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apparitionism · 6 years

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Helicobacter 5

I swear up and down, on any and all books, holy or no, that the bulk of this part, and in particular its opening scene, was written well before last weekend. Five people know why I need to offer this disclaimer. Well, six, I guess... anyway, I really think the lesson is that you should always buy the flowers. People like flowers. Then again, they do also like books, so, you know, giver’s choice. In other news, there is a lot of chaff here in this part, but I’m a little tired and haven’t had the time or attentive energy to do the brutal edit I’d prefer. Part 1, part 2, part 3, and part 4 were more svelte.

Helicobacter 5

Given that the point of the exercise was to put on a show for Myka’s mother, Helena thought that she would be well served by performing “fiancée” more competently than she had done in the past. That required a consideration of what the mother of her intended might want to see... a gesture, no doubt, but not just any gesture. Something effortful seemed called for.

In Helena’s experience, mothers liked flowers. Her own mother certainly did. But flowers alone were insufficiently effortful; they could be ordered online, and that would not do. Instead, Helena went to a florist and contributed (mainly nods of assent, but even so) to the assembly of a bouquet. Then, spurred by a desire to outdo—someone, or something, although who or what that might have been, she did not know—she chose the components of a second.

On the appointed day, at the appointed time, her hands overflowing with flowers, she waited at Myka’s door.

Too much. Of course so many flowers were too much, and that fact became ever more clear to her as she waited, and she began to wonder why Myka found it necessary to live in a building featuring a hallway that failed to present any good and hidden space where the overeager faux-affianced might be able to dispose of a spray of peonies, hydrangeas, and daisies—or, on (in) the other hand, a more romantic collection of roses, tulips, and lilies.

But then Myka opened the door, and the sight of her was a pulse-quickening delight, such that Helena forgot about flowers entirely and had to remind herself of her purpose here: not to gaze with appreciation, but rather to deploy some fiction of that gaze... but she did feel that she could take some pleasure in the fact that Myka looked so well. “You look so well,” Helena allowed herself to say.

“I feel well. Your hands are full.”

“They are.”

A throat-clear from behind Myka reminded Helena, and seemed to remind Myka as well, why they were in a circumstance that allowed them to stand and look at each other. “This is my mom, Jeannie Bering,” Myka said as she stepped aside to let Helena in.

“Mrs. Bering. It’s lovely to meet you. I mean, to meet you at last,” Helena said. Myka’s mother looked to be in her early sixties, and she dressed to complement, not fight against, her graying hair. Not too youthful, yet not surrendering... she was by no means nondescript, but neither was she her striking, bone-china-fine daughter. Genes and their actions are mystifying but if this is the result then hallelujah, Helena found herself thinking, and she very nearly said aloud, “Thank you so much for this mystery you produced.” Instead, she unburdened herself of the peony-hydrangea-daisy bouquet and said, “These are for you.” She was pleased to see Myka’s mother smile.

“And these?” Myka asked, with a nod at the second. Did she sound hopeful?

“You can’t possibly need to ask.” Helena leaned over and kissed Myka’s cheek, as she had done before the endoscopy; as Myka had kissed her, after the hospital. So chastely intimate, this kissing they did.

The rose-tulip-lily handoff was slightly awkward: a which-hand-to-which-hand problem. Then the aftermath became slightly awkward: a should-we-be-speaking-to-each-other-instead-of-staring-at-each-other problem.

Myka’s mother saved them. “Thank you, Helena. These are lovely,” she said, and then she gestured with her bouquet at her daughter. “Enjoy this while it lasts, Myka. Your father hasn’t brought me flowers since our first anniversary.”

Helena considered that showing up the father of her fiancée might have constituted a small misstep in her performance.

Myka gestured back at her mother with her own flowers and said, “This is the kind of thing she does.” To Helena, she said, “It’s the kind of thing you do. Isn’t it.”

“With you it is,” Helena said.

“I hope it’s only with me.”

That had to have been for her mother’s benefit, so Helena tried to answer in kind. “As far as I know. As far as I can imagine.” She tried to ignore the fact that what she was saying was true. How most of the words that she said to Myka were true. She went on, “She’s sent me flowers as well, Mrs. Bering. I take my cue from her good example.”

“Call me Jeannie,” said Myka’s mother to Helena, and to Myka, “this one certainly is a sweet talker.” Helena couldn’t determine whether that was meant to be criticism or praise.

“By the way,” Myka said to Helena, “I got you a book.” She handed Helena a paperback. Face-down.

“Myka,” said her mother, and this was unmistakably criticism, “just because you grew up in a bookstore, that’s no reason to fall back on giving a book as a gift. Particularly to someone who brings you flowers.”

Helena turned the book over. Apprehended the title and cover art. Said to Myka a long-suffering “Really?” in an only partly feigned tone of beleaguered affection. Said then, to Jeannie, “She hasn’t given me a book. She’s given me David Foster Wallace’s Consider the Lobster.” She wanted to ask, of Myka, “You grew up in a bookstore?” But a fiancée would have known that already. We should have rehearsed, she thought, and then, given where her thoughts immediately went, Not like that.

Myka, as if reading Helena’s mind, said, “You can put it with The Odyssey on your nightstand,” in a voice so smooth and smoke-low that Helena herself nearly believed they had held exactly that rehearsal after all. Possibly having read passages from The Odyssey to set the mood.

Jeannie told Myka, “You don’t need to speak in code. I think I understand that you’re familiar with Helena’s bedroom.”

“Mom,” said Myka, sounding a note that combined conciliation with teenage mortification.

Helena, thinking both to calm herself and to ease Myka’s discomfiture, held the book’s cover up to show Jeannie what it depicted. “It is indisputable that this creature is large and has claws, is it not?”

Perhaps genes were not so puzzling after all: Jeannie’s poker-faced blink was exactly like her daughter’s.

“Then I assure you,” Helena went on, “if a bedroom is the context, this constitutes an attempt by your daughter to invade my nightmares.”

“Helena,” Myka said.

And just like that, Helena realized that she had never before heard Myka say her name. “Myka,” she said in response, trying it out as a response.

A knock on the door interrupted their renewed should-we-be-speaking-to-each-other-instead-of-staring-at-each-other awkwardness.

Rick, of course. “You lovely boy!” Jeannie exclaimed upon seeing him, and Helena felt that her flowers had been erased. But Jeannie then said, “You’re almost as lovely as these flowers!”

And Helena preened: Rick had not brought anyone flowers. He was, however, able to say, with an easy familiarity, “Hey, Mrs. B. Long time. How’s Mr. B?”, and Helena was acutely aware that she could never have done that. Would never be able to do that.

But she was gratified by the fact that Myka held her place by her side, allowing Rick and Jeannie to renew their acquaintance. She murmured to Myka, “I can now say with certainty that your mother and I have never met before.”

Myka murmured back, “She sighed and said the words about destiny, but that was before I broke the news about you. About us. Then she asked me if you really existed. Then she asked me if I’d told Rick that you existed, and she’s coal-in-her-stocking disappointed about not getting to see any fireworks surrounding that reveal.”

Helena couldn’t contain a bark of laughter. “Isn’t one supposed to dislike one’s in-laws? You’re making it very difficult for me to dislike your mother.”

“You should be thankful that I talked her out of the idea of all of us—her, me, you, and Rick—telling my father about you tonight in some kind of teleconference situation. He’s on a fishing trip, by the way, and I think she was counting on all kinds of bad-connection monkeyshines, plus Dad hates technology anyway, everything that came after movable type. I’m always better off writing him a letter when anything’s going on.”

“Perhaps you could write him a book to sell in the store you grew up in,” Helena said.

“Sorry for not mentioning.”

“We should have run full background checks on each other. Then again, the likelihood of awkward revelations...” That won Helena a smirk. “Even in the absence of the revelations and the awkwardness, I do see, quite clearly, why you needed me to be here.”

“I appreciate it,” Myka told her. “The fact that you see it, and the fact that you’re here. I appreciate it so much, in fact, that I also didn’t cook lobster. Intentionally.”

“Would you have? Otherwise?”

“Probably not.”

“You are solicitous in a way I don’t fully understand.”

An unusual expression, one that Helena could not read other than as “not negative,” visited Myka’s face. “Don’t freak out, but I’m going to hug you now,” she said, and she did just that: hugged Helena.

For all their strange intimacy, they had never been body-to-body before. It was only a quick clasp, and Helena had of course hugged several people in the past, and vice versa, for example most recently when celebrating the awarding of the contract, weeks before. Quick clasps. None of those had set her on fire; ergo, this one was not doing so either.

She heard, from somewhere outside her not-at-all inflamed body, Jeannie announcing to Rick, “You saved Myka’s life!” As if this would be news to him.

To his credit, Rick said, “Not exactly. But I definitely owed her, so I’m glad I could help.”

“It must have been so frightening for everyone. And of course Myka’s father and I would have been concerned as well if we’d been told in a timely fashion.”

Myka said, placating, “I told you I’m sorry, and I’ll keep telling you, but like I also told you, it happened so fast. Helena and Rick can vouch for that. And then it was pretty much over.”

Helena tried to help but managed only, “It was fast.” Then she gritted out, “But Rick knew exactly what he was doing. I can’t imagine she could have had better care.”

“That’s nice of you to say,” Rick said, sounding wary.

“It is nice,” Myka affirmed. She sounded not at all wary. “And it was nice having both of you there. I felt very protected.”

He had indeed taken good care of Myka. And if Myka could be philosophical, here in the present situation, about the past she shared with him, Helena had no reason to take any position at all regarding the present situation. She had no reason to take any position at all, regardless of Myka’s feelings about the past. No reason. No reason.

Myka and her mother repaired to the kitchen, ostensibly to finish preparing the food, but perhaps also so Jeannie could offer an initial comparative verdict regarding Myka’s choices, past and present, of romantic partners. At that point, Rick rounded on Helena. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

“Something that Myka asked me to do. So keep your voice down, please.”

He pressed his lips together, narrowed his eyes. Then he let the tension go. He leaned closer to her and whispered, “Why didn’t you just tell her I know the truth?”

“Thank you,” Helena acknowledged. “Why? For the same reason I said you should not tell it to her: I thought it would hurt her.”

“Are you still trying to lift that Volkswagen? Or are you actually dating now? What’s going on?”

“I don’t believe that’s your business.”

“When it comes to Myka, it is.”

“No... I don’t believe so.” He looked as if he would protest, so Helena said, “What I mean is that despite your history, whatever she is doing now is not your business. And not my business, either. Please, let her make the choices. You shouldn’t, and I shouldn’t. Besides, this has more to do with her mother than with you or with me.”

Rick didn’t answer. Helena couldn’t determine whether his breathing indicated that they had called a truce. Finally, he said, “I don’t get you.” Not dismissive; he said it as a statement of fact.

“Likewise,” Helena told him. “Fortunately, it doesn’t matter. Can we get through this meal, and let that be an end?”

“This meal....” Rick shook his head, then raised his hands in surrender. “Just for Myka, though. Not because you and I are suddenly friends or anything.”

“Agreed: for Myka, and you and I are by no means suddenly friends. Or anything. By the way, do you like lobster?” Helena asked.

“What? Yeah, I like lobster.”

“Well, that won’t help.”

****

While they ate their non-lobster dinner, Helena found herself faced with the history—and physical reality—of Myka and Rick together. He’d kissed her cheek not long after he arrived, stranding Helena in a “how dare you” loop, despite her knowing full well that he had far more right than she herself did. They kept turning into a couple, Myka and Rick did—a club, as they had in those very first hospital moments, their association off-limits to Helena. Just like the hospital, only now, Myka’s mother was part of the club; they all reminisced about Colorado, about people and circumstances and even objects to which Helena had no access: “The ping-pong table!” “Is the comic book store on Monroe still there?” “Can you believe Denny Cloud lives in Argentina now? And has six kids?” All Helena had to reminisce with Myka about was “the time you found out you had cancer.”

But after (Helena had to admit) not too very much of that, Myka reached over and took Helena’s hand. “That’s enough about the past,” she said.

Rick looked at their hands. As he had in those later hospital moments. Then he said, “Am I really supposed to act like I don’t know things I know?” He gazed right at Helena, not quite challenging her, as he spoke.

“I don’t think that’s what I said,” Myka told him.

“That is not what you said,” Helena noted. She gazed at Rick in return. “But occasionally it might be important to act like one does not know the things one knows. To keep the peace?” She moved her eyes meaningfully, but as subtly as she could, in Myka’s direction.

He compressed his lips at her. But: “To keep the peace,” he allowed.

Helena found it rather funhouse-mirror that she was conspiring with two different people this evening, to accomplish two different—even diametrically opposed—aims. Did that make her a double agent? Did it make Rick one as well?

Myka’s mother chose that moment to say, to Helena and to Rick, “You two are so similar.”

“What?” they said, in unison, leaving Helena, and judging by his expression, Rick also, unpleased to have illustrated her point.

Jeannie smiled. “Let’s start with this truce you’ve clearly struck,” she said. “I see that it’s for Myka’s benefit—and for mine—and I see also that you’re doing reasonably well, the both of you. Then again I get a sense you might both prefer the more direct approach of throwing punches, and I just wanted to make sure you know I wouldn’t stop you. Myka might, but she’s always been more sentimental than I am.”

Rick shook his head and touched his fingers to his upper lip, pressing against his hidden teeth. Then he smiled. “You haven’t changed one bit, Mrs. B.”

“Mom,” Myka said. “First, you’re the most sentimental person in this room. And second, if they want to punch each other, they’re adults.” She shot a little glance at Helena and said, “They can make their own ill-considered choices.” With another glance, she added, “Besides, they’re plenty different. One particularly salient way.”

Here it comes, Helena thought. She had tried not to dwell on how, in her initial clumsy haste to claim this relationship with Myka, she had not considered that Myka might not respond well to the idea of being engaged to a woman. And despite Myka’s having found it conceptually acceptable, Helena hadn’t been able to determine where Myka’s orientation did reside. The fact of the matter was that whenever their bodies touched, Helena involuntarily drew a conclusion that seemed, in the moment, to be true. But Helena had mistaken the accidental bodily spark of curiosity for truth before, and mistakes of that sort did not end well.

She could never have asked, not about any of it, because if she had asked, Myka would have been likely to suspect that Helena had some investment in knowing. And since this was all fiction, what could justify such an investment? Nothing, nothing, nothing, and now less than nothing, now that even the fiction was so unwise to maintain. Beyond this evening, certainly, so unwise.

Myka’s one salient difference was, in the end, completely unhelpful in every respect: “Rick doesn’t do urban design; Helena isn’t a doctor,” she said. Helena wanted, unreasonably, to shake her for being unforthcoming, and then again for stating the obvious.

Her mother did not shake Myka, but she did say, in the most dry of tones, “Thank you for stating the obvious. You might as well have gone with ‘he’s a man; she’s a woman.’” Jeannie really was making it quite difficult for Helena to dislike her. She went on, “Besides, young lady, that former difference might not be so salient. Don’t we talk about building bodies? Don’t we say that cities have hearts?”

Helena was the one to blink this time. “That seems rather right. The heart of a city might be neighborhood, a cluster—”

“But hearts have valves,” Rick said. It read a bit self-satisfied, as if he’d caught her out, but also a bit teenage, catching out Jeannie, the adult.

Myka groaned. She dropped Helena’s hand so she could clap her hands over her ears. “Don’t mention valves. So. Many. Valve. Replacements. I might as well be in valve planning. The water system. Sewage. The waste-to-energy plant. HVAC in every building. Strip nozzles on the de-icing trucks. Everywhere. If anything urban goes bust, you can bet there are going to be expensive valves involved. Valves should be a line item in the budget. And no health insurance to defray the cost, either.”

“But isn’t that taxes?” Helena objected.

“Ssh. I’m disputing the metaphor.”

“No, just the source of the monies. You’re saying that everything is valves, which is true, in the sense that it is, of an anatomical heart, but that the monies—”

“Ssh.” And Myka’s finger was suddenly against Helena’s lips, and that was provocation of a very physical sort. Practically body-to-body in its effect.

Helena had never before wanted to be both exactly where she was and somewhere else entirely, with the same person doing the same thing. Disorienting.

“Here are two things I dare you to dispute,” Jeannie said. “First, that we’re relieved the cancer was so easily treatable, and second, we’re almost as relieved that it wasn’t any hereditary kind.”

Rick said, “First one okay. But the second.... I’m not saying I’m disputing it, but I don’t get why the hereditary thing has us relieved.”

Helena caught herself nodding along with him. She stopped nodding immediately.

Jeannie said, “Because then it isn’t my fault that she got it, so she can’t blame me. That’s certainly a relief. Plus, I’m unlikely to get it. Given that I didn’t have it to pass on.”

“You could swallow the same bacteria I did,” Myka told her.

“You don’t have to swallow it,” Rick said. “We’re not entirely sure how the infection—”

“Why won’t anybody let me make a point?” Myka interrupted. Helena noticed that she did not put a finger against Rick’s lips. “Anyway, maybe whatever I did to get it, that’s what’s genetic, the tendency to do that, and it can strike whenever. So you should watch out, Mom.”

“For stray bacteria,” Jeannie said. Very dry, yet again.

Myka said, “You never know what’s going to hit you.”

“I can attest,” Helena said, recalling the ambulance.

“Also a lot of people get infected in childhood,” Rick said. “H. pylori can bide its time for decades.”

“Setting aside the insult to my parenting that I hear hiding somewhere in there, you’re saying Myka was a ticking time bomb? In whatever sense you’d like to take that, by the way.”

Rick tilted his head and said “that seems right” at the same moment Helena raised an eyebrow and offered “I suspect so.” They looked at each other; Rick’s lips thinned, and Helena sat back and crossed her arms with a sigh. Jeannie said nothing, but her smile was easily legible as smug.

“We have very different feelings about lobsters,” Helena informed her.

Jeannie’s smug smile turned sly. “But what about nightstands?”

Myka, who had turned her attention to the contents of her wineglass, began to cough. “Mom, seriously,” she said. “I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t scare her off.”

“Speaking of scaring her off,” Rick said, “or maybe the opposite, who knows, but you know what I’ve been wondering? How you two decided to make it official. Because it seemed really—I don’t know—sudden. From my perspective. So Helena, why don’t you tell me?”

You are doing this because Myka asked for your help, Helena told herself, thus punching him in the face is not an option. Then again, Jeannie had indicated that she would find exactly that sort of fireworks entertaining... yet he was sticking to the letter of their agreement, such as it was. Further, punching was in a physical family with kneeing, and Helena was trying not to do that anymore. She bared her teeth at him and began, “We met through work. As you know. And something unexpected happened. We became... close. Unexpectedly close. Unexpectedly quickly. And we thought it wise to declare our intentions to each other. Before work exhausted us both to such an extent that we forgot what those intentions were, that is.”

Myka said, “We were so wise. Look at all this wisdom.”

Her gaze at Helena might reasonably have been described as “adoring,” and under that gaze, Helena said, “It happened so quickly that I barely believed it was real.” If only that adoring gaze could have been real... “Even now,” Helena said, with honesty, “I can’t quite believe it.”

Jeannie remarked, “That’s very like what Myka said.”

“Is it?” Helena said. “I suppose we were both surprised. One doesn’t expect, on any given day, to find someone to... talk to. And to look at. With appreciation for both. And to realize you want to—come home to that.” One didn’t expect such things. And one needed to be very careful about imagining that one’s nonexistent expectations had so unexpectedly been met.

“That’s lovely,” Jeannie now said, and her tone was not dry at all.

Myka nodded. “It is,” she said. “And I completely agree with all of it.” The adoration directed Helena’s way had intensified, and if only that could have been something other than an act—or rather, if only they could have had the space to find out whether it could become something other than an act. Rather, whether, other. Nothing was likely to bring about such a not-this state of affairs.

Rick clearly did not share such a wish, for he gave an exaggerated sigh and said, “Please stop.”

“You’re the one who asked how it happened,” Myka said with a shrug. “Don’t blame me if what you get makes you jealous.”

“This is not what you used to be like,” Rick told her. To Helena, he said, “This is not what she used to be like,” and finally, to Jeannie, he directed a plaintive, “Is it?”

“Don’t worry,” Jeannie said. She pat his cheek, and how familiar a motion it was; how accustomed. “You’ll find a young lady of your own. Look at you!”

I would rather not look at him, Helena thought. I would in fact rather look at Myka. For quite some time. And talk to her as well. But that would be a not-this state of affairs, and that cannot happen.

Rick left soon after their non-lobster dinner concluded, and Helena, although tempted to overstay, made to follow him out. But she found herself in unavoidable proximity to Myka in the apartment’s small foyer, and it did seem that, as Myka’s putative romantic partner, she should do something... romantic. Given, in particular, that Myka’s mother was watching. (Discreetly, not staring, and Helena appreciated that.) She thought to fall back on their customary cheek-kiss, but even as she moved close, she saw—felt—that it was insufficient. There would have to be more. “Is this all right?” she exhaled, close to Myka’s ear.

Myka sighed out a breath of yes, and then she turned her head and the kiss was inevitable.

Helena meant it to be quick, light, a performance of “we have kissed before and will kiss again and so this particular kiss is of no great importance.”

But they had not kissed before, and Helena thought, There is a reason I am not an actor, for the quick, light performance of whatever kiss this was supposed to be became instead the kiss it was: first. So long-awaited, so finally, so soft, so warm, so her mouth and my mouth; it could have gone on and on... and on and on... but she was here to help, not to make everything worse. She pulled away. Not far enough, though, for she and Myka were caught, staring, breathing.

Kissing her again would be, Helena saw with great clarity, a bad idea. But such a good bad idea, and what could one more kiss matter when one had already been too much?

What could it matter that when Helena moved forward again, Myka did too? What could it matter that Myka’s hands pushed their way up Helena’s arms, that those hands romanced their way into Helena’s hair? What could it matter than while Helena had thought the first kiss stirring, now each pulse of her blood was warmer than the last, each beat raising the temperature of her heart, her body entire? Something original animated this kiss, something Helena had never experienced before—not the revelatory surprise of a teenage kiss, when intimacy itself could feel new, but instead, a connection offering a far more mature, beckoning sense of deep possibility...

...but then it was not original at all, and certainly not unique to the two of them: expressive of a wish to move in ways familiarly of the body, ways not fit for a well-appointed apartment foyer under bright shine of a tasteful light fixture...

They broke apart.

Helena felt hot lungsful of air enter and leave her body through her mouth. She stared, and Myka stared back.

Mindfulness. Helena closed her mouth and began to breathe through her nose, calming herself, for this had to be the end of it. The strange events had now been brought to their conclusion, logical or otherwise. On this kiss, or on these two kisses, the curtain could fall; their little play had come to its correct end.

“I’ll see you,” Myka said.

“Will you?” Helena asked without thinking. But no matter what Myka said, the real answer would be no.

****

Helena talked herself home, expressing aloud several versions of the reasoned judgment that she was happy—no, relieved—to have got out with only this: this physical knowledge that she and Myka were two wanting bodies that could collide with purpose. That wasn’t too heavy a burden to bear. Rather, it was something to know. People knew all sorts of things, about themselves, about other people, about themselves in relation to other people... about their feelings for other people, about other people’s possible feelings for them, about how those feelings might be expressed in situations involving privacy and...

“Stop,” she admonished herself, still aloud. “You... want her; she has kissed you—once—as if she might.” An inhale, again a ragged lungful. “Want you. That is the situation as it stands tonight, as it will stand tomorrow, and so on until it does not stand that way anymore. No actions will be taken as a result of that situation, because they cannot be taken, so stop.”

She did, at least, stop talking to herself.

At home, Helena did what she always did, whether she needed distraction or not: she worked. Email inbox first, then two employee performance reviews she had been neglecting, then the composition of a rudimentary workflow document for a new office-park project, and then at last the comparative luxury of losing herself, by way of an initial run at that new project, in the soothing complexities of AutoCAD. Constraints and how to work within them... when she had been learning the program as a student, years and years ago, she had spent so much intense time with it that her dreams reflected its black-backgrounded renderings.

Considering dreams made her consider lobsters. But she should not consider lobsters.

Instead, she considered dimensions, materials. Manipulated them. The office park was intended to be small—“but interesting!” the client had insisted—yet all she found herself able to do was build office boxes. She clad the boxes in mirrors, then switched to stone. Ugly boxes, regardless of face. Perfunctory. Nothing interesting... nothing that had come to her quickly. Like hauling a bag of bricks. Heavy dumb bricks. Ones that had been built with over and over, not because they were useful and beautiful, but because no one ever was able to think their way away from them.

Kissing her as if you were drunk in a shadow in a club. Kissing her like that in front of her mother. (Imagining that she kissed you the same way. No one would do that in front of their mother.)

In that state of focused distraction, she heard her doorbell ring. And in that state, she opened her door.

No more distraction: for her focus was now on staring at the person she had so lately kissed (as if drunk in a shadow in a club).

TBC

#bering and wells #Warehouse 13 #fanfic #Helicobacter #part 5 #AU week #you know what's funny?#the things we do for love #I bought flowers for my lovely wife today #because you need to show how much you appreciate your nearest and dearest #particularly when they say 'yes go do your ridiculous thing'#and anyway #as I mentioned above #people like flowers

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its-ya-boi-autumn · 4 years

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Hope your day is going well can we get a sexy aggressive chrollo punishing their s/o for acting bratty? Thank you! ❤️

I've been in such a horni boi mood it's actually concerning

also, I’m posting this for 1.3k! Thank you guys and I apologize for the thousandth time for my lousy schedule with writing, this has been in my inbox as have many more and I plan to bust them out when I get the motivation. Thank you for sticking with me and still enjoying my content despite the fact that I’m a little slow, your support and patience is appreciated a lot :’) I suck at talking about emotions but I’m trying to be genuine I know I suck at it. I hope you enjoy this~ (I was uncomfy as hell meaning it’s a good one lol)

You couldn’t help the smirk that edged at your lips as the door slammed shut behind you. The click of a lock signaled your exit being sealed before you were spun around and slammed against the nearest wall, caging you in with his strong arms. Chrollo’s face was threateningly close, his lips allowed quick gusts of air to brush up against your own.

“Aww why are you all upset with me?” your tone was whiny and by God was it annoying. His grey gaze was hard on your face, clearly he’d had enough. You wiggled beneath him, your hands making way up his chest. He wasn’t having it, immediately taking your wrists and pinning them above your head. The mere force stole a rather erotic gasp straight from your throat. It was rare for his patience to run so thin and only you could get him here. But this was exactly what you wanted, and he knew it. Chrollo inhaled deeply before speaking.

“You know damn well why I’m upset with you. I’m not playing your little games tonight. Now is not the time y/n.” the way your name spilled from his mouth sent sparks fluttering around your thighs. Your hips drifted forward before coming into contact with his own.

“It definitely feels like you do~ come on Chrollo, please~?” you weren’t one to give up very easily which was initially what he liked about you. But tonight wasn’t the night for that. He’d have to leave with the troupe in 30 minutes and that was nowhere near enough time to punish you properly.

“I said no.” his voice stayed firm but your legs felt like jelly and you let your body sink against the wall, arms still high above your head. The way your mouth parted in a subtle moan mixed with your slack figure was a sight to behold and he didn’t know how much longer he’d hold off. Especially with your front rubbing up against his hard on.

“Even if you don’t fuck me you’ll have to fix your little friend down there.” you teased, rutting yourself again him again. You were granted a growl from somewhere in his chest, goosebumps slithering all over your skin. Your arms, your thighs, your chest, tingled with the need to be touched. You looked up at him with pleading eyes. He knew you were in need and you’d act like this until you got what you wanted. In fact the more he thought about it the riskier it may have been to leave you like this. For all he knew his phone would be blown up with explicits of your nude form and that was the last thing he needed on the job. You couldn’t fix it yourself since that little sweet spot was too far back for you to reach with your own slender fingers, and he’d refused you any toys unless he specifically used them on you because of his love for your desperation for him. And you were right. He’d have to fix himself before leaving, and Chrollo didn’t finish quickly.

You watched as his thoughts unfolded and you knew he was contemplating it. You sunk your teeth into your bottom lip, hoping he’d give in. Before you knew it you were spun around again, chest and face pressed up against the wall. His breath laid heavy near your ear. He said nothing but he didn’t have to. The throbbing of his cock on your ass said enough. The hand not holding your wrists roughly wound itself up your shirt, tugging insistently on the sensitive bud of your breast. You noticed he couldn’t help but rut himself through his jeans onto your clothed behind. The feeling made you giggle, earning a sharp smack on the ass. Your gasp only made him harder.

Chrollo knew it was a bad idea to draw this out, but your attitude warranted no reward. He needed to see you begging and pleading for him, though currently it seemed as if he were begging for you with the way he was dry humping you. He needed to switch things up a bit.

The feeling of his body parting from yours was cold and sudden, drawing a whine from you. The bulge beneath his zipper was beyond obvious, licking your lips at the sight. You watched your lover make his way for the bed, taking off his black blazer and setting it to the side. Chrollo plopped down on the sheets, patting his thighs.

“Come here princess.” his voice was low, no room for disobedience. You simply did as told, parting your thighs to seat yourself upon his thigh. He stopped you, smirking.

“Not like that,” he started, the look in his eyes hearing your core, “bend over for me.”

It took a moment for the command to process, but he waited. You gulped, sliding off his thigh to bend yourself over them. Your breathing became quite shallow, slight fear taking over your senses. His hand gently placed itself atop your behind, causing you to jump at the contact. This made him chuckle. It showed you hadn’t been quite ready.

“Hands behind your back.” and you did just that, crossing them behind the small of your back. Chrollo gripped your forearms and held them in place. The slight pressure arched your back enough for a slight pang of pain to elicit more wetness to your panties. His hand left your ass, leaving the anticipation of his next move to roll around your head.

“I should be leaving soon, but you’ve been a little too bratty for my liking tonight.” he mumbled, more to himself than to you, but you could still hear it. You scoffed.

“I had barely done anything~” you tried to coax him more. A white hot pain stung your ass cheek, followed by a resounding smack bouncing off the walls. You arched at the feeling, digging your teeth into his thigh. He hit you again.

“Lift your head up, I’d like to hear you.” Chrollo ordered your already shaking form. You tried, but it was it good enough for him. Another stinging smack against your skin. He hadn’t even taken your leggings off just yet but you could feel the welt already rising beneath the fabric. Chrollo hit so hard sometimes you had to hold back on the safe word, you knew he’d only gotten started and it’d only piss him off more. Though he’d stop if you asked him.

But all you wanted right now was for him to fuck you, though he didn’t even have the time to do so.

Another slap but this time to the sensitive spot at the very top of your thigh. The moan you let out surprised both of you. It had been louder than expected. Chrollo laughed.

“My my, you’re even needier than I thought sweetheart.” the teasing tone made your blood boil. He was one to talk. You wriggled around in his lap, trying to also get some friction for yourself between your legs. This, of course, earned you yet another smack to your upper thighs.

“Fuck just take them off already!” you whined to Chrollo. Your leggings had become so insufferably constricting and there was almost nothing you could do about it. Chrollo of course found your discomfort amusing but obliged to your wish, tugging the waistband down just enough so it set at the tops of your thighs. It wasn’t exactly what you wanted but it would have to do. You just wanted him to touch you, that was all you needed.

The palm of his hand smoothed over your bare rear, sending sparks of fire across your swollen skin. You jolted at the touch on the welted skin, your hips jumping up slightly. Chrollo slapped your ass once more for good measure, ghosting his hand across your core. His touch made you gasp, keening backwards for more. Another sharp smack.

“Don’t move.” the command had you clenching around nothing, soaking yourself.

“Chrollo please, I need you.” and so began the begging, your voice wobbly from the eagerness of your needs. The hand on your ass spread your cheek a little to the side, exposing cold air to your wet clothed cunt. It made you whimper, willing everything in you to stay still. He parted your thighs for a peek. Chrollo was rather pleased to see that your body’s primal had taken over. Just as he wanted.

“You want me to touch you, don’t you dearest?” the question was rhetorical. It was obvious what you wanted though you nodded anyway. He spanked you again.

“Speak.”

“Yes Chrollo!”

“Yes what?”

“Yes I want- want you to touch me.” your response wavered, the sudden shame flooding in your chest. Cheeks–both sets–red and burning, Chrollo gave you another harsh blow, tears threatening to fall from your eyes. “Chrollo please!” you tried again, wanting nothing more than his fingers to slip between your folds and prod at that sweet spot in the very back of your pussy. He did as you asked, sliding your ruined panties to the side to reveal your glistening heat, met with chill air all over again. Again your back arched at the sensation, toes curling and mouth hanging open. His middle and ring fingers gather your slick before dipping beneath your inner folds and caressing your walls shallowly. The sigh of relief you let out sent shivers all over your body.

“That feels good doesn’t it angel?” his pet names made your clit twitch. He knew every way to make you submit to him, taking pleasure in your despair. He delved deeper, stretching your pussy with a third finger before gently poking the spongey patch on your upper wall. Your legs started to shake, hips rocking in his lap. Rather than thrusting his digits in and out he simply focused all of his attention on that one patch, poking and rubbing against it generously.

Discharge had began to collect around his fingers, signaling your closeness so early. He withdrew his hands from you, picking you up and pinning you to the bed. He reached into his side table drawer and pulled out the leather handcuffs you’d bought, the purple glitter shining from the lamplight. Chrollo cuffed you to the headboard before getting up from the bed.

“H-hey! Where are you going?” you called out as he walked across the room. He opened the closet doors, rummaging through for something. He held whatever he found behind his back, closing the closet doors back up. He waltzed back over to the bed, revealing the wand in his hand. Checking his watch, he sighed.

“I guess it’s time for me to go now,” he started, plugging the wand into the wall next to your shared bed. He stuffed it between your legs, pressing it against your aching clit roughly. Chrollo turned the setting up so medium and your body instantly reacted. Your thighs clenched around the toy, rutting against it for some friction. His hand came down upon your ass once more making you cry out.

“Don’t come until I get back, understand?” he asked, already knowing the answer. He grabbed his blazer back up and fixed himself up some, just fo be safe. He could fix his little problem in his pants when he found a bathroom, though he wouldn’t have to worry about your antics until he got home. “You’re just gonna leave me like this?” you complained, shaking and tugging at the cuffs that bound your wrists.

“I’ll come back, but I want you to learn your lesson.” he said before leaving the room, you lying in bed, your release so close but always so far.

#chrollo #chrollo lucilfer #hxh #huntr x Hunter 2011 #anime #fanfiction #my writing #smut #chrollo smut #hxh smut

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jacks-wylan · 4 years

Text

Follow me home

Here’s my @thewitchersecretsanta for @itsmajel. Sorry for the late, darling! I hope you like it, even if it’s not what I had in mind at first and rushed a bit at the end (life got in the way sobs). Still, i hope you appreciate geralt and jaskier being horse girls, the almost-not-fake-marriage and a little cameo of Valdo Marx that does nothing at all (but come on, everyone wants Valdo to be present at Jaskier’s wedding right?)

❀

The missive is delivered right in his hand one fine morning, at the start of spring. Geralt is minding his own business, sipping a piss–tasting ale in the darkest corner of a tavern in Oxenfurt, and he's waiting for his bard to deign him of his flamboyant presence as he has done for almost twenty years now.

