm not entirely sure I'm comfortable with the idea of trying to drag all three of us over a mountain on foot. Aside from supplies and the extreme weather.. Dave, your sight still isn't that great. One wrong step and down you'd go, and then this entire trip would have been for naught.”

    Dave shot him a look and frowned. He'd been working on dealing with his limitations this entire time and had been making significant progress, or at least he felt he was. To bring it up like that almost felt like the progress somehow was undone, or wasn't worth enough. Worse, it brought up doubt like a multi-headed serpent on how able Dave would be able to handle the journey once it got tough all over again. “I wouldn't slip over a mountain just because of my eye. Any of us could fall, if the snow gave way in a poor direction or we weren't actually on solid ground.”

    “The more you talk, the more I think the risk of going the longer route would be better than pressing forward for the short one,” John said. “If there was less snow up here, maybe.. but it's going to get even deeper. How are we going to walk through that? How are we going to keep our supplies?”

    “We'd have to turn back a ways to go around,” Dave contended. “If we can get over this one hurdle, we'd be able to reach a village on the other side and be far closer to my home than if we went around. There's risk, yes, but I think it'd be best to stick to the plan. It's not like the snow will be up to my neck of anything, it's just not safe on horseback”

    “There's a LOT of risk.”

    “There's a lot of risk if we get seen too much, too. There's a better chance of scouts finding us in more populated areas, and two guys who look like they could be enemies might get some hostile things aimed at them that we really don't need.”

    “...Dave you're their prince, couldn't you just. Y'know. Waltz into the nearest farm house and request supplies and assistance? Explain that we're friendly? We're in Derse now-”

    “John, does every single person in your kingdom know what you look like?”

    “...Probably not,” he sighed, already knowing where this was going. They'd been over this before, but some part of him hoped that there was a new option hiding somewhere for him to sample from instead of the snow and ice and harder decisions. If only things could just be easy.

    “And if you were to disappear for an extended amount of time, maybe long enough to be presumed dead or lost forever, and then sudden reappeared, would anyone believe it? Who would believe some random guy was royalty, especially a random guy who smells like sweat and horses and smoke?”

    “I get it, I get it,” John said. “You can cut the spiel. It was me being kind of hopeful that we'd have an easier time of things, but the shorter way has more merit.”

    “Sometimes the easiest route just isn't the best one,” Dave shrugged. “Let's focus on the end goal though, it's far more fun. Like when we finally reach the capital and I can get us to my home properly. I look forward to seeing your faces as we enter the mountain's halls.”

    “Derse was always described so differently in books,” Jake said, stretching. He'd started carrying some extra tension at some point and didn't know what to do with himself to get rid of it other than fidget. What he'd give for a bit of wood and a knife to work at it with to keep his hands busy. Maybe make some arrows with bright tails. “I'd no idea till you started telling more of it that it's just as vicious as we'd been lead to believe but that the people aren't the vicious ones.”

    “Actually, speaking of wildlife. We're not like.. at risk of trolls or something awful up in the snowy peaks, are we?” John interrupted, squinting at Dave cautiously. “Dersian wildlife is terrifying and damn near everywhere with multiple eyes and pale hides, right? Would that count for snowy mountaintops too?”

    Dave laughed somewhat uneasily and smiled, but failed to answer.

    “...You do realize you're not quelling any of my fears, right?”

    Another laugh, albeit more like a giggle now.

    “You're just doing it on purpose now!”

    “John, I don't know if we'd even run into anything for sure! There's a lot out there and most of it's blood thirsty, yes, but it's not like every time you look at butterflies they'd be a hoard of those queer little creatures trying to suffocate people.”

    “Suffocating butterflies?” Jake asked, eyes widening.

    “Focus, that's not the point I'm trying to make,” Dave insisted. “We'll be fine. Absolutely fine! I mean. Sure there are some big cats up there potentially, and some other beasts, but we're not alone and we're not going to be toting horses with us, and the weather's snowy so. Should be fine.”

    Dave flopped over backwards away from the fire when the brothers continued to stare at him, questions and exclamations on their lips, and rubbed his face with his palms.

    “Y'know what? Never mind. I should have said we'd be facing elements and little else. It's not as if Prospit or Skaia is without its own predators, we're lucky we didn't run into wolves or something as it is. We'll get up there and need to focus just on getting to the next points more than we'd be needing to worry about anything hunting us.”

    “Dave you're making it worse,” John said. “Let's maybe, just maybe, change the topic entirely.”

    “I'm introducing you all to the glow worms and the heated baths the second it's acceptable to,” Dave grunted. “The glow worms because they're a pride and joy of my home and beautiful to see aside from just the mushrooms, and the baths because by everything holy we need them.”

    “There, that's more like it,” Jake chuckled. “Good chap.”

    “I just hope Dirk's not going to be.. well. Too Dirk-ish about this sudden appearance with company,” murmured Dave as he uncovered his face to look up to the low hanging ceiling of the wintery sky above. “That's one thing I'm not entirely certain about....Maybe if I send a bird ahead of us? A bit of warning that I'm alive and well and coming? You'd just be a surprise.”

    “Anyone could pretend to be you, though?” John pointed out.

    “My handwriting is a mess and hard to copy,” he said. “I'd also be able to tuck in a few quips that he'd be able to recognize as entirely me and me alone. Convincing my brother is very different from convincing someone who's never seen the royal family and aside from paying tax to the people in charge of their towns have little care or interest in who is above them.”

    “If we don't get devoured by some dire beast in the mountain's upper recesses then we'll get you in position to send a bird one way or another,” Jake promised, grin widening to a bucktoothed smirk when Dave shot him a withering look. He couldn't help but laugh, John following in his wake as Dave began to complain in a language they could only pick out parcels from.

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

    The horses were left behind the next day. Jake had removed items from their backs with a solemn face, John helping with worry in his eyes. Dave stroked their noses gently and cooed to keep them distracted and hopefully lighten his own mood. The snow had begun to fall once more in thick fat flakes, and part of him worried that this was the wrong choice somehow. The short way was the quickest way to home, was safer in the long run, left less to the fates. Yet it wasn't enough of an assurance to soothe the upset pangs in his stomach that were crying out their failure.

    “Dave, here. Slip this one on,” John said as he approached, looping a bag onto the Dersian's back and cinching it comfortably into place before shuffling back to his brother. The larger were carrying more weighty bundles of supplies, but they'd divvied enough up to Dave as well so that it would at least be even as much as ability allowed. Strong as the Prospitian's were, they couldn't move mountains for long before burning out.

    When the horses were stripped down to the saddles, Jake turned them back towards home with his own fond words and soft thank yous. John was the one who reached forward to swat their hindquarters, startling them both into runs through the snow and out of sight down the road they'd come. If they stuck to the road, they'd reach humans after a while. If they wandered, they'd reach civilization of some form at least.

