#but in return he was to do their bidding and train in the dark forest

[avesque]

THE GREAT WAR I: bruised like violets — tsu’tey

— when accompanying dr. augustine, norm spellman, and jake sully to explore the pandoran forest, you and sully become separated from the group. you barely survive the night before a na’vi woman rescues you.

INCLUDES fem!reader, dreamwalker!reader. mentions of tom’s (jake’s twin) medical history and death + his (purely platonic! brotherly!) relationship with reader, near death experiences. 3.7k words.

NOTE my knuckles were WHAT? 🎤 for the sake of this fic and my sanity, let us pretend time dilation is not a thing because that complicates all sense of logic in this fic’s timeline.

SERIES MASTERLIST | part ii

The familiar darkness of the link unit’s space shrouds you as you open your eyes, mind still reeling despite your countless ventures in your Avatar. Pushing the link’s cover open, you slowly sit up, wiping the sweat lining your forehead.

Dr. Max Patel greets you with a clipboard in hand.

“Grace is waiting for you.”

Your eyebrows jump. “Did she see me and Txur’ii shoot Sari seeds at the other kids again?”

Dr. Patel steps back, gasping, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “You said you’d stop doing that!”

“They started picking on him again!”

Txuri’ii is the Na’vi kid you almost plowed into the first time you tested your Avatar. He’s smaller compared to other Na’vi boys his age; a little thinner than usual too. It’s the reason you didn’t immediately see him that first time. He’s grown to be the source of entertainment for the other Na’vi kids, picking on him and bullying him.

When you learned of this, you dragged the kid and gathered all uncollected Sari seeds you could find. Borrowing two straws from the lab, you then hid behind the bushes as you preyed on Txur’ii’s tormentors.

You showed him as you stuffed the Sari seeds in your mouth and brought the straw to your lips. As the tallest of the bullies turns his back in your direction, you blow a seed through the straw, hitting the kid on his nape.

Txur’ii’s delighted squeak almost gave away your hiding spot.

One time, Dr. Augustine caught you and Txur’ii, and she berated you like a little kid when you got back in the lab.

You jump down the link unit, fixing your rumpled up shirt. You bid Dr. Patel goodbye, squashing down your smile with a finger to your lips and an obnoxious “shh.”

There’s a familiar face in Dr. Augustine’s vicinity. You stop short in your tracks, squinting your eyes as if that will help you understand the situation better.

You glide your palms over the edges of tables as you wade closer to where he’s talking with Dr. Augustine and Spellman in a wheelchair.

Last you heard, he’d been caught in a mugging incident. No one wanted to talk to you about it and the rumors you’ve heard said he was in a coma.

You suppose those were that — rumors, since he’s here, in the flesh, right in front of you. But what the hell happened?

“Tommy?”

You seem to have interrupted Dr. Augustine’s litany. All three of them turn their heads toward you and you get a perfect view of his face. He looks so different; definitely a lot more mature with the scruff. With your eyes trained on Tommy, you don’t see Spellman’s forlorn gaze as the realization dawns upon him.

“It’s — Jake, actually,” Tommy says. He offers a hand to you. “Jake Sully.”

Jake Sully.

Your eyes flit back to the head scientist, noting the way her eyes are quite softer than usual. Her cigarette hangs forgotten between her fingers.

“Another Sully?” you murmur. You recall Tommy mentioning a twin brother back when you were still on Earth but never meeting him in person.

He has exactly the same features as him but he doesn’t have Tommy’s calm and friendly aura. You don’t know if that’s the reason he kind of irks you suddenly or it’s something else.

You prop your hands to your waist, looking around. “Where’s Tommy? Has he recovered?” He hasn’t returned your video calls. Just last week, you tried contacting him again, hoping he’s woken up. All you received was an automated response, which made sense if he was traveling halfway through the solar system in cryo, though you would have preferred if he sent you a little heads up.

Jake Sully’s eyebrows reconnect, quizzically looking at the two scientists before saying, “Tommy’s dead.”

A sigh is caught in your throat. You want to ask him to repeat that but if you once again hear what you thought you just heard, you don’t know how you’ll be able to take it.

“Right.” You clear your throat, swallowing the lump that’s making your eyes burn. “Yeah, of course, I knew that.”

The sarcasm makes the dents in his forehead deeper, tilting his head to the side as he watches you.

“How do you—?”

“I gotta get back,” you suddenly announce, already walking away. You don’t bother sparing them another glance as you walk out of the laboratory, a lone tear trailing down your cheek. You’re quick to put your exopack on, a humorless chuckle escaping your lips at the betrayal choking you the way not even the Pandoran air could.

You’re evasive of the other scientists for the past week. Even in your Avatar form, you avoid any interaction with Dr. Augustine and other Avatar drivers.

Their silence about Tommy’s death makes something ugly curl in your stomach. You haven’t seen him since you were 14. Your stubborn mind refuses to accept what Jake Sully said about Tommy because that is just impossible. If anyone deserves to live the longest life they could on this godforsaken moon, or even back there on Earth, it would have been Tommy.

Tommy, who you basically grew up with. Despite being under the Colonel’s wing, there still wasn’t much to life. It was only then that Tommy started hanging out with you did you come out of your shell.

“Y/N!”

Dr. Patel’s familiar voice cuts through your peace. He jogs over to you, worn clipboard in hand. You don’t think he has ever put that thing down. It looks three seconds away from disintegrating.

“Grace is looking for you.”

You say nothing but follow the scientist back to the lab. Inside, you see Jake Sully, Dr. Augustine, and Spellman huddled together.

Dr. Augustine greets you before gesturing towards Sully. “Marine’s coming with us.”

You raise your eyebrows, making an effort to not look at any of them.

“For the research,” she adds. “Norm’s coming too.”

You say nothing as you move and get ready, settling in your own unit. You see Spellman give Dr. Augustine a withering look and you roll your eyes.

To your left is the other Sully’s link unit. You watch as he methodically hauls himself up the machine, lifting his upper body first before hooking his arms under his knees to position his legs.

As you settle and close your eyes, you wonder how he ended up like that.

Spellman’s excited chatter grates at your ears. Tommy used to be like that. It was what you bonded over in the first place. And usually, you’d be more than happy to be out here with Dr. Augustine but you’ve been off-kilter ever since Jake Sully ceremoniously dropped the news.

The forest of Pandora is still a wonder to you despite residing here for the past six years. Though Dr. Augustine had been here much longer than you have, her stacks of files are endless about the Pandoran flora and fauna. It seems like the moon spits out new species every single day.

You huff as the two scientists crouch over a braid of roots, injecting a needle to see the synapses transmit on the small screen Spellman holds. You turn around and realize Sully is nowhere to be found.

Your company is too preoccupied with their discovery so you leave them be, following the ruffles of footsteps against fallen leaves. Pulling back a giant leaf, it reveals Jake Sully tapping away on a bunch of Helicoradian plants.

You don’t make yourself known, watching from the sidelines as a smile spreads across the man’s face. Sully is more… tolerable, you’d say, in his Avatar form. Though the aura you cannot place is still emanating off him, he also has that air of innocence.

You startle as the walls of Helicoradian vanish from his ministrations and instead reveal a crash of Hammerhead Titanotheres, one of which notices your acquaintance and releases a loud cry. They’re like giant rhinoceros, a spattering of blue and purple with thick armor.

You curse under your breath, stepping forward to get closer to him but still hidden from the animal.

“Don’t shoot!” you bark when you notice him grip his gun, finger on the trigger. “Don’t you dare shoot, Sully! That’s got armor thicker than your skull.”

The Titanotheres rakes its foot on the forest floor before charging, letting out another cry, leaving a flurry of dust in its wake. You’re helpless and frozen on your spot as Jake Sully stands his ground, leveling the giant’s cry with a shout of his own.

This seems to deter the animal, skidding to a stop. You think it whimpers. Sully is as surprised as you.

“You son of a bitch!” he spits. He huffs out a laugh and you grimace at the air of arrogance surrounding him. He spews out some more nonsense as the Titanotheres cowers and scurries away… until you hear something worse than a Titanotheres.

Behind Jake Sully stands a Thanator. Its cry pierces the air, sending shivers down your spine.

“Okay, now, what do I do?” The marine asks, gauging the animal. “What do I do?”

Oh, you’d beg Eywa to bring that Titanotheres back.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you grit out. “Run!”

Jake Sully runs, abandoning all sense of dignity as he sprints — toward you. The Thanator charges and chases Sully and you have no choice but to run too, unless you want to be a predator’s lunch. You hear a distant, “what the hell is going on?” from Dr. Augustine as you run past her and a wide-eyed Spellman.

In your head, you’re cursing Sully in the darkest pits of hell. You are not fit for running. Your lungs strain as you fight to breathe, legs already aching and you pray to all the gods you know that your ankles will not give out on you this time.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” Sully chants. The Thanator growls and you think you can feel it breathing just behind your neck.

“There!” Sully points to an uprooted tree. You don’t question his decision, partly because you don’t have a choice. The two of you burrow under the thick roots, dirt on your hands and knees as you try to crawl further down the shallow hole.

The animal roars, sending a giant claw in your direction. You try not to scream as the roots practically disintegrate on its assault, a shower of wood falling over your heads. Jake Sully tugs on your hand, moving out of your hiding spot and taking off again.

“This is your fault,” you wheeze out, greens and blues flying by your peripheral. “Stupid shit.”

He doesn’t hear you or maybe chooses to ignore you. You don’t care. If you weren’t on the brink of death, you’d kill Jake Sully with your bare hands.

“We gotta jump!” He shouts over his shoulder.

Though there is a giant deadly animal chasing your asses, you skid to a stop, making the marine stumble.

“No.”

He ignores you again, pulling on your wrist hard enough to pop it. The Thanator unleashes another cry, sounding closer than ever.

“We jump on three!”

It’s then you hear the wild splashes of water. You’re running head on on the edge of a cliff. You’re going to die and Jake Sully is the last person you’ll see. It’s enough to make you want to cry.

“One!”

“No!” You try to pull your wrist free from his hold but his grip only tightens.

“Two!”

“I said no!”

“Three!”

“I can’t swim!”

You don’t jump.

Jake Sully does.

But he hasn’t let go of you. His momentum drags you along and you’re free falling to your death first and sinking beneath the waters next. During your fall, Sully’s hold on you disappeared. Your chest tightens in more ways than one.

The panic creeps in and your lungs constrict as you take a deep breath, choking on water and going blind in hysteria. You thrash, mind reeling and trying to open your eyes but between the choking and the drowning and the dying, you can’t find it in you to think.

Something wraps beneath your arms and pulls. You break out of the surface, sputtering and blinking away the water, to find Jake Sully in front of you.

“Hey, hey,” he shakes your arms. Stray strands from his braids are clinging to his face. “Are you okay?”

You hear a faint cry from above, the Thanator peering down at you.

“Can we—?” you cough, eyes stinging and nose burning. “Can we get out of the water first?”

Sully hauls you off the river and into land. You fall to your knees and heave, getting water out of your system. Your clothes are drenched and you assume he lost his gun along the way. There might be no Thanators here but the forest still isn’t safe.

You shudder, running a palm over your face to get rid of the rivulets. It’s no use since your palms are wet.

“This is your fault,” you say again, glaring at the man shaking his arms as if it will dry his clothes faster. Whatever vulnerability you showed when he pulled you out was already gone. “If your stupid little ass didn’t wander off, we won’t be here right now.”

“Hey,” he protests, walking over to where you are, boots leaving behind a damp trail. “I just saved your ass back there.”

“Okay, and?”

Sully blows out a breath. You can see the frustration seeping through his façade.

“Get up, we need to find our way back.”

You roll your eyes but don’t protest, knowing he’s right. He doesn’t bother to help you up as he walks away and you don’t bother calling his name as you stagger behind, sniffling and coughing still.

Trekking the forest is much harder with your clothes sticking to you uncomfortably. You’ve never explored this part so it was much harder to navigate, though Jake Sully doesn’t seem as worried as you are. Your legs are tired and your nose still has not recovered from the water you inhaled. You’d love nothing more than to be back in your human form and actually breathe.

It’s nearing eclipse and the two of you are still deep in the forest. Your clothes have not fully dried but not as damp as before but as night creeps closer, the temperature slowly drops and you shiver every now and then.

“We won’t make it back to camp in time,” you say, pushing back leaves in your way. Sully, ever the gentleman, doesn’t so much as help you jump over rocks, letting you clamber your way up like a soaked baby koala.

“No shit.”

“You are so fucking annoying.”

Sully huffs, turning around to look at you. “So are you.”

You jab a finger in his direction, growing more aggravated each passing second. “Shut the fuck up. If it wasn’t for your sorry, stupid as fuck fucking ass, we won’t be here, okay? We could be back in the lab right now — I could be back in the lab right now and resting on that very stupid and inconvenient bunk but no! I am stuck here with you of all people!”

“Hey—”

“I could have died and it would have been your fault.”

Jake Sully stops and you try to swallow the emotions, try to stop the burning sensation behind your eyelids. You are far more collected than that, far more articulate and definitely far more level-headed if it were a better day but you nearly died. Every breath still hurts your lungs and your body aches in places you never thought it could hurt.

He holds up a hand between you, as if conjuring up some healthy boundaries. You think he looks a little conflicted and it’s a fresh look on him.

“Listen kid.” Oh, you hate that condescending tone. “You and I, we need to work together, alright? If you wanna survive, you follow what I say. You don’t want to? Okay—” he makes a grand gesture of spreading his arm, as if giving you liberty, “—I’ll leave you out here to really die. Your choice.”

You scowl at him, fighting the urge to just reach up and grab at his face and squeeze so hard his eyeballs would pop out. But between the two of you, it’s the marine who knows more about survival skills than you ever could so you comply, grumbling after him in the darkness.

“This better not include more cliff jumping,” you remark, kicking pebbles along the way.

“We need to make a fire,” he announces. You stare at his back, wondering if he hit his head when you jumped off.

“How the fuck are we going to do that?”

“Do you have matches?”

You mutter some more nasty comments as you tap on your clothes, checking the pockets. You find a box of it on a pouch on your chest, pulling it out to find it dripping.

“Well,” you hold it between your fingers, watching as water drips, drips, drips on the dirt, “isn’t that lovely.”

Jake Sully curses, searching his pockets. He stills when a growl comes from behind the bushes, and the sound glues you to your spot. You unconsciously take a step toward him, listening intently as he mutters a silent victory, fishing out a lighter.

“Quick, rip a seam off your shirt.” He’s already plucking dry branches off a plant to his left.

“What?”

“We need to make a fire.”

You tug uselessly on the flap of your shirt. “How is this going to help?”

Sully stares at you with wide eyes, his jaw clenched. “Fucking Christ,” he shoves a branch on your hands and grips your clothes. You gasp as he rips a good portion of your polo, leaving you in tattered cargo and an undershirt. “You won’t survive a day out here.”

You push the stupid branch back on his palms. “I wasn’t made to survive here, I’m a scientist. If I asked you what a Loreyu is, you wouldn’t know a single shit about it too.”

He ignores you. You watch as he ties the fabric on the end of the stick, dipping it on a curved leaf that has collected sap. He hands it to you before doing the same thing to his own piece of clothing and stick.

He flicks the lighter on and brings it to the saturated fabric. It catches fire immediately and you see a lot better now.

Another growl resonates, closer this time. Sully says nothing else as he grabs your wrist, torches in hand, and runs.

It seems all you’re meant to do this day is run and to be frank, you don’t think you have it in you to do so. Your legs give out as you reach a clearing, a pond shimmering in the night. It is a pain to admit but you’re thankful for Sully’s grip on you or else you would have dug your face on the forest floor.

“Shit, kid—”

“I’m alright,” you heave, dragging your feet so you’re kneeling. “I’m alright.”

Your reprieve is short-lived when something pounces behind you. You choke back a scream, ignoring the twitching pain on your ankle and scrambling to stand up. There’s a blur of black dancing in your peripheral and soon, there’s a whole pack of them surrounding you.

Jake Sully snarls, swishing his torch in a wide arc. You do the same, your back glued to his, your heart beating an erratic rhythm in your chest.

“Viperwolves,” you say.

“How do we kill it?”

“I don’t know!” You thrust your weapon forward as another one of them attempts to jump on you. “With a gun?”

“We don’t have a gun,” he grunts.

“As if I don—”

You scream as a Viperwolf pounces on you, sending you skittering away from your partner. Your torch is nowhere in sight and you’re far too panicked to think straight. Its large mouth is right at your face, sharp teeth inches away from your face.

This is it. Six years on this moon and you meet your fate like this. What a gruesome, sad ending. You don’t bother fighting, closing your eyes and flinching as it lets out a snarl before attacking you.

The pain never came.

You think you hear something, hear it whimper and the others scuttle off, but Jake Sully is already dragging you away.

There’s a ringing in your ears and his voice sounds so far away but your eyes are clear. You see him so vividly. Tommy.

“Hey, hey.” He makes a show of snapping his fingers to your left, to your right. “Talk to me, come on.”

It was the same thing he said when you almost drowned in a pool back on Earth. You were eight and stupid, taking a dip unsupervised, feeling like such an adult as you tried to imitate the others who were learning to swim as a part of their Avatar Training Program.

Tommy had found you nearly unconscious, calling and shouting for anyone as he rubbed and slapped at your back, throwing up water.

“Hey,” he had said, wiping away water on your face, “talk to me, come on.”

You had burst into tears right then, clinging to him and never letting go until you fell asleep. For a long time, he had been the only safe place you ever knew and seeing him in Jake Sully in the same situation makes your throat close up.

“M’fine,” you warble. You don’t see the woman who saved you speaking softly as she holds a palm to the Viperwolf that nearly bit your head off.

When you hear faint footsteps retreating, you think Jake Sully has left you out here, but he’s crouched over your form, looking over his shoulder.

He pushes you up despite your protests, shy of dragging you on the dirt by your arms. He’s got a hold on your wrist again, dragging you through the forest again. It is disorienting, all of it. From being chased by a Thanator, jumping off a cliff and nearly drowning, to being attacked by a Viperwolf — paired with your fatigued body, your knees rattle as you blindly follow Sully.

You hear him talking, a string of slurred words. The forest is melting, a spiral of blues and greens, until your vision vignettes and there’s nothing at all.

MORE NOTES when i said this was a slow burn, i wasn’t planning on this slow. but! our boy tsu’tey will finally show up in the next chapter. i’m just happy how we’ve slowly opened reader’s relationships with other characters, and here’s to unraveling them while building up new ones!

TAGLIST @cullenswife @hannibalelijah @neytemsgf @syviiss @katsukiswrld @lovekeeho

[rileytwenty]

Leyra || the Albino Na'vi

(Neteyam x OC)

MASTERLIST/PLAYLIST/PICS

Chapter 2

For the next few weeks, Neteyam watched for Leyra everywhere he went.

Startled by the experience with Toruk Makto's son, she began making herself even more scarce than usual. Her father dropped her off on the ground even before breakfast and she only came back when darkness was about to overtake the forest.

While she was out, she made sure to steer clear of anywhere anyone might find her. In her mind, being alone was the best option. She'd rather be eaten by a Palulukan than live a life of constant judgement.

Neteyam caught glimpses of her white complexion here and there as she came and went. He found himself scanning the tree line during training and hunts, looking for that flash of white. Yet he never found her outside of camp.

No wonder he had not noticed her before their meeting. Most of the time, he wasn't entirely convinced that she was real. Until he saw her scampering off to her marui, or quickly hopping onto her father's ikran before they took off.

Why didn't she want to be around people her age? It appeared that her father was the only one she interacted with. What a miserable life she must live, being isolated from the people all the time.

Once, Neteyam grew too agitated by this idea and tried scouting out the place he had last seen her as well as the surrounding area. Where could one little Na'vi girl possibly go in a forest this big and dangerous? His scout was unsuccessful, and it left him frustrated.

After a couple weeks, she figured that his busy days would have wiped their interaction from his memory and she resumed her regular schedule.

He had not, however, forgotten her, and was delighted to be seeing her around camp a little more. She must be getting over her shyness, Neteyam assumed.

A few days later, Neteyam noticed Leyra's father leaving camp on his ikran unexpectedly, carrying two bowls of food.

Usually, Leyra fed herself lunch from the forest, eating some mixture of vegetation. But today, her father was looking to spend a little extra time with his daughter.

Curiosity grabbed hold of him, and Neteyam followed the man. Did he know where Leyra was spending her days? Neteyam wondered how someone who stands out so harshly could disappear like she has. Silent as an owl, he flew a distance behind the man.

Eventually the man landed at the top of a waterfall and unloaded the two meals. Bidding his ikran goodbye, he made his way to the bottom of the falls before creeping along the small ledge of rock behind the heavy downpour of water. After a few steps along the ledge, he was gone.

What? Neteyam followed the man's footsteps, the gentle spray of mist from the waterfall wetting his skin.

Sure enough, there was an entrance to a cave not far into the ledge. He had to bend down a little to enter.

"And I was telling him that he shouldn't-" The man's words were interrupted by Neteyam's sudden presence.

"Hello, Neteyam." The man greeted, shielding his daughter from view as much as he could subtly manage. "Sorry, is this usually your spot? We can leave, if you want." The man was evidently nervous.

"No, no," Neteyam assured, "I was coming to find Leyra, actually."

The man gave his child a 'what have you done?' look, and she returned the glance with an expression of 'I didn't do anything!'.

"Me? What for?" Leyra forced her voice to steady despite the nerves gnawing at her throat.

"Just to check up, I guess. Make sure you were still alive after spending so much time in the forest alone."

She was very obviously offended. "I've spent years alone in the forest, I think I can-" a peak at her father's expression and she was correcting herself, "I think I can thank you! Very much, for worrying about me. But I am alright, as you can see. No reason for concern. Is there anything else that you needed?"

"Do I need a reason to come see you?"

"No, of course not. I just figured you were busy with your duties, that you had no time for purposeless visits." Her hands were sweating and she wiped them on her top. Why had he come? To spy on her for his grandmother? She had done nothing to stand out lately, and didn't understand what she'd done to catch the Sully family's attention.

"Ah," he sighed in understanding, "I am a busy person."

Her father spoke, "Indeed. You usually have many duties to tend to. You should go eat with your family while you have the time. I'll bet they miss you with you being out all day."

Neteyam took the hint directed at the man's own life and excused himself. Though, not before asking, "Are you here often, Leyra?"

"Sometimes." She replied. She certainly wouldn't be coming back for a while now that perfect warrior boy knew about it.

"Good." He nodded to them both as a goodbye, and returned to the village.

He knew of her spot now. That's why he hadn't seen her from the sky, she had been in a cave. And it was a beautiful cave, too. He could see why she liked it so much.

He planned to return there later when her father was not there. He suspected the man did not want to draw more attention than necessary to his daughter and risk something bad happening to her at the hands of other clan members, so he definitely wouldn't tell Jake about Neteyam's imposing visit.

The day he first met Leyra, Neteyam had asked around if anyone knew of a white Na'vi in the clan. The older ones mostly knew of her, and asked if she was still around after all this time. The younger ones knew about as much as he had.

However, out of all the people he asked, none of them were happy at her mention. A few called her 'a mistake in the bloodline' and demanded that he not bring her up again.

Neteyam couldn't grasp it all. How could a girl so beautiful be forsaken by her own clan-- his clan, the clan he had grown up in-- just because of her unique coloration?

Back in the cave, Leyra's father was digging into her.

"What did you do to attract his attention now? I thought you said he had forgotten about it and left you alone?"

"I don't know what I did! I wish he would just ignore me, but he won't."

taglist: @kachowness

[luckykittenpirate]

Title: Ohkuwagata Ohger vs. Kyoryu Silver

[Opening scene: The city is under attack by a new villain named Darkius, who has unleashed a powerful monster to wreak havoc. The Ohkuwagata Ohger team is fighting to protect the city but appears to be overwhelmed.]