Jaskier is late, though, and Geralt can't help but frown, worried, when a boy – a young boy, dressed in a rich uniform – bows to him and calls him Sir Witcher, handing him the letter. To be honest, the whole gesture scares him: no one ever bowed to him before.

When he opens the missive, Geralt sighs, recognizing immediately Jaskier's flourish handwriting.

“My dearest friend,” he reads, and that is not a good sign. “If I only try to write the real reason of my absence there by your side in Oxenfurt, a single parchment would not be enough, and I am quite sure you would not even read the whole ordeal, ignoring my request of aid. Once you reach for me here in my birthplace, I will explain everything. Please, my friend, I beg you to come here in Lettenhove as soon as possible. I don't have much time left.” Geralt blinks, “What the fuck.”

Geralt feels his heart dropping down in his stomach, dread pooling there as he scrambles up from the chair, grabs his swords, leaves some coins on the table, and runs outside. He doesn't even mind the next words written in the missive, the gentle, “Yours always, Jaskier.”

He just puts the already crumpled piece of parchment in Roach's saddlebag, hops on the horse, and heads towards Lettenhove – ignoring the shouts of the same boy that has delivered the missive. He knows the way, he doesn't fucking need company, and also, whoever he was he would just slow him down.

And Jaskier hasn't much time left.

He rides for a day and a half, avoiding inns and taverns, sleeping just when needed. He follows the seashore, remembering from conversation that Geralt pretended to ignore that Jaskier passed his childhood bathing in salty waters, breathing fish–smelling air. He remembers that whenever he played in Kerack courts, he always said that it felt like home.

Jaskier never once mentioned Lettenhove, though.

Geralt arrives in Lettenhove by twilight. It's a cheerful city, decorated for a festivity he has no knowledge of. There is a bonfire in the middle of the marketplace, already lit, with some people dancing and drinking wine around it, children laughing and screaming as they play catch. He watches around, in search of a familiar colorful figure, but he sees nothing of importance, so he heads toward the nearest tavern, set on asking every single soul if they know anything of Jaskier the Bard.

He growls at the stableboy, when he takes Roach's reins from his hands. “You know of a bard around here?” he asks the boy, helping him take the saddle off Roach.

The boy nods, guarded, “Well, yes! A bard is going to play tomorrow, for the wedding!”

“Wedding?”

“Don't you know, sir?” the boy cocks his head to the side, watching him from the other side of Roach. Another one that calls him sir, that's kind of creepy. “The long lost Viscount is finally going to marry tomorrow! That's why we are all celebrating.”

Geralt hums. Jaskier probably has been called to play at his birthplace court, and he needs assistance for this. Maybe one of the many ladies he loves is the future bride of the Viscount, who probably Jaskier hates for no reason at all, and for this Jaskier has brought misfortune upon his head: what if he's imprisoned? What if tomorrow, instead of his performance, Jaskier will be hanged beside the bonfire because he fucked the wrong maiden?

Damn him and his cock, “And this bard, you remember his name?”

“No, sir. I'm just a stableboy.” the boy shrugs, “Don't know who're the lord's hosts. But I got a glimpse of him when he came the other day, and he's really...” he scrunches his young face, “Excessive.”

Gods, yes. That's definitively Jaskier.

Geralt nods as a thanks, trying not to think about the the worst, and heads towards the inn. It's not the first time Geralt has to pay for Jaskier's debt in order to take him out of prison, and it's definitely not the first time he has to help Jaskier escape from imprisonment, and yet, now something seems... off. Geralt can't quite pinpoint what, though.

He eats soup, and drinks water. No one is looking at him feed himself alone at a table, too busy in the wedding's arrangements to pay attention to a lonely Witcher – as weird as it is. He takes a room, and the innkeeper doesn't grimace nor make him pay more while handing him the key, and it's probably the merry time around that makes all this people happy and all, but it still feels so damn strange.

“We will tell the Viscount of your arrival!” says the innkeeper, as he goes upstairs. Geralt just shrugs: he doesn't know why, and he doesn't care. If they have a job for him, he can ask Jaskier's freedom as a payment, at least.

For now, he just drops his belongings on the floor next to his bed, and lays on it to try gaining some sleep. Tomorrow, whatever happens, surely Geralt has to fight against something – be it a drowner or two, or a regiment of soldiers.

The next day, Geralt wakes up with someone stomping as they run up the stairs, stopping in front of his door and knocking loudly, too loudly. He groans, and glancing at the window he left open the night before, he notices that it's barely dawn – he has a half mind to just ignore the nuisance and go back to sleep, but he suddenly remember why he finds himself in Lettenhove in the first place and thinks better of it.

Slowly, he gets up, passing a hand on his eyes to wipe the sleep away, and the person on the other side of the door hasn't enough patience nor time, this morning, because they knock again and shout: “Geralt! Open up, I know you're awake, you oaf!”

Geralt blinks. That voice is definitely Jaskier's.

He walks to the door and unlocks it. Immediately, Jaskier pushes the handle, and if Geralt wasn't a fucking Witcher with quite good reflexes, the angle of the door would have definitely hit his forehead. Not a great start, for the day, it would be. “Geralt! My darling friend! You are here just in time!”

“Jaskier.” Geralt says, calmly. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“What does it mean, what the fuck I am doing here?” Jaskier passes under his raised arm to enter inside his room, in his hand a heavy bag from where a mouth–watering smell comes. “That was I that called you here, remember? I believe you got my letter. I brought breakfast!”

Geralt grits his teeth, following him as he makes himself at home. “Yes, that's why I don't understand why you aren't in prison.”

Jaskier frowns, as he puts fruits and sweet rolls out of the bag. “I totally have no idea why you think I should be in prison right now.”

“You little– here, look.” Geralt grabs his satchel and takes out Jaskier's letter, showing him the peculiar words he'd chosen. “Please, my friend, I beg you to come here in Lettenhove as soon as possible. I don't have much time left.” he reads with a growl. Gods, seeing him here safe and sound is a relief, but he feels like he's been mocked, and it irritates him. “I though you were in danger, Jaskier, so I came here– wait, why you signed it...? Yours always...?”

Jaskier tears the letter off his hands, a panicked expression twisting his face, “It was in the heat of the moment, alright? I though I was gonna die any day without you – I mean, without your help to take me out of this mess. Don't mind it!” he folds the letter and puts it in his silk trouser's pocket. “Anyway, I think that explanations are in order.”

“You think?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. Then, he motions at the food he's served on the bed, “In the meantime, eat. The tale is long, and kinda boring.” Once Geralt is seated on the floor by the bed, a sweet roll in his mouth, Jaskier seems to be enough satisfied to start explaining. He does it with a huff, blowing a strand of hair away from his eyes – and Geralt no, he has totally not followed the motion with barely concealed awe, “My friend, before your arrival, I really thought this would have been the end for me. You are my only hope to make it out alive.”

“What have you done?” Geralt asks, flatly.

“Absolutely nothing – apart being born. You see, my darling Witcher, there are things that are... expected from me. My father actually pretends those things that I, no, I totally refuse to do. One of those things, is marring a completely unknown rich woman just for the sake of... you know, I really don't know why. Perhaps is because people will now stop spreading rumors about me, or worse yet because my father expects an, ugh, an heir. From me! My sister gave birth last summer, and he still expects me to have an heir! Isn't one enough, I wonder? How many heirs a Count needs, to be in peace with himself? It's really beyond my comprehension.”

“Jaskier, wait.” Geralt almost chokes on the sweet roll he is swallowing at Jaskier's words. Did he hear it right? Is he talking about marriage and children? Is he really Jaskier the man in front of him, or he's a doppler trying to fuck up with him? “The wedding is yours?” he asks, and that was really the last of his worries, but evidently all his mind and mouth were able to elaborate is just that.

“Unfortunately, yes. Thank all the Gods that you are here just in time, Geralt! One more day, and it would have been one day too late.” Jaskier walks towards the window, and looks down at the decorations with a dreadful grimace pulling his mouth. “Can you believe that hateful man how far is gone with this farce? With this charade? Hell, he even called the worst bard of the entire Continent to play during the banquet!” he sniffs, outraged. “But you're here! I shouldn't have doubted you! I have a plan to make all of this blown up, and you are the centerpiece of it.”

“The stableboy mentioned this bard. I thought it was you, by his description.”

Jaskier gapes, widening his big, blue eyes in a comical way, “Sad that he's gonna lose his job for this! Gods, how dares he compare me to that... that scoundrel–”

Geralt shakes his head, an amused smile tugging his lips. He's gonna admit it, he feels mostly confused by the stream of words coming out of Jaskier, as always. He just understands that he has an important role in his plan to not get married, and he guesses that he will help him regardless of his motives. Jaskier is... a free spirit. Geralt can't see him married off with someone, unless his wife–to–be is alright in never see him again because he'll be too busy walk the Path with him.

Hm. That is why the thought of Jaskier married is so foreign, so strange, so unbelievable? Because that would mean Geralt will never have him around again, in that case?

Geralt frowns, and raises his eyes to look how the bard is still muttering offenses against the young stableboy, “Isn't the Viscount the one who's gonna get married?”

“Yes, 'tis I, Julian Alfred Pankratz, the willingly estranged Viscount that has finally returned home to his so boring obligations and blah blah blah.” Jaskier motions in the air with his hand. Then, he blinks, looking down at Geralt, “I did never tell you this, didn't I?”

“That you were a fucking Viscount? No, Jaskier.” says Geralt, and he knows that he's able to conceal the bitterness in his voice – and yet, considering the guilty faces Jaskier is making, he probably didn't do it right this time.

“I beg for your forgiveness, my friend. I never told you this not because I don't trust you, because I do. You know that, and never doubt it again.” Jaskier sighs, and finally he walks away from the window to sit next to him on the floor, “It's just that... I always run away from this life, even in my mind it's always been like I've never lived here before, never borne here, that there weren't people waiting for me to stop being egoistical and take my responsibilities. This is the reason I never mentioned it before, you have nothing to do with that.”

Geralt can understands this, and he'd be too hypocritical of him to say that he doesn't do the same – he, too, runs away from unwanted, from scaring, responsibilities. So he just nods, and Jaskier smiles, relieved.

“I bet you are wondering why I am here, then. Why I don't run away from here once again.”

“I bet you're gonna tell me anyway.”

Jaskier gasps, a hand dramatically posed on his lips, “That I'll do! How did you know that?” he chuckles, then gets quiet. “Mhh, well, it's for another egoistical reason. I'm just tired to run away from... from what is my home, after all, I hate it or not, it still is. My mother died this summer, and I wasn't here to give her one last kiss. Actually, I don't ever remember the last time I've seen her, and now all I have is a grave.” he shrugs, as if he doesn't even care. Geralt can smell, though, in his scent, a touch of sadness, and regret. “My sister gave birth to the chubbiest baby I've ever met in my entire life, and I wasn't here for her. I wasn't here for her for her wedding either. What I'm trying to say, Geralt, is that I want too much to be free to also come here, just once in a while, to bring present to my nephew and lay flowers on my mother's tomb.”

Geralt clears his throat, slightly uncomfortable, “I'm sorry for your mother.”

“Don't be. Last time I've seen her, I was eighteen. My sister almost didn't remember my face, when I came here a couple of months ago.”

Geralt hums, and grabs an apple. “So, this plan?”

“Yes, the plan.” Jaskier claps his hands, and absentmindedly accepts the apple Geralt is handing him. “Today is the wedding day, and I'm going to meet the lovely lady my father has chosen for me, but! Listen this, because you will totally praise my brilliant mind this time.” he takes a bite at the apple, munching with fervor as he tries to gather the words to explain his so brilliant plan, and Geralt feels a smile tugging at his lips at the sight. He's ridiculous. Geralt is, too, obviously. “I organized a horse race.”

Geralt frowns, “Good.”

“It'll make sense, hear me out. I somehow convinced my father to accept this my... caprice. He thinks that it is just to entertain the guests, but I made very clear that it will be the winner who's gonna marry me! At this point, I guess my father doesn't really care who will be my bride, as long as I'll be married once and for all. And, and,” he stops Geralt before he could ask clarifications with a finger closing his lips, “I will participate. You will do in my behalf, of course, you know I can't ride a horse for shit, and I am so sure that Roach will make the other horses eat her dust! I will win the race, and I'm gonna marry myself.”

“That's...”

“Brilliant?”

“Stupid. It will never work.”

“Whaaat?” Jaskier pouts, crossing his arms against his chest, “Why? It has to work!”

Geralt knows that nobles gets embarrassingly excited by these kind of things – the scoops, the scandals, and whatever they comports – but he doesn't think that a scam like this will work. Not that Geralt knows his father at all, in what way he's going to react at Jaskier's, hm, trap, but if he really wants Jaskier married and soon–to–be–father, he won't surely accept the whole 'I won at a game so I will marry myself' thing.

Hence, this is stupid. But looking at the sad pout on Jaskier's face, Geralt can't find in himself the power to tell him that his plan has all kinds of holes in it. So, he mutters, “If... if you're sure about it.”

“I am! So, you're on?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Of course,” Jaskier rolls his eyes, fondly, as he does every time Geralt says something uncalled for. “You always have a choice, my dear. After all, there will be a lot of nobles, a lot of meaningless chatters, a lot of stabbing behind the backs, a lot of songs from a terribly bard. I wouldn't wish it even to my worst enemy. Well, sure, without your help I'd die within the day, slicing my own throat with a cutlery out of desperation and boredom, but this is not a forcing towards you by any means.”

Geralt smacks his shoulder, and Jaskier shrieks an amused ouch, massaging the hit spot. Put like this, he no, he really doesn't have a choice. How could he leave him be, when Jaskier is looking at him with those puppy eyes, with his lower lip slightly protruding, with those desperate words about his demise?

Well, he knew that he wouldn't have any choice since he received his letter back in Oxenfurt.

“Fine.” he sighs, then, “What do I have to do?”

“Nothing too complicated, darling. You just have to be faster than my... fiance's horse. Actually, I think Roach would do most the work. Never joined a horse race before?”

“Have you ever seen me in one?” he asks, rhetorically. No one would challenge him in anything, nor offer him to join a competition that, usually, is for noble's entertainment, so it's naive of Jaskier to ask something like this. But Geralt knows that Jaskier, most of the time, doesn't fully comprehend how people take Geralt at arm's length, and gets mad when he witnesses the – maybe deserved, maybe not – cruelty they have towards him.

“No, but maybe you have in my absence. Who knows what you do when I'm not around!”

“I do what I always do, Jaskier. I walk the Path, I fight, and I try to survive. I have no time for games.”

Jaskier scrunches his face, clearly discontent of his words, “So unfair.”

It doesn't matter if it's fair or unfair, it's still Geralt's life, and Jaskier needs to understand that nothing will ever change, no matter the fact that he doesn't like it and he deems it humanly wrong.

So Geralt doesn't respond, and a quiet silence falls on them whilst they finish their breakfast. Jaskier wipes away the apple juice from his mouth with the hem of his luxurious chemise, and the gesture is so little nobility that Geralt still doesn't believe the fact that in front of him there is a Viscount. That the bard that followed him for almost two decades is a Viscount – and he had no clue at all.

Jaskier winces and grimaces, when people start to shout and sing and claps from the roads outside. “We need to go. My wife–to–be is probably arrived.” he rolls his eyes, raising from the floor and reaching out to help him do the same. “I bet my precious lute that she is as unhappy as me about this arrangement. Gods, I don't even know her name! She probably doesn't know mine either! This is bullshit.”

Grabbing his stretched hand, Geralt prepares himself to what's about to happen.

He doesn't have a good feeling about this.

Jaskier's fiance is flawless, with a curved body and straight blond hair. She's not a teenager as Pavetta was during her wedding – the only banquet Geralt has ever participated, and he's for the first time in all his long life praying that this won't end like hers ended – and she walks with her chin held high, an expressionless stare pointed in front of her. Maybe it's her face, but Geralt thinks that Jaskier is probably right, and she's as unhappy as he is in this whole situation. After all, a lot of years passed since Jaskier was twenty and ready – for his father, at least – to get married: she has probably found someone else to love in Jaskier's absence, because her brown, stricken eyes resemble so much Pavetta's.

Well, Geralt thinks. Maybe Jaskier's plans will work, if he has his fiance's support.

Geralt watches as Jaskier and his fiance's meet for the first time in the farthest corner of the main square, with Roach neighing quietly next to him. Jaskier's eyes are full of pity, as he, with a sweet, small smile, kisses the back of her hand, so lightly that his lips doesn't even touch her sun–kissed skin. They don't exchange words apart for empty pleasantries, and Geralt feels an hollow inside of him at the sight.

He doesn't want a meaningless, unloved marriage for Jaskier.

He nudges Roach forward as the cheerful crowd follows the soon–to–be–wed couple to the magnificent palace at the end of the main road. He doesn't think Geralt will be welcomed there inside, no matter what Jaskier wants – he is too busy with his father and fiance, right now, to mind his comfort – but he thinks that, at least, he can go in the Pankratz's stables, considering that Roach will be one of the horses that will compete.

He is surprised, though, to find a servant in there that shows him the way inside the palace, indicating him where to go to the chambers allocated to him. He's too confused to try asking for explanations, and too stunned to growl at the stableman as he takes Roach's reins from his hands.

Maids prepare him a bath, and new, perfumed clothes are brought to him. Geralt doesn't feel enough relaxed to take off his armor and stay only with the clothes Jaskier – obviously – sent to him, so when he heads to the stables again, he tries to ignores the confused stares from servants and maids as he walks the corridors with frilly, clean clothes under his stained, clearly old armor.

In the stable, he finds himself to be surprised again, when he sees Jaskier nuzzling Roach's nose, hugging her neck from time to time as he murmurs sweet nothings in her flicking ears. “You will be my forever heroin, Roach, if you win this race. I know, I know, it's child's play for you, my horses – or, everyone's horses, don't get so offended, Gods – are snails compared to you, my girl. Still, you have to give all your might, regardless of the incompetence of others.”

Roach snorts, and tries to bite Jaskier's fingers. Geralt suffocates a laugh just to not interrupt whatever is going on between her and Jaskier.

Jaskier gasps, but the idiot doesn't take his hands off the horse, “You're so touchy! I didn't say that you are incompetent! Gods, sometimes you are worst than your owner. Ohw! I said sometimes!” his words are followed by a couple of kisses on her muzzle that she tries to shy away from – with not much force, though. Geralt knows that Roach is totally able to headbutt Jaskier out of her way, if she really wants to. “Anyway, what I meant, you prickly horse, is that mistakes are not allowed. Not if you still want me run after you throughout the Continent! And I know you want me. Who else is gonna give you this, if not me?” he asks, taking a small sugar cube from his pocket.

Roach stops stomping her foot on the ground, suddenly very docile.

“Yeah, I know. If you help me, dear girl, I will give you a whole bag full of your favorite treats. All for you, to eat all at once if you wish!”

“Are you done spoiling my horse?”

Jaskier jumps and a bunch of sugar cubes falls from his closed palm, “Holy shit, Geralt, do you perhaps want me to have a heart attack? You almost succeeded here!”

“Dramatic.”

“I'm serious, Gods.” Jaskier leans on Roach hugging her with an arm, and she doesn't mind at all, too busy eating all the treats fallen on the dusty ground. His other hands is posed against his chest, at the height of the heart. “That's why Roach is my favorite: she at least huffs and snorts to make her presence known.”

Geralt caresses Roach's neck, and her ears flick in acknowledgment. “Trying to bribe her won't work.”

Jaskier pouts, and frowns at the now clean ground where just second before the treats he brought for Roach laid, “It was working before you interrupted so rudely. By the way, did you rest? I see you changed with the clothes I had sent to you. They are really nice on you, I have to admit, but, dear, you don't need your armor in a horse race.”

“You will never know.”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow at him, “Aaand that's why you are the wise one between us. Uhm, I'm gonna buy you a new armor, though. This one is falling to pieces.”

“You don't have to buy me anything, Jaskier.” Geralt sighs, and drops his eyes off Jaskier to pay attention to Roach, distract himself in adjusting her saddle and controlling her shoes. If she has to race, she has to have all the needed comforts – in no way Geralt would ride her with a broken shoe or a loose saddle.

“But I want to! Whatever. You are saving my life, it's the least I can do. Money won't be a problem at all, on the contrary: for the first time, my father's money – also mine, I'd like to stress – would be finally used for something useful. He spends all our wealth in women and wine, the old fucker!”

Geralt almost says that put it like this, Jaskier isn't so different from his father, but he thinks better of it. So he just hums, letting him continue blabbing about the disgraceful ways his father lives even before his mother's death.

He really has a lot to say regarding this argument. Distractedly, Geralt wonders if Jaskier will remember that they have a horse race to win before it's too late, or if he'll be too preoccupied in blaming his father for all his bad habits to notice the hours pass. He will probably find himself already married the moment he'll finally stop talking.

Suddenly, Jaskier claps his hands, “Now, Geralt, we have to go, we wasted enough time in chitchats. I already talked to my father, and he knows that you will be the other participant. You are competing against the best knight serving my fiance's family – I didn't even bother learning his name.”

“Do you at least know your fiance's name, now?”

“Yes, but I want to forget, as she wants to forget mine. We want absolutely nothing do to with each other, and believe me, for the first time in my entire life, I'm relieved to know that someone hates me.” Jaskier shrugs, and takes his hand in his, tightening slightly his long fingers around his much larger palm. For a second, he gets distracted by the casual gesture: he will never comprehend how a man's touch can be so warm, how can it make his skin tingle so strangely and yet so pleasurably. “Let's go now, I want to show you where the racecourse is located. It's a circular racetrack, really, the horses have to run around the stands where my family and my fiance's family will be to watch the... the challenge, and the first one that reaches the starting point is the winner.” he sniffs, “I feel strange, Gods, I'm starting to feel anxious. Don't get me wrong, I know you are going to win without any doubt, but I can't get out of my mind the feeling that something will go irremediably wrong.”

Geralt has the same feeling since the very beginning, but he just follows Jaskier silently out of the stable after giving Roach a see–you–later kiss on her muzzle. He doesn't add anything more to Jaskier's worries, and he mostly ignores the townsfolk that stop them on their way to the racetrack, giving Jaskier gifts as small bouquets of wildflowers and flower crowns.

A young girl tries to give him one too, and Geralt almost panicked as he crouches before her and she puts the too small crown on his head. Her mother doesn't even try to snatch her away from him, and Geralt supposes that it's thanks to Jaskier's influence. The whole town is acting as he is just one of the many guests came here for the wedding.

Thankfully, Jaskier doesn't comment Geralt awkwardness.

Jaskier shows the racecourse when they finally reach it, situated in a dusty clearing just out of town. Geralt doesn't care as Jaskier starts telling him how the workers have built this in no more than a week time, but he is particularly aware of Jaskier's hand still closed tight around his.

Jaskier stops midsentence when a sudden strum of a lute echoes around the empty racecourse, and the disturbing scent of anger and disgust coming off Jaskier imbues his senses. They both raise they stares and up on the stands, seated there with no care at all with a lute posed on his lap, there is a bard, apparently.

“What the hell is he doing here?!” Jaskier fumes, and if only stares could kill, the bard would be dust on the ground. “Hey! What the hell are you doing here?!”

“Practicing for you wedding, Julian.” the bard answers, throwing them an amused grin, “There's chaos out there, and talent needs tranquility to reach its peak. Speaking of, why are you doing here? Shouldn't you be back in your chambers to get ready for your grand day?”

Jaskier stomps a foot on the ground, petulantly, “There will be no grand day! Get out of my way!”

“I won't be so sure of myself in your place, Julian. I am sure that someone has distorted your request about this race, and all of this is going to blow out in your funny face. But I am your servant today, so, as the lord commands.” the bard bows with a hand posed against his chest, then hops down the stands and disappears back towards town, as Jaskier's face becomes purple with anger.

Geralt asks, “Who is he?”

“My worst enemy, my recurrent nightmare, my crux and disgrace.” Jaskier passes a hand through his hair, “So, no one you needed to meet, no one important to know.” with a frown, he looks up the sky, a hand shadowing his eyes against the shining sun. “It's almost midday. It's a matter of time for the guests to start to arrive. Geralt, my friend.” Jaskier turns to him and, sadly, his hand leaves the grip on his. “I need to go. Win this race, and I'll be forever yours.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow.

“Forever in your debt, I meant!” Jaskier shrieks, red in face, as he runs away the same way the bard disappeared, a cloud of dust raising from his feet in the haste of it.

With a resigned snort, Geralt turns around to go to Roach and get her ready for the race.

But the bard's words keep swirling inside his head, amplifying the bad feeling about Jaskier's plan: I am sure that someone has distorted your request about this race, and all of this is going to blow out in your funny face.

Well.

The stands are full the moment Geralt comes back at the racecourse with Roach trotting happily next to him. Jaskier is there with his family, seated at the center of it, at one of his side an older man that is his spitting image if not for the gray hair and serious expression, the other his fiance.

A young lady with a chubby baby sits beside his father, and even if she doesn't resemble Jaskier a lot, Geralt thinks that she's the sister he talked about.

Geralt is welcomed with a grand applause, followed by another when a knight in a white armor, riding a equally white stallion – the irony – takes place next to him at the starting point. They give him a thumbs up as Jaskier's father is shouting the rules and the motives of this sudden, at his saying uncalled for, race from his position.

As he talks, Geralt looks at Jaskier. He has a stricken expression twisting the usually smooth lines of his face, a vein popping on his forehead as the same bard they met before sings and strums behind him. He's not relaxed at all, even though he said that he is not afraid of Geralt to lose the race. So, why so tense?

The bed feeling intensifies.

Geralt caresses Roach's neck as she snorts, a bit annoyed by the cheerful crowd around them. He murmurs words of comfort, not dissimilar to the ones Jaskier told her in the stables whilst trying to bribe her – that is, until Jaskier's father shouts to them to get ready and in position.

There is a short countdown, and Roach tenses.

When the “Go!” is shouted, Roach runs. It's blurry after that, all Geralt can see – even with his enhanced senses – is just the road in front of them, all his – theirs – attention is to win this competition and get over with all of this.

He hears the stallion behind him, and Roach cleverly, with his guidance, gets in front of it to block its way, so it can't go past her and it's forced to slow down like this.

Clever, clever girl. A wave of pride overwhelms him, and he's sure that also Jaskier, up where he is enjoying the show, is feeling the same way.

Obviously, he and Roach are the first to cross the finish line, and everyone around them shout and scream and cheer the winner – and considering that it's Geralt the winner, it feels so strange. He drops off Roach and she seems to balks at the praises the people are shouting at her and at her clever talent, stomping her feet at the ground and neighing happily. She even trots around herself, in a very funny dance. Somewhere behind him, Jaskier's laugh trills, louder than any cheer.

The knight drops down their stallion too and gets closer to him. They takes off their helmet and Geralt is surprised to see that his challenger is a beautiful woman, with cropped short hair and a satisfied grin on her sweaty face. She stretches an arm towards him to shake their hands, before going.

“Father!” Geralt hears Jaskier say out loud. Raising his eyes, Geralt sees him standing in front of his father, excitement written on his face. Next to him, his fiance has finally lost her stricken face, and she seems so relieved that she just stays seated there, with eyes closed, and a hand against her heart. “My challenger has won. So it means I won!”

“Yes, my son. The Witcher has won.” repeats his father, calmly.

“Exactly. So I can marry my–”

“Your Witcher. You can marry him. It's what you were after since the beginning, weren't you?”

Jaskier inhales sharply, dropping his mouth wide open. “W–Wh–w–whha–”

The bard bursts out laughing, almost falling down on his butt.

Geralt panics, and hopes he did hear wrong for the first time in his life. He looks at Jaskier, waiting for something, anything that would hint him their next move, but Jaskier seems to be turned into a stone, eyes growing distant.

“I won, father.” he says, in the end, with a thin voice. “I've got to chose, now.”

“No, the Witcher has won, Julian. And you did chose: it was you that organized all of this and let the Witcher participate.” his father says, candidly. Then, he turns towards Geralt, the blue eyes that so much resembles his son's looking down at him with no particular emotion hidden behind them, “So, Witcher. Will you merry my son?”

Geralt is still panicking, sadly. That's why he says, “Yes..?” right before biting his tongue.

Jaskier winces as if slapped. His ex–fiance is looking at the scene with a curious gaze.

The bard is still laughing his arse off somewhere on the ground.

When Jaskier's father claps his hands and orders his servant to take Geralt back to the palace so he can get ready for tonight ceremony, it all clicks in Geralt's mind.

He's fucked.

Three hours later, the sun is almost setting down over the horizon, and Geralt finds himself in his chambers, in front of a mirror, trying to close the white doublet the maids brought to him.

He's angry, and not just because the buttons have no intentions to stay put. He's angry because he doesn't like at all the situation he's finding himself in, and he's even banned from going to see Jaskier wherever he is right now, to ask for explanations, to at least know how is he supposed to do to take them both out of this mess.

He feels like relaxing a bit, though, when he hears familiar steps approaching his door. “Come in,” he says even before Jaskier tries to knock.

Geralt hears a sigh, then opens his door with the utmost care as if scared to make even the smallest of the noises. When the door clicks shut behind him, Jaskier finally raises his eyes to meet his stare on the mirror. “Geralt, I–” he blinks, “Wow. You are quite a sight in white.”

Geralt just snorts, fuming. He gives up trying to close the buttons of the doublet to turn toward Jaskier with a dark glare, arms crossed against his chest, and the strange twinkling inside Jaskier's eyes dim, walking closer to him with a subdued posture. “Geralt... uh, are you mad at me?”

Geralt sighs. And, as always happens, he can't stay mad at him for too long: especially if he looks at him with those puppy eyes, so expressive that they seem to beg more than his mouth could ever do. “No.”

“Oh thank the Gods. I am so, so sorry, Geralt, it wasn't supposed to go like this! I mean, I am actually really surprised that you said yes to my father when he asked you if you wanted to marry me, but–”

“I didn't know what to say!”

“I know, calm down! It's okay, really, I already made up a new plan.” Jaskier says, excited.

“This doesn't make me feel better.”

“Miscreant!” Jaskier huffs, the gets closer and starts ruffling with his clothes, closing the buttons of his doublet and straightening the wrinkles, “I understand that the simpler plan is the most effective. You just have to say I don't, when the Melitele's priestess will tell the vows and ask you again if you want to marry me. The ceremony will be very brief, you don't have to worry about this, considering the little time we had, so you don't even have to prepare a speech. Aren't you happy? All you have to say is I don't!”

“That's it?” Geralt doubts it very much.

“That's it!”

Geralt grunts, unconvinced. “And your father will leave you alone, even if you don't get married?”

“I talked to my sister before coming here. Apparently, being left at the altar is a scandal. No one wants a groom or a bride that another disavowed, no matter the reasons.” Jaskier shrugs, “Gods forbid if an abandoned person gets a second chance.” he adds, sarcastically.

“And you're okay with it?”

Jaskier looks at him incredulously, “You're kidding? I'm more than okay. I don't want to marry anybody, Geralt, not now, nor ever. My life is perfectly fine as it is.”

Geralt finds himself frowning at the ground, something akin at nervousness churning his stomach at Jaskier's words. He should not care, after all, what Jaskier wants to do with his life, it's nothing of his business – and yet, he doesn't like the thought that Jaskier will never want someone stable to love for the rest of his life.

Is he starting to think like Jaskier's father?

Shit.

Jaskier probably notices his face darkens, because he gets even closer and grabs one of his shoulders, tightening slightly his grip when no reaction comes from Geralt, “Are you fine, Geralt? Believe me, I am truly, truly sorry for throwing all my family's mess onto you. But fret not, my friend! This will be the end, at least I can assure you this.”

Geralt looks at him. He has a plain robe on, clearly he was also preparing for the ceremony before sneaking out to come here, to him; his face is blotched red, maybe for embarrassment, maybe nervousness, Geralt can't say; his scent is mostly covered by some sweet perfume he used while bathing. He still is making puppy eyes at him, hoping to soften him as he begs for forgiveness.

But in the end, there's no motive for him to ask for forgiveness: it was Geralt who panicked and said that yes, he wanted to marry him. Thank fuck that it's all going to end soon, because this whole situation is becoming ridiculous.

There's a lot of ridiculous things he's done for Jaskier, after all.

But this? This beats them all.

“Whatever, I have a little gift for you.” Jaskier says, searching inside the pocket of his robe and taking out of there a silk, blue hair ribbon. “I know that I've already broken traditions by coming here, because one should see the bride – in this case, the groom – right on the altar, not before. But,” he says, showing him the ribbon. Geralt touches it with a knuckle, and it's as smooth as it looks. “this one is nice. They say that we need something old, something new, and something blue. You are what we have of old,” he laughs at this, and Geralt just smiles at him, “and our clothes are relatively new. What we missed is something blue, and all I've found is this. May I comb your hair?”

Geralt looks at him, then at the ribbon. At last, he sighs, “Sure.”

Actually, he feels a bit in trepidation as Jaskier commands him to sit at the vanity and settles behind him. His long fingers starts, slowly, almost carefully, to separate the white strands in three parts. Geralt watches as he combs his hair with care and confidence – it's not the first time he does that after all – but somehow this time it feels... different. Sacred, he would say, if only he was a poet.

Jaskier's hums under his breath does help the moment, making it even more intimate. He makes a plain braid, not too complicated, but taking his time nonetheless. Geralt definitely doesn't shivers when Jaskier's fingers brush against the skin of his neck, and no, he's definitely not too aware of Jaskier's breath too close to his ear when he leans to catch loose strands of hair.

Definitely not.

“Here you go!” Jaskier concludes, as he makes a flourish bow with the ribbon at the end of the braid. “Perfection.”

Geralt tells himself that he doesn't notice Jaskier's fingers lingering a bit more than necessary on his hair.

“I should go, now. I hope no one notices my absence.”

Geralt nods, “Hm. Go then.”

“Yeah, I–” Jaskier bites his lower lip, as he poses his hands on his shoulder. Their eyes meet through the mirror, and Jaskier seems to almost be saying something, but then thinks better of it. He smiles at him, with an healthy glow on his cheeks. “Thank you again, Geralt. What you're doing really means a lot to me.”

Said that, Jaskier leans towards him and leaves a smooch on his cheek, loud and a bit wet.

Then, he literally runs. “Ta!” he shouts as the door closes behind him.

Geralt freezes on the spot, a hand pressed on his cheek, where the ghost of that brief kiss still lingers there. His head completely shuts down. What the fuck was that?!

His mind can't make a coherent thought for the rest of the evening, finding himself by the altar without knowing how and when it happened. Jaskier is slightly late – if he understood well, they were supposed to reach the altar together – but Geralt knows why he isn't here yet, and in his altered mind he still can't get over that kiss.

Not that Jaskier never touched him before, being so tactical and friendly even with complete strangers – but, but kisses were always off limits. Combing hair? Yes, sure. It happened plenty of times. Massages? Also okay. Geralt still remembers fondly when Jaskier helped with his very uncomfortable problem on his bottom. Sleeping together and finding their limbs tangled together the morning after? Nothing wrong with that at all, it always happens when friends sleep together.

Right?

