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jmeelee · 5 years

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The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Stiles and Derek’s Cat

Sterek Week 2019 • Mystery

Rating: T (for swearing and lite innuendo)

Word Count: 2.1 K

***********

Derek flips on his blinker, and the taxi driver riding his ass swerves around the Camaro, rolling down a window and shouting something indecipherable while Derek pulls into the fire lane in front of the airport. His sister walks through the automatic doors as he climbs out and pops the trunk, a parting blast of air conditioning blowing her dark shoulder-length hair around her head like a demonic halo. She’s dressed in an old band t-shirt with a black blazer layered over top, and ripped skinny jeans, one hand gripping the handle of her rolling luggage, the other pressing a ratty book to her chest.

“It seems stupid for a werewolf to be superstitious,” Cora greets, handing Derek the leather-bound album, “but I didn’t want to take the chance of it getting lost in the mail.”

He pulls her close in a one-armed hug; Cora was never the overly affectionate type, but distance and pseudo-death make the heart grow fonder. “I appreciate you lugging it all this way. Stiles has been asking me a lot of family questions since he started emissary training, and I wanted to put some faces to the names he’s been hearing.” Pictures that aren't attached to obituaries, he silently adds.

She tosses her suitcase into the trunk, dusty wheels leaving a streak of dirt across the upholstery, and slams it closed, climbing in through the passenger door Derek holds open. “Alpha Varela had a decent amount, and Alpha Ogden gave me a half-dozen,” she supplies as he slides behind the wheel and pulls out into traffic, “but they only fill up a quarter of the pages. It’s pretty pathetic.”

She reaches out a hand, lovingly runs fingers over the brown cover embossed with a triskelion.

“It is,” Derek concedes, “but it’s better than nothing.” His fingers itch to flip through the meager pages immediately, pour over the pictures like Cora’s been able to do, and bring his long-dead family back to life, but it will have to wait through rush hour traffic and a trip to the pet store. They’re out of cat food, and Agnes Nutter—the stray orange tabby Stiles fell in love with when he started spending so much time with Deaton at the vet clinic, and proceeded to drag home—has been known to take claws to the curtains, leather couches and freshly painted walls when dinner isn’t served on time.

“We’re back!” Derek calls through the front door an hour later, pulling his key out of the lock.

Cora drops two five-pound bags of dry food to the entry-way floor. “How much does this damn cat eat?” She laughs. Derek shrugs, wet food cans clanking in the bags hanging from his hands. The album is tucked securely under his armpit.

“I’m in the family room!” Comes Stiles’ disembodied voice. Derek detours to the kitchen to stock the cat food in the walk-in pantry and Cora heads to the back of the house to greet her brother-in-law. He’s only moments behind her, but when he finally rounds the corner into the family room, his little sister’s face is shifted, snarls twisting out of her throat through elongated teeth, and Stiles is sitting on the couch, eyes wide, laptop in one hand and the other raised, palm out, sparks sizzling along his fingertips. Acrid ozone spikes the air.

“What. The. Hell.”

“I don’t know, dude!” Stiles’ voice trills and Derek doesn’t have the time to admonish his husband for calling him dude. “She rolled in here and didn’t even say hello! Just went all grrrr-” his nose does the scrunchy little thing Derek secretly loves, top teeth bared like an adorably angry hamster- “and scared the shit out of me.”

“It’s that...thing,” Cora rasps, pointing a claw-tipped finger at Agnes Nutter, calmly lording over the room from Stiles’ blanketed lap, like a ginger queen on a throne.

Stiles drops his laptop to the couch cushion, wrapping his now free arm around Agnes, who’s yellow eyes squint in annoyance at the vigorous display of affectionate protection. “What’s your problem with my cat? Does the lupine-feline rivalry actually run that deep?”

“Really, Stiles? Dog jokes? Now?” Derek rubs at a tension headache brewing over his left eyebrow.

“Stiles,” Cora commands through sharp white teeth, “get away from it. It’s a demon.”

Agnes answers the accusation with a charming little “meow,” and rubs a paw over her docked left ear.

“Put your teeth away. She’s my pet!” Stiles shrieks.

“Derek. Get the photo album,” Cora orders.