[Cut to the team's base where they receive a distress call from Kyoryu Silver, a lone warrior from another dimension who has come to help them in their time of need.]

Kyoryu Silver: "This is Kyoryu Silver. I sense that you need my help. I'm on my way."

[Cut back to the city where the Ohkuwagata Ohger team is struggling to hold off the monster.]

Racle: "i can't hold on much longer! I need help!"

[Just then, Kyoryu Silver appears in a flash of light, ready to join the battle.]

Kyoryu Silver: "I'm here to lend a hand. Let's show this monster what we're made of!"

[The two teams work together to defeat the monster, using their combined strength and teamwork to emerge victorious.]

[After the battle, the Ohkuwagata Ohger team thanks Kyoryu Silver for his help.]

Racles: "We couldn't have done it without you, Kyoryu Silver. You truly are a great warrior."

Kyoryu Silver: "It was my pleasure to fight alongside you. If you ever need my help again, just call."

[As Kyoryu Silver prepares to return to his own dimension, the Ohkuwagata Ohger team watches him go, knowing that they have made a powerful ally.]

[End of Episode]

Title: Ohkuwagata Ohger vs. Sōnoi

[Opening scene: The Ohkuwagata Ohger team is training in the forest when they come across a mysterious figure watching them from the shadows.]

Racles: "Who goes there? Show yourself!"

[The figure steps out of the shadows, revealing herself to be Sōnoi, a skilled warrior from a distant land.]

Sōnoi: "I mean no harm. I have come seeking your help. A great evil threatens my world, and I believe only you can help me defeat it."

[The team listens to Sōnoi's story and agrees to accompany his to his world to help.]

[Cut to Sōnoi's world, a place of beauty and wonder that is now under the shadow of a dark force.]

Racles: "I will do everything in our power to help you, Sōnoi. Together, we will defeat this evil."

[The Ohkuwagata Ohger team and Sōnoi engage in a series of epic battles against the dark forces, showcasing their skills and determination.]

[After a fierce final battle, the team emerges victorious, with Sōnoi standing by their side.]

Sōnoi: "I cannot thank you enough for everything you have done. You are true warriors, and I am honored to have fought alongside you."

Racles: "It was my pleasure to help. If you ever need me again, just call, and I will be there."

[Sōnoi bids farewell to the team, knowing that he has made lifelong friends in the Ohkuwagata Ohger team.]

[End of Episode]

[faerieavalon]

Vena Eolas: Journey of the Elvhen Spirit

Fandom: Dragon Age Inquisition Rating: Mature Pairings:  Felassan/Elvhen OC, Solas & Elvhen OC Male Lavellan/Dorian,   Others To Be Added

Ch 2 

[Read it on AO3]

Trust between the clan and the Inquisition grew slowly and steadily, as things cared for with respect often do. The Inquisitor, or Mahanon as he kept insisting, started with closing the nearby tear in the Veil. A rift, he called it. That it had a name meant this wasn’t the first or only occurrence. As worrisome as that might be, the clan’s immediate safety came first. Once resolved and spare supplies shared among the clan, they didn’t linger and only asked permission to return as compensation. It was given; a test for both sides.

The Inquisitor visited often in the following weeks, bringing different companions each time. They stayed long enough to share news or goods but never lingered. Once Hawen was willing, he sent scouts in his stead. They brought gifts, but never frivolous tokens. They helped, always asking if there was a need first. The humans in their group were refreshingly respectful, at least while within the clan boundaries. The elves with them brought stories. They spoke highly of their city kin, surviving and thriving in places one might not expect. They brought tales from clans far away, how they were different and yet the same. It was how they learned the Inquisitor was First of his clan before a different path claimed him. Day by day, tensions eased. Happy greetings and laughter replaced stiff politeness and formality. 

She watched the young ones welcome the visitors first. They were fascinated with stories and the outside world, listening eagerly to every detail. The elders grumbled at their passionate interest but couldn’t deny the pursuit of knowledge. The world was changing whether they liked it or not. One in particular, Loranil, was always the first to seek out any sight of Inquisition uniforms. He was old enough to no longer need a mentor so he had more time to spend with the soldiers, even joining in their training from time to time.

The elders’ dark mood broke when the Inquisitor brought the clan items of importance. Most important was news of their missing members. Taven, Hawen’s First and most adept student, was located a week’s travel south. His company was safe and happily searching through ruins deep in the forests of the Emerald Graves. News of Valorin, Hawen’s second student, wasn’t so bright. The anger that drove him to leave the clan had poisoned his heart. Rather than work with others, he summoned a demon to do his bidding and it went terribly wrong. He couldn’t control it. His scorched body was found in an abandoned house near the human settlements. The Inquisitor brought him back and stayed through the following days to pay his respects at the funerary rites. Before he left, he gave Valorin’s sister Emalien an artifact long thought lost. It was the very artifact her brother gave his life to find. Though it did little to comfort her heart, it brought closure and the clan respected him for it. 

She kept herself apart from most of their interactions, content to watch and wait. All her experience with humans and dwarves had been distrustful at best and violent at worst. This group was different. They sparked her curiosity, chipping away at her initial distrust. Seeing how they worked together, regardless of origin, was fascinating.

Resolving to speak with them at their next visit, she busied herself with breaking down herbs for a new batch of poultices until she felt eyes at her back. Stretching her senses, she recognized the familiar, warm aura of her oldest friend. 

“You can talk with them, you know.” Hawen teased her lightly as he approached. “They aren’t nearly as terrible as I expected.”

“It helps that their leader is one of the People,” she agreed. “I cannot imagine one who was raised otherwise might see us in the same light.”

“True, though it seems his character is strong enough to carry that weight. One would hope that strength in any other person might look the same.”

“Have you made your decision then?”

[Read more on AO3]

[casspurrjoybell-31]

The Consort's Fate - Chapter 11 - Part 1

*Warning Adult Content*

Finn

Maggie clutches her shawl to her chest.

The frayed fabric curls around her slender frame, doing little to fend off the chill of the night.

She leans forward and silently mouths the words stay safe.

Small tufts of silky mist leave her lips and her eyes never leave Kelly as the four of us traipse down the cottage steps.

He gives her a wave of acknowledgement and she returns the gesture with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

Something instinctive stirs at the sight of Maggie, standing alone at the entryway, bidding us farewell.

She has her own set of instructions to rid our smells from the cottage and to keep herself protected, yet it feels oddly unsettling leaving her behind.

I glance to Douglas.

His dark brows arch with curiosity at the exchange between Kelly and Maggie.

As if sensing my thoughts, he meets my gaze and offers up a noncommittal shrug.

It's not our issue, his eyes seem to say.

They have a plan leaving her behind.

The time for questioning has well passed.

My lips thin in resigned agreement.

We reach the dewy grass and Brayden gracefully turns towards us.

He points to Douglas and then to me.

Before we can ask his meaning, Brayden holds out his arms to Kelly.

This earns him a grumble of protest before Kelly gracelessly climbs into Brayden's arms, allowing his vampire counterpart to cradle him.

Kelly lifts his head to us and expectantly points a finger in Douglas' direction.

We're being asked to follow suit.

Douglas mutters an ah of understanding.

Douglas grabs both of our packs and moves behind me.

I crouch down and wait until he's adjusted on my back before rising to my full height.

I steal a look at Brayden only to find his focus is already fixed on me.

His eyes are dark and searing.

I take a steadying breath, hoping to smell a trace of whatever emotions are lurking beneath his unreadable gaze.

It's like breathing into a blackhole.

There's nothing.

Whatever emotions he allowed to slip onto my radar are now tucked away in the safety of his own mind, locked behind a guarded vault.

Borayden's eyes flicker back to Douglas.

An expression I can't quite place registers across his face but it's gone as quickly as it appears.

He tears his eyes away and begins to run, leaving a cold trail of icy emptiness in his wake.

*

The four of us travel well into the night.

Neither Brayden nor Kelly offers intel on where we're going, we simply follow behind them, putting as much distance as possible between us and the village.

Douglas clutches at my shoulders.

If I'm jostling him too much, he doesn't complain.

I've never had to run like this, let alone use any of my immortal abilities.

Although I've been in this form for years, it feels as if I'm learning to walk for the first time.

I broached the subject with Reyo plenty of times while hidden within the confines of the fortress.

I asked to have my abilities tested, tested and then trained.

Each of my requests was met with a firm refusal.

If all that Kelly and Maggie said was true, I now realize why.

Reyo didn't want me to know my true strength.

He didn't want me to know my true form.

As the minutes melt into hours, I anticipate the moment when my bones and muscles will ache in protest.

It never happens.

Instead of pain, I feel hunger.

It starts as a twinge of annoyance, deep in my belly.

As we travel further away from the village and deeper into the wooded forest, the twinge becomes a rumble of pain.

As if sensing my inner turmoil, Kelly juts his chin to the side,and his whisper dances with the wind.

"Almost there."

Even in those two words, Kelly speaks to me with a warm familiarity, the kind reserved for relationships that are developed over a lifetime.

His olive complexion nearly glows beneath the moon and he squints into the night.

The fingertips of the wind wiggle through his dark hair.

Unlike Douglas, who emits only the occasional emotion of discomfort, Kelly's emotions are potent and constant, wavering from happiness to fear.

I wait for a spark of recognition, just a single memory for me to cling to and slowly peel away the details.

Nothing.

My stride remains in perfect rhythm with Braygen's despite our difference in height.

I glance down at his long limbs and realize he has shortened his gait to accommodate mine.

My eyes trail up his torso and settle on his face, studying the angle of his features for a second longer than considered appropriate.

He's a beautiful immortal, this cloaked man.

Curiosity gnaws at the edges of my mind and I can't help but wonder if I viewed him this way when I was a human, too.

"We're here."

[wolferine]

Unforgivable - Part 2

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Summary: When the reader loses their temper, it causes them to commit an act they can never take back...

Warnings: Violence, blood, torture, death

Word count: 2372

Part 1

Tags: @yeetus-thyself @phoenixofash @lilclownx @yeeterthekeeper @alessiapn @diaryoflife

AN: Please read to the end before you come after me. :)

Everything is a blur. The last thing you remember is cradling Natasha in your lap and seeing the pain of betrayal in her eyes. You did this to her. You couldn’t control your anger and now she had a bullet—shot out of your gun—in her back. You hurt her and there was no way you could ever forgive yourself for that. 

You finally let Tony get close enough to take care of her, because you realized you don’t deserve her anymore. 

You run away from the Avengers Tower, your leg slowing you down, but you don’t care. Each step feels like a knife rubbing against your bone, but even that’s not enough to distract you from the pain in your chest. It feels like someone has torn you open, ripped your heart out of your ribcage, and thrown it into a bonfire.

But you have no one to blame than yourself.

Tears stream down your face as you stumble through the streets, eventually finding some privacy in a nearby forest. Your sobs echo through the trees as you crawl hand over hand, your uniform shredding open on bushes and branches. The trickle of a creek calls to you and you dunk your bloody hands in the freezing water, desperate to wash yourself of your failures.

You can’t believe what you’ve done.

The scene of Natasha falling to the floor plays over and over in your head and you would pay anything to unsee it. You curl into a ball, wiping your nose on your knees. You deserve all the pain and misery for your actions. You’re so caught up in your head, thinking about all the ways you can punish yourself, that you don’t notice the group of men sneaking up on you from behind.

“Over there! Over there!” 

“By the creek, see?”

“Wait—that’s an Avenger?”

“Looks like someone had a bad day.”

“Hey, Y/N.”

At the sound of your name, you finally lift your head, only for the butt of a shotgun to slam into your face. Your nose breaks and blood fills your mouth. You turn away, not even interested in protecting yourself. If they killed you, you would thank them.

“Aw, come on. At least give us a reaction,” someone says.

The shotgun butt smashes against the back of your head and you wouldn’t be surprised if it cracked your skull. Someone kicks your leg where you were shot, and you bite your lip to hold back a scream.

“Well, this is anti-climactic.”

“Hey, if it makes our job easier, I’m not gonna complain.”

“I still think Hammer’s weird for wanting Y/N over the other Avengers.”

“Given the circumstances, he couldn’t really be picky—”

“Stop standing around and get to it!” someone yells. 

The men surround you, punching and kicking every inch of you. The bulletproof vest of your uniform does little to lessen the impact of their blows. You feel bruises forming along your ribs and your rattling teeth bite your lips bloody. It doesn’t take long for you to black out and the peace is blissful.

***********************************************************************

Sometime later—you have no idea how long—you jolt awake, finding yourself strapped to a metal chair in the middle of a dark, concrete room. A man in glasses and a gray suit with white gloves stands in front of you. 

“Hello, I’m Justin Hammer,” he says, offering a hand, then withdrawing when he realizes your arms are tied to the chair. “Sorry, force of habit.”

You stare at him. Your tongue pokes around the inside of your mouth and you notice some teeth are missing. There is a painful crick in your neck every time you try moving your head and every breath you take feels like a razor blade scraping the inside of your lungs.

“You’ve probably never heard of me, but I’m very familiar with you and your work with the Avengers. But the reason I have you here today is to talk about this man.” Hammer pulls out a folded photograph from his pocket and shows it to you.

It’s Tony Stark, but you have no desire to even think of that man anymore.

“Your best friend, right?” Hammer teases and you curl your lip at him. “What’s wrong? He’s the one who got you a spot on the team, isn’t he?” You look away from him. “I heard what he did to your girl,” he continues. “That must’ve felt like the betrayal of the century.”

“What?” you ask, confused as to what he’s referring to.

“I heard about what happened at the Avengers Tower. So tragic.” Hammer crumples Tony’s photograph and drops it on the floor. “Romanoff didn’t deserve that.”

“W-What are you talking about? Is she okay?” Your bottom lip quivers in fear.

Hammer kneels in front of you. “She’s dead, Y/N.”

“No, no…” You feel like he’s punched you right through the chest. “T-That’s not possible.”

“I’m sorry. I know she meant a lot to you.” Hammer stands again.

“How do you even know what happened at the Tower?” Given its security, there was no way news like that reached the public. At least not the truth of it. Maybe Hammer was just trying to mess with you.

Hammer motions behind him and a blonde woman steps forward from the shadows. Her face jolts your memory, but you don’t remember exactly where from.

“Recognize her?” Hammer asks. “She actually works for me, but she’s been pretending to be a SHIELD agent for some time now. She was right outside the door when your little spat with Stark went down.” Your mind flashes back to when you returned from the mission with Natasha. On your way to the private Avengers’ quarters, you remember passing the same blonde woman right outside the door.

“She heard everything that happened inside,” Hammer says as the blonde woman retreats into the darkness again.

“N-Natasha’s…She’s…She’s not dead,” you stammer.

Hammer shakes his head. “She went into surgery after Stark shot her, but due to the placement of the bullet, there were some complications and she coded on the table. They couldn’t revive her. That part was all over the news.”

You feel so sick you want to vomit. “I…I killed her?”

“No. You didn’t kill her. Tony Stark killed her.”

You start gasping for air, only worsening the pain in your chest. “No—But—He—I’m the one who pulled the trigger—”

“But you weren’t aiming for her. You were aiming for Stark, and he’s the one who deflected the bullet into her,” Hammer says. “He’s also the one who sent you two on that mission to begin with, wasn’t he? The reason you lost your cool and pulled your gun out? Think, Y/N. All of this is Stark’s fault.”

But the sadness of thinking you’ve killed Natasha is too overwhelming. You can’t focus on anything but your own guilt. You will burn in hell for this and you won’t even mind.

“Listen to me, Y/N!” Hammer snaps, striking you across the face. His rings cut into your cheek and blood fills your mouth. “I hate Stark just as much as you do. He’s been my business rival for years and I need someone to help me take him down. Who better than you, a former friend of his, who knows how to hit him where it hurts?”

You start crying at the thought of having to exist in a world without Natasha Romanoff.

Hammer tries getting your attention by slapping you again, but you’re unresponsive. You’re too lost in your grief to process anything he’s saying, and eventually he gives up, promising to come back another time to reveal his master plan to you.

It takes an entire month before he can even communicate with you. Your depression is all-consuming and their threats on your life have no effect. They’re startled to learn you actually enjoy the torture because you believe you deserve it after what you did to Natasha. But Hammer is relentless and finally figures out how to manipulate you into his bidding.

Six months after your capture and the accident, you finally crack. Your agony and pain turns into pure rage and hatred for Tony Stark. You can’t bring Natasha back, but you can get revenge on the man who took her life. After training with Hammer’s technology, which is almost as advanced as Tony’s, you’re deemed ready to be let out in the real world. Hammer personally asks for your help to kill Tony Stark, and it’s an offer you accept gladly.

***********************************************************************

Three months after the accident…

Natasha wakes up and looks to her right, disappointed to see the bed still empty. She’s tricked herself into believing that one day you’ll show up, ready to pick up the pieces and continue where you left off. But nothing has been the same since you left.

She sits up and turns the lights on. She scoots to the edge of the bed and carefully lifts her body into the wheelchair parked there.

The bullet had struck her lumbar spine, shattering her L1 vertebrae and paralyzing her from the waist down. Tony requested help from the best doctors he knew, but even the greatest modern advancements couldn’t repair her spine. He had personally designed her wheelchair, and she knows she should be grateful to still be alive, but she’s never felt so helpless and alone. 

After the accident, you ran off and no one could locate you. Secretly, she held onto the hope you would return one day, but she knows your guilt and shame are keeping you away. She wants to tell you that it wasn’t your fault and that she doesn’t hate you, but you’re not even giving her that chance.

Tony made the public announcement that Black Widow had retired from the Avengers. No one knew she had been paralyzed, nor that you had unofficially resigned from the team. Without you, without Black Widow, Natasha didn’t know who she was anymore.

She leaves her bedroom and goes into the kitchen. Tony arranged most of the food and dishes down to her new height but she feels like she’ll never adjust to not being able to stand anymore. She locates a bowl and a box of cereal and rolls over to the table. She chokes down dry Cheerios and pours her second bowlful when Tony walks in.

“Thank God you’re finally up,” he says. “When you’re done, I have something to show you.”

“Y/N?” She perks up.

“Uh…no…”

Natasha knows Tony blames himself just as much as she does for her accident, but it wasn’t his fault either. She wrestled between anger and guilt, sometimes blaming you, sometimes blaming him. But in the end, it’s easier to blame herself. She should have stopped you the moment you took out your gun, regardless of whether or not you pushed her. But she got so caught up in the moment she froze, and now she was paralyzed and you were gone.

“Just come down to my workshop, okay?” Tony disappears again.

With nothing better to do, Natasha takes the elevator down to Tony’s workshop. She doesn’t visit often, but when she does, she’s always impressed by his latest inventions and gadgets. She rolls down the aisle of old Iron Man suits displayed in glass cases, admiring the subtle differences in each one.

“Where are you, Tony?” she calls.

“Over here!” He waves her down from the other end. “I’ve been working on this for a while, and I know it’s a little premature, but I couldn’t help myself.” Tony stands next to another Iron Man suit, but it doesn’t quite look like it will fit him.

The suit is curved to fit a woman, black and red instead of Tony’s iconic red and gold. Natasha sees a red hourglass emblazoned on the belt buckle.

“What…What is this, Tony?” she asks, tears in her eyes.

“It’s an Iron Widow suit,” he says. “Or, whatever you want to call it. You’ll have to get in and test it out for yourself, but it’ll allow you to walk again and…be an Avenger again.”

Natasha wishes she could throw herself into his arms, but pulls him down to her level instead. “Thank you,” she whispers, wiping her face. She never thought she would be able to serve as an Avenger again, but she’ll take the opportunity if it means taking her mind off recent events.

“Ready to try it out?” Tony presses a button on the side of the suit and the suit opens up, bending into a crouched position so Natasha can get in it like a chair.

 She smiles for the first time since the accident.

 “I am.”

***********************************************************************

Six months after the accident…

Natasha is in the gym, lifting dumbbells on a bench when Tony walks in. Although she now has a legitimate excuse for skipping leg day for the rest of her life, she now has to make sure her upper body is twice as strong to make up for it.

“Look who decided to slide through my DMs this morning,” Tony says, shoving his phone in her face.

Midnight. Central Park Carousel. Come alone.

The text was from you.

“Oh, my God,” Natasha says, setting the weights down. You haven’t even texted her since the accident, and she’s a little hurt you didn’t reach out to her first. “What’s this about?”

“I have no idea.” Tony shrugs. “I know it says for me to go alone, but since it’s from Y/N, I wanted to ask if you wanted to tag along.”

“Of course.” In a way, Natasha feels like the text is really meant for her. Central Park was where you had asked her to be your girlfriend. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

“I’ll need you to be on your A-game. We have no idea what Y/N’s been up to these past six months. I don’t know if you’re gonna like what we find,” Tony says.

Natasha has spent countless nights wondering where you’ve been and what you’re doing. Now she has the chance to find out. “It’s going to be okay, Tony,” she says.

He shakes his head. “Just so you know, I’m praying more for you than me right now.”

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

Click here for Part 3!

AN: I never went to medical school, so forgive my medical inaccuracies.

[star-ocean-peahen]

It’s Time’s turn!  I guess this can be regular loz since it can go both ways

Legend  Twilight

—————————

When the Hero of Time walks out of the forest after his second adventure, he is twelve years old and bears the weight of the world on his shoulders.  There is no voice at his side, no home to return to, and no shoulder to weep on.

Beneath his stunted, malnourished body a faithful horse carries him to all ends of the earth and grows with him in body and spirit.  Sometimes they find a place to rest, a meal to share, a haven from enemies—and sometimes they don’t; a ragged, haunted child and a half-starved horse make people uncomfortable.  But she stays, no matter what difficulty they face next, and that is something no one else has done.

The first time Link begrudgingly admitted that undoing time had some good consequences as well as bad was in Castle Town Market, standing before a decrepit stall with a tiny cage on the counter.  Inside was a hunched reptile; young, alive, and innocent. 

Link had never undone his wallet so fast.  Within the dragon’s wide eyes he thought he saw a hint of recognition—but he shook his head and reminded himself that the past (the future, the present) was irrevocably, untouchably gone.

But the dragon is a powerful and magical species, created by the long-forgotten Hylia herself.  Dragons are emissaries of the goddesses; inside them dwells the slumbering deity of their ancestors.  Through some twist of (luck, fate, destiny) the friendship so fleetingly held in the future (the past, the present) was not forgotten by the creature that owed him such a debt.

...

“Link?”

And another creature joined him, another companion found again.

The foal became a lanky half-grown horse, the boy became a clumsy youth, the baby dragon became what was essentially an armored snake (none of them really knew how to deal with that).  It was then that a fiery-haired farm girl squeezed her way into their small band, with eager encouragement from two and flustered discouragement from one.

Her compassion knew no bounds, and her stubbornness even less.  Before he even knew it, Link was brushing Epona with her strong hands guiding his, perplexedly drinking the bottle of milk she had shoved into his hands, whispering broken secrets in the dead of night that he had never dared to speak of with another human being. 

Years and years and years passed, and somehow, without understanding it, Malon became his everything.  She gave him a home, she gave him peace, she gave him love, and the only thing he could do about it was love her as wonderfully and achingly as possible and hope that was enough.  Somehow it was.

Their home (it was theirs, the life they’d built together) had a stall for Epona, a shed for Volvagia, bowls of sweetness for sister fairies, a warm cot and an open heart for those in need, and a lovingly hewn cradle tucked in the corner of their bedroom.

Their daughter was born on a clear fall night long away from her father’s last adventure, crickets heralding her arrival and crisp autumn air warded off by faded quilts.  She had her mother’s hair and her father’s eyes, and Link cradled her downy head and tried to comprehend the miracle he held. 

He knew peace for so many golden years, but before his daughter learned to ride, Hyrule was thrown into war.  Zelda, his savior and his captor, begged him for aid, and though it had been years since he drove a sword into another living being, he donned the imposing armor she pressed to him and marched into battle.  (He begged his best friends to stay at home.  Though it pained him, it was his turn to do the leaving, and he didn’t know if he could stand letting them die in his stead.)