Hm. Put it like this, the kiss – on the cheek, mind you – seems to be the less intimate thing they've ever shared.

Then why..? Why does it bother him so much?!

Jaskier appears next to him on thin air, apparently, because Geralt didn't acknowledge his arrival at all, not until his tense laughter trills beside him as he almost trips on the last step of the altar. When he motions at him to try and steady him, Geralt's mind shut down again as his eyes finally fall on him.

Jaskier is also dressed in white like him, with golden embroidery running through his doublet and trousers, and he has an ephemeral aura around him that almost blinds his eyes. Jaskier returns his gaze with a sheepish smile, a blush on his cheeks and a quick shrug, as if to say Sorry for the late. Even if it's all a farce, I had to be on top regardless.

And on top he is, fucking hell.

Geralt can't quite take his eyes off Jaskier, as the Melitele's priestess starts talking out loud for all the guests to hear. Every time Jaskier notices his gaze, Geralt lowers his eyes as if caught doing something prohibited. Gods, he feels like a teenager. He feels like a real groom on his real wedding day – maybe? He doesn't really know what a groom may feel during a wedding.

This exchange of stares happens three times more. At last, Jaskier chuckles and the priestess looks at him oddly.

Suddenly, Jaskier takes his hands in his, raising them at heart length. They both turn towards each other, staring into each other faces. Geralt panics slightly, having heard not a single word that came out of the priestess' mouth. Jaskier is biting his lips, red in faces – he's probably trying to suppress one of his usual loud laughs. He's laughing at him!

He doesn't matter that at the moment Jaskier is the most beautiful man he has ever seen in his pitiful long life, he's ridiculing him and now he's mad. Kinda.

“I do.” says Jaskier, solemnly.

Geralt frowns. What was the question?

The priestess nods, then turns her pretty face towards Geralt, “And you, Geralt of Rivia?”

Shit. Fuck. What was the question?!

“I...” he asks Jaskier for help with a begging look, but Jaskier just tilts his head to the side. “I... do.”

The priestess nods again, but Jaskier blinks, “What?” he mouths.

“Was that..?” Geralt panics, because oh Gods, he now understands that the question was the question, the only question he needed to answer, the question Jaskier clearly has told him to say I don't. “Shit, no. I don't. I... don't.” The priestess jerks as he tries to mend his terrible mistake, “I don't want to marry, you heard me? I don't.”

Chaos erupts around them as Jaskier's father shrieks a “What?!”; the bard laughs his arse off again somewhere, hidden in the middle of the crowd; Jaskier's sister has a hand on her lips, feigning a surprise she doesn't really feel.

Jaskier is, instead, looking at him with a curious expression. Their hands are still tangled together in a firm grip, and Jaskier tightens slightly the grip to bring his attention on him and him only – not that Geralt had attention on anyone or anything, or else this mess wouldn't have happened in the first place, but still. Jaskier's thumbs are caressing the back of his hands, and the gesture is making him so aware of him and totally not of their surrounding.

“You said...” Jaskier prompts, after a minute passed just looking at each other.

“I panicked.”

Jaskier chuckles, “I noticed. Why?”

Geralt pursues his lips. Fuck, Jaskier is mocking him again, “I was distracted, and I haven't heard what the priestess said, so–”

Jaskier says, “You were looking at me, I know this. I distracted you?” Jaskier gets closer, almost a breath away from Geralt's face. Geralt feels trapped. “Tell me, I distracted you? Were you enough inebriated by my presence that the thought of marry me crossed your mind, and you weren't against it at all?”

Geralt says nothing.

“Geralt?”

“Will you marry me?” he blurts out, regretting it the second after. Yes, alright? He was thinking since that blasted kiss in his chambers that he would mind being Jaskier's husband, and being kissed again, and maybe meet his nephew and accompany him to bring flowers to his mother's tomb. So? Sue him for living in a fantasy for once in his life.

“No, darling.”

Of course not. How could he? He didn't want to marry that beautiful lady, surely he has no intention to marry a blasted, stinky, grumpy Witcher. “Alright.” he swallows down the bitterness of rejection, even if he shouldn't really feel so bad. He knew the response the second he asked, so.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, though. He actually feels really surprised when Jaskier leans on him and kisses him. Not a smooch on his cheek, no, a kiss on his lips. His head, obviously, shuts down again so he doesn't reciprocate, just enjoys the soft lips moving on him, and finally his scent, under the layers of sweet perfume, reaching his nose. “Silly Witcher. No, I don't want to marry you, or anyone really. I believe that I needn't to demonstrate to no one my love: not to my father, and not to Melitele herself. So I needn't a frivolous ceremony and a signed contract, a white doublet and a hundreds of testimonies to love you 'til death do us part.”

“Okay.” says Geralt, even if nothing is okay, because surely he got something wrong? He doesn't think he fully understands what Jaskier means.

“You marvelous, silly, naive man.” Jaskier sighs, fondly, “Did you know that we can make love even without a marriage contract? Let's leave everyone to their scandal. My sister is having the time of her life, she'll take care of everything.”

“Make what?” Geralt's almost afraid to ask, but Jaskier's expression is soft and fond – he seems in love. More than he's ever been, that is.

Jaskier winks, “I'm gladly going to show you, love.”

What happens next is a blur, Geralt notices just Jaskier's kisses, hugs, and soft, naked skin under his fingertips.

This time he understands the whole situation very, very clear.

#geraskier #thewitchersecretsanta #the witcher secret santa #mine:fyccina

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rosyk · 3 years

Text

Deja vu

pairing: bang chan x reader, (a bit of han jisung x reader)

genre: heavy angst, passion, romance, one-sided love, bestfriends, long distance relationship

warnings: light curses, death, depression, mentions of alcohol and drugs, family problems, mentions of forced sexual activity, insecurities, anxiety, etc. (Its quite detailed in the first part and could trigger some people in these type and if you are one of them, I advice you not to read. It can really be uncomfortable on the first part)

word count: 11.5k

inspiration: Before We Knew It ch. 36-38 (webtoon), White Flowers- Olivia Rodrigo (unreleased song)

a/n: This is the least fic I loved but I had to continue it to start a new one and i won’t ever write things as long as this (it’s hard) lol. I don’t know who’ll ever read this long and cringey story but I hope it’s worth your time (?)

If I were to describe a man I’d love to marry someday, it would be someone tall, doesn’t openly show their true feelings towards me, and leads me in life. However, you were the exact opposite of it.

I didn’t even know when and why I fell in love with you. Was it at first sight? No. Was it because someone told me about my indistinguishable feelings for you? No. It was like how love was portrayed in novels and books. I just knew it. Instead of leading my life, you made me, myself, want to lead and search for my future. After you happily talked about your passion for music, you made me feel as if you were the right one. It made me think, “Maybe I do want to be with him until the end of life”. I believe something great would occur and I want to be there when that happens. When the music he produces, raps he created, genres he invented, and when his voice reaches the world, I want to be on his side and be proud I was able to witness all of that. You were everything in times I was the “nothing”.

I truly wished to be a singer right from the start. My dream was unaccepted by my family because the job isn’t as stable as it seems. I had to study medicine since then. Therefore seeing you was like seeing how I could’ve been. I stopped my passion but you made me pursue the unpursued, break off the imaginary limits I had created in my mind. I developed a fear of having to try again. I never sang after years and tried to let go of my past. But you? You lifted me away from the cage of darkness I trapped myself in. My anxiety was too deep to the point I was afraid of people, nightmares, thoughts, happiness, living, being alone, home, and simply just everything.

Even I was scared of myself.

Then I knew this is the worst a person could be. It isn’t when someone takes drugs, drinks alcohol, or flees away from home. It is when he or she no longer wants to take a step forward. I was frightened by the idea of love but also the idea of being alone. I was terrified to open up when the people closest to me never understood but was scared when I keep everything to myself too much up until I’m tired. I feared death the most, how much more if I was living? I remember cutting myself in bed when I overheard my parents fighting because of my presence. I was shaking, desperately trying to suppress my weeping. Was I sad because I didn’t have good childhood memories I could reminisce? Or was I happy for myself because that was the bravest thing I did? I was too young to understand what I truly felt but I didn’t regret a single thing.

I know the difference between wrong and right but why can’t I tell when it comes to situations that involve me? Is it wrong to think it would’ve been best if I was sleeping forever, in a depth of endless time even though I know I should live for a purpose I couldn’t find or for people who don’t care? But is it also right to live and hope miserably someone out there would find and help me even though it means staying and coping with the pain? Whenever I make a decision, I could hear trapped voices rambling in my head, time ticking as fast as my heartbeat, my soul pressuring me, and my mind that creates negative scenarios which cause me to step back before even having the chance to run. In general, I’ve had to overthink my overthinking.

I also have the habit of blaming myself. As deeper as it goes, it became my lifestyle then. I blamed myself for playing the victim as if I was the only one hurting amidst the world. I blamed myself for crying when I had no right because I gave people terrible occurrences. I blamed myself for the inability to be brave and commit what I feared the most. I also blamed myself for silently not crying loud enough to the point that my facade turned out stronger.

Looking back, I was a total mess in which I couldn’t even call myself human. My only best friends were the mirror and my own shadow. I was 10 so I appreciated how the mirror felt the same feelings as mine. It doesn’t laugh when I cry even though the creatures surrounding me do. But for the same reason, I hated it. It reflects my despair, how horrible I looked causing me to despise it the most. My shadow on the other hand makes me feel I’m not alone at the end of the day. But I also despised it the moment my mom locked me up in my room, isolating me in darkness to forget all the traumas I had given her. Because even the shadow disappears in my darkest hours. And just like friends, it all just ended. I no longer want to feel love if love was meant to hurt.

Years of living in hell passed by, until you came.

“You okay?”

I was crying at the staircase in the nearest tunnel found at school. I was a 16-year-old who tried to break away from my dad’s drunken behavior. Running away was another brave thing I did but it was because the thought of him doing me was scary enough.

It was embarrassing to let you see me like this but surprise was the first reaction I had. No one ever dared to approach me because of my low status and the suspicious silence that I give. Questions filled my head as to why you bothered talking to me. Were the rumors unbelievable enough?

“I am new here but I haven’t seen you a lot in school. Are you the same as I am?”

So he’s a transferee. Honestly speaking, I was discouraged. It’s clear that he would slowly stop approaching me as soon as he knew the rumors. You introduced yourself and asked for my name. I gave you a silent treatment causing you to face my direction. We stared at each other for minutes. You finally gave up and sat beside me as I turned my gaze back at the people playing in the park, sighing heavily.

“Would you like to hear my life?” You look at me, expecting something. I turned back at you, both eyebrows raised. You showed your smile, with those little cute dimples on each side to get away from the awkward atmosphere. Trust me when I tell you that was the brightest thing I’ve ever seen in my whole life. Maybe you did show me the colors I didn’t know I needed in my life.

“Oh… I guess you don’t then? I mean why would you be interested right?” You laughed yourself off but as usual, expected some remarks from me. My eyes panicked as I shook my head quickly from side to side. My eyebrows creased as I bit my lip, hoping you understood what I meant.

“So you do want to hear it?” I shook my head up and down as an approval of your question. Unnoticeably, it was the first time I felt eager especially when it comes to humans.

“Isn’t it annoying though?” I got the hint you wanted to tease me considering your giggles but I was too caught up in assumptions that you wouldn’t continue your storytelling. Thus, I did the same thing, turning my head from side to side, trying to convince you that I desperately want to know what happens in the lives of some.

“Cute” you mumbled to yourself but I was able to hear the word that came out from you. You patted my head casually as you started to talk about your life. I grew slightly embarrassed, curling myself, holding my knees, and acted as if I didn’t hear anything.

You were transparently open in talking to the point that I finally knew what “precious” actually meant. Although it was for a moment I knew it would stop soon, you definitely saved me from all I felt.

There I knew how our lives were exact opposites. If I felt everything, the happiness, and sadness, contrasting feelings I couldn’t comprehend, you on the other hand felt nothing. As soon as your dearest brother got into an accident, you didn’t know what to do. If I had abusive and malicious parents, you had no one to be with. I couldn’t even imagine what would happen If I lived your life.

I knew I was bad for thinking of such a way but I took advantage of your life. It made me feel relieved that there were people who faced the worst monsters than I have inside me. It made me look at the positive side of mines.

Much especially when I didn’t expect it would be you. My first impression of you was this carefree pure guy who had no problems in living his life. Little did I know, you were waking up feeling nothing, smiling with no joy, cries without letting out the pain, and laughs despite the numbness and burden that weighs in your heart. I guess we can’t judge people by the way they appear. We never know how much tears they’ve shed every night.

You summarized and wrapped things up. You asked for my name one last time before leaving. But there I was, hung my head low and sniffles could be heard. You looked in confusion as I tried to cover my face. A surprise was evident in your reaction and it was obvious due to your stuttering. You tried to ask what happened but instead hugged me unconsciously.

That was the first time I’ve ever felt warmth. I was born a mistake so even my parents couldn’t give me this kind of comfort. I cried worse as I had thought of it. The idea of a stranger giving me a better meaning of how home felt like than a family does, who wouldn’t tear up after that?

I don’t want to be ahead of time. But hope filled my mind. Maybe I could find more people like him. Maybe someone out there could notice my emotions. Maybe someone could act as my light. Maybe someone does care about my wellbeing. Out of a huge percentage of people living on Earth, there should be one who could at least meet and save me right? I know I settled in all “maybes” but it was much better than having none.

Recalling the series of events, I was a total problem. Yet you were always there for me no matter how heavy of a burden I am. You were the one who believed in me when I couldn’t, picked me up when I was drowning in a wave of traumas and worries, and lightened my deep void. You were my first and swore you’ll be my last, who broke my past and created my unknown beginning. I hated risks but whenever you are involved, I for sure know it is worth it no matter how many needles it may pain me. It had been years before noticing how much you mean to me I may be late, but would never get tired of this. I will listen and enjoy our memories until the end. You will, for eternal love, be my last song in my only playlist.

Although it’s true we never believed in love since the beginning. But all we do know is that we’d like to spend our whole lives together. It’s as if we were bound by the heavens to meet and help one another. With all that’s happening, I would like to assume that this is love people were talking about. Who knew it could be this powerful to change someone?

[CHAN’S POV]

And what happened to the “messy innocent girl who was stained by reality?” She became an unrecognizable teen, as pure as ever. In the past, I wasn’t able to feel the emotions most do but look at me now, smiling every time I see you do. Even though I’ve never felt heavy feelings, these light ones are taking a toll on me whenever you call my name.

We had arguments but never had any misunderstandings. This is all because no matter what I say, you are always by my side. I could tell you day by day how much you mean the world to me, my downfalls, and everything unnecessary but you’d still listen to it with no regrets.

Right now, we’re meeting up for a “little date” as you mentioned. I was going to decline because there had been many requirements in class but you seemed too interested that I didn’t want to break it to you.

I was wearing my usual hoodie sweater with baggy pants and ordered for both of us. After all, you would always choose chocolate whipped shakes over anything. You seemed to take too long so I decided to work on some demands given. I turned on my laptop and opened the application as I placed the headphones on my ear, silencing the noise in my surroundings.

Now all I can hear is my heartbeat pounding and swallowing as my throat started to dry. The loading symbol appeared on my screen and I hoped it would stay like that forever. I hoped it would crash and tried to find more excuses for me not to use it.

I was consistently looking at the time shown on the panel below the main screen. The blue circular sign still turns and turns as I see it from my peripheral vision. 3:31, 3:32, 3:33, the minutes kept moving and hands that are now shaking because I assumed this would be the worst nightmare that could happen. But no, cause “worst nightmare” is an understatement when we are referring to this. It would’ve been better as a nightmare because I could wake up from this traumatic moment. I was focused on my screen that I hadn’t noticed the calling in my front.

“Channie?... Chris?.... Christopher?... Mr.Bang Chan?.. Chan!”

[Y/N’S POV]

He finally noticed me as soon as I tapped on his shoulders. He flinched and looked at me in horror. It creeped me out but it took seconds before he could pull his eyes away from mine. He bit his lips and I noticed him covering his hands. The staff called out a number which I believe was from our table considering the way he closed his laptop.

“I’m getting that” You forced a little smile as you made way to the counter

I smiled at the thought of our “date” but seeing you sweating and nervously fidgeting your fingers to avoid them from shaking bothers me. Did something happen before you came? Why was he that nervous? Thoughts bombarded my mind, but you coming back with my favorite drink and snacks, looking all-smiley, tells me as if you noticed my discomfort so you tried cheering me up. You sat down in front of me and got rid of your problems. As usual, this guy notices even the littlest gestures I make.

“Did you wait too long?” I asked you with enthusiasm because our little date has now started. The idea non-stop makes my whole day

“No, I just arrived before you did.” You respond with a genuine smile despite the clear lie you just gave. You stroked my hair as you looked at me lovingly

“Oh, I just passed by that bakery we talked about a year ago…..” I started chatting about our fond memories that remain vivid in my head.

It took several hours of talking and enjoying our time together. We also watched that Philippine movie starring two exes who broke up and lived in one house, but being an emotional wreck, it took 30 mins of you trying to comfort me as I cry ugly. Of course, you didn’t miss an opportunity to laugh at me and even took a video. Teasing me and showing my picture as your wallpaper, made me playfully angry.

We also enjoyed visiting the same tunnel where we met. The nostalgia is present. The moon is shining and I can’t help but smile looking at you.

[CHANS POV]

You look beautiful under the moon if I must say. I wanted to show the magnificent view because it reminds me of you whenever I see it up above. You were my only light when my days in the past were too dark.

We continued strolling around, counting the streetlights that passed by and talked about a lot of things. Until you decided to speak up-

“About…. the thing that happened earlier?” You looked up to me, but your eyes soon started moving away from mines. You were held on with the anxiety of trying to speak up whenever it had come to my personal life. I don’t know whether it was the trauma you’ve stumbled upon when you asked about my father or it’s just due to your manners. Nonetheless, if it was indeed your trauma, I’ve felt guilty about it and wanted to reassure you I won’t hurt you ever again. “But if you don’t want to talk about it-“ I cut your sentence off.

“My father was a musician..” your eyes shined with glee in my response

“That’s cool!” You exclaimed but it soon faded into a frown after hearing me sigh. Tilting your head, you tried to calculate everything that’s wrong with it. I nervously fidgeted with my hands and knuckles, contemplating a decision that could change and even affect both of us.

“Everything’s wrong... He was into it, music took his mindset and life” I faced my head sideways and gulped without looking at your eye. The trauma, I’m finally telling my pent-up feelings after a lifetime keeping it to myself.

“He was so into composing music and started to forget about the reason he had started to do it. And by that-“ you cut off my sentence and started to nod a few times, pressing your lips together. You pointed your shaky finger at me and spoke softly.

“I think I know where this is going.” You looked at me in disbelief but all I could do is look at you with concern and guilt, asking for forgiveness. “Is this why you didn’t want to love again even after all these years?” Your eyes that shined stars a moment ago, turned into sun at night. It wasn’t raging darkness, but plain agony.

“Can you blame me? I know I love music, I’ve told you that on repeat for years. Is love what I need when that was the cause of everything?”

You didn’t take one glance at me and started walking faster. You were trying to leave me behind but I was quick to grab your hand.

“Please, let’s not act like this. It’s starting to get..” I was trying to think of a less harsh word because things get complicated day by day. And here I thought this date would be an exception. “Childish. Okay? I don’t get why you’re so out of place and it’s like-“

“So now I’m the one getting childish here?” You turned around and faced me, finally. Though it wasn’t any relieving as I expected. You were having tears stuck in your eyes, ready to fall at anytime yet you don’t want to cry in front of me. Are we going to keep this up? I was about to talk but no words came out of me. Until you decided to continue your sentence.

“You knew about this all the time, right? You knew how I was starting to fall for you and yet you continued our relationship without feeling love?” You bit your lips as your eyebrows creased. Trying to push me away, but all I could do was hold you tighter. “I know how trauma feels like. I’ve been there, we’ve been there. But you could’ve told me sooner at least so I’m not the only one looking like a whole fucking fool here, Christopher.” You tried to get away from my hold and yes, you did. Though as I tried to grab your hand once again, you took a step backward and placed your hands up in the air as a sign of surrender. “Call me sensitive but for God’s sake! How could you get me all wrapped up in your finger for the past years and call it something that isn’t attachment nor love? What was I to you then?” It took seconds for me to get the gist of what you’re trying to say and I did understand but I couldn’t answer that simple question.

Because now that I think of it, was I awful to hesitate who you were in my life? Was those years nothing for me then? I want to protect you until the end and I wanted to see you happy but I’m pretty sure I felt this for some of my friends as well. Did I just get into a relationship whilst thinking of my significant other as a friend? Is it called using someone? Taking advantage to make my life better? I know what’s right and what’s wrong. But I don’t know which is which. Getting into a relationship is a risky choice and I don’t want to hurt anybody in between. Because I know that’s what’s wrong. Using others for my need of affection and love is wrong as well. But is this exactly what I’m doing? I don’t know...As things grow, it just gets complicated to the point that I couldn’t even comprehend situations.

“I thought so” you continued, and those words crushed my heart. I didn’t notice the time we’ve been arguing, though technically it’s just you who was able to speak, that we’ve already reached your house. You opened the tiny gate in front of your house and I know what’s going to happen sooner later.

“Maybe, you need time to think about it alright? I don’t think I can keep up with a relationship like this if it’s too one-sided. But don’t worry I’ll wait. Even though what I want may not come,” you chuckled but the sigh was still evident. “I’ll wait for you.” You smiled, but it isn’t the one you’ve always shown me. I was the reason for your happiness but also the reason for your pain. How tragic must have been that sound.

You went your way to the door and closed it. I knew you were crying as I heard little sniffles but never looked my way. Closing the door, that was the last time I had ever seen you. With no goodbye kisses and hugs, you left feeling the ache you didn’t deserve.

[YOUR POV]

It was supposed to be “taking a break”, but considering this, I should’ve accepted it as a break-up. You never took time texting me after the whole 4 months. I guess I was no one in your life. But even though I was still hurt, I regretted spatting out things as if it was your fault. You always get guilty over things and I know it was all just because you had a hard time reciprocating your feelings because of the lack of love you’ve felt. I should’ve understood that part but being the sensitive me, I was unmindful. I’ve also never seen you walk past the corridors nowadays, so it’s basically been also the same 4 months of actually not seeing you as well. You really bothered trying to get out of my life.

I groaned as I sat up in the bed. It was around 8:30 and I’m like 1 hour and 30 mins late? Not that I’m bothered by it since I’ve gotten used to it. It’s not like our teacher is there by the time I arrive.

-SCHOOL-

“Outside, now” was the first and last thing I’ve heard as I entered my classroom. And here I thought the teacher wasn’t present. Not only did I embarrass myself in front of my classmates, but I’d also have to stand holding a chair, outside the classroom for lower and higher-ups students to see. Awful, and my reputation is broken. Well, not that I had any significant reputation in the first place but come on, you know how hard it was to see students bickering while looking at you.

I heard the door click open and I hoped it was the teacher who finally would let me in. It turned out to be another classmate of mines which I thought was unnecessary. But as I looked back up and noticed his eyes, a sense of familiarity came unto me.

“Han?” My eyes widened at the sight in front of me. I’m not expecting people to be perfect but our class president was the last person I expected to be scolded by our teacher. “Weren’t you inside the classroom way before me?”

“I cursed.” The guy spoke shortly and lifted the chair just like the same punishment I’ve been doing. I blinked my eyes twice but understood nothing.

“Pardon?” I replied in a high tone as if I was questioning what he was trying to say. Cursed? Is he out of his mind, trying to curse in front of the teacher? Besides, he had always been this quiet kid, but girls still tend to simp over. The latter though is out of my knowledge.

“What did you say?” I leaned in as you jolted quite a bit. Reacting to the sudden flinch, I assumed it was bold of me to do so and it scared you. But looking straight at you, pink tints were found on the side of the cheeks. It was light and definitely cute.

“F-fuck” he faced me with eyebrows creased and hesitated in replying. It was so short and awkward whenever he’d say it or maybe it’s also due to his stuttering. The thought was so out of the place and even I, who is quite free doesn’t curse in front of the teacher for no reason so why would someone who tries to stay low, would curse? But the way you told me the “forbidden” word made me laugh out loud.

“You’re funny, Mr. class president” I replied after a silent 2 minutes and laughed while hitting him lightly. Little amounts of liquids were falling down my deep brown eyes as I tried to regain my breathing. He’s awkward and that’s what makes it funny. I like him.

I wiped off my tears and stared at you. My laughs slowly died down after seeing your confusing expression. I don’t know whether your eyes held a safe haven or a place I was indulged in and forgot about the point that everything was complicated in between. Whether staring at you was comfortable or confusing. All I know is that I was distracted by the genuine smile you gave. It was little but I knew it was a smile after seeing cute dimples on the side of your lips. Now that I think of it, I haven’t ever seen the president smile.

You noticed my pause and coughed, trying to clear out the tension. The usual demeanor was back. Was everything just an illusion then?

“Anyways, I don’t know about you but I’m gonna have to go. Don’t want stay here standing when time’s already up” you lazily said as you pressed your lips together, leaving me speechless all alone. Raising your hand, you waved back at me while walking away and didn’t even take time to look back.

That was weird. Or was I the only one weird? True, I’ve never seen him around that much but I’ve painted the guy as someone responsible considering the works he finished even after given such a small time. He was indeed open-minded but wasn’t out-spoken or friendly. Work is work and he has to make sure he aces his tests for his reputation to not tarnish even one bit, that’s all that matters to him. He was never used to smiling so he doesn’t do it as much, at least that’s what I’ve heard. I’m guessing it must be my imagination.

/LUNCHTIME/

Guess what? It’s already lunchtime and I haven’t learned a single bit of information from my teacher’s discussion. Shrugging all my homework, projects, quizzes, oral recitations, and performances that are all due this afternoon, I walked out of the classroom.

But before I did so, I found a familiar guy in my peripheral vision. Trying to confirm whether it was him, I turned and called his name out.

“Mr. president?”

The same awkward and serious guy turned around, raising his right brow. You were confused at first about who would call you with no respect, but hummed in surprise as a response.

“It’s Han for you... and for everyone” trying to continue the work you’ve been doing for our school camp which is totally several months later. What’s the rush?

“Drop the formalities! Besides, I like Mr. president way better.” I smiled and tilted my head then flipped my hair. I was a whole smug for thinking my naming sense was the best thing about me.

“Like, like?”

The same vibe always comes up whenever I’m talking to you and I don’t know why. How is it so hard to interact with smart ones? I feel like their language is different and I couldn’t even comprehend what this guy is trying to say.

“like?”

“You like mr. president. That’s what you said”

And that’s how it struck me. Looking back on everything, it seems pretty weird. (I like Mr. President way better) rings all throughout my head. I know he’s been surrounded by girls who have a crush on him but surely he doesn’t think of this as a low-key confession, right?

Please, I didn’t deserve any of this awkward tension. I did walk up to him first but blame my curiosity for wondering what he’s doing in his free time, does he always go to the library whenever, or what do the lifestyle elites like him actually have? Maybe, I did just want a friend but who knew it would be this complicated. Wrong choice.

“The names you provide for people are so dull” you faked a yawn to show how uninterested you are.

I laughed out and tried to hide the embarrassment I’ve felt inside. He meant the name of course! What was I thinking? He quickly got up and proceeded to leave the classroom as if he understood what I wanted to do. He catches up with things fast if I must say. But the feeling didn’t subside in me and I tried to cover up my face with my hands as soon as he left. Heaving a deep sigh, I reassured myself and followed him.

-CAFETERIA-

“This is all they’ve got?”

It’s been a second we’ve entered the school cafeteria and yet this elite beside me was already complaining. We sat down on the white benches and I was also relieved the cafeteria doesn’t have many students since our class ended earlier than the desired time.

“You’ll get used to it. Besides, what do you commonly eat for lunch? This is good.” I replied and waited for a response that never came back. I’m thinking it was a wall I’m talking to. You ate the soup and showed a face of disgust. Of course, I don’t give up.

“Do you have different cafeterias?” “Or do you eat in your respective rooms?” “Do you actually eat? cause you looked really busy with the requirements.” “Being a class president is that hard huh? I don’t think I’ve seen anyone as hard-working as you even if they have high titles.” “You know if I was the class-“

“Why do you ask so many questions? Geez” you swept your hair and sighed. You felt tired talking to someone as chatty as me but all I could do is playfully pout and raise both my eyebrows up. Shrugging, I respond.

“Why not?”

You glared at me but I wasn’t taken aback by it so you decided to reply, finally. “The real question is, why?” you tried to peacefully eat and finished it quickly so you could go to the library, I suppose. It was going smoothly until my small brain with low grammar or structure skills decided to pop up the least moment I wanted it to.

“Because I’m interested in you.”

Choking was all I could hear after I simply stated. Panicking, I gave you my water unknowingly and you drank it. I patted your back and stroked it gently.

“You okay?” I tried to calm you down but your face seemed to ask me whether you were okay even after everything was obvious.

“You mean you’d like to know about my lifestyle?” You analyzed my reaction as I tilted my head. I mean isn’t that clear? Your eyes seemed like you got the hang of me again and scoffed, rolling your eyes. Wow! Now, what’s up with this attitude?

“It’s common. Just some random New York steak.” My eyes widened and my ears couldn’t believe what they’re hearing. That’s common? Gosh, even my monthly allowance couldn’t afford to buy a whole steak, what more if it was specifically in New York? And the way he didn’t bother to flex about his lunchtime food and acts as if it’s unimportant.

“Enough about me, how about you?” I believe you were trying to ask for the sake of the conversation but it excites me anyway. I mean, an elite asking me about my life? It boosts my pride, internally laughing as I thought of the idea.

“What do you want to know about me?” Grinning, I eagerly waited for the question. How blessed I am to have an upper-class student to not just interact, but ask about me as well.

“What happened between you and Bang Chan?”

I’m taking it all back. I don’t want to hear any questions. I was wrong. By Bang Chan, I knew straight away he was referring to Chris. The mentioned ex became an elite, or so I heard. I don’t know how, why, or when but that’s the only reason possible for him to know there was a thing between us. But unlike me, Mr. President wants to make sure of everything and not just the rumors he had heard.

“No.” I simply stated and continued to eat.

“Why not?”

“I should be the one asking you why”

“Because I’m interested in you”

I paused and was slightly surprised by the sudden declaration. Okay, my way of telling him made me look crazy. I looked up to him and saw a pair of teasing eyes. This is who mr. president is? Now it was my time to roll my eyes and I knew at that moment I had no escape.

“Exes. We’re exes.” I expected a startled expression from you but your lips curled downwards as if you expected it. How was it hard to read this guy’s mind though he immediately catches up on everything I’m feeling?

Days passed by and as usual, I was the one annoying you. At that very time, we became close because I knew you were a comfortable place for me to be in. You don’t judge unlike what others do each time I open up my problems especially when it comes to my relationship with an elite and Christopher, out of all. For sure, you were the right choice of friend I never knew I needed to rely on.

[YOUR JOURNAL]

Just a few days passed by and I hear lots of students whispering. What’s the occasion? I don’t even know myself yet I’ve brought a ring that matches mine. I’m naive but I always trust my instincts no matter what. As I try to recall the date and puts everything together in one piece from all the clues I’ve gotten.

A familiar man appeared in my sight. But he wasn’t mr. president. He was looking at me and I continued to look at those deep brown eyes I’ve longed to see after a long time. Was I prepared? No. Did I want to see him? I’m not sure so myself. But did I actually like that view? Indeed. My very first heartbreak or hiatus came back after months and to see he felt the same way I did. Did the moment I waited for all of my life would finally happen?

Each step you take, the more my anxiety rushes through me. I felt the shivers either because I was scared or it was the tears I’ve forced to stop from rolling down my cheeks. Or simply both, ignoring the fact that I was hurt yet I did want to see you after all. I wanted to walk away, but if I did then I’m making the same mistake twice. Therefore I stood still silent and only my heartbeat is the loudest out of all.

Closing my eyes, I expected strong grips around my wrist which marks it deep red because anger was the only thing present in the space between us. I didn’t take consideration of the things you’ve gone through but instead became selfish just because I’ve moved on from the past. I did tell you I would wait for you forever but all I gave you was the pressure of making you choose decisions at times you were having a hard time. Just because you made me learn the definition of love, doesn’t mean I could anticipate that you felt the same thing.

Quite on the contrary, I’ve felt warmth and comfort. The grip was truly strong, strong enough to hurt me emotionally and not physically unlike what I expected. The grip I’ve felt was hanging around me, a hug was given to me even when I didn’t deserve this.

“I’m sorry” that was what I’ve heard in the muffled and low volume of voice the man had spoken because he was on the verge of tears. I was supposed to be the one asking for an apology, yet this guy took it to heart once again. Typical Christopher.

“I missed you. I’ve realized I can’t do things without you. It’s been hard..” Your sentence cut the uncertainty I’ve felt. It came, he came. I cried my heart out after not breathing for a second. It would finally work out, after months of trying to ask for support from other people, you entered my life once again. And better? You loved me.

It was your graduation, and I’m glad to be there just like what we dreamed it to be. You may have left, but our romance never stopped.

Cliché right? Of course, that never happens in reality. What happens, is the point that we argue every day because of the long-distance relationship that serves as an obstacle in us. We don’t even know whose mistake it is but considering you, you’ve always been the one who let your pride down and ask for forgiveness. There are times it’s also been me because I realized that this guy doesn’t deserve more burdens in his life. Support is everything I could give.

“Everything working out?” I was astounded by the call Hanji decided to initiate first. He’s always been there for me when I had it rough. He cares for me though he doesn’t show it as much.

“I don’t know. I’ve rarely been receiving texts but he made sure to call me anytime soon. We’ve both been fighting against this. Thanks by the way” You sighed after I finished my sentence. I hoped my exhaustion wasn’t able to reach you but you knew straight away.

“What do you see in him? He is talented and ideal but do you think you both match up?“

It was good he called but hitting it directly at me and doubts our relationship? That’s what triggered and ticked me off. “I told you not to talk about this.” I firmly uttered.

“He doesn’t get the way you act, talk or even feel”

“I’m sorry? What do you mean by that?” It’s rare to see us quarrel because you didn’t want to reach that point and yet it’s you trying to get all complicated once again. Here I thought I got the hang of how you think. “He understands me more than anyone.”

“If he does then why didn’t he call by then?”

“He was busy. I repeated that to you more than thrice throughout the whole call. But if he wasn’t busy then he’d take a grasp of everything.”

“Was he? Because the last time I knew you had a rough day, crying all alone, he didn’t. The time I knew I had to cheer you up, he didn’t. The time I knew I needed to reassure you that no one’s ever going to leave you but stay by your side, even though you didn’t realize about it, he didn’t.”

3 seconds passed by before my voice was heard in the line.

“What does that have to do with all these?”

“I understand you but the guy you wanted to be with, doesn’t”

That was it, the final blow. Both were concerning, the whole sentence is. Starting from the conclusion you understood me up until the thought of me wanting a guy who doesn’t pick me up the way I assume couples needed. We had a relationship with Chris, but was it called a relationship with lots of things in between?

