#I am a creature unmoored from time

[abeautifulblog]

Wanna know whats funny? I came back to your blog yesterday wondering if bdtn had updated or not.

WELL, FRIENDO, YOU ARE IN LUCK !

Come back in a few more days and I should have the first chapter of the trashy hookup AU up too. 😁

(And I am SO STOKED to finally be able to share that one -- it's a funny, smutty, angsty fuckbuddies-to-lovers high-energy rollercoaster. I just didn't want to post it until after I'd finished the canon, as it were, because their dynamic is VERY different in the hookup AU (it's uh, the Bad Timeline), and I didn't want their AU characterizations kicking around in people's heads while they were reading the last chapter of Beautiful Day.)

[netherfeildren]

The Cassandra Complex : Chapter I : Apollo

Series Masterlist

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Summary: Enter: A man who is not so much a man, but an effigy, a wound of steel and armor and Creed – secrecy and masked faces, above all else. 

Enter: A girl who is not a girl, but a creature helmed in darkness and spit out unto the galaxy broken and unmoored. 

Enter: The creation of myth.

Content Warnings: Dominant Din Djarin; Unprotected sex; Creampie;Size difference; Size kink; Rough sex; Overstimulation; Spanking; Brat taming; Touched-Starved Din Djarin

Rating: Explicit 18+

A/N: Hello, friends, and welcome to the new story! 

A few notes: We are starting prior to season one’s canon, and I am doing what I want and making it so that Din already knows about the Force and the Jedi. I make free use of canon and the timeline in whatever way I see fit to suit my own horny purposes, sorry. If things aren’t canon or don’t make sense pls don’t tell me. I am naught but a fragile flower who wilts under harsh criticism. 

Please note as well, that I do describe the FMC as having two different colored eyes although I do not specify what color they are. 

Also, I will be updating the tags as we go along so as to avoid spoiling too much too early on. 

Thank you and enjoy!

Word count: 8.1K

Read on AO3

PART I

CHAPTER I : APOLLO

Is it a god inside you, girl?

Anne Carson, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides

The first time you meet, he’s sitting in the corner of the shithole cantina on the shithole backwater planet you currently find yourself on: Nevarro. Sometimes you were wont to flight – in search of a nowhere place in the middle of a nowhere part of the galaxy to lose yourself. And the barren landscape of the volcanic planet, a broken star of red, the only interruption in the black field of ash, no wind, no life, no sound; it provides the perfect environment for getting lost when necessary.

And then one day, unexpectedly: him. He is a shining, metallic, mountain of a man. 

Mandalorian. 

Whenever you’d felt too suffocated, strangulated, in need of a moment, a breather, a reprieve from the reality of what you were… what you are becoming – this place is enough of nothing to be just the perfect something. When you’re not busy flitting from planet to planet, sector to sector, looking for something to fill the gnawing void within you. Before landing here, you’d been on Sorgan for a time. It’d been… nice… peaceful, or whatever approximation of peace you could partially recognize after an existence such as that which you were currently trying to run from. A temperate climate, kind people, but after a while, you’d happened upon a community one day, and they’d been so… so together, so familiar. Happy, they’d be so openly, unabashedly, uncomplicatedly happy. It was simple, and it had made a terrible lance of poisonous jealousy roil through you. Jealousy and anger and bitterness and a loneliness so painful that you’d had to flee, as far and as fast as you could from the reflection of all your envy and shame. And so you’d come here instead, to Nevarro. A more barren, emptier sort of place – better suited to your ilk. 

“I’ve never met a Mandalorian before,” you croon up at him, smoothly sliding into the booth he’s currently occupying in the furthest dark corner of the cantina, only the gleaming silver crescent of the curve of his helmet visible from the other side of the room. 

This is the first of many lies you will tell him. 

No response. Only the dark, yawning pit of his visor faced slightly away from you. 

The stark curve of his helmet gleams brightly. Beautiful. He looks strong, thickly built. His shoulders, so broad. The armor adorning his torso is beaten and worn, and yet, there’s something so… what’s the word? Lived, perhaps, about the facade of him. This is a creature who has lived – who has seen things, who has battled and survived and most assuredly killed. 

Maybe a little like you, but good. For this you know with certainty about Mandalorians – a flash of a pained scream, beskar crumbling beneath the force of you, for not even what could be considered the most endurable alloy in the galaxy could withstand something of your nature, blood, so much blood, and the sound of such defeat as you do the unforgivable– they are good and honorable and worthy – great warriors. But perhaps, on the surface, with a face of shared, painful history, of survival, maybe there are some things between the two of you which could be called similar. 

“I’ve always been curious, though… Always wanted to meet one.” You sidle closer to him. There’s something about him, the weapons, the breadth of his shoulders, the silence, which starts a chilled little shiver of fear that flashes and coalesces into something hotter and wetter deep in your belly, the closer you get to him. And the feeling of it – of apprehension, of standing in the presence of something other, something that could perhaps best, even you, it is exciting and arousing and different to everything else you’ve ever encountered.

Still no response. 

“You’re hard to come by now. Not many of you left, right?” A curdle of shame and regret hidden beneath your wry tone, “A girl’s got to get extra lucky to find something as interesting as you nowadays… something as pretty too.”

He does react to this, finally, and a little shock of victory fizzes in your belly at the fact that he’s at last deigned to give you even a semblance of his attention, for you are desperately in want of it, as he turns his helmet the fraction of an inch in your direction at the sound of you calling him pretty. So, it seems even a Mandalorian is victim to vanity. 

“Oh, so you can hear under there,” you quip, “I was beginning to worry…”

And then his voice, deep, and of potentially the lowest and smoothest baritone you’ve ever heard, comes through the modulator, “I can hear.” Clipped, and even maybe, a little cold. 

“And he speaks too!” He flexes open the fingers of the gloved hand that lays on the table. You’re annoying him. “How exciting.” You cross one knee over the other, elbow propped up on the edge of the table and chin cupped in your palm, looking up at him. He’s tall, even sitting. Your joint presses into the hard muscle of his thigh, and you feel him scoot just the tiniest bit away from you. You have the uncontrollable urge to snap your teeth at him. You must surely be at least half his size, especially with all that beskar covering him. Don’t act so scared, big, bad Mandalorian. I’m just a little girl. You don’t know what I actually am.

Helmet now turned entirely in your direction to keep an eye on you, he says, “What are you?” Or… whoops, maybe he does know. 

You ignore his question. “You know, I met a whore once – who claimed she’d fucked a Mandalorian. Is it true you just pull out the important bits and get on with it? Seems a bit cold, no? Even for a paid fuck?” He jolts a little at your vulgarity, and you flash him a wide grin, wriggle one delicate eyebrow provocatively. “No game?”

He turns his body to face you more fully now too, his thigh pressing into yours once again as he takes you on directly. Perhaps a warrior's instinct that can sense he is not in the presence of something to be trifled with. The helmet cocks slowly to the side. Silent, silent. Not one for many words this Mandalorian, although, it seems you’ve provoked him now. 

“What are you?” he says again, voice measured. 

“How do you mean?” You let your voice end on an upward lilt, and he shifts minutely, as if agitated at your uncooperativeness. 

“You’re not– I don’t–” The helmet tilts the other way as if inspecting you, and you cut him off before he can finish. 

“Oh, so many things.” You roll your hand on your wrist in a fluttering wave, tapping your fingers quickly against your thumb one by one, flexing a muscle you’ve not allowed yourself to use in a while and repressing it, all at once. You’re watching him so closely you see the small pivot of his neck to glance at your hand, and then back to your face. “Who can keep track anymore? So many strange creatures roaming the galaxy after the fall of everything. The Empire. We’re all just madly careening around as whatever the moment requires of us, aren’t we?” He’s quiet, still inspecting you, and you feel his gaze like a brand on the skin of your face. Like fire, like something that you remember from a nightmare, and that you think should be painful, but now only feels exciting. “So, what are you, Mandalorian? What does the present moment require of you?”

He goes silent again, and you watch the subtle downward tilt of his helmet as he inspects the length of you. You wish you could see if he was ogling the tight swell of your breasts beneath your dark clothes. You tilt your head side to side, smile big at him again, and you’re pretty sure you hear an agitated little huff of annoyance slip through the modulator.

And then: “I’m not interested.” He turns back to face away from you, both fists now firmly planted on the table’s surface, clenched into tight balls of clear annoyance. “Go away.”

Oh, he’s funny too. You throw your head back in a quick laugh, “Did I offer something?”

Silence.

“Dirty mind, Mandalorian.” You drag the vowels out to irk him just that extra bit more. “What? Just because I made one little mention of a whore means that, I too, must be peddling my wares?” And you knock your knee into his beskar clad thigh again. He scoots a smidge away from you, and you follow him, laughing again. Oh, you really should stop provoking him, but it’s just turning out to be too much fun. And you’d been watching him for weeks now, every time he came in here for a new bounty puck. You’d so wanted to talk to him, had snooped around to find out he’s in the Guild, and now you finally are. It was just too much for a girl who had too much time on her hands, and too many ugly thoughts she’d rather forget, roaming around in her mind, to look away from a moment of distraction such as this. 

“Stop,” and it sounds like he’s gritting his teeth. 

You snicker. “Stop what?” in a sing-songed lilt that you know must be grinding his gears. Poor, shiny Mandalorian. 

“Whatever it is you’re doing – speaking to me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want something from me.”

“What could I possibly want from you?” You bat your eyelashes at him. “Who’s the one peddling their wares now, Mandalorian, hmm?” He says nothing now, and you know you’re pushing him, you can see the vibration of his restrained agitation in the lines of his thick arms, but there is something needling and annoying and obnoxious inside of you that wants his attention, that wants to incite him. And so you make a mistake that perhaps, is not a mistake at all, but a call for something more, for a reaction from him because as you slowly start to lift a single finger up towards the curve of his helmet, you say, “Tell me, what do you have to offer?” At the same time, he pivots and snaps up to grasp the thin of your wrist in a bone crushing grip as you’re about to make contact with the smooth surface of the gleaming beskar helmet. And you know you were asking for it, that you should never have even insinuated that you were going to touch a Mandalorian’s helmet, and that this is only your own doing, but as his harsh strength makes contact with you, so unexpectedly, he’s so fast, that you’re caught almost entirely unaware, you react on pure instinct. A reflex so embedded into the deepest and most poisoned recesses of your mind, that despite the fact that you know this is the last sort of reaction you should exhibit, that above all else you needed to keep this part of yourself hidden and secreted away from the rest of the galaxy, you can’t help yourself when, at the moment that his crushing strength slams your hand back down onto the table, twisting painfully so that you’re crying out in shock and hurt, you weren’t going to do anything to him, you just wanted to touch a little, you can’t help it when you let go of the reins on your power, and you feel the Force snap out of you like a band of rubber, to crack out and wrap around his arm and rip his painful grip away from you. Another inviolable tendril shoves against his chest plate to push him back. His movements, too abrupt, too unexpectedly aggressive to give you a moment to temper your reaction, to give you a chance to remind yourself that this is not one of your painful, dark memories, that you’re free, you’re free, you’re free, and suppress your reaction to not reveal yourself.

The two of you pause for one long moment, him by force, and you in shock and fear and slight nausea as you pant breathlessly. It’s been a long time since you’ve lashed out like this, since you’ve used the Force in front of another person, and the sensation of being perceived, of being seen for what you truly are is disequilibrating and terrifying and sickeningly liberating all at the same time. 

One thick arm of his is held up and pinned against the back of the booth the two of you are ensconced in, hidden from prying eyes, at least. His legs start to shift restlessly, seeking purchase or trying to kick out, and you pin him there too, lest he try and hurt you again. 

“I do not like to be handled so,” you admonish him, clicking your tongue. You can feel the seething fury rolling off him. “I wasn’t going to do anything to you. I am not going to do anything to you.” He’s got a blaster strapped into a holster at his thigh, and you’re sure his vambrace is hiding several other nasty tricks up his sleeve. You eye them both. “If I let you go, are you going to try and hurt me again?”

“No,” he growls out.

“No,” you mock back, but release him anyway, letting an impenetrable wall settle between the two of you. He immediately goes for his blaster, and you block his reach which has him furiously growling and lurching towards you, only to be met by the invisible Force impeding his attack. He spits a frustrated volley of curses in a language you can’t understand, but that you’re fairly certain is Mando’a. 

“Ah, ah, no blaster,” you tut, and he settles, going suddenly, shockingly still, watching you watch him. “You really are quite poorly mannered and surly.” There’s a part of you that is still slightly unbalanced, heart beating painfully against the cage of your ribs, but you’re trying to hide it behind a wry smile and light tone. Echoes of pain and hurt and cruel and unyielding hands molding you into a thing that was just as cruel and unyielding. You cannot tolerate being handled like that anymore, and you feel contrite that you’d provoked him into doing so. Sometimes it is still difficult for you to remember how it is you’re supposed to behave around other people. 

And then something you weren’t expecting, for he says, “You’re a Force weilder. You’re a Jedi.”

You let out a barking laugh. “What do you know of the Force?”

“Are you?” He presses.

“Yes, but no, definitely not that, no.”

“Then what?”

“Nothing. Or… whatever the opposite of a Jedi is, I suppose.”

“The opposite?” He shakes his head, “I don’t–”

“Hmm…” you cut him off, turning to make sure the two of you still haven’t been noticed. “Not anymore. I don’t use it anymore.”

“Oh, no?”

“Well… you’ve gone and ruined that now, haven’t you?”

“You started–”

“All I was trying to do,” you interrupt, “Was make nice. I’d always wanted to meet a Mandalorian,” Lie, “Haven’t you ever heard of a little flirting? And I fear, now, you’ve painted them all in a very poor light,” Lie, “Look at how rude you’ve gone and been, when all I wanted was to be friends,” Another lie, “A shame…” you heave a big sigh, “You really are very beautiful.” Truth. That fist clenches again, and you cock your head to the side, getting one last good look at him. You feel suddenly sad, you don't want to go. You’ve enjoyed this brief moment you’ve gotten to talk to him. Even if you’d gone and pissed him off and ruined it all now. 

“It was nice meeting you, shiny. Even if you were an abominable beast about it.” You give him a nod of your head, and a quick two fingered salute before you’re sliding out of the enshroudment of the booth and slipping out the back of the cantina, into the dark alleyway, leaving him behind. 

The last glimpse you catch of him out of the corner of your eye before the door shuts behind you, is the sight of him scrambling out of the booth and starting towards the door to follow after you. 

A glutton for punishment, then, so it seems. 

You flit through the dark, dirty alleys, scampering from shadow to shadow. The city streets around you, gone quiet now as the sun over Nevarro sets quickly, and you can feel him hunting after you. He’s strong, and you can almost feel the heavy weight of his life force even at a distance, almost as if the goodness and honesty of his character is a presence of its own, sentient in a way. And he’s angry, and you can feel that too, charging after you, provoked, even if he does it on entirely silent and measured feet. You can sense that ravenous curiosity and frustration at being bested and evaded pressing up against you, chasing after you. As if there were some dark red thread connecting the two of you from spine to rib bone, leading him to you, pulling him along your trail. You tiptoe the lines of the shadows silently, making your way through the winding city streets, feeling him getting closer and closer, trying to confuse him, even as he gains on you anyway. 

And then he’s there. 

You feel a massive hand, strong and sure, clamp around the back of your neck, but his touch is measured this time – he’d heeded your warning. His other hand wraps around the bend of your elbow, twisting your arm back behind you, and then he’s kicking open the nearest door, what seems to be some sort of storage alcove, the space dark and humid and mildewed, and pushing you inside. He shoves you away from him once you pass together into the darkness, and you catch yourself on the edge of what feels like some sort of table or workbench.

You laugh breathlessly. Overwhelmed by the thrill of the chase, of the feel of his hands on you, the surrounding darkness, the sound of his own panting breath through the modulator of his helmet. You hope he’s just as overwhelmed, disequilibrated, as you are now. 

“Oh, you again?” you laugh, turning to face him, bracing yourself back against the table. All you can see of him is the silver crescent of the curve of his helmet, the outline of his wide shoulders in the dim light of the moon seeping in through the cracks of space around the door. He is a steel giant.“Did you forget something? Need me to hand your ass to you again, Mandalorian?”

“You’re a fucking brat. Anyone ever tell you that before?”

You gasp mockingly, “Me? Never.”

“Why is it that everything you say sounds vaguely like a taunt? Like you’re trying to provoke me.”

And, oh, he sounds just so unbearably serious and put out by you, that you pout, forced to match his serious tone with one of your own. You force the smile to leave your voice, “Maybe because I am,” and your voice goes quieter, softer, because again, truth. There is something about him that incites provocation, you want him rattled, come undone. “Maybe I want to see what happens when a man made of metal loses control.”

“I can’t – I don’t–” His voice, even through the modulator, is its own flavor of foreplay. “I don’t know…” he says again, whispers it, his tone seeping through the helmet, entirely uncertain, or at war with himself. 

He takes one menacing step forward, made even all the more intimidating by the vast difference in your heights, the sheer breadth of him, the darkness wrapping around him so that all he’s made into are slivers of gleaming silver flame here and there. You feel the whisper of one leather covered finger skim lightly over the outside of your right forearm, another soft touch to the left side of your waist, and you shiver all over. 

“Not a virgin? Your Creed lets you fuck?”

“No.”

“No, what? Use your words.”

Silence. Stubborn, silent, tin can.

“Girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Whores?”

A grunt. 

“Aha! Gotcha.” You start to toe your foot forward, bending your knee to make contact with him when you find his leg, tilting slightly away from the table so that you can slide your thigh between his legs. “Is that what you want me to be for you?”

“No.” Fucking monosyllabic–

“Then what do you want from me? Why did you follow me?”

“I don’t know…”

“Don’t lie.”

“I want to fuck you.” Your cunt goes soaked and tight at his words, because yes, yes yes, this is what you were leading him to. Finally, he’s caught on, and then he’s planting a strong, broad hand to the center of your chest and pushing you back into the table, and pressing the hard, unyielding length of himself against you. He’s hard and swollen beneath his pants, you can feel the thick heft of him against your belly as he presses into you, and you bring your palms up to slide against the unprotected sides of his strong waist, sending him into a full body shudder as you touch him, helmet falling forward on his neck as he hunches over you, hands planted on the table behind. You can hear his labored, panting breath huffing through the modulator as you run your hands along the planes of him. He’s huge, pure muscle beneath unrelenting beskar, and if you weren’t the creature that you are, you’d feel slightly frightened at the unbelievable strength he’s made up of. He is a thrumming effigy of restrained power beneath your hands, different to that which makes you up, and you feel the strength of him once again, humming through the Force. His light burns so bright, almost blindingly. He’s strong. 

You slide one of your hands up his chest plate, tucking your fingers into the top-most edge to bring yourself up and closer to him as he curves over you, bending you back into an arch over the table’s edge. Your other hand reaches for his wrist braced against the table, wrapping around it, so thick your fingers don’t meet, to tuck your fingertips into the space where his sleeve meets his glove, and at the feel of your bare skin on his, just there, just there, he growls, deep and savage in his chest at the same time that you let out a breathy, warbled moan. His other hand shoots up to grasp at the small of your back and press you into him, his fingers digging painfully into your skin. He’s burning hot, sweltering, and he slides his palm lower, tilting your pelvis into his as you hitch one of your knees up the outside of his thigh to his hip, and then your cunt is rocking against the thick length of his cock, and another breathless, pained groan from the both of you as you make contact there, pushing and pulling against each other. You want to taste his skin, his tongue, you want to kiss him, to feel him licking into your mouth. You pull yourself in closer by the hand tucked into his chestplate to press your face into the warm space between his helmet’s edge and the folds of his cowl. He smells so good, like leather and sweat and metal. Something earthy and musky, something that proves to you that despite the beskar, there is only a man of flesh and blood and want beneath. 

His palm slides to grip the lush of your ass, rolling you onto his length harder, pressing deeper as if he could fuck you through your clothes. 