In the end, his vision faded to grim, welcoming darkness in the forests of his youth, and this time there was no high-pitched song to save him. 

He waits in the space between, plagued by grief and regrets.  He watches from afar as his daughter lives without him, as his wife lives without him, as his friends live without him.

The day Malon dies he tries so hard to cry.

The centuries blur together as he waits in the ether.  The Sacred Realm calls him persistently, but he clings to the mortal realm with every fiber of his being.  He left his family once, never again.  But slowly, oh so slowly, his grip on mortality begins to slip, and his consciousness of the world begins to fade. 

And then, as his enduring vigil finally seems to wane, he senses a new spirit, young and brimming with promise.  He draws near, curious and excited but also half-frightened to death—a combination Link remembers well.  He recognizes the burden this one carries, one that has never lifted from his own shoulders, and chooses to train the child so the terrible fate that accompanied his own journey will not touch the other’s.

The pup seeks him out all over the country, in the places that once held importance, and calls him from his slumber.  Every time, Link rejoices silently that he may have the chance to see the young one again.  Every time, he passes his knowledge (his skills, his strengths, his being) to the green warrior.  Every time he sees him grow in stature, in resolve, in mettle, and he both rejoices and despairs.

One day (the last one) the boy stands before Link, with defiance in his eyes and steadiness in his hands.  Link takes one look, one long last look at him, and realizes that he has Malon’s nose.  And his hollow vision blurs for a moment, because this is proof, this is proof that his legacy survived, proof that he had an effect on the world and it’s standing right in front of him. 

When he bids the boy goodbye (his child) he grips onto reality with all of his faded strength, and begs the Sacred Realm not yet, not yet please, I have to keep watch on him, and he holds on just long enough to see his young one mend his mistakes—

using the lessons he taught him. 

And with this, when he finally knows that he did make a mark on the world, that he did leave good behind him, he smiles-

relaxes his grip-

and falls into the waiting arms of Nayru, borne away by the current to the realm of the goddess, and finally

finally

finally

he is at peace.

———————

Thank you for reading!

[shurelyasreverie]

Aphelios x Solari!Reader: Faith in the Traitor

Deemed a traitor for sympathising with the Lunari, you are alone as you aimlessly wander through Targon, only to catch the attention of one of the most dangerous assassins the Lunari has to offer...

Word Count: 2097

Warning: Violence and death

Aphelios found you leaning against a tree in the forests below Mount Targon. Your figure bound in blood red garments with golden armour that reflected only the light of the sun, it was clear as day who you were aligned with. It was all the information he needed to reach his decision to kill you. Calibrum in hand, he aimed down sights with his rifle, straight for the side of your head...

“Aphelios, wait.”

The voice of Alune rung in his head and his eyebrows furrowed in frustration but he lowered the rifle nonetheless, waiting for his sister's explanation.

“A true member of the Solari would never turn their back to Mount Targon.”

That reason seemed enough as Aphelios watched you in curiosity. There he noticed the inconsistencies. As of now, the Solari controlled most of Targon, so why did you look so dishevelled? Why was your armour so dented, the red clothing so frayed? Why did you desperately try to catch your breath like a prey on the run, constantly on the verge of death if they made the wrong decision? As repulsive as the fiery light of the Solari could be, the light you emanated was more tolerable... soothing, almost.

Your (E/C) orbs scanned the area. You noticed nothing except for the footprints on the ground, no doubt footprints from the Solari. Your fingers traced the tracks, sampling some dirt. Your nose scrunched. Fresh tracks. You took off in the opposite direction.

“Curious... I struggle to read their soul... but I sense goodness in their heart. I sense fear but determination. Follow them and we shall find answers.”

Sheathing his weapon, Aphelios nodded obediently and followed Alune's commands. Spying on you proved harder than expected though as you continuously looked over your shoulder, your blade always at the ready to slay anything that moved. You stayed in the shadows, hiding. However after a few hours of observing your moves, Aphelios managed to learn your body language and habits.

You had gotten too exhausted. Sheathing your weapon, you desperately tried to keep yourself awake by talking through your thoughts.

“Where am I even going?” you started to mutter. “Anyone I'm looking for... I don't know where to start, a map still would've felt nice, though. What if I run into the Lunari? I wonder if they'll accept me if I turn myself in...”

“A wanted Solari... but what was their crime? I don't sense any guilt in their soul,” Alune mused but Aphelios' blood boiled. It seemed typical of the Solari, to commit atrocities without guilt, all for their pride and supposed love of the sun. His mind was decided, he would waste no time slaying you when Alune gives the word.

As the sun disappeared over the horizon and the moon started to rise, you settled by a lake. Collapsing to your knees with a hefty exhale, you cupped the water in your hands to quench the insatiable thirst that made it hard to even breathe. You had left Mount Targon in such a hurry, you didn't have the time to bring any rations with you.

And Aphelios noticed your lack of resources. When he left to find sustenance of his own, he cursed himself for feeling pity for a Solari.

Returning to the edge of the clearing, hidden under the shadows of nightfall, Aphelios watched you as you sat by the lake. You idly let your fingertips swirl along the water, creating ripples that made slivers of moonlight dance among the small waves. You mystified him. The Solari never approved of the night or moon, believing the moon only leached off the true light of the sun. Hating the pale blue light, many Solari would create bonfires or torches, the amber light from the flame giving them solace amidst the white light of the moon. But not you. As you tilted your head up, looking to the large, full moon. Closing your eyes, you seemed to bask in the silver light, letting the spirit of the moon embrace you. Whereas the golden light of the Solari typically clashed with the moon, yours seemed to fuse with the moonlight, blending together. A symbol of peace. How was this possible? How was a Solari, so guiltless in their crimes, be so open to the moon?

“It's a beautiful sight, isn't it?”

Alune's voice interrupted Aphelios' thoughts and he looked up at the full moon, nodding in agreement. It was truly a sight to behold, it was not everyday the sky was so clear, with millions of stars – the many children of the moon – dancing as they twinkled in the darkness.

There was then an amused giggle from his sister.

“Remember that I see the world through your eyes, Phel. For you, the beautiful sight wasn't the moon, was it?”

Aphelios merely huffed as he settled himself down, preparing for a light slumber despite Alune continuing to tease.

“The Solari has awaken.”

Aphelios woke up to Alune's notice and the warm hues of sunrise. You were still by the lake, he assumed you slept under the moonlight. He watched as you knelt by the water, drinking from the lake. He unknowingly took a step forward and you halted your drinking. Eyes narrowed, you spoke with a low and commanding voice that reminded Aphelios you were truly a warrior of the sun.

“I know you're there.”

Aphelios froze. Was he really that conspicuous? He had never failed a mission. But you didn't look to the right where Aphelios hid, instead to the left. You stood to your full height, shoulders square and eyes burning with the fire of Solari. Another Solari stepped out of the shadows, attire similar to yours, albeit cleaner and reflecting the harsh, blinding light of the sun.

“(Y/N) (L/N), one of the most promising children of the sun... once a revered Ra'Horak, one of the highest ranking assassins of the Solari...” the Solari announced.

“Do I know you?” you frowned as you sized the Solari up. Even without the armour he has a hulking figure, at least a foot taller than you and with various weapons strapped to him. Whereas you... the days of being on the run had made your muscles almost nonexistent... you wouldn't even stand a chance of outrunning him.

“I am the newest Ra'Horak, sent off on my first mission.”

“And what is that?”

“The elders want your head and I intend to deliver it on a golden platter.”

Your blood ran cold. You unsheathed your weapon and so did he, just because you might lose doesn't mean you weren't going down without a fight.

“I did nothing wrong!” You argued.

“Then why did you flee?”

“Because you are the ones who consider me wrong.”

“Siding with the Lunari is blasphemy. A crime of the highest order, are you so ignorant that you cannot see that?”

“I just want us to live in peace,” you begged. “As equals. Does the night not last equally as long as the day?”

“Silence!” The Solari bellowed as he charged at you and you barely had the strength to move away. “I will not hear you slander the Solari like this! I will cut out your tongue so it will never be able to speak lies. The Lunari must die.”

“They do not!” You shouted as you parried another attack. You desperately tried to move away, take advantage of your smaller figure as you parried and dodged him but he was simply too fast and strong.

His blade collided with your armour, and although it didn't puncture you, it sent you tumbling face first to the ground. When you mustered the strength to flip onto your back, a blade was already pressed against your neck.

“What are your final words, traitor?” The Solari spat at your face.

“This war won’t end unless you change,” you stated.

The Solari growled, pulling his blade back to stab it into your neck. You closed your eyes, waiting for the numbness of death but it never came. Instead, your eyes opened when you heard an audible thud on the ground. The Solari's blade had fallen from their open palm. The warrior lay in a pool of their own blood, a bullet wound in their head.

A rustle in the bushes and you instinctively lifted your blade, despite the near impossible chances of stopping a bullet. Out of the bushes emerged a lanky, pale man, clad in moonstone armour and weapons, particularly a sniper rifle sitting on his back. Why would the Lunari save you? Nonetheless, knowing this Lunari could kill you just as he did the Solari, you knelt deeply in respect.

“Thank you for saving me,” you murmured earnestly, soft enough to show emotion but loud enough for your rescuer to hear.

Aphelios' eyes darted around nervously as he was unsure of what to do. Seeing such a pure (E/C) gaze up close, scrutinising his face made him realise how long it had been since he properly interacted with someone beyond his sister, let alone a Solari. Heat rose to his face as you watched him patiently, expecting a response. He never regretted giving up his voice for Alune but in that moment, he wished to say something – anything – to you.

You stood up and cleared your throat as the Lunari looked at you blankly.

“Uh... I'm (Y/N)...” you introduced as you raised your hand for a handshake. The air was tense. Two trained assassins from opposing sides, knowing nothing but murdering each other's comrades. To think that they'd be greeting each other so pleasantly.

Aphelios took your hand with a firm shake. Your hand held the sun's warmth but it didn't burn as he thought. He figured his own hand probably felt like ice to yours.

“What's your name?” You asked the Lunari and you watched intently as he traced letters in the air. So for whatever reason, he was unable to speak? Interesting... “A...phel...ios. Aphelios? Right. Thank you, Aphelios.”

You bowed in thanks. Despite your belief of peace, your lack of prior interaction with the Lunari meant there was a little voice of doubt in your mind, if you could ever find common ground with them. But now, your life indebted to a Lunari, that little voice was no longer there.

“Well... I'll be on my way,” you quickly bid goodbye, turning your back to him. But just as quickly as you turned you felt a cold grip on your wrist. Turning back to Aphelios, he cocked his head to the side like a curious puppy, as if asking, on your way to where, exactly?

“I... I don't know. I don't have anywhere to go,” you admitted. “I have abandoned the Solari and the Lunari...”

Aphelios sent a look your way, a look you couldn't read but you doubted it was good. Your voice diminished to a murmur.

“I didn't become a Ra'Horak by letting the Lunari run free.”

Aphelios froze for a few moments, searching your face. As much as he loathed the thought of the Solari, how he loathed the loss of his allies, would he not be a hypocrite? You deserved to kill him as much as he could kill you. However the mournful look on your face told him everything he needed.

Aphelios took your hand and tugged you towards him as he started to walk off. You frowned as you demanded where he was taking you. He traced the air yet again.

Camp.

“I couldn't possibly-”

Aphelios shushed you and you sighed in resignation. His cool skin made you conscious of just how warm you felt, and you were almost certain it wasn't just because you were a Solari.

Feeling your grip in his hand, Aphelios had never felt warmth so comforting before. Now, he understood your clear conscience. The crime that got you banished was the crime of peace, the repentance for your murders. The belief that the Solari and Lunari can stand together warranted your death. You were no traitor. He unconsciously squeezed your hand in reassurance as he thought of your struggles.

Meanwhile, Alune could be heard laughing joyfully in Aphelios' mind.

“Ever the gentleman, Phel. You were so bold to take their hand like that. Don't fret, brother. I approve of them.”

Aphelios prayed to the moon that you didn't notice how his face rivalled the heat of the sun.

[solinarimoon]

Little Sea - Part I

AN: This is my first time writing outside of The Last Kingdom fandom, but I originally joined tumblr to find Hvitserk content.  So I hope my writing for him does it justice.  This is for @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie Congratulations on your milestone love!   This story is a Vikings/TLK crossover but Sihtric is basically placed into the Vikings universe.  I know in our heads these two belong in the same universe, so enjoy.  My prompt was a reimagining of The Little Mermaid fairytale. The story got too long so I am breaking it into two parts.  Sjór means sea in Old Norse, at least according to one website I found. I have more notes at the end of part two.

Warnings: Angst, unrequited love, suicidal imagery/implications, Vikings canon Ivar cruelty

My Masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She swam, racing the currents in the sea.  The water’s hazy depths constantly shifted and mottled in a swirling dance.  Hues of blue and green mixed with inky darkness but faded to the rays of the sun’s light filtering through from the surface.  

The cold temperatures below the fathoms began to warm as Alba swam towards the surface.  Swishing her fins, she felt the drag of the water as she climbed higher until slowing and ultimately stopping herself just before breaching the surface.

His face stared down at her above the water.  His lips spoke words that she could not hear.  His face was calm and serene. Happy.

The only sound was the rushing tumult of waves breaking, crashing upon rocks at the base of a cliff.  

Alba flicked her tail trying in vain to break through the surface.  She wanted nothing more than to rise above the water and envelop Hvitserk in her arms.

The fear and the panic began to rise instead.  And without warning, Alba felt her terror intensify as her tail had been replaced with two legs.  Hvitserk’s face grew farther and farther away while she sank back below the dark depths.

~~~~~~~~

Alba woke with a start, sitting up in her bed and breathing heavily.  Her hands clung to the furs draped across her, pulling them aside to reveal two legs and feet.  The sight still seemed surreal to her. 

This was not the first night she had awoken from this dream.  It was occurring more and more often as she felt the pull to return to the sea.  Return home.  And as she watched Hvitserk continue to move further and further away from her.

Slowly, the young woman stood from her bed steadying herself as her legs wavered like someone returning to shore after living on a ship for weeks.  She draped a cowl of furs around herself and pushed aside the door leading from her small hut on to the beach.

Only a few paces brought Alba up to the water’s edge.  The waves lapped over her toes and Alba breathed easier.  Salty spray drifted across the cove where the waves were always harsh and ragged against the cliffs to the north.

Alba trained her eyes on the grey horizon, watching as the mist began to fade and the shadows melted away.  She breathed in the taste of the ocean’s air and for a moment felt content.

But that moment was broken when she noticed a set of forlorn footsteps approaching her.

“I knew you would be up and on the beach already.”

His voice was low and groggy as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders with a gentle squeeze.  Alba wondered if he had seen his own bed that night.  

“I wish I could help you find whatever you are looking for on the water, little Sjór.”

Alba turned her face ever so slightly to question him with a silent gaze.  And to see his braids looking disheveled. And a small bruise just under his jaw. 

“When we met, it was not unlike this,” Hvitserk paused when Alba turned her face towards him fully, furrowing her brow in confusion.  “I mean it was very different because I still have no idea how a half drowned young woman came to be lying between the rocks on the north edge of the cove, covered by nothing but a ragged boat sail,” his lips had pursed slightly trying to ward of the smirk Alba knew he was fighting.  Shuffling his feet in the sand and clearing his throat, he continued, “so it was different but you also still had that look I see so often. The one you had moments ago. Like you’ve lost something. And you’re waiting for it to return to you.”

Alba turned her eyes back to gaze across the water before dropping her face to the sand with a huff.  “Looking for your voice, perhaps?”

Alba looked up with her mouth dropped open in shock to see the young man grinning fully while she pushed him lightly away. Hvitserk let out a true laugh before wrapping his arm once more around Alba’s shoulder. Comfortable and brotherly. 

Scuffing a bare foot in the sand, Alba moved away from his side and began ambling down the beach knowing Hvitserk would follow. 

It was no use trying to hold that one sided conversation again. Part of the enchantment prevented her from revealing the truth about where she came from, about what she was…is…would be once more.  So even if they played a crude pantomime game, she still could not reveal if his guess were to be correct. 

Her time on land was almost spent. Her time with him would come to an end. Alba knew in her heart that Hvitserk was not in love with her.  And the binding nature of the enchantment would not bend. No matter how much love she felt for him. Or how much she had become endeared to him. That was not the problem. He did love her. But it was not true love. Not for him.  So she would return to the sea, but not today.

Alba sighed, straightened her shoulders and raised her head, breaking herself from her thoughts. 

She turned to look at Hvitserk walking alongside her, scuffing his boots beside her bare feet. Gently, Alba reached out her hand and tapped his neck where she’d noticed the small bruise. 

Hvitserk met her eyes with a mischievous smile. 

“Oh that, there? That is nothing, little Sjór.  Only a slight bite I received from one of the forest trolls while I was searching for mushrooms.” 

The pair laughed at his jest, her silently and him with gentle chuckles before he continued, sincerity beginning to lace its way into his words. 

“I was with Thora last night.”

Alba arched an eyebrow at him. 

“Yes, again.” Hvitserk chuckled lightheartedly. He missed Alba’s eyebrows relax and the smile on her face fall as she listened to him talk about the new woman.  

~~~~~~~~~~

Alba woke to the sound of rain pelting the thatch roof of her small cottage. Sleepily, she opened her eyes just as a streak of lightning illuminated the sky. She had seen the flash through the leaking cracks of her shutters. 

Several moments later the booming echo of Thor’s hammer against the clouds brought a slight curve to her mouth.  A rain storm was dangerous on the water. Perilous. But under the water, Alba and her sisters had been fond of watching the crash and roll of the tumultuous waves. The lightning scattering crystalline lights across the surface of the water. A beautiful orchestra of light and movement. 

A rain storm did not startle her. A rain storm felt like home.  Alba nestled further down into her furs, feeling their weight and warmth bringing her back to sleep. 

Except this thunderous booming continued on far longer than any true thunderclap. And it was now accompanied by a muffled voice. 

Hvitserk. 

No one else ever came to her door. Barely another soul knew she even existed or much less where she dwelled.

Alba opened the door to a torrent of rain blocked only by Hvitserk’s tall frame. 

For a moment, they stood staring at one another, the rain continuing to sleet down on them.

In the dark, Alba could barely make out the features of his face.  She searched his face, her eyes questioning.  But only for a moment before Alba grabbed his arm, ushering him inside and closing the door.  

In two strides, Alba moved across the room to gather up the furs from her bed and drape them across Hvitserk’s shoulders then settling him down on the short bench next to her cookfire.  Alba stoked up the flames from the low burning embers before turning on her knees to look at him. 

Beads of rainwater still tracked down the strands of his hair that had come free from his braids and he had made no move to wipe the dampness from his face.

He met her eyes as he spoke, “It’s Ivar,” he stated simply.

Alba shuffled closer to him and placed her hand on his arm, atop the furs.

“He is sending me as his messenger to King Olaf. In Norway,” Hvitserk paused to turn his head.  He clasped his hands together while bringing them up to rest against his mouth.  He was staring off towards the other side of the room.  His next words were muffled against his fist.

“I don’t know what my brother thinks he is going to do,” he chuckled then continued, “my brother the god king.”

Alba starred while Hvitserk worked through whatever thoughts were raging in his mind.  Increasingly in the past weeks, Hvitserk’s worry over his brother’s rule in Kattegat had grown.  Though he did not often openly criticize Ivar, it was clear to Alba that he carried many burdens for his younger brother. Burdens that left him questioning his path and his fate. And questioning the path his brother was forging.  

The young woman scooted herself closer to him and placed her palm against his cheek, lightly pulling his face back to meet hers. 

She saw the torment and frustration in his brow. It was mirrored on her own face.  She opened her mouth but could only huff and furrow her brow more. Sighing, Alba looked around the room, searching for everything and nothing before finally settling her eyes back onto him. 

“Even if you had words, little Sjór, there are none you could speak that would save me.”

At this, Alba felt her face shift from frustration to concern, her eyes frantically searching his face for more answers. 

“I must do as Ivar bids. And I leave you behind to deal with Ivar’s tyranny. His madness.” Hvitserk dropped his head into his hands, continuing to talk. His words came more easily now as his emotions boiled over. “And my love, Thora. I leave her behind but she does not have the anonymity you do to protect her. I fear for her. I fear what Ivar may do to her while I am away.”

Hvitserk hung his head and sighed heavily.  Alba felt her chest stutter as she realized she was holding back tears.  He truly did love Thora.  And Alba could not help herself from liking the young woman as well.  

Hvitserk had brought Thora to the beach to meet her one day.  And though it made her heart ache, Alba could not deny that she saw the love that was blooming there.  From the casual way that she saw their bodys lean into one another to the way Hvitserk watched Thora when she did not know he was watching.  While Alba was watching him.  That night, she had cried silent tears alone on the beach, while the ocean’s mist cried with her.  And the ache in her chest now was the same.

Trying her best to quell the sobs threatening to escape her lungs, Alba shifted herself once more to sit beside him on the bench.  Gently, she cradled him in her arms and stroked back the strands of his hair, now drying by the heat from the fire.  Hvitserk hugged her knees and closed his eyes for a moment, taking comfort from the care and love in Alba’s touch.  

“I will miss you while I am away.  I know you enjoy your solitude. But if you can, keep an eye out for my Thora. Ivar has made comments. Said things that make me fear she may be a target for his frustration.  She sees how dangerous Ivar has become. It threatens him.”

The more Hvitserk continued on, the more Alba’s heart continued to tear. Her prince's concern and worry was for another.  He was in love with another.  She let out a silent sob, but laying in her lap, Hvitserk felt the jolt of her body. The pain she could no longer hold back. 

Sitting up, he questioned, “What is it, Sjór?”

Alba closed her eyes and felt the tears cascade down her face as she shook her head.  

Hvitserk took her face in his hands, turning his body so that he straddled the bench. The furs around his shoulders dropped to the ground, forgotten.  

“Hey, hey look at me?”

Alba opened her eyes to see concern etched across his features.  Silently cursing her tears, she pushed his hands away and stood, wrapping her arms around herself and stepping away towards the door.  He was tormented enough and did not need to add her pain to his. A pain that she could not explain to him. 

“Sjór, I….” He started, standing to face her and grabbing her arms, firm but gentle.  His words fell silent as he watched the tears continue to track down her cheeks. 

Huffing in frustration, Alba wiped the tears away. The two stood silent except for Alba’s shaky breaths for several moments. 

Finally, Alba brought her fist up to thump against her chest. Over her heart. Gathering her courage, she took her fist, relaxing her fingers and placed her hand over Hvitserk’s own heart. And then brought her head to rest against her hand, feeling his breath and the questions in his stance. 

Taking a step back and removing her hand to wipe another stray tear, Alba met his eye. With more force she took her fist to thump against his chest. In the same spot, over his heart. 

Looking down to her hand, Alba tapped her fist against him once more then brought her hand up and pointed a single finger towards her window.  Towards Thora, towards his love. 

She watched as Hivitserk’s brow, a deep line of confusion, slowly relaxed.  A look of realization spread across his face. 

To then be replaced by something more unbearable. 

Pity. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Bare feet found their way along the soft mosses and lichen carpeting the ground up the paths surrounding the northern side of the cove.  Alba stepped slow and deliberate, feeling the air growing cooler.  The spray of the mist off the sea left salty pin pricks of water glistening across her bare arms.  

Low in the distance, the rumble of thunder rolled.  As she crested the height of the cliffs, Alba found the crash of the waves joining in the thrum of the oncoming storm.  The energy in the air was mounting.  Mirroring Alba’s rising anguish. 

Thora was dead.  A cruel and horrifying death.

Ivar was rampaging.  His madness was building and unstable.  