    They remained three figures in the dimming light, staring the way the horses had disappeared till long after they'd lost sight of them, tracing their feelings of connection till they were entirely broken. It felt far more remote all at once. Lonesome in the wilderness, the world around them hushed save for the soft tinkle of snowflakes hitting one another falling from on high. Slowly they turned around to stare at the mountains ahead, their last obstacle before the final leg of the journey that wound end with the kingdom beneath Dersian stone.

    John reached over and planted a hand on Dave's shoulder, gave it a squeeze, and flashed him a grin.

    “Let's get walking, we can get high as we can before we set up camp and you tell me I reek again. Real romance hours here on this honeymoon.”

    Dave snorted a laugh and started to walk, while Jake pulled up the opposite side laughing aloud.

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

    Camp had been hard won the first night, sleeping cold and painful after the exhausting movements through the snow, on edge at first from what they could have sworn was a scream from far away. They'd slept like the dead once the initial panic had given way to laughter and convincing they'd misheard, eaten an unsatisfying breakfast, and gone back to the grind of climbing elevation like ill placed mountain goats. The paths were narrow and fairly winding, zig zagging back and forth on themselves like serpents to make ascent and descent easier in clear weather. In poor weather like this it was important to eye the white on white of the edge of the fallen snow for the vaguely rounded out shapes or edges and drops in the paths, so as to not simply walk over a ledge and face first into a broken neck.

    Jake had slipped and fallen twice, once in a minor way and once more seriously over a ledge, sliding down and landing flat on his ass against stone hard enough his tail bone ached. John had misjudged a gap and fallen backwards to snow down his jacket, and a second time he fell on purpose to chase after a falling Dave who'd thought a turn was further away than it was and slid down at least three bends worth of path ass over teakettle before coming to a bewildered stop.

    The second camp was going to be at the crest, hard won as it was, but there had been second thoughts the second the trio realized just how fucking frigid the wind was up there even in the sleeping bags with their layers on. There was no protection but scraggly bits of trees that managed to grow at the elevation, and they didn't trust themselves to try working on the descent in the same day when the sun had fallen that far. Not if they wanted anywhere safe to bed down in the evening. Better to capture the peak at dawn, when they could be more certain of what lay ahead of them and beneath their feet. Now if only they could actually sleep..

    Jake opted for a fire when they'd set up, using some of the scraggly brush and pine to make a fire of white smoke and warm resin scent to warm up by. Both Prospitian's huddled close to the fireside, teeth chattering, hands held close to the flame as they could get away with without singeing their gloves. Dave, though better suited for this weather, was still quite some time away from the more extreme shades due to his time in Prospit and just as uncomfortable. Nobody had much appetite, though each did manage to force something down.

    “I'll stay up first,” Jake offered. “You two get as much sleep as you can, then we can trade.”

    “Why even stay up, I'm sure we'd be fine this high up,” John mumbled. “Just sleep with us and we'll all get going at first light.”

    “No can do, John. After all: we're using a fire at a high point with a lot of visibility,” he pointed out. “Even if it's a small one, it's still a point to draw attention with to man and beast alike. ...I'd feel better if someone was awake during this.”

    “Best keep away the mountain trolls that don't exist,” John said, pausing awkwardly at the end of his sentence before sneezing hard enough the fire briefly waved away from him before returning at full force with a resounding crackle and pop upright towards the night sky.

    “They exist, John. I just don't know quite where a predator would be hiding, it's not like I've spent my life up in the mountains traveling on foot to know their patterns, that's more a question to ask a huntsman.”

    “Bah.”

    “Don't bah me, you're not a damned sheep.”

    “Yes I am. I'm the baa baa black sheep, and I've plenty of wool. Only right now it's away in three bags in the market, because it sure as fuck isn't here keeping me warm.”

    Dave reached a tired leg over to poke him in the side with his boot, shoving him till he smirked.

    “We're nearly there, either way,” yawned Dave. “Just down this other side, and then we can find our way towards home far easier. Brief pause to write my brother first. But you get the idea.”

    “We've been 'nearly there' for so long I'm starting to forget what 'there' actually is,” Jake sighed. “I keep daydreaming about food, too.”

    “We still have supplies,” John said.

    “Supplies but I'd hardly call survival food real food, not like home,” he grumbled. “The kitchens were excellent at their presentation, and the servants always knew about the right time I'd start wanting a cup of something hot.”

    “I wonder what the weather is like at home right now,” John said. “..Do you think it's warmed up enough there yet for Jade to not be cooped up in her room in furs?”

    “We're far away but we're not changing the weather,” Jake reminded him, poking the fire with a stick to stir up more red hot sparks into the dark air above them. Dave shifted to his side and peeled his boots off, stuffing his legs down into the bedding. He kept his gloves on, using them to pillow his head as he watched the light with his strange eyes. “It's still early enough in the season she'd be in her room a little longer. ..Though, with our disappearing act I believe she's likely going to be stuck chasing after us for a time once the order's given.”

    “Even if she won't be finding us,” corrected John. “If Jade was going to find us by now, she'd have already gotten us.”

    “True to the word then, with that head start and delay. ...I hope we can repay her someday.”

    “We will. We'll get back to Prospit someday, once everything is better. Or at least get word to her,” John promised. “One step at a time, yeah?”

    One step at a time indeed. John shuffled to get into his sleeping bag as well, though only his lower half. His upper half flopped on top of Dave's sleeping bag, pestering him with his weight till the blonde gave way to squabbling and trying to squirm out from underneath his laughing form. Young lovers were idiots, but at least they were lovable Jake decided. Seeing them like this filled him with extra vigor that they'd indeed done the right thing. They never would have been able to keep this in Prospit.

    “Jane and Jade both deserve the world for what we've done,” Jake hummed. “Come now. Try to sleep, we can get up early and get off this damned mountain sooner. Down great height should go faster than up great height, yes?”

    “It should. Y'know, if we walk normally and don't slip and fall and roll down to our dooms,” Dave grunted. “It'd be faster in one sense, but we'd probably be dead at the bottom of pretty mangled. Not to mention being perfect food for the creatures lurking at the bottom. Tasty nuggets of morsels they'd normally need to work fo-”

    “I get the idea,” said John, wallowing on Dave a bit further to muffle his upper half. The barely there squawks were comical to hear, a bird beneath a sleeping blanket crying about the unfairness of it all before growing sleepy. It'd been a long climb in snow and chill wind, and short legs and less vision just made it all the harder with weight bearing down on his back all day. “Enough doom and gloom.”

    “It's not doom and gloom!” Dave insisted, trying to pop his head out from underneath John's mass to continue talking.

    “Then it's negative and I'm tired, and goodnight Dave,” John said instead. He rolled further, squashing Dave once more before rolling off him to settle around the fire. It was a bit of a triangle pattern tonight, as much body facing the fire as possible. He settled on his side so his face would be warmer beneath the covering and nestled down into the toasty cocoon to signal the end of his contributions.