“I’m sorry. Slipped out. I was just irritated.” It was a first for you to apologize but my mind wandered to the part where you compared yourself to Christopher.

“What do you mean by you understanding me when he doesn’t?”

“I mean... If I did understand you, then I’m pretty sure a lot more boys out there would be a better match and would recognize your desire. They would be able to take care of you. You know I’m just.. worried.”

If it was the usual vibe, I would’ve laughed at that lame excuse. But thinking back, it’s hard for me to perceive the way you feel about me. I’ve heard rumors but ended up being nonchalant about it because mr. president having feelings? I chose to believe it wasn’t real especially when I’m already facing a hard time.

“good night.” You continued after the short silence. It was now you who was starting to get exhausted. You cut off the line quickly before I could even reply. Was the relationship between me and Chris wasn’t able to follow up fate? How innocent of me to think that true love comes so easily.

Days turned to months and I lost count of the weeks Chris has been gone by my side. He had never failed to text compared in the past, but I still yearned for his affection.

He seemed excited on the phone today and unknowingly called me 5 times and now a 6-

“Christopher, aren’t you busy?” I giggled as I heard him laugh. It made my day and filled up the void in me that was created because of the thought he isn’t able to be with me on my graduation day.

“I have duties... as your boyfriend” I playfully rolled my eyes without expecting a turn of events.

It was my final day in school and to think that I have to spend it alone because I had no friends, awful. Chris made my day though, so I wanted to enjoy it to the fullest. But the feeling of not seeing Hanji anymore still lingered in my mind. It was harsh but I had to accept it. We didn’t talk that much but undoubtedly, he was a good friend in times I need him.

Whilst looking around the stalls in the halls, I found him. He was talking to a guy seemingly the same age as ours and he looked so happy. But as his eyes met mines, was it just me, or did it die down? Maybe he doesn’t want to see me after all? His eyes traveled back to the sushi he ordered but sighed as I ran up to him.

“Mr. president?” The happy and annoying tone of calling him wasn’t present anymore. It was gloomy, hesitating if I should bother his hours or time. “Did I do something?” What happened to our closure? it flees away.

I saw you in the process of trying to smile a little and just hummed to let me know nothing’s wrong. But everything is. You ignored me and walked up to the classroom. I followed you, as I always do. I decided to speak up but you cut me off.

“I’m sorry if I did-“

“Are you still interested in me?”

You turned around and confronted my small figure. It hurts the way you try to smile in front of me but failed to do so. Usually, you always made me believe what you wanted me to. You’d say you’re fine, you’re happy, you’re not exhausted, but right now? I’m not buying it. I may not be able to read you that much, but you seemed too tired to the point that your magic of convincing me didn’t work.

“Interested..?”

“You said you were interested in how elite ones live. Now that you got the answer and your boyfriend is one, what am I there for?”

“You were there for me-“

“when he couldn’t be there”

You were being on and off, getting more complicated as time passes by. You don’t go straight to the point but instead, run circles until I have a hard time contemplating whether I’m the wrong one.

“What are you trying to imply?” I questioned

“I don’t need a quote that says don’t expect something in return”

“Return? After everything, we’ve been through? Our friendship? Was it all just nothing? How doesn’t that benefit you?”

“Because the more I give you your need, why do I have to receive pain instead?” Your voice was shaky and I can see you biting your lip, trying to suppress yourself from falling and breaking. “You wanted to know me because you were curious about my life. Now that you know of it, what do you want from me?”

“What do you mean what do I want? I want nothing from you. The bond that we’re tied in is enough for “

“Then who am I to you?”

“I told you, a friend.”

“My purpose in your life?”

“Lifting me up whenever I feel....down”

“So did you recognize how that sound like to you?”

Among both of us, I broke down first. Why am I being the one treated like the villain in this story taking advantage of people around me? Why am I the perceived the evil being in our friendship? Why does he want to make me feel guilty? I didn’t even know what the problem is yet, but I was already the bad one here. Call me clueless, but I couldn’t be blamed for something I don’t even know about. Quiet sobs filled in the silence and I could feel your sympathy filling the empty room.

“If ever..” in a low volume, you decided to speak “Why do you want to spend more time with me?” I looked up to you and wiped away all my tears if that’s possible.

A reason, that’s all I need to prove but no suggestions came up to my mind. Recollecting tragedies, was I the one who didn’t bother calling you when you didn’t do the same to me? Why didn’t I? You didn’t even pass my mind one single time in the past days. So why didn’t that happen? I appreciated him but when did things gradually just..stop?

Tears fell down yours as well but you didn’t want me to look at you in the eye. “You were supposed to say for more memories, you know? Like because I actually made you happy so you wanted me to appreciate our moments. Believe it or not, that’s what they say” you laughed to lift the air but I was still left dumbfounded after everything. How terrible of me, that thought echoes repeatedly.

Hours passed by and I wasn’t feeling it. The sun turned gloomy, the loud cheer of students turned to noise, the sky turned monochrome and the atmosphere turned dull. All I could do was ask Chris regarding it. All he could say is that he appreciated how Hanji backed off and didn’t want to complicate things more by telling me. Understanding none of it, what does he mean by didn’t want to complicate things more when our quarrel was? Wow, I really am this hopeless. Slow and unaware.

I was lost in thought that I late realized how I could hear vehicles in Chris as he was on call. Was he lying then? He mentioned he was staying in but why are there noises and people chattering? I was baffled hearing one of the familiar voices behind. One seemed to be the same as my classmate.

“Where are you? I thought you said you were in your home?”

“I am home.”

Clichè as it seemed, It all felt like a slow-motion in a fast-paced sequence of events. Firstly you were just talking to me but at the next second, you were personally doing it.

Holding your phone, I finally found the guy I’ve seen and lost on the same day in the past. But now? He’s here. Promising me that he won’t leave ever again. I knew I could trust these words no matter how repetitive they're going to be. Once you tell me it, I just know you’d be by my side no matter what until the end of the world.

You were looking the same as I remembered in the past and it’s played out like deja vu. You walking up to me and giving me a whole hug of comfort, as I cried in your arms.

“How about your-“

“I don’t want you to worry about it. I’ve chosen myself, with no additional pressure, to live with you.” You stroked my hair and patted my back.

“Live with me?”

“Don’t you want to?” I was delighted and surprised by the sudden decision. I wasn’t given enough time to think about it, not that I needed time anyway. I would always choose you over anything else.

It was the event and yes, I graduated with my boyfriend cheering me on and allowed me to soar high and fly, to start a new beginning.

[HAN POV]

It was good seeing you happy. Even if it was Bang Chan, I’m sure he is the only man that can make you smile like that.

But indeed, I was hurt. I was a book you wanted to read but as soon as you got ahold of the main idea, everything starts to get boring. Usually, you would never fail to not make me annoyed each day because as you always say, I cross your mind every time. When you were indulged in your relationship, I was forgotten.

It was all my mistake and you don’t have to feel guilty about it. I may not have any expectations of you loving me, but I had hopes and that’s what made me receive pain. If I hadn’t hoped you would be with me, hoping you forgot about him, hoped you could see I am just here waiting, hoped you could realize I can treat you better, then both of us wouldn’t get hurt. It’s my fault and I’m held accountable to live in regrets.

But even for a split second, I am happy that I am capable of distracting your worries and making your day better. I wasn’t thinking well in the argument a while ago but I did get the benefit. Seeing you happy, makes me happy. So letting you go is the best choice for both of us to receive joy. Scratch that, I don’t have the right to tell you I would let you go.

Because I never stood a chance did I?

[YOUR JOURNAL]

After graduating, I moved in with Christopher. He let me listen to some of the tracks he had created to stop me from bothering him all day.

The music he had composed was nothing personal and was based on people from different perspectives. I had never felt the same experience as well but something about the way he writes and produces brought me to tears. The pain and emptiness inside were well shown in the midst of harmonies. He was also a genius writer with well-structured sentences and livens up feelings in the words to make the listener feel as if he or she was the one narrating it. His father is a musician, but to think he would be able to express that much in songs just shows how deeply connected he is with music. He wasn’t motivated because he tries to stop himself from being like his father but it was a pity for him to stop something he is incredibly good at.

“You’re really something Christopher! Do you know that?” I hugged him from behind and heard his little laughs. “I think I’ve fallen for you all over again. But honestly, I knew you’d write and produce this good” I wore on a smug look as he asked while giggling because of the face I’m giving.

“How?”

“How about calling it an intuition from an expert music lover?” You playfully rolled your eyes in my response because you expected something more detailed. You urged me to explain it to you so you’d knew my opinion about the music and so I did.

“Your words are beautiful that it makes me believe anything you’ll say, Christopher” I smiled and kissed your cheek. I rested my head near your neck as we were sat on the bed, facing each other.

It was true. You made me feel different feelings and opened up a new perspective to move on from my past. You influenced me a variety of changing thoughts. I don’t like the idea of losing myself to someone because it forgets the real me. I don’t like the concept of being crazy in love with people because it doesn’t feel sweet somehow whenever the risk of it being one-sided and unable to move on is present. Not realizing that whenever the talk comes about you, it feels heavenly. I don’t know who I would be if I wasn’t yours but it all feels enchanting. Although you made me insecure, at the same time you made me laugh throughout the day. You were a gold rush. Perfect and gentle, to think that someone like me got you is like winning once in my entire life. Luck is rare but fate was there. By fate, it turned out you were destined to meet me and get me out of the hell hole, no one tried to do. By fate, it means I will love you and will forever do. By fate, we’ll stand strong and fight the cracks alongside our journey.

[CHRIS POV]

You wouldn’t take a no for an answer when I was asked to create more songs. A single shed of tear from listening to my music encouraged you to push more song requests unto me. Make-me-a-song was all I could remember hearing from you.

I remember you publishing one of my songs and I was accepted by it. You were jumping up and down as I was worried about its outcome. I was starting to get known, that was also the beginning of how the unforgivable musician started to forget about the important ones in his life. It was as if the result would be dragging my only light into my darkness. I don’t want to be a musician and yet, here I am composing more songs even if I knew what was coming soon.

I’ve started with light romance that I think you’ll enjoy but seeing you look so happy with just a simple work of mine, gave me that motivation I least wanted to have. And like a recorded cd, everything was played the exact same way in different men. I hated it but it was truly like father, like son.

I continued to write songs with deeper ones but as I got the recognition all the more, I produced as if I was possessed. I was indulged in the way words can be conveyed differently and ideas, stories, and theories were constantly overflowing my mind. I was wrapped up in music and I hated myself for it. Even though I despised the process, I couldn’t help but continuously write. All of my pent-up feelings in the past years were expressed in my songs, making me create heavy tracks and don’t run out of stories to tell. The man I’ve been hiding and was traumatized from came back and it’s as if he mocks me that we are on the same page after all. I felt myself sinking and sinking despite you telling me that I am not like my father because I made you feel the definition of love. I was trapped in a room with no escape that relates whenever I had started making music, I couldn’t get out of it. I wasn’t forced but this drive is what makes me continue because I feel like I’m creating a new genre that makes people deeply appreciate and maybe understand what I’ve been going through.

4 years came by but it felt like days in my studio.

“Chris, are you sure you’re fine? Get enough rest okay?” the young girl called me but I was busy finalizing the song.

“Yes, thank you,” I replied shortly after your question. I wasn’t paying much attention so I didn’t know the accurate response for it.

“Anyways, what’s that ab-“

“I’m working on music that’s going to be showcased and submitted to the famous JYP company later. It is really important so I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t distract me by asking so many questions. Come by later, we’ll talk about it then.” I looked at my watch on my right arm and noticed how I still got a few hours left before attending the ceremony. The albums will be released soon after but I have to submit another title track.

I was busy with all the scheduled dates and songs that I hadn’t realized

she wasn’t smiling anymore.

“Mr. Bang Chan?” hours came by and truly the CEO came. We have a friendly bond and he gives me advice so it’s casual for him to call on me. I hurried up to the door and went to the car.

“Why didn’t you invite her to the big event?” The CEO of the company asked me to start up a conversation. He crossed his hands and tapped his fingers as if he thought of something so deep and significant because he was getting impatient.

“It’s a big hassle. She isn’t good and comfortable in interacting with people she doesn’t know” I simply stated and smiled for respect.

“I don’t interfere or meddle in the personal affairs or lives of others but I hope you aren’t neglecting her because of this, are you?”

“She will understand” I looked up to the car window and stared at the illuminating lights from buildings. I know you took a lot of time waiting for me, but please don’t give up and let me finish this song about you. By then, our Disney-like dreams would finally come true and I swear I’ll make you even happier.

I held a box of ring in my pocket. I’ll make you happy, just hang a bit in there okay?

[YOUR POV]

The CEO told me about the new album he’s been working on. It was about his first love. It would be no other than me, right?

I went up to his room and read the paper scattered alongside his desk. There were lots but I decided to read the one that I assumed was already done. It was near the porch and I understood how he wanted to compose in front of the moon.

The moon shone brightly that night

but I realized that wasn’t my source of light

You look lovely

as the smiles you beamed lasted an eternity

I was persuaded and lost in thought

unknowingly, my heart was caught

Because even under the moon, you’ve shone the brightest

and cleared my problems at most

Even under where light lies,

I was indulged deep in your eyes

Even when it illuminates through the void,

a different view is what I’ve enjoyed

Because even if their minds were fixated on the scene,

looking at you felt more serene

I stopped reading the paper and placed it back on the desk.

“That can’t be me..” I thought.

Starting from the mentioned smiles, how could that be me? You stated you enjoyed looking at me, but I felt like I was invisible whenever you compose songs. Did you make songs while thinking of me? I don’t think so. You should’ve known that you were dragging me along with your darkest nights. I wasn’t even your light anymore, it died down. I was overshadowed by your passion or the one you’re talking about in this script. Can I still make you happy? No. Am I still happy? No. The whole lyrics proves how you didn’t even take a single glance at me right now. Because if you did care, you would've known I changed because you did. I changed because the person I was relying upon, didn’t find motivation in me. We started together but it lost while it progresses just like how you started music because of me but lost my figure in your sight along the way. It was reality, I was being forgotten. When I was alone crying, where were you? I know you don’t understand me quite well but I was the whole climate. I changed for seasons unlike in the past where it was mild swings. Because you know what hurts the most? Not the fact that I waited and kept waiting as I am already used to that and no matter how many years it may take, I’ll always wait for you. But it’s all because everything went back. You picked me up from the trauma and showed how love is but it’s as if my past resurfaced from the waters and told me how tragedies would always stay the same. That I would always end up this way no matter who I’m faced to. I felt guilty for slightly regretting that I praised your songs. Indeed you were meant to be connected with music and it’s your passion. I’m happy that I was able to show it to you but wouldn’t these happen if I didn’t start it all? I was wrong. I thought it made you happy but no. None of these made us happy. Your pieces of music weren’t to blame, I shouldn’t be blamed and neither were you. Where did everything go wrong? I don’t know, it just started to fall off. These lyrics were deeply engraved in my mind. You seemed so in love when I wasn’t able to show you what love is. If it was a person, she must’ve been so kind and understanding. She must’ve been someone who understood your secrets and feelings. And me? I couldn’t still get to you. I’m confused about what’s best for you or what you wanted all along. I don’t recognize the woman you’re writing about. Either it was the past me or someone new. Chris,

who is it that you’re in love with?

Cold air rushed through my skin as I closed my eyes and inhaled the scent of calm air. It wasn’t possible but it was enough to make me feel calm. I still appreciated our moments but I feel like I can’t wait anymore, Chris. It’s not because I’m tired but because I feel like you’ll be better without me. I hate the idea of me regretting I showed you your passion. I’ll be nothing but a whole burden. You’ll meet someone better who recognizes your life and by then she’ll be a brave one who can communicate with you. You’ll find someone new, or you already did. If anything, happiness is all I need in the end, at least at the ends of the world. It did happen. I was happy because the next thing I’ll do will be the bravest thing I had ever done after all my cowardly decisions in life, and it’s all because of you.

I stood up at the top of the porch and imagined a vivid scenery. It was you kneeling down to someone new. She did accept it and you were celebrating. Tears ran down my cheeks but was I smiling? Yes, it was indeed happiness seeing you take a break from the pressure and realize you needed to receive joy. I wasn’t able to give it to you but to think someone else would, contrasted the happiness and pain. “It’s time to let go” I opened my eyes slowly as I thought and saw the moonlight. I snapped out of my thoughts and cleared out my head. Because no matter what happened in between us, you crossed my mind in a second. And that’s when I knew, I still loved you despite the bittersweet rain.

[CHRIS POV]

I heard sirens in front of the place that doesn’t feel like home anymore. Why? I heard how young and innocent the girl was and it was a pity to see her leave. It was a shock for me to the point that I hadn’t shed a single tear. Empty, hollow. It was all I could feel at the moment. Was she gone? Did she conclude to leave her out of my life?

Paper. That’s all I’ve seen on the desk. It’s prohibited to enter but I couldn’t believe what I’m seeing. The paper was crumpled and I believed you took the time to read this. Was my perspective wrong about you? Wasn’t this about you? I read the paper without further thinking and realized how I painted her as an angel. She is human, she was a human. Yet I’ve acted as if she was happy all the time, trying to save me from being a mess. Did I take a look back at her? No, instead I assumed too quickly. But what could that change? I was late and you’ve already given up. I was this close to preventing this but because I was so into writing a song made for you, I had forgotten the purpose to the point that it doesn’t seem like you anymore. Can I turn back time? If only I could. I needed to feel your warmth, I needed to see you one last time. I need you.

“Excuse me, do you know the victim?” A man from the authorities asked.

“Yes.”

Mixed emotions were vivid. I felt guilty but hoped you were happy in your last breath. The context of mines was complicated and I didn’t even notice it before. I abandoned to treat, as what I comprehend. Miscommunication rode the tides but it was undoubtedly true when I started to ignore people that surround me. I want to focus on you without realizing I left you. Is that even possible? It is now that I’ve seen it. Just like CDs, everything was played out in deja vu. People were different but things were just the same. It was how I became just like the person I despised all my life. But I did it for a reason, it’s not like I forgot about you. I just didn’t think how your feelings are right now but pursuing this song, is how I still remembered every bit of you. Would the ring I held on be given if I arrived earlier? No, I should’ve realized. I should’ve loved and made you feel how important you were to me in the days back then. In times you felt a hole in your chest, I should’ve been there to feel it up with love. I should’ve been there when you felt insecure. I should’ve been there when you felt all alone. But no matter how much I hurt myself, tear myself apart, it all ends with “I should’ve.” I’m sorry I couldn’t show you what I wanted to. I’m sorry I couldn’t love you until the very end.

I continued explaining to the man,

“She was my fiancée”

would you love me if I let go?

43 notes · View notes

onecanonlife · 3 years

Text

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 7,402

Chapter Warnings: swearing, referenced (temporary) character death, slight manipulation

Chapter Summary: In which Wilbur tours the stronghold, meets DreamXD, and watches Tommy and Techno move a few very reluctant inches closer to reconciliation.

(masterlist w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Fourteen: wipe the dirt off of your hands (ii)

Phil and Technoblade found the server’s stronghold. Because of course they did. Nevermind that the End is closed off here, the one rule of this server that hasn’t been broken and flaunted in front of everyone’s faces. The one rule that might actually sort of mean something. But evidently it doesn’t mean enough, because Phil and Techno not only found the stronghold, but decided to use it for a secret anarchy base.

When he voices all of this aloud, Phil just shrugs.

“Techno won me over to the whole anarchy thing, a bit,” he says, completely unrepentant. “We wanted a base, and the stronghold was literally right there. Not like anyone else was using it.”

“I really feel like that’s not the point,” Ranboo says weakly. He understands the significance, apparently. “Phil, even I know what a stronghold is.”

“Okay, it’s not nearly as big of a deal as you two are making it out to be,” Phil says, even though he is wrong, completely dead-wrong. “Just, c’mon, I’ll show you how we get there.” He starts walking, heading for the door, and he and Ranboo are given no choice but to follow. “We found an old library in it, lots of books in surprisingly good condition, considering. I haven’t even begun to go through them all. I’m thinking if it’s information on ancient, slightly eldritch beings we’re looking for, that’s our best bet in finding anything.”

“Right,” he says. “Sure. Why not?” He hopes Phil can hear the utter frustration in his voice. The smirk directed his way tells him that Phil did, indeed, hear it. Bastard.

But there’s nothing to do but go with him, at this point. It’s not like he’s going to pass up the chance to see one of these; he’s been in strongholds before, of course, but this feels like it holds more significance, somehow, on a server where the End is forbidden to all. Phil leads them through a convoluted series of passages, hitting buttons that reveal secret doors, and there’s a long hallway of ice, and then more buttons, and the air gets cooler and cooler, musty and still. Old. Tense. Like the rock itself is waiting.

And then, Phil opens up one final door, and a different hallway greets them. One crafted with intent, not carved carelessly out of stone. Bricks placed purposefully, rough though the detailing now is, and the air is stale here, and strangely damp. They’re underwater, then, and he casts Phil a glance. He seems unconcerned, and Wilbur chooses to believe that means that the roof won’t cave in under the pressure of the ocean above.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been in one of these,” Ranboo says. His voice is hushed, quiet, almost awestruck.

“It’s not much,” Phil says with a shrug. “Normally wouldn’t bother with it, in a server like this, but like I said, Techno and I wanted a base, and it happened to be close. Not much of use here, but there is a library. More cobwebs than books by now, but a lot of what’s left seems legible, at least. I haven’t gone through most of it. Here, this way.”

Phil keeps walking, and for a moment, Ranboo doesn’t follow. He looks a bit taken aback, perhaps by Phil’s casual attitude toward a place that in any other circumstance, to any other person, might be something approaching sacred.

Wilbur sighs.

“Phil’s just like that,” he murmurs. “Plus, he’s been on dozens of servers. Seen dozens of these. And he’s ancient, too, so there’s that.” He goes along after Phil, and Ranboo, after a second of hesitation, hurries to catch up with him.

“How ancient are we talking here?” he asks.

Wilbur feels his lips twitch upward. “Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever actually asked for the exact number,” he says. “Centuries, at least. Maybe a few millennia. No one really quite knows what Phil is. I’m not sure he knows himself.” He shrugs. “Growing up, he was always just our dad. That was enough.”

“Oh.” Ranboo chews on that for a moment, and then nods. “Okay then. That actually explains a couple of things.”

He hums. “How did you come to live by him, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Oh, well, it was after—you know about Doomsday, right? I mean—”

(destruction raining from the sky and the terrifying shriek of withers and his home is gone the history is gone and Friend, Friend is gone, his dearest Friend and Phil knew, he knew, he knew and he did it anyway but only a few minutes later the memory is gone because he does not want to remember this and it is a blessing, being able to forget, because what use is carrying pain that he can do nothing about, what use is holding it close and letting it make a monster of him because even dead he cannot manage to ask for help must keep up the facade but at least let it be a happy one)

(and yet looking back on it, looking back on it now, he feels barely any anger at all. like son, like father, after all)

He smiles tightly. “I know about Doomsday,” he agrees, and then tilts his head. “That’s right, you were—you were living in L’Manberg at the time, weren’t you? I—Ghostbur saw you there.”

“Yeah, I lived there,” Ranboo says. “Right up until it turned into a crater, I guess. But, um, after all of that, Phil knew that I didn’t have anywhere to go, so—I don’t know, I guess he felt bad for me or something? He invited me to stay up here with him and Techno, and I guess I never really left.”

That’s such a uniquely Phil thing to do. Destroy a country, then pick up one of the kids he rendered homeless. Wilbur can imagine exactly how that went.

“Well, I hope you know that you’re not likely to be rid of him now,” he says, and then the two of them step around the corner, and right across the way, there is an open doorway, and even from here, he can see the rows upon rows of bookshelves, some of them half-empty and all of them covered in cobwebs and a thick layer of dust. He glances at Ranboo one last time, and then the two of them step into the room.

He is not one for claustrophobia,

(was not, though now tight spaces and dark rooms remind him of one place and one place only)

but the room feels close, crowded, the shelves towering over him, and even over Ranboo, who has more than a foot of height on him, tall and lanky and half-ender as he is. And more than that, the room feels old, feels weighty, moreso even than the rest of the stronghold, because here are books that must have been written hundreds of years ago, before the server passed into Dream’s hands, that have not been touched since, that have been left to gather dust and mold in an ancient ruin under the sea. In these books are the words of people who came years before him, their words reaching out to grasp the long arm of the future, and it is nothing that he has not seen before, but he never gets used to it. He is no scholar, really, no Technoblade, but he can appreciate this for what it is, can appreciate the history here, the circle that never ends.

(he has always fancied himself as part of a story, has always been able to look outside of himself to see what role the history books will have him play. moments like this only make him more aware of it, more aware that someday, he will be long in the ground and only his words will live on, his words and the words of others, a legacy, a garden growing and fed on the dust that was once him)

(it should already be so. stories are not supposed to be picked up after the last thread is snipped and yet here he is, and the whole narrative has been thrown into disarray)

Phil’s head peers out around one of the shelves.

“Took you long enough,” he says. “We can start anywhere, I suppose. I didn’t get around to cataloging any of this shit, so your guess is as good as mine as to where the important stuff is.”

“Great,” Ranboo says, sounding thoroughly unenthusiastic. “I love having absolutely no idea what we’re looking for.”

“We have to start somewhere,” he says, though looking at the shelves around them, he thinks that Ranboo might have a point. But nonetheless, he grabs a random book off the nearest shelf and opens it, frowning at the mold that dots the pages. But as Phil said, it’s legible, and his eyes scan over faded words, printed in an older dialect that’s just barely understandable.

They split up, each taking a different section. But it only takes a few hours for Wilbur to get frustrated. He’s more patient than this, normally, unless that’s another aspect of himself that he lost somewhere along the line. But he thinks he’s justified—perhaps under normal circumstances, they would have all the time in the world to find the information they need. In normal circumstances, a strategy like this would work. But they don’t have that kind of time. And they especially don’t have that kind of time to search for knowledge that may not even be here at all.

He snaps the book he’s leafing through shut and stands.

“I’m stretching my legs,” he calls, and doesn’t wait for an answer before striding out of the room. Too late, he remembers that they’re still underground, underwater, and the air outside of the library is barely any fresher than the air inside, which does not improve his mood. But a walk might help clear his head, so a walk is what he takes, wandering the corridors as he did in the castle earlier, that same restlessness returning.

It all comes down to a feeling of helplessness, in the end, of powerlessness. He was powerless to stop the Egg. Powerless to save Techno, and then later, powerless to help him. And he is powerless now, skimming through century-old books with barely a hope of a payoff. And yet, it’s all he can do, is the best plan they have, and how is it possible that this is the best plan they have?

He used to be good at this. He has been presenting himself as good at this, pulled on his old general’s strength to present confidence to the others, surety. And yet, here they are, and it’s too soon to give up, he knows, but it’s been a few hours and they have found nothing, and he can’t help but feel like they’re going to continue to find nothing.

You are nothing, and you may as well give it up, give in, throw away yourself for a chance of saving what little you have not already lost, something whispers, and it is not him, and there is translucent red lining the edges of his vision, for if you pass up this chance, who do you have to blame but yourself?

“Shut up,” he mutters. “Shut the fuck up. You’re thousands of chunks away, shut up.”

Distance is no matter to one such as I, and you ought to know better than to hope for it, it says. You ought to know better than to hope for a great many things. Powerless as you are, why not take into your hands the only choice you have left to you, take back your peace and save your brother, save them all from the encroaching choke, save them all and yourself most of—

He steps into another room, and the voice abruptly stops, leaving his head blessedly silent. He catches himself holding his breath, and he releases it all at once.

And then realizes what he’s seeing. It’s a meeting room, clearly, decorated far beyond what an untouched stronghold would look like, and this has Phil’s interior design choices stamped all over it, but—

They’re using the End Portal as a table.

Because that is undoubtedly the End Portal. Even if he hadn’t seen one before, once or twice, on different servers, he would be able to recognize the blocks for what they are: something other, something that belongs to a different place entirely. They fill the room with a low, buzzing hum, and underneath that, there is a melody hovering just beyond his perception, a melody that he doesn’t think he’s ever heard before. He hums, trying to match the notes, and finds that he can’t, that he always lands above or below no matter what pitch he vocalizes. And yet, even still, there is something about it that is eerily comforting.

Perhaps it is simply the way the Egg fell silent as soon as he stepped inside. He appreciates that.

But still. They’re using it as a table.

“Do you like the décor?” Phil asks, amusement clear in his tone. Wilbur doesn’t turn to look at him, but Phil comes up beside him soon enough, and Ranboo trails behind, staring at the portal with wide eyes.

“Is nothing sacred to you?” he asks, and the teasing note comes out naturally.

“Eh,” Phil says, shoulders lifting in a shrug. “You know how it is.”

“I know what that is,” Ranboo says, sounding far, far away. “I know—I know this, I—why do I—?”

(a question: if he could sense the music, human and just barely void-touched as he is, then what must it sound like to one who has the End itself in his veins?)

Ranboo takes one step forward, and then another, until he’s standing right next to the portal-table. One hand hovers above it, and he hesitates before placing it down. Wilbur glances to Phil, wondering if this is a thing they should be stopping, but Phil is staring at Ranboo, head tilted and eyes slightly narrow.

“Have you never seen one of these before?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Ranboo says, still distant. “Maybe? I don’t think I remember. But I—I don’t know where I come from, but this feels like—”

“Well, it is an End Portal,” Phil agrees. “I wasn’t sure if it was still functional, but I guess that answers that question. You’re probably sensing something from it that we’re not picking up on, with you being half-ender and all.”

“I guess—”

“Why wouldn’t it be functional?” Wilbur interrupts. Maybe that’s not what he should’ve gotten out of that, but he’s satisfied that this is an enderman thing, not something to be concerned over. But that offhand remark, said in that infuriatingly casual way that Phil so often has, draws his attention, because he’s never heard of a non-functional End Portal before. He didn’t think that such a thing was possible; everyone knows that portals are the one sure fixture of almost every server, unable to be tampered with or destroyed by any means.

“Oh, that.” Phil laughs. “There’s an interesting story there, actually. When Techno and I first came through here, we—”

But Phil gets cut off.

Wilbur senses it before he sees that anything is changed: the pressure in the room shifts, suddenly, becoming greater, more. All the hair on the back of his neck stands on end, and the next breath he takes, he gets a lungful of ozone, sharp and electric. He coughs, and finds that the noise falls strangely flat, and then there is someone hovering over the portal-table. Not standing. Hovering, a good six inches from the table’s surface.

Ranboo stumbles back, and Phil takes several strides forward, arms outstretched as if to shield them both. His cloak twitches, though his wings do not spread.

Wilbur’s not sure what he’s looking at.

They are a person, he thinks. At least, they are person-shaped, though it is somewhat difficult to tell; most of their body is covered in a long green cloak, one that drifts around them despite the stillness of the air. They have no visible feet, and their hands are hidden, if they have them. But under their hood, there is nothing but shadows, and those shadows do not seem to fall across a face. Instead, it is as though they are made of void, black and cold, and he finds himself leaning in, straining to see if there is anything past that, and the hood twitches in his direction and he gets a glimpse of

(twin halos circling circling like a tear in the world and a tear in the void a tear in the nothing and the everything and a circle half filled in and half open and you know something in you knows)

He freezes. His spine locks up. They do not have eyes but they are looking at him, and the only way to describe the feeling is prey studied by a predator. The Egg didn’t make him feel like this. Even Dream didn’t make him feel like this.

(or he did, but it was tainted by darkness, tainted by corruption, a predator studying prey if the predator was malicious rather than just an animal, acting on cruel whim rather than nature and instinct. this is something different. this is something vaster. this is the regard of a)

“The End is closed,” the newcomer says, and Wilbur stiffens further, because their voice echoes and vibrates and buzzes in his skull, but underneath that, underneath all the white noise, the voice sounds like Dream. But that cannot possibly be right. This—person, whatever they are, they are not human, but they are not the same as Dream, do not give off the same impression of oozing corruption, of a black pit at the core, sucking in all light to be snuffed out, stamped upon.

“We weren’t going to the End, mate,” Phil says, calm. “Just talking. Not against the rules to talk, is it?”

“The End is closed,” they repeat, their voice grating and twisting and pulling at the reality around them. Wilbur feels a headache begin to form behind his eyes, a dull throbbing.

“Right, one trick pony, you are,” Phil mutters, and then glances over his shoulder. “This is what I was about to tell you about. Seems there’s someone to enforce the End rule here. They almost took away the portal entirely before Techno and I swore we weren’t gonna use it. Nothing much to worry about, I don’t think. Look,” he tacks on, turning back to them, “we were really just having a chat. Don’t need someone looking over our shoulders for it.”

The hood of the cloak moves again in what might, possibly, be considered a head tilt.

“You may not open the way to the End,” they say. “Not even for his sake.” A hand snakes out of the folds of the cloak, gloved in black, and makes a quick gesture in Ranboo’s direction. Wilbur blinks, hard; the motion is difficult to track, and it’s as if they slice open the very air itself just by moving.

Phil scoffs. “Is that what this is about?” he asks. “Mate. He’s an enderman hybrid, he can’t help but be drawn to it. But he’s not stupid enough to try and go through. You’re not needed here. Promise.”

Ranboo nods in agreement, head bobbing rapidly as he makes a few noises of agreement. Wilbur might be amused by it, if it weren’t for the fact that every inch of his skin feels like a live wire, being in the same room as this thing. He’s not sure why Phil is being so nonchalant about this, as if this is normal. This isn’t normal. Or perhaps he’s the strange one, is overreacting to something that is undoubtedly odd but no reason to worry, but he doesn’t think so. He really, really doesn’t think so.

They drift a few inches back, almost absently.

“He watches from behind your eyes,” they say. “He above all others must not be allowed access. You will forgive my insistence.”

“The fuck does that mean?” Phil asks, and Wilbur wants to echo his confusion, except the Egg was in his head not even ten minutes ago, and he has a sneaking suspicion as to what they might be referring to. The Egg was in his head, but they are not looking at him, he’s sure, because when they were looking at him, he could feel it, just as he could feel Dream’s gaze sliding across him like the touch of a razor and yet not like that at all. And Ranboo has tensed, so perhaps this is directed at him, but Wilbur pushes that aside and steps forward, evading Phil’s outstretched arm, because if no one else is going to ask the questions he wants answered, then he will.

“What the fuck are you?” he says, blunt. Perhaps it’s not the wisest move, but he’s tired and irritated, and when Phil goes to grab his shoulder, he shrugs him off. “No, I’m not—stop that, I’m done with things yanking on my chain. This guy wants to appear in front of us and be all cryptic and shit, I’m not having that. Not today. We don’t have time for this. So what the fuck are you?”

For a moment, they go silent. His breathing is loud in his own ears.

(he’s not sure why he’s stuck on this, not sure why he’s stuck on them, for he has tangled with gods and monsters and this being should be no different, really, from what he has dealt with over the past few weeks, should be better, even, since it seems that they are not here to try to kill him or his family, but he looks at them and sees beyond them, sees a break in the world and crack in the code and it is like and not like anything else he has seen before and perhaps they will not find what they need to know in books)

“I am the protector,” they say at length. “A fragment and a failsafe.”