“Are you going to let me fuck you, little brat?” he pants, ending on a stuttered groan as you hook your calf around his waist and press your foot into the small of his back to grind particularly sharply onto him, pressing your clit into the edge of his utility belt, “Please, just– just–” you gasp, head falling back on your neck. And then he’s spinning you abruptly and pressing between your shoulder blades so that you're bent entirely over the table, cheek smushed against the hard surface. That wide palm slides down the slope of your spine, squeezes your asscheek harshly so that you’re moaning out in lust or pain, you can’t tell.

“Was that a yes? Who can’t use their words now?”

“I liked it better when you weren’t talking,” you grouch, but then his fingers have somehow snuck their way up beneath your tunic and under the edge of your trousers, and he’s ripping everything down to leave you bare and unprotected from the sudden onslaught of that huge expanse of leather clad palm cracking down painfully on the soft skin of your ass so that you’re scrambling to find the opposite end of the table to pull yourself away from him. A pathetic little screech claws its way out of you, and he wraps the length of your hair around his fist to pull your head back and up, turning you into his own little bow string, head resting back on the hard pauldron over his shoulder. 

“Where do you think you’re going? I caught you, you’re mine now.”

“Fuck off–” You try, but he clamps his fingers around your jaw, squeezing the fine bones of your face to cut you off, his other hand in your hair gives a sharp tug that makes the tips of your breasts go hot and tight and your cunt clench around nothing. You can feel yourself dripping down the insides of your naked thighs. 

“Open your mouth,” he orders, shoving the thick of his fingers inside to press down on your tongue. You try and moan around him, protest or something, but you can’t help but run your tongue around the digits, tasting the smokiness of blaster residue, the tang of whatever he must use to oil his gloves. “Finally, some silence. I like you better like this,” he taunts you with an imitation of your previous words. He bends his head forward, “Get them wet,” he murmurs, voice soft and sultry through the modulator, and the moan you give him now is all desperation as you let saliva pool heavy on your tongue to coat the leather. 

When he pulls them from your mouth, tugging your head back further so that you can look up into the dark tee of his visor as he slides his spit slick gloves between your thighs to press against your throbbing clit, your whimpered little mewl has a chastising tut filtering through the helmet, “Slippery, little thing.” He starts to press slow circles to the aching bundle of nerves, sliding down on every other swirl to press gentle, teasing pressure to your clenching opening. “Did my chasing do all this? Do you like being hunted, brat?”

“Not–” you moan as he presses down hard on your clit, then back to the mouth of your cunt, giving you just the tip of his finger, “Not a brat,” you struggle to get out.

“No?” He starts to press two fingers inside at once, both of you groaning in tandem. “Maker – fucking tight–” He scissors his fingers inside of you, twisting his wrist to fuck you open, making room for himself inside of you. “Don’t know if I’ll even fit in here.”

“No,” you groan, low and drawn out, and then, yes, whispered breathlessly, one of your arms reaching back to hold onto the wrist of his hand still twisted in your hair, trying to find purchase on anything to anchor yourself with. Because the stretch of just his two fingers inside of you – you can hear the slick squelch of your wetness as he starts to fuck them in and out of you slowly – is so unexpectedly obscene. You had not expected to find yourself in this position with any man, especially not one like this – had not thought you were yet ready to be touched by another person. Not so soon after– “Please – m– more. I want–”

“You think you’re ready for my cock, little one? Have I stretched this tiny cunt out enough?”

“Yes– yes. Just do it.”

“Fuck–” You listen to the wet little pop as he pulls his fingers from you, and the clink and shuffle of his belt and armor as he pulls himself out of his clothes, and then he’s shifting behind you as you brace against the edge of the table. The burning hot blunt tip of his cock skimming against the round of your ass, and you feel him spread his feet wide, bend his knees, and then his cock is there at the slick mouth of your cunt, and he’s thrusting up and into you on the downward roll of your hips, and Maker, he’s deep like this. Suddenly, twin strangled groans of pain or relief ripping from your throats in tandem as he grinds deep, deeper, for a moment. You feel the heavy kick and throb of his cock inside of you, and he is too big, too thick – he forces you to take it anyway. Stretching you in a way you’ve never been before, your eyes smart, forcing your body to make room for his inside of you, it leaves your breath to stutter out in a weak little puff of shock. 

And you moan, using the palms of your hands against the edge of the table to grind yourself back onto him while his hands clamp tightly around your hips, his fingers so long they almost meet at the center of your belly beneath your navel. 

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. That’s so good.

You can’t tell which one of you is speaking. You can't even tell if you’re still breathing. And then he starts to move. 

You knew he’d fuck hard, from the first moment you’d seen him, you knew.

He pulls his hips back, the slick wet, the grasping walls of your cunt trying to suck him back in, and then the scorching slide of him pressing back in, in, in, grinding again, those long fingers pressing down on your belly so that you feel him from the outside too. 

“Harder,” you beg, because of course you want more. You are a creature made of greed and hunger. You always have been. 

“Quit. You’ll take whatever the fuck you’re given,” but his hips slam back in, a savage growl punctuating the movement. 

He gives it to you almost brutally, without pause or thought, fucking punched out breaths and whines from you. 

“Shut up,” he spits on the end of one particularly deep, harsh thrust that’s followed by a high pitched mewl from you. “You want every piece of shit on Nevarro to find you split open on my cock like this?” Your head lolls back limply on his shoulder, the wet slap of his heavy balls against your clit overwhelming the sound of your thoughts. You can’t speak, your brain is currently being jostled within the confines of your skull by the force of his cock splitting you open. “No? Then be a good girl, and be quiet,” his voice, rough, even through the modulator is almost drowned out by the wet, obscene sound of him pounding into you. 

He brings one of his hands back up to your jaw, turning your head slightly so that your nose is almost smushed up against the chrome of his visor. He wants to look at you. The hard beskar of his chest plate rubs harshly against your back on every push upwards of his hips, and you’re sure that’ll hurt later, but right now you just can’t seem to care. You can feel the humid, warm air of your panting breath, foggy against the gleam of his helmet, and you bring one of your hands up to the wrist holding your face, holding on for dear life, sanity, you’re not sure what. Your other hand twists back into the hanging fabric of his cloak so that you can pull yourself more tightly back into him as he slows his thrusts, making them longer and more drawn out. “Yeah– like that. Settle… good girl.” Your eyes flutter shut. Too much, too much. It should hurt. You wanted it to hurt. Not gentle, you don’t want it gentle.

“Harder,” you whine, plead.

“No. How I say.” He rolls his cock into you over and over, your slick sliding down your thighs, the backs abraded by the plates of beskar over his own legs. He’s so deep, so big it hurts so good. Even if you want it harder, it still hurts so good. The hand at your face slides down to rip open the fastening of your high necked tunic, reaching inside and under your breast band to pull out the heavy aching weight of your tit and pinch your nipple, rolling it between his strong leather clad fingers – more high, desperate mewls that have him groaning deep in his chest. You’re sure if your face wasn't so close to his you’d never be able to hear them through the helmet, low and rumbly and so delicious. 

“Fucking beautiful,” he murmurs low, cupping your breast to plump it up, massaging it in his palm.

“What? You can see?” 

“Yeah– fuck yes, I can see.”

“Not fair,” you whine. It’s so dark in the little room he’d pushed you into, you’re not even going to get to take a good look at his cock before this is all over. 

“You don’t need to see. You just need to be good and take it.”

“Do you ever kiss?” you ask him suddenly. Irritated by the fact that you’ve not gotten to ogle him – or kiss him. If he even does that.

Another deep roll of his hips, a tight squeeze to the swinging globe of your breast, “No.”

“That’s a shame.”

And he responds immediately, voice subdued and even, underneath the helmet, despite the fact that you feel like he’s cleaving you in two. “Maybe next time,” he says. His palm slides down to your belly then, the other pressing down between your shoulder blades to fold you over the table, hands moving to wrap around your hips and lift you up and back onto his impaling cock so that the tips of your toes are left skimming the ground beneath, your fingers scramble and claw for purchase against the wood of the table. You can feel the wide tip of his cock punching against your womb on every thrust in and stars flash behind your eyes, mouth hanging open pathetically. 

There is nothing gentle about the way he fucks you. Like he wants to split you in two, like he wants to make sure the shape of him is branded into the center of your body so that you’d never forget this. The sticky sweet coil of your orgasm starts up low in your belly, and you feel molded in his image for one second, pushed out of yourself to stand on the sidelines and look upon the sight of your much smaller form draped over the table and being fucked into so savagely by this silver blade of a man.

And then: they’re fucking bare, they’re fucking raw, and it has been so, so long since he has felt the touch of another person, someone else’s skin on his that was not bestowed upon him in violence or with the barrier of a sheath between. It is an almost overwhelming feeling, that of your hot, soaking wet cunt pulsing around him, you’re about to come for him, he can feel it. The fluttering of your inner muscles, delicate thing that you are, your thighs shaking as you struggle to push yourself back on to him to get it harder, deeper. He is, almost, made faint with the feeling. And those eyes… you’ve got the strangest multicolored eyes. One enshrouded entirely in darkness compared to its bright counterpart – as if one had forgotten to take that last step into the light. You’re fucking beautiful and–

You snap back into yourself. No, no, no, stay out of his head. Stay out of his head. Focus. You push yourself up again so that your back is against his chest, and he bands one tremendously strong arm around you, gripping your breast tightly. You feel him bend his knees framing your thighs to change and deepen the angle, and then he’s pounding right into that tender, devastating place inside of you, and your cunt twists and floods with your orgasm, electric shocks of pleasure numbing your fingers and toes. You can do nothing more than let him do with you what he will. Your toes aren’t even touching the floor. 

He presses as deep as he can, grinds for a moment, and then he folds you over the table once again and presses down harshly on the small of your back with one heavy palm as he pulls his cock from you and finishes himself off. You listen to the wet thwack, thwack, thwack of him pulling on his cock, and then the searing hot spurt of his come is hitting your ass and the exposed seam of your fluttering cunt, a savage growl ripping through the modulator as he squeezes all of the air out of you with that unyielding hand. You’re like a pressed flower between the pages of a book – wilted and frayed, but still held in the image of that which you once were. At the last spurt from his cock he brings his hand to your ass, spreads you apart to rub his spend into the tight furl of your ass, and then further down into your throbbing, overly sensitive clit. All you can do is cry and whimper weakly, still trembling from your own orgasm. “T– too much, nooo,” you whine pathetically.

“Easy – easy, settle.”

You feel him fall to a crouch behind you, pulling you apart with both hands by the meat of your ass to look upon the sight of your blushed, fluttering hole. Messy, little cunt, you hear him whisper. He rubs his come into your trembling thighs, over your swollen clit again, inspecting every vulnerable inch and crevice of your sex, and then he’s pushing two of those thick fingers back inside of you, the passage made slick and fucked open by your mingled come. “Just one more, little one. Want to see it up close,” he murmurs. You try and wiggle away, tears of oversensitivity brimming beneath your lashes, I can’t, I can’t, you think you whisper, but he’s inescapable. He clamps one hand painfully over your asscheek, keeping you spread apart for his inspection, the other one buried deep inside of you so that his fingers are hooked against your g-spot where he presses over and over, quick and relentless, his fingers almost vibrating inside of you until your vision is going white hot and a buzzing sound rings in your ears, and you’re crying for what you think might sound like mercy or something equally despeerate. “Yes, fuck, yes. Just like that.” Your answering sob does not prompt him to abate, for he keeps his fingers pressed against that spot inside of you until you’re leaking an embarrassing amount of wetness down your thighs, until the rippling throbs of your orgasm have finally settled. You feel his head fall forward, the beskar of his helmet pressing against the space where your asscheek meets your thigh, and he holds there for a second against your burning hot skin, the scorching soothed by the cool metal.

You can’t stop shaking, you feel, suddenly, like you might cry. You were not prepared for something of this intensity, to be touched like this, and now that it’s happened you’re left reeling. You don’t even know his name. And now you’re sure he’ll go away to wherever it is that Mandalorian bounty hunters run off to, and you’ll never see him again, and you’ll have to live with the memory of this forever. And something like this… amidst all the other horror that lives within you, you’re sure that the intimacy, the fervor of this, will make it hurt all the more, even compared to all the rest. 

He uncoils behind you, rising up to his towering height. You listen to the rustling of his clothes, and then he’s smoothing a large palm over the slope of your trembling back and reaching down to pull up your trousers, tucking your breast back beneath your tunic, righting your clothes for you without commentary. When you think you’ve finally caught your breath, or can at least pretend you’ve done so, enough to push yourself up from your position over the table. Your eyes feel pinched and hot, your heart beating so hard, almost painfully, within the confines of your ribcage that it feels as though your bones are rattling beneath your skin, knocking together in the imitation of a death rattle so that he’ll surely know that you feel two paces away from falling apart entirely. 

“You’re… Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you?” Voice stilted.

“No more than I wanted you to.”

He’s silent for a moment, uncomfortable. You can feel the sensation of him pulling away, getting ready to make a run for it. “That’s not–” he cuts himself off. “Do you– do you spend much time on planet?” He’s awkward, uncomfortable now with this unnecessary notion of seemingly required small talk.

“No.” Lie. You like Nevarro, you spend more time here than anywhere else. 

“What’s your name?” It shocks you that he asks, for you know he’d not give you his if you asked it of him in return, but for one infinitely painful, insanely uncharacteristic moment, you want to tell him. You want to give him your real name desperately, tell him who you are. But if you were to do that, then you might tell him what you are. And then he’d hate you, and the memory would be ruined, and you have so few good ones, that this one must be protected at all costs. 

So instead you say that which you have no real desire to say, do what you have no real desire to do, and make sure that he thinks you’re not interested, that you have no desire to ever see him again. Maybe next time. Your heart gives a surprisingly painful pinch, your eyes growing hotter by the second. “This was just a fuck, don’t get all sentimental on me now.” Your voice is so cold, so uncaring. You hate the way you can make yourself sound sometimes. You sense him snap with tense shock, and he nods once, succinctly. “Very well. Thank you… for this. I suppose.”

You lean back against the table, trying your hardest to appear as unaffected as you can. You turn your face to the side, roll your cheek over the hill of your shoulder. “It was my pleasure.”

He turns to go, his cape snapping with the sharp abruptness of his movements, and he pulls open the door of the little storage room letting a flood of moonlight sweep in to shed light on the construction of this memory you’re assembling brick by brick to preserve in your mind for as long as you possibly can. Your eyes sweep over the length of him ravenously, trying to catalog every single detail of him, the incredible breadth of his shoulders, the silver gleam of his beskar helmet, the sweep of his cape, the arsenal of weapons strapped to his body, lethal. He turns back to look at you for one moment, the yawning darkness of his chrome visor, “Don’t get killed, Mandalorian. There are so few of you left now.” And truth, truth, truth, for it would be a shame beyond imagining for a creature such as this, something so strong and beautiful and other, to perish when so few like him remain. He pauses to take you in, as well. You wish you had the courage to ask him what he sees when he looks at a thing like you. The tears are right there, and you hate them and feel weak and disgusted, but also relieved, and you could fall to your knees, in this moment, to thank the Maker that you still possess the ability, the heart, to cry, to succumb to something as trife as tears. You hope he cannot see them. The helmet cocks to the side for one second, perhaps he too is cataloging you to his memory. He nods once, and then he’s turning and gone away into the night. The door snicks shut behind him, and you’re alone once again. 

You pause for a moment, hoping that relief will come. He’s gone, you got what you wanted from him. You should be glad. But there is only the screaming thought of wait, there was still more, there was still more that I wanted from you. 

You let yourself sink slowly to the ground, hand braced against the edge of the table he just fucked you over, lest your shaking legs give out and have you planting face first into the dirt. You fold your legs beneath you, tuck your wild hair gently behind your ears, your movements measured, trying to breathe deep and slow, in through your nose and out through your mouth. Don’t cry, there’s no reason to cry. But shouldn’t we be glad we can still cry? Isn’t it a sign that not all is lost? That there is still a part of us that feels enough to shed tears? This should be a good thing. And so you let the tears fall. You fold yourself over as small as you can, one hand pressed over your hot, leaking eyes, another over your mouth to keep your sounds contained, and you sob as quietly as you possibly can. It was so good and you’re crying and you’re alive and you’re free. You are free, and you should be glad of this. Cry, cry, but cry for your own victory, for your own freedom, for the chance to cry. This is what victory feels like. This is what it is to be alive. 

And so, here is your truth: It is a difficult thing, to shed the facets of the dark side after you’ve lived with it for so long. To be a Sith is to forsake all connection, all peace. There is only passion to strength to power to victory to the Force, but it is always alone. Always against someone or something else. So, yes, it is difficult to shed the facets of the dark side that have made you the thing you’ve been for more than half your life, since the time you were stolen from your cradle, your parents slaughtered, and spirited away into the shadow of a cruel and unforgiving master. What is it to know exactly how your life will play out, to see everything, to be so aware of what you will be – and to still be lost? Part agony, part madness. The pieces of you that are secretive, that like to hide, to run, these are especially difficult to let go of, and you are so, so interminably sad, you live in it. It’s all you feel you are now, after the dark, after the fall of the Empire and the Sith, after escape, after freedom, after you’d so forcibly ripped its claws, that were so deeply sunk within you, out by sheer force of will, by sheer force of desperation, you worry that it’s taken a piece of you with it, your soul. That it had eaten a piece of you. That you don’t have one anymore. 

You don’t even know his name. And even if you’re certain he would not have given it to you, for one moment, you feel an incredible lance of regret that you did not give him yours. 

But then: a person without a soul could not cry. 

And so this must only be proof of the fact that you must still possess yours, as shriveled or weak as it’s been made, you must still have one. You must. You must. 

And you think: I am not unfamiliar with this half life – there is a wound inside of me – dark and putrid and festering. But perhaps my tears will heal me. Seal the wound closed. 

You feel lonely – worse, you feel strange. Once, you were terrible – now you are only yourself. So you cry for the passion of the moment, for the way he made you feel, for the loss of a name, for the truth of freedom.

Chapter II

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

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[elizabethrobertajones]

"That cloud looks like a wavekin... don't you think?"

"Mmhmm, it's an Ash Tuna." Erenville didn't look up to the sky, didn't break his gaze from watching G'raha.

"That you can so specifically identify it!" G'raha exclaimed, with only a brief glace of admiration that still made Erenville's heart jump. His eyes returned to the sky, tracing the outline of the aetherically sculpted clouds to better discern the exact fish. "You must know so much about animals!"

He couldn't allow himself to bask in that pride of impressing G'raha, as unexpectedly thrilling as it had felt. "In truth, there are only a hundred and forty four fully formed clouds in Labyrinthos's sky, and they each resemble the original live specimens kept down here before they finished the sky, as a tribute. It loops through them all every twelve bells."

"Oh. Interesting." He didn't sound unimpressed but perhaps less excited to learn of more Sharlayan secrets than Erenville had expected, after G'raha had insisted so firmly that he would like a tour of the facility with Erenville, and stopped here to gaze with such wonder, guiding them to sit beneath this tree.

Regret for talking down the intricacies of his everyday workplace flooded through Erenville. He couldn't ruin this for G'raha. Glancing down as he sought to find a way to salvage the moment, he saw the scholar's hand had fallen loosely to his side, and another twinge pulled at his heart. Because he'd upset him?

"We're very familiar with the cycle of the clouds, and need only glance up to guess the time with precision no matter how deep within the complex we are," he offered, trying to bring some interest back to the subject, though his eyes would not drift away from G'raha's hand. Was it regret? He still felt such a tug - to comfort him, maybe.

"I can't imagine how it feels to be intimately familiar with a sky to the point of mundanity," G'raha mused.

"My apologies, I took the fun out of cloudwatching."

"No, it's interesting in a different way. I once grew used to the unchanging brightness of the sky, after all. We learned very different ways to keep our time." He looked over at Erenville again, startling him to G'raha's eyes lest he be caught staring elsewhere. A warm smile greeted him. "Besides, I'm enjoying myself. What's the next creature that's going to drift above us?"

Something very, stupidly obvious suddenly made sense to Erenville about why he'd felt so strangely at odds with everything that had happened since he'd rolled over to watch G'raha watch the clouds. He'd never been in any danger of upsetting G'raha, only unmooring the miqo'te's own hidden agenda by not putting the picture together himself.