    Dave grumbled at him and shuffled his hand over his own bedding a few times to rid it of snow, sending it over to the side where the stomped flat space of their campsite ended. Instead of curling up to sleep right away, he sat back up and watched the fire instead for the various pops and crackles. When Jake puffed against his gloves and made to move his hands close to the fire once more he finally looked up to make eye contact with his fellow traveler.

    “Are you sure you want first watch? I could manage it if you wanted some rest first. So long as I'm not moving much I can keep awake.”

    Jake shook his head and grinned.

    “No can do, Dave. It's my routine now, and I'm a creature of habit once my wild larks are accounted for and everything's lining up like genteel daisies. I'll wake you second if you'd like, though.”

    “Might as well. I really can't imagine there being much at the very peak for us to worry about. There's not much cover up here, and it's not like it's full of caves,” he said as he wiped his nose with the back of his hand and wrist. “But the few things that might be here..”

    “Wouldn't need to want for cover as it's the top of the list,” Jake chuckled. “I know. Don't worry, no need to repeat yourself Dave. I'm well armed and plenty awake.. and we've wonderful lights whenever the clouds clear up,” he added as he gestured upwards with a hand to where a break in the inconsistent fluffy masses let through eerily crisp moonlight and more stars than either of them had ever seen in one sitting despite seeing the same sky so many times before in their lives.

    “Wow.. I know we saw them lower down in little flashes, but there's so many up here..”

    “We're closer to the heavens up here, it's no wonder we're getting glimpses of the bright hope those of the past get to enjoy each day.”

    Dave smiled a bit and rubbed at his own elbows. That was kind of a poetic way to think of things, wasn't it?

    “If you're really sure you don't want me to stay up first,” Dave began, only to be quickly interrupted by a boisterous Jake.

    “Yes, I'm quite sure Dave. What's begun cannot end so suddenly and all that, I'll not be admitting defeat to sleep for a while yet. Try to have some good dreams before it's your turn, make the best of it.”

    “Can you two be quiet?? Some of us sensible people are trying to sleep,” grumbled John from his muffled den. The fire popped loudly on a bit of sap as if agreeing with him, echoing out over the mountain that otherwise sat silent in the occasional breeze.

    He rolled his eyes before glancing to Jake, who chuckled softly and shook his head as he gestured downwards. Somewhat obediently, Dave was soon curled up and positioned in his space around the fire, body curled up to create and conserve heat best he could while the remaining Prospitian held guard.

    It was a peaceful night, even if it was eerily quiet. Jake knew a bit better than to trust the surface, however. For every crackle and spurt of the fire there were sounds like breaking branches further out in the distance down the mountain's way they'd come from, or crunching snow and ice underfoot. Under paw? Under something heavy that didn't let his attention wander very far from his weapon or the sleepers for long no matter how beautiful it was in the sky. There was no need to risk joining those in the heavens just because of a slip up at a bad time. He closed his eyes after a time to listen, wanting to focus on the sounds more than seeing the fire, hoping his eyes would adjust quickly if he needed to turn and fire at something at an acceptable distance. A dangerous choice. The warmth on his face and chest was soothing and made his blood pump sweetly through the chill in his limbs, wanted to make his thoughts slow, but it was the quickest way to differentiate distance. A crackle in the fire, a pop further in the distance. A soft crunch as Dave shifted in his sleeper, a soft crunch far away.

    A bird? No, far too large to be a bird, and it was late. Deer? Potentially. But it sounded like a single source, not a group. Perhaps a lone deer or some other creature on all fours then, if such a thing were possible.

    Jake's head drooped to his chin for a half second before he jerked it up, adrenaline surging from the near mistake of falling asleep. No, stupid, fight it! Focus on the sounds! He cursed under his breath and clenched his fists a few times into tight balls, shifted his weight to wiggle his legs a bit in hopes the heated blood would course further through his body and disperse the sleepy feeling.

    Crunching. The sound of shifting rock, a breaking branch. It was possible this was all just the sounds of nature up here, that this was totally normal for a Dersian night on a snowy mountain and he was jumping at shadows of innocent beasts that were simply curious about the light, but at the same time it was possible this was the very real threats that lay in wait for weary travelers. His heart started to hammer when he heard more crunching coming closer, though the louder it hot.. indeed it seemed the more there was. Unable to resist any longer, Jake opened his eyes and jerked his head to the side to stare out into the darkness for the source, already prepared to draw his bowstring back.

    Deer, though not the white tailed variety he was used to seeing in Prospit. One large deer one was trailing ahead of the others, a buck with an impressive rack of tangled horns atop its thick looking head stood silvery white in the moonlight, blinking at him with four reflectively bright eyes. Its herd, similarly silvery white but not nearly as grand in appearance, hung back somewhat warily in their following steps. They listened to all directions same as he had been, cautious, wary, prepared to bolt at a moment's notice.

    Jake loosened his grip on the bow and exhaled a deep sigh of relief. Okay, deer he could handle. Easy there, this was merely a group passing through. It must be later than he realized, a few hours closer to dawn than anticipated.

    “Hello there, you handsome thing.. It's winter now, shouldn't I be seeing an owl instead..? Or is it different because we're in Derse,” he said in a soft whisper, not wanting to startle the creature or its herd. It really was a sight to behold, part of him wished that John and Dave were awake to show them as well, but the other part was satisfied to be having this private moment between himself and nature. A secret to hold close to his heart. The creature flicked an ear and moved its head a bit, staring towards the fire and his silhouetted form in front of it, but the members of its herd seemed too on edge to do much more than stand and wait on edge. This was a relatively exposed area compared to further down, perhaps the other side of the cliff would hold something tasty for them in the early dawn hours ahead of them.

    Jake barely heard it before seeing it, the large white mass that hurled itself up against the side of the buck before the snow was sprayed with red, the herd that had been waiting in the wings turning tail and scattering back the way they'd come in a thunder of snow and hooves as the buck let out a horrible noise of pain. Dave and John jolted awake but were still trapped in their bedding, trying to fight their way out while half awake. Jake could only stare wide eyed in shock for a moment, mouth open and expression horrified before he registered what his hands really needed to be doing. Right, yes, of course, weapon! The weapon! He notched the arrow and jumped to his feet, pulling the bowstring back towards his cheek as he took aim at the figure that now that crouched over the barely kicking body of the buck.

    The face that looked up towards him, painted red, multi-eyed and sharp teeth bared, could almost be called humanoid. The fact it had claws, horns, and shaggy fur hanging from its body quickly dismissed that concept but it was close enough to looking humanoid that it made his blood go chill. Was this the mountain troll then? Or was it something else that called the snowy peaks of Derse home? It was a standoff between Jake and the beast as John and Dave tried to orient themselves, panic in the jerky way they sought their weapons and turned to face the same way that Jake had frozen like a statue in. Waiting. Holding fire to conserve arrows, hoping it would just take the deer and leave them alone behind.

