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insult-2-injury · 2 years

Text

(REWRITE) The Politics of Power - Chap 2

Modern AU! Professor Silco x FemReader

The enigmatic Professor Silco takes you in as his grad student assistant. It's only one semester, just how hard could it be?

Chapter 1 | AO3 Link

3.3k WC, SFW, Reader Insert, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, Romance, Fluff, Student/Teacher Relationship

Thank you to my lovely beta readers, @sherwood-forests and @x-amount-verbs

Chapter 2

For a man with such lithe, unhurried grace in the classroom, he set an infuriatingly swift pace. You trotted just a half step behind Professor Silco, nearly colliding with his back as you struggled to untangle yourself from your bookbag strap after your hasty exit from his classroom.

Staff and students alike parted unconsciously as he strode down the center of the buzzing hallway, a flagship cutting a wake through the high seas, with you towed closely behind. The sheer force of his presence, the way it was projected outward, it was an almost exhilarating challenge to make camp at his heels, to try and remain within his potent sphere.

You observed him again.

The sharp slants of his shoulders. His jagged profile. The fixed glower he seemed to aim at simultaneously everybody and no one at all, something effortlessly unyielding about him as he staunchly, and rather comically, ignored any bold soul’s attempt to address him.

A fascinating study. And a striking diversion to help blissfully distance you from your surroundings.

Professors greeting in passing. Students reconciling after months apart. Not so riveting small talk about the topic of the summer’s record heat.

People were choosing their clans. Networking.

Networking. You should be doing the same. Although it felt little more than a collaborative joke of a word at this point, the notion having been beaten into your skull so fiercely by now that it had lost all meaning.

It was integral to not have your name lost among the masses, apparently, but what an exhausting and disingenuous concept it proved to be in action.

You should be trying harder. Playing the game. Rubbing a few elbows. You were fully capable, worth your salt. There just wasn’t much of a point, you thought, when you hardly knew what you wanted in the first place.

Were you a little bitter? Probably.

You thought you'd known what you wanted when you started here.

You’d just gotten, well, a little lost among the masses.

Professor Silco’s bladed jaw tilted toward you only minutely, but it was enough to rip your focus away from him and back to the dwindling chatter as you neared an elevator. It dinged once as it began to shut on a group of excited, babbling students.

Professor Silco muttered something disdainful under his breath but didn’t falter, veering sideways into a shadowy alcove between two massive marble pillars and disappearing, ascending the narrow, winding metal staircase nestled into the hollows of the stone wall.

Impatient of him. But not unfitting.

On first impression alone, there was no universe in which you could imagine this man waiting for an elevator.

You jogged to catch up, zeal driving you up two steps at a time.

But the echo of his steps tricked you, and you nearly collided.

Professor Silco halted stiff as you only just managed to stop your hurtling form from crashing into his back again, feet scuffing, nails digging into the stone wall on either side of the narrow staircase. Before he could react, you had already exhaled an apology, heat blossoming across the apples of your cheeks.

The razor edge of his profile was no less captivating as he addressed you over his shoulder, aggravated. His teal eye glinted sharply from the soft glow emanating from the tiny, paned windows patterning along the rise of the outside wall.

“I didn’t realize I’d hired a leech.”

You propped there, wide-eyed, somehow not flung backward by his sudden proximity. Taking a single step down, you moved to clasp your hands in front of you, an ineffectual safeguard from that scorching gaze as it dusted across your reddening cheekbones from above.

“Well, I don’t know how you missed it,” you breathed quietly, forcing yourself to maintain the piercing eye contact. “It was right there in my profile.”

If he found you funny, he certainly didn’t outwardly show it. But there was something strangely close to amusement in the almost theatrically unimpressed narrow of his eye.

He turned wordlessly, using his arms to lever himself upward again. You hung back a beat before following, drew in a cleansing breath, catching for the first time the scent of tobacco that wafted lightly off his retreating form, an oddly pleasant smell.

“Your tardiness was a one-off, I hope,” Professor Silco’s voice spiraled melodically downward.

“Yes.” You hated how tiny you sounded. “Sorry I interrupted class. I wasn’t thinking.”

You thought you heard a low hum.

“Well, do try and think next time. I don’t tolerate discourtesy well.”

No, not well at all, according to some scathing reviews online. And he hadn’t seemed opposed in the least to discrediting you in front of the entire class, either.

“It won’t happen again, sir.”

There was a short, peculiar pause, where only your gentle pants and the arrhythmic stomping of feet punctuated the silence.

And there was a serrated edge to his tone when he spoke next that seemed to cast a cool breeze down the narrow passage, raising the hairs on the back of your neck.

“I’m sure it won’t.”

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

The top floor. Professor Silco’s office was on the top floor and by the time you practically limped out into the corridor behind him, your mind was solely focused on trying not to wheeze. You glared daggers at the back of his head as you walked, more than a little peeved that he’d forced his stubborn method of transportation onto your now burning thighs.

You supposed you could understand now how he kept that slender form.

He stopped abruptly before an open door, one to a tiny room, reaching with a long arm to switch on a light before stepping back again.

“For your office hours.”

Was it an office? Could it really be defined as such?

The walls were a chipped, unsightly off-white. Barely enough room for the wooden desk within, and the tattered rolling chair that looked one sit away from collapse. Not so much as a potted plant, an unsightly painting to draw from the distracting lack of distractions.

It looked rather like a tiny prison cell, almost purposefully designed to provoke madness. You looked to the man beside you, suppressing a shudder at the searching, downward tilt of his head, eyes seeming to drink in your uninspired expressions like they were a fine wine.

But you could make it work. Had to make it work. Besides, it was just four hours a week.

All you really needed was a straitjacket.

“It’s… adequate,” you said finally, hardly able to keep the unimpressed inflection out of your tone.

Those mismatched eyes glittered, and you got the impression he was distinctly pleased at your word choice.

“Adequate. Good." He turned, beckoning you with a haughty incline of his head. "At the risk of echoing our previous correspondences, your office hours are 2-4 Tuesdays and Thursdays following class. Otherwise, your work is with me.”

You quickly shut off the lights to the tiny room, following him a short distance down the hall to a set of thick oak doors with shining brass handles. Unexceptional from the other pompous ones littering the hallway, yet it held a distinct energy that was uniquely him.

Professor Silco - Political Theory

That stupid little gold plaque seemed to wink at you as you watched him pull out a particularly ostentatious set of keys with elegant, mesmerizing hands, thumbing each one in a practiced motion until he was able to make quick work of the locks to allow you both in.

You swallowed, suddenly imagining those long fingers dipping languidly into a dark pool of water, hardly disturbing the surface as he brushed across it. You quickly blinked the odd image away, feeling that same restless stirring in your belly as you stepped inside.

What you found was surprisingly quite cozy, especially considering the cold, prickly man who dwelled there.

You jumped slightly at the impatient brush of Professor Silco’s vested shoulder against yours as he breezed inside before you found yourself enthralled once again by your surroundings.

A colossal, mahogany desk, was back and center, held by four curling, golden lion paws. A red wine-colored Victorian couch was to the left. Bookshelves were to the right, warping under the weight of their impressive collections, so tall they needed a sliding ladder.

Wrought iron windows twisted uneven patterns across the glass that spanned the entire wall behind his desk, where you could see the University’s spires rising like thorns out of a rose’s unruly stem. To the side of his desk there was an entrance to the outside, where you could see the castle structure continued along a stone walkway.

After one year, you were used to the Gothic architecture, and had grown to rather appreciate the unearthly shadows that littered the campus with a somber, mystic energy.

This room would be no different to an outsider’s eye. Yet, somehow, it felt strange, seemed more of a room in one’s home than a school office.

Maybe it was your lower-class upbringing, or maybe it was because you’d completed your undergrad at the local community college, where the staff offices were less extravagant, more built just for basic function, but this room reeked of new money: unquestionably gorgeous, in a wildly intimidating sort of way.

The place was teeming with antiques: a large, faded globe; several scattered piles of worn, well-read books; a shining gramophone sitting beside his desk on a side table. There were portraits upon portraits within gold-lacquered frames, some of long dead philosophers, one of looming mountains casting their reflection upon a dark, impenetrable sea.

You stood, you thought, in the entryway to a King’s private sitting room, feeling out of place fiddling there in your ratty little skirt and hand-me-down coat. You corrected your feet as they started to turn inward, like an anxiety-ridden child, and you nudged your chin up a touch, even as the smell of smoke and cedar began to sink its sinful claws into you, the unique smell of him seeming to scratch some itch deep inside you.

“Hang your coat and place your things at your desk.”

You threw a scowl at the back of his prowling figure, not appreciating the command.

Year of promises. Year of promises.

Biting your tongue, you headed over to the simpler, yet nonetheless extravagant table tucked into the corner to the right of the doors, placing your bag on its surface, allowing your fingers to linger upon the cool, dark wood. A small rose window shed a dim, eerie cast over your assigned little nook.

A little tremor of excitement had you bouncing on your heels slightly. This would be yours all semester, and you didn’t think it possible to have a grander view.

The company you weren’t so sure about yet.

As Professor Silco settled, you perused the room quietly, leaving your coat on in a small rebellion.

Something sparked delightedly in your chest as you inspected the little trinkets on his shelves, his various other antiques, eyeing the portraits on his walls with a childlike wonder.

One drew your attention immediately, hanging above the couch. It was a double-masted ship, tossing about on a torrid sea by light of moon, storm clouds darkening the sky to an ominous navy. Eight stretching arms of a creature rose from the sea, latching onto the wooden outsides, a terrifying amalgamation of crashing waves and limbs.

“The Kraken,” he said, and you nearly cracked a smile.

“I know. I always wanted to study monsters. Mythology and such.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I mean I did. On my own time. Just didn’t reckon a degree in it would get me very far.”

“And history will?”

You exhaled a laugh.

Professor Silco was no-nonsense, certainly, but you were pleased to find he wasn’t completely without humor, however dry. You could see, entirely now, why the more sensitive students would find him unpleasant - harsh even. Yet you found his forthrightness oddly refreshing. Charming in a distinct way.

“Touché,” you said, and you both fell into silence again as he rustled through papers.

You continued across the wall.

Hobbes. Marx. Rousseau. Machiavelli.

“Too many portraits of men,” you remarked, forgetting yourself for a moment as you paused in front of Machiavelli, one hand on his book, the other holding a pair of gloves, lips forming a thin, sinister smile.

“In this room?”

“In the world.”

Skin prickling with awareness, your head swiveled to find Professor Silco had paused, hunched, palms bracing his form upright as he studied you impassively from behind his desk, wreathed in a dull halo of light from the window behind.

“History is unfortunately canonized broadly by men.”

“But so many of these men were driven to success by the women in the background.” You squinted at the portrait. “Which is probably why they all look like they’ve been sucking lemons.”

Amusement took the form of a soft exhale and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think the sound surprised him just as much as it did you.

“Do elaborate.”

“There’s someone behind the painter giving them the finger.”

“Hm.”

Professor Silco pushed himself up from his hunch suddenly, grabbing hold of a dug-up folder, head cocking decisively, and he prowled around to the front of his desk.

His increasing proximity cut into your space unexpectedly, like a heated knife, and you alarmingly found your thighs clenching. Every footstep nearer landed with a heated impact that pinballed straight to a spot between your legs, subtly pulsing.

His gaze dropped briefly to the movement, and you swore you saw the tightness in his closed jaw slacken ever so slightly before teal and orange bit into you again. Something darkly curious glimmered there for just a moment before disappearing.

The massive desk creaked as he leaned back against it, the points of his boots a little less than a foot away, perfectly appropriate, yet somehow much too close for your now cartwheeling brain.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt so utterly bowled over by someone.

You cleared your throat, averting your focus.

“Perhaps,” he finally said. “Or maybe dourness is just the price of enlightenment.”

You were proud of the way you didn’t waver, becoming a bit cheeky as you steadfastly attempted to ignore his closeness.

“Could also just be one time-traveling portrait artist with a powerful vendetta against men.”

“Who are we to say.”

“I suppose that’s always been the narrative, though, men in power defrauding women, stealing their ideas, in order to subdue,” you said rashly. "Just a shame we’re all stuck here looking at their smug faces.”

From your periphery, you could see the hellish glow of his left eye, bright as a fallen fragment of sun, scorching across your profile.

Fuck. Your first day and you’d shown up late to class and promptly insulted the man’s interior decorating, which overall, you actually quite liked. You always felt foolish when you did this, became too impulsive. Hated the way you were a swinging pendulum, your words either flying out with the speed and venom of a striking cobra or flopping out dull and limp, like a deflating party balloon when you attempted restraint.

Your nose twitched.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“I would argue they don’t hold much power if they have to result to such tactics," he interrupted lowly, and like a fish on a hook, your gaze was reeled toward him, his words coasting across your skin like a satin ribbon on a breeze, tying your insides in heated liquid knots. "To subdue."

A heady desire crashed through you with force, and his face remained remarkably impassive as you searched it for double meaning, your own blooming bright red in the process.

"Wouldn't you agree?"

Only when you were confident enough that your voice wouldn’t crack did you speak. “I suppose.” You tilted your head stiffly to the file of papers in his hand. “Those for me?”

There was a pregnant pause before he hummed an affirmative. “Most of this has been conveyed already, barring some slight alterations to your schedule.”