He smiled as well, at last. "I am going to make you guess, and see just how well you do."

"If it's not some sort of Allagan monstrosity, I fear my guess will be far from the mark."

While G'raha was still laughing to himself at that, Erenville finally found the strength to reach the final ilm and grab G'raha's hand, still waiting invitingly between them. He found his hand squeezed back in return, and G'raha pulled it closer, his trap snared.

He failed to watch much of the next cycle of the artfully spun clouds above.

[goldenfox3]

For the ask meme, pick your favorite(s)! All, some, one, or none: 19, 20, 21, 26

2023 in review: fic writer asks

19. Share your favorite opening line

Going through my fics looking for the best opening line made me realise my opening lines are rather bland lmao. Something to work on in the new year ig! My favourite one is probably one of these two:

"At Harimaya Bridge in Kōchi, Tosa, two figures stand drenched in red." (Red Tide)

"Fire bursts across the sky like the flames that burned his memories away, and even the distant cheers of his siblings cannot ease the chill that grips his heart." (What Begins)

Both are from Touken Ranbu fics. The first one references both a Toumyu song and the Yosakoi Naruko Dance's 「土佐のー高知の はりまや橋で」 lyric. It also parallels the opening line of its companion fic, as it is the same scene but a different character's perspective.

The second line I just like for the imagery lmao. The character, Honebami Toushirou, is watching fireworks at what should be a joyous festival but since he lost his memories after being burnt in a fire, well...he doesn't do well with fire-anything.

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20. Share your favorite ending line

Despite my trouble with ending off fics I think my ending line selection was stronger than the opening lines. I had a couple choices here and found it harder to narrow down so I am going to cheat and put two again...

"His mind is blissfully, terrifyingly silent." (Ab Initio)

"Falcon laughs, sun-sharp challenge and the bright spark of mischief, pressing close as the smell of sandalwood and eucalyptus envelops them once more." (Slow March)

The first one is for how short and snappy it is. It gets the point across succinctly, that Blood Falcon is 1) for now free of Black Shadow's mental voice influencing his thoughts, 2) relieved at this, 3) really fucking weirded out and even unmoored by this because his whole life he's known nothing else.

The second one is again for the imagery. It's not nearly as succinct but I do like how Rob as the POV chara is characterising everything about Falcon as this brilliant, shining presence that he can't help but be drawn to. There is also of course the ~symbolism~ of the smell of Rob's bath products surrounding them both. At this point in the series neither of them will admit their true feelings for each other, but the fact that they smell the same now from sharing the bath products, allowing each other to mark and be marked...it's just another way they've insidiously crept their way into each others' lives despite not talking about any gross scary feelings ever (idiots).

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21. Share your favorite piece of dialogue

There were a lot of moments from Thousand Five I wanted to put in here LMAO. I really like the dialogue in the first three chapters in particular, that's where I feel it was the snappiest (possibly because they were doing nothing but talking in the bar there so it had to be snappy). But my favourite bit of dialogue in the fic atm is this one:

“You would forfeit the chance to properly best your rival?” Stewart lifts his chin. “You’d kill the surgeon who’s the reason you’re even alive to begin with?” (chapter 6)

I'm very fond of this scene. It's the first time Stewart quite literally puts his neck on the line for Falcon. He doesn't have the combat skill or brute force to get out of this by fighting, so he uses what he does have at his disposal: his knowledge of the other person's background and personality, as well as drawing on what relation they share and any debts that might be owed. It's a gamble, but it's all he's got. The bold way it's stated, like he already knows the conclusion, is both calculated and just his natural adrenaline kicking in. Stewart is not one to bow in the face of danger and is in fact unfortunately drawn to it, but in this case he was afraid for someone else's life (Falcon) and was perhaps not quite as blasé as he'd normally be.

Because I am indecisive here is another fave bit of dialogue...this time from Creatures With Wings:

“Do you regret it?” Ryu asks suddenly, sliding a hand behind his head. “Taking on your role as Captain Falcon, or bringing me into this. Is that why you asked?” The back of his neck prickles, helmet still trapped under Ryu’s arm. But Captain Falcon is as much an ideal as he’s a man in a costume, and when he speaks, his voice is strong. “Creatures with wings are born to take to the skies someday. To fear falling is natural. But sometimes, all you can do is take that leap and fly.”

Besides being a title drop, Andy's dialogue here is a modified version of what he says to Ryu in Lap 50 of the anime. It still serves as reassurance and motivation to Ryu, but it also contains a veiled message about his feelings on his own situation. Andy isn't one to outwardly display struggles or regrets, or to ask for help because he's supposed to be the one helping. But I like to think about a more vulnerable side to him. He's only human, even if Captain Falcon needs to be so much more than that.

So here, he's also expressing that Ryu is quite possibly the only person who could fully understand him, as someone who was destined to be a saviour in this universal battle. Maybe he, just like Ryu, had (still has) fears and insecurities and regrets. And maybe despite that, he still did it anyway because there was no other choice. But Andy...doesn't actually directly answer the questions Ryu asked. He can't. Falcon can never be anything less than a paragon. To express weakness, to waver now at the end of all things...that's not who he is. But at the end of all things...maybe he can be Andy one last time. Andy trusts Ryu enough to reveal here just the tiniest hint of weakness, reciprocating the trust Ryu has constantly shown confiding in him.

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26. If you had to choose one, what was THE most satisfying writing moment of your year?

Hmm every time I get a comment is very satisfying (especially the ones that go into detail) and crunching the numbers about how much I wrote this year compared to previous years was also fulfilling-feeling. I have a checklist of character's I've written/have yet to write in this series and it felt good to tick off a bunch and try writing so many different themes and perspectives this year. Thousand Five is perhaps the predictable answer to this question, as it is still my baby my beloved my first gameverse and longest fic. I'm happy to have published 12 chapters of it this year!

But I think the most satisfying moment was getting this comment on Rush:

This awoke something in me. Never played or watched F-Zero anything in all my life and yet these two give me life.

How gratifying is it to know that you've managed to captivate someone who doesn't know anything about the fandom with the power of your writing alone? How wonderful is it to know that you've managed to capture someone's interest based on the choice, order, artistry of the scenes your words have woven? Without any pre-existing interest in the characters and franchise doing some of the work of grabbing the reader for you? I really, truly would love to know if this anon looked more into the series after or went on to read other F-Zero fics. Getting people into the series and ship I like because of something I created is living the dream, I tell you. And it all happened because I wrote about Falcon and Stewart [redacted] in a rivals with benefits situationship LMAO.

[sacrilegious-skeletal-scribe]

notation regarding visitation 01

Please, please!

I scream it into the abyss and my voices echoes outwards.

When it returns, it is a warped, greyed thing, peeled open by a distant force and tossed back at my feet.

Please, please, I am not ready!

The abyss smiles back with teeth the length of mountains, and the ground beneath me begins to convulse.

The abyss is laughing.

Please, please, more time, I just need more time!

The laughter intensifies, roiling darkness batting at my center of gravity like a hand through gnats.

I am unmoored, a boat let to sea, but the sea is throwing just enough of itself on board to tease a capsizing.

Please, please, the future is going to swallow me hole, anything for a stay of execution!

It stops. I plead from the bottom of bruising lungs, and the laughter stops.

The world around me is calm once more. It is almost worse.

Please, please— Anything?

The word coils around my shins, rubbing against my legs like a stray cat. Intrigue pools around my ankles like a threat, and I am left defending the creature in my throat named desperation.

I drove shovel to ground the moment I ventured in search of mercury lined darkness, so like a dead man I respond.

Anything. Anything, for a price.

Oh? And what are you after?

Murder. Anything, as long as you kill this creature in my chest, this ball of claws and electricity and acid spite.

I have stated my case, and presented my demands. Silence follows, but it cloaked my arrival, and I will not lose sleep on it.

Mutterings sweep past me like deer at full tilt, motion darting past my hands in a pitch colored forest.

There’s an awful lot to anything. Are you sure?

Can you get it out?

My voice is working its way back into a yell, the overwhelmed child starting to scratch at the confine of my large intestine.

Nausea burns at the base of my throat. It was burning at the top of it when I walked in. I swallow it back down and ignore the lurch of my stomach.

Killing you is the easy part. The specifics are where it gets complicated.

A reply made of malice whines against my teeth, but something cool shudders down my throat when I bare it.

My jaw is locked over a formless inspector, a pulsing tendril sweeping over organs as I become acutely aware what physical stimuli feels like against the other side of my lungs.

I used to do this for fun, but I’m afraid I might be a touch out of practice.

You may feel a slight pull.

It is all the warning I receive before a tree is uprooted from my chest, tenterhooks made of static heat pulled free of their anchors.

My shoulders pitch forward as the malady is removed, an instinctual gag frozen around a cooling corpse that just keeps coming, seeking my skin even as it sputters out.

I believe that’s my half of the deal. Correct?

I wait out the pull and fall to ground gasping before I reply, stumbling away from the carcass of what used to eat at my chest cavity in expectant silence.

My body feels like mine.

Yes, yes. Your end is finished. Now it’s just, whatever you want.

Well, as a matter of fact…

[westmoor]

the hart

(«- the fox. «- the hare)

(3.6k, shifter!jaskier, geraskier. some angst, some anxiety, some whump and violence - and healing.)

Destiny had favoured him, or so he’d thought.

Jaskier had been a different creature then. For the creature he is now, the world has little mercy.

Whatever courage youth had given him, darting down secret alleys on daring quests in the streets of Oxenfurt, skittering past the guards of his childhood estate to chase whatever whims the night presented, it’s all gone now.

Driven out by the dying light of day, vacant darkness with its tendrils crawling closer, growing longer, lean and frail. Grasping until they find him, take and remake him, warping his body to this shape he doesn’t recognize. And at last, plunging his world into one of twisting nightmares, undulating breaths hot and heaving through the grass, and the shadowed beasts stalking, searching, as the last remnants of his fortitude slips away under his feet.

Silence, he thinks, is the only mercy spared for creatures like him.

Beyond the concert of the dawn chorus, the lyric of a nightingale at dusk, the mourning of wolves calling their distant brethren as the season grows colder, there’s another world of sound. Imperceptible to all but those that live in frequent danger, that hold their breath and press their bellies to the ground in fields and meadows, straining their ears for a sign to flee.

Sudden fluttering of wagtails and startled sparrows. Squirrels hoarsely chattering above. Watchful rabbits drumming in the thicket, ordering their children underground.

He tries to wield it, to wrap himself in it. If he stays in this voiceless creature long enough, breathes quietly enough, perhaps the savagery that trails the luscious scent of prey in his tracks will go on by, and forget about him altogether.

Perhaps if he is good enough, hides deep enough - perhaps he can forget, too. Forget about foxes and hares and men with infections in their hearts, about whichever sickness has taken hold in him.

Or perhaps his luck runs out, like it so often does for those whose lives are favoured more by chance than destiny. Then, well, that is just a different sort of silence.

But for Jaskier, when chance fails him and he finds himself outwitted and caught in the jaws of that ultimate mercy, silence doesn’t come.

Instead, what finds him is a threadbare cloak, a smouldering campfire, a red mare, and the steady hands of a witcher.

--

They make it back to the little clearing he had run from, Jaskier’s cloth-wound body bundled in Geralt’s arm like something precious.

As shock begins to lose its grip on his mind, peeling back the layer of numbness he’s been afforded, the pain comes seeping back. With every step and jostle, something rattles in his chest. His joints move, but they move wrong.

He doesn’t know if bones this brittle are made to heal, or if this is just a body built for breaking. The icy wet that trickles through his coat is almost a distraction.

It hurts so much. It should hurt more.

He doesn’t even have a voice to whimper in.

It’s not until he’s lowered gently to the ground that he realises where they are, recognizes the low-hanging branches and the saddlebags piled haphazardly where he’d last seen Geralt standing. Recognizes too the wave that now, his panic bled out into the musty leaves somewhere on the forest floor behind them, feels more like shame. Thought battles instinct in his frayed mind and he knows he cannot run, but he cannot stay, and -

And had he been an excess burden in Geralt’s life before, then now, surely -

For eyes as wide as his, meant to discern between friend and foe at a league, any feature this close might as well be cruel. The details of his face are unclear as Geralt leans over him.

But he does know movement. Feels the fingertip that strokes the divot in his forehead. Geralt speaks, but the tone is clearer than the words, and it isn’t harsh. While passing over dirtied fur, easing down his ears, the other hand moves into the space between them and makes a sign.

Just like that, Jaskier’s world grows small again.

Slowly, the phantoms crouching at his vision’s edge recede, forced back beyond the shadows of the trees, kept at bay by scant firelight. Mighty trunks stand sentinel, barring their return.

Gone is the endless sky and the swift death that soars there. Gone too are the open fields and the dangers that prowl them, pointed snouts pressed to the ground, wetting their tongues at the scent of his injury.

He only knows what moves within this temporary refuge - tonight in the forest, tomorrow in the field - and the rounded silhouettes of those that could, but would not harm him.

There is no grand reckoning. No speech or lofty monologue, no words to twist or tones to ring false. Geralt doesn’t beg for forgiveness, makes no excuses, but he talks - low and smooth, for as long as Jaskier is awake to hear it.

The words will have faded from memory by dawn, but their essence remains - the solemn promise made that night, heard by none but the tall pines, a red mare, and himself. The one wrapped around him like a cloak, applied in layers of soothing honeyed balm over claw marks and wounds before it is spoken into existence: That no new hurt will find him here.

It’s a tedious process, but Geralt is right: his body does heal. Though the first week or so is spent under a dim fog brought by his witcher’s hand, it requires a restraint he never knew he had to hold out until his flesh starts to knit together.

Once his bones grow strong enough not to snap under the pressure as they twist in their fastenings, he finds the gap between one form and the other, and wills it open.

The transformation, though not always voluntary, had always come easy. This does not. It feels like fitting an old key, like forcing a lock that’s threatening to rust shut, throwing his weight against it in the hopes that the bar gives before the hinge.

He takes his first breath in the ribcage of a man like one saved from drowning. It burns and strains, and he is dizzy with the sudden height - but relief floods him like a tidal pool, and drowns out every other sensation.

When he looks up, Geralt is there, holding his clothes and lute, the things he’d left behind when they became too much to carry.

That becomes a pattern.

I am healed, he tells himself, and tells himself until he believes it, once his shoulder bends and deep breaths come painlessly. He believes it when he sings the songs of great grey beasts and their mountain brothers, terrible monsters and greater heroes, piecing together their stories bit by bit.

I will be healed, he decides, and tries to forget the songs about moorhens’ clucking and black little paws through the dew. Putting those pieces together not because they fit, but because they must, and tries to lose the ones left over.

But more often than not, Geralt is there and he picks them up, one by one, and hands them back in all the right order.

“You weren’t a hare when we met,” Geralt states one evening, in a moment of relative quiet - as quiet as their evenings are, one tuning his lute and the other sharpening the hunting knife he’d just tried to give Jaskier a lesson in wielding.

As if conjured by the mention of its name, Jaskier’s heart sets to beating. Although many unsaid things had become topics of conversation lately, neither had tried putting words to that. He suppresses the nervous shudder that crawls along his neck.

“I’m not a hare now either,” he says, and though it’s phrased in jest, it’s a reminder more than anything else: That he is not prey, and he will not run.

Geralt dismisses it with a grunt, and Jaskier knows that wasn’t what he had meant. There was a question in that statement, one of the dozens he himself had pondered over years, though he’s not sure which one exactly. Luckily, they all have the same answer.

“I don’t know,” he says, and the pressure at the back of his throat and how the words in his head refuse to conform into sentences tells him whatever comes next will be a ramble. While he’s never had trouble speaking frankly, honesty is harder. !I don’t know when or why or… how. Not how it started, even. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t - or when I didn’t - whatever I am.”

He’s aware that he’s stopped playing. Looking at his hands still poised over the strings, he wills the stream to slow, and tries to find solid ground to stand on. Geralt, bless him, gives him time.

“I believe it changed, though,” he continues once the whirling pool in his stomach has settled, when he’s less at risk of going under. “When we were in Rinde - perhaps later? I felt as though I’d come apart. Like a music box shattered on the floor and put back together, looking just like it had before, but the melody not playing the same.”

“In Rinde,” Geralt repeats, frown deepening with something akin to guilt. “Do you think the djinn, or Yen…?”

Jaskier has thought about it. Still thinks about it, when it all comes seeping through a bedroom window, when the sweet beckoning of the wind outside becomes curses. When it raps at the glass and taunts him for hiding his face in borrowed blankets or warm skin of a stranger, laughing at his cowardice. He remembers going out of tune, dissonant thrumming at his core at the disturbance of foreign magic.

“Yes,” he says.

But he also remembers Geralt’s gaze falling on another, losing the weight of it and coming unmoored. A beautiful sorceress, soft arms wrapped around rough, hushed voices ringing in unison. Seasons shifting and roads turning under his feet as he followed that to which he had tethered his dreams and aspirations. He remembers the scent of smoke and hunt and howl, and laying claim to a home, to a heart that wasn’t offered.

“But I think it was me, too,” he finishes. “I think the djinn - or Yennefer - or something may have pulled my pegs loose, so to speak. But the shape I took, that was mine.”

He’s always found it curious - if sometimes unfortunate - how words not intended to be spoken aloud but come by their own volition often seem to manifest more strongly than those initially planned. How much harder they are to ignore.

Curious, too, how a thing once named becomes tangible and must, at least in concept, adhere to the rules and limitations of the real world. How it can be touched and held, put away and taken out, turned over until it stops hurting.

The nights grow long in the wilderness, and the passing of summer shortens the days. And while he is no longer driven to bolt from his skin in fits that feel like madness, the whispers of the dark still tinge the air he breathes with the sweetness of rock-rose and blackberry. There are nights when it becomes inevitable, when he knows before the sun has set that the carefully balanced scales of temptation and trepidation will tip, and he will spend the hours of darkness trapped within this animal that cannot sing.

But even then, there is respite.

An index finger easing the tension of his furred head, careful strokes to coax his ears from their rigid stance, from turning at any sound real or imagined. Palms coming settling over his temples, roughened fingertips on bare skin, providing solid walls against all that feels too vast to comprehend, and reducing his world to just what can be held between two hands.

If the drumming of rabbits is his signal of peril, the signal of peace becomes the rhythm of a slow and steady heart, beating faithfully in the chest just beneath his ear.

It’s there, in the secluded space between their bodies where he draws circles to match the caresses over the small of his back, that he finds the courage to unearth the fragments of what he once was, mismatched bones and unmoored thoughts and instincts all he has been unable to lose, and starts to mold them back together into something recognizable.

As the thing that has sprouted and grown lush from the ruins of what was between them matures and turns vibrant, so do the leaves.

Autumn brings abundance the likes of which he has barely known. Roadsides overflow with wildberries to rival the richest vineyards of Toussaint. Cider sweet as honey pours in every tavern in their way, pressed apples picked from branches hung so low to the ground they must've sighed with relief at the loss of their burden.

Yet no sun-warmed apple cider shines as golden, nor has any Toussaint wine rendered him as drunk as his lover’s eyes or lips on his. At his side, in his arms, Jaskier finds the hollow indentations of a former self still vacant, still waiting. And the corresponding edges, worn smooth like river rocks over time, fall into place with such ease he wonders how they ever came apart at all.

There, safe under Geralt’s gentle touch, the wild may call all it wants.

--

Another forest’s edge, another contract, another waning moon.

Jaskier stokes the fire, tending to the warding light, wondering idly whether flames ignited by a Witcher’s sign hold more power than those lit by mere mortals. He likes to think they do. If he leans into it, he can easily convince himself of Geralt’s grounding presence remaining long after his footsteps are lost in the undergrowth. Behind him, Roach grazes in a patch of clovers, her calm tempering even the most skittish of his natures.

It is still, stiller than it has been for a while. The slight gale that picked up at the setting sun has dwindled to a breeze. He thought about unpacking his lute near an hour ago, but wouldn’t risk disturbing the sanctity of the evening, its melody would feel too far out of place in the arrangement of grasshoppers and midnight warblers.