    No such luck. The beast stared and seemed to contemplate its options before slowly rising upwards to its feet, large size masked slightly by the curve of its back from a heavy slouch, long arms ending in sharp hands that curled into loose fists. It remained crouched, prepared, before letting out an awful shriek that sounded far too similar to the noise they'd been so sure of mishearing at the other camp. It hadn't been their imaginations or someone needing help: it had been this creature off in the distance of the mountainside, perhaps doing just as it was doing now as it fended off other creatures from its freshly killed supper.

    “Easy!” Jake said loudly, as if trying to measure up to its pitch as an intimidation tactic. As if he weren't more than a little shaky in his shoes. This wasn't just hunting a deer or some wild thing in Prospit, this was a fucking monster and it was hungry and oh, fuck, what if he hadn't fought Dave's offer and slept instead this thing would have crept up on all of them and-

    It shrieked again, a high icy wail before launching forwards, sinking its claws into the snow and propelling itself forward in a bounding run, closing ground with astounding speed given the condition of the terrain around them. Jake fired, whiffed the shot just over its bounding shoulder, and cursed as he bent to snatch his quiver up over his shoulder.

    “JOHN!” shouted Jake as he swerved backwards and away from the fire to notch another arrow, wanting distance to be more effective. If that creature wanted him specifically it would need to go through the wall of fire that now stood between them. Dave's stance had lowered, prepared to counter attack, and John's had gone aggressive as he charged forward with a shout of his own to swing his hammer down and upwards. He nailed the shoulder Jake had missed, making the beast wobble and veer before it tried to counteract it, kicking off the ground to lurch the direction of its stronger arm with its uninjured legs. It needed traction, it needed to change its running style if it couldn't work the way it was used to any longer. Dave remained nearer the fire, but continued to stand ready with his blade.

    “How the fuck did it get this close?! Jake did you fall asleep?” he cried.

    “No! There were deer and it just. It was just there suddenly, I swear on my life!” Jake said as he let fly another arrow, already notching another as he fell back a few paces further when he realized he'd hit it in the flank but it was still charging angrily. John readied another swing and then shied back in front of the fire when the beast took a swipe then veered away again to wheel back for him. It was trying to gain speed, perhaps to knock him to the flame itself since he wasn't running away or backing up like the others had been.

    “Dave! Go for the head! Don't let it get up easily if it can get up at all!”

    “Obviously, why would I want it to get up?!”

    All three were silently praying that if Dave took a swing, he'd be able to aim properly and the strike would hit home at the right angle instead of hitting off one of its curled horny protrusions or missing the neck for all the fur in the way.

    Another shriek, another shudder down their spines, and it charged for John as he lifted his arms and exposed his unguarded midsection like a sacrifice, knees bent in a crouch. He sprung back and rolled the swing to the side, catching the mountain troll directly in the abdomen, forcing it to stagger forwards to the fire itself. It caught itself on its uninjured arm just as the fire started to touch its fur in the center, blank eyed and furious, starting to lurch forward towards Dave trailing embers and ashes like falling red stars over the stomped snow of their campsite. The Dersite steadied, grit his teeth, and moved towards it instead of away to deliver the strike directly to the throat before it could rise too high to its feet. He failed to back away after the twisted body delivery, however, and wound up beneath the angry creature as it began to bleed out, jaws trying to clamp at him, both clawed hands scrabbling at the snow and the edges of his body as it tried to find precisely where he was beneath it.

    Jake's arrow caught it between the eyes before it could chomp him effectively, however, leaving the troll limp and heavy on top of his traveling partner. His brother had already dropped his hammer and gone to one of the troll's arms, digging his heels into snow while he yanked hard as he could manage in order to free Dave from its bulk. The blonde emerged in one piece, splashed with steaming blood in the chill air, and laughing. It was a high nervous laughter, rolling from his chest and shaking his shoulders as he held tight to his sword with a slick hand. The laughing continued even when John hugged him tight, almost frantic from adrenaline, before it finally wound down to a few chuckles. Finally however it was silent save for three humans breathing hard and the occasional movement of branches in the frigid breeze. Jake kept an arrow notched and at the ready, not able to trust that the monster had been alone nor that anything else wouldn't come now that there was death and fresh blood in the air. Free food ripe for the taking.

    “You did great,” John murmured against Dave's hair, rocking with him for a minute or so till Dave finally dropped his sword and hugged him tight around the middle.

    “I thought I was going to miss,” he admitted. “Then it was biting and.. Fuck. Fuck,” he said softer, voice barely there. That had been far too close for comfort, especially with the incident from the stairs being so fresh in his memory. “Are you two okay?”

    “Yeah, it didn't get me at all.”

    “I've been clear away the whole time,” Jake said, averting his eyes to look around in the darkness. “Though, I think it'd be in all our best interest to tidy up quick as we can and clear away from this entire site.”

    “No shit,” said John. “...Wait, did you even sleep Jake?”

    “Not yet, but I hope you'll understand me when I said I've no interest in snoozing just now, John,” he said, gesturing with his bow and chin. “Would you mind rolling my bedding up tight and tucking it into my pack? I'd prefer to keep watch right now.”

    “No. I mean, yeah. I mean no, I understand,” John assured him. Dave was already pulling away to grasp some snow, rubbing it against himself after wadding it up to wash some of the blood off his face. There was no saving the clothes from the stains he'd bear, but hopefully people would be understanding that coming down from the mountains on foot would be a sign of having run into trouble in some shape or form.

    The far side of the mountain was still and quiet, the air from their mouths hot and steaming to clouds of fog ahead of them, and their thoughts were full of fear. They didn't know enough about these creatures to safely assume anything. Were they pack hunters? Were they solo? Would anything out here take the left behind food as an offering, or would they track the fresh scent of blood they carried in their party now? The soft glimmer of light past of the foot of the mountain, far in the distance, should have been a sign of great comfort. Instead it was a grim reminder that despite having survived this long and this far, there was still quite some ground to cover till they reached other humans.. and longer yet till they reached the throne.

    Onward, exhausted and anxious, they walked.

[emospritelet]

Kiss of Life - chapter 7

For @rumple-belle, whose birthday is today!  This chapter adds in a little more of Gold’s POV than the original ficlets.

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6]

AO3 link

#

Dr Gold was very rarely sick, but when it happened his immune system always seemed to capitulate completely and he’d end up feeling worse than anyone in the town.  Or at least that’s how it felt to him.  He had first started to think that something was wrong when he had no appetite for dinner and had been overwhelmed by fatigue.  He had drunk a glass of brandy and gone to bed early, hoping a decent night's sleep would chase away whatever was stalking him, but when his bladder woke him at five-thirty he could barely stand, and had to accept that he had the flu.  He telephoned Dr Whale immediately, who assured him that his patients were as well as could be expected.  He then called Dr Milliner, who told him to get back to fucking bed and stop being a control freak.