“-Nothing significant, I assure you,” he answered the inquisitive scrunch of your brows as you grasped the manila folder. But he held on for a second too long, eyes finding yours again. “Vander did write a glowing recommendation letter for you.”

Curious, that thread of poison that crocheted through his voice again when he spoke Vander’s name, never deigning to use his title.

“Did he?” Your stomach flipped at the disconcerting lilt in his tone, one that could be written off as simple praise if you weren’t so highly attuned. “I hope to live up to it.”

His mouth creased as he released the file into your waiting fingers. “Oh, I’m sure you will.” Professor Silco pushed off from the desk, sauntering his way back around to his seat. “You are quite the sight on paper. Double major. Graduated with honors. 4.0. Most certainly a hard worker.”

He settled into his high-back chair, the outline of it sharp against the misty backdrop of the University. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine, hm?”

You stood stock still.

God, you had so many questions. So many. But now was not the time to inquire as to why he’d chosen you out of everyone else who was leagues above you. On paper, he was right, you were impressive, and you’d managed to skate under the radar quiet yet well-liked. You had been offered a history scholarship to one of the most highly acclaimed universities and like a lost, wandering pup, been hand-plucked off the streets by Vander’s capable hands.

You were grateful, no doubt, yet the cynic inside was loud. You hadn’t completed your undergrad at some snooty University on the coast. No, you’d gone to the local community college.

Did Professor Silco suspect? Did he suspect that Vander hadn't written that letter at all?

No. He couldn't, yet you couldn’t rid yourself of the nagging feeling-

The lyrical chime of your name from his lips pulled you quickly up and out of your reverie.

With a quiet thanks, you took a seat across from him.

“Political theory wasn’t your first choice, I take it.” It wasn’t spoken as a question; it was a statement.

“Why do you say that?”

“Today in class. You couldn’t have seemed more dispassionate if you tried.”

A feeling of mild discomfort washed over you at his astuteness. You were always so good about remaining impenetrable. It had you bristling slightly, the fact that he’d caught onto your insincerity.

“I’m just tired,” you said evenly, but your mind was still stuck on something else. “You know Vander, then?”

His lips twitched. “Is that what your little band calls him?” The fingers of his hands fluttered over the ends of his armrests in a thoughtful, hypnotizing pattern that had you fighting not to stare.

“Professor Vander,” you corrected.

At the title, something wicked, wrathful eclipsed the dispassion on his face for just a breath of a moment.

“He’s an old friend.”

You nodded, swallowed, and like a trained bloodhound, his gaze honed on the nervous movement.

“I trust you had plenty of time in class to familiarize yourself with the syllabus?” Eyes flicked back up to yours, face ironed back into a careful neutrality, yet tone holding a suggestion of dark self-satisfaction, seeming to know full well your focus had been elsewhere.

“Yes. I did,” you said indignantly, holding his gaze, insides withering beneath it like a flower under the beating sun.

“Oh, good." Professor Silco leaned forward, his long-fingered hands joining upon the desk's smooth, dappled surface. "Then. Shall we begin?"

<3 <3 <3

THANK YOU TO MY BETAS 💕

I wasn't completely proud of what I had written for chapter 2, and it was a big part of why I've taken so long to update. Apologies for the long wait, but I'm so pumped to write more Professor Silco. Chapter 3 is more than halfway done and should be posted within a few days here. Comments and tags motivate me in such a big way. If you like what you read, please let me know! Thank you so much for reading! - Your pal, Sulty

Oh, and please go check out @x-amount-verbs spicy one-shot based on this fic if you haven't already! Learning the Rules

I'm going to be making a taglist post for this fic, because I lost the note I made of everyone who wanted in (I live in chaos), so I'm so sorry if I missed you this time around or if I placed you here by mistake.

@x-amount-verbs @distinguished-jeseter-things @sherwood-forests @sweatandwoe @foppishish @ellhd-imagination

#silco #silco fanfic #silco arcane #arcane #reader insert #TPOP #the politics of power #silco x reader #silco x you

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sisterspooky1013 · 3 years

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Only One Choice, Part 2, Chapter 24

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

June 1999

The air smells wet and woody, birdsongs trilling in the early morning sun that trickles through a sky light. She stretches, then disentangles her legs from the sheets and stands, walking to the window.

There is a giant soaking tub in the corner of the room, flanked by two windowed walls that afford a sweeping view of the Cascade mountains, green carpeted hillsides meeting with a baby-blue sky.

She can still recall her mother’s face when they told her the wedding would be in Washington State. “But...we don’t even know anyone in Washington, Dana,” she’d said with a bemused expression, lamenting the length of their flights with a nine-month-old in tow.

Her mother’s reaction paled in comparison to Mulder’s excitement when she’d suggested the idea; she would spend their honeymoon relaxing with a book in the tub, and he could spend it traipsing through the woods looking for Sasquatch, or ‘squatchin’ as he called it. They would reunite in the afternoon, hiking, making love, catching up on all the conversations they’d missed while in the trenches of parenting a new baby. Mom would stay at the same resort with Molly so they could see her every day, while having precious nights to themselves; something they haven’t done since she was born.

She turns the tap on the bath, a blast of water thundering into the empty basin. When it’s full nearly to the brim, she disrobes and eases in, breathing deeply to inhale the juniper-scented steam, courtesy of the resort-provided bath salts. Closing her eyes, she thinks back over it all; their chance meeting, how she was drawn to him by a force that seemed to be bigger than them both, the anguish of wanting him but feeling like she owed it to Ethan to stay together. Her eyes snap open, a memory long-buried in the recesses of her mind springing forth like a trebuchet.

The day she met Mulder, she’d been planning to take the day off to go to a book signing for an author she admires. The signing was cancelled due to a scheduling conflict and she almost took the day off anyway, but had a last minute pang of guilt knowing that the workload that week was already heavy and Trudy would struggle to manage it all on her own. So she’d gone in, she’d performed that autopsy that should have been on Trudy’s docket, and she’d filled out the paperwork, and she’d met Mulder. How delicate the balance of the universe that such an insignificant choice completely changed the course of her life.

She suddenly misses him acutely, and a bundle of nerves and excitement flutters in her belly thinking about when she’ll see him next. She’d scoffed at the idea of them spending last night apart; they live together and have a child so the performative chastity seemed to be a bit much. He said it was like a fast, that a little time apart would make it even more special when they saw each other at the ceremony, and she ultimately acquiesced.

“Meet me on a mountain top at 4 o’clock tomorrow?” he’d asked as he backed out of her room, pulling away from the desperate kisses she was planting all over his face.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” she replied with a smile, and they said goodnight.

She smiles again, sinking down until the water slips into her ears. She can’t wait to marry him.

———

He sits up and arches his back, his spine protesting the cramped accommodations. Looking over at Byers and Missy curled up in the king size bed, he regrets his decision to crash on the couch here instead of staying with Scully in their room. Not only because he slept like shit with his legs hanging over the end, but also because work takes him away from his girls so often, he’s an idiot to add another day to it if he doesn’t have to.

He stands, hands on his hips as he twists to stretch his angry muscles, and walks to the window, taking in the dense green hills and valleys that surround them. He smiles, because she could have asked to go to Mexico, or France, or anywhere on the entire Earth and he would have given her what she wanted, but she chose the place she knew he wanted to go. Selfless and giving to a fault, his Scully. Soon to be his wife.

He quietly slips on his running shoes and sneaks out of the room, hitting the hard-packed dirt trail the concierge had told him about. The quiet forest is the perfect place to be alone with his thoughts, nothing but the thud of his feet striking the ground and the twitter of waking birds to distract him. He thinks about his life, about being a child who was lonely and alone, with parents who provided food and shelter but not much more. He thinks about Molly, and how she will never know that kind of pain, that there will never be a day of her life that she is not told how much she is loved. He wonders if his dad ever felt about his mom the way he feels about Scully, and he knows it’s not possible that he did, because if so they would still be together.

He comes to a break in the trees and pauses, breath heaving and lungs burning as he watches a hawk gliding through the valley below, hunting for breakfast. How easily he could have missed this moment, he thinks. Even one small change to the trajectory of his life, and he never would have walked into the autopsy bay that day. If the courier hadn’t been sick, if he hadn’t stopped by Kirkbride’s office when he did. Even further back, if he hadn’t stayed with the bureau with the X files were closed, if Valerie hadn’t been there to encourage him, or if he hadn’t met Valerie one random Tuesday at a record store. The path was long and winding, and it led to her. It led to him on this mountaintop in a sweat-soaked T-shirt, smiling at the thought of his baby daughter, his almost-wife.

He picks up running again, the smile staying on his lips. He’s always felt like he was running away; from his painful past, his regrets, his bad decisions. Now he realizes he’s running towards; his future, a thousand opportunities yet unseen, a kind of happiness he never thought he’d know. He can’t wait for the rest of his life to start.

———

He stands in a clearing near the edge of a cliff, the lush green landscape toeing up against the horizon looking like crooked teeth. Frohike stands beside him in khaki pants and a white linen shirt, a leather folio clasped in his hands. Mulder is also dressed fairly casually, in slacks and a blue Oxford shirt, the sleeves cuffed and the top button undone.

Scully wanted this to be as non-traditional as possible, to make it their own. There is no wedding party, no tuxedo, no flower girl or garter toss. No one will walk her down the aisle, as no one but herself has the ownership to give her away. The guests are small in number; immediate family only, plus the gunmen. Monica and Dahlia are house-sitting back in DC, minding Priscilla as well as the dog, King, that joined the family after the purchase of their house in March. Bucking the idea of arranging guests by whose “side” they are on, they all sit in a small cluster, and Scully will enter from the side.

He looks out and waves at Molly, who is standing on Missy’s lap, holding her hands and bouncing up and down forcefully. She squeals and shouts “dah, dah, dah!” which he chooses to interpret as “Daddy” even though Scully told him it’s just a nonsense syllable and doesn’t mean anything.

Langly gets the signal from Frohike and hits play on a small boom box, piping an instrumental version of “Can’t Help Falling in Love” up into the branches of the towering evergreen trees. He expected to feel nervous at this moment, but all he feels is excitement as Maggie scurries out from behind a line of trees and takes her place beside Bill, giving him a smile and a wink.

Scully appears from around the same group of trees and he grins broadly. He’s seen the dress, they picked it out together, but the full effect is stunning. Her hair, now grown well past her shoulder blades, is curled softly and pinned half up, brilliant red tendrils shimmering in the midday sun against her porcelain shoulders. Her dress is full length pearl satin, a slim sheath cut with off the shoulder straps. She is holding a small bouquet of pink peonies in her hands, and holding his eye with a playful smirk.

She arrives beside him and before the music stops, before Frohike has a chance to begin, he steps forward and takes her by the waist, kissing her fully. The guests laugh and he pulls away to see a confused smile on her face.

“I couldn’t wait,” he says simply.

They move through the ceremony, exchanging rings and vowing to love each other forever; promises they’ve already made to each other a hundred times. As they near the part that Scully understands to be the end, Frohike goes off script.

“Mulder has prepared some words of his own, he’ll read them now,” he says, nodding toward his friend.

Scully’s eyebrows lift in a surprised and confused expression.

“Mulder, we didn’t talk about writing our own vows,” she whispers, afraid she’s failed to complete the assignment.

“It’s okay, these are for both of us,” he whispers, and then, taking her hands in his, he reads a passage from her favorite book from memory.

“I have for the first time found what I can truly love; I have found you. You are my sympathy, my better self, my good angel; I am bound to you with a strong attachment. I think you good, gifted, lovely. A fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans to you, draws you to my center and spring of life, wraps my existence about you, and kindling in pure, powerful flame, fuses you and me in one.”

The tear that slips down her cheek is borne only of happiness. She looks into his green eyes and sees contentment and love, and desire. It’s not a spark, what they have, nor an ember. It’s a wildfire, a white-hot torch, an eternal flame that binds them together inseparably. They were forged in fire the moment he laid eyes on her in that autopsy bay, maybe even before.

Frohike concludes, “by the power invested in me by the State of Washington, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride…again.”

He wraps his arms around her waist, lifting her up as he kisses her deeply, a gust of warm summer wind picking up pine needles and tossing them in a mini-tornado that surrounds them both. Molly squeals “dah dah dah!” and claps for her parents.

———

She stands at the mirror, brushing her teeth. Her hair is combed out, her makeup removed, the white dress hanging in the corner of the room with the hem now tinged brown from the dirt that served as their dance floor.

Mulder appears behind her, an arm snaking around the waist of her satin nightgown. She smiles at the sight of his newly ring-adorned hand pressed flat against her belly, then leans forward to rinse.

“Ready for bed?” he asks softly, and she nods.

They slip beneath the cool sheets, curling around one another face-to-face; her leg threaded between his, his arms around her back, foreheads touching. She draws in a big breath and lets it out slowly, contentment settling deep in her bones.

“Do you ever think about all the things that had to happen in exactly the way they did to lead us here?” he asks, and she pulls back a little to look at his face.

“Yes, I was actually just thinking about that earlier,” she says with a curious lilt.

“Makes you wonder, huh, what lives we’d be leading if even just one detail were changed,” he says, tracing his finger along her shoulder blade.