Even to his human senses, animals of bush and green play in concert - from the whip of a falcon’s wings to the complaints of adolescent woodgrouse reluctant to leave their natal clutch - unknowingly orchestrated, and all of them distant. None, no matter their place in nature's hierarchy, dare test their mettle against the ever-present sense of death and danger that shrouds the dwelling of a witcher.

They stir and fuss, some waking while others settle down to sleep, until they don’t.

Jaskier’s buried instincts know it before his waking mind does, the urgent shift in pace and tune, discordant notes of prey’s first warning.

He listens intently.

It must be large, or voracious, or both. Seldom does a simple beast inspire such disquiet, word of its advances sending ripples of caution to every ear that knows to harken.

Be quick, they say, or be quiet.

Though he can’t make out the movements of the thing itself, the tell-tale cries and rattles of other creatures point its path. A bird takes wing, then another, each one closer and all too close to their camp.

Roach stands frozen, nostrils flared. He thinks he can hear it now. Smell the stench of its breath if he tries, make out its shape in there amongst the trees, moving with far too much stealth for anything that size. Too large for a cat, too quiet for a bear.

It closes in, so near now that a crouch, a leap, might take it into their midst.

Jaskier holds his breath. There is nothing else to do. Not as a fox, or a hare, or a man. Nothing to do but wait.

Whether real or supplied by imagination, he hears it scuff at the ground, draw a deep lungful of scent down into its massive body. And then it moves - away, back into the woods.

For a moment, he welcomes the silence, rushing elation that fortune has yet to claim his debts. But realization doesn’t follow far behind.

No wild thing would come upon a witcher by accident. None could miss the scent of one, and none should come so close to it before changing their mind, unless...

The lone hunter, whatever its goals, has picked a fresher trail: Geralt’s.

It’s ill-advised. More so, it’s stupid. The knife feels foreign in his hand.

He’s not such a fool that he thinks he can fight it, or that the blade or his ability to wield it would make any difference at all. But he must do something, needs to try. If only he can warn Geralt, call out in time and let him know before the beast can pounce…

But it moves fast, and his eyes are slaves to the light, inadequate under the ceiling of leaves and branches. Soon, he hardly knows if he follows it at all.

Every fiber of his being wills against abandoning this last shred of defense, but he knows he has no choice, not if he is to make it.

The knife lands with a thump, the soft ground cushioning its fall. For the first time in a long time, by his own volition, Jaskier shuts his eyes and folds his frame in on itself, opening them to a world tall and vast and all too sharp.

Speed is on his side. This is a body made for running, and run it does. By whatever force his kind is blessed, by fate or chance or both, nothing stands in his way. Though moments wasted on doubt comes at a price, and though he covers ground thrice as fast, he can’t gain it all back.

His vision is wide. The white of Geralt’s head, back turned as he brings his weight down to end the last of the ghouls, lights it like a beacon.

And the ragged shape, hulking even where it’s coiled to spring, attention locked to Geralt’s undefended back with an intensity that swears violence. Canine eyes do not glow, but in that moment, in his world of ash and shadow, Jaskier swears the werewolf’s eyes shine red.

And a hare’s cry, no matter his haste, no matter how shrill, holds no power to them.

He sees everything at once.

Glints of teeth under snarling lips as it jumps. The flash of the witcher’s blade as it swings too high, going clear of the werewolf’s head.

Its jaws lock at his side, tearing through armour and sinew into muscle, grating against bone. Jaskier has never heard a sound like this. Not from man, or from beast. Not from Geralt. It's sheer anguish turned vocal.

Something in him breaks, then.

Like an old joint, once healed wrong and calcified, cracking open to swing freely. It hurts at first. The snap, burning white-hot and blinding. And then: Euphoria.

His body regresses to the confines of a man, and beyond. The change is too fast to feel, too fast to track.

A new form, new instincts bursting through before he knows how to tame them. Fear gives way to fury. By the time he knows he is moving, he has already moved.

It takes no thought at all to lower his head. To align his skull and spine. Leap from his spot.

The impact ought to hurt, but it doesn’t. There’s an audible crack as something breaks, but not from him. Neither is the inhuman yowl that follows, sound reverberating through the forest.

The smell of blood fills his lungs. He doesn’t balk at it.

His face runs warm, runs wet. Twisting to free himself of frantic limbs and mottled fur, he shakes his antlers to strike again. This time, he finds the wolf yielding, limping back just shy of his sharpened crown. When it flees, he thinks to follow, to make up for every night and every hour spent in terror, driven underground by lesser beasts than this.

But Geralt’s scream still echoes in him, the sound of it a weight he cannot bear, couldn’t move under had he tried.

In the moment it takes to hesitate, doubt rears its head. Face awash and prongs painted red with the blood of another living thing, he feels about as far from the self he has learned to accept as one can come. To anyone else, he must look monstrous.

But when he turns, Geralt isn’t looking at him with disgust. Not with scorn, either. Or pity, or any other thing Jaskier had thought he’d face if he spoke the truth of his nature all those years ago.

Geralt raises the arm at his uninjured side. Had Jaskier been smaller, and softer, he would’ve slipped under it, curled up in the hollow at his witcher’s throat and stayed there, felt his heart beat and his chest rise until morning came to see them hale.

Instead, Geralt steadies himself with a hand on his neck and draws close. Giving more of his balance Jaskier than perhaps he means to, but no more than Jaskier can hold, his breaths so deep they might as well be sobs.

There are words to be had. Answers to be found. Leagues to walk, and promises to keep.

Soon enough, winter winds will sweep down across the continent, summons ringing from empty halls in far northern mountains, and they will answer.

But for now, Jaskier is home.

For now, the witcher leans his forehead against that of his hart - or fox, or hare, or bard - knowing that neither will follow that path alone.

At the edge of the woods and throughout the field beyond, rabbits cease their drumming, and the first few songbirds wake to herald the dawn.

--

Sorry for showing up half-assed four months late?

Tag list: @llamasdumpsterfire @stinastar​ @elliestormfound​ @justjess94​ @fontegagrilledcheese​ @dani-dandelino​ @honeysuckletook​ @underwaterattribute @ahhhhhhdonna @biitumen @cinary @saphiramalbec @lilbanili @sulkyshengshou @blooodymoon @dapandapod @kuripon @samstree

@tsukuyomi-selene and @herostag asked to be tagged for this one in particular, I think?

[drowningbydegrees]

Something Ordinary - Part 1

This is my Novigrad Exchange gift for @aalizazareth who asked for fluff, road trip, or hurt/comfort, and I figured how about all of them? I hope this delivers! 

A huge thank you to @goodheavensgwen​ for betaing, but also for all the brainstorming and cheerleading along the way. This fic is so much better for having your input. <3

It’s in the same verse as Noonwraiths and Other Woodland Forest Creatures, but it’s not necessary to read that to understand this one. Not, this is largely fluffy and ridiculous, but there’s some canon typical mention of blood and injury.

Read on AO3

Ordinary people don’t… date witchers. Granted, Geralt has been coming to the diner where Jaskier works for the last year and a half, just about. Twenty-one months, but who’s counting? It isn’t a precisely educational experience, but between the pancakes and mediocre coffee he’s come to realize that Jaskier is anything but ordinary.

Geralt had never meant to do anything with that information. If he sometimes goes out of his way to stop in between contracts, it’s no one’s business but his own. It’s just nice to have one place he can go where someone is genuinely happy to see him. And alright, Jaskier is more alluring than he has any right to be. And perhaps Geralt spends his visits wordlessly nursing a cup of coffee just to have an excuse to listen to Jaskier chatter on about nothing in particular a while longer.

Well, he did, anyway. Things are different in the months since they exchanged numbers after Geralt stumbled in half dead after a contract. Jaskier’s conversation demands more participation, his smiles are more intentional. And though Geralt would like to think he put up at least a token resistance over these last few months (in which he has received what he’s sure are more text messages than his entire life before), somehow Jaskier has pulled Geralt right along with him.

The point is, Geralt doesn’t do this. He doesn’t let himself get attached to people. He doesn’t give himself a reason to maybe stay in one place a little more. He definitely doesn’t go for coffee shop dates. The fact that their current circumstances started with an attempt to do exactly that is completely coincidental.

Wednesday

2:15 p.m.

Like many things in Geralt’s life, things go sideways before they even start. They don’t even make it inside the coffee shop before his phone rings, and given the only person who calls him for frivolous reasons is right next to him, it’s probably important. All of which is why Geralt had to cancel and is pulling into the gas station before a six hour trip to Oreton.

He’s still not sure how Jaskier got here, though. It’s a bewildering leap from a coffee date to committing to hours in an enclosed space together, but by the time Geralt wraps his head around that Jaskier is already in the passenger seat.

“I’ll get snacks,” Jaskier offers, already opening the car door. “Do you want anything?”

Geralt motions to a box in the back seat. “I’m good.”

“Are those granola bars?” Jaskier makes a comically disapproving noise, sliding out of his seat. He leans over enough to poke his head back in. “Do you know who thinks granola bars count as road trip snacks? My grandma.”

“What’s wrong with…” Geralt starts, but Jaskier is already gone.

To Jaskier’s credit, he’s emerging from the gas station once more by the time the gas tank is full. Well, Jaskier along with a bag of what looks like more candy than someone could eat in a week and the two cups he’s juggling.

“I promised you coffee! I can’t guarantee it’s good coffee, mind you, but it is coffee,” Jaskier explains before Geralt can ask, circling the car to press a cup into the witcher’s hands.

He doesn’t do this, and supposes he could be mistaken, but Geralt is pretty certain the coffee isn’t actually the operant word in ‘coffee date.’ Still, it’s… it’s something he doesn’t quite know what to do with. Jaskier has always been friendly, but he’s taken up doing all sorts of things as of late that can’t be chalked up to it being his job, and they never seem to leave Geralt any less unmoored than he feels right now, staring at the paper cup aggressively warming the palms of his hands.

“It’s for drinking,” Jaskier prompts, and as silly as it is, the whole thing only gets more absurd. Because the glare Geralt responds with is normally enough to make people shy away, but Jaskier doesn’t even have the decency to pretend to be alarmed. He laughs, soft and lilting in a way Geralt never wants to let go of, like there’s nothing strange about any of this. Like the two of them are made for these ordinary things Geralt has never given himself the space to want.

But Jaskier has never been ordinary.

3:07 p.m.

He’s made a terrible miscalculation in this plan, Jaskier privately acknowledges about thirty miles from home. This plan. The one that was definitely an actual plan and not just an impulsive desire to go on an adventure and see Geralt in action. Does it count as a plan if he invents a purpose? Maybe he’ll write a song about it. The subject matter is a little niche, but that’s half the appeal.

The other half of the appeal is the man sitting in the driver’s seat, silently watching the nearly empty highway stretch out in front of them. He’s always pretty, but working third shift Jaskier has never really gotten to see Geralt like this, drenched in sunlight that softens his features and mutes the slight frown that seems to own permanent real estate on his face. It’s haunting, the way it lights up Geralt’s silvery white hair, like some particularly attractive ghost.

Therein lies the miscalculation, because the thing is, Geralt is no different than any other time Jaskier has been around him, which is about as talkative as the pet rock he had when he was six. Normally, that’s fine. Geralt tolerates Jaskier’s chatter at the diner. And since it’s Jaskier’s job, he usually only wanders to Geralt’s table for minutes at a time. But there are no places to wander off to in the passenger seat of Geralt’s car, and he’s barely gotten three words out of the witcher since the gas station.

“So, what are we hunting?” he tries, because it’s the one topic he’s seen loosen Geralt’s tongue. A lot, actually. He doesn’t remember even half of what Geralt tells him, but it’s terribly endearing all the same. Even if it leaves him longing to know more about what else Geralt cares about.

“I am hunting a leshen. You are staying in the car,” Geralt replies without so much as a glance his way. If he notices Jaskier’s exasperated sigh, he gives no indication.

“I… remember you mentioning those, I think,” Jaskier focuses on the leshen because it was very definitely on the list of things Geralt told him about the first night he successfully got the witcher to have anything resembling a conversation. He resolutely ignores all the words Geralt just said around that. If he doesn’t lie and say he’ll stay put, then he won’t be lying when he inevitably does not do that. Sheepishly, he ducks his head. “In my defense, there was kind of a lot going on that night. Maybe tell me again?”

That earns Jaskier a smile, however small and brief it is. It’s a win as far as Jaskier is concerned. Now if he could just wrangle a conversation.

“Tall. Sort of humanoid. Covered in branches.” Geralt says nothing else until Jaskier clears his throat, trying to prompt the witcher to give him something at least. “They have antlers.”

“Very informative,” Jaskier chides, shaking his head. He supposes he should have known better than to assume this would work. “Anything else?”

“They live in the forest.” Jaskier is so surprised to actually get an answer, he almost misses the way the corner of Geralt’s mouth twitches upward. “You know, like noonwraiths.”

Jaskier gasps, holding a hand up to his chest as if in shock. “Was that… I’m sorry. Was that a joke I just heard?”

It’s been a ridiculous joke between them for a while now, but it hits differently this time. It’s always silly, but for the first time it sinks in that it’s theirs. They have A Thing, and it leaves Jaskier all but vibrating to realize because that’s… well, that’s significant. It feels significant at any rate.

“You were serious about the woods though, right?” Jaskier asks once he remembers they were in the middle of a conversation.

“I was serious about the woods.”

Jaskier cocks his head to the side, trying to make sense of that. “Then, how is it an emergency?”

“This one was in someone’s yard,” Geralt clarifies. As much as Jaskier would like to be annoyed by the brevity, he has to admit that that actually more or less clears it up.

Jaskier tries to imagine this tree branch antler person… thing creeping over the fence of some poor, unsuspecting homeowner like a nosy neighbor. It’s a mistake, because Jaskier doesn’t know the shape in which those descriptors fit together, so it’s much more comical than frightening. He tries and fails to stifle an amused huff of laughter, but of course that would be the thing that finally gets Geralt to look at him for a second.

“Sorry, I…” Jaskier pauses, not sure he can actually explain why that’s funny since Geralt has the benefit of knowing how all his sparse descriptors fit together. “So, what are you going to do? Bribe it to go home?”

“Not this time. They’re intelligent, but you can’t reason with them. Most creatures kill because they feel threatened or to survive. Leshens are hostile. Always.” The explanation makes sense. It doesn’t sound like there’s any way around killing the creature, but Jaskier knows he isn’t imagining the sadness clouding Geralt’s features.

He has no idea how someone could possibly meet Geralt, who never takes a life if he can save it, who spends his existence keeping people safe, who has so much compassion for even the most unlovable of things, and think witchers are anything but good. Underneath the caustic disposition he shields himself with, Geralt is kinder than most humans. It makes Jaskier yearn to coax the world into seeing what he does.

Maybe he can. There’s the beginning of an idea, but before Jaskier can follow that thread, he’s distracted by Geralt. More specifically, he’s distracted by Geralt being distracted, something finally luring the witcher’s eyes briefly from the road. So, of course Jaskier turns his head to see what could possibly be so interesting.

“Horses?” Jaskier winces when he realizes he’s asked the question out loud. It’s not really even a question. They were definitely horses, one chestnut and one gray, happily grazing along the fence containing them.

“Witchers used to travel that way,” Geralt murmurs, before Jaskier even asks a question. It’s a good tactic, giving one piece of information to steer away from Jaskier’s pursuit of another. Or it would be if Jaskier wasn’t onto him.

“Yeah. Witchers and everyone else. It’d be pretty inconvenient now though, what with all the… highways and stuff. So, I’m not sure I’m following the significance.” Jaskier watches carefully, but Geralt’s expression betrays nothing. “Unless this is the part where you’re gonna tell me you’re three hundred years old or something.”

Geralt is conspicuously silent. Jaskier has never met someone who can express so much with the various ways he chooses to express nothing. It’s an exasperating quality, but impressive.

“Wait. You’re not actually, are you? I mean, not that that’s a problem, per se. Just that—” Jaskier pauses in the midst of his babbling when he catches Geralt turning his head away just the tiniest bit. It’s not fast enough to hide that Geralt seems to be biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

3:34 p.m.

There’s a lot of farmland out this way, miles of cornfields, sure, but animals too. Jaskier briefly entertains the notion that maybe Geralt grew up on a farm and is homesick or something. He’s a storyteller by nature, after all, and Geralt is such an enigma, surely he can’t be blamed for trying to fill in the gaps. Jaskier curiously watches Geralt when they lapse back into silence. They’re surrounded on both sides by… actually, Jaskier has no idea what those fields are. The only crop he actually recognizes is corn. But whatever it is, if Geralt has any attachment to it, his expression betrays nothing.

Jaskier is about to write his previous observation off as him reading too much into something ultimately unimportant when crops give way to a green, open meadow. It’s the kind of place Jaskier thinks looks about perfect for a picnic or laying out to watch the clouds drift by, or something. It’s also the kind of place where someone keeps a rather striking-looking horse, its coat a shade of gold just a touch warmer than Geralt’s eyes. “I’ve never seen one like that.”

“It’s a palomino,” Geralt replies, though Jaskier doesn’t think he’s actually looked that way. Either Geralt is even more subtle than Jaskier gives him credit for, or something about that merits remembering.

“The breed?” Jaskier presses. This is even more fascinating than coaxing Geralt into talking about monsters. It’s not a subject Jaskier knows a damned thing about either, but it’s an unexpected thing Geralt seems to be interested in, and that all by itself makes it worth pursuing.

“It’s not a breed.” Maybe ‘talking about’ is a little too charitable a description for the handful of words Jaskier gets Geralt to part with at any one time. That’s a puzzle too. Jaskier hasn’t quite sussed out whether Geralt actually doesn’t like talking or if it’s a side effect of the way humans tend to respond to witchers. It’s a shame either way. Jaskier quite likes listening to him.

“Okay…?” Jaskier prods. It’s only afterwards that it occurs to him that if Geralt truly isn’t interested in talking, maybe when the witcher is stuck a foot away from Jaskier and can’t extricate himself from the situation is not the right time to push the matter.

“It’s a color.” After a slight pause, Geralt adds, “Gold coat. White mane and tail.”

There’s more after, not that Jaskier can keep up with most of it. Often, even when Jaskier is actively trying to engage, all he gets from Geralt is a wordless hum or a raised eyebrow. So, the fact that there are a number of words in a row is noteworthy already. That Geralt is continuing to speak without being prompted is nothing short of a miracle. Maybe pushing wasn’t the problem so much as finding the right subject matter.

And thus, a new game is born. Whether out of some sense of dignity or something else, Geralt doesn’t actually mention when they pass by horses. It’s the very slight shift in Geralt’s body language, something Jaskier would probably say was him perking up if it were more explicit, that clues Jaskier in if he doesn’t see them himself. But the minute Jaskier mentions them, Geralt appears all too happy to talk about the precise measurement that differentiates horses and ponies (14.2 hands or less, which then becomes an extended conversation about why horses are measured in hands), the Lippizaner stallion troupe (which Jaskier will admit he would really like to see if they’re even half as impressive as Geralt suggests), and that one breed of wild horses that are maybe possibly completely divergent from domestic horses (Jaskier immediately forgets how to pronounce their name, but he does remember they sort of look like especially stocky donkeys).

“How do you know all this, anyway? I’m starting to think you should have gone to work in a stable or something instead of being a witcher,” Jaskier teases after a particularly emphatic explanation about what an utter failure Redania’s wild horse adoption program is. “I mean, it would definitely be my loss, but…”

He trails off, teasing smile immediately fading as he happens to look over at Geralt. Even when he’s happy, Geralt’s expressions tend to be a bit muted, but there’s no trace of anything like happiness now. His head is subtly bowed, like he’s ashamed of something, and that just won’t do at all. There’s nothing shameful about the details that make up a person. Before Jaskier can ask what exactly dampened the mood, Geralt softly replies, “I was going to.”

“You were?” It might be a mistake. This was meant to be fun. It’s just that Geralt so rarely gives Jaskier anything about himself, and Jaskier so desperately wants to know him. He rationalizes that if he drops the matter, Geralt will think he doesn’t care and won’t ever try again. “What happened?”