And Hvitserk.  Her sweet Hvitserk was gone.  If Ivar was to be believed...If what he said was true, he was lost.  Dead at the orders of King Olaf.

Alba fell to her knees at the cliff's edge.  Her hands gripped tight onto the sharp rock’s edge.  The rough surface painful and grating at the pads of her fingers.  She clung to the edge.  Her eyes staring down at the waves below.  The maelstrom of the waves calling to her.  To end her suffering.  End the anguish and pain.  

Alba stood, the wind whipping her dress as the rain began, drops gently splattering across the terrain.  The young woman looked up towards the clouds and closed her eyes, feeling tears spill over across her cheeks.  

Silently, Alba let the anguish wash over her.  Knowing he was lost.  And the sea was calling her to return.

Alba’s time on legs would soon be done.  She had not found her love returned.  And she could not stay.  The pull of the sea was calling to her stronger and stronger.  Her sisters called to her to return to them. 

Slowly, she dropped her face back down to the tumult below and took a step forward.

“Don’t!”

The voice stopped her movements.  The roll of thunder boomed again. Several tense moments passed before Alba heard the voice again.

“Please don’t.”

The voice was deep and soothing.  But Alba could sense something else behind the words.  Panic.  Desperation.

Weakly, she turned to face the nameless voice, her head turning back to look across her shoulder.  The rain was cascading in steady rivulets now.  Mingling with the tears staining Alba’s face.  Her dress had quickly become sodden and clung to her skin.

When her eyes came to the tree line, she saw him.

He was tall.  Dark.  His hair plastered to the sides of his face from the rain.  Hands raised to indicate he was no threat to her.

Slowly, tentatively the man stepped forward to stand beside her before he spoke again.

Alba’s eyes tracked his movements.  

When he was close enough to touch her, he spoke once more.

“Please.  Do not succumb to it.”

When Alba did nothing but stare, the man continued, “To your grief.  Please.”

It was the please that caught her.  The gentleness and the kindness in his eyes as he pleaded with her.

His arms caught her as she collapsed atop the cliff, allowing the despair to wash over her.

The man held her while she cried, silent sobs that shook her to her core.  Her fingers twisting and clinging to the folds of his shirt.  His arms steady and firm around her shoulders as he cradled her. He held her until she stilled while the rains continued their lament.  And when she was half asleep, ruined with exhaustion he carried her back down the path.  

He settled her down underneath his own roof, beside a comfortable fire to dry her clothes and hair.

The man handed her a small bowl full of warm broth.  

“Go ahead,” he coaxed, “you must get dry and eat.  You do not want to catch cold. And then you should sleep.”