“I don’t think it would have mattered, actually,” she says, and he gives her a quizzical look, silently asking her to elaborate. “I know this will sound a little far-fetched coming from me,” she begins with a self-conscious smile, “but I think it was always going to end up this way. Even if we hadn’t met when we did, we would have crossed paths some other way. Looking back over everything, it just seems like this was meant to be the outcome, even if the path to get here could have gone in a lot of different directions.”

He ponders this, remembering a conversation they had over coffee when, against all odds, she reappeared in his life.

“Like there was only one choice, and signs along the way to pay attention to,” he says contemplatively, lifting his hand to brush a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Exactly,” she replies, pressing her lips to his briefly, “it was always going to be you.”

END

#the x files #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #gillovny #msr #sculder #x files fanfic #alternate universe

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thehavenwake · 1 year

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stray-kids-react · 4 years

Text

Thier s/o being a vampire

Masterlist

...

Bang Chan

° You were bitten seven years ago, later being forced to join a cult of vampires. The youngest of them all, and also the most sensitive and kind.

° You didn't want to live a vampire lifestyle, and wanted to just live normally. You honestly didn't even enjoy the taste of blood, even animal blood.

° Your master took your sensitivity to his advantages, granting you access to go back to school while they followed behind and bit new victims during their breaks.

° As they formed an army of vampires, you grew connections to new people. Including your desk mate Chan, who seemed to take an interest in you.

° As the university semester went along, you sadly grew attached to Chan. Regretting it since he isn't immortal and has no idea that you are, and your cult could hunt him.

° Just as you walked to class the next day to tell Chan the truth, you realized the seat next to yours was empty. Your heart sank, knowing Chan wouldn't miss a class ever.

° You ran back to the cult mansion, noticing Chan's unconscious body being dragged into the building. Not hesitating, you ran up to your master and grabbed Chan from him.

"I WON'T LET YOU HURT HIM!"

"... Has y/n grown attached? To this... Mortal?" he laughed lowly.

° You dashed into the forest with Chan in your arms, cold tears running down your cheeks. Feeling immense guilt for involving Chan in this, it was your fault.

"Y-y/n?...." He groaned, a raspy voice as he just woke up.

"You're okay, oh thank heavens." You sighed, smiling sweetly. Not realizing your fangs were in plain sight.

° You only caught on that your fangs were showing by his widened eyes, soon covering your mouth in terror. But he didn't seem scared, just...surprised.

° He sat up in your lap, wiping your tear stained cheeks. Chan rested his head against yours as he smiled gently, before interlocking his lips with yours.

"You're not creeped out?"

"No, if you wanted to bite me you would've done it by now." He reassured, booping your nose.

Lee Know

° You and Minho were the newest members of your opposing cults, neither of you ever met. All that was shown was a photo of him to you, telling you to hunt him down.

° When you walked through those university doors, you had no idea that he was on the same mission but to find you instead. You thought he was just a normal human.

° He say next to you in every class you had together, listening to your responses to questions and noting your small habits. As you tried to do the same for him.

° It only took the next day for you to finally say a word to each other, noticing how attractive he truly was. Especially when he showed off his bright smile.

° It was his job to attract you to him, but you seemed different from the other three people he's had to this on. Minho actually felt a connection towards you.

° Minho didn't want to grow attached to you, but he had. So he decided to bite you instead of killing you, that way he couldn't lose you or let someone else kill you.

° But as his fangs protruded and he moved your tshirt down on your sleeping form. Minho noticed two scar marks from another vampire bite, you were already a vampire.

"Shit..." He sighed, realizing the situation he was in.

"Minho? Stop hogging the blankets." You whined, pulling the blankets back.

° Minho stayed silent, staring at the ceiling. Knowing he can't kill you, so he'd have to fake your death or his. He just couldn't betray you like that, you're too nice.

"You should've told me you were like me y/n." He replied, glancing towards your widened eyes.

"... You're the one who was suppose to hunt weren't you?" You asked, knowing the answer isn't a pleasant one.

° He nodded cautiously, flopping back down next to you. Wrapping his arms around your waist as you snuggled into him, his cold touch comforting you completely.

° The silence ate at both of your thoughts, both wondering what to do. Neither one of you cared about why your masters hated each other, instead how to escape.

"Let's runaway together." He suggested, burrowing his face into my neck.

"I'll follow wherever you take me." I replied, hoping our plan to runaway succeeds.

Changbin

° When you went into your vampire form, you almost completely blacked out. Only waking up to the dead body you murdered right next to you, terrifying you immensely.

° Your boyfriend Changbin was curious about the recent murder mysteries, wondering how they haven't found the culprit yet or even any suspects.

° You luckily caught on when you would turn into your form, it was when you ran low on animal blood to satisfy you. And it happened at midnight everytime.

° You kept your blood bags in your basement, locked away in the cooler. If your boyfriend found the bags of blood, you didn't even want to picture his reactions to it.

° But when you went grocery shopping, he visited thinking you'd be home. He made himself comfortable due to the many times he's been to your house.

° The usually closed basement door was opened just a crack, the unknown darkness peeking his interest. Even if he felt his own anxiety fill his brain when he got closer.

° When you go home, you noticed the basement light on. Realizing Changbin must've been visited, and is now in the basement you don't want him to see.

"Y/n... Are you. Are you the killer?" He asked cautiously, gulping loudly.

"Sort of... But I can't control it. I-I'm a vampire and black out when it happens." You sigh, knowing he won't believe you.

° Changbin turned around slowly, holding you close as you began to break down in front of him. He knew you wouldn't do this, so he had to believe you.

"I believe you y/n." He reassured, kissing your head.

"Thank you. You are truly an angel." You whimpered, regaining composure.

° Changbin felt bad for seeing how scared you were of yourself, not being able for your worst fear to be yourself. All he could was supply you with blood and comfort you.

° If it were anyone else to discover your secret, you'd be in prison or dead. But Changbin knew who you were deep down and loved you for who you were.

"I'll help you hide the bodies." He reassured, wiping your tears.

"I love you Binnie." You replied, kissing his knuckles.

Hyunjin

° Hyunjin was bitten years ago, but refused to go near any human. He only used his inhuman abilities to protect you from other vampires who craved your untouched blood.

° You were one of the only humans left in town, most being unnatural creatures from nightmares in disguise. But Hyunjin always made sure Non of them effected you.

° The only people he trusted you with were his best friends, Han, Seungmin, and Felix. But they seemed to be weaker when it comes to the temptation of blood.

° So during a game night at their apartment, Felix followed you into the kitchen. You didn't think much of it since he was your best friend who you trusted quite a bit.

° But the sharp sting of two fangs sinking into your flesh froze your body from fear alone, Hyunjin was the one suppose to be the to bite you. Not Felix.

° You tried to keep the secret from Hyunjin, knowing he'd feel an overwhelming amount of guilt for not being there. Plus you felt guilty for not being more cautious.

° After you and Hyunjin would marry, he would bite you. It was a plan that both of you were excited for, but now you just ruined that important moment for the both of you.

"Y/n... Felix told me what he did." Hyunjin commented, leaning on the door frame.

"I'm so sorry Hyunjin, is should've been more careful." You sighed, guilt building up.

° Hyunjin walked up behind you, resting his chin on top of your head. He swayed you both back and forth, comforting all the sadness and guilt away.

"He apologized over 100 times." He chuckled softly, rubbing your knuckles.

"I think will 1000 times." You replied, leaning into his body.

° Hyunjin didn't hold a grudge against either of you, relieved Felix wasn't so effected by temptation that he killed you. But it still hurt him a bit, wishing he could've been the one.

° You let him bite the marks Felix made, making it his own. Even if it hurt more, you felt more relieved and comfortable with Hyunjin's bite. Feeling at home with him.

"Now you're mine. Forever." He teased, kissing the bleeding marks.

"Just like I've always wanted." You replied, cupping his face.

Han

° You were a killer vampire who didn't really care about your victims ever, only focusing on making sure you got your blood and no one would try to stop you.

° That is until you fell into someone's trap, being trapped in a net as the man revealed himself from the shadows. That prey that you tried to get, was simply a dummy.

° He trapped you in a jail like cell, feeding you nice meals along with dessert. Even going as far to get animal blood for drinks to go along with the meals.

° He couldn't let someone as dangerous as you go back into society, but he didn't want to be rude or anger you either. So it usually consisted of awkward encounters.

° As days went by, you went over all of the things you achieved in life. Realizing you hadn't even lived your life to the full potential it could be with your abilities.

° As your heart grew larger and your mind opened up to humans, you became attached to the man who caught you. It was more like a chance back to reality then a jail.

° He seemed to care about your comfort and safety, as if he knew that there was still a person inside of you. He didn't intend to hurt you, more healing you instead.

"How are you feeling today doll?" He asked, bringing the dinner you requested for.

"Thank you mortal." You huffed, looking sincere for once.

° The smile that embraced his features caused a flutter to your heart, you now know that this one human was impacting you more than the temptation of blood.

"Why did you treat me so well?" You asked, stuffing your cheeks with a bread bun.

"Everyone has a heart with feelings at the end of the day, you are no different." He explained, brushing the hair from your eyes.

° Han let you make yourself at home, even letting you cuddle with him in his bed. You never felt such a joyful feeling when he laughs at one of your lame jokes.

° You were free to go and live your vampire lifestyle once again, but you enjoyed his company far too much to leave. You fell for him hard, and felt happy about it.

"I think I fell for you Han Jisung." You admitted, avoiding his gaze.

"I'm glad I am not the only one who fell for someone." He replied, placing a kiss on your nose.

Felix

° You worked at the movie theatre with a whole bunch of girls who hated you for no reason, and guys who called you weird for not showing skin like the other girls.

° It was hard to act like nothing was wrong when you fight the urge to suck the blood from anyone pissed you off, and to gain confidence in the new form you hate.

° The only person you could rely on was your close co worker Felix, he made it his mission to stick up for you and make your days just a bit brighter than usual.

° Felix liked your quirky habits and differences from other people, he had a crush on you since you first started to work the same shifts as him.

° When your cravings were becoming insane, elf like ears would appear and your energy would decrease immensely. You usually blacked out during those times.

° Felix noticed your unconscious body next to your car, immediately rushing over in a panicked manner. He didn't even question your ears, he just need you to wake up.

° He heard your small unconscious murmurs about blood, licking your lips dryly everytime. Felix had suspicions that you drank blood, due to a lunchbox mix up.

"Oh thank God you're awake." He sighed, crawling off of you.

"I can't remember how I got here, but thank you. How'd you wake me?" You asked, noticing the cut on his palm.

° Felix revealed the lunch box mix up that happened earlier that day, explaining that he cut his palm and dripped some blood into your mouth assuming you had cravings.

"Do you think I'm creepy now?" You asked, leaning against your car door.

"Not really to be honest, you're still y/n. And I like you for who you are." He answered, running a hand through his hair.

° Felix suggested to drive you home since you still seemed a bit dizzy, holding you until you reached the bedroom safely. You flopped onto the bed, sighing comfortably.

° He was about to leave when you gripped his wrist, leaving a small kiss onto his cut palm. Insisting he stayed with you for the night, knowing he must be tired from the day.

"I have a spare mattress if you don't feel comfortable sharing." You reassured, grabbing your pajamas.

"I think I'll like sharing with you." He whispered, leaning onto you as he hugged you softly.

Seungmin

° You were bitten a week ago while going for a walk, you couldn't catch a glimpse at who had bit you. But you were more worried on how you would explain this to Seungmin.

° You were becoming weak, boney, palmy, and tired. All because you would be in the sun for too long, Seungmin noticed this and was scared that something was very wrong.

° He took you to the doctor, but nothing was apparently wrong even if you looked like death. Seungmin's mind raced with possibilities, not wanting to lose you.

° It was only til you fell asleep on the drive home that he noticed the bite marks, his heart sinking realizing what had happened. He bit you while in his vampire form.

° It wasn't common for him to not remember anything after a form switch, unless he was desperate for blood. Seungmin felt terrible for putting this illness upon you.

° It would take one more week of suffering until your body got use to the bite. And he would have to deal with the guilt all throughout those seven days.

° It didn't take a mind reader to realize Seungmin was feeling upset, and you could even tell while still feeling terrible. You assumed he must be apart of your bite.

"Be honest baby, did you bite me?" You asked in a gentle tone.

"I'm so sorry y/n. I feel terrible." He whimpered, nearly tearing up.

° Your limp arms wrapped around his figure, comforting him during those harsh thoughts that must've raced in his mind. You weren't mad with him, and never could be.

"It's okay Seungmin, I'm not mad." You reassured, kissing his shoulder.

"I would be if I were you." He sighed, glancing at your tired eyes.

° His guilt began to clear up as you became healthier again, helping you as much as he could with anything you needed. Even if ti were just simple cuddle sessions.

° When the week passed and your body fused with your new form, he never felt such excitement when you flew around the room squealing in pure joy.

"Baby I'm flying!" you squealed.

"I know baby, you're doing great." He replied, falling deeper in love.

Jeongin

° Jeongin saw you get murdered with his very own eyes, yet there you were sitting on top of your grave stone as he mourned your death. He couldn't believe his eyes.

° He was convinced that he was just going crazy and you were a hallucination to torment him. But all of your touches towards him felt so real, just like when you were alive.