Gold had spent the remainder of the day curled up in bed shaking, wrapped in blankets and trying to remember to keep drinking water.  There were drawbacks to living alone, and nursing oneself through illness was one of them.  He had tried to prepare for the next few days as well as he could; a box of tissues sat on the nightstand, along with paracetamol to relieve his fever, and the water jug and glass.  He knew he needed to eat, but he couldn't face anything, and he had neither the energy nor the inclination to prepare a meal.

When Miss French had arrived, letting herself into his house and climbing the stairs uninvited, he had thought she was an hallucination.  She had certainly seemed like the product of his fevered imagination, with her soft voice and her perfect lips and her blue eyes filled with tenderness.  The touch of her cool hand on his brow had felt like heaven, and he had been more than content to lie back and let her press a damp cloth to his face and neck.  She had informed him that she was going to make him something to eat, and although he had no appetite, he was determined to eat whatever she cooked.  It didn’t seem fair that she had done a full day’s work and was now looking after him, too, but he couldn’t deny that it was a comfort to have her there.

He was aware that she had no medical training, but she would have made an excellent nurse.  She had the right mix of empathy, the ability to calm and comfort, and the refusal to take any of his shit.  It was all rather alluring, and if he hadn't felt as though he was knocking at Death's door he might have spent longer contemplating exactly how he felt about that.  As it was, he lay still, waiting for her to return.  There was silence from down in the kitchen, and he closed his eyes, turning his head to find a cool spot on the pillow as he tugged the blankets close around his neck.  She would return soon, and he could tell her to get home and get some rest.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d like.”

He smiled slightly at the sound of her voice, and opened his eyes a crack.  She was standing in front of him, fingers plucking at the buttons of her blouse.  His eyes widened as she began to unfasten them, revealing smooth, pale skin and a white lace bra.  Dark curls gleamed in the light, falling softly around her milky shoulders.  Her eyes seemed wider and darker, her chest heaving a little, lips shining wetly.

"I wasn't sure what you'd like," she repeated softly.  “So I thought I’d give you all of it."

She slipped off the blouse, letting it fall.  He tried to speak, but something had stolen his voice and made his body freeze.  She slowly unfastened the bra, revealing firm, perfect breasts with nipples the colour of pale roses.  He tried to lick his lips, his mouth dry, and she unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it.  She wore no underwear, and his eyes roamed over her curves, trying to commit her form to memory, the long lines of her limbs, the dark curls shining around her shoulders, the hollow of her waist and the soft cleft between her thighs.  He could feel himself hardening at the sight of her, desire he had thought long-dead surging to life within him.  She climbed onto the bed, crawling up until she was leaning over him.

“I’ll give you anything,” she whispered, and bent her head to kiss him.

“Dr Gold?”

He woke with a start, sucking in a breath as his eyes flew open.  Belle French was gazing at him from the doorway, fully dressed with her hair tied back off her face and a wide smile, and there he was, curled up in the blankets with a raging erection like some old pervert.

“I made some soup,” she said.  “I’ll bring you some up in a second, I just thought you might want some more water.”

“Yes.”  He fumbled at the blankets, thankful he hadn’t kicked them off and exposed the evidence of his fevered mind.  “Yes, thank you.  Could you put some ice in it?”  And then throw it at my crotch, please?

She sent him another bright smile, which only made him feel more like a worthless fool, and snatched up the water jug.  She trotted away again, and he lay back against the pillows with a groan, willing his cock to go back to sleep. Clearly the fever had turned his head.

#

Belle had managed to find her way around Dr Gold's kitchen, and it was a treat to find it both well-stocked and spotlessly clean.  She wondered if he had help in that, and remembered that Ruby had said something about Ashley Boyd cleaning for him.  Hardly surprising given the long hours he worked.  His fridge was not what she would have expected of a man who lived alone; there were plenty of fresh vegetables, cheeses, cooked meats and condiments.  He also owned an impressive collection of cookware, and she gathered together the ingredients to make a hearty vegetable and lentil soup.  It tasted good, rich with chicken stock and fragrant with thyme and sage.

She found a hand blender in the drawer, and pulsed the soup until it thickened, ladling some into a bowl and setting it on a tray with some buttered bread.  She wasn’t sure that Dr Gold would eat the bread, but if not she could always have it herself.  She had already taken him up some iced water and checked his fever.  He was burning up, but that was only to be expected, and had seemed surprised by her presence, as though he had forgotten she was there in his house.  With any luck the medication she had given him would ease his aches and pains, and the soup would give him strength.

She carried the tray upstairs, pushing open the bedroom door with her rear and entering the darkened room.  He was a huddled mass in the blankets, and she transferred the tray to one arm as she fumbled for the switch on the bedside lamp.  Light flooded out, and Dr Gold seemed to wake with a jerk, a flailing arm knocking the tray and sending hot soup all over her.

#

Gold had been dozing, feverish visions running through his mind, but sudden light dragged him from sleep, his body aching, his mind groggy.  He jerked in protest, and a shriek of pain drove away any lingering drowsiness, consciousness returning like a full-armed slap to the face.  He opened his eyes wide to see Miss French almost throwing an empty tray onto the floor and peeling off her shirt, exposing her lace bra and the pale skin of her arms and torso, her chest and belly reddened.  There was a smell of savoury - something - in the air. Vegetable soup?  Hot vegetable soup.  Oh God…

“I’m sorry!” he gasped.  “Did I - what did I do?”

She was already running from the room, skirt swishing around her legs, and he flopped back against the pillows with a groan, fumbling around for the wet washcloth she had been kind enough to leave across his fevered brow, which was now tucked beside his neck, turning his pillow damp.  The sound of running water started up from the bathroom, and he looked to the side of the bed, spying a discarded tray, an upside-down plate with what looked like bread and butter (butter side down, naturally) and an empty bowl.  Her blouse was on the floor next to it, covered in soup, and he groaned again.  Great. She cares for you, mops your brow, makes you soup, and as a thank you, you give her second degree burns.  Fucking idiot!

He tried to push himself up, feeling as weak as a day-old kitten.

“Miss French?” he called.  “Are you alright?”

The water was still running, and he pushed back the covers, getting to his feet and almost falling on his arse.  Bloody flu!  He groped for his cane, arms shaking as he got it under him, and stumbled towards the bedroom door just as the sound of the water shut off.  It took him two attempts to turn the handle, and as he opened the door Miss French came back in, a towel wrapped around her beneath her arms and a wide-eyed look of surprise on her face.  His mouth fell open, his heart thumping.  Her hair was damp, curls sticking to her skin, and for a moment he wondered what she would look like if he took the towel from her.  If she smiled at him and stepped forward and let it fall, putting her arms around him and raising her head to kiss him.