Derek glances back toward the kitchen. He can see the book sitting on the granite countertop, but is loathe to leave the room. “Is this really the best time for a Hale family history lesson?”

“You bet your hairy ass it is. Go get those pictures. Now.”

Derek’s never been more grateful for supernatural speed. “Here.” He hands the album to his sister, who flips open to the second page, turns the book around and hands it back to him.

At first, Derek’s baffled. What do his unearthed family photos have to do with a c—

An orange and white striped cat that’s sitting on his grandmother’s lap, when she was roughly thirty years old. A cat that twists around his mother’s ankles as she stands on tip-toe to kiss his father on the cheek, while toddler Laura plays in the background. A cat that lingers behind his great-grandfather as he cuts the ribbon at the dedication ceremony for the Beacon Hills preserve. The last photo is in black and white, but this cat, like the others, has a docked left ear.

“Stiles…” Derek looks up at his husband. Agnes stares at him with slanted eyes. He does the math in his head. At least fifty years…

Stiles groans, head lolling on the back of the couch. “Don’t tell me she’s a Flerkin. I knew I should have named her Goose.”

“Not a Flerkin,” Cora says. “But definitely something.”

Agnes jumps off Stiles’ lap and calmly pads over to her empty food dish, flops down next to it, and lets out a loud, piercing howl.

“Get the cat carrier,” Derek says. “We’re going to Deaton’s.”

———-

“Why did you let me adopt a time-traveling cat?!”

Deaton, as usual, says nothing in face of Stiles’ hysterics. Agnes dangles from Stiles’ outstretched arms, held at a forty-five-degree angle like a domesticated lion king. She blinks, whiskers twitching. Derek feels her pain; the overlapping scents of animal, iodine and industrial-grade disinfectant makes him want to hurl.

“I was surprised you even got a cat,” Scott chimes in from the waiting room chair. Having a pet who turns out to be old enough to collect social security merits calling your alpha right away. “I didn’t think you liked them. Remember my old Maine Coon, Louis? You used to pelt him in the ass with spitballs.”

Everyone’s mouths drop collectively, and Stiles reels Agnes back to his chest, hiding part of his blushing cheek in her soft orange fur. “I was seven, Scott! And in my defense, Louis used to bite my toes through my sleeping bag.”

“Well, thank goodness it was in retaliation,” Derek deadpans. “I wouldn’t want to be married to an animal abuser.”

A war plays out on Stiles’ flushed face; narrowed eyes shooting daggers at Derek, while the corner of his generous mouth cocks up. “I didn’t hear any complaints from you the other night.”

“Gross,” Cora bemoans. “Get a room.”

“Already did.” Tucking Agnes under his arm like a football, Stiles holds up his free hand and wiggles his fingers, white-gold wedding band flashing under the fluorescent lights. “Made it legal and everything.”

“Did you bring the photos?” Deaton inquires, enigmatic face as placid as the surface of the little pond in the preserve. Cora hands them over, and everyone watches Deaton slowly flip through the pages, eyes skimming over each picture. “Hum,” he says, laying the album on top of the reception desk, open to the picture of Derek’s parents with Agnes at their feet.

“Hum? That’s all you have to say?” Stiles scoffs.

“I’m surprised at you, Stiles,” Deaton says softly, crossing arms over his lab coat. “I thought you knew what Agnes was when you took her home.”

“Obviously not,” Stiles grumbles. “I’m supposed to be learning from you, aren’t I? One would assume the teacher would tell the student if the class pet was an immortal demon waiting to eat their face off when they fell asleep.”

Derek feels a hysterical giggle crawl up his throat and clamps his lips closed.

Deaton spins the album around to face the waiting room, and Scott extricates his butt from the chair to creep closer. Deaton taps the top right corner of the Hale’s photograph. “I took this picture in nineteen-eighty-eight. Derek,” he says, glancing up into his face, “your parents had just gotten the news they were pregnant with you.”

The giggle threatens to turn into a sob.

“Talia and Sebation celebrated their good fortune with a pack dinner. As you well know-” Deaton turns toward Scott- “emissaries are invited to important pack events.” He turns back to the room at large. “I came that evening, and Agnes, as you are fond of calling her, came with me.” He flips to the picture of Derek’s great-grandfather. “Emissaries protect their alpha’s, so I assume the former Hale pack emissary was somewhere in the crowd during this ceremony.” Deaton blinks, letting the pregnant pause come to full gestation. “Familiars tend to follow witches wherever they go.”