° You had to physically push him to the ground for him to believe you were back from the dead, and wake him up when he passed out from shock alone.

° He couldn't tell anyone that you were alive and kicking, knowing they'd hunt for you or think he's going insane. So he kept it to himself and met you in private.

° Jeongin noticed two bite marks on the side of your neck when he pecked across it lightly, he assumed that you were either bitten or cursed back to life.

° Your confession to being a vampire wasn't surprising to him, the whole scenario seeming so unrealistic. But he was so happy to have you back, that he didn't care one bit.

° Jeongin would let you bite him in an instant, never wanting to lose you again. You are his everything and seeing your lifeless body was too much for him to experience.

"I hope you don't mind keeping me secret." You commented, holding his hand.

"No, I understand why you'd want to stay secret." He replied, pulling you closer to his body.

° As months went by, the craving to be bitten by you crossed his mind more and more often. Jeongin was ready and wanted to be with you forever.

"Can you please bite me?" he asked gently, leaving his neck back for your fangs.

"Are you sure, this isn't exactly something you can take back Jeongin." You explained, holding his face in your hands.

° Jeongin kissed your lips softly and slowly, pulling your hands down from his face. Soon nodding sincerely as he leaned back once more, preparing for the slight sting.

° The sting wasn't as terrible as he assumed it to be, maybe you just went gentle on him. Either way the excitement of becoming like you overpowered the sting in his neck.

"There, now you're like me!" you chuckled, clapping happily.

"Nothing could beat this moment." He replied, kissing your lips once more.

#stray kids #kpop #changbin #skz scenarios #stray kids reactions #han jisung #hyunjin #jeongin #lee know #bang chan #Lee felix #skz seungmin #skz edits #skz icons #skz fluff #Skz vampire #Skz vampire au #vampire au

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silverphoenix212 · 3 years

Text

Bring You Back to Me

Read on ao3

(Inspired by @oceantail-oceantail and her fic prepare the diving bell. Here’s the comfort to your hurt.)

Fruit has heard the Poem one hundred and thirty six times in the voice of what used to be his best friend. He knows this because he has counted each one, a precious despised memory that he can’t let go of wants so desperately to forget. This time is no different, as he stands at the fountain, the last dying screams of the dragon ringing in his ears. He ignores the inky void that forms below and instead holds out his hand, a faded lavender ribbon clutched in his palm.

They said there was no way But they forgot the black hole in the sky Yesterday is nothing I have half a life to rewrite Flying into this future I will let the science bring the change This will be the final cure I am gonna take the past away

“Do you remember?” He asks the vast nothingness of the end. “I don’t even know if you hear me anymore, but you should have this back.” He lets the soft fabric fall from his hand, watching as it disappears into the starless abyss just like his friend did so long ago. Fruit doesn’t know what he’s hoping for. The Universe is still and silent, unresponsive to his plea, and he gives in and falls forward into darkness. Yet even as the cold and unforgiving void engulfs him, there is something different. The Universe speaks, but it’s a different voice that replies.

Fruit.

His name, spoken not by some all powerful mockery of someone he once knew, but by Illumina. The voice of his friend, warm and comforting, not tainted by some power he barely understands. He desperately reaches out, but before he can even reply the voice is gone, replaced by the Universe touched. The Poem continues, but Fruit knows what he heard, even as he gasps awake back in the stronghold. His friend is alive.

With the full force Of a dying star I will find you If you’re near or far Wherever you are

He barely remembers the next world, except that he spawns in a flower forest and gathers as many alliums as he can hold, cradling them carefully even as he dodges sharp swords and fireballs. A memory floats to the front of his mind, of Illumina holding out a purple flower. “For good luck and friendship,” he’d said, and Fruit whispers it back as he places the blossoms gently into the fountain. He would move mountains to hear Illumina’s real voice just one more time, but he isn’t speaking to the Universe through grand gestures and feats of strength. He’s speaking to Illumina, his friend, through the language of memory and love. He’s rewarded by the voice he remembers so clearly.

and the universe said you are stronger than you know

and the universe said you are not alone

and the universe said I love you because you are love

Floating through forever I am stealing the energy Endlessly endeavor This is finding infinity I’m falling through a dark sunrise I will escape the entropy And find a way to leave this time I will bring you back to me

Fruit fights the void this time, fights the sensation of endless falling, of his body being torn apart and made anew in his bed, of the Universe that screams at him to wake. He isn’t made to withstand this force, but it doesn’t matter. He hears the voice of his friend, nearly drowned in that of the Universe, but it’s still there, a gentle whisper fighting to be heard, and Fruit would sooner dissolve into nothingness here and now than leave him behind one more time.

With the full force Of a dying star I will find you If you’re near or far Wherever you are

He reaches out a hand on instinct. He doesn’t know why, doesn’t know what he’s reaching for, but another hand grasps his own. He still can’t see, blinded by the darkness of the void and the Universe, but he can feel soft skin, and in between, a strip of satin fabric and a thin flower stem. Wings envelop him in a warm embrace, battling the cold emptiness of the place in between life and death, and though the Universe would say it sends him back home, he knows the truth. Fruit pulls home back with him.

Wherever you are

#illumina #fruitberries #fruitninja #mcsr #first time writing a songfic but I was just inspired

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mooshys · 4 years

Text

hq + hogwarts house sorting

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

CONGRATULATIONS on your acceptance to HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY on JANUARY 16th, 2021.

Below are the houses with which some of our finest students have been sorted into along with key characteristics pertaining to them. Each house is equal, but the one you are sorted into will hold a dear place in your heart as your housemates will be like your family. Feel free to get acquainted with the customs of each house in the days before the first term.

I wish you all the best with your sorting ceremony,

AURORA

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

GRYFFINDOR ➝ daichi, ushijima, iwaizumi, aran, yaku, tanaka, nishinoya, hoshiumi, hinata, goshiki

HOUSE AESTHETICS ➝ freckles on your nose from sun exposure, the horizon seen from the top of a mountain, freshly squeezed orange juice, beat up sneakers from years of wear, wildflower bouquets, rubies on a crown, old movie tickets kept in your pocket, lightning storms in the summer, dirt paths leading you to a forest, apple pie baked in the morning, bandages wrapped around your fingers, cherry lip balm, fraying denim, popping of champagne bottles, t-shirts tossed to the side to dive headfirst into a lake, names carved on the trunk of a tree, mismatched earrings, stained glass windows with sunlight filtering through them

LOVE FOR A GRYFFINDOR ➝ forehead kisses, engulfing you in back hugs and rocking you from side to side while humming, singing along to your favorite song, a polaroid picture of you in their wallet, introducing you to their family with pride in their eyes, holding your hand tighter when navigating through a crowd, getting you a locket with a photo of you two as a birthday gift, saying “I love you” as soon as they realize

WHAT SETS THEM APART ➝ the ones willing to take the jump without knowing if the water is too cold or too shallow, the ones who stand by your side and fight for what is right, the ones who are not afraid of what others think, the ones who run to the ends of the earth for you, the ones who are fearless

SHENANIGANS IN THE COMMON ROOM ➝ bringing in plates of food from the great hall and creating different concoctions in the middle of the night, making giant pillow forts and chatting there until the early morning, sneaking out to the quidditch pitch to watch the sunrise

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

SLYTHERIN ➝ oikawa, tendou, semi, daishou, sugawara, atsumu, osamu, sakusa, futakuchi, shirabu

HOUSE AESTHETICS ➝ silver jewelry that never tarnishes, fur coats to keep you warm in the winter, the perfect red lipstick, dark chocolate covered strawberries, renaissance paintings, vines of ivy scaling castle walls, drips of wax from a candle stick, the sounds of an orchestra reverberating through an opera house, black turtlenecks, gold fountain pens, espresso from rome, leather gloves, crescent moons, head busts of roman emperors, wire rimmed glasses, silk, blackberries picked from your home garden to make jam, berets, flute glasses being held for a toast, gold cufflinks with a family emblem, pristine robes

LOVE FOR A SLYTHERIN ➝ banter going back and forth as flirtatious plights, making fun of cheesy movies together, gifts of jewelry for anniversaries, kisses on your neck, your perfume being their favorite scent, retreats to a winter cottage for vacation together, shielding you from the rain with their coat during an unexpected storm, whispering “I love you” in your ear in the middle of a crowd to see what kind of reaction you’d give them

WHAT SETS THEM APART ➝ the ones who walk in a room and command its attention, the ones who seize the day with an iron grip, the ones who know their talents and polish them until they shine brightest, the ones who walk with their heads held up highest, the ones who are exceptional

SHENANIGANS IN THE COMMON ROOM ➝ poker nights with sweets from honeydukes used as chips, wizard chess bets leaving some of the younger students broke after multiple heated game, putting toads underneath blankets as a prank and the perpetrators waking up with a jelly-leg curse

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

HUFFLEPUFF ➝ asahi, bokuto, hanamaki, matsukawa, komori, yamaguchi, yachi, lev, koganegawa

HOUSE AESTHETICS ➝ picnic spreads in front of a sparkling lake, sunlight illuminating your irises, washi tape, amber gemstones held up to the sky, the last string of honey stuck on a spoon, letters from friends and past lovers stored in an old cookie tin, green pastures with cows grazing the land, roasted chestnuts, rows of tulips, lace sewn on your sleeves, wooden figurines, lazing underneath a willow tree, paint brushes, walnut brownies baked after dinner, sheen on the highest points of your face, seashells kept from the beach, fluffy clouds shaped like animals, cookies wrapped with parchment paper and tied with twine

LOVE FOR A HUFFLEPUFF ➝ groggily mumbling “five more minutes” in the morning before getting out of bed because they love the way your body is pressed against theirs, always making two cups of coffee in the morning, putting a blanket over your body when you’re sleeping on the couch, getting your favorite ice cream pint at the supermarket even though you didn’t write it on the grocery list, being the first one to text you on your birthday, showing “I love you” through remembering all the things that make you special

WHAT SETS THEM APART ➝ the ones who always stop and lend a hand, the ones who give up what is theirs if it benefits others, the ones who never forget your name, the ones who make the biggest sacrifice, the ones who are altruistic

SHENANIGANS IN THE COMMON ROOM ➝ sitting near the fireplace and roasting s’mores together, dance parties and clanking of butterbeer glasses to celebrate the end of exams, playing a game of pictionary instead of doing homework

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

RAVENCLAW ➝ kuroo, kita, kiyoko, kenma, hirugami, akaashi, suna, ennoshita, terushima, kunimi, tsukishima, kageyama

HOUSE AESTHETICS ➝ passing notes stained with coffee in secrecy, sugar cubes dissolving in a cup of tea, constellations telling stories from generations past, violets, blankets of soft snow seen outside your window, chunky boots, running your fingers across a velvet blanket, sleeping with a book covering your eyes from the sun, stardust, notes written next to your favorite scene in a play, gold trimmed letters, ink smeared on fingers, the tail of a cat swinging back and forth, telescopes, mascara smudged at the corners of your eyes, a scarf knitted by a close friend

LOVE FOR A RAVENCLAW ➝ two a.m. facetime calls talking about anything and everything until it’s silent on both ends and neither of you mind because time spent together is never a minute wasted, chaste kisses when passing through rows of shelves in the library, sharing your favorite songs with each other, reading a book because you offhandedly mentioned it once, falling down the rabbit hole and never wanting to escape, writing “I love you” at the corner of your notebook and waiting until you notice

WHAT SETS THEM APART ➝ the ones who pause and always pick the right words, the ones who devise plans like no other, the ones who try to understand everything the universe has to offer, the ones who will go above and beyond to change the system, the ones who are erudite

SHENANIGANS IN THE COMMON ROOM ➝ students gathered together with bowls of popcorn to watch a meteor shower, jeopardy games regarding historical magical figures being played with the stakes of winner getting their homework done by everyone else for a week, all nighters dedicated to deciphering ancient text

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

#haikyuu #haikyuu!!#hq #hq!!#haikyuu headcanons #hq headcanons #hq x hp #karasuno #aoba johsai #seijoh #inarizaki #shiratorizawa #fukurodani #<- I am not tagging all the characters lmao #bring back 2015 aesthetic lists #the first time I got sorted I was a ravenclaw #the second time I got sorted I was a gryffindor #someone stop me from making hc lists it's like a curse at this point

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fakecrfan · 3 years

Note

Since you very nicely offered to write me a fic:

Your prompt is: A story about a background character or characters dealing with life after the TMA apocalypse.

It can be set in the OG TMA universe in the post-post-apocalypse, or it can also be set in a different universe that was affected by the events of MAG 200.

Both OCs and characters established in-show are allowed.

This one aligned so well with my interests that I am actually tempted to open my inbox, briefly, in case anyone else has questions like “what is X bavjground character doing after the apocalypse?” so I can make a series out of it and expand on my post-post-apocalypse headcanons.

For now, you can read your fic here, on over here on AO3

---

Sarah doesn't know where she is.

England, she has to still be in England, she thinks. But it's not an England she recognizes. Not the cobblestone streets of London, and not the moors she used to visit on her vacations. The ground is barren, as though all blades of grass but a few have shriveled up and died. There are no trees, houses, or landmarks for miles--just scorched remnants of where they might have been before.