“Not important.” The words are clipped, but Jaskier has at least known Geralt long enough to differentiate between the witcher being actually irritated and any of the multitude of other emotions that make him sound irritated. This is definitely one of the latter.

“Of course it’s important if it makes you look like that.” Impulsively, Jaskier reaches out to lay a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. The way Geralt nearly jumps out of his skin is a stark reminder that he’s not quite so instinctively tactile as Jaskier is. Geralt doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t answer either, so Jaskier only lingers briefly before pulling his hand back into his lap.

“I thought everyone was exaggerating about how things would change when they made me into this,” Geralt explains, so quiet that Jaskier has to listen carefully over the engine. It’s an aching, vulnerable thing, as human a confession as Jaskier has ever heard before Geralt’s expression abruptly shutters.

“I’m so sorry… Wait, made you?” Jaskier realizes, not for the first time, that he knows nothing about witchers. Nothing true at any rate.

But whatever strange magic had coaxed Geralt into speaking has passed, and the witcher doesn’t even acknowledge Jaskier has said anything. He longs to know more, to soothe whatever it is that hurts so much, but Jaskier has at least enough sense to realize that if he presses now, Geralt will think twice about telling him anything later. The minutes stretch out between them like taffy, the silence deafening until Jaskier absolutely cannot take it. He impulsively reaches for the radio, turning the dial until the static of a station that’s long since out of range is coming through the speakers. “So… music!”

Geralt’s lips purse in… actually Jaskier isn’t all that familiar with this particular expression yet. His default state is so grumpy, it’s hard to tell this time if he’s annoyed or uncomfortable. Neither one is what he’s going for, so he pointedly does not ask what that station is, immediately setting about adjusting until a melody cuts clearly through the hissing noise. Fic Masterpost

[spockandawe]

I doubt this is something I’ll ever even try to write, because I rarely have the energy these days to devote my energy to a ‘lol but what if’ ship. But never say never, and I legit wrote the emilonni and tlj/sqq fics, after all, so I’m going to write this down and maybe, possibly, someday come back to it.

Now, hear me out

Wei Wuxian/Jin Zixun

Yes, yes, I know, but give me a second. It’s the sort of ship where I kind of want to do it just to see if it can be done, and where the idea of ‘textual support’ is kind of laughable, and it’s not like I’m smashing together two super-popular characters who just never happened to speak, and it’s the kind of ship where I think I could only shake one fic out of it before I was repeating myself, BUT.

First, a quote:

The person at the head of the group was Jin Zixun. He said, “Zixuan, is that Wei making trouble for you again?!”

Jin Zixuan said, “None of your business, don’t worry about it for now!” Seeing that Wei Wuxian grabbed Jiang Yanli and was about to take her away, he added, “Stop!”

Wei Wuxian said, “Oh, you want to fight? That’s fine with me!”

Jin Zixun said, “You Wei, just what do you mean by going against Zixuan so many times?”

Wei Wuxian looked at him. “Who are you?”

Jin Zixun paused in shock, and fumed, “You don’t know who I am?!”

“Why should I know who you are?”

When the Sunshot Campaign had first broken out, Jin Zixun had insisted on defending the back lines, due to an injury. He hadn’t had the chance to see what Wei Wuxian was like on the front lines, and most of his knowledge had come from rumors. He hadn’t care much for him, thinking that the rumors were simply exaggerations. However, a while ago, Wei Wuxian had summoned all of the dark creatures in the forest with a whistle, calling away the fierce corpses Jin Zixun’s group had been about to capture, causing their efforts to be wasted. He was already displeased.

Now, in front of his face, Wei Wuxian was asking who he was, stirring up a strange sense of indignation within him— He knew Wei Wuxian, yet Wei Wuxian didn’t know him, and even dared ask who he was in front of everyone. It was as if this had caused him to lose too much face. The more he thought about it, the more irritated he became.

Now, there’s a thoughtful meta I hopefully reblogged to my sideblog, which I would have to dig up or recreate on my own, about the most sympathetic possible reading of Jin Zixun. If memory serves, it has a lot to do about the precarious nature of his social position, where he’s part of the Jin clan, and kind of the closest thing Jin Zixuan has to a brother, but also, everyone knows that Jin Zixuan has half-siblings coming out of the woodwork, and many of them would be stoked to get Jin Guangshan to accept them into the family. At this stage in the story, Jin Guangyao is already a major player and a hero of the war and part of the venerated triad, where Jin Zixun spent a lot of time... not in the thick of things, like most other peers of his generation.

Is he an asshole? Yes! Is... Wei Wuxian an asshole? Also yes! One of them may be a more likeable asshole than the other, but that’s part of the excitement of a story like this, trying to coax people into holding a fannish position that they’d never considered before, and aren’t particularly eager to be convinced of. I don’t think I’m bad at that uphill climb, it just takes a lot of energy that I don’t often have to begin that journey in the first place. Also, one of these assholes is a certified grade-A torturer, and it’s probably not the one you dislike. Jin Zixun isn’t starting from an insurmountable disadvantage here. 

And see, the thing that got my attention is this: Earlier in this chapter, Wei Wuxian is a little melancholy, thinking about how since the Sunshot Campaign, lots of people are scared of him, hardly anyone is willing to be alone with him, and almost nobody would ever be willing to approach him alone. And here, we get the information that because Jin Zixun was injured early and wasn’t on the front lines of the Sunshot Campaign, he doesn’t know to be afraid. He tried to provoke Wei Wuxian before the hunt, he’s about to keep provoking Wei Wuxian, he’s Jin Zixun and he doesn’t afraid of anything. Yes, he’s about to say some very hurtful things, but I look at that, and I think ‘okay, now how do we recover from this?’ Giving Wei Wuxian someone who just... plain isn’t afraid of him (but is also derailed by me, your author, from taking that to unrecoverable places) would be good for him. Jiang Cheng will antagonize him and isn’t afraid of him, but they also share years of history and are dealing with a lot of other stresses in this situation, and Jiang Cheng is asking things from Wei Wuxian that Wei Wuxian is struggling to provide, and the golden core thing is still hanging between them. Lan Wangji isn’t afraid of Wei Wuxian, but Wei Wuxian parses his concern and worries as antagonism and criticism, and those stress him out in a whole different way. This dynamic, as much as I would have to work to make it happen, would bring something new to the table.

One of my favorite activities is crackshipping with sincerity, and when I poke at this, it genuinely feels like richer territory than it looks at first glance. A lot of the antagonists share some fascinating character notes with our lead, and what’s most interesting to me here is an elevated-but-precarious social position and the various stresses that puts upon our characters. Jin Guangyao is the most obvious example, and Su She echoes it more quietly, with how he struggled within the Lan Sect and eventually left (honestly, kudos to him for him and mianmian to be two of the only characters to realize that their home was hurting them and to leave). Jin Zixun is in a family position that’s close to being brothers with his sect’s heir, but isn’t quite brothers, and is close to the seat of power, but also in a precarious social position if someone acts against him. Jin Guangshan and Madam Jin create a dysfunctional family dynamic to grow up in, where Jin Guangshan’s heart attention strays from his wife, and his wife has beat at least one kid who wasn’t biologically hers in the household.

There’s some common ground, is all I’m saying

I don’t even know what would happen, necessarily, I’m talking this all out here right now, and the interesting part of ships like this is digging in extra deep, and seeing what unexpected thing shakes out. It isn’t quite in the style of the other notable rarepair fics I have managed to write, which tend to follow a paradigm of ‘[person] is floating unmoored from the world, and [love interest] gets them engaged with life again’, but it’s not totally out of line with my interests. Svsss won’t give us more detail about Tianlang-jun? Okay, what happens if I make him hopelessly fond, what happens then? What happens if I properly re-engage his sense of humor? I hardly had anything of substance to go on with Horuss, and that fic is old, but I managed to pull interesting things out of him with Roxy. And I mean... what does happen when Jin Zixun stops self-destructively antagonizing the people around him and starts acting in more neutral ways? Not even positive, I think this relationship is going to have a strong antagonistic component, but what happens if he stops basing his interactions purely on who gets the higher rung on the social ladder?

Now, I do have a problem, which is that plot is something that happens to other people. See also: the reason there has not been a tianlang-jun sequel. I think that it would almost definitely have to do with repairing the situation between Jin Zixuan and Jiang Yanli and both of them managing to dial it back a LITTLE so as not to completely sabotage their family member’s happiness, and that leading things forward. And in a ridiculous pipe dream that will never be realized, because either possible pov will be completely oblivious, I would also want to include Jin Zixuan’s confused bisexual awakening and his resentful (also confused) attraction towards Wei Wuxian, even if he still ends up with Jiang Yanli, but... wei wuxian isn’t going to notice, and neither is jin zixun, SO. That’s probably right out. And the plot implications would have to be... significant. Setting it post-Sunshot campaign means that the Wen situation is simmering, and any plot that involves me untangling that mess... terrifying! I wouldn’t know where to begin! But like, also. What if I could write this ship in a compelling way. I bet I could do it. Nothing feels as good as the sensation of ‘I have scored points on my own darling readers by convincing them to like something they didn’t want to like’, and usually, I only get that from the second person pov. It would be so hard to write this ship. But also, what if I did it.

[anthropwashere]

our indestructible days ch 3

ch 1 | ch 2

=

Stubborn child! Tenacious little brat!

Pride seethes as he carries his new container up through another ruined, empty floor of Father's home, teeth gnashing at stone and metal. How could one inconsequential human soul cling so stubbornly to its body? Especially after being absorbed into his Philosopher's Stone?

It's lucky the little alchemist is such a mad acrobat, otherwise Pride wouldn't have been able to climb to the surface as quickly as he has, even with his shadows to assist. There's only a floor left between him and the parade field. The light from Father's attack has faded now, but he's still wary of jumping out without having a better idea of the situation out there. The light alone hadn't been enough to damage his Stone, but it had been an altogether painful experience for his true form.

A part of him hates to let those survivors scurry off—all those long years guarding Sloth's tunnel, no doubt—but now isn't the time to hunt down vermin. His Stone has only barely stabilized thanks to those few soldiers he'd consumed. He was able to grow this container a new leg without much strain, but he doubts he'd be much good in a proper fight. He's made the mistake of underestimating humans before. It's not a mistake he's keen on repeating.

He slims his shadows to a few cautious coils, tasting the air. Even up here he can smell the living humans below, soaked in blood and snaking away from the epicenter of things. They could reappear virtually anywhere in Central but he doubts they'll go that far, not with how injured they are. Aside from them there's nothing but corpses down there, which won't do him any good. Thanks to absorbing Gluttony he finds the meat delicious, yes, but it's souls he needs. 

Aboveground is a far different story. He sniffs again and can't help but smirk. There's dozens—no, hundreds of humans gathering up there, rushing around with their hearts racing and sweat salting their warm skin. He smells too, all the silly little guns they're hauling around in some vain hope of stopping Father.

Pride licks his lips, eager now. They want a fight, do they? He may be weak, but he thinks he can at least provide Father a distraction.

He's careful to keep his container out of sight as he peers over the last crumbling edge, curling tendrils into the air and squinting in the brightening daylight. Behind him Central Command is in ruins, as if some enormous hand had come along and taken a scoop out of it. He can smell only a handful of living humans there, most of them bloody and bruised and terrified. Before him a triangular stretch of the parade field is charred black, heat to sting the razor edges of him still rising from it. Greasy smoke smothers the air, reducing visibility to a frustrating few feet. From here he can only make out the woman sacrifice, sprawled nearby and barely conscious. He can smell her pain, the new bruises and welling blood, but it's nothing serious. There's no urgent spike of adrenaline in her blood, no sour snap of broken bone nor the damp heat of exposed organs. She'll live, for now.

The wind shifts. He narrows his eyes, sniffing, and finds the shredded remains of Alphonse Elric's armor a little further off. Beside it is the troublesome Xingese girl, weeping loudly. Has the younger Elric's blood seal broken? Either way, he won't be taking part in this fight any longer, not in the shape he's in.

The woman sacrifice—Izumi, wasn't it?—wakes, coughing roughly. "H-Hohenheim," she forces out, and as if summoned by her voice Father appears before her, so quickly that neither Pride’s eyes nor nose sensed him move. A strong hand grabs Van Hohenheim out of the dust that had obscured him as well, knocking him aside like so much refuse. He lands in a heap some distance off. Pride pays his piteous groaning no mind, relieved to see that Father still has God's power within him.

"Father!" He cries, springing out into the open to present himself. Izumi twitches nearby, straining to see him over her bloodied shoulder.

"You're first," Father says, raising his hand. Red light arcs between his fingertips. Too late, Pride realizes what he means to do—

Pain riots through his container. All his thoughts collapse to panicked static. His newly acquired lungs and heart seize, his every muscle spasms and his every joint locks. He would scream if he could because to have true flesh is to be set on fire. He'd thought the leg bad before, but he'd retreated into his Stone at the first white-hot shock of hurt and here he's pinned in place, nerves flayed, choking on ash—he can't, he isn't, how is it possible to—hurt—so completely? Defense—he—he must defend against—shadows—his self—all gone, he can't think, he can't—

Father is going to kill him—

A gunshot cracks in the distance, and a wound appears in a fizzle of come-and-go alchemical light at Father's temple. Father's concentration breaks. Pride nearly falls on all fours, sucking in dirty air with a relief that unmoors him. He doesn't hesitate, falling back on the instincts of this taken flesh. His hammering heart says run, so he runs. He sprints through the thinning smoke, wanting distance, needing time to get his bearings, needing to understand why Father just tried to kill him—

He ducks behind some heap of rubble near Central Command's wall, pressing his spine against it and shutting his eyes against the acrid sting. He's—he's panicking. He is, isn't he? He's never one to panic. He is first of the homunculi, oldest and strongest and cleverest. He won't—can't—be cowed so easily as this. Even if—even if it was Father that came so close to—

He is one part of a greater whole. This is something he's always known. But it's never occurred to him that Father might one day want that part back.

No. Never mind that. Father had his reasons. He always does. Surely Father only intended to siphon Fullmetal's soul away, to tear the stubborn child out so Pride could have unfettered control over this container—

[Coward.]

Pride freezes—still panting for breath, damn this flesh—and glares with several pairs of eyes. That voice. It shouldn't be possible, and yet— "Just how many of you damned insects are clinging to sentience within my stone?!"

[Oh, it's just Fullmetal and myself in here, and he's not doing too well at the moment.] Kimblee's laughter grates for all that it's not, technically, real. [He doesn't enjoy the company as much as I do.]

In the distance Pride can hear-smell humans shouting, soldiers making a perimeter in some feeble-minded attempt at hemming Father in, barking out nonsensical orders to one another over the bustle and clatter of all their useless weaponry. A man shouts over a megaphone that Fullmetal is not to be confused with Father, which is a relief and in some small way, terribly funny. He watches the clamor with his container's eyes, peering carefully around the crumbling edge of what might have been a bit of the east wing. If he focuses he thinks he can very nearly feel the pinpoints of solidity within his Stone, Kimblee as fine and bright as a needle, Fullmetal a stolid lump fumbling his way back to consciousness at a snail's pace. "I suppose you'll be wanting to fight me for control over this body next?"

[Oh no, not at all. It'd be a poor fit, I think. And besides, I already have a front row seat to the glorious battle going on right now. Just listen to it!]

The attacks are certainly concussive, if nothing else. From his position on the field it only looks like the soldiers are wasting a great deal of ammunition for nothing; Father's glimmering shield is protecting him even from the heat and dust of the blasts. Some soldier down there belts out a command to take cover and scarcely a moment later a gout of flame rushes down the same charred path as Father's earlier attack to engulf the majority of the parade ground in an inferno. It seems that despite his newfound blindness the Flame Alchemist remains unwilling to sit idly by while there's murder and mayhem to sow. Still, it'll take more than that to slow Father down now.

"They stand no chance against him," he mutters aloud. The plan has fallen apart, perhaps disastrously so, but Father will win. It's only a matter of time.

[No chance?] Kimblee asks, pausing when another gout of flame explodes across the parade field. This one Father catches as easily as a child's toy and sends it right back. Even after that display, amusement curls Kimblee's voice. Infuriating creature. [You say there's no chance, that you homunculi are so much better than humans, but what's Greed without his human vessel? What are you?]

"I am Pride the Arro—"

[Just the two of you left now, and that only thanks to the humans you've attached yourselves to. You claim to be higher life forms, yet you're really nothing more than parasites. How disappointing.]

"I won't die here! Whatever the cost, I refuse to die today!"

[And if your Father willed it otherwise?]

He flinches, and loathes this treacherous body all the more.

[He seemed eager enough to kill you a moment ago,] Kimblee goes on cheerfully, [Yet you turned tail and ran away the second you could. You were named for your dignity as much as your arrogance, yet all you've proven today is that you're a hypocrite and a coward.]

"BE SILENT, KIMBLEE!"

[Mmph.] The Fullmetal lump shifts within his Stone, waking up properly. Pride very nearly throws his hands up in exasperation. [Ah, hell. That hurt. What happened?]

[Welcome back, Edward. I wasn't sure you'd be joining us again.]

Pride curls his mouth irritably, digs dirty nails into the stone's crumbling edge. The automail arm only twitches at his side, still stubbornly resistant to his will. "How many times must I put you in your place until you stay there?"

[Ha. At least one more. Where are we?] 

Pride has no chance to reply before his control is tugged away from him. Edward Elric wavers, bracing himself with both hands against the same stretch of scorched stone. Pride's connection to the container and all its startling sensations remains; a sour tang of nausea burns their shared throat, dizziness makes their pulse pound in their ears, a line of sweat down their spine makes them shiver. Edward directs their eyes about the parade field and back to Central Command, taking in the splendor of Father's power. Their ears ache with the ceaseless crack and boom of gunfire.

"Holy shit,” Edward breathes.

With a growl of displeasure Pride pushes back and retakes control. The boy's too stunned to put up more than a token resistance, one that's easily brushed aside. Pride smiles, licking the new configuration of his teeth. "Do you understand now? Do you see what Father is capable of, despite all your little tricks? Are you still so certain you'll win?"

Kimblee whispers, so quietly that Edward seems not to hear, [Are you?]

[Of course I am,] Edward retorts, and while he's unable to wrestle control of his body back he does manage a few of the eyes circling at their feet. Their shared vision wobbles and blurs, and Edward grumbles. [Jeez, how can you stand this? I think I'm gonna puke.]

"Then stop it."

[Nah.] Their shadow twitches, an inelegant lurch that nevertheless forces one of their eyes to loll, and in just such a way that it glimpses Edward's bare left foot. Through their mutable connection of his Stone Pride feels the stuttering evolution of Edward's reaction—dumbfounded, denying, horrified, furious. Their mouth opens against his will and Edward's snarl froths out. "My—my leg. It's—the automail—it's gone. You—you son of a bitch! You really cut it off?!"

[It was slowing me down,] Pride replies calmly, content for the moment to take refuge in his Stone. It almost feels as he did in his Selim container this way; placid, unflappable, controlled. [You're welcome, by the way. I saved you the trouble of trying to get back the original one.]

"Wh—That's not the point! Al and I made a promise! After we found out the cost of making a Philosopher's Stone we promised not to use one for ourselves! We never wanted to be so selfish as to use another life to fix our mistake! Al and I—we—I didn't...."

Edward's inhale is a shaky mess. He sways again, gritting his teeth. It seems he has a new tendency to speak through more than one mouth if he lets his anger get the better of him. How interesting. Pride certainly hadn't manifested one of the three thin mouths in their shadow. Edward bends at their waist to brush their left hand across their new knee cap, draws a line down their shin, splays their toes on the sun-warmed concrete. Pride feels each sensation like a static shock, which isn't half so bizarre as the curdled snatches of Edward's thoughts he absorbs secondhand. Nerve damage—phantom pain in the night—gone, it's gone, he shouldn't feel anything because it's gone—Granny said the cold would be harder on him—cold night spent lying awake, teeth gritted, muscles aching—no amount of massaging around the ports ever helped—Al's metallic voice, "Did you dream about Mom again—"

Pride retreats deeper into his Stone, startled by how real that felt. The ever-groaning souls inside him keep their distance from his toothsome shape—all but Kimblee, who sidles up to him with an overly familiar grin. 