“So…” Cora trails off, tilting her head to the side and pursing her lips while she studies Agnes. “She’s a familiar? Familiars are demons, right?”

“Fantastic,” Stiles sighs, shoulders slumping. “We all know my track record with demons.” His face is carefully blank, except for the bottom lip caught between his teeth.

“No concrete evidence exists to say familiars are demons,” Deaton lectures. “In fact, that tends to be an antiquated belief held over from the witch trials. Some believe they are fae, or goblins, sent to assist fledgling witches in the practice of magic. Others believe they’re guardian angels.”

“Ha!” Stiles crows, sticking his tongue out at Cora. “She’s not a demon after all. She’s an angel. Take that!”

“Hey!” Scott helpfully adds. “You could change her name to Aziraphale!” Stiles looks like he’s considering it.

“I’m not trying to rain on the parade,” Derek cuts in, ignoring Stiles’ mumbled Sourwolf, “but you’re saying Agnes is here to help Stiles? She mostly just eats, craps, coughs up hairballs in my shoes and knocks shit off the counters. Like that time she broke the vial of ground-up Mucuna pruriens, and we all broke out in that horrible rash.” Derek’s butt itches just thinking about it.

Scott snaps his fingers, goofy smile stretching across his face. “Yeah! And then Stiles used it to make those smoke bombs we attacked the hunter’s compound with the following month. It’s like she knew exactly what he needed to use.”

Everyone stares at Agnes, baffled and impressed.

“Legends say familiars most often take small animal forms,” Deaton continues, “but some are human-like, or can shape-shift. One was a horse.”

“No,” Derek says to both his husband and Agnes, on the off chance any ideas are forming in their heads. “No horses in the house. We don’t have the room.”

“So, you’ve told us what legends say, and what other people think about familiars.” Stiles bounces on his toes, jostling Agnes. She yowls, and he plops her onto the reception desk next to her portraits. “You’ve been an emissary for years. What do you believe?”

Deaton inhales deeply through his nose, exhales through his mouth. “I believe they’re an extension of our souls.”

Stiles smiles, scritching Agnes behind her mangled ear. “You’re the Pantalaimon to my Lyra. The Salem to my Sabrina. The—” Agnes hoists one leg straight into the air and starts licking her butt.

“Yup.” Cora smirks. “That makes total sense.”

“In conclusion, Stiles, your pet is not a demon who’s waiting to eat your face off. Now, can I please go home for the evening?”

It takes half a bag of treats to coax Agnes back into the cat carrier, and Deaton locks the doors to the clinic on their way out.

“I thought she was a stray,” Stiles says as they all head out into the moonlit night, voice a little wobbly. “I didn’t realize she was... Do you want her back?”

Deaton’s smile is as mystifying as ever. “She’s yours now, Stiles.”

Derek notes that, unsurprisingly, Deaton didn’t actually answer the question.

“One more thing,” Derek says, loading Agnes into the backseat of the Camaro. He’s strangely curious, even though he’s heard what curiosity did to the proverbial cat. “If she was yours for years, you must have given her a name. What was it?” Even arcane Dr. Deaton must be human enough to name his cat. Right?

“Some things,” Deaton answers before he slams his car door, “will have to remain a mystery.”

#sterekweek2019 #sterekmystery #eternalsterek #sterek #haleinski #my fic #sterek fic

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shankss-magnificent-ass · 7 years

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Chilling Tales and Banshee Wails Part One

Pairing: The company x reader

Word Count: 1,483

Warning: Scary story, blood, the story revolves around children, lightening

You sat staring into the crackling fire in the center of the cave the company had set up camp in for the night, and you were absolutely bored out of your mind. All of the chores had been done, Thorin had forbidden any of his kin from sparring with you, you had already bathed for the night, pranks had become boring, nobody had anything for you to read, and Thorin had also demanded you sit still “for once in your life.”

You were jittery, and just wanted to just get up and run, but you couldn’t do that now could you? For one it was raining like billy hell outside the cave, and two, you didn’t think Thorin’s heart could take the stress from both running after you and worrying about you.