When Alba stared at him questioningly, he added, “You have nothing to fear from me. I am called Sihtric.”

~~~~~~~~~~~ To be continued in part II

Tagging my usuals.  Please let me know if you would like to be added or removed from my taglist.

Tags: @maggiescarborough @pokeasleepingsmaug @nxrdist @mystic-shadows42 @emilyhufflepufftlk @magravenwrites @lauwrite1225 @morosemagick @thebohemianpenguin @mrsalwayswrite @notyourwildestdream @obipoelover-deactivated20210806 @ecarroll1978 @93xdiagonxalley @nobodys-business-world @evelynshelby @trenko-heart @0hsappho

[lilyofthesword-writes]

Anomaly (Haldir Oneshot)

Summary: Haldir meets you, a member of the Fellowship seeking passage through Lothlorien. Though not a fan of humans, he is curious about you.

Pairing: Haldir x F!Reader

Word Count: 5,111

Warnings/Disclaimers: A curse word. Some violence due to the Battle of Hornburg/Helm’s Deep and Minas Tirith. Injury, mentions of blood.

A/N: This is told more from Haldir’s perspective. Based off another weird dream I had. Threw in a bit of the book as well. Really wanted to get this out cuz my boi needs more love.

Masterlist

Haldir gazed at you from afar while he was on watch that evening. You were... peculiar to him. When he came across the Fellowship trying to pass through the Golden Wood, he never expected to find a human woman in their midst. The world of man was an anomaly to him despite his numerous interactions over hundreds of years. Human women were not granted the same rights and privileges as the men, a foreign to him. This was not the way of Elven culture. Meeting you there was refreshing in a way.

In conversing with Aragorn, he learned you were a soldier of Gondor who had traveled alongside Boromir and joined the Fellowship. You were a fierce warrior but kept a calm air about you. The few human female fighters he had come across, be it on purpose or part of their nature, generally overcompensated, feeling the need to prove themselves constantly. You did not. When the Marchwarden and his company initially surrounded the Fellowship, everyone drew their weapons, ready for the next challenge. You opted to place your hands on Frodo’s and Sam’s shoulders to calm them while Merry and Pippin stood at either side. Instead of fear or anger, Haldir saw an analytical curiosity gleaming in your eyes.

Even now as he kept you in his peripheral, your eyes held a certain light, a light not caused by reflecting the bright moon. It was a kind of serenity most humans rarely portrayed. It didn’t break even as pounding of ambitious orc feet hit the forest floor below. All you did was gently shift your arms that held two sleep-ridden hobbits.

Since the platforms amongst the trees were not large enough to contain both the Fellowship and Haldir’s party together, you had to be split apart. Aragorn kept you, Legolas, Frodo and Sam while Boromir, Gimli, Merry and Pippin rested on a neighboring platform. You had taken to the Hobbits just as much Boromir had, your arms wrapped around them with their heads resting on either shoulder. How you bonded with the curious creatures so well, Haldir would never know. You managed to bring a semblance of peace to their aching hearts, enough so they could rest. He could not imagine it was an easy feat considering all the Fellowship had been through. It made him wonder what Lady Galadriel would make of you.

Upon reaching Caras Galadhon, you practically vibrated with childish delight. Although you had been to Rivendell, you had never seen anything quite like the capital city, that much Haldir was certain. The corners of his mouth tugged into the faintest of smiles when he saw your elated face. He turned away to restore his stoic facade, but unknowingly caught the attention of another. Aragorn shot him a knowing smirk as their eyes met momentarily. Haldir said nothing and continued to lead the way up the stairs spiraling the ancient trees.

Up the stairs, across some bridges and the Fellowship was in the presence of Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn. Haldir bared witness to the interactions from the sidelines. He knew when Lady Galadriel entered each of their minds through their minute expressions. While most struggled to remain slightly neutral to her ministrations, others had a difficult time hiding their horror. You, on the other hand, parted your lips with an acute tilt of your head, not bothering to mask your wonder or amusement.

The meeting came to a close shortly after. Lady Galadriel’s gaze swept over the group, ultimately landing on you. Haldir knew she would call upon you later that evening. Until then, he was tasked with guiding the Fellowship to where they would be resting.

It was long after the others had gone to bed, after Frodo returned from the mirror, when Haldir learned he was correct. He spied you and Lady Galadriel wandering the halls, speaking softly amongst yourselves. What about, he could not say. He swiftly took the next pathway so as not to intrude on your private moment.

Marchwarden. Please come.

Always the obedient one, he turned himself around to join you both.

He greeted the pair of you with a bow.

“Marchwarden,” Lady Galadriel responded with a smile. “Would you be so kind as to escort our guest back to her company? The hour is late, and she deserves just as much rest as her friends.”

“Of course, my lady.”

Haldir held out his arm for you to take which you did after properly bidding Lady Galadriel a good night with a bow. He led you along the walkways, taking his time in doing so. This would more than likely be one of the few times he would be able to speak with you alone. The Fellowship would continue on their quest as soon as possible.

“These woods are truly a wonder. I have never experienced anything quite like it,” you started, breaking the quiet between you, voice so delicate it was hard to believe you were the warrior Aragorn made you out to be.

An agreeing hum quietly rumbled in his throat. “It is a gem of Middle Earth.”

“I must agree. I think I can understand your fierce desire to protect this place, your home.”

“I am sure you wish to protect Gondor just as much. Your dedication to the Fellowship is proof of that.”

“Despite the hardships,” you tried to hide the way you sucked in a breath, “I am glad to be a part of this. They have all become like family to me.”

Gandalf.

Hearing the grief lightly laced in your voice, Haldir stopped and pulled his arm away just enough to take your hand, turning to stand in front of you. With his free hand he cupped your cheek to catch the stray tear that had escaped your lashes. He was at a loss for words. Comforting others was not a skill commonly taught to Marchwardens. You caught his hand before he had a chance to think about retracting it, leaning into his touch. He closed the last bit of distance between you two and stroked the swell of your cheek with his thumb, your eyes shutting to bask in the moment.

An eternity or mere moments passed. Neither of you could tell by the time you finally spoke. “Thank you.”

The day your company was set to leave, Haldir felt a small pang in his heart. Why was he so bothered by your departure? He had only had the one major interaction with you. The rest of his time was spent either training or on patrol, and on patrol really meant him keeping an eye on the Fellowship. You just happened to be around when he took watch, or so he tried to convince himself.

He stood aside as Lady Galadriel offered her gifts to the travelers, giving them each something they would need or want. She bestowed on you a small Elven dagger, tiny enough to conceal in a boot with little discomfort. The Marchwarden, though content you had some extra to defend yourself with, hoped you would never need to use it.

Haldir then brought the Fellowship to the boats where everyone’s belongings were already packed and settled. He couldn’t bring himself to look at you while everyone said their proper farewells, but nothing stopped him from following down river to the borders. He and his troupe had orders to make sure you all reached them safely anyways.

Despite being hidden amongst the trees, it was like you knew he was there. Your head turned towards him as you passed the borders, not making eye contact but still unnervingly close to it. A tiny smile graced your lips before returning to the task at hand.

Helm’s Deep was not where the Marchwarden wanted to be, but he still had his orders. He was charged with leading an Elven army to help defend the kingdom of Rohan. Entering the gates, he was speaking with a perplexed King Théoden when what was left of your party rounded the corner. Your grin shone brightly in the dark when Aragorn surprised him with an embrace.

Haldir found himself both pleased and upset by your presence. While you looked to be in good health, he did not know your full battle prowess and as such was unsure how you would handle the soon-to-be battlefield. However, he never had the chance to voice his concerns as he needed to position his soldiers.

The rain poured when the standoff with the Orcs and Uruk-hai began, pinging off of helmets loudly. Haldir stood among his fellow Elves. Aragorn spread the rest of you out, sending you to the opposite end of Helm’s Deep where Haldir’s view was partially obscured. He could at least see you standing proudly alongside the other men. He could only imagine the fire in your eyes.

When the battle began, it raged with seemingly no good end in sight. A section of the wall had exploded with Aragorn near enough to be caught in the blast. Haldir could hear you bark your clear and concise orders to the men as you rushed to help Aragorn. Upon reaching his feet, Aragorn yelled out the order to retreat further in to better protect the caves the women and children were hiding in. Haldir belayed the orders in his native tongue to his soldiers.

He made sure the soldiers retreated but was unable to do so himself. Surrounded by the enemy on a high ledge, he slashed through them in an attempt to make a path for himself. His weariness had caught up with him as he was hit in the side with a jagged weapon.

“Marchwarden!”

He spun around as someone called him, ready to slice through his assailant. It fell to the ground as he faced it, revealing you with a now broken sword which you cast away. You stepped over the dead enemy to get a better look at him. Haldir clutched his side when you tried to check on his wound.

“How bad is it?”

“You should be retreating,” he tried to dodge the question.

“As should you,” you answered sternly, locking eyes with him. “Are you still able to keep moving?”

“Yes.”

“Good. We must go quickly.”

You reached out to help him when your breath hitched. You lurched towards him, grabbing his free arm to pull him forward, the motion catapulting you behind him. You ripped the dagger from your boot as you continued towards the Orc that had snuck up behind Haldir, and shoved it between the layers of its armor. In the creature’s last breath, it brought down its sword on your shoulder, forcing you to your knees.

Haldir rushed to your side, stabbing the Orc once more for good measure before shoving it off the ledge. He kneeled in front of you, clenching his jaw to ignore the pain in his side, and held you steady by your upper arms. Your eyes were glassing over while you desperately tried to keep your head up to look at him.

He called out your name. “We need to follow the others. Are you able to stand?”

You blinked a few times before hoarsely whispering, “I... I don’t... know.”

Your shoulder bled profusely as Haldir tried to help you stand. He took on most of your weight with your arm over his shoulder. You wouldn’t last much longer without a healer’s attention. Biting back his own pain, he practically carried you down the stairs to solid ground where Aragorn met you. He and what little was left of the soldiers who had not yet retreated formed around the two of you, furiously slicing at the Orcs and Uruk-hai that would stop you from reaching the main halls.

Soldiers who were protecting the doors ushered you inside immediately where Haldir brought you into the caves for the healers to watch over. One tried to make him sit momentarily to tend to his own injury, but he brushed them away. He could still continue. His ribs were probably bruised, if not broken, but his armor kept the damage from being life threatening. He promptly left to speak with Aragorn about the next plan of attack. He would be damned if he allowed any of those foul beings to pass into the caves to finish the job.

The battle was won, Gandalf having arrived with reinforcements right when they needed him most. When victory was assured, the Marchwarden wasted no time in returning to the caves where you lay unconscious. The healers bandaged you to the best of their abilities given the circumstances, and you were at least breathing steadily.

Much to the surprise of his fellow elves and your company, Haldir rarely left your side, even during the trek back to Edoras. He was still there when you woke safely in the Golden Halls of Meduseld.

Your eyes struggled to open as you stirred awake. “Wh-what happened?” Your voice was hoarse from sleep and lack of water.

“You were struck down, Mellon nin.” Haldir brushed a rogue strand of hair from your forehead and placed his hand on yours. “We were able to retreat to the caves.”

“And the battle?” Your arms shook as you tried to sit up and lean your weight on your good side. “The outcome?”

The Marchwarden tried to settle you back down, but you would not relent. “We were victorious. Gandalf arrived with reinforcements at dawn and drove the enemy out.”

You began to relax at that before another question flooded your mind. “What about-”

“Your friends are well,” he chuckled at your persistence. “They are preparing to leave for Isengard soon. Word has returned that it has fallen.”

Before you had a chance to ask another question, he helped you sit up the rest of the way so as not to aggravate your wound further with your stubbornness and handed you a glass of water. You drank it slowly despite your need to relinquish your thirst.

“Thank you.” You passed the glass back to him, your voice clearer now. “When do they leave?”

“Tomorrow morning, I believe,” Haldir answered and coaxed you to lay back down.

You nodded with a hum. “I suppose I should rest more, then. If there is a chance that Merry and Pippin are there and well, I would like to be there.”

“Mellon nin, your injury is not yet healed.”

“A mere shoulder wound will not prevent me from riding to Isengard,” you huffed.

“It is nothing to scoff at. Mellon nin, you almost died,” he pleaded with you, taking one of your hands in both of his.

“Haldir, I still have my duty to the Fellowship. I cannot abandon them.”

“Tending to your health is not abandoning anyone,” he spoke softly as he ran a thumb across your knuckles. “You will still be able to continue your quest when you have healed.”

You sighed deeply, looking to the ceiling as though collecting your thoughts. “I just... This is something I feel like I need to do.”

A deafening silence showered the room. Haldir studied you for a moment, your unencumbered hand fiddling with the sheets. Your mind was made up, and there was nothing he could do.

“Mellon nin,” he breathed, reaching for your face so you would look at him. “You will not let this go, will you?”

You shook your head with determined yet pleading eyes.

He squeezed your hand gently. “Then, I suppose all I can ask of you is to get your rest tonight.”

“Thank you.” With a smile, your thumb glided over his.

He made to stand so you could sleep in peace without him hovering. As he pulled his hand away, you gripped it tighter.

“Haldir? Will you stay? At least until I fall asleep? I am not sure I wish to be alone right now.”

Taken aback, he stood there dumbly before retaking his seat. “Of course, Mellon nin.”

The next morning, the remaining members of the Fellowship gathered at the stables. Aragorn was in the middle of trying to convince you to stay behind. Gandalf stood out of the way with Gimli, biting back a laugh at Aragorn’s futile efforts, while Haldir and Legolas prepared the horses.

“You will only worsen your injury,” Aragorn chided.

You folded your arms defiantly across your chest. “One trip on horseback is not so arduous.”

“She has already made up her mind, Aragorn. I doubt you will be able to change it,” Gandalf chimed in.

Haldir was tightening the saddle on the horse that would carry you so it was more secure when Legolas silently sidled up to him. “You have already said your peace, have you not?”

“What makes you say that?” Haldir twisted the saddle to test it.

“You have barely left her side since our victory. You must have spoken with her before now,” Legolas quipped.

“Indeed, I have.”

“Then, surely in your fondness of her you would have tried to convince her to stay behind.”

“Fondness?” Haldir stilled a moment before adjusting the straps again. “We are friends, Legolas. Nothing more.”

“Then why is it you have been meticulously preparing this one horse whilst I have already saddled three?” Legolas shot him a pointed smirk.

The Marchwarden felt himself flush all the way to the tips of his ears. “She is still injured. I- We cannot risk her hurting herself further.”

Legolas held his chuckle in his throat as a hum. “The sooner you stop attempting to fool yourself, Mellon-”

“Alright, you may join us!” Aragorn growled with a huff, stealing the attention of the bickering elves. “However, the moment a battle should arise, you are to return here.”

“Of course,” you complied, a stubborn edge to your voice.

Aragorn’s heavy sigh was littered with grit. “Are the horses ready?”

Haldir and Legolas nodded swiftly.

“Good. Let us be on our way.”

You made your way to the Marchwarden who was beckoning you over.

“Are you sure there is nothing I can do to change your mind, Mellon nin?” he asked softly.

“I am, yes.”

You flashed a smile at him before placing a foot in the stirrup. Haldir remained hovering near you. Your shoulder strained as you willed your arms to reach the saddle, steadying yourself as you pushed down on the stirrup to lift yourself up. Midway up, you lost your grip as your shoulder suddenly gave out. Haldir was quick to press a hand to your back to stop your fall. He noticed how your jaw tensed to grind out what was obviously the pain of your wound, but you were still determined to mount the horse.

“Here.” He gripped your waist. “I apologize if this seems forward.”

He raised you enough so you could swing your leg over the saddle, letting you go the moment you had your balance.

“N-not at all. Thank you.”

You held the reins tightly as you settled down, knuckles turning white like it could make everything better. Haldir felt his chest tighten and covered one of your hands with his own, eyes filled with concern. Your head snapped down to meet his gaze. With a reassuring yet forced smile, you attempted to relax your muscles to conceal just how much your injury hurt, but he saw right through it.

With a heavy sigh and shake of his head, he took hold of the saddle and hoisted himself up behind you.

“What are you-”

“If your pain is that severe, you shall not ride alone,” Haldir interrupted, finality in his tone.

“Haldir, this is not necessary,” you argued as he pulled the reins from your hands.

Legolas slinked by with Gimli on their horse, sending you two a knowing smile. The Marchwarden’s blush bled to his ears again. He didn’t notice your own flushed face.

Haldir cleared his throat. “Let us go before we fall behind.”

The journey to Isengard was quiet and uneventful. Partway through the trip, you finally allowed yourself to relax, not realizing you were leaning back into Haldir. Though bemused, he was not about to protest.

Collecting Merry and Pippin was as simple as it was amusing. They were most excited about reuniting with their companions. It was on the ride back that you and Haldir overheard their teasing about you sharing a horse. Aragorn and the others bit back grins and commentary of their own.

The festivities that followed upon returning to Edoras were no better, the ale at least partly to blame. The Marchwarden and what remained of his soldiers were settled near Legolas who was currently in the middle of a drinking match with Gimli. You had yet to arrive. Eowyn was the only reason Haldir was not at your side forcing you to rest. She tended to your shoulder, promising to return you for the celebration. He would have preferred you did not come for the sake of your health, but as long as you were not overexerting yourself again, he would not complain.

He swirled the ale in his mug after taking a swig, mulling over recent events. Usually he was not one to allow his emotions control his actions, and yet he was doing that much more often now. He felt like he couldn’t help himself. There was this overwhelming desire to keep you safe, keep you close, regardless of the fact that you were perfectly capable of handling yourself. Haldir had caught a glimpse of your abilities at Helm’s Deep. There was a reason you had gone to Rivendell with Boromir and joined the Fellowship.

As if to break him of his spiraling thoughts before they grew out of control, one of his neighboring elves nudged his arm, winking and motioning him to look up. He lifted his gaze, about to make a remark for the elf’s teasing, when he saw Eowyn stepping into the room with you close at her side.

The music, shouts, laughter - they all faded away from his ears. You practically radiated light despite your nervous self on display. Eowyn had lent you one of her dresses, the fabric draping differently on your frame from hers yet no less perfect. She caught Haldir’s gawking and whispered something in your ear with a smirk. You glanced up to see him but dipped your head back down to where your hair curtained your tiny, bashful smile. Eowyn was quick to tuck the offending hair behind your ear. She giggled and murmured to you again, resulting in your flustered rush to join your companions.

Haldir focused on his ale once again. The elf who had coaxed him into looking up bumped his arm. Without saying a word, he was fully encouraging his captain to go to you. The elves in his company had never seen their normally reserved, stoic Marchwarden act like this before, and they thought it a fantastic development. They all joined in pestering him to at least ask you for a dance. It took a while, but his stubbornness crumbled, and he brought himself to his feet only to notice you were missing from your company. He scanned the crowds, hoping to spot you. Maybe someone else had already asked you to dance. That theory was thankfully doused when he spied the swish of your dress through a door leading outside.

Following and stepping out into the cool night air, he found you leaning forward on the wooden railing, gazing up at the stars. Your hair sparkled under the dim light. He realized tonight was the first time he had seen you without it tied or braided back out of the way.

“Mellon nin,” Haldir called to you softly so as not to startle you. “Are you alright?”

You turned to see him just outside of the door and nodded with a tired smile. “Yes. I just felt I needed some fresh air and a moment away from the crowd.”

“I apologize for disturbing you. I will-”

“No!” You cut him off quickly. “I mean... You did not disturb anything. You can stay if you would like.”

The corners of Haldir’s lips tugged upwards ever so slightly as he approached you, joining you in your previous stargazing. The peaceful quiet of the night muffled the festivities in the building. He felt you cover his hand with your own accompanied by a gentle squeeze.

“Thank you, Haldir, for everything,” your voice was just above a whisper.

“I should be thanking you, Mellon nin,” he shook his head, his other hand coming to grasp yours. “If you had not come for me, I would not be at your side now.”

A breathy chuckle passed your lips. “I suppose we are even then.”

Haldir hummed questioningly.

“Had you not brought me with you whilst retreating, then I would not be at your side now.” You parroted the last words with a grin.

The Marchwarden’s shoulders shook with a quiet laughter. “I cannot argue against that.”

You set your free hand on top of your conjoined ones as you leaned against his shoulder. A comforting silence befell you both. That is until you heard chittering giggles from behind. The pair of you turned to see Merry and Pippin poking their heads from the doorway, followed by Aragorn who proceeded to drag them back inside and shot you a wink as he did so.

Gondor had called for aid. Rohan answered. The army’s camp was set up, and Aragorn had a plan. Haldir received orders for his company to continue helping Rohan and meet with Elrond to receive more explicit directions.

The morning for departure arrived, and Aragorn was set to travel to the Paths of the Dead. Legolas, Gimli, Haldir and you were to join him. Haldir’s soldiers were to follow King Théoden into battle. You all stood wearily at the start of the trail, feeling the ominous air seeping down to the bone.

Haldir brushed his hand against your elbow for your attention. “May I speak with you privately?”

You looked up at him with worried eyes and nodded, probably guessing what this was about. He pulled you to the side just out of earshot of the others.

He steeled himself with a deep breath. “I must insist you do not join us, Mellon nin.”

“But Haldir, I-”

“Please, Meleth nin,” he desperately pleaded, not meaning to let the new term of endearment slip. Tenderly cupping your face with both hands, he continued, “None of us know how this will end. We... We may not come back. I beg of you to please stay with Eowyn.”

His voice was hushed, afraid it would break if he attempted to speak any louder. He knew his emotions were on full display, but he could not bring himself to care. What mattered was keeping you safe.

“Haldir...” you trailed off, grasping at his wrists with the utmost care to keep them in place. You gave a quick nod and tried to conceal your worried frown. “Alright. However. You had better- You all had better return.”

He pressed his forehead to yours. “I will do everything in my power to do just that.”

The Marchwarden was among the Fellowship in Minas Tirith when he saw a barely conscious Eowyn being carried into the Houses of Healing. Panic coursed through his veins. You were nowhere to be found. He rushed over to her as she was laid on a bed.

“Lady Eowyn, what happened?”

She nearly didn’t recognize him. All of her effort was put into focusing on his words.

“Lady Eowyn, please. Where is she?” He held his breath like it would help him hear better.

With a tiny shake of her head, she croaked quietly, “I am sorry... We... We were separated... in battle... I know not... her fate...”

Haldir stepped aside to allow the healers in. His heart was at a standstill. Had he known Eowyn was going to sneak her way into the army, he would have pleaded with you to return to Rohan. Your injury did not have the time to fully heal. Fighting in such a strenuous battle would do you no good. He needed to find you. He needed to know that you were well.

Bursting through the doors, he raced down the stairs for the lower levels, Aragorn shouting something after him. He did not hear a word. Canopies were set up and homes were open near the gate for the soldiers who were unable to reach the Houses of Healing. Haldir weaved through the injured in a desperate attempt to find you. He’d rather discover you here as long as you were among the living.

After a fruitless search under the canopies, he began entering the opened homes. He asked anyone able for a person matching your description. Nothing. Nothing until he reached the last home. There you were towards the back of the room. An older woman had just stepped away from helping you. The armor you had borrowed like Eowyn was in a pile to the side. He could see the bandage on your thigh through the tear in your trousers, but other than that you came away from the battle fairly unharmed. How you managed that with a preexisting injury was a mystery to him.

“Meleth nin,” Haldir breathed, making his way to you. This time he meant to use the term.

Somehow, you heard him over the throng of people, your gaze meeting his. “Haldir!”

You rose to your feet a little too quickly and swayed unintentionally to put your weight onto your good leg. Haldir darted to you just in time, bringing you into his embrace.

“You’re alright...” He rested his forehead on yours just like before you departed, completely forgetting those around you. “I was beginning to think my search was for naught.”

Wrapping your arms around him, you buried your face in his chest. “Haldir, I... I’m so sorry. I know you meant to keep me from harm-”

“Shhh,” he cooed, settling his chin on the crown of your head. “I know. There is no need to apologize. All that matters is that you are here and well.”

Your light chuckle vibrated through him. “You are much too patient with me.”

“I assume you are not familiar with that.”

“You would be right.” He could feel your cheeks lift as you smiled. “Most tend to leave when I grow stubborn.”

Haldir shifted his face so it rested in your hair, murmuring into your scalp, “I am not going anywhere, Meleth nin.”

The world of man was still an anomaly to him. You were an anomaly within that world, and he wouldn’t have you any other way.

[strawberrysoup]

Pocketful of Posies || Chapter 1

You’d been hiding for years and years now; from your family, from society, from alphas and packs. Suppressants were dangerous but effective and necessary for an omega who refused to be owned—but no suppressants were strong enough to fool the nose of a super soldier, who together with his pack would stop at nothing to bind you to them forever. 

pairings: dark!Avengers x reader word length: 3.3k chapters: 1/? warnings: A/B/O dynamics, power imbalances, noncon and dubcon sexual situations, loss of autonomy, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat — this is a dark!fic, read at your own risk. Open the read more and CTRL + F, search “content warnings” to skip to detailed trigger warnings at the bottom of the chapter.

Cleaning rich people’s vacation homes hadn’t been your dream job growing up. You had such high hopes when you were a kid, well into your teens, of becoming a zoologist. It had started off like most kid’s dreams—in kindergarten you wanted to be a veterinarian. That grew into wanting to become a herpetologist, but then you wondered, why limit yourself? As a zoologist you could be around tons and tons of animals, studying their behaviors and ecological impacts. It was about half way past your fourteenth birthday that you realized none of your dreams mattered.

You woke in the middle of the night to a crippling pain in your stomach, an unbearable heat boiling under your flesh. You must’ve been screaming, because your parents burst in frantically—only to stop dead upon stepping past the threshold. At the time you had no idea why, but it had been shock. Omegas were rare nowadays, more and more betas were being born while the number of omegas dropped. It was a point on contention; betas could breed with alphas, rendering the omega almost obsolete but alphas, especially ones with packs, wanted omegas.

Personally, you figured that evolution had decided to take things into its’ own hands. Everything about omegas spat in the face of adaption; they were small and delicate, hardwired to obey alpha commands even to their own detriment, experienced a full weeks’ worth of being completely and utterly incapable of survival on their own—

Well, unless one acquired (through whatever means necessary) methods to prevent it that one. Heats, a homegrown threat guaranteed to commit acts of violence at least twice a year. By the time your first had worn off, your parents had already jumped into action. They had three different packs bidding on you. Your mother had been bubbling with glee, talking about how wonderful it was that she had produced an omega when she herself was a beta. Your very existence was about to rocket them into both fame and fortune. So, you ran away. That same night.

It had been shockingly easy to locate illegal suppressants. They taught all about them in school, how they were horrible and taxing on an omega’s physiology. Suppressants masked an omega’s scent, prevented their heats, and (in your opinion) were the best invention of the twenty first century. You couldn’t have given a flying fuck about what negative impacts they might’ve had on your body—death would be a reprieve. Unfortunately you’d yet to have any of the widely touted negative effects (effects that you were pretty sure were made up to keep omegas afraid and compliant) and so you found yourself cleaning rich people’s vacation homes just over the Canadian border.

You’d been living out of your car since you first bought it at sixteen, for five hundred dollars. You gave a creepy beta a blowjob to get your license forged. It was the best investment you’d ever made (not that you had the opportunity to make many) and the clunker was still getting you from point A to point B and that’s all you needed. You had to move constantly, staying in one place too long meant people started to notice you, especially in the small towns you frequented in Ontario. But there was so much forest surrounding you that every once in a while you could just drop off the face of the earth, camping so deep in the woods no one would stumble across you. It made staying anonymous so much easier.

That was actually the current plan, after you finished cleaning this last massive cabin; to abscond into the woods for a while, until you’ve faded from everyone’s memory. You won’t return to this town for at least a year. You’ll spark recognition when you return, but not enough for anyone to consider you more than an outsider in their close-knit community. The kind woman who lets you work for her cleaning company so sporadically will remember you when you ring her, the only person particularly thrilled to hear you’re back for a few months.

You do an excellent job and you do it fast— you can thoroughly and perfectly clean a 6 bedroom mansion by yourself in less than 10 hours and you were paid under the table so you didn’t require overtime, which Mrs. Hunt loved (there was no tax to be taken from an unreported cash payment though, so it was a fair trade in your opinion). You would work yourself to the bone, 10 hours a day everyday there was work available for at least three months and then dip without any expectations until the next time you returned, when she was gushing over the amazing reviews your work had gotten the last time you were around.

It was symbiotic existence—you were paid well for your efforts, more than enough to sustain living out of your car for months at a time, and your performance drove her online reviews into the 4.9 stars range and made it feasible for her to raise her prices. Mrs. Hunt didn’t ask any questions either, even when you requested to only work alone and couldn’t provide any identification beyond a driver’s license.