For a moment, the emptiness of it all is a relief after the hotel. But everything is the same on all sides, and she doesn't know where she is or where to go. She's starting to get hungry, too. She never got hungry in the hotel, nightmarish as it was.

She has to sit down for a moment, take a few deep breaths, and think.

Get food. Find shelter. Survive.

Find Alex.

(God, why had she left her child in a hotel room? Little twelve year old Alex who was still afraid to sleep without a night light. He'd begged her to stay, she should have--)

With that in mind she gets up. Doesn't know what direction to walk in, so she doesn't concern herself with trying to pick one. There's nothing to do but walk, keep her eyes open, and hope.

So she hopes.

---

None of our old maps match the landscape, anymore.

The world these days it's... not like in the before times, as I suppose we're calling it. Despite our hopes, ending the apocalypse wasn’t like everyone waking up from a nightmare. The land is...

It's scrambled, I guess. There are patches of the world that--well. They're not the same, but still have infrastructure intact. Electricity, running water, air conditioning. No scorched earth or rubble in these areas. Just a bunch of traumatized people living in an intact town, or city.

When I talk to them, they tell me it's not the city they remember, though. Everything has been switched around, houses and stores not where they remember them. Their neighbors aren't the neighbors their remember.

Those are the lucky ones. And then there's, well... the outside.

Some places have rubble everywhere, jagged steel ripped apart and waiting for someone to cut themselves on it. Some are frozen over, still waiting for the ice they were frozen over with in the apocalypse to melt. Some are scorched to dust. No phones out there, or anything that lets you connect back with home base.

I'm going out there. We need to map it out. We need to figure out our new world, understand it--and we need to get as many people out of the wastes as possible.

Melanie, Georgie--I’ll see you soon.

---

Sarah does find water. That's something. She's hungry still, so hungry, but she knows that the water is more important.

She wonders if she should stay there. She doesn't know if there will be more watering holes in the future, after all, and she has no way to carry it with her. She decides to keep moving on, and hope for the best.

She starts to see blades of grass poking up, along with some sort of metal crap strewn about the landscape. She looks at them a moment--it seems to be bits of an old carousel? Eventually, a giant sit in their shade, for a while. There she takes a moment to look at the horizon, and goes cold.

She recognizes the tower on the horizon.

A scaffolded tower with two legs beneath it. A sight she'd last seen on a postcard from her brother. The Eiffel Tower.

Is she in Paris? No, that can't be it. It's just the tower out here in the wastes. There are none of the buildings that would normally surround it. It's almost as though its been ripped out of the city and transported here.

Does Paris even exist anymore? Does London?

If she even finds Alex, will there be a home for them to go back to?

---

I have a theory, Melanie. I think lots of people got transported to different places in the world based on what fear they belonged to. Like, a bunch of lonely people were put in the same place, a bunch of claustrophobic people were put in the same place, and so on. All away from the people they knew.

I’m in one of the suburban safe areas now. No one here knows each other. I talked to them all, and all of them remember living in the same house before, but none of them recognized the houses near them or the people in them. When I went from house to house, everyone had a different native language. I talked to a German guy and a French guy who spoke English, but a lot of them… couldn’t talk to me at all.

There was a woman who--she saw me and she lit up. She grabbed me and started talking a mile a minute in Arabic, I think. But I couldn’t understand her, and she--when I tried to talk back to her in English, her face just. Fell. And then she started to cry.

My dad refused to speak it at home, you know. He-- Actually, never mind. It’s not important.

She ended up shoving me away.

---

Sarah makes it to the ruins of a forest.

There’s nothing but stumps left of it, along with litter everywhere. She finds water again, filthy brackish water, and she drinks it anyway because she’s so thirsty. She starts sifting through all of the garbage strewn about for something edible. She finds stale bread crusts crawling with ant and eats them anyway.

She finds a can of beans, and almost cries. When she can’t find a can opener, she screams instead.

---

The death count has gotten to me, honestly.

I’ve found dead bodies even in the towns and cities. Some looked like heart attacks. Some suicides. People who woke up but couldn’t bear the agony they’d just gone through. That’s still not… the worst of it.

I passed a whole field of dead bodies today.

Hundreds of people, I think, all of them lying dead in the soil. But there were... trails. They had been walking, before they collapsed. All walking in the same direction, to where you can still see London on the horizon.

They were alive. They were trying to get help. And they just... starved, it looks like. The walk was just too long.

How many people are going to die from it all, Melanie? How many already have, out where we can't see them?

I left as many jugs of clean water and rations along the roads as I could. I put up signs pointing to London, saying how many miles out they were, where I had stashed food. I gave them your number, so they know who to call to get to the shelter.

I hope it means the next group that passes by won't die.

I hope there is a next group.

---

Sarah can see what looks like a city in the distance before she collapses.

She tries to get up, but can’t. She’s been walking for days now, it feels like, only sporadically drinking and almost never eating. There just isn’t enough energy left in her to stand.

She tries to think about little Alex again, running around in his Batman cape, hoping some kind of love or maternal instinct will kick in and give her the last burst of adrenaline she needs to get up. It doesn’t work. Maybe she doesn’t love her own son anymore, really. Maybe it’s just been fear and guilt driving her this far, and that source has already been wrung dry.

She manages to crawl a few feet, before she can’t even do that. With nothing else left to do, she starts to cry out. “Help! Water, please!”

She doesn’t think anyone will hear, or show up. But against all odds, in her dimming vision she sees a figure come into view. Backpacked, clutching a water bottle.

“Help,” she croaks out again.

The figure gets closer, and she starts to be able to make out the details of his face. He’s her age, or older, with worry lines carved into his forehead and wide eyes. His nose looks eerily like her brother’s nose, and the shape of his jaw reminds her of her old boyfriend, the one who left her with--

She blinks. Maybe she’s hallucinating, or maybe she’s somehow run into a long lost cousin. But then, the man’s eye’s widen and his mouth opens.

“Mum?”

No, no it can’t…

“A-alex?”

No, Alex was a little round cheeked boy. This is a thirty year old man, at least, taller than her. It hasn’t been that long. It can’t be, it’s not--

“Mum?” He’s doing a frown that looks so, so familiar. This has to be a dream. “Mum, it’s--no.”

He sniffles. He steps forward, and steps back. He paces, uncertain.

“No, no,” she hears him mutter. “It’s all fake, all fake. It’s a trap. That’s what they want, the monsters and the face stealers. No one is real. Don’t give them what they want--’’

“Please.” she begs.

But she hears him walk away, sniffling, and shortly thereafter everything goes dark.

---

I have a confession to make, Melanie. I was going to side with Jon, back then. I could have lived with keeping everyone here suffering to prevent more of it. But when he said he was going to kill the whole world, not just leave it--that’s what made me snap.

I couldn’t let the whole world die. Genocide of the entire human species? Anything but that. Surely passing along the suffering would be better, as long as it didn’t lead to the extinction of whole worlds. But…

I keep finding more dead bodies.

I went back to that suburb I talked about, to restock on all my food. It was a lonely domain before, I think. I’d thought everyone there would be fine, you know. They didn’t have any deadly sicknesses, or twisted flesh injuries. They had food and water and shelter. But when I went back… more of them had died.

Lots of suicides. Some of them snapped, and started to self injure.

The German guy I talked to had started to starve. He had a pantry full of food and he just wouldn’t eat it. I tried to get him to eat, to move in with someone else, but he said talking to people “made him sick.”

I gave up, and left. I had to. There were too many people, and too much to do, so I left him. He’s probably dead now, or going to die soon. Because he can’t find the will to live, and I don’t know how to help someone with that.

The Lonely is probably one of the least directly harmful entities, right? This domain was just a suburb, probably the most comfortable you could get during the apocalypse. And yet the victims are still all dying.

How much worse is it in places without food and water? In the corruption domains that still probably have deadly diseases spreading? In war zones, in flesh factories?

I think about that nursing home we found. All of the patients who'd died of heart attacks a few minutes after they'd woken up. The ones left alive screaming for help where no one could hear them, for days after the fact. All of the ones that died in their beds before we found them.

I think about that field of bodies I found the other day. I think about the ruins of that Circus I found, people refusing to talk to me or each other--refusing to help because they didn’t believe it was over and thought everyone else was a mannequin.

I think… I think it doesn’t matter that we saved the world. If people can’t find the will to live, ro rebuild, to trust and help each other again… I think we’re going through a mass extinction event anyway.

---

Sarah’s in a car, she thinks. Not a moving one. She’s propped up against a seat,There’s something plastic pressed to her lips.

“Come on,” says a woman’s deep, level voice. “Come on. I got you. We’re getting to London. All you have to do is drink.”

Sarah opens her eyes. She sees a dark-skinned woman trying to coax her to drink, holding up a water bottle.

“Just a sip,” the woman says. “Just enough to make it.”

Sarah closes her eyes, and takes a long moment to consider whether she wants to.

#my writing #tma fic #post post apocalypse #cw: suicide mention #cw: familial separation #cw: mass death #Basira Hussain

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thedarkestpartofhollis · 3 years

Text

Full name: Hollis Paul Rosenberg

Gender and Pronouns: Cis male, he/him

Age: Forty-two

Birthday: January 5th, 1980

Zodiac: Capricorn

Species: Werewolf

Pack Position: Alpha

Birthplace: Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Occupation: Criminal prosecutor at McCartney Law Firm

Residence: Bronx, New York

Sexuality: Bisexual

Relationship status: In a relationship with Athena Decker-Morris

About Hollis:

He was born in Philadelphia, PA to Emma and Phillip Rosenberg. His parents weren’t too thrilled with the idea of having a child during the entire pregnancy. But when he was born, their tune changed, and Hollis was welcomed. However, he was the only child they would have.

Growing up, Hollis was pretty good at most things he tried. But he excelled at academics and while his parents never forced Hollis to do something he didn’t want to, they encouraged him to pursue academics.

Throughout middle and high school, Hollis was in all honors classes and was consistently at the top of his class. By his junior year in high school, he knew that he wanted to be a lawyer.

Even with all the scholarships he received, he didn’t have enough money to attend college, so took a four year break and just worked odd jobs until he felt more comfortable with his financial status.

Hollis attended Stanford University in California, which had been his dream school.

There he met Brian Hayes, who quickly became his best friend, and the two were essentially inseparable for their entire college career.

The week of the bar exam, Brian suggested that their group of friends go on a camping trip as one last hoorah before they started their lives after college. Hollis suggested a camping site about two and a half hours outside of Stanford and their group headed out.

The first night at their camping site, they were attacked by a pack of werewolves. Most of them were killed on the spot but Hollis and Brian split up and managed to get away. A couple of the werewolves had caught up to Hollis and left him mangled and bloodied on the forest floor to die.

The next thing Hollis remembered was waking up in a hospital bed with tons of new gashes and his thigh was ripped out. Brian was nowhere to be seen, however. Along with the rest of their friends.

When Hollis got out of the hospital, he didn’t actually believe that he was a werewolf. But he was forced to believe it when the full moon and he transformed in his apartment’s bathroom.

A few months after he at least understood what he was, Hollis took his bar exam, passed with flying colors, and moved across the county to New York. He didn’t want to be anywhere near California.

Hollis joined the New York pack, mostly because he had to.

Soon after he moved, he got himself a job as an attorney and took just about any case that he could, just to get his name out there. For a while, he did public case work and a lot of pro-bono cases just to get experience.

After about five years, Hollis had worked himself through the ranks and got himself into the practice of Criminal Prosecuting and has been doing that since. He is now one of the top ranked prosecutors in the state.

Recently, Hollis has become the Alpha for the pack due to the past Alpha not being fit for the position.

After a group vote in the pack, they decided Hollis was the best choice and he fought the Alpha for the position, ultimately winning.

Looking for a connection with Hollis? Here’s some ideas:

Cousin (Close or not, doesn’t matter)

A family friend

Someone who got friendzoned or friendzoned Hollis (at this point, he would totally over it, but it still be fun)

His first relationship (that lasted more than a few months; could end on good or bad terms)

General ex-relationships

Co-workers

His assistant at the law firm

Someone who knows the wolf who turned him

#meet hollis #i only wrote this 3 months later

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epiphany-of-a-madwoman · 4 years

Text

The Last Dragon | The Witcher & Game of Thrones

Chapter 11 | Of Delusions and Grandeur

Summary: Visenya Targaryen is the eldest and only surviving child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell. When Robert Baratheon’s rebellion was won, instead of being slaughtered by the Mountain like her mother and siblings, she was saved by Ned Stark and taken as his ward. Years later, after she’s killed at the Red Wedding, she wakes up outside Blaviken. Now she finds her destiny intertwined with the White Wolf on her quest to go back home.

Word Count: 8,500

*Warning* Our angry bean having some serious PTSD flashbacks, also death, quite a bit of death.

Note: Click here to read the previous chapters ♡ Oh boy did this one take a reallllllyyyy long time for me to write. I hope it’s worth it! Also, I apologize for any mistakes, I probably didn’t proofread as many times as I should’ve 🤍

When she was a little girl, Visenya was called into Lord Stark's study nearly every day. She'd shuffle into the room, hiding a coy smirk and mischievous giggles behind a straight face, unable to look him in the eyes as she fumbled through unconvincing lies. At the time she thought herself the finest liar in the Seven Kingdoms, ego growing larger with each doe-eyed look, and words of denial laced with feigned innocence. And each time she stepped out of the room, she'd miss the small smile pulling on Lord Stark's mouth, eyes glittering with amusement as melancholy consumed him, reminding him of times when he was much smaller and the world much bigger.