You were drawn out of your thoughts when a bright flash of lightening lit the entire cave up and cast your companions and your self in sharply contrasted silhouettes of fearful and worried looks on the wore and tired faces of your companions transitioning into eerie abysmal darkness.Feeling the cogs of your mind turning, you chuckled darkly as the corners of your mouth turned upwards in to an ominous Cheshire grin.

The members of the company slowly looked at you, feeling suddenly unsure of whether or not bringing you along was a good idea. You hummed briefly before singing, “I have an idea.”

The only sound to be heard for a minute was the pitter pater of rain on stone, which in the cave made it sound like the outside world was under water. Finally Thorin’s melodious baritone stammered, “And what idea is that?”

“We tell scary stories to pass the time.” You muse sinisterly, rocking your body side to side, casting strange shadows along the bumpy and rough cave wall behind you. The other members of the company looked at each other, they knew you could be extremely dark at times. So much so that it even frightened them, warriors hardened by war. Kili said, “ it’s fine by me, but only if we can have you stop telling a story if it proves too much.” his adam’s apple bobbing as he gulped his words down.

The others nodded at each other, you smirked a little wider and purred, “That’s agreeable to me boys, shall I start?“Bofur spoke up, “If you don’t mind I’d like to start.”

Dwalin grumbled, “And I’m after him.”

You sat eagerly through story after story of orcs sneaking into villages and slaughtering everyone on a night just like this or a troll kidnapping a child only to rip them limb from limb and devour the blood and organs from the holes left. Everyone told at least one story, you knew they were trying to procrastinating so you wouldn’t get your turn to tell a story. Which only worked in your favor, it gave you time to pick which story you’d tell them, and how you’d spin the story into a web to ensnare them, only to lead them in for the kill, like a spider to the fly. When you had the perfect sequence, all you needed was a little flair of magic, something Gandalf had taught you, and a prop, which you had in your bag, and best of all no one knew you had it. you unlatched your bag and prepared the prop for use.

Thorin eventually yawned, “Alright time for bed,” as he stood up and stretched his arms over his head.You, who was sitting closest to the entrance of the cave, stood up abruptly as lightening flashed behind you. The company gasped when they saw your curvy and tall form, they had not seen you move from your seat. You innocently said, “one more story and then bed, if that is alright"

mischievously eying the dwarfish king, “Unless you’re too scared from hearing about the cut throat orcs?“Thorin’s eyes narrowed at you, he sat down, waved his hand towards you, and said, “You have the floor my dear.“You cleared your throat and began your story.

This is in fact not a made up story, it happened to my aunt and her good friend, Mahalia many years ago. My Aunt, Jasmine went for a sleep over at her friend Mahalia’s house when she was five. Now Mahalia’s family lived together on the same house, it was Mahalia, her younger sister, her parents and grandparents. This house was surrounded by the woods, but a hundred yards from their back door was a guest house, where Mahalia’s great grandparents lived, but there was woods separating these houses. Mahalia’s mother asked Jasmine and Mahalia to bring the great grandparent their serving of dinner. The two of them chatted, while trying not to spill any of the food, as they walked to the guest house their backs up against the setting sun. The two girls stayed and listened to stories of ghouls and goblins, until it was well after dark. Once it was bed time, the Great grandmother sent them back to the main house on top of the hill, with a flashlight so they didn’t step on any snakes or get off the path. After ten minutes of walking Mahalia and Jasmine realized they were no where near the house. They were lost, the forest by now was pitch black, and only illuminated by the dim flickering light of flashlight in Jasmine’s hand not even the light of the full moon pierced the canopy of the trees. Mahalia clung to Jasmine’s arm and cried softly, she was scared of the noises of the vast jungle around her. However the forest quickly grew still, and nearly silent. The only sound either of the girls could make out was the faint sound of hooves clip clopping against the dirt coming from behind them. Fog swirled around the girls like hands of the vanquished attempting to drag them to the underworld. Suddenly the hoof beats sped up, Jasmine and Mahalia looked at each other before squinting into the darkness. Jasmine caught sight of a tall bulky figure skulking towards them. A loud snort slashed through the silence, a snort that sounded like a horse. Jasmine grabbed Mahalia’s hand and ran as fast as she could. The two of them ran for ages before needing to stop for air. Jasmine managed to remind them that they needed to turn their clothes inside out if they ever wanted to see home again. After the Jasmine pulled on the last article of her clothing back on, she helped stuff Mahalia back into her inside out shirt, just in time to catch a glimpse of the hulking figure lumbering toward them. Again the girls ran, only this time they managed to get to the house, where Mahalia’s Grandmother waited for them. Her eyes widened at the sight of the two children, gasping for air, sweaty, and wearing clothing inside out. The old woman ushered them closer, and when the girls reached the porch, the clops of hooves skirted the edge of the forest . All of them looked back to see, the silhouette of a man, that wasn’t a man. He had the head, feet, and mane of a horse and his body as that of a muscular man that was covered in short bristly horse hair. But most noticeable as his eyes, they glowed a bright and sinister red, red as blood, but bright and luminous as that of the harvest moon lurking overhead in the clear sky. The Grandmother whispered, “Tikbalang” horsely, she made the mistake of saying the beast’s name aloud. The figure stood still before making a lunging motion with it’s arm, throwing something at them. A hollow rolling noise followed, and stopped at their feet, it was a skull.This Skull was still partially covered in fleshy muscle, but it was crawling with maggots, and centipedes and oozed decay. Before disappearing off into the woods, the beast let out one ear piercing scream, that Jasmine could not tell if it was that of a horse of that of a man. The rest of the night whispered to them, and the air was tense and hot until Jasmine left the next day.