You were finishing up the kitchen in what was definitely one of the nicest places you’d ever cleaned when your phone went off in your back pocket. It made your skin prickle. Very few people had your number and you couldn’t think of a single reason they’d ring you instead of texting unless something was wrong.  You propped the mop against your shoulder and dug out the phone, frowning at Mrs. Hunt’s name on the screen.

“Hello?”

“Oh sweetie, I’m so glad I got a hold of you! How are you doing?”

“I’m well, Mrs. Hunt,” you answered, your voice coming out semi-robotically as you strained not to sound panicked while continuing the conversation like a normal fucking person, “I’m just about done here, I was finishing the dry mop in the kitchen when you called and then all I need to do is pack up.”

“Oh perfect! I was calling because the owner just rang me, apparently some of his packmates will be arriving a bit earlier than anticipated—potentially within the next hour. Something about someone getting caught up at work, I’ll spare you the details. But if you’re almost done then you’ll probably be gone by the time they arrive.”

“Certainly Mrs. Hunt,” you’d immediately started frantically dry mopping the moment the words ‘within the next hour’ escaped the woman’s mouth, phone clamped between your ear and shoulder. “I’ll be gone in the next few minutes.”

“Now even if you aren’t its okay,” the concern in her voice meant that your own had betrayed you, waivered when you responded without your knowledge. “I always warn the owners that if they arrive before the scheduled time that there’s a possibility the house won’t be done and/or there might be people actively working in the house. You won’t get in any trouble, okay?”

“R-Right, thank you ma’am,” you swallowed heavily, finishing the last swipe across the tile in the kitchen and hustling back into the foyer. “I really won’t be but a minute though. I always keep all of my equipment put away and together if I’m not using it, so I really just need to pack up the mop.”

Which you’d already shoved into the rolling cart you picked up each morning that held all of your cleaning supplies provided by the company.

“Don’t forget your bucket too!” Mrs. Hunt sounded smiley again, “I’ll leave the key under the mat so you can stow your cart tonight. Have a good one swee—.”

“You too!” You might’ve hung up a touch too soon to be considered polite, shoving the phone back into your pocket and running into the kitchen. There was no time to dwell on manners. 

The mop bucket was sitting on the counter, already washed and dried and waiting to be put away. You’d started keeping your things completely put away at all times the same day you’d been accosted by a homeowner who arrived home earlier than expected while you were still trying to pack up. You’d tried to put your notice in that night, a couple of years ago now, but Mrs. Hunt begged you not to—promised it would never happen again. This must’ve been her best attempt at preventing it. At least you had already planned to leave town tonight anyway.

You nearly sprinted back to the cart, haphazardly tossing the stupid bucket on top and wheeling it towards the huge front doors. You’d just stopped to reach around and grab the handle when the knob turned and the left door was pushed open, nearly hitting your cart.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he was a beta, curly haired and dark eyed with pale skin, wearing a pair of glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Did I knock anything over?”

“N-No, sir,” you pulled the cart back a few steps, nearly trembling with the effort it took not to blast right past him, especially when you noticed him carefully scenting the air. "The house is all clean, I was j-just leaving.”

“Thank you, for getting everything clean for us. We don’t get to come out here as often as we like, I’m sure the place collected a lot of dust in our absence,” he smiled, looking both parts shy and calculating to your well trained eye— and you had no time for such consideration.

“Not too much, h-have a nice night!” You could feel your pulse racing and that was bad. Even the good suppressants, the ones that most of your money went to, had difficulty completely masking the scent of panicking omega.

“Did you use bleach?” The question caught you off guard and you almost jumped when he put a hand on your cart, glancing through the array of chemicals.

“Y-Yes, in the bathrooms. I wasn’t informed of any sensitivities—”

“Nothing a little fresh air won’t take care of,” you wanted him to stop looking at you like that, like there was some pale flash of recognition behind his eyes. “Would you go open the windows in the bathrooms upstairs? I’m afraid my nose is pretty sensitive, several of my packmates are similar.”

You did not like that his nose was especially sensitive and you hated that his packmates were similarly afflicted. It felt like getting punched in the face with a fight or flight instinct, your brain immediately demanded that you leave the cart and run past him—fuck the cart, fuck the job, you could find something else.

“Oh, and do you have the key to the front doors? I might as well get them from you now instead of us having to go down to the office tomorrow.” Your hand immediately dove into your pocket, yanking out the single key and dropping it in his palm. “Thanks— and the windows? Sorry, I just can’t go up there until it’s aired out.”

He wasn’t a huge man but the way he filled the doorway made you second guess trying to run past him, even if he was greying at the temples and looking a little rumpled. It was strange, you wouldn’t usually have such an intense reaction to a beta, but something about him was vaguely unsettling. So instead of trying to make a run for it, you turned on your heel and forced yourself to calmly walk up the stairs. There were four massive bedrooms in the cabin, each with its own bathroom and you’d need to go through and open the windows for the three bathrooms that had them. It meant darting into huge bedrooms, dodging expensive furniture and knickknacks and trying not to dirty the freshly mopped and swept hardwood floors in the process.

It took about five minutes but you felt like you’d run a marathon, your heart was pounding and there was sweat at the nape of your neck. All you wanted was out of the stupid fucking house, immediately. You dashed down the stairs and turned the corner, seeing your cart right where you left it. The door was still open too, but the beta was no where to be seen. You immediately darted forward, grabbing the cart tightly and beginning to push it past the threshold—

You were stopped in your tracks at the sight of two unnecessarily broad alphas. Both were tall, the white man standing just an inch or so taller, with a full beard and blond hair. The black alpha had facial hair too, a cleanly edged goatee to match a faded cut. Both were incredibly attractive and putting off waves of pheromones, to the point that your head floated for a moment.  Your lips clamped shut on a whine, instinct trying to push through and alert the two powerful alphas of your presence. Instead you ducked your head and continued out the door.

“Hi there, sweetheart.” Your gaze snapped up, immediately locking with a pair of dark brown eyes. “You the housekeeper?”

“Yes sir,” you answered quietly, stopping short in front of them when neither moved out of your way. “Sorry to have been here so late. Have a good evening.”

Both were still smiling, still pointedly not moving.

“My name’s Steve, that’s Sam,” the blond’s nose twitched, just slightly, and you realized he was very discretely scenting the air. “Nice to meet you. Do you live in town?”

“N-No, please excuse me,” you nudged the cart forward just an inch but they still didn’t budge and panic began coursing through your blood with renewed vigor, “excuse m—”

“Your scent is… confusing,” Steve’s head tilted to the side, “I don’t mean to be crass, of course, but I couldn’t help but notice.”

“It’s always been this way,” the response was automatic and your brain began shutting down all unnecessary functions; you were about to have to run and hope your omega physiology would make you faster than them.

“You smell almost like an omega,” he continued, both hands coming to rest on his hips, emphasizing the width of his shoulders. “But not quite?”

“I’m a beta.”

“Are you sweetheart?” Sam’s voice was a rumble, his head tilted to the side while his dark eyes burned holes into your skin.

The tone an alpha used with naughty omegas was deliberate and tightly controlled, the same as a command or a purr or a growl. It was on purpose, an attempt to nicely draw out the correct response. He wanted you to admit you were an omega, to tell them the truth of your own volition. The fact that your hindbrain desperately wanted to comply was a completely different issue—one you didn’t have time to address right now.

“Positive,” you breathed, clenching your fists tightly around the handles of the cart for just a second before deciding to leave it behind; you’d never be coming back here, there was no reason to worry about preserving your job.

Your eyes were quick and indefinitely perceptive. Being an omega was one step up from being a prey species, it came with inherent instincts that made you especially good at predicting behaviors. After all, an omega was only as good as their ability to please and soothe packmates. One of the single upsides to being an omega was that you were fast though—fast enough to outrun most alphas. And you only needed to go about a hundred and fifty feet, once you were in your car you could certainly get away. So the second you realized the pair was about to shift, moving to face each other more than you, you darted around the cart and dodged to the left.

It wasn’t your fault, honestly. There was no way you could’ve known you weren’t dealing with normal alphas. The blond was so fast that he almost moved between blinks—one moment he was still, the next he’d wrapped his arms around you and tugged you back into his chest. His arms were like steel, one wrapped around your torso to keep your arms pinned to your sides while the other carefully held your chin. Your hindbrain was screaming now, submit, submit, make alpha happy and you bit down on your tongue to hold in the whimpers, the omega sounds your throat was trying to produce.

“Shhh, shh, calm down,” it was half a tone away from being a purr and you continued to squirm while you still could—an alpha command was coming, you could feel it in your bones.

“Let Steve smell you,” Sam was rumbling instead of talking again, a similar half purr to how Steve had started speaking. "Everything’s okay, omega.”

You felt a nose nudge down your neck, towards your scent gland and you bared your teeth at the man in front of you. “I’m not an omega!”

“You smell like omega,” Steve’s breath ghosted over your skin and you fought a shiver. "Sort of. It’s buried, under… beta… sour beta?”

“What sort of suppressants are you on, sweetie?” You startled as the beta from earlier emerged from the house, wiping his hands on a dish towel absently. "Are you cutting them with anything? Heroin, or coke? It’s okay, you just need to tell me.”

“Tell Bruce sweetheart,” Sam coaxed, automatically moving to roll up the sleeves of your shirt, evidently looking for track marks. "Where do you get them?”

“I’m not on suppressants!” Your voice was almost a shriek at this point, desperately imitating the behavior of an angry beta rather than a terrified omega. “I’m a beta! Get off of me!”

“Okay, okay, here then,” Steve’s arm around your torso tightened, the one on your chin beginning to work its way down towards your jeans. "There’s only way one to tell for sure.”

Shock and fear and humiliation; an array of emotions swarmed through your body as his hand popped the button but those were the three you could identify and you immediately started thrashing your legs—he was going to check if you had an omega ridge and then everything would be over. It was a defining physical characteristic that couldn’t be passed off as anything other than what it was: a boney protrusion meant to catch on an alpha’s knot so they could be locked in place. In females it was found in the vagina, prominently featured directly before the g-spot so a knot would cause persisting pleasure. For males it was similarly positioned next to the prostate.

“Calm down, calm down!” Sam crooned, hands coming up to cup your face as while Steve’s slithered down the front of your jeans and into your panties. "It’s okay sweetheart, no matter what. Whatever Steve finds, you’re okay. You’re safe. We’ll keep you safe.”

The thrashing was doing nothing but tiring you out, you’d already been intensively cleaning for the past 9 hours without a break and it certainly wasn’t dissuading the hand slithering between your folds. You bit down on your tongue harder, until you drew blood to prevent the whimpers—you couldn’t make that stupid sound, you’d never make that stupid, pathetic, whiney noise, you couldn’t. Not even when a long, thick finger penetrated and sunk knuckle deep. Not even when the pad of said finger brushed your g-spot before hooking onto the ridge, tugging gently in a way that would’ve caused blinding pleasure had you not grounded yourself with the pain of biting your tongue.

“There it is,” Steve’s voice was soft, finger carefully running the length of the ridge. "A nice deep one too.”

“How long have you been taking suppressants?” Bruce prodded quietly, coming to stand next to Sam. “I need to know what sort of damage we’re looking at.”

When you didn’t respond Sam sighed, fingers brushing gently over your chin as he directed you to face him. "Please don’t make us use an alpha command, sweetheart. We just wanna take care of you. Tell Bruce how long you’ve been on suppressants, please.”

You regarded the handsome alpha for several short moments before spitting a mouthful of blood directly into his face.

 content warnings: assault, noncon vaginal fingering

edited 7/9/21 - still on hiatus

[jaskiersvalley]

Control

What happens when you ask a very special Discord server whether you should write Geralt/Eskel or Lambert/Eskel? You end up writing Geralt/Lambert/Eskel of the emotionally horny variety.

Under the cut for explicit content including sex toys (double ended dildo and butt plug), threesome, oral sex.

Control

There was a definite before and after in Eskel when he got the scars on his face. The before was something Geralt remembered with great fondness, memories of their time spent together in bed, in the stables, even in the forest when the forktails hadn’t deigned to turn up. He had to admit he missed those times. Sure, Lambert was just as willing and fun a partner but there was something about having someone as broad as Eskel holding him that made it special. After the scars everything stopped. Eskel withdrew, turned down offers, hid away in his room and kept very much to himself. It seemed even a goat’s company was better than Geralt and Lambert’s. Though none of his actions stopped the bitter stench of sadness and frustration that seemed to follow Eskel wherever he went.

Several winters passed, the scars became less angry, Eskel more resigned to his fate. It was only during a drunken conversation that he admitted that nobody had wanted to touch him since the accident, no brothel would take his coin. Which meant that he hadn’t had the tender caress of a lover, even a make believe one with a prostitute in years. Guilt ate away at Geralt and he pulled Lambert into his room that night, holding him close, wishing they could have Eskel between them. But Eskel resolutely refused, shying away from touch. It was only another drunken night that he finally blurted out, “It’s been so long, I fear it would be so gentle it would hurt.”

That just wouldn’t do. At night, Eskel bid them goodnight and returned to his room, lonely, sad and wistful. Drunkenly offering him a place in their bed didn’t help, even with reassurances that it would be nothing beyond a snuggle, warm bodies to chase the chill away with. Resolute in his repulsiveness and undesirableness, Eskel was unmoved.

“We’ll show him what he’s missing,” Lambert suggested. “Pull out all the stops. He doesn’t have to join but he should see what’s on offer.”

His time with Eskel of before was much more limited. A few precious years, it had been about as long without Eskel as it had been with. But he could still feel the phantom touch of large hands on his back, the warm breath that tickled the nape of his neck. Not to mention the warm chest that was just perfect to lie on. Sure, Geralt’s was almost as good but, somehow, Eskel’s was unparalleled.

So a plan was hatched. They waited until Vesemir had retired for the night and Eskel was a couple of tankards in. Being a lightweight turned out to have its uses. Without a word, Lambert slipped off the couch and knelt on the rug by Geralt’s feet, staring up at him with hopeful adoration. A hand stroked over his hair and Lambert sighed happily at the touch. He was on his best behaviour, wanting to show Eskel everything he could have.

“I think that’s my cue to head upstairs,” Eskel announced unsteadily. His eyes were glued to Lambert though, taking in his posture, the happy way he nuzzled into the palm against his cheek.

“Stay.” That was definitely an order from Geralt and he stared Eskel down. “No need to do anything, just watch.”

After a few seconds of silent staring, Eskel slumped back into his armchair, cheeks flushed. Geralt refused to call it a victory or a defeat but, to reward the agreement, he unlaced his trousers and pulled out his cock. Without hesitation Lambert took it in his mouth, trying to hold back on the soft moans and sounds as he greedily sucked.

“Don’t hold back, Baby Wolf,” Geralt purred. “Let him hear how much you enjoy it. How good you can be.”

The groan Lambert let loose was downright indecent and Geralt watched as Eskel shifted in his seat. Clearly he wasn’t as unaffected as he would wish to claim. Placing a hand on the back of Lambert’s head to keep him in place, Geralt moved things swiftly along.

“Why don’t you show him?” he asked Lambert who, with shaking hands, pushed his trousers down, revealing a plug keeping him open and ready. Geralt watched the way Eskel’s eyes flicked between plug and Lambert’s mouth and he grinned. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he? But tell me this, are you wishing you were me?” He paused for a moment. “Or him?”

“Excuse me.” Eskel pushed up from his chair and hurried out.

That didn’t stop Geralt from grinning, knowing all too well that walk and how that stance meant Eskel was trying to pretend he wasn’t hard as fuck. Looking down at Lambert, he stroked his cheek. “You did beautifully. So how about a reward?”

The next morning Eskel didn’t look either of them in the eye and, if his smell was anything to by, he had denied himself release the night before. Either that or it was a rather disappointing climax, not at all what he had been craving. Which only made the next step of Eskel’s seduction easier.

“I have a toy,” Lambert murmured low and secretive as they soaked after training. “Thought you might want to borrow it. It’s got two ends. EIther to share or to get a proper, deep fuck.” He tried to hold back on a grin as Eskel’s nostrils flared and his breath caught. “I’ll leave it in your room.”

That night, if Geralt just so happened to walk past Eskel’s room on his way to Lambert’s, that was pure coincidence. Especially when he gleefully whispered in Lambert’s ear about the needy, desperate little gasps he’d overheard and the smell of arousal that wafter from under Eskel’s door. It had Lambert shuddering in his arms, body clenching around Geralt at the very thought.

They held off on hounding Eskel after that, letting him come to them. Sure enough, a couple of days later Eskel cornered them in the prep room where they were in the process of curing the meat they’d hunted that morning.

“I have some rules.”

Said rules were simple enough. Eskel didn’t want to be touched. Not yet. He needed it to be on his terms. The other two could watch though as he opened himself up on the toy Lambert loaned him. Then he wanted to share the toy with Lambert while Geralt watched. Of course Geralt could touch Lambert as much as he wanted to but not Eskel. They were terms that the two could easily agree to. And so, they found themselves in Eskel’s room, the fire piled high. Lambert was naked and kneeling by Geralt, a collar around his throat, leash attached to it and in Geralt’s hand.

“You’ve got all the time you need,” he promised Eskel. “I’ve got our Baby Wolf under control.”

To prove his point, he pulled the leash tight and Lambert keened, cock bobbing. On the bed Eskel nodded. He had stripped and was kneeling, vial of slick in hand. Watching the other two, his cock had started to fill out but he couldn’t cope with the way the other two watched him so hungrily. Before the scars, he could accept they found him appealing but after? That was a whole different matter. There was a solution though and Eskel turned to brace one hand on the headboard, head dipped. Slick fingers reached behind himself, a cursory touch to get things going. His hole didn’t hold much resistance, he had been using the toy nightly since Lambert left it on his bed. It now meant that once everything was slick and slippery, he could grasp the toy, keep it firm while he sank back on it.

A soft whimper of need from behind him had Eskel turning to look over his shoulder, hair hiding his face, scars facing the wall. It seemed that Lambert had been pulled into Geralt’s lap at some point, legs spread wide. The plug Geralt had pulled from him clattered to the stone floor. A hand under each thigh, Lambert was lifted up and settled over Geralt’s cock. The bliss on Lambert’s face was breathtaking. Eyes half closed and staring at Eskel, his cock dark at the tip with the need for release already. However, what caught Eskel off guard was how Lambert wasn’t watching his hand and hole but rather his face.

“Beautiful.” The word buckled in Lambert’s throat as Geralt lifted then roughly pulled him down again.

Suddenly, the toy wasn’t quite enough. Eskel wanted more. The plan had been to be on his hands and knees, mirrored by Lambert but that wasn’t what he needed now.

“I’m ready,” he whispered. It took a bit of shuffling but he managed to lie on his back, legs spread. “Please. Like this.”

Geralt stood up, Lambert still held open on his cock. Walking to the bed, he let Lambert down who knelt patiently between Eskel’s spread legs.

“You sure?” Geralt asked.

Biting his lip, Eskel nodded, staring up at him. It was all the encouragement Lambert needed and he moved to lie down, legs over Eskel’s thighs as Geralt helped guide the toy into him. There wasn’t much room to move, grinding down on the toy was nice but not enough. Reaching down, Geralt gestured at the sliver of toy visible between them. “May I?”

“Please,” Eskel replied. He closed his eyes and gasped when Geralt’s hand closed around the toy and began to move it between them.

Lambert had no shame in moaning and arching, legs pressing down against Eskel’s. His open display of pleasure helped spur Eskel on. All too soon he was panting too, a hand wrapped around his cock.

“Trust me?” Geralt asked and two sets of golden yellow eyes stared at him as the other two nodded. Letting go of the toy to mutual groans of disappointment, he took a step back. “Lambert, shuffle down a bit more. I don’t want to see any of the toy.”

A soft “oh fuck” left Eskel as he heartily agreed to the idea. As Lambert moved, the toy shifted too until they were pressed flush together.

“Beautiful,” Geralt praised, echoing Lambert from earlier. “Touch yourselves. I’m going to come on Lambert.” He stepped towards the bottom of the bed, aiming for Lambert’s chest. “You’re both taking the toy, sharing it. Can you feel each other’s heartbeats knocking against the toy? Making it press just a little more into you both.”

Lambert’s head tipped back as he arched, climax finally taking him over. HIs shuddering jostled the toy until Eskel couldn’t hold back anymore. Much more quietly, Eskel gasped, hand working over himself to wring every bit of pleasure out. He was as gorgeous as ever in Geralt’s eyes. Finally, he tipped over the edge too, adding his spend to what already covered Lambert.

The three of them rested on the bed until Eskel squirmed, a little uncomfortable. A tap to Lambert’s thigh had him pushing away a bit and Geralt helped pull the toy free of them both before dropping it to the ground to be dealt with later. As per their agreement, he moved away, pulling Lambert into his arms.

“Ummm.” Eskel watched them with dark, sleepy eyes. Obviously something was on his mind and Geralt hoped he knew what it was but he didn’t say anything, allowing Eskel to work at his own pace. “I know we said you two would go back to your room after.”

“Yes.” Lambert had nuzzled into the crook of Geralt’s neck, content to be held and for the other two to sort out whatever they were not quite discussing.

“What if I changed my mind?”

“You want to cuddle with us?”

Eskel quickly shook his head but he did move to the edge of the bed, leaving an open space for the other two. “Maybe you two could cuddle nearby?”

A glance down at Lambert and Geralt decided that he could make this call. He was pretty certain he knew what Lambert would want anyway. Gently, he knelt on the bed, settled Lambert before lying down next to him. It was nice, having his Baby Wolf in his arms while Eskel was nearby. Not perfect by any means, that would only happen when the three of them were in a comfortable, sated heap. But this was a very good start and a solid foundation they could build their way to perfection on.

[ab1tofsp1ce]

A Warmer Refuge

CHAPTER 3: Exactly Like Mine

Masterlist HERE

Pairing: Din Djarin x Fem!Reader

Words: 3K

Warnings: Bit of angst and fluff, mentions of blood, wounds and old scars (not SH)

Description: If you’re going to repair this ship and get off this planet, you’ll need to find new parts. And that means a long hike...

I’d never stared at something as intensely as I had that fire, a desperate bid to keep my eyes open. The Mandalorian had disappeared, breaching the edge of the forest behind us to collect firewood. Behind the fire, I watched the sunset in my peripheral vision. This planet was gorgeous. Although, in all honesty, it was the first new planet I’d ever visited, and I’m sure I would’ve found it beautiful no matter what it looked like. The spot where we had landed was at a higher altitude than we had initially noticed, and that gave a perfect view of the land around us. Rugged and mountainous bathed in an orange glow, with tall dark trees and a soft, cool breeze that smelt clearer and sweeter than anything I had ever inhaled. We were lucky to have found the place we had; fortunate not to have had to crash-land into an area less forgiving. The sound of heavy footsteps approaching from behind snapped me out of my thoughts. The Mandalorian threw down the pile of logs he had been carrying to my left, picking up a couple and adding them to the fire. Since the central temperature regulator and the lights were no longer working inside the ship, we were far better off out here. He settled down on a log to my left that I had shifted over for a makeshift seat. His helmet flickered, reflecting the warmth of the fire on the cold beskar metal. He simply stared into it, just as I had been doing moments before. I wondered if he knew I was staring at him right now because surely the field of vision in that helmet was sub-par at best. “Tomorrow,” he said suddenly, “we’ll leave at daybreak. I managed to find out a little more about this planet from what worked of the navcom. It’s called Utaran. Sparsely inhabited on this side of the planet, but there is some civilization about a day’s walk from here, fortunately.” “Is it – but we’re not too far from Kistern, are we?” He scoffed, his shoulders moving slightly. “If only.” Fantastic, I thought. As if I hadn’t had enough troubles in my life, now I’m trapped on a foreign planet with a bounty hunter. I felt my stomach rumble in protest, reminding me not to forget about it. In my rucksack at my feet, I rummaged around until I brought out a small bread roll, which was fortunately only partially stale. As I began to rip pieces off and eat them, I became acutely aware of the sensation I was being watched. But as quickly as I threw a glance up at him under my eyebrows, he was staring back down at the fire. “Do you not have any food?” I extended my hand that held a piece of the roll. “I’m not hungry. But… thank you.” I frowned. “You haven’t eaten in…”. I realized in that moment that, in fact, I hadn’t seen him eat at all. “Seriously, take some.” “I have my own, and I’m fine.” He didn’t return my gaze. I hesitantly retreated my arm, pondering as a stared down at the piece of bread. How could he not be hungry? It was almost… inhuman. “Are you human?” I blurted out. Fantastic, I thought, as his head snapped around to face me in what I imagine was a surprise. “Why wouldn’t I be?” I felt pinned to the spot by his stare. “Well… you don’t eat, or drink… you sleep with all that armor on… if you even do sleep.” I could’ve sworn I heard a chuckle, barely audible through the modulator of his helmet. Surely not. A Mandalorian laughing? He shook his head gently, clearly at least somewhat amused, and turned his head back to the fire, apparently not seeing my question as worthy of indulging. Embarrassed and mildly disheartened, I focused my attention back on my stale bread. A few moments went by in this relative silence, and it was just as the sun had dipped below the distant mountains when he replied so softly it took me a second to recognize his voice. “I was human. Once. Many years ago, before I swore the Creed. Sometimes I forget what it was like.” Something fluttered in my heart. If I wasn’t so moved by his tone, I would’ve been taken aback by his abrupt vulnerability. I paused. “So, what are you now?” He was staring down at his leather gloves, fondling his hands slightly as he thought. “A Mandalorian.” “Surely a human still,” I said softly. “With a heart, and a voice…”, I paused, wondering if it would be too much. But curiosity was getting the better of me. “…and a name.” A moment of silence lingered in the air. “Not anymore.” He didn’t look up at me. I thought I heard a crack in his solid voice. “You… you don’t have any name? Why?” I hoped my tone didn’t sound too pitiful. But maybe it did, because he seemed to straighten up at these words, staring at the ship that sat not far from us. “This is the Way,” was all he said, before standing up. I felt my chest grow tight, guilty that I may have driven him off suddenly through my prying. I watched him walk over to the ship and up the ramp, the sound of those last words echoing in my head.

At dawn, we began our trudge to civilization. The Mandalorian gave me a choice as to the way we got there; quick or easy. Well, technically, he didn’t actually offer the choice. It was only when he mentioned that we would be going around the mountain and not over it that I questioned him. “It’s too hard of a hike,” was all he said, rather curtly too, not looking up from the navcom in the ship’s cabin. I felt myself go a little stiff at the underlying patronization of his tone. “For your information,” I said, firmly, “a mountain here is still a mountain, and I’ve climbed plenty in my life.” He didn’t look up at me, and only muttered, “fine.” For some reason, the way he said it ruffled my feathers. Last night was the most human he had been, and now it was back to how it was – like that conversation had never happened. Actually, no. It was worse. For whatever reason, his coldness stung more now than it did before. In fact, three days ago I almost welcomed it, coupled with the chance to stay as far removed from him as possible. But now, as quickly as he had seemed to be shedding a small piece of that impenetrable armor, he’d put it right back on this morning.