“I - I hope you don’t mind,” she said apologetically, clutching the towel tighter.  “It - it was really hot, and I knew I had to get cold water on the burns straight away.  Showering was the fastest thing I could think of.”

“Of - of course,” he managed, clutching the cane handle as though it was the only thing sustaining him.  “I’m so sorry.  Clumsy of me.”

“Oh, it was an accident,” she said hastily, looking up at him through thick lashes.  “Really, it’s not so bad.  I think I caught it in time, it just stings a little.”

He nodded, relieved, and she frowned at him.

“And you shouldn’t be out of bed,” she said severely.  “Get back there.  I’ll clean this lot up and get you a fresh bowl.”

“Right,” he said, his tone meek, and shuffled back to bed.

“I’m gonna need to borrow something to wear,” she added.  “You mind if I take your shirt?  I’ll wash it afterwards, I promise.”

He froze, a ripple of desire going through him at the thought of her wearing something of his.

“Of course,” he said.  “Take whatever you need.”

She snagged his shirt from the chair, hooking the silk over one finger, and ducked out of the room again, headed for the bathroom.  He got into bed, shaking hands pulling the covers up to his chest.  Visions of her were flitting through his mind and causing mischief: the sight of her pale skin and her breasts cupped by white lace, all too similar to the highly inappropriate dream his fevered mind had conjured up.  He wondered how old she was.  Twenties?  Mid-twenties at most, which meant that he was old enough to be her father, and if she had realised the direction his thoughts had taken, she would have slapped his face and stormed out.  He shook his head, reaching for the damp washcloth.  It appeared that it wasn't just his brow that needed cooling.

#

Belle put her skirt and underwear back on and shrugged on Dr Gold’s shirt, the silk feeling delicious against her skin.  It smelt of his cologne, and the faint muskiness of his own scent, and she fastened the buttons down the front and tied it in a knot at the waist before going back into the bedroom and picking up her discarded, soup-covered blouse.  Gold was lying with the wet cloth over his eyes, the blankets pulled up to his chin, and Belle shook her head fondly.  The man was clearly suffering, and she hoped that the little she could do would bring him some comfort.

She went downstairs to fetch a fresh bowl of soup, and Gold managed to sit up when she returned, a somewhat sheepish look on his face as she handed him the bowl, along with fresh bread and butter.  He wouldn't quite meet her eyes, and she figured he felt bad for throwing soup all over her.  She left him eating, going to fetch a bowl of soapy water, sponge and cloths to mop up the spilt soup and clear it from the rug.  The rug would need a proper clean, but she did the best she could, hearing the clink of his spoon in the bowl as she worked.

“This is very good,” he ventured, and she looked up, raising an eyebrow.

“Can you actually taste anything?” she asked, with a grin.

“Okay, not much,” he admitted.  “But it’s hot and I’m sure it’s doing me good.”

“Well, there’s plenty more,” she said, turning back to sponging the rug clean.

“You should have some.”

“I will, I just need to do this and then wash my things.”

There was silence for a moment, except for the scrape of his spoon.  Belle cleared up the last of the soup, rinsing her sponge in the bowl of soapy water and straightening up.

“You should get home,” he said, mopping soup with the bread and butter.  “You don’t need to stay here with me, I’ll be alright.”

“Snow’s come down thick,” she said.  “Pretty sure if I tried to walk, I’d freeze to death.  I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

He eyed her over his spoon, dark eyes unreadable.

“I’m sorry your shift carried on this long,” he said wryly, and Belle giggled.

“I don’t mind, really,” she said.  “As long as you don’t mind me staying.  Is there a spare room?”

“Three,” he said, scooping up the last of the soup.  “Take your pick.  All the beds are made up.”

“Big house for one person,” she remarked.

“Yes,” he said, after a pause.  “I like it, though.”

“Oh, it’s lovely,” she said hastily.  “Your kitchen’s great.  Do you cook a lot?”

He let the soup bowl rest in his lap, looking at her with a spark of interest.

“Actually, I do,” he said.  “Food is vital to health, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would.”  She leaned in to take the bowl from him, pressing a hand to his forehead and frowning.  “You’re still burning up.  Is there anything I can give you for the fever?”

“I have medication here, and I'll take some before I go to sleep,” he said.  “Please, go and eat.  I don’t want you to get sick too.”

Belle smiled at him, taking the empty plate and bowl from him and watching as he slid down beneath the blankets once more.  She went downstairs, taking a few minutes to call her father and let him know she wouldn't be home.  He seemed unworried that she was stuck with, in her words 'a sick friend', merely telling her that he didn't want the flu and that she was a fool for exposing herself to it.  Belle rolled her eyes before telling him there were eggs and bacon for breakfast, but that she wouldn't be home to cook it.  He grumbled at that, but rang off without another word, and she sighed in annoyance.

She washed the few dishes in the sink and, after some exploration, found the washing machine and dryer in the basement.  She put her skirt and blouse in the washing machine with some soap, noting that the basement was as clean and orderly as the rest of the house, gardening implements hanging from hooks on the walls and a workbench clear of clutter.  Once back in the kitchen, she heated up some of the soup for herself, eaten seated at the kitchen table with buttered bread to dip in.  The house was silent but for the low ticking of clocks on the wall and out in the hallway.  It was getting late, and she finished up her soup and washed her dishes, stacking them on the drainer.

When she returned to the basement, the washing machine had finished its cycle, and she hung her blouse and skirt up to dry, hoping it would shake loose some of the creases.  She could wash her underwear in the bathroom, and have a clean outfit to wear to work the next day.  The hours of being on her feet were taking their toll, and so she went back upstairs with some ice in a glass to add to Dr Gold's water jug.  When she entered his room he was huddled in the blankets again, but he sat up to take two pills and swallow them down with some water.

“I’ll be right next door,” she said soothingly.  “Just call if you need anything.”

He sent her a crooked little smile that made her heart thump.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely.  “You should consider a career in nursing, Miss French. You’re a natural.”

“I actually studied library science,” she said.  “Not a lot of calling for that in Storybrooke, though.  Maybe I’ll consider it.”

She straightened up, laying the cool cloth over his forehead again.

“And it’s Belle,” she added.  “You’ve seen me in my bra, I think we’ve gone beyond formality.”

She stomped off, leaving him making a sort of choking noise behind her, and grinned to herself.  He’d get used to it.

[kurokairin-angelx]

White [Jumin Fanfic]

⚠ Content Warning ⚠ Some Angst

Writing Type Prose

Character (Mystic Messenger, Cheritz) Jumin (Focus)

Word Count 1,885

Date 4 October 2018

Author's Notes Originally written for an Amino event for Jumin's Birthday (first posted on MM Amino, then on Otome Amino).