“I didn’t ask what you do,” he says, “I asked what you are.”

“Wil—”

“Stop,” he insists. He’s standing in front of both of them now, and he doesn’t look back, doesn’t take his eyes off the figure floating over the table. “We’ve got some, some otherworldly being in here with us, and you don’t think this could at all be relevant? Please tell me I’m not the only one who realizes who he sounds like.” Without waiting for an answer, he addresses the being again. “What are you? And how are you connected to Dream? You can’t tell me you’re not, I don’t believe it.”

Behind him, Ranboo makes a little sound, like he’s been punched in the gut.

They are silent once again.

And then:

“I am a shadow,” they say. “A shadow of the original. I am what he rejected in his last moment of clarity.”

“What are you—are you trying to say you know Dream? Or that you came from Dream?”

They drift closer. “I am of him but not him. My task is to prevent the worst. The final task he set me. I can do nothing else.”

“Is the ‘he’ in that sentence Dream?” Ranboo asks, a frantic whisper that is very loud. “Is the—I don’t like this, I don’t like this at all. Can we go now? I think we should go now and leave the mysterious floating guy alone.”

“Could you speak in anything but riddles?” he snaps, ignoring him. “I want a straight answer. You haven’t given me one yet.”

They drift closer still, and his skin erupts in gooseflesh, static energy crackling across it. He resists the urge to step back.

(this reminds you of another time another time long ago and this surge of confidence is true truer than any you have experienced yet since they dragged you back into this world by your trailing fingertips and it is true because you remember standing on the walls and facing the ruler of the server and holding your ground for what you believe in for the people you fight for and this is different but it feels the same feels the same and you will not give in not even to a)

They are looking at him, right at him,

(twin halos circle slashing wounds into the world and this is something that was never meant to be)

and they say, “It is not of you to demand of me. I am the protector. That is my task,” but that is not what Wilbur hears, because suddenly, there is something in his head, something poking at his thoughts, but it does not reach in as the Egg did, does not pull at the threads of his mind and attempt to twist them into something new, but rather just exists on the edges, touching but not pressing, and there is a pressure and he doesn’t like it at all but it doesn’t hurt him.

And what they say is not words, but rather impressions, imparted to him all at once, impossible to pick apart, and

(the beginning and the end all wrapped up in one as the universe looks on and this server is a home he will make it a home he did but he is gone and this is what remains of the divine fabric the crown of the world and they wait and wait and the universe looks on and they are nothing but a shell all the love taken by the other and broken corrupted drowned twisted and they wait by their task they do what has been set and only once do they not only once do they act there is a man and he asks and he is cloaked by the universe and the thrall of the empty and time in its mercilessness and that which is inbetween and he asks and the universe says yes so they do not refuse and they drag you back into this world by your trailing fingertips for the better or for the worse and the man is gone and the universe cannot be contained by this but the universe says)

he doesn’t understand a bit of it, but he reels back regardless, and his head feels like fireworks have gone off within it, like a thousand thunderclaps sounding overhead. Hand land on his shoulder, on his arm, and he does not push Phil away this time, nor Ranboo when he suddenly appears on his other side. He blinks the spots from his vision, and looks up. The figure is gone.

“You alright?” Phil asks quietly.

“What the fuck?” he says instead of replying. “Phil, what—what was that?”

“I second that? I would also like to know?” Ranboo says, voice tilting upward.

“I would’ve told you not to mess with them, but I figured you should get it out of your system,” Phil says, still quiet, deadly serious. He stares at the table rather than make eye contact, and Wilbur follows his gaze. The End Portal still hums. “I’ve been around the block enough to know a god when I see one. I don’t know what the fuck this one is or what connection they have to Dream, but all they seem to want to do is make sure that no one goes to the End. Like I said, that’s what I was about to tell you before they showed up. Techno and I had to swear five times over that we wouldn’t use the portal for anything other than decoration before they’d even let us keep it. I figured it was best to leave them the fuck alone.”

“A god?” Ranboo echoes. “Like, an actual god? Divine smiting and all of that?”

Wilbur has never been much of a believer himself. Or at least, not one for worship. Gods may exist, but he’ll pay one homage when he decides it deserves his respect, and that day has never arrived.

But this one

(was in his head and he wanted it gone wanted it gone because he has had enough of things dragging their fingers across his sense of self but this one did not push and more than that it felt familiar almost like)

is important.

“There’s plenty of different kinds of gods,” Phil says, “but essentially, yes.”

“Dream’s not a god, though,” he states flatly. Phil glances at him.

“He’s never felt like one to me,” he agrees. “But I never picked up on the demon thing either, so I probably know fuck-all.”

“This feels important,” he says, and runs his fingers through his hair, trying to settle his nerves. “This feels—fuck, every time I think I’ve got all the pieces laid out, it turns out that I’ve made the framework too short, and there’s components I didn’t even know existed.” He shakes his head. The headache has mostly abated, so that’s something. “I don’t suppose they’d come back if we asked them nicely?”

“Do we want them to come back?” Ranboo asks, his voice rising in pitch even further. “Is that a thing that we want?”

He runs a hand through his hair again and doesn’t reply. Phil doesn’t either, though he’s not sure it’s for the same reason. Because frankly, yes; he wants them to come back. He asked them questions and didn’t understand a word of their answers, and he feels like he’s barely scraped the surface of what’s actually going on here. But one thing has been made clear enough: the nature of the connection between Dream and this being, this god, is uncertain, but the connection exists. And considering everything, that is something that’s relevant to them.

He’s beginning to think that they might get some information out of this after all. But he doubts that it’ll come from any book.

----------

They don’t find anything. They go at it for another few hours, flipping through musty pages until his eyes swim, and they come up with absolutely jack-shit. He wishes he could say that he’s surprised. He decides not to say anything about it at all, because Ranboo is wavering on his feet and Phil’s face is held in tight lines, and his negativity won’t do either of them any good.

“We can try again tomorrow,” Phil says, “but we need to turn it in. It’s been a long fucking day.”

It doesn’t feel like it’s been one day. Doesn’t feel like just this morning, they were marching into the Egg’s chamber, intent on taking it down once and for all. Doesn’t feel like they were chased out less than an hour later, battered and with one less than they started with, Dream escaped and everything gone to shit. It doesn’t feel like one day, and yet, it has been, and it reminds him of the war, at the end, when everything was happening so quickly and there was barely any time to process one event before something else was going wrong.

He doesn’t miss those days.

“How long can we afford to do this, Phil?” he asks, and doesn’t bother to hide his weariness. “How long can we afford to fuck around out here with nothing to show for it? We can’t even be sure that nothing’s happened in the Greater SMP, not with comms down.”

“I wish I had a good answer to that, Wil,” Phil says. “I really do. If you’ve got a better plan, I’m all ears.”

(does, perhaps, but it’s not one that Phil will like)

doesn’t, so the rest of the walk back out of the stronghold is made in silence. It’s a relief when they make it to the surface, the cold, biting air fresh on his face. He turns his face into the wind just to feel it, regardless of the sting. Night has fallen, the sun just the barest hint of purple-orange on the western horizon. Overhead, stars twinkle, bright and distant. Techno’s house is lit, now, an orange glow emanating from the windows. Tommy must have gotten a fire going.

Tommy. Right. They’ve left Tommy alone with Techno all afternoon. He’s too tired to be concerned about it right now. The house isn’t burning down, so they’re probably fine.

“I think I’m gonna go home for the night, if that’s okay,” Ranboo says. “I’ll meet up with you guys again in the morning?”

“Sounds good, mate,” Phil says, a bit distractedly; his eyes are roving over the cottage, probably searching for signs of property damage. But Ranboo takes it for agreement, so the kid nods, and then waves awkwardly to him, and then he’s walking across the snow toward the nearest mountain. For the first time, Wilbur realizes that there appears to be a house built into its side, not particularly pretty, but functional.

“With luck, they’re both conked out,” Phil mutters. He gathers his robes around him and heads for the door, and Wilbur trails after him.

Phil opens the door, and they’re greeted with silence. It is not the same silence from before; a fire crackles merrily in the hearth, now, some evidence of life. The house no longer gives an impression of a grave. But there are no voices that he can hear, nothing from the house’s two inhabitants, and perhaps Phil is right and they’re both asleep, but Wilbur doesn’t trust silence.

So as Phil goes over to the fire to stir up the coals, he makes a beeline for the ladder, climbing up as quietly as the creaky old thing will allow. The muttering hits his ears as soon as he pokes his head above the floor, hushed and furious, as if they both want to be shouting but are held back by some unspoken rule, some agreement not to break the peace of the rest of their surroundings. Or maybe that’s bullshit; Tommy isn’t one to care about things like that, after all.

He doesn’t step off the ladder, choosing to hang there for a moment instead, gripping the rungs uneasily. The wood is rough, and vaguely, he wonders if he’ll get splinters.

Technoblade is awake, and more than that, he is aware. That is the first thing his mind locks onto, the fact that his brother looks far better than he did earlier. He is still shaking, but far less, and his eyes are bright and present rather than fogged with pain. He sees no sign of gold, no lingering flickers and flashes of magic, and the relief is heady. He is not yet completely well; the fact that he is still in bed is evidence enough of that. But he is sitting up, and he no longer looks like death warmed over,

(too soon too soon)

and his face is twisted in irritation rather than pain.

Tommy has scooted his emerald block closer to the bed, is leaning forward, feet planted on the floor and hands planted on his knees, all bristling anger, indignation, face flushed and red. He puts Wilbur in mind of a cat, hissing and spitting at the object of his ire, making himself bigger than he truly is.

“—the fuck you want,” he’s saying, and his whisper is harsh, but it’s certainly a whisper. “I don’t fucking—I don’t owe you shit, you got that? I don’t owe you shit, so you can, you can fuck right off, you hear me?”

Techno blinks. “When did I say that, Tommy? Please tell me exactly when I said that,” he says, and—oh. Wilbur gets it now. Because Techno’s voice is quiet and rough, still thick with exhaustion, and he’s probably only a few minutes out from waking up. So, Tommy may be angry, may be positively irate, but whether he’s aware of it or not, he’s holding himself back, refusing to unleash the full force of his fury on someone who has objectively been through hell today.

(and Tommy is brash, and Tommy is loud, and Tommy performs being an irritating little shit like nobody’s business, but above all else, Tommy is good, and Tommy will never admit it, but he is kind, and it is a miracle that it hasn’t been beaten out of him along the way, that despite it all he has managed to keep his spirit, but he is kind, he is. and it is more despite him than because of him, but it is little moments like these that remind Wilbur why he is so proud of him)

“You don’t have to say it,” Tommy bites out. “Mister, mister violence is the only language or whatever the hell, mister vengeance, you’re big on favors and repaying them. But I—I didn’t ask you to do shit, you did that all on your own, so I don’t owe you. I’m saying it right now, I don’t owe you.”

There is an edge to the words. A fear. An expectation. Wilbur doesn’t expect it to hit him as hard as it does, but there is a pang in his chest, and he wonders if this is yet another lesson he imparted on his little brother. To expect no kindness without an ulterior motive.

(that was how he was, in the darkness of the ravine, seeking out the duplicity of everyone around him, even when there was none to be found, but it is one thing to look back and see clearly, now, what he was like, the slope he slid down, the spiral he entered, and another to continue to be confronted with the evidence of the hurt he caused, the hurt he has yet to truly make up for)

(here is a certainty that has not left him: he does not deserve Tommy’s forgiveness. that is another thing that can be attributed to his kindness. the kindness that somehow, between the wars and the country and the shadows, he did not manage to take from him, not like he took so much else)

“I didn’t do it so that you’d owe me,” Techno says. “Give me a little more credit than that.”

“Why should I?” Tommy erupts, though it is the quietest eruption that Wilbur has ever heard from him. “Why—give me one fucking reason why I should believe a word out of your mouth.”

“I don’t lie,” Techno states, flat. “I have no reason to.”

“Oh, right,” Tommy says, “because you’re so fucking honorable. You’re so fucking—I can’t deal with you, you know that? You’re a fucking hypocrite, and I don’t care what your game is. I don’t care. You’re the worst, and I—”

“I don’t want you dead,” Techno says. “That’s it. That’s why I did it, Tommy, simple as that.”

“Bullshit,” Tommy snaps. “Then what the fuck was Doomsday, then? What the fuck was telling me to die like a hero, then? You are just talking complete shit, shit out of your mouth, out of your arse—”

And then, Tommy, cuts off, because Techno tenses, seizing up, a sudden glimmer of gold in his eyes, and he grunts, hands curling into his bed sheets, his face blanking. Tommy moves forward, seemingly on instinct, hands reaching out to steady him, and there is is again, that kindness, that kindness that Tommy would rather die than allow anyone to point out.

The fit subsides, Techno breathing heavily. Tommy lingers for a moment, and then jerks back, scowling, as soon as Techno makes eye contact with him.

“Fuck off,” he mutters.

“At the end of the day,” Techno says, slowly, “it doesn’t really matter whether you believe me or not. I’ve been angry at you, Tommy. I can’t say that I don’t feel like it was justified. I’m sick of—” He closes his eyes, inhaling sharply, and then opens them again. “I’ve said all this before. It doesn’t matter. But I don’t want you dead, and I wasn’t about to let Dream kill you in front of me when I could do somethin’ about it. Between my first life and your third one, it was an easy choice.” He sighs, settling further down on the pillows. “Take it or leave it. I’m not arguin’ this right now.”

Tommy’s mouth works. Several emotions flicker across his face, and Wilbur can only pick out a few of them: disbelief, more anger, but perhaps something that might be hope. Perhaps. But if it is, he doesn’t get the chance to find out, because at that moment, Phil calls up from the base of the ladder.

“Everything okay?” he asks, and that’s right, he’s just been standing here, on the ladder, for the past few minutes. He can see why that would make Phil concerned. But that means that Tommy and Techno are both suddenly made aware of his presence.

“What—how long have you been there?” Tommy sputters, and he shrugs, clambering up the last rung or two and stepping fully into the room.

“Not too long,” he says. “Glad to see you cognizant, Techno.”

It’s all he can think so say, really, though there are a plethora of other statements crowding his mind. That has always been a weakness of his, his inability to allow himself to be emotional when it really counts, his habit of hiding everything beneath layers of deflection and a cool exterior. He and Techno aren’t dissimilar on that front, though Techno has a different way of going about it.

(so here is what he does not say: I’m so glad you’re alright, I saw you die when you’re supposed to be deathless and it terrified me, please never do that again, I know we’re broken and fucked up and maybe we’ll never be what we once were but I can’t imagine a life knowing that you won’t be there when I need you to be, so please, please stay alive)

“Can’t say I’m having a great time with it,” Techno mutters, and he’s definitely falling asleep again. “But thanks. Glad you’re not dead too, Wilbur.”

The ladder creaks again as Phil comes up, and he pauses a moment to survey the room before stepping in, eyebrows raising as he takes in the scene.

“Nobody bleeding or dying?” he asks wryly, and then crosses the floor to perch on the edge of Techno’s bed. “Hey, Tech, how you feeling?”

“Absolutely fantastic,” Techno says. “Top form, point me at the orphans.”

Phil laughs, more relief than anything else, and smooths some of Techno’s hair away from his face. Techno huffs out a sigh, but allows the gesture.

“Great,” Tommy says. “You all get anything, or was this whole thing for nothing?” There’s more hostility in his voice than necessary, though whether it’s genuine or to cover for his earlier emotion, Wilbur can’t tell.

“Nothing yet,” Phil says, unfazed. “We’ll spend the night here, get back at it in the morning. If we still don’t find shit, we’ll discuss where to go from there.”

Tommy crosses his arms, looking away, and he’s displeased at the concept of staying here, Wilbur can tell. So as Phil continues to lean over Techno, he slides over to him, nudging him in the arm. Tommy flinches, and then relaxes, eyeing him up.

“You good?” he murmurs, keeping his voice down.

“Fine,” Tommy replies. “Are we actually going to get anything out of this, or was this a big fucking waste of our time?”

Again, vitriol, and he remembers the conversation between him and Tubbo, overheard and unmentioned. After everything they’ve been through, a separation can’t be easy. On either of them, but especially on Tommy.

(a memory: buzzing excitement at doing something good, at helping, shining compasses, an inscription: Your Tubbo)

“It won’t be a waste of time,” he says, and the plan that’s been formulating in the back of his mind solidifies. It’s not a very good plan. But it’s something, and it’s more than they’ve got. “I’ll make sure of that.”

It is a general’s responsibility to lead his soldiers to victory, after all. And in the case of a half-baked, reckless plan, to take matters into his own hands.

And it is more than the general’s responsibility. It is his. For better, or for worse.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #dsmp fic #wilbur soot #philza #ranboo #dreamxd #tommyinnit #technoblade #/rp #cat writes fic #long post #pogtopia ref tag #minor but it's present

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artificialqueens · 4 years

Text

Reckless (Bianca & Adore) - Candy Cane

A/N: im living in 2015 right now so like. ignore me fsdfsdf but anyways, here’s 2.8k of more incredibly self-indulgent fanfiction. i wrote this as platonic, but if you wanna see anything in here as romantic be my guest!! id like to thank chaoticnachokitten for supporting me and giving me ideas and beta'ing and i just- GAAAHH THANK YOU!! and thanks to everyone else who had such nice words to say abt my last one, it means soooo much 🥺🥺🥺

Summary: Adore and Bianca hang out, but of course things go wrong.

Adore loves hanging out with Bianca. Not only is she her best friend, but she’s the kind of person Adore thought would’ve hated her. But that’s not the case at all, there’s some sort of weird mutual respect and admiration going on between them, and it is fucking awesome.

The young musician knows she can be… a lot sometimes, what with her natural hyperactive toddler personality type, and it amazes her Bianca puts up with her. Especially in moments where Adore knows she shouldn’t be bothering her friend, but decides to anyways because Bianca can be boring sometimes. Moments like this one.

Adore had a gig at one of the clubs, and it ran much later than she had originally anticipated, but that was mostly due to her wanting to stay for Bianca’s set too. Of course, that led to them sharing a few too many drinks together while they stayed to watch some more performers. So when it came time for them to go home, Adore can’t find her keys.

It’s late. Late enough there’s no guarantee Adore’s roommates will be up to let her back into the apartment. The singer immediately turns to her oldest, nearest, dearest friend.

“Oh my God,” Bianca sighs whilst massaging her temples, seeing the next ten hours play out clear as day in front of her.

“Pleaaase can I stay at your place tonight Bia?” Adore asks, using her most pitiful voice and absolute poutiest facial expression.

They’re sat at a table in the back, Adore’s hands perched on Bianca’s knees as she essentially begs. Adore’s too drunk to care.

“Why don’t you call someone to see if they’ll stay up for you?” Bianca retorts like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. To be fair, it probably is. Adore’s still too drunk to realize that though.

“Oh yeah,” she says, knowing she sounds like the world’s dumbest bitch. She fumbles with her phone for a few seconds, poking the screen and the on button for an embarrassing amount of time before turning to Bianca with another sad pouty face, “It’s dead.”

“Of course it’s fucking dead,” Bianca groans, playing it up like she really does mind Adore staying with her for the night. She doesn’t, she probably would never. Adore is like the niece she never had, and she wouldn’t trade that girl for the world.

“Why don’t I just call one of them on mine?” Bianca offers.

Adobe frowns, putting on her thinking face, “…I don’t remember their numbers.”

“I can call Courtney,” Bianca reminds her.

“Oh yeah!”

A few minutes later, they discover they cannot call Courtney. They try calling her twice, and both times are a bust.

She glances down at Adore, and chuckles when she sees the “Bambi eyes”. Even if she weren’t planning on letting the kid stay with her, that would’ve done her in. She hasn’t met a single person that can resist those eyes.

“I’ll be quiet! I promise!” the singer whines.

Bianca makes an exaggerated show of sighing and hemming and hawing, just to tease Adore, then cracks open a wide, amused smile, “Of course you can stay at my place, bitch.”

“Party!” Adore cheers, throwing her arms tightly around Bianca’s neck. It’s all the thanks Bianca needs.

They pay their bills, order a Lyft, and in more time than either would’ve preferred, they make it to Bianca’s huge ass apartment. The pair stumbles inside the building, trying to look as Not Drunk as they can, and failing miserably. It doesn’t matter anyways, it’s almost 3 a.m. meaning there’s not a soul alive there to watch them.

Bianca leads Adore to the elevator, even if it’s pointless because Adore randomly shows up at Bianca’s place at least three times a week. The singer grips Bianca’s hand tightly, giggling and stumbling while the comic practically barks at her to be quieter. They’re lucky it’s a Friday. Well, a Saturday now, Bianca supposes.

The pair climbs up the one flight of stairs to Bianca’s apartment, and then into the apartment itself after Bianca spends a couple minutes fumbling with her keys. The door swings open, and they both fall onto the nearest couch.

They’re breathless with laughter, and then it starts up again when Bianca realizes she hasn’t closed her apartment door yet.

After she locks her apartment back up and turns on some lights, the older woman finds she can’t take her eyes off of Adore. The younger is smiling so freely, and it ignites something inside Bianca. She’s not sure what it is, maybe youthfulness, or freedom, but she loves it.

“B! Oh my God! I have an idea!” Adore suddenly says, sitting up way too fast and clearly making herself dizzy.

“Don’t kill yourself, otherwise I’m the one that has to call 911. You think I want paramedics at my house before the sunrises? Fuck no,” Bianca berates her, but she’s quick to recompose herself when Adore goes all pouty again, “What’s your idea? God knows you only come up with a good one every millennium.”

Adore childishly sticks her tongue out at Bianca, “We should make waffles!”

“How the fuck are we supposed to make waffles? I’m not a cook, I don’t keep that shit in my house.”

Adore screws up her face cutely, clearly trying to think of a solution to her waffle problem. She brightens up again after a minute, looking very proud of herself, “Alyssa! I bet Alyssa has it!”

Bianca rolls her eyes, “You really think I wanna speak to her right now? At three in the goddamn morning?”

“But waffles!” Adore insists.

“Tomorrow,” Bianca promises, “Right now I want to get out of this clown costume and into bed.”

Adore sighs, then tries her best puppy eyes again, “Cuddles?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Bianca snorts. Adore smiles as bright as the sun, then at Bianca’s beckoning she follows her best friend down the hall so they can take off their makeup and get ready for bed. When they’re finally able to snuggle up in bed together, Adore in one of Bianca’s old shirts and pair of leggings, the whole apartment pitch black, and the only sound they could hear was the sound of each other’s breathing.

It’s soothing and warm. They sleep like rocks.

The sun wakes Adore up at way too fucking early though. Her head is pounding, her arm has fallen asleep from Bianca laying on it through the night, and she is really fucking hungry. Adore groans and gently pulls her arm out from under Bianca, then stumbles out of the way too big, way too soft bed to go find something to take care of her headache.

She’s quickly able to find where Bianca keeps those things (the mounted cabinet in the bathroom) because Adore used to spend a ridiculous amount of time at this apartment complaining about her ailments to Bianca, which of course lead Bianca to freely helping Adore out whenever. Bianca would act all cold and exasperated over it, but they both knew it was just a show.

Adore downs two of the pills dry and decides nearly immediately she should go find something to drink. In mere minutes she has a pot of coffee brewing, and simultaneously discovers that it’s only around 9 a.m.. Which is just overall… weird. Adore is almost never up this early, especially after the kind of night she had last night. The events of the night are still pretty fuzzy right now, but she still remembers everything. Mostly. She thinks.

One thing she does remember is a promise. A promise for waffles. Adore grins, an idea formulating in her head. Bianca is always so incredibly nice to her, helping her out and giving her whatever she wants. And sure, it’s not Mother’s Day, but that doesn’t mean Adore can’t show her appreciation for Bianca.

Clearly the woman deserves breakfast in bed. Courtesy of a little help from a next door neighbor (hopefully). The singer quickly grabs Bianca’s key off the counter and heads over to the one person she knows will have just what she wants.

Adore knocks on the door, and it’s only a minute later with an accompanied shout of ‘I’m comin’ hon!’ that the heavy white door is thrown open.

“Oh my goodness it’s Adore Delano!” Alyssa Edwards says excitedly, “Hello, doll!”

“Hi, Alyssa!” Adore smiles, “Um, I have a favor to ask of you?”

~*~

Bianca’s favorite way to wake up is slowly, with the sun streaming in through her bedroom window and having absolutely all the time in the world to get up, check her phone, and get ready for work. This morning is the exact fucking opposite.

First thing that wakes her up is the motherfucking fire alarm, causing her to scramble out of bed at a record speed. Second thing, she’s painfully aware that Adore isn’t in the bed with her. Bianca is halfway through screaming Adore’s name when she bursts out into the main room.

The main room is smokey as all hell. Adore is aiming a fire extinguisher at the counter from the other side of the kitchen. The counter is covered in white foam. Her damn fire alarm won’t shut up.

Bianca’s going to have a hard time explaining this one to the neighbors for sure.

The older woman breathes in slowly, but sharply, “Adore, what the fuck did you do?”

Adore doesn’t say anything. She lets go of the fire extinguisher, and they both wince when it crashes against the kitchen tile. Not for the first time, Bianca is glad that she lives on the first floor.

The two stare at each other, Adore resting boneless against the oven, her expression just screaming shock. She lifts her head to meet Bianca’s eyes.

Pounding on the door, someone starts shouting, “BIANCA?! HOLY GOD, IS EVERYTHING ALRIGHT?”

The woman in question is quick to open her apartment door, but instead of accepting the concern, she barks out, “What do you want?”

“The whole damn building knows your alarms are going off, Bianca!” Alyssa says sharply, shoving her way inside the apartment, “My girls are coming over in two hours! I can’t have my house burning down on me.” Bianca and Adore share a twin look of surprise. Alyssa’s always been Bianca’s favorite neighbor, that’s no secret, but this is a tightly concealed side of her that neither of them have ever really seen. It’s concern. Worry. But not for herself, for them. Even if it does come off as something else. This is just something not usually associated with her.

“Okay,” Bianca says carefully, “What the fuck is going on.”

“That’s what I want to know,” Alyssa agrees, lips pursed skeptically, “Adore told me y’all were making waffles.” It’s absurd. The fire alarm is still blaring. Adore has crushed herself into a nook, looking petrified. Bianca is very hungover and her most beloved annoying neighbor is standing in her house at way too early o’clock. Bianca suddenly realizes that even though there’s no fire, there’s still smoke in her apartment, and she really wants that alarm to shut the fuck up. Also, the smoke is going to stain her expensive shit if she doesn’t get it out.

She starts to open all the windows in the main room, and is grateful when Alyssa comes to help her. They make short work of it, and when she turns around to look at her best friend, she feels scared.

She’s scared that Adore might be hurt. She’s scared that she didn’t do anything to prevent this. But mostly she’s scared that something might be broken between them.

For the first time since walking in, Bianca notices bowls spread across her kitchen counter. Bowls and boxes and whisks… It clicks.

“Okay,” Bianca exhales, “Alyssa, what the fuck did you just say about waffles?”

“Adore came to me a little while ago and asked me if I could lend you two some waffle ingredients,” Alyssa starts slowly, “And I think to myself, ‘Now Alyssa Edwards, as a woman of God it is your duty to love your neighbor and let her make some waffles on this beautiful morning-’”

“Alyssa, you let my dumbass kid do WHAT?! You fucking know she can’t cook! We have had this conversation a hundred times!”

“Well, Adore said to me ‘Bianca and I’ not ‘I’m going to’! I thought you were gonna be helping her!”

“WHY WOULD YOU ASSUME THAT? WHEN HAVE I EVER COOKED?!”

“I’m sorry!” Adore snaps, her voice quivering and tears welling up in her eyes, causing Bianca and Alyssa to turn to her, “I’m so, so sorry- I didn’t mean for this to happen! I just- I just wanted-”

Bianca stares at Adore with shock, not fully comprehending everything happening. Between her hangover and the sheer chaos of the first fifteen minutes of being awake, she’s not entirely sure why Adore is so distressed. Adore starts whispering ‘I’m sorry’ over and over to herself, hugging her knees tight to her chest, tears starting to crawl down her face, and it hits Bianca like a train.

“Alyssa…” Bianca says slowly, but she’s unable to tear her eyes away from Adore.

Adore’s blaming herself completely and totally. And it makes sense, she is the one that started the whole mess. But Bianca can’t stand that look on Adore’s face. She’d much rather put the blame on Alyssa (who can more than handle it) instead of Adore (who is currently having a nervous breakdown).

But Adore isn’t having it.

“No, this is my fault. I’m not- I’m not that stupid, Bianca. I’m not that useless, either. I’m not a kid. I’m not someone you should leave supervision for. I’m fucking twenty-four. Stop treating me like I’m not,” Adore’s words are cold, but her face tells Bianca the musician is falling apart, “Look me in the eye, Bianca.”

She does.

“Yell at me,” Adore says.

She can’t. Bianca doesn’t even want to. She feels like she failed here, because Adore isn’t her kid but God does it feel like it sometimes.

“We’ll replace your stuff, Alyssa,” is what Bianca says instead.

Luckily, the woman accepts that as her cue to go. She gives Bianca a hug and a kiss on the cheek before she leaves, and sends air kisses Adore’s way. Adore gives Alyssa a weak smile.

The door closes. Bianca and Adore lock eyes.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Bianca says. It’s a tired, worried voice. Not at all what Adore was expecting, or even wanted.

“I wanted to surprise you,” Adore answers simply, arms crossed defensively over her chest, “You do so much for me. For everyone. And I know you said last night we’d do it together but I just… I wanted to do something for you.”

That alone melt’s Bianca’s heart. It’s been getting easier and easier lately for Adore, and by extension the rest of their friends, to do that. For a while she thought moving to this city was stupid, and probably the worst decision of her life. But even now, after such a chaotic fucking twenty-five minutes of being awake, Bianca is so happy she’s here.

“Next time, buy me something online,” Bianca says, warm and forgiving, instead of cold and biting like Adore would’ve expected.

The younger practically runs into Bianca’s open arms. The embrace is full of love, and Adore feels that it’s okay. She still blames herself, she’s still stupidly upset, but Bianca… Bianca makes her feel like everything will be okay.

They sit there hugging for a few minutes, then Bianca mutters, “Good thing you knew how to use that extinguisher, I think that’s been hanging there for ten years.”

Adore chuckles wetly, face buried into Bianca’s shoulder, “Yeah… Hey, shouldn’t have all the other alarms gone off too?”

Bianca freezes. Adore is right, all the other fire alarms in the building should’ve had people evacuating.

“I guess the building needs to get that fixed, huh? Maybe you being a walking disaster is a good thing after all, if that had been real, everyone would’ve been fucked.”

“Wow,” Adore whispers, “Maybe our building should get that checked too…? Oh my God. Oh my God.”

“What?!” Bianca asks, pulling away from Adore to see what’s wrong.

“I never went home last night,” Adore says, “I never charged my phone. I never texted my roommates.”

Bianca suddenly doubles over laughing, fully bellied and absolutely batshit crazy, “Good, Courtney doesn’t get nearly enough stress in her life!”

Adore breaks out into a grin, and feels her worries start to melt away. Somehow, Bianca is really fucking good at doing that.

“Alright,” Bianca sighs, looking at the pure mess that is now her kitchen, “Let’s charge our phones and order breakfast.”

And they do.

Neither would’ve spent the hour following that disaster any other way.

#rpdr fanfiction #adore delano #bianca del rio #alyssa edwards #biadore #gen fic #fluff #angst #fighting #lesbian au #cisgirl au #hurt/comfort #reckless #candy cane #tw fire #concrit welcome

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seawitchkaraoke · 4 years

Text

Looking fetching

Ao3 link in the notes, spoilers for A Killing Frost.

Simon hadn't meant to lie to October, not really. It's just that it hadn't seemed important and by the time Acacia asked if he was Sylvester's fetch, he didn't want to interrupt their search for his daughter with long explanations, which would undoubtedly have been needed, had he answered "yes".

And it hadn’t truly been a lie. He had never once described Eira as "his" firstborn, merely the Daoine Sidhe firstborn and when he told Acacia he was Sylvester's brother, it was true. October would understand that, she called the Lady May her sister as well after all.

So yes, he had excuses and he hadn't technically lied and surely October would understand. It had been drilled into him never to tell anyone his true nature after all, he had long since learned to mirror the magic of the Daoine Sidhe as much as possible and if he was better with transformations than he had any right to be, well, he was simply talented.

And yet.

And yet when October said, again, that it wasn't his fault, he couldn't have resisted Eira, her being his firstborn after all, and Dianda and Patrick, his Patrick, who he had never told, were right there.... He knew it didn't matter. If he wanted a chance at redemption, he had to be honest.

So.

"She isn't my firstborn"

Silence. Dianda and Patrick stared at him. So did October and supposedly Tybalt, though the king of cats wasn't in his line of sight.

"what do you mean? You know she's the Daoine Sidhe firstborn, you said so yourself?" October sounded like she was contemplating dragging him back to the sea witch to fix him, since he had clearly lost his mind.

Well. Better explain then.

"Yes, she is the Daoine Sidhe firstborn. She is my brother's firstborn and my father's firstborn, but she isn't my firstborn"

Deep breath. This wouldn't make them hate him any more. Probably.

"I don't know who my firstborn is, but I know it is not her. I- I am not Daoine Sidhe”

He took another breath. Best to just say it, “I am a fetch. Sylvester's fetch, though you could have guessed that I suppose. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, it never seemed like the right time and my parents taught me never to tell anyone and I didn't-"

He was babbling, he knew. Somehow, he couldn't stop. He was still holding Patrick's hands, but he couldn't bring himself to look at him, why had he never told him in all the years they had known each other? October might forgive him; she had forgiven worse and they had not, in truth, known one another long but Patrick? Patrick be should have told ages ago

"I'm sorry I misled you, truly, I understand if this changes things, there's really no excuse, I should have told you centuries ago-"

"Simon"

That stopped him. Patrick didn't sound angry, but he didn't exactly sound happy either, and Patrick rarely sounded angry even when he was and-

"Simon, please, look at me"

He couldn't disobey that voice, so soft and insistent and unbearably calm. So, he lifted his head, slowly, and looked into Patrick's eyes, expecting anger or disappointment or betrayal.

All he found was love.

"I never loved you for your species you know?" Patrick smiled wryly "of course I would have preferred it if you had told me - and you really should have - but if I can forgive you turning my son into a tree-"

Simon winced, glancing towards Dean who was a little way away, talking quietly to Quentin "I really am sorry about that"

"as I said, if I can forgive that, I can forgive you not telling me about being a fetch - and sweet Oberon, if I didn't know you so well I'd think you were playing a joke, HOW can you possibly be a fetch?

"yes!" October had finally found her voice "HOW are you a fetch? Shouldn't I have seen that in your memories? Shouldn't Sylvester, you know, be dead?"

"I'd like to know that as well" Tybalt spoke, now, seemingly calm "I've known you an exceedingly long time, and you never showed any indication of being your brother’s death omen"

Simon was about to answer, when Dianda, suddenly snorted.

And then laughed.

And then kept laughing.

And then lost control of her legs and landed on the beach on her long shimmering tail.

“Um”, said Simon, intelligently “are you alright?”

Dianda tried to answer but couldn’t – she was still laughing too hard – so she held a hand up signalling them to give her a minute.