At this point you used the magic Gandalf had taught you and created two orbs of red light at the entrance of the cave after a flash of lightening, and while all of them had their eyes locked of the orbs of light you tipped over your bag and watched as the skull rolled to Ori’s feet. All eyes followed, the skull in silent horror, no one dared speak. You watched as Ori’s eyes rolled back into his head and he slowly tipped backwards and fell unconscious on the cave floor. You leaned forward and whispered, “Good night boys,” before scooping up your skull and curling up with it on your sleeping mat.

A/N: this fic was requested and promised to

@fullvoidmoon

Tag list: @arabellaelliana @a-midwinter-night-dream-86 @nelswp @imagines-for-multiple-fandoms @fentah

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joyfullynervouscreator · 7 years

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Silver Secrets pt 8

Previous chapters: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8]

At Ravenhill...

You could see the wooden signalling devices atop the tower from across the river.

“Where is he?!” Thorin growled, cutting the head off the final orc in your path.

“It looks deserted,” Kíli remarked, taking the words right out of your mouth. Fíli’s fingers found yours, squeezing gently.

“Maybe he fled?” you offered half-heartedly, returning Fíli’s silent offer of comfort. Already, the blade of your axe had seen more blood than ever before, running thick and black along the sharp edge.

“I’d love to think so, Mjoll,” Kíli agreed, nodding, “but…” Your lips thinned into a grim smile; you didn��t believe so either.

“He must be here!” Thorin exclaimed.

“We’ve got company!” Dwalin growled, staring across the frozen landscape.

“Fíli, Kíli,” Thorin nodded towards the tower, “go scout it out, report back if you see anything, you got me?”

“Goblins,” Dwalin spat, “but no more than a hundred.” You followed his eyes, catching sight of – were some of the Goblins riding other Goblins? – the oncoming force. You smiled grimly, getting better hold of your double-bladed war axe, a beautiful piece of craftsmanship Dwalin had unearthed for you; his grandmother’s, he’d said, looking wistful.

“We’ll take care of them easily; you three, go!” Thorin urged you. With a light push, he sent Kíli off onto the ice, taking up his familiar stance with Dwalin; you’d seen them dance like that a million times, though never had they looked so deadly. Fíli tugged on your arm, making you turn around once more.

“Be careful, adad,” you whispered, following the two princes across the frozen river. Behind you, you heard them bellow out a war-cry.

You moved slowly, quietly, through the abandoned ruins of the tower. Fíli in front and Kíli bringing up the rear, your eyes and ears peeled for anything out of the ordinary. You could hear wind howling through stone; an eerie, mournful sound that cut through your bones with dread. Otherwise, there was only the sound of your own boots on the stone, the slight huffs of breath from your companions and the constant thump-thump of your heart beating.