Outside, Edward reins in his anger enough to ask, "Where's Alphonse?"

[In pieces,] he replies sullenly, and finds base satisfaction in the diminished jolt of panic he feels from the boy. [The Xingese girl has been using what's left of his armor as a shield—]

Red light crackles in their shared vision and a feeling not unlike a brand burns his Philosopher's Stone. He writhes within and without, as much from shock as from pain. When he can see clearly again Edward's braced against the rubble, breathing raggedly. "Shut up," he growls.

[You're so willing to be free of me you'll hurt yourself to do it?] Pride marvels. 

"Shut up," Edward repeats, a mouth splitting in their shadow to hiss the same. "You too, Kimblee."

[I didn't say anything.]

"I can feel how much you're enjoying this." He spits, wiping their mouth with the back of his automail hand, then begins a clumsy half-jog back into the thick of things. There's no telling if it's the new leg or their shadow nipping at their heels giving him more trouble.

[Where are you going?] Pride demands. [What do you intend to do?]

"I'm gonna find Al, then I'm gonna make that bastard pay."

[If you confront him, Father will take my Stone for sure!]

"Good. Let him take care of you for me!"

[He'll kill you too!]

"I don't care!" Edward picks up speed, keeping low and favoring their new leg. When Pride opens a train of eyes in their shadow Edward trips, slapping a hand over their container's eyes with a curse. Nausea tongues his Stone, altogether unpleasant. "I gotta make sure Al's okay!"

[Damn you!] For all that he tries to wrest back control Edward just hangs on to himself harder. Pride rages, scattering souls like gravel beneath the wild sweep of his awareness. Edward snarls back and picks up speed.

[Such dedication!] Kimblee exults, a white sore in his Stone. [Such drive! He really is an admirable creature, isn't? Put a fire under him and he'll burn himself gladly for the chance to keep those he cares for out of it!]

[Be quiet!]

Kimblee calms, raising one unimpressed eyebrow. [Why should I listen to you? A pitiful homunculus who couldn't keep a single human under heel?]

Pride seethes.

[fiendfluid]

it is an unmooring of the mind

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Jonathan Sims & Daisy Tonner, Martin Blackwood & Daisy Tonner Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims, Daisy Tonner, Peter Lukas, Tim Stoker, Background & Cameo Characters Additional Tags: Selkies, Drowning, Lonely Typical Depression And Manipulation, Hurt/Comfort, Body Horror, Touch-Starved, Casual Physical Affection, Blood and Gore, Hopeful Ending, Fluff and Angst Chapters: 7/10

“Persistent bastards.”

Jon pulls the binoculars away from his face, his mouth set in a grim line. 

They had to leave port without Daisy, with the Tundra looming ominously in the horizon--drawing closer with every panicked minute of unmooring and setting off. Jon had insisted she would be able to track them down, but even he had looked worried, which of course set Martin off in turn. 

They set off, staying as close to shore as they dared, something about being in the open water without her set Jon on edge, though nowadays anything did, really. Not that he was paying attention.

“Your lot must have finally killed one too many of their playthings.” Martin mutters coldly.

In the six days of speedy travel away from the Tundra, nothing had been done to improve the strain between them--not that either of them have tried to fix anything; Jon just hovers around, like some kind of nervous moth, drawn toward the light but unsure what to do once it got there--and frankly Martin isn’t in the trying mood. 

“Martin,” Jon says slowly, staring in that way he does often; usually when he thinks Martin’s being a moron. “the Tundra was never chasing after me, they’ve been looking for you.”

Martin scoffs, frowning. “What? No it’s not. They dragged you onto the ship in the first place, Lukas has been trying to kill you!” 

The clouds overhead crackle with ill temper, casting the boat in strange, draining grey light. It makes Jon appear more gaunt, haggard as he slides into the chair across from Martin. He hasn’t been sleeping, that much is clear from the shadows under his eyes, the lifeless sheen to his skin--and even if he hadn’t been looking, the nightmares are enough of a tell themselves. Martin stamps down the spark of pity he feels.

“While you’re right that Peter Lukas has never turned down a chance to hurt us, he’s never gone out of his way to seek us out until now.” Jon clarifies. “He’s--he’s probably not even allowed to kill me.”

“What does that mean?” Martin asks, and Jon twitches uncomfortably. 

“It’s a long story.” Jon deflects, fumbling blindly for his lighter as he lights up yet another cigarette. But Martin isn’t in the mood. 

“No, sorry, you don’t get to do that.” Martin says, stabbing an accusing finger toward Jon. “Now isn’t the time for secrets or being cryptic. No more games, so just talk like a normal person.”

Jon doesn’t so much as flinch, matching Martin’s stony gaze with one of his own. He has never been one to push, or walk directly into conflict, but he holds his ground now, and it doesn’t take long before Jon relents, letting out a long, frustrated noise akin to a growl alongside a billow of smoke. 

"You’re right…” Jon concedes, like he’s been forced to swallow glass. “listen, things have happened with Lukas in the past, terrible things I don't ever wish to repeat--you don't know what he is, the friends he keeps."

“Then tell me.”

“Fine.” Jon starts, his voice adopting a tone of professional distance, his eyes fixed at a point just past Martin's shoulder. “I have not been, nor will I ever be safe as long as I live this life as a creature such as I am. I have spent years avoiding the nets and collars of every monster worse than I that wishes to claim me or my skin. But the Tundra has always been one step ahead of me...”

Jon trails off, lost in thought. He smiles so sadly that Martin almost asks him to stop, but curiosity keeps him quiet. 

“I was so cocky, so sure of myself and my abilities. But you can't avoid a cage when it is shrouded in fog.” Jon continues, “I was caught--Lukas wanted to give me back to the Institute, as a gift, probably. I had to fight tooth and bloody nail to get away before that happened. By the time that damn ship finally vanished from the horizon, I was just angry.

“I met Daisy, and she was willing to help me…deal with the Tundra. So I tried to hurt him. Whatever he wanted I took before he could have it. Whether that be potential victims turned proteges or damaging the ship, it didn't matter. We were riding the world of monsters, at least, that's how it felt...but well, you know.”

His eyes flit up to catch Martin's gaze before shying away. “Things...changed.”

His voice warps and changes, fraying at the edges of control. Martin can feel the way his own face turns down in a grimace, unable to keep his horror from manifesting. Not when Jon bares his soul, albeit reluctantly. 

“But he never retaliated against us,” Jon frowns, with a very unsubtle clearing of his throat, “he’s never batted an eye until now.”

“The Institute you mentioned,” he starts softly, wary of Jon’s responding flinch. “does Lukas have a hand in that as well?”

Jon shakes his head, gathering his arms close around himself. “Not entirely. He supplies them with money and other such things. No, that place is...someone else’s doing.”

“And they hurt you too? They did--” Martin cuts himself off. He weakly gestures toward the whole of Jon. 

“Not all of it.” Jon says, rubbing at a couple of his scars. “But yes.”

“And have you hurt them? Has it even helped at all?”

“No. No it hasn’t.”

“Well.”

“Like I said, I'm not trying to justify my-my monstrosity.” 

“You aren’t a monster, Jon. But I don’t understand why you chose now to run away from everything.”

“Because I’m scared, Martin!” Jon snaps, his voice loud like an explosion between them. “I don’t ever want to set foot on that ship again, and I won’t go back to whatever hellish games await me inland. But Lukas wants you--for what I don’t know, could be something to do with the mark Gerry mentioned or simply just being a part of the Tundra, but that could mean anything. So if it means I have to run to protect us, then I will.”

Martin takes him in, all harsh edges and deranged eyes; biting at his lip with single minded doggedness, nails scraping skin as if to rip up every one of his imperfections up from the root with little care for the damage he’ll leave in its wake. 

“You don’t have to fight the world alone,” he says at last, though he isn’t surprised when Jon just shakes his head in instantaneous refusal.  “I’m scared too, for what it’s worth.”

Jon jerks as if struck. The look on his face shatters the distance between them just as swiftly as it shatters Martin into a million tiny pieces. He meant it to pacify, to calm the turmoil raging away in Jon's mind so plainly. But Jon just looks as if the world crashed around his shoulders, the wall he had been building back up between them falling to the wayside, leaving him small, fragile. 

“I'm sorry.” he says, with such sincerity and grief it stabs a shard of pity deep into his chest, that Jon would assume it was him Martin was afraid of. Maybe in the past that would have rang true, that his deeds would have proven too damning. 

“Just promise you won’t do that again.” Martin says, holding his gaze without flinch. 

Jon bristles immediately, predictably, despite all his claims against defending himself. His face does an interesting dance, twisting an array of emotions too quickly for Martin to truly parse until he lands on something weary, accepting. 

His voice is small, a croak of noise in the hollow of his throat. “Alright.”

“Alright?”

“Yes, okay.”

“Just to clarify, you know I mean the drowning--”

“Yes, Martin. I understand, thank you.” He snorts, a humorless sound but a step in the right direction. 

Martin ducks his head, hiding the small, blooming smile spreading across his lips. He reaches out between them, plucking the cigarette from Jon’s unsteady fingers, ignoring the absolutely pissy look it earns him. Depositing it into the bin where it belongs, he turns back to face Jon, daring him to argue. 

Jon scowls, albeit softly, something turning it wobbly. He raises the binoculars back up to scan the empty yet teeming wake they leave behind, not saying another word.

(LINK TO READ THE REST IN THE REBLOGS)

[seriouslyhooked]

The Same Soul (Part 6)

Available on FF Here and AO3 Here. Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5.

Our world AU where Emma and Killian knew each other as teenagers. Killian was sent to spend a summer with family in America. He met foster kid Emma while there. They fell in love but then he was forced back home and she couldn’t take the memories so she ran away, trying her best to move on from the dreams they’d always hoped for. A chance meeting brings them back together years later, and this time nothing and no one will keep them apart. Rated M.

A/N: Hey all! So after a few months away from this fic, I am back and more ready than ever to tell this story. I love a fic that takes place in both the present and the past. It’s a really fun thing for me and I hope you all feel it adds some good context and dynamic to this AU overall. In this chapter we are back in the past, during the summer that Killian and Emma first met, and it’s been about a month since their first date. It’s a fluffy chapter to be sure, but there’s some moments that might have just a touch of angst. And that’s all I should say, don’t want to spoil too much. Anyway, hope you enjoy and thanks so much for reading!

(Past)

Today is going to be a really good day.

It was the first coherent thought that crossed through Emma’s mind this morning as she woke with the sun, stretching her still sleepy limbs across the softness of her mattress. She was thrilled at the prospect of today, and grateful to have a totally free and clear Saturday. Because there was no camp on the weekends, Emma was left to her own devices, and, as with most other free days that she’d had here this summer, she was going to spend that time with someone she now couldn’t imagine not being in her life.

Even the thought of seeing Killian sent a rush of warmth through her, and Emma knew if she looked in a mirror right now her cheeks would be flushed a noticeable shade of pink. She never blushed before, schooling herself to keep all of her feelings as contained as possible,  but it was unavoidable with Killian. He just got to her in a way no one else ever had. He was charming, yes, and he was also crazy cute, so much so that he distracted her both when they were together and apart, but he was also thoughtful and attentive and patient in a way that let Emma know that he cared for her while also giving her breathing room to be whoever she wanted to be. Emma craved that specific blend of connection and freedom after years of being on her own, and she didn’t know how the hell he managed to understand her so well, but she’d started thinking of Killian as the ‘Emma whisperer’ in her secret musings these past few weeks.

For all her life, or at least as long as she could remember, Emma had been called closed off. The case workers assigned to monitor her and the people at the homes she stayed in said good things about her independence and self-reliance, but at the end of the day it was her guarded nature that people commented on most. That was purposeful, a defense against heartbreak that Emma learned long ago. If she kept people at a distance, and managed all of her expectations, she wouldn’t grow attached and wouldn’t feel disappointment. This made the way things were now so foreign to her. Emma had never woken up each day looking forward to the present. All her life she had been stuck, caught up in the flow of the small but unsteady existence she led. She had nowhere to belong and no one to belong to, and being so unmoored made it that much harder to invest in the good things in life. But this summer that was all beginning to change.

Part of it was this place, this corner of the world that was so serene and green and lively. It was so much quieter than the city she had always known, but no less alive. The woods out here were teeming with life, with birds and bugs and all sorts of creatures Emma felt like she’d never quite get used to seeing and she loved it. Every day was new, but it also felt routine. That was something Emma never really had, and so it calmed her, just as much as her nearly day trips to the coastline did. Watching the waves come in and out and hearing them lapping on the shore helped her center herself, and getting lost on the well trod paths out in the woods somehow made her feel more found than she ever had. She felt safe in this magical location, but so much of that sense safety also came from Killian.

It was hard to put into words why that was. There were so many little things, so many actions tied up in words and moments she would cherish forever, but it had been about month since she met him, and Emma swore each day her walls crumbled just a little bit more. There was so much between them now, and no one in the world knew her like Killian did. She had shared her thoughts, her dreams, and her hopes, and that was a huge thing for her because sometimes, in her darkest moments, she wondered if those wishes were worth having. Life had been hard, but this summer was a lesson in the goodness that could exist too, and when she thought of goodness Emma’s mind always started and stopped with Killian. She saw his smile, she heard his laugh, she felt the press of his lips on hers and the warmth of his hands on her body, and she replayed the quiet but bold affirmations he gave to her every day.

‘You steal my breath away, love.’

‘You make me hope, Emma. You make me feel that anything is possible.’

‘There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than with you.’

Those were just a few of the unimaginable things he’d said to her over the past few weeks, and somehow she believed him every time. The ability she had to sniff out a lie had never been triggered with Killian. He was honorable and honest, earnest and sincere, and while that was amazing and miraculous, it was also still an incredibly scary thing for Emma to know and accept.

Because right now, as good as things were and as happy as she was, there was a risk. This could all go sideways at any moment. This summer was eventually going to end. She was going to leave this magical place, and this boy who she loved was going to leave too.

“Love?” Emma said the word aloud, rocked into a state of shock that she’d so freely used a word she never shared with another living soul. She had never loved anyone before, but there it was: she loved Killian.

But that was crazy! Loving him was crazy, and yet she did, and she didn’t want to fight it. It was hard to tell if she even could. Nothing had worked against him when it came to her defenses. One by one he brought them down just by being himself, and the feeling when he did made it all seem worth it. If today was the last day she ever had with Killian, it might just kill her, but she couldn’t seem to run preemptively. She had to see him, had to soak this all in as much as she could.

Still, as she got ready for the morning ahead, Emma knew that there was one thing that scared her most when it came to Killian and it was simple even in its abundant complexity: where as Killian had been completely forthcoming, telling her everything about his life, from his derelict Dad to the passing of his mother, she had held back. She had given him so much more than she ever had to anyone else, but the most important part of all, the part about her being abandoned and never finding anyone who wanted her all this time, that was still a secret. He didn’t know she was in foster care, he just knew she was on scholarship. He asked about her family a few times and she diverted, but that was weeks ago. He respected her not wanting to discuss it, but what would he say when he knew? Would he still look at her like she was some kind of perfect person? Or would he see that she was ordinary, or worse that she wasn’t worth loving after all?

The tolling of the clock on the mantel told her that she had no more time to dwell in these awful what-ifs, because Killian was supposed to be here now. Since he had never ever been late in all their time knowing each other, Emma knew he’d already be waiting for her at the gate, and when she grabbed her bag and locked the door behind her, she turned to find she was exactly right. But still, even if they’d shared weeks of similar moments, she was still struck breathless by the sight of him, and the world seemed to spin just a little more than usual as she made her way towards him.

“Emma,” he said in greeting, his eyes filled with both relief and appreciation as she meandered towards him.

No sooner was she through the gate than his hands were on her, pulling her close with a speed that made her gasp. He smiled at her, running one hand along her cheek as the other held her hip. Then he dipped his lips to hers, kissing her with in a slow and sensual way that made her want more, while still being appropriate enough for this not so private place.

“I missed you, love,” he said when he pulled back, the truth in his eyes shining just as bright as the cerulean flecks in his ocean blue gaze.

“You just saw me last night,” Emma quipped, though her heart was pounding in elated satisfaction.

“Aye, but it makes no difference. You know I hate to leave you. Nothing feels right again until we are together.”

“Well lucky for you we have all day,” Emma said and Killian agreed he was a lucky man before kissing her again. This time though, their stolen moment was interrupted by a low whine coming from below, and Emma laughed as she pulled back, crouching low to greet the other favorite companion she’d met this summer.

“I’m not the only one who missed you,” Killian said as Emma loved on Missy with her usual vigor. She loved this dog so much, almost as much as Killian seemed to, and hearing she was missed not just by Killian but by Missy as well made Emma feel so special.

“I missed you both too,” Emma whispered as she stood up, ducking her head so Killian wouldn’t see her eyes which were threatening to water in the face of all this affection. But he waited her out, taking her hand and running his thumb back and forth along her skin absentmindedly.

“It won’t always be like this, Emma.”

Hearing that made her stomach cramp up in actual pain. It hurt to realize that Killian saw the end of this too. When summer came she’d miss him even more, but when Killian tilted her face up to his she was confused. Because he didn’t look sad – he looked determined.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that someday soon there will come a day when we don’t need to be parted. Not for a single night.”

Emma didn’t even know how to respond to that. She wanted it, but she also knew how far away that day must be. Here he was saying it would be soon, but they were still so young. They couldn’t make decisions about their life like that until they were of age, and though Killian was older, he had a few months left before he hit eighteen. But even with all that, the look in his eyes gave Emma no choice but to hope. He had that expression again, the one that said he’d stop at nothing to see a good thing come to pass, and everything she knew about Killian told Emma that where he had a will he would always make a way. Instead of responding to him directly, she pressed another swift kiss to his lips and smiled, watching as the action calmed him down and melted away some of the harshness of before.

“So, what are we doing today?” she asked, after pulling back and taking his hand once more.

“Nice try, love, but you know it’s not that simple,” Killian teased. His propensity for surprising her had only continued as the summer went on and Emma groaned, though it was mostly for show.

“You’re lucky I always bring everything just in case.”

Emma stopped short after her unanticipated confession, hoping that Killian wouldn’t realize how true that was. She essentially had everything that mattered to her in this bag right now. That’s how few belongings she really cared about. There were clothes and such at her living quarters, but the few items she truly valued went with her wherever she went just in case. She’d never had to run before, but she was always prepared, even now.

“You all right, Emma?” Killian asked and Emma nodded, regrouping and doing her best to immerse herself back in the day with Killian.

He made it as easy as possible to do so, bringing her to one of her favorite places in the area – the beach. Once there they walked along the coast, passing dozens of other people, some with their families, and some with friends, until finally they were at her favorite spot – a sandy patch nestled between rock-lined coves that Killian had brought her to a few weeks ago.

“I still can’t believe no one knows about this place,” Emma said, shaking her head in awe as she helped Killian spread out the blanket he’d brought for the two of them to use.

When that was done, she reached for her shirt, stripping it away and shedding her shorts leaving her in only her bathing suit, and she didn’t think much of it. She was so comfortable with Killian at this point and they’d done this a number of times. She didn’t think of it as anything more than an innocent act, but when she looked back over at him, surprised at his silence, she realized how much she effected him. The look in his eyes was a cross between ravenous and bewitched and it made her feel immensely powerful. She could have chosen to wilt under his appraisal or feel embarrassed, but how could she when he was so obvious? He was clearly very pleased with what he saw, and that was only fair seeing as how in a few short moments, he’d lose his shirt and she’d feel the same way.

“Cat got your tongue, Jones?” Emma teased and she heard a low rumbling sound that she might have mistaken for Missy if it wasn’t heard a time or two before. No, that was all Killian, losing his head again and letting some sort of primal side take over. It thrilled her to know how much he wanted her, and this back and forth was intoxicating to her. It turned out Emma liked a bit of a chase, and with that in mind she smiled widely at him before sprinting at the water, knowing he was half a second from pulling her close.