After several minutes, that they all spent staring at Dianda and that Dianda spent trying to calm herself down, only to look up at Simon and lose it all over again, she managed but kept her eyes resolutely away from him.

“of course, you are a fetch”, she said, “why not? I don’t even need an explanation, this is Faerie, this might as well happen”

“….well I’d still truly appreciate an explanation if it is of no inconvenience to you”, said Tybalt.

“okay okay, yes, so. Um.”, Simon stuttered, not really knowing where to begin, “so. You know where fetches come from, right?”

“Yes”, said Tybalt and Toby. “No”, said Patrick and Dianda. They stared at each other.

“Hey, it wasn’t my secret to share!”, Toby held her hands up, warding off Dianda’s stare and taking a step away from her tail – as if that would really save her.

“Alright”, Simon pinched the bridge of his nose, “as far as I know we come from nighthaunts who drink living blood… does that match what your Lady Fetch told you, October?”

“Err, yes but what do you mean ‘as far as you know’? Don’t you remember? Because May remembers, it’s really useful sometimes but also kinda creepy”

“No, I don’t remember…. I didn’t even know I was a fetch for a while. I appeared when Sylvester was still very young – I believe there was an assassination attempt, my father killed the assailant but some of my brother’s blood must have gotten mixed in his - and so his… my… our parents changed my memory and adopted me. Don’t ask how or why they did this; I could only speculate. Possibly they believed that if I could not remember being a death omen that Sylvester would survive”

Toby interrupted at that “but wouldn’t you have noticed? Didn’t your appearance change to match his or you could feel danger and all those…”, she waved her hand, “funky fetch powers?”

Simon sighed, “maybe if I had been older, yes, but I was very young at the time. The only memories I had were Sylvester’s, which I imagined to be my own, and he was just a few years old, only a toddler.”

Toby frowned “okay, never mind that imagining you two as toddlers is just weird, but wouldn’t you have realized as you grew up?”

“I would have yes. I did, in fact, but not in the way you appear to imagine. You know we grew up with your mother –“

Toby nodded, a frown on her face.

“- well. One day we were playing and Sylvester… he fell. He fell and he hit his head and he didn’t get up. My sister and I didn’t know what to do, she ran for our parents and I…”

“you faded.” Toby spoke up again, realization on her face, “you faded, and my mother told you to stop. But… but how did she save Sylvester? She saved me from elfshot by changing my blood, but she couldn’t have done that to him”

“She did not, no. But she- She was only a child but she grabbed the nearest rose and drove the thorns into her skin and when that did not make her bleed as much as she desired, she grabbed more roses and then she grabbed my knife that I used to make little wooden figures and she… she bled. She bled a lot. I don’t know what she did or how it could have been possible, but Sylvester woke and the nighthaunts didn’t come to call either of us home and when my parents arrived they found a lot of blood but no dead child.” He took a breath, “If I did not already love your mother, I think this may have been when I fell. She was so sure and so beautiful and so fearless, and she saved my brother, one of the most important people in my world”, he grew quiet, “at the time, at least”

They took a moment to digest that. Then Patrick, dear Patrick spoke up “that may have been the only selfless thing Amandine ever did. I’m glad she saved you, and him, for your sake, but Sylvester never deserved you”

Simon sighed, “he was a child, Patrick, dearest. We all were. There was no resentment yet in those days, no mistakes that couldn’t be taken back, just four children”, he glanced at Tybalt, “four children and a prince of cats who seemed to appear at random intervals”, he tried to pour amusement into his voice. The others simply stared at him, clearly not impressed by his attempts at joking.

“Be that as it may” Tybalt drawled, clearly unembarrassed by Simon’s mention of him, “pray, continue with your recounting. After this event, did your parents tell you what you were?”

Simon nodded, “they did. They didn’t have much of a choice. Perhaps they could have claimed that the fading of the one when the other died was normal for twins – they are exceedingly rare in Faerie after all – but I would have questioned why my magic was different or perhaps met some other pair of twins eventually. I suppose they deemed it wiser to tell me, so I could learn how to hide as a Daoine Sidhe as best as possible”

“but your magic!”, October burst out, “you can do blood magic and I’ve never seen May do that! I don’t understand”

“Have you ever seen her attempt blood magic, October?”, he asked, but before she could answer, he shook his head and continued, “but no, you are quite right. I am not very good at blood magic. I can do some – just as you are capable of illusions despite having neither flower nor water magic at your disposal – but I am not good. I am however decent at alchemy which can achieve many of the same results. True, I vastly prefer having some time to make a potion out of blood but once I have done so, no one ever questions whether or not what I am doing is truly the result of blood magic as such. I look and act Daoine Sidhe after all and who has ever heard of a fetch existing long enough to learn deception?”

“And you are, as we have seen, surprisingly adept at transformations”, Patrick mused. Simon winced again and glanced towards Dean – still walking along the beach with Quentin – but Patrick did not sound angry, “really I should have seen it ages ago. You never did show me all that much blood magic, but you transformed scraps into new suits on a far too regular basis, when the old one would truly still have served me fine”, he was smiling now and finally Simon allowed his shoulders to sag. Patrick really had forgiven him for the deception.

“you never did learn how to properly dress yourself”, he sighed but was smiling too now, comfortable in the centuries old banter.

“Well, that’s why I married a mermaid”, he grinned, “clothing is really rather optional down there. What’s the point, truly, if it will only get wet?”

Toby exclaimed in protest that when she had been in the undersea, everyone had been clothed, Dianda laughed and backed her husband up that no, it was true, they barely knew what clothes were in her realm, and Simon allowed himself to breathe.

He didn’t know what was to happen to him next. He assumed he would be sent to sleep for a hundred years and he truly could not say he did not deserve that and worse. But at least he could do so, knowing that no more deceptions stood between him and the people he loved so dearly.

#october daye #toby fic #dianda lorden #patrick lorden #toby daye #simon torquill #seanan mcguire #tybalt #simon is a fetch theory #a killing frost #a killing frost spoilers

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anonniemousefics · 4 years

Text

My Dearest Inej | Chapter Six

Chapter Masterlist

Originally posted on AO3

Rating: Teen And Up

Synopsis: A series of letters kept among the personal belongings of Captain Inej Ghafa.

Chapter Six: Dear Nina

Hello, lovely,

Some news and a request. I am going away on an assignment for the next several months, and this one’s rather sensitive. It means I’ll be out of reach for a time. Don’t worry your wonderful Inej brain about it, though. You know very well I’ll be just fine.

Here’s how I’m thinking we make due in the meantime. I’m writing down all my adventures and silly thoughts to send you as soon as it’s safe, and then we’ll be able to catch up in no time at all when all is right with the world again. You should do the same. Once I’m able, I’ll send a giant wad of letters along with where I can be reached to the Van Eck mansion for Wylan to hold on to for you until your next trip to Ketterdam. There. Not so bad, right?

I miss you more than cake. And that’s not an exaggeration. Be safe, lovely. And give them all hell.

All my love,

Nina

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(enclosed in an overstuffed envelope marked “Nina”)

(translated from Kerch)

Dear Nina,

Your last letter has made me grouchy. I don’t know if there would have ever been a good time for you to fall off the map, but I think there could have at least been a better time than this. I’ll take your suggestion, though, and settle for trying to imagine your face when I tell you these things. When you read this, let’s imagine that we’re at that cafe in West Stave. The one with the little white tables outside. You’ve ordered enough waffles to feed five men, and I’m all hopped up on hot chocolate, and we can’t stop snickering. It’ll happen again someday, right?

I’m going to use this letter to take a break in entertaining you with stories of battle at sea and the many delightful ways in which bad men beg. I’m docked in Ketterdam today with my head dangerously full of some truly mortifying events. I don’t know what to do, Nina. Keep eating your imaginary waffles – I’m going to offload a great many details and bring you up to speed.

I’ve told you that Kaz and I write letters. That they’re sort of a romantic nature. I know you think I’m crazy. I’m well aware that I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t know -- there’s just something about him I can’t give up yet. And I love these letters. They’ve become the first thing I pick up at every new port. They’re these little slices of Ketterdam – all of the good stuff, that is, and none of the bloodshed.

It’s dangerous, though, isn’t it? Only getting the good side of things. It messes with your perception of reality.

It should surprise no one that Kaz Brekker is good with pen and paper, considering how we’ve seen him con. Sometimes I worry that’s what letter-writing really is to him. Another way to con. He says things in letters that you could not even imagine, Nina. He can be affectionate. He can be really funny, maybe even playful. He can also write the most sincere, heartfelt sentences. You read them, and you really forget he’s, well, Brekker. It’s almost like, when he writes me, he’s not. Like some other side comes out when he picks up a pen, and it’s the side I’ve always hoped was really there all along.

I’m such a goner for this other side, Nina. It’s become a problem. Try not to spit out those imaginary waffles.

It’s a problem because, in person, when I’m in Ketterdam, he’s still Kaz Brekker, the persona, the enigma. It started messing with my head, because there is such a stark contrast between Kaz Brekker the enigma and the Kaz who writes me these insanely charming letters. That’s not to say Kaz Brekker isn’t trying to be less enigmatic, but it’s little things. He can take off his gloves more now without having violent reactions to a brush of skin. He’s managed to hold my hand for a few, brief moments. I’ve tried to cozy up to him, but I don’t know. It’s impossible to know what he thinks of it, if he likes it, if he hates it, if he resents it – until a letter shows up. And then he’s writing, “I miss you” and “I’m dreaming of tasting your lips.” (I’m imagining you making that silly fanning yourself gesture, and I really hope that’s true. Saints, I miss you.)

I’m rambling so much. I wish you were just here instead.

He wrote me this letter after Jesper’s birthday, Nina. Ughhh, why are you so far away? It was a really good letter. A really, really good letter. We had a moment during this hot air balloon ride (yet another reason you need to come back to visit Ketterdam – we do birthday experiences now). Jesper and Wylan were on one side of the balloon’s basket, wrapped up in each other and all the sights with their backs to us. And, out of nowhere, he pulled me close, tucked me right up against his side, close enough that I couldn’t help but hold him back. At first, I could actually feel his heart racing and thought maybe he’d pull away. But he settled after a minute, and we rode in the balloon for a good while like that, stars overhead, city lights below. That was all, and it was more than enough for me. I still think about it all the time. He told me later that he thought it was a nice night, and so I thought it best to leave it at that. We had a nice night. Nice, like when your dinner isn’t ruined or someone opens a door for you.

But this letter that awaited me in Os Kervo. You know Suli, right? So, if I use the phrase (nearest translation: “I shit a brick”), you’ll understand just how shocked I was. He wrote how he never wanted to forget that night and the way I looked and the way he felt. It was perfectly un-Brekker-like. It might have made you cry.

The contrast has never seemed so stark.

And so it came down to this: I needed to know that Kaz Brekker in Ketterdam was capable of actually being this person who keeps showing up in envelopes and using his name.

Which brings me to my most recent trip to Ketterdam. This was the trip after the hot air balloon ride. Before I arrived, he asked if I wanted to stay in the Slat this trip – with him. Don’t choke on your waffles, please. Nothing was going to happen – he can barely hold my hand for more than a few minutes, and at least one of the times it’s happened, I had to bribe him with Ravkan toffees first.

I had one condition for this arrangement. I wanted to bring letters for him to read aloud. Perhaps most incredibly, he agreed.

Right. This is where it gets ugly.

I’d spent the day at The Slat. Usually my first day on land, I find I’m unusually exhausted, and everything in The Slat is fresh and new since Seeger’s fire – I’d even venture to say comfortable. I slept most of the day, a luxury I know you’d appreciate. I was up around dinnertime, and he’d brought in dinner. (It was those meatballs and mash pots we used to love so much. I hope I’ll be able to eat them again after this without wanting to hurl.)

Dinner seemed like a good time to try out the letter reading. We’d spread out the food on his desk and passed a bottle of kvas back and forth to lighten the mood before he rolled up his sleeves and I gave him the first one. I had tried to pick a variety of his letters to bring along, the ridiculous ones right up to the one I can’t get over – the one after the hot air balloon ride.

Before you get too excited, we didn’t get to the hot air balloon ride letter.

It was going so well in the beginning. My cheeks were hurting from smiling so hard, listening to so many charming words come from that voice. He seemed to be enjoying it even – feet up on the desk, a sip of kvas here, read an old joke there, and he’d try not to smirk to himself when it made me laugh. He even let one of his own laughs slip once or twice. It was just what I wanted. I felt like I was finally putting together a whole picture out of two halves.

But then we came to this letter he’d given to me on the docks of Fifth Harbor, thanking me just before I left after Seeger’s fire. I was getting ready to hand it over to him, and my heart dropped right into my feet. Nina. I’d forgotten I’d written something really, really, REALLY embarrassing in the margins. Just. Sankta Alina. I don’t know if I can repeat it.

I tried to skip over that one, but he was having none of it. Everything had been playful and a little flirtatious up until that moment, and he swiped it from my hands. Sankta Elizabeta, my face is burning up while I’m writing this. Tell me this is salvageable. Oh, wait, you’re in backwoods Fjerda or something. Ugh, why, Nina, why?

Everything got really quiet – he’d seen it right away. I could tell he was surprised, but that was it. I have no idea what else was happening in that brain of his.

What it was was this. I’d made a note of how different he was on paper and labeled that Kaz by his original name. I’d written that I like Kaz Brekker, but after these letters, I was in love with Kaz Rietveld.

NINA. (Untranslatable Suli vulgarities)

I snatched the letter back – he wasn’t even making eye contact with me. He hadn’t even budged. It was too horrible. The silence felt never-ending. So, I left. That was yesterday. Now I’m staying on the Wraith. Maybe forever.

I have to say something, and I wish you were here to help me figure out what to say. Somewhere in the back of my mind, there are fragments of lessons and sayings my father would have about this, if I could only cobble them in to something coherent. I’m trying and trying to imagine how he must be feeling.

He couldn’t have been that surprised about my feelings, could he? Not after all this time, not everything we’ve written. It’s not as if I’ve been terribly coy. I’m forcing myself to believe he would not be horrified to know how I feel. No, there’s something else.

How awful it must feel to think someone you trusted finds only a part of you lovable.

I have some soul-searching to do, Nina.

Come back.

Inej

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(hand-delivered, unaddressed envelope)

Dear Inej,

I’ve spent the whole night thinking, and I have some things to say. I won’t read this one out loud, so if you have a hard time believing it’s me, I guess you’ll just need to get creative.

I know you’re embarrassed. You might remember I have intimate knowledge of what it’s like to be in your position. At first, I wanted nothing more than to ease your mind and put everything back the way it was. There was a large part of me that was awestruck that you’d find even a small, half-dead remnant of myself worthy of loving. I was ready to crawl back to you and do anything to erase this moment from time.

But then I realized that’s not a fair deal to Kaz Brekker.

And before you start making faces, I’m not becoming one of those politicians that likes to bloviate in the third person. Just for the sake of clarity in this letter alone, I’ll use the labels that you used.

Inej, Kaz Brekker saved my life. Yours, too. And a lot of other people’s. Kaz Brekker could find me food and dry clothes and shelter when there was no one else. Kaz Brekker has fixed and built and risked and fought and salvaged. And yes, there are a good many things he’s terrible at, like not being an unmitigated asshole. He is not friendly or particularly kind, and he’s rarely truthful. There are many things he should never have done. He’s done unthinkable things he’s not even sorry for. Trust me, Inej. When it comes to hating Kaz Brekker, I have a front row seat.

But the only reason there’s a Kaz Rietveld here for you to love at all is because Kaz Brekker brought him this far.

At first, my instinct was to write a letter detailing all the many ways I can become more like the man you love. And that’s not to say there isn’t some wisdom in trying to coax him out a bit more – you tend to have good taste in most things. There’s probably some value in striking a balance.

But Kaz Brekker is part of the deal. You can’t have one without the other. There is a lot about him – about me -- that I would not and will not change. So, I need to know that you see the same value in him. In all of me. Because, if you can’t, I’m not sure it will matter how much I’m in love with you, too.

And to think we might have avoided this whole mess if I just would have let you bring a flute. To that I say, mati en sheva yelu. I am in love with you even if you play a damn flute.

Are you smiling at least a little bit? I hope so.

Sincerely,

K. Rietveld

#six of crows #soc #six of crows fanfic #crooked kingdom #grishaverse #leigh bardugo #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #jesper fahey #wylan van eck #nina zenik #fanfic #fanfiction #kanej #kanej fanfic

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amiwritesthings · 3 years

Text

Fic Writer Questions

thanks to @venhedish for the tag, this actually got me thinking on a few things lmao

1 ) How many works do you have on AO3?

currently 17, will probably add no 18 tonight. there’s also a bunch only published on ff.net (from when i wasn’t on AO3 yet) and yet another motherload of self-indulgent shit rotting on my hard drive.

2 ) What’s your total AO3 word count?

80781 words, about 60k of that from this year alone. i took a major break from writing 2010ish and really just got back into it during quarantine last year.

3 ) How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

7 on AO3. Supernatural, The Last Ship, Walker 2021, Men’s Hockey RPF, TVD, Graceland, Chicago Fire. for purposes of saving myself the embarrassment, we’ll limit this answer to just the AO3 stuff. 😂

4 ) What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

ooooh boy, maybe a little embarrassment after all.

A Trip to the South (TVD)

hey lookie, my incest glorifying days did not actually start with SPN lol. Salvatore brothers feeding together, blood sharing and enjoying it. I blame this being at the top solely on the fact that it’s been up since 2013 because it’s really nothing special.

when i dream (I’m doing you all night) (SPN)

Collection of (mostly smutty) deanjohn Tumblr prompts, i can blame most of those on other people lmao

Holding on (until it’s over) (Graceland)

Episode Tag to 1x10, Johnny/Briggs because even then i was obsessed with manny montana and i refuse to apologize for it.

11:59 (Men’s Hockey RPF)

Sean Avery/Henrik Lundqvist Hooker!AU, and yeah that’s pretty much it.

even whiskey can’t do (what you do when you kiss me that way)

OG Stanford Era deanjohn first time smut, my first foray into SPN fics.

5 ) Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

YES, i try to respond to all comments. sometimes RL gets in the way but as a rule i try to always respond. i love getting comments so i feel like appreciating the time the commenter took to bring me this joy. ♥️

6) What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

boy, this is a hard one. I’m not all that good with writing angst but i guess if I had to pick something i’d say don’t give up now (there’s already so much at stake), mostly because of the character’s frame of mind in general and the impending threat of invading a foreign country to overthrow a dictator the next day while being mentally wrecked.

7 ) Do you write crossovers? If so, what is the craziest one you’ve written?

i’m not against it but i’ve never actually done it.

8 ) Have you ever received hate on a fic?

not that I recall. but i guess it wouldn’t be the worst thing, i struggle way more with getting no feedback at all.

9 ) Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

do i? DO I? yeah, i do. usually the kind the story requires which can range from soft to awkward to plain filthy. also whatever kind the kinky anons drop in my inbox, i’m trying to keep an open mind.

10 ) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

not that i’m aware of. I don’t really operate in the super popular corners of the fandoms i’m in so i don’t think anyone feels the need to. it’d be pretty obvious to all the 10-20 people who are into that shit anyway lol

11 ) Have you ever had a fic translated?

again, not really running in the popular corners of fandom (rare pairs ftw) so imma say no. I could probably translate them myself but writing in my first language is fuckin awkward so no thank you.

12 ) Have you ever co-written a fic before?

No, I’m a pretty solitary writer. I do love to come play in other writer’s ‘verses though if they don’t mind. i have written a few things in @vintagedean ‘s married!vibes for example (thanks for letting me play, dude!)

13 ) What’s your all-time favorite ship?

jeez, i don’t know. i’ve never really stuck with just one fandom, i’m a notorious multi-fandom multi-shipper. i’m the kind of person who watches eps of 4 different shows in one day and yells at the tv about all of them.

14 ) What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

we make a long way from easy lovin‘ look good, baby. i was honestly so invested in this project but then they completely torpedoed this pairing in canon in the worst possible way and i kinda lost the drive to keep writing. i have posted it to my graveyard collection of unfinished stuff for now but i don’t think i will finish it, sadly.

15 ) What are your writing strengths?

creating emotions, hitting you in the feels, or so I’ve been told. i like to think that (given that English is not my first language) just reaching the kind of level i’m at now can be considered a strength.

16 ) What are your writing weaknesses?

run-on sentences, endless run-on sentences. they serve a purpose SOMETIMES but mostly it’s just me and my rambly writing style. and repetition. i have actually started searching my writing docs for specific phrases while editing to catch most of them and rephrase. not being able to include just a bit of angst without it turning into an existential crisis for the character and me. and the worst thing I keep doing that i’m not able to stop is writing shit out of order. i start with the beginning, then some idea for the middle pops up, then I write the end and then I have to somehow weave it all together, it’s so inconvenient and annoying.

17 ) What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

i speak a few languages (or you know, at least can understand/write/read them) so as long as i’m sure that it’s correct and it fits the story, I’m all for it!! language kink ftw.

18 ) What was the first fandom you wrote for?

it was either music or hockey rpf, i’m not even sure anymore at this point, that was like 20 years ago. nothing that ever got published anywhere lol

19 ) What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

my name engraved on your heart, hands down. that is my beloved, my baby, the project nearest and dearest to my heart. i can actually read this and enjoy it without nitpicking my own writing at every turn and i’m just so happy with the overall vibe of it. it’s like a niche in a niche of a fandom thing though, so i get that it doesn’t resonate as strongly with others as it does with me but it is my favorite of favorites.

honorable mention to the house don’t fall (when the bones are good), though, because it’s what got me back into writing and it was my biggest (published) project and that fix-it needed to be written.

i think all my fellow fic writer mutuals have already been tagged in this, so i'm not gonna add y'all again but feel free to steal if this strikes your fancy.

#tag games #writing

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oveliagirlhaditright · 5 years

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Hilariousness

Me, somewhat trying to guess what the Master of Master's tale could be like, based on what we know from canon thus far... Also, a lot of me making crap up.

The Master of Masters with OC friends... the Master of Masters with an OC love interest for five seconds, etc.

Author's Note: I have to thank the amazing BlueRosesBurnBlue/BlueRose729 for a lot of this--and yes, this is dedicated to her for that reason, and since I know she loves the story we're learning about the Master of Masters in canon!--as she helped me edit the piece, and came up with the idea of the camping trip... when I knew I needed one more friend with Superbia with his friends, but couldn't figure out what it should be. So if anyone likes this story, you should give her some love, too And Liz, dear, I hope you like the changes I made here. Thanks for everything! Superbia didn't know how to explain the world he’d been born into. Was it, at first, perfect like those misinformed thought the later “age of fairytales” to be? A large part of him would have had to say "no" to that question, for darkness had possessed all of his friends and horrific Wars had happened again and again. But the caring part of the man that still existed, at least in part, would have had to say “yes”, because he remembered too well his frail, male friend—who he'd loved with all his heart—and his tough as nails girl friend, who liked to cook more than anything else and had even had that power on the battlefield (that Superbia had eventually become horrified of)… and how he missed both of them, even to this day. … It was hard for Superbia to understand why Them had such anxiety about everything, since they had been led into such a perfect world—even if it had peculiarly been black as pitch right after they’d been born for a while—but even with Them’s insecurities, Superbia could still have a good laugh with him: something that meant more to Superbia than perhaps anything, since he himself was a very humorous guy. "So... what do you think this monstrosity of a monument is?" it was Ash—Superbia’s gal friend—who asked this, as she kicked said statue beneath the three of them, and even probably nearly broke her toes in doing so. In Ash's constant desire to be unruly, she wasn't always careful to make sure she didn't hurt herself. The council that ruled the world had decided to make a memorial for the horse—the one that, legend said, had created this World before it faded away; though Superbia didn’t buy it at all--but this piece of art didn't look like the aforementioned animal. And while Ash hated the statue the most out of all of the friends (probably because she actually did adore horses and the story of Fire), it was Them today who had come up with the idea of just insulting Fire in their hang-out. And it was fun… Superbia enjoyed wry senses of humor, after all—and his friends meant a lot to him, so he’d always be here for that—but he was also a bit bored. He didn’t care about religion at all, after all, but rather discovering the new. Like right now, he was fiddling with a circuit in his hands, that he thought could eventually make light… but he’d entertain his friends with his thoughts on it all, anyway. “Whoever designed this made it look less like a horse, and more like a dirty pile of clothes that someone left on their floor.” Ash and Them laughed at him, and Superbia blushed... though there had been a part of him that hated himself for it, because why should he be shy about things he was good at, like being witty? Surely the council was wrong when they said arrogance was connected to darkness. Superbia was quite proud to be able to see something of worth within himself, and shouldn’t everyone have felt the same? Like, Them was thrilled with himself when he could get serious when the situation called for it, and Ash when she actually succeeded in making something cold—like ice cream—as opposed to her warm dishes that she was usually much better at… And perhaps that was why Superbia, in a very conceited manner, decided he was going to destroy the World to bring those two back when it took them away from him. They were the only two (well, them and one another) who were like Superbia at all, and he couldn’t stand to be alone… it was too horrible. His entire world was too horrible, really. And it was because of a certain trip in particular, that he would realize that: when comparing the joy from there with the later pain he would feel. … After the three had almost reluctantly spent time together at that statue, they had decided to go camping together. What could they say? They were getting tired of the stifling feeling that was the council and the city… Sometimes, Superbia thought that the people in charge of the World knew more about certain things than they were letting on, and that that was why there was always such a sense of foreboding in even a peaceful time. But as a kid, he didn’t dwell on it much. And he mostly wasn’t dwelling on it now… even if part of himdidn’t know why they’d opted to go into the off-limits wilderness now, that actually that for a reason and why he would eventually keep the Key Kids away from it… But in the past, when the outdoor adventure was taking place, all that had mattered to Superbia was having a good time with Ash and Them. Nearly the moment they’d set down on some of the bluest green the trio had ever seen, Ash was making s’mores for her nearest and dearest—using her magic to do so—and Superbia couldn’t get over how perfectly she cooked them this way. It shouldn’t have been shocking, really, since she was the type who could make crème brulee at the drop of a hat, but Superbia cherished how she got enough char on the s’mores to give them flavor… but at the same time, gave it barely any of that: so that no professional chef, who cooked the traditional way, would dare say that Ash burnt her food… ironically. “So, tell me how your powers work again. And what this ‘nothingness’ is,” Superbia attempted to make conversation with Them, as he got started on the hot dogs, the moment that it seemed like Ash had at least ten s’mores already created. …Superbia technically thought that Ash should’ve been doing this… but since she always saw to all of their needs when it came to cuisine—and this was a vacation of sorts—Superbia opted to step up to the plate just for once, even if it annoyed him some. “…I know it’s hard to understand—since we haven’t experienced it ourselves, and hopefully never will—“ Them answered after a beat; just when he seemed to find the proper words, and enough strength to say them and have his voice carry, “but ‘nothing’ is essentially an end to everyone and everything. And I can touch this… variable—even though it hasn’t happened for us yet, and the fact that I can do so makes me worry that it eventually will—and then add something to it… as a way to counteract the entropy it would otherwise lead to… Again, that’s also hard to explain—even to myself—I just have a certain knowledge about it all. I don’t know…” Superbia and Ash just stared at Them for a long time after that—no doubt looking like gaping fishes as they did so. And the real irony, later, would be when Superbia understood all of this and tried to fight against ithimself. Or when he later used someone named “Xemnas”, who had a corrupted version of Them’s powers, because the World had been destroyed—and then burst out laughing. “Wow, Them!” Ash exclaimed, as she held up another s’more in her hands and placed her blue light on it—what her abilities looked like, when she called upon them—that then burnt it… and Superbia got the feeling that Ash’s doing this was her attempt to try and understand what this “nothingness” was, that Them spoke of. What? Did she think by burning the food enough, it would eventually disappear? “You’ve quoted textbooks before… but that was still really something. But, hey: you’re speaking! So I can’t at all complain about it!” And maybe it was because Them could tell that Ash really did appreciate getting to know him better, that he took the burnt s’more she’d just made, and wolfed it down before Superbia could get a hand on it himself, since he would have just insulted Ash’s “mistake” the entire time he ate it… and Them had clearly realized that. And while Superbia should have been insulted by this—and maybe even jealous, that his friends seemed to be going in a certain romantic direction that would eventually leave him behind—he’d been struck by their purity, and how much he wanted to protect that and them. And suddenly inspired by that purity, Superbia tackled his two friends to the floor while he held their unfinished tent in his hands. And since they somersaulted while still in the air, each of them showing off, before falling back down, the piece of fabric landed before any of them did and so they were then laying on it on the ground… And it didn’t take long for the trinity to have a giggle fit, as they then tried to roll on top of each other and tickle one another: Them being the one to try and do so the most. “Come on!” Superbia said after a half-an-hour of it, deciding to be the responsible one again as he helped the other two up. “Let’s find a way to make this tent… before we give up on it, and just use it as a bed tonight and have no shelter from the elements.” But If Superbia had known then, that he would soon see his friends’ bodies laid out on the ground, he may have foregone building the tent and just used it as a mattress … since the fact that they all eventually laid down on the ground, even beneath the tent, was now tainted in his mind when his mind’s eye saw bodies at the Keyblade Graveyard. And speaking of that cold, hard ground… present day Superbia was now reminiscing over why he loathed it so much… and how he was trying to be nice to Ava, so she wouldn’t betray them, so none of the Foretellers or anyone else would end up on it themselves. … Superbia remembered most what it had been like when Ash had been possessed by the darkness. The vibrant personality that he had admired in her had completely dimmed and faded: words that he would give to his Foretellers about himself eventually. She became nearly comatose, and seemed unable to see or react to anything. And if Superbia hadn't known any better, he would've thought she was dead: if it weren’t for her eyes twitching in certain reactions to things. But then she ended up coming back to life with a vengeance. When they were fighting in a War against the darkness—and Superbia finally perfected a certain weapon he’d designed—he became afraid of her powers for the first time ever. She put the darknesses in a vat, in order to cook them, and he remembered how their eyes widened as heat engulfed them… and how they tried to wriggle away from the embrace that held onto them and forced them to stretch into a different shape, before eventually even being pulled apart, but they were unable to do it. But as difficult as it was to watch all of this with Ash—and her powers grow out of control as she slaughtered darkness after darkness this way, and even some lights by accident—it was even worse seeing Them, who'd always been so timid, pull everyone into the void as if it was his destiny to do so and nearly destroy everyone and everything—as he yelled how they, everyone, and everything was wrong… so very wrong. Superbia was someone who had, even before all of this had started, thought he was the best—he'd figured out how to make keys out of hearts, hadn't he?—but when he was needed most for this first War, he found himself laying down in the fetal position as he cried and prayed (him, praying?!) for everything to be over. …And soon, it was. Why the darknesses had passed over him, Superbia would never really know. Not even in the present. But they'd left him alive, while Them and Ash were decimated; Superbia could only imagine the darkness had eventually wised up, possessed them, and told them to off themselves. But maybe the darkness had somehow possessed the land, too, because even it was scorched and covered only in blackness. This should've been the end of all of Superbia’s torment; and in some sort of alternate world, he’d like to believe that it was, but it certainly wasn't in this one: some in Daybreak Town had actually managed to survive, and they repopulated enough that Superbia found himself in another of what he had (almost arrogantly) dubbed a "Keyblade War," after the weapons he'd designed. Only this time, it really could be called a "Keyblade War," as he'd given these manifestations of the heart to every person with potential he could find. But this time when the darkness entered the people’s hearts... they seemed less othered, and more like themsleves. And Superbia didn't know what to make of that, or how to take it; he wanted to believe this meant the world could eventually fight back against the darkness, even if it gripped them, but he’d long ago stopped being that hopeful. And this second time, an ice sculptor named Music—that Superbia had fallen for a certain amount, as Music helped him escape from what he’d seen Ash do—died in Daybreak Town, as the darknesses decided to target there first, instead of what they’d created as the Keyblade Graveyard... and Superbia figuratively lost his heart over it. And it was when a third Keyblade War came around, that he started to have an idea: the Keyblades he'd created could do pretty much anything... and he was done being in distress, and was beginning to see certain things, too. He would put his eye into his No Name (what he’d eventually decided to name his Keyblade, because in Superbia’s own mind, he was really nothing. He hadn’t been able to stop any of this)—and pass it down, so he could see all of time and try and fight whatever fate decided that Keyblade Wars had to happen to keep the universe in balance--and this time be able to save the upcoming six children he could already tell he was going to love… and perhaps some more kids even after that, who were also going to have it too hard. Because by the point that Superbia—in his mind’s eye—could tell that a fiftieth Keyblade War was soon (soon for him, with his future sight now) coming on the horizon, he decided it all had to be stopped, no matter the cost.. even if he had to become darkness himself, to do it. And if that also meant he’d finally be the sacrifice he wished he’d been, so Them, Ash, and Music hadn’t had to be it… then so be it. Maybe as he fell himself, he could even see their smiling faces and touch them once more. And in that deranged way, he had hope… in a way that wasn’t hilarious at all, except that it was. Author's Note: I actually didn't want to give the Master of Masters his own trio... since it's so overdone in this series, tbh. But three people really are the perfect number to write for, so it still happened... And Nomura would do this, so perhaps it helps to make the story feel canon like I want it to. But I decided to try and put a spin on it, where one of the guys was pretty weak--in some ways--and the girl was super strong... which I guess is more like the Wayfinder Trio than any other, except that you could maybe say that Them and Ash's budding romance is a bit like Sora and Kairi's, and Superbia has some Riku connections, then. I also decided to make Superbia LBGT to make this fanfiction not too cookie-cutter what we've seen in Kingdom Hearts so far. And it seems to fit with his character to me. -shrugs-

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homenum-revelio-hq · 4 years

Photo

Welcome to the Order of the Phoenix, Erin!

You have been accepted for the role of ISLA SELWYN-MACMILLAN! Your application was beautiful! We especially loved your decision behind Isla’s familial background, which then led to her decisions and motivations within both her personal life and her life in the Order. The details you put in your application really brought her to life in a lovely way! We are so excited to have you as part of this roleplay!

Please take a look at the new member checklist and send in your account within 24 hours! Thank you for joining the fight against Voldemort!

OUT OF CHARACTER:

NAME: erin

AGE: 26

TIMEZONE: est

ACTIVITY LEVEL: I work a regular 9 to 5, so will be quite scare weekday afternoons, but am pretty consistent around evenings (into the woo hours of the am, as I’m an incurable insomniac) and weekends.

ANYTHING ELSE: n/a

CHARACTER DETAILS:

NAME: Isla Arcine Selwyn- Macmillan

AGE: 25

GENDER, PRONOUNS, and SEXUALITY: Cisfemale. She / Her. Bisexual, in that way of scratching an itch rather than deliberately seeking out a romantic partner. Sex is sex is needs met, and a base appreciation, besides. When it comes to things more long-term, things which people out there in the world at large still call a relationship, it’s more touch and go. It’s been a long time since she’s had a romantic other who could be in any way tagged significant; not since Hogwarts and long before Archie’s confession of his orientation caused her to consider whether her own desires incorporated same-sex. They did and they do, but romance is another animal altogether and she has never down well with it no matter where on the spectrum you place her.