The mood didn’t improve as we began our journey. The more aloof he behaved, the more I noticed myself returning the favor. Once again, I walked ten feet behind him, my eyes trained to the ground in determined reserve. What was his deal? Why was he suddenly so distant towards me? What had I done to deserve this? But, then again, what else had I expected? He is a Mandalorian, after all. A murderous, lone bounty hunter. And, more to the point, why did I care? Why was I so bothered by this treatment? I didn’t know him; we only had an alliance thinly veiled through an acquaintanceship. A contract. I meant nothing to him beyond that, and he meant nothing… he… I stewed away in my thoughts like this for some time, and the more I did so the increasingly more frustrated and agitated I became. It was only so long before I would burst. “How much further?” It had sounded more like a demand than a question, which I had not intended despite my tone being laced with annoyance. We had been walking for hours now, and although I assumed it was still the middle of the day, the sky had clouded over since our departure and, between that and the trees, very little light was filtering down to us. “Further,” was all he said, not indulging in my pushing and prodding. This only annoyed me more. I wanted a reaction out of him. No, that wasn’t the truth. I wanted an explanation. I wanted… I let out an audible groan. Truthfully, it hadn’t been my intention, but I could feel it all pressing on the sides of my brain. The Mandalorian abruptly stopped, although did not turn to face me. Not fully, at least. He only looked down to his right, possibly side-eyeing me under that helmet. “If you’ve got a problem, you're more than welcome to wait at the ship.” There it was again. I could feel my blood boil at that tone. Patronizing. Like I was a child. “Oh, so suddenly you don’t need my help?” He turned around and put his hands on his hips to regard me. If I wasn’t so furious I would’ve been a bit embarrassed. I’m sure, in all honesty, that I did look like a child – my arms crossed on my chest, my weight shifted to one leg and an eyebrow raised. “Enlighten me on what help you are to me right now.” “Well, answer me this,” I snapped. “Do you know what parts you need to get? Or what parts to get if those aren’t available? And will you be able to fix that ship on your own? Because as I remember you were the one who asked me to fix it.” “If you’re going to be a child, I’ll treat you like a child and escort you back to the ship.” His voice had a snarl to it through the modulator. “I’m not a child!” I yelled. I couldn’t stay here. I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be at home, with my grandparents and my brother in my carousel on my own planet. I would’ve even taken the sandy tent on the outskirts of Yemi’natar over this. Why did I agree to this? I’ve made a terrible mistake. I’ll never return home, and I’ll have to live my life on a foreign planet as a straggler. Or worse, I’ll be stuck in this stupid, endless forest with this cruel bounty hunter for the rest of my existence. We must have stood there for a few seconds just glaring at each other, drops of rain beginning to fall from the sky. As I stared at the small slit of a visor in his helmet, I couldn’t even imagine what he looked like under it. I couldn’t imagine a person under there, only the cold, shiny, lifeless hunk of metal that stood in front of me. The Mandalorian from last night felt like a million miles away. Before I could even think, I found myself spinning on my heel and marching back down the mountain. Screw this and screw him. I didn’t want to be near him, I just wanted – Suddenly, I felt my legs give way underneath me. Blinded by anger, I had misplaced my step and fallen, and I yelped as my leg scrapped against a jagged rock on my right. My hands cushioned the fall at their expense, stinging as they came into contact with the ground. I just sat there pitifully, rain beginning to ring down around my ears, soaking my hair. My eyes welled up, but not from the pain. I stared at the scar on my left hand, that snaked from the knuckle of my middle finger to my wrist. I had been cooking with my grandmother many years ago and had cut my hand stupidly with the knife – I had been waving it threateningly at my brother. My grandmother sat me down at the table, slowly bandaging the cut as I sniffled and sobbed quietly. “There there, musqarza,” she had murmured softly. “It will be a scar, nothing more.” “A scar?” I had protested. “But my beautiful hand…” “Think of it as your first tattoo,” she said, fastening the bandage and collecting my face with her hand to gently look me in the eyes. “It is a reminder of your family. And a reminder not to chase your brother with a knife.” I had giggled slightly through my tears, which she wiped away with a kind smile. Drops of water, and possibly my tears, now drenched that hand and the scar. I let out a sob, shivering from the cold. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a pair of boots stand next to me, and a hand gently grabbed my arm, shooting a bolt of electricity through it. “Don’t touch me!” I hissed through gritted teeth, and the Mandalorian conceded. He didn’t say anything, just crouched next to me in silence as a sobbed. And we stayed like that for a few moments. “We should get out of the rain,” he whispered cautiously. It sounded so tentative and gentle, and I felt all the anger melt away instantly, washing off with the rain. I could only nod limply, not shifting my gaze from my hand. “There’s some shelter over there, under the side of that rock.” The Mandalorian placed his hand back on my arm, holding it slightly with leather-clad hands. He paused for a moment, then slowly pulled me up and, supporting my arm, helped me shuffle up the hill over to the undercover area of the rock.

I couldn’t even look at him. I felt so ashamed and flustered that I only sat curled up at the far end of the small cave, whilst he sat near the entrance, leaning against its wall and staring out at the rain pounding down outside. Rain trickled down towards me along the ground, making little rivers in the dusty ground. I distracted myself with this simple visual, using my bulky rucksack as a cushion. My hands still stung, but it was my leg that ached the most. I threw a glance at it and saw the red that was seeping slightly through the torn fabric. But I didn’t have the heart to dress it, and the pain distracted me from my thoughts. Eventually, I could stand it no longer. I let go of my tongue and muttered “I’m sorry,” under my breath. It was so quiet; I was almost certain he hadn’t heard it – particularly because he didn’t respond. Until… “So am I,” he admitted. “I didn’t mean to…,” but his sentence trailed off, and he didn’t seem to have the heart to finish it. Then, in my peripheral vision, I saw him stand up and make is way over to me. My heart thumped in my chest. I knelt down in front of me, and held out his hand, gesturing with the other to my leg. “We can’t have that falling off, can we?” I couldn’t help but smile shyly as I shuffled to let him assess the damage. Gently, with gloved hands, he rolled up my pant leg. He was so slow, so careful, that I felt something stir in the pit of my stomach and the air catch in my throat. “Do you have a med-pack?” He looked up at me from where he knelt. I swallowed, and nodded, awkwardly shuffling of my bag so I could pull it out. The gash traveled down from my knee almost as low as my ankle, gleaming in the dim cave and stinging slightly in the cold air. His hand hovered just above it, and when I looked up at him, I saw he was staring at it, as if in deep thought. Then, slowly, he reached up with his other hand and… pulled off his glove, dropping it to the ground in front of us. I bit my tongue to stop myself from gasping slightly. Although at what, I wasn’t sure. It was just a hand… calloused, cracked slightly, and olive in tone. The Mandalorian pulled a sanitizing cloth out from the pack, peeling it open and slowly wiping down the cut. I grimaced, trying not to make a sound. With the ungloved hand he worked so cautiously it almost didn’t hurt, and with the other he held my leg from the back to support it. I was transfixed. I began to picture what he looked like, right now, under that helmet. I could imagine his expression; a slight frown of focus, eyes pin-pointed on his work. But what did he look like? I glanced at his hand again to remind myself. It wasn’t much to go off, but my mind began spinning as my attention turned back to the helmet. I pictured warm eyes, full lips, brown hair. His hands stayed rested on my leg, even though the bandage had been applied. I hadn’t even noticed he’d done it. There we sat, my eyes on his face, his staring at the ground. I wanted… I reached out, my hand resting on the cold metal of his cheek. Slowly, the Mandalorian looked up at me and we stayed there, eyes locked together and hands on each other. I didn’t know what to do, but there was something sad in his gaze, even though I couldn’t see it. And then I realized something. “You’ve never taken this off, have you?” “I did,” he said. “And because of that, I never should have put it back on. But I… I don’t know how to live any other way. I can’t remember who I used to be, or who I would be now if I never put it on.” I listened, studying him. His face was downturned slightly, as if ashamed; like he couldn’t look at me. I sighed, trying to find a way to phrase the thoughts in my racing mind. “You’re more than metal, that much I know.” “Don’t know if I believe that,” he said, hesitantly. Almost fearfully. “Well, hey,” I said, reaching down to his hand. “I do.” I paused, my hand hovering above his. When he didn’t pull back, I rested mine on his. His skin was warm, like mine. Exactly like mine.

[the-l-spacer]

Summary: In which Madeleine's latest attempt to hash things out with Espresso gets a little... out of hand.

This is my first cookie run fic i. genuinely can’t believe im writing for this game now. Anyways, hope ya like it!!

- 

He sees the knight striding towards him, spotless armour clinking smartly with each step he takes, cloak billowing ever-so-slightly behind him.

His lip curls, practically a reflex.

“Espresso. Do you have a moment?” Madeleine's voice, like his appearance, is meticulously crafted to capture the attention of anyone in his vicinity. A deep, resonant baritone that carries authority, brooks no room for disagreement, least of all disagreement from a particular surly practitioner of Coffee Magic.

Or at least, that’s what Madeleine likes to think. For all his chivalrous acts and airs seem to have no effect on Espresso in the slightest, who simply sighs and rolls his dark, bespectacled eyes.

“Do me a favour; skip the pretence that participation in this conversation is optional, and get to the point. I have research that needs attending to.”

Perhaps a few months ago, Espresso’s brusque reply would have stopped Madeleine in his tracks, wiped the genial smile off his face. But as it is, they’ve spent far too much time together (unwillingly, on Espresso’s part) for the other to be fazed by mere unfriendliness. So he simply barrels on as if Espresso had never spoken. “It appears as if that young band of cookies are keen on having us join their party.”

As one, they glance over to the campsite a little ways away, where Gingerbrave and Chilli Pepper are engaged in a mock-swordfight, wielding pieces of gathered firewood, with Wizard, Strawberry and Custard cheering on. Gingerbrave rushes forward, ‘sword’ held aloft, but Chilli Pepper sidesteps his attack, and before his momentum can carry him too far, grabs the scruff of his collar, and turns him to face her. “Sloppy work, kid. I could catch that coming from a mile away. Next time, try-” She pauses mid sentence, noticing Espresso and Madeleine’s gazes. She winks, and gives a two-fingered salute. “Hey! Wanna watch me spar with a buncha kids? There’s plenty of room on that log over there, but just a little warning, I charge adult spectators.”

Madeleine waves a hand. “No need to relieve our pockets just yet, friend Chilli Pepper. Espresso and I are perfectly content watching from afar.”

“And besides, we have better things to do,” Espresso adds, “Like being corralled by a paladin into having pointless conversations.” The last bit, he aims at Madeleine, who’s response is to grin wider.

If the irony in Espresso’s statement registers to Chilli Pepper, she doesn’t show it, and simply shrugs. “Don’t let me interrupt. You boys might wanna head a little further away to have that ‘pointless conversation’ though, it’s probably gonna get noisy up in this joint.”

“An excellent idea! My humblest thanks!” Madeleine sweeps into an exaggerated bow, and takes Espresso by the elbow. “My compatriot and I shall head a little further into the woods for our chat.”

Custard perks up at that, and shouts, “Be careful! There might still be cake monsters running around, and as king, I can’t let my subjects be hurt!”

“Not to worry, we’re more than capable of defending ourselves. If our previous encounters with those beasts suggested anything...”

As Madeleine talks, Espresso discretely tries to wriggle free from the hand on his elbow, but his attempts prove futile, Madeleine’s grip is loose but firm, forming a little cage around his arm.

He lets his arm go limp, and when the grasp loosens slightly in response, he flicks his free hand, around which (unbeknownst to the jabbering knight) shadows had been gathering for quite some time.

A tendril of magic whips around and strikes Madeleine’s wrist.

“-And as Knight of the Madeleine House, I was trained since I was but a little cookie, much like your merry band, to- ah!” When the tendril connects with a small thwack, he releases Espresso, jerking away as if burned (in actuality, the magic was really just a moderately heated slap. Espresso didn’t want to do any serious damage to Madeleine, after all.)

The seemingly permanent smile on the knight’s face falters, just for a second, and Espresso allows himself a moment of schadenfreude.

“Is... is everything okay, Madeleine?” Strawberry pipes up from her spot on the log.

“Quite alright, quite alright.” The ten-carat smile is back in full force, and once again, he waves his (non-injured) hand airily, though Espresso notes with some satisfaction the displeased side glance Madeleine shoots at him.

Espresso’s face pulls into a smile of his own, falsely sweet. “Well. Shall we be off, then?” He begins walking into the woods. True, he would much rather be tucked away in some quiet corner, poring over magical scrolls, but if he has to be subjected to this... chat, at least he can try to have some fun while doing so. Make Madeleine regret initiating contact, make him trail behind for once.

And sure enough, Madeleine follows after him, making long strides to catch up.

As they retreat into the forest, Gingerbrave shouts, “Come back in time for dinner! We’re having sweet jelly stew!”

“We’ll be there,” Madeleine replies, not needing to raise his voice for it to carry across the clearing where they had set up camp.

The other cookies give their final waves, and return to sparring, the sounds of cheering and wood striking wood fading the deeper in Espresso and Madeleine travel.

- 

Eventually, the noises from the campsite fade entirely, replaced by the chirping of birds, and the soft rustling of trees. The last of the day’s light dapples through the jelly forest’s leaves, and Espresso might have called the whole scene pleasant, if not for the cookie next to him.

They come to a stop in a forest clearing. “Is this far enough for your liking, oh Knight-Commander of House Madeleine?”

Madeleine leans against a tree, the light glinting off his armour. “You know, the attitude really isn’t necessary, and neither,” he cocks his head, glossy hair spilling over one shoulder, his reprimanding smile akin to a teacher lecturing a particularly irritating student, “was the use of dark magic back there.”

Espresso smirks. “Ah. Have I discovered your weakness? Is the pride of House Madeleine scared of a little magic? I just meant for it to tickle, really.”

A scowl begins to form on Madeleine’s face, before he schools it back into careful neutrality. “You must be intelligent enough to grasp my meaning. It’s not the act itself, it’s the…” He gestures loosely in the air, his right hand still slightly red, “... the spirit of it all. Cookies who fight together shouldn’t turn on one another. It simply isn’t right.”

“Mmm. Mm hmm. Of course it isn’t.” Espresso, in a bid to minimize the dirt from the forest floor getting on his robes, opts to hover just a little above the ground, and Madeleine has to crane his neck to meet his gaze. “And I’m sure wrestling the cookie you’re supposed to be fighting with into the woods is so much more excusable.”

Madeleine bristles. “You wouldn’t have agreed to this conversation otherwise, as you’ve made so abundantly clear in the past. All I did was ensure you wouldn’t be able to weasel your way out of the inevitable yet another time.”

“What about our current situation makes you think this conversation is inevitable?” Espresso snaps. “I’ve told you time and time again I don’t care for your company. Our paths crossed once, we travelled together briefly to achieve our own goals, and parted ways. We work together acceptably, and we tolerate each other, barely. What more is there to be said between us?”

“Well, for one,” Madeleine says, standing just a bit straighter, as if to deliver a set of prepared lines, “I was telling you, before we were interrupted, that Gingerbrave and his fellows seem eager to have us as travelers alongside them.”

“Yes. And?”

“And I’m sure you are as keen as I am on accepting their offer.”

Espresso stiffens. He hates cookies who presume things about him, and more than that, he hates when those presumptions are right. After a moment, he bites out, “Even if I was, what of it.”

“We’ll be traveling together once again. Serving as their protectors, and all that.”

“So what? As I said, we’ve travelled in each other’s companies before.”

“Yes, but I believe this will be our longest journey yet. They seek answers, a way to defeat the evil forces rising, and this is no easy feat.”

“I seek no such thing,” Espresso scoffs, folding his arms. “I only know that they’re searching for the Forgotten Academy, and that particular locality has a library I’ve been meaning to peruse for a while. I plan to travel with them until that point, where we will then part ways.”

“Even then, according to my maps the Forgotten Academy is weeks away. Maybe a month. Months, if we keep up our current pace. A considerable amount of time that allows for sour dough to spoil further. I simply think it… unwise, to allow things between us two to reach such a point.” Having finally said his piece, Madeleine pushes himself off the roll cake trunk, and starts towards Espresso, open palm outstretched.

No, not again. They had done this dance before, and Espresso isn’t planning to retrace those steps. He whizzes backward, out of Madeleine’s reach.

“I’m not interested in becoming friends, knight,” he spits. “And I tire of your constant overtures.”

Madeleine’s hand returns to his side in an impatient motion. “Must you insist on being this- this difficult?” He asks, voice fraught with frustration. “It is a simple offer. Put our differences aside and work together amicably, if only to to make our journey more tolerable for us and our companions.”

“Ahhh but there’s the rub, Madeleine,” Espresso retorts, “I’m afraid our differences are too great to reconcile. If that is all you have for me, I think I’ll be returning to camp. I would say it’s been a pleasure, but… you know better.”

He makes to leave, floating quickly away to leave the knight behind, but catches a blur of movement from the corner of his eye. Before he can react, Madeline moves forward, his armour and shield glowing. With a flash, the shield comes down on the edge of Espresso’s long, dark cloak, pinning it to the forest floor.

Both of them hear the telltale sound of ripping fabric.

“Don’t move.” Madeleine warns.

Espresso’s vision goes red. He gathers the shadows to him, wreathing his clenched fists in black swirls of magic.

He doesn’t move.

A pause, then the shield lifts.

Espresso doesn’t wait to rush backward, heading straight for Madeleine. This time, it’s the knight that finds himself unprepared, as Espresso grabs him, and with the help of his magic, lifts him in the air, slamming him against the trunk of the nearest tree.

“Don’t. Touch. Me,” he growls.

Their faces are close enough now that Espresso sees the tiniest twitch of fear in Madeleine’s expression. He doesn’t yield, keeping him pinned to the trunk.

Madeleine speaks, holding both hands up in a conciliatory gesture. “Now, now, I admit I was rather hasty, but there really is no need for-“

“- doesn’t feel nice, does it? Being trapped against your will?” Espresso cuts him off.

“Listen. I’m sorry things had to come to that point.”

Espresso sneers. Just as he predicted, Madeleine’s ‘apology’ is anything but. His mouth forms the syllables, but like a pedestrian one accidentally jostles on the street, his ‘sorry’ is merely a formality, said to hear the sound of his own voice.

Espresso doesn’t buy it, is what he’s saying.

“Save it. Save your pithy little apologies and insincere attempts at friendship for some other cookie.”

Madeleine’s face twists in indignation. “I’m not being insincere!”

Espresso drops him unceremoniously, the knight’s armour clattering when he lands on the soft earth. He tries not to betray his own fatigue, both in mind and body. Madeleine is heavy after all, weighed down further by his armour and weapons, making the act of holding him aloft (even aided by magic) one that had taken a not-insignificant toll on him. His feet touch down lightly on the ground, the glowing aura around him fades.

“Oh, spare me,” Espresso says coldly. “Every action, every toss of your hair or flick of your cloak, every word that comes out of your mouth betrays your insincerity.”

Having gathered himself, Madeleine finally snaps, drawing his sword from its scabbard with a metallic hiss. “How dare you.” His voice, a dangerous murmur, grows louder and louder, until it carries to the treetops. “I don’t know what I have done to offend you so. I attempted to be friendly, and reach out with offers of peace, as my family taught me to do for years, but you insist on rebuffing me, sullying my good name with your.. your insolence!”

The sword is pointed at Espresso’s throat, now, and the magician takes a careful step backward, keeping an eye on the gleaming blade. Madeleine doesn’t seem to notice, however, as he barks, “I’ve been lenient in the past, but as a cookie of honour, I can’t let such words continue to slide. The Divine, protect me!”

Celestial light bathes the forest clearing, surrounding Madeleine in its radiance. He lunges forward and swings his sword, a ray of light arcing from its blade. Espresso, caught unawares, finds himself knocked back, sent stumbling to catch his footing.

He regains his balance, clutching on to a tree branch, and counters the next light ray with an explosion of coffee beans that makes Madeleine's attack fizzle out.

“You know I’m right about you,” Espresso taunts, “in fact, we both know this is all a little charade you put on, because-” he plants his feet firmly in the ground, bracing himself against a third wave of light magic. “- beneath all your bravado, your shiny armour and fancy new weapons, you are empty.”

“That’s not true!” Madeleine roars, attempting to close the distance between them. But Espresso splays his hands, and a swirling vortex forms, pulling the paladin backward and into its dark center. Madeleine staggers in pain.

“You’re just a selfish glory-seeker, as slow and soulless as the monsters that- gah!”

Dexterity had never been his strong suit, so when Madeleine’s retaliating attack comes, he doesn’t dodge quickly enough. He sees the sword swing, feels an impact across his face, before his world goes blurry.

His glasses!

A lance of panic spikes through his chest.

He can’t see. He can’t see and he can’t look for his glasses either because if he steps on them that’s it. And Madeleine will win or worse he’ll just leave him here, in the middle of the woods.

The attacks stop coming.

The forest is silent once more, but for the two cookies’ heavy breathing.

Then, Espresso hears the crunching of leaves, sees the blurry shape of Madeleine stride towards him. He readies his magic. Madeleine passes him, and bends down over a spot Espresso can’t quite see.

A familiar metallic object is pressed into his hand.

“Your glasses.”

In a flash, Espresso has them on again, and exhales in relief when the forest comes back into focus.

“I never meant to knock them over. I’m sorry.”

Espresso is about to respond, but Madeleine says, “We should not have let our discussion escalate like this.”

“I’m sorry. We?!” Espresso’s recently restored vision colours. “When it was you who dealt the first blow? You, who initiated this discussion in the first place, who-” He trails off, righteous indignation fading slightly when he sees Madeleine, who stands at arm’s length away from him, both hands resting on the pommel of his sword, his expression unreadable.

“..Yes. Fine. As allies, we shouldn’t have turned on each other like this.”

Madeleine says nothing, so Espresso continues. “But as our previous attempts at civility have shown, you are incapable of holding a conversation without trying to domineer over me, push me into situations I do not want to be in. And I… I admit that I went too far in my personal assessments of you, but the fact remains that I simply cannot work with you beyond what we already are. Allies, and nothing more.”

For the second time, Espresso begins walking back to camp. Madeleine makes no attempt to stop him. “Thank you for retrieving my glasses. Good evening.”

Before he can fully retreat into the copse of trees, he hears Madeleine’s voice, saying, “Wait.”

Espresso pauses for a moment, and continues walking.

“Wait. Please.”

The word ‘please’ sounds so strange on Madeleine’s lips, and Espresso realises he can’t recall if the cookie had ever said the word in all the time they had worked together.

He turns his head.

Madeleine is leaned against a tree, arms folded and a foot kicked up against the trunk. His face is hidden by a curtain of hair.

“You are from The Republic, yes?”

Thrown by the sudden question, Espresso says, “Yes. The both of us are.”

“You’re aware that The Republic is a peaceful nation. No conflict within its gates, no monsters to be found without.”

Where is this going? Espresso responds, “Safe, sterile, and utterly boring. I’m aware.”

“Then what,” Madeleine turns his face away from Espresso, addressing the trees, “what use do you think such a nation has for soldiers? For knights?”

Oh.

Madeleine laughs, not his usual hearty guffaw, filled to the brim with bravado, but a short and bitter exhalation. “Do you know what it’s like to be, as you called me, the ‘slow’ one, in a family of scholars and politicians? For your only prowess to be your physical strength, in a place where that skill is entirely unnecessary?”

“But the knight order you lead-”

“- is purely for show. Just cookies dressed up in shiny armour to remind the other kingdoms we’re not to be trifled with. None of them have actually seen a day of real combat outside of sparring.”

Espresso is back in the clearing, picking a position next to Madeleine so he doesn’t see his sympathetic expression.

“Then… the reason you and all the knights were sent out?”

“As I said, my mission was to seek the legendary Soul Jam that is supposed to grant us cookies eternal life. Not that anyone in the Republic really expects us to find it.”

“They wanted to get rid of you, then.”

Madeleine visibly flinches at Espresso’s words. “I wouldn’t put it so bluntly, but… yes. I’m welcome back home, of course. If I were to return, I’d be met with trumpets and fanfare, but not much else, and certainly not anything approaching respect from those who truly matter.” The knight clenches his fist. “This quest is to be my saving grace. My only purpose, and the only way one like me can conceivably bring pride to House Madeleine. The only way I can be of use”

Espresso regards Madeleine, the revelation casting the cookie in a new light.

“So.. yes, Espresso. I am a selfish glory-seeker. Perhaps I have no other choice but to be.” Madeleine’s previously ramrod-straight posture is gone, and in its place his fists are clenched, shoulders hunched inwards, his hair tumbling forward, shielding his face from view.

And a small part of Espresso feels the strangest urge to push that hair back, to place a comforting hand on the paladin’s shoulder. Anything to stop what has to be the strongest — the most annoying, surely, but the strongest nevertheless — cookie he knows from curling into himself, from hurting like this.

But he holds himself back. All he lets out is a soft, “I think I know how you feel. Not entirely, but some of it.”

Madeleine turns to look at Espresso, a blank expression on his face. “You do.”

The mage lets a spark of magic fly from his hand - a single, glowing coffee bean surrounded by dark shadow. “You have called what I do ‘black magic’ in the past.”

Madeleine, suddenly stricken, says, “I wouldn’t go so far as to call it ‘black magic’, but-”

“- Listen. You have, countless times. And it annoys me to no end, but I understand why. It does look like it, no?” He conjures more coffee beans, letting them spin in circles around him. “I’ve had this ability since I was a child. It did not come from dark origins, I did not make a pact with evil forces to obtain it, as some have believed. It simply was. My magic, like your physical strength, is a part of me.”

Madeleine simply nods.

“But people don’t understand Coffee Magic. Whenever I demonstrated my abilities, I’d be shunned, the respectable citizens of our beloved Republic saying that I was a child of Dark Enchantress Cookie.”

“Espresso…” His magic fizzles out, and now, it is his turn to look away, incapable of facing the pity that is surely in Madeleine’s gaze.

“I was barred from every magic school. I had to learn, and practice, and make it on my own. If I didn’t have Latte Cookie, I don’t know how I would have-” Espresso shakes his head. “No matter. All I am saying is that I do know how it feels, not to belong. To have to carve a place for yourself among people who can’t respect you.”

A hand settles on his shoulder, and Espresso almost flinches. He looks up, and his gaze meets Madeleine’s, earnest and apologetic. “Espresso, first and foremost, I am sorry that I ripped your cloak in trying to keep you here.”

Espresso’s eyes travel to his torn (and expensive) wizard’s cloak. “It’s fine. I’ll just have to get it repaired once we return to camp.”

Madeleine continues. “And I’m sorry, truly sorry that I misjudged you based on your magic. That I pushed when I should have respected your wishes. Respected you.”

And this time, Espresso believes Madeleine’s words. He lets his own hand creep upwards to rest over the knight’s.

He sighs. “And I apologise, too. I made undue assumptions about you, and let these assumptions colour my actions. I treated you poorly, and for that, I’m sorry.”

When their eyes meet again, it is as if the forest goes silent, nature’s rustle and hum being forgotten as the two look at each other, and for the first time, understand.

Of course, no moment can truly last, and it is Espresso who breaks the spell, gently moving Madeleine’s hand off his shoulder. “Naturally, don’t think this means I’ll let you strongarm me into doing whatever you want me to. You still irritate me. Incessantly.”

Madeleine chuckles. “Naturally. Besides, I do not imagine such actions will be necessary in the future. I think we understand each other perfectly clearly, now.”

Espresso lets a grin creep across his face. Rolling his eyes, he says, “Don’t assume you know everything based on a tidbit of my past. I encompass multitudes, Knight-Commander.”

“In turn, I request that you not write me off just yet,” Madeleine responds teasingly. “I may not know everything about you, but I would be very interested to,”

Both their eyes widen, Madeleine realising the forwardness of his statement. “That is. I will give you the space you need, certainly, but if you ever feel like-”

“- Wait. Stop.” Espresso takes a breath, lets it out. “I- I do feel the same way. You’re a good fighter, and I did not let myself give you a fair chance.”

He crosses the short distance between them, and extends a hand. “I’m Espresso Cookie of The Republic. Founder of the Coffee Magic School. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Madeleine regards the outstretched hand in wonder.

"... Don't make a big deal of it, knight."

He puffs out his chest, taking Espresso’s hand. “And I’m Madeleine Cookie of The Republic. Servant of The Divine, Knight Comm-” He stops himself, clears his throat. Then, he smiles and simply says, “I’m Madeleine Cookie. It’s an honour to get to know you.”

[samstree]

Dark Bird (1/?)

Geraskier, 3.5k, The Time Traveler’s Wife AU, a sequel to You are too well tangled in my soul

Also on AO3.

There’s safe house, and there’s Yennefer’s safe house.

It’s really more of a castle on the outskirts of Novigrad, and none of them knows how she acquired it. Remembering the major’s townhouse in Rinde, it’s probably wise not to ask. One look at the fancy decoration and luxuries in it, Jaskier almost wishes he’s the one with dangerous powers who needs to stay for training.

The protective wards are so well-designed that the only way in is through Yennefer’s portals and hers alone. If Geralt had any doubt regarding Ciri’s safety here, it certainly disappeared after he’s seen the place.

Alas, a letter from home calls for Jaskier’s return. After dropping Ciri off, they need to set off to Lettenhove immediately.

Home. It’s the word that fills Jaskier with longing and dread at the same time. Sleep has been eluding him since the sorceress brought news of his father’s death.

Geralt would want to bid Ciri goodbye before they leave, so Jaskier offers to ready Roach and gives them space.

“Are you sure you have to go?” Ciri’s voice is muffled in Geralt’s chest when she squeezes the hug tighter.

“I’m sorry, cub. But Jaskier needs to go back to Lettenhove.”

“No, I—” she pulls away, reluctantly. “I know he doesn’t have the best memories of that place. Something about his father. That’s why he’s been so down since the letter. And scared too. Why does he have to go if he’s so scared of it?”

From a distance, Jaskier can only catch pieces of the conversation. He startles at how perceptive the young girl is. The idea of Ciri being so worried sits wrong in his stomach. She has been through enough.

Roach snorts next to him like she’s judging him for eavesdropping.

Geralt replies softly into Ciri’s ear while tucking away her unruly hair. Jaskier can’t hear anything without appearing too suspicious. No doubt the words are only meant for his child and no one else. Finally, the girl relents. “Just take care of him, Geralt.”

The witcher gives her a solemn promise before beckoning Jaskier over.

Ciri also pulls him into a tight hug that borders on painful. The girl hasn’t realized how strong she’s become over the past winter. Constant sword training with all the wolf witchers has given her enough strength to hold her own against any common soldier or two. She’s grown taller too, so much so that her hair is all over Jaskier’s face and tickling his nose. He wonders how much taller she’s gonna be when they see each other next.

“Keep Geralt between you and monsters.”

“Keep Yennefer between you and trouble.” Jaskier smiles at her adorable little frown. “And don’t you worry about me, poppet. You are too young to have worry lines.”

The front gate of the mansion creaks open, and Yennefer herself steps out. “Ready?”

Geralt leaves a quick kiss on Ciri’s head and nods at the sorceress. With a heavy heart, Jaskier steps through the portal after the witcher and his mare into the forest of Redania. Behind them, where the mansion should be, stands a crumbling ruin, disguised from the eyes of travelers.

“What did you tell Ciri?”

A smile flashes through Geralt’s amber eyes. “Knew you were listening in.”

“Apparently not, if I didn’t catch anything.” Jaskier pouts, but it’s hard to distract himself from the bubbling dread of returning to his childhood home.

Geralt hums, studying his bard. The witcher must have seen through his pretense because the next thing he knows Geralt is squeezing his shoulder reassuringly.

“I told her you’ll be all right,” Geralt says. “That I’ll be there to make sure of it.”

Staring into the warm molten gold, Jaskier almost believes it.

 *

The ground thaws. Life returns to the Continent after a long winter.

They arrive in Lettenhove on a warm morning, walking side by side through a stretch of meadows. The dandelions have declared spring’s arrival, peppering the ground with sparks of sunlight.

Geralt remains beside Jaskier, steady and solid just as he has been throughout the journey. They knock on the door.

“Master Julian!”

The guard leads them into the great hall. Servants greet him with a name that has been buried for over twenty years, and it catches Jaskier off guard. Everything here, the estate, the title, his father’s fortune, it all would have been his had he not leave. So would the crushing expectations of being a noble. As much as Jaskier seems to fare better with them than the witcher, he knows too well about the back-stabbing nature of those elites.