Hearing his curses and the sound of him trying to get rid of his own clothes was hard over her laughter, but Emma was now attuned to these moments that she’d play back later like her favorite song. She made it to the water’s edge, delighting in the cold ocean as it counteracted the heat of the sun and her exertion, but then she was caught, with Killian’s arms wrapping around her as he carried her further into the water. She screamed, but in a playful way, and then they were submerged together underneath the ocean swell, bobbing underneath the waves until they came back up again and she splashed him in foe offense.

“Killian!”

“What? We needed to cool off, love. If we didn’t we’d run the very real risk of being charged with public indecency.”

“Is that right?” Emma asked as Killian caught her again in the water. Being like this she let her legs wrap around him as he held her. She wouldn’t go so far in real life, but here it just felt right. It was a tease of what could be, and as she felt his hard body underneath her she squirmed a bit, making him groan again.

“Have I ever told you how tempting you are, Swan?”

“Only like every day,” she replied, biting her lip to keep back a smirk and getting exactly what she wanted in return – another heated kiss. And damn was it hot, even with the water around them, Emma was burning up, taking it just to the edge with Killian and wishing so badly that they could go even further. So far they hadn’t, choosing to be much slower in their physical intimacy while they truly got to know one another, but Emma was finding more and more each day how impatient she was. She didn’t like the waiting, and if Killian weren’t so steadfast in taking things slow… well, she didn’t really know where they’d be right now.

“God, you undo me,” he said resting his forehead against hers, his breath coming out in harsh pants that mirrored hers. She sighed at his words, closing her eyes and taking it all in. She wanted to keep this moment forever, just like all the others, and she was almost afraid to open her eyes again, thinking maybe this was all just some crazy beautiful dream.

Yet as the day went on, there was more and more proof that this wasn’t a dream. This was really her life, and Emma was happier than she’d ever been before. Their time on the beach evolved into a picnic in the cove, and then a long walk with Missy through town. They got ice cream, they watched the ships come in and out of port, and they talked with each other about anything and everything. As the sun set, they enjoyed the natural beauty, watching the sky change and the fading light bid goodbye to a nearly perfect day. It made Emma worry that they’d soon be saying goodbye to each other as well, but Killian had other plans. Down for anything herself, Emma followed him back through town not so far from where she was staying. Before they got there, though, Killian stopped at a giant estate Emma had seen before and recognized as his Uncle’s. She felt her heart catch – she’d never been to his Uncle’s place before. Was this some sort of meeting she didn’t know about? She wasn’t dressed for this, or ready, but before she could truly panic Killian kissed her hand in a knowing and gentle manner.

“Don’t worry, love. We’re not going inside tonight. My plans are of a more outdoor nature.”

Emma expelled a breath, glad for that fact but then her mind wandered to how gorgeous this place was. As spectacular as the main estate was of her benefactress, this house was just as palatial but in a different way. It was less manicured and groomed. The flowers here were less cultivated and more organic, honoring the true beauty of the world around them. Emma still couldn’t fathom why anyone needed a house so large, but as they went behind the house, Emma’s breath caught again.

“Oh my god,” she said, the words carrying on the wind as she took in the sight before her. For there was a path lit up in the night by tasteful, gilded lanterns leading deep into the woods.

“I wish I could take the credit for these, but my it’s all my Uncle’s doing.”

“He must be a real romantic,” Emma said, and Killian looked thoughtful.

“Perhaps. If he is, he’s sadly unmatched now.”

“He could still find someone,” Emma said, suddenly hoping for happiness for a man she’d never even met.

“I hope he will,” Killian said. “But trust me, Swan, this isn’t what I brought you here to see.”

Emma couldn’t imagine what could be better than this, and the whole way out into the woods she found herself wondering where they could be going. The golden glow around them as the twilight darkened towards full blown night was so surreal and almost otherworldly. She could hardly fathom where it would lead, until they came to a large clearing. She waited for something, not really understanding what the end game was here and just when she was about to ask why they had come here she spotted the first blip at the corner of her eye.

“Fireflies,” she whispered, not realizing if she spoke aloud the thought that crossed her mind.

For nearly seventeen years Emma wondered what fireflies really looked like. Would they embody the magic that stories and movies seemed to make of them? It was somewhat suspect to her, until now, when she could feel the anticipation and the instant satisfaction of seeing one and then another and then another. This clearing, for whatever reason, was filled with them and it seemed Killian had timed this exactly right for them to take in the show.

“Now some might say that this is the best seat in the house. They don’t seem to go very far into the trees, so you can see them all just fine right here.” Killian murmured the words as if speaking too loudly might scare away these new little beings.

“But what if…” Emma trailed off, not wanting to ask for more when he’d already given her so much. Yet again Killian’s thoughtfulness was gifting her with an impossibly wonderful experience, and to make a suggestion right now just felt ungrateful.

“What if we wanted to be in the thick of it?” Killian asked, reading her mind and Emma nodded quickly prompting a smile from Killian. “Well, I came prepared for that.”

Emma tore her attention between the continuing lights around them and Killian rummaging through his backpack, but when he produced two flashlights covered in blue tissue paper she was surprised. “It’s an old trick my brother learned when we were kids. Fireflies are drawn to the color blue. It attracts them, like moths to a flame.”

“I can relate,” Emma said, thinking of Killian’s eyes but covering her mouth in horror as she realized she said that aloud. “Pretend I didn’t say that.”

“Not likely, Swan,” Killian replied, pulling her closer and kissing her sweetly before handing her her flashlight. “Now come on, we’ve only got a little while with them. Let’s make the most of it.”

Emma was glad for his request because he ended up being oh so right. The lightening bugs were breathtaking and astounding, spiraling through the meadow in entrancing little swirls, some of them even landing on her and Killian. He was right about the lights. They seemed to love it, and Emma adored the sensation of being surrounded by them all. Everywhere she looked there were golden blips, sparkles in the night that pulsed in perfect harmony with the rest of this wooded grove. She instantly knew that stories couldn’t do this justice. One had to experience this, they had to feel the summer heat turning to a nighttime cool, smell that woodsy smell of fresh earth and green leaves, and hear the gentle buzzing of these tiny beetles in flight. Only though first hand experience could someone understand the real beauty behind this and appreciate what a strange and amazing occurrence this was in nature. It made Emma believe in something else, something divine, because such a perfect moment couldn’t be an accident. It had to be fate.

They stayed out there, for how long Emma couldn’t be sure, but in that time she let her guard down completely, even more than she usually would. Killian always made her feel older, like a woman or an adult, but right now this was a space where they could be a bit more childlike. She never had this as a little kid and she loved it, and Killian seemed to love her love. They laughed together, running around at different moments, taking in the ebb and flow of these little lightening bugs with the help of their flashlights. Sometimes they landed on her, lighting up her sun-tanned skin in this almost ethereal way, other times they lit up Killian, illuminating his expression which was already so bright and happy, making Emma’s palpable joy climb even higher. But eventually, their private little light show ended. Perfect moments had to come to a close, and one by one the bugs flew off, leaving Emma and Killian out there alone under the pale moonlight, lying out under the ever brightening stars.

“God that was… I don’t even have words.”

“So you liked it then?” Killian asked, as if it wasn’t a given that this was one of the single best moments of her life.

“I’ve never been so happy,” she confessed, looking over to Killian and wondering if it was okay to say that. Did she seem weird or desperate? It only took one moment to know he didn’t see her that way.

“There’s something I have to tell you, Emma. Something I’ve been wanting to say for a long time.” She could hear her heart beating in her chest, pounding in anticipation until he said three words she wanted to hear more than any other. “I love you.”

Emma let those three little words wash over her, seeping into her very being like water to a rose. The elation at knowing that this incredible human being could feel for her what she felt for him was sensational. In the magic of the moonlight, lit up as she was from such a perfect day, Emma finally knew what it was to belong and to feel at home. Killian had made all of these beautiful moments possible in her life. He made ordinary things feel extraordinary and exceptional. He looked out for her, applauded her, cheered her on ,and believed in her. He made time for her and he listened to her, reassuring her at every impasse that she was smart and fun and worth being around.  He showed her every single day since the first day they met that she was important to him, and right now, when he told her he loved her she knew that he meant it. In a bond forged in honesty and truthfulness, this was somehow the truest thing he’d ever said to her, and it brought happy tears to her eyes. She wanted this so much – wanted him more than anything else in the world – but he didn’t really know her, and realizing that she now had to come clean broke her heart.

“I know you think that, but you wouldn’t say that if you knew everything,” Emma said, sitting up and hiding her face as her knees automatically came in, curling her up into a fearful stance. But before she could retreat too far into herself, she felt his hand on her, a gentle reminder of his devotion.

“Emma, I promise you there is nothing to know that would change how I feel. I love you. Don’t ever doubt that. Whatever you think there is still left to tell me, I swear on everything it won’t change my love.”

“But it will!” She cried out, her tears no streaming as her throat closed from the pain of it all. “You don’t get it. You can’t love me because no one ever has. I have no parents, no family. They gave me up. They didn’t want me.”

“Emma,” Killian whispered, but she couldn’t let him reassure her. She appreciated that his hands stayed on her but she had to get this out.

“I don’t know what happened to them. I was found as a newborn and no one could figure out where I came from so I went into the system and I never left. When I was little I liked to think that they still wanted me. Maybe they’d come back. Maybe they were sorry for leaving me. But whatever kept them from keeping me it doesn’t matter. The end result is the same. I went into the system and no one ever wanted me. I was never good enough. I never fit. I don’t belong.”

“That’s not true, Emma. You do belong. You belong right here with me.”

“How do you know that? How are you sure?”

“Because there’s nothing in my life that means as much as you. No one who makes me feel so much, who makes me want again. You are this rare and impossible treasure, like an angel from a dream and yet you’re real. And it doesn’t matter to me where you come from, it only matters because it made you Emma, the girl I love, the only one I ever will.”

“I love you too,” Emma confessed, “But I’m scared. I’ve never loved anyone. I don’t know how – I -,”

Her worries were pushed aside as Killian brought her close, kissing her apprehension away and trying to show her the intensity of his feelings. His faith in this was so strong and so reassuring, it was impossible to deny him. His love was still so strong even though he knew. She had told him her last terrible secret – she’d shared just how lost and lonely she really was – and here he stayed, claiming her, wanting her, loving her.

“I thought I was broken, Emma,” he said as they came apart, but just barely, clinging to each other with all this heavy emotion swirling around. “When my Mum died I thought I was mostly gone with her.  I didn’t think I’d ever be happy again, I felt like nothing mattered anymore, and then I met you and I realized that even in darkness there is light. You saved me, Emma. You made me whole, putting back pieces I never had, even when she was here. And you did it with your smile and your wit. You did it with the look you get when you know you’re right, and the way you always want to help anybody in any way that you can. I hadn’t even known you a day and I knew I’d never be the same, and that I want you forever. I didn’t get a chance to say it before, but I feel as you do. Today was the happiest I’ve ever been and it’s all because of you. Because you love me, and because, even if you’re afraid, I know that love isn’t going anywhere.”

“I might mess this up,” Emma admitted, knowing that anything was possible with something so new and foreign to her.

“You couldn’t even if you tried, love. Something this right is fated to happen. You can’t run away from destiny. You can’t muck it up. It follows you, and you, Emma Swan, are my destiny.”

How could she compete with words like that when they spoke to exactly how she felt? Emma didn’t know, so she followed her instincts, pulling him close and spending the rest of the few precious hours they had left before her curfew reveling in this new state they were in. Love had been here for some time, but to have it shared like this, spoken aloud and agreed to so clearly was indescribable. She still was afraid, she still was unsure, but that wasn’t going to hold her back. Whatever she didn’t know she would learn, and whatever obstacles may come, she knew Killian would be there for her every step of the way. She just had to keep fighting and keep choosing this new life, two things she planned to do as long as she had her soul mate by her side.

Post-Note: Hey all, so I know that I have done the firefly thing before, but for me personally it’s one of the highlights of every summer. I genuinely love seeing the fireflies. I loved catching them as a kid, I love watching them with my family, and I think sharing that magic with someone you love is just about the sweetest thing you can do. I wanted Killian to share that with Emma, and I think that having written so many stories, it’s okay if there’s some overlap. I mean as the self-dubbed queen of fluff, I have recycled a trope or two before already… Anyway, next chapter is going to also be partially in the past and as you might have guessed it will be from Killian’s POV. That being said, it’s a very heavy chapter but I will not leave you guys in pain or suspense. There’s nothing I hate more than leaving a story in a precarious place, especially emotionally, trust that I will make it right even if I break our hearts just a little bit in the process. As always, I thank you all so much for reading. I hope you’ve enjoyed, and I would love to hear what you think!

[wishingforatypewriter]

Hi, if it’s not too much to ask may I ask for a snippet or something in that way for Yuna and Kairi? I am curious on how their interactions look like.

Of course! Thanks for the request! 

The first time Enomoto Kairi laid eyes on Marui Yuna — in the honors literature class that only the worst kind of nerds would sign up for at a school like Totsuki — she reminded him a little of Snow White, with her red lips and short black hair.

It was an image that persisted in his mind despite the many valid reasons — from her being very clearly in love with someone else to the fact that she was the daughter of his mother’s ex-fiance who’d left her for a television personality — why it would have been smart of him not to pursue her.

But pursue her he had, in his own unobtrusive way. And he still wasn’t sure whether he’d live to regret it.

She was outside in the garden, lying at the base of a tall tree and reading her latest historical romance. As he drew closer, bearing a bowl of tsukimi udon and a book light, he saw that she was squinting slightly. She always became so immersed in her stories that she became blind to the passing hours, the sun’s evening retreat.

“Yuna-san,” he said gently, knowing that she would not think to look up, even if someone was standing directly in front of her. “It’s nighttime already.”

“Huh?” She glanced up from her book — Jane Eyre, again — and rubbed at her right eye beneath her glasses. “It was just two o’clock,” she said, mostly to herself.

That was when she had decided to come outside with her novel rather than listen to Ibusaki-kun on the phone with his girlfriend. Kairi wondered how much time it had taken her to stop thinking about him, and how much he had until she’d start again.

“You should eat something,” he said, offering her the udon recipe he’d revised three times before working up the nerve to approach her. “And maybe read in better light.”

Yuna stretched. “What would I do without you, Kairi?” she asked with an easy smile that never failed to unmoor him.

As she reached up to take the food from him, and he reached down to give it to her, they both noticed that there were no chopsticks for her to eat with.

Kairi could have slapped himself in the face; he’d gotten so wrapped up in finding one of those book lights with the adjustable necks that he’d completely forgotten.

“Ah, sorry, Yuna-san,” he said, turning fire-engine red. “I’ll run inside and go get some.”

She shook her head before placing the bookmark carefully between the pages. Then she stood, somewhat unsteadily, in the way of someone whose leg had been asleep for several hours. “It’s fine. Let’s head back in.”

“You’re sure?” he asked. “It would only take me a minute.”

“I can’t hide out here forever,” she said with a small sigh, and started to walk.

Kairi watched her go for a moment, porcelain skin and midnight hair, and wondered if he imagined the way the grass and plants all bent before her, the way the woodland creatures slowed in deference as she passed.

She turned around sharply, one hand resting on her hip as she appraised him. “Kairi, come on.”

Needless to say, he didn’t have to be told twice.

Even if he was doomed to suffer the same fate as his mother, which seemed more likely than not, he’d walk behind her — as lab partner, friend, shoulder to cry on — as long as she wanted him there.

[blood-and-cigars]

I liked the redemption discussion. talk to me about arcs

Sure I’ll give it a shot. All of this is wildly up to interpretation though. Hellsing is very difficult to analyze because the characters are all so opaque.

What are they thinking, what’s going on in theirs heads? Who knows? I sure don’t. It’s all guesswork.

If it isn’t already clear, anything I say about Alucard is going to get really dark, really fast.

So characters begin their arc with two defining characteristics— who they are, and how they view the world. One of these will change, if not both.

Constant characters also exist but a) that’s an entirely different kettle of fish and b) I’d argue even they experience change in questioning their views/self and then ultimately having them reinforced.

Arcs usually relate to the main theme of the story. If you consider a story an argument, then each arc is a different angle of that argument.

I think Hellsing’s larger themes focus on agency, nihilism, and loyalty/blind belief in a larger uncaring cause.

There’s also a motif of decadence and obsolescence; what it means to exist in a world that’s moved on without you. What happens when you’ve exhausted yourself, in the literal sense, for the object of your devotion to the point where it no longer has use for you?

Alucard’s arc largely depends on what you consider his starting point to be and how you interpret his past. And also how much you take from Hellsing vs Dracula (the book and the Coppola movie) vs actual real life historical figure Vlad the Impaler. There are numerous ways to merge all that material into a single timeline and form a character from that.

I’ve already spoken about how I interpret Alucard… extensively (this might as well be an Alucard blog lol). 

To sum up my thoughts in the previous discussion a bit more succinctly, I think his arc is focused more on personal healing through interpersonal relationships. And while he may become a (slightly?) better person in the equation, it’s secondary and directly because he’s learning to pick up the pieces a bit more efficiently.

IMO his arc encompasses all of the themes I listed above, perhaps more so than any other character. He’s a foil to Millennium, Anderson, and Walter. In the end, he’s the only monster to survive, because he’s the only one who adapts beyond only existing for a singular purpose.

While he may have been already driven by very specific goals before, by the time he’s captured by Hellsing, I believe he begins to define himself entirely by whatever objective he’s pursuing. On the individual scale he is/considers himself to be nothing. He is only worth as much as his cause, as much as his usefulness to that cause.

However, by the start of the story, his life is a laundry list of failure and obsolescence.

God has no more use for him, as he’s a damned creature. He already denounced God anyway. His people do not need him; they’ve been dead for centuries. The world is an entirely different place from since he was human. He’s a relic. 

Hellsing itself— the sole focus of his life for the last century— locked him away for twenty years.

He may find purpose for himself in serving Integra and teaching Seras, but then even that comes into question in the very last episode. (which I am still upset was so rushed :DDD)

Thirty years pass while he is killing off his own familiars, and life goes on without him. Seras is no longer a fledgling, she didn’t need his guidance. Integra didn’t even need him to keep hunting vampires. Everything kept going without a hitch.

This all cements that he is not indispensable. He is not needed for any greater calling. He’s just as unmoored and empty as every other vampire he puts down.

My absolute favorite part from Hellsing is the flashback in volume 9, where Arthur describes vampires, and Alucard in particular, as revenants jumping from conflict to conflict, destroying everything in their path until finally something can definitively kill them. And honestly this seems to be backed up by Alucard’s reaction to potentially worthy adversaries. By how crestfallen he seems to be, on his own behalf, when Anderson uses the nail of Helena, because he’s convinced only a human can truly defeat him. It all suggests (imo) that he very well wants to be defeated. 

Then, if he is so single mindedly seeking out his own death, then once given the ability to be everywhere and nowhere… why doesn’t he let himself just dissolve into nothing?

Something changed between the starting point and the end point.

I think that’s the realization that he does not exist just to be used. You can want to live because of the people you care about. (if not just for the sake of life— I think he isn’t that far along yet)

It’s the realization that you can care about people at all, and that it matters. Feelings, emotions, whims, they matter and he can have just as much of a place with Integra, with Seras, because they like being around him, not just because he’s a tool that’s fulfilling a need of some sort.

In a roundabout way, it’s an achingly slow move towards the discovery of self worth. But that’s going to take him awhile. In the meantime actually admitting that he’s more than a glorified wrench is a step up.

And absolutely in the process he becomes a bit less… murderous… probably. Because allowing for empathy means allowing for mercy.

[koscheimaryas]

patria amarabasil + if i am not yours, what am i?

if i am not yours, what am i? starring amara and basil

The passion for the unknown was something Amara Tavoularis had been acquainted with through the biggest part of her brief, fickle twenty-two years. Ever since she was a kid, skipping pavement lines at Heraklion’s port, sliding her little fingers down the powdery, uneven limestone that kept those boundless buildings intact, she felt like there was more to those days than whatever the rest of the world wanted her to believe in. Although vast, life didn’t seem to be enough. It was a means to an end, the needed suffering before bliss, the first step to some improbable peace that had nothing to do with what catholics preached about celestial beings and the towering gates of heaven. No, it was something else entirely.