BLOOD STATUS: Pureblood

HOUSE ALUMNI: Gryffindor

ANY CHANGES: N / A

CHARACTER BACKGROUND:

PERSONALITY:

At first blush, it’s challenging to get a proper bead on Isla beyond liberal application of the word ‘dry’. She moves and speaks with the considered stillness of a woman well aware of her age, her place in life. That things have perhaps not gone as planned, but there’s no turning back now, so she may as well just commit to the person she’s found herself to be. Isla, then, is the woman who dresses practically, who hangs along the seams of situations with arms folded across her chest, and holds for that single breath of silence to fall before chiming in with observation.

That is in no way to suggest that she is the paragon of forbearance. She is, in fact, hugely impatient. Queen of the drummed nails, the tapped foot, the not-so-surreptitious watch check. Isla has had to do very little waiting in her life, which is fortunate as she isn’t very good at it. But give her something to attend, something to measure, and Isla can spend all the time in the world passing judgement and weighing and hmm-ing thoughtfully. The measured consideration of herself, her peers, the very world around her. Isla studies, assesses, and only then moves to act. She’s the one who watches the Order’s fracas of people come together like the tide crashing, waiting for it to roll back out before she picks her way through to deposit her thoughts. It takes a hell of a lot to make Isla do before Isla thinks.

She is, after all, above all else, a connoisseur. Selective, thorough, intractable, endlessly demanding and ferociously precise. Her perfectionism is legendary; her attention to detail rivaled only by her appetite. Her enthusiasm for what she loves—food, flying, finery—is heady and infectious. Unfortunately, what-ifs and maybe-justs have eaten away at the electric smile which used to light her up during days gone by, because she’s been wrestling with the sensation of a stifled life on a precipice for some time now. And if it isn’t fear which rules her life (it isn’t; she is afraid to be afraid, and subsequently knocks it to one side lest she start choking on what unfamiliar fear tastes like), then anger is the name of Isla’s coolly played game. The years she burned away living unrestrained and satiate are like a mental scrapbook, something for her to page through with mixed feelings of nostalgia and frustration.

Isla has always been indomitable and stubborn, but current climate has put a bit more of a bite to what was once a more good-humored brand of overbearing confidence. The remnants of playful, irreverent, imperious woman she was-is-might-be-again is best seen in dealings with nearest and dearest. She still does things like hiding all of Archie’s left hand loafers when she feels he’s not paying enough attention to her. Still signs off letters to favorite cousins with the words ’don’t be a cow, Love Isla’. Still bitches bitterly to best friends about what a sell-out twat Josef Wronski is. But where once the sensation of being untouchable and inviolable meant her charm and candor were universal, present reality has seen it condescend, contracted, confined to trust spheres and safe space. She is shade of former self and Isla is honestly terrified that she might never have the whole back.

Swallowed pride sits badly in her belly and it’s a daily debate on whether she can life with the sensation for the rest of her life. Her family taught her to compromise, but she never, ever learned to capitulate or tolerate. Even less to bow. Though she does well enough in tandem to authority she acknowledges, it's only authority she acknowledge and beneath any other hand she bucks and bristles and bites. At present, Voldemort’s throat is the one she longs most to sink her teeth into, but time and tide are proving how unlikely that may be and so she, eminently loyal and deeply sentimental, must start focusing on what she wishes most to protect and preserve. What the best course of action is to safe guard the present and future of family and friends, the people she sees as the ones she must protect. Because at the end of the day, though she’ll fight for herself she’d die for nothing less than those she loves the most.

BRIEF OVERVIEW OF FAMILY:

The House of Selwyn is known for two things: pearls and politics. Polish is the name of the game in either. A refined family, whose members dot the upper echelons of the Department of International Magical Cooperation and whose wealth was built ages ago on the back of their many oyster farms off the sun drenched shores of the Mediterranean. Her mother’s prized possession is a pearl the size of an ostrich egg, Isaac’s gift to her when they first got engaged. It sits, even now, on a marble pedestal in Arsinoe Selwyn’s sitting room and Isla has memories of mother running white hands affectionately across the milky sphere till it was almost impossible to tell where pearl ended and skin began.

Isla grew up in their house on the coast of the Isle of Angsley, a neoclassical mansion whose gardens fell down to the sea. She was her family’s first and final princess, the daughter her mother prayed for since honeymoon’s initial afterglow had worn away and revealed the stark reality of a husband whose cultured charm was as infinite as his penchant for philandering. Isla was, if only for a time, the cure-all which the Selwyn couple so desperately needed: Father was fond of her, Mother was attentive, but most important was opinion of House Matriarch, for Grandmother is gentle with her the way she is to no other, wrinkled hands fearfully referred to as talons by the three sons and the half a dozen grandchild descended from Innana Selwyn turning soft as silk when they cupped Isla’s fair cheeks or braided grandthing’s dark hair. In those hands too was the decision of who would inherit the lionshare of the family’s estate and it was clear from the moment Innana folded Isla affectionately to her side that the son she was sure to pick would be the one who sired her favorite grandchild.

Though no idyllic portrait of white dresses and tea parties – she and her young relatives played at being tigers and at princesses and of course at the wonder of wizardry, but tucked comfortably amidst their baby-games was ongoing theme of competition and envy and scrutiny – her youth still managed to smack quite soundly of comfortable entitlement, familial solidarity, and reasonable compromise. As a child she struggles most with the latter. Her mother says she looks too much like her father, more hard and sharp than soft. Arsinoe Selwyn does her best to blunts her daughter’s edges and wraps her in velvet, but Isla never becomes particularly pliable. Instead she identifies early where the line is and toes it unrepentantly; stretches against the limits of her girl skin and twists and turns within it’s proverbial limits. She is a child with a riptide inside her; restless as the current threshing against the cliffs she once scaled for the sake of beating her cousin in a race back from beach to front door.

Her parents are perennial negotiators. A flying instructor is hired to keep her off the cliffs. A fencing master in exchange for cooperation in deportment. Free reign so long as it’s neat skirts and straight hair when the rest of the clan comes to visit. One was never to show shortcomings in front of the extended branches, after all. But even with all the mistrust and rivalry, family was family was family and her first show of magic is sparked when she bisects a Kelpie attempting to drag her cousin down through the shallows. The following Autumn, when she is seated in The Great Hall as the Sorting Hat weights her heart for what means more, ambition or valor, she remembers Electra Selwyn’s shivering hands as she kicked the creature’s corpse into the surf.

Armed with parents’ indulgence and grandmother’s doting she can do no wrong. Nicknamed The Grand Duchess by her cousins for her domineering ways, Isla was infallible force of nature for so many years. She is given partial reprieve from the spotlight of mother’s sole focus after baby brother is born. Caius Selwyn, small savior who comes into the world when she is thirteen years old, consequently holds paramount place in Isla’s affections. To younger sibling she is larger than life; dark eyes lighting up with admiration the first time he sees big sister in her Montrose Magpies uniform. A woman Icarus. Then comes the fall.

The shifts in their family begin with grandmother’s death. Innana Selwyn, so old and august and unyielding, it had never occurred to Isla even that she could die. But the coffin is black and her mourning clothes black and the cloud over the family is bleak, pitch dark as ink. If grandmother’s will was anything to go by, it should be Isaac who became family head and yet her eldest uncle Elijah steps in to fill the vacancy. Her father does not protest and Isla frowns like the gathering rain clouds, wonders why.

It’s off-season half a year later when she is called again to grandmother’s residence, now Uncle’s. The day is in it’s dregs when she arrives. The decayed sunset still hung a cloud-caught drift of humid, mauvish red and sent down its ominous indigo shade, which ran from hummock to hummock of the manicured lawns like spilled water. The architecture of the Selwyns’ ancestral estate was itself fairytale like – silver gates like spider webs on a wet May morning, cobblestone streets, wet-black wood entrances – but the something that evening caused everything to look overripe; an otherwise perfect fruit with a rotted spot just starting to spread. Inside the house many lights were burning bright: her parents had arrived ahead of her, for there was important business to discuss. Isla’s marriage prospects.

It was a shell shock, being confronted face to face with the savage delicacy of a wedding dress. She felt like marriage would eat her alive–rip her limb from careless limb. But there was no twisting and turning to avoid this. Father is stern, Mother is reproving. Something tense and heavy braids itself through their insistence, something like a predator stalking through the dense gardens outside their walls. There is no room for negations here. And think, Arsinoe tells her after, how much better off she is than some girls; at least they are giving her the freedom to choose whom she’d prefer from among the matches her uncle has put forth.

So Archie, who is companion and confidant and closest friend since she was small wild child with loose hair and imperious ways. Who should be perfect match except they are not in love and marriage ought be more than two people making the best of a last ditch effort to preserve what they can’t stomach losing. So they marry. They move into a home together. Clean and white on the outside, its window shutters decorative rather than functional and all its internal fripperies stripped away upon her arrival because no man would ever put Isla Selwyn up in a wallpapered home and live to tell the tale.

She learns later the name and nature of the beast-thing driving her family to tighten up tradition. Some power bloated dark wizard who thinks himself a lord with the right to reign over their way of life. Her uncle Elijah, her eldest cousins, they have already sworn fealty. And sure, things for her could certainly be far worse, but life till now had promised Isla Selwyn a world without limits then failed to deliver and so now entitled, intractable, implacable Isla, Isla who has never accepted the word ’no’ in her life and isn’t about to start now, is woman on a war path. If the world Voldemort means to build is one where she has to bow to his notion of what a woman ought be then he had best look to his kingdom, because she’s coming for it.

OCCUPATION:

Housewife. And she chokes a little on the reality of it ever time. What was once a glowing quidditch career was quashed under family applied pressure in the wake of a rising regime. She was going to fly forever, that had been her plan. Instead she’d been made to resign from her position as Chaser for the Montrose Magpies and supposedly idles her days away in domestic leisure and social functions. But idle hands are the tools of the devil. Or in this case, the Order.

ROLE WITHIN THE ORDER/THOUGHTS ABOUT THE ORDER

The same surname which gives her access to the insular world of pureblood social circles is a source of suspicion and skepticism for her comrades-in-arms. Many of the members are uncertain about her, be it of her motives, her commitment, or her loyalty; though even her staunchest detractor can’t deny her effectiveness nor her conviction. Luckily for all, Isla has a lifetime of experience in banding together for the greater good despite nebulous trust and constant scrutiny (see: the Selwyns). She does not need them to like her, but she does need them to make good use of the advantages she has to offer.

Informant, infiltrator, instigator. She has access to places other Order members do not, clout in certain circles that overlap with the enemy. Isla’s connections are many and they run the gamut from marked death eaters, whose names and movements she funnels to the order, to fence sitters who just need a bit of a nudge to sway the right way (or at least lend a helping hand so long as their safety is guaranteed). She has, on occasion, served as a soldier though always from behind a white and gold volto mask to preserve the secrecy of her affiliation.

That said, failure and fracturing among their numbers have roused Isla’s frustrations. It seems absurd to her that they have become at once so woefully disorganized and yet increasing concerned with rank and file. The faith she had in the beginning has begun to dwindle and she’s starting to doubt if this motley crew can overcome all the in-fighting enough to focus on the real enemy. Moreover, she’s starting to wonder if their own prejudices will turn them into something just as deplorable as the Death Eaters. If they cannot even tolerate each other, what might they do to those on the fringes? Her reservations were only exacerbated by the incident with Leina Nott.

SURVIVAL:

For the moment, her identity as a member of The Order remains still unknown to those outside it’s number. She lives then, almost as she always had. A house, honey hued when the light slid down the hills and made it so, wreathed with ivy about the windows and draping the door. With husband who is loved-but-not-lover and with secrets kept closely guarded and all actions planned and plotted and maneuvered with careful calculation of risks and reasons and weight. She survives by walking a tight rope and living a lie and praying victory comes before the truth.

RELATIONSHIPS:

She has always been a woman who collects acquaintances but is few in close friends and the war has only caused her to make even sharper delineations. Archie Macmillan has always been her perfect constant, consistent and timely as the tides their friendship. Her parents may have indulged her, but Archie is the only person who has ever supported and encouraged her. They may not be in love with each other, but he is the most important person in her life, the only individual she is wholly honest with, her partner in all things. It was she who convinced him to join the Order and for that reason, Isla has resolved to put his wishes and well-being first and foremost so that he doesn’t come to regret that decision. Even if her own life comes crumbling down as a result of her choices, she’ll make damn sure that Archie’s doesn’t.

From the start, members of the Order’s inner circle have been treated to a polite but firm personal distance, business only please. Polite distance has since evolved to more than a little frost. She has never done well with authority figures she hasn’t specifically acknowledged and between a string of failures and the way their hierarchy is coming more and more to resemble that of the opposition’s, Isla’s regard for them and their leadership has dwindled significantly. It doesn’t help that James Potter is among their number and all her negative biases against him have subsequently colored the rest of the Order’s proverbial generals with the same standoffish brush.

She fares much better in interactions with the mid and low-level members and, in all honest, best with half and pureblood women. Because she can relate. Because she feels protective. Because being surrounded by women fighting for their right to autonomy and self-determination reminds her why she’s here in the first place and, truly, she needs those reminds now, here, when her morale as it’s most dismal. They encourage her to dirty her hands with much-missed paint, and to muddy up the colors. If she tells herself that it isn’t all well among Order ranks, then she openly admits that it’s not all bad.

OOC EXPLORATION:

SHIPS/ANTI-SHIPS: Isla x Chemistry

WHAT PRIVILEGES AND BIASES DOES YOUR CHARACTER HAVE?

Isla has lived her entire life in a world of extreme privileged. Because of blood status, because of wealth, because of weight of family name. Given ever access to education and resources and connection. Because the Selwyns were lax in regards to traditional values, even running up against the wall of gender biases was minimal up until more recently. Suddenly confronted with the the strictures and restrictions of antiquated sexism, Isla, in the way of a person born with every advantage, is predictably outraged and righteously anger at suddenly being put at a disadvantage.

A staunch anti-traditionalist, Isla imagines herself enormously liberal, but the reality of her upbringing informs all things. The Selwyn family’s pearl farms employ mainly muggles as menial labor, harvesters, and low level managers of their precious crop. And so, Isla has always thought of muggles as existences only a few step above house elves; backwards, easily excitable, but hard working creatures, obliviously happy with their own lesser way of life because they haven’t the capacity to imagine something broader. Her attitude towards muggleborns, therefore, smacks of condescension and distinctive othering. As though they are the lucky, mutated winners of some biological lottery. “Corrected” muggles, fixed of the flaw of lacking magic. And though Isla imagines that because she supports the right of muggleborns to everything the Wizarding World has to offer, it means she has no prejudices, in reality her internalized biases are many and she views them as inherently flawed by virtue of their birth and disadvantaged by virtue of their upbringing.

The reverse could be said of her prejudices about half-breeds and squibs. Their non-wizard heritance is a tragic blot to me sympathized with. For squibs she regards their lack of magic like a grave congenital disability. The kind of thing pregnant mother pray for protection against as they go into labor. The notion that this way of thinking might be problematic has not only never occurred to her, but would in fact be wholly anathema to how she navigates socially.

WHAT ARE YOU MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO? There is so much plot jam-packed into this RP and I am living for it. I love the idea of an all Order focus; love even more that the Order is not depicted as some happy pack of underdogs who all love and get along with each other. I love that they’re losing and everything is getting desperate and painful and pushing people to their emotional / mental / moral limits. The ugliness mixed in with all the good-intentions and differing drives is so meaty, scoop me a huge helping pls & ty.

PLOT DROP IDEAS: N/A

ANYTHING ELSE? As though her family section isn’t already too long™, have some mini drabbles from her childhood

#homenumaccepted

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obviously-best-potions-master · 5 years

Text

Mission for a Special Agent

Chapter 33

Word count: 1451

A/N: Remember Jason? It’s that boy from Chapter 13. Just a reminder)

The next morning, you woke up later than usual. Judging by the silence behind the door, everyone has already left for their classes. You felt so happy. You made yourself comfortable leaning on the pillow and decided to stay in bed a little more. You couldn’t disobey your Professor, he asked you to rest these days after all. But you were dying to see him, so you decided to visit him in his lab after dinner, as you used to.

Snape got up early. He didn’t sleep well at night, events of the last days have shaken him so much, that his sleep got disturbed and short. Several times he woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t help thinking about you. He was worried and felt an urge to see you, to make sure you were all right.

All the morning, Snape was pondering how to visit you, without being noticed by curious students, and not to arouse unnecessary suspicion. Transgressing directly into your bedroom was absolutely inappropriate.

You didn’t show up in the Great Hall for breakfast, and this made him even more nervous.

The first Potions Class Snape had, was with his second-years, where you assisted him during practice.

“Will Miss Y/L/N not come today?” Jason asked at the beginning of the lesson. He wasn’t afraid of Professor Snape that much as earlier. “Is she fine? We heard she...”

“She's fine.” Snape interrupted sharply.

“She saved you…” The other girl finished.

“Tell us, what happened?” Asked someone else.

“Yes, Professor, tell us!” The rest of the students joined in chorus. They were no longer frightened of him and didn’t consider him evil or cruel.

“Silence!” He angrily settled the class down and added a little softer. “I’ll tell you later, if we have time.”

Children worked with double zeal, not to disappoint their Professor and to have time to listen to the story.

Snape was beside himself with anxiety and couldn’t find any peace. He needed to know, how you felt.

Five minutes before the end of the class, he had to tell about what had happened, because children really worked diligently, and he was forced to keep his word. He briefly described the situation, assuring them, that everything was fine and there was nothing to worry about.

“And which spell did Miss Y/L/N use to heal you? I’d like to learn it too!” Asked Molly, a pretty girl from Hufflepuff.

“This was a very difficult and dangerous spell.” Snape lied, he still couldn’t understand how you did it. “You’re not ready to learn it.”

To his amazement, Snape realized, that he was speaking softer with his students. Was this the way you influenced him? The warmth spread inside of him, as he thought of you. Snape smiled to himself, remaining impassive outwardly.

“Well, that's enough for today, get out!” He snapped, but it sounded kindly again. “What the hell is wrong with me?!” He questioned himself.

“Mr. Trusty!” He addressed Jason. “Linger for a moment.”

Before leaving the classroom, Molly came up to Professor and with a childlike immediacy hugged him with her thin little arms.

“What a luck, that Miss Y/L/N knows such spells! I’m so happy, that she saved you, sir!”

Snape was shocked by such manifestations on the part of children. He never expected, that they would get attached to him, despite his formidable repulsive appearance and disaffected attitude. This was something new for him. He smiled confused and awkwardly patted the girl’s head.

Your little fan stood waiting.

Snape looked at him intently.

“Jason, I want to ask you to do something for me.” He said seriously.

The boy blinked.

“I'm busy now and can’t do it myself.” He paused. “I need you to pay a visit to Miss Y/L/N and inquire, how she is, and whether she needs anything.” He tried to be as deadpan as possible, but Jason noticed that Professor was worried. “I don’t recall seeing her at breakfast, so take her something to eat. Understood?”

Jason nodded his head vigorously, willing to help.

“Then, you will come back here and tell me everything.” He stretched his words, looking at him in such a way, that the boy realized: if he fails, Professor will personally kill him with bare hands.

“Yes, sir! I'm going right now!”

“Well, why are you still here, then?” Snape frowned angrily.

Jason started off and rushed to the exit.

***

When Jason timidly knocked at your door, you read a book, sitting on your bed, wrapped in a blanket. You got out of bed to open and were surprised to see him.

“Hello!” You rejoiced. “What are you doing here?” You invited him to enter.

“Professor Snape asked me to find out how you feel. And he said to bring you some food.” He handed you a paper bag.

You smiled broadly, you were very pleased, that Professor worried about you so much, that he was ready to rely on a third party, just to make sure that you were fine.

“But I was going to drop in by myself!” Jason assured.

“Thank you!” You took the bag from his hands. “Take a seat!” You pointed on the chair, returning to your bed.

“Tell Professor, that everything is fine, I feel good, and he doesn’t need to worry.” You heart was sinking with affection, when you thought about him.

“He said to ask if you need something.”

“I don't need anything, I'm perfectly fine!” You smiled. “I would’ve attended my classes today, but Professor forbade me. Can anyone disobey him?” You jokingly winked the boy.

“Tell me what happened. Professor only said, that someone confused the spell and accidentally hit him.”

“This is how it was.”

“But how did you save him?”

“I can't explain…” You admitted. “I was so scared for him, that it just happened somehow by itself. I read about this method of healing, but I’ve never practiced it, because it’s a very complex energy spell. But that day it just surfaced in my head. I couldn’t lose time, because his injury was really serious!” You seemed to have gone through that moment again, and your eyes welled up with tears. “I didn’t know how this could end up for me, but I was ready to do everything to save him, and if needed, I would do it again without hesitation!”

“You are a true hero!” Exclaimed Jason.

“No, I’m not...” You were not smiling anymore, the thought that you could lose your only nearest and dearest person in the whole world returned your experiences.

“Professor Snape treats no one like you.” The boy remarked.

“What do you mean?” You frowned.

“He’s always so strict, when he holds our classes alone. But when you assist him... he even smiles.”

“It’s because we enjoy working together.” You understood what this little detective was hinting at. You were pleased to hear this, but you didn’t want him to know, how much you appreciated your Professor. “Just be kind to him, and he will be kind to you.”

“Yes, I get it!” Jason rejoiced. “I have to go now. May I visit you later?”

“Of course!” You laughed.

When he was about to leave, you stopped him.

“Wait! Tell Professor, that I will come to the lab after dinner to help him as usual. And tell him not to be angry.” You smiled.

“I will!” Satisfied with his mission, he ran out of the room.

***

Snape was waiting impatiently for his messenger. "Where the hell is this little asshole?!"

“Why so long?” He shouted irritably, when Jason entered the class.

But, without letting the boy open his mouth, he asked excitedly. “How is she?”

“She is doing well.” Was the answer.

“And that’s it? Have something to add?” Snape was ready to strangle this insufferable dunderhead.

“I brought her meat rolls and donuts.”

“Good.” Professor paused. “Am I supposed to pull each word out of you?” He was getting furious.

“She asked you not to worry. And not to get angry.”

Snape frowned. “Why should I be angry?”

“Y/N, that is Miss Y/L/N, she said, she would come to help you this afternoon.”

“She’s hopeless!” Snape sighed and shook his head displeased. “Thank you, Mr. Trusty, you helped me a lot.”

“Miss Y/L/N loves you, Professor!” At these words Snape’s heart skipped a beat.

“What? Did she say that?” He glanced at the boy in disbelief.

“No, but I think so.”

“You'd better think of something useful!” Snape snapped angrily.

Jason ran away, and Professor remained sitting at his desk, revolving these last words, unable to pull himself together for quite a long while.

“Miss Y/L/N loves you…” Echoed in his head.

@astridstark13 🍒 @kissing-the-earth @written-by-living-stars @longblackcape @emeraldwitchart @taschaschwarz @bloodyhollows @anna-philips2000 @fluffymadamina @diaryofafan17 @none-of-them-were-you--caskett @ellysiacat @shinykavendish @tickletrout @mybulletproofheart7 @sitkafay @thephenomenonalkingofthebrogues 🦇 @otaku4potato @magnificentbandittreedonkey @lokilover-39 @floraltheo @wretcheddiablo

#snape #severus snape #snape imagine #snape imagines #snape fanfiction #snape fic #snape x reader #severus snape imagine #severus snape fanfiction #severus snape x reader #snape fandom #snape community #pro snape

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malecsecretsanta · 5 years

Photo

Merry Christmas, @forensicsisabelle!

Dear giftee!

Hope this gift will give you a smile and a giggle over the festive period! Merry Christmas! <3

Read on AO3

******

There's Something Magical About Christmas!

Chapter 1 - Christmas Eve

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

Surely it couldn’t be time to rise and face the day already, Magnus thinks, burrowing deeper into the furry warmth of his husband’s comfy chest, stubbornly refusing to let the light stealing through the curtains rob him of his contented bliss.

The answering purr he feels beneath his cheek makes him smile though..

“You’re turning into Chairman, Alexander,” he mumbles, scrunching his nose at the delicate licks it’s now being treated to.

Muffled giggling has Magnus cranking one bleary eye open to see it was indeed the magnificent Meow providing him with a perfect pillow, while the highly amused trio of his nearest and dearest were huddled together on the other side of the bed, laughing at his expense.

Once again, Magnus silently congratulates himself for suggesting they all wear brand new festive pyjamas every year as a Lightwood-Bane family tradition, because seeing Reindeer Rafe, Mince Pie Max and Angel Alexander had already made his Christmas as far as Mistletoe Magnus was concerned.

A grin tugging at his lips, Magnus subjects all three of them to lazy tickles, reserving a nuzzle for the unimpressed pet, who promptly vacates the bed in a huff over all the jostling noise, the void quickly filled with eager bodies scooting closer to get their morning cuddles.

“Snuggles,” declares their youngest, heaving a contented sigh when everyone’s limbs are entangled enough to barely allow any breath and his parents’ arms reach across to lock them in tight.

“How long have you three been awake?” Magnus rasps, dropping a kiss on the boys’ heads before crushing them briefly when his husband seeks one for himself.

Whispering into Rafe’s dark curls, Alec replies, “Someone forgot to turn their alarm off this morning and woke us up.” Hazel eyes peer mischievously at him through ridiculously long lashes. “Well, most of us.”

Magnus savours it, lips curling in tandem with his handsome husband’s as they patiently wait to give each other a proper kiss good morning.

“What can I say, family of mine?” he sighs, propping himself up on his elbow to see their faces better “Those of us not blessed with a Nephilim glow or the magic of youth, require all the help extra sleep can give.”

“As if,” snorts Alec, rolling his eyes in unison with their eldest, while big blue ones crinkle in delight at his papa’s silly words.

“I think you SPARKLE!” Max declares, his eager arms reaching to wrestle Magnus down for a flurry of loud, wet kisses to his face, both boys oblivious to the dopey smiles exchanged over their heads as they nestle deeper under the covers.

Hearing the mouthed words, “You’re beautiful,” because they’re voiced loud and clear on an almost daily basis by his very complimentary partner, Magnus absorbs all the affection in a languid state of happiness as he watches Alec rise to go make breakfast, asking over his shoulder what everyone wants to do today.

Everything from trips abroad to board games are discussed over the kitchen table as they wolf down Alec’s expertly-made crepes, but before they even have a chance to clear the dishes, an unwelcome security issue requiring Alec’s immediate attention threatens to breach their cheerful mood.

Rafe, proud of his dad’s position as the Head of the New York Institute and keen to take any opportunity to observe him in action, is the only one excited by the news.

“I’ll be ready in five minutes,” Rafe chirps, scrambling off the chair and running to get dressed without waiting for Alec’s permission to go with him.

With a fond shake of the head, Alec crouches next to where Max is now pouting on Magnus’ lap and takes his hand.

“I hate to leave, Max, but I’ll try and make it quick, then we’ll do whatever you boys want, ok?” Alec promises, kissing his 5-year-old’s button nose and getting rewarded with one back before going to change.

Determined to remain upbeat, Magnus suggests helping Max practice the magic trick he plans to use to impress their friends later, flicking his wrist to fill the loft with music from Max’s favourite Harry Potter film, trying and succeeding in bringing the joy back to his little one’s face.

By the time his angelic duo are ready to leave, everyone’s mood is restored, except Alec’s.

“Go do your job, Shadowhunter,” Magnus tells him between quick, chaste kisses that will have to do for now. “We’re not going anywhere.”

The lop-sided smile he receives makes the wait for their return much easier.

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

Given the mutinous look on his 7-year-old’s face, Alec’s half-expecting his son to dig his heels in and refuse to leave his side while Underhill delivers his security report, but Rafe’s need to make his father proud of him overrides his annoyance at being temporarily dismissed and he trudges over to Aline without another word, letting her cajole him with offers of bo staff training and peppermint fudge until he caves with a dimpled grin.

“Thanks for offering to look after him, Aline. Appreciate it.”

A knowing smile accompanies her nod, and with a quick wave, she closes the door behind them.

“He’s a chip off the old block, you know,” says Underhill, eyes darting to the handful of papers at Alec’s elbow that Rafe had just been practicing his memos and perfecting his tricky signature on.

If it was what Rafe wanted, his son was going to head up his own institute one day, Alec was sure of it. Pride softened his voice. “Actually, I think he’s got a lot of Magnus in him too,” Alec replies, capping the embossed fountain pen Rafe had been using and twirling it in his hand. “I offered him crayons but apparently they’re not good enough for cursive writing.”

Underhill chuckles, taking a seat and opening the file. “He’s a credit to you both. Max too.”

Warmth fills Alec’s chest at those words. “Thank you. We’ve been very lucky.”

Clearing some space for them to study the data, Alec’s remembering the cleverly-timed kiss that allowed Magnus to persuade him to add some ‘yuletide joy’ to his austere surroundings, having to reign him in on the six-foot tree but unable to resist the fibre optic family-of-four snowmen sharing a rainbow scarf that stood beside a framed photo of them all.

The glamoured one secreted away in the bottom drawer of his desk, offering a digital slideshow of Magnus at his most alluring, was for his eyes only when he had to work late. That is a gift that truly keeps on giving.

A discreet cough brings him back to the present.

This time, warmth flooded Alec’s face. “Sorry. Shall we get started?”

Ever the gentleman, Underhill focuses on showing him their security status, assuring him that Keller, a specialist from the Tokyo Institute, would be a competent stand-in for himself when he took some long-overdue leave after Boxing Day.

Genuinely happy for the man who’d become a sympathetic friend over the last few years, Alec wishes Underhill good luck with his proposal plans, sure in the knowledge that Lorenzo will give him the answer he hoped for.

And equally sure they’ll be receiving an invitation, in portrait form, to the grandest wedding Spain will ever see.

Eager to retrieve his son and gather his family around him, Alec’s in the middle of locking drawers, switching off screens and filing the practice memos away for safe-keeping, when Rafe returns, sporting a megawatt smile as Aline and Helen regale Alec with how much progress the young Shadowhunter’s made with his posture and composure since he last visited.

Heart melting, Alec drops a kiss on Rafe’s head before giving him a piggyback and messages Magnus to say they’re ready to come home and need a portal, never more grateful for his favourite warlock’s pioneering ability than when it brings them all back together again.

“Will you both be on duty over Christmas?” Alec asks, once Rafe’s high-fived his chaperones goodbye.

“We are,” Helen replies, taking Aline’s hand and kissing it sweetly. “But we have each other for company while we do some heavy-duty…research.” The shared look between the girlfriends doesn’t escape Alec.

“Oh, research? Is that what we’re calling it now?” he teases as he heads for the portal that’s appeared behind him.

“We might even check the perimeter now and then,” Aline calls after him. “ I’ve heard it can be fun with the right company.”

Flipping them off behind his back, their laughter sends him home smiling and eager for a kiss from his husband.

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

“Once more, my little blueberry. You’re so close, I can taste the cappuccino,” Magnus urges, heartsore about how defeated his little boy looks over the absence of lasting magic from his hands and wishing all the ley lines would converge beneath penthouse one to help Max complete his sorting spell.

The teary expression on Max’s face tells Magnus he’s not convinced he can do this.

With a soothing hand between shoulder blades stiff with tension, Magnus kneels down and cups his other one beneath both of Max’s which hold a small hill of coffee beans, and continues his encouragement. “Believe in your ability to do this, Max. Picture your magic roasting them, changing what the beans can do. Feel it in your gut and guide it to your fingertips, just like we talked about. Okay?”

Tilting his face up for a ‘positivity peck’ on the cheek, a more focused Max nods and prepares to try again, reciting the simple charm with more conviction than before.

Ready and waiting to provide a boost if needed, Magnus watches with incredible pride as the pale blue sparks don’t splutter and die, but grow stronger and brighter, rippling across the childish palms and engulfing the beans in a painless fire that ensures their new ability before clearing in a puff of white smoke.

Casting a quick reinforcement spell to preserve Max’s hard work, Magnus stores them in a sack stamped with the Hogwarts School emblem and flings his arms open for a hug, happy tears and giggles filling the room.

“Oh Max, you were wonderful!” Magnus tells him once they recover themselves, standing to swing the boy onto his hip. “Just wait until your dad and Rafe find out that you controlled your magic this time. Let alone see what we’ve done with the kitchen.”

Casting a critical eye over the lavishly-decorated roleplay cafe it had become thanks to both Max’s fertile imagination and his creative genius, Magnus has to admit he’s pleased with the results.

Shrugging his shoulders, Max is confident his father will love it. “This is fun. Dad said we could do what we wanted today.”

“He did indeed,” Magnus agrees, feeling warm and fuzzy about how, even at this tender age, Max is secure in the knowledge that his father will want to spend time having fun with him and his brother, because he loves them, and that Alec’s promises mean something.

Magnus wishes he’d known such certainty of affection growing up, been able to believe in the words spoken to him by the two men who’d held paternal roles in his life, but today was not to be spoiled with thoughts of fathers past, only enjoyed with a dearly beloved father of the present and the future. He’d found the perfect man to raise kids with.

One of many, many reasons he loves Alexander Gideon Lightwood.

“We have the stage, but not the costumes. Any thoughts?” Magnus asks, watching a slideshow of ideas come and go on Max’s face, giving it the serious consideration it deserves.

“Mmm, I want to be…..Draco. No! Dumbledore!” Bouncing with infectious excitement, Magnus needs both arms to contain his wannabe Albus, heading for the walk-in closet when a message from Alec comes through.

“Is that Dad? Are they coming back?” Max asks, crossing his fingers.

Magnus happily confirms that they are. “No time to waste,” he decides, magicking them both into costumes befitting their characters.

Max’s ecstatic smile, almost hidden by his new silvery beard, surely means Magnus chose wisely.

Activating the requested portal, they take up their positions just in time.

Gratifying gasps meet their ears when Alec and Rafe step through and spy their handiwork. Rafe takes in the bright red exterior framing the kitchen doorway as he slides to the floor, while Alec’s eyes rake over every inch of Magnus in his Lockhart finery, from his golden hair and make-up to the hem of his elaborately embroidered cape-coat.

“Papa, can I dress up too?” Rafe asks hopefully. “I want to be Ssssseverus Sssssnape!”

Dragging his eyes away from Alec’s frank appraisal, Magnus gives Rafe a thumbs up. “Certainly, ssssssunshine.” And with a flick of his wrist, Rafe becomes the head of Slytherin House.

Turning to Alec, Magnus issues a silent challenge to choose a character, lips quirking at the devilment he saw in those eyes. Watching the expressive slideshow of thoughts, an uncanny repeat of their youngest when he’s thinking, Magnus finds himself intrigued.

“How about Hag-?”

“No chance.”

“Alastor-”

“Nope.”

“Vol-”

“Don’t say his name!” exclaim the boys, pointing accusing fingers at their dad for forgetting.

Alec holds up his hands, suitably chastised, and turns a knowing smile on Magnus. “Let’s go with Sirius Black.”

“Excellent choice,” Magnus beams, all set to conjure the most raggedy and revealing prison clothes he could in the presence of the boys, when Alec spoils his fun with, “Minus the handcuffs.”