“I don’t like this,” you whispered, “too easy to design an ambush in this warren of tunnels.” Ahead of you, Fíli nodded, while Kíli’s hand found yours where it rested on your weapon, squeezing gently.

Something made a different noise up ahead.

“You keep searching the lower level,” Fíli whispered, “I’ve got this.”

“No!” you cried, though your voice didn’t rise beyond a whisper. You caught his arm, holding on tightly. “We should stay together.”

“I’m with Mjoll on that,” Kíli added behind you, as you stared imploringly at Fíli; knowing he meant to protect the two of you if he could, “we shouldn’t split up. We’re stronger together, Fee, that’s what you always say.” He tried for levity, though it didn’t quite work. You bit your lip. Staring past Fíli’s shoulder, your eyes widened. He pushed past you with a low oath.

“Someone’s coming!” you hissed, lifting your weapon again. With another oath, Fíli shifted Kíli into the middle – the tunnel was too narrow to fight side by side, and you were the better melee fighter.

“From behind us, too,” he muttered darkly, and you felt your heart sink at the words even as you readied yourself to meet the smallish orcs rushing at you.

“Where is that orc filth?” Dwalin grumbled, kicking a decapitated head away when it failed to answer. Thorin stared towards to tower, anxious to catch sight of pale hair – Mjoll or Fíli would be easiest to spot through the holes in the structure – and feeling his heart sink when he saw neither young dwarf.

“I don’t know –” he began, but was interrupted by Dwalin sound of surprise, making him turn around swiftly, raising his sword in preparation.

“Thorin!” Bilbo wheezed, out of breath from running.

“Bilbo!” Thorin exclaimed, staring in wonder. “How did you…”

“You have to leave here!” Bilbo cried, waving away their questioning expressions. “Now!” he urged, trying to drag Dwalin off by the arm. “Azog has another army attacking from the north. This watchtower will be completely surrounded. There’ll be no way out.” The warrior did not move, casting a desperate glance back at the crumbling tower.

“We are so close! That orc scum is in there. I say we push on.” Dwalin growled, staring at the Hobbit that had appeared out of nowhere. Bilbo shook his head.

“No, Dwalin!” Thorin retorted, catching his arm when the warrior moved towards the river. The Hobbit shivered. “That’s what he wants, Dwal,” Thorin murmured, “he wants to draw us in…” Dwalin groaned, but he did not shake off Thorin’s hand. “It’s a trap!”

“And we sent our children right into it,” Dwalin whimpered, staring at the tower.

“We will find them,” Thorin swore, “we’ll call them back; there’s yet time to leave.” Dwalin nodded, hefting his axe once more.

“Live to fight another day, eh, Thor,” he rumbled, though the joke did not elicit more than a pale smile, before striding off with determination.

“Let’s go.” Thorin said. “We’ll all live to fight another day.”

They kept coming; you were trapped, but the three of you were holding your own. Kíli had long-since run out of arrows, but you were managing to retreat slowly but surely, Fíli again in the lead and you bringing up the rear, trying to get out of the tower.

Or so you thought.

Your careful plan crumbled – literally – between one step and the next, the floor giving way beneath you. The fall was no more than the height of two dwarrow, you knew, lying on the broken bricks and staring dumbly at the ceiling a floor above you, but it had felt like you fell forever, weightless until the merciless impact with the hard stones beneath you. You blinked. Beside you, someone groaned; you thought it was Kíli.

“Mjoll!” Fíli exclaimed, his worried face appearing in your line of vision, blood running in a trail from the split in his eyebrow and down to his chin. Vaguely you heard your adad’s voice bellowing; familiar sound, though not usually tinged with fear.

“Fíli…” you smiled, but movement behind him made you cry out, using your training to flip him, staring down at his confused expression for one infinite moment before the impact registered. With a gasp, the air left your lungs. Falling forward, landing heavily on Fíli’s stained armour, you vaguely heard a sound that could only be called Anger, but you were too busy trying to gasp air back into your chest to care. Fíli’s blue eyes were wide and frightened as he stared at you, his hand coming up to cup your face.

“Mjoll?” he whispered, but you didn’t have the energy to nod. “Mjoll!” he repeated, shaking you lightly. You tried to smile at him; you had been winded, yes, but you thought you’d be fine. “Mjoll!” Fíli cried. You closed your eyes, needing a brief rest before you thought about getting up.