For very long, Amara believed that the answers to her intruding questions were well-kept secrets by the colossal, human-like statues of gods and goddesses scattered all over her country, their faces carved out of nightmares and the dreams of insightful people. Those harsh, beautiful lines told stories to the ones who listened, of a time where different, way more terrible beings roamed the earth, entertained by the lesser creatures, and thus their playthings for as long as they wanted. Centuries after, such things became stories to tell naughty children and scare them into discipline, nothing but a myth, a fable, whatever unreal.

Demons and their possibilities became exploited for pure entertainment, given creative backgrounds and terrifying features, subjects of horror and fiction. If they had ever been real, such knowledge wasn’t given away freely to the common people. Classical, time-honored institutions were the only ones that kept any tangible registers about the old and unmoored, those cruel, eternal beasts that haunted humanity still, even if only in their minds. Amara, however, had a much different notion about such terror, gifted for her studious qualities and load of money, priviledged enough to be one of the students that dedicated their lives to whatever had come before them, enamored by the history of the world and all that was left behind about it. She drowned in gigantic books, parcels and crumbling evidence of the unnatural, the infinite. She kept a solid facade by also studying literature and the powerful words of those deemed to be human.

Down the profuse, ancient halls of the academy, taking turns and turns until she reached private areas, however, was where the real magic happened. Amara and whoever had come before her for hundreds of years kept the keys to things a few only dreamed of, capable enough to be granted such honor. Still, unearthing thousand year-old secrets was something far away from her interests. She felt way more connected to those who had actually roamed the earth and left registers of it behind, beautiful, poetic prose about their studies and their enticing lives. Reading about the Dionysian Mysteries felt much more insightful than partaking in one. Translating lines upon lines of Greek tragedies gave her life meaning, but even then, that classic passion for the unknown still tugged at her, rattling her senseless.

At first, the girl had told herself that she was only curious of her own capability and what a measly little séance could bring forth. After she was done with it, Tavoularis realized how that had been her biggest mistake to that day. For what had awakened from fire, blood and stone was a short-tempered being, bored out of his mind and extremely distant from any human notion of demons and such, except for one detail. Just like most of the romantic literature portrayed tirelessly, that creature was the loveliest Amara had ever seen in her entire life, from the sculpted body to the smoldering eyes. He was beautiful in a way that brought humanity to tears, a vision that should never be subjected to the weakest, under the danger of anyone losing their minds. That night, she understood the reason why demons drove many people mad. Their lack of naturality was what shook people to their core, and not their caprice for cruelty.

She painfully learned during her studies that the demon’s name was Basileus, and that he was in no danger of being chained to her forever even though she knew his title. Just like her, he had been a student there, bound to those walls after trying out his luck with the devil, and getting way more from the deal than he should. Overall, Basil posed no risk to her, content with roaming their little world and getting into scholars’ minds from time to time. Amara had no mission for the creature, no earthly desire to fulfill. And because of that, she was content with summoning him during the most ungodly hours, abusing his centurial knowledge whenever she hit a wall during her studies. After him, her papers became even better than they already were, nevermind the blood-red ink scribbled down the margins used by the being. Soon, the demon became a permanent fixture in her life, walking down their halls leisurely with her whenever he felt like it and giving very unnecessary insights about her life and the company she kept.

Countless times, Amara caught herself observing him from afar. Whenever he occupied the rickety chair in her bedroom, busy with their joined reads and mind numbing translations, her eyes traveled down his handsome face on its own accord, tracing sensual lines and cataloguing those unnatural features the best that she could. He showed up on her dreams more than often, haunting her sleep with the diabolic curve of his smile, the chilled, charcoal tone of his voice, telling her the things she never thought she wanted to hear, at least not from him. Because of Basileus, her very own boyfriend lost all of his appeal, the boy who had once been the subject of desire of the entire Academy’s female population. Nevermind the fact that her demon whispered down her ear words of wisdom about her betrothed’s uselessness on a daily basis, slowly convincing her of it. Truth be told, Amara was simply bored of her life, her human experiences and plastic clique. Always the center of attention, having Basil around gave her a new sense of life, of pure, unmarred existence.

Those days, it got harder and harder to get him out of her thoughts, the image of him vivid inside her head, no matter what she was doing. Amara had forgotten how dangerous a demon could be; not because he was harmful in any way, but because control of the situation slowly trickled down her hands. He wasn’t simply some century-old creature anymore, untouchable and distant. He was the realest thing in her entire existence. Basileus inserted himself in every single corner of her mind, and as much as she hated to admit, sooner than later, he would not fail to seize her heart as well. After a very unfortunate event where he had caught her naked, distracted by the afterdaze of a much needed hot bath, the girl had become even more reckless with the way her thoughts directed themselves to the demon every single time. The reason for that wasn’t easy to digest. No one had ever looked at her the way he had done at that fracture of a second, that stolen moment, like he was a simple, fleshly being dying of thirst, tormented by carnal deviation. And because of that, Tavoularis let herself wonder if he wasn’t just as plagued by the impossibility of them like she was.

Lusimeles, as described by Sappho, what Eros had been made of. Desire that melts the limbs. After that moment, nothing had been the same again. She was always acutely aware of his presence, of the way his body was never exactly there, but still never failed to rattle her to her core. Desire that melts the limbs. Amara couldn’t quite believe herself; the notion of falling in love or even in lust with a demon was much harder to accept than she thought. Books failed to picture the utter despair of it, the way the hopelessness of her situation could knock someone dead. Many times, she caught herself laughing desperately whenever she remembered that night, and the fact that she wished he had never left the small cubicle. More than anything, she wanted to understand how he would feel, how much his fingers sliding down her spine would end her, how he’d ruin her just the way she wanted to. Desiring was a sickness of its own accord. Brother, sometimes you terrify me, Aldo Amparán had once written. You make my heart gallop like buffaloes in the white desert, large bodies advancing their fall. Basileus terrified her.

When tying down a demon during any type of summoning, it was believed by many that understood nothing of it that whoever knew the creature’s name held power over it. Yet Amara felt anything but powerless. He had never been hers in any sense of the word; in fact, she feared everything was actually the other way around. If I am not yours, what am i? She had written down her journal just the previous night, feigning interest for her studies. Right below the violent, scribbled mess: amachanon. Uncontrolled. Irresistible. She wished Basileus never found those pages and the excruciating, embarrassing reality of them. She wished he never found out about just how deeply he had inserted himself under her skin, in a way that should've never been allowed. Most days, Amara wished she had never been bored enough to go and summon him. Most days, she knew just how much that was a lie.

[amyddaniels]

Coronavirus, the Butterfly Effect, and the Myth of Your Insignificance

Contributing editor Jennifer Davis-Flynn reflects on the reverberating and unpredictable effects of acts of harm and love during a global pandemic. Plus, self-care practices to fuel your compassion.

It’s easy to feel helpless and insignificant during the best of times. These are not those times.

2020 is unrecognizable from 2019. We are afraid of strangers and crowds for new, potentially deadly reasons. We are untethered from our comforting routines. We are frightened by the very real loss of our livelihood, our health, and our loved ones.

Every day, we wonder, when will the pandemic end? Every day, we struggle to make plans and envision a future. We are wayfinding with the only resources we have: intuition and discernment. There is no other way to move forward, when it feels like no one is coming to save us.

The Butterfly Effect is a founding principle of Chaos Theory

And yet...

A surprise wildflower on my deck

In May, I planted four sheets of seed paper that I got from a local restaurant, in a flower box on my deck. I watched with delight as four green sprouts emerged. One of those sprouts transformed into a magnificent ombre wildflower. I’ve watched this little seed bloom into its full expression of being and provide nourishment for life in my little neighborhood. One giant monarch butterfly visits regularly. Hummingbirds and bees drop by to feast on its nectar. This small, unremarkable act of planting a seed has significantly impacted the living creatures that surround me.

The Butterfly Effect

My butterfly visitor got me thinking about the Butterfly Effect, a theory associated with Edward Lorenz, an American mathematician and meteorologist who studied numerical weather prediction in the 1950s. Essentially, in his Chaos Theory, he proposes that something exceedingly small can have non-linear effects on a complex system. For example, the beating of a butterfly’s wings in Brazil can cause a hurricane in the Caribbean.

However, the Butterfly Effect does not mean there is a direct cause and effect... because then butterflies would be gods. Instead, the theory, as a non-scientist like me understands it, is that small changes in big, sensitive systems can have complex results. These tiny changes are seemingly unpredictable, but Chaos Theory proposes that they actually aren’t. In fact, when you graph out chaos (do not ask me how the hell you do that), it looks like two butterfly wings. And that’s where the name “The Butterfly Effect” actually comes from.

When you graph chaos, it looks like a butterfly

All of this is to say that:

You are not insignificant. Your existence has tremendous meaning and influence.

There can be order in chaos, but you often can’t see the big picture from where you’re standing. 

Small Acts Save Lives

Your smallest acts of compassion, like reaching out to a strange to see if they are ok, can have implications you can’t even begin to understand. The CDC  reported recently that 40 percent of U.S. adults are struggling with mental health and substance abuse due to the pandemic, and 11 percent of those have seriously considered suicide. That’s over 36 million people, more than double the rate in 2018. We are hurting as a nation.

Mental health activist Kevin Hines (who threw himself off the Golden Gate Bridge in 2000 but survived) has spoken extensively about how even reaching out to ask a stranger if they are okay can save their life. He describes the day he decided to jump: he took the bus to the bridge, in tears, and then stood on the edge of the railing visibly distraught waiting for someone to ask him if he needed help. Nobody ever did. And he jumped.

Today, It’s difficult to smile through a mask or to hold someone’s hand when they’re scared. But, we can still show up with compassion for this frightened, grieving world.

Wearing a mask is another small act of compassion with potentially big consequences. Humanity is one interdependent system, so in our globalized world, it’s easy to grasp how not wearing one could set off a chain of events causing someone to get COVID-19 in Australia, let alone in your community. 

Self-Care is a Springboard to Compassion

We can’t care for others until we care for ourselves. So, it’s important to be gentle and kind to yourself during these unprecedented times. I’ve had to switch up quite a few habits and routines in order to cope with overwhelming grief and uncertainty. Here’s what I’ve been doing for self-care:

Sleep

In order to get eight hours of sleep a night, I do a few things (almost) every day: meditate, spend time outside, drink a lot of water, get aerobic exercise at least three times a week, and supplement. I take 500mg of magnesium every night before bed and a dropper of my favorite CBD oil. Right now, my favorite is Easy Now from Radio. It works like a charm every night and tastes great.

See also 8 Poses to Sleep Better Tonight 

Avoid Alcohol

I quit drinking in March. I found that even a glass or two of wine the night before would impact my mood the next day, bringing me way down. My body and mind just can’t handle an extra depressant right now. Listen to your body and find out what it needs to feel good. You are your own parent and greatest advocate.

Morning Ritual

Most mornings (I’m not perfect after all), I do these four things: meditate, repeat affirmations, journal, and walk the dog. The components of this “daily retreat” came from my coach, Tara-Nicholle Nelson. I am grateful for the stability of this ritual, especially since I’ve become unmoored from my Kundalini Yoga practice, as our community tries to heal from trauma and pain caused by Yogi Bhajan.

So, establish a little retreat in the corner of your bedroom or living room, and just sit there every day. Sometimes, I just breathe in two words: “I” on the inhale, and “am” on the exhale, so that I can ground myself in the current moment, where I am safe.

Don't know where to start? Try Nicole Cardoza's Guided Meditation for Anxiety below.

Nicole Cardoza’s Guided Meditation For Anxiety (; 7:07)

Affirmations can be very personal, but if you don’t know where to start, I recommend this one from Louise Hay: I love and approve of myself. Say it out loud like a prayer.

Next, I journal. I simply free-write for 10 minutes or I pick a prompt from one of many self-development books I’m reading. This is the time to write out any worries or fears. Get the drama out of your head and onto the page.

See also Looking for Journaling Inspiration? These 11 Prompts Can Transform Your Writing Practice

Finally, I take a walk with my dog. Getting outside in nature is so important to your wellbeing. I listen to uplifting music or a podcast, and take in the trees and the flowers around me. The sun still shines. I am grateful for that. I "smize" (smiling with your eyes as supermodel Tyra Banks describes it) at strangers, dogs, and bunnies.

There are a lot of homeless people in my community, so I make eye contact and acknowledge them when I can. My dog, Maple, acts as a compassionate delegate, delivering daily sweetness to others in need. 

See also The Intention-Activating Power of a Daily Ritual

Remember: Contraction Leads to Expansion

It’s so hard right now. Our brains are not designed to process this level of uncertainty and danger without triggering our sympathetic nervous system (fight, flight, or freeze mode). But, remember, this too shall pass. My coach Tara often talks about the contraction that comes before expansion, much like the diaphragm contracts and expands with our breath. It contracts on the inhalation and expands and finds space on the exhalation. Life might seem small, restrictive, and repressive right now, but 2020 is a time of accelerated, global change. In order for this complex system of humanity to survive, we have to adapt, and we have to take care of each other. Plant seeds of love and compassion now. And let’s watch them bloom together.

[whirofinvention-blog]

The Struggle of New Horizons

Maybe a year and a half ago, my friend who first introduced me to Lantern Control sent me an MTG Goldfish link to a new decklist that he thought looked cool. It was a prison deck like Lantern that relied on Ensnaring Bridge heavily to stay alive. The big difference between the decks was that this deck depended on Chalice of the Void and Engineered Explosives rather than Lantern/Codex Shredder to lock up the board. I doubt I was the only person who saw this deck and thought it looked bad. The prison elements seemed weaker, slower and less reliable than Lantern's. It just did not look like a deck I wanted to play.

Now we are in a completely different spot where this once rogue deck has become a real part of the metagame. Whir Prison is certainly somewhere in the top tier of decks right now and is fighting with Hardened Scales to be the best artifact strategy now that KCI is out of format. Their are various builds of the deck out there still, but the main builds right now seem to be: 4-color, blue-black and grixis. Each version has its own perks that the others lack and each of them have their own weaknesses.

Let's start with the blue-black build which has popped up in the last 2 months or so. This deck runs the most efficient win condition out of any of the builds in the classic Thopter Sword combo giving you a maindeck way to attack your opponent. At the same time, this provides you with a source of lifegain to get you out of burn range and an endless supply of chump blockers if you don't have an Ensnaring Bridge out. Other perks of this deck include having a better mana-base than any of the other builds. Now, I have never played this build, but I have to imagine the issues would mostly stem from having a substantially worse prison set up than the other builds. EE is not as effective in this deck and Whir of Invention is spread thinner.

Grixis Whir is very similar to the Thopter builds, except it obviously does not run the Thopter combo. Instead, the win conditions are closer to those of the 4-color version where you Crucible lock your opponent. This is the deck I am the least familiar with of the three options and is the least interesting option to me. The deck's mana is not as good as either of the other versions, it has worse card selection than the 4-color builds, and it does not have a strong secondary gameplan like Thopter-Sword. At this point, I can't imagine playing this deck over the other options mostly due to mana considerations as well as lack of quality card selection.

Lastly, we have the 4-color build of the deck. Popularized by Michael Coyle (susurrus), this deck is the build I have opted to play. This deck, in my opinion, has the greatest ability to actually lock the board out of the three options. Because it is running Glimmervoid and Spire of Industry in combination with Mox Opal, the deck is able to wipe the board consistently with Engineered Explosives. At the same time, Ancient Stirrings allows the deck to dig harder than any of the other options to find whatever piece it needs most consistently. If someone wanted to have a quicker deck and traditionally stronger win conditions, then I would recommend the Thopter-Sword build, but if you feel like you can consistently maximize match up, card and meta knowledge, then the four color build is definitely an option. This isn't to say the other builds don't also do these things, but the 4-color build requires a consistent level of forethought and has fewer free wins than the Thopter-Sword deck.

Recently I built the 4-color deck since there is a lot of overlap between it and lantern. At the same time, it seems like this deck would play into my strengths as a player. Hardened Scales trips me up. Games where I can just turn creatures sideways and quickly kill my opponent are straightforward, but when my opponent has a bunch of blockers or burn spells and we are racing, I struggle. I do better when I have a stranglehold on the board where whatever my opponent does is pretty ineffectual.

Unfortunately, things have not been going well for me with this deck. As of writing this, I believe my record is 2-4. When I picked up Lantern, I went 3-1, 2-1, and 3-0 in my first tournaments. With 4-color Whir, I have gone 1-1, 1-1, and 0-2. These have been free 4 man tournaments at my local shop, so they are really all positive EV if you assume the enjoyment I get from playing cancels out the fact that I am spending a couple of hours losing, then there really is no harm. Plus the tournaments are so small that everyone gets a free promo. Losing is not my favorite thing to do, but at least I am not losing money losing if that makes sense.

Now, the question becomes, is there a meaningful reason why I am having less success with this than I did with Lantern? The short answer is yes. Whir has harder decisions to make earlier on than Lantern. Both decks have hands that are pretty much always going to be keepable. In the blind, if you have a Bridge and the mana to cast it, then you can keep the hand in the blind. Lantern has the added advantage of having a pseudo-hardlock in the main deck that increase the amount of keepable hands you have at your disposal. Whir on the other hand has more disjointed hands than Lantern where you don't have a Bridge, and your gameplan develops after the game starts. If your opponent plays a tron land on turn 1, then the cards you are looking for are substantially different then when your opponent plays a Noble Hierarch. Lantern always aimed to stabilize the board and top of the deck. Sometimes, you have to work to reach to that point, but you almost always need to hit that poing to win the game (especially preboard). Whir doesn't have a guaranteed end state every game, it just has cards that make it hard for your opponent to interact.

What am I going to do about these struggles I am having? Well, first I am going to replace Ghost Quarter with Tectonic Edge. For the last two weeks in a row, I have lost to Tron despite having Crucible and Ghost Quarter. Tectonic Edge is not a card I own but would have easily won me those games over Ghost Quarter. Beyond this, I am going to just slow down and think harder about what I do. When I draw my opening 7, I have to more actively think about what my hand is capable of doing, what would present a problem for it, and what the worst case scenarios are. If I keep a five lander and draw my sixth land, will I ever beat burn? Probably not. What if my hand is a bunch of 0-drops

and an Ensnaring Bridge against a GDS player on the draw? Can I beat a Thoughtseize, probably not. More thought needs to go into these decisions to hopefully maximize my late game possibilities and chance of living.

So, let's get to the last question? What's next? This might surprise you, but I am going to take a week off of 4-color Whir and refresh by trying out a new deck. Maybe I will let a friend play lantern, whir or Hardened Scales. I am going to try something that does not lose to Tron: Ad Nauseam. In EDH, I am a combo player who likes to win in one turn and kill everyone at the table. Ad Nauseam is one modern equivalent of this. Plus it has the benefit of being more affordable. Unfortunately, my mana base is a little shaky because I don't own any Gemstone Mines and only one Seachrome Coast, but otherwise, I think the list is good enough for these events. Next week, I will write about it, but I will be back to Whir in a few weeks I am sure. Here's the tentative Ad Nauseam list:

Creatures 1xLaboratory Maniac 4x Simian Spirit Guide

Enchantments 4x Phyrexian Unlife

Artifacts 4x Lotus Bloom 4x Pentad Prism

Sorceries 4x Serum Visions 4x Sleight of Hand 1x Lightning Storm

Instants 3x Pact of Negation 4x Angel's Grace 2x Spoils of the Vault 1x Mystical Teachings 4x Ad Nauseam

Lands 1x Island 1x Swamp 1x Plains 1x Hallowed Fountain 1x Watery Grave 1x Mana Confluence 1x Seachrome Coast 3x City of Brass 3x Darkslick Shores 3x Temple of Enlightenment 4x Temple of Deceit

Sideboard 1x Fatal Push 1x Path to Exile 1x Pithing Needle 1x Thoughtseize 1x Swan Song 1x Silence 1x Spoils of the Vault 2x Echoing Truth 1x Unmoored Ego 1x Painful Truths 1x Supreme Verdict 3x Leyline of Sanctity