With age, each step into that study grew less intimidating, the walls growing shorter as she grew longer. At some point between six and ten it changed, instead of swiping pastries from the kitchens, she was hiding away with Jon, waving around a training sword that's too large and too sharp; and inevitably, one morning a large cut blossomed on her face. She went into the study sobbing like an infant while holding a medical cloth to her wound, fears of getting in trouble making her anxiety soar high into the cloudy sky. But instead of sour eyes and trembling lips, she left with a beaming smile on her face and orders to begin training with Ser Rodrik. Immediately she was ushered to Maester Luwin and put on bed rest for the day - Theon called her a stupid girl trying to act like a man, whilst Jon brought her wildflowers from a field. She made sure to hit Theon extra hard during their sparring sessions.

Then there was the time she tackled Theon and beat him bloody when she was a girl of ten and two after he insulted her father; wailing like a banshee, screaming into the universe that Theon and his family were cowards. Her small fists beat into him with as much tact and technique as a wild animal. Everything he ate for a week straight had a metallic aftertaste, while Visenya wore her smugness like a crown. Lord Stark gave her a stern lecture about not hitting people just because they make you angry, yet she couldn't help but preen like a bird when noticing the glint of amusement in his icy eyes. Robb would laugh every time he saw Theon for a full month, meanwhile, Theon's glares didn't disappear until his final scar did. Only then did he begin to acknowledge Visenya's presence again. He never brought up her family again, and she returned the favor.

Of course, she could never forget the time she was brought in - shivering like a leaf, looking as if she'd slept in the deepest ocean - two guards at her side as they escorted her. Lord Stark dismissed them immediately, waiting with patient eyes and a kind smile for Visenya to explain where she'd run off to. The dam broke and she began sobbing, blubbering nonsense that not even she understood. But Lord Stark didn't yell at her, demanding she speak clearly. Instead, he stood up, chair scraping loudly against the floor, and carefully approached Visenya. Kneeling to be eye level with her smaller form, he just hugged her, encompassing her with the fatherly warmth she couldn't remember ever getting from Rhaegar Targaryen. Maybe he did hug her when she was a child and the world wasn't crumbling around them, but if he did, she couldn't remember. So she just hugged Lord Stark so tightly she wouldn't be surprised if he had red marks where her arms were.

Then only four years later, she was called in again, only this time Lady Stark stood beside him, strained smiles and stony eyes greeting her, and held tightly in Lord Stark's hand was a letter, the parchment nearly ripping in half from his grip. It was nearly identical to the one she sent off three days prior, with Essos it's destination and Targaryen the receiver, signed with a desperation to connect with blood. Lord Stark gently explained to her that the King may see it as treason if she was found to be contacting the only other remaining Targaryen's, finding the reason to do what he's been itching to do since the rebellion. And Visenya couldn't bring herself to tear apart her family by selfish actions, not after everything they've done for her. That day she didn't walk out triumphant or ecstatic, instead, she burned with rage and shame; rage at the world and shame at herself for caring so much. She never tried to contact Daenerys again.

The final time she ever walked into that study was a week before Robert Baratheon was set to arrive at Winterfell. Lady Stark wasn't there, in fact, no one else was anywhere near the vicinity. He told her to sit down, not willing to delve into the reason that she was there until she complied. Ned Stark was never one to beat around the bush, finding it more practical to just say what needs to be said and move on. That was the first time Visenya ever saw him fumble over his words. Finally, he managed to tell her what exactly the King had demanded when he was in Winterfell. He wanted Visenya married off and out of Winterfell. She was a statue at that moment, having a million things she wanted to say, but simply nodded, turned, and left the room without another word. A day after the King arrived, so did her potential suitors. The King insisted he should be the one to choose her husband, completely crushing the dwindling hope that her future husband wouldn't be so terrible. The decision ended up being between a child of ten and two and a boy only a year older than that, both from two minor houses in the South; until Robb interrupted - respectfully of course - and declared that he would marry Visenya. She couldn't decide what was worse, the prospect of marrying someone she sees as a brother or watching Jon's crestfallen face. Jon wouldn't look at her until the night before he left for the Night's Watch, and she couldn't look Robb in the eyes until he did.

This time, standing in front of the door that leads into the room Jaskier and Geralt reside in, with damp hair and clothes sticking to wet skin, she is a storm. A flurry of emotions raging in her mind; anger, sadness, melancholy, and fear melting together until she can't feel anything, the sensory overload leaving her numb. She eyes the empty hall like an animal stuck in a cage, her heart pounding, seconds away from bolting out of the inn and never returning, living in the forest as far from people as possible. But then the sound of Jaskier talking and Geralt's angry mumbling filters into Visenya's ears. Her anxiety increases, but the storm softens as she straightens her back, all thoughts of running suddenly gone.

'The blood of the dragon must not be afraid.'

Visenya sends a prayer to the Warrior for courage and the Crone to give her the wisdom to not let her anger control her, not wanting to lash out again. She reaches a hand up, pausing it midair for a second. With one last silent prayer, she grasps the handle in hand and pushes open the door.

"--quit your complaining, you look great! Scary and dashing, what more could a Witcher want?" Jaskier says to Geralt, waving his hands wildly. Geralt stands in the room, wearing clothes suited for minor nobility, a stark difference from his usual armor, a scowl chiseled into his beautiful face.

He's in shades of blue: a Stark blue cotton jacket hugging his biceps, a stone grey shirt tucked into his leather pants that hug his toned legs in the most flattering way, wolf pendant hanging from his neck. His white hair is tied back in its usual fashion but appears to have been brushed, clearly the doing of Jaskier. Despite his obvious discomfort, he's like a piece of art, looking like the subject of a painting that hangs in a noble lady's room.

As the door clicks behind her, Geralt and Jaskier look at her. Jaskier's eyes immediately flicker away, face draining of all color as he takes a small step backward. It's small, the change in his demeanor, but it's enough to break Visenya's heart that she thought had been encapsulated by stone and ice. A million words nearly fall from her mouth, at the very tip of her tongue, but she finds herself losing the ability to speak. So instead she turns her attention to Geralt, feigning the smirk that usually naturally falls on her face.

"You clean up nicely. If I didn't know any better, I wouldn't think you were just covered from head to toe in monster guts," she teases, willing her voice to sound as light as air, not at all weighed down by the anxiety in her heart. Geralt narrows his eyes, seeing through her façade the second she places it on, but he says nothing. Instead, he shrugs his shoulders and grunts, turning back to Jaskier.

"See, I told you it's fine. Now Jane, be a dear and put on that dress in the corner." Jaskier moves through the room like water, stepping behind Geralt and pushing him towards the exit, making Visenya step further into the room, flattening against the wall to allow them to slip past her. Geralt's shoulder brushes against her, and it feels like electricity. Not that she'd ever tell him that. Meanwhile, Jaskier is looking anywhere and everywhere, as long as he doesn't have to look at her.

The door clicks behind them, the shuffling of feet gone, leaving Visenya alone with her thoughts, again. She shuffles over to the other side of the room, seeing a bundle of dark fabric that must be her dress. She closes the distance, holding the fabric between her fingers. It's a deep purple and almost softer than anything she's ever touched. Sighing, she begins to pull her clothes off of her body, haphazardly throwing them onto the ground. She holds up the dress, the ends touching the floor; it's beautiful, with a silver belt cinching in the waist and a slit up the leg, allowing free range of movement. And for a moment she thinks Jaskier chose these colors on purpose, purple for the eyes she used to recognize, and silver for the hair that used to flow freely, but that's impossible. How could he know the importance of those colors when he doesn't even know her real name?

So she pushes those thoughts away and begins the process of stepping into the dress and pulling it on. The fabric drapes loosely off the shoulder, the back flowing into a sort of cloak style. It's light as air, moving in perfect sync with her, ideal for looking pretty but also loose enough to allow her to fight if necessary; nothing like the heavy and restricting dresses of the North. She clasps the belt, adding some shape to her body so it no longer looks like she's drowning in excess fabric. She holds Renfri's broach, the emeralds, and rubies shining and bright compared to her dress. She pins it in the place it always is, over her left breast.

She puts both hands under her hair, starting to pull it out from under the dress when there's a knock at the door. She starts to turn, the dress moving around her feet like a soft breeze, when the door clicks, creaking as it opens.

"Jaskier wanted me to bring you--" Geralt says, trailing off as Visenya turns to face him, the dress fully on display. A smile pulls on her previously dour face, as the last of her damp hair falls over her shoulders. In his hands are a pair of velvet black boots, the heels higher than her usual travel shoes, with a silver buckle adorning them, not as fine as what high royalty would wear, but certainly nicer than her everyday ones. His gold eyes rake up and down her body, mouth slightly agape.

"My shoes? Thank you, I was hoping I wouldn't have to go to this feast barefoot." She saunters over to him, making sure to take her time with every step. She stops right in front of him, tilting her head up to look at his face, Geralt's large form looming over her. His eyes follow her, tilting his head down as well.

She grabs onto the shoes, pulling until Geralt grip on them slacks. Without moving her eyes from his, she slips each shoe on, the inside lined with a soft fabric, making them hug her feet comfortably. Geralt breaths out a laugh, but says nothing else.

"You look nice." he finally says, his voice rougher and lower than usual, causing Visenya's eyes to light up as he struggles to swallow for a moment.

"You don't look too bad either." She raises a single brow, slowly raising herself to stand on the tips of her toes, inching closer to Geralt's face.

"Hmm." He just grunts, leaning down to close the distance between them. And when their lips are seconds away from touching she veers to the left, placing a ghost of a kiss on the corner of his lips.

"See you out there." She leaves the room, closing the door behind her, a self-satisfied smirk on her face.

o0o0o0o

"--keep your head down and pretend to be a mute, can't have anyone figuring out who you are," Jaskier mutters to Geralt as soon as they step into the Great Hall. Most of tonight's guests have already arrived, standing in small clusters that are interspersed throughout the large room. They're rowdy, much more like the Northerners that Visenya's accustomed to, tankards of Cintran Ale in the hands of every person. They're dressed in a wide variety of colors, most of the women wearing dresses made from velvet and much warmer fabrics than the chiffon that languidly hangs off Visenya. A season of jewel tones surround them: reds, greens, and purples as far as the eye can see.

"Geralt of Rivia, the mighty Witcher!" a voice exclaims, a slew of loud drunken shouts from the nearby crowds following the proclamation. A man in forest green finery that looks slippery to the touch begins to approach them. Well dressed, but certainly not the most expensive-looking man in the room. His shoulder-length thick black hair is pushed away from his face, a matching thick beard covering his chin. Light reflects off of the greying hairs that pepper it, betraying how old he is. His eyes, that are as green as his tunic, scan the three of them, lingering on Visenya but ultimately he focuses on Geralt.

"Oh shit," Jaskier mutters, glancing around the room, smiling and waving awkwardly at everyone looking at them.

"I haven't seen you since the plague," he says, silver tankard in hand as he draws closer, an easy smile on his face.

"Good times, Mousesack," Geralt says, his tone and posture rigid and uncomfortable; never one for crowds it would seem. The man doesn't seem put off by Geralt's dour demeanor, instead, he breathes out a laugh, pointing at Geralt with his tankard.

"I have missed your sour complexion. I feared this would be a dull affair, but now that the White Wolf is here, perhaps all is not lost." he closes the distance, grabbing ahold of both of his shoulders, the smile on his face falling just an inch. "Why are you dressed like a sad silk trader?"

Geralt turns to Jaskier, his signature scowl on his face. Jaskier just turns to look at them, playing with his fingers, eyes wide and nervous, but ultimately silent.

"And who might this be," the man says, moving his attention from Geralt to Visenya. She grants him a smile, much closer to Geralt's stiff one than his easy-going smile. He holds out a hand and she shakes it, trying to match his firm grip.

"Jane."

"Mousesack, a pleasure to make your acquaintance." He's charming, with a wide grin on his face and bright eyes. There's also a spark when he makes contact with her. Not the kind that plagues sappy romance novels, but a literal spark of...something that leaves the hair on her arms standing and her spine-tingling.

"Mousesack is a druid." Geralt answers her unspoken question, looking between the two of them with a blank expression.

"I see, and you and Geralt are friends I presume?" Visenya asks, slipping her hand from his tight grasp.

"Old friends, it's been what...50 years?" Mousesack says, glancing at Geralt for confirmation.

"Something like that." Geralt says, scanning the crowd. Visenya turns to him, eyes widening a fraction.

"How old are you exactly?" She asks, eyes narrowing. It never occurred to her that a Witcher would age differently. The passage of time here never occurs to her much. She goes to sleep at night and wakes up at dawn, spending the day traveling, sitting in inns, or looking threatening and mean to potential aggressors, only to start the cycle over again. How much time has passed since she first arrived? Everything seems to pass in a blur, she never bothers to think about it.

"Over 100," he gruffly responds, glancing over at her before returning his eyes elsewhere.

"You don't keep track?" Visenya asks mind short-circuiting momentarily. How is that even possible, to be over 100 years old, yet not look a day over 30? It has to be a side effect of being a Witcher, it's the only logical explanation.