Dwalin and Thorin barely escaped a crushing death when the ceiling caved in on top of them, but it was the next image that would be seared into their brains; the three younger dwarrow fell with the ceiling, but each had begone moving, getting over the shock of the impact. Dwalin cried out a warning, his face had been turned towards the ceiling, while Thorin was busy scrambling across the broken rocks to try to get to Kíli, whose leg was pinned beneath some rubble. The warning made no difference; the Orc scum – pale and vicious – still threw his spear, laughing down at them. Dwalin thought he screamed, his feet instantly moving, but he knew he’d be too late to make a difference, watching Mjoll execute a flawless wrestle… and the giant spear that embedded itself in her back. He heard Fíli’s cries, was vaguely aware of his own bellowed fury, but it was lost in the haze of red that enveloped his vision.

“Dwalin!” Thorin yelled, but that was of no concern to him, charging off in a random direction, bent on finding the fiend that dared take his daughter away from him – dared spill her blood.

“Mjoll…” Fíli choked on her name once more, watching her eyes roll back into her skull, her body slumping on top of him. “Mjoll, no, please, please,” he begged, brushing her hair away from her face. She did not respond.

“Fíli!” Thorin barked. “Get up!” Fíli didn’t want to, as though getting up would make it real, would make it true. She’s not breathing, he panicked, staring at Uncle Thorin’s face, set in hard lines of anger. “Fíli!” he repeated, “You must get up; get out of here!”

No.

Shaking his head, Fíli slowly moved out from underneath her body, doing his best not to think about it, lifting her into his arms. The spear in her back moved slightly, the sound of metal scraping against bone making him wince. Orcrist’s perfect curve arced in front of his face, slicing through the shaft of the ugly-looking weapon with ease. He looked up at Thorin, and suddenly the sounds of the world returned to him, Kíli’s pained groans sounding from his left.

“No.” he repeated. “I’m not leaving.”

“Fíli.” Thorin seemed to struggle with what he wanted to say, but Fíli was not in the mood to listen.

“They killed her, Uncle,” he whispered. Putting her down beside the wall, lying on her side just like she preferred to sleep, Fíli looked up at his uncle’s blue eyes, “I can’t…”

“I know,” Thorin replied, and something in his eyes told Fíli that he did know, that Uncle understood precisely how much he needed vengeance. “and I’m asking you to leave here anyway.” Feeling Thorin’s gauntleted hand wrap around the back of his skull, Fíli obeyed the pressure, knocking his forehead against Thorin’s.

“I can’t,” he admitted. “I need…” Pulling the head of the spear out of her, Fíli threw it with all his might at the far wall. Mjoll did not move.

“I know,” Thorin sighed, “odds are Dwalin’s not going to make it out of here; can’t you understand that I don’t want to bury you, too?” Fíli nodded, but he couldn’t change his mind.

“I’ll stay with her, Fee,” Kíli whispered, his face pale. For the first time, Fíli registered the terrible angle of Kíli’s lower leg; legs weren’t meant to look like that. He felt faint. Grasping the sword that had fallen beside him, he nodded once. Thorin sighed. Working together, they managed to shift Kíli over to the wall, too, letting him sit against the damp stones next to Mjoll.

“This is going to hurt,” Thorin warned, though the words were drowned out by Kíli’s scream echoing off the stone as he pulled the broken bones back in place. Kíli slumped against the wall, his face bloodless and clammy-looking. “I’m okay,” he gasped, though none of them believed the obvious lie.

“I’m going to kill Azog,” Fíli swore in a low voice. He did not look to see if Thorin followed, did not throw one last glance back at Mjoll’s pale hair or Kíli’s pained face, he simply walked away, the heavy threads of iron-soled boots on stone the only sound echoing through the tower after his low oath.

Tag-list:

@life-is-righteous @filisleftmustachebraid @pandepirateprincess @sassytyphoondetective@littlemergirl4779 @-waythe- @aidanturnersass @childoftheshire

A/N: This is not the final chapter, don’t hate me!

#fili #reader insert #fili/reader #mjoll #Silver secrets #botfa

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amusewithaview · 7 years

Note

Haunt Me, Darcy/Jareth

The goblins had been at it again.