“As you wish,” he sighs, still creating a masterpiece with Alec’s velvet frock coat and fob chain, the false moustache and day-old stubble wreaking havoc with Magnus’ imagination until Max, equally resplendent in a silk robe and tasseled cap, clears his throat and lifts his arms.

“Welcome, Severus! Welcome, Sirius! This is the Elephant House coffee shop.” Pausing to check with Magnus that he’d said it correctly, Max continues. “Would you like to come inside for a drink?”

Bowing, Alec replies, “We’d be honoured, Professor,” causing Max to dissolve into giggles.

Rafe, however, staying wholly in character, gives his brother a dismissive look and strides inside, much to everyone’s amusement.

But before Magnus can follow them, Alec steals a surprise kiss as busy hands roam over the flowery cravat and waistcoat Magnus is wearing. Alec uses the voice usually reserved for the bedroom. “I just want to say that all of this works for me in ways it really shouldn’t.”

Similarly undone, Magnus tugs him even closer by his lapels. “Your whiskers have the same effect as my cat eyes, Alexander. You might have a hard time finding your razor from now on.”

The slow grin he receives is pure filth.

“Good to know.”

Magnus leaves him go with a grin of his own and shoos him inside the cafe.

Based mostly on Dumbledore’s office, the transformation looks amazing, if Magnus does say so himself. Bookshelves have replaced the cupboards, an ornate desk stands in lieu of the kitchen table, portrait paintings cover the walls and a grand chandelier graces the ceiling. In pride of place is a candle-lit lectern in the shape of an owl which holds a beautifully-styled coffee menu, next to which is a big wooden, globe-shaped drinks cabinet that houses a coffee machine with four spouts, each one forged into the head-shape of the animals representing the Hogwarts houses - a lion, a badger, an eagle and a serpent.

“You’ve outdone yourself in such a short space of time, Gilderoy,” Alec declares, taking in all the little details.

“‘Spooky how the time flies when one’s having fun,’” quotes Magnus, preening like a peacock at how thrilled everyone is with his efforts. “Care to take a taste test with our newly-qualified warlock-in-residence? Or am I spilling the beans too early, Max?”

Alec and Rafe turn to look expectantly at Max, who’s bubbling over with his need to share his news.

“I made magic coffee beans ALL BY MYSELF!“ he cries, quickly disappearing beneath a two-fold attack of bear hugs and congratulations that has Magnus joining in.

“What do I have to do to sample these special beans?” asks Alec, radiating with pride at his son’s first magical triumph.

“Sit and we’ll show you,” answers Max, fetching the sack of beans and opening it so his dad and brother could take one each, leaving his papa to explain the rest.

“These beans have been magically roasted by my good friend, Dumbledore, so that they’ll tell us which type of coffee you’ll enjoy drinking the most, based on the colour it leaves on your tongue when you chew it. Temporarily, of course.” Elegant hands draw their attention to each of the available beverages on the menu and their corresponding colour.

“Scarlet for a Grounded Gryffindor, yellow for a Hot Hufflepuff, blue for a Rich Ravenclaw and green for a Smooth Slytherin.”

“I love that,” Rafe chuckles.

“It’s actually really sweet,” Alec agrees, winking at a proud-as-punch Max.

“Now you can eat the bean,“ announces Magnus. “It tastes of Lucky Charms because Max wanted Rafe to like the taste.”

“Nice one,” Rafe says, high-fiving his little brother before popping the bean into his mouth. Alec followed suit.

When they reveal their matching green tongues, Rafe takes it to mean he’s definitely following in his father’s successful footsteps and glows as Max puts a goblet under the snake’s spout and pulls the spoon-shaped handle for the coffee to pour.

“Remember to put extra milk in Rafe’s goblet please, Max,” says Magnus, smirking at the eye roll this earns him from his offended son.

Moaning with pleasure over how satisfying his coffee tastes, Alec sets down his cup and draws them all in for a group hug.

“Gentlemen, you’ve just given me the perfect blend of family, fun and fantasy that I could ever hope to enjoy. Thank you.”

Forgiving his husband the terrible pun, Magnus knows he couldn’t agree more.

Chapter 2 - Christmas Day

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

“I think our presents were a success, Alexander. Would you agree?” asks Magnus as they attempt a waltz around the loft, but Alec’s trying to focus on avoiding all the trip hazards that litter the floor, such as Persian rugs, Chairman, randomly tossed cushions and the odd discarded toy.

“Uh, yeah. They seemed over the moon with them,” he smiles. Mostly, it’s relief at having just negotiated the coffee table without incident, but there’s also the memory of how elated the boys had been, despite the early hour.

Having arranged for their friends to visit them for a late breakfast, he and Magnus had decided to let the boys dive straight into opening their gifts after being rudely woken up with their ear-splitting cries of, ”Merry Christmas,” and clambered over by their reckless limbs. There’d been many to get through but, as always, their own special ones had been revealed in an unconventional way, as befitting his unconventional husband.

Already overjoyed with all the smaller items they’d been lucky enough to receive from their parents, the boys had been watching the film, Willy Wonka and The Chocolate Factory, a tradition they’d adopted ever since Max had discovered the scene where Violet Beauregarde turned into a giant blueberry, when Magnus had reminded them that their festive stockings hadn’t been emptied yet.

Suspicious but eager to seek out more possible rewards, both had taken the Wonka chocolate bars inside to be exactly that, until they’d removed the wrapping and discovered the golden tickets with news of their bespoke gifts written on them.

Private singing and dancing lessons for Rafe and a prominent pirate role in an upcoming blockbuster movie for Max, both courtesy of Magnus’ close personal friends, Beyonce and Baz.

Chairman was still recovering from the screams that had rocked the entire apartment, hence why he was nowhere to be seen now, despite the number of familiar faces that were here this afternoon. Though the volume in here could have something to do with it too.

In honour of one of their generous donors, the Moulin Rouge! soundtrack had been selected as something they could all dance to, and glancing around him, Alec thinks it’s an inspired choice. How else would he be able to bask in the timeless fun of seeing Simon lip-sync a love medley to his adoring boyfriend, with Raphael’s heart eyes in full effect whenever it’s his turn to join in, with gusto. Probably for her own protection, Madzie was out on the balcony learning how to cha-cha with Catarina, while Ragnor’s frequent offers to teach them the gavotte or the jive fell on purposely-deaf ears.

And then there was their precious sons, too busy eating the last of the penguin-shaped pretzels Catarina had brought to take an active part in the chaos, but cheering loudly from the sidelines in between bites.

Alec’s sigh is filled with bone-deep contentment. One Magnus recognises instantly, dipping him into a martini-flavoured kiss Alec never wants to end.

Alas, someone has other ideas.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake man, put him down. You still have guests, you know?” Ragnor chides as he passes by on the way to Magnus’ apothecary, port in one hand and shortbread in the other, having clearly taken the hint that his skills weren’t currently required.

“You’re just sour that I christened you after the Hufflepuff ghost on account of your tongue. ‘The Fat Friar’ actually suits you,” Magnus shoots back with a pointed look at Ragnor’s stash, claiming another kiss out of spite before restoring Alec to an upright position.

Far too soon, for Alec’s liking.

“At least you weren’t ‘The Bloody Baron,’ that was way too convenient, if you ask me,” Raphael chimes in, letting slip a private smirk when Simon questions the accuracy of having been dubbed ‘Nearly Headless Nick.’ “Close enough,” he replies, utterly deadpan.

“Well, I still think Tessa should’ve been here to claim the title of ‘The Grey Lady’ but I’ll take it with grace,” Catarina says, a breathless Madzie on her hip as she rejoins them from outside.

“On that ridiculous note, I will take my leave, and my surplus-to-requirement dancing skills, to the den next door, in peaceful tribute to the fantastical badger aligned to my Hufflepuff House,” declares Ragnor, taking three steps before jabbing a finger in Magnus and Alec’s direction. “And you, my boys, better not disturb me with your caterwauling when the final song comes on.”

“The Hogwarts School motto is ‘Never tickle a sleeping dragon,’ my dear cabbage, so you’re quite safe,” Magnus counters, laser-quick, to a chorus of giggles and a solitary, unamused groan. “My work here is done,” his wicked husband chuckles, before declaring everyone needs refreshments ahead of the grand finale.

Watching him go, Alec thinks about how he’d never wanted to celebrate Christmas growing up in the stale environment of the Institute, but as with so many things, Alec had only known what he wanted since Magnus Bane had come along. The best gift Alec could’ve asked for.

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

Sipping his cranberry margarita in the doorway of the balcony, Magnus takes a much-needed timeout from his duties as co-host for the evening and surveys the scene before him.

Thanks to everyone’s high spirits and all the party debris they’re accumulating, the loft is an absolute mess. Yet to Magnus, it’s never looked more perfect a home than it does in this moment.

Against a colourful backdrop of Christmas lights and mirror balls, family and friends are strewn across couches, rugs and cushions in varying states of sobriety, each one enjoying the company of those around them and managing to drown out the muted background music with their lively chatter and carefree laughter.

The now-familiar feeling of being home that Alec’s always given him, is only strengthened by the bonds that have been forged between their families, both biological and chosen.

A sigh escapes him as he imagines how different his life might have been had his mother lived, but there’s no other universe in which he sees himself being happier than he is here, with Alec and their sons. So he raises his glass in a silent toast to the mother whose loss he still feels to this day, and rejoins the party with a genuine smile for some of those people he’s happy to have found.

He’s barely taken two steps before an excitable Max is summoning him across the room to where Clary’s impressive face-painting skills are transforming his son into Frosty the Snowman, his beautiful horns, only unglamoured in the presence of those he trusts, just like his blue skin, have been turned into carrots and his blue hair is a riot of glitter and snowflakes. Conjuring a cashmere scarf to complete the look, Magnus takes a photo before messy hands have a chance to undo all the hard work.

“Just when I think you couldn’t look any cooler,“ Magnus quips, smitten with the groan and eye-roll combo that meets his embarrassing ‘dad’ joke. He still gets his cuddle though. “I think you both deserve a snow cone. Agreed?”

“Absolutely!” Clary chimes in. “But maybe make mine a little more Black Russian than blackcurrant, please?”

“Your wish is my command, biscuit,” Magnus replies, sweeping a bow as he delivers their rewards with a finger snap and giving them both a paternal pat on the head, moving on swiftly at Clary’s glare.

He spies Luke barely managing to hide his mirth over yet another argument between those notoriously fiery lovebirds known as Maia and Jace, unaware he now embodies the ‘jolly old elf’ on his gloriously ugly Christmas sweater, and decides to find out why.

“Trouble in paradise?” he asks his friend, from a safe distance away. Then he overhears his hapless brother-in-law misquote Dickens’ famous introduction to A Tale of Two Cities in a bid to prove he knows his Shakespeare, and Magnus thinks he already knows the answer.

“Oh dear.”

“Yep, it’s that bad,” Luke confirms, shoulders shaking with the effort it’s costing him not to burst out laughing. “Nine months in and the boy still hasn’t learned there’s nothing that riles our well-read warrior more than the desecration of her favourite classics.”

“And compounding it by confusing the writers?” Magnus shudders. “I always knew his self-preservation skills were minimal, but she’ll tear him to shreds if he keeps this up.”

Luke swigs his beer and slaps a paw on Magnus’ shoulder. “Fifty says he’s sleeping on your couch tonight.”

“A hundred says he isn’t.”

“Deal.”

Parting on a fist bump, Magnus winks at his admiring husband in passing and locates Isabelle in the newly-restored kitchen. Unsupervised.

Worse still, she’s engrossed in that cookbook from Idris that Robert gifted her years ago, but when she begins her feverish search for ingredients, that’s when fear grips him, thanks to a deeply unpleasant memory.

Throwing back his cocktail, Magnus knows he has to try and stop her before someone gets hurt.

“Isabelle, my dear, care to help me devour the last cream cheese bagel from Sadelle’s before Alexander gets his hands on that thing?”

She hits him in his weak spot with those luminous Lightwood eyes and devastating smile, and before she’s even finished her sweetly-worded request for permission to cook, he’s giving her carte blanche to potentially poison them all.

Oh well, he tried.

Spinning on his heels, Magnus initiates plan B, first seeking out Clary to deploy her best distraction tactics on her girlfriend and secondly, heading for his apothecary to prepare the potent werewolf fangs they’ll all need to consume.

Glimpsing a terrified Jace as he emerges from the kitchen, Magnus cuts him off with, “I’m on it,” to which Jace nods in relief.

Minutes later, he’s just bottling the preventive potion when Alec steps inside and closes the door with a look of intent that holds more danger than anything his sister’s cooking could.

“Finally,” Alec whispers, grabbing Magnus to him by his waist and crushing his mouth like a starved man finding a meal.

Magnus allows himself a few minutes of mind-blowing kisses and handsy exploration, then detaches himself reluctantly to explain his need for haste in delivering the elixir to their guests, but Alec simply shrugs and pulls him back in for more.

Both freeze mid-action when an apologetic Jace, hands raised to protect his eyes from any scenes of near-nudity, grabs the bottle and leaves, closing the door behind him.

“Damn it,” Alec groans, both taking a steadying breath as they restore their clothes to a reasonable state of tidiness, rejoining the party after one last chaste kiss.

After dosing themselves up and with new drinks in hand, Magnus settles within Alec’s embrace to watch Rafe and Maryse sing the Spanish lullabies Alec’s been teaching their son from his childhood, When Luke joins his wife to lend his voice, it draws everyone else into the impromptu concert.

Magnus closes his eyes to savour his husband’s soft baritone and burrows deeper into his arms, grateful beyond measure for the loved ones that make his life this beautiful.

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

“I don’t want to disturb them,” Alec admits as they lie sprawled and overlapping on opposite ends of the too-comfy couch, their sons’ adorable snores the only sound to break the well-earned peace they’re finally able to enjoy.

Magnus sighs, running gentle fingers through Rafe’s hair as he watches Alec nuzzle Max’s, both children curled into their chests with half their face-paint still on. “I don’t either, but we’ll all be sorry if we wake-up with stiff necks and headaches.”

Reluctantly, they gather up their sons, few protests made as they’re carried to their beds, where Magnus’ magic wipes their faces clean and dresses them in their festive pyjamas. Feather light kisses and moon-shaped night-lights, don’t disturb them.

Grateful for the day they’ve had, but more than ready for this time alone together, the husbands hold hands and head for their room, exchanging ‘love you’s’ and sharing kisses until they’re both sated and asleep.

And neither could wish for a more perfect way to wrap up Christmas than that.

#forensicsisabelle #malecsanta19 #*fics19 #*gifts19

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jzixuans · 6 years

Text

hang tight, little brother

summary: Virgil’s never had a successful quest in the Imagination before and he’s determined to make this his first.

word count: 3991

pairing: platonic brotherly prinxiety, background platonic lamp

tw: roman and virgil swear a lot, non-bloody injuries, heights, falling from said heights, virgil and roman climb a mountain without any proper hiking gear bc they’re dumb, passing mention of anxiety attacks, and please tell me if there’s anything i need to add

a/n: my relationship with my brother honestly resembles the prinxiety dynamic so much that it’s probably why i prefer them to be platonic, though i’m still working to improve things with my brother. so this may or may not be me self-projecting

“C’mon, slowpoke! Pick up the pace!” Roman calls over his shoulder, pushing yet another branch out of the way. The branch snaps back into place, and had Virgil been half a foot closer, it would have knocked him right in the nose.

“Your legs— fuck— are so— fuck— fucking short. How the fuck do you move that fast?” Virgil wheezes, clutching at his probably-very-bruised ribs. Up ahead, Roman scales the mountain ledge with ease. There’s not a speck of dirt on his white prince uniform, despite their rocky forest surroundings, whereas Virgil’s shirt is splattered in mud from their latest run-in with a wild tribe of centaurs. He decides that Roman is most definitely abusing his control over the Imagination.

“Years of practice, Virgil dearest. And in heels, no less.” Roman says with a grin. He is indeed wearing two-inch high heeled boots, and Virgil supposes that practicality doesn't matter that much in the Imagination. “Besides, what's a couple of inches? What matters most is that I’m still taller than Logan.”

“I dare you to bring that up to him again.” Virgil tries to ignore the pain flaring in his chest as he laughs and pretends that the world doesn’t spin with every step he takes. It takes much longer than it should for him to haul himself up next to Roman. He lets himself lie on the cold stone, chest heaving. The twin knives strapped to his back rest uncomfortably beneath him, but Virgil can’t really care to do anything about them right now.

Roman's face appears over his, mirth glinting in his eyes.

“Are you good?”

Virgil makes to flip him off, only to be interrupted by a coughing fit.

“Just— mother fuck— peachy.” Virgil mutters, resting his head back down.

“Virgil that’s your…” Roman takes a second to count them out on his fingers, “…twenty-seventh ‘fuck’ in the last ten minutes.”

“That long? Wow, new record.” Virgil closes his eyes in the hope that the two Romans above him would merge back into one. In retrospect, he really should have run from the manticore, rather than take it head-on. Though being thrown at a boulder doesn’t hurt nearly as much as the fact that Roman hadn’t even noticed that he’d been hurt in the first place.

“Come on. We’ve still got a whole mountain to climb.” Yeah, no shit. Virgil drew the short straw when Roman proposed they go on another quest. Meanwhile, Logan and Patton get to sit back in the commons, not hiking up a mountain in the cold autumn air. He wishes he brought more to wear than a normal cloak and scarf. Roman had insisted that they dress according to ‘set the mood.’ And while Virgil can appreciate a good aesthetic, he desperately misses the comfort of his hoodie because cloaks have no fucking pockets goddammit.

“Why the hell is it on top of a mountain?” He grabs Roman’s hand and pulls himself up, only to sink back down, head hitting the ground with a hollow thud. Roman prods his side with a stick.

“For the adventure!” Roman exclaims. Of course it is.

“Can we adventure after I catch my breath?”

Roman sighs and plops down on a rock next to Virgil’s head. “You get five minutes.”

“Ten.”

“Four.”

“Fuck you.”

“Two, then.”

“I could technically just take as long as I want.”

“And you would technically be left for the harpies to find, given how dead you look right now.”

Virgil hates when he pulls the ‘I’ll just leave you to die’ card. He’s been using it since they were kids.

“Fine, five.”

“Mm, too bad you just took a whole precious minute to argue with me.” Roman hums, delicately examining his nails. Virgil scrapes up a handful of leaves from the ground and chucks it at him. Roman just arches an eyebrow as a cool breeze blows them away from him.

“Patton said you’re not allowed cheating in the Imagination,” Virgil complains, picking a particularly dusty leaf out of his mouth.

“Patton’s not here.”

“I’ll tell him, then.”

“Oh, so you’re gonna snitch on me?”

“If you keep being a dick.”

“You don’t have any proof.”

“It’s literally so obvious!”

“Really? We’re in the middle of a forest in November, Virgil. A little wind is bound to happen.” Roman says, propping his chin up on his fist, knowing full well that he’s won. He smirks at him. “Two minutes, by the way.”

Virgil decides to let it drop. He’s yet to win that particular argument, and he’s far too exhausted to keep it going. The ache in his chest has dulled to a quiet throb, though he knows it’ll flare up once he starts moving again.

For a split second, he debates telling him. If he does, Roman would drop the whole quest and force him back to the mindscape. Which would be fine, except that Virgil can’t seem to go one quest without ending it early. And Roman has been hyping this quest up all week. There’s no way in hell that he’s ruining this for him again.

Besides, they’re not even real. What kind of baby is he if he can’t handle imaginary pain?

Virgil hears Roman stand up with a content sigh. There’s a sharp kick at his feet and Virgil swears that he’s about to push Roman down the mountainside.

“I’m going,” Roman sings, and he can already hear his retreating footsteps when he sits up. Virgil reaches out for the nearest tree branch to pull himself up, which turns out to be a grand mistake because sharp twig ends pierce his palm and scrape at his arm.

He really doesn't have time for this.

“You're not gonna wait for me?” Virgil calls half-heartedly. Up ahead, Roman pauses to shrug.

“Use those long legs of yours!” Comes the reply.

Asshole.

By the time he catches up to Roman, the prince is sat on a cliffside, looking over the expanse of forest below them. In the distance, the pristine white turrets of the Mind Palace stand proud like a beacon amidst the many surrounding villages of the Imagination.

Roman casts him a lazy glance.

“Your face is nearly as red as my sash,” he says with an irritating air of nonchalance.

“Wouldn't be if you’d just slow down,” Virgil shoots back, punching him lightly on the arm. If it hurts, Roman certainly doesn't show it.

“I missed coming up here. Hiking with Logan is so much slower than hiking with you.” Roman grins the secret smile that he saved for when he makes fun of Logan behind his and Patton's backs. The one he really only used around Virgil.

“So why don't you just come up here by yourself?” Virgil grumbles, because he is most definitely still bitter about being left behind. His whole body hurts, but it's reached the consistent kind of pain where he can ignore it. Doesn't mean it isn't there, though.

“Not the same. I built this place. None of it is new to me.” His gaze turns wistful, and Virgil knows that it's because he spent years exploring the land here with Logan and Patton. Virgil never usually made it that far.

That was back when they were kids. Back when the most Thomas had to worry about were the shadow demons in his closet and being caught skipping recess. Before Virgil grew and started encroaching in on Roman’s territory. Before Roman decided that he hated Virgil, and in return, Virgil decided to tear down each and every single one of his creations. Roman stopped taking Virgil to the Imagination for a while.

Virgil shifts next to Roman. His head is pounding and his vision is starting to blur and he really just wants to get this over with so he can go back to his room and sleep.

“Are we gonna go?” He asks with a poke to Roman’s cheek. If he wasn’t going to give Virgil a break, Virgil wouldn’t give him one, either.

“Hm? Yeah, let’s go.” Roman says. They start back on the winding path that curls its way up the mountain. Virgil’s anxiety decides that now is a good time to remind him of his fear of heights.

“Are you sure that the treasure is at the top of the mountain?” He asks, shuffling away from the edge. Because he doesn’t trust himself not to fall with this headache, he tells himself. No other reason at all.

“Of course! There’s no excitement in a treasure hidden halfway up a mountain! That’s for the players who settle for two stars, but us, no, we go for the perfect three!” Roman pumps his fist in the air.

“I mean, I’d settle for two.”

“Nope! Sorry Virge, this is the only treasure!” There’s a small hint of sincerity in Roman’s words, but the gleam in his eyes tells Virgil that he has no regrets.

Every passing minute on that mountain is torturous. Virgil’s legs burn and his breaths come in shallow pants. The air around them thins as they go higher, which is certainly not helping his case. Sooner or later, he’ll pass out, he thinks, and if he’s not careful, he’ll fall off the path and he’ll land amongst the trees and he could die—

“Oh, hey, look at this! I rescued a bird’s nest up here a couple years ago! One minute, Virgil, I want to go check and see if it’s still there.” Roman says, and he’s off around the corner before Virgil can even respond. And perhaps if he weren’t so lightheaded, he would have caught the fleeting look of concern that crossed Roman’s face.

Virgil slumps down against the nearest tree and closes his eyes. The treasure is only another twenty minutes up. He can do this.

Roman comes back all too soon, looking rather dejected. Virgil opens one eye at the crunching of the leaves under his feet.

“I couldn’t find the nest,” Roman says. Virgil rolls his eyes at his expression.

“It’s been how long, Princey? I don’t think it was meant to be.” He mutters, and even speaking makes him want to cry out.

“Well gee, Virge, don’t look so down on my behalf.” He opens his eyes again to see Roman offering him a hand. When Virgil doesn’t take it, his joking tone drops and he crouches down to get a proper look at Virgil. “Hey, are you okay? We can take a break.”

“Bold of you to assume I’ve ever been okay. I’m just a little dizzy, that’s all. You know I don’t like heights.” Virgil doesn’t miss how Roman winces at his words. They’d all had a talk after they’d accepted Virgil into their family and discussed Virgil’s list of boundaries. Heights happened to be quite high on that list.

“Did you want to go back down? I can sink us out,” Roman offers. He’s trying. Virgil appreciates that, he really does, but he’s come too far for them to quit. He’s determined to make this the first quest he’s ever completed. To this caliber, at least. The ones from when they were kids weren’t exactly difficult.

“No, no, we can keep going. We’re almost there, right?” Please, God, let them be almost there.

“Yeah. Maybe another half hour, if you can make it.” Thank fuck.

“If I pass out on the way, you’re carrying me.”

“In your dreams.”

With a satisfied hum, Roman rocks back and stands, one hand on his sword, looking like a true Disney prince. He grabs Virgil’s wrist and hauls him up, steadying him with practiced ease. Virgil lifts his gaze to match the determined look in his eye.

“Let’s go.”

Cold air bites at their skin as they climb, prickling like a thousand needles that burn his hands and face. Half an hour in Virgil’s state is bad enough without the fucking weather out to get him, too. It’s too late to back out now, though. He’s not about to swallow his pride and go back on his word. Not today.

It’s not long until he sees the treasure. It’s locked in an ornate silver chest underneath a golden-leafed tree, and Virgil, in his delirious, near-unconscious mind, can’t help but be reminded of the island in Lion’s mane from Steven Universe.

The tree is within reach, some ten or twenty metres ahead, and Virgil can taste victory.

And then his foot slips.

He barely registers that he’s falling when a hand snaps out to grab his arm. As Roman pulls him back to safety, Virgil is suddenly very grateful for all the time Roman’s spent running around the mindscape, sparring in the Imagination, and working out in the commons because Virgil is pretty much dead weight and Roman is far stronger than he looks holy shit.

They tumble to the ground in a heap, a messy tangle of arms and legs. It’s another second before Virgil notices the pair of arms wrapped around him, holding him tight against a warm chest. Roman presses his face into his hair and murmurs something inaudible.

“What?” Virgil mumbles, and he’s not entirely sure that he isn’t dreaming.

“I was so scared,” Roman whispers. Virgil laughs at this.

“You? You ain’t scared o’ a lil’ falling,” he slurs. His head rests against Roman’s shoulder and he can’t remember the last he’s done this— if he ever did it at all. It’s… nice.

“I’m scared of you falling, dummy,” Roman rolls his eyes, though his hands still shake. “What happens in here is my responsibility. Even your stubborn ass.”

“S’not like we can die or anything,” Virgil says, trying to play it off like he wasn’t just worrying about dying in the Imagination half an hour ago. He hasn’t seen Roman this worried since they brought Thomas to his room, and even then, the concern wasn’t necessarily for Virgil.

“We can get hurt. We can get hurt pretty bad.”

Virgil wonders when any of them have ever gotten hurt bad enough to worry Roman this badly.

“You were still in your brooding solitude when I fell out of a tree and got my ass handed to me by a hellhound.” Roman answers. Virgil blinks and he realizes that he was speaking out loud. “You could have told me that you were hurt, y’know. There’s no shame in stopping.”

“We stop every time,” Virgil argues. He flinches at the disappointed crack in his voice. “This was s’posed to be the first.”

“If you wanted to make it, then you shouldn’t have taken on that manticore,” Roman scolds, giving Virgil’s ear a sharp tug. So he did notice. Virgil bats his hand away from his face.

“If I didn’t distract it, it would’ve gone for you. I killed it, though,” he protests, albeit weakly. Roman doesn’t tense or get annoyed like he usually does. Instead, he runs a gentle hand through Virgil’s hair, the way Patton sometimes does.

“I can handle myself, Virge. This is my realm. This is where I get to protect you. You’re not the only protector in the mindscape, y’know.”

There’s a flash in Virgil’s mind and he remembers all the times Roman has stood between him and a monster, sword out and ready to attack. All the times Roman has pushed or pulled Virgil out of the way of the teeth of enormous beasts, right before he dashed off to tackle the creature. All the times Roman came back to find Virgil curled up in a secluded nook hidden from view, asking if he was okay, walking him through anxiety attacks.

“I know, I just wanted to be the one to save you this time. To like… pay you back, for all the other times.” Virgil’s voice trails off at the end because dammit, he sounds so stupid, what was he thinking?

To his surprise, Roman actually laughs.

“You don't owe me anything, baby brother. Except for that Art of Moana book. I know you lost my copy.” He says with a fond chuckle.

“Did not.”

“Mhmm, sure.”

“Roman?”

“Yeah, what's up?”

“You know you're still hugging me, right?”

“Yep.”

“...you gonna let go?”

“Absolutely not. You haven't let me hug you in years.”

“It's been two weeks.”

“Too long.”

They sit in silence for a couple minutes. Virgil finds that he doesn't mind Roman holding him. It's a far more welcome sensation than the pain flaring in his chest—

Right.

“Uhh, Roman?”

“Mm?”

“Is breathing supposed to be hard up here?”

“Uh, no. No, your lungs are just severely fucked up from that manticore fight that you didn't need to engage in. Were the centaurs not enough of a challenge for you?” Roman wags a finger in his face.

“It was me or you!”

“And in this realm, that decision will always be me. You are not to go running into danger because that is my job and I’d rather keep it that way. Can you stand?”

Virgil nods, and with Roman's help, he manages to get to his feet.

“What do you say we grab the treasure and then head home?” Roman says. Virgil can only nod. He has a sneaking suspicion that Roman is mad at him, and he's just a little terrified to see what happens when Roman really chews him out.

Roman drapes one of Virgil's arms across his neck and together they limp over to the chest under the tree.

“Honour’s all yours, Virge.” Roman bows and helps Virgil kneel down in front of the chest. The latches open easily, like they've been well-oiled, and inside is… a book.

“Isn’t this more Logan’s type?” Virgil asks, a little confused. Roman's favourite part of these quests was always personalizing gifts for whichever side was picked to go along with him.

“Well you gotta take a better look at it, Virgil,” Roman says. Virgil can already see the excited gleam in his eyes.

The book is a simple black leather-bound. He opens it to the first page and—

“You fucking didn't.”

“Oh, but I did.”

“Please tell me I’m hallucinating.”

“Nope.”

“Roman—”

“All your poetry and writing, all the stuff we worked on together. It's all in there. And all of your original art.”

“You leave me and my edgy hatching alone.” Virgil warns, though there's a smile tugging at his lips. “This is great, Roman. Thanks.”

“Anytime, Virge. It had to be perfect for your first quest. Lo and Pat already have their first quest treasures.” Roman says, ruffling Virgil's hair affectionately. He points at a page from Thomas’ teenage years. “We may have been assholes, but we still made some pretty great masterpieces.”

“Shut up, I know you put this one in here because I hate it.” Virgil laughs. He moves to stand, but the action sends him falling back on his butt. “Can we go back home now?”

“Yeah, c'mon.” Virgil doesn't have any time to process before Roman sweeps him up princess-style.

“You're carrying me,” Virgil smirks, and he's already feeling the fatigue set in.

“You're dreaming,” Roman replies with a snort. “You can sleep, Virgil. I’ve got you, little brother.”

When Virgil wakes up, he’s lying on a bed in the Mind Palace. Logan, Roman, and Patton are all crammed on the other bed beside him in a snoring heap. Sunlight streams lazily through the window, dancing lightly over the black book on the nightstand next to him. Virgil smiles. If he didn't know better, he'd say that Roman was even more of a nostalgic than Patton.

There are at least four blankets tucked firmly into the bed, effectively pinning him against the mattress. By his head, there's a ratty old stuffed rabbit, and Virgil knows that that one's from Roman.

“Hey,” Roman says, off to his left. He's on top of his cuddle pile and the least squished, so he carefully extracts himself and goes to sit on Virgil's bed.

“Hey.” Virgil croaks and wow, he sounds like shit. His headache is just a gentle throb in the back of his mind, his breaths even, if a little shallow. At least the rest of him is less shitty than yesterday.

“So, now that you're on safe, solid ground, I get to properly scold you for fighting a fucking manticore. You are so fucking lucky that it didn't sting you,” Roman huffs. He grabs the rabbit and hits Virgil's head at every word. “You gave me a real scare, y’know.”

Virgil feels a spike of irritation in his stomach.

“So if you noticed that I got hurt, why didn't you do anything?” He snaps. The bitterness from yesterday is still fresh in his mind, and now that he's rested, he can properly focus on it. Roman has the decency to look ashamed.

“You always hated it when we fussed over you. I didn't know how bad it was, but I thought you didn't want to make a big deal out of it.” He says, eyes downcast. “I should've, though.”

“Oh,” is all Virgil has to say in reply.

“Of course I noticed, though. Why do you think I kept stopping to check out the scenery? There wasn't actually a bird's nest that I rescued.” Roman continues, waving his hand animatedly as he babbles.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, you were too busy spiralling to notice that I noticed.”

“That sounds dumb.”

“You're dumb.”

“Not as dumb as you.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Virge.”

The two lock eyes for a second and then burst into laughter. To an outsider, there's nothing particularly funny about the scene. To Roman and Virgil, it's the most hilarious thing to ever happen to them.

“Oh good, you're awake,” says Logan's tired rasp. He stirs Patton, who mumbles something indistinct. Patton sits up and stretches, narrowly missing Logan's face.

“Hm?” Patton hums, still wiping the sleep from his eyes.

“Virgil's awake,” Logan says, and Patton's eyes snap open, suddenly full of energy.

“Virgil!” He exclaims, leaping off of his bed and onto Virgil’s lap.

“Hey, Pat,” Virgil grins. Patton grabs his face between his hands, pulling him in for closer inspection.

“How are you feeling? Any headache? Stomach ache? You're breathing okay?” He demands.

“‘m finph,” Virgil says through squished cheeks.

“Patton, don't you think this would be better conducted with your glasses?” Logan says, coming up behind him with Patton's glasses in hand.

“Oh, right. Thanks, Lo,” Patton smiles sheepishly. He slides them on and turns back to Virgil. “You took a pretty big hit there, kiddo.”

“Yeah, Pat, I know. Roman already chewed me out.” Virgil glares playfully at Roman, who just shrugs.

“Rightfully so. I take it that we don't have to discuss the rashness of your actions, then?” Logan muses. He fixes Virgil with a pointed look.

“Nope, I got the yelling rights. So you two can back off,” Roman says, making a shooing motion with his hands. “Now leave us alone so I can harass him some more.”

“Roman, play nice,” Patton chides, but there's no real threat in his voice. “I’m glad you're okay, Virge.”

He throws his arms around him one more time before hopping off the bed.

“We’ll go prepare some breakfast. I’m glad that you're safe, too, Virgil.” Logan says, and with a nod, he leads Patton out of the room.

Roman and Virgil sit in silence for a minute, hands in their laps, not knowing what to say.

“Thanks,” Roman says after a bit. Virgil lifts his head.

“For what?”

“For taking the manticore for me. That was pretty brave of you.” Roman's voice is quiet, and Virgil knows that that's a pretty big compliment coming from him..

“Yeah, well, protecting people is kind of what I'm supposed to do.” Virgil offers him what he hopes is a reassuring smile. He's working on it. “So you’re not mad?”

“Of course not! I’m proud of you, Virge. My ickle baby Virgil, all grown up now.” Roman sniffs and pretends to wipe away a tear.

“Shut up.”

“Never.”

#prinxiety #platonic prinxiety #roman sanders #virgil sanders #ts roman #ts virgil #thomas sanders #sanders sides #blink writes #there's an unhealthy amount of conjunctions and repetition in here but am i gonna fix it?? nOPE #cursing tw #brotherly prinxiety

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