A warm hand falls on the small of his back, Geralt’s eyes meeting his in support.

“All right?”

Jaskier opens his mouth to reply, only to be interrupted by heavy footsteps and a surprised gasp.

“Julian?” God, it’s been too many years since Jaskier has seen his mother. Jaskier startles at how much she’s changed – her hair has gone completely white, her skin lined with wrinkles, but her eyes are a striking blue. “It’s been so long. I couldn’t believe it when they told me it was you. Oh, Julian. It’s so good to see you again.”

“Hello, mother.” He smiles tightly, suddenly forgetting what to do, so he lets her pull him into a tentative hug. Jaskier cannot remember the last time his mother hugged him. It’s unexpectedly nice, in a way that he never knew it could be.

“You missed the funeral.”

“I’m sorry. It must be difficult for you.” Jaskier feels his mother tense up when she notices Geralt’s presence.

“This is my…companion, Geralt of Rivia.” He pulls away, gesturing to the witcher. Her posture immediately changes into a more serious one, her back stiffer. Her sharp blue eyes, identical to Jaskier’s own, look up and down the witcher with an untrusting expression Jaskier has seen one too many times in his lifetime.

“I didn’t know you would bring a witcher with you,” she frowns.

You look so much like your mother, Julian. Especially your eyes. Everyone they used to meet told him that. Right now, it brings him anguish that those eyes so similar to his are looking at Geralt with such hostility.

“As I said, he’s my companion. That’s why he’s here with me.”

“Julian, you know his kind is not welcome here. Your father would never approve—”

“My father has passed, mother. I will not have him insult the person I love anymore.” She flinches at the word love. Whatever illusion of warmth between them is disappearing. “You don’t have to side with him anymore.”

They stand in stone-cold silence. The pounding of his heart and his quickened breath are all Jaskier can hear.

“He brought a witcher in case of monsters,” Geralt chimes in unexpectedly, “Though I find more of them among those in high positions. You wouldn’t have those in Lettenhove, would you?”

Her lips tighten at the insinuation. “Is that what you’re here to do, Julian? As soon as your father is gone you come home to insult us, and what? You’ll take your inheritance and go back to being a jester and dragging the Pankratz name through the dirt? Have you no shame, no sense of responsibility to your family?”

Jaskier lets out a dry laugh.

“I haven’t used the family name for decades. Everything I have right now I built for myself.” He takes a deep breath to collect himself. “As for the other thing, you don’t have to worry. I’m not here for the inheritance, or the title or anything you believe is important enough to fight over. No, I’ll make sure none of it will ever have any power over me, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

Her face turns pale out of humiliation, but Jaskier feels no sense of triumph. He’s not here to cause her more grief. Instead, he just feels hollow, tired, like he just traveled across the Continent for a battle that he already lost.

“Very well. You will remain in the estate until the transition is complete.” She straightens her back. In her dark mourning clothes, she almost looks as respectable as any noble pretends to be.

“Have a nice day, mother.”

An older handmaid comes to lead Jaskier away to a guest room. There’s no need for any more exchanges.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Geralt nods to the Dowager Viscountess curtly, before turning to follow. His hand circles Jaskier’s waist again as their footsteps pick up. Jaskier releases a shuddering breath he’s been holding in at the touch, and if he’s leaning on Geralt a little bit too much, the witcher does not seem to mind.

 *

Ferrant settles into the job like a puzzle fitting into place, Jaskier muses as he takes another sip of the fine Toussaint wine. With all his natural ways in court, his cousin is easily the most suitable out of all the Lettenhove children to take the title of Viscount.

Some people are just born to become leaders, to deal with politics and decide the price of tea. Jaskier is lucky, he reckons, that Ferrant is just here with all the experience of running an estate, waiting for him to hand over the title.

Once he’s home and determined to renounce everything, the course of action becomes unexpectedly clear. Ferrant moved into the estate immediately and took over most of the things he was already seeing through. At the time, he was the one to arrange Father’s funeral when Mother was stricken with grief.

The process only lasted two weeks, and Jaskier is more than willing to cooperate just to hasten his departure. Now the last thing required is holding a banquet to announce it to the world, with Ferrant as the Viscount for the first time.

At this point, it’s just formality, one that Jaskier has to attend to show deference to the next head of the family. In his peripheral vision, he can see Mother smile at something Ferrant said. They are both at the top table, playing the perfect host to the first celebration since the funeral.

Geralt has been the most supportive Jaskier has ever seen him. Even his usual grunts have disappeared no matter how many nobles from the Northern Kingdoms are gathering at this hall to prod him with inappropriate questions.

They are seated at the side with Geralt next to Jaskier, shadowing him as if there’s danger hidden in these nobles’ fancy sleeves.

Not only does this place dredge up bad memories of Jaskier’s past, it seems to make Geralt uneasy as well. The witcher is always checking on Jaskier or staying close protectively as if this house can still hurt him. Even now, as they sit in front of an abundance of food and drinks, Geralt is still tense, ready to strike anyone who as much as looks at Jaskier wrong.

In the din of the room, the hired singer is playing some classical melodies so the guests can start to dance. It’s a young musician he’s never seen at any competitions, and he almost snorts into his drink at the immaturity in his playing. The buzz of the alcohol relaxes his limbs, making everything light and fuzzy and soft around the edges.

If Jaskier can’t play at his own goodbye party, he’s determined to make the most of it.

“Come on.” He pulls Geralt to his feet and leads him into the dance floor. The witcher raises an eyebrow in question but complies.

Jaskier places his chin on Geralt’s shoulder and holds him close. His witcher responds in return, pressing a hand right between his shoulder blades, his warm breaths ghosting over the shell of Jaskier’s ear.

The music slows and they sway gently to the rhythm. The light has dimmed as the night drags on. For a moment Jaskier can pretend they are dancing alone by campfire instead of being watched by countless prying eyes.

“Our last night here.”

“Hmm.”

“I’m sorry about that guy earlier,” Jaskier winces at the memory.

Geralt’s answer is almost drowned out by the music and the crowd. “The baron? It’s fine.”

“It’s not. He asked if you drink baby blood to stay young.” Jaskier is offended on Geralt’s behalf just by how laughable these rumors are.

“Jokes on him. I’m older than his grandfather.”

Jaskier lets out a chuckle. “And yet, my dear witcher, you haven’t aged one bit since the day I met you.”

“Haven’t I?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Haven’t I really?” Geralt murmurs again. Jaskier untangles from their tight embrace to see the witcher’s worried frown. “All these years, for all you've seen me misplaced in time. Do I never look older than I am now?”

Jaskier touches Geralt’s cheekbone, where the long scar will be.

“You look older, sometimes.”

“But by how much? Can you tell?”

Jaskier’s eyebrows scrunch up in return. “What brought this on? You’ve never cared about your looks. Has vanity finally overcome you in old age, my love?”

Geralt tilts his head at the teasing.

“Not vanity, Jask. I don’t care if the years will show on my skin. If I’ve learned one thing about you–” He presses a kiss at the corner of Jaskier’s left eye. “—these lines only make you more beautiful. No, I was just wondering…Do you know what is the oldest you’ve ever seen me?”

Jaskier blinks. He has seen a much older Geralt, steady and sure of himself. But that Geralt is also battle-worn and weary, with aching joints that won’t heal fully. He keeps a mental map of all Geralt’s scars, the ones already here and the ones that will be. Sometimes he presses gentle kisses to those phantom scars that are still just unmarred skin, as if he can soothe them in advance.

But no, he doesn’t know which version of Geralt is the oldest. Marking the years by scars is too imprecise. Whatever magical intervention, blessing, or even curse that makes time travel possible for Geralt, it has apparently been here throughout his life. Chances are it will continue to happen until the day he dies.

When we slow and get killed, Geralt said those words a lifetime ago. An untimely death will always loom over a witcher’s path even if there isn’t a war raging out there. A chill runs down Jaskier’s body. He’s suddenly seeing all these little pockets of stolen time in his memory in a new light. There’s no telling if he’s already seen Geralt at the end of his life—

“Hey,” Geralt interrupts his spiraling. The room is suddenly too stuffy and Jaskier struggles to take in air. Added with the wine from earlier, his stomach turns with nausea. The room spins under his feet.

“Shit. I didn’t mean to upset you, Jask. Ah…forget about it. Let’s get some air.”

Strong hands steer Jaskier away from the dancing couples. They slip through the crowd as quietly as possible. At the back of his head, he knows court etiquette demands his presence in the hall, but any potential protest is shushed by Geralt’s murmuring.

A cool breeze from the garden hits Jaskier, and he leans into his witcher under the stars, still panting but not as violently.

“I’m okay. We should go back.”

“Shh, it’s okay. No one will notice. After tonight, you’ll have nothing to do with them. Geralt’s hands reach under Jaskier’s doublet, resting on the chemise, the warmth of his palm seeping through the thin fabric. “You’ll be free, completely.”

A high-pitched laugh comes through the open door, probably Ferrant telling a cheesy joke to impress the ladies.

“Thank you for being here with me.” Jaskier rests his forehead against Geralt’s temple. “I don’t know what I would have done if I came alone.”

“Hmm. You are strong enough, Jaskier.”

“Am I?” Jaskier says mockingly. “I… There’s always this…chasm that I couldn’t bridge. The longer I was away from home the more I forgot why I was so unhappy here. I kept wondering…if I really was so miserable? Was there really nothing good here? Sometimes it feels like my memories are false, that everything was fine all along.”

“Jask.” Geralt’s jaw tightens, his voice lowers dangerously, but Jaskier knows the anger is not directed at him. “I cannot speak for your entire childhood. But from what I saw, what he did to you was not something any parent should do to their children.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“If you need to convince people it wasn’t that bad, it was bad enough.”

Jaskier hums, nuzzling into Geralt’s neck. The witcher’s muscles are tense, but the warm skin there smells faintly like the lavender soap they share.

“I suppose,” he muses.

They stand under the stars, listening to the distant music until the night whiles away and guests start to leave.

Mother stands in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the warm candlelight. A chill sends goosebumps down Jaskier’s spine as she turns away, disappointed for the last time.

Geralt ushers him back to the guest room and starts a roaring fire. That night Jaskier falls asleep in the safe embrace of his lover. Those nightmares of old he dreads never come. When the witcher’s gravelly voice drags him out of sweet oblivion before dawn, Jaskier feels rested for the first time since he stepped foot in this town.

He will never be Julian of Lettenhove again.

 *

“You woke me up at some godsforsaken hour for this?”

The lake glistens under the rising sun, lapping at the shore in the quiet of the morning. Roach is soon distracted by the wild flora and nibbling on them happily.

Geralt is standing by the water, all wide shoulders and strong arms. A few strands of silver fall out of his ponytail and sway in the gentle breeze. Jaskier hides a little gasp. Every now and then he gets hit in the face by how beautiful his witcher is.

“We are leaving today.”

“I’m aware.” Jaskier smiles, feeling warm and fuzzy under the morning sun. “We didn’t pack everything just to have Roach carry them back to the house.”

“Wanted to see this place.”

“Didn’t know you to be spontaneous,” he teases. “And, darling, you’ve been here a million times.”

“Hmm. But not by choice.” Geralt purses his lips, bending down to pick up a flower. “It’s nice. Nicer, when it’s on my terms.”

Jaskier’s grin spreads as he takes off his boots to roll up the end of his breeches. The coldness sends goosebumps down his back when he steps into the shallow water.

“Come on then.”

It reminds him of the coast of Cidaris. He misses the tang of salt and the roaring waves. Maybe he’ll ask Geralt to come with him again.

A splatter hits Jaskier in the face and he squeals with indignation. The witcher splashes more lake water towards him with a cocky smirk. Jaskier retaliates with equal force and it turns messy very quickly.

“These are nice clothes, you heathen!”

The witcher attacks fiercely, though Jaskier knows he must be holding back, or he would never stand a chance. Regardless, Jaskier is the one who ends up soaked and almost falling. Lucky his witcher is there to drag him ashore.

Geralt helps him out and takes off the doublet as their giggling dies down. Jaskier hasn’t felt this light since he got here so he lies down on the grass and lets the sun do the rest of the drying.

“I was wrong.”

“Hmm?” the witcher plops down next to him, blocking the sunlight. Jaskier shifts to rest his head on Geralt’s thigh.

“There are good things about Lettenhove.” He revels in the feeling of Geralt’s fingers running through his hair, the ends still a little wet. “This lake. I used to come here hours before you showed up, even if I knew the precise time. Think about all the poems I wrote here… See that tree? My early works were all created under that tree.”

“Don’t you ever get tired? Waiting for me, back then and…later?”

The pad of Geralt’s thumb traces the shell of Jaskier’s ear. He thinks back on the years, the heartbreak, the lonely walk down a mountain, but then those images were replaced by the reunions, by a passionate kiss and the crinkle around those amber eyes when Geralt pretends not to care for Jaskier’s cheesy puns.

“Silly witcher. You are worth the wait,” he murmurs, “I’d do it all over again, you know? As long as we have a future together.”

The wind shifts and Geralt’s smile softens. There is something somber in the way he observes Jaskier’s face. It’s like he might forget it the next moment if he pays any less attention. “We do,” he responds.

Jaskier plunges to tackle Geralt to the ground and kisses him with an inch of his life, kisses away the slight worry at the corner of his mouth.

After all, they have the rest of their lives ahead.

[virgil-writes]

ash & soot

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

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

chapter 11 - fever dream

trigger warning, body horror and blood, lots of blood. around 3.8K words.

He knew he had overstayed his welcome by the tiredness in her eyes, a stab of guilt very close to piercing through his skin though he resisted. He had struck a nerve without meaning to, his flirting and prodding taken too far, what he intended to bring them closer making her recoil instead. Heisenberg had left her cabin with shoulders slumped and heart heavy, but the way she had bid him goodbye told him everything would be just fine. It was all forgotten by the time he turned the corner to go further into the forest, all suppressed under a boot-clad stomp. He would not consider how he might have personally hurt her, how he might have dug in too deep and crossed the few lines she had established. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a stupid little voice told him that he cared, even if he didn’t mean to, and there was only so much he could ignore it before it bubbled to the surface. He had dealt with worse. Keeping feelings and memories buried was a skill he had developed over almost a hundred years.

Her feelings were not important right now, he reminded himself, because the plan took all precedence. There would be no more village if Miranda saw her plans fulfilled, no little witch to offend and no metal man to call stupid nicknames. Maybe once they were free he would be interested in truly making friends, sitting down to talk things through and giving her time to answer his questions, not when he pressed but when she was ready. Bah, who was he kidding? He was not a man meant to play house, to have healthy relationships that were based on dialogue and mutual understanding with. He was the worst friend a person could have. She could die mad.

Still, perhaps there were lines he would better not cross, at least to keep her complacent. From the very beginning he had intended to keep her in the dark as much as possible, only tell her what was strictly necessary to have her help him. Learn what she could truly do, exploit it as covertly as possible, then unceremoniously dump her so he could finally fight his battles. Get from point A to point B, make himself an ally, but not a friend. She was a tool, as were all others, living or dead. He would see his ambition realized. He would set himself free.

Hours bled into days and into a week before he saw her again. His days once again become a blur of planning and building, head empty if not for the thoughts of revenge and the rage that fueled him ever onward. Research at the factory was going smoothly enough, problems here and there. Miranda was mostly out of his hair, as was Alcina, having finally given up after he told her, time and again, that nothing other than lycans inhabited the woods. Some power failures in Eins were a true head-scratcher, night after night of writing and drawing, assembling and disassembling. It was a good way to pass the time. Sturm was still a failure, a project put on the back burner until the right inspiration hit him.

It all reached a boiling point not soon after, stress catching up to him when a mining drill down the mine shafts malfunctioned and exploded, the cave-in cutting off a whole team of haulers and all the resources they had gathered. The bodies soon began to rot and the stench filled the vents, crept through tunnels to find him in all rooms he thought he could hide in. Night and day his soldiers would drill and get nowhere, night and day he would work to see no returns. He had descended into a fit of rage that brought out the worst within him, his transformation no longer his to control after the first few minutes of thrashing and shouting. It hurt as much this time as it did every other, flesh tearing and pulsing and twisting and expanding, tendons pulled, muscles sore, skin stretching far beyond what it should ever be able to. Pain seared through every inch of him, a gust of flame where his blood should be. It burned unbearably hot while chilling him to the bone with the sheer horror of it.

His conscience would never fully slip him in those moments. He would not recognize himself in the mirror, his appearance no longer that of a man, but he was still him, still a genius of engineering, still a silver fox that could charm the pants off of anyone if he wanted to. At least that was what he told himself, though there was definitely and underlying hunger that he could not suppress, that was not entirely his. Not for meat like the Duke’s, not for blood like Alcina’s. Not at all physical, but gnawing on his bones nonetheless. A need for violence, for terror, to destroy everything and crush everyone. Turn every living being to a pulp and make art with the carnage, paint the walls red and hang their insides from the ceiling. His fingers itched for it even when they no longer existed, his heart pulsating with rage and anticipation. It was hard to keep himself in check sometimes, to stop the spiral that brought him ever downward, towards the blackened waters of oblivion that he felt were always so dangerously close to consuming him. He would be no better than any of them if he gave in, he repeated it as a mantra, no better than the family of abominations who consumed flesh and drank blood like the finest wine, no better than the lycans who toyed with the villagers only to eviscerate them and then suck the marrow out of their bones. But how would it feel, a small voice asked in the back of his mind, to be so free, to let his rage flow with the blood he spilled, vindication for thousands of days of suffering. He could almost taste it, feel his sins washed away by the sacrifice, dangerously within reach, so very tempting. Every time he resisted, and every time it became harder to do so.

He can’t remember the last time he’d lost control, the last time he’d blacked out and woken up a day later in his birthday suit and covered in guts that weren’t his. He can’t remember if it had been yesterday or last year or thirty years ago, but he remembers the feeling all too well, the sickening soft touch of tissue, foul smelling bits of flesh underneath his nails. He could never know who, or why, or how, and could only hope he hadn’t blown his cover, hadn’t killed someone Mother would miss. The last time, he never quite managed to wash the contents of the poor soul’s stomach from his hair, the stench nauseating. It had been the first time he had taken scissors to his hair and cut it with a fury and desperation he did not know he possessed. Ther uneven strands only served to remind him that his monstrous self was but a failed project away, looming in the darkness, a return to the bloody roots Miranda had ingrained within him on that operating table all those years ago.

Fists slam against the table in an attempt to let off some steam as he curses his temper, his family, that crow bitch for ruining him forever. But it only serves to stoke the fires, to anger him further, cloth rips as he yells and everything goes downhill from there.

These moments between man and beast are always the most difficult, the ones that seem to last forever, the ones that plague him with so many thoughts he feels his head will explode. Would an army be enough to stop her? Hundreds upon hundreds of lost souls hanging overhead, conveyor belts transporting his army on an endless display of his greatest accomplishments. He could only hope enough of his machines would survive the waves of lycans she would throw at them; he could practically see it, teeth bared and eyes gaunt, claws reaching to grab onto something, anything that would give it purchase, an armor plate, perhaps the tube that kept the soldier’s blood pumping. One after the other the lycans would fall, until they had become too many, a pile of writhing half-humans feasting on its disgusting prey. He could practically hear it, and every exploded reactor chipped away a sliver of his confidence - and his sanity.

He never intended to get involved, never intended to join the battle and cut through monsters. His eyes had always been set on Mother, Mother and the stupid lieutenants she called her children. Moreau crying for it all to stop, Donna cowering with Angie behind moldy wings. Alcina would be the only one to face him head on, he knew, and finally he would be able to tear her apart with her own nails. He would then pluck one out to shoot it right at the dollmaker’s face, right onto the squirming parasite that inhabited the half of her face where her eye ought to be. To Moreau he would give a present, a grenade for him to swallow whether he felt hungry or not, a tasty last meal for the disgusting fish man who scraped the bottom of the muddy river. As for Miranda, he hoped it was enough, he was enough, all of his experimentations and studying and training coming together to make him unstoppable. Only time would tell, and with each passing day he grew wearier, and the beast stronger.

But what did he have to lose?

His mind barely registered his actions as he made his way out of the factory, a bundle of papers tucked under his arm, hammer and cigar long forgotten. The world greeted him with a sheen of milky fog, of faded colors that threatened to jump at him in full vibrancy at a moment’s notice, threatened to overwhelm his already weakened perception. His tendons pulled and muscles ached with each agonizing step, left knee and elbow burning like he had shoved them inside a furnace and forgotten to take them out. His head hurt worse than the most gruesome of hangovers, light swimming in his eyes and creating a dozen blind spots that could lead him to any number of traps. Beads of perspiration had gathered on his brow despite the cold, the kind of feverish sweat that keeps you awake at night and makes you see stars and aliens, eyes rolling back but somehow wide open in a never ending fever dream. He had grown accustomed to it, the high of growing into a behemoth of flesh and steel, and the lows that came with it when it was all over and he had to return to being a shell of a man with enough rage to make the devil jealous.

Most times he would lie face down against the factory floor, let the stone ease him into restless sleep, until some hauler tripped over him and decided to drag him along and out of the way. It had become so common he had instructed them for it, too, to leave him at his quarters and then carry on working, so that he could also carry on working as soon as this hurdle was over with. But then sometimes the fever grew so hot he would stumble out into the yard to find the nearest mound of snow to flop onto, and he could swear he could hear it fizzle under his skin.

This time he had taken to walking, the only thing in his mind as his body protested and he pretended not to listen, one foot after the other, though he had no clue where they would take him. His wounds bled as they always did, a new collection of scars every time he transformed and the metal lodged itself deep within his flesh, left a trail behind as he made his way down towards the river, the trees his only support. It was then he heard it, the faintest of whispers, the most alluring of laughs. He raised his head to catch a glimpse of her, running away to hide from him, inviting him to chase her and catch her, lay her on a bed of twigs and thorns and explore her endless delights.

His little witch in the woods, naked under the moonlight just like he had imagined, standing right in the middle of the bridge that shook more violently than ever before. She did not seem to mind the cold, did not care about her dignity, her cheeks flushed and desire in her eyes as she called to him, and he could not help but follow.

He had stumbled on the last plank, foot stuck between a rusty nail and loose splinter just as he was about to catch her, when he reached out his hand and felt her hair slipping between his fingers. His face had hit the ground before he could register what happened, his little witch gone, a mouthful of snow and dirt all he had, papers scattering in the wind with the fall.

In his clarity he could hear the shuffling of feet in the distance, the frantic sniffing as the wolfmen smelled its prey in the air. Dozens of pairs of eyes watched him from behind the trees, hungry, desperate, waiting for his conscience to slip, for him to never get up, for him to stop walking, to heed their call and fall into their trap. The anxious tingle on his fingertips tells him he’s on edge, that fear creeps up his bones and into his blood and out of his pores like the sweetest of perfumes. But his bones hurt, so very much that there is no space for anything else in his mind. He picks himself up and walks, walks like he has a purpose, like he knows where to go and just what to say. Heisenberg no longer strode with the confidence of a man who knows there is nothing in this world more dangerous than himself, but with the sensation of being so small, so insignificant, a bundle of flesh and blood that could be torn and consumed. All that was left was the hope, the knowledge that something old prowled the woods, older than himself, something immensely powerful that meant him no harm.

He cannot tell if the sigh of relief stays only in his head when he sees the fence in the distance, rounds the yard lightning fast for a feverish man, the sound of his steps crunching the snow almost comical as he tried to run faster than his legs could take him. He catches himself on the porch railing before his teeth can hit the wood as he stumbles once again. There is no fear, only humor in his laughter, because he has made it, reached the safe haven of that decrepit cabin hidden between the mountains.

The witch stood at the porch, basket of laundry at her hip as she made her way out the door, an improvised clothesline strung between a post and a lantern hook. She was not startled this time, the expression on her face telling him he was expected, the smell coming from inside the cabin making his stomach rumble. He tries not to stare too long, not to pay attention to her beautiful features; every second they seem more twisted, a sinister smile, a hole where her face should be, a multitude of eyes, a pair of antlers. The disappointment was perhaps the worst of all, the look of disgust in her eyes. He cannot tell apart reality and dream and at this point he would prefer not to.

She blinked once, twice, confusion adorning her features as she looked him up and down but surely failed to understand just why Karl Heisenberg had dragged himself all the way up to her home wounded, naked except for his trench coat and hat, and looking like a man so high he could see beyond time. He had no shame left in him, between his confidence and the fever, and despite the weirdness of the situation, she was unfazed after the first few seconds, even when she lifted his chin to look him in the eye and he recoiled like an injured beast. If she hounded him for answers, she would get none. She would be lucky if he managed to mutter his own name.

He can’t tell if he had found the sanity to greet her, mind relaxing and patting itself in the back for successfully bringing him to his destination. She sets the basket down and walks towards him to come fetch him, one hand on his shoulder and the other settling on his waist as she guided him inside, and he cannot help but notice there are fingers and toes where her laundry should be, a bountiful, but gruesome harvest. A warning light flashes in his head when the cabin looks different, hands and organs and heads displayed in a macabre backdrop of blood and guts. He is shaking like a leaf when she sits him down on the couch, papers (papers?) taken away from him to be placed on the dinner table, and only when he motioned to grab them did he notice his hand was long gone, blown away like it had been caught in a shrapnel blast. He bites down on his lip as a last ditch attempt not to scream in horror, teary eyed and hurting. An entire mess and a half, with no explanation to give either him or her, but she did not seem to mind, busy grabbing her tools (saw, knife, cutters), wearing the bloodshed like a cape that was made to fit her.

She left him unattended but a moment before returning with the same box of supplies she had used when they first met (surely the tools she had hid within her apron pockets), cloth and antiseptic and the promise that this would burn, bad. He had half a mind to tell her not to worry, to let him bleed and heal on his own like he knew he would. He meant to tell her it was all good, and he had lost that hand before, and the leg, and the blood, and the sanity. It hurt but would not kill him, nothing could, even though he had tried. Instead he said nothing, for he had vastly overestimated his capabilities, less than half a mind at this point, pain and fear sloshing within him like a furious tide. The hat was the first to come off, and he tried to ignore how gentle her touch felt when she brushed back his hair to get a better look at his face.

“Are you still with us, my lord?” Her voice was but an echo inside his head, light as a feather as he rested against the couch and felt sleep tugging at his conscience, though the shock would not let him go. He is unsure whether he is asleep or awake after that, if the feeling of her fingers tracing over his skin are a hallucination or reality, but he sees it clearly regardless, feels it just the same. He taps his foot on the floor impatiently and notices that it is wet, it is all wet, the waters come in through the open door and flood every nook and cranny, only a matter of time before they are both drowned. Not water, no, blood, viscous, fresh, warm blood.

His trench coat is gently pushed off his shoulders, blood staining the throw that lined the couch but getting lost in the scenery, and dexterous fingers run over his scars, find their way to the open wounds speckled on his skin like a starry sky. Her touch was gentle but it hurt regardless, the haze in his mind imprisoning him in what felt like a perpetual state of suffering. The burning turned instead to the raw sensation of being torn apart, the flesh of his abdomen rending impossibly under her ministrations. He looks down to see her hand has disappeared on him, no, in him, the corners of her mouth stretched into an impossible smile. He is fully gone when something tugs at him, within him, bile gathering in his throat at the thought, at the feeling of having someone poke around his insides - again.

It is then that it all hits him, laughter explodes and he bellows - he has finally died. He sees it now, how it was all an illusion, and in reality he had been splayed in the snow all this time, blood pooling around his body and inviting all manner of predators to feast on him when the bones of the earth failed to claim him so many times before. A clever lycan had found a nice open spot to wedge its claws in and pull his guts out to munch on, another tore unceremoniously through to the same effect, and his visions of the witch were nothing but a pleasant mirage his brain had decided to afford him, a small mercy as he bid his consciousness goodbye at long last.

Tree tops and the dark sky are all he sees when he opens his eyes. At least he’d go in style, he thought with a snicker, and the hallucinations of her hands on him just like he’d fantasized spurred something within and made him stand to attention. What a fitting end, open and spilled like a bag of grain, guts wrapped around the papers he had brought with like an exotic crimson ribbon, and the biggest hard-on he had ever had.