Darcy stared at Jane’s machine (she wasn’t 100% sure what this one did besides be incredibly expensive and go ‘ping’) and, specifically, the small collection of nail polish murals that now adorned the side. She recognized a few of the stick figures as memorable inhabitants of the Labyrinth. There was even one of a long-haired brunette woman in a silvery looking dress close to a spiky blond man in purple -

And that was more than enough of that, thank you.

“Bad enough when the goblins decide to get their gremlin on, worse when they mix up their victims,” she grumbled to herself, cotton balls in one hand and nail polish remover in the other. “I can’t decide if this is anti-human racism or if we really all do look alike because he has a type.”

“Come come, my subjects are attempting to be creative, isn’t that what you wanted? Why else would you gift them colored pencils and color books?”

Only long exposure to this particular annoyance kept her from jumping. “I gave them the books to keep them from using stuff like this to express their creativity. Clearly, it’s not working. And they’re coloring books, your highness.” She looked up at him, keeping a neutral expression even though she was struck, once again, by his beauty.

He flicked his fingers dismissively, then twisted his wrist to summon a crystal. “I’ve brought you a gift.”

“No.”

“Come now - ”

“No, this never ends well for me or anyone in my family! Sarah gets twitchy around anything crystalline and don’t even get me started on Toby and stairs! Aunt Madeline has that whole thing about Paris and Amelia still talks in rhyme! No gifts, no adventures, and no magic,” she insisted.

“I am owed,” Jareth, King of the Goblins, and all-around pain in her butt, said with extreme dignity. “I was promised a - ”

“A bride from the House of Mab but instead your intended ran off with Thomas the Rhymer and founded my line, yes, I remember the story.”

“It is not a story, it is your heritage and debt to pay,” he insisted sulkily.

“You know,” and she already knew this was a bad idea, but it was a thought she’d had more than once and perhaps it was finally time to voice it, “if you’d spent less time prancing around talking about debts and heritage and duty and more time attempting to actually woo my however-many-greats-grandmother, we probably wouldn’t be in this position to begin with.”

He went absolutely still except for his head, which cocked to one side, birdlike.

“I mean, I get that you’re royalty and all, but most women, most people - modern or ancient or anywhere in between - want to be married for more than duty or heritage. If you’d,” she wrinkled her nose but plunged gamely on with the antiquated phrasing, “pitched woo sincerely or with any skill, you’d be married by now and I wouldn’t have goblin-painted murals to deal with…” Darcy trailed off, clearing her throat awkwardly when she realized that Jareth was just. Staring at her.

“You question my ability to pay proper court?” he asked silkily.

“Well, technically - ”

“What’s said is said, dear Darcy.” He stood from where he’d been lounging across another machine (this one said ‘boing-tink’ and measured space) and prowled over to her, crouching down so they were eye-to-eye. “Perhaps you’re right,” he mused, running his eyes over her face thoughtfully, “perhaps I have not taken the task of finding a bride seriously enough.” He lifted a hand and gently twisted a lock of her hair through his fingers the same way he would twirl a crystal. “Then again, perhaps none of Ceridwen’s line have been truly worth the effort,” he mused. “Until now.”

His eyes, when they met hers, were almost frightening in their intensity, lit up with a fierce intent that would have had Darcy scrambling back away from him if there wasn’t a few hundred pounds of steel and plastic at her back.

It took her a moment to work enough saliva back into her mouth to talk. “I did mention that part of the issue was sincere interest,” she said. “Just because I’ve… I don’t know, pricked your pride or - or challenged you, that’s not the foundation for a courtship!”

He smiled at her, revealing teeth a shade too sharp to be human, and disappeared in a puff of glitter.

“I’m fucked,” Darcy told the empty room.

#amuse writes stuff #darcy lewis #jareth the goblin king #darcy x jareth #i normally pretty seriously otp jareth x sarah #but i think this kind of works #it explains why jareth is still faffing about with humans long after most of the other sidhe courts largely retire from the world #his bride ran off with a human #and he's too prideful to petition mab for another of her daughters #so he bothers the women of her line instead #darcy and sarah are cousins #darcy and toby are cousins #darcy took a tiger by the tail when she challenged jareth

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