Tagging @juminweek because I realised it touches on a couple of the prompts too: Day 1 (Elizabeth the 3rd); Day 2 (Childhood & Friendship); Day 3 (Common Life); Day 5 (Emotions); Day 7 (Birthday & Family). O____O Did I just cheated by doing multiple-in-one?

"Child Jumin" is used as a theme, but is not the sole Jumin that appears. White, associated with the innocence and purity of "childhood", is used as a motif.

Timeline of major events in Jumin's life is made up. Fanfic begins under the cut.

White is the frills on his mother's dress.

Light footsteps echoed excitedly along the stairway as little Jumin cautiously climbed up the staircase leading to his mother's bedroom. He did not understand why his mother no longer stayed in the same bedroom as his father, and he did not think it important to understand the reason behind. After all, his mother was still with him — that was all that mattered.

"Mommy!" Once the four-year-old reached the upper floor of the mansion he lived in, Jumin dashed excitedly toward his mother's room, his bright red Man of Iron school bag slapping against his tiny back rhythmically with every stride he took.

It was Jumin's birthday and he just returned from the day care centre where he had a modest birthday celebration with the other children. Even though the simple gifts of balloons and birthday card pale in comparison to the extravagant items that his parents always give him, he was still eager to share about his special day with his mother.

"Mom-" Jumin was about to knock on the nicely polished wooden door when he realised his mother's bedroom door was ajar. His heart sank at what he saw through the gap; his mother was sitting on the single bed, tear stricken and gripping tightly onto torn pieces of what was once a beautiful white silk gown.

He did not understand why his mother cried over a torn white gown, and he did not think it important to understand the reason behind. After all, his mother was still with him — that was what he naively believed.

That night, he made his only birthday wish before going to bed.

"I wish mommy be happy."

White is the cream on his birthday cake.

He watched blankly as his shadow cast silently over the vanilla cream topping on the round cake, where a big unlit candle was placed precisely at the centre. The digital clock in the living room showed the date '5 October', and although the moon was already hanging high in the night sky, everything that had been laid out on the dining table since morning were still in their original, untouched conditions — including a note sitting conspicuously on top of a huge box wrapped in an limited edition Man of Iron gift paper.

The note, while pleasant to the touch, contained a cruelly brief message: "Happy birthday, my son."

Soon, the date on the clock changed. Jumin's lips trembled lightly as he closed his eyes and sighed. Then, he stood up from the chair and turned to instruct their housekeeper - the only other person who was with him in the kitchen the entire day - to clear the dining table. Already accustomed to this annual routine ever since Chairman Han divorced Jumin's mother, the housekeeper proceeded to do as told.

Putting his hands into his trouser pockets for warmth, Jumin made his way back to his bedroom in the empty mansion slowly. En route, he could not help stealing a few glances in the direction of the front door. He was unsure of what he was expecting — after all, his father never did come home until the late wee hours.

Closing the wooden door lightly behind him, he stood alone in the unlit bedroom. He recalled that the housekeeper mentioned his father had prepared the table with the birthday cake and presents early in the morning before rushing out to attend to matters at the company.

"Work?" The dark haired boy buried his face into the pillow as he climbed into bed, warm tears staining its cover. "What a lie."

White is the mask on his face.

"Hope you've enjoyed your birthday!" A group of teenage boys, still in their white school uniforms, spoke gleefully as they walked out of a karaoke bar together.

"Thank you," Jumin smiled and politely thanked his classmates for arranging a birthday celebration for him. This group of male friends were his high school classmates for the past three years. They had planned small birthday celebrations for Jumin every year, and each time Jumin thanked them, they would happily reply "It's our pleasure!"

"Man, I hope we can still sing a few more songs!" The boys continue to chat as they walked toward the pavement. "Haha! If we sing any more, we'll miss the last bus home!"

Amidst their boisterous laughter, a car honk was heard. A teal haired teenager in the group gently pat Jumin's broad shoulder and said, "Your driver is here."

Jumin glanced at the familiar white luxurious car parked by the roadside kerb before looking back at him and nodded. "Let's go."

As their classmates bid them good night, the duo walked side by side and made their way toward the car where Jumin's driver was waiting patiently.

"Mr. Jumin, Mr. Jihyun," the driver greeted professionally as the car door opened automatically on Jumin's approach, and the two teenagers occupied the passenger seats with swift, practised coordination. Once the pair of best friends buckled on their seat belts, the driver started the car engine and drove quietly away from the karaoke bar and in the direction of their destination.

As the white car continued to travel along the quiet streets under the blanket of stars, its interior was illuminated periodically as it passed by street lamps that were situated at regular intervals on the side pavement. That created a curious illusion of the passengers' white uniforms blinking.

"Jumin." The teal haired boy spoke.

"Hmm?"

"Are you happy?"

"..." A silent pause. "I don't know."

White is the coat on his cat.

Upon entering his penthouse, the young man placed the silver keys on the coffee table before heading straight to the bedroom where his beloved cat was waiting for him.

"Ah, my Elizabeth the 3rd," Jumin knelt down and gently combed through Elizabeth's beautiful soft white fur. "Apologies for returning home slightly late today."

Elizabeth purred as she let herself enjoy Jumin's affectionate touch.

"Let me prepare your dinner," Jumin spoke as he stood up, removing his black jacket and tie, and walked toward the small food counter in his bedroom. As he poured top-grade cat food into a red food bowl and then some red wine into a wine glass, he continued his one-sided conversation with Elizabeth, "How's your day been? Were you feeling bored?"

The white house cat sniffed at the food as Jumin laid the filled bowl in front of her on the floor. Then, she began to dig in.

"I've been rather busy today," Jumin took a sip of the red wine he poured as he pat Elizabeth's head. He then slowly recounted his day to her, just like he had done so every night ever since he received her from his best friend, Jihyun. "On my way to the office this morning, I received 68 birthday greetings from employees who saw me. I received a further 138 birthday wishes via e-mails. My father arranged a meal with me as usual at a grand hotel where we had a twelve-course lunch that lasted three hours."

Elizabeth continued to nibble on her cat food as she listened to Jumin's soothing deep voice.

"Guess what did my father give me as my birthday present this year?" Jumin smiled gently at Elizabeth, his eyes soft and loving as he looked at her. "He said he's pleased with how I'm handling the company as a Director. So, he's going to pull more investments into the cat project I proposed a while back."

Elizabeth's ears twitched instinctively when she heard the word "cat", and she briefly looked up at Jumin, her crystal blue eyes meeting his glistening grey eyes.

"Did you hear that, Elizabeth the 3rd?" He chuckled a little as he shyly covered his tearful eyes with his hand. It was not uncommon for Jumin to show his emotions in front of Elizabeth, but he still found it awkward and wrong to display his feelings openly, even if it was only in front of his beloved cat in private. "The cat project in your honour is now supported by my father too."

Done with her dinner, Elizabeth purred softly and rubbed herself against Jumin's legs, against his black trousers and socks.