"Why would I?"

"I guess when you're that old it doesn't matter," she says, brows furrowing as her eyes narrow.

"I never thought I'd see the day that someone matched your dour attitude. Come, walk with me," Mousesack merrily exclaims, words slurring together. He flashes Visenya another smile as he begins to effortlessly move through the crowd of people. Geralt follows beside him, Visenya keeping pace with him.

"I've been advising the Skelligen crown for years. A tad rough around the edges, but they're of the earth. Like me," Mousesack says, people, cheering and holding up drinks towards him as he passes.

"Old and crusty," Geralt says. "How long before this horse-trading is done? I find royalty best taken in... small doses."

Visenya snorts as she observes the room around her, trying to memorize every tiny detail. There's a high table at the very end of the hall, with a large throne in the center, like a shining prized jewel. It's nothing near as magnificent as how she imagines the Iron Throne to be, but it's large none-the-less. Sitting by the empty throne is a girl, closer to Visenya's age than not if her appearance is anything to go by. With pale skin that glows in the dim candlelight, her golden-silvery hair compliments her beautifully. It's in an ornate braid on the back of her head, falling over her shoulder, a gold ribbon weaving in and out of it. Her emerald green dress is adorned with a large gold necklace, the small emerald jewels in it dancing in the candlelight, a delicate gold circlet resting on her head. Their eyes lock, and Visenya finds herself entranced by her bright blue eyes, unable to force herself to be aware of her current surroundings.

"I wouldn't count on leaving before dawn. These suitors will vie all night for Princess Pavetta's hand. Marrying into this monarchy is a mighty prize. Who wouldn't want to be king of the most powerful force in the land?" Mousesack says, his only acknowledgment of Geralt's first comment is the small smirk on his lips.

"Hm. So, which one of these little shits is your coin on?"

"Come with me, there's much for you to see. It's not a fair bet. That red-headed scanderlout over there, Crach An Craite, will marry Pavetta. The Lioness has already arranged it with the boy's uncle, Eist Tuirseach." Mousesack says, pointing towards a large man with fiery hair and a matching beard that stands with a large crowd of people, easily one of the loudest people in the room.

Princess Pavetta's fair face wears a frown, similar to her own, but not at all with the fire Visenya holds. Instead, she looks more like a scared girl than a defiant dragon. Not at all unlike herself all those years ago, when she sat at the High Table beside Lord Stark in Winterfell, with weaves of traditional Northern braids in her hair as Robert Baratheon auctioned her off to the highest bidder, like a prized broodmare. But that's the life of a princess, exiled or not, your love is sold off for political and monetary gain. Marriage is never about love for royalty. Yet Visenya's heart aches for the girl who looks like a scared doe, rather than the daughter of the Lioness of Cintra, who fought and won her first battle at only fourteen years of age.

"She doesn't seem too happy about it," Visenya mutters, glancing back at Mousesack. He meets her stern gaze, bright expression dimming just a hair.

"No, I'm afraid not. Princess Pavetta is much softer than her mother."

"They almost always are," Visenya says, eyes moving back to Pavetta, feeling as if she's entranced. Something weeps inside her, shaking so fervently her body almost vibrates. If things were different, that would've been, no, should've been Visenya. But could've, would've, and should've been is nothing when destiny dictates that your world be nothing but ash and ruin. So she snaps her gaze away, unwilling to look at the image of what is always just out of reach.

Mousesack and Geralt continue speaking in low voices, Visenya following them like a ghost, lost in her head. A few minutes in, Geralt moves away, leaving her alone with Mousesack.

"You seem quite focused on the Princess tonight," he muses, pulling Visenya from her chaos.

"She's the most exciting thing in the room right now," Visenya says, raising a single brow at Mousesack, shoving away the sinking feeling that something horrible is going to happen.

"Moving past that insult to my character--" Visenya snorts. "I feel as though it is something more. I can see it in your eyes, you feel for the girl."

"It's hard not to. A man no matter how well-traveled and wise he is will never understand what it feels like to have your whole life laid out for you by someone else. Being sold into a marriage with someone not a good match for you only hurts worse when it's your own mother."

"Personal experience?" Mousesack raises a brow, mouth in a straight line.

"Nonsense, my mother died when I was a child," Visenya says, moving her attention away from him and towards the crowd.

His eyebrows raise causing small lines to form on his forehead, slight shock painting his features. He purses his lips, opening his mouth, only to close it again.

"The life of nobility." he finally says, letting out a sigh as he shakes his head.

"The life of a woman, no matter their status," Visenya corrects him, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

"All rise for Her Majesty, The Lioness: Queen Calanthe, of Cintra!" a man near the Main Hall entrance cries out, silencing any of the noise in the room.

"Luckily for the girl, horrible husbands tend to disappear rather quickly when you're royalty." With that last comment, Visenya disappears into the crowd, gliding past noble ladies and lords as she maneuvers towards the secluded corner Geralt claimed as his own.

Chairs scrape as everyone scrambles to stand and Jaskier quickly runs over to where the other minstrels are, lute in hand. Nearly in perfect synch, the entire room turns towards the entrance. Shortly after, a middle-aged woman strides through the parted crowd, a smirk on her blood-stained lips. She wears gold armor that's dull from the dark red blood that's splattered over it, fresh from a recent battle. Her dark brown hair is braided away from her face, but not as neatly as expected for an occasion like this, instead, it's wild and pulled apart, in knots and gnarls with dry blood. She holds a helmet in hand that she quickly tosses to one of the many people in the procession following behind her.

"Beer!" she exclaims, grabbing a tankard from the hands of a pompous noble as she passes him, taking a swig from it immediately. "Apologies, noble sers. A few upstart townships in the South had to be reminded of who was Queen," she says, voice oozing with confidence and a tinge of arrogance. This causes an uproar of cheering from the nobles around Visenya, waving their tankards in her direction as golden ale spills onto the floor.

"Fighting is good for one's blood and humor. Ready your suitor's tales of glory, good lords. My daughter is eager to have this over--" she says, taking another drink from her mug and turning towards the high table. "--as am I." She mutters. "Bard, music!" she yells, waving a finger in the air, towards Jaskier's general direction, stomping up the marble stairs. Jaskier starts the first note of a song, his sweet and delicate singing voice ringing through the room before the Queen swiftly cuts him off.

"No, no, no; a jig! You can save your bloody maudlin nonsense for my funeral!" she exclaims, rolling her eyes and continuing up the steps. Jaskier sighs, before counting down from three, beginning a much more upbeat song that swiftly blends into the background as the room's noise levels grow. People begin to fill the gap they'd created for the Queen, forming small rowdy groups.

Finally, she closes the distance between her and Geralt, grabbing a tankard of ale from a table as she does. She stands beside him, posture as stiff and straight as his, taking a drink from the cup, eyeing the party. She watches the Queen as she leans down to speak with her daughter, hands resting on the table, her words too quiet for Visenya to discern. Suddenly a man slams his tankard of ale on the table

"You lying little shite!" the man that Mousesack labeled as Crach An Craite yells. He stands to his full height, towering over a scrawnier man he's arguing with. "You never faced so much as a bad meal in your life, nevermind a manticore!"

"I've had manticores thrice as fat and ugly as the likes of you perish under my steel," the second man spits back, unfettered by Crach's intimidating aura.

"Under your bullshit, more like. How many stingers has it got?"

"Two."

"Ha. Go away and shite, it's got five. I know, I've actually killed one." Crach An Craite spits at him. He scoffs and turns away from the other noble, as the crowd around them grows more excited as the argument begins to escalate.

The smaller man rushes forward, grabbing onto Crach An Craite's tunic, the small crowd around them rushes in as well, eager for an excuse to fight.

"Enough!" the Queen exclaims, stopping everyone in their tracks. "We have a renowned guest tonight. Perhaps he can declare which esteemed lord is telling the truth" she says, walking down the steps. In unison, nearly every turns to look at Geralt, and in turn, Visenya as well.

"Neither." Geralt says, not bothering to meet anyone's gaze.

"Are you calling me a liar, old man?" Crach An Craite mutters, face nearly identical in color to his hair.

"The Butcher of Blaviken bleeds utter nonsense," the smaller one says, dismissively waving his hand in Geralt's direction as he leans against a nearby chair. Geralt glances towards Jaskier, who is frantically shaking his head, with puppy dog eyes and a slight pout his only weapon. Geralt sighs, moving his attention back to the impatient nobles.

"Perhaps the lords encountered a rare subspecies of manticore."

The room is completely silent after that, the tension in the room quickly dropping. Visenya breathes out, clenched fist relaxing at her side. The Queen breaks the silence, loud laughter leaving her mouth, gaze solely on Geralt.

"Perhaps our esteemed guest would like to entertain us with how he slayed the elves at the edge of the world?" The room immediately breaks out into cheers. Fists pound on tables, tankards waving in the air, and nobles yelling so loudly their lungs might collapse. Visenya raises her brow, glancing at Jaskier with a disapproving gaze. That stupid song is nothing but embellished falsehoods, so wrong it's nearly infuriating every time Visenya hears it.

"There was no slaying. I had my ass kicked by a ragged band of elves. I was about to have my throat cut, when Filavandrel let me go." Geralt speaks up, silencing the room instantly.

Instead, their cheers are replaced with boos and loud groans, nobles shaking their heads at Geralt.

"But what about the song?" the shorter man exclaims.

"At least when Filavandrel's blade kissed my throat, I didn't shit myself. Which is all I can hope for you good Lords, at your final breath, a shitless death." Geralt exclaims, bringing his tankard to his mouth, "--but I doubt it," he mutters, his words once again riling up the crowd. And if she didn't know any better, Visenya thinks Geralt just might like the fanfare, even if he won't admit it.

"It would've been your blade at Filavandrel's throat if you'd been there your majesty. Not that any elven bastard would crawl from their lair to meet you on the field." Lord Eist speaks up, a smug smirk on his face as he looks at the Queen. She looks at him, preening under all the attention with a smug look on her face. The movements cause the dried blood to crack and crumble onto the floor.

"Any man willing to paint himself in the shadow of his failures will make for far more interesting conversation this night. Come, Witcher, take a seat by my side while I change."

Geralt simply grunts, rolling his eyes as the Queen turns away, moving up the stairs and disappearing through a side door, a handmaiden following dutifully behind her.

"Come on," Geralt grabs onto Visenya's hand, dragging her behind him.

"She didn't invite me."

"Well she invited me, and I'm not going through anymore suffering alone." Geralt says in between clenched teeth.

"How polite, throwing me straight into the lion's den just so you won't have to face it alone. I never knew you to be so thoughtful Geralt."

He simply grunts in response, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He moves up the set of stairs, boots pounding under the stone ground. One of the men that came in with the Queen directs Geralt to a chair beside the throne. Silently, he pulls out his chair, glaring at the finely dressed nobleman that is sitting in the chair by him. The man meets his gaze, and to his credit, manages to remain expressionless. However, he still stands, his legs wobbling just the slightest, and moves to the other side of the throne, sitting by the Princess. Geralt nods his head towards the now vacant chair. A smirk forms on Visenya's lips as she moves behind him and into her new seat.

"You get to deal with the Queen if she's unhappy with my presence."

o0o0o0o

The feast is even duller from the High Table. It hasn't even been a full hour, and yet all that's happened is a few arguments, suitors vying for the hand of the princess, and the Queen speaking with Geralt. Visenya sits in silence, scanning the crowd and listening in on the conversations around her. There's still that sinking feeling in her stomach, a dreadful fear she's unable to escape telling her this is all going to end horribly. Crach An Craite stands up from his seat, when suddenly the door is slammed open, a man in full plate armor barreling through, swiftly taking out the two guards by him. Like an unruly bull, he stomps to the center of the room, lowering himself into a kneel. The room is completely still, as Visenya leans forward, grip tightening on the knife in her left hand.

"Forgive my late intrusion, Your Majesty, and for the misunderstanding with your guards. Please! I come in peace. I need but one moment of your time. I am Lord Urcheon of Erlenwald and I have come to claim your daughter's hand in marriage," he says, bowing his helmet-covered head.

The room is filled with gasps of shock, women all around covering their mouths in horror. The Queen becomes as stiff as a rock, veins faintly protruding from her neck. Out of the corner of her eye, Visenya sees Pavetta go completely still, yet her face doesn't convey the same horror it has with every suitor before.

"A knight... of no renown... from a backwater hamlet... who dares to enter my court without revealing his face?" Queen Calanthe spits out, shaking in rage as her words burn like acid.

"I apologize, Your Majesty. A knight's oath prevents me from revealing my face until the sounding of the twelfth bell." Urcheon says, not sounding shaken by the threatening aura swimming around Queen Calanthe.

"Bollocks to that," Lord Eist exclaims, moving forward and knocking the helmet off Urcheon's head. The metal clatters against the ground, echoing in the room, as the knight is revealed to be a...hedgehog man. Visenya leans further out of her seat, nearly laying on the table. Gold eyes wide in shock as she examines each and every needle that protrudes from his face, tracing his animal-like nose and beady black eyes. He looks around the room, very much looking like a cornered animal.

"Witcher--" the Queen hisses, "kill it."

"No," Geralt says, intently watching Urcheon.

"Whatever the price," she continues.

"This is no monster."

"I order you," she continues, the same patience she previously possessed slipping away.

"This knight has been cursed." Geralt says, unable to be swayed by her words that hide serious threats.

"You're as useless as the rest of them," she seethes. "Slay this beast!" she exclaims to the rest of the room.

Two guards immediately move towards Urcheon, weapons in hand. With swift and highly skilled movements, he disarms the guards, knocking them to the ground.

"Lioness of Cintra, I come to claim what is rightfully mine! Pavetta. By the Law of Surprise." he yells, pointing towards the Princess. More guards approach, and to his credit, he attempts to fight back but is quickly outnumbered. He's thrown to the ground, blood pouring out of his...snout. One of the guards lifts their halberd, seconds away from slicing into them. Geralt quickly jumps from his chair, moving past Visenya and down the steps at the speed of light.

"No!" Princess Pavetta exclaims.

At that moment time slowed down. Geralt reaches the scene when the halberd is mid-swing, pulling out his sword and cutting the weapon in half. The top piece slams on the ground and Urcheon catches the bladed part.

It's silent until the Queen breaks it.

"Kill them both!" she yells, pointing at Geralt and Urcheon.

o0o0o0o

Swords ringing, bodies crashing to the ground, and screams ricocheting off the walls into Visenya's ears. It's all familiar. A horror so intrusive and fresh in her mind that feels like only hours ago her whole world crumbled, leaving her vulnerable in a new reality. So different with its magic and dragons, but the same in the way its tragedy claws at her throat, phantom tears following her like the deaths of everyone she ever loved. Like an inescapable curse that continues to stalk her no matter how far or fast she runs. And maybe that's because none of this is real, a delusion she's created in the darkest recesses of her mind, happy enough to grant hope of a better life, yet enough devastation cloaking it to be believable.

She watches in a daze as Geralt moves through the room, dancing with his blade like a master. The porcupine man roars as he charges the oncoming guards, cutting into their flesh with less fluidity than Geralt, yet deadly all the same. Invigoration surging through his body from the White Wolf joining his side, more than happy to slice through anyone who confronts him, whether his foes wield sword or fist. The lords in their fine garb beat, stab, and strangle each other; using the chaos as an opportunity to take down their adversaries. A small group of nobles huddle in the far recesses of the room, cowering and whimpering in fear as the slaughter escalates. Women cry and the minstrels quiver, yet the queen and princess remain at their high table, unmoving. Princess Pavetta watches with glistening blues eyes while the Queen is clenching her jaw so tightly, her face is painted white.

Visenya's hand ghosts over where her blade should be, the empty spot where its sheathe would rest feeling uncomfortably light. A lord drunk on the adrenaline in his veins rushes Visenya, wild like an animal. She knows all too well how this will go if he gets his way: with her bloody and praying for the release of death. But she's not that little girl of five hiding in a crawl space as she listens to her mother's screams of agony. Now she breathes flames each time she talks, eyes like a city turned to ash.

She holds her arm up towards him with an open palm, the movements rigid and not her own, as if an otherworldly creature possesses her. Moments later he slams into her, the width of his neck perfectly fitting in her palm. Automatically her finger closes around him, tightening with each second as she locks him in place. She's emboldened with strength she shouldn't possess, as she raises her arm upwards, his legs dangling in the air, helpless. Gold eyes illuminate, embers of fire she's smothered igniting in that instant, festering pain bursting to the surface. Heat builds, the smell of burning flesh rising in the air, the crackle of skin against fire. He screams, a blood-curdling one that makes Visenya's insides turn. Yet she doesn't release him but holds tighter and tighter until his screams turn to choking, and then silence. With a dull thud, his body drops to the floor, unmoving.

A sharp pain pierces her left side, leaving her staggering forward with an unsteady footing. Howling like a wounded animal, Visenya turns to face her adversary, a heavily armored guard. He jabs towards her, but she manages to move out of the way just in time. She sneers, blood dripping from her mouth. He goes to stab again, but in full plate, he's too slow for her nimble movements. She ducks behind him, grabbing a shard of broken glass from the ground as she does. And before he can comprehend where she is, she stabs the glass into the side of his neck, watching the thick red liquid coat it. He coughs, choking on the blood pouring out of his neck. The guard wobbles, slowly losing his balance as he claws at the air for something to hold onto, then scratching his throat, attempting to save himself. Visenya watches, eyes cold and unfeeling. She lifts her leg and kicks him onto the ground before stepping over his body.

Each footstep thunders in her mind as she presses forward, every face nothing but a blur, and instead of tabards with three proud lions, she sees two blue towers united by a bridge. Every guard and noble that falls is a Northern soldier, with surprise and agony painting their face, while every attacker is a Frey. Sneers carved into their features; screams turning into shouts of glee as they cut through anyone in their way. In a flurry of blood lust, eager to drown her sorrows in the pain of others, she throws punches at everyone within reach, kicking bodies on the floor as they writhe in pain. It's intoxicating, living out her darkest fantasies without a care in the world.

It'll fade, the comedown far worse than the high, but at the moment, it's worth every second of loathing it'll inevitably create. A grunt follows a swift punch to the gut before Visenya grabs a hold of a chair, smashing the wood against the charging noble. His face morphs, no longer a nameless lord, instead, he's one of Walder Frey's sons who sunk his blade in her flesh as his friends shot her down from a distance. The chair breaks into a million pieces as he falls to the ground, unconscious. She roars as the adrenaline pumps higher and higher, the blood running in her veins faster and faster. Geralt appears in the corner of her vision, at some point they move towards each other like magnets, twirling around each other as if they've practiced it a million times. And just as soon as he's there, he disappears into the chaos as Visenya loses herself to the beast inside her.

Another soldier approaches her, a flurry of sword swings and spittle his greeting to her. She dodges out of the way of each of them, moving as if she's the water, her dress fluidly flowing with her. She steps to the side, taking advantage of his blind spot, due to his helmet that obscures part of his vision. She grabs a hold of his sword arm, managing to pull it back far enough to hear a gnarly crack, a loud clang following it, as his sword falls to the marble floor. He sneers at her, but she returns the favor. Yet before she can do anything, another burst of pain shoots through her, and her eyes flit down to the source, a dagger sticking out of her abdomen. She looks up at him as he twists it, before letting go and pushing her away, but instead of falling to the floor to bleed out, she pulls out the blade. Using his surprise to her advantage, she smoothly grabs his sword from the ground, using a maneuver she learned all those years ago in Winterfell to knock his helmet off his head from the back. And as it clangs to the ground, she drives the dagger into his throat.

She stumbles forward, hand clenching her new wound as blood pours out of it. She whirls around, determined to find safety, but a glimpse of auburn curls and Tully blue eyes with a direwolf coat of arms fighting a noble in rich blues captures her attention.

Robb.

Numb to the pain pulsing in her body and the wounds that are dripping with blood, she runs. But it's like walking through thick molasses, feet not moving as fast as they should, no matter how hard she tries to push forward. Desperation rips her apart from the inside out as she tries to stop what's inevitably going to happen, the very same thing she sees in every one of her nightmares. And when she's only a step away, the noble slashes low, throwing Robb off balance, and with one swift plunge of a dagger, he falls limp.

She's too late, again.

Her legs are never quite fast enough, reaction time a second too slow, and no matter how hard she tries to do it, she never manages to save Robb.

An ear-piercing screams tears through her throat, or maybe it doesn't, it's hard to hear anything above the ringing in her ears.

The noise is a culmination of a lifetime of sadness, but it's also a battle cry, promising nothing but fire and fury. And as Robb collapses, armor clanging against the ground, she reaches out and grabs the hair of the noble, pulling until there's a distinct crack and a shout of pain, a large chunk of brunette locks her prize. With the snarl of a wolf and tight tension on his head, she wraps her other arm around his neck, and a simple flick of her wrist is all it takes as his neck snaps, body crashing onto the ground.

And Visenya falls too, crumbling into nothing but a shaking form, sobbing so hard she nearly throws up all the contents in her stomach, trapped between the dead bodies of Robb and his killer. Tears mix with blood, staining the floor with her misery.

"Robb!" she cries out, but her voice is nothing more than a croak, getting swept away into the chaos of the fight. "Robb!"

A shaky hand reaches out, moving to brush his hair out of his face, but there's nothing there. And as her tears pour down her cheeks, Robb distorts, wild curls becoming a bald head and Tully blue replaced with bleak brown. She removes her hand as if it burnt her, and scrambles to getaway.

Bodies rush past, moving around her as if she's nothing more than a figment of their imagination. Everything slows down in the room, as salty tears slip into her mouth, dark spots covering her vision.

She blinks; once and then twice. Everything is blurry until it's not.

A sea of dead bodies, suffocating her. She throws a hand up, desperately clawing to escape, But each movement only traps her further under them. She screams, the sound muffled yet clear as day in her mind.

"Jane. Jane!" Someone's holding onto her, pressing onto her cheeks, the warmth of soft hands cupping her cheek. "Jane, are you alright?" The voice is distant, yet familiar all the same.

She blinks again, and once more.

Another scream rips through her throat, tearing apart her vocal cords. She continues to claw, fighting harder against the dead weight that presses heavily against her. Gold meets gold as the light shines in her eyes. The first rays of day hit the side of her face, illuminating the cast of dry blood caked with mud on her face. Eyes flicker from the left to the right, seeing, yet not, at the same time. It doesn't register in her mind, the ocean of death she finds herself swimming in, all she sees is daylight, while everything else is blurry.

"Please bring me water or wine, just bring me something!" The familiar voice echoes in Visenya's head, footsteps rapidly tapping against a marble floor following.

A glint in the light captures her attention, something piercing through her hazy vision. It blends into its environment at first, but with a keener glance, she sees it. With new vigor, she wiggles out of the pit, crawling on all fours, eyes on the prize. Six beats, that's all it takes until she closes in on her fixation. A person, a dead person.

The body doesn't have a head, but she already knows its face, the same one she sees every night in her worst night terrors. Unsteady hands reach out, tracing the cloak clasp, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat inside her. Hot fingertips trace over two direwolves meeting in the center. Then she forms a fist around it, holding so tightly small cuts form on the palm of her hand. No tears pour down her face, spilling onto the fine garb Robb donned for his own funeral, there's nothing left to cry. Her eyes are dry like a Dornish desert, she's cried too much to have any left. A second scream tears out of her mouth, sending any scavenger birds flying away with haste, slicing through the silence of the field that is drenched in dawn. It's harsh and coarse, leaving the ground beneath her quaking in its wake.

"What's wrong with her?" A timid woman's voice asks.

"I don't know. Let me see that." There's rustling, ice-cold water hitting her face moments later. "Gods Jane, you're bleeding!"

She blinks one more time.

The field disappears, a ballroom wrought with chaos replacing it. She's flat on the ground with Jaskier kneeling beside her, face hovering over hers. His eyes are wide with distress, gaze solely focusing on her. She attempts to stand, but the weight of her head is too much, so instead, it just bangs against the hard floor. Swords clanging and people shouting filters into her ears again, replacing the devastating silence that once resided in her mind.

"Jaskier."

"I'm here, I just need you to stay awake for me. Can you do that?" he asks, holding her hand so tightly his knuckles turn white.

"A sheep can't command the dragon," she mutters, eyes fluttering shut, only to snap open when something cold and wet splashes over her face, again.

"Well the next time we meet a dragon, I'll let them know." She glances over, seeing the weak smile pulling at his lips. His pale face is stark white, the flush of red usually in his face completely gone, with dark and deep bags under his tired and dull eyes.

"You already have, I am the daughter of dragons," she mutters, eyes rolling to the back of her head.

She opens them again, blinking a few times and finding herself back in the open field and kneeling over Robb's body. She stands with unsteady legs and a weary body. Visenya turns around, staring at Walder Frey's keep, eyes solid ice with a stony expression. One step, two steps, and another, and then another, staggering towards the keep. The anger simmers, burning so hot it's cold now. Fire dances on the tips of the fingers, the flames licking up her arms with each step she takes.

"Can you do something? She's been injured?" Jaskier's voice echoes in Visenya's mind.

"Possibly, step aside and I will do my best to heal her," another familiar male voice rings in her ears.

A comforting feeling fills her body, smothering her pain in all things that are warm and homely.

She blinks, opening her eyes and finding herself back in Cintra with Jaskier and Mousesack hovering over her. She's delusional, she has to be. The only problem is, she can't decipher which reality is true and which one is a hallucination.

"Are you alright?" Mousesack asks, grabbing Visenya's hand in his own. Between Jaskier and him, they manage to help Visenya sit up just in time to see Queen Calanthe meet Geralt in battle. She holds her sword up to his neck and Geralt meets her blade with his own.

"Stop!" the Queen yells.

o0o0o0o

Tags: If your name is crossed out, it means I wasn’t able to tag you. Also I’m not 100% sure if most of y’all still want to be tagged, since it’s been so long since I posted a new chapter, so feel free to message me if you no longer want to be!

#geralt imagine #geralt x reader #the witcher imagine #the witcher fanfiction #geralt fanfic #geralt of rivia #the last dragon #the witcher #the witcher crossover #game of thrones #game of thrones crossover #geralt of rivia x reader #Geralt #Jaskier #calanthe of cintra #targaryen!reader #targaryen!oc

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