"You're happy about it, aren't you?" Jumin took another sip of red wine from the wine glass as he let Elizabeth snuggle against his legs. In quiet amusement, he observed Elizabeth's white fur strands sticking to his trousers. "Thank you."

White is the frame on his Polaroid film.

"Alright, everyone! Look here and say cheese!" With a wave of his hand, Jihyun instructed everyone present to look in the direction of his camera. Within a few seconds of countdown, and with a quick flash of light, a group photograph of all six RFA members who had gathered to celebrate Jumin's birthday was taken.

"Let's cut the cake!" Yoosung clapped in excitement.

"Jumin should make his birthday wishes before blowing out the candles!" Seven took Yoosung aside before the latter could get near the plastic cake knife.

"Ah," Yoosung smiled sheepishly. "Sorry, I forgot."

"Come, Jumin," MC gently locked her arm around Jumin's. "You should make a wish."

Jumin gave MC's hand a light pat before closing his eyes and making his wish in silent thought.

"What do you think Jumin wished for?" Yoosung whispered, curiosity unconcealed in his tone.

"Hopefully something for the benefit of his employees," Jaehee sighed in response.

"Well, Trust Fund Kid already has everything," Zen shrugged. "I can't imagine what else he could wish for."

"Whatever he wished for," Jihyun looked at his best friend whom he had known since childhood. Even though Jumin had grown taller, his shoulders had grown broader, and his facial features had grown more masculine, he still wore the same untainted pair of eyes. Through his grey eyes, Jihyun could see the child in Jumin — the child who had the same tenacity as the Man of Iron. "I'm sure it'll be good."

Everyone cheered and clapped when Jumin opened his eyes after having made his wish and puffed the candle flame out. The day proceeded in hustle and bustle, and soon, it was time for everyone to go back home.

"Did you enjoy yourself today?" MC asked Jumin once the two of them entered their comfortable abode.

"Of course, my wife," Jumin planted a gentle kiss on MC's forehead. "Thank you for planning the party for me."

MC giggled while replying that he definitely deserved a decent birthday celebration. "Hmm," MC spoke as she picked up Elizabeth, who had sprang out of the master bedroom soon after she heard them entering the penthouse, and caressed her soft fur. "So, what did you wish for?"

A smile formed on Jumin's lips when he noticed how peacefully Elizabeth was snuggling in MC's arms. "You're curious?" He raised an eyebrow at MC as he combed through Elizabeth's white fur.

MC looked up at Jumin and nodded earnestly.

"Well," Jumin blushed as he first looked at his beloved wife and then at his beloved cat cradled in her arms. His voice dropped to a soft whisper when he articulated the wish that he had made earlier at his birthday party —

"I wish us to be happy."

White is the page on his new life chapter with you.

[spare-aka-nanashi74-blog]

25 posts! To commemorate, here’s a preview of the third (and last) fic in my BanLin Carrot Fics series:

Third Time's the Charm

by spare

Early September Oyafukou-douri, Fukuoka

The first time around, it's because Yamato had given them coupons. Prior protests notwithstanding, Lin had capitulated at the words 'Limited Time Offer! Couples Discount: 30% Off!' He never could resist a good bargain, after all. And although a trip to an ice cream store could hardly be called a 'date' (and with the baseball freak, of all people), it would be a good enough occasion to finally wear that belted mauve mini-dress with his new pair of white strappy heels.

The Big Dipper Ice Cream Parlor occupies the ground floor of a red brick building on the edge of that infamous stretch of concrete known to the locals as 'the Street of Wayward Children'. Through the establishment's glass-walled, glitzy storefront, one could see customers crowding an 'American diner'-style interior with padded double booths, paddle fans, and gleaming ceramic countertops.

A bell jangles overhead as Banba and Lin let themselves inside, followed by a perky “Welcome!” from the lady behind said counter. They take a booth by the window and a waiter takes their order, duly dishing it up in five minutes flat. For Lin, Amamiya's famed Tri-Color Ice Cream Combo: one big scoop each of strawberry, matcha, and carrot cake ice cream, replete with tiny marshmallows, candy sprinkles and sugar-frosted cornflakes. For Banba, the Mentaiko Medley Ice Cream Bowl: garnished with a couple of rice crackers, three good-sized scoops of—I kid you not—spicy pollock roe-flavored ice cream.

It's the latter Lin begrudges an appraising look at. Pale pink with the faintest hint of peach in color, it's quite easy to mistake it for strawberry-vanilla or cherry blossom-flavored ice cream, not mentaiko.

In fact, for all he knows, it may very well be strawberry ice cream and/or cherry blossom; perhaps Banba has 'progressed' from puns to pranks, and is only pulling Lin's leg. Perhaps the wait staff of The Big Dipper are even in on it. Barring tasting it for himself—or like a dog, sniffing it, he couldn't really know for sure.

Then again, Lin appends, sneaking a glance at his boothmate, little else but mentaiko could put that dopey grin on Banba's horsey face.

“Ain't this a sight,” said horsey-faced detective drawls, cheerfully brandishing his dessert spoon. “Welp, don't mind if I do~!” Banba then shovels a spoonful of the mentaiko ice cream into his mouth, making a satisfied (and vaguely sexual, to Lin's totally unbiased ears) sound seconds later. “It's spicy pollock roe ice cream, alright,” the man declares. “Cold and sweet at first, then it beans ya with the zing, like one helluva 12-6 curveball.”

Lin makes a moue of distaste.“I can't believe you're really eating that.”

“I can't believe you ain't,” Banba replies, taking another heaping spoonful of the... stuff.

Fish egg ice cream, Lin's mind supplies, grimacing even more. Spicy fish egg ice cream. The world must be mad. “I'll stick to my own ice cream, thanks.” And so saying, Lin eats his first mouthful of carrot cake ice cream.

It's sweet and cool on his tongue, the mild yet distinct zest of the bits of carrot glacé playing off well with the syrupy caramel swirl and the lush, rich veins of cream cheese. Delicious. He samples the matcha next, the green tea ice cream fragrant and refreshing, and then the supremely superb strawberry ice cream. Tasting heaven with every bite, Lin spends the next few moments lost in icy, creamy, sugary bliss.

He's brought back to Earth when he hears a chuckle from close by. Lin opens his eyes (failing to remember when, exactly, he'd closed them), only to find Banba regarding him with frank amusement.

“What?” Lin tetchily asks.

“Nothing,” the other man says, holding up a hand. “I was just thinking it's kinda cute, you having a sweet tooth, Lin-chan.”

Despite what he's been eating, Lin could feel his face grow warm. “Hmph, what do you mean, 'kind of', Ban-baka?” he scoffs, nose turned up. “I'm always cute.”

“For sure,” is Banba's tongue-in-cheek rejoinder. “And ever so modest, too.”

